The (Cell-Phone) Man

I would be shocked, even dismayed to find out that other, maybe even all other writers (authors implies salary), have not written about mobile phones. Okay, maybe not all of them, but certainly all of them who are over 40… or 45… or definitely 46 for sure.

It was a beautiful day in April. I’m in the middle of Agriterra, WV, obviously writing. Never put a manic in front of a typewriter (whoops, dating myself, that is not to say that I'm mastrubating, but I mean typewriters aren't in fashion anymore). This is a translation for people who are either slow on the uptake, or from Agriterra, WV. For the record, I am not from there, but instead from a town where there is real theater, damn near domestic squirrels and designer dogs. There were no deer where I lived. None, zip, zero, get the idea out of your head. We had squirrels, rats (squirrels with sucky PR agents), and designer dogs. That's it.

This essay is about a technological dichotomy, much like my dichotomous life. From city (we have an airport and everything there!) to a farm in a matter of an afternoon. We have the occassional squirrel, no designer dogs and animals that are designated "farm animals". This includes any type of animal that requires feeding, some kind of shelter, and generally has 4 legs. I understand that some people make money from the stuff that comes out of, or off of these animals. We are not in that particular circle. So, anyway, I’m now stuck in a black hole between major technology and tractors that share the same birth year as me.

Note of interest for city dwellers; roosters crow all day, not just at dawn. But that’s a separate story all together. I just thought it was an interesting farm fact that many may not know. I'm not sure how they don't get laryngitis.

Regardless, I was on the computer in the basement where I write. It was nighttime, so I’m speculating on the details of the aforementioned beautiful day, however; it was beautiful not necessarily in the traditional sense of sunshine and a warm breeze, but because I happened upon the website of my cell phone carrier (Verizon) to see exactly what day/hour/minute I could upgrade to a new phone for a HUGE discount (their words, not mine). I’ve been carrying around a 4+-year-old cell phone, for well, 4+ years. Where I was born, this would be considered "ghetto" as it only made phone calls, took pictures and I managed to set the alarm for different times during the week and the weekend days, which I thought was pretty snappy.

Two years ago I was eligible for one of those free or HUGELY discounted upgrades, and I decided to partake (who wouldn’t)? Don't pay retail- it’s a myth. I was in retail for years in another life and I know that they (The-Retail-Man) can make plenty of money while still selling me items at "HUGE" discounts. I also have the patience of a saint when it comes to finding a good deal. If it’s a good enough deal, it doesn’t even have to be something I need. Shoes come to mind. I probably have over 60 pairs of shoes- most are black so they go with virtually everything, including each other. If you are a man, refrain from looking up this phenomenon on Urban Dictionary. I doubt it's there, and you wouldn't understand anyway, unless you're gay. In which case you are probably reading this because you know me. I rationalized every single pair, but I never, I repeat, never, paid full price for any of them. So you get the point. I like a deal.

Now, back to the phone- Two years ago, the new phone I chose was one of the latest and greatest. It played music- preventing me having to carry around my 2 oz Nano, (a huge burden). I think it had a calendar and a camera too. Ah, but there was a catch. It wasn’t compatible with Itunes! Though this music feature was why I was supposed to want this particular new phone. In reality, I wanted it because it was the most expensive one I could get for free. But subscribe to another program and purchase more music? I don't think so.

In my life, I’ve switched from albums (colored people), to 8-tracks (people of color), to cassettes (Black), to CDs (Afro Americans), to uploadable MP3s (African Americans), and now MP3-DVDs (back to Black). I have hundreds of CDs and MP3 and MP3-DVDs. I have car-compatible devices so I can hear 7-8 days worth of music without hearing the same thing twice. I also have a lot of friends who are Black, so forgive my obvious comfort in discussing things that panic people for a moment until they realize they are watching the Wayans.

Again, back to technology-- I confess, I do not have the ear to hear the subtle differences in any of these modes of melody, however, I am considered Victorian if I don’t upgrade, and then eventually, I can’t find all the previous choices anyway. Clearly this is a plot by the Large-Company-Man to make me buy the same list of songs by Janice Joplin more than 10 times in my lifetime; maybe more. So far, I believe I’ve replaced that “album” 5 times. She is, after all, an icon.

I digress (frequently)- we were talking about phones. I mean cameras, I mean PDAs, I mean a portable video machine with access to my calendar, email, and 250 contacts, many of whom I never call. I admit, I feel comfortable with the fact that I have these 250+ numbers and couldn't get rid of any of them. If they liked me enough to give me their number, certainly they will come help me if I get a flat tire or am chased by a villain within 3-4 miles of their home (20-30 miles in Agriterra, WV, because that's the minimum number of miles required to get anywhere- at all- seriously).

I realize that I feel comfortable having video capability; though I have no idea how to use it. In the event that the Incredible-News-Making-Man does something insane, I can catch it on video, and then go home, read the manual and figure out how to view said video again at some future date. I will then sell it to the NBC. I would never sell it to Fox, who would edit it, and somehow turn it against the Obama administration even if it was just kittens up a tree.

