And lo, in the last days even he who had forever sworn that he would rather have his eyeballs penetrated with vanadium wires than own a cell phone will relent, and choose ringtones.
For Christmas I asked for, and received, a cell phone, which officially means that every adult, child, and household pet in America now has one, since I was determined to be the last holdout. But I got too tired of people who asked for my cell phone number looking at me as though I had shown up at their formal party in knee breeches, or had just cooked the last surviving panda for dinner – in short, the way I’ve always looked at people who won’t do business by e-mail. I’m a writer, and I prefer to communicate by writing, in which medium I have hardly ever lost an argument. But you’ll never get my cell phone number, never. Dick Cheney has it, and a couple of composers so obscure that they may need emergency PR, but the point is not so I can be reached, but so that I may reach. Got a question, send me an e-mail.