soopastryheart

I finished a book the other day, and after that last page, I couldn’t help but notice how noticeably different the book looked than when it first reached my hands.

I like buying my books slightly used. I don’t like them highlighted or written on, but thanks to places like half.com, I can buy them “like new” or “very good”, and in just the condition I like them best. I like knowing that another set of eyes have read (or attempted to) the words I’m about to absorb, that another person chose this book out of countless others for one reason or another.

The thing is though, a book’s condition rapidly deteriorates once in my possession. In my first year at college, when I naively bought my books from the UW Bookstore brand spanking new (and at full price), I realized very quickly that my 220-dollar chemistry book was no less informative than a used 150 dollar one. I would write in the margins, highlight passage after passage with different-colored fluorescent markers, and spill various caffeinated beverages on its glossy pages. After a particularly frustrating and stressful night (coinciding with midterms, surprisingly enough), they would get hurled across the room, bruising the wall, and leaving the pages hanging on for dear life along the seams.

This book I just finished is no different. The pages are curled upward, and the front cover refuses to lay parallel to the rest of the body. The corners of pages are creased in various sizes of triangles, and if I shake the book, I know that a rain of popsicle sticks, ticket stubs, and a Costco card will come pouring out (I’m an opportunistic bookmarker, using whatever is within reaching distance). Some of these pages may be speckled with smeared chocolate flakes, or dimpled by occasional teardrops, all providing evidence that those pages were indeed read. They were laughed and coughed over with a mouthful of PJ&J, cried over in silence, fawned over with deep respect and admiration, frowned and occasionally gagged over. My books will provide proof that they have lived and suffered with me.

Anyway, before I throw this latest one onto the pile stacked against the wall, I decide to search for other works by the author. I open Amazon and there, taking center stage smack dab in the middle of the home page is an ad for Kindle, apparently the #1 Bestselling Product On Amazon. I’ve heard of this, but know very little, so I click the accommodating link. It’s a sharp-looking thing, isn’t it? It’s clean, looks relatively simple to use, and can hold up to 1,500 books. Holy crap, imagine all the money I could have saved on shipping.

I’m reading over the details, and find myself being more and more lured into this thing. It’s masterfully flirting with me, and like a girl buzzed off wine at the bar, I’m responding, finding it more attractive with the slightest wink and nudge.

And just when I think that I’m about to sneak the Kindle my number on a paper napkin, a voice (Morgan Freeman’s?) reminds me of all the good times with my paper backs and hard covers, and I suddenly feel cheap and guilty. Sure, the Kindle is sexy in the modern, new world way, and I’m all for anything that promotes reading, but can it offer me all the other non-literary services an actual book can offer? Can I throw it at a boyfriend’s head during a heated argument? If I curl up with a Kindle in bed, how high are the chances that I roll over it with my big, fat head and crack its pretty little face? If I tip my water bottle on the pages of a book, I can lay it flat for a day or two until it dries curled and rumpled, but will a Kindle be as forgiving? And what about that universal, connected feeling I get from having a slightly used book delivered to me?

I have no doubt that a gadget like the Kindle is the future; a future where libraries are obsolete and Barnes and Noble will merely become Starbucks cafeterias. And I am not entirely eliminating the possibility of having one of my own some day (I just envisioned my entire Don Delillo collection shaking and wetting their pants). But for now, I will risk paper cuts and questionable stains if it means I can hear the whistling of pages turning. Sometimes when I’m writing, I purposefully stack a pile of my favorites around me like a fort, because I am convinced that they are sending me inspirational vibes. How will Kindle offer me that?

My dad doesn’t know how to turn on a computer. We’ve programmed his cell phone with an address book and speed dial, but he doesn’t use them. He gets impatient when customer service via email doesn’t respond fast enough (anything longer than the time it takes for water to boil). He has no idea what texting is and still buys CDs. He prefers face-to-face meetings to conferences over the phone, and voice message machines to inboxes. And while the world “archaic” comes to mind when describing my dad, there’s something undeniably simple in his old-school approach.

