iPhone iDiots

We have become cell-phone slaves, hand-phone handicaps, mobile morons, Blackberry boobs, iPhone iDiots. No matter how intelligent, how schooled, how full of common sense, we are incapable of judging when it is appropriate to accept a call on our cell phones.

The topic of cell phones and the movie-going experience would illustrate nicely, but I am devoting a whole column to this particular fount of inspiration. In the meantime, how about our willingness to talk on cell phones while driving? People who phone and drive are convinced that their skills are unaffected. This is a powerfully persuasive state of altered consciousness that can be achieved with three beers, two martinis or one mobile.

There is a less dangerous but more brazen use of the cell phone. A few times now, I have been dumbfounded to walk into a public toilet and hear one side of a conversion echoing from the porcelain depths of a cubicle. You know, most of us like to pretend that we’re not really in the cubicle. We stay nice and quiet and hope that other people who come into the washroom will also pretend that we’re not there, even though the cubicle door is closed and our little pigeon-toes peep out from underneath.

But not everyone is like us. There are people who will actually take -- yea, make! -- calls on their cell phones while sitting in a public john. And if that goes on, imagine the extent to which the more discreet permit themselves some surreptitious text messaging. Think about this the next time you go to touch somebody else’s mobile.

But then there are the rarer, unique incidents that make you say, “I can’t believe he’s talking on his cell phone while …..” Not long ago, I approached an automated teller at the Bukit Gombak MRT station and took a position several feet behind a well-dressed business type who was already at the machine.

I had waited a minute or two when the man’s mobile squawked. Lo and behold, I was ushered into my latest epiphany in the form of, “I can’t believe he’s talking on his cell phone while trying to operate the ATM.”

The fella talked non-stop while furiously punching buttons, apparently at random, on the ATM display. The minutes dragged. Thrice his card was ejected as his divided attention led to an electronic breach of protocol, and he had to start over.

Not once did he look back to see whether his mobile dysfunction was delaying anyone behind him. When he finally finished his conversation, he still had a few more beeps to coax from the machine before his money and receipt were regurgitated. With cool nonchalance, he then took his wallet from his pocket, stowed his bills (ensuring that all the edges were trimly tucked and even), returned the wallet to his pocket, and then began to study his receipt.

He remained transfixed. The seconds added up. Finally, I grew terrified that his cell phone might ring and induce him to start all over again with the ATM. So I pointedly stuck my nose in his face (my nose is very pointy) and asked, “Are you FINISHED?” in that clever and superior way that is a substitute for a kick to the privates.

But I had met my match. He immediately drew himself up to his full height (he was pretty tall) and spat out, “You should wait your turn!” There is no good comeback for such gall extraordinaire. I tried to sputter a quick retort, but it was something as lame as, “Oh yeah? Well…well I hope you drop your cell phone in the toilet!”

Anyway, the point is that we just cannot not answer our cell phones. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Singapore’s falling birth rate is due to a chronic inability to ignore a mobile no matter how passionate the moment, a form of contraception that we might christen “call interruptus.” I don’t think there’s any remedy fo... Um, excuse me. It’s my cell phone.

Mark Featherstone is a Canadian and a Professor at the School of Biological Sciences, Nanyang Technological University. He’s lived in Singapore for two years. Don’t phone him after 10 pm.