When my cell phone rings, it literally rings. It is not set to vibrate, flash a light, make a squeal or a shriek—it just rings like the Good Lord intended a telephone to do.
What is it with people needing dozens of different rings for their cell phones? What ever happened to the good old-fashioned ringy-dingy of the traditional phone?
Apparently, it’s not enough just to be able to reach out and call someone from any spot on earth—now, the cell phone industry has convinced more than a handful of people that they must go beyond caller ID and have a band or chorus announce just who it is that is calling.
This is an annoying trend in an increasingly competitive and annoying industry, but, to paraphrase a famous movie line: “If you make it, some nut will buy it.” And a whole plantation of nuts seems to be buying phones that can reproduce any sound ever made, from a baby’s cry to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
My dear wife has a friend named Sara who is to trendy what the Sahara is to sandy. Every time I see this fadophile, she has just purchased whatever gadget has been newly foisted upon the world of expensive doodad buyers.
When cell phones makers first advertised the wide variety of rings available on their brands, Silly Sara was the first to buy the phone with the largest repertoire of musical rings. She then set out to assign each of the dozens of people in her personal phone book a very special ring so that when that person called her, she would know in a flash who was calling her. And she did not go about this task in a willy-nilly way—oh, no, not our Silly Sara.
She made a list of the characteristic of each and every person on her endless list. For example, near the top of the list was a lady quite slight of frame and stature. She was assigned the Minute Waltz by Chopin. A friend with a notorious drinking habit was represented by Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. One of Sara’s coworkers is a party girl who stays up and out all night and sleeps through much of her day in the office. When she calls Sara, the phone plays Brahms’ Lullaby.
Some of the rings are a bit obscure; when Sara’s mechanic calls to tell her that her car is ready to be picked up, the phone plays the introduction to The Incredible Flutist—by Walter Piston. One of my favorites is Sara’s tribute to her ex-husband, who divorced her in spite of all of Sara’s impressive efforts to hold the marriage together. She still hopes for a reconciliation, and I think her choice of music to announce his increasingly infrequent calls is touching: the opening bars of Schubert’s magnificent Unfinished Symphony.
One of the truly great comedy acts of today is performed every time Sara’s phone sounds off, for she now has so many people calling her—each with his or her own personalized bit of music—that Sara can no longer remember them all. Watching her try to figure out who might be calling is pure humor at its best.
Picture this: Silly Sara sitting in a restaurant with my dear wife and I; the opening notes of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 1 spring from Sara’s cell phone. Her eyes narrow to a squint and her brow is furrowed in deep thought. Now she begins to speak: “Is that Harold calling—he has long hair like Liszt. No, he had it cut off—did I change his tune or … maybe it’s …”
My wife grabs the phone, pushes the talk button, and hands the phone to Sara, who is still probing her memory for the one she’d assigned Liszt’s famous piano work to.
“It’s Karen,” said my wife. “Oh, yes, now I remember,” said Sara. “Karen’s a model and is always complaining that she’s hungry.”
Now, that’s funny, or at least clever, but the real humor is watching this poor lady search for clues while the band plays on. “Pick up the phone,” her friends are always telling her, but Sara replies, “No, not yet—I’ve almost got it. Yes! Pomp and Circumstance by Elgar—the graduation march. It’s Sally, who quit high school in her junior year and never got to hear that march in its proper context.”
Sara picks up the phone. She has missed the call; she doesn’t return it, because, as she says, “Sally will call back and when she does, I’ll know who it is.”
Knowing Sara as I do, Sally would be wise to simply send Sara a letter.
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