Monday, 02 August 2004 | Old and faulty

Lately my cell phone has been giving me little clues that she's elderly; she's only three years old, but, one by one, her faculties are fading. Her ring is now strained and raspy, her light no longer works (which often makes it hard to see who I'm calling or who's calling me), and she's even been randomly restarting herself, like a fickle computer.

Today at lunch I reluctantly shopped for her replacement in the Sprint store on the first floor of the Flatiron Building. I really don't care about having a color screen or a built-in camera or that my phone stands out as a model from another era, and I'm quite attached to the odd British police ring that Sprint must've phased out shortly after my phone's birth. I must admit, though, that once I saw the shiny compact flip phones on display, they started to look competitively appealing, the way that young and sexy tends to outshine old and faulty.

As it turns out, I am not eligible for the advertised phone discount regardless of how many contracts I'm willing to sign and regardless of the fact that I've been a bill-paying Sprint customer for three years. The smug man who told me this was sitting behind a counter, reclining in a chair, belly popping out over his belt. "You can get our cheapest model for $150," he said with a shrug. I ultimately shrugged back and walked out with Grandma Sprint, whom I hope will live to see mid-2005, when I'll finally be "eligible." ...maybe I'll make a deal with ebay.

...

Tonight A. and I talked over pizza and garlic knots under garish fluorescent lights. We were sitting in a typical long and skinny pizzeria near Union Square, lined with red and green glowing neon, with walls of mirrors strategically placed to make the establishment seem larger—infinite, even. While I patted the grease off my plain slice with a square napkin, A. described what it was like to live in Africa in a hut without electricity, and how it felt to descend into a cave in New Zealand.

I decided some time ago that I didn't want to be the sort of person who envied other people's choices, but the sort of person who actually makes the choices that appeal to me. I've done that so far (more or less), but I feel pretty foolish for not leaving the country since returning from Germany four years ago, especially since it's impossible to do everything that interests me, and since I'm not sure how many more years I'll be something of a transient. A start: a trip I'm planning to Mexico for early autumn is coming together. (It'll be my first time there.) Looking at tour books makes me impatient.

During a spoken word performance that I saw several years ago, I recall Henry Rollins saying that whenever he looks at a world map, the countries he hasn't visited jump out and audibly mock him.