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Brooks Peterson
Monday, March 5, 2001
Cell phone madness is in the air
Technology is a blessing, no question about it. I don't know where I'd be without my vintage 1915 Royal manual word processor. Not to mention three-way light bulbs, wire coat hangers, pop-top beverage cans, twist-tie plastic trash bags and thoroughbred vintage sporting automobiles.
Having exhausted the store of stuff I can manage to get my mind around, I feel I can now proceed to the object of this exercise: yes, another techno-rant.
Now, all of us in the Luddite community have at one time or another vented about the never to be sufficiently deplored advent of the cell phone: Not only does it deprive us of those few quiet moments during the day when we might reasonably expect to be beyond the reach of wheedling, importunate callers; it has also - in the act of purportedly bringing us together - created a stunning disconnect in our relationships with one another and with the cosmos as a whole.
Relax: I'm not even going to get into the perennial issue of cell phone abuse by motorists. For one thing, that baby's been done to death. For another, the proof is all too clear before us, in the form of young matrons, harried businesspersons, and (by no means least) teen-agers caroming down our streets and byways in their sport-utes and jacked-up pickups while at the same time carrying on conversations.
On this front, at least, there has been some progress. Increasingly, we hear of enlightened municipalities (our own, alas, not yet among them) where the authorities have banned phoning-while-driving - at least, when the case involves use of a hand-held phone. (Those visor-mounted jobs that let you keep both hands more or less on the wheel even as you change your hair appointment represent progress of a sort, I suppose.)
In other areas, it is my unpleasant duty to report, there has not only been no progress; the forces of sanity are in fact in full, ignominious retreat.
Take cell phones in restaurants.
Please.
Particularly at lunchtime, when Type A upwardly-mobile achievers and/or society dames decamp for the friendly environs of an inviting eatery: There are legions of carbon-based life forms out there who evidently feel, well, incomplete without cell phone deployed on the tabletop - or at least within reach in handbag, suit pocket or what have you.
Why should that bother me? After all, these people are not behind the wheel of a giant SUV doing their level best to nudge me into the path of oncoming traffic. So . . . live and let live, no?
No.
Thing is, these phone-philes not only feel constrained to communicate incessantly; they do so (some - all too many) at the top(s) of their voice(s), thus making me privy to the infinitely uninteresting details of their personal and/or professional lives.
Here's the thing: If I have to be privy to anything, I think it ought to be my call. OK?
Then there's another manifestation of the syndrome of which I've become aware only recently: Supermarket cell-phone dependency.
I was in one of these glittering palaces of commerce just the other night, trying to remember my shopping list (dog food . . . chewing gum . . . bagels . . .) when I became aware of these figures reeling down the aisles with me, each with a phone jammed into her ear.
Well, OK, maybe they're touching base with HQ to check an order: regular Ranch Styles, or Ranch Styles with jalapeno?
Nah. It's a distinctly odd, seemingly directionless and certainly endless clatter and chatter: "And so then I says to her, I says . . .", "If you'll just listen for a second . . .", "Did you ever hear anything so tacky in your life . . .?"
I know, I know: The times aren't out of joint; I am. No doubt there are coping mechanisms for dealing with techno-phobia. Drop me an e-mail, if you wish; I'll have my machine call your machine . . .
Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com
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© 2001 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
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