I’m sure Alaska Airlines feels the same way about me as this Financial Times writer (Adrian Michaels) does about his friends whose cell contacts lists he heads:
I dearly love my friends and colleagues but here is my festive season wish: I want them all to make friends with someone called Adam. Or Abigail. Or Aaron. Before mobiles, I never thought that being called Adrian was much of an encumbrance. It’s not flash but I get by.
But now my name is too frequently the first entry in people’s mobile phone address list. A mobile or several mobiles in a pocket, without the keypad locks activated and with a bit of rustling about, can easily call me. In the middle of the night. Several times a week.
A colleague in Madrid once sent me more than 300 text messages, one after the other. Quite often all I hear is a squelching sound while someone is walking up the street with mobile in pocket. It was quite a strain once to catch my friend ask a companion over the background noise: “Have you ever taken lots of cocaine and listened to There She Goes by The La’s?” He then gave a drunken rendition.
I am called often by people’s babies, wrestling with their parents’ mobiles and leaving me messages more erudite than The La’s fan.