CROSS LINES

I just got off the telephone with a nice woman working for Verizon. This morning I have been trying to pay a wireless bill on a phone that is used by one of our contractors.  The internet bill pay is down for some reason, so I called an 800 number off my paper bill. Here's how it went down:

"Welcome to Verizon Wireless. If you're a Verizon Wireless customer, enter the ten digit number you are calling about... Bienvenido a Verizon Radiofónico... Ønskevelkommen til Verizon Wireless..."
*beep-deep-boop-dip-dip-boop...*

"If you would like to pay a bill please press 1."
*dupe*
"If you would like to pay the bill in full, please press 1."
*dupe*
"If you would like to continue the call in Hindi, please press 1.  Otherwise, please stay on the line."

"You have made no selection. Did you not mean to not make any selection at this time? Press 1 for yes."
*dupe*
"Please hold for a Hindi translator, or press 0 for an operator-"
*eep*
*eep*
*eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep-eep-eep-eep-eep-eep*
 "I em saying to you, good morning. My name is called Steve and I would be helping you today. Kindly tell me what is your good name, sir?"

*click*

So I called another number and went through no less than four automated transfers on at least six different Cray Supercomputers.  The system asked me if I wanted to continue service by paying the bill now.  There was no choice involved... I was to press 1 or, presumably, sit and listen to the infinite conch shell sound on the other end of the line for all eternity.  I pressed 1.  After the third or fourth time that I was looped through this question it transferred me to the Spanish computer. Fortunately, there was a true choice here as indicated by the words "uno" and "dos."  Unfortunately, the words "uno," "dos," and "cerveza" are the only Spanish words I know.

*click*

I called the sales line thinking sales people are always ready for a call.  Automated system, again.

"Press 1 if you would like to speak to a sales representative about new Verizon Wireless service."
*dupe*

Get this: I pressed 1 for NEW SERVICE and the system then demands that I enter my ten-digit Verizon Wireless number.  Do they only sell new service to pre-existing clients??!!  Do I have to be my own reference to get cellular service now?  How do I GET new service if I don't HAVE new service?  Okay, I'll play the game:

*beep-deep-boop-dip-dip-boop...*
"You have entered BR-549. If this is correct, please press 1."
*dupe*
"Welcome to Verizon Wireless. There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza-"
*CLICK*

I'll spare you the indignities of the next hour and a half, but I eventually got Stephanie on the line.  She helped me with the bill (the process took less time than it takes to boot up my desktop).  At the end of the transaction I gave her a brief synopsis of the problem and told her I would be transferring this cell phone number to another company at the end of the contract specifically because of the automated answering system.  I was polite to Stephanie (please don't yell at phone reps - believe me, they DO NOT create corporate policy or design/purchase automated answering systems) and asked that she pass the complaint up the chain.  She commiserated with me and assured me she would.

I encourage all of you to do the same.  Perhaps if enough of us complain we will no longer have to put up with having to communicate with computers. Had I reached a human in the first place, my work would have been done in minutes and I wouldn't be wasting time writing this blog.  The phone company would have had its bill paid quickly and they would have saved all of that money they spent on the automated answering system - I find that I usually have to reach a human when I call because the computer has already failed to solve my problem online.  And as for you, you'd be reading a humorous article about pre-Thanksgiving Christmas decorations right now.

I know there are some of you out there who are also tempted to put in a complaint about "Steve" from New Dehli.  I discourage you from doing that.

To "Steve" I'd say this: I don't mind that you're in another country... just don't insult me by pretending you live in my neighborhood. I know your name isn't Steve! Use your real name, Rasesh.

To Steve's employer: Possessing technical knowledge is not the whole picture, here. Make sure Steve can communicate in a dialect we can understand.

And to those who don't like talking to "Steve" when you call customer service: Hey, at least he's not a computer. Those jobs are sought after in India, while Americans will hardly stoop that low.  That's why they've all been farmed out overseas.  But fear not, your time is coming. A couple more years of 10% unemployment in this country and someone in India is going to hear:

Howdy, y'all!  Thank's fer callin' the hep line.  M'name's... uh... Ray-sheesh? Wha'cha need?

This 'n That

I've been off the computer the last couple of days because of a terrible infection. Some dunderhead decided to write a program that would worm itself onto my computer at work to pop up warnings that some program was trying to worm itself onto my computer. A horrible mess that is still ongoing. At home, my wife's computer got the same. I have hidden all weekend in the corner of my closet, clutching all my electromedia protectively.

Here's the deal: anyone who writes a virus should be executed. It is a horribly insidious thing to do, not to mention supremely cowardly. I consider it the digital equivalent of torturing neighborhood cats, a great identifier of the sociopath in the making. I say kill the hackers before they start trying to have drifters for dinner.

