Lebanon, you see, is a nation of cellphone addicts.
Looking down into cars moving alongside them, truckers see the familiar cellphone addicts chatting away while their cars drift over the center line.
The bus is quiet except for the white noise of the air-conditioner, the murmurs of the cellphone addicts huddled in fetal curls.
The pier juts out into Long Island Sound where I am surrounded by salt air, lapping waves and the warmth of the sunset -- and no cellphone addicts.
Their forecasts are rooted in a lesson painfully learned over many years: For leather-lunged cellphone addicts, no subject is too inane and no personal detail too private to be withheld from anyone within a 100-yard radius.
Still, as they acknowledge, "these were contradictory times... when a new generation of cellphone addicts could speak confidently about business school degrees one minute while bemoaning the collapse of the Soviet Union the next".
The doctors' schedules have, invariably, gone haywire, the room is slowly filling with patients as murmurs of bicker and complaint carry from the front desk, a couple of cellphone addicts are conducting business — LOUDLY!!! — and children are either being shushed or barreling about as if training for the running of the bulls.
"He talks about being addicted to his cellphone and makes us all relate to him".
Reminds me of that story from a few days ago, about those kids who were addicted to their cellphone.
The former addict pulled out his cellphone and had the satisfaction of being the dialer, not the subject, of a call to 911.
Preternaturally adapted to the 21st-century psychological space created by cellphones and the Internet, he is, one might say, an information addict.
