Oh, Those Phones!
I’m still up in Pennsylvania and will be until just after Labor Day and my ex has had his cataract surgery and l know he’s okay.
Now every morning as we sit on our deck facing the road having our coffee and arguing about nonsense (like George’s concern about the mileage our neighbor across the street is putting on her Jeep; when l tell George who gives a shit, he yells at me – Christ! Get a fucken life) – anyway as we’re on the deck, just about every morning this older woman all decked on in a fancy jogging outfit and makeup is walking her little Fido while talking on her smartphone.
One morning, l just happened to be walking my Pete at the same time she was passing, and her conversation, which was loud enough to be heard yards away, was an endless series of gossip and criticism of others. Where the hell did all these conversations come from, and like George, ain’t people got their own lives to worry about?
Last week l took the Metro North from Port Jervis, New York, just across the border from PA, to Manhattan to visit the Frank Lloyd Wright retrospective on the one hundredth and fiftieth anniversary of his birth at the Museum of Modern Art. The pics here are of the exhibition which included his architectural drawings and models (here the Gugginheim Museum) that he made for himself and as a PR strategy for wooing new clients. Like Edison, Wright was as smart a businessman as he was a genius. After Edison’s very first invention failed, he vowed he would never invent anything every again he couldn’t sell. The real money behind the electric light bulb was providing the power for it and it was Edison who created the very first electrical power plant that as an experiment lite up lower Manhattan.
Getting back to phones, coming in on the Metro North, a family sat across from me, a young mother, her son and two daughters, and rather than chat, all four of them were on their respective phones in their own private worlds. So much for family togetherness.
The topper though was this young girl, she couldn’t have been more than seventeen, again across from me, this time on my trip home, who went into explicit detail talking LOUD on her phone to her girlfriend about her most recent sexual encounters. (“Yea, these boys had their hands on my thigh but they knew they weren’t in my league… I got so drunk l ended up on the street .. then this one put his hand on my tit…)
A beauty she was not.
Now l’m no prude, hell, while she was talking l was writing a steamy, over the top sex scene for my next book, ”For The Love of Samuel,” on my tablet.
But there is such a thing as decorum on a public train.
The word “tit” had come out of her mouth for perhaps the dozenth time as we pulled into Port Jervis when, getting up, l stared at her with a disconcerting pissed look and blurted, “Honey, that’s more information that l need to know.” She smiled back like a nurse would to an Alzheimer’s patient who had just told her to go fuck herself, and went on talking. Now if l were her daddy, who BTW she didn’t speak about in the most glowing terms, l would have a chastity belt on her.
Now amatuer psychology tells me her self-esteem is so low this was the only way she could seek attention. Me? I seek attention my taking soft porn shots of myself and putting it up on the web, and writing erotic gay fiction with sex scenes l relive, not make up.
Or am l beginning to sound like a bitter old rationalizing, worrying- about-what-other-people-do faggot to you?