![]() ![]() Just after the iced lemon pound cake, but before I could make good on my intent to overdo things with the classic coffee cake, we were asked to return to the Apple store. Rather than waiting at the fake hamburger joint (which neither served ham nor burgers), we went into the local Barnes & Noble, where paper books and magazines were everywhere, like a museum dedicated to the dream of the 90s. ![]() We were eventually asked to leave it for a while. Futile tapping, much like our futile tapping at home, ensued.Īfter that, a small parade of store employees showed up to tap, mutter, and fail to elicit a response from my uncooperative phone. We explained that the 6s Plus had died a weird death shortly after the battery was replaced. We went through the not-too-long wait for a store employee to help us. Our trip back to the store was an uneventful ride. But I decided I was going to be strong and trust in Man Bun to get our phones safely back to us. It is with me more than even my wife and my dog. It's on my person more than any other clothing item. My phone goes everywhere with me, to bed, to the bathroom, out, everywhere. I realized that this was the longest time I'd been parted from my phone since I got it. It was at this point I started to go through withdrawal. What of it? That can't come as a surprise to anyone who's ever read my column. All their "meat" - and they called it "meat" - was not meat. We found a restaurant that advertised burgers and even barbecue. We left our phones in the capable hands of an Apple rep I'd come to call "Man Bun" and exited the store into the mall. We had to give them a bunch of personal information, unlock the phones (to prove we really owned them), and put up with a set of diagnostic questions that were generally unrelated to getting a new battery. ![]()
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