Over the weekend, I took the plunge and upgraded my mobile phone. (I got an EVO, if anyone is wondering.)
This thing is a marvel that would not be out of place at Spacely Sprockets. It keeps my calendar, takes my pictures, shoots my video, finds my destination, locates a restaurant, and even provides me with the Liturgy of the Hours — along with a gazillion other applications that can allow me to read the New York Times, catch a video on YouTube and keep track of that ugly winter storm that’s going to slap us silly Thursday night.
I have the world at my fingertips, literally. Yet what do I spend most of my time doing? How do I burn off most of my battery life?
Playing Angry Birds.
I could be reading a novel I’ve downloaded from the Kindle app, or checking the latest breaking news from the BBC. I could be learning a new language or finding a new Thai restaurant in Queens.
And I’m enjoying it. Really. I’m letting out little whoops when the pigs get flattened. Life is good when you’re an Angry Bird.
There is something weirdly, morbidly, insanely addictive about this game. Maybe it’s the funny little “oinks” that the pigs make, or the “ayeeee!” screams of the birds as they embark on their bonzai dives to death. Maybe it’s the frustrating challenge of it all, trying desperately to unlock the next step and test your skills.
Or maybe it is the deeper underlying message of the Angry Birds ethos: they are out for justice — or, perhaps, revenge — and are willing to die for what they believe in. They are martyrs for a cause — give us back the eggs, you filthy pigs! — and are fearlessly surrendering their lives for a greater good. (Do I detect a sacrificial Christian theme in there? Okay. Maybe not.)
Then again, maybe it’s much simpler. Maybe my Angry Birds fetish is about something more mundane.
In the end, after all, it all comes down to this: in a world consumed by chaos and confusion, when it all seems to be too much, I can always whip out my phone and just flip the bird.
Ah. Yes. Life is good.