I never thought it would happen to me. I’m sure that’s what they all say after they’ve been hooked. But I had a stronger case than most for believing that I’d be immune to the enticements of the Internet. I was, after all, a creature steeped in the archaic world of print, enamored of history and literature and all things outmoded. Computers were something cold and futuristic and foreign to my nature. At work I used to gawk with incomprehension at the unlettered youngsters who tooled their way around a desktop as if they had a special gene for Windows 95. Meanwhile, I’d sputter and fume when my PC balked or froze or performed some function I hadn’t consciously authorized, like capitalizing the first word of every line. I’d swear under my breath (and frequently on top of it) as I concluded that the secrets of computer mastery were being deliberately withheld from me by the resident demons in the machine. I’d picture Bill Gates cackling at his desk as he observed my travails through some diabolical remote server and set the next trap as if he were outsmarting me at chess.

No, just five or six years ago I never imagined that someday I’d be transfixed by the little glowing screen... that I’d be carrying on an intimate relationship with my own home computer... that I’d be hypnotized beyond midnight and unable to pull myself away, desperate for just another click, another bright screen full of factoids, another look at my e-mail, my message board, my website traffic stats, my latest bids on eBay. I check my stocks for the fourth time today, chat with my online buddy Roger, who’s even more of an Internet addict than I am (he insists that, with the exception of food and shelter, the outside world is entirely expendable). I read an intellectually stimulating article about the Beatles on Arts & Letters Daily. I look into an America Online feature about celebrity homes and how much they’re selling for. (Oprah’s new 22,000-sq. ft. palace is setting her back $50 million, probably several months’ income for her.) I reread one of my recent columns to see if I’m still any good. (I probably am, but I'm never sure.)

I should log off and get some sleep, but it’s so easy to click, so neat and satisfying, so much more natural than dealing with the cluttered and cumbersome world of meatspace. I check my e-mail again, revisit my web stats page (we’re closing in on our weekly page view record, set last month -- this is historic!). I take a last look at my bids on eBay (better boost my maximum bid for that authentic Stephen A. Douglas autograph). I check to see how my ‘Cynic’s Dictionary’ is selling on Amazon.com. (It’s ranked 155,533 today -- not too promising in terms of long-term viability. On the other hand, my ‘Words That Sell’ is still selling briskly at 3,411. It makes perfect sense; I’m not entitled to royalties on that one.) I skim another article on Arts & Letters Daily (did Hans Christian Andersen die a virgin?). Oh, and I’d better post on my website message board so my online tribe won’t think I’ve abandoned them. Now the blue jay has called out from my songbird kitchen clock. I never like to hear the blue jay -- that means it’s 3 a.m. What am I doing gazing into the screen at this hour, when I should be dreaming in bed about mythical kingdoms, old school chums and killer babies? Why can’t I stop hopping from screen to screen? Have I gone insane? Did I harbor some obsessive-compulsive tendency that only found expression after the invention of the World Wide Web?

I suspect I’m not alone. Why is it so confoundedly difficult to part company with the Internet? What irresistible force keeps us glued there hour after hour, unable to click on that little x to terminate the session? Is real life suddenly so unbearable that we’d do anything to avoid it? It’s a pretty sad commentary if we’d rather stare at a screen than hike to a hilltop and watch a sunset... rather stare at a screen than play with the cat, dance a tango, read Dickens, camp by a stream, eat snow cones at a carnival, paint a landscape, listen to Beethoven or hear the wind in the trees. It’s not that we’d RATHER stare at the screen; we’re simply more comfortable staring at it. A body online tends to stay online; we’re following the path of least resistance. 

But we have other reasons for not logging off. The Internet is a vast invisible community, much like television but even more inviting because we can take part in the show. We feel strangely connected to the unseen multitudes, including people we actually know and millions we’ve never met. At the same time we feel safe in our isolated electronic cocoons; we know we won’t encounter bodily harm (other than a little long-term muscular atrophy). The Internet assaults us with no unsavory smells or grating voices, no tailgating SUVs, no artery-hardening stresses or impossible deadlines, no obligations or annoying impositions (other than the occasional pop-up ad). It demands little of us and offers quiet companionship, like a bland but congenial friend with whom we can spend hours in comfortable silence.

The Internet is a world we can shape to our own liking, unlike the real one that bruises us and offends us and ultimately knocks us dead. We’re flattered when we’re recognized by our favorite sites, when Amazon.com welcomes us and shows us some new books and records we’d be inclined to enjoy. (Amazing how they know I’m interested in H. L. Mencken or Annette Hanshaw.) We’re flattered when we do a search for our own name on Yahoo and watch dozens of listings materialize. (Are we famous yet? No, but Yahoo is telling us that we are.) We check the growing list of bookmarked sites that reflect our own idiosyncratic personalities. In fact, we collect bookmarks the way some of us used to collect books in a bygone age. We might never get around to using them, but they help tell us who we are. We are what we bookmark. 

The Internet is the ultimate balm for the ego. It tells us we can shape our world, play an active role in it, even star in it. We only come crashing back to terra firma when an error message informs us that a ‘fatal exception’ or ‘illegal operation’ has occurred. We can’t get what we want after all; we’re suddenly revealed to be the powerless pawns that we are. The lollipop has been snatched away from the smiling babe; we rumple our brows and bawl.

Cynic's Pick of the Week

A jury has ordered tobacco giant Philip Morris to pay a cancer-stricken smoker -- are you ready for this? -- THREE BILLION DOLLARS for not sufficiently warning the victim about the dangers of cigarettes. We’re sorry to see smokers waste away from cancer, but for three billion dollars you could probably purchase a small European nation like Luxemburg. And you can bet that the lawyers for the plaintiff will never have to worry about cigarette money.