TALK TO ME..........PLEASE

“It’s so funny that we don’t talk anymore.” That’s a lyric from a Cliff Richard “sorta-hit song” from 1979. Little did he know just how prophetic his words were. Actually, I would venture to say that he didn’t have a clue, as he was referring to his lover…not the rest of humanity. But it’s true, we don’t talk. Oh, we communicate…we just don’t talk. Quick, what color are the eyes of the last person you had a conversation with? You can’t tell from a text message, can you? We text, we Facebook, we IM, we tweet.....we don’t talk. The art of conversation seems to have gone the way of of letter writing, which, I suppose I should explain to you younger folks. A long time ago, in a civilization far, far away, people would utilize an instrument known as a pen and touch it to a substance known as paper and move it around so that it would leave intelligible markings, known as letters. You should know what they are. You have them on your keyboards. They would put these letters together on the paper and then fold it, put it into a pocketed piece of paper known as an envelope and then into…are you ready….a mailbox, only to have it delivered to whoever you were trying to communicate with. They would read it and repeat the process to communicate back with you. I know it seems a bit archaic by today’s standards, but, it was very effective. Back in those days, people would look at each other and speak. While one person spoke, the other would listen and respond, constituting what was known as a “conversation.” This, too, was a very effective way to get a point across or, in many cases, just kill a little time. There were two instances, a few years ago, that tipped me off to just where my place would be in the changing communication climate. The first was when the phone rang. It was my then 23 year old daughter calling to ask if her mother would make some nachos for her. Not an unreasonable request when one is on their way home and, perhaps, in a hurry to get back out, as could be the case with any busy 23 year old. I asked my wife where she had called from, fully expecting a rather lengthy explanation. The answer I got? ”Her bedroom.” Her bedroom is a good 15 feet down the hall. Well, I suppose it IS a pretty long 15 feet. I then made the trek (at least 30 or 40 feet) into the kitchen and saw my then 14 year old at the computer. I asked what she was doing, to which she answered, “IMing my friend Cessie.” “Isn’t Cessie spending the night?” I asked. My daughter answered, “Yes, she’s in the bedroom, IMing me back.” I think that’s when my utter confusion started to show. The next day I was shopping for meat. I was at Costco, where meat, in bulk, is cheaper. As I looked at a package of a particularly great cut of about 4 steaks for $30 dollars, I noticed one package was marked $63 dollars. I told the “meat guy” who was restocking some N.Y. Strip steaks about it and he looked at me, without missing a beat, and said, “It’s REALLY good meat.” We both had a laugh and it was then that I realized that conversation, as an art form, is all but dead. You just can’t tweet that kind of spontaneity