BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

123-4567?

987-6543?

566-3714?

I’ll be honest… I actually had some trouble deciding what title to use for this blog entry. (By the way – it will become apparent in about 4.33632 seconds that this entry is NOT about Jenny by Tommy Tutone…)

Other possible titles were:

1. “Been There, Done That…”
2. “Neener, Neener, We Were Here First…”
3. “She’s Got Legs…”
4. “160? Is That All I Get?”
5. “Blackberry? Isn’t That A Kind Of Cobbler?”

Of course, #3 was my personal favorite, but I suspect that was pretty obvious. As to how any of these potential titles fit in with 867-5309, or even how 867-5309 fits in with this blog entry for that matter…well, read on and I’m betting it will make sense at some point…

Of course, you know me. The “when” it will make sense might be a long time coming – reading-wise, that is – so, you might want to hit the restroom, refill your coffee, then get comfortable. Don’t worry, I’ll wait…

(do do, do Doo, do da, DOOOOO… do do, do Doo, DOOOP, Do doodle doodle, do do, do da, Doo, do do, DOOOOO, DOOP, Do doodle doodle DOOP, Do doooooo….) [give me a break… have you ever tried to convert the Jeopardy theme music to text? It ain’t easy, let me tell ya’…]

Okay, so everyone back? Got your drinks? Settled in? Good…

So… Since we are on the subject of converting things to text, I had occasion to spend a bit of time text messaging the other day. Now, I realize that a whole raft of you are adopting your best sarcastic voice and saying, “Yeah, good on ya’, Sellars. So you texted… You want a medal or something?”

Well… not a medal per se… How about if I put it into perspective.  You see, E K and I have cell phones… (Okay, okay, bite your tongues for a second here, I realize that’s not a big deal or anything)… The truth is, I have had a “mobile phone” since they were bigger than a breadbox and stayed permanently attached to your car. It was one of those technician things… Then, years later I upgraded to a bag phone – anyone remember those? Same as the car phone, but they stuffed all the crap into a glorified purse so you could drag it around with you. As an aside, I never did have one of the “pocket bricks” that were the size of a loaf of bread and qualified as the original “Cell Phone”… I just waited until cells were the size of double Whopper™ so that I wouldn’t have to wear a back brace while carrying it. (I’d already done enough of that lugging around the bag phone)… Of course, these days cell phones are only about a half inch shy of being the same thing as the communicator on Star Trek: The Next Generation… Just slap your chest and talk away… But, we aren’t there just yet.

Still, what started out as a somewhat flawed communications device attached to my car with a curly-q antenna has now morphed into this little flip open gizmo thingy about the size of a pack of cigarettes – actually, a little bit smaller I guess – that has eleventy-buh-jillion ring tones, takes pictures, surfs the web, acts like a PDA, and generally makes my life miserable…  And, of course, that is only because I am not packing around the latest and greatest innovation in personal communication such as a “chocolate covered blackberry moto razor iSomething-or-another”. Neither is E K. If we were, then we could probably fly the space shuttle remotely while listening to 47 gigabytes of MP3’s on top of all that stuff…

Now, I realize that may seem a bit odd – us not having the latest and greatest I mean – what with us both being techie types, even though I’ve retired from that segment of my life – well… in a professional sense, anyway… I still keep my finger in just in case I have to fall back on something… But, there goes that chicken again.

The point is, E K uses her cell primarily for work and emergencies. I use mine primarily for being able to call my girls – E K and the munchkin, obviously – when I am on the road touring and for emergencies. So, what does that mean? Well, pretty much it just means that we have a fairly basic calling plan. Ex-tee-ump minutes per month and that’s pretty much the extent of it. Therefore, we don’t “text” like most folks out there. For one, it costs us money. For two, well, we figure you call, say what you have to say, and there you go.

Now, it’s true that sometimes being able to send the equivalent of an “email” or “instant message” is an attractive option. I am more than willing to admit that fact. Perhaps the person you are trying to contact is in the middle of something and all you need to do is deliver a quick, “gonna be late for dinner” or something like that. So, I can see the allure. But, it’s just not something E K and I have ever really done…

So, here we are back around to the fact that I did do some texting the other day… No, I’m still not asking for a medal, but I think maybe you can see where this is kinda like getting your grandmother to try chicken tikka masala for the first time. It was a big deal for me to do this… Old dog, new trick… yadda yadda…

Anyway, I suspect by now you are figuring that something obviously had to  exert some manner of influence upon me in order to force a situation where this whole texting thing would happen. Well, you’re correct. As it happens it was the FBI.

