Disconnected from the Collective Halucination

On Wednesday, our "free" ADSL modem from BT went on holiday. Permenantly. After calling BT about it, I was informed that "a Tech will call and set up an apointment some time to come round and fix it". Three days passed - no call. I'm assuming "some time" means some time this year or the next. Not being able to wait (after all, something amazing might happen on the "hamster-powered midi machine" website - I'm not kidding, Google it), Cin and I decide to go out and get our own ADSL modem, one that sings and dances and plays games and tucks you in at night. Failing that, at least one that reliably connects us to the Collective Halucination that is the internet, so that we can regain our status as "Homo sapiens digitalis" (of which we likely comprise about 20% or less of the entire total number of humans on the planet).

And that's the point. We lasted three days without internet. THREE DAYS. Back when I was a kid (walking to school uphill in a blizzard both ways) I sometimes went weeks without news from further away then the next town. Now, I feel completely lost when I can't simply reach out and see what's going on in Thailand, or Uzbekistan, or Toronto. It was absolutely amazing how dependent one can become on the Weird Wired Web.

Of course, we have an excuse. Cindy and I don't watch, and currently don't even OWN a television, despite the great nashing of teeth from the UK's leading law-enforcement agency, the TV Police (see the note at the bottom of this post). So our only window to what's going on in the world is the local radio station - whose apparent main concerns consist of football, whether there's a que at the A6/M1 motorway interchange, and speculation on why the Queen Mum won't attend Chuck's wedding to Camilla. Consequently we feel a little discombobulated when we can't connect to the world at large.

And yet, I think it's more then that. I think (for those of us that are wired, anyway) that perhaps the human race is evolving toward a more collective consciousness, made up of the shared experiences, images, and ideas of everyone who is connected. This Blog is a case in point - without which you wouldn't be exposed to these ramblings of mine (perhaps mercifully). And without the constant feed of data from this "higher collective" we have the sensation that we're missing something vital. Like the phantom itching amputees feel from the place where a limb once was.

The question is now, as the world differentiates further and further into the "connected" and the "disconnected", will those of us who share experiences/images/ideas be all the better for it than those who dream their own dreams, and think their own thoughts? In other words, is the increase in diverse experiences and ideas stimulating our brains into new and different directions? Or like a fastfood franchise, are we plowing down and paving over our individual cognitive functioning to put up a McPsyche - a place of homogenaity and non-imagination. A place that the "Everyman" can understand?

Sounds like there's a novel in there...

***

Note: In the UK you have to pay to watch BBC through rabbit ears. Not cable or satelite TV (called "sky" TV here) but through-the-air signals. If you don't pay, the TV police come round and confiscate your TV until you get a license. Cindy and I have been getting politely threatening letters from these people ever since we moved in, asking us if we're SURE we don't have a TV and that the inspectors could be calling round ANY MOMENT and by then it's TOO LATE and that we could suffer a HUGE FINE or worse, be forced to eat marmite. Its as if they think we misplaced our TV. Or don't realize that we have a TV tucked away in a back closet somewhere. Or maybe had one fall inadvertantly between the cushions of the sofa, there to rest with the loose change and the pocket lint. Maybe they've convinced themselves that us "hooligan colonials" have been stealing UK TV signals and smuggling them back to Canada to sell at a huge profit. Regardless, the near monthly letters have been a good chuckle and we often gather round the warmth of the fire at nights, the cats purring contentedly at our feet, and re-read the crinkled, finger-smudged words from these stauch defenders of public law and order.

The Lock-in

The Brits have some crazy habits. Many the world is already aware of, such as driving on the right side of the road, spending weekends and evenings "tidying up" national forests, and a deep and abiding fascination for Marmite. Recently, thanks to my neighbours Rob and Karen, I discovered another one - the "Lock-In".

On Friday, Rob and Karen invite Cin and I out to a pub in Leicester to listen to the live music of a friend of theirs (who plays absolutely amazing improv folk violin!). Cin had to work, so I agreed to go solo. That evening we piled into Karen's little blue car and whizzed away to a pub called the Black Horse, where we bought each other rounds of ale (the house best was called "White Horse Ale" - Brits also like their horses). We sang folk songs ("And now the Drinkin' verse!") and generally caroused and made merry until around about 11 pm. Then the "Lock-in" procedure began.

Now to truly get the depth of the story, I'll actually need to cover a little background. So let's roll the clock back to 1914 - The British commonwealth is mired deep in the tragedy of WW1. Few young men are present, and those that are are either heading to war whole, or coming back from it broken. Older men, women and sometimes even children are spending their days in factories to ensure a steady flow of material to the trenches, including high explosives. Up until this time public houses in the UK were open and allowed to serve alcohol 24hrs. As a consequence, many people were arriving at the munitions factories out-of-their-skull drunk. And spatially challenged, clumsy, people with poor-decision making abilities are not the best ones to have working around high explosives. So, to eliminate any unfortunate accidents, British Parliament decreed that all Public houses had to cease serving alchohol at 11 pm (with the exception of the pubs at the fishplants, whose employees work on a 24 hr shift timetable, and the pub in the Parliament building itself, for no reason what-so-ever). This provided enough time for people to sober up before heading off to their shift at the factory. Despite the fact that WW1 and WW2 have long since finished, this law has never been revoked. Consequently, all pubs in the UK are still required by law to close at 11 pm.

So, there I was, enjoying the music (you haven't lived until you've heard some bloke do an unplugged render of the Rolling Stone's hit "Honky Tonk Woman" accompanied by a truly gifted improv folk violinist) and great company, when at 11 pm the bartenders began ringing a bloody great bell and bellowing "Drink up! 11pm! Drink up! I need yer glasses, mates!". People drained their glasses, grabbed their coats and began filing out the door. Not wanting to be left out (and not quite thinking clearly anymore - that White Horse has a mean kick!) I drained my glass, rose and began struggling into my own coat. It was only after I had succeeded in putting my arm into the correct sleeve and was woozely showing off my miraculous accomplishment to my new best friends that I realized that none of the other people at my table had stood.

Karen waved her hand at me, and quietly bade me sit again, "Just wait a bit," she admonished. I sank back into my seat, then helped the guy next to me finish off his pint of apple cider (an endeavor in which I'm nearly 80% certain he actually asked my assistance in doing). After about 15 minutes, the bar had pretty much emptied of everyone except the people at our table - friends of the musicians plus one confused canuck. The Bartender came round the bar to the door, closed and locked it, and briskly pulled the curtains. While he was doing this, we all stood, gathered our coats, trooped around to the other side of the room (the bar was an island cutting the room in half) and took seats in the "less-windowed" half. The bartender returned to his post, and with a wink said, "Right chaps, looks like we're locked in. Might as well have a drink, eh? Bars open." And the Black Horse was flowing with White Horse once again.

This odd and technically illegal custom apparently happens every night. And is known and pretty much accepted by the authorities. In fact, Karen told me that during one lock-in at their regular pub in Quorn (called the White Horse - no relation to the ale of the same name), they spent the evening swapping rounds and stories with the local constable, who hadn't bothered to go back to his patrol after nipping in for a pint with his mates earlier in the day. When I asked why they didn't just change the laws the Brits looked at me with a look of shock and said, "But then we wouldn't be able to have a lock-in anymore."

Why let progress stand in the way of years of tradition? Gotta love the brits.