While it's commmon knowledge that I will never own a cell phone (although, as of late, I am not averse to borrowing one from a friend and saving myself a buck or two), I am respectful of others' rights to own and use one. But for God's sake, don't use it at the dinner table. As a matter of fact, turn it off before you sit down with me. I shouldn't have to compete with an inanimate object for your attention. There is nothing tackier than sitting in a restaurant talking on a cell phone, unless you are alone at that table.

So imagine my delight last night at Avenue A Sushi when I looked around and realized I was the only person at the table without a cell. Cinde had always hung tough with me, but it was her birthday yesterday, and guess what she got? I actually thought it was a great gift, because Ms. Cinde is definitely a girl on the go - she's at every event, or she knows about them anyway, and it always sucks when I can't get in touch with her.

She unwrapped her present, and everyone admired it, and then slowly, but surely, like the addicts that they are, everyone pulled out their cell phones, ostensibly for comparison purposes. They talked affectionately about their phones, or disparaged their condition. And suddenly they were humming, these phones, they were coming to life.

Mr. Grimes was at the far end, probably trying to trump up attention for his gig in the back room at Centro-Fly on Friday. Bobby and Tammy were good little dinner companions; they were chatting amiably. Lucas got on the horn about something; he is the kind of guy who "gets on the horn." (I love him for many reasons, but his aggro nature is one of my favorite things.) Nico was actually on two phones at once. Two. At once. Cinde stroked her phone, looked around and smiled.

"Isn't this the coolest present?" she said.

She put the phone next to her head.

"How do I look?"

"You were born for a cell phone," I said wanly.

"I can't believe I'm sitting at dinner and everyone is on a cell phone," I said to no one in particular.

Mr. Moxon, quiet and stealth-like to my left, said calmly, "You're in New York. You can't help where you are."

Indeed.

***
In other news:

So I wrote six fucking articles for Ironminds in three weeks, all of which got progressively worse. Remember the first week? That Dogstar piece was genius, and the cow story wasn't so bad either. Even the second week cranked a little - I critiqued Sex in the City and bitched about new media. This week I wasn't so happy with, not that it was bad, just that it was not so good, not the quality workmanship I have grown to expect from myself. What I'm trying to say is, I'm just not so funny anymore. So I've got nothing cooking with them for at least a week, in which time I hope to fall in love with the sound of my own voice all over again.

I think the energy I've poured into writing for them has taken away from the other projects I've been trying to develop. While I love that little site, and I do want it to succeed, I can't give it all of my creative energy. Though I certainly don't regret what I did, and I'm appreciative of the extra money, it will be nice to work on something that requires a little less of myself, so I can save it for something more personal. This is an important lesson for me to learn: what my limitations are.

Phew. I am self-involved. Yes. Enough about that.

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