Nowadays, you have maintain and advance with technology if you want to keep your head above the water. Anything less than cable internet will become intolerable. If it’s not an iPhone or a BlackBerry, it’s not a cell phone. If you don’t have a Facebook, you don’t exist. And if you don’t know what eBay or Craigslist is, well, you can go ahead and kill yourself now.

I remember a few years ago when a friend of a friend told me that a friend of a friend got dumped by her boyfriend of three years through an email. We discussed how disgusting, tactless, and just plain unbelievable it was. Just a few years ago, answering your phone at the dinner table would have been equivalent to burping, farting, and picking your teeth (at the same time). Now, it’s normal to be hired and fired through the send button. And why go through the perils of dating when your soul mate is just three clicks away? Why get to know your coworkers over a few awkward drinks when an online photo album let’s you do it…pants-free, no less?

How could we possibly have anything to talk about when through your Twitter, I already know how often your dog goes to the bathroom and that you’re allergic to pine nuts and idiots? If I can find everything from song lyrics to man-and-porcupine porn on the internet, why can’t I locate a single store in the mall that actually has change in its register? And in a time where I can order groceries, customize a wife, and diagnose myself of a rare kidney disorder online, why can’t USPS locate my fucking boxes? (Sorry, I really just can’t let that one go).

Annoying friends used to mean they were mooching off your lunch or arguing over what movie to see. Now it’s updating statuses too frequently and not replying to email/ texts within an hour or two. Thanks to my friend list, I can’t hide the fact that I’m friends with your worst enemy, or delete and ignore an ex without looking immature and bitter. It’s easy to stalk your friend’s hot friends without feeling guilty or creepy, because hey, he’s the one who posted all those photos from his Vegas trip. You’re angry because I didn’t call you about the party? Well maybe you should have checked your wall or inbox. Still mad? Well fine, go ahead and post that picture of me eating that hot dog, I’m just going to subscribe you to every erectile dysfunction newsletter out there.

Now, suddenly I’m not only aware, but also overtly cautious about which albums I do make public, and how much I curse in my Tweets. I can’t just say, “ah, hell with it” anymore without sounding ignorant and careless to future interviewers.

But there have been so much about our technology-based world that I’ve really benefited from (besides Ashton Kutcher’s whereabouts). I’m thankful I can craft and manipulate emails to make myself sound somewhat intelligible, where impromptu voice mails can make me sound like a donkey suddenly feeling the effects of a tranquilizer dart. I can ignore petulant phone calls and blame the service provider, and the de-tag button has become one of my closest allies. And if I can avoid the entire customer service center at Wal-Mart for as long as I live, I will wear a “I Love the Internetz” bumper sticker on my ass.

I love that I can order my JBrands at 30% off online, but I don’t mind going to Nordstroms or Barneys where the sales assistant can bring me the next size over in a matter of minutes. Sometimes I like asking for a recommendation from the Blockbuster employee with the hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in weeks. Some of the best conversations of post-modernism I’ve ever had weren’t in that god-forsaken English class, but with total strangers in the used book store on the Ave. The most memorable moments can’t be bottled in random, one-sentenced insider jokes along my Facebook wall, but probably captured in the album titled “Dude, Where’s My Respirator?” If I tried really, really, really hard, I’m sure I could compose something along the lines of a sentimental email, or send you plenty of “You’ll Get ‘Em Next Time” flowers or “There’s Better (and Bigger!) Fish in the Sea” boxes of Godivas, but sometimes, nothing can top a tight-squeezed hug and a fifth of tequila.

What I’m trying to say is that, there are plenty of things out there that are meant to improve our lives, but not everything needs to be. Sure, a Kindle is efficient when I need to carry seventeen books with me on vacation, but I still like getting a “very good-used” book in the mail and finding the previous owner’s receipt for anal beads squished in the pages. I want to be able to control what I say in an email to a future employer, but I want my real-life conversations with my real-life friends to be uncensored (for the most part). I want to be able to see facial expressions, not emoticons. I want to be able to interpret the tone of your voice, and throw a book accordingly.

A text message can’t give me that.