Cell Transfer

Not since I rocked a Motorola the size of a shoebox have I been so smitten with a cellular telly-phone. It’s just an old LG, really - a battered slab of scratches and plastic that’s ridden my hip through deadlines and drive-thru’s for three years. Sure, it’s an electronic leash, but this half-scorched Tricorder allows me to span the cosmos - or at least keep up with my peeps while I go where every other cameraman has gone before. Was a time I squawked ten-codes into two-way’s, talkin 'bout drive-by's and fender-benders like I was calling in air-strikes. But that G. I. Joe shit fell out of favor as cell towers started popping up over strip malls everywhere. Soon bag-phones began appearing in floorboards and paramedics, news crews and pizza guys could be seen hunched and mumbling into glowing handsets, using more minutes than ever to convey the particulars of their fruitless pursuits. I myself have had a half dozen station-paid models in that time, an ever shrinking parade of handsets that no longer require their own car battery. With my latest cell phone I reached a comfortable plateau…. It lodges in my watch-pocket, ha a damn good memory and sports a picture of my beloved Grandmother. What’s not to love?


Plenty, I'm told. It won't let you text without knowing some wretched thumb-fu they only teach twelve year olds. It doesn't have the foggiest idea how much I should tip the delivery guy and without a few accessories won't make the first french-fry. And they call that a PHONE? PFFFT! They ain't sen my NEW rig - a cranberry-colored comm-link that will spit out dispatches in all eight flavors, not to mention launch a satellite or two. I've only had it a week and already I'm learning which button to push whenever it starts to levitate. The other day I ignored it for a few seconds... it triangulate my GPS position with my most recent Tweet and when I showed up at my shoot an army of dorks with clip-boards and zombie voices asked if 'I could hear them now?' ... What's up with that? I use to roll up on house-fires with nothing more than two cans and a string on my side. Now I can't gut a simple ribbon-cutting without a few new avatars flashing at me? What's next? Wi-Fi in my windshield?

Hang on. I gotta take this call...