Over the weekend Barack Obama made new strides in alienating himself from the American public. His proponents bragged that he was finally going to conduct one of those Town Hall Meetings he promised during the campaign. His detractors couldn't resist pointing out that it was being held in China.

But before reaching out to his comrades in the People's Republic of China, he participated in another event of his Worldwide Limbo Contest, this time defeating 5'5" Emporer Akihito of Japan. It should be remembered that the undefeated Obama stooped before the Saudi Crown Prince just last April, showing the world he could bow lower than the 5'6" Abdul-Aziz.

His greatest challenge will be his upcoming bout against North Korea's Kim Jong-il, measuring just 27" at the shoulders.

The wait is nearly over; The Twilight Saga: New Moon opens in theaters everywhere this Friday. Do you remember when you could identify a vampire by his hideous fangs...

... rather than his pouty eyeliner?

My Friend Joe

I first saw Joe Williams in Mrs. Dejean's class at Janie Stark Elementary in Farmers Branch. It was a fifth grade class, and Joe had been attending a different school for several years. It was far enough in the school year that we had developed our cliques: outsiders welcome by invitation only. Joe was wearing a Scout uniform... to school. He was never one for making things easier on himself.

I didn't know Joe because I was relatively new to the school. I had moved out to Texas just before my fourth grade. Actually, my parents moved to Texas, and took all of the money, so I tagged along. I settled into my new home fairly well even though I was the new kid with a pageboy haircut and an Alabama drawl (boy, that was a fun break-in period). I had actually heard snippets here and there about Joe but had no point of reference. That was about to change.

The murmurs started before he walked into the room. Mrs. Dejean braced the class first, announcing the arrival of the "new" student we all could see in the hallway. Several students near me warned me to stay away from him. "He's weird." "Psycho." "Some kind of sick genius." I was sold. Joe and I became fast friends. I remained very close to my friend Joe through much of college.

I never found out first hand why Joe went to a different school for a time, but he did announce to me that one of the girls we attended school with through graduation wore a scar on her ankle shaped exactly like several of his teeth. He neither bragged nor lamented this fact... just stated it like one might point out it's partly cloudy. That was my friend Joe.

In sixth grade we got Commodore PET computers. For those of you young enough not to be impressed with an elementary school having TWO computers, let me describe them for you. Picture your telephone with no camera, no email capacity, no internet, no permanent memory, no communications capabilities, 4k (yes, 'k') of RAM, all in a package about 900 times larger.

This was in the days of "GOTO" statements and 5 1/4" floppies (ask your parents). The computers were in our school to usher us into the computer age. Unfortunately, our teachers didn't know a thing about computers, either, so they mostly sat on a desk in the back of the classroom. The computers were of little use, either.

Except to a few enterprising students. Those of us who were so motivated worked on becoming programmers. This consisted mostly of copying down code from a little workbook. These complex lines would magically cause the computer screen to go black, or repeat a sentence over and over, or scroll a phrase in green text from left to right.

One day a filthy phrase showed up on the screen. We found out about it through a warning from the teaching staff that we would lose computer privileges if it happened again. It did. Again. And again. Except each new phrase was displayed more creatively... and was filthier. We all denied responsibility, even through the suspension of computer access, but I knew there was only one mind capable of so dastardly a deed. It took years for him to admit responsibility for The Case of the Computer Filth, but I was always jealous of my friend Joe's apparent ability to pass a lie detector test. Artistry.

There are so many random memories. That same year we had to memorize at least 14 lines of poetry. Joe memorized Jabberwochy. That was so cool. He helped me memorize 14 lines of Jabberwocky. I tried to keep up but Joe just... I don't know what his grades were like, I don't know how well he did on standardized tests. I always did as well as I cared when it came to grades and exceptionally well on standardized tests. I've been a member of MENSA and Intertel, and I've held my own in intellectual debates all my life. Some people have impressed me with their ability to utilize their intelligence. Others with their breadth of knowledge. Others with the effort they put into being an expert in their field. Joe Williams was the only person I ever met who intimidated me intellectually. My friend Joe was brilliant in every way.

In the spring of 7th grade there was a History Fair. I submitted an entry in the Literature category. Edmund Ruffin, the man who fired the first shot of the Civil War, is a distant relative of mine. I researched his life and participation in the war and wrote three letters, as if penned by him, that represented his psychological decline from that first shot on Fort Sumter to his suicide at war's end. I wrote the letters as if he was drinking more and more heavily during the composition of each, right down to glass rings on the paper, sprinkling actual liquor on them, and dripping the wax seal on the last letter very messily. I put all of my adolescent talent into this project and I was immensely proud and confident of it. It came in second place.

