Nothing Means Something

By STEVE LOPEZ

I used to be very good at doing nothing. I'd go for a walk nowhere in particular, lie on the beach, look at the clouds. If I were feeling ambitious, I might light a cigar.

Those were heady days, and I slept well. But nowadays, if I have nothing to do, I do something instead. I didn't have to write this little essay, for instance. Before doing nothing became a lost art, one that I had put a lifetime of training into, I would have gone up to the roof deck for a good nap. I definitely would not have taken the laptop up there.

A pox spreads through the land as we close out the century. We're all hooked up to everything but peace of mind, and it shows in the cathode pallor we carry; we are a Night of the Living Dead army of zombies wondering if we've got unopened e-mail. Nobody, with the possible exception of Congress, knows how to do nothing anymore.

Go to a movie, and some sap is winging out of the theater with a pulsing beeper. Go to the beach, and some self-important fool is on a cellular--probably calling the guy in the movie theater. No one under 30 can walk down the street without a stereo strapped to his head. What ever happened to the moment of quiet reflection and the slothful joy of idle thought? Does anyone remember sitting on a porch and watching the world slide by?

Here's a quiz to gauge how far gone you are. Answer yes or no, and be honest:

1) I have gone on the Internet and checked the weather in a city I'm not even going to; 2) I have called my own voice mail more than once in five minutes; 3) I have checked both e-mail and voice mail while on vacation; 4) I have punched in numbers above 100 on the TV remote just to see if anything comes in; 5) I have spelled out "words" on my cell phone that can be read only upside down, as in 07734 for hello.

Embarrassed yet? They said technology would simplify your life, and you believed them. Now your creditors can track you down six ways in a minute, and your boss owns you round the clock. You're a monkey on a chain.

A few weeks ago, I boarded a plane, which used to be a great place to do nothing, and noticed that the man next to me was a nervous wreck. I considered wrestling him to the floor, but he looked more like a nicotine fiend than a terrorist. So the plane takes off, we hit the electronic-device clearance altitude at 10,000 ft., and Mr. Jitters whips out a Game Boy.

To bring down the energy level, I began twiddling my thumbs. There I am in the clouds, free of all earthly distraction, when I notice that the phone in front of me has a data port. You can send a fax from 35,000 ft. Or check e-mail. The entertainment guide has two pages of instructions, in four languages, and three more pages on the personal video monitors in first-class.

Here's one vote in favor of the Y2K disaster. I'd organize a national day for doing nothing, but all that work would send the wrong message. So I'll lead by example. I'm taking Mr. Jitters' Game Boy and smashing it. I'm shutting down. I'm not even going to finish this ess...