SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | I Called You Because I Wanted to Talk

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors.

I am not an expert. Which immediately makes me more qualified than half the people on television.

Following last week's award-winning investigation into park takeovers, social media, fireworks, and my inability to understand modern technology, I was hoping for a quiet week.

Instead, I made a phone call. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was believing somebody might answer it.

Now, before we go any further, I need everybody to understand something. I am old enough to remember when phones had one job. One. You talked into them. That was it. The phone didn't take pictures, check the weather, count your steps, or tell you where the nearest coffee shop was. It certainly didn't need software updates. It sat there on the wall or the counter, and when it rang, somebody answered it. Civilization functioned beautifully.

Then technology arrived with promises: "We're going to make communication easier."

Friends, I have never worked harder to communicate in my life.

Take my friend Larry. Larry carries his phone everywhere. Everywhere. I've seen Larry check his phone at church. I've seen Larry check his phone at a stoplight. I've seen Larry check his phone while looking for his phone. One time he dropped it into a fishing lake and jumped in after it, not because Larry can swim, but because his phone was in the water.

So when Larry tells me he "didn't see my call," I would like a bipartisan congressional investigation.

The phone rang. No answer. Thirty seconds later, I got a text: "What's up?"

What's up? Larry, the phone was up. That was the entire point. I called because I wanted to talk.

He replied: "What about?"

At this point, I began experiencing what medical professionals refer to as "being annoyed." I texted back: "The thing I called about."

He said: "You could've texted."

Friends, I nearly drove to his house.

You could've texted? Talking is the luxury edition of texting. Talking is texting with immediate customer service. It is texting without typing, and best of all, it is texting that actually ends. Do you know what happens when two adults talk on the phone? Seven minutes, conversation over. Do you know what happens when people text? The conversation enters witness protection and remains active for six weeks.

Then my grandson tried explaining modern communication to me. That was mistake number three. He informed me that people today don't like "unexpected phone calls."

Let that sink in. When I was growing up, people showed up at your house unexpectedly. In person. Sometimes with children. Sometimes with luggage. Sometimes with both. And somehow we survived. Now, a ringtone goes off and people react like it’s a tornado warning.

My grandson said, "Calling somebody without texting first is rude."

Rude? I spent eighteen years of my life answering a telephone without even knowing who was on the other end. That was called Tuesday. Today, apparently, you need to text first, then schedule the call, then confirm the call, then remind them about the call, then ask whether the call is still a good time for the call. We've turned a quick chat into minor surgery.

Last week I called five people. Not one answered. Yet somehow, I participated in forty-three text messages. How is that possible?

One person texted, "Can't talk." Which would've been a convincing argument if it hadn't arrived as the seventh text message in a digital conversation they were supposedly too busy to have. Another texted, "Can I call you later?" Friends, I am beginning to suspect "later" is now a geographical location, because nobody ever arrives there.

Then there are group texts. Who invented group texts, and more importantly, why are they still free?

I got added to a family group text last Tuesday. By Wednesday there were eighty-seven messages. By Thursday there were 143. By Friday there was a raging side conversation about potato salad. I still don't know why the group text started, what the objective was, or if a final decision was ever made. I don't know whether we're celebrating something or planning an intervention.

At one point somebody sent a thumbs-up emoji. Three people interpreted it differently. One person got offended, two people apologized, a cousin left the group, and a cousin returned. The potato salad remained completely unresolved.

Meanwhile, the church committee is still trying to schedule that pancake breakfast I mentioned last week. The same pancake breakfast. We've been discussing it for so long that some of the original pancakes now qualify as historic preservation sites. We've had four meetings, three surveys, twenty-seven emails, two disagreements over syrup, and a subcommittee. Never trust a committee that creates a subcommittee. That's how civilizations collapse.

And don't get me started on voicemail, which today is essentially a museum exhibit. Nobody visits, nobody understands it, and nobody knows why it's still there. I left Larry a voicemail, and two days later he texted: "Did you call?"

No, Larry. That wasn't me. That was Morgan Freeman leaving clues. Of course I called. The voicemail literally contains my voice.

Then you have the people who send voice messages. Look, I don't want to offend anybody, but if I have to stop what I'm doing, find a quiet room, put my phone to my ear, and listen to a recording... congratulations. You've just reinvented voicemail, the very thing you claim nobody uses anymore.

The truth is, modern technology keeps promising simplicity, yet every year it requires three additional steps. Every time I try to log into an account to pay a bill, it demands a new password. It must contain eight characters, one capital letter, one number, one symbol, the blood of a medieval king, and apparently my childhood fears. I recently reset one and the website informed me, "You cannot use a previous password." Friends, I don't even remember my current password. You think I'm keeping historical archives?

It’s everywhere. As you know, my refrigerator now has Wi-Fi. I still don't need my appliances online. The refrigerator has one responsibility: stay cold. If my refrigerator suddenly starts texting me its opinions, we're all in trouble.

Because at the end of the day, has technology really made communication easier? I called five people. Not one answered. But somehow I ended up reading texts, sending texts, deciphering emojis, listening to voice notes, resetting passwords, updating apps, and wondering whether my toaster was collecting personal information.

At some point, Larry finally called me back. Three days later. By then, I had forgotten why I called in the first place.

Larry said, "What did you want?" I said, "I don't remember." He said, "Then why'd you call?"

And that's when I realized modern technology had finally won. I had spent three days trying to have a seven-minute conversation. Three days. Lewis and Clark crossed the entire continent faster than that.

Every generation thinks the next one ruined communication. My grandparents blamed television. My parents blamed computers. My generation blames smartphones. And the next generation will probably communicate by just blinking at each other.

But I still maintain one radical, dangerous, controversial belief. If a person calls you... there is a reasonable chance... they would like to talk.

I know, I know. It's an extreme position. Some might even call it old-fashioned. But if Alexander Graham Bell came back today, and watched six people ignore their ringing phones while sending text messages about ignoring their ringing phones, he'd assume the entire project had failed.

Until next time,

Cranky DJ

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