There are few from my past that can say (at least if you count only those above room temperature or attempting to do so with a straight face) that I've ever had a problem in expressing my opinion. There are many in fact, who knew me before I began my efforts for the Toledo Free Press or even the technology of this blog, who would have told you that they thank God daily for the available technology, since before its invention, it was their dubious duty to at least attempt to keep me from expressing my thoughts and opinions constantly, and in annoying detail.
(And I was thought to be such a quiet child at least at one point in my life.) You would think therefore, that someone cognizant enough of the technology of multiple forms of Internet communication to have had a blog for years and be writing an online column for a weekly newspaper, someone who regularly communicates with the world around them through the magic of Facebook or Linkedin, would be savvy enough to take the use of Twitter in stride. In this of course, you would be utterly and completely wrong.
In my own defense (and as I have previously mentioned), let me say that my smartphone is much smarter than its owner and should have known enough to prevent me access to such nonsense. Let me also mention by way of explanation that the 9-3/4 digits that remain marginally available at the ends of my upper extremities are somewhat thick, twisted, and crippled from an unfortunate combination of 30 years of abusing them while defending myself during hockey games and an almost equal (but only partially overlapping) period of battering them with bookbinding and newspaper machinery that I was apparently all but wholly incapable of getting out of the way of. As a consequence, my efforts at producing something resembling intelligible English on small electronic devices are only slightly better (and more frequent) than those of my simian counterparts from the famous 'Infinite Monkey Theorem'.
You can only imagine the chagrin, social embarrassment, and self-loathing that I feel as I admit that .... (sorry, this is hard for me) ... not only do I appear to be no damn good at 'Tweeting'; but that perhaps because of this ineptitude in the process, I have little interest in future attempts to do so. Oh, I recognize that this is little more than an admission of the onset of social leprosy (no offense to lepers) that will no doubt see me branded with a Scarlet 'T'; or the acceptance of a physical impairment brought on by old age (and perhaps even senility ... which would cause me to forget my branding), but I don't much care. I must admit however, that such because of the lack of such ability or desire, I've discovered that it's apparently now but entirely impossible to perform even some of the most basic asocial functions, like properly following ones favorite TV shows, celebrities, or a even network news program.
This is not to say that I don't have a Twitter account. I do. Of course the number of people that I'm following and that of those following me barely reaches the microscopic level in the great sea of Twitter accessibility, but this should not be unexpected when the hard drive on my computer sends up a puff of cobwebs and dust on the few occasions that I attempt to access the requisite software involved. I do access it however, usually when I'm sent an email that tells me that people I know have things that they would like to tell me in the 'Twitterverse'. Unfortunately (and invariably) however, I discover that the 'tweets' mentioned in these email actually have little or nothing to do with me and far more to do with a bit of self-aggrandizement on the part of my 'tweeting' acquaintances.
Don't get me wrong here! I have absolutely nothing against the concept of self-aggrandizement (regardless of how little good that it's done me over the years). No one who spends as much time as I do in the self-aggrandizing practice of writing understands its need more. I am beginning to believe however, that like my temporarily overcome addiction to the consumption of large (if not epic) quantities of CH3CH2OH; it's one of the dangers out there in the great big wide world whose charms are all but lost on me, having cost me far too much already. Like their chemical counterpart, the far too frequent sounding of the 'look at me' alert is now a particular perilous one for me.
The more that I scribble for public consumption, the more's the chance that I will unknowingly or unwittingly fall prey to the siren's song of thinking that some part of the staggering stream of nonsense coming out of my verbal fire hose is in some way actually 'important'. This danger, for those who haven't yet experienced it, is that such conclusions often lead the victim further into a maze of the misguided misconception of in their own importance. In such ways are professional politicians, dictators, and fools made. While gladly accepting my position amongst the latter rather than the former, I am all too aware of the dangerous line I tread in my journeys.
Of the 'Seven Deadly Sins' in fact, it is that misplaced pride that I must most fear. (No wait, considering my eating habits, perhaps I should fear gluttony instead. Or is it vainglory. Wait, where does pride become vainglory anyway. Anyway, maybe it's sloth I should fear, or at least it could be if I wasn't too damn lazy to do anything but lay around and eat. Greed ... no. Not that I couldn't use the money, but I'm probably too slothful to even count the things I covet. Lust ... well yeah sure, but not so you'd notice, though I'd be willing to try it given half a chance. Now that I think of it though, realizing that it's not Lust has me bordering somewhere between wrath and despondency. Fortunately I'm too slothful to throw a temper tantrum or kill myself. You know what, this is far too complicated and confusing. I started with pride and I'm going to stick with it. Where was I?) These days it seems that far too much of my life is spent in the unreasonable and often unwise practice of 'Look at me'.
So unless someone can give me an overwhelming reason not to do so, I think it's about time I gave up not only on the use, but even on the ownership of my Twitter account. With all of time that I spend in the virtual world and on the other social networks I'm involved with, I believe that something must go in order to regain some small part of my non-electronic existence. It's not that I have anything against you Twitter, but I don't seem to have thoughts important enough to share on a 24-7 basis, to understand the need for sharing them even if I did, or the ability to do so properly on the devices the world provides to do so. Let's face it. I'm just bad at tweeting.
