Dont Mince Words

I embrace technology, but I have a new pet peeve: text messaging.

Why would anyone use their cell phone to communicate with another cell phone any other way than verbally? Think about it. You have to fatfinger your alphabet using the number pad. Isn’t it easier to just speed dial who ever you wanted to talk to in the first place?

Here are a few situations where cell2cell text messaging may be appropriate:

I’m 13 and in Mr. Hanson’s social studies class thinking about that dreamy Sean. I can’t wait to kiss him. Rather than wait until after class to drop a note in his locker (the 1977 way to flirt), I’ll send him a text message when Mr. Hanson isn’t looking. “S, I miss u. X0X0, M.”

I’m 24 and a little stoned and I’m at an outdoor festival trying to find my friends who said they’d be in front of the Dave Matthews stage. I can’t hear anything, so I text message my friends, “Yo dood, where r u? Waiting at purple umbrella.”

I’m 40 and unhappily married. I don’t want to call my mistress because my wife can check recent calls when I’m sleeping. I text message the bimbo instead, “Baby, thinking of u. Can’t wait to see u again.” When my wife asks me what I’m doing on my cell, I reply, “playing a game.”

Other than variations of those three scenarios, I just don’t get cell2cell text messaging. Call me and let’s talk about it.

Some people mark significant events in their lives by where they were. Well, I was eating a Swanson TV dinner when I watched Nixon resign, I was in biology class when someone heard on their Walkman radio that John Lennon had been shot, and I was walking out of the Fulton Street A/C subway stop when the plane hit tower two.

But I don’t remember my past that way. I remember by components and associated entertainment. In 2002, I bought the first DVD for my player at Pleasure World on Eight Avenue. “The Best of Three Guys on One Girl” was a spectacular little Czechoslovakian import. That same year, “Fragile” by Sting, was the first song I heard out of my Ipod. I bought my first VCR after I got divorced in 1995 and “Blue Velvet” was the first movie I watched. When the cost of CD players came down, I went out and bought one along with “The Best of Blondie” in 1988.

My favorite component year was 1978. My brother and I had much different musical tastes from our parents and the Telefunken player in the living room didn’t give us the pre-teen privacy we needed to rock out. Dad went to Sears and got us a record changer with 8-track player and set it up in the basement. We could go down there, stay cool, and create our own audio experience without having to hear “turn that music down” anymore.

The first 8-tracks I purchased were Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” and Styx’ “Pieces of Eight.” While Leif Garrett was my teen crush, Tommy Shaw was my older-man rocker lust. Between the hard rock riffs and Hammond organ solos, I felt Styx was America’s answer to Queen. On numerous occasions, I’d let “Pieces of Eight” loop back to the beginning while planning my wedding with Tommy Shaw. That is, until my mother screamed, “It’s dinner time. Get up here now.”

Yesterday, I was in Target getting my usual stash of monthly supplies. When I went down the last aisle, I noticed the music end cap display had the Styx anthology. I giggled and decided that this would be my guilty pleasure purchase of the day. When I got into the car, I torn into the CD case and thanked the lord for giving me the fingernails necessary to break through all that damn security wrapping. I slide the CD into the player and dodged the SUVs on my way out of the parking lot.

I fast forwarded through a lot of songs, but by the time I got to Venice Boulevard, I found it–disk two, track one. I rolled all my windows down, cranked the volume until the doors shook. My hair was up in pigtails, I had a t-shirt on and I was wearing cat sunglasses. I looked about as ridiculous as a middle-aged man with a toupee in a Miata.

Only one song could prompt me to turn into a mobile American Idol audition. It was “Blue Collar Man.” While I was having my 1978 component flashback, I was also realizing the relevance of the lyrics on my life since that time. Numerous layoffs had sent me to the unemployment line. I was constantly looking for a job, a chance at some security. I rocked out at stop lights and played steering wheel drums. Adjacent cars smiled and laughed at me. Tommy Shaw wasn’t speaking to them.

Make me an offer that I can’t refuse

So like it or not I’ll take those

Long nights, impossible odds

Keeping my mind on a better life

I close my eyes and maybe I’m already there

I’m starting to understand why old people wax nostalgic about the good old days. I never thought I’d be doing it in a Honda on Venice. This was just another milestone in my life as I dream about getting a plasma TV and Tivo.

Soon, real soon.

When was the last time you heard an attorney say, “At this point, I’ll work for free. I haven’t delivered results and this is getting ridiculous.” It appears my esquire had hit the same blue wall of silence I’ve been living with for years. That statement almost made me cry at the office on Friday.

More than three years ago, I reported one of New York’s finest to their Internal Affairs Bureau. I was scared shitless, but I was given assurances that my name wouldn’t be on the report and they would just investigate the allegations.

They told me I did the right thing.

Imagine my surprise, then fear, when I was called to be a witness in the bad cop’s administrative hearing. My trust in the force diminished again. I called one of my sources who was able to find out from inside One Police Plaza that the cop I turned in was low hanging fruit; however, he had cut a deal of some sort. In addition to internal police corruption, this case had turned into a federal RICO investigation and it was suspected the Russian mob was involved.

Fabulous instincts I have. The hearing was a blatant character assignation from the time I put my hand on the Bible until I got off the stand. But, even looking back on it now, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I learned a lot and my integrity is still intact.

I’ve been trying to get the transcripts of my hearing dialogue for three years. After requesting, appealing, and resubmitting under the freedom of information act, I decided to enlist the help of a New York attorney before I moved to LA. For the last year, he’s been encountering delays in responses, and unreturned phone calls. The latest rejection stated they can’t give me transcripts that are in personnel files.

My attorney became so outraged; he filed a complaint with the CCRB against the records clerk who wrote the letter. In addition, on Friday, he wrote a letter to the commissioner of police which had big SAT words restating the pure negligence with which my simple request has been treated.

In the meantime, I’ll write the story and drop the quotes in later. Screenplay? Novel? Law & Order episode? I don’t know.

I do know I did the right thing and I have an attorney that thinks so too.