I…am a luddite. Not by choice, really. Not because I hate technology and all of this, although I do have a healthy, natural distrust of it. It’s just that I’m getting old. I’m aging. I’m getting old early and I can’t help it. Those exasperated sighs I give my mother when she asks me how to “send someone a comment” or “play the Facebook…” Those are the sighs that the young people would be giving me right now as I try to understand how to embed this video of Janeane Garofalo into this post so you can just watch it right here, without having to go to Twatter Video or whatever the site that hosts it is called. This video is not on YouTube. I don’t understand why. I like YouTube. I started using it before I got too old to figure things out. I’ll bet if this video were on YouTube I’d be able to embed it.
Maybe not. Wordpress has, thus far, managed to confuse the living hell out of me. There are so many acronyms. RSS and SEO and blahbity bloobity wah wah wah like the teacher on Charlie Brown. Do you kids even know who the hell Charlie Brown is? None of it means anything to me. I’m reading Blogging For Dummies and I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing.
But Janeane speaks for me. She may be slightly – and I do mean slightly – older than me, but I’m about square with that generation in my mental, you know, leanings. I was always about ten years older mentally than I was physically. My poor children are so, so fucked.
I like Janeane Garofalo. She makes me feel like it’s going to be okay. It’s an odd feeling, aging. I’ve been one of the young people, watching with excitement the birth of the internet and all of the opportunities it presented. I grabbed onto things quickly. I was a full-fledged member of a new generation. The first generation to rely nearly entirely on the connection that the internet provided to the rest of the world. And somewhere along the way I fell behind without realizing it. Around the Myspace era. Remember when Myspace was it? It was the shit? It was all you needed to know and you checked your Myspace all the time and you looked up pictures of those bitches you went to high school with and made fun of them and relived all of those horrible four years of your life at two a.m. on a Friday morning over a bottle of merlot and a pack of Camels, with work staring you dead in the eye from three hours away like, “come on, bitch. I’m waiting for you.”
Maybe that was just me.
Right now, my dad knows more about technology than I do. He has to help me do things like, you know, make my computer run when it won’t. It’s like he’s had to bury his own child. I’m an old woman from rural Pennsylvania lost on a Manhattan street with a map I can’t read. It’s outrageously disturbing. And a little funny.