(Waiting patiently for the surprised gasps to settle…)

Okay… not to worry. It wasn’t the FBI as in the whole Federal Bureau of Investigation or me being in some kind of trouble (at least, not that they’ve told me about). It was a friend who works for the FBI. He was in town on business, but had some free time and wanted to hook up for lunch and to catch up, etc… As it happens, he texts quite a bit, so that is how he contacted me. And, me not knowing if he was in the middle of a meeting or some such, found it necessary to “answer” him by texting back instead of just calling.

Well, as you might guess, this presented a bit of an obstacle for me… As we’ve already established, I don’t text. Never really have…  So I had no idea where to start. Still, I spent 25+ years as a computer tech, so it shouldn’t be all that hard to figure out.

Following the prompts I pressed the button to reply and it gave me a blank little screen that awaited my message. At this point in one of those flash back-flash forward moments I found myself wanting to pull a “Scotty” from Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, and just start talking to the damn thing. (Hmmmm… Nostalgia moment… I’m pretty sure I took E K to see that movie at the Northwest Plaza cinema back in ’86 shortly after we moved in together… I know, ignore the chicken, Sellars! Ignore the chicken!) Well, obviously I knew better than to babble at it, so I started poking around on the keys to make letters appear. After spending what was, I am absolutely certain, way too long to create a simple text message I succeeded in getting it sent. At this point, I was fairly proud of myself.

Seconds later, however, I was faced with receiving his reply, which in turn, deserved a reply… A bit longer reply.

Of course, I only had 160 characters. Well, that’s how it works on MY phone, at least… For all I know the rest of you texters out there can read this entire blog entry on your phone. (As an aside, are at least a couple of those potential titles starting to make sense yet?)

So, can you see where this is heading? Yeah, I know… The thing is, I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. Yes. I had to instantly teach myself a second language… Text Speak. I proceeded to reply with all of the necessary information required, however, I taught myself how to misspell things on the fly. I left out vowels, I replaced entire syllables with numeric values, I abbreviated, truncated, masticated, ameliorated, integrated, intimated, and generally adulterated the written word, all for the purpose of getting my point across in as few a characters and as quickly as possible. (the quickly part has to do with a whole ‘nother issue better left unblogged.)

Well, I don’t mind telling you, it was painful.

Really. I kept wanting to go back and fix the spelling errors and the like because the message looked like a teenage girl was sending a giggle-gram to her BFF (yeah, it seriously scares me that I know what a BFF is… I blame those cell phone commercials)…

But, I couldn’t… Fix the errors, that is… For one, I only had 160 characters to work with. For two, I would have been typing all day, being the inexperienced texter that I am. And, for three, I have no idea how they charge for these text messages, but I was already racking up enough of a bill as it was. If it was by the character, I would have been in deep crap…

I know… Right now you are saying to yourself, “Okay, Sellars… This little diatribe pretty much explains the “160” title and even the “Blackberry” title… But, what the hell does it have to do with the other three? Especially the one about legs?”

Glad you asked.

It was after I had labored over sending this series of text messages back and forth with my friend that something dawned on me. Kids today have this whole texting thing pretty damn easy… And, I mean besides the obvious part. You see, it was in that moment I realized I had been here, done this, worn a hole in the T-Shirt, long before the bulk of the “text generation” was even a glimmer in parental eyes.

You see, way back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and all that jazz – yeah, way back in the 80’s, we technicians carried numeric pagers. (before that we carried “beepers” that simply alerted us to call an answering service, but there goes a chicken again…) Numeric pagers were a marvel to us – yeah, I know, they even have text pagers these days. E K still carries on of those too… But, back to the numerics… They were a marvel to us because we could dial a number and punch in a number to call, so that the person being paged knew who to call instead of that extra step of calling the service, then calling the number, etc, etc… Remember, back then we didn’t have cell phones, we had to stop and find a payphone.