Two years ago, this major new technology of the multi-tasking (played music) phone baffled me within minutes. I was butt-dialing, losing calls, and most importantly losing touch, on account of I couldn’t figure out how to call my best friend, or my parents. If I had a flat, or was being chased by a villain, I would have been no more protected than if I had gone the old-fashioned route of running wildly and yelling, or asking a kindly stranger for help, if these options still exist. Calling AAA from a payphone is not even an option anymore. What's a payphone Daddy?

After a few days I reconnected the old phone; now already two-years-old, if you’re keeping up; but functional nonetheless. Meanwhile, I dreamed of an affordable Blackberry. Imagine! Getting my email! Having my calendar accessible without having to write things down on 16 different calendars and hoping they sync themselves so I’m not at the dentist when I’m supposed to be, say, picking up the kids from a Siberian school field trip! Disaster could ensue if there was mis-synchronization, and if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s predicting, realistically or not, potential disaster.

On this recent beautiful day/night (now another 2 years later, and me, obviously two years older) while on the cell phone site, I realized I was indeed eligible for a Blackberry, and now it would be FREE! Well, free except for the applications I might want to add, and the $30 a month I pay to connect to things like my calendar, email, and now Facebook (which, shockingly, I “get” in spite of my age). Wow, what a bonus. But wait! There are now Droids! They do even more and you don’t have to go through the terrific calorie expenditure of pushing buttons! You slide your fingers around and things happen! Without lubricant! I get this terrific discount, plus wonderful things like instant weather for too those unfortunate enough to be nowhere near a window; and directions for people who can't read street signs, yet were allowed to get a license (eek)! It was a little less than free, but hey! I could have it all! This thing would do everything but vacuum the house!

This "phone" lasted 2 days. I felt like someone just dropped me off in Reykjavík and told me to hold a seminar on the cultural expectations of Icelandic dinner parties. Shake hands or bow? Which forks do they use for salad? Do they use forks or some kind of ice sticks? Do they speak English? I have no idea. I’m not big on “North”, finding anything further north than Manhattan to be too chilly to consider visiting. I even went for a lesson in this phone (a nice service offered by Verizon). Approximately two minutes into the lesson I said, “So, what else have you got?" to the 16 year old Mobile-Technology-Man.

Today I have a Blackberry. I don’t "get" it either. I can make a phone call, and I get some texts- do I get all of them? I don’t know. I think I’ve synced my Yahoo calendar, but I don’t trust it to use the right tone to tell me the difference between all of these never-ending alerts. Do I need to be reminded by a bong-gong-dong that someone I haven’t talked to in years is having a birthday? Well, maybe, just in case I get chased by a villain or need to find a bargain in their neighborhood- but I do not need this information “live” and during a meeting with my boss. Further, do I need to hear ding-dong-ping while I’m in said meeting with my boss, telling me I am 5 minutes late for the meeting that I’m already in? I think not.

I’m scheduled for another meeting (lesson) with the Phone-Carrier-Man-Boy. I have perused the booklet in both English and Spanish. By page 4 (section 4a.XVii) I had 6 new applications that are hardly useful on a daily basis, but I kept getting distracted by the possibilities and I figured I’d better do it now that the book was open and the instructions were in front of me, God forbid I have to crack open the book again, which I will surely misplace before my next birthday- or the day after the return policy expires, whichever comes first.

Advice from Suki- The Jones’ are just another version of The Man. Don’t try to keep up with them. They are an unstable group of people with too much time on their hands, spending upwards of 8 days learning to save 5 minutes a day, which means they would have to save 2,304 minutes before there was no more deficit of time spent learning. Go ahead and use your fancy microwave, buy your American Idol songs off the web and then try to access them on a computer that is no longer “registered” although it’s the same computer you’ve always had, but has been wiped 4 times for various Computer-Man problems. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t figure out how to slide your finger to the application that tells you what cross streets you’re on when you could simply look out the big glass thing in the front of your car and figure it out yourself. The sun rises in the east; sets in the west, streets still have signs, even out here in Agriterra, WV. If you’re clothes are wet, it’s probably raining, if you’re hot, don’t wear a jacket, if you want music go to a bar or the mall, learn to play an instrument, or stay home and play one of those dusty CDs you spent $20 for because you had to have it at that very moment (or the cover matched your outfit).

Ill tlk 2 u l8r whn I figure oUt how my BB wrks.

Suki

Copyright Suki Eastman 2010

Kooks with Degrees

It’s gorgeous out; an unseasonable 70+ degrees (F). I walked into the psychiatrist’s office a few minutes early. Being neurotic, arriving anything other than a few minutes early would be a contradiction. I always feel a sort of elation walking into a new psychiatrist’s office. New staff, who talk to you nicely because they haven’t yet determined how crazy you are; they always start their conversations in the way that people in customer service should, but rarely do. They are probably more nervous than me. After all, I have a) been in many such offices, and b) have a full grasp on how crazy I am. We can deduce that they have been in at least one psychiatry office, and b) have no idea how crazy, or what kind of crazy I am. Daunting.

