The other day I had a quintessentially Bellingham Moment. I had ridden my bicycle to the Public Market. It's a lovely place with a food market full of organic, free-trade and - sometimes - too airy-fairy, too flaky for words goods as well as the home of a group of wonderful small, locally owned restaurants. I had some business with the owner so I did that and went out to the bike rack to retrieve my bicycle.
There was a young woman, most likely in that 25 to 35 age demographic. She'd temporarily parked her bicycle there to take a call on her cell phone. She was all in a spandex biking outfit, black with red and yellow accents/reflectors that fit her like a glove. And she certainly had a glovely body entirely appropriate to spandex.
Like most people talking on cell phones she had no awareness of her voice volume. She was, in her own mind, alone with her phone conversation. Thus I would have had to have been deaf not to overhear her conversation. She was answering with a series of "yeses" and "I understands" and "umm-hmms" until she concluded the conversation with, "I understand. You need a quote on up-grading your coverage to an umbrella policy for 3 or 5 million. I'll get you that quote and call you back. You too. Good-bye."
With that she closed her cell phone. Took her bike from the rack, flashed me a sunny smile and rode off. I'm sure that her other bike is a Beemer.
Now I'm not about to say that this is an "only in Bellingham" moment. I'm sure that such things happen even more frequently around Stamford or Darien, Connecticut and in some sections of Los Angeles as well as elsewhere. But the organic grocer, the young woman bicycler in spandex and the 7-figure money amounts...that's a Bellingham moment if ever there was one.
Showing posts with label cell phone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cell phone. Show all posts
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
A Tale of a Single Cell: Losing brains and cells
While I'm on the subject of cell phones I should relate a story of my most extensive experience with these instruments of satan.
A couple of years ago the wonderful and dear friend in whose house I formerly lived bought a prepaid cell phone. I vaguely recall that she got it before taking a road trip out to South Dakota to visit her oldest son despite what she tells me is the vast "no signal" zone in Montana in which a breakdown would make it most useful. I might be wrong about the purpose or that trip's date. In any case, she bought a prepaid cell.
She'd had it a while, tucked into the glove compartment in the car, when we set out to visit some friends who then lived in the Seattle suburb of Kent, Washington. We stopped to do some shopping along the way south. Once we were ready to continue on to Kent, Anna asked that I call Bill and Mary to let them know that we'd be at their house in about a half hour. She was driving, please note.
I managed to figure out how to use the demon device, placed the call, relayed the message and shut the phone off. Anna had extracted it from her purse so I sat with the thing in my hand during the rest of the drive. When we arrived I set the cell phone on the car's dashboard and made to exit the car. Anna said, "Don't put it there! Someone's likely to steal it." Given the upscale, neighborhood of condominiums and tract homes we were in the likelihood of a break-in to steal her cell phone was almost as likely as Dick Cheney being honest or Alberto Gonzales being competent, but she seized it from the dashboard and the cell phone disappeared I knew not where.
We had a nice visit with our friends, went home later that evening and life went on.
A couple of days later Anna asked me pointedly, "Do you remember what you did with the cell phone?" I related that I'd seen it last when I put it on the dashboard.
"Well, it's not there."
"No. You took it. I don't know what happened to it after that."
"I don't either. I don't have it."
"Did you check in the car?"
"Yes."
"Is it in your purse?"
"No. I looked."
"You're sure."
"Yes! I took my purse apart. It's not there."
A bit later I went up to the car and searched under seats and in all the recesses I could find. There was no cell phone. I reported that my search was fruitless.
"Well, there goes $60. I don't know what you did with it."
Even I, undiplomatic as I am, knew enough not to answer that one. I had lost the cell phone. I was an irresponsible turd and suitable punishments would be meted out at a time to be named later. They came. Have no doubt about that.
Months pass. Seasons change. Life goes on until one day Anna spontaneously says, "I was out at the doctor's today and was looking for something in my purse. I couldn't find the thing I was looking for but while I was searching I felt something hard in my purse. It was in a separate pocket attached to the bag near the strap. I opened up the pocket and what do you think was there?"
