Britical

NYC

 
Do we need another chair?” I asked my friend the other night as he unceremoniously plonked his cellphone down on the candlelit restaurant table between us.

Then there was the woman who desperately texted me from another country with “Can you talk???”, her boyfriend being a friend of mine. A bit irritated, I legged it home only to feel awed and guilty at the long silences that greeted my brave efforts at the sort of big sisterly advice that always makes one feel a bit frumpy. Oh dear, was I saying the wrong thing..? I wondered, as the gaps and silences lengthened. But then it hit me: here, surely, was one of those deep and profound people secure enough to let the silences just Be, not desperate to fill the void with witless babble like, uh…some people.

However, after a particularly painful 25 second gap (yes, I timed it) this theory seemed a bit optimistic. And as I waited, I slowly realized I could hear something…some sort of clicking noise…on the other end: computer keys!

“Hey,” I said, “Are you…are you instant messaging while you’re talking to me??”
“Um…yes” she replied, “But I really was listening to every word you said!”

Yeah, rrrright.

Has the once new concept of multi-tasking, specifically texting and instant messaging during activities that should require your undivided attention – driving, being a good guest at a dinner party, say - gotten out of control? My God, whatever’s next ? – whipping the Blackberry out for a mid-coital whassup with your best friend, or tapping out your vacation plans during a funeral? We used to complain people preferred talking on their phones to actual “facetime” – now it’s as if we are loathe to make even voice-to-voice contact, instead choosing to communicate via time consuming, thumb-numbing text messages.

It is a luxury, perhaps even a pathetic compliment nowadays, to pass the time with anyone who doesn’t feel compelled to check text messages or carry on a long, apparently fascinating conversation with someone elsewhere as you twiddle your thumbs trying perhaps to ignore your own phone. Our elders long bemoaned the lost art of writing. But apparently the art of letter writing is not dead after all when written invitations, for instance, or even those via the telephone, have just been surpassed by the beautifully, thoughtfully composed likes of “lol btw wot r u doin l8r?”

 

 

Copyright Britical 2007. All rights reserved.

Kennebunkport, Maine

There is an insidious little phrase afoot of late, which I feel is being willfully misapplied. It is:

“I made a mistake.”

First cousin to “I don’t remember”, it’s an equal opportunity get Out of Jail Free Card uttered by everyone from Britney Spears to Paul Wolfowitz. It’s a useful device as the word “mistake” seems to imply the perpetrator made an innocent decision or was momentarily inattentive, something more akin to tripping over a banana skin, spilling some milk, or perhaps accidentally taking the wrong exit on the New Jersey Turnpike. Oops!

And yet, you can be sure these words are usually uttered by those facing a DUI conviction, fraud, cheating on a spouse, or illegally getting their girlfriend a pay raise at the World Bank. These are all acts that require a conscious decision and even malice aforethought.

However, “I made a mistake” performs a further emotional twist of the arm: because it was a mere “mistake”, an accident, you (often you-the-real-victim) would be an insensitive bastard to not somehow lighten up and leave the poor darling alone already. It’s almost as if there is an invisible hippy guy going “..OK??” at the end of the sentence: “Hey”, it seems to say, “I just made a silly mistake, O.K? I’m only human! Can’t we all just get along..?”

Can’t we, indeed. Yet the unwary listener may easily end up adhering to this dubious bargain, the benefits of which flow in only one direction.

Personal responsibility is not a concept that plays well in current day crybaby America, is it? Not really. We are still stuck in an age when blaming your parents for your woes, Al Q’aida for Iraq, cigarette companies for your two pack a day habit, or the McDonalds corporation when some burly men in yellow hardhats with a big, shiny crane have to come and knock a wall down to slowly heave you out of your own house in front of the local TV news.

Next time someone tries “I made a mistake” on you, adding insult to injury, I suggest a nice, good old-fashioned slap, a lawsuit, or whatever floats your insensitive bastard boat. If the pot calls the kettle black and you are deemed too harsh, you can simply mouth their own words back to them: “Hey…. hey, man, c’mon, I made a mistake!” Oops!

 

 

Copyright Britical 2007. All rights reserved.