As if our office move isn't going to be heckish enough, we've been hit with the worst news yet. The news that every New Yorker dreads, the news that causes a horrible, hollow feeling in the pit of our stomachs. We're losing 212.
Everyone knows what 212 is. When it's in your number, it means that you're part of the most important city in the United States. It rolls off the tongue. It's the easiest number to dial on a rotary phone, which is especially handy if you're living in 1962, unencumbered by modern conveniences like push-buttons. But mostly, it's the 212 cachet that means you're "Old New York."
And what are they replacing it with in our offices? 646. What the hell is that? That could be Topeka. Or worse, Oregon. No one knows what 646 is. Our identity is threatened. And for what? Verizon has a strike looming. In order to avoid the inevitable outages that we're going to have no matter what, we're going with some other telco - Hanky Express or something. And they don't get any fancy 212 numbers, just the 646 dregs. It's just an outrage any way you slice it.