Notes From the Internet Apocalypse Read Free Page A

other week. I’ve seen the bands of shuffling Internet junkies aimlessly roaming the streets from my window. Wide, sad eyes seeking out any trace of what they have lost. They devour anything they think can provide the fix they crave. The media calls them zombies because zombies are aimless and hungry and because the media is bad at its job.
    But I’ve seen enough to know I’m better off inside. It’s all over TV. After years of getting entertainment and information online, television feels strange. The commercials. The lack of interaction. It’s big and bright, and even the more somber and sophisticated programming carries the brash 1980s taint of neon and synth. Like trading your iPod in for a jukebox. It’s only good for destroying the silence.
    Not everyone has fallen into zombiehood, of course. The world goes on. People find a way. But enough. Enough former members of society who will just never be right. After a time, the like-minded form circles. Different Internet rings meant to re-create the experiences of their favorite lost websites. Sexually frustrated libertarians meet up with one another, and soon they are entwined in a Digg circle. Each participant takes a turn in the center, sharing the latest news he has heard. Sometimes, it’s something about a government conspiracy. Other times it’s just some terrible cartoon they’ve found. The data is scrutinized instantly by the group who, if sufficiently displeased, will bury the bearer. There are conflicting reports about what that means. Most say it’s just an expression, but some disagree, and the bands do keep seeking new locations in a ravenous search for more news and members.
    The zombies I saw last week were part of a YouTube circle. Without a replay button or a link to similar entertainment, they demand hours and hours of mindless joy from whatever is unfortunate enough to be trapped inside their view. So many innocent cats have been worked to death, forced to do tricks for zombie-amusement without food, water, or chance of escape.
    Although I hadn’t heard any reports about Internet zombies breaking into people’s apartments (or even looking at people who didn’t remind them of the Internet), I decided to board up my windows. Just felt right. I didn’t get very far, because at no time in the last ten years did it occur to me to stock my apartment with stacks of plywood. I contemplated the seemingly bizarre availability of substantial amounts of finished lumber in zombie movies and wondered if I could order some by phone. I’d need to go downstairs and ask the super.
    The dead bolt snapped back with a force that echoed on the other side of my fire-prevention door. The door chain came next, but I didn’t turn the handle, which struck me as odd because I was positive I wanted to. That’s when I heard a knock.
    It was Tobey. Bloody, sweating, and out of breath, but still Tobey. You could tell by his N O O NE I S U GLY A FTER S IX B EERS baseball hat—worn ironically, of course.
    “Can I come in?” he asked after entering.
    “Tobey? What happened … and why aren’t you in L.A.?”
    This was only the second time I’d spoken to Tobey in person. The other time was on a business trip to a Risk Management seminar in L.A. I’d crashed at his apartment and we stayed up until 3:00 A.M. , drinking and playing Six Degrees of Stanley Tucci. (Bacon was too easy.) But other than that inexplicably entertaining night, ours had remained an online relationship. And more specifically, an instant message relationship. Even those IM exchanges were punctuated by long unexplained pauses, which I assumed were caused by the responsibilities of his online job. But apparently that had nothing to do with it because even in real life, Tobey left my question about what he was doing here unanswered, and headed off to the kitchen.
    “What’s going on?” I said, trailing behind.
    “The Internet, Gladstone. Haven’t you heard?”
    “Yeah, of course I’ve heard, but