Friday, February 26, 2010

before cell phones there was only sadness and the world was black and white

My cell phone matters to me. "Matters" may not actually truly encompass the gravity I wish to impart. My cell phone is my everything.

Does anyone remember a time when these devices were not an extension of our beings? No, you granola-loving hippie kids who were born after 1990 but pine after a Woodstock in which you can never participate, I don't mean the time you were just "sooo over communication" so you turned off your phone and deleted your Facebook because you were "totally sick of people bugging you." I mean a time that really had no portable phones. Not even those ridiculous car phones, or even Zach Morris endorsed gems like this:

I'm not saying I remember this time. I'm saying I really don't. Did people really just agree to meet at The Flagpole at 8 and truly keep their promise? What if there was traffic? A thunderstorm? Multiple flagpoles?

Perhaps a couple of my age-inclined readers (PC euphamism for older, not to be confused with OLD) may remember this time.

For me it is but a fuzzy, distant memory that exists the same way a word is on the tip of your tongue but you lose it, or when you try to recall a dream you had but it hangs just out of reach; I know a time that predates cell phone usage is out there somewhere, but fathoming it is next to impossible.

Despite my pathetic and desperate reliance on The Precious, I have lost many a cell phone in my day. By my count, I've owned at least 8 in less than 10years. They are inexplicably drawn to the very same mystery location that all left socks go, most probably the Bermuda Triangle.

Each time this coveted piece of plastic and electronic mystery disappears from my possession, or I manage to break it by some haphazard accident (involving a freak occurance of lightning or seat cushions of any kind) and I am left without it---I feel stripped naked and all alone in a cold, wide expansive universe of FAIL.

My last brush with irresponsibility, I got a text from a cab driver imploring me to please pick up the lost phone that I left one night in his vehicle. His recovery was prompt; as in he called the very next day, mid-afternoon. But in a panicked state of despair the very next morning, I had already raced down to my provider to shell out the obscene cash they wanted for a new one. I literally couldn't stand to go longer than about an hour of conciousness without it.

It went like this: I wake up, bleary-eyed and briefly unaware of the impending doom awaiting me as I recollect the series of unfortunate events leading to the death of my beloved phone. Then all comes rushing back, like fragmented clips from a C-level movie flashing before my eyes. Me leaving the cab and skipping upstairs; Me searching with increasing panic for my phone in my purse. I chase after the cab, a pathetic display of arm-flailing and incoherent, frenzied pleas with a cab driver who most certainly doesn't have telepathy or supermega hearing abilities. Me with a gaping hole in my heart.

Suddenly I am sick with grief at the thought of being un-contactable. I become positive that I'm missing important correspondence. Ed McMahon is definitely trying to reach me from beyond the grave to inform me about having won the oversized Publisher's Clearinghouse check.

Worse, I've surely been invited via text to the White House for a prestigious luncheon in which I will lecture on (INSERT AREA OF EXPERTISE HERE WHEN I FINALLY HAVE ONE). Something... I'm sure of it!! I wring my hands, fretting that I've missed a major chance to plug my blog with national airtime at the Luncheon. Drat.

In a weird kind of way, sometimes I feel an affection toward my cell phone akin to that of a pet. Or weirder still, a friend even. I'm excited to check my phone after a long, hard shift at work slinging booze to unruly bar patrons and fanatical sports enthusiasts alike.

So when aforementioned lost phone situation occured and I decided to buy a Blackberry to replace it, I probably should have considered the fact that a sweet affection toward a phone, characterized as a friendship at creepiest, could turn a hard left into downright obsessive infatuation of romantic proportions. They do call it a crackberry, after all.

I'm sensitive to Crackberry's needs, as any good lover should be. Even in a dead sleep at 4 am, I wake up to check my emails when the little red asterick pops up with a chirp. It's always spam, but I need CB to know I'm here (Somehow, I managed to get on the earlybird spam list for every product known to man that does not pertain to me, including cheap Viagra and getting a GED online...FYI apparently it's not too late).

I suspect I may not be the only one out there who likes her phone a bit too much, who prefers to text instead of answer a call. I think it may be a product of the times, whatever that means. I don't blame television, or the Media, or Eminem (although his lyrics are widely held to be the culprit for nearly all of life's woes).

I don't blame anyone really. I come from a generation of people who are often funnier via Facebook comment banter than they are in person. People who do things like blog instead of work (living proof). Remember when we died laughing at Texts From Last Night??

My roommate and I regularly facebook chat while sitting right next to each other on the couch. This is the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, people.

No need for a pitchfork-wielding lynch mob to take to the streets in protest of the lacking face-to-face interaction our kids today get thanks to evil new forms of communication. We still talk and hang out. But like I said, sometimes my friends say funnier stuff online than they do in person. Sometimes texting is a more effective way of making plans. Sometimes small talk is just plain awkward. Sometimes people find funny junk online via their crackberries and iPhones, and I get to see what kind of weird stuff is occuring in Bentridge, Arkansas involving farm animals and finger paint. More importantly, sometimes people I actually know do funny junk and post it.

check out some sweet Chilean Miners

Either way. as long as they post it, and my baby Crackberry can chirp about it...I'm in.

1 comment:

  1. Sounds like more stress than I'm willing to put up with.