Spawn of the Devil
At the core, I am a Luddite. I dislike change and resist progress. Although I have been an early adopter of all things pertaining to the Web and on my computer, outside that framework I loathe gadgets. The clothes washer in my home has a dial with three settings: regular, delicate, and permanent press. I dial in the size of the load and the temperature settings, pull a knob, and I’m off. The clothes dryer is equally basic: turn a dial, push a knob, and the clothes spin until dry. The refrigerator has no automatic ice maker, no fancy stuff on the door, nothing more complicated than a light that comes on when I open it. Some days, when examining the anarchic state of its contents, I wish the light didn’t work. None of my appliances contain television screens, fancy led buttons or are hooked remotely into computers. None of them talk to me in cheery synthesized voices explaining how they are to be maintenanced or serviced. I like it that way. I don’t want to establish personal relationships with inanimate objects. It’s bad enough that I have begun speaking fondly of my iMac, or that I sometimes wake with a start in a nightmarish fever, worried that she might allow another’s data to occupy her hard drive. It’s unnatural. One should not be on such intimate terms with a machine.
It’s at least part of the reason I’ve resisted owning a cell phone. They’re a little too ubiquitous for comfort. People become far too attached to them and to the notion of being available always and everywhere. (Nothing disturbs me more than seeing humans in public places with Borg-inspired Bluetooth devices protruding like futuristic fashion accessories from the sides of their heads. Who on earth is so necessary that they have to be perpetually connected to a communications device? Look at it this way: No one needs to be more accessible than the President of the United States. The day he shows up at a press conference sporting a hot pink Bluetooth headset is the day I’ll start reconsidering their usefulness.)
Cell phones have created a whole new definition for the word “rude”. Gone are the days when people politely excused themselves before answering the corded telephones in their homes. The cell phone reigns supreme. Nothing galls me more than engaging in conversation with someone who suddenly holds up the index finger signaling I should hold my thought so he or she can take a call. Some don’t even give me the finger. They simply exit conversation and answer the phone. It’s a cell call: I’m supposed to understand. (The Borg-wired don’t even exit the conversation; they just start speaking into the air and leave me wondering whether I’ve lost my mind when the topic of discussion shifts from non-Neutonian physics to the disposition of a pet Guinea pig that is locked away in a kennel for the weekend.)
Cell phones, I have concluded, are the spawn of the devil. Except for simple buy-as-you go plans that I purchased so friends and family might be easily connected when I was away from home, I have resisted owning one.
Until now.
I have suddenly come into the possession of a second- or maybe third-generation Nokia that has me more convinced than ever cell phones are demonic (or at the very least part of a Japanese plot to roll back the effects of World War II and dominate the world).
It does everything: makes calls, rings one way for one set of callers (the ones I’ll ignore), another way for another set (these I might consider taking), still other ways for individuals who always warrant attention, checks email, keeps track of time (clock, timer, and stopwatch), makes wonderfully grainy photographs and video clips, sends and receives text messages, plays games (thumb-bowling rocks!), holds notes, surfs the Web, minds dates, and keeps track of the weather. If there are things it doesn’t do, there are probably applications available that do them.
Needless to say, I am obsessed with the device. Since I’ve had it, I’ve sent and received text messages, checked email from restaurants, talked to friends from remote locations and Googled something to prove to a friend I knew what I was talking about. The Google thing put the bridle on me. At that moment I was obsessed.
Since then I’ve been eying the little phone lovingly. I flip open the screen to be sure it still works. I get nervous when the green bar in the power meter goes below a certain level. I find myself wondering why no one has messaged me in the last ten minutes. I even held up an index finger to stop a companion in mid-sentence so I could take a call.
This afternoon I found myself longing for a sleek Bluetooth headset.
Where can I find a chapter of Cell Phones Anonymous?
Spawn of the Devil has 7 responses
Jim says:
4 August 2008 at 4:58 pm
And I thought I was among the last to own a cell phone. I’ve had one for at least 5 years, maybe as long as 8.
I, however, am not enamored by it. It’s often just left in my Jeep over the weekend. When it rings and I’m in conversation, I deftly turn the ringer off by mashing a side button while it’s still in my pocket.
“Aren’t you going to take that?”
“Nope. I’m talking to you.”
“Don’t you even care who it is?”
“Of course I do. I’ll get around to it, don’t worry. You were saying?”
People aren’t so impressed. They are flummoxed. Their faces say it all: “What’s wrong with this guy? Why won’t he take the call? He won’t even look at his phone. There’s something wrong with him.”
I don’t check my email with it. Don’t surf the web. Seldom text. I take the odd photo, but never pull it off the camera. A hands-free earpiece? Do I look like Uhuru?
Cell phones are neat-o. Me? Not so much.
I still miss getting a hand-written letters. I even think about writing one every-now-and-then, but I’m sure that the recipient will think that I’m a stalker.
tr2 says:
4 August 2008 at 5:16 pm
Jim-
And I thought I was the only one who got weird looks when I say “I left my cell in the car I didn’t get your call.” Accessiblity is just a giant pain in the ass. I don’t answer the home phone either.
Kathy says:
7 August 2008 at 2:22 am
Well motherFUCKER! A cell phone! I will try not to be offended that you still have me calling the roomie’s house phone to reach you. Mo-ther-FUCKER. Who’d a thunk it?
Harry Haller says:
7 August 2008 at 2:26 am
And I’ll try not to be offended that you haven’t yet visited our quite fun werewolf pub.
Harry Haller says:
4 August 2008 at 5:08 pm
I actually handwrite most of what I consider my better posts, and I can’t do fiction any other way. I’m always forgetting things.
But I have to admit, for now, the cell has its charms. I like the grainy, out-of-focus images the best. Nice toy camera. But I’m sure the new will wear off and then I’ll be back to my normal self, longing for a phone with a rotary dial and a cord that doesn’t get tangled in the cat.