Editorial:

The Siren Song of the "Self Phone"

by Rachel Starnes

Originally I had planned to abuse my bully pulpit here to expose a deplorable and insidious pox on society that I refer to as the "self phone." I call it so because it seems to completely devour the "selves" of those who submit to its insidious charms. Purchasing such an item virtually guarantees that one will never be in a position of importance that necessitates uninterrupted contact. Seriously, two people in America need such a device–the President and Batman, and one of them is fictional, (I’ll let you decide which).

One by one my friends succumbed to the narcotic power of mobile communication. I received calls from the freeway, deafening clubs, the bathroom. Truly this addiction had become a disease and I tried in vain to wean them from the habit of calling me mid-piss. Eventually I gave up and left them to their sick habits, their nefarious dark deeds, their cheap highs. I would take the high road. I would stay clean.

Sadly, I had no idea how difficult this struggle would be, and how powerful the siren song of the self phone really is. I was drawn in by its charms one night as I heard one chirp out a seductive little ditty as it nestled quietly in the pocket of a passerby. It seemed to be calling to me, softly but persistently, "Need me, want me, love me…" Fighting desperately not to acknowledge the consequences of my actions, I strolled into a wireless store one day, "just to look around." The seedy den of free minutes and digital communication immediately clutched me, and I was swept into a whirlpool, going down, down, down, my mouth saying "no," but my body and soul screaming "YES, YES, YES!!!" In a few minutes it was over. My check was signed and the tiny succubus, cunningly displaying my name on its screen, slid into my purse.

Since then I have been trying to hide my habit from those closest to me. It would only hurt them to know that I, once so strong in my anti-phone convictions, had fallen from grace. I lurk in dark corners to make and receive calls, and am often ashamed to admit where I’m calling from. I lie and say I’m on a pay phone or at home, wracked with guilt because I’m really on the freeway. My editorial has now taken on the function of a confessional, a therapeutic acknowledgement that I have a problem, and with that in mind, I have only one thing left to say.

My name is Rachel, and I own a self phone.

© Rachel Starnes 2001