I stubbornly cling to my home telephone number (just as bullheadedly as I hang onto my 415 area code cell phone number.) Most of the calls I get to the ol’ landline are weird scam recordings warning me that my car insurance is about to expire, fireman and police organizations looking for donations (why are they exempt from the Do Not Call Registry, again?), and the occasional (um) bill collector. However, it’s useful still when I need to hear a conversation clearly in the course of my work, or during family business conference calls (oh, dear reader, do not ask about that.) I also enjoy the reproduction 50s black phone at my desk, complete with 10-pound handset, real (and real loud!) bell ringer, and twirly cord. I like being tethered to it when on a call — I concentrate more fully on the convo, and hanging up on the telemarketers (and bill collectors) is awesomely leaden and final. And when it rings when I’m sitting next to it? Better than a line of coke for that insta-adrenaline release.

I’m idly shopping on eBay for a two-tone Genie phone for the kitchen, as my apartment is generously stocked with phone jacks and I have a need to surround myself with redundant and useless things as these. But you knew that.

The photo above is a fairly recent one of an actual working phone booth near my house. Remember when you were warned against using public phones due to the filth and germs and tampering? The stories particular to my youth were A. Bad People boobytrapping the coin-return slots with razor blades (then, later, AIDS-infected needles); and B. Bad People pissing on the handset. Citysmart Becky poohpoohed those urban legends until the day she saw a real-live Bad Person, yes, pissing on a handset.

You’re not going to believe this, I have more to write about phones. More later.