Striking A Cord

Cords, cords, everywhere a cord

So mixed up, don’t know what’s mine

Unplug that, plug that in, dontcha know your cords?

 

For those not of a certain age and musical bent, that’s a riff on The Five Man Electrical Band’s one-hit wonder, Signs. I find it apropos, however, for our explosion of tech and as a writer who has worked with said wonders for a long time, it gets frustrating, even silly.

At home: three laptops, two external hard drives, monitors, speakers. iPad, two iPods, external DVD reader/writer, Kindle, digital camera. Eleven chargers. One cell phone, thank gods. I don't even want to think about the entertainment system, cable modem, and router. Sigh. 

At the GFs: a hefty subset of the above, but she’s is almost as geared up as I am. We have four separate places with power strips and USB towers to handle our combined chipery. It’s worse when I’m working there and she is WFH. God damn shit fuck hell.

Years ago, when building out an enormous home expansion, I thought it would be very clever to build a little cubby in the garage for battery charges and their ilk of the early 2000s. Tcha! Right! I even thought I was equally clever installing an Ethernet punch panel and outlets in every room one year before reliable wireless.

I could be a sourpuss and say these multifarious cords are an artifact of tech run amuck. But having a grown child (yet to be launched) and another one approaching that age, you can’t answer “grump” or fall apart on the pop quiz. For that, my semi-literate knowledge of how kids talk, think, and act have served me well across many endeavors, including my writing.

But I’m still surrounded by cords and had to remind my road-warrior sweetie this morning to make sure she took enough cords to get her through the end of the week in Denver. I take small solace in the fact it will only get worse and the history of the future has yet to be made. The story goes on.