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The Machine Issue
Come Here, Boy, and Help Your Grandfather Work This Damn Laptop Typewriter of Yours
sarah naftalis
If you ask me, this nation’s going to crap. And if you ask me in my good ear, I’ll tell you why: technology.
Take the presidential election. I keep hearing these cockamamie ideas about voting on the Internet and letting robots count the ballots. Computers are always crashing or booming or banging or what have you, and now we want them to elect the next leader of the free world? I remember when voting was as simple as putting a jellybean in an empty molasses jar with Harry Truman’s name on it. I understand that times change, and today molasses has fallen out of favor with the young people, but the basic idea is sound. I want a lever I can pull, a box I can check, or a jellybean I can eat.
Second, the American family is under attack. And who’s leading the charge? The iPod, which is some sort of personal ear Victrola. My grandchildren spent all of last Thanksgiving sitting on the couch with white buds plugged in their ears. When I was a boy, if you wanted sound in your ear you leaned against the radio box until FDR’s fireside chat was so close it singed you with patriotism. Entertainment was about family togetherness, cranking up the volume, and lindy-hopping the night away. But no, iPods create an “individual” experience. That’s what the “i” stands for. Well let me tell you, there’s no “I” when you’re in the troop ship on the way to Utah Beach. But do these kids care how their Pappy stopped the Germans? No, they’d rather watch The Gossip Golden Girls or listen to the hiphopscotch music.
Which brings me to my next topic: obesity. America has a nasty case of what my mother used to call “One Too Many Lemon Drops.” We can point the finger at lack of exercise or Big Tobacco all we want, but sure as sarsaparilla, we all know there’s only one thing to blame: the division of labor. Remember the episode of I Love Lucy when she and Ethel were working at the candy factory? That assembly line got moving too fast, and suddenly Lucy was stuffing chocolates in her mouth faster than you can say “I Like Ike,” and almost as fast as my porky grandson when he packs in those McDonald’s french fries. Now, my mother made me a stack of pancakes, a slab of hamsteak, and three eggs sunny side up every morning, and I’m still slim as a string bean. Why? Because her food was home-cooked with the healthy love of unspecialized labor, not deep-fried in the fatty oils of Taylorism. So take heed, America, and don’t talk down to me. I’ve seen the harmful effects of technology myself. Last month I nearly threw out my back because of my icebox. Just last week my daughter forgot my birthday on account of her DustBuster. I can’t remember my phone number, and it’s all the electric car’s fault.
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