Yesterday, my luggage finally made it back to Casa Di Bastardo in the City of Y______ after its trans-Atlantic flight. Even the simple process of shipping my luggage was a bit complicated... my phone charger was in my bag, so my phone was basically a paperweight. To compound matters, my seven year-old Motorola cell phone (it was one of those industrial models, and could have been used to drive nails when it was in its prime) went tits up. Ironically, I was contemplating the new iPhone that the department had received on the job, thinking that it was kinda fragile looking, when I knocked my phone to the floor, which separated the display from the body of the phone. I hope that I can still download the pictures I took in Europe when I plug the phone into a USB port in my laptop.
At any rate, I had to stop by an AT&T store and secure a new phone, getting there as soon as the customer service rep opened up for the day. He initiated the transaction by asking me what my phone number was, and punching it into his computer system. When he saw the date on which I had purchased my phone, he began to laugh. He asked me if I had the phone on my person (probably just to see such a relic, maybe place it on a stone altar), but I did not. After some discussion of various contracts, I settled on (you got it) an iPhone... it was comparable in price to the Samsung Galaxy I was looking at and quite a bit smaller. Yeah, me with an iPhone- does this make me a hipster? I immediately bought a protective case for it, but will probably upgrade to a stouter "Otter Box" and bequeath the old case to the job.
I finally got home from my midnight shift after noon, and began to catch up on phone calls. I responded to a message from a gentleman who had called about my baggage, but it was the guy's day off- SORRY MAN! I then went to sleep and was awakened by the ring of an unfamiliar phone- mine. Another gentleman was calling to tell me that he had my bag and was ringing my doorbell. I informed him that he was probably ringing my neighbor's doorbell and told him that I'd meet him in twenty seconds. He was a really nice guy, with a cheerful demeanor, and he had my beautiful bag, with my beautiful bottle of grappa lying intact, wrapped in several T-shirts and stuffed into a plastic bag which was wrapped in a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants. Needless to say, I am one happy bastard, having that beautiful bottle of booze sitting safely on the shelf. There's just one lingering element of unease in my mind... am I now a hipster?