“A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again.” --Alexander Pope
Nowhere is this concept of a little learning being dangerous more evident than in the world of technology, and by that I mean “in the world of anyone over the age of 29 trying to correctly utilize technology”. A Technologically Intoxicated Brain is the only explanation for the events depicted in the following True Story. Over the course of a few weeks, I had exchanged several texts with an unnamed and unidentified individual. Although he/she stubbornly refused to reveal his/her name, it became apparent that this was not one of my friends yanking my chain, as I had initially supposed. One day in frustration, he/she divulged a little information and the tumblers began to slide into place:
Me: “Okay, hang on. You are trying to get a hold of your daughter, ‘Barbara’, right? THIS IS Barbara. Is this Bill Couch? If so, why didn't you answer when I asked who it was?”
Dad: “I had one number wrong.” [Narrator: A word to the wise--Technology is occasionally touchy about things like that.] “I'll correct that, and once the dust settles we should be able to text back and forth without any more trouble. The other person in this triangle is a Barbara, too. So when her text came through with ‘Barbara’ at top of the screen it added to the confusion. So let's text away.”
Me, realizing it really WAS my dad: “Ha ha! That is too funny! I never got a reply to any of the three times I asked who it was that had texted me.”
Dad: “But Barbara, I still don't know if I'm texting you or my daughter.”
I would just like to pause a moment to let this sink in.
Me--or maybe the other Barbara (I still get us mixed up): “Okay. This is Barbara Hehl currently living in Orlando Florida, daughter of Bill Couch and Doreen Edwards. Do I win?”
Dad--and I am truly NOT making this up; I am not that funny: “That's great but after my last text, the other Barbara answered it and was quite amused. So I still don't know if you or she is getting them.”
Me, or someone a lot like me: “Dad that WAS me! And I am still amused!”
Dad: “OK you win! At least I feel like it, and that you are receiving my stuff. Maybe the other person doesn't exist.” [Narrator: Just maybe.] “I don't get why you didn't know it was me.”
Lest I give the impression that I might be laughing at my dad, let me just state for the record that I am definitely laughing at my dad. “Shallow draughts intoxicate the brain.” At times very little imagination is required to visualize the impact of a very little learning.
Another example: One day in my bathroom I heard my (more or less) silenced phone buzzing. As the sound came from behind me, I turned around and looked on the opposite counter. No phone. It buzzed again, somewhere behind me. I turned a little bit more. No sign of it. After a couple more buzzes, I realized I had done a complete 360--twice--and looked on every possible counter, ledge, shelf, projection, protrusion, overhang, ridge, and/or prominence. Paying very close attention one more time, I perceived a previously unnoticed gluteal vibration. Oh, right. Back pocket.
As a final example of impaired brain- and, in this case social-, function, I present exhibit C. Not too long ago, a group of middle-aged ladies, plus myself (ahem), sat together discussing the needs and concerns of the women in our church congregation. As we discussed assignments, one of the women, a rather substantially endowed figure, began inexplicably to pat her bosom, as though searching for something--at least I hoped that was what she was doing. Trying not to stare in complete bewilderment, I instead looked away in feigned nonchalance, suddenly interested in the various plants around the room. After a few moments, she dug deeply into her purse [whew] and retrieved her cell phone, tucking it neatly into the edge of her brassiere when she had finished taking notes. That was a first. I’m not sure that I could tuck anything larger or less secure than a fastened safety pin into the edge of my brassiere without worrying that it would fall straight to the ground, as though greased. But even if I could, somehow I can’t quite get my brain to embrace the social mores necessary to try that trick out, except for possibly behind closed and locked doors.
Unbelievable befuddlement, chasing one’s butt around in circles, and trying out the storage capacity of various bodily compartments--here’s to shallow draughts of learning!
