When I Make a Tweeter

Yesterday afternoon, my world came to a dizzying, traumatic, abrupt and despairing halt. Used to be, it was the 3 a.m. phone call that brought us to our knees with news of calamity or tragedy. We're barely awake, unable to comprehend the enormity of the words being spoken to us.

These days, our phones light up and there's a little "bop-bop!" or "be-doonk" noise or, if they're on vibe, that disconcerting "vvvvvvvv-vvvvvvvv" going on in your pocket. And you pull the phone out and you look at that little indicator light, blinking its insistent orange or red or green or whatever it happens to be. Flashing, like an emergency light in the night.

Warning.

Something's wrong.

It's just, I don't know, different from any other mundane text message you get from your friend who wants to go back-and-forth for two days exchanging "Royal Tenenbaum" quotes (Chas: "HEY! Are you LISTENING to me!?" Royal: YES, I AM! I think you're having a nervous BREAKDOWN!") you know, somehow you know, that this text message is the big one.

I got it yesterday afternoon at 3:49pm, Eastern Standard Time. It was from my father. He knows that I get out of work at exactly 3:00pm every day, and he knows that my commute lasts for 45 minutes. That classy sonofabitch doesn't waste a hot-shit minute.

I looked at my Blackberry's little indicator light (mine's red) and, as it flashed with urgency, I thought to myself-- this is bad news.

Thing is, it wasn't.

It wasn't bad news at all. What it was was the. single worst thing a 31-year-old man can ever hear from his father, in the year 2011:

"Pls call me when u have a chance
question about twitter"

And my face went white. I mean, it's not like I was standing in front of a mirror, watching myself react to this, but, like, you know what it feels like when you get blanched like that, when the blood drains from your facial capillaries. My stomach also dropped an inch or two. Fortunately, I was sitting on the toilet when I received this email, which is a good thing, because, when my stomach dropped that inch or two, some shit fell out, too.

Don't make that face, Prudie Tudie. It would have happened to you, too.

They say that, when children reach a certain age, the roles of helper and helpee (yeah, that's not a word, I got it) reverse and the child is supposed to assist the parent(s) through the process of aging, decaying and, eventually, dying. I suppose offering assistance as to the specifics of things like Facebook and Twitter ought to be included somewhere in there, but I find myself uncomfortable in the role of technical navigator/advisor-- more than uncomfortable: inept.

No. Not inept.

Unwilling.

Unwilling as I am to assist my aging, Israeli father in the how's and why's of the digital, online age, I dialed his number after only taking a few precious minutes to recover from the substance of his text message.

What did he want to know about Twitter, I inquired.

Oh, you know, how do people answer when I make a Tweeter? he asked. Do they need some kind of phone number?

Oh, Technology: Stop Driving a Wedge Into My Ass Already, Will You?

A couple of years ago, my wife and I and another couple went on a joint vacation to Lancaster County during July 4th weekend. We toured some fucking place-- I don't remember what the hell it was-- and this bitch in a bonnet tour guide tried to lay some smack down on us about how the Amish way of life-- eschewing electronica and whatnot-- is the way to go because, clearly, "technology is driving a wedge between us."

Really, we all know it's about them not paying taxes. But I won't tell anybody if you won't. It can be our little secret.

It's hard to convince a habitual blogger with a 3G cellphone that technology is driving him apart from other people. I mean, really-- I don't need technology to isolate myself; I'm quite adept at doing that on my own. And I was socially awkward before Aspergers became cool, too.

Technology brought me and my wife together on Tuesday night to watch Watson fucking annihilate Ken Jennings and that bearded D who looks like a yacht playboy from the '70s. I have no doubt that the IBM technology that was on display from the 14th-16th of February on Jeopardy! brought a shitload more people "together" than Jeopardy! normally does. Outside of assisted living facilities and minimum security white collar prisons, that is.

While the spectacle was just a big advertising handjob for IBM, I've got to say, I was pretty fucking impressed. And it takes a lot to impress me-- believe me, people have tried and, outside from perfectly performed patter songs or athletic amateur porn flexibility, attempts to impress me generally don't measure up. "Amadeus" at the Walnut-- America's oldest theatre-- left me overcome with the blah's. And we left at intermission, courtesy of my wife's migraine.

(I was all set to ask her if we could go before I knew she was really going through it.)

You know how kids are always like, "Daddy! Look at me! I'm doing a headstand" or some shit? My kid's going to have to be reading the evening news behind a desk in his bedroom with make-up on his eyebrows for me to take notice.

Ironically, though, while being brought together in front of a piece of technology (our flatscreen TV) to behold a piece of technology (Watson) kick the ass of a skeevy guy and a Mormon, the piece of technology that I marveled at the most on Tuesday night had nothing to do with IBM or Mormonism. It had to do with Jefferson University Hospital.

