MIA

It's not that I'm a complete Luddite (although I do appreciate the mythical Ned Ludd's anger at technology). I admit I've always hated the telephone, and I may be the only American with two working ears and no iPod, and I sometimes get resentful of this whole blogging thing (well, I guess I am quite Luddish after all). I assure you, my loathing of communications technology has a little to do with my hatred of facebook. Maybe it was the summers in semi-isolation in Cape Cod, but I'm pretty sure I was born this way.

I like to think it's because I have come to askew drama and awkward situations. I don't want to to update my feelings each day on the internets. I don't want to make or receive on-line friend requests, I don't want to create a virtual circle of 60-100 friends, and I certainly don't want to check in with the 60-100 people each day. It's not that I'm completely anti-social, but I'd honestly rather stare into space and ponder why it is that people feel bad for Gary Condit because he apparently didn't kill Chandra Levy. I'd rather read salacious stories about Abe Sada (or is it Sada Abe), or I'd rather surf the wikipedia looking for the strangest categories by which they can organize articles.

I'd like to think that I know how to be a good friend, but I really suck at keeping in touch with people. Last week, during my vacation, I spent one day hanging out with friends and eight days planning the garden, working on plumbing, and generally keeping myself busy with chores and amusements around my house. In fact, in nine days out of work, I ventured less than fifty feet from my front door, and that was to clear the icebergs and frozen mud piles that were plowed onto our walkway with my handy pick-axe.

So, if it appears that I'm MIA, I assure you, I am thinking of you as you read this, just don't expect a call or e-mail.