Time to Hang Up

Most jurisdictions in North America are contemplating the banning of cellphones when driving. But has anyone considered a ban while walking? When shopping? How about during a skeet shooting competition? In short, has anyone considered banning the damned things from daily sight and sound? Yes, they're handy in an emergency, but then so is a parachute on a stricken airplane. Would you want somebody wearing one while gleefully pulling its rip cord in a supermarket?

No, I haven't been drinking too much NyQuil. I'd just like to enjoy at least one night out to a dinner and movie without hearing all five movements to Beethoven's Fifth digitally reproduced in the tones of a cellphone's programmable signature ring.

I'm sure you've heard these things: little tinny, mechanical melodies that people have their phones play so they know it's theirs that is ringing and not someone else's. It gets real fun when more than one gets going at the same time; the best yet for me was Swan Lake with Rick James' Superfreak as counterpoint.

What is so damn vital about keeping in touch with people at all moments of the day? There's an old saying that says absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well it can also help the mind grow stronger, yet no one ever leaves anyone alone long enough to catch their breath, much less collect their thoughts. I don't know how many people I've seen get on an elevator after leaving their office or home, furiously punching in some number and cursing their reception. And what follows when they get off is usually along the lines of "Hey...nothing...yeah...'kay...cool...chill." Either that, or a synopsis of where said caller is and what street they are about to cross, though no mention of the last three people they bumped into while they were distracted talking.

How does this constitute late breaking news?

Then there are those who don't have the good sense to take a time out from an argument, cool off, and figure out that everyone is sorry and we all could use a hug. These are the people you see strutting down the street, screaming and swearing, one hand pressed to their ear and the other swinging blindly at the air, looking for all the world like a punch drunk boxer with an earache. It might be their spouse, their parents, their lawyer, and more often than not these days their stock broker, though there's nothing funnier than seeing a cellphone smashed against the walls of Ma Bell's home office building by a guy in a double-breasted Armani.

Of course, not only can you reach out and touch someone from just about anywhere except for elevators and the Carlsbad Caverns, you can also order movie tickets, indulge in some day-trading, and pretty soon launch the space shuttle. You can play video games on your cellphone. I can only assume you can cure irregularity and gout with them too, but I haven't figured out which button to press yet because I don't have an electron microscope to find it.

Have you ever seen how tiny these things are?

As I write this, I am sitting in a coffee shop where there are three people talking on their cells, one an apparent long distance call to a relative in Moscow lamenting about how little snow falls in this part of the world. Another wants to keep things private from her friend, so she's left their table to stand next to me at the other end of the room while I hear all the details. The third is grunting the odd acknowledgement while methodically picking his nose. There are a thousand satellites circling the globe, a million sales and support staff, scientists, technicians, regulators, and half of Asia's underpaid workforce busy building, expanding, and promoting all that makes this little moment work.

Yeah...'kay...Cool.