iCovet 07.19.2008

iCovet the iPhone 3G.

I know that I shouldn’t want it so badly, and that Apple’s whole manipulation of the supply and demand of this magical mystical new device is a pretty slimy endeavor. And that their exclusive contract and weird subsidy arrangement with AT&T is crappy. I understand that the business plan around the iPhone is based in building hype and exploiting emotions through the media, and I agree that capitalism is an evil, evil system, and that consumerism is the non-renewable and highly polluting fuel that feeds that system.

And still, iWant.
I’ve tried three times now to get the iPhone, undaunted by the 4 million year service agreement, unshaken by the $300 price tag, undeterred by the ominous reports of software failure and activation problems. What gets me are the lines.

I’ve started the standing-in-line process three times now, and lacked the tenacity needed for success. The first time was the day it first came out, and I went to the Apple store and waited for about 30 minutes behind about 648,000,000 other people, and then thought, “This is ridiculous. I’m not that trendy.” And figured I could wait five days.

Five days later, I woke up at 5:30 am and headed back to the Apple store, feeling more confident this time. The air was fresh and cool, and New York City seemed peaceful, full of promise and hope. I looked in the windows of Henri Bendel’s and stood in the shade of the Tiffany’s awning and felt an odd tingle in the back of my skull, sort of a mix of shame and bliss and patriotism. Or something.

And then I rounded the corner to where the Apple Store rests, like a beautiful clear cubic spaceship in the middle of 5th Avenue.

iMothership

But instead of the wondrous, gorgeous, spaceship that I have come to know and love, the scene on 5th avenue at 6:45 am on July 16 was remniscent of the scene in ET where the scientists have moved in and installed their scary science lab all around ET.

There were police barricades set up, and a red carpet, behind which there was a frenzied pen of photojournalists frantically snapping pictures of nothing. There was a jumping castle, which I still don’t understand. And there were thousands upon thousands of iPod flanked yuppies and geeksters waiting in a line that snaked back and forth in front of the Apple store like a roller coaster ride, and then roped down six blocks past FAO Schwartz.

These people are crazy. I was one of them.

I waited this time for closer to an hour, and moved maybe 15 feet during that time. Eventually, the shame became too great. I imagined trying to explain to someone who didn’t know about the iPhone what it was I was doing. The conversation in my head went something like this:

Imaginary curious passerby: Excuse me, ma’am, what are you waiting in line for? Is it for food? Medicine? A religious ceremony?

Me: No, I’m waiting for the iPhone 3G.

Imaginary curious passerby: Well, you must really need to make a call!

Me: Oh, I have a phone. And really, I hate talking on the phone. I never answer it. And I never listen to voicemail. But this is also an iPod.

Imaginary curious passerby: Oh! Well, you must really like music.

Me: Well, I have an iPod. But with this, you can send and receive email.

Imaginary curious passerby: Oh! Well, this is the communication of the future. You must have email!

Me: Right. I mean, I actually have 2 computers. But this has a GPS device, so I will always know where I am.

Imaginary curious passerby (laughing): Well, lady, it looks like you’ve been standing in the same place for a long time! I don’t know how you would get lost if all you do is wait in line for free gadgets!

Me: Oh, it’s not free. When all is said and done, I’ll probably drop $600 today on this.

Imaginary curious passerby: You are a silly, strange, and sad woman.

After this imaginary conversation, iCouldn’t stand it anymore. I left the line and went to work. And I’ve tried one more time since then, and still haven’t gotten within a half mile of the door of the store. But meanwhile, I keep seeing other people whip out their iPhones on the train and on the street and everywhere, and iAm seething with envy.

The iPhone 3G has been out for 7 full days now, and I am still texting away on my Samsung. Although I know that I will get the iPhone, I’m proud that I’ve set limits on what I am and am not willing to subject myself to in order to get one NOW. I am taking small steps away from the consumerist beast, and I am proud of those steps, tiny as they may be.

Besides, I’m going to Chicago for work this week, and I hear that you can get the iPhone there in only 2 hours. So if you get a call from me from a 312 area code, you can be pretty sure that:

This message was sent using my iPhone.

