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I feel compelled to write a screed on my contempt for cell phones.  Not an original thought, I know, but due to my status as a campus oldster, I am more acutely aware of the menace the rotten little things have become.

 Back in my day (cue sepia toned file footage and a jaunty rag), no one but drug lords had cell phones.  They were the size of…well, quite frankly I can’t think of anything that size, as electronic things keep getting smaller.  We waited until we got home until we called someone.  If we weren’t home – the answering machine took the message.  O, those halcyon days.  Apparently you can’t ask anyone to spend more than five minutes off the phone.

 Cell phone infractions I have encountered recently:

  1. Endless babble by the girl sitting behind me in lecture about how her “phone is dying.”  It seems as though charging the phone takes an act of intellectual prowess which she is incapable of performing.
  2. Talking while walking – slowing one’s pace and meandering all over a densely packed sidewalk.
  3. Phone going off in lecture – this happens so often, it is more notable when it doesn’t happen.
  4. Texting someone throughout lecture – the last time this happened, I thought the constant tap-tap-tapping of phone keys was going to drive me homicidal.

I’m not a Luddite, I do have a cell phone (although it spends more of its time turned off than turned on).  I just don’t understand the attraction of being attached to it.  I like going out and about, I prefer to be unreachable sometimes.

 I’m not that all het up on phones today, I’m more annoyed with the girl from item #1 on my list.  She and her little chum gab on and on before class on their tedious topics.  Which they have every right to do, but they like to announce everything, as though they would like everyone in class to know every insipid detail of their lives.  I’m just not that interested.  I wasn’t that interested in teen-aged binge drinkers when I was one, and my interest has only decreased.  Of course, if that were all, I wouldn’t even bother to kvetch.  They feel the need to continue the conversation well into lecture.

 I have a funny thing about lectures:  even if I’m not particularly engrossed, I don’t like to be disturbed during them.  Tuition is expensive, and the idea that I might have paid good money to hear the non-germane prattlings of others bothers me.  I was like that in the good old days (cue Charleston music).

Speaking the good old days, I have been thinking about “Frying Pan.”  Frying Pan was the not-so-affectionate name my friend Nicole and I gave to a woman in our English classes.  Frying Pan (so called because that was the item with which we longed to hit her), specialized in rephrasing what the professor had just said, and passing it off as one of her own deep comments in discussion.  Now you can stand up for old Frying Pan, and you might as well, because I won’t.  She wasn’t paraphrasing to make sure she got the gist of what was being said.  She did it merely to suck up.

Now here I am, like Frying Pan, a non-traditional student in a roomful of wise-ass punks.  Have I acquired new-found sympathy for her?  Absolutely not.  I suppose that doesn’t speak well for my character.  I’m in a pissy enough mood not to care.

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