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Tag: 1990s

First Cell Phone – Get this. I Used It to Call People!My first cell phone from the early 2000s

First Cell Phone – Get this. I Used It to Call People!

Published by Michele Miles Gardiner on December 15, 2018

Here’s the first cell phone I ever used (top photo), way back in the late ’90s. Found it yesterday. Oddly, upon seeing this teeny techy thing, I got a little nostalgic thinking back to when I used it only for PHONE CALLS. Weird, right? That sounds so quaint now that I’m walking around with a gadget that allows me to text/record and edit mini movies/rant/respond to emails… But when someone calls me on it? I don’t hear it.

Wearing my 1990's Mom Jeans
The 1990s: mom jeans, Zima and cell phones I couldn’t yet use to humiliate myself.

Yep, looking at this old device wistfully, I thought about simpler times, before smart phones, back when (cue flashback music): I didn’t accidentally text a male friend “I love you!” meant for my daughter; didn’t get into heated arguments with online strangers; didn’t accidentally reveal to business-related people scantily clad photos of myself; didn’t stick my phone in my pocket, causing my butt wiggle to activate a YouTube video, so that the entire market produce section heard a Louis CK raunchy rant (I looked around for far too long wondering where the rant was coming from. Duh! My pocket!). Yes, long ago I could walk my dog without getting pinged, vibrated and beeped from business contacts… which I once could escape, momentarily.

Still, I would never want to go back to pre cell phone days. I spent far too many hours, when I first moved to LA, stranded with my array of broken cars on nearly every So Cal freeway – the 101, the 405, the 170 – sweaty, dusty and crying out to nobody. Yeah, cell phones are a much better option than screaming toward the smoggy sky. Halloween of 1987, I spent six hours on the 101 freeway, on the fast lane shoulder, as cars – including quite a few police cars – sped by me. Meanwhile, my boyfriend who was expecting me home, was sick worrying. Eventually, some kind soul scooped me up and dropped me off at a pay phone.

Pay phones. Remember the ones in a booth? To think we once went into a booth, and closed the door behind us, for privacy. Today we can walk down the street yelling at people, announce to the world we had amazing sex, share exciting news to everyone at our local coffee place. Privacy is so passé… I say as I type my thoughts out into the virtual world. Yeah, I’m a whiny hypocrite. But at least when I eat dinner with you I’ll be whining as I stare at your face and not my cell phone.

Vintage ad from Pacific Telephone about the phone booths of the future
Vintage ad from Pacific Telephone about the phone booths of the future. Way to predict the future, Pacific Telephone!
Woman with old portable phone
Look at her! So proud of her cumbersome telephonic device. At least she isn’t capable of showing strangers her scantily clad photos. Found this here.
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Cringe-Inducing Moment with Writer Sandra Tsing LohWriter Sandra Tsing Loh's book, "Depth Takes a Holiday."

Cringe-Inducing Moment with Writer Sandra Tsing Loh

Published by Michele Miles Gardiner on June 9, 2018

Before I ever dared publish my writing, or think about writing my own book, “Craving Normal,” (Because I don’t think I’ve bored you enough in previous posts about MY BOOK. Did I mention I wrote a book?) I merely admired the work of real writers, while hiding my own stories in binders. At the time, one of my favorite LA writers was Sandra Tsing Loh, author of “Depth Takes a Holiday”, and other work. Sandra had me hooked after I read her Buzz Magazine article, “The Joy of Temping,” where she wrote about working as a temp in the North San Fernando Valley – a “land of fluorescent lighting, faux hardwood paneling, olive-green carpet and gummy IBM Selectrics.” There, she was forced to wear nylons and eat lunch from the vending machine. Of course, the story was way more hilarious than my second-hand telling… But it made me laugh and I related. I’ve lived that temp life in the Valley. I knew just that color green carpeting.

Anyway, I began buying Buzz Magazine just for her witty tales of life in the San Fernando Valley. Reading her pieces inspired me to submit my writing. So I really wish my exchanges with Ms. Tsing Loh could have been wonderful. But, no! I had to make a fool of myself.

So, in the mid 1990s, when my husband and I went to a friend’s party, and I saw Sandra Tsing Loh there – dancing in front of the band – I knew I had to meet her. And, little did I know, our husbands, both musicians, know each other. Somehow we (Sandra and I) ended up at the same table. I don’t remember how. But it probably involved me skulking over there like a twelve-year-old fan. I cringe to recall the entire exchange. But part of it went something like this:

Me: Yeah, I’m taking a writing class right now…

Sandra nods and smiles.

Me: But my teacher, she smells a little musty – you know, she’s a little artsy-fartsy…

Right then, I wanted to smack myself in the head. I’d never, ever used that goofball phrase before. What a dork! I meant my teacher was a little new-agey, touchy-feely, took herself too seriously for my taste. Instead, I just blurted “artsy-fartsy.” It’s a phrase that might sound right coming from a 70-year-old woman who buys her living room paintings from Walmart to match her sofa.

Right about then is when Sandra began looking around for her husband, the bathroom, a drink, any reason to escape. I got the idea every new person she meets tells her about their dream to write, so maybe she just figured I was another writer-wanna-be, one who uses stupid phrases like “artsy-fartsy” and would just shame the writing world if I ever got published.

Well, that’s what I was thinking she was thinking. Sandra was actually really nice and supportive, leaving me with something like, “Well, we need more women writers,” before fleeing.

Still, I wanted to stick a cocktail toothpick in my eye.

I enjoy Lev Yilmaz’s work. But if I ever meet him, I’m sure it’ll be awkward.

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