Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
ICE
In Case of Emergency.
They tell people to save an entry in their cell phone's speed-dial with that name: ICE. I tried to do that once, but I was going to put in my family's phone number back in Minnesota and it wouldn't let me save the same number in two entries. I decided to leave the number saved - complete with special ringtone - under "Homies." If I was unconscious and they couldn't figure out who to call, my recent contacts should reveal a decent amount of action with that number, and if it didn't, there would be someone on the list who had the number.
That's different now.
I got a new phone in January, so my special ringtone is gone, and the entry with that number now just reads "Home" - without any sort of warmth that word used to inspire. It may as well read "blue house in central Minnesota" any conversation worth noting happens via cell phone with my siblings now. The house that I grew up in is a shell.
Sometimes I think that the world is just full of shells, and all the people are hermit crabs, trying to find one to fit in that they like. We like to ooh and ah at the pretty ones, the unique ones, the hardy ones, but in the end, it's just a bunch of funny looking, mostly naked crustacean bug-like critters running around trying to find a safe place to hide.
When a hermit crab's shell is shattered, what happens to it?
I think it sits still, blinking at the sun, wondering who to put down on all of the paperwork for that "should be obvious, but really isn't anymore" In Case of Emergency, Contact:... space.
They tell people to save an entry in their cell phone's speed-dial with that name: ICE. I tried to do that once, but I was going to put in my family's phone number back in Minnesota and it wouldn't let me save the same number in two entries. I decided to leave the number saved - complete with special ringtone - under "Homies." If I was unconscious and they couldn't figure out who to call, my recent contacts should reveal a decent amount of action with that number, and if it didn't, there would be someone on the list who had the number.
That's different now.
I got a new phone in January, so my special ringtone is gone, and the entry with that number now just reads "Home" - without any sort of warmth that word used to inspire. It may as well read "blue house in central Minnesota" any conversation worth noting happens via cell phone with my siblings now. The house that I grew up in is a shell.
Sometimes I think that the world is just full of shells, and all the people are hermit crabs, trying to find one to fit in that they like. We like to ooh and ah at the pretty ones, the unique ones, the hardy ones, but in the end, it's just a bunch of funny looking, mostly naked crustacean bug-like critters running around trying to find a safe place to hide.
When a hermit crab's shell is shattered, what happens to it?
I think it sits still, blinking at the sun, wondering who to put down on all of the paperwork for that "should be obvious, but really isn't anymore" In Case of Emergency, Contact:... space.
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