Why I hate phones.

It probably began with a phone call I received, or had to make, back when I was a kid. It was most likely one of those “It's grandma's birthday Mark. So give her a call and wish her a happy birthday!”

After some huffing, sighs and protest, I relented I'm sure. My dad dialed the number, I heard the echoing rings from our old rotary phone in my young tender ears, than, after a while, someone picked up.

“Happy birthday grandma!”

“Who's this?”

“It's me. Mark.”

“Oh. Thank you Mark.”

First off, I am an only child, so no brothers or sisters would be calling saying “Happy birthday grandma!” Just me. Second, after extending to her my forced birthday wishes, she would then go on about her hip problems, vision difficulty, the marvels president Reagan was accomplishing and how I never call or visit.

“OK,” I said. “Bye.”

It was because of a traumatic event such as that, I'm sure, that my loathe of the telephone was seeded.

My dad usually had me answer the phones on Fridays because he feared work might call him in to pull a shift on a weekend. So, when they did, I always said “He's not here but I'll give him the message.” On Mondays, my dad would be all “What? I never got that message. That darn kid of mine!” Then reward me later with a Star Wars toy and hamburger. So, because of that, the phone is an instigator for childhood lying.

In later years, around high school really, the phone became the enemy for a whole new reason. If the phone rung sometime around dinner, you might here this on the other end:

“Hello. This is the principal of (high school). Your son or daughter has missed one or all of their classes today. Please contact us as soon as possible to clear you child of any truancy. Thank you.”

Yep. Up until high school, I was an alright student. But when those hallowed halls of severe bullies, unintended boners, magnificent zits, staggering awkwardness, rejection from all walks of girl life and having your locker stuffed with trash took hold, I took heed. Basically, I cut a lot.

At this time, skateboarding, thrash metal and playing Dungeons and Dragons were my focus. High school, for me anyway, was a mess. I was a mess. So at the end of the day, when my dad and I sat down for supper, and that rat bastard phone would ring, I'd make a mad dash for it and answer. If I made it in time, I'd pick up, say “Hello?” then pretend the person on the other line either A) just wasn't there or B) a wrong number.

Unfortunately, sometimes, my dad would answer and get that recorded call. Then I'd have some quick explaining to do. “Oh? What? Uh...that's weird. Hmm. Well, wrong Mark Whittaker I guess.”

Thanks phone. You just got me grounded.

Once I was out on my own, the phone became an annoyance on all sorts of new levels. Creditors calling demanding I pay off maxed out cards. Employers calling to say I didn't get the job. Roommates calling to ask for the rent. The city of San Francisco calling to advise me never to park my car on the lawn in front of the federal courthouse. Girlfriends calling just to say “God...fxxk you! It's over!”

After a while, I just turned the darn thing off and checked voicemail now and then. Ah, that sweet sweet silence.

Plus, and here's a funny thing because I am a writer: I really don't have anything to say to you. Honestly. Like, I'm not one of those guys that's all, “Dude, gonna call the Chadster and Big Greg and we're gonna chat it up bro!” No. Not gonna happen. The internet is a gawdam miracle for a kook like me. I can type better than I can speak and I am a horrible typist. You wanna talk to me? Email baby. Simple as that.

That's why the idea of having a cell phone frightens the living pants off of me. Having a phone with you ALL THE TIME? What, are you crazy? It's bad enough I have one of those monsters looming on my desk at home. That one red beady eye letting me know that at any moment, at any given time, the outside world can just dial those numbers and then “BEEEEP!”, scare me half to death because I usually work in silence.

Gone are the days of phone machines. Those things were the shiznit. Mute the phone, do what you do and if someone calls all you hear is that click and your buddy going, “Uh...hello. Mark? Are you home? Dude...pick up. I know you're there!”

I am. But I'm halfway through a pint of cookie dough ice cream and watching “Star Wars”. So, suck it!

Now that I am in my official “adult years”, I don't like the phone for one basic reason.

Telemarketers.

Oh man. Now that bills and crap are in my name, those unimaginable assholes call not just first thing in the morning, but at lunch and dinner time. Check it out. I'm in bed, sound asleep, when in the very early morning the phone rings. Of course I'm gonna answer it. Could be an emergency. I mean, really, who calls at this ungodly hour?

“Hello?”, I say into the receiver, groggily.

“Yes, hello,” chimes an unfamiliar voice. “May I speak with a Mark Whi...takk...ker?”

Dude, and I mentioned this in my first book, most people that don't know me have the worst time pronouncing my last name. Why? Because I have two T's instead of one. When you see the surname “Whitaker”, it gets pronounced correctly. Whitaker. But that extra T in mine? Forget it. Turns most into stuttering idiots.

“Whit...ttttt...taker?”

“Dude. It's early. What's this about?”

“Yes, I am calling to offer you this important one time deal...”

“GO DIE!”

Click.

So, basically, combined with all of the evidence proven for the case against the beatitude of the modern telephone, can you now see why I don't ever call you up? Why I rarely, if ever, pick up? Phones are just annoying, almost as bad as air travel. But I mean, I have to have one. I just get astounded at people that say they can't live without their phone. Or those chumps that have one permanently attached to their ear. Or that Blue Tooth business. Oh man. Usually the worst kind of human monster wears one of those. Who you calling dorkwad? Your stylist? Because those acid washed jeans and tee shirt with a wolf on the front, combined with that bleeping piece of plastic in your ear is all the rage this season!

But, here's the thing. If you get a call from me, consider yourself lucky. That means you're in my top circle of responsibility. My folks, my She-Ra, my close pals, sure, they get me dialing now and then. For the rest of you? Well...

Keep reading!