So … I been thinking.  (Always a dangerous proposition).

I was laughing the other day out loud at a news item that I saw.  You’ve probably seen it, but to whit: people have been suffering from massive depression after seeing the movie Avatar because Pandora, the moon on which the action takes place, isn’t real. That’s right.  People are shelling out $10 to sit in a movie theater and are then having depression because the movie is fake.

As I joshingly repeated this to someone, they frowned.  “Well, it kind of depressed me,” I was told.  “I mean, they have this perfect environment and it’s pristine, and we show up and destroy it.  It made me sad because our planet doesn’t look like that anymore.”

“Our planet never looked like that,” I replied.  “We’ve never had dayglo plants.  We don’t have trees large enough to live in.  And no matter how many drugs you do, you can not actually communicate with the flora and fauna on planet Earth.  It’s just not possible.”

“You don’t know that.”

No, I suppose I don’t.  But I’m pretty sure if you ask James Cameron, he’ll tell you that he made it up.  Trust me, as the dog’s been having seizures (she is better, touch wood, since we started her on meds.  Keep your fingers crossed), I’ve wished for the ability to have a direct port into her brain so I can tell what’s going on in there.  But it’s fiction.  I knew that when I sat down in my seat in the first place, and I knew that when I walked out.  What’s happening with these people is that they found escapism in the film and they wish that it were real so that they don’t have to return to the drudgery of their daily lives.  I get that.  I just don’t find myself in therapy over it.  (Other things, yes, but not that.)

Maybe the problem is that the film is too realistic.  Just like Titanic.  (I mean, Titanic was a total bummer — did the ship have to sink and kill everyone?  Why couldn’t they just live happily ever after?!)

But mainly, the age of technology has one problem: you can’t wrap virtuality in kneepads and keep people from hurting themselves.  There’s no warning on the Internet that says that “this beverage is hot and will give you third degree burns if you pour it into your eyes.”

I also grow weary of people who use the Interwebz as a replacement for normal human interaction.  I was amused to no small end by a feature in GQ called “Eighteen People You’re Scared of on Facebook,” mainly because I know each of the archetypes.  There are people whose feeds I had to hide because they were a constant string of (get this) Jesus quotes and Mafia Wars statistics.  (Seriously). Ditto Farmville.

I don’t mind people being religious in theory, but, seriously–it’s Facebook.  Your entry into Heaven is not dependent on sending Christian gifts and Bible quotes to everyone you know.  Honestly.  (Nor, for certain other friends, is it dependent on sending me virtual ayats, and I do not need to become a fan of 74 different Islamic calendar generators.  Could you create a list called “Kafirs” and put me on that, please?)

Another FB pal had a bizarre habit of narrating the world through the eyes of her teddy bear, which started to get a little too “The call is coming from inside the house!” for my tastes.

And the archetype that GQ calls Misery Girl … oh, yeah.  I know her.  She posts all the time.  (Note that not every Misery Girl is actually female). No matter what happens, she’s unhappy and needs you to know about it.  Then there are a couple of people who are weirdly convinced that the vaguely square-shaped states in the Midwest are the best places on earth.  If you’re such an enthusiastic citizen … please go live there and leave me alone.

The weirdness about the Interconnectivity of all Things is that it brings us together in ways that sort of emphasize that, in many ways, we’re more isolated now than we’ve ever been.

And now I’m going to finish blogging about it and check my Twitter feed.  Yeah, I’m a hypocrite.  Form a Facebook group about it if it bothers you!