Like a good American, I bought a new cell phone this week. In my defense: the old one refused to even turn on anymore. I was rather fond of it (if you recall Zack Morris weeping in the locker room as someone walks off with his phone "I have that phone since junior high"--it was nothing like that) for no reason other than that it was mine.

I bought it when I became a cell-phone-owning asshole, or rather, when I started working in Manhatten Let's not get into apologetics here, except to say that when my old phone broke, I never thought of cancelling the service, but whenever it vibrates in public I shreik in embarassment and dig a foxhole to answer it.

The new phone came from the Ebay store and here's the worst part: it was definately owned by a total fucking moron.

Evidence: He didn't even delete his goddam phonebook. It includes the following labelled numbers:T-bone's, Pizza Hut, Ken, Rick, Robert, Roy, Russell, Scott, Scott FL, Dairy Queen. Everyone knows those are asshole names to have, but who knows all of them?

It's upsetting. I was raised on used clothes, used soccer cleats, used books. But somehow knowing the previous owner still exists and is a complete fuckwad makes the phone seem dirty, makes every scratch suspect, makes every warp and tear in the manual smell funny. It's like when you find an old Calvin and Hobbes book, but you know that it's languished away for so many years collecting splatter-spray everytime the toilet flushed.