I usually just get a new phone when I drop mine in the toilet. I felt like this time around, I should skip the bathroom and go straight to the carrier. I just got the spanking new Samsung Galaxy S9+ in lavender purple (I'm not getting paid to tell you that; I wish I was). They conned me into the bigger, beefier phone with the high tech camera that I could use for my graffiti photography. You'll see the difference between the photos from Ann Arbor, MI and the photos I've taken around Minneapolis and St. Paul. These' new ones are much better.
The tall, strapping young ginger who helped me at At&T was amused by how little I understood phones and technology and databites and gigs and caches and storage. When he asked me how good I am with technology, I looked at him and said, "I met kids in Africa who grew up in mud huts that know more about technology than I do." I knew dazzled him with my technological illiteracy when he said, "If you have any questions, ask them now."
My new phone, Phoney as I call it while I'm throwing things around my apartment looking for it and Keysies, has 64 gigs instead of the 8 that my old phone had, so I can use things like Instagram and Lyft, and I can listen to music without running out of those databites so fast. Tall Strapping Ginger just looked at my old LG and said, "If you made that thing last three years, then this Samsung will probably outlast you." And I said, "Well that's a long time because I'm going skydiving for my 105th birthday."
I'm not trying to brag about my snazzy new thing; I'm still trying to grasp how it all works, and I think that if I recount the information to you that I'll understand it better. At first, it was an overload of notifications and information that pissed me off the day I brought it home, laid on my bed, and took high-tech pictures of my foot to test it out. It's hard to focus on my toes when I'm getting notifications about Facebook.
I don't have a Facebook.
At first I hated not the phone, but the necessity of the phone. Within days I realized how much of my own intelligence I could outsource, how much I could rely on it and mentally check out. I hardly have to open my laptop, and I never have to fidget with a Tom Tom. I don't have to worry about using up data, and I can finally use those stupid apps. Sometimes it makes me want to go back to those African mud huts for a long time. Eventually I figured out how to turn most of that garbage off and focus on what I want to use it for. Documenting graffiti and taking pictures of my ginormous cat, Pajamas.
Let me know what you think of the new photos.
Catfish in the Mud
I went to Namibia and took a tour of Sossusvlei, where it hasn't rained in 6 years. The river is completely dried up. My guide told me that even in the six-year drought, catfish are hibernating deep down in the mud and will surface again when the rains come back and restore life to the desert. I didn't believe him at first, like I didn't believe in the mysterious fairy circles on the dunes. But now the idea of catfish in the mud has become a metaphor for the things trapped on the inside and down below that wait for the rains to give them some vigor and life. Catfish in the Mud is a pretty standard millennial blog in which I say mostly nothing in about 300 words.