Okay… So we sent numbers to pagers… B F D… What does that have to do with anything? Well, being the industrious little geeks we were, we started figuring out little shortcuts. Anyone here ever watch Millennium? (that Megan Gallagher… man, I tell you…) My example here is that the main character, Frank Black, would get a simple page – “2000”. That was all it took and he would know the number to call. Well, us geeky types way back when were doing that sort of secret code paging even before Millennium came along…

It started simply enough – numeric codes established by service departments that would mean something to the tech receiving the page. Stuff like:

911 – Call the shop immediately

XXX-XXXX99 – (phone number appended with 99) Call this number ASAP.

XXX-XXXX – (just a phone number) Call this number, moderate priority.

XXX-XXXX00 – (phone number appended with 00) Call this number, low priority.

Of course, anything that starts out simply will eventually end up with layers of complexity that overwhelm the innate simpleness. Especially when electronics geeks are involved. Before long, more numbers were being added on to mean other things – almost like police call codes.

Then, it got really scary.

Anyone here remember that old joke you do with a calculator? The one where you tell a story while punching in a calculation for each element of the tale, and at the end you hit the = sign and have the punchline, which  is 71011345? or 55378008? (for those of you too young to remember this geekdom moment, if you turned the calculator upside down and looked at the display, the digital LED would be spelling out SHELL OIL or BOOB LESS… (it’s far more obvious with 7 segment LED’s than this particular font…)

So, did we spend the day saying SHELL OIL to one another, or calling each other BOOB LESS? Well, not really. There are actually a very limited number of things you can spell with inverted seven segment lettering, but we did manage to come up with a few initials that meant something.

And, what does this have to do with legs?

I knew you were going to ask that… Back when E K and I were dating, as well as during our cohabitation and early years of our marriage, there were times when I just wanted to let her know I was thinking about her. However, since there were no cell phones, and with her being in the field taking service calls that made it a bit hard. I didn’t want to cause her to pull over at a pay phone just for that.

Yeah, and?

I’m getting there… I’m getting there… As I’ve said many times before, I’m a leg guy, and E K has a fantastic pair said appendages. So, one of my fond nicknames for her, back then and even today, was/is LEGS.

Yeah, so you have a cutesy nickname for E K… Big deal… Just get to the point, Sellars…

Patience is a virtue, ya’know…

Well, to be honest I figured y’all would have been all over it by now…  But, just to cover all the bases, it’s as simple as this: Whenever I wanted to tell my dear and lovely I was thinking about her, I would simply page her with the following number: 5663714

On an upside down numeric pager that’s ancient, “First Generation Text Speak” for hi leggs:

Yeah, I know, the second “g” seems unnecessary, but remember, as mentioned in the Mahwage blog entries, she always wore Leggs brand stockings. Plus, without the extra digit in there, the “phone number” looked incomplete. And, well, since the pager belonged to the company it was our way of being “covert”…

I mean, what with E K actually being a sexy, dangerous, femme fatale secret agent* and all…

More to come…

Murv

* Regarding E K’s secret agent status. See blog entry: “Kay…Eeee Kay…” March 12, 2009

Back in 1993 there was this movie starring Michael Douglas. Some of you may remember it. The title was, Falling Down. Now, when you read the plot synosis it repeatedly refers to Douglas’ character as ‘disturbed.’ I will agree with that, wholeheartedly. The problem is, while the synopsis outlines key events in the movie that trigger the character, they paint him as disturbed (i.e. mentally unstable at the outset) and triggered as opposed to being a normal guy who is beaten into disturbia by society and events and then triggered.

When you watch the movie itself they make this latter point clear, but the synopsis really doesn’t. The main reason I even bother to go into that fact is that some of you may not have actually seen the movie and would base your view on that synopsis. Just want to make sure that is cleared up… So, now that it is, on with the rest of this ranting blog thing…

‘I just want to go home,’ is something Douglas’ character said quite a bit throughout the movie. It is also something I say very often… You see, D-FENS (the character – no, don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not some stupid name… You see, for most of the movie you are only able to apply an identity to him based on his vanity license plate D-FENS – he was a defense industry worker if that helps explain it… You don’t find out his real name until later)…

Anyway, my point here is that I can readily identify with D-FENS. I have sympathy for him. Sometimes I feel like I AM him…

