He says, "Cell phones have really fucked things up for writers- and is it still 'cell phones'? I keep hearing about this... wireless?... bidniz, and I want to be clear that it's the same thing."
And when I look at him and groan, "It's about the same," I wonder if writers really do all that research for themselves or if they are all full of spit. Or if they just talk a lot.
"There used to be such great symbolism behind real telephones," he persists, his nose in his mug, circling the rim for what seems to be sugar crystals. "Wires and groundedness and uncontrollable distance mixed with faux-connectivity. The Seinfeld syndrome. You just can't write about shit like that anymore. Nobody uses telephones anymore. I can't convince a kid from Willburg that a character's depression correlates directly to his physical sense of aloneness. It's unreal in today's modern-day hybrid of a world."
"Maybe you need a different audience." I sip in the scalding coffee and the blackness tastes different when the waitress smiles as she tops you off.
"It's cell phones, man. Nobody is alone anymore. Everyone is in a network."
"You can say the same thing about the internet."
"Don't get me started on the internet."
A man at the counter drowns in his crossword puzzle and his scrambled eggs. The woman with three kids texts her boyfriend across the booth, "r u o k." A teenage couple feels horrible for leaving an eight percent tip.
My coffee scolds me because he isn't sweet.
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