Our Devices, Ourselves, & Our Communities

I finally got around to reading Alone Together, Sherry Turkle’s influential study of technology in the modern day, and I can’t praise it enough. When you’re living through a seismic cultural change, it can be so difficult to step away and study the frenetic movement around you. But Turkle, a psychologist and MIT professor, has managed to use her academic training and pinpoint perspective to provide a deeply important view of the technological changes around us. I can’t think of many books more relevant to our world today than this one.

The book was published just last year, so its content is current. But most important, Turkle uses her psychological training to ask questions that will remain pertinent throughout the years to come. Are we, first and foremost, coming to expect more from our devices and less from the people around us? Are we really living a full life, or are we setting up moments so we can chronicle them on our Facebook wall? Is that Facebook wall an accurate portrayal of who we are, or is it a pose meant to showcase us in ways that make us look cool?

Are we interacting with one another in ways that bespeak community, or are we communicating in isolation, from a distance? Do we hesitate to call each other now, deferring to the text, e-mail or tweet in lieu of a real-life voice? Are we able to put the devices away, or have they changed us so much that we’re unable to leave them behind? An interview subject tells Turkle, “Technology is bad because people are not as strong as its pull” (242).

I picked up this book partly because of the changes I’ve seen in others, and partly because of the changes I’ve seen in myself. In the past decade, I know I’ve been influenced heavily by the devices around me – none moreso than the one I’m typing on right now. I don’t have a smartphone, so I’m not yet addicted to apps and don’t have constant access to the Internet. But when I turn on my laptop, it seems as if there is a magnetic pull to it, drawing me to respond to e-mails, check my “favorite” web sites, and research things I’ve been thinking about lately.

This technology is fascinating, of course, and I can spend all day listing ways in which the computer and Internet have helped me or others I know with information, education and communication. But as Turkle reminds us, we have lost a lot to these devices as well. She argues that we have every right to desire solitude, privacy, downtime, attention, and the ability to live in the moment. We can’t just cede these essential virtues to the technological revolution. “We deserve better,” the author writes. “When we remind ourselves that it is we who decide how to keep technology busy, we shall have better” (296).

My parents like their e-mail and their iPad, and they go to classes at the Apple store for help with using their devices. But overall, they are old school when it comes to communication. They like to call their friends on the phone, and they especially like to hang out with their friends in person. I’ve spent the past few days with them in their house on the Jersey Shore, and we’ve had a constant stream of visitors knocking on the door to stop in for a while. There are moments when I hear the knocking and think to myself, “Couldn’t they have texted to say they were coming over?” But then I realize that I’m missing the point. They step in, and moments of sharing and spontaneity take place.

These moments spread beyond the house itself, as evidenced when we found ourselves at the beach on July 4^th, waiting for the annual fireworks display at sunset. My wife, daughters and I were there along with my parents. But so were our friends Laura and Mark, who have been close with my parents for nearly 20 years and were inspired to move to this Shore town because of their visits to my parents. This week, Laura’s brother and his family were vacationing here as well, so they joined us on the beach. And Laura’s friends from New York were in town, staying in a hotel my parents had suggested, so they also joined us. My older daughter, Katie, had brought along her face paint and was drawing fireworks and flags on kids’ faces. Another girl, whom we didn’t know, stopped over to our blanket for a face-painting as well.

I had the Wiffle ball in hand, and was tossing pitches to a 2-year-old boy named Gabriel, the son of Laura’s friends. He smacked some nice line drives back to me with the yellow Wiffle bat. His dad helped him with the batting grip, and Mark helped catch the balls Gabriel hit.

There was a lot of fellowship in that sand on a Wednesday night in July. Flashes sparkled as folks took pictures of the activity. Some of those photos might be on someone’s Facebook page by now. I understand that, and accept it. But an evening like this is typical for my parents – computers take a backseat to conversation and communion. It’s a real-life version of what Sherry Turkle is asking us to consider preserving. As I sit here at my laptop, with the cell phone and iPod beside me and the Internet a click of the mouse away, I have food for thought. I think I’ll post a blog – then go outside for a quiet walk. 

