THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, January 27, 1995 TAG: 9501260148
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 88 lines
I am about to be dragged screaming and yelling into the latest technological revolution, and I am not one bit happy about it. The fact that this abduction is taking place on a birthday whose number I refuse even to whisper makes it all the worse.
I feel as though I am trapped in a time crunch and that I'm about a nanosecond away from becoming road kill on the information superhighway.
I'd just like to go back to an era in which the length of time it took to find a phone booth or dial ``O'' for operator on a rotary dial would not make the difference between life and death, success or failure.
Now the operator has been replaced by a recording that lives in something called a voice mail box and half the population of the United States wouldn't know what to do with a rotary dial if it was the last thing left standing between them and the timely delivery of a deep dish pepperoni with extra cheese.
For years now I have been resisting my family's attempts to put a phone in my car. ``I do not need anything else in there that talks to me,'' I've told them repeatedly. ``The radio is quite enough.''
``Your car radio does not talk to you,'' one of the kids said. ``All it does is play classical stuff and elevator junk.''
``Which is exactly what I want to hear when I'm stuck in traffic,'' I assured him.
Eventually Bill got into the act. ``What's going to happen if you break down on the interstate?'' he asked.
``Been there, done that and it was no big deal,'' I assured him.
``You causing a four-mile slowdown on 64 was no big deal?'' he asked.
``Hey, I got out alive, didn't I?'' I said petulantly. ``It was only a flat tire.''
The man just wouldn't take no for an answer. ``I'm buying you a car phone for your birthday,'' he said, and that's that.''
``Whatever happened to birthday presents that were what the receiver wanted?'' I asked.
``Speaking of receiver,'' he said, ignoring the question as he handed me a folder full of ads for cellular phones, ``which one of these handy dandy little units do you want?''
``None,'' I told him. ``I just want to be left alone.''
My Garbo-like plea didn't stop him. He's spent the last two weekends comparing features, costs and contracts. I, in the meantime, have been giving a lot of thought to this crazy technological era we're in.
Granted, I use a computer on a daily basis. For nearly 20 years I wrote articles for publication on a manual typewriter. When White Out came on the market I considered it God's gift to the writing world.
I used the proceeds from my first magazine article to make a down payment on an electric portable. It did nothing to cut down on the mistakes, but it sure was a lot easier to operate.
Next came an electronic typewriter with automatic correction (still more improvement), a word processor with spell check (better yet) and finally a real computer.
Technology, I decided, was great. Until Bill and the boys came up with this crazy car phone idea.
``You've got to get ready for the 21st century,'' my oldest kid, the technology addict, said. He's the one with the car that has a lap top computer, a portable fax machine and four antennae. He's also the one who mounted a walkie-talkie and a transistor radio on his tricycle when he was 4.
``I don't want to get ready for the 21st century,'' I told him. I heard a discussion about new technology on the radio the other day and they said something that scared the living daylights out of me.''
``What's that?'' he asked.
``That with the new communications stuff you'll be able to reach anybody no matter where they are, that with just one telephone number they'll find you whether you're at home, work, in your car, out walking or taking a bubble bath,'' I told him.
``So?'' he asked.
``So I spent 20 years or more raising kids who decided to beat each other up every time I tried to soak in a warm tub, 15 years working in an office where the phones never stopped ringing and the last three working from home, hoping that the phone occasionally could quit long enough to let me finish one paragraph at a time. The car's the only place I get any peace and quiet,'' I told him.
``Oh,'' he said. ``Hey, here's a company that gives you unlimited free air time every weekend.''
I sighed and resigned myself to a life of driving down the toll road with a phone ringing in my ear. It is not my idea of how one should be spending her semi-retirement years. by CNB