I have successfully avoided owning a mobile phone up until this point. I have noticed over the past year or so that, when I am asked for my mobile number and explain that I don't have one, there is no contingency. People look at you like you've just told them that your house doesn't have indoor plumbing. As you can imagine, I have next to no pity for a man whose intolerance of staged interracial couples, drives him to purchase a phone from a swarthy woman in a headscarf, while her pale, cross-eyed son mournfully plays a Cossack lullaby on the violin. Nor do I have much patience for a man who is blatantly in denial that his new phone has been cursed by the aforementioned gypsies, and who will not accept that the only remedy is to agree to paint the old woman's Romany caravan, and sign up to a service that delivers a box of propriety white heather to his home every month.
If a group of salsa-kin billionaires, along with the obligatory Frenchman who, under maritime law, must accompany all deep-sea expeditions, want to transcend their human bodies and roam the oceans of the world as an inspirational pink mist, then we should respect their life choices. A fitting conclusion will be if James Cameron, during the daily commute to his production office in the wreck of the Titanic, spies the logitech controller intact on the ocean bed and manages to sync with it.
