I am older and
dumber since I wrote “A Small Place,” and I no longer worry about
giving out my credit card number online. Why should I? If someone is determined
to rob me of my identity, they’re going to do it no matter how careful
I am, and my Western craving for convenience is gaining momentum even as
my ability to delay gratification weakens. I still keep my game face on;
I cook dinner at home most nights instead of ordering out, and I lean heavily
toward analog modes of sound reproduction. But the news that there was a
new Zaza album stripped me of all my hard-won pseudo-luddite credential.
I clicked through a few frames and within seconds somebody in Bangkok was
in possession of a few digits that they’d’ve been able to use
to utterly ruin my credit rating if they so desired.
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