Now, as we stand at the threshold of millennia suffused with jaw-dropping communications technologies, we need to establish a language of cell phones comparable to the lost language of fans. Such a system of somatics could provide clever, discreet ways of arranging booty calls across crowded bars or telling assholes to take a hike. Chewing pensively on the phone’s antenna, for example, quickly flipping it closed, and slipping it into one’s left front pocket could be the equivalent of saying “You disgust me. I’m going to Starbucks for a decaf latte, and I’m not going to tip very well. Steer clear of that powerbottom in the cashmere sweater–she reeks of Issey Miyake.”
Perhaps had such a code already been instituted, Miss Spacey might have avoided la scandale, la publicite.
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