ESSAY: BlueBerry? BlackBerry? It's All The Same...

In 1983, the reason now escaping me but probably having to do with the IHOP pancakes I was downing while reading my morning newspaper, I decided that, from that day forward, I would refer to my daily Los Angeles Times as my “BlueBerry.”

Now for the last decade, I have relied solely on public transportation, meaning of course that I am rarely if ever not in possession of my BlueBerry and sometimes even the latest book I am reading.

Being the gregarious sort, I frequently meet friends for breakfast, lunch or dinner and, without fail, am always accompanied by my trusty BlueBerry, resting quietly atop the table, ready to serve me at a whim’s notice with its 24-hour cycle of the information so critical to my day.

Lately, however, I have been troubled – nay aggravated - by the peeved looks from those with whom I am dining whenever they happen to catch my furtive – OK, sometimes blatant - glances down at my BlueBerry sports section. Inveterate gambler that I am, I am often snatching quick tidbits of information key to my next wager: injury reports, game field conditions, lineup changes, whatever. It’s important to me. Get it?

One recent conversation with a friend of many years went something like this:

“My doctor says it might even be inoperable. Oh, Bill, I can’t tell you how frightened I am, what with three kids and another one on the way. I have no idea what I’ll do if—”

I glanced down at my BlueBerry, the thought having struck me that quarterback Brett Favre’s play is spotty indoors. Was the next Vikings game in The Metrodome or on the road outdoors? Unfortunately, that page was not in my direct view, so I held my BlueBerry aloft with both hands, fully obscuring Wanda from my line of sight as I ruffled through its pages until I found what I was looking for. Aha! It was an away game. And on grass at that! Sorry Brett. I’m taking the points.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I inquired, lowering my BlueBerry and placing it back onto the table, perfectly situated to accommodate my reading glasses. “Something about a tumor was it?”

I thought I caught a quick look of annoyance come over Wanda’s face but I couldn’t be sure. There was a petulant rolling of her eyes though, of that I was certain, but seeing how I do that myself on occasions, especially when someone is babbling on while I’m trying to sneak another peek at my BlueBerry, it was entirely forgivable.

“I was telling you about what my oncologist had to say.”

“Oh right, the cancer thing! Go on. You were saying.”

Wanda continued, at length - as always she does - and I could feel myself being drawn once again by the seductive pull of my BlueBerry, its silent but hypnotic allure drawing me in against the noisome tide of Wanda’s incessant babbling.

Blah-blah-blah. On she went about her ailment while I found myself wondering if the point spread for the Giants game had changed in the last day or so. It was time for another downward glance. Lucky for me I was on the correct page, folded perfectly to the handicapping for the weekend’s games. Yes! The Giants were still favored. “Yes!” I said a tad too loudly.

“Have you even heard a single word I’ve been saying?” Wanda intoned with evident frustration.

“Well I heard that well enough, thank you very much,” I said, feigning offense. “Big game this weekend,” I started in, before letting it trail into a barely audible mumble. I leaned forward and folded my hands, my face a veil of genuine concern for whatever Wanda had to say. “OK,” I said, implying that she now had my undivided attention.

“Anyway, it’s looking very much as if—”

I held up a finger. “Just one thing. Real quick.” Didn’t the Ravens quarterback injure his throwing finger against an opponent’s helmet last Sunday? I again turned to my BlueBerry.

Wanda crumpled her napkin, tossed it onto her half-eaten plate, picked up her purse and stormed off.

Some people can be so rude.

BILL

"Bill Hits a New Low, Even For Him" claims The NY Times

In light of the fact that, in the last fifteen years, two films (“Schindler’s List” and “Slumdog Millionaire”) have won the Academy Award for Best Picture, each containing a scene where a small child intentionally hurls himself into a vat of solid human waste, I have commenced work on my next screenplay: “Intestinal Fortitude: The Amazing Escapades of Lester Tulane, Septic Tank Repairman.”

BILL

Unchained Memory

I formed a rock and roll band in high school. The Self-Righteous Brothers. Nobody liked us.

BILL

The Dear Hunter

In the wayward days of my youth, I would bring to school for Halloween homemade "animal crackers," in reality the fire-charred remnants of chipmunks, squirrels, and whatnot, filleted with wild-eyed abandon by my seven-year old hand in the dark, lonely woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My "meat treats" - as I called them - proved immensely popular with both my fellow students and, soon thereafter, my fellow patients.

BILL

A Little League Memory

My idol growing up, Baltimore Orioles third baseman Brooks Robinson, was nicknamed the “human vacuum cleaner,” so adept was he at catching ground balls.

My Little League teammates also called me the “human vacuum cleaner,” but only because – in their words – I “sucked.”

BILL