It’s Christmas Time in the City 12.16.2007

It’s Christmastime in the City

I am susceptible to advertising. It’s true. Not that many of us like to admit that about ourselves, but I am ready to break free from this shroud of silence that surrounds our consummerist vulnerability and admit freely that commercials rule my life.

For example:
I fantasize about the iPhone. Probably for about 3 – 7 out of every 24 hours, I am thinking about the iPhone.

I can, to this day, sing the entire McDonalds song (that was really just the entire menu) that came on a floppy record taped to an ad in the Sunday paper in, like, 1983.

I am a fervent, zealous believer in Vitamin Water, which is pretty much liquid television with added sugar.

And so on.

The holiday season is like one long running commercial that lasts from October until January. The messaging is clear: if you care about your loved ones, the world, baby jesus, poor children, cancer, or terrorism, you will buy things. If you don’t care about any of those things, and prove your social apathy by not torpedoing yourself into suffocating and irreperable credit card debt, then you will be exposed as a fraud and added to a list that the House Committee of Unamerican Activities is keeping, and be blackballed from jobs and parties and things. And, no one will buy you any presents, which will make you very sad, and you’ll end up standing on a bridge on a cold night waiting for Clarence the angel to come and talk you down. But, since you didn’t buy the special collectors’ edition of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” with the deleted scenes and diretor’s commentary, Clarence didn’t get his royalties, so he’s not coming. You’re on your own. Merry Christmas. Go ahead and jump.

I know that everyone who’s anyone has already written their anti-consumerist holiday blog, and I’m sorry that mine is so late. The truth is that I haven’t had time to write it because I’ve been standing in line at Crate and Barrel for the last seven weeks. Oh, yes, I am PARTICIPATING in this consummerist ritual. (And hopefully, someone out there is reading this and becoming inspired to participate RIGHT NOW, and buying me an iPhone.)

It’s my duty to buy. And I can whine and compain and grumble the whole time, but at the end of the day, I’m still down a few thou and can rest assured that I haven’t missed out.

I remember a big hooplah last year about the War on Christmas. As a Jew, I can assure you firsthand that the War on Christmas is run by the Jews. We rail against Santa references in our public schools, tear our hair out at the nativity scenes that pop up in our neighbors’ yards, and make quiet furtive jokes about the wise men and what they are REALLY doing with their myrhh behind the backs of all you Xmasonians. I’ll tell you why Christmas drives us so crazy: It’s because we are insanely, insatiabley jealous.

The rest of the year, it’s not such a problem. I don’t feel like I need jesus in my heart, I never wonder what he would do when I find myself at any moral crossroads, and I certainly am not wishing for all of that penance and prayer stuff. You won’t find me egging the easter bunny or giving anyone a hassle about Flag Day (which I have always conceptualized as a Christian holiday). No, we Jews only care about Christmas. Because dammit, I want to wake up in the morning and find an oversized sock stuffed with chocolate hanging over my fireplace! I want to hear those sleigh bells ringaling, and learn lessons about diversity from the reindeer story. As a Jew, I can tell you, there is no Joy to my World. The Lord has not come, and thus, we get no candy canes, no sleigh bells, no egg nog, no lights, no elves, no tree. We get greasy latkes and chocoalte coins, and maybe a little bit of gambling and some gifts. Big whoop. I mean, compared to the other Jewish holidays, Chanukah is actually kind of high-ranking on the fun scale; there’s no real religious stuff, no fasting, no services, you play with fire, you get presents. This is all good stuff. But it is so grossly overshadowed by the mirth and love of Christmas that you’ll hear reports in December of Jews defecting left and right. The Leibowitzes are suddenly spotted at midnight mass. The Steinbergers feebly try to rationalize their “Hanukah Bush” to the rest of the congregation. The Rosenstein kids all come to school wearing red hats with white poms at the end. Irving Berlin was, like, THE White Christmas guy, and he was also a well-known member of the tribe. But don’t feel bad, Irving. It happens to the best of us.

We can’t help it. It’s just so much fun, all this Christmasness. We love love love it. And, since I love commercials anyway, this is a time of year when I can truly feel like my reckless spending is actually a way of participating in a single unifying community of vapid holiday spirit. It’s like hands across America, only more moving. More powerful.

Kind of like “I’d like to buy the world a Coke.”

Happy Holidays. Don’t drink and drive. Buy iPhone.

The end.