Me and My Everything

(By Julia Ewan -- The Washington Post)

Back in October, when I first heard about NTP Inc.'s patent case against Research in Motion Ltd., maker of the BlackBerry wireless communications device, I couldn't get my head around the particulars of the lawsuit. There was a settlement and then not and NTP doesn't even make any devices and RIM is Canadian. . . . Whatever.

I could get my head around this: If the suit played out in NTP's favor, they could take my BlackBerry away. Last week, with the fate of their BlackBerrys in the balance, thousands of D.C. staffers, writers, pols and other professionals were forced to consider that same possibility. Thumbs twitched. And then . . . relief. A settlement in the case on Friday afternoon meant that happy hours will continue to be organized via elaborate forwarded e-mails, and no one will have to pick up smoking again just because they don't know what to do with their hands.

Over the course of a year, my BlackBerry became my diary, my phone book, my vault, my excuse and even my muse: It plays a starring role in my novel, as the conduit of both war room schemes and illicit assignations. Imagining life without it was like imagining life without a limb. Though to be honest, it's really more of a crutch.

Legend has it that the BlackBerry was first widely introduced into Washington's media ecosystem in the wake of 9/11; in the midst of tragedy and confusion, BlackBerrys worked when conventional cell phones and e-mail often didn't. It proved to be an invasive species, like kudzu; introduced because of an emergency, it had the effect of making all communication equally important . . . or equally unimportant. Now not having one is an emergency in itself.

Few people in town get a BlackBerry for social reasons. They're for work -- everyone knows that. They certainly make people look busy. Checking your BlackBerry during lunch is the wonk equivalent of gunning your engine at a red light. But even in workaholic Washington, no one becomes addicted to the so-called Crackberry because it makes you more efficient at your job. (People don't take meth because it makes them type faster, either -- even though it probably does.) BlackBerrys solved a problem Washington didn't even know it had: They are the physical manifestation of the social anxiety so prevalent in a city with the world's highest lanyard-to-neck ratio.

To be sure, some of this electronically assisted interaction takes place within the framework of one's professional life. Having the Web at your fingertips means never having to admit you don't know what someone's talking about -- whether it's directions to a restaurant or a list of charges on an indictment. And though some might complain that the ability to be reached by one's colleagues 24/7 is outweighed by having to respond to them 24/7, the BlackBerry has also conditioned most people to asynchronous responses. With a BlackBerry, we can all operate like Dick Cheney, dispensing information on our own schedule, after research has been done, consensus reached and the sheriff sent on his way.

I cannot imagine how Washington's professional class made impromptu social arrangements before the advent of the BlackBerry. Berryless planning would involve real-time conversation, pinning someone down for an answer, and possible rejection. My mind conjures the image of a lip-biting White House correspondent staring at the phone, his confidence suddenly shot at the moment he realized he might show up at Stetson's alone. (Cable news bookers, who rely on people making decisions in real time, on the phone, while still basking in the instant glow of being asked to appear on TV, provide one of the few exceptions to the "everybody must Berry" rule of engagement.) But such passive-aggressive posse-gathering is probably more intelligible to an outsider than the other role BlackBerrys have come to play in D.C. nightlife. Most conversations in Washington are carried out on two levels to begin with, whether it's non-denial denials or a gentle nudge to "check out who sent him to Niger." The BlackBerry allows yet a third: You say what you can, you text-message what you can't -- poll results, rumors, hotel room numbers. At most of the social gatherings I go to these days, fully half the conversation is going on underneath the table.

That's usually where it's the most interesting, but also the most dangerous. Mixing alcohol and BlackBerrys -- drunkBerrying -- can lead to fewer poll results and more room numbers, a midnight "Berry call" that's the current generation's version of dating-on-demand. And even if your indiscretions are relatively innocent (just bad-mouthing not mouth-to-mouthing), having a written record of one's boozy banter can be, well, sobering. More than once my best friend and I have spent a bleary morning trying to piece together the meaning of such virtual dadaisms as: "The Shark has nothing on me!"

Contemplating the possible demise of the BlackBerry last week, I felt a little sad at the thought that if anyone made a movie of my book, the BlackBerry might have to be played by a Treo. Treos -- the Berry's most popular replacement -- are wonderful gadgets, but they don't suit the character of Washington as well. The BlackBerry is a tough little throwback piece of electronics; its hard plastic case and track wheel are reassuringly mechanical. And it's able to withstand a knock against the pavement or a quick dunk in a puddle of gin, not unlike some lobbyists I know. The Palm Treo is finicky and elegant, endlessly accessorizable and prone to breakdowns. It belongs in New York. A drab and functional machine, on the other hand, is all it takes to make Washington feel glamorous.

So the good news calls for a drink -- I'll message you when and where.

Ana Marie Cox, Wonkette emerita and author of the novel "Dog Days," just needs to return this one e-mail.