Remember The Good Old Days?

Herb Caen always managed to scrape up some good news…if not good, at least the kind of news that felt good reading it…he did it every damned day in his column. He called his news bits “items.” Do you remember Herb Caen? Of course you do. Why? Because you’re an Old Fart like me. Herb Caen died in 1997. I suppose 28 years is long enough to dim one’s memory of a man who brought so much daily pleasure to so many people. I’m talking Simple Pleasure. A-wake-up-to-a-strong-cup-of-coffee-and-Herb-Caen Pleasure. Back when your phone was not a device. I remember those days. Especially the 80s when I lived in The City. I’d wake slow. Stretch. Scratch my ass. Haul out of bed with a bit of a spring in my step. Put the pot on. A coffee pot that percolated. I’d collect the Chronicle. Pour myself a cup. Unfold the paper, avoid the headline, turn first to Herb Caen’s column and settle into a thousand words of simple healthy pleasure…

Herb had the byline with a bent Transamerica Building…

Who didn’t love Herb Caen?

I bumped into him once at Julie’s Supper Club. He was an Old Fart by then. But there he was, standing near the bar, clutching a martini, while a pack of admiring Broads hugged him like buns hug a hot dog. I went up to him and said, “Hey Herb, I went to Chico State and I still read your column.” He laughed. The girls didn’t laugh cuz they probably didn’t get it. Back in the seventies Herb had bashed Chico for making Omelets with Velveeta Cheese. It was kind of a big deal, believe it or not. Chico people were outraged and offended. Then Herb travelled to Chico (maybe it was during Pioneer Days) and made a big deal of eating an Omelet with Velveeta cheese. Everybody in Chico loved him again. This was back in the days when people read their newspapers and answered their phones. Back when you could enjoy the simple pleasures. Back when life was Perennial. When renewal was slow but assured…and healthy.

I’m thinking my phone and I are codependent

I didn’t think it would come to this. A point where reading my phone, unlike a Herb Caen column, is no longer a simple pleasure, like a perennial, but a full-on addiction.

Back when these creepy little devices first emerged, I treated them like you do a curiosity, like those 3D visors from the 60s.

I mean, with a cell phone in my hand, I could now go from thinking of a woman to simply calling her up while I’m driving around. Catch her on the fly. Lots of people still answered their phones in the mid 90s. Now I’m cruising the boulevard talking to her. “What’re ya doin?” I’m asking her. “How about goin for a drink at good old Julie’s Supper Club?”

“Oh, I’d like that!”

“Fine! I’ll pick you up in five minutes!”

Nice!

These cell phones made the simple pleasures even simpler….

But once the cell phones got “smart” ,like tiny computers, the whole game changed. What I mean, the game got more intense…

The change happened over a surprisingly short amount of time. Three years maybe. Maybe a little longer. The change worked Insidiously. I remember sitting at the In-And-Out Burger, eating lunch, reading my phone. Reading anything I felt like reading. It was like owning a combination newspaper encyclopedia. Looking up anything I wanted to know about, instantly. This was still fun. So much so it became a habit. Then out of nowhere another drastic leap. YouTube appeared. With the turn of a page I’m no longer just reading my phone. I’m watching videos. I don’t gotta read anymore. Just watch and listen. Some dude is showing me how to fix my busted dryer or I’m watching an old episode of The Twilight Zone or I’m instantly learning the best route to a winery in Napa. A lady on the screen is telling me just how important the charcuterie platter is.

Notice the platter is in the form of an octopus?

The Current Smart Phone has tentacles.

Having a smart phone is no longer cute or fun. Or even a habit. Habits become necessities. Necessities turn into addictions. What do you do to get clean? I’m thinking Methadone. What we’ve got now is a bad ass addiction. But your smart phone is worse than a Heroin Addiction. Why? Because there’s no Methadone.

There’s no palliative substitute.

My Phone owns my ass!!

I sleep with my phone. Turn to my phone the moment I get up. Put on the YouTube news while I’m making coffee. I watch what I wanna watch…but now what I watch is chosen by my phone. Again, Insidiously. My phone, in a sick and twisted kind of way, loves me. It watches what I watch and feeds me more of it. I like WW2 history; my phone offers me Nazi Shit. I like old movies; my phone feeds me 50s Film Noir. I’m a Liberal; my phone serves me all the Trump hating Podsters, plus CNN, plus MSMBC. It knows I’m a Lefty. Is my phone a Lefty? Absafuckinglutly. You wanna know something? I’m grateful to my phone.

I create my weekly free-booze-sample invoices with my phone. Which means, I owe my living to my phone. I’m employed thanks to my phone. I’m writing this blog largely with the support of my phone. If my phone died tomorrow I would immediately buy another phone.

Guess what? Just now!

Just now I got a phone text from a Buddy of mine. All the way from Seattle. He just texted me a picture of his brand new Grand Daughter.

What the hell am I supposed to do about it…grim out?

I’m a punk-ass slave to my phone. But you can’t go back. I’d like to go back. Right now, as I speak, there’s a part of me, a way-back-old-fashioned part of me. A part of me that yearns for the old days. When all the shit was slowed down. The Days of Perennials. The slow moving but assured days of the changing seasons.

I’m afraid I aint giving up my phone.

Or maybe I should put it this way: my phone aint giving up me.

No way, no how…