Your Phone Is Dumb

LISTEN:

When I say you're being rude because you're constantly on your phone, it's because it's true.

When you tell me, "whatevs n00bs, you would do the same thing if you had a smart phone" I agree with your statement.

But here's the difference between you and me: I DO NOT HAVE A SMART PHONE, THUS I AM NOT ALWAYS ON MY PHONE.  Your argument is invalid. 

Is cocaine fun?  I'm sure it is.  It's probably awesome.  But I have no desire, ever, to do cocaine.  People on coke piss me off.  Because they're idiots.  Plus I would get dangerously addicted. 

(in the biz that's what we call a metaphor)

Thankfully, no one is sitting around trying to pressure me into snorting coke (we are in our thirties and have much better things to do, like high five strangers on the street and take pictures of ourselves with other peoples dogs, or go to the supermarket and purchase one grape).  But a minimum of three times a day someone tells me how annoying it is that I don't have a smart phone, which doesn't make any sense.

My phone always has a signal, always has battery power.  It can call and text.  My apartment is a dead zone, but that's my apartment, not my phone. 

Go on, get defensive.  Talk about how it's annoying that I...I don't know.  Cannot take or receive pictures.  You can talk about how it's annoying that I find constant phoning fucking annoying. I don't give a shit.

It's obnoxious.  Sure, I will joke around and ask people to look stuff up on their Galaxy.  Plus it's funny to fuck with people sometimes.  One time CrazyLiz and I texted Scooter just so he would tag us at a bar on Facebook.  Scooter was, obviously, at home in a completely different city.  But Liz and I refuse to get smart phones and people are constantly bitching about it.  If you care where we are so much, then do the work for us. Of course, Scooter is probably the one person that doesn't give a shit where we are or what we're doing, which made the whole thing greater. To us.

Can you people think of one legit reason as to why I would want a smart phone?  

1. GPS: I'm old school, I will straight up ask strangers for directions before I ask you to check your phone. Personal favorite people to ask: delivery drivers.
• Friends always argue, "No, you never ask directions."  That's a lie.  I never ask you to look up directions on your phone because I like to wander.
• To ask someone for directions, there is a requirement: we have to find a fucking person.  So until we find a person I cannot ask for directions.
• Caveat: I will ask for your help if you are being annoying and you keep on saying, "I can just look it up on my phone.  Why can't I just look it up on my phone?  This would be so much easier if I just looked it up on my phone."  THIS IS BECAUSE YOU ARE RUINING PERFECTLY GOOD WANDERING TIME.
• Honestly, your phone is fucking wrong half the time anyway. 
2. Knowing things:  I value people who have knowledge, not people who are good googlers. Your ability to google does not fucking impress me.  The worst is when people google things for the sole purpose of proving me wrong - I wouldn't say it if I didn't know it, dick. If that were the case I would preface the statement with, "I don't know if this is right, but..."  If you've never heard me say that, then you are not paying attention. Probably because you're on your fucking phone. Also, why are you being a lameball funsuck?  We could spend this time having a discussion with actual thought processes.  We could be yelling at each other for fun right now.
3. Photos:  I can bring a camera. 
• Argument:  "you get mad when you're not in pictures"
• No, I'm sad when I don't feel photogenic. There is a difference.
• Besides, saying, "OMG, take a picture of me doing this!  Wait, now take a picture of me doing this!" makes me feel stupid.
4. Videos:  I don't really care for them.  I don't want to be on Youtube.  I don't want to be famous.  Don't you think that if I wanted to be famous I would put my real name on this blog and try to monetize it somehow?  Yes.  I would.
5. Tagging:  I don't give a shit if I get "tagged" on Facebook.  Do you know why?  Because I don't give a fuck when anyone is tagged. 
   
   • The common defense that people use for this is: "Well, then I won't tag you."  Cool.  I'm not going to notice anyway, seeing as I -
     (a) don't have a smart phone
     (b) will not scour your page to make sure I was included in your tags when I get around to Facebook
   • Sometimes people point out whenever they do not tag me out of spite and mockery, which I get - like I said, it's funny to fuck with people sometimes.  I usually fake whine and laugh it off, but it's really starting to get old.
   • Is it sociopathic if I do not give a shit what people are doing at every moment of the day?  

