The Good Old Days
I have a confession to make. I am addicted to my cellphone. I’m not proud of it. I don’t like admitting it. But I’m coming clean, publicly.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
I have a confession to make. I am addicted to my cellphone. I’m not proud of it. I don’t like admitting it. But I’m coming clean, publicly.
How I dropped my phone into the depths of Lake Martin is still a great and confusing mystery which evidently involves beer.
I was at a barbecue. There were lots of people around, eating, and at some point one of my cousin’s kids rode their Schwinns into the yard. One boy leapt off his bike and sidled up to me. “It’s so quiet out here,” the boy remarked in stupefied wonder.
Phone Calls: The Worst Kind of Ambush. Phone calls suck. There, I said it. They demand your full attention right now — as if you weren’t doing something important.
I remember my first cellphone. I felt like one bad hombre.
I was in my mid-20s. The cellphone retail salesperson outfitted me with a state-of-the-age phone about the size of a residential General Electric refrigerator.