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s.

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anni fa girava per la riviera ligure, armato di apposito scudo (un pannello circolare col logo del telefono, rancato - "strappato via", per i non liguri selvaggi - dal tetto di una cabina telefonica) il famigerato Capitan Sip, che rubava gettoni ai ricchi per darli ai poveri... poi hanno tolto i gettoni... allora Capitan Sip si diede alle operazioni di ricarica schede telefoniche usate, col metodo dello scotch sulla banda magnetica... poi se ne accorsero e legarono tre militari di leva spezzini per truffa ai danni dello stato... poi privatizzarono la sip, nacque la telecom... ma Capitan Sip ritornerà, oh se ritornerà...

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caro archivista, mi fai venire in mente un altro spunto... c'eri anche tu, ricordi, nel ninfeo?
dunque: se vi trovate come prigionieri (lavoratori o vittime) in qualche ufficio di ente pubblico, con telefono, ma con vincolo al telefono per le chiamate intercontinentali o i vari servizi erotici, si proceda così:
esiste un centralino internazionale della telecom che favorisce le comunicazioni con le linee intasate (lo trovate in elenco telefonico)... voi lo chiamate, e chiedete che vi chiami il tale numero (con lo 00 internazionale come inizio)... lui vi richiamerà e vi passerà il numero estero desiderato, scavalcando il blocco telefonico...

da usare come misura ritorsiva contro il sistema... ciascuno ha ben diritto di sputtanarsi la propria percentuale di deficit pubblico...

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Morale: voi sbarbatelli che dovete ancora prestare servizio,se non siete abbastanza uomini per viaggiare su elicotteri de combattimento con la Folgore, assicuratevi almeno che l'ente a cui avete fatto richiesta sia munito di un telefono senza vigilantes in mezzo ai coglions.

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Information Please

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was Information Please and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway - The telephone!

Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. Information Please, I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?"
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger."

After that I called Information Please for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

And then there was the time that Petey, our pet canary died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice.
"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the pacific Northwest. Then when I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the hall table.

Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please".

Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time. "
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do, just ask for Sally."

Just three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?"
"Yes, a very old friend."
"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
But before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Yes."
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down. Here it is. I'll read it 'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean'.

I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.

Una stronzata così galattica non può che essere vera!
P.S. avrete notato che la storiella è in inglese, ma per viaggiatori scafati come noi non sarà un problema VERO?

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quote:

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Originally posted by emergente:
Apolide sedantario,interessante divagazione su una possibile lternativa "via di fuga", sopratutto al mio ferragosto metropolitano, ben poco parco di
spunti divagatori.
Preso ben nota della cosa proverò un paio di esperimenti nella speranza di beccare, magari, per caso, qualche nr.interessante..
se ciò avrà sucesso ,non dimenticherò di
indicartelo.

ciao .un'emergente

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ciao .un'emergente

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