Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, November 03, 2005
 
a new toy
Boys and girls, I got a new toy. May I present to you, the Treo 650.

Now before ye pass judgment, hear me out. I am not a materialistic person. My wardrobe consists of clothes I buy at the same stores that every 26 year-old fat white dude with no fashion sense shops. But I don’t buy clothes very often. When I go out, I routinely hear from friends, “Dude, didn’t you wear that shirt last weekend?” To which I reply, “Dude, take it easy – my parents are divorced.” You’d be surprised how much this works. On top of that (or more appropriately, below that), I own only two pairs of jeans. I wear both constantly. The shoes that I wear to work and when I go out to bars etc have holes in their soles, so that when I step in a puddle my feet are soaked for many hours (seriously). I own one pair of sneakers, which I’ve owned for over a year. So I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t have a lot of clothes.

As for other material things, I don’t collect anything. Baseball cards, art, cookware, dvds; I have none of these (or very few in the case of dvds). I play guitar, but haven’t bought a new guitar since 2001. One could argue that my iPod is materialistic and unnecessarily expensive, but I actually think that the iPod saved me money. Before going digital, I would buy countless cds for one or two songs. Now I just steal those songs off the internet! I’d even say that prior to owning the iPod, I’d buy about 30 cds a year. Since then, it’s more like three cds a year. So take that, sucka.

But I have longed for some time for a mobile device that will give me a) optimal service; b) primo text messaging; c) the ability to email; and d) web browsing capabilities. Also, I wanted something that would make me look cool in front of women, like a real high roller or some shit. This is not a joke, either. It makes me kind of sad to admit it, but part of the reason that I wanted a pimped-out cell phone was so that I could look hip. Please, kick my ass now.

A few posts back, I asked what you all thought of T-Mobile’s Sidekick. I didn’t know much about the Sidekick, but I knew that lots of celebrities used them. And as I get farther and farther away from “Internet Quasi-Celebrity” and closer and closer to “Poorly Respected Writer Who Gets Very Drunk at Parties in New York and Los Angeles and Spends All Night in the Bathroom”, the Sidekick seemed like a reasonable option. But alas, you all said otherwise, panning the Sidekick for, well, just about everything.

So I did a little research on my own to see not only what was out there, but also what was feasible given my current cell phone status. I had Sprint and I wanted out (I have bemoaned the horrible service of my carrier Sprint very often here, so I need not rehash it here, even though I rehash the same fat/drunk/getting no ass jokes every week). But I am still under contract with Sprint until next May. To break that contract would cost $150, money that could be spent on better things, namely my two favorite seasonal winter habits: gambling and vodka. I have also been picked up phone sex as an interest of mine, presumably because the cold weather is keeping me in. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I digress…

So one day last week while ambling around Manhattan, I wandered into my local Sprint and saw it: the Treo 650. As soon as I saw I laid eyes on it, I knew it had to be mine. And so I grilled the guy at the store about my contract, the cost, etc, and told him I’d think about it and left the store. Of course, I did this only to seem like a smart consumer. When I left the store, I knew only one thing for certain: if I didn’t get that Treo, I would surely die.

This past weekend, I returned to the Sprint store with my posse in effect. It was the same crew that joined me as the Baldwin Brothers for Halloween – my roommate Brian and my buddies Bill and Joe in from Boston. I wanted them to come with me for moral support as I made such a rash and impetuous decision. They wanted to come with me so that after I made said decision (specifically, after my credit card was charged), they could say, “Dude – why did you do that? You don’t have that kind of money!” That’s what friends are for.

One of the requirements of the purchase was that I had to get a new number. I’d rather not get into the details of this, which involves a complicate mathematical formula taking into considering rebates, new activation discounts, and new contractual minutes. The bottom line is that it would be much cheaper for me if I got a new number, dig?

Before going to the Sprint store, my buddies and I had breakfast/lunch at LoSide, a nice lil’ hipsterish diner that opened on Houston Street a few months back. There, we discussed the possibilities of picking my own number and what I should choose if I were allowed to do this. I originally thought that 646-MULGREW would be best, because it’s easiest to remember (646 is one of the NYC cell phone area codes). Then, Joe suggested something like 646-RAPE-ASS. Brian had a slightly scary but unfortunately funny idea of 646-I-EAT-PEE, but then Bill put it all together with something stunning in its simplicity: 646-FUCK-YOU.

646-FUCK-YOU was going to be my new number. Undoubtedly so. I called the number (which translates to 646.382.5968) and – mother of pearl! – it was out of service. I presumed that this meant no one was using it, so I further presumed that it then must be available. I was so excited to get to the Sprint store that I couldn’t even finish my eggs benedict (well, ok, I could finish my eggs benedict – and most of Brian’s “Urban Cowboy Hash” – but you get it).

(Also I got a cookie to go. As a reward for such a good idea.)

