Generation BOB

I heard an awakening label applied to the people of my age-group just the other day. "We are," said this thoughtful person, "generation BOB." I wondered to myself for a nanosec and said, "What? Are there too many Roberts nick-named Bob?" She soon filled me in that our generation is being ever so affectionately called B.O.B., Battery Operated Buddy. My skin began to crawl. It sounds like the title of a B-movie, some sort of hack-and-slash thriller where the unsuspecting big-breasted bimbo gets it from her brother's newly unwrapped Christmas present. You can imagine the whole story. Truth, however, is sometimes stranger than fiction. A real-life version of Chucky this is not, but think, if only for a moment, the number of small devices that we own (cell phones, i-pods, day planners, etc.) the frequency at which we make use of them on a day-to-day, nay moment-to-moment basis. We check our phone for SMS and missed calls every ten minutes, or when we feel awkward in a social setting. Don't lie. You do it too. Its like our own little window into the safety of the beyond. Just take that in for a brief second, your skin will crawl at how fixed and even dependant we have become on our hand-helds. I would hasten to ask it, but do we not seek even comfort in these items as well? Do we desire their company as opposed to the world around us? and if so, where does that leave us? Because if I know more about a piece of machinery that fits into the palm of my hand than I do about the person next-door, then my friend was right about her BOB thesis, and human is no longer human, but machine.

Here's more on technological addiction.