Technology Is Making Us All Stoopid

Every so often I find myself wondering where all my intelligence went. Is there a secret off-shore account that is storing my random knowledge, or is it being held ransom somewhere in a damp, poorly lit warehouse?

Recently I have been saying things like, "What was his name?" and "You know! That guy in that movie," in the process making my brain cells run around like escaping convicts during a prison riot.

The more I keep telling myself that my brain is "too full" and that it is just throwing away useless information, the more I want to be able to recall the average number of people airborne over the U.S. in any given hour. (It is about 61,000 … at least that is what I used to think it was.)

So, before my brain throws away the point of this column - I think that technology is making us all numb.

I mean dumb.

My cell phone has helped me forget everyone's phone numbers, my iTunes can make a better playlist than I can and my computer catches all my spllegin errrers.

When I was in elementary school, there was a directory that had all the students' numbers in it, which I would use to call friends. After a few times looking through it, the book became useless because I had memorized all the pertinent numbers.

Today, I struggle to remember my girlfriend's cell phone number. I have always known it as phone, favorites and at the top of the list. I have managed to memorize the number to call the police, but it being only three numbers gives it an unfair advantage.

My phone keeps my important digits saved, letting me browse them by last name and also allowing me to pull a Ms. Cleo, freaking a few people out when I answer by addressing them by their name.

"Hello Tom, have you called me now far yar free readin'?"

If anything, using a cell phone has made me a more effective call screener.

I don't pick up for numbers I don't recognize and if a voicemail isn't left, there is a good chance I'm not calling them back.

Then there is the computer: a high-speed moron that can calculate and recall any information, unless you put it in the recycle bin. But there in lies the problem.

On the first computer I owned, a 1990 Macintosh SE, I took the entire hard drive and placed it in the on-screen trash can, in an attempt to clean it of any programs my parents had not removed. Two clicks later, the screen went black and the computer never turned on again.

The computer had not short-circuited my brain yet; I was just too young to realize what I was doing. But as I write this, my computer tells me that I am spelling a word incorrectly, or that I am using poor grammar and warns me if I have mistakenly created what it thinks is a fragment.

By changing my misspellings and fixing my grammar, I can't learn from my mistakes, which wouldn't make me a very good copy editor.

Even though things have become easier because of computers, work done on them tends to be critiqued at a higher level. Make a typo in your resume - forget about that job interview. Make a punctuation error in your manuscript - expect ridicule from the publisher.

When authors used typewriters, if they made a mistake, usually there was an angry removal of paper followed by vigorous crumpling. While typing that sentence, I used the backspace button four times.

I was going to say that TV and video games help with the itinerant-brain inactivity, but everyone knows that already. Not to mention the unbearable amount of unfiltered, un-sourced information on the Internet.

I would give you the number of blogs created a day, but thanks to last week's lecture on the Cornelius effect, I think I forgot it.

So, as I keep doing crossword puzzles and reading books to gain knowledge, I am hesitant to think that I have reached the limit on available space on my mental hard disk.

For my sake, I hope I don't forget the account number and password to my off-shore memory banks.