Most of my friends know that I have a love/hate relationship with the telephone. More hate than love, really, since I’m terrible at maintaining meaningful conversations via phone, and a ringing telephone—especially a ringing cellphone—represents about a dozen different types of simultaneous intrusions into daily life. So despite the fact that I jumped on the cellphone bandwagon several years ago, right around the same time everyone else did, I still go into a state of mild panic when my phone rings. Call it a disorder if you must.

It’s especially difficult with long-distance friends. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to these important people whom I may not have seen in quite some time; it’s almost the opposite: I’m afraid there’s no way a technology like the telephone can possibly do justice to the estrangement that results when formerly intimate friendships are challenged by geographical circumstances, and the reconnection that distance mandates can’t possibly be acheived over the phone, can it? Maybe it can, for some people; I don’t know. It’s just a lot more difficult for me.

So, most people who call me aren’t surprised when it goes to voicemail. It’s not because I’m an asshole; it’s because I’m much more comfortable with email and face-to-face communication.

There are exceptions, of course. Like this evening, when Neil called and we engaged in the same juvenile humor we perfected several years ago, or earlier this afternoon, when Wes called me out of the blue. (At this point I should probably apologize to Wes and assure him that not every phone call we have will result in an extremely sentimental blog entry featuring a photo from 1995. Just this one.)

Wes and I have plans to play music together over the holidays, maybe record it, but mostly just to “jam” like we used to in high school, whether in my mother’s basement—where the cement walls of the unfinished rooms create violently epic acoustical effects, especially on the drums—or in his parents’ little piano room, or up in Mark’s attic. More than anything, my goal is to play music again with my oldest and best musician cohort. At the end of our phone conversation, Wes suggested we make custard. This isn’t some sick euphemism; it’s literal: in tenth grade, a few days before Christmas, I went over to his house and we made custard while listening to a mix tape of the Smiths he’d made for me.

Some constants remain. I’m glad I answered my phone.