Hand on the Telephone

My cable is out. This, in and of itself, is not an unusual occurrence. Time Warner is my cable service provider and I’m not afraid to say it out loud (or in print), but they suck the big wazoo.
The events of yesterday evening were, however, decidedly unusual. And I, history freak that I am, was without cable. Time Warner had rendered me impotent, and, just like Cher, I hate that.
What to do? What to do?
No cable. How would I know what Lady Macbeth, err, the senator from New York, was saying?
Aha!
Picked up the telephone and dialed the 10 digits.
The gentleman in Cambridge, my Guy Friday.
“Hey, it’s me. Cables out, are you watching?”
“Of course”
“Well, what’s happening?”
And that, my friend, is how I spent the evening.
I listened to Obama claim victory as the presumptive democratic candidate over the telephone.
One phone in Cambridge placed next to the television, me in my own little bed in Greenwich Village.
The wonders of modern technology married to the wonders of the democratic process