In our viewing area, as those of you who are blessed to live near my zipcode can attest, there was a slick, fancy-pants commercial put together by the super-skilled and probably still virginal A.V. folks at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital.

(NB: I think it's funny that hospitals have commercials, but that's a post for another day.)

Anyway, this piece focused on the Endoscopy Department and relatively decent-looking physicians whose first language is English were discussing the merits of newly-developed (say it with me now, Amisherkinderlings) TECHNOLOGY that the hospital's researchers have recently developed.

Get this: it's a fucking camera inside a pill. You swallow it, and they follow its path through your intestines and they can diagnose what's wrong with your smacked-up G.I. system.

And then, you poop it out!

Amazing, right?

My wife, who has GERD, (HIPAA VIOLATION!!!!) turned to me after the commercial's conclusion, slackjawed and said,

"Holy shit! That is so fucking cool!"

"I KNOW!" I exclaimed. And then I got hit with a stroke of genius. "What if they could mount a mini camera on a penis--"

"Oh, Jesus," she said. That's right. Here it comes-- too late to stop.

"Yeah! And you get a guy to fuck a chick who's having, like, vag problems! And the doctors are sitting there in the control room watching it zoom in, zoom out. Zoom in. Zoom out! Get it?"

"Oh," she said, "I get it."

"And then you get a gay guy to put the camera on his dick when some other gay guy has prostate cancer, or rectal cancer, and then you fuck him with the Dick Cam 2000. It's GENIUS."

Technology driving us apart-- please. What a crock of shit. I guess no Amish chicks'll be getting their sick pussies fucked by the Dick Cam anytime soon.

El Diente Azul

That means "the blue tooth," in Spanish! Aren't I cultured?

So, here's my question for my small but loyal blogdience:

Do people who walk around with bluetooth headsets in their ears still look like d-bags?

Please feel free to regale me and others with your perspectives on the matter, because I'm actually dying to know. I'm still kind of on the fence about what I think, which is unusual for me. I can certainly remember having a pretty crystal clear opinion of those who chose to adorn themselves with a bluetooth headset: I didn't think much of them. You remember thinking it, too:

Who were these self-important assholes?

Why did they insist on walking around in public wearing these unwieldy contraptions affixed to their heads?

Why did they want to walk around looking like some awry medical experiment?

Why did they keep the thing in their ear even when they weren't expecting a phone call?

We looked at them with a mixture of scorn, contempt and thinly-veiled outrage. "You're no Secret Service agent!" we wanted to scream at them, but didn't-- just in case they were.

Of course, it was all envy, anybody could have seen that. It was envy and a covetous disposition that could only be quelled by, what else: getting a bluetooth.

I capitulated maybe a year ago, at Staples. I got one for me, and one for Mrs. Apron. She's usually very anti-whatever's-trendy, and we'd relished in making fun of people who wore bluetooth headsets, calling them "cyborgs" and "assholes." So, I hedged my impetuous purchase with a lie,

"I think they're making it illegal in Pennsylvania to talk on the phone in the car without one of these..."

Mrs. Apron grabbed the package out of my hand.

"COOL!" she squealed. Well, so much for that.

After a long time of using this device, I'm not so sure it's a whole lot safer to talk on a hand-held phone while you're driving than it is to talk on a bluetooth while you're driving. I mean, the content of the call is the same, and if your girl, Moesha is telling you all about getting her bitchass smacked up by her baby daddy, chances are you're going to be just as excited, irate, and animated.

Right?

It is amazing, though, how the combination of the passage of time coupled with the acquisition of a device yourself remarkably alters how you view others with the same device. Now, when I see someone in the supermarket and their right ear is glowing, I don't automatically want to run them over with my shopping cart. It's just like any other invention, I suppose-- at first it's eyed suspiciously, but then, eventually, you adjust to its prominence. Like the iPod. Like the airbag. Like the Beetle. Like locking people with autism away in residential facilities and/or basements. Like Cheez-Whiz.

You just get used to these new-fangled ways.

Unfortunately, the bluetooth earpiece does somewhat contribute in a predictable way to the increase of noise pollution, as people with bluetooth headsets are much more likely to gab in public places. Here was the conversation I heard a young man having with his associate on a bluetooth while I was returning my shopping cart at Target.

"Yeah, man, I mean-- I know he like to get 'em while they all fresh and pure and shit, before they got all kinds of mutha' fuckin' diseases an shit, but like-- fourteen? I mean, shit. That's kinda young, you know?"

Yes. I do. And I'm glad you do, too.