no woman is an island

My horoscope yesterday said not to fight with anyone. And aside from a little set-to with Dolores about her apartment purchase, with the Artist Known as Chang about obsession and with Citichild about precipitate marital plans, I pretty much followed instructions. I did, however, spend much of the day fighting with my computer.
It started with the airport. Well, I knew it was iffy and finally it iffed off. So I went to Comp USA and bought a new one. Which, by the way, is so small and fabulous. It looks just like the little white thing you plug your Mac in with and will also allow you to access your printer wirelessly. I haven't done that part yet, because the DSL modem immediately went on the fritz. So after rebooting and rebooting, I regretfully called India (be thankful, Trom) and talked to George for a long time on the phone, and he reconfigured me (my computer/myself).
Thank God. Because for a few hours there, I was Cut Off. OK, my cellphone, fax and land lines were working, but it was a weird feeling not to be able to hop on the Web. It reminded me of what it felt like to be abroad without a cellphone.

How soon we forget. It was practically only yesterday that we had no voice mail, no cells, no e-mail. You had to sit in a hotel room waiting for someone to call you back. You had to leave detailed itineraries when you left home. You had to read maps and go to libraries and keep change for phone booths and do all kinds of other things that have become lost skills. I foresee that very soon there will be special spas where cells and computers are removed from patrons who don't think they can go cold turkey otherwise. People will rediscover the beauties of being disconnected in a sensory deprivation tank for the soul. Even your friends won't be able to reach you! Off the grid without a GPS!
So, I don't know, maybe I won't put DSL into the island house after all. But then, how would I communicate with DEM ("check your permit status at www. . ."), order from Home Depot, close the story I'm working on, buy parts for my nail gun?
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Not the envelope icon, you pre-computer-literate neanderthals.