Opening Volley
By David S. Lewis |
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Standing near the street outside the office, 11:45 p.m., on a night that doesn't seem cloudy - but the sky is unnaturally dark anyway. The night's meager celestial offerings were the subject of a heated debate; cigarettes stabbing the air, the two voices interrupting each other constantly, pitch and volume spiking occasionally as the taunts became increasingly personal.
"I'm telling you, that's Jupiter. Dammit, that's the only planet you can see this time of year!" I hollered at 614 Photo Editor, Chris Atwood.
"You jackass. Jupiter is to the South," he retorted with a sneer.
"I was in Kentucky last weekend and ol' Vee Mann is something of a bush league astrologist; he specifically said it was Jupiter and carried portend of a shitty week for me. Which I have had, culminating in this insipid conversation with you - that little white thing is Jupiter," I countered.
Editor-in-Cheif, David S. Lewis
Photo: Christopher Atwood
"That," he said, pointing, "that's almost directly to the West. I have a telescope; I know these things. It's either Saturn, or maybe Pluto. Look, I'll show you," he said, and whipped out his iPhone. The app he called up featured a graphic 3-D representation of the galaxy, identifying all heavenly cruisers, including little white f&*%ing Pluto there.
In my office, the snotty assistant editor, Abigail Hartung, working on the other side of my desk.
"Sommelier of the pizzeria? That doesn't even make sense," I moaned, staring at the smiling cartoon character on my Google app, tasty burger ensconced in his speech bubble.
"What makes you think that your phone can understand any of that?" she asked. "No one ever knows what you are saying."
I repeated my request for "Somali president CIA," attempting to enunciate.
"You think it prefers that crappy English accent, or are you just trying to break it?" she said, sunglasses obscuring her evil little eyes, not looking up from her copyediting.
I glowered at her, drawing up my iHandgun app and shooting her full of iHoles.
While I have a certain fondness for the journalistic tools of antiquity, I'll not pretend to be ungrateful for the boundless technology that has made my job so much easier. Gone are the days of pleading with a fax machine to connect, or waxing copy to photo paper.
I just suck at the iPhone. My refusal to use abbreviated text language makes my SMS transmissions massively long and grammatically correct. I can't find directions, although I get a provincial kick out of seeing my location indicated by that glowing blue dot. The first thing I did with my company-issued iPhone was aYoutube.com exploration; I watched the Swedish Chef from the Muppets for nearly an hour. Aveende bordy hordy schu-de-schu-de Bork Bork Bork!
A huge part of my job is staying in contact with the many people who make this magazine. Many of them work strange schedules, while others are just strange - regardless, there are precious few activities they are unwilling to interrupt. Unfortunately, it is very difficult for me to turn the damn thing off, even at night. I must be responsive... available.
So I break other, cheaper technology. This is my coping mechanism. Two alarm clocks have met a grisly end on the edge of the machete I keep next to the bed, with circuit boards still sparking when I roll out at noon. I have a small collection of cell phones nailed to my wall, serving as a visual chronicle of my journey through technology over the years. Many of you saw the laptop computer in 614's August edition, impaled by a crossbow bolt. It still sits in state on my desk, a grim testament to the demands of the working press, next to the charred remains of a solar-powered calculator.
Granted, it might seem an over-the-top coping mechanism, but I find it preferable to Paxil, or corn liquor.
For those of you predisposed to technological violence, I say, have at it. I have been plotting the demise of my iPhone since I got it, but brutalizing other devices has kept my smartphone safe from my wanton desire to skip it across the street, or out my bedroom window. If you find yourself tech-harried but don't wish to succumb to the Dark Side of device violence, just turn the damn thing off now and then. Unless your job is as cool as mine, you are laboring to live, not living to labor.
Workaholism is generally rewarded with marital strife and prescription anti-psychotics. While properly deployed smartphones can be great boons to productivity, they can do considerable damage to your life and loved ones when mismanaged. If you lack self-control, just leave it in your jeans on laundry day, and listen with smug satisfaction as your Blackberry and your Maytag become one on the spin cycle.
Okay,
David S. Lewis
Originally Published: November 1, 2009