Simplify (One Sixty-Two: Day 111)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Eleven: Jorge Posada, New York Yankees

We’ve got some friends over the house, and my wife is on her way home. She calls to tell me she’s picking up the pizza, and that I should call to order. I say no problem, and hang up.

I look for the pizzeria menu we keep in our kitchen drawer, but I can’t find it. And it’s at this point that our friend Stan and I begin some distinct 21st-century behavior. I dial up my wife again, because I know she has the pizzeria number on her cell phone. Stan, meanwhile, takes his BlackBerry out of his pocket. As my wife takes my call, she pulls over to the side of the road to get me the number. By the time I hang up with the number written down, Stan is holding his phone up to show me the number he’s found on-line.

In the next room, a rarely-used phone book sits on a shelf next to our computer. It’s got the pizzeria’s phone number in it, and it’s completely ready for use, anytime. Yet, I didn’t even think of using it until after I’d gotten the number via cell phone and Internet.

Simplifying life. We keep saying we need to do so, yet every year we add more layers of complexity. From smart phones to laptops to GPS devices to iPods to DVRs to 3G networks, we can’t help ourselves. We need to be wired everywhere, and connected to everything. We Facebook, Twitter, text, e-mail and play video games with people in Dubai. It never stops.

But once in awhile, when we find ourselves drowning in data, it hits us. There is a life outside of all the computer chips. We can live in this world without WiFi. We take our inspiration wherever we can.

Take Jorge Posada, for example. The Yankees catcher has never walked up to the plate wearing batting gloves. Almost every baseball player alive wears the gloves to enhance their grip on the bat. But not Jorge. Just a little pine tar and a strong grip is all he asks. As for his helmet, Jorge doesn’t need a sparkling new one every week. He’s got the same weathered helmet he’s been wearing for years. He’s a bit old school in that way, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

I would imagine that Jorge has pizza delivered to his home. But when he calls, I bet he’s used that phone book every so often. He’s washed off the pine tar by now, so he can flip through the pages just fine.

It’s OK to simplify, and it always will be. These days, though, most of us seem to be missing that message. We’ve got the batting gloves on, and we’re ready for what’s next.

Youth in Reverse

I should have known it was a bad idea. But you can understand the temptation. Here I was, on the day I turned 39, with a chance to go out for dinner and a movie with my wife. Dinner and “Avatar” couldn’t work inside the babysitting time frame. So, in an ill-advised moment, we chose a shorter flick: the Michael Cera vehicle “Youth in Revolt.”

“Juno” it wasn’t. Have I seen worse? Yes. But not many, actually. These days, we get out so rarely that I wanted something much better, especially on my birthday. So why, might you ask, didn’t we choose one of those movies with all the Oscar buzz? It’s a good question, and I think the answer goes no further than the movie’s title: As I cling to one last year in my 30s, how could I pass up anything with the word “Youth” in it?

At 39, I certainly hope to have many more years ahead of me. And there are plenty of people who would still consider me “young.” But even so, there’s no way I can claim to be a “youth” anymore. Thirty-nine is a precarious place sandwiched in between young adulthood and middle age – a place where many of us find ourselves balancing careers, families, personal wellness and social lives. It’s an exciting age, one where the present is full of more things than we could ever accomplish, and the past contains more memories than our brains can recall. And the future – well, that feels exciting and a bit scary at the same time.

So when you turn 39 on a Sunday in 2010, you do a few things. For one, you spend some time with your family. You go to church together, make smoothies for the girls, and show them scary photos from your high school yearbook. You do the “Happy Birthday” song, the make-a-wish, the candle-blowing with their help, the photo, then the photo do-over ‘cause so-and-so’s eyes were closed. You talk with your parents, brother, friends and in-laws, and you read all the kind wall postings on your Facebook page. You do something for yourself – go for a run, buy yourself a few CDs, watch a little football. You also do laundry and dishes and clean up the house, because, well, life doesn’t stand still for you, pal. And then, finally, you welcome the babysitter with open arms, grab some alone time with the love of your life … and watch the worst film you’ve seen in years.