"The cell phone, right."
"Yes. The cell phone was there all along." She was exceptionally pleased that it had reappeared. I, on the other hand, thought it was the funniest thing I'd heard in days and promised that it would be a story I'd not soon forget, more because it's funny rather than that I deserved a bit of revenge for the crap I'd taken as the one who lost the cell phone that was only used once!
Stories like this don't really have a convenient end like some literary product. They are real life stories and, as such, they just peter out as we turn our attention to the next thing that real life has to throw at us. It's not even a story specific to Anna because nearly everyone of us has "lost" something that we really had all along. As we get older, Poe's tale of The Purloined Letter turns into The Senior Moment Letter with increasing frequency. And I can't even turn this into some lesson to prove in some new and additional way that cell phones are hell spawn. No, it's just a tale that couples, friends, relatives live out every day. But it does have the salutary effect of allowing me, whenever Anna began tooting her own horn especially loudly, of injecting a note of humility by turning to her with a short and simple question: "Remember the cell phone?"
A couple of years ago the wonderful and dear friend in whose house I formerly lived bought a prepaid cell phone. I vaguely recall that she got it before taking a road trip out to South Dakota to visit her oldest son despite what she tells me is the vast "no signal" zone in Montana in which a breakdown would make it most useful. I might be wrong about the purpose or that trip's date. In any case, she bought a prepaid cell.
She'd had it a while, tucked into the glove compartment in the car, when we set out to visit some friends who then lived in the Seattle suburb of Kent, Washington. We stopped to do some shopping along the way south. Once we were ready to continue on to Kent, Anna asked that I call Bill and Mary to let them know that we'd be at their house in about a half hour. She was driving, please note.
I managed to figure out how to use the demon device, placed the call, relayed the message and shut the phone off. Anna had extracted it from her purse so I sat with the thing in my hand during the rest of the drive. When we arrived I set the cell phone on the car's dashboard and made to exit the car. Anna said, "Don't put it there! Someone's likely to steal it." Given the upscale, neighborhood of condominiums and tract homes we were in the likelihood of a break-in to steal her cell phone was almost as likely as Dick Cheney being honest or Alberto Gonzales being competent, but she seized it from the dashboard and the cell phone disappeared I knew not where.
We had a nice visit with our friends, went home later that evening and life went on.
A couple of days later Anna asked me pointedly, "Do you remember what you did with the cell phone?" I related that I'd seen it last when I put it on the dashboard.
"Well, it's not there."
"No. You took it. I don't know what happened to it after that."
"I don't either. I don't have it."
"Did you check in the car?"
"Yes."
"Is it in your purse?"
"No. I looked."
"You're sure."
"Yes! I took my purse apart. It's not there."
A bit later I went up to the car and searched under seats and in all the recesses I could find. There was no cell phone. I reported that my search was fruitless.
"Well, there goes $60. I don't know what you did with it."
Even I, undiplomatic as I am, knew enough not to answer that one. I had lost the cell phone. I was an irresponsible turd and suitable punishments would be meted out at a time to be named later. They came. Have no doubt about that.
Months pass. Seasons change. Life goes on until one day Anna spontaneously says, "I was out at the doctor's today and was looking for something in my purse. I couldn't find the thing I was looking for but while I was searching I felt something hard in my purse. It was in a separate pocket attached to the bag near the strap. I opened up the pocket and what do you think was there?"
"The cell phone, right."
"Yes. The cell phone was there all along." She was exceptionally pleased that it had reappeared. I, on the other hand, thought it was the funniest thing I'd heard in days and promised that it would be a story I'd not soon forget, more because it's funny rather than that I deserved a bit of revenge for the crap I'd taken as the one who lost the cell phone that was only used once!
