Life Without the Magic Box

Last week was one of the longest weeks of my life. Not only was I sick and medicated within an inch of my life, my computer was gone. There was an empty space in the little cubby-hole where the thing usually sits and a sad little jumble of wires and cords beneath the computer desk.

I didn't realize how much of my life was on that machine until it was gone. Everything, I mean EVERYTHING is on my computer: my calendar, my phone book, my address book, news, weather, personal communications, work... Suddenly, I was cut off from the entire world. I didn't know how to get in touch with anyone. Sure, I have a phone, but what good is it when all my phone numbers are stored on my computer? I didn't have a clue about what was going on in the world. I couldn't even check the weather without turning on the television and waiting for a weather report. How archaic!

By Saturday, I had an irresistable urge to draw charcoal pictures of mastodons on my living- room walls. Luckily, there was football to satisfy my new itch for primitive violence. But even with Bama giving Tennessee what-for, I was disappointed that I couldn't post snide remarks about the game on Facebook.

Yesterday, my little friend returned. I was overjoyed when that big blue button lit up and it whirred to life once more. I spent the next hour or so dealing with a back-log of email and Facebook updates. I read the news. I checked the weather. I updated my Yahoo! avatar. It felt goooooood.

Welcome home, oh prodigal PC. Don't ever leave me again and force me to buy actual newspapers and watch the Weather Channel. You and coffee and a kiss from my husband begin my day. Stay and keep me informed and connected. I will keep you dusted and protected from surges. I promise.

To the Glory That Was...Goth?

Tomorrow is the 160th anniversary of the death of Edgar Allan Poe. In honor of this event I decided to decorate another web page with pictures and other graphics featuring Poe. While searching through numerous picture hosting sites for said pictures and graphics, I found myself growing increasingly agitated by the number of idiots in black that have laid claim to dear Eddy. How the he... heck did he become an icon to goths and emos? Sure, he was a bit dark, but I doubt that if he lived today he would be shopping at Hot Topic.

Why do these Depeche Mode-listening, black lipstick-wearing, combat boot-sporting, posers think they have a right to assume that he belongs to them? They tattoo "Nevermore" on various parts of their pale bodies and spout "The Raven" every chance they get (mainly because it's the only poem of his that they know.) They know nothing about the man, but somehow he is the poster boy for their movement.

FYI, freaks. Poe was not a goth. He would probably look at you guys and think, 'Wow, that's weird.' Yes, I know he wrote strange, twisted stuff, but that hardly qualifies him to start wearing eye-liner. He also wrote lovely, sweet, even humorous things.

And don't let the pictures fool you, emo kids. If you had to sit perfectly still for up to five minutes just to have your photograph taken, you would look a bit unhappy and droopy too.

The point of this rant is not to slam goths or emos. If that's what you guys want to do with your lives, that's your business. Just learn something about the people you take as idols. You may find out that they have nothing whatsoever in common with who you are or pretend to be. And when someone asks you who your favorite poet is, don't say Poe. Throw them for a loop and say Emily Dickinson.