By MICHAEL J. TITTINGER is Editor of the Daily Press. When he’s not having his taint tickled, he
IT WAS ABOUT 45 MINUTES INTO CELL phone shopping that I wanted to shoot myself in the face.
The unconscionable amount of time it took Monday to sift through the bogus upgrade deals, hidden fees and resign myself to two more years of sucking at Sprint’s teat in order to get my wife a birthday gift was partly to blame. I also blamed myself.
You see, I’d been here before, around anniversary time, looking to upgrade her phone (which presently has a cartoon kangaroo that continually jumps across the display screen). Frustrated and unwilling to sell the souls of my family in the name of Motorola Razr for two additional years, I bounced, resigning myself to quit the telly fix once my contract expired. Free agency was calling.
Fast forward three months hence and I’m standing in the store at Wilshire and Sixth again, fretting anew as I mull making an unwanted commitment or another break for the door. Unfortunately, her birthday was the following day and that damn kangaroo was driving her crazy. It’s a G’day to throw that navy blue flip phone into the Great Barrier Reef.
The particularly galling part is how cell phone companies gouge their loyal customers. Following nearly a decade of communication glee courtesy my Sprint cell phones, I convinced my betrothed to follow suit and consolidate our bill. Surely, such loyalty would be rewarded when it comes time to upgrade, right?
Surely, you jest. Waiting another six months would make us eligible for a $150 price break, which might make financial sense, but makes for a pretty lame birthday present.
Happy birthday, babe. IOU a discounted phone. Much love.
My choices were simple: Buy a new $400 phone outright, with no price break whatsoever, and test the free agent waters like A- Rod; sell aforementioned family’s souls for two more years; shoot myself in the face.
The last option seemed quite viable when a L.A. police detective strolled into the store looking for the manager. The staff seemed to stress the unannounced Q&A. Maybe they knew the jig was up and they were all going to the pokey for crimes against humanity.
I’m sure this romantic joust is the same with all the cell phone companies. They know they have you by the cojones. They tickle your taint, but won’t give up the pooty until you buy them a ring. And in the end, a tickled taint is better than sleeping alone.
My sales rep, to his credit, pretty much ignored the fact that I was exceedingly annoyed and was walking around the store to get away from him and stew in begrudging broth. Each time I stopped to inspect a $400 ball-and-chain, there he was, firing off a bulletted talking points memo.
It was then that cinematic fantasies of my wife and I holding hands while throwing our cell phones into the ocean began to stream. The crashing, cleansing waters of renewal freeing us from the technology age bind. I’ve been trying to conjure a better example than Johnny Utah, as played by Keanu Reeves in the surfer-heist classic “Point Break,” heaving his police badge into the ocean because he wanted to be radical, just like the blond-coiffed Patrick Swayze, but so be it.
“Utah, make it two!” When we heave our new Sprint cell phones with two-year renewal contracts into the Pacific, I want them to be ringing and the caller IDs informing us that it’s a customer service representative. We’ll answer and tell them to listen close as we recoil to toss the phones. Let them hear themselves drowning like so many of their customers.
“Here’s to selling your wife’s soul,” my Sprint sales rep joked as he bagged the new (RED) Razr and protective case, snapping me back into reality.
Truer words, my man. There’s truth in humor.
Just one hour and 10 minutes after I entered the Sprint store, I had secured a new phone for $190, plus a $20 protective case, plus two years more of the privilege of paying Sprint about $99 a month, plus a hidden $18 charge on my next bill to renew, countering the savings I got to re-up in the first place.
Pretty sweet deal. I can’t wait to call someone and tell them about it. On second thought, I’ll let them answer and just heave the phone into the ocean so they can experience the same sensation.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on November 7, 2007. Read the original PDF.