Privacy is under attack. No, I'm not talking about the PATRIOT ACT or some other homeland security device. I'm talking about my God-given right to remain uninformed about the personal lives of my fellow Americans. I'm talking about the disturbing trend of over-sharing, and I'm pointing the finger at cell phones.
I was walking down State Street yesterday and I got stuck in a crowd of people at one of the bottlenecks created by a restaurant's outdoor seating. The woman next to me was on her cell, speaking at the characteristic two notches above normal conversational volume.
\And he showed up, like, two hours late,"" she said. ""And tried to be all, like, oh, I thought we said we were just gonna meet up later, I didn't think we'd, like, set a time, you know?""
No, I don't know, and I don't want to know, and if you want to tell this person so much, maybe you should go shout it into his or her face rather than mine. Oh, it didn't occur to you that people around you were listening? Well, when you bellow like an auctioneer, it's pretty hard to ignore. I'll just save you the trouble of having the same damn conversation five or six times on the way to and from class and publish the details here.
For the record, Jenny regrets sleeping with you, John, because you're a creep who thinks he's way hotter than he is. And you know what? If you want to chase every skank that's out at bartime, she couldn't care less. You're just such a loser, John.
There, Jenny. It's out in the open now.
Also, just to be clear, David with the backwards Cubs hat was so damn stoned last night you don't even understand. And a man identifying himself as Big Dawg wants everyone to know he hit Brothers, Monday's and Wando's, in that order. He expressed a general interest in what you did last night but is unable to listen to the specifics at this time, as his phone's about to die.
I've heard cell phones ring five times in class during these first two weeks. Learning intimate details of strangers' lives is bad enough. But if I'm going to discover how wretchedly awful their tastes in music are, I think they should at least bring in a boombox, rather than forcing me to bask in the glory of an all-beep version of Jay Z's ""Money Ain't a Thing.""
Further, if I have to know all these details, I want some input. To the guy in the Phish shirt who was uncertain of his plans for the coming weekend: Buy two sticks of Right Guard and start wearing shoes.
To the woman in the sparkly tank top inquiring about the quality of last night's after-bar: Get out of the way. Your huge clunky sandals are making you walk at a pace suitable for geriatrics and toddlers.
To the gentleman loudly asserting his weekend-long intoxication: You look like crap.
And finally, to Gretchen, who felt the need to announce to an entire elevator that she wasn't, in fact, pregnant: On behalf of all humanity, thank God.
chunkkicke@yahoo.com.
