I went to the bank this morning to make a deposit, and there, at the receptionist's desk, was an IBM Selectric typewriter.

It was comforting to know that that the money I was putting in was being cared for by a financial institution harnessing the awesome typographical power of the machine I used in high school typing class.

The cell phone rant laid bare here is probably about seven months of pent-up frustration exposed for all the world to see and read (assuming you're in the 30 people out of a possible 6 billion who read that blog).

Seven months ago I moved to New Braunfels and my Sprint PCS phone (I was nice enough to not mention them by name for the work blog at least) decided it wasn't going to just let me make calls from inside my house. (We still don't have a land line, something I used to be proud and boastful about, but which now seems to be the norm for a lot of dual-cell-wielding families.) So, New Braunfels, new house, lousy cell service.

To make a call on Omaphone3 (I don't know if you remember, but Omaphone2 died of a tumor and remains entombed in the foam and cardboard vessel unto which He was delivered to me), I have to wander around the house from room to room as the clamshell phone threatens to lose the call.

"Huh? Oh yeah, it's... wait... can you hear me? I! Wait! Living room! No, kitchen! Dammit!"

I'll move my head in precarious angles and if that fails, I'll run upstairs to the bonus room, which gets slightly better reception, or I'll go stand outside. Most of my phone conversations at home now happen while I'm driving to and from the stead or as I'm watering the lawn. Mmm, watering the lawn. That's good conversation time.

Omaphone3, a riduculously overpriced phone three years ago that can now be had for, like, coffee change, is scuffed and weary. Its antenna is bent and askew, but that's better than when it was completely broken off and superglued back. The screen is a little scratched up and the word "SPRINT" on its front now reads, "SPRI" like it's some kind of tasty, multicolored European candy.

My justification for buying it is the one that keeps it in my possession to this day: "It fits in my pocket."

The thing about Sprint is that I know lots of people who hate the service, but none of them are willing to escape. They know you can transfer your phone number, but even the lifting of that barrier won't motivate them to flee. The thing that scares them is, "What if (insert other wireless carrier) is somehow worse?"

So here we are, the happy Sprint family in New Braunfels, running from room to room and trying not to lose the call on our end as we're routed through automated service Hell to try to get a refund on that last dropped call.

If you need to talk to us, try to do it in the late evening, when we're out setting up the sprinklers.

Now, John Oates, now is the time to steal the spotlight!

On the technology you can least do without over at the Digital Savant blog.

Our not-very-epic, yet multi-chaptered mini Return-of-the-Moon Weasel saga concludes today with part 3 of "The Road to Success," over at Space Monkeys!.

...the not-at-all-made-up forthcoming show about a fertility clinic, Inconceivable.

Wallace Shawn should get a guest starring role just as a courtesy.

Murphy and Bartholomew, the twin nemesises (nemisi?) of Bobbo and Meany, return to prank and punk in this ode to the King Kong trailer, a new Space Monkeys! comic.

Lance Armstrong's bike's blog.

My review of The Daily Show's Indeicision 2004 DVD is up at statesman.com.

Ever had one of those weeks where you're just like, "How have I accomplished anything? I have no skills. None. My writing? Bad. Awful. Who would want to read any of it?"

I'm having a week like that. On the other hand, weeks like this are a great time to catch up on watering the lawn, going through old newspapers and playing neglected video games.