Forever Dumb

New York City based used bookseller Michael Seidenberg doesn't have a web page for his bookstore, Brazenhead Books. He doesn't Tweet, doesn't have a Facebook fan page, and you can't Google map him. That's because his book store is hidden - only obtainable to the fortunate few by word of mouth. All of us addicts of the world wide web will, indeed, have a difficult time finding Michael Seidenberg's bookstore. God forbid, we might actually have to ask another human being for it's whereabouts rather than the almighty Google.

I don't own a smart phone, and I never will. If I have to dig through the ghetto trash of Verizon Wireless when my POS Samsung finally eats it, I will. I don't want an ipad, or an iphone, ijustwantbasic. I know, I'm weird. I even worked in tech - where the incentive for a job well done actually was winning an ipad - and I thought, oh shit, I'm in the wrong industry.

I'm just going to be (surprise) blunt about it. I hate the Wii. If I want to play tennis, I will go to a tennis court. If I want to do yoga, I'm going to a yoga studio. With people. In real life. In real time. BRB. I don't want to get onto an online dating site to find someone. I'd rather join a club or a group or even go out to the bars where I could meet someone in the flesh in a less super intense, creepy-best-face-forward format. I don't want to play games online with people across the world, I'd like to defeat friends over beers with an all night game of Risk.

I don't know what Google + does, and I don't care. If someone checks Twitter on their smart phone again while we are having a meal together, I'm going to get up and walk out. I want body language. I want eye contact. I want the type of flirting that only the eyes can show - not some dumb smiley face in a text. I want the intensity of human connection, human conversation, with all of the little things you can only notice about a person, well, in person - the way they hold a coffee mug, the way they chop a tomato while cooking, the type of music they put on when they are cleaning the house, if they hold warm, fresh laundry, close to their body before they fold it. Those things that cannot happen via text, via chat, via IM, via Facebook, via Twitter. Those things that are intrinsically human.

I don't want to hold a piece of cold plastic Kindle while delving into The Help. I want to hold that book, carry it around proudly, make it a conversation starter, feel the satisfaction of turning a page, smell that sweet book smell every so often, mark it's progression with salad dressing on the pages from my lunch break. I don't want to Tweet my whereabouts or broadcast them on Facebook, I want someone to pick up the phone, call me, and make solid, not-flaking-out-last-minute-via-text plans to go to an art museum where we can look at thick oils dripping off canvas.

Turn off the noise. Turn off the computer. Pick up a pen and write a letter to your grandmother. Start walking down a street you've never explored and ask people where a great restaurant is, a great coffee shop, a great bookstore, sans Kindle. You never know, you could very well find the elusive Brazenhead Books, or better yet, another undiscovered gem in your own neighborhood. And keep it secret - only telling people through word of mouth. Or even better, just take someone to the places you found without Google, without Yelp reviews, just by walking and looking. Take your fingers off your computer keys and run them through blades of grass. Take your earbuds out of your ears during your commute and listen and look around at the commuters all around you - wondering what they ate for breakfast, who they made love to last, what movie is their favorite, if they celebrate Christmas or Hannukah or neither.

This is life. You can't TeVo it, watch re-runs, or rewind it. It's happening right here, right now, in real time. Tear yourself away from the screen and dig it.