I wasn’t entirely sure how the whole picking your own number process worked, but I knew it could be done. I mean, businesses have custom numbers all the time, so why couldn’t an individual chose one for his/her private line? I assumed that I’d have to pay a fee in order to get a custom number, and after mulling it over I decided that I was willing to pay around $1500 for 646-FUCK-YOU. Surely, the joy of telling my friends, my family, and women I met in bars that my number was FUCK-YOU was worth any price. And yes, I know that women don’t customarily ask me for my number in bars unless its part of an insurance claim report, but FUCK-YOU is still awesome.

I practically ran to the store. Well, I did my best impression of running, which looks like a cross between humping the air and “I’ve been shot in both hamstrings.” When we arrived, I ran right up to the phone when the girl asked, “Can I help you?” I blurted out, “I want this phone!” with the intensity of a retard asking for more pudding.

And so it began. If you’re not familiar, getting a new cell phone is a long process. I was in the chair opposite the sales girl for maybe 30 minutes, as she asked for information and clicked things on her computer. We learned a lot about each other in that time. She was a 19 year-old from Brooklyn in her sophomore year at the College of Staten Island. She was studying sociology, but wanted to be a lawyer. She hadn’t decided which kind of law, though; she had a real estate license, so could probably do real estate law, but she wanted to “change the system.” When I asked what she meant by that, she said, “Like, you know, cops? The cops are, like, supposed to protect you, but they don’t, you know? That’s just wrong.” This leads me to believe that her boyfriend/brother/cousin must have gotten caught dealing and so now she hates cops. At least she was kind of cute, with dark hair and light eyes, but she had one of my pet peeves: some chunk, no chest.

Look, I like girls with some meat on their bones. This is mostly for health reasons, as I don’t want to crush my lady or bruise any of her ribs during one of our vigorous bouts of lovemaking. Also because since I’m a big guy myself, so I don’t want to date a girl that going to make us look like the number 10 when we stand next to each other. That just ain’t cool. But it’s mainly because I like boobies (have I mentioned this before on the site? No?). Typically, “healthy” girl equals big boobies. However, some girls have the “some chunk/no chest” syndrome, which is exactly what it sounds like: though they do have some meat to them, they have small boobies. This makes me sad, seeing as (I would imagine) one of the best thing about being a lil’ chubby to very chubby girl is massive mambas. It’s kinda like the equivalent to how guys who are big and fat don’t usually get messed with or picked on because even if they secretly are pussies, others are intimidated by their size. But healthier women without boobs = sadness. Mostly for me.

Having said this, I still would have married this girl in a heartbeat and spent the rest of my life making her moderately happy because was most helpful when I told her that I wanted a custom number. I told her that I would pay whatever it costs and whatnot, but she said that she couldn’t give me a custom number, saying that when a new number is activated, she gets a list of possible numbers to choose from. And that’s it.

I was crushed. I wanted 646-FUCK-YOU so bad that when I heard it wasn’t going to happen, I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Not yet ready to throw in the towel, I instead sat in the chair and sulked, saying things like, “Man, I was really hoping to get that custom number” and “That sucks – I’m pretty bummed about not being able to pick my number” and sighing heavily. Finally, she broke down and asked, “Well, what is the number? I can check to see if it’s here.” Realized that this was the point of no return, I told her, “I really want it to be 646-FUCK-YOU.”

To my surprise and delight, she laughed. I was in love. She cross-checked her available numbers, but FUCK-YOU wasn’t available. I was sad. But then the floodgates opened.

Me: “Ok, what about 646-PISS-ASS? I would also take 646-COCK-ASS, 646-I-LUV-ASS, or 646-GIMME-ASS.”
Her: [typing away] “Nope. What else? And ‘GIMME-ASS’ is eight numbers.”
Me: “I know, I’m trying here. Um, 646-CHICKEN?”
Her: [typing away] “No. Next?”
Me: “Ok, ok. 646-EAT-SHIT? 646-BIG-POOP? ‘Poop’ and ‘shit’ are interchangeable, really.”

This went on for a solid fifteen minutes. When my dad was 26, he had been working full-time for eight years, had a two year old son, and a wife of three years. I’m 26, and I’m spending my Sunday afternoon hungover in a cell phone store trying to customize my number around vulgarities so that I can buy a phone that represents 5% of the cost of my dad’s first home. God bless America.

Eventually, we couldn’t find anything suitable (sad, I know), so I went with something “easy”, though I’m not quite sure how easy my new number is. I said goodbye to Sprint store girl and left. It was sad. More for me, less for her.

But the good news is that I got the Treo and I absolutely love it. I love texting and making calls and most importantly, I love walking around New York City using it in front of people. Of course, I haven’t figured out how to email or use the internet on it and I more than likely never will, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I got a self-esteem boost because of a purchase. And anything that ups my self-esteem, no matter what the economic, physical, or emotional cost, is a good thing.

Amen.

(But I really would have liked to have gotten 646-FUCK-YOU. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me a while to get over this. We’re just going to have to work through it together.)



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