Boredom is dead. This is its funeral.
The Last Man Who Was Bored is a memorial service for a state of mind that shaped every great idea, invention, and afternoon nap in human history — and that we quietly murdered somewhere around 2007, when a man in a black turtleneck held up a small rectangle of glass and the audience applauded.
Part eulogy, part cultural autopsy, part comedy — this book moves through the official program of Boredom's service: a coroner's report on cause of death (the Smartphone, the Infinite Scroll, the Algorithm, and the Notification — none of whom expressed remorse), remembrances from a San Francisco bus driver who watched the window-staring stop in 2012, a Minnesota grandmother who found the whole situation baffling, and a man on a porch whose name nobody got.
What we lost wasn't the restlessness or the clock-watching. It was the Default Mode Network running unsupervised. It was Isaac Newton in the orchard. It was the thought that arrived at 2 AM when you finally ran out of things to scroll through.
The service will last as long as it takes. Please silence your phones.
If you find this difficult — if your hand has already moved toward your pocket since you read that sentence — you are, in fact, the reason we are here.
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