By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent.
Social Commentary 152
March 20, 2008
I'm a bit wary of technological advances. I didn't get a cell phone until my 21st birthday, avoided purchasing an MP3 player until about 2 years ago, and continue to etch all of my writings into stone, as I fear some all-encompassing file failure rendering my life's work nonexistent.
Let's face it, people. 6,000 pounds of stone tablets are far more durable than a flash drive. And when was the last time someone quoted something more than a thousand years old initially written on temporary memory? OK, minus L. Ron Hubbard. Anyone? Anyone?
Right… the answer is never. Writing, in regards to lasting-power, hasn't changed much since the time of Moses. Am I right, or am I right?
But this isn't to say I'm entirely closed-minded. I also type out all of my work on a computer. This, in turn, is saved to another computer. Next, I resave on a removable hard drive, and again to a removable flash drive.
Finally, I save everything to CD-ROM and print out a hard copy. Then I copy that hard copy and mail it to a secret PO box located somewhere in the Midwest, dated to be opened a century in the future. I've got all my bases covered.
That said, yesterday I was working my other job, slinging boots and urban gear and what not, when some middle-aged gentleman entered the store. Squat, bald and pink as a ball of deli ham, he immediately approached the boots. I just so happened to be neatening up the boot display when he started talking.
"I don't know about boots." He said. "What do you think about boots?"
I took this as an invitation to open up my sales shtick. "Sir, those boots right there are a thing of beauty. Hand-sewn by Dominican virgins…."
That's when the creepy little bastard cut me off. He turned around, and pointed up to his right ear and what looked to be a black and blue hearing aid jutting out of it. "Excuse me." He hissed. "I'm on the phone."
Then he went right back to his conversation, saying, "No, Phil. Not you. Just some rude kid at the store."
"Just some rude kid at the store", motherfucker? Unfortunately for you, I also double as a member of the working press. And I've just made you famous, asshole.
Bluetooth isn't all bad. It's great for the car, where you ought to have your hands and eyes conscious of what's happening on the road. It's also great when you're completely alone, using your hands to, I don't know, rebuild a transmission or dig a garden or masturbate or something.
But in public, the Bluetooth headset makes you look like a complete moron. Here you are, walking around talking to no one in particular with some headset in your ear, resembling a) Someone with terrible hearing issues or, b) A possibly dangerous schizophrenic in the full throes of a psychotic episode. Either way, displaying such antics publicly only 50 or so years ago would likely have gotten you institutionalized.
Any public cell phone use alternates between embarrassing and rude. Nobody wants to overhear your personal conversations. Screaming at some shmuck on the other end about how he forgot to send a hundred units to Des Moines doesn't make others think you're important. It makes others think you're an inconsiderate asshole.
Today, people with patience regard your actions as quaint and choose to ignore you. Impatient people (like myself) think of you as split between mildly retarded and incredibly lame. Why you'd be using a hands-free headset in public is beyond me.
But, go back a few thousand years, my headset sporting semi-schizo pal, and the people there would love and revere your talking to the winds as prophetic. You'd be placed on high, openly embraced for your conversations with the ethereal idiot Jim in shipping, who always means well, yet continues to screw things up again and again.
How far we've come.
I'm a bit wary of technological advances. I didn't get a cell phone until my 21st birthday, avoided purchasing an MP3 player until about 2 years ago, and continue to etch all of my writings into stone, as I fear some all-encompassing file failure rendering my life's work nonexistent.