Stories like this don't really have a convenient end like some literary product. They are real life stories and, as such, they just peter out as we turn our attention to the next thing that real life has to throw at us. It's not even a story specific to Anna because nearly everyone of us has "lost" something that we really had all along. As we get older, Poe's tale of The Purloined Letter turns into The Senior Moment Letter with increasing frequency. And I can't even turn this into some lesson to prove in some new and additional way that cell phones are hell spawn. No, it's just a tale that couples, friends, relatives live out every day. But it does have the salutary effect of allowing me, whenever Anna began tooting her own horn especially loudly, of injecting a note of humility by turning to her with a short and simple question: "Remember the cell phone?"
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Street Signs III: They belong in a cell
Ah, yes! Cell phones!
Let me say up-front that I hate them. In Africa, India, the Himalayas, the Gobi and Sahara Deserts, the jungles of the Amazon and Orinoco basins and the steppes of Asia, even in the Arctic and Antarctic there is some justification for cell phones. In Boston, in Bellingham, in cars there is no justification whatever!
There is a retail chain for which I see ads on television called Car Toys. I believe that the owners, directors and executives of that chain should be jailed and fined a bazillion dollars each just for naming their chain Car Toys. Please let me explain.
Yes, I freely admit that I am a Luddite. I didn't own a PC until 2001. For the most part I avoid instant messaging. I have e-mailed but I have never "texted" a message and hope that, if I ever do, someone will be kind enough to put me out of my misery immediately. Just the usage of "text" as a verb makes my skin crawl. It's as disgusting and awful as "orientate" and "mischievous" when it's mispronounced "mis-CHEE-VEE-us". Just for the record one writes. One does not "text". To give something an orientation one orients it. And the adjective form of "mischief" is correctly pronounced "mis-CHIF-us". Those other usages and pronounciations are as grating as fingernails on a blackboard or, worse, some dunce sitting nearby and talking on a cell phone about something utterly banal and annoying.
I haven't owned an automobile since 1982. In the Boston area it was largely an unnecessary expense. I could get just about anywhere I needed to go on the bus-subway-commuter rail system known as "The T" as short for the MBTA or Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority. While riding "The T" into the age of the cell phone I was forced to listen to the private conversations of private people delivered at a volume that would make Pavarotti envious. On one notable occasion I was stuck on a train out of North Station in Boston seated next to a Yuppie hot-shot who was decked out in the appropriate style complete with cell phone and laptop. He had his laptop open and had brought up some site or other having to do with finance. He called someone ostensibly at a financial organization and was looking for information on his account. He proceeded to speak at full voice, "Hello, Darlene. This is Studley Everprep and I want to talk to you about my investment account. The account number is 'S' as in 'Sam', 'E' as in 'Echo', 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9. I need to make a trade on that account. Can you help me with that? Fine! Yes, I'd like to sell 30 shares of Amalgamated Upscale and buy 80 shares of YupCo Industries. Correct! Yes. Thank you. You can deposit the balance to my account at Usurer's North American Trust. Do you have the account number on file? Yes. Yes, that's correct. Yes, it's 4-3-2-1-9-8-7-6-5. Super, Darlene! Thank you." He then proceeded to call a second broker or whoever and complete a similar transaction. He was about to dial a third time when I turned to him and said, "Do you really want everyone on this train to know that you're Studley Everprep whose investment acount number is SE123456789 and whose bank account number at Usurer's North American Trust is 432198765? Is it really a good idea to give anyone listening the information with which to clean out your bank accounts?"
The initial look of annoyance and exasperation on his face quickly changed to one of paniced horror. He was blessedly quiet for the rest of the time I was on the train though he did cast alarmed glances at me and some of the others around us now and again. He may have had no accounts anywhere and could simply have been faking the call in order to impress some object of his lust sitting nearby but his cowering fear after I interrupted him tend to make me believe that the calls were genuine and any attempt to seduce with money and status was secondary.
The fact is that cell phone users either delude themselves into believing that they are alone or they aren't entirely convinced that the satellite will bounce their call electronically so they are trying to bounce their voice off that geosynchronous relay as a safety measure. They do not seem to care that no one else within earshot, or at least anyone who wishes them well, could not care less that they will be home in 20 minutes, that they are on the bus or that their boy/girlfriend is (choose all that apply):
a) cute
b) sweet
c) hot
d) rockin'
e) a shit
f) sleeping with (make your own list here)
g) going to find out that he/she's got an STD
f) etc.
