Brad Marley

Smartphones.

The scourge of humanity; the destroyer of work/life balances the world over.

For all of the ways technology has improved our lives, these guys are not one of them.

Thanks to their "always on" capability, we can now work from, literally, anywhere.

In fact, I am convinced that these seemingly harmless mini-computers were invented by evil managers to trick their employees into unknowingly adopting a tech tethered lifestyle.

"Here's your smartphone. You can check e-mail, surf the Web and be available to me 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Isn't that grand?"

And now, everybody has them. (Except for my Dad, of course. He's still learning how to check his voicemail.) They are so vital to our success that we must carry them wherever we go — meetings, the bathroom, church. You never know when an e-mail with a bright red exclamation mark will hit your inbox.  But when it does? God forbid it takes you two hours to respond to that email. (Ironically, these devices invented — and cornered — the urgency market. We are all a little less patient now.)

The only time I yearn for one is when I step off an airplane and want to check my e-mail to see what I missed while traveling 500 miles per hour at 30,000 feet, and even then the world continues to spin on its axis as I travel to my hotel.

When I'm working, I have my computer open in front of me. When I'm not working, I'm not working.

The first time you respond to an e-mail at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday night, you destroy that oh-so-precious work/life balance. You might as well tell your client that your personal time means nothing. Sleep? Relaxion? Who needs it. I am here to serve you. And do nothing else. 

I have successfully avoided this tether for five years, but like a convict on death row, I realize my time is nearly up.

But until it is, I'm going to rebel.

Not sent from my smartphone. Please excuse all typos.

Last night, after my daughter dozed of while I hummed her Pearl Jam's "Elderly Woman Behind the Counter In A Small Town," I read my favorite blogs on a device that is approximately the same dimensions as a deck of playing cards. (I'm required by law to tell you the device was a Christmas present from my wife.)

While I scrolled through the blogs with a swipe of my finger, I couldn't help but compare it to a Saturday Night Live skit from early 2001 that starred Will Ferrell and Sean Hayes as clothing store employees. In the sketch, Ferrell, who plays the store's owner, pulls out a cell phone that is no bigger than a cashew and places a phone call to fuel the company jet, or whatever. But what makes the clip so absurd is Ferrell's character is supposedly on the cutting-cutting edge of technology, and he has the device to prove it. (I would link to the clip, but NBC's Internet police have eliminated every potential link.)

But here we sit, on the cusp of the second decade of this millennium, and technology has rendered this old clip not funny, but almost prophetic.  Technology is only getting faster and smaller and more mobile.

Take my cell phone history, for instance.

In 2001, my phone did two things: it made and accepted phone calls.

Today, my mobile device is, literally, a computer. I can take pictures, record video, write a "tweet" — if you're reading this in 2032, don't ask — send e-mail…you name it, it will do it.

What do the next eight years hold? Five years?

Even though this post and a recent post of mine might suggest I am a tech neophyte, I am geeked about the possibilities technology might allow us in the near future.  And it's all because of a tiny device my wife gifted me (sorry, rules) that lets me watch Michael McDonald song parodies in the palm of my hand.

Thanks, technology!

It's scary to think that my kids will one day use ubiquitous technology that will be completely foreign to me.

I liken this theory to my Dad and e-mail: he just recently learned to use the "Reply" button to respond to my e-mail. Before, he forwarded all correspondence.  (Although, judging by the number of forwards I get from him in my inbox on a daily basis, he still views e-mail as a tool to send me the hilariousness of the Internet.)

So, it's inevitable that my daughter will come home from school in the near future and try to explain the newest Google to me, and I'll just scratch my head and walk away.

The sad part is we're closer to this day than we think, and I blame the Amazon Kindle.

It started when I read a post over at The Writer's Coin that called the Kindle its "Gadget of the Year."

I have heard of the Kindle, but I have never seen one in the wild. But now I wanted to hold one, feel one, see what all the fuss was about. Luckily, my colleague has one, so I asked her if I could give it a test run.

Surprisingly, I didn't hate it. (Sidenote: If I were to give my Dad, an avid reader, a Kindle for Christmas, I'm pretty sure he would drop dead of a heart attack.) It's no book, but it had a readable interface that is about as close to a book as it gets, without actually, you know, being a book.

However, in what is probably the first sign of the technology-induced ignorance I fear, I can't see myself purchasing one of these machines. I prefer the feel of a real book with real pages to turn as opposed to the square-shaped device that flips the page at the touch of a button.

Not only that, but a large collection of books looks much cooler on a bookshelf than a lone Kindle collecting dust that houses my entire book collection in digital format.

But I know I'm in the minority; perhaps I'm even part of that borderline generation that will never truly embrace the e-reader. The demand is unprecedented, but I'm indifferent and I think the creators know this.

They're content to pass me by and, instead, market to the future consumers who will, inevitably, shape the face of this technology.

Like, my daughters.

Once all books are technological-ized, I'm afraid to see what comes next. Hopefully, I'll be able to unplug myself if it's too much to bear.