For most of my life – even if I live to 99 – I didn’t own blue jeans. Originally, it had to do with jeans fitting me so badly. Eventually, I became proud that I didn’t dress like everyone else. I wore corduroy, but that’s a laughing matter for another blog entry. When I turned 50, I felt it was time to challenge myself, so, I bought a pair of blue jeans and joined the herd. Moo.

I’m telling you that as preface to an even more shocking detail that may set me apart from everyone I know: I rarely talk on the telephone. It’s not a phobia: it’s weirder than that. The few people I have talked to on the phone would never guess how rare that is, considering how normal I must sound. I used to have a list of reasons to explain why I avoid phones until I decided that the list came after the aversion, as is so often the case, merely to explain something that may actually be unexplainable and, further, warrants no explanation. It’s my right to avoid phones and, more than likely, not my only eccentricity. Because Merri *LOVES* talking on the phone, we’re a good match (for more than this reason), except when we are away from each other. (In spite of this, we talked frequently by phone the year she was in NM before I moved out.) These days, email, IM, and Skype make it seem almost unnecessary to have a phone. Or so I thought.

But, now I see the inevitable. I see the accidents, the injuries, the mis- and missed communications growing worse with age. I see long hours in waiting rooms looming. I see that IM via WiFi won’t work after a fender-bender or lost along a byway. I see – choking back a little puke now – a phone in my future. A phone fastened to me like a ball and chain, like the mark of the devil, like a pair of jeans I can’t remove. A phone I can’t get away from because I’m *afraid* I may need it at any moment. How do you live with this?

Because even 10 year-olds have more experience with cell phones than I do, I’m asking for input, if you’re still with me at this point (thank you). Who provides the best service? Which is the best phone/feature? When I say ‘best,’ keep in mind that unlimited minutes don’t mean much to me, unless I undergo a complete personality change. (Possible, but that would be hope for the wrong thing.) Should I use one of those ‘pay as you go’ phones? Which?

I would consider a service that provides a computer connection, but don’t recommend the iPhone or the Crackberry. Is there another nerd option?

Thanks for your suggestions in the comments or by email. Don’t call. peace, mjh

Recently, someone asked me if I had written a book. “Why, yes,” I replied with enough pride to beg the Universe to push me down, “Four, in fact.” “Was one a book about your experiences in the Sixties?” Sigh.

This was not the first nor worst time I’ve been mistaken for Mark Rudd, Sixties Radical and math teacher. My name is Mark and I’m married to Merri Rudd, so this mistake has come up many times. That surprises me, in part, because I wouldn’t expect the wife of a Sixties Radical to take his name.

I think the worst such experience occurred at a party. I was introduced to a doctor as, “Merri’s husband, Mark.” “Oh,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long.” I beamed. “Tell me about the Weather Underground.” I stopped beaming. (As Wikipedia will tell youngsters, this is not the service that reports weather information but a domestic terrorism organization.)

The funniest of these mix-ups involved a phone call I received at home one night twenty years ago. “Hi, this is Mark,” I said, as I did when I used to answer the phone. “Mark! I’m with Columbia University. We’re interviewing people about their experiences in the Sixties. Do you have a minute?” “Sure,” I replied. Hell, I remember the Sixties. I don’t remember how long into the conversation the caller asked, “Are you Mark Rudd?” “Uh, no.” Click. Sigh.

Can you imagine what it is like to disappoint people when they find out you’re not who they expected? I just hope someday, someone says to the Mark Rudd, “I really like your book on digital photography.”

ignore this

testing RSS feeds – please ignore.

Twenty-five years ago today, I left most of my friends and my family and the place I called home for 20 years – Alexandria, Virginia. I never expected it of myself. I like to move and had many times, but mostly around Northern Virginia. (After the big move from my first life in Hawai’i, to my second life in Virginia.) It says something that I deliberately left on Friday the Thirteenth. In the few weeks prior, one of my best friends had given birth to her first daughter and my Mother had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. (Had she not responded so well to her first treatments, I might not have left that day.)

I still love the friends I left behind and think often of my misadventures among them. I still miss the DC-area just before my birthday, when the flowers there are spectacular. I don’t miss the traffic, the crowds, or even the cultural amenities.

Twenty-five years ago today, I left comfort and security behind to join Merri in New Mexico. I love her, this place, and our friends here. It’s good to be home.