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It rains and rains and rains. Yesterday it rained so hard the Internet broke. While it seems to me that a decentralized global network should still work while soggy, the IT dude told us there would be no packets before supper.
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One of the most rapidly apparent effects this had on my colleagues and I was that we suddenly became ignorami -- answers to even the most seemingly basic questions baffled us and left us feeling sad and stupid.
"Who's that guy who was in that movie, you know, with the fireball -- with that girl?" asks someone.
Everyone turns confidently to their machines and then, a moment later, swears. Our favourite repositories of off-site cinema knowledge are not accessible.
Later on a producer asks: "How much would a new two hundred gig FireWire drive cost?"
And the multimedia guy is forced to offer a surprised and morose reply: "I...don't know."
We feel like Superman bitch-slapped by Kryptonite. None of our magical Cyber Age powers are working. We can't know the weather report or see through traffic cameras; we cannot settle arguments; we can't buy anything or even compare prices for future purchasing; we cannot retrieve client files uploaded to our off-site FTP server; we cannot drill down through trivia or follow trails of curiosity; we can't read the news or steal photographs, download television programming or albums of pop music; we can't videoconference with our babies or wives; we can't browse stock art or commercial music libraries or step through on-line tutorials; we can't ogle the Page Three girls from Britain.
Around midday the following sage advice trickles through the various departments: Don't work too hard today or they'll clue into how much more productive we are when the Internet's off.
We're bored between being busy. We wonder if we should photocopy our bums or have stapler fights. Everybody answers every question with, "Dunno -- Internet's down."
"Is Gothenburg in Sweden?"
"Dunno -- Internet's down."
"Did somebody put on a new pot of coffee?"
"Dunno -- Internet's down."
We are helpless. Bludgeoned at the yoke of HR to carry out important and/or sensitive conversations via e-mail, we cannot resolve issues. Face to face we are chicken. "Okay, I'll talk to you about this now if you insist, but I insist we CC our conversation to your boss."
"How?"
"Maybe we should yell."
"Is he in his office?"
"Dunno -- Internet's down."
Everything is so bloody local. We miss the voices of many. We are Hugh. We might as well be working in an Afghani cave. We might as well be a bazillion miles from Earth. We're cut adrift -- vapid, disempowered, disconnected, alone.
"The IT dude says something happened to a fibre line in Brampton. Do you think it's true?"
"Look it up."
"Yeah, good idea -- hey wait: fuck you. That's not funny."
"It is, actually."
"Do I seem amused?"
"Dunno, Internet's d --"
"Shut up!"
People talk more. The telephone rings a lot. We get up from our desks and walk around to other departments to see people. It's weird. It's like an indoor field trip. If foley of clacking typewriters could be added for ambiance we would have a reasonable approximation of what it may have been like to work in an office in the nineteen-seventies or -eighties. A history class come to life!
Our connection comes back up around tea time. All work stops while we cram to catch up on our e-mail and instant messages, to get up to speed on who's been blown up by terrorists and whether or not any of Hollywood's summer blockbusters are reviewed as worth paying to see. Even deleting spam is a charmed chore when bolstered by a span of deprivation.
We are used to the Internet. Yesterday's science-fiction is today's hum-drum. I wonder what grand magicks will we take for granted tomorrow.
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