Thursday, July 6, 2000

1:20 a.m. Ok. This is both the creepiest thing I've ever seen, and the coolest. The strangest feelings of -- yuck and wonder and awe are going through my little bird brain as I try to comprehend this Brave New Thing.

Only a few months ago I was worrying that we'd be grinding our own grains and communicating with hand signals and white flags as the world descended into a Y2K-induced delirium. That was then. This is now. Now I've just downloaded Real Player and now I'm able to tune into the 27-7 spyfest known as Big Brother and I couldn't be more conflicted.

On the one hand, they asked for it. They volunteered. On the other hand, that doesn't mean I should participate. What if it makes me less than the sterling person I thought I was? I don't open people's mail. Usually. I didn't listen in when we had a party line. Hardly ever. I don't eavesdrop. Well -- sometimes I do.

I'm a writer. I call it field research. But I try to let people have their privacy -- I really do. Unless you publish it, I'm not going to read your diary. I'm not going to peek in your window -- unless you put that window on the web. I guess.

I'm still not sure what I'm going to do. Certainly, they've chosen people especially for their strange, caustic, abrasive accents. Voices that cut through the static of all that web buffering and manage to come blasting out of the little tin can speakers I've got on my old, ancient, suddenly obsolete little Mac. Just think what I could do with a G4.

Hello world! I'm ready for your closeup!

Oh, my. But I'm conflicted. I can't believe how much this web journal now seems obsolete and so twentieth century. So behind the times -- using a mere replica, a still and mute photo to represent that lovely live peek into the world's biggest gerbil wheel, a spinning wheel full of people-pets.

How are they doing? Sleeping well? Eating too much?

And my own revelations here -- so limited. You can't see what I'm wearing (slimming black, of course) or what's also on my desk (cherries), or my expression (as if I've seen a ghost).

2:40. A tiny computer crash has brought me back to reality for a moment. I've got the full run of my computer back, without the slow drag that Real Player is exerting. For the moment, I have my privacy again. For the moment.

Ironic, isn't it? If I open my computer to them, gawk at their lives, I have to live with them in my life. It's a two-way window after all.

And I realize that this is one of them gol dang paradigm shifts. They happen every so often, and this is clearly one of them. I swore I wasn't going to watch the show on TV tonight because I don't want to get sucked back into watching television now that I'm almost free of it. But I found myself right there at 8 p.m., tuned in to the show.

And now -- now I've activated my credit card and purchased Real Player and handicapped my already hardly speedy machine with a big, big, psychic burden. Should I tune in and peer at these poor people? What's going to be on TV next if this catches fire the way I'm sure it will ... public hangings?

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times.