#347 Lappa Lethargy

As I closed down my piece from yesterday and went about my business, it occurred to me that I couldn’t leave the burning laptop problem completely alone. Remember, Dell is recalling laptops cause they spontaneously combust. Somehow, the concept of tapping away on your laptop and having it burst into flame seemed scarier than, well, snakes on a plane. Especially if it explodes when you’re illegally downloading something. Metallica’s revenge, a flaming brimstone from hell to set a bonfire to your baggies. A flare to your flares. Leaving you with nothing but a flash in your ash. Or worse yet, how do you explain it if your laptop explodes while you’re engaged in committing that pirated music to a CD for a friend. Burning a copy indeed. The napster in my lapster busted a cap in my lap. My limewire is a live fire.
Enough of that. Time for some social commentary. Occasionally I listen to people win things on radio stations. And it makes me worried a little bit about the pharmocopic side effects to our culture. Some of the winners just don’t seem that excited. You would think that if they went to all the trouble of programming their speed-dial to have the station’s number and they went to the further trouble of actually calling when they ‘re told they’ll be a winner if they’re number 7, that the prize they are going for is actually something they want. And want bad enough to be mildly excited when and if they actually do win it. But no, some of these callers sound like they’re prozac-ed up to the topomax. Their wellbutrin has got them, well, neutral. About everything. I understand some people really need the benefits of certain drugs to get them through the day. But I sure wish the pharmo- conglomerates would come up with a mood leveler that doesn’t leave people emotional zombies. If I hear one more Stepford Wife call in for a free dinner certificate and act emotionally as if it was the equivalent of a slice of old baloney, I think I’ll give vent to my un-pharmacologically suppressed anger. I might actually, heaven forbid, scream. Maybe even pull out a hair or two. In my case a valuable and diminishing commodity not to be lightly sacrificed. Prozac may lower the whiner quotient in our society but it’s lowering the winner quotient as well. If winning doesn’t have an emotional payoff, then why try? And if you don’t try for happiness, is life really worth living? Perhaps that’s why supposedly emotionally level users of such drugs eventually end up checking out altogether. They’re not depressed. They’re not happy. They’re not anything. So what’s the point? Maybe calling in for a prize on a radio station is a call for help. See, they’re saying, I’m trying to find something to get excited about. And the right words are there. Unfortunately, they’re delivered in a dull emotionless monotone. woo. hoo. look at me…
America, ya gotta love it.