Two hundred years have passed since I changed phones. During that time technology amped up nine-hundred-ninety-nine per cent. Well okay, it’s only been two years since I changed to a new phone. My ball-and-chain contract ended, so I didn’t have to mortgage my house for the new one.
Smart phone technology changes lightning fast—I imagine billions of minions working away feverishly on the next tile, click and widget, while connecting all known devices together: phones, tablets, laptops, walltops, desktops, my dog Spot, and Great Aunt Edna.
I have an encyclopedia filled with nothing but passwords, user id’s, passcodes, pin numbers, account numbers, my mother’s maiden name, when I was potty-trained and in which city and state. If I lose my encyclopedia making it possible to access my own life, I’ll have to leave the planet.
Now when I do something on my phone, every computer around the world and every astronaut on the space station knows it. If I want to download an app that washes my dog, Google, Microsoft, and President Putin know in an instant. They are now armed with the sensitive, classified information that I own a dog. When I step off the porch, helicopters, drones and searchlights will shine on me and I’ll hear “Swarm! Swarm! Swarm!” as SWAT team ninjas rappel off my trees and rooftop, demanding to know why I own said dog.
The world is drunk with information. Isn’t there an app for that?
In 2009, when I obtained my first smart phone, the provider took fifteen minutes and I was out of there. In 2011, it took them a half hour; in 2013, they raised the ante to an hour. Yesterday it took TWO HOURS. By 2020, you’ll have to take a sleeping bag and a port-a-potty.
After that: Fuhgeddabouddit.
Phone geek: I need your last provider’s account number to switch your phone. And I need the pin number. It’s a seven-digit number consisting of four numbers. We need to do a credit check to see if you’re worthy enough to receive this omnipotent device. I need your user name and password for your email, Gmail, and a-b-c-mail. Connect this, download that, you’ll be ready to go and out of here in just two short hours. That is, after the hour and a half it takes to download your stuff from your old phone to the new (wide toothy smile).
Me: Um, I don’t have that information with me.
Phone geek: You don’t have it memorized? (toothy smile)
When I opened my email afterwards on my computer, I had fifteen messages for everything that happened: Six messages from the new provider; You have a credit report alert, you changed your email password, you forgot to wash the toilet; Welcome to Google, Flipboard, Gmail, Maps, Playstore, Setup Wizard, Messaging, welcome to your phone, welcome to my phone, welcome to his phone. How was our service, take our survey, our names are Sheldon Cooper and Amy Ferrah Fowler. We would appreciate it if you would give us an outstanding rating for our assistance to you today thank you very much have a fantastically fantabulous morning, afternoon and evening (wide toothy smile from my computer)
My new phone practically serves me breakfast in bed. I expect little robots to jump out of it and busy themselves around the house (wouldn’t that be nice).
My phone erupts with the Electronica DriveYouKrazyKa ringtone on its surround sound Bose 130 dB sound system (the same level as if I were standing beside a full-running jet engine).
Hello? I can’t hear you, I’m deaf from the ringtone and it’s so big and heavy it feels like I’m holding a gold brick to my ear. No, gold bricks are lighter.
Just gimme back my Princess dial phone.
© Lois Paige Simenson and The Alaska Philosophaster, 2015, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to The Alaska Philosophaster with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. LIPS