A couple of weeks ago, my old cell phone went for a swim. And, once again, I was forced to take another step forward in the technology arena.
I got as fancy-shmancy a cell phone as a cheap guy is willing to buy. It has a keyboard for texting and many other buttons that do something or another. I think you might even be able to make calls on it.
Actually, I’m sure you can make calls on it because I took yet another first step in the technology world this week. This new phone is equipped with the handy “butt-dial” feature.
I’d heard of butt-dialing before. I’ve heard of teenagers whose misdeeds were overheard when they butt-dialed their parents. And I’ve wondered what kind of idiot could butt-dial.
Now I know.
Blame Jerry Reed, though, not me. Somewhere between Buena Vista and Ellaville, Ga., I stumbled across some wonderfully eclectic radio station. It’s not often you’re scanning channels and bump into Jerry Reed belting out “Lord, Mr. Ford.”
I did what any red-blooded Georgia boy would do in that situation — I sang along and helped Jerry out with a little air guitar. Apparently I was putting on such a good show that my cell phone decided to call someone and let them know. It couldn’t find any music industry agents on my contact list, so it called my friend Rhonda instead.
For over five minutes, she and her husband, Felton, enjoyed my concert. I know they enjoyed it because she said she kept screaming my name into the phone — kinda like someone screaming “Bruce!” at a Springsteen concert, I guess.
She should consider herself lucky. Depending on the hour I’m driving and how loopy I am, I could be belting out anything from Abba’s “Dancing Queen” to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But “Lord, Mr. Ford,” that’s classic stuff.
I’ve been on the receiving end of such calls. I once got one from my wife when she was on a girls trip to Atlanta. It was still on as they ate at a classy restaurant, and I tried to get her attention, but she couldn’t hear me over the ambient music — “It’s Raining Men” — in the background. Those restaurants can get loud. I didn’t even know she had a friend named Hank the Hunky Handyman until that day. I still think that’s a strange name for a girl.
Rhonda hung up after being overwhelmed by my mobile musical talent and called my wife to let her know I just might be waking up all the residents along Highway 26. My wife then called and said, “So, you’re singing in the car, huh?”
Lucky guess, I figured. She explained what happened, so I called Rhonda again and she said that it was indeed the highlight of her day.
“Who was that?” she asked of the music I was playing.
“Jerry Reed!” I said proudly.
That did it. I love Rhonda, but such a question is blasphemy in Georgia. Just for that, her next cell phone performance will be “Afternoon Delight.”
ContactChris Johnsonat firstname.lastname@example.org or 706-320-4403.