Texting about drinking, Blogging about texting

I’m 43. I don’t really text. I could, but I don’t, and when I do, it’s pretty lame. Which isn’t much different than when anyone else texts, I think. You look back on the strings and they’re precision details about coming or going, Five minutes late, Almost there…Just be on time! (Who cares, anyway?)

But because I’m 43 I think I’m part of a generation of clumsy texters. At least my friends and me. I don’t text work-stuff and I’m married, so my married texts aren’t what you’d call Hot. More, precision details on coming or going.

No, my texts are mainly with two friends centered on what we’re drinking, formulaic, predictable like a James Bond book, not near as good: Self-congratulatory about a growler I picked up, how far I got into it, what I ate, listened to. (By publishing it, it somehow got better! Like this is so great, you can’t believe it!)

There’s my goofy friend Loren in Portland who texts in a kind of Middle English at times, with a lot of Y’s where they shouldn’t be and phonetics, but still sounds like him, just by text. He dropped out of San Francisco for Portland and will stay there forever until some place gets weirder, and that will never happen.

And then there’s my friend Anthony, who baits me to talk trash about my mother-in-law’s dog Minnie, which becomes a kind of game to discover new uses of common swear words, and pack as many as I can into a small cell.

It’s something to do in the elevator as we ride down the car from work, to resume our real lives in slivers of dialogue. I know there’s programs now where you can bark into the phone and it will spit out texts, but I don’t get that. Why not just make a phone call? Because you’re driving? Then drive!

Categories: humor, technology

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

6 replies

  1. If God had wanted me to text, he would have made my thumbs skinnier.


  2. It takes me 15 minutes to type a text because I refuse to abbreviate words and insist on using punctuation. I’m a text prude.


  3. I don’t have a cell. (Keeping it real since 1993.) But I’ve begun texting my children as needed on Text+, an iPad app. Big oaf typing away on a giant tablet, like one of those original brick mobile phones with the built in generator. The thing is, with Text+, I can text anyone but all they see is the weird string of numbers. So my kids get texts that sound like Dad but are from 75078930255-1. Hope your weekends growlerific. (Ugh.)


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