In case you haven’t seen the movie and don’t intend to follow the above link to the synopsis, basically you have a guy who is laid off, divorced, beaten down, and just plain sick and tired of the BS out there in the world. By BS I mean getting mugged by a gang, a store owner who won’t make change for a buck so you can use his pay phone then gouges you on a candy bar so that you still don’t end up with any change (yeah, I know, a bit outdated what with cell phones and all, but you get the idea), traffic jams caused for no reason other than the fact the people with entitlement issues are being assholes… Well, finally this guy cracks and fights back. Granted, it gets pretty bad in the end, (what he does, not the movie itself – I think the movie was great) but, in any case, I’ll let you watch the movie to find out those details…

So… Here I am, on the raggedy edge… No, wait, that was from Serenity… Wrong movie… good movie.. no, actually it was a GREAT movie… but not the one I am referencing right now…

So, here I am… Pretty much feeling like D-FENS… No, I haven’t been laid off (actually, I have a contract to fulfill with my publisher, so that means I still have a job – even though book sales are way down in the current economy, but that’s a different blog)… And, I’m not divorced nor am I in any danger of being so (unless, of course, EK has plans I don’t know about…) But, I have been dealing with the whole entitled asshole thing…

You see, I just got back from grocery shopping for the Yule bash this weekend. I wasn’t even able to finish the shopping because I simply couldn’t take any more… In fact, I was on the verge of re-enacting a few scenes from Falling Down right there in the Shop ‘n Save. Fortunately, since I DO still have a wife and a kid and a job, I have too much to lose, therefore I had the good sense to just head for the checkout stand, pay for my cartload and leave…

But, to give you an idea… As I was politely making my way down the aisles, moving to the side and allowing people to pass whenever I needed to stop, or waiting for folks to finish before trying to get past them myself, I was faced with assholes. People who would ram my cart as I politely waited for the old lady in front of me to finish putting something into her own cart…

They would ram MY cart, push past me, then ram the old lady’s cart in order to rush past her. Then guess what? They’d stop 15 feet up the aisle – in the MIDDLE of the friggin’ aisle – and would they get something off the shelf and move on? No… They’d stand there blocking the aisle while carrying on a LOUD conversation with someone via cell phone. ‘Giiiiirrlrllllllll, I be tellin’ you he be yadda yadda…etc… etc…yadda…’

However, I DID figure something out during all of this – These assholes don’t use the words ‘excuse me’ because they don’t know what they mean. I tested the theory several times by politely saying excuse me while trying to get around them, and was merely stared at like I had grown an extra head. Obviously, ‘excuse me’ is spoken in a foreign language where they are concerned.

If that was all that occurred it wouldn’t be so bad – even though said incident happened MULTIPLE times within the span of 1 hour with different assholes involved each time – but, it doesn’t stop there. I had an idiot bean me with an eight pound ham because he tossed it into the bin without bothering to look first. When I looked up  he stared at me like it was my fault for being there.

There were several other incidents, but I don’t want to bore you with a neverending rant… Suffice it to say, I was pushed to the point where I was imagining myself in D-FENS’s position, and thinking I would do pretty much the same thing he did (see movie – or at the very least the synopsis – for details)

Of course, to add insult to injury, even though I decided to check out and ‘go home’ rather than lay waste to everyone in my path, someone still found it necessary to push in front of me while I was standing in the checkout line.

While I refrained from picking up the nearest blunt object and beating her to death with it, I let her know in no uncertain terms what she’d done… Then, just to be an asshole myself, I told her with as much sarcasm as I could muster (and them some), “But you just go ahead…don’t mind me.”

I guess I had a pretty wild D-FENS kind of look in my eye, because she said, ‘ummm, oh, ummm, no…’ then pulled out of the line and went to the checkout stand at the far end of the store which happened to be much closer to the front door.

It could have been the look in my eyes… It could have been the tone of my voice… It might even have been my posture… But, somewhere in the back of my head I have to wonder if it was all because she had once seen the movie in question combined with the fact that I simply stood there muttering, ‘I just want to go home…’

Yeah, something tells me that might have been it… And, I think she wanted to put some distance between us and be within reach of an exit in the event that I might Fall Down…

More to come…

Murv