Cell phone blues

Ask him to sit this one out
And while you’re alone
I’ll tell the waiter to tell him
He’s wanted on the telephone
—“Change Partners,” Irving Berlin

That sly proposal, penned by the great Berlin for his 1938 musical, “Carefree,” wouldn’t even rate a lothario’s consideration in 2006. Chances are the guy he was looking to ditch would have a cell phone.

Cell phones. You either can’t live without one or you’re like me and wish they went the way of the Nehru jacket. All together now: “Death to cell phones! Bring back two tin cans attached with a string!”

Cell phones have completely annihilated romance and are fast making an endangered species of mystery. You encounter cell phones virtually everywhere in New York City—on the street, in parks, at shows, in restaurants, at the gym, on lines, even in libraries and at urinals in the men’s room.

What’s worse, these infernal gadgets come equipped with the most obnoxious ring tones you could imagine. It’s as if the biggest thorn in the ass you ever met was hired to program the devices.

And have you ever eavesdropped on a cell phone conversation? (Come to think of it, I shouldn’t call it eavesdropping, as the volume of the cell phone user is usually at a level worthy of arena rock concerts.) We’re not talking important information being communicated here. We’re talking, “Oh, not much.” We’re talking, “I’m on line at the drug store. Can I call you when I get home?” We’re talking, “Ted’s wife says to meet them at six.”

We’re talking banal tripe, stuff that could easily be communicated at home, at work or via a pay phone. We’re talking information that could wait.

But, alas, we’re living in an age when no one wants to wait. The cell phone is the official emblem of a world that knows no patience and can no longer feel comfortable in its own mind. And memory? Who needs that when you have cell phones with digital cameras as standard add-ons?

Full disclosure is in order here. Yes, I have a cell phone. I’ll go so far as to say it comes in handy on days when I have to be away from the office for a while. I can bounce my office phone number to my cell phone and not miss a potentially important call.

But you’ll never catch me with my cell phone after working hours or during weekends. Let ‘em wait, I say. Let ‘em wonder. Let some lothario notice I’m sans cell phone and try to steal my date the way the protagonist proposes in “Change Partners.” It’s the oldest trick in the book, but I’d applaud the effort.