THE DEVOLUTION OF THE TELEPHONE

I have love-hate relationships with my phone and social media. I’m a Luddite at heart who begrudgingly attempts to keep up with the times, albeit forty paces back.

To be sure, I don’t miss the old landline phone. Gave that up back in 2005. Nice not to have to untangle myself from that coiled cord anymore. But I could have stuck with my old cell phone. No camera for all those selfies people post online. Hangover selfie. Underwear selfie. No underwear selfie. It’s become an exhibitionist’s world.

The thing I liked best about my first cell phones is that they made texting inconvenient. I don’t fully recall the process, but the numbers each represented three or four letters. Press 7 three times to get a “P”, 2 once for “A”, 4 thrice for “I”, 6 twice for “N”, 3 thrice for “F”, 8 twice for “U”, 5 thrice for “L”. Yep, PAINFUL. It was the perfect excuse to actually call people and have a live, spontaneous conversation with normal pauses and real laughs instead of LOLs.

The phone as just a phone. Damn, I miss that. Nowadays, when my phone buzzes, it’s a telemarketer. Or someone calling for Irene, the person who apparently had this number before me. Or my mother. Whichever scenario, I let it go to voicemail. We don’t use phones to talk anymore.

I don’t like it. I still think a quick phone conversation is more efficient than an entire string of drawn out texts when planning when and where to meet for dinner, but I’ve accepted the fact that phones are for texting, Googling and posting all those redundant selfies on Instagram and Twitter.

Sigh.

Occasionally, I FaceTime with a friend. Back when I was seeing a guy in Portland, we FaceTimed nightly. I’m still uncomfortable with my little image in a corner of the screen, but it’s nice to see a real person as we talk, even through all the shaky Blair Witch moments as he moves incessantly in the kitchen, mushroom-spinach frittata in progress. I’ve Skyped a few times too, but I’ve conveniently forgotten how. Yep, more Luddite than your grandma.

I miss the ol’ days when I’d call friends long distance, often waiting until after 5 p.m. or for the weekend to get a cheaper rate. I know, it’s all free with FaceTime, but those monthly phone bills made a statement. I had a souvenir to prove I chatted with my friend in Boston or Boise.

Ah, memories.

Oh, Boise. Richard’s home. We met in 1991, back when we both lived in Los Angeles. One of my closest friends. We’d hit the gay bars to dance and be thoroughly ignored by the other patrons. We’d regularly go out for dinner or catch a movie. While I studied for the bar exam, the jewelry story where he worked was only a block away. I needed lots of breaks and popped in often.

Everyone has a friend like Richard. Dependable. Loyal. Someone you take for granted, someone you should expressly appreciate more. Sometimes you take advantage of all that loyalty.

I moved first, in 1994. I was burned out from some of the harsher elements of L.A. I was tired of being ignored in the gay bars. I wanted out of my nascent law career. Fleeing seemed like the easiest way to start over.

Richard and I kept in touch. Monthly phone calls and a couple of nights at his place in Venice whenever I’d go back for a visit. But then Richard moved to Boise, of all places. His family moved there first and he followed. Boise of all places! Middle of nowhere! On my one visit, I freaked out over the gun stores. The strong presence of Mormons made me feel uncomfortable even when I felt no overt hostility. I suppose it was more me than them.

Eventually the phone calls became less frequent. And then Facebook took over.

Never the selfie sort, Richard’s profile pic was a rotating selection of stylized Rs, presumably since his initials were RR. While updated photos of him were hard to come by, those Rs may have made a greater impact. I’d be out walking, see an R on a sign or a baseball cap and snap a pic—with my handy phone. Sometimes I’d send them, sometimes I’d forget. Sometimes he’d use them, sometimes he wouldn’t. Still, any capital R would remind me of Richard. Trust me, there are a lot of capital Rs out there!

