I dropped a casual reference to using an iPhone in yesterday’s article on my adventures in depression therapy (called Emotional Tetris, for those who are interested). This is notable in that I’ve been a diehard Blackberry user since 2009 (with a brief, disappointing fling with Android) and have more than a few times taken potshots at the Apple herd. So what’s with the change of heart?
Victoria had a freak snow storm about two months ago, during which time my territory of Fairfield (a delightful little seaside hamlet full of retirees, yogis, and a graveyard where a few local heroes of old are buried) was blanketed in white. As I find snowfall to be weirdly uplifting, I’d decided to walk, noticing as I went a white iPhone on the sidewalk a few blocks from home. I have odd reflexes for finding stuff, ranging from a Japanese passport in a trashcan downtown to fifty dollar bills in Vancouver, so this somehow doesn’t raise an eyebrow for me too much.
Usually I surrender my findings to their most appropriate places, and so pocketing the phone for the time being, I figured I’d plug it in at home and wait for missed calls to pile up — at which point I’d answer and
demand a ransom repatriate the device with a friend of its owner. Not an easy feat without cellular service though, and I soon found out this was the case; the iPhone’s subscription was cancelled, oh, about a week earlier, according to the last notification “Ella” had received on her Instagram account. Well, time for a little sleuthing.
I persuaded a former casual date — one of the many women in Victoria who like me so much they wanna be “just friends” — to message this Ella
Not having Instagram (because of the Blackberry; hello, no apps?) I persuaded a former casual date — one of the many women in Victoria who like me so much they wanna be “just friends” — to message this Ella and tell her that random dude here had her phone. She did, and waiting for a reply, we browsed through her publicly-viewable albums, grimacing at the wannabe-sexy photoshoots of what we assumed was the owner, who looked to be eleventeen, and, (at risk of sounding way more parental than I care to) probably shouldn’t be posting that kind of stuff. “Maybe we’d better hold onto that phone and teach her a lesson,” Casual Date mused. I sniggered.
A month went by, and no response. Then two months. Still nothing. I figured by now, the loss of the white 4S had probably been used as a pretext to upgrade to a phone with better Instagram filters, if anything, to simulate being older. So, I gave up, popped in my SIM card and claimed it for myself.
I’ve been criticized more than a few times for having my face glued to my screen. Sorry friends. I’ll try not to make that a habit.
A week of using the most popular phone brand on earth, I realize things are popular for a reason, even if those reasons are simplicity — to the point of being dumbed-down — and connectivity — to such a level of ubiquity that you can suitably numb any personal loneliness knocking at the door. I miss my keyboard, but sometimes you’ve just got to move on with the times, even if in my case it means adopting a device as the tenth anniversary of the brand looms on the horizon. What can I say? I’m a late to the party kind of guy.
Other notable findings? I’ve been criticized more than a few times for having my face glued to my screen. Sorry friends. I’ll try not to make that a habit.
Oh, and Ella? If you’re reading this, drop me a line. You can have your phone back any time — just promise to clean up your Instagram first.