Confessions of a Serial Blonde: Phonography

By Robby Morris
I never thought I’d say this, but have ya’ll ever felt the rapid advances in technology is ruining civilization? I do. This is huge of me to confess, because I have an obsession for gadgets and whatnots that keeps me connected to the world that borders on addiction.

Recently, four friends from work and I spent a long weekend in sinful Las Vegas. One of us was content to shut out the world and bask in the glory that was our hotel, The Luxor. Another was the social butterfly who wanted to cruise the streets (and the hot men!). The third methodically plotted his route to the bars and the bathhouse for the weekend.

What was I doing? I was busy wandering up and down The Strip texting people back home and checking my e-mail every twelve seconds because, well, thanks to technology, I could. I do believe that the only time I wasn’t futzing with my phone was during the two shows I attended during our stay (Cirque du Soliel’s Zumanity and Bette Midler’s The Showgirl Must Go On, which incidentally, were perhaps the only two things gayer in Vegas that weekend besides my traveling companions and me).

A few weeks later, when the weather was unseasonably warm and everyone was outside, where was I? I was tethered to my desk trying to recover as many files as I could from a faulty hard drive on my laptop. Faced with the prospect of losing my writing, music, and other various important items housed on my computer (and maybe not to you, but I consider my Corbin Fisher and Sean Cody files extremely important) I was not leaving the house, hell, I wasn’t leaving my chair until my beloved hard drive was restored. Occasionally I got up to pee, and even then I hesitated moving. Thank God I have the ability to back certain things up on my phone.

Insanity I tell you.

I would like to point out, though, that I am not alone in this saturation of technological gluttony. I see you with your iPhones, Blackberrys and such. You know who you are, too.

You’re the ones who are click, click, clicking your way down the street, in stores, in bathrooms, anywhere and everywhere on these pint sized little doo-hickeys, unable to make yourself stop. We are unable to complete a sentence or thought in public, but damn it we can type one hundred and forty characters a minute –with our thumbs, too.

And speaking of words and proper use of language, really, with all these magic devices, who need basic communication skills? If it’s not an abbreviation or acronym (BTW, LOL, LMAO, and my personal favorite, WTF) or some sort of deranged smiley face, you might as well be grunting like Jodie Foster in Nell, because we will have no idea what you are saying.

And don’t even get me started on how all of this nonsense has affected the art of personal relationships. Who needs that kind of intimacy? We’re too busy punching keys to actually have a physical relationship with someone. They call it sexting now, which frankly scares the hell out of me. You thought it was rough typing with one hand on a real size keyboard. “Multitasking,” if you will, on a small keypad or a touch screen, is just a catastrophe waiting to happen.

I guess my point is that I fear that if we continue to go in this direction, being technologically connected will eradicate any need to be emotionally and personally connected to real people. And it’s a damn shame. I could go on at length (and girth) about how guilty this makes me feel, but my phone just chirped and I need to check my text messages while I’m downloading the latest Cody Cummings video.

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