Our main direct communication became the Like button on Facebook. So easy to click, so meaningless compared to our phone calls of yesteryear. We’d exchange birthday wishes—thanks to an assist from Facebook notifications—and every so often I’d add a comment to one of his posts or send a “just checking in” private message. Brief exchanges.

A couple of months ago, Richard posted a distressing message on Facebook: “Cancer’s back, had a heart attack, lost my job.” A kitchen sink of horrors. A decade ago, I’d have picked up the phone and we’d have had a chat to make sense of each part of that triple whammy. Instead, I hesitated. I questioned the post. He’d had brain cancer a year ago and posted a few things with regard to that. I’d messaged, but he seemed tight-lipped about it. One of those Facebook mysteries. Share to the whole group, but don’t get specific. I figured he was busy recovering or trying to not dwell on the bad. I respected his privacy, even if it came after a public post. The trifecta of tragedy seemed too much. I’m embarrassed to admit that, without any elaboration, I questioned the veracity and the motive. That’s what happens when communication gets whittled down to next to nothing.

After a few hours, I kicked myself for doubting things and sent a heartfelt message, wishing him well and some good luck. He responded simply with the Facebook “Love” heart. Message received but presumably too much on his plate to say anything more.

And then nothing. Six weeks went by without another post. I’d wonder and worry, but always at a time when it wasn’t conducive to reaching out—on a bike ride, in the middle of the night, in a support group. At last, I finally held onto the notion long enough to actually message him when I got home. “Hey, Richard. I haven’t seen anything from you on Facebook. Getting a little worried. How are you?”

A week passed. No Like, no heart, just more nothing.

And then I Googled his name and Boise. The first thing to pop up was another damn social media creation, a closed Go Fund Me account created by his brother-in-law. The family had sought money to cover the costs for Richard’s cremation.

Absolute shock. A death learned by Google. The devastation was instant, but my fingers would not leave my laptop. I needed to know more. There was no obituary. Instead, I went back to his Facebook page and clicked on his niece’s account. The immediate posts were about a concert she’d attended. I scrolled back. And back.

Pictures from a Celebration of Life on June 8^th. Shit. If I’d have known, I’d have driving to Boise. No question about it. I’m not working; it would have been easy. It would have been what my heart needed and wanted. But I didn’t know.

I scrolled back further. Back and back. My god, when did he die? Turns out he went into a coma three days after he sent the Facebook Love heart in response to my first thinking-of-you message. Two days later, he died. Fifty-eight years old.

It’s been a week and a half now. I’ve gone through denial, anger and depression. Acceptance is creeping in. What else am I to do? It’s been a lonely process. He’s from my L.A. days. Without a service, I have no one to commiserate with apart from another Facebook contact. We exchanged messages after I learned the news. It was news to her as well.

A great deal of time has been spent projecting my anger at this new texting/Facebooking world. We’ve become less personal, even with our best and longest friends. Or, at least, I have. I resisted texting and then finally caved to it. I acquiesced to phones not being for phone calls. I let the quality of a dear friendship slip away and succumb to today’s social conventions.

So now I’m using another device, the blog, to continue my well-meaning advice that may come off as a rant. Think about those close friends of yours who live afar, the ones with whom it seems like only a day has passed whenever you finally get together in person. They’re the ones you take comfort in knowing that the silences between visits diminish nothing. But, please, don’t take a Next Visit for granted. Book it. Or, at the very least, pick up that phone, not to text or Like some post of your friend’s dinner last night. Call him or her. Have a real conversation. And feel fortunate that you still can.

Thank you for reading this and, if you do reach out to a friend, it would warm me to know you did. Maybe that will be part of Richard’s legacy.

MALIBU DÉJÀ VU

Twenty-three years ago, I drove into Malibu for the first time, laughing over the fact that this was where I would go to law school on full scholarship. Some gig.

