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| I was a fugitive from computing. Sounds like a melodrama, doesn’t it? Actually, I went underground from technology over the Labor Day weekend on a silly bet. The editor of this magazine said I couldn’t live 72 hours without using computer technology. He said chips and networks and digital doodads are virtually (no pun intended) omnipresent. He pointed to a news item in August: Gas stations plan to install Web browsers at the pumps so drivers can check e-mail or download maps. Oh, and maybe order something from the fast-food counter because of the unstoppable, annoying ads flashing across the pumps’ screens. TUBS O' COKE TOO BIG TO CARRY—99 CENTS!!!!! Like Martians in old horror flicks, computer technology seemed to be everywhere. But I like a challenge, so I took the bet. On the Thursday before the long weekend, I gorged myself on technology. I furiously traded rotten jokes with my e-mail buddies. I visited my favorite golf-related Web sites. Through humming networks, I checked my mutual funds. I made, I thought, my last credit-card purchases. Like a smoker deeply inhaling his last butt before going cold turkey, I wanted to be thoroughly sick of this modern addiction before resolutely turning my back on it. This was going to be the great pre-Y2K test of resourcefulness! And then... Nothing happened. A lot of nothing happened. It’s hard to describe how much nothingness happens when you’re deprived of PCs, CDs, cell phones, EZ-passes, DVDs (doesn’t this sound like a disease?), microwave ovens, and the TV remote (technology’s gift to man). I even had to skirt intersections with computer-controlled traffic lights and avoid the slightest hint of speeding, lest I get checked by a police officer’s radar gun. By 8 p.m. Friday, I needed a break. But I faced my first real dilemma: How to pay for dinner out? My wife, three boys, and I had intended to eat at our country club, where I could sign a paper tab with a pencil. (What they do with that bill in the accounting office is their business.) Unfortunately, a party closed out the club option. So, off we went to Friendly’s. When the check arrived, I found only a couple of bucks and a little lint in my pocket. Stupidly, I’d neglected to load up on cash at an ATM. Because human bankers keep bankers’ hours, I wondered if I could wash dishes for the meal. But I didn’t wonder long. I whipped out my American Express. Like a golfer who isn’t quite warmed up on the first tee, I needed a mulligan. Saturday morning, I awoke full of hope for the rest of the weekend. But not full of coffee. Our coffee maker has a digital clock in it. So does our stove. I suppose I could have gotten out a couple of sticks and brewed the grounds over a fire. Instead, my two-year-old and I headed over to the club. (Brian had insisted he wanted to practice. No kidding. Tiger Woods had better watch his back.) While Brian played in the practice sand trap—for now, I let him think sand traps are fun places to be—I had my coffee and signed with a stubby pencil. We went home, and Brian took his nap. The phone rang. I hesitated. What if it was a telemarketer using an autodialer while sitting in front of a PC screen, being prompted by the giant computers that are always churning through data to divine what I want? As the phone rang and rang, I wanted to check Caller ID but, of course, couldn’t. The answering machine picked up. (I didn’t stop it because its microcontroller put it off limits.) I figured I’d check the message Monday at 6 p.m., at the end of this stupid bet. Sunday morning, I let our 95-pound Labrador retriever outside. I realized he was as close as I was going to get to a home alarm system over the weekend. But I felt refreshed. Sunday morning is church. Finally, a refuge. Ah, but wait. I realized the church uses a PC to track my weekly checks. Would that violate my bet? Maybe not, but the church sound system is computerized. The lights probably are, too. Suddenly, I was depressed. I wondered: Is there a prayer for depression? Does God have one of those annoying systems that tells you how long it will be before He’ll be available to talk with you? Later, my wife pointed to Saturday night’s dishes and told me to get going. I carefully explained to her how water purification is monitored by digital controllers, how computers track our usage and generate our bills. "This isn’t king for a day," she told me. I did the dishes. She put on a Springsteen album to help me along. Yes, an album. She said Springsteen doesn’t sound right on a CD. By Monday, I wasn’t missing the computers so much. I drove to the golf course, slowly and without turning on the radio dial. (Yes, my 1987 Honda with 180,000 miles has a dial.) My tee time was recorded with paper and pencil, so I played without guilt. I, of course, didn’t use one of the fancy-schmancy golf carts that communicate with the Global Positioning System to figure out how far you are from the green and various hazards. To be safe, I didn’t even check the yardage markers, because the distances had been measured with lasers. I toted my own bag and walked. Soon, I realized I was playing faster than usual because I wasn’t stopping to figure out if I was 162 yards from the flag, or 158. I was playing better, too, because I was simply aiming for the center of the green. However, I scrupulously avoided entering my score in the handicap computer. (I did that a few days later.) As I relaxed that afternoon, I realized I’d lost my bet. The awful truth is that I’m dependent on technology. We all are. Even if I yearned to move into the Unabomber’s old cabin, I’d undoubtedly encounter some PC network that records Montana’s real-estate transactions. The Unabomber, for all his ranting and raving about technology, used the computer-run Post Office to mail his deadly packages. So, I resolved to pay off my bet and sent Context’s editor his popcorn—microwave-style, of course. And, on Tuesday, I gave up all pretense. Yielding to the nattering of my four-year-old, Matthew, I brewed myself some coffee, then sped through a bunch of computer-controlled intersections, found a clerk at a computer terminal, and ordered a PC for Matthew. There’ll be no Luddites in my house!
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