As my boy T.S. Eliot famously proclaimed, “April is the cruellest month…”
Indeed, after the longest month of my life, spent actively avoiding hipster hotspots lest I be reminded that all my coffee-swilling, horn-rimmed brethren were twice the early adopter I am, my iPad 3G arrived yesterday.
I have decided to give up all direct interaction with human beings and subsist solely on the flickering goodness of my iPad.
The dirty magic proffered by Apple is both troubling and transcendent. I’m not sure we’ve seen such profound social progress since John Crapper decided enough was enough, we must flush our excrement out of sight. Like the modern toilet before it, the iPad shelters us from the wasteland around us and provides respite and relief from the shit we tread through on a daily basis.
What is it that Monsignor Jobs and his army of engineering cronies have discovered about the human psyche that makes this slab of humming machinery so damn desirable?
Turn it off. Look at it. What do you see? It’s you.
Apple has tapped into the untamable narcissism of the human condition. If you know me and/or my writing, you’ve probably gathered than I’m a self-deprecating pedant with sometimes crippling self-esteem issues.
Last night I found myself staring mindlessly into the glassine void as my gorgeous Pandora app filled the room with sweet, sweet music (the built-in speaker is surprisingly robust), not at the well-organized array of musical choices in front of me but at my own mesmerized visage.
Then it hit me. The iPad makes us love ourselves a little bit more.
Isn’t that worth about $1,000?