By Clint Younts.
Most folks who know me, and I suppose most readers of this here column, might say I’m not real tech savvy. I do indeed have a desktop computer, but I don’t own one of those fancy laptops or tablets that lots of folks carry around. I spend very little time on the computer unless I’m typing up a story for y’all which can take some time. I never took typing back in high school because I never saw Matt Dillon or Rowdy Yates use a typewriter, so I figured I won’t have much use for one neither. And back in the early ’70s, the only computers I saw were in science fiction movies. My plans after graduating college involved punching cows, not a keyboard.
I also grew up talking on a phone that was wired into the wall. You could call them a mobile phone as long as you didn’t walk more than 30 inches away. My grandparents had one ugly, black phone in their farmhouse just down a cow path from the Crow’s Nest, and they had a party line with their nearest neighbor. One ring meant the call was for the neighbors, and two rings were for them. It wasn’t complicated, and the phone was rarely used except when a lovelorn grandson had to call his college sweetheart.
Do y’all remember the first mobile phones? They were the size of a Sasquatch’s shoebox. When mobile phones became smaller and more popular, I refused to get one. I didn’t think I needed a bulky phone in my pocket while I was away from home. If someone had to get ahold of me during the day, I’d give them my work number. After 6 p.m., they can call me at home. I didn’t think there was anything too important that couldn’t wait until I finished my 30-minute commute to work unless it was my wife calling to inform me that I forgot to put on my pants before leaving the house.
Eventually, I succumbed to my family’s wish that I carry a cell phone after a few close calls driving over low-water crossings and several near-misses with whitetail deer. I reckoned a phone might be handy if my truck was floating down Onion Creek or an 8-point buck just skewered my radiator so I bought one of those phones with prepaid minutes. I figured 30 minutes would last me a year or two, so for a while, I carried a phone about the size of a 6” sub in my truck until I found out those minutes I purchased expired after a couple of months. I didn’t know my time was so limited or expensive.
My next cell phone was a cool flip-top Nokia. It was smaller than my previous phone, but it was still too bulky to carry around in the pocket of my tight Wranglers. It also had the feature of vibrating before ringing, so I would stuff the phone in my sock while driving my tractor. That way, if my wife called to tell me I had forgotten to put on my pants again, I’d feel that vibration and could answer the phone. I stopped stuffing it in my sock after receiving a call one day while walking in tall grass. In an instant, I heard a buzzing and then something began thumping against my ankle. I thought I was snake-bit! So my replacement phone (Nokia phones apparently aren’t urine-proof) goes into my shirt pocket while I’m driving my tractor.
I bet many of you have one of those so-called “Smart” phones. You know, the ones with internet access and more features than the Batmobile. These phones can tell you where you are, where you want to be, and how to get there. They’ll take pictures, send them to people miles away, and cause you to resign from Congress. These new phones will send text messages, emails, Facebook postings and Tweets, but I don’t know if you can speak to another human being since I never see anyone using one for this purpose. I hear people talking to some woman named Siri who apparently knows something about everything. It seems the fancier a phone gets, the less it’s used for verbal conversation.
Personally, I truly despise these new phones. Everywhere I go, I see folks messing with their phones, texting or playing games. Stupid ringtones fill the air like a first-grade band practice. Even in the workplace, phones are everywhere, beeping and buzzing. I see clients with sick pets interrupt their conversation with the vet in order to answer a call or view a text message. At my barbershop, a place where there used to be plenty of chatter, idle barbers and shaggy patrons fiddle with their phones instead of talking to friends and neighbors.
Every year, new phones appear with more apps and better features. There will soon be a phone you can strap to your wrist just like Dick Tracy. It’s bad enough seeing someone with a Blue Tooth clamped on his ear talking to himself; soon we’ll see people talking to their wristwatches. Before long, it’s gonna be real hard knowing who’s on their phone and who’s just plain crazy.
Something else that chaps my hide is that these newer phones are so big that they won’t fit in any pocket. Guys have to carry their phone in their hand, which means they only have one hand free to open doors or scratch their butts. What if these guys are on a date and the gal likes holding hands when they walk? They have a phone in one hand and a girl’s hand in the other. What happens if a bee appears and you don’t have a hand free to swat at it? Or you and your sweetie walk up to the restaurant. Who opens the door? How embarrassing will it be to scratch an itch with your new iPhone? I’ll tell you what; it’ll be less embarrassing than scratching with the other hand while you’re still grasping the gal’s hand.
Another thing about these fancy phones is this Twitter thing. OK, I don’t know a twit from a tweet, and I keep hearing about something called a “hashtag.” I know what “hash marks” are, and I’ve eaten a tasty dish called “hash,” but I have no idea what a hashtag does. I see them everywhere, like on the internet, TV reality shows and newspapers, but I just disregard them like I ignore half the crap that’s posted on Facebook.
If some techie out there tries to tweet me to explain what a hashtag is or some other geekological term, don’t bother. I don’t have a smart phone. I don’t even have one that could pass a 3rd grade spelling test. I have a phone that makes phone calls. I don’t need a GPS on my phone; I know how to read a map. I don’t play games on my phone, although some days it plays Hide and Seek with me. I may send a short text, but I have never Tweeted or experimented with hashtag. I’d rather talk to a person than try to decipher poorly written messages that would have an English professor pulling his hair out. So, if you want to chat with me, give me a call and practice the fine art of conversation.
#ClintYounts writes his column on the back porch of the Crow’s Nest and sits as far away from the phone inside as possible. He would know about hashtags if he knew he could tweet #lonestarbeer.
