Basically, the cellphone and the texting, as the kids call it, are the demise of love and poetry and possibly Bruce Springsteen. Which I guess would explain why I haven’t had a date in a while.
It does not, however, explain why my life doesn’t look like a New York Magazine sex diary. I feel very excluded from this “instantaneous, frictionless sphere separated from larger social institutions and commitments” with which David “Get Offa My Lawn!” Brooks is so familiar. Sure, I suppose I feel the romantic disenchantment of the new technological era — watching ex boyfriends get increasingly less attractive on facebook takes all the satisfaction out of seeing their degeneration in person for the first time — but where are my multiple sex conquests on speed dial? Where is my blizzard of sexual supply and demand, my universe of potential partners? How do I get to this eBay auction of erotica?
Hmmm. Mysterious. At least I retain my coat of ironic detachment.