I just became the proud owner of a Motorala Droid. I wanted an iPhone after years of fondling an antique device meant for use by the Russian Army, but AT&T doesn’t waft its signal into my neighbor. So I went to the Verizon store last Friday night. I wasn’t alone.
A little context before I get into the Droid-buying experience: I threw out my back about an hour earlier. But I still went because I threw out my antique phone out a few hours earlier than that and I suffer from constant cell addiction. I gathered up the old phone and brought the remains with me. Damned thing still worked well enough. My back was in 4G pain when I got to the store.
As we parked in front, I hobbled, grunting with each step, into the throng. There must have been a hundred people in the joint. It looked like a Kenny Chesney concert was about to begin. Make of that description what you will.
We waited for about 30 minutes for our number to be called. The dude knew his stuff. He knew my stuff. He knew stuff I’ve never even thought about before. Between the demo about how to watch movies and digitally field-dress a deer simultaneously, I finally said, “I’m hurting here, so just give me the Droid and take my money and this transaction will be done.”
To his credit, he let me suffer through explaining more about what this phone will do (which came in handy because it will do damned near everything). It is impressive. And I don’t know half of it yet. They offer a free class, so I’ll go to that and probably learn how this little multi-tasking machine will fetch a beer and mow my yard while I sleep.
The guy was a good salesman. Even in excruciating pain, he was riveting. And he loaded me up with my old contacts, more free apps than I will ever understand and all kinds of goodies.
I can now listen to Pandora while checking my email, sending a text and surfing the Web. I can use the GPS and shake Urban Spoon to find a local restaurant while taking a 5-megapixel pic and checking the weather and sports scores and movies. Well, I think I can do all of that at the same time. I know for sure I can make greasy, smeared fingerprints all over the little screen.
After a while rubbing that screen, you begin to realize that this thing is like the iPhone’s kinky sister – it will do stuff the iPhone won’t do. Yeah, it’s a little uglier, with its slide-out keyboard, but that slider gives it a Leatherman-multifunctional-tool feel. And it moans it’s own name when you get a text or email, which is a little funky but that’s part of the Muscle Phone appeal. The iPhone is like driving a Porsche. The Droid is a Mustang Shelby at the drive-in. You want to marry the iPhone. You want to date the Droid.
By next week, I may hate it. That is how technology works. But right now, I’m taking it to a nice restaurant and buying it a steak.