But the issue that really puts this into the realm of a diatribe entitled "Street Signs" is the issue of DWP, driving while phoning. It needs to be a crime and I mean that in all seriousness. I am not joking or being hyperbolic in the least. Using a cell phone for anything while driving a motor vehicle should be a crime with punishments at least as severe as driving while intoxicated.
In December, 2005 I'd agreed to help a friend of a friend by dressing as Santa Claus and trying to recruit customers to her business. In that capacity, in full Santa costume, I was standing on North State Street in Bellingham waving to passing cars. I hadn't been out on the sidewalk very long when a car came speeding down the street. The woman in the car was talking on a cell phone that she held to her left ear with her left hand. She saw me and waved to me with her right hand as she passed. Now, forgive me for not believing that she was a 3-armed mutant or possessed with prehensile nipples but who in hell was driving that car? Not only was she not driving and not driving safely but she probably should not have been driving at all.
Since then I have nearly been run down by a driver running a red light while pedestrians, including me, were in the crosswalk. She too was talking energetically on a cell phone. I am sure that she was focused completely on the personal issue under discussion but she nearly killed 3 people because she was not focused on controlling a ton or two of speeding metal and glass.
More than a decade ago I heard a report on the radio from a person at some electronics show in Tokyo. The reporter mentioned an object the size of a ballpoint pen. When the button on the top of the device was pressed it jammed all cell phone transmissions and reception within a 3-meter radius. As it happens, owning and using those devices are illegal in the United States. Now I am usually a law-abiding sort but that is one law I would eagerly break daily. I don't just want one of those jamming devices. I need one. A simple, unobtrusive gesture hidden in an inside pocket would free me and all within about 10 feet of me from the obnoxiousness of cell phone users.
It wouldn't make the streets any safer but it would remove some of the annoyance. What we need badly before the death toll mounts is legislation that makes it a criminal felony punishable by jail time and loss of a driver's license to use a cell phone for any purpose other than a paperweight while driving any kind of motor vehicle.
O.k. I'm done now. At least until until the next near miss by a driver with a cell phone to his or her ear.
Let me say up-front that I hate them. In Africa, India, the Himalayas, the Gobi and Sahara Deserts, the jungles of the Amazon and Orinoco basins and the steppes of Asia, even in the Arctic and Antarctic there is some justification for cell phones. In Boston, in Bellingham, in cars there is no justification whatever!
There is a retail chain for which I see ads on television called Car Toys. I believe that the owners, directors and executives of that chain should be jailed and fined a bazillion dollars each just for naming their chain Car Toys. Please let me explain.
Yes, I freely admit that I am a Luddite. I didn't own a PC until 2001. For the most part I avoid instant messaging. I have e-mailed but I have never "texted" a message and hope that, if I ever do, someone will be kind enough to put me out of my misery immediately. Just the usage of "text" as a verb makes my skin crawl. It's as disgusting and awful as "orientate" and "mischievous" when it's mispronounced "mis-CHEE-VEE-us". Just for the record one writes. One does not "text". To give something an orientation one orients it. And the adjective form of "mischief" is correctly pronounced "mis-CHIF-us". Those other usages and pronounciations are as grating as fingernails on a blackboard or, worse, some dunce sitting nearby and talking on a cell phone about something utterly banal and annoying.
