I remember an isolated phone booth in Honeyville, Utah, where my grandparents once lived. It was beat to pieces most of the time, but probably one of the last analog lines in America. I wanted to go play with phreaking toys there, but never did. The local boys used to tease me for my long hair. They're all underemployed alcoholics now. I'm an underemployed academic. At least they get to go shoot rats in the dump at night.