The iPod shuffled and dealt a particularly amusing set for today’s bike ride, ranging from the Amboy Dukes to Judy Garland. But the highlight was Peggy Lee singing “Fever.” Everybody knows that one, but I’d forgotten this middle verse:
Romeo loved Juliet, Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her, he said “Julie baby you’re my flame”
Thou givest fever, when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth
Fever – I’m afire, fever yea I burn forsooth.
They just don’t write ’em like that anymore.
The other day — this was something I did during the Wood Chipper Symphony — I finally bit the bullet and set about upgrading my cell phone. The battery on my old Nokia candy bar has started to fail and it sometimes rings spontaneously (Phonesheimer’s disease), so what the hell. I swiftly discovered the problem with the upgrade, which is that you can’t just upgrade your phone, you also have to upgrade your plan.
Screw that. I don’t use the pathetic, 2003-era rock-bottom allotment of minutes I buy now. Why pay $10 more a month for more unused minutes? My local Cingular retailer suggested that while he couldn’t approve such un-American frugality, surely it could be grandfathered in via telephone. And he was right, it could. It took 40 minutes on the phone. I explained three times what I wanted. Each time I was told sure, no problem, we can do that, and then, after a consultation with “a supervisor,” alas it was no longer possible. I insisted, and approval would be passed further up the line. I believe it was finally resolved in my favor just short of the CEO’s office.
I got the pink Razr. Or will, eventually. They picked up shipping and handling, I agreed to another two-year service contract. I paid more than the website offered, far less than full retail. It was a classic give-a-little-get-a-little compromise.
Two things I discovered: After all these years, it turns out my old phone could send and receive text messages; and my new phone will play Warren Zevon’s “A Certain Girl” as a ringtone. Or, for that matter, Mahalia Jackson, singing “Go Tell it on the Mountain.” Someone told me the other day that ringtones were a $600 million yearly business, and I scoffed. I think I owe someone an apology.
OK, then: After the Plan B fiasco, I can hardly believe the FDA didn’t cave again on the cervical-cancer vaccine, but cave they didn’t, and so we have ourselves a happy day. The next big fight will be over mandatory vaccination, but for now, can we relax and congratulate ourselves for being adults, for a change? I plan to.
Few of us will live a life like Lula Hardaway, better known as Stevie Wonder’s mother. But I suspect we can all take some inspiration from it. Noted: She was known for her barbecue sauce and peach cobbler.
Have a good weekend. Like good Detroiters, we’re off to see “Cars.”