One of the small pleasures of spring is watching the nesting and mating rituals of our local birds. I like to sit on my back steps with a cup of coffee in the morning and watch as they gather twigs and grasses for nests. I like to listen to the sounds of the male birds calling out for mates. And I like to mess with them, using my Peterson Field Guide to Backyard Birds iPhone app. I'm perverse that way.
Yesterday morning, for example, a mockingbird was perched on my garage, singing at the top of his little bird lungs. I played the mockingbird song on my iPhone app and watched as he turned, startled, and began looking for his rival, obviously peeved that another bird was poaching his turf. (I also like to frighten squirrels with the screech of a red-tailed hawk, but that's another story.)
I bring this up because I've been reading about how the next wave of technology will bring us into a "post-Internet" era. That is, we will no longer choose to "get on" the Internet, because the Internet has gotten on us. The GPS systems in our phones and cars keep us "on the grid" whether we choose to go there or not. Every e-mail or text message we write is stored somewhere. Every financial transaction is tracked. Every website we visit is linked to a grid which monitors our interests, our purchases, our browsing habits. The Internet is onto us. The Internet is us.
This Net ubiquity is having unexpected side effects in countries where despots have long ruled by controlling the media and their citizenry's access to the outside world. When people have cell phones, they have the world in their hands — the ability to research, to learn the news from outside their borders, to read Twitter alerts and text messages, to organize efficiently, to avoid the authorities.
And think about how connected we are to the horrific events in Japan. Fewer and fewer of us are waiting to watch television reports. We're getting instant updates and videos via the Web. It's a tsunami of information, and it's changing the way we think and live.
I've read several stories recently about crooks who steal a car, then are unpleasantly surprised when the cops show up at their home, having tracked the car via its GPS. It seems thieves, like mockingbirds — like all of us — have some catching up to do.
Oh would some power the giftie gie us, to see ourselves as others see us. — Robert Burns
Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote the line above in response to seeing a louse on a high-born lady's bonnet at church. The point being, of course, that while we might think we're looking pretty good, someone else might be noticing a flaw we've overlooked.
(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes) — e. e. cummings
I'm writing this from the restroom facility at Big Hill Pond State Park in southern McNairy County. On Monday, I commandeered the building, which contains the men's and women's restrooms, some racks of pamphlets, and two vending machines. There's no one here right now, but I plan to stay as long as necessary to protest the fact that the state of Tennessee is run by oppressive know-nothings who wouldn't know small government — or freedom, for that matter — if it bit them on their considerable backsides ...
Exactly seven years ago this week, I wrote a column decrying a proposal by city engineers to turn the Overton Park Greensward into an 18-foot-deep "detention basin" designed to stop flooding in Midtown. The engineers claimed we'd hardly notice the football-field-sized bowl. "Except," I wrote then, "when it rains hard, at which time, users of Overton Park would probably notice a large, 18-foot-deep lake in the Greensward. Or afterward, a large, muddy, trash-filled depression."