From luddite to blogger

Since I've been in England I've changed in lots of ways, one being my comfort level with the virtual world of tech (surely there's a far hipper term for it but cutting-edge cool has never been my claim to fame). In Canada, I resisted getting a cell phone for years...I think what initially put me off them was the expectation that if you had one, people could reach you any time and any place they wanted to. Worse that, that they should reach you any time and any place, regardless of what they were calling about.

I took a senior theatre production class at uni, and getting a cell phone was actually required: when you were running some aspect of a show, people needed to be able to reach you. Fair enough, I figured; it's what would be expected if I held such a position in the "real world," so why not get used to it now. I reckon that in the real world I wouldn't have thrown my phone, screamed at it to shut up and leave me alone, accidentally-on-purpose forgot to charge it or take it with me, and generally cursed it's existence as much as I did whilst I worked on my major show for DRAM445 (though I was stage managing, and so it's very possible that theatre professionals would have driven me equally insane if not more than the folks at school).

I'm sure some of it was the relative novelty factor, this being before everyone had a cell, and more of it was probably legit than my selective memory allows: the tech director confirming the location of the production meeting, or one of the actors letting me know they were running late to rehearsal, for example, probably reduced stress rather than create it. I think the call that best epitomises my time with cell #1, though, is this little treasure:

Really freaking early on a Sunday morning, after we'd all been out for a
post-rehearsal drink or ten the previous night. Phone rings loudly, simultaneously
blaring the prelude the Beethoven's 9th in full analog glory and causing the night-
stand to quake thanks to ever-handy 'vibrate' feature. Ignored, it starts to
beep insistently thanks to even handier 'missed call notification.' The
beep is soon overpowered by an encore of the Ode.

ME: (barely conscious) uhh...mmm...yeah, hello?
MR.X: (very loud, excessively awake) Aim, how's it goin'? Was the phone off or
something? This is like the third time I've called. Whatcha doin'?
ME: I..uhh..right, you were...uhh...
MR.X: What's wrong with your cell? You sound weird--hey, go stand closer to a window,
maybe that'll fix it. (long pause) Aim? You still there?
ME: Wha...oh, umm yeah, I....uhh...
MR.X: (surprised) Shit, did I wake you up or something? Sorry, Aim, just needed to--
ME: (striving for professionalism) No, of course, what's up?
MR.X: Right, you know daylight savings time? Does it start today?
ME: (thoroughly confused) Does what? What are you talking about X?
MR.X: (playfully) What, are you like hungover or something? WAKE UP!!! Daylight savings
time--is that, like, on now?
ME: (through gritted teeth) Daylight savings time? That's why you're calling me?
MR X: (unwittingly playing the role of 'moron' to a T) Yeah, I mean, I can never remember
what day to change the clocks on 'cos my mom used to always keep track of that stuff and
I just thought you're all organised and stuff so you probably--
ME: (torn between praying for my own death and thinking living through the hangover's
worth it if it will give me a chance to kill X later) Would be a good person to call at nine-o-
fucking clock on Sunday morning to check if you were being an even bigger fuckwad than
you'd realised and actually calling at eight-o-clock instead? Is that it?
MR. X: (somehow genuinely surprised) Oh, uhh...you sound kinda pissed. Umm...well I uh...
y'know, I just though you're, like, the Stage Manager so you'd probably know, so--

A series of beeps as call is ended and cell turned off. A muffled thud as it accidentally
crashes into an area rug rather than the hardwood floor it was thrown at. The
treasured sound of silence; quick fade to black.

Wow, that memory is chillingly clear even these many years later. Reliving it actually tweaked an urge to...I don't know, hurt good old "X." I suppose I'll settle for poking him on Facebook, or maybe he's downloaded SuperPoke and I can dropkick him and throw a sheep instead.

Yes, in addition to a fancy camera/video/mp3/Bluetooth mobile phone (Brits look at me like I'm nuts if I slip and call one a cell) on which I text constantly and talk ocassionally, and old-fashioned forms of communication like MSN messenger and email, I now keep in touch with X et al. via Facebook (hey, some people still don't have Skype, and I can't run it on my work laptop anyways), and...have apparently crossed a line I swore many times I never would and become one of those people--the ones that blog. For now, let's stick with the theory that it's just a England-induced phase I'm going through...