Cell phones are the new cigarettes.

As if any more proof of Nokia's outlaw status were needed, in New York, a move's afoot to ban mobile conversation from theaters and concert halls, and slap scofflaws with a $50 fine.

Next thing you know, they'll bring in SWAT teams to deal with offenders: ``OK, ma'am, put down the Star Tac. Step away from the phone, and no one gets hurt.''

As someone who has - OK, I'll just say it - a cell phone problem, when I heard about the bill in New York I got kind of scared, because as we all know, anything that strikes Manhattan - $9.50 movies, underarm Botox injections, pre-nursery school admissions counselors - eventually makes its way to the Hub.

One day I can't comfortably settle into my seat on Broadway - what if my phone rings during the performance? - and the next, I'll be banned from the Wang.

The New York bill makes an allowance for ``emergencies,'' but these are defined as calls to a hospital or the fire department. There's no recognition of the sometimes urgent need to check one's voice mail, or to call your spouse to report exactly what's happened to you since the last conversation: I got off the subway fine and I'm in the theater now, the show's just about to start.

What people don't understand is that for some people, talking on the cell is not a choice. It's a condition.

Consider this sad tale: I was walking down the street the other day, when a man - he was well dressed and appeared to be in fine health - actually tried to bum a minute off me.

``Excuse me,'' he said, ``but my car won't start and I need a tow truck. Do you have a cell phone I can borrow? Mine's out of juice.''

I'd fallen on hard times myself - I was down to my last four ``anytime'' minutes for the current billing period - but I could see he needed help, so instead of pointing to a pay phone in a restaurant not 50 feet from us, I gave him my phone.

It was as if I'd handed him a glass of water in the Sahara. ``Thank you,'' he said, exhaling in relief.

I don't mean to place the blame for my habit on others, but I'm like one of those early smokers, the ones who got hooked before anyone knew the habit was dangerous.

At first I was just a social talker, but the wireless companies pushed themselves on me, feeding my addiction with their relentless come-ons - ``Talk nights and weekends free!'' ``Sign up now and get 1,000 mobile-to-mobile minutes'' - and now I can't stop talking. I can't stop upping my calling plan, even though I know, on one level at least, that my vice may kill me.

``Please,'' my mother begged recently, passing along yet another cancer scare story, ``promise me that at least you won't dial and drive.''

I don't enjoy her nagging, but I guess I should be happy she still cares. My obsession has turned me into one of society's pariahs. Like the very smokers I used to revile, I'm forced to huddle outside restaurants and movie theaters to feed my craving. Sometimes I'll do anything for a heady drag of mobile conversation, and truth be told, I never feel better than when my slim friend is nestled in my hand and I've got a phone full of minutes to blow.

Unless, of course, there's some idiot standing near me yammering on about nothing into a cell phone. Because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's second-hand chat.