The ubiquity of cellphones and the resultant demise of landlines has been a game-changer in this and every city. Those who still own a landline find the phone only rings at the behest of fundraisers for the Police Athletic League, political pollsters, telemarketers, and in-laws — and, as such, is never, ever answered.
Those with cellphones — i.e., everyone — flaunt their city of origin in an era when young people have no concept what a long-distance call even is. And yet, city residents' unease at the pending eclipse of the 415 area code in favor of the 628 reveals that we still do prejudge our peers based upon their local area codes. To wit, here's what denizens of the 415 assume about those hailing from elsewhere:
510: Gentrification casualty; artist or musician; lives in a warehouse; decamped from family home in SoCal/Sacramento to attend UC Berkeley, never left.
707: Grew up on a houseboat; farmer; marijuana farmer; crack dealer; organic crack dealer.
650: Boooooring!
408: Boooooring!
831: Drum circle/roller coaster enthusiast; vampire.
925: Fell asleep on Pittsburg train, never left.
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