Besides ... since I speak lousy electronic shorthand, the 140 character limitation has always annoyed me anyway.
What do you mean 'twit' is not the proper term to use for someone sending a 'tweet'? Do you mean to tell me that in spite of the apparent appropriateness of the term, that I didn't even get that part of the damn lingo right! Whatever ... I am so done with this.
For those of you unwilling or unable to keep up with never-ending drama of the staff here at 'Just Blowing Smoke', one of the members of the senior staff was recently sidetracked by a bit of major surgery. (OK, I admit it was me. But at least I was smart enough to get sick before the Affordable Healthcare Act kicked in.) That in itself is of no consequence however, except for the terrifying insight that this hospital visit provided.
You see, during the registration process, I was asked to provide some vital statistics to hospital before they would take me within this inner sanctum of medicine and carve me up like a roast chicken. Besides my insurance information, there were other vital statistics required for my induction.
Now in spite of the fact that it occurred at some point during the Cretaceous Period, I was still able to remember my birth date. Because it was illegally used during my college days as an identification number, I was likewise able to remember my Social Security number. If asked, I could even have repeated my American Express number after having used it for years to travel and having had to repeat it to hotel check-in and and airline reservation clerks. Without hesitation, I was likewise able to remember my current address, in spite of the fact that I have moved some seven times since the beginning of the millennium. When it came to my phone number however, I was stopped cold.
Let's see. Oh yeah, it's 330 ... no wait, that was when I lived Medina, OH. No, it was 706 ... oops, that while in La Grange, GA. Maybe 614 ... yeah actually that's from Columbus, OH, and I've used it a couple of times; but not recently and not in a while. Well I lived in the 913 area code now, but somehow that didn't feel right. You know what, I'll get back to them on that later.
OK, next of kin and contact phone number. No problem. Sons Sean and Joe both live in the Columbus area and their phone numbers are .... Well anyway, my daughter Laura's still out in Montclair, NJ and her phone is ... Wait. No worries. After all, my mom and my sisters Kathy and Maureen are right here in town and ... Oh crap!
Oh sure, I could walk across the lobby and ask them what their phone numbers are while they're sitting in the waiting room (my Mom and sister Kathy brought me to the hospital), but that would mean admitting to them that I didn't know their numbers. My God, asking directions from strangers while driving with a wife and a car full of kids would probably be easier and less embarrassing. There has to be another way.
What the hell had happened to me anyway? I used to know half a dozen hotel chain 800 numbers by heart and that of my four favorite airlines to boot. I used to have phone numbers of my top twenty customers at my fingertips. As for my family, dialing them was a no-brainer. Wait, that's it ... no-brainer. Years ago, I had all but given up on the expense of a land line telephone and used only a cell phone. All the numbers I now required were long since programmed into that cell phone and called up on a menu; or better still, voice dialed from that phone.
When did all that happen?
Oh sure, I've long recognized that there's only so much RAM memory in the personal computer and sometimes you have to overwrite existing data when you get a little short on space. Not to get too technical, but I even recognize that as the hardware (me) gets a little older, some of the the sectors in that RAM memory become corrupted (damaged) and either garbled or no longer accept attempted new data entry. I just don't remember when I turned this memory process over to a digital device that was designed to make phone calls on.
What else have I turned over to Samsung or HTC (phone manufacturers) over the last couple of years? Oh my God! I no longer remember any of my family's addresses. Oh sure I can get to their houses, but I can't tell you their addresses any more. What about birthdays or anniversaries ... nope, mostly gone. Directions ... long gone. How about appointments scheduled for my future? Gone as well. Oh no, what about the grandkids? Whew, I can still remember all of them, though at times their ages are a little fuzzy without looking them up in my personal phone directory. (Well thank goodness for that small favor.) I thought that I had lost it completely. (I have of course, but a lack of mnemonic acuity appears to be an unrelated problem.)
Somehow without noticing it, I have become utterly dependent on an electronic device to maintain the barest shred of memory with regards to the most important things in my existence. Somehow, and without my conscious consent, I've given over control of my most basic memory functions, my knowledge of friends and family, even my basic connection to the outside world to a device that I'm allowed to replace every two years. How could I, so proud in the achievement of my personal freedoms (within government strictures, at least), have become completely enslaved to a mere communication device? How could I have relinquished such control to a sim card? Oh, the shame of it all ...
So if I meet you on the street and you see me clutching tightly at my cell phone, fear not. I am not a part of a movie plot and waiting for a tormentor to contact me to pass on the next clue in a cross-town scavenger hunt to save the world. In fact, the device clutched in my fevered grip is my tormentor. While apparently serving in large part for the mind I apparently no longer possess (or at least control), it has become a serious source of addiction that I can no longer refuse.
If I appear unaware of you and others around me, take pity. Having supplanted all but the most basic parts of my memory to it (though the feeding reflex is still apparently in good order), I have allowed my latest 'Smart Phone' to become far too smart for my own good. This subtle and insidious obsession may have turned me into little more than a reflective simulacrum of its evil capabilities; a twisted electronic zombie, kept alive merely in service to Verizon Wireless. So phone home if you can, while you can you fools. There may be no such things as those pods from the B movies to worry about, but smart phones are real; and are coming for you too.