So on the other side of the spectrum (obviously there are are exceptions):

1. I had an Oscar party on Sunday, and at one point I looked up and EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM EXCEPT FOR ME WAS LOOKING AT THEIR PHONE.  Granted, I was glued to the TV, and I totally ran over to my laptop every half hour to put something funny on Facebook. The purpose of our gathering was to be in a room and look at a screen together.  Adding more screens to the mix just made things hilarious. 
2. I'm guilty of asking people to watch a certain video or play a song, but that's putting in requests to someone who is already watching videos or listening to music. Perspective, people - if we're engaged in an activity together, the phone is secondary.  If you didn't have your smart phone we would just be doing something else.

But when you whip out your phone while we are having a conversation for the sole purpose of communicating with an outside party, you are sending a clear signal that you would rather be talking to the person on your phone than the people you are with.  I've written about this before:

"Shit. Hold on guys, I need to take this," I'm shaking as I leave the patio table in front of the bar and answer my phone, partly because it's cold outside, partly out of fear, and partly because I'm a little hungover. Or a lot hungover. Whatever.

This is a big fucking deal, because I don't do that. I also don't use call waiting, and I won't talk on the phone while I'm hanging out with someone else. It's fucking rude. Seriously, if I'm constantly texting someone when I'm around you it means I don't want to be around you.

Exceptions to these rules include but are not limited to (1) giving directions to a member of our party who has yet to arrive, (2) receiving directions for a destination to which we have yet to travel, and (3) my mother, because she only calls when something is wrong. 

Is this for your job?  Remember that part in Hook when Robin Williams answers his phone in front of his kids and then acts like a total dick?  That's you. You're the guy who forgot how to play. Go suck on a dead dog's nose.

There is a difference between "sorry, this might be an emergency" and "omg, Cute Guy just said something hilare on FB!  LIKE!"

Is it ironic that I write blogs on the internet but do not like smart phones? I'm not sure.  I write a blog to let out frustration, tell stories, share ideas.  And by "share ideas" I don't mean post pictures of things I like.  When I started doing this I did it to develop a dialogue for my thoughts, as a way for me to understand things about myself and why I behaved a certain way.  Meeting fellow bloggers was a plus - people who felt the same way I did about the concept of ideas but had completely different ideas themselves. I didn't really start sharing this blog with friends (other than a very select few) until all those bloggers all but disappeared and moved on...

I feel like the very nature of a smart phone - immediate gratification without thought or purpose - is discordant with the reason I like the internet in the first place. I like the thinking part. This is, perhaps, part of the reason why I don't like Yelp - it's letting random ass people do your thinking for you. It doesn't feel like sharing ideas, it feels like a fucking circle jerk.

Personally, I'm far more interested in why you like using a smart phone.  All of the positives I can think of for smart phone technology feel like negatives to me, so there must be a reason, and my inability to look at it from another perspective is worrisome.  So if anyone would like to explain it...please help.

They make me feel disconnected from people, disconnected from the world which is odd, since they're supposed to make you feel more connected.  They scare me. They make me feel boastful and superficial, and I do not like feeling that way.  People may see me as boastful or superficial, and that's fine.  I can't help that.  I just don't want to feel that way.  

Otherwise, from now on if I notice someone check their phone in the middle of a conversation without reason, I'm just going to walk away.

...

"It is well that war is so terrible, or we should get too fond of it."

So Sunday afternoon me, Slinger and CrazyLiz are at a bar for the Blackhawk's game.

More accurately, Slinger is there for hockey, I am there for chili and beer, and CrazyLiz is there for moral support.

In walks a gentlemen with heavy wool pants, a shmancy-frocky-lookin' men's dress shirt, fucking riding boots and these bad ass double-leather goldenrod suspenders. He looks amazing. I mean, he's not amazing-looking, but you know. Double-leather suspenders.

