There is this heartbreakingly sad version of this song by Ricki Lee Jones, and that's what I'm hearing right now in my head. (Don't worry, it's in an indulgent "cold out there/warm tea in here" sort of way. There is no doubt that it is fall in the Pacific Northwest.
I just walked to the corner to buy a calling card so that I can talk to my sister overseas. Why has no one written a sad love song about the act of buying a calling card, yet!? It is such a pathetic and cynical and horrifying action. You walk to a gas station, which is ugly and smelly. The needs of everyone else there are immediate crucial and distracted. Only the worst food, toilet paper and light up Incredibles key chain LED pens are available because you are a captive, you cannot escape because the bars of your own business hold you in. There are posters in at least 10 languages (including at least one form of pidgin English) advertising calling cards. (We apparently believe that folks who speak Spanish, Korean and Arabic want to call home more than they want to find the ATM, pump their gas, use the bathroom etc.) Half of all of the calling cards I've purchased have screwed me over in some way and YET I still buy them, because I believe they are the cheapest and most convenient way to call long distance to Europe. So, I have this transaction with the guy behind the counter... like buying a lottery ticket or a tree air freshner, he asks me which one I want and I tell him, and we exchange money and card and it's over. This guy has enabled me to stay in contact with my family, like it's no big thing. Whew. Thanks.
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