Laugh with Leacock as you flush your smartphone away

Perceptions, by Gerry Warner
Remember that wonderful story by Canada’s greatest humorist? No, not Rick Mercer. Those of us of a certain age will remember Stephen Leacock and the story was: “My Financial Career.”
“When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.”  I doubt they teach this in school anymore so I will skip to the ending which sees Leacock’s hapless hero, after making a total fool of himself trying to make a deposit, fleeing in terror “as a roar of laughter went up to the ceiling of the bank.”

It’s a short story. Just a few pages and many great guffaws in between . And though it may surprise many of a younger demographic that there was humor in the world long before TV, movies and Facebook, I highly recommend visiting the local library, and yes crack open a book. (you remember those quaint things) Enjoy  some great laughs for yourself. It just might make your day.

Well, you were right. This was leading to something I would like to share with you. Namely my own version of “My Financial Career,” which I’ve lived the past two weeks, but praise the Lord, I’m living no longer because I’ve returned my first smart phone to the store, a sadder but wiser man.
Yes, it began a fortnight ago, when after virtually years of agonizing, I decided to take the plunge and purchase my first cell phone. Oh woe is me. You see, I still call those infernal instruments cell phones because I didn’t realize they’d evolved into “smart phones,” a virtual computer between your sweaty fingers capable of surfing the Net, taking pictures, forecasting the weather – and with all the apps that come with them – boiling an egg! The clerk at The Source (God bless him) did his best to explain how to use this work of the devil, and like Leacock’s poor sot, I left the store shaking, my eyes glazed over and my stomach churning inside. For several days, I just left it on my night dresser and I could feel its beady little eyes (they must have eyes) mocking me every time I passed it. I tried several times to make a call on it, but to no avail and several times – I’m not lying – it whistled at me. Is it gay, I thought to myself. Should I be undressing in front of it? I became totally discombobulated in the mere presence of it.
Then horror of horrors, one morning when I was working on my computer (believe it or not, I’m quite competent on a computer) I just about fell off my seat as a burst of classical music suddenly filled the room. What the hell’s going on, I thought to myself. I don’t even have CBC on. The music continued (Beethoven or Tchaikovsky, I wasn’t sure) Then I realized it was coming from the bedroom and I raced in and sure enough it was that evil, black box which someone had apparently called and it was summoning me to do its bidding. Actually, I was quite excited. Someone was calling me! And I was determined to answer my first smartphone call and join the 21^st Century.
Fat chance!
You know something? The 20^th Century wasn’t so bad. I’d go back there anytime. In those halcyon days, most of the calls you received were from phones that you just picked up, maybe pressed one button and said “hello.” Nothing to it.
So I picked up that wicked piece of technology that so many in the world are addicted to and tried to answer the call. No !@%$!&! way! There were two little thingy symbols on the screen that I eventually figured out were supposed to represent phone icons (Oh, how I loath “icons”) One was green and one was red. So I pressed the green one. Duh, I’m no dummy. Green means go doesn’t it? I pressed, I pressed again and I pressed a third time. Nada. So in desperation, I pressed the bloody, little red, icon. Nada. I then walked into the bathroom determined to flush the vile, little, music box down the toilet, but then thought better of it because I didn’t want to get the Drano out again.
So instead, I walked back to The Source and the ever-obliging staff there took the cursed instrument out of my shaking hand under a clause in the sales contract called “consumers’ remorse,” which gives technology-challenged consumers like me the opportunity to do this as long as it’s within two weeks of purchase. (No kidding. I could kiss whoever put that law on the books.)
And speaking of kissing,  I feel so much better now. And to those of you who laugh at a smartphone technophobe like me, I would point to a recent survey by Rogers Communications that found 37 per cent of its smartphone users described themselves as “attached” to the glassy-eyed little monsters and five per cent actually slept with their smartphones.
Attached or “addicted?” I may be smartphone challenged, but at least I’m not an addict.

 Gerry Warner is a retired journalist and Cranbrook City Councillor. His opinions are his own.