Then Al Gore had to go and invent the Internet. Asshole.
I was a trivia savant. A once-in-a-generation font of pointless bullshit. I was the chosen one of whom the prophecies spoke. But no more. Now I’ll fumble through whole categories while watching the Jeopardy TEEN Tournament. My skills have tarnished and faded with disuse.
“Skoog, who sings this?”
“Skoog, on this mixtape, next to ‘Don’t Misunderstand Me’, you’ve just got ‘R.C. Band’. Who’s that?”
“The Rossington Collins Band. They were made up of survivors from Lynard Skynard after the plane crash.”
“Skoog, The Monkees sucked, didn’t they?”
“Actually, The Monkees get a bad rap. Some of them had some real musical talent. And they were the first band to incorporate the Moog synthesizer – so really they were kind of innovators.”
I had information of value (extremely limited and selective value, but value nonetheless) and people wanted to talk to me because of it. Then Google came along and knew, like, a gazillion times more than I ever did.
I became the buggy whip of the trivia world.
Today I caught a glimpse of myself and recoiled in revulsion at the wraith that I’ve become. Our Internet access was down for most of the day at work today – on a day when I was trying to work on concepts for a couple of projects, rather than writing*.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let my mind run and play with concepts without the ability to instantly search a dozen different phrases, facts, events and ideas. I needed the web.
I was like a once cocksure corner drug dealer who has been overpowered by his own wares until he’s discovered – wretched and catatonic – in the fetid squalor of a smoke-filled opium den.
Oh, trivia! Foul temptress. Cruel mistress. Why must thou vex me so?