Eventually, people won’t just talk into their cell phones,
they’ll talk to them. They’ll name them. They’ll love and adore
them. They’ll celebrate cell phone birthdays.
Eventually, people won’t just talk into their cell phones, they’ll talk to them. They’ll name them. They’ll love and adore them. They’ll celebrate cell phone birthdays.
We’re all going crazy over cell phones.
At a recent San Jose Sharks game, a man in his early 20s seated in front of me played with his fancy-flippidy phone the entire game. Occasionally, he would watch the game and yell out “Yeah!” or “Come on, baby!” But for the most part, he directed all attention to text-messaging friends or talking on his cell phone. And I don’t think he was giving out game updates.
That’s not the worst part. The man was on a date and he almost completely ignored his presumed girlfriend in the next seat. He must be astonishingly secure or a really important businessman. By the look of his saggy jeans and his ruffian style, though, I seriously doubt he deals in stocks and bonds.
A friend, Greg – who was gracious enough to give me that game ticket – told me of another bizarro cell phone experience earlier in the day. A strange man at the mall noticed Greg talking on his high-tech Motorola cell phone. The man, impressed by the phone, approached Greg like a “20/20” groupie would approach Barbara Walters.
“Whoa! You’ve got the T720… You’re carrying the heat!” the man said.
Greg played along and talked about his phone’s endless novelty features until the weirdo left him alone. Greg’s phone – which probably cost more than my entire wardrobe – rings to the music of Sir Mix A Lot’s classic rap song “Baby Got Back.”
Oh Christmas day, how would I explain to my Aunt Rosie the rhythm of “Baby Got Back” ringing from my phone as we open gifts? Hmmm.
“That’s a contemporary version of ‘Deck the Halls,'” I’d tell her.
Fortunately, these phones don’t play lyrics.
Aside from obvious cell phone frustrations, such as talking in cars or movie theaters, we really are getting obsessive over these things. And I am, shamefully, not completely innocent.
I bought my first cell phone when I moved to Hollister in September – largely because reporters are active and I figured it would save money on long distance calls to family and friends in Wisconsin. So I gave in.
Like many others, I unnecessarily check for messages when bored. And whenever I forget to bring the phone somewhere, I feel restrained in some way.
But there is no “Baby Got Back” in my pocket. And I’ll never name my phone “Gary” or celebrate its second birthday. I consider myself a traditionalist, at least comparably to many others of my generation. For instance, I have yet to buy a DVD player. And I ride a horse to work. OK, I drive to work. But sometimes I pretend it’s a horse.
And I know 6,000 years ago Mesopotamian traditionalists probably balked at the invention of the wheel, too.
“A wheel to pull our heavy loads?” one Mesopotamian said. “You people are nuts! I will carry these large buckets of rocks up the hill, dammit!”
Of course, cell phones are handy for roadside assistance or finding friends at congested events. Two months ago, I met famed photographer Pablo Balancio at the Renaissance Faire, which may have been difficult without our cell phones among actors and tourists loudly yelling things such as “Thou saucy milk-livered boar-pig!”
Admittedly, the lure of technology has sucked me in like a gulp through a straw. I can only hope to resist all our insanity. For now, I could live without a cell phone.
If I have to.
