Saturday, September 24, 2011

Tell her that the only way her heart will mend is when she learns to love again

Saturday, September 24, 2011
"Are you going to do a post about your new phone, Daddykins?"

"I don't think I really can, Riker."

"Why ever not, Father Dearest?"

"Because a 1,000 word diatribe about how obscenely horrible it is in every conceivable way may come across as just a teeny bit ungrateful to the kind sister who was generous enough to donate it to me."

"But Mine Hero, sometimes when you spend hours and hours shouting in a deranged manner at an inanimate object, an attempt to express your feelings through a medium apart from the common howl can alleviate your distress. And mine. Also, isn't Auntie Ellie away on holidays?"

"Both excellent points, Riker, though I suspect that they may have the World Wide Internet in whichever sunny clime she has ensconsed herself."

"Nonetheless, Papino, relaxed by warm weather and copious amounts of local wine, I am sure that she would look upon any phone based offering in the spirit of humour that it was intended."

"Hmm."

"Please, Pater. Do it for me."

"Very well, Riker. For you."

This is how we talk in our house. Because we're fucking sophisticated, right? 

The phone isn't that bad. Really. It's a Nokia N97 mini. I'm sure that many a starving Somali would be more than happy with it. But folks, I'm coming from an iPhone 4. And it feels like my right hand has been severed and replaced with one of those mechanical claw gizmos. It's better than no hand. It's even better than a standard hook. It can do an awful lot of stuff that my real hand could do. But it does more slowly, in a less intuitive manner. And it makes people stare at me in the street. I'm getting used to it, though I'm feeling my way around. I'm looking hard at the bright side, begging it to blind me. 

Look, it's got quirk. We know how I love the quirk. My purple car. My bright orange headscarf. My not quite out of date enough to be retro wardrobe. Every self-aware vertebrate  has an iPhone these days, just like every self-aware vertebrate has two hands. This makes me and my mechanical claw kind of special. Yeah, special. It's got a little slide out qwerty keyboard. I could type on that bad boy all day long. I choose not to, but I could. It's got a kind of App store. Full of fun free games, none of which actually work. It's got...nothting. It's got nothing. No Sound Hound. No iTunesU. No Words With Friends. And thus no real justification for its existence. Yes, it can make and receive calls. But I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to beat them at WWF as I fall asleep listening to a lecture on Global Geopolitics. Give me back my iPhone. Give it back. GIVE IT TO ME.

"Now, Daddy, do you feel better?"

"Not really, Riker."

"I'm going to ask you that question again, Papa, and I want you to consider your answer carefully, keeping your family at the forefront of your mind."

"Okay."

"Now, Daddy, do you feel better?"

"Yes, Riker."
 
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