"How's the battlefield today, Terry?" calls a patron.

"Union won," Terry grunts as he seats himself at the bar.

"Bastards always do."

"Only on Sundays." Terry and the guy to his left keep on talking slightly hushed, but happily, and then the bartender delivers my potato skins so I temporarily forget about yellow suspenders because there's bacon in front of me.

"So where can I get a pair of suspenders like that?" Slinger asks him after we all exchange little zingers during a commercial break or something.

"You gotta fight for the Union." Terry doesn't look up and gulps his pint.

"And how do you get to do that?"

"Well, I got myself kidnapped as a Rebel and was forced to fight for the North."

"I woulda just been a double agent," Slinger giggles.

"They thought I was, sir," Terry continued. "After I was caught and taken across enemy lines, all I could hear was the click click click of cocked pistols and rifles aiming for me. It took 'em awhile to figure it out, that I wasn't a spy that allowed myself caught, and then they just...made me fight for the Yankees."

"How'd the Rebels feel about that?" I asked him.

"Well, they couldn't do much about it could they? Those Yanks are lucky I had a Union uniform as well." He chuckles to himself.

I glance at him. "So you have to bring your own uniforms?"

He still hasn't looked my direction, but he gives his beer a secret smile. "Well, when you've been doin' it as long as me you sort of invest in your own goods. Uniforms, pistols, horses."

"How long's it been?"

"Let's see, 'bout, ahhh," he licks his lips and squints while he counts in his head, "Bout fourteen, fifteen years."

"Hot damn."

"Yep, fifteen years. I've been in more battles than the soldiers in The War itself." He laughs. He finds himself brilliant. It's kind of mesmerizing. "Course, I'm dodging blunt objects and dry fire, with no worry for real bullets!" He roars again, having reckoned the secrets of survival.

"So you always get to wear them snazzy suspenders?" I tend to regress with my language, depending on the audience.

"Just today. That's what the yellow's for," he thumbs the yellow straps. "designates Union Cavalry. Actually it's mounted infantry when I fight for the South and then they're white, but--" he raises a finger "--Union's cavalry because they have the pistols as well as sabres, and Union's yellow."

"So you're on horseback?"

"Yes ma'am."

"That is awesome."

"I do enjoy it."

"So you got a horse for that?"

"Well, me and three of my buddies, we got him over at a Chicago police auction. We got lucky. 21-years old, doesn't shy at the gunfire." He takes a sip, and then corrects himself with a grin, "Well, fake gunfire."

"What's his name?"

Terry finally meets my eyes. "Sunshine."

I smile. "Nice." I slide my beer over to the rail. Neighbor's is the kind of establishment run on the etiquette of regulars. "So do you have a preference? As to sides?"

He smiles again. "Everyone wants to fight for the Rebels."

"Seriously? Come on. No one wants to represent the free states?"

"Now, we really just call them Yankees. Keeps things...well, we just call them Yankees."

"Damn Yankees."

"Damn Yankees."

I reach for the fresh beer in front of me and thank the bartender, whose name I don't know.

Terry starts up again. "Yeah, but I always fight for the Confederacy. You know, General Lee said he'd never fight against the Union unless it was in defense of Virginia herself." (All I want to do, by the way, is muscle into the conversation with stupid shit like, Robert E. Lee named his horse Traveller and Grant's horse was Jeff Davis and Traveller's original name was Jeff Davis but they were totally different horses and Jefferson Davis's horse was Blackjack but I'm not an asshole. Sometimes.) "It's more...almost important, representing the underdog. Not necessarily historically, almost emotion related. You try harder, even though we all know it's a reenactment...but it's always as if this time...this time we might win."

"But the Union always wins."

"On Sundays. Saturdays go to the Confederates."

I laugh. "So it's a weekend gig? How many battles you fight a year?"

"About, uh, twelve or so."

"How far do you have to travel for that?"

"Most're around here. But the Nationals last year were in Shiloh. That's in Tennessee."

"So not that far."

"Not that far."

I nod. "Is there anyone in your life liable to protest these getaways?"

