And when you answer the phone you have to go through a little interrogation. “What’s going on?” I have no answer to that. You just interrupted my walk in the park, my coffee, my game of online chess, my writing, my reading, my time with my kids, my time with Claudia, my trading, I was about to brush my teeth, I was listening to the sounds outside and doing nothing, I was watching “The Office” – the episode where they were interviewing Warren Buffett to replace Michael Scott. I was watching it on my phone.
He makes me feel old.
I remember when I would talk to friends for hours on the damned phone. They had wires back then. The phones did.
I had one friend I would call once or twice a year and we’d catch up. And the call would go for like four, five, six hours.
I can’t imagine doing any of that now.
I hate the goddammed telephone. Email me. Text me. Or, at one time — and maybe again if they finally pull head from ass — tweet me.
Only call it it’s a capital-lettered boldfaced underlined red-lettered exclamation-pointed EMERGENCY!
And then hope I’m not wearing headphones so I can hear the ring. Or hope I have the phone with me. Or hope that the phone is charged. Or hope that the phone is even turned on.
And then hope I pick it up in time. Because I don’t do voicemail. At all.
Christ, the telephone used to be so damned simple.