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Digital Slob Curt Brandao |
Cable-deprived depravity
takes toll on the soulMy evening two Thursdays ago began like many others. I came home, emptied my pockets and checked e-mail to see if "Alias" actress Jennifer Garner replied to any of my daily love sonnets. Then I, and an entire peach cobbler, hopped on my futon to cruise digital cable's fiberoptic network. Little did I know an outage was about to obliterate my routine.
My cable provider gave me back 36 hours of my life that I'll never be able to throw away.
Tragedy struck quietly with an almost inaudible click. My TV flipped off. My cable box's once steadfast LED display freaked, spinning green lights in concentric circles, as if to foreshadow the chaotic torrent my life was about to become. I reset the box dozens of times, only to have the swirling green bars return, mocking me.
A woman's recorded voice on my cable company's phone line did its best to keep me hinged. "Technicians are working on the problem," the fembot assured me, tirelessly, every 10 minutes. My eyes darted around the room, fixating on the bookshelf. Something profound hit me: "I wonder how many of those unread books have been made into cable movies that (now) I can't watch!?" Such angst plunged me farther into the abyss.
Still, I was luckier than most stuck in the DCZ (De-Cablized Zone). I had a digital video recorder (TiVo) that had automatically stockpiled hours of programming like so much pork 'n' beans in a bomb shelter. My manic-depressive spirits soared. Still, my neighbors knew I had TiVo. What if they put two and two together as well? Maybe I should barricade my door?
Eventually I blacked out and awoke the next day, the phone still in my hand. "Technicians are working on the problem," the fembot's drone continued, its comforting effects worn away. I wondered if its chant might be the epitaph for civilization itself -- the last recorded words of a doomed people. How long could a society denied "Yes, Dear" reruns keep itself together? I shuddered to think.
Now in a full snuggle with madness, I returned to my TiVo rations, watching two 2-hour installments of "Russia: Land of the Czars" -- twice. I can now give a convincing university-level lecture surveying seven centuries of power struggles, from Prince Vladimir to Lenin, provided my facade isn't shattered by a Q&A period afterward.
Then suddenly, the fembot seemed to come alive. "You need to exchange your cable box tomorrow," it urged. Would I dare venture outside, alone, into a world driven insane by lack of cable? I had to. Every minute I stayed in my condo I got weaker, and those books on my bookshelf got stronger.
The sunrise shed light on society's cable-deprived depravity. In a park, many rested on blankets, clearly letting some self-administered poison take their pain away forever. Some weren't so lucky; for them, mass delusions had driven them into frantic chases for balls -- over nets, into nets, or across wide-open spaces. Still others hit tiny white balls from a standing position with thin graphite rods. Surely ripping out your own eyes would make more sense than that.
The streets, however, were surprisingly clear. Later, I learned that my trip was unnecessary; the problem wasn't our boxes, but the cable company's mainframe. But I got a new box anyway and, as a silver lining, newfound respect for life's delicate digital balance. And just wait until Jennifer Garner reads my next love sonnet detailing how I almost lost her forever.
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Curt Brandao is the Star-Bulletin's
production editor. Reach him at
at: cbrandao@starbulletin.com