I am not a member of the "me" generation. My friend Joe the Plumber, eulogized in this column, used to say, "I’m not much, but I’m all I think about." I can certainly identify with that. Nevertheless, I belong in a pack with my fellow graying baby boomers. I have, however, of late, become a part of the "i" generation. This happened when I relinquished my tiny Motorola, which would not stay closed any more without the assistance of an elastic band around its middle, gave into peer pressure and got an iPhone.
By and large, it is a miraculous machine. I can connect to Westlaw, my bank account, shop for a house, find coffee, and get directions when I am lost on the way to the deposition, all without breaking a sweat. I have email, which dings at me all day and all of the night, eliciting my vigilant attendance. If, for instance, Prince Harry were attempting to contact me from a different time zone, I would want to respond instantly. Thanks to the iPhone, I stand ready.
