A syncing error is a shit excuse for missing an appointment. There is zero sympathy available to one whose PDA was porked by the village USB. This is your fault. Technology doesn’t make mistakes. People do. When you realize you’ve fucked up, here is what you should tell your disappointed party: My child has foot and mouth disease or I totally spaced it or I was rear ended and broke my second toe. These are perfectly acceptable modern-day excuses. They beg sympathy, pity and/or disgust and one can walk away satisfied; life gets in the way and people make mistakes. But when your sweet ass smart phone fails you, I don’t care. I won’t shed a tear. I will laugh in your face and then walk away from you because you SUCK. You and your agile pointer finger can sit and spin. Cause when it comes to fancy technology, it’s all fun and games til someone doesn’t get synced.
“What a time saver!” If I had a dollar for every minute I spent waiting with a forced smile on my face while someone dialed in their next doctor’s appointment I wouldn’t have to work here. It takes a fraction of the time to jot something down on your palm with something called a pen. Have you seen these things? Crazy technology if you’re into analog; ball point, felt tip, indelible; selection as unique as you are.
I am a skeptical new owner of a 3G iPhone. I claw at the touch screen with my finger that I pretend is a pen and make grave spelling mistakes and then hit send when my unathletic digit spills over the ‘o’ into the send icon. When I pepper my words with the code of the streets I get white-cracker spell-checked by the machine. Upon seeing that I’ve just sent “dog seatbelt” instead of the intended “ah-ite,” I notice I appear cryptic to the recipient who is now contemplating the complex associative thinking skills of yours truly. I don’t send a follow-up text correcting myself but instead let them ponder the precious rarity of such a mind.
My user errors take on a life of their own and add dimension to who I am as a person. Conversly and conveniently, I am able to separate myself from these errors when it doesn’t benefit me to claim them. “My new phone didn’t sync my calendar for some reason.” No. YOU didn’t keep track of your shit. Back in the day you memorized all your friend’s numbers. After that, you wrote them all down before transferring to a new device. Now you’re blindly whoring out your technology to any willing USB dangling from God knows whose PC. We need to take more analog responsibility for ourselves and shoot a load of good healthy skepticism in the face of this extreme fundamentalist digital faith. Let us not grow lazy and complacent. Let us not lose our potential to self-manage our lives. Yes, let us embrace technology when it truly makes life easier but lets not fool ourselves when we’re wagging the dog.
What was I saying? I got a text.
Amen, sister. In this age of attached files and deleted messages, where reputations are made (and lost) on the basis of salacious text messages and recorded phone calls, it is a miracle anyone says anything at all. Spare me all your protesting bumper-stickers, noisy tattoos, and garishly ironic t-shirts for…just…one…real…conversation. Say hello in line, smile when we pass on sidewalk, or at the very least, please look at me when you’re taking my order, for chrissake. I guess this isn’t exactly on your point, but it still begs the question of what we’re going to do when we can no longer hide behind convenient (read: cheap) and neatly packaged (read: easy) excuses, and we’re forced to look someone in the face and say, “I’m sorry I missed (the fucking) appointment.”
Lovin’ the new look!
YOu think an Iphone is bad,try getting your sausage fingers around a palm pixi key board. Thems some tiny shit.
Pencil me in for some retro date keeping.
Uh, is this pointed at me about acupuncture this week? I do suck.
You just provided the inspiration. It’s an idea that’s been percolating. You don’t suk. I was going for shock value which is a cheap shot.
On Sat Jul 31st, 2010 7:00 AM PDT
Palm Pixies and sausage fingers collide! Didn’t that come with a wand or some schmidt?
Perhaps you’d be interested in guest blogging here, Mr. Sam? Let’s chat at ladies night.
Really? Me?? Guestblog?!? How flattering…I bet you say that to all the guys who leave whipper-snapper sharp comments on your site. I’d love to. Let’s chat at girls night.