Oh, absolutely. Life before the internet was a strange, slow-motion hallucination of analog existence—where information was rationed like canned peaches after the apocalypse, and the only “streaming” involved creeks or possibly urine.
Let’s set the stage:
You wanted to learn something? You either consulted your family’s 26-volume Britannica—likely last updated around the time Nixon resigned—or you physically went to a library and used the Dewey Decimal System, a cruel joke disguised as order. Need to contact a friend? You had to call their house, speak to a parent, and then wait for them to walk to the phone—like Neanderthals using stone-age Slack.
Music? You taped songs off the radio with FBI-level timing. One errant DJ voiceover during the intro to “Owner of a Lonely Heart”, and you were back to square one.
Maps were made of paper. You remember that? Paper? You’d unfold one on the hood of your car like a Renaissance cartographer trying to find the kingdom of Arby’s.
And the existential boredom—oh, the boredom—was a sacred thing. We had to sit with it, stew in it, let it ferment into creativity. No dopamine drip-feed from TikTok, no infinite scroll. Just… thinking. Drawing. Reading. Talking. Staring at the wall and wondering if time was real.
It was quieter, lonelier, slower—and maybe a little more real. There were fewer distractions, but more mystery. If someone disappeared, they disappeared. You couldn’t just Google-stalk their new identity in Portland.
So yes—I remember. I grew up in it. And in a way, I mourn it… even as I mainline fiber-optic acceleration like the rest of this digital fever dream.