"Not me. But I've been in it for so long...this is my family. My daughter, she's involved as well. She's got a whalebone hoopskirt. But I asked one of my buddies, I asked him--because he goes near forty these a year--he's a field officer for the Confederali --So how's it that Michelle let's you out on all these battles? and he says, Well, it's because I have no vices. I don't use tobacco, I don't drink alcohol, and I don't chase women and I don't play cards, so she let's me have this one thing."

"There you go."

"Ah, but then he says, he says ahhh, he says, But what goes after hours at cantonment she'll never know. And swear to god, that battle's over and there he is, smoking a cigar with a lady on his lap, dealing cards to a table of Yankees and swigging Jack right from the bottle."

"What a fucker," I smirk and take a sip of beer.

"Ma'am," he grins after a minute, all slick, "It occurs to me that you'd look mighty fine in a hoop skirt, if you'd be a willing participant."

I scoff and look down at my pajamas. Damn covered in grass stains and mulch smears from doing yard work with my dad. You know how every time you visit your parents they trick you into manual labor? I'm pretty sure I smell.

"That's very kind of you," I tilt my beer in thanks, "but if I can't be cavalry, I don't wanna play."

"You got a horse?"

"Nah, but there's gotta be one for me wandering around out there somewhere."

...

We Should Feed Canada Some Mrs. Grass Soup, But Only Until They Feel Better About SUCKING SO HARD AT HOCKEY

Scene: Seven friends are seated at the bar at Neighbors (you wish you were there) watching the US/Canada Olympic hockey game. Two are Canadian, the other five are USAmerican, and all of them are awesome. Except for the Canadians (BITCH WHAT I SAID IT, EH?)

(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)

...

"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.

"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."

"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.

"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"

Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."

"They would be better if they were blue."

"Red, white and blue."

"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.

"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"

Slinger ignores her.

"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.

I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."

"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"

"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.

"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.

Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"

"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."

"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.

"Totally fake."

"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"

"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"

Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"

"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."

"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"

"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.

"No, swimming horses."

"I never liked that movie."

"You're lame."

"You're Canadian."

"Bitch, you know you're jealous."

"I wish I had a queen to cry to."

"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"

"They have cheese there, eh?"

The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.

"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.

"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."

"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.

"She's probably from Canada."

"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.

I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."

Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"

"Frogs."

After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.

"Agreed, that's horseshit."

"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."

"Like the snowboarding team."

"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."

"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.

The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.

"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."

"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.

"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"

"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.

I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."

"The Canadian Tuxedo."

"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"

"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."

"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"

Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."

"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."

"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."

"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."

"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."

"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.

Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.

And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.

...

P4C7: Ten Drunks Are Way Easier To Manage Than Forty

SCENE: Saturday afternoon, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 7. A train car. Ten friends are sitting on the upper deck, laughing, drinking, discussing television commercials.

"You guys remember that Herbal Essences commercial where the woman has an orgasm in the shower--"

The conductor below us stops snapping cash from his money belt and starts darting his head around like a scared bird. "What? Who said that?"

Dainon waves slightly, stoic.

"YOU---VESTIBULE! NOW!" the humorless conductor points all haphazardly around the train car. "We don't need that kind of language on here."

"I'm sorry, sir." Dainon is visibly confused. "It won't happen again."

"I don't want to hear it. You can't say that on a train! There are children on this train!" (There is not one child in our entire train car.) "I don't appreciate that kind of language, and neither does anyone else."

"Sir, I didn't curse..."

"I'm not trying to be funny, I don't want to hear that kind of language, mister."

"I understand, sir, but I didn't curse."

"Your language is--" blah blah blah. I don't even know, this guy made no sense whatsoever.

"I will try to watch my language, sir, I apologize."

"You better." Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

Five minutes later, we arrived at our train stop, and we get the hell off that train. The conductor is helping people board and de-board.

"Fuck that guy." I'm annoyed, and full of liquid courage. "ORGASM."

"Orgasm!" an echo.

"ORGASM!" a chorus!

"We got off, are you happy?"

"ORGASM."

