Blackberry Hell

Not long ago, I decided that a new cell phone was in order. No, nothing was wrong with the one I was carrying, but commercial campaigns had me aching for a “smartphone.” The results of that ownership have put me in Blackberry Hell.

Part of the problem is that I’m a functioning illiterate when it comes to using technology. I live on the cusp of a new world that is dominated by all sorts of gadgets—cell phones, pocket computers, GPS systems—and don’t understand even their basic functions. Some of my problem is that I fight these new “advancements” tooth and nail. For instance, my sense of direction and my ability to read are good enough to get me to places toward which I am traveling. Okay, I’ll admit that on every trip Amy and I have made that I navigate our car to the worst sections of the cities, but at least I had enough sense to get us to the location to begin with. I’ve yelled at and cursed the voice that comes over a GPS system and tells me to “turn left” when I want to go right. Then the darn thing repeats “recalculating” half a dozen times.

I’d like to torture the individual who came up with the idea of texting. In the first place, “texting” is a new word in our vocabulary. I hate making up new words that go with our inventions and actions. At any rate, I try to text on the phone. One of the selling features of the Blackberry is the QWERTY layout. That’s all well and good, but the buttons are smaller than bumps on a gnat’s ass, and I’m forever hitting the wrong key. Messages come out saying, “I widh yiou were hrer,” instead of “I wish you were here.” My children are always texting me, and I poke at keys, backspace, delete, and poke again to get out a readable line. Before I can blink, they’ve replied with paragraphs. How’s that happen? I don’t see the need to text. If I have something to say, I can just call the kids on this cell phone I have. Isn’t that why it was invented? Some people text each other across the room. Why the hell are they doing that?

On too many occasions folks have rung me up to say they were answering my call. I tell them I didn’t contact them, but they insist that I have. The answer to the mystery is pocket dialing. Carrying my phone in my pants pocket leads to that act. It also led to my accidentally locking the keyboard one Saturday. I didn’t have a clue how to unlock the thing and checked the owner’s manual and sites online. Discussions about hitting the “*A” key were written, but nothing happened. In a desperate attempt to figure out the problem, I began pushing things and discovered one on top of the phone that was the golden key.

I downloaded an “app” that helps me keep lists of things since my memory is failing. On one were no less than 25 writing topics. I plugged my phone into my computer to sync it, and when the process was finished, that list had vaporized. My searches on the phone and computer have proven fruitless, so now I’m left wondering what those items were and if they’ll ever be recovered.

The problem with all of us is that we feel the need to be connected at all times. I want to be able to have a phone in case of emergencies and it’s neat to be able to talk with friends and family on the same plan without being charged any kind of fees. I also want to check my email at any time since messages come in about new stories and changes of meeting times and places when I’m away from my computer. What this connectivity steals is peace. None of us rest any more. Kids sit down and immediately begin texting, listening to music, or watching television—all from their cell phones.

Perhaps the biggest problem I have with my new phone is it is smart, smarter than I am at least. Competition against other humans is how folks have lived most of the years before. That meant individuals matching wits or physical abilities. I’m neither ready nor able to compete with a handful of chips and SIMS and megabytes and circuits that are programmed to do everything. Maybe the best move is to go back to a phone that makes calls and nothing else. Maybe I could handle that.