The February page on my New Yorker cartoon calendar shows an old rotary dial telephone telling a cell phone, “When I was your age, we didn’t play video games or take pictures or locate things – we just did one thing, and we took our sweet time doing it.”
I have one of those little phones, but I don’t play games on it. Crossword puzzles on paper are enough for me. I don’t take pictures with it either. You have to remember how to find the camera function, how to take the picture, and then how to download the photo to your computer. It seems more trouble than it’s worth.
As far as I know, my phone doesn’t locate things.
I hear young people talking about their smart phones. Someone showed me an ap that would teach me how to do exercises with dumbbells. Another person brought up a list of restaurants near where we were. Unfortunately it was Saturday night, and none of them had an available table.
I find my cell phone a handy thing. I feel safer on the road knowing I can call for help if I’m stranded. I can call my wife from the grocery store and ask her if we need cream cheese, which is on sale. I don’t text.
I can see reasons to own a GPS. Presumably it will be standard equipment by the time I have to buy a car. I won’t need to fill the glove compartment with maps, but I’m not sure I’ll like having it tell me where to turn.
My computer printer talks to me. “Please load paper in the autosheet feeder,” it says. It sounds like it’s trying hard to be patient, but it sighs slightly because I’ve let the paper run out – yet again. I feel very foolish sassing an appliance, and I imagine myself saying to a GPS, “I couldn’t make the turn; there was a &*%#@ eighteen-wheeler in the way!”
Fogies come to the point where they resist change. In my early childhood you picked up the phone, and an operator said, “Number please.” When dial telephones came in the instructions told you to place your finger in the hole over first digit. Rotate the dial clockwise to the stop. Remove your finger and allow the dial to return freely to its original position. Repeat for the second digit, and so on.” This sounded way too difficult for my grandmother, and when she wanted to make a call, she got me to dial it for her. I earned a dime for my trouble.
I’m old enough to remember when people said, “If God intended man to fly, He’d have given him wings.” You don’t hear that very much any more. There are still people who won’t fly in airplanes, but they don’t claim it’s an unnatural act.
The world changes, and I may come to a point where I refuse to go along. I’ll try not to feel superior about it. In the meantime I probability ought to get out the cell phone and practice taking pictures. It’s good for us fogies to exercise our brains.
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