2007-02-08

If I wanted to know your dinner plans, I'd ask you. Now hang up and drive.

As most of my nearest-and-dearest know, I hate cellphones.

If I wanted to hear your dinner plans, I'd ask you. I don't need to know that Jennifer is SUCH a BITCH while I'm sitting on the subway, standing in line to pay for my groceries, or peeing in the next stall.

The hell of it is, I have a cellphone. And I hate it.

Said phone is more or less always OFF and in its little designated pocket in my ladybag (you can't buy a ladybag that does NOT have one of these little pockets; I've looked). I use it very rarely, and with a deep sense of shame. I duck into a vestibule or corner when I have to make a call for the shame of it.

It's not as if I'm some Luddite curmudgeon. I am the owner of two laptops. My iPod has practically grafted itself onto my person. For the most part, I am a friend to all gadgets. But cellphones are so ubiquitous and so abused. They make rude people ruder. They make stupid people stupider. I know that given an inch, I would become one of these people vomiting up all kinds of personal flotsam and then glaring at anyone within earshot for "eavesdropping." I would be the person that stops in the middle of a busy sidewalk to make a call. If I drove, I would also be the person so engrossed in her phone conversation that she fails to notice that the light has been green for a full minute. I do not need to make my character defects any more glaringly defective, thank you very much.

When I give out my cellphone number, it's always with the caveat that my phone is never on, I barely use it, and you'd be better off reaching me at work or on my "landline." And yet people still attempt to reach me this way: "I tried to call you the other night; did you get my message?"

"Did you call me on my cell?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Then � no. No, I didn't get your message. I do hope you weren't bleeding on the side of the road somewhere and needed me to talk you through tourniquet application."

Somerville's favorite Odd Couple, Thompat Beene and Ad Frank, frequently try to reach me this way. Actually, I think they call me on my cellphone specifically because they know I won't answer. They call me to leave all manner of filthy, bizarre and downright troubling messages.

"Hullo Miss Lisa. This is Thomas Patton Beene. Ad and I bought white asparagus today to see if the COLOR of asparagus has any, um, bearing on how your pee smells after you eat it. We'll keep you posted."

"Uh, hey McColgan. It's Ad. We're conducting an informal survey and wanted to know which term you find the LEAST objectionable: tits, joybags or (muffled laughter)....MILK PILLOWS."

And this is to say nothing of the text messages that Paula sends me, most of which are so vile that I simply cannot bring myself to reprint them here.

So maybe this cellphone jazz isn't such a bad thing after all.

lisamcc at 12:32 p.m.

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