Like many things we know of today, technology exists. Fortunately, technology gave us the computer to type up this newspaper. Unfor- tunately, technology also gave us the computer that showed me “2 girls 1 cup.” Gross. | guess you could say technology is a mixed bag, but then again, that would be a cliché, so don’t say that. Anyways, here are two knobs to argue about it. VIOLENCE OF VIEWPOINTS af A mighty salute to technology! By Cody Klyne, Science Nerd of a cheerful chirp from my much beloved alarm clock. Its sharp and meaningful hymn echoes as I lay wrapped in my soul-warming cocoon of polyester, nylon, and wool. The alarm continues its morning song as I swish back and forth on my pillow-top mattress. The moment of truth has arrived. Bracing myself for the worst—that morning chill—I apprehensively swing my legs out from underneath the covers. Warmth? Not harsh. Not cold. Not even uncomfortable. Glancing to either side I know the clever minx that has gifted me this morning with such tender embrace. The heater! Crouching down low I put my face to the rectangular vent in an attempt to get a closer look as the jets of heat lap at my face, inspiring a sort of homey comfort. Perking to attention, my ears focus in on a wondrous, primal growl heard from somewhere distant within the heart of my home, far beneath the carpeted floorboards beneath my feet. It’s the furnace. I know this, as I’ve been told many times before, but I can’t help but feel the need to pay my respect. Walking over to the alarm I bop it once softly to bring its chorus to an end. “Until tomorrow!” I say to no one in particular as I leave the room. “On, off, on, off...” the bathroom comes to life at the flick of a switch. Light, dark, light and dark again. No candles or torches. It is electricity and it is the closest thing to magic, regardless of what others say. Leaning over the tub, I twist the red knob. One twist and a trickle of warm water soaks my hand. Another twist and a jet of liquid heat eats away at the tips of my [= up. Not by my own doing, but as the result \ Sages. I pull the plug that activates the shower. No buckets or ladling devices required. All I have to do is stand, and perhaps rotate, as the hot water washes away the collective dirt and grime that would have otherwise taken time and effort to scrub away. As much as I enjoy this morning ritual, it always seems to end before I myself am ready to leave. But I can’t be late for work again. And on this day, I won’t. Thanks to my new automobile. Faster than running and more comfortable than a ride in a carriage, cars are fierce things of tremendous efficiency. Driven forward by countless tiny beasts of burden, horsepower, the vehicle cackles with glee at the simple insertion and twist of a key. I can feel the horses grinding away at the head of the car. Rumbling and wrestling in an attempt to be free. I wonder how the thin metal of the hood contains them. Magic. The weight of my foot jerks the machine. Faster than running and it requires little to no energy? If this isn’t representative of how far humanity has come, I don’t know what is. Genius! I then pull to a stop in front of decoratively displayed lights: red, yellow, green. Everything seems to vibrate with life. Stopped at the crosswalk, I’m not even required to analyze the situation around me as it unfolds. Stop, go, stop. Green means its okay. Yellow means perhaps. And red means no. It’s a simple game of matching colors to actions and I love it. I work in what my associates call an office building. It’s a thing of power, a monolith to manliness and as I step out of my car I can’t help raise a hand in salute. How can we possibly advance any further? Certainly we live in an age of technological godliness. A one-finger salute to technology! By Knowlton Nash, Unimpressed slammed my fist in anger. I hit a large button atop the device responsible for that noise and it beeped no more. I’m never sure what’s worse: the fact that this noise is so horrendously repetitive and heinously crude, or that I actually have to respond to it with physical action so that it may acknowledge my wakefulness. Whatever happened to the days when my alarm clock gently woke me with a lively and delightful dream injection, and then seamlessly transferred that into my gradual awaking, turning off precisely as I become alert due to its telepathic flow? Ah, right. Those days have yet to come. How much longer must I wait for technology to catch up with my needs? It’s 2009 for crying out loud! I survived the Y2K bug—I’m a veteran—and every day I am bothered with the mundane reality of battery- powered devices, wires and cables, and a sore lack of telepathic capabilities. As I slip out from beneath my covers (made of fabrics that need washing and do not automatically fluctuate in temperature) I find my hand offering its usual rebellion; it does not wish to raise itself and manually adjust the heater. Can I blame it? Hardly. This task should not be required. I shrug it off, as I must each and every day, and trudge to the bathroom. I installed a motion-sensor toilet in there, and it’s relatively tolerable, but I do ponder why my wastes are not instantly vaporized and must still pollute the sewers. My goodness, sewers. I still can’t believe those are around. Expecting my newspaper to automatically identify which articles I wish to read and then insert them into my brain, but being once again disappointed, I ignore its pathetic paper format and leave for work. I will be severely late, as I commonly am, because I do not possess a hovercraft. For some reason, they haven’t been invented yet. People still use wheels. Wheels. We [= to the sound of an incessant beeping and _ \ had those in the Stone Age. Can we not become a little more sophisticated than that? My office lies inside a towering mutation of brick and mortar, filled with anti-teleportation “technologies.” You know—elevators that need to be told which floor you require, doors that only open on their own if you press a button with the symbol of a man in a wheelchair, and even the ancient mechanic of stairs, for those of whom society has cast as unfit to walk among us modern-day folk. The very need for my physical body to be in this material-ridden cubicle baffles me. I should be in my charging pod, advancing my vast brainspan whilst simultaneously performing my work tasks. But alas, here I sit, my work slowed by constant distractions. The beeps and buzzes of fax and copy machines, the shuffling of feet on carpet, phones ringing (has no one heard of hologram communication?), and the tikkity- tak of keyboards. Seriously, keyboards! It’s called voice recognition, you old school executives. I feel like Fred Flinstone, but slightly more technologically disadvantaged. My day at work winds down and I return home using the same ancient method of transportation that got me there. All I have to look forward to is wasting my time preparing and cooking food, and then going through the torturous process of eating it. Developers are a few centuries behind in their creation of pills that equate to a year’s worth of full and nutritious meals, and I’m running out of patience. But what can I do? They keep telling me technology is evolving at an exponential pace. Well, perhaps exponentially boring. For now, I slam my fist in anger every morning on a large button atop the device responsible for that incessant beeping noise. I am ashamed to live in an age of such technological ungodliness. But rest assured, Flinstonian mortal, that I will be taking the very first space shuttle to the TeleDome on New Earth as soon as it arrives. 72