It’s all very beautiful and gratifying, in many ways. But still, as you stare at that movie screen and see a baby-faced, 21-year-old actor looking back at you, it’s easy to wonder where the time has gone. And, while we’re at it, when those aches and pains are coming. And when the gray hair will fall upon you like a dusting of snow. And, dare I think it, when you and the wife will find yourselves too tired to even bother with dinner and a movie. “Youth,” you said? Two tickets for the eight o’clock show, please.

Baseball-Reference.com shows that 18 men born in 1971 played Major-League Baseball last year. Just barely one player for every two teams. If you’re 39 years old and a professional ballplayer, you’ve probably got the word “retired” attached to your title.

Unless, of course, you have revolted – against aging, that is. As for me, I’ll take what life’s got in store. Bring on 39. Just give me a better movie next time, please.

Fantasy Farmers

For 30 minutes each day during the baseball season, I sit in front of a computer and completely lose myself in a world of make-believe. I set my lineups, add and drop players, make trade offers. I read up on baseball-player news, and I strategize. All of this, of course, involves an imaginary, fantasy-baseball team that exists solely on the Internet. The players are real, of course, but they don’t really play for me. I’m trying to craft a team that will perform better than the teams run by a dozen other grown adults, who are also giving a half-hour of their life to this child’s play.

When I do this, I experience an odd mixture of glee and guilt. I’m excited because this is genuinely fun for me, as it is for the many millions of fans worldwide who are quickly turning fantasy sports into the real sports pastime. And yet, I also feel some pronounced guilt, since there are obviously a billion more productive things I could be doing with my life during that half-hour. Sure, we all need some time to decompress, and many of us do so on-line. But I could be on freerice.com, or reading important news stories, or e-mailing a friend.

The strongest guilt, though, has always come from the other adult who lives in this household. My wife has perfected the look – head cocked to the side, eyebrows pursed, a half-smile on her lips. “What are you doing?” she asks while I click and type furiously over my cereal bowl. “Didn’t we say we were going to church together this morning?”

“Um-hum,” I mumble. “Just give me a second, and I’ll be right there.”

Now the arms are folded in front of her, and she’s giving me the nod. “Sure,” she says. “Whatever you say.”

We get to church late, and now I’m really feeling guilty. She doesn’t say a word, making it even worse.

So this is how it’s gone for five years. Every winter I tell her that I’m going to quit the fantasy baseball scene next year, and she assures me that I won’t. March comes, and she’s right. It all begins again, and that odd mixture of feelings comes back to me while I peer at my lineup over that cereal bowl.

But no more. Next year, without question, will be different. I say this not because I plan to cease playing fantasy baseball. Quite the opposite. What I’m saying is that I’ve finally been relieved of the marital guilt.

The reason is simple: My wife raises fantasy livestock. She’s planting make-believe sunflowers. She’s up to level 25.

We’ve had some odd crazes in the history of American pop culture, but FarmVille is definitely up there among the best of them. According to a New York Times article a few weeks ago, more than 62 million people have signed up to play this Facebook application, which allows its players to tend to a virtual farm all their own. Zynga, the company that created FarmVille, told the Times that 22 million people log into their FarmVille account at least once a day.

When I check my Facebook page, I see these bulky animal and crop drawings, with messages stating that friends of mine are looking for lost cows, or have found wild turkeys, or just discovered mystery eggs, or simply want to say “Thank You” to all their FarmVille friends. It is agricultural madness. It is Atari meets Facebook meets Amish Country.

We should have seen it coming, of course. Many of the adults who are playing this game grew up with such odd passions as Cabbage Patch Kids, Q*bert and the Smurfs. We know that strange fads make life more fun. We’ve kept our Rubik’s Cubes and our Tickle Me Elmo’s, thank you, and we’re on the lookout for the next strangely obsessive thing.

It would be fine if only Amy checked her farm once a day. I would be totally cool with that. However, it’s become a challenge just to talk with her once the girls are asleep. Really, how could you bother to converse with your husband when there are blueberries to harvest, and animals to feed, and hay bales to arrange in the design of a Christmas tree?

You could say that this is karma, and that I’m getting what I deserve after all those hours of fantasy baseball. You’d be right, of course, but I see it differently. I envision a conversation this April, when I’m on the computer one Saturday, and she gives me that look again.

