Let Your Fingers Do The Walking...

...Right Out to My Recycling Bin.

I'm linking to an article entitled, "Why Won't Phone Books Die?" slate.com And Amen to that. We pulled into our driveway, and still being in my urban state of mind from living in DC, I saw these bags sitting on our path and freaked out, like "Who the hell is dumping sh*t on our path?!! What kind of jerk doesn't find a trash can?!"

Turns out it was our 2008 phone book delivery. Three of them. And all I could think was, "What am I going to do with these books?!" I mean, I simply cannot tell you the last time I have, of my own volition, even considered opening a phone book to find a phone number. I suppose it's good to have one maybe on hand just in case the wireless or the FiOs or the cellular or directory assistance goes out simultaneously? Maybe? But did I need three of them? Like, one for each floor of the house or something?

I remember phone books being a big deal, just like the article says. I remember being jealous of the kids whose parents let them have their own listing and/or number in the directory when my parents refused to even have call waiting. So they'd all be saying, "I'm in the book! Call me!" at parties, and I'd be writing my number on a boy's open palm with notations like, "N.B. NOT after 9, if Scottish man answers hang up." So I do remember those days of longing to be in this here actual real live phone book. But that was, I shudder to say, 20 years ago. Yes, twenty.

I guess I have gone the way of so many others in my attitude that if your business is legitimate, you will have a website, even one thrown up on geocities or whatnot, on which I will find your menu, hours, number and other pertinent information. Barring that there is yellowpages.com, featuring the same listings as the book. Short story long, if I don't find you online, I most likely won't ever have any reason to call you.

Which is not to completely dis the phonebook. Just yesterday, Bambina and I made monster quantities of confetti from Book The Second, followed by one of those circle paper chains you make by ripping paper into strips and affixing them around each other till you have a full-on garland. Book The First is destined for that bottom drawer in the kitchen where all phonebooks go to die, perhaps in a nod to nostalgia, perhaps because we harbor an old fear that some dark night we really really will need emergency martinizing of our dry cleaning.

You just never know.