For the first time since the Pleistocene, I was without cellphone for a few days. It was both 19.6 on the Richter Hysterical Yuppie Sissy Scale, and, heaven.

I was North America’s last human to finally get a cell phone. Sneaking up on the 21st century, I finally relented. I bought a little white Motorola number. Smiling, I can still recall that teeny little nodule oh-so-slightly sticking out in the middle of the No. 5 key.

My Motorola was the size of a thin pack of cigarettes. You flip it open, and, without looking, rub your thumb over the keys and feel that tiny, smooth bump on No. 5. From there, eyes closed, you could dial anybody on the planet.

Remember those old flip phones? Back then, for you kids in the Pi-r-Squared or whatever generation you annoying people are, there was no such thing as the dreaded, “Butt Dial.” We were just entering the Apocalypse and you couldn’t even say, “Butt” in public without disapproving stares and stern “shushes!!”

I really didn’t want a darn phone. In everlasting shame, I finally succumbed to peer pressure. Friends, enemies, co-workers, telemarketers, they all complained that they had to wait until after 7 when I got back home to reach me, and, usually, when I got home, I wouldn’t answer the phone.

Why?

I had an answer machine and could screen calls. I still remember my outgoing message. It was the opening theme from the old Magilla Gorilla cartoon. Here. You hepcat daddy and mommas from my free-wheeling ’60s Summer Of Love Generation — sing it........

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