Rant

A week of interruptions. Two weeks of intermittent internet, several calls to the inept service team of Time Warner Cable, which is like, in The Ukraine or somewhere. Stolen credit card number. Calls to Bank of America's claims department. What has happened to customer service in this country? I experienced this during Cash for Clunkers. "It's like I'm in India," I told my parents, entirely perplexed. "But in the 70s. It's like a ration system." Being without the internet is at times peaceful and at times irritating. I can't send compulsive emails. I can't compulsively gchat people. Ideas come and I can't blog. Blogging is also a compulsion, it is not really writing, but something else. It is fulfilling the need to vomit your thoughts into a space and move on with your life. I tell myself no interwebs for a short period is a good thing. Before the interwebs, people talked and sat around campfires and read books. I read books, but only after checking the interwebs every morning first. I need to wean myself off my virtual connections. It's like a Vipassana silent meditation retreat. Without the hours of silent meditation. This is a chance to tame my compulsion(s). I tell myself that this is an opportunity to grow and learn about myself.

This is the conclusion I have reached two weeks in: myself sucks. I am sick of myself. I don't know how or why people deal with me. I can hardly deal with myself without access to the interwebs. Don't get me wrong. I made a collage and several stews, including a Mediterranean collard and mustard greens stew which was a big hit. I've done an unreasonable amount of baking. I finished the Collected Stories of Lydia Davis. I went to Tar Pit (twice) and Lazy Ox, two birthday parties and an exhibit at MOCA. And I've been writing in a journal which I only do a couple of times a week. The title of my collage is "Life without the Interwebs." It is a happy collage of people doing fun things, like sitting on a beach in Italy and eating clams around a fire pit. In reality, my life looks nothing like this right now. I am lying to myself about what Life Without the Interwebs looks like.

I need the fucking interwebs. This is not like when I am in India and don't want to even look at the interwebs. I am in Los Angeles, and I need to read the NYT online edition. And the Atlantic. I need to check in on friend-blogs. I start getting paranoid. Maybe Time Warner Cable is just trying to fuck with my head. They're assholes. They would try to fuck with my head, all the way from The Ukraine. Granted, this thought pops into my head after the joint and before Avatar which I didn't really want to see, but I also didn't want to be the only person on Earth who hasn't seen it. God, Earth. I am so sick of your peer pressure. Besides, the internet was down, and Time Warner Cable can't come for another week so I figured it was a good time to see the movie.

I realize that this state, this trying to manage Without-Interwebs state is actually an attempt at suppression. Some people suppress practically everything. My mind if built like a west coast residence. There is no basement to throw things into. As a result, I start losing my shit. I experience bouts of unreasonable rage.

1) Seeing George W. Bush on TV is like experiencing post traumatic stress disorder. Make him go away. I am offended when he expresses sympathy for the people of Haiti. "He's lying!" I scream into the TV. I want to stab him with a steak knife. I am stunned sick by my anger. I go lie down for an hour.

2) Also, Judgment.

MIA tweets "Fuck the NYT" when they talk about Sri Lanka as a tourist destination. Using Twitter as a venue to display rage strikes me as prosaic and pointless. An example of misdirected rage. I recognize this because misdirected rage is something I am familiar with. I want her to write an op-ed or something in response but then realize that every time I've heard her talking about Sri Lanka it is a series of anecdotes strung together in gibberish. If she wants people to care about Sri Lanka, she should just not talk. She's a talented musician, but not a particularly good spokesperson for her cause. I voice my opinion unapologetically and realize what a bitch I sound like. But I can't take it back. Also, I have low tolerance for people who speak about important issues in anecdotes. Seriously, it's like a whole country of Thomas Friedmans.

I attempt to reason with my internet router. "Please work?" I ask it. I pet it softly on the head, "Please?" It is erratic but within an hour it starts working on its own. I am convinced that cajoling unreasonable electronics into working is the solution for nearly all technical malfunction.

It works for two days, then conks out again. Cajoling is clearly not the answer.

I am at a fucking Coffee Bean right now. On Hillhurst. I actually hauled my ass out in the RAIN. Who the fuck even does that in LA? People don't DRIVE when it rains here. The library is closed because it is MLK Day. It is loud, and Animal Collective is not drowning out the noise. Two bearded men have set up camp across from me and are talking about their screenplay. It is upside down, but I can read this:

DONNIE: I just don't want to get lost again.

STEFF: You won't. I won't let you.

DONNIE: I know you won't.

My soul just cringed. Ick. I want to go home. I want to be in my pajamas. I want to sit at my computer and write. And have access to my beloved addictive interwebs.

I know. It could be worse. This is what pent-up melodrama sounds like.