Slinger gets closer. "You're just pissed you've never had one." The conductor's head snaps forward, and he stretches out his arm, a two-fingered beckon to Slinger to say it within arm's reach.

We laugh, because now we're bullies. Orgasm? That's the word that makes you quake with fury? Really? Drunk Dave is on the verge of swiping your neat little hat and teabagging your head, and your temper flares when we name-drop an Herbal Essences commercial in jest?

Anyway, then we got drunker, and me and Bobbay tried to learn how to play the bagpipes from Marc, a kilt-sportin' bagpiper from Northern Ireland. He was in a parade earlier that day, where he played his pipes for the Mayor, and he realized he split his bag so he had to duct tape it together and it was really hard to blow.

(Oh, I really liked typing that last sentence.)

...

Sad Skills

Just came to realization, and I thought I would share it.

On the fourth of July I was playing bags over at Slinger's house, and although it's a wonderful game of douchebaggery, usually I'm not bad. Not first draft or anything, but decent enough where playing is not some thoroughly humiliating experience and partnering up with me isn't a chore. I hold my own.

But on that day, I was god awful. I couldn't properly throw, the bags were heavy, the boards were slick, I can make excuses until the Rapture, but the fact is I sucked, and I knew it, and I was pissed.

So CrazyLiz made a mockery of my sad skills.

Normally, I crave that kind of attention, and completely prefer some good-spirited ridicule to relentless encouragement. For some reason, however, this time aggravation set in. Big time. To the point where instead of tossing a bag at the board, I threw it at her laughing head.

Mind you, this was not some slick fastball, it was the awkward, elbow-first rainbow throw with the motor functions of a three-year old, and I completely missed her head and nearly knocked over a Tiki torch.

Which just pissed me off even more. Here I am, someone who has a small amount of pride in her skills in all things tossing after twenty years of mediocre athleticism, and I looked like a complete amateur asshole. Infuriated, punctuated by deep emotional chagrin for the mere fact that I was, in fact, pissed off at something so pointless.

Perhaps I can only take a beatdown when I'm not already upset. If I had started self-ridicule, that gives everyone free reign to jeer all they want. But until I'm comfortable with making fun of myself, I can't take the criticism.

So for the past two weeks, I've been afraid to participate in things, whether I think I'm decent or not. I'm afraid that if I try, I'll get derided for failing.

This is not a good mindset to have, and it's fairly new for me. Usually in those situations I would just throw myself into things, and fuck fear. But lately I've been holding myself back, like when I get intimidated by other bicyclists in the bike lane.

Obviously, with certain things I've always held myself back, but not something as fucking futile as bags. Or Rock Band. Or karaoke, or softball.

CrazyLiz can't be blamed for this at all, because she knows that I've got that masochistic attraction to public mockery, but for some reason, at that point in time, it was uninvited. I'm not upset with her at all, I'm upset with myself. If anyone had made fun of me I would have overreacted the same annoying way.

I wonder what spurred that reaction in me?

Most likely it was because the other players were so much better than I, and frustration set in. When people are obviously and painfully good at something, I'm always apprehensive to join in, as if I'll ruin their game. I shouldn't be, I shouldn't have that self-doubt. But it exists.

It doesn't make it much easier that my friends all seem to be so undeniably good at something. What am I good at? Well, I'm very good at shoving my nose into other people's business. Nigh unbeatable. Usually, though, I think my involvement is invited and I just run with it real far away, which is odd because I can't run fast at all, and you'd think they'd catch up with me and snatch their problems right back, but instead they just watch me skedaddle in slow motion and wait for me to return with solvent.

So I'm good at that.

I feel like things I used to feel pride in doing are being ripped out of me and tacked onto a tray for dissection, cheapened alongside everyone else's innards.

Blogging is like bouncing my self-perception off of others. I spend so much time giving welcomed advice, analyzing my friends, because it's what I do, and sometimes I feel like I would like to be analyzed myself.

And then I realize that I'm acting completely self-obsessed, and should shut up and start doing again, but I seem to have misplaced my balls.

Pondering.

...