My Web of Addiction

Yesterday afternoon my Internet connection went down, which rarely happens. Normally I might have gotten off my arse and done something useful, like clean out my cats’ litterbox or make a prank call to my meth-addicted neighbor, in which I usually whisper something like, “This is Dick Cheney. I’m… watching… you.”

But I was doing some research when my connection was lost, and I got seriously annoyed. Usually “doing research” is code for surfing porn, but I really was researching a surgical procedure that I may have to have on my foot. When I first lost my Internet connection, I tried rebooting my cable modem. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I tried once more, this time pounding on it like a paramedic trying to resuscitate a heart attack victim. Still nothing. A shudder of dread went up my spine.

I would have to call the cable company.

I stood up, gripped the back of my desk chair and steeled myself for the task. First I had to find my phone book to look up the number. I use a “real” phone book about twice a year, mainly to look for pizza coupons or to hurl at extra-large cockroaches. After a few minutes of searching I found the thick yellow tome, which had a half-inch coating of cobwebs and cat hair that made me sneeze. Off to a good start.

As I dialed Time Warner Cable’s number, my stomach churned. The last time I called a company’s tech support, I had to speak to an Indian man who sounded as though he were speaking Hindi through a mouthful of chickpeas. I hung up on him after three minutes for fear I might accidentally order a boatload of Dell laptops.

I was not hopeful about the Time Warner call, but after a few rings a soothing female voice greeted me. She asked if I currently had a Time Warner account. I hesitated, because I wasn’t certain if I was speaking to a real person or an automated system. I said “Yes?” as if I were asking a question. “Good,” she said cheerfully. “Now say the 10-digit number that’s associated with this account, starting with the area code.” I was definitely talking to a recording, albeit a pleasant one.

Automated Lady told me in her reassuring voice that there had been a service interruption in my area and that their technicians were working to resolve it. Instead of hanging up, I listened to the rest of her prompts just to hear her mellifluous voice. I wondered if she might have her own 900 number I could call to speak about more personal things, like my foot fetish.

The call ended, and I was relieved that I didn’t have an equipment problem on my end, but I felt an increasing sense of anxiety. How long will my connection be down?

I began to wonder if I had a problem. Am I addicted to the Web? Most days I probably average a total of four hours surfing the Web to stay abreast of news (Michael Jackson is still dead, BTW), visit a few comedy sites like “The Daily Show,” and read up on the important issues of the day, such as whether Scarlett Johansson’s lips are sexier than Angelina Jolie’s. I'm not sure if surfing the Web four hours a day constitutes an addiction, but I certainly felt something approaching withdrawal when it was unavailable to me.

I exercise at home, and while I’m catching my breath between sets of lifting puny weights, I usually wander over to my computer to check out news headlines or search Amazon for books or music. As I exercised yesterday, I kept going to my cable modem like a lost puppy, hoping its green lights would once again be dancing to show an active Internet connection. They weren’t.

When I was a schoolboy in the pre-Internet age, if I needed to research something, I had to go to the public library, flip through index cards, and then try to steer clear of the scary homeless guy who liked to sleep in the non-fiction section to find information that was probably 10 years out of date. As much as I feel that modern technology has in many ways trivialized our lives and dumbed us down, there is one thing I love about it, and that’s having up-to-date information at my fingertips 24 hours a day. And yesterday I was jonesing for it.

After my workout, I went out and got some lunch. When I came home, my Internet connection was back up. I danced a celebratory jig and resumed my research.

I may be addicted to the Web, but it could be worse. I could be addicted to crystal meth like my neighbor, who I’m pretty sure has broken into my house three times. Which reminds me—it’s time for that prank call.

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