“Honey, are you checking your fantasy baseball?” she’ll ask.

“Yup,” I’ll say.

“Can you get off the computer? We’ve got things to do.”

“Nope.”

“Are you serious? You’re really going to play that all day?”

“As long as I want to.”

“Come on – let’s get a move on.”

“Sorry, babe,” I’ll say. “But you buy fantasy pigs in your spare time. You harvest fantasy corn. You earn fantasy money when your fantasy chickens lay fantasy eggs. You inform your friends that fantasy ugly ducklings have shown up on your fantasy farm.

“So if you don’t mind, I’m going to take just a few more minutes with my little fantasy baseball, where at least the players are real.”

She’ll stare at me for a minute. “Are you done?” she’ll ask.

“I am,” I’ll say, smiling to myself. Patting myself on the back. Little fist-pump beneath the desk.

She’ll continue: “Let’s go.”

I’ll lower my head, and click hibernate. “OK,” I’ll mumble.

The guilt again. Damn farmers.

Baseball, Meet Peanut Butter

I keep looking for reasons to feel proud of baseball. I peak at the headlines, in search of stories that will make this beautiful game look as gorgeous to me now as it was when I was 8 or 9. But I keep falling short.

I see the same names in the headlines each day, and for the same reasons: Alex Rodriguez, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Miguel Tejada, Mark McGwire, Jason Giambi. Some days, I wonder why anyone would choose to become a fan of a sport in which there has been so much cheating.

I look a little further, and I see a general manager resigning amidst allegations of kickbacks from signing bonuses. I glimpse deeper, and I see stories of men signed to contracts in the millions, yet club employees fired in order to pinch pennies. Every day, I see a new story about a man who, in the midst of a global recession, continues to turn down an offer to earn $45 million over the next two years, just to play left field and hit baseballs.

What is the point? Why am I still reading about this sport? What would be the reason to follow a game that has lost its way so wildly?

I can’t say I have a convincing answer to these questions. I don’t think I can persuade anyone why this sport is worth their time more than, say, watching a movie or tooling around on Facebook or iTunes.

But, then again, I’ve been thinking about peanut butter lately.

It’s been a couple of months now that we’ve been reading about the salmonella outbreak traced to a peanut company in Georgia. We’ve seen hundreds of peanut-butter products recalled, and read of hundreds stricken and several believed to have been killed by the salmonella, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Federal investigators are now claiming that the Peanut Corporation of America plant in Blakely, Georgia, knowingly shipped contaminated peanut butter, and had mold growing on its ceiling and walls. The company has filed for bankruptcy protection.

Unethical actions have led to sickness, death, fear and unemployment. Another national shame has enveloped our country.

And yet, I do love my peanut butter.

I have, of course, made sure to avoid all recalled peanut-butter products. But as for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they remain a staple of my lunchtime diet. I expect they always will.

I am separating the product itself from those responsible for manufacturing and selling some of the said product.

Peanut butter, like baseball, is rather lovely in its essence. It’s got a simple, homespun elegance that has attracted devotees for decades. We know the sticky-sweet taste of a PBJ, so much that here in New York we’re even willing to spend several dollars for a sandwich at the high-end Peanut Butter & Co. restaurant in Greenwich Village.

And we know the simple elegance of baseball as well. We know the dash from first to third on a hit-and-run. The pickoff at first base. The shoestring catch. The squeeze bunt. The ground-rule double. The pitcher who escapes a bases-loaded, nobody-out jam.

It is a fabulous product, this game. It will be so forever. The scandals will come and go, as will the unsavory characters. Many of them will do their best to ruin the game itself.

But we will demand better. Just as the president must confront this peanut butter scandal with improvements in federal oversight of America’s food, so will the government and sports world at large demand that Major League Baseball right its ship.

These demands have already begun, and they will continue. Because, no matter what the product, it is always the consumers who hold the ultimate power. You can try to fool us, and sometimes you will. But in the end, our voices will be heard.

So go ahead, buy me some peanut butter (and Cracker Jacks). Because you do care if I ever come back.