I remember being somewhat disappointed that there should be a KFC on Pacific Coast Highway in the business section of Malibu. (Actually, it was Kentucky Fried Chicken. This was before the Age of Texting and reducing everything to initials.) I was also peeved that Olivia Newton-John wasn’t waiting to personally welcome me. In fact, I never met her even though a law school friend rented a space in the home next to Olivia. During my two and a half years of law school, I had to settle for chance encounters with Rick Springfield, Jon Lovitz and a personal fave, Bob Newhart. I always gave them their space. That’s just how Malibu folk treat one another.

Technically, I only lived in Malibu—on campus—for one semester before getting an apartment up the treacherously windy Malibu Canyon in lowly regarded Calabasas before moving to another coastal community, the boutique village of Pacific Palisades. Still, Malibu was home base The Law School Experiment.

I drove to Malibu from the north today, saddened at first by the scorched mountainside vegetation from recent wildfires. Nonetheless, the more remote coastline induced awe as I gazed at the gentle turquoise Pacific waters, a disappointing status for the black speckles that represented surfers lolling on surfboards.

A lot has changed and yet nothing has changed in the years that have passed from my stint amongst the wealthy. Malibu’s population remains at 13,000, unlikely to ever climb due to building restrictions, mountainous terrain and, well, forest fires. Much of the core area of Malibu business has changed. Not so much the structures, but the signs. Pizza Hut, Ben & Jerry’s, the deli where I always ordered mac and cheese and the video store where I ran into the incomparable Suzanne Pleshette’s TV husband are all gone. My bank is now a medical clinic. Even the Hughes Market grocery store is now a Ralphs. (It pains me not to write Ralph’s, but the company has dropped its apostrophe. Maybe it too was a texting bother.)

The most tragic new sign is for Banana Republic. I’m neither a lover nor a hater of the chain. Take it or leave it. (Maybe that’s because the first thing I ever tried on back in the day when Banana Republic had a safari feel was a summer shirt that felt very strange in the chest. Turns out it was a women’s blouse. But nice peachy tones!) BR took over the struggling, yet sprawling women’s store once owned by my one of my first gay friends, José, who died of a brain aneurism fifteen years ago at the age of forty. My friend, Benny, and I used to pop in regularly to chat while voluntarily changing all the displays to make things look more inviting in a effort to increase sales. (Perhaps I was, in fact, the reason the business went under. What do I really know about fashion? Recall blouse incident, above.)

But for all the changes, there is plenty that is the same. Pepperdine University still occupies prime land on the edge of a mountain with insanely gorgeous ocean views. Most of the beachside pubs with subpar food remain open, again due to insanely gorgeous ocean views. John’s Garden still sells sandwiches with sprouts in the Malibu Country Mart courtyard beside the children’s playground. The public library remains with a spruced up facade, this being the place where I escaped the law school crowd to study across from a homeless man who soaked his dirty clothes in a white plastic bucket. We were regulars who never exchanged hellos but allowed for one another to peacefully coexist.

I’m still laughing as I sit in the courtyard and watch people pretend to be locals. I was a great pretender. Why did I ever move? A nagging voice inside my head chants, “Dumbass”, but it was not a practical commute to downtown L.A. or to my subsequent job in a small Santa Monica law firm where I had a perfect ocean view that included the Santa Monica Pier. Yeah, left that, too. Once again: Dumbass.

When you are young(er), you don’t fully appreciate each moment. This is perhaps the biggest reason I am back for a month, even though I am staying in West Hollywood instead of a preferred coastal area. My five years in L.A. ended with the Rodney King riots (during which my car window was shot out as I drove) and the Northridge earthquake, but there were great times before all that.

L.A. is where I fully came out. It is where I fell in love the first (and second) time. It is where I learned how to do something constructive in response to AIDS and where I listened to my buddy Stephen talk of his unfulfilled Hollywood dreams while he bravely kept his resolve to break in once he conquered AIDS. This is where I met many good friends, many of whom still live here. In fact, I have more friends still in L.A. from my brief stint two decades ago than I have in Vancouver from the nineteen years since.

I am back, if only temporarily. Laughing once again.