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Rrrriiinnnggg. I was in a coffee shop. (I know … you’re astounded.) I was in a coffee shop, trying to concentrate on some terribly important story that my surfing fingers had stumbled across, when: Rrrriiinnnggg. As I was saying, I had happened upon some incredibly fascinating study about the emotional and psychological benefits of taking a hiatus from social media, when my concentration was disrupted by: Rrrriiinnnggg. “Will someone answer that blasted cellphone,” I might have said softly, politely, before I did a spit-take with my morning iced coffee. I saw what the problem was. Actually, what I saw were the faces of a few fellow coffee-drinkers seated about the shop … each glaring at the perpetrator of this cellphone faux pas. It was yours truly. Now, those who know me — and perhaps some who have followed my various ramblings over the years — are no doubt surprised, if not stunned, that I was at fault here. For, you see, I do not have a cellphone. Honest. If you had access, you could verify this by viewing the Mail Tribune’s internal list of employee phone numbers. Right there, where cell numbers (and isn’t that an apt way of thinking of them) are noted, there is no 7-, 10-, or 11-digit number. Instead, some unknown prankster who I shall not name … coughcoughbobhuntercough … noted that I could be reached if you “leave message chiseled in rock near his cave.” So what was this petite red flip contraption from another epoch doing on my table in the coffee shop? Besides, of course, ringing … which led me to sheepishly head outside to answer some now-forgotten call. It was my significant other’s cellphone. (No, not the cat.) It is used primarily when one or both of us are out of town — where it rests inside a pocket of her purse apparently designed for such purposes … and it is turned off. I had it on this particular morning because we were in the midst of a move and I was readying items in our previous address for the arrival of the movers. (Let’s keep the part about my being in a coffee shop between us, shall we?) It’s not that I hate cellphones … well, that’s a lie right there. I do hate cellphones. I hate how they require pockets and holders to maintain them. I hate how they apparently necessitate keeping a spare bowl of rice at the ready, should they get wet. But mostly I hate the noises they make … the beeps and buzzes, the cutesy individual ringtones, the shuffling of dialers and answerers to put the things into use — but mostly the voices of people talking in places reserved for a little quiet contemplation, like parks or theaters or bookstores or coffee shops. LET ME EAT THIS CROISSANT IN PEACE, PEOPLE. (Let’s also keep the part about the croissant to ourselves … m’k?) Cellphones represent forced advancement, an interconnectivity of the hive mind that lets those shadowy figures out there in the vast recesses know where you are, what you are doing and, ultimately, what you are thinking about. Plus, you just have to keep buying more and more of them. Newer models filled with programs that you’ll never use. (Except for the Mail Tribune app, obviously.) I have never been good about selecting technology. My first home computer was an Apple IIe, which my brother-in-law said made for an adequate doorstop. We next bought a Gateway (perhaps because of those demonic cows). And when Gateway bought the farm we went onto Toshiba and Dell before finally being assimilated into the Mac collective. It has been ever thus. I once had a solid collection of 8-track tapes, and cassettes, then compact discs and my vinyl albums. I’ve never downloaded a song when it dropped for distrust of becoming one of those iPod people. Besides, CDs and vinyl are back in style — even if my musical tastes aren’t. Speaking of taste, Betty Crocker once made a delightful chocolate cream pie in an Oreo crust that we grew fond of … until it disappeared from the shelves. Same with Thomas’ whole-wheat English muffins, and Quisp cereal. Our favored Ashland restaurants keep falling by the wayside — Munchies, then Dragonfly, Wiley’s World of Pasta and, most recently, Mihama. We’ve had no better luck with car choices — having run through a Toyota Tercel, Renault Alliance (it had a “Car of the Year” sticker in the back window and everything), Volkswagen Fox and two particularly forlorn Chevys … the Nova and the Chevette, the latter having lost a one-on-one stare-down with a German shepherd. How am I supposed to choose a cellphone — even if I wanted one — with that sort of consumer track record? I suspect the day is coming when I will have to buy a cellphone, and will find myself trying to determine in which pocket to carry it, and whether to select multiple ringtones … and, ultimately, determine that I should carry it at the ready in a park, a theater or a bookstore. When that day comes, no doubt, the remainder of society will have moved onto something else … and I can hate that. Mail Tribune senior designer Robert Galvin can be reached at [email protected].