I haven't owned an automobile since 1982. In the Boston area it was largely an unnecessary expense. I could get just about anywhere I needed to go on the bus-subway-commuter rail system known as "The T" as short for the MBTA or Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority. While riding "The T" into the age of the cell phone I was forced to listen to the private conversations of private people delivered at a volume that would make Pavarotti envious. On one notable occasion I was stuck on a train out of North Station in Boston seated next to a Yuppie hot-shot who was decked out in the appropriate style complete with cell phone and laptop. He had his laptop open and had brought up some site or other having to do with finance. He called someone ostensibly at a financial organization and was looking for information on his account. He proceeded to speak at full voice, "Hello, Darlene. This is Studley Everprep and I want to talk to you about my investment account. The account number is 'S' as in 'Sam', 'E' as in 'Echo', 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9. I need to make a trade on that account. Can you help me with that? Fine! Yes, I'd like to sell 30 shares of Amalgamated Upscale and buy 80 shares of YupCo Industries. Correct! Yes. Thank you. You can deposit the balance to my account at Usurer's North American Trust. Do you have the account number on file? Yes. Yes, that's correct. Yes, it's 4-3-2-1-9-8-7-6-5. Super, Darlene! Thank you." He then proceeded to call a second broker or whoever and complete a similar transaction. He was about to dial a third time when I turned to him and said, "Do you really want everyone on this train to know that you're Studley Everprep whose investment acount number is SE123456789 and whose bank account number at Usurer's North American Trust is 432198765? Is it really a good idea to give anyone listening the information with which to clean out your bank accounts?"
The initial look of annoyance and exasperation on his face quickly changed to one of paniced horror. He was blessedly quiet for the rest of the time I was on the train though he did cast alarmed glances at me and some of the others around us now and again. He may have had no accounts anywhere and could simply have been faking the call in order to impress some object of his lust sitting nearby but his cowering fear after I interrupted him tend to make me believe that the calls were genuine and any attempt to seduce with money and status was secondary.
The fact is that cell phone users either delude themselves into believing that they are alone or they aren't entirely convinced that the satellite will bounce their call electronically so they are trying to bounce their voice off that geosynchronous relay as a safety measure. They do not seem to care that no one else within earshot, or at least anyone who wishes them well, could not care less that they will be home in 20 minutes, that they are on the bus or that their boy/girlfriend is (choose all that apply):
a) cute
b) sweet
c) hot
d) rockin'
e) a shit
f) sleeping with (make your own list here)
g) going to find out that he/she's got an STD
f) etc.
But the issue that really puts this into the realm of a diatribe entitled "Street Signs" is the issue of DWP, driving while phoning. It needs to be a crime and I mean that in all seriousness. I am not joking or being hyperbolic in the least. Using a cell phone for anything while driving a motor vehicle should be a crime with punishments at least as severe as driving while intoxicated.
In December, 2005 I'd agreed to help a friend of a friend by dressing as Santa Claus and trying to recruit customers to her business. In that capacity, in full Santa costume, I was standing on North State Street in Bellingham waving to passing cars. I hadn't been out on the sidewalk very long when a car came speeding down the street. The woman in the car was talking on a cell phone that she held to her left ear with her left hand. She saw me and waved to me with her right hand as she passed. Now, forgive me for not believing that she was a 3-armed mutant or possessed with prehensile nipples but who in hell was driving that car? Not only was she not driving and not driving safely but she probably should not have been driving at all.
Since then I have nearly been run down by a driver running a red light while pedestrians, including me, were in the crosswalk. She too was talking energetically on a cell phone. I am sure that she was focused completely on the personal issue under discussion but she nearly killed 3 people because she was not focused on controlling a ton or two of speeding metal and glass.
More than a decade ago I heard a report on the radio from a person at some electronics show in Tokyo. The reporter mentioned an object the size of a ballpoint pen. When the button on the top of the device was pressed it jammed all cell phone transmissions and reception within a 3-meter radius. As it happens, owning and using those devices are illegal in the United States. Now I am usually a law-abiding sort but that is one law I would eagerly break daily. I don't just want one of those jamming devices. I need one. A simple, unobtrusive gesture hidden in an inside pocket would free me and all within about 10 feet of me from the obnoxiousness of cell phone users.
It wouldn't make the streets any safer but it would remove some of the annoyance. What we need badly before the death toll mounts is legislation that makes it a criminal felony punishable by jail time and loss of a driver's license to use a cell phone for any purpose other than a paperweight while driving any kind of motor vehicle.
O.k. I'm done now. At least until until the next near miss by a driver with a cell phone to his or her ear.
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