Early Morning Waffle – March 7th, 2003
by Bing Futch
The other day, I wondered with some frustration why I had eighty pens available upon my desk, but not a single fucking one was in the van. For matters of writing out deposit slips or jotting down information that spilled out of cel phones, annoying things that they are. It’s a world full of pots and kettles, most of them black. If disobeying the laws is an indication of criminal intent, then everyone, even your uncle, is a criminal. The speed limit is my main point, one of the most most broken laws in the history of government. What’s the rule? Five miles over the speed limit is your typical grace and what does that word “limit” mean anyway? 20 m.p.h. over the limit is what so many have gotten used to and it’s only the unfortunate census that gets popped for being too goddamn bold. Lawbreakers, all. Who can say that they don’t speed when they drive? I say they should impose a death penalty for speeding, see how many fuckers blow past you at better than half your speed at that point.
Which brings me back to cel phones – there are some states that are beginning to enact some tough laws on holders of the digital leash. New York just passed a monumental law that will forbid the use of cel phones at theaters and while driving – and we all have witnessed drivers who should keep their attention on the road and not futzing around seeking voice mail messages. Movie theaters in Orlando at Disney’s Westside Downtown show cute placards suggesting that cel phone users switch off their devices and not holler “what’s up? I’m in a movie” during key points of a film. Look out your window into the streets, the flow of traffic opposite you, the person who’s making the left turn as you make your right – count the people holding little bric-a-brac to their ears – they’re out in force, you may be one of them. Ubiquitous little bastards, joining people on their shopping trip, along for the ride from here to there, laying on the computer desk and sending a pre-ring signal through the speakers making a big, nutsy “buzz” sound that alerts you to the incoming cel call like Radar anticipated ringing phones on the t.v. series “MAS*H.” They say this stuff is proven to microwave our brains and send us into lobotomyville with too much use, yet they give the damn things away practically, through M-Life and other clever campaigns.
A few years ago, it was still a status thing. If you owned a cel phone, you obviously had enough juice to warrant being reachable at all times, and by that – I mean instantly reachable. Not within paging distance, where you had to scare up money to make the return call. No this is “hello” from the onset – instant gratification if you can make it past e-mail or “message P-44-30, welcome to AT and T wireless. The subscriber you have just called is ignoring the McFuck out of you and wishes that you would go and get a life somewhere far away and cold.” No, it’s ring-ring, “hello?” and you get your talk on, thanks to a network that is making stupid money off the convenience of communicating with someone else. It’s like buying your groceries from 7-11, it’s just not cost-effective.
Cel phones are becoming like televisions and computers, there’s one in every room. Now, they’re surfing the internet and taking pictures, accessing home files via infrared pulses and shooting across a network of transmission towers that have already surpassed the internet in total coverage of the planet. And the reason for pimping the technology is simple: you can triangulate positions of a cel phone user by using high-tech gizmos that work like Lojack for people. Like a traveling IP address, people expecting more autonomy are finding that having one of these one-shot-does-it-all gadgets is akin to accepting the mark of 666 upon your forehead, supplied by what used to be a baby bell, allowing you to be traced and monitored while you make your plans for life through one of the most incredible technologies that came to mortals for almost nothing.
At least initially.
Besides the alleged brain tumors, the cel phones just give them another way to monitor you – the Patriot Act allows their agents to tap conventional phones as well as cellular transmissions. It’s a lot harder to bug a Queen standard, but easy as punching in codes to follow a cel phone sucker. There is no longer such a thing as a private conversation. We take for granted that for every e-mail post and innocent phone call, we’re putting ourselves out on a shingle for ultimate inspection. Not to mention possible brain damage and the desire to start your own chat talk show via your goddamn phone!
And oh yeah, you may think this is going nowhere, but in reality – I just remembered what the hell it was I was trying to say – they need to outlaw talking on the phone while driving. For the simple fact that no one talking on the phone can chew gum, put on their make-up, shave and break up with their significant other while they’re attemtping to manuever a vehicle through drive-time traffic. The books even tell you now, “Don’t flip through your address book while driving.” Well hell, if they have to give that much information away, it won’t help to mention that typing text messages at stop lights is just asking for trouble. It is the lifeline of so many, but the need to be connected is so difficult with all of our conflicting schedules. Time is usually wasted during driving, involving only the journey from point A to point B. With a cel phone, calls that would normally interrupt your evening bath or morning meditation can be dealt with in transit, and this is an important feature. But if they’re going to pass a law, these sort of transactions should only be highly important. Not loved ones calling to see if purple was alright for the batting on next week’s party list.
The ringing stopped…
The elephant’s snout hovered in mid-air just six inches from my face. A warm, but not unpleasant wind buffeted my face as the squirming, curling trunk sought my person for agreeable edibles. I had only a beer in my hand, the trunk investigated it as I reached around to my wallet and proffered a dollar to Danny, the truck driver who also kept watch over the elephants. He seemed a little annoyed.
“What’s this guy’s name?” I asked, not quite sure if it was actually a guy or not.
“Dumbo,” he said without much interest. I fed the dollar into a slot that was marked “donations” and picked up a plastic cup filled with alfalfa chunks. Dumbo turned his huge brown eyes upon the treat and clumped closer, extending his trunk once more. Stiff, black bristles poked out of the tough, grey skin and I rubbed my fingers along the protruding organ as the huge beast moved in on the appetizing smell. The eyes focused on me.
He’s an ancient beast, I thought. And he’s starving.
I held my hand out with a small hay-like cube in the center of my palm. Without hesitation, Dumbo poked his prehensile proboscis into my hand and clasped the morsel with a determined grab. Curling it back under his short, white tusks, he plopped the nugget into his mouth and immediately unfurled his nose to snag the next treat which I was already holding out for him with two fingers. Tough, moist pressure found its way onto my fingers and gingerly removed the tasty bit from my grasp. The rhythm apparently got good to him, as he began picking up the pace, stashing the goodie and then rapidly selecting the next bit of food as it appeared in my hand. As he fed, I took the opportunity to stroke the upper part of his trunk, as I’d never touched an elephant before. Such an elder statesman of animal life, such a veteran of even human days. A bitter dual-edged sword to exclaim joy at the touch of a mighty beast, yet realize that the short, three-foot long chains that would bind him at the end of the evening would render him nothing more than an exotic slave, kept around in perpetual humility while humans rode his back and took pictures. The great mouth opened and the trunk bent back to double up in what looked like a trumpeting stance. For a moment, I felt fear – this mammoth animal, a creature whose type has been known to suddenly turn on trainers and carnival-goers alike, smashing, stampeding, sitting-upon. One whack of that trunk and I’d be coma-bound. But he simply raised his head and expelled a bit of noisy air from the end of his tool before giving me a final look and turning his broad body around in the direction of the grassy ring. There was hay here. I watched him go, sad and stunned at the same time. My hand was grimy. I wondered where he had been.
The cel phone rang again. With a free hand, I picked it up and said hello. It was my fiancee’.
“I just finished feeding an elephant,” I said gleefully. Feeding an elephant in my element. This day had been stressful. This respite was needed.
“bfsig”