There is also the other theory that they work there, where as I am a patient there, so possibly this diversion of dynamics is simply because they don’t think about these things at all- they could be….normal. Also daunting. People who don’t worry make me nervous. What dangers could come to their life, or mine if in the right proximity to theirs, if they are not thinking about all the dangerous possibilities; preferably concurrently, and really, really fast?

I look around, as one will do in a new venue. Basic office, sparse furniture, the only art I can recall was a painting of some bears. They were not in a hunting situation; there was no redneck in camouflage lurking in the corner with a rifle. Check and good (so far). The picture was instead, one big bear, presumably the mother, with 2-3 (maybe 2.2) smaller bears behind her. This is also good. It implies nurturing. Motherhood. Or, does it imply issues with mothers, and this is the way I’m supposed to start focusing on those issues so we can get right down to it when I see the doctor? Or, did the doctor merely pick bears for their lack of being donkeys or elephants, which definitely have political affiliations? It’s hard to tell. Bears are relatively neutral in that even in the super neurotic population that enters the office, probably few, if any people would break out into even a psychosomatic allergic reaction to bears. I’ve known people who are seemingly allergic to everything, but bear seems to be a non-issue with most. Naturally, they do cause a reaction, but more people are worried on a daily basis about wheezing or throats swelling from the evil peanut or wheat product than they are the dangers of bears. There just aren’t that many of them (bear-allerics), so even the greatest hypochondriac would find few situations where it would be appropriate to bring attention to themselves by loudly announcing, “I’m allergic to bears!” Disparaging; but will save me one eye roll episode because I hate being upstaged by dramatic bear-allergics.

The doctor comes out in a Polo shirt from 1986. No; Polo shirts haven’t really changed since 1986, but that many washes will alter the integrity of even the venerable Mr. Ralph Lauren. I know for a fact that the first thing on a medical history, specifically in this particular arena, is “general appearance”. What they mean, of course, is; are you sitting in front of a patient who is, say, naked? Or are they wearing a winter coat in Boca in August? Sporting a tube top with no discernable boobs to hold it up? Mismatched shoes, particularly when one might be a high heeled stiletto and the other a penny loafer? These are what doctors look at when you enter- it’s part of your chart, so never hesitate to take a few minutes to make sure your shoes match before you pay your co-pay.

I had been thinking a lot about this because we’re currently in the season where you need a decent coat on your body and a car heater in good working order first thing in the morning; but, by quitting time, you need a tank top and air conditioning. As my appointment was in the afternoon on such a day, I still had my leather coat (because it’s nice and I didn’t want it stolen out of my car), and it was about 75F outside. I needed the tank top, and was wearing one under another shirt, but if I had only that on, my bra straps would show, thus creating another psychologically notable fashion dilemma. So, I kept coat with me and sweater over tank. Screw it. If I wasn’t nuts, I wouldn’t be there, right? Let them write!

The inner office where we were to have our session was a larger room that looked like it could accommodate “group therapy”. A frightening term where people get together and with the egging on of a kook-with-a-degree (a KWD if you will), get to tell each other what they think of each other’s problems, OR be quiet, listen and think, ‘there but for the grace of God….’ I’ll pass on both of those luxuries, thank you.

The most notable thing in the room was the entire theme. Old, with a dichotomous combination of sturdy anchor pieces, and Allen wrenched sub pieces. Chairs and sofas make of and weighing as much as, a California Redwood, with cushions covered in the fabric that they were chosen for about 25 years ago or more. All along side random bookcases that came in a flat box that an MG Midget (now defunct AND politically incorrect) could have “hauled” home 10 of in one trip without rolling down the windows or letting the top down. In 1976, I’m guessing this may have been how this went down, right around this time.

Now, the old shirt and the “décor”, I quickly realized, was a ruse, a distraction, a sign that the doctor had a good time in 1976 and didn’t want to let it go. There was, however, a neon sign that I thought had to be a test of my either my tact or my sanity… it was in the form of a dark brown toupee jauntily placed upon the head of a man who was almost entirely gray from the ears down. Brown on top, then BANG(!)- A loud conversion to gray. You could hear it like the cannons in the 1812 Overture, you could taste it like a bad piece of meat in a Taco Bell taco, you could feel it like the wind; it touched you, but you weren’t touching it (eww).

This person, who I am to trust with mind-altering medications, cannot see the forest through the trees. I know he owns a mirror because I used the bathroom (how do you rate YOUR doctors’ offices?) and there was one in there. Mystery not solved. He mentioned a wife who is sometimes jealous, (I learned more about him than he about me in this first session). Is she, perhaps blind? I did not see a dog, but now I’m starting to think that this doesn’t mean I can take for granted that there wasn’t one there. If he couldn’t see this follicle faux pas, then it’s certainly plausible that I couldn’t see a guide dog. What else in life have I been missing? I vowed to go home and scrutinize my hair in the mirror. After a couple of prescription mood altering pills of course.

Copyright Suki Eastman 2010