Walking around the city this weekend, I was struck for the 100,000th time how, in 2010, everyone is addicted to their little screens. In movies. At restaurants. In bars. Cruising a store. Stumbling down the street. Drunk. Sober. It’s jarring, and—I must admit—it annoys the crap out of me.

When the wife purchased an iPhone a few months back, I was worried she’d morph into one of the pod people. She didn’t, praise Jesus, but pretty much everyone else I know has. Which begs this: Who the fuck are you texting? And why is it so important?

That’s really the $1 million question: Why is the person not present more important than the person standing in front of you? My answer is sorta quirky, which is we’re more addicted to and intrigued by the imaginary potential of the future than we are the present. A possible meeting. Pending words. An e-mail on the way. They all hold some sort of mystical force, because they’re all full of sterling potential. Once they turn into reality, we’re once again bored and looking for the next fix.

I don’t text. My phone sucks.

And I’m pretty damn happy.