It is difficult for someone as competitive as I to lose when there is no extenuating circumstance available. I got beat, and beat soundly. Joe won first prize with a poem he wrote, Death at Bunker Hill - June 17, 1775. It was good... better than mine. It was a great poem. My own dad took quite a liking to it. Yes, Joe had beat me fair and square. But it wasn't enough that he bested my greatest creative achievement. In that same way he described the scar, Joe informed me he had written the poem in about fifteen minutes. Ah! Devine intervention... I couldn't have beaten God. No, he explained. He had merely forgotten to do the assignment and typed it out the night before it was due. He didn't brag and he never rubbed it in. He just beat me. And I still have a copy of the poem my friend Joe wrote.

We got separated in class often. In fact, I think Mrs. Dejean, our fifth grade teacher, had experienced enough to make sure no one ever again experienced me and Joe together. I can't think of any time my friend Joe and I were allowed to sit next to each other after fifth grade...

...except in Boy Scouts. Man, now there was a place to get truly evil. We had so much fun together in the Scouts it's a wonder any of the younger children survived! We tired of the Snipe hunting and decided to ramp it up just a bit. On a trip to Turner Falls one year - in the dead of winter - we planned a little initiation involving a branding iron. Actually, one of my history teachers had related a story as it had happened to her in college. For me it was a cool story that was fodder for discussions about what we could do to the newer Scouts. This is where Joe excelled. Left merely to me it would be a good story without any memory. Thanks to Joe it is also a memory... and perhaps a recurring nightmare to some of the kids.

What we did was wait until the Scoutmaster was busy pretending Joe and I didn't exist. He was used to this activity as he doubled as Joe's dad. He was also one of my earliest mentors and an all-around great guy. Joe and I went to the far side of a hill and built a little fire. We didn't have a branding iron so we just stuck a little coal shovel-like tool in the fire. Then we'd usher up a younger Scout, go through some rigmarole about initiation and are-you-worthy and prove your loyalty to the troop, etc. Someone (and I think it was Joe's younger brother Chris) would hold the Scout down and raise his t-shirt as we pulled the red-hot "branding iron" out of the fire and hover it above the Scout's belly.

At this point, above the screams, we'd pretend to remember the blindfold which would then be tied onto the Scout. At the last second we dropped a large piece of ice onto the Scout's belly. The sensation was impossible to distinguish from red heat for the first few seconds. (The trick called for using dry ice, but we couldn't very well get Joe's dad to stop for dry ice on the way up without raising some suspicion. Besides, I think dry ice actually will burn you, so...) Good times. This event was likely in the top five cruelest things I've ever done. My friend Joe was right there with me the whole time.

We camped together many times. We went to Philmont together. Joe would fix rather fanciful dishes on our campouts (foreshadowing for his future career in the restaurant business), some so fanciful that I remember Yo Matsushita, our acting Scoutmaster at Philmont, shouting, "Cook the damn food the way it's meant, Joe. No fancy stuff!" Joe was miffed but accepted that you can't make a good soufflé out of dehydrated beef stroganoff and trail mix. He came back at another camping trip with a wonderful dish of lasagna. We all tore into it. It was great. Can we have seconds? You really like it? Oh, yeah... great job, Joe. It was only after we finished that Joe informed us he had sliced a little more than the cheese while preparing the meal. Since we were in the woods and there was no way to hop out to the store, he merely turned the bloodied cheese over and continued to slice, open wound and all. His hand healed nicely and our retching eventually petered out. My friend Joe was quite the dedicated cook.

There was a lot of troop infighting about carrying loads during our Philmont excursion. No one wanted to pack more than the next Scout during our daily hikes. Joe volunteered to carry our biggest cook pot. It really filled out his pack. We discovered near the end of our trip that it was always empty. My friend Joe was brilliant.

We had an odd group in high school, the four of us that ran together. There was me, the football player. Alex the musician. Big Jim Smith the student. And our friend Joe. We made a pact with one another our freshman year that we'd never eat cafeteria food again, so we brown bagged it until we could drive, and went to Burger King the days we could afford to and I had gas. I always got a bacon double-cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke, although it often took two or three tries and at least one trip into the building to get the correct order. Joe wasn't a big fan of Burger King, as I remember it, but would usually find a burger or something eat. Chicken was a fairly new addition to the menu at this time.

One day we went through the drive-thru and the grill was down. This meant my bacon double-cheeseburger was off, but it also meant the inevitable blowing of Joe's lid. Joe had a temper like a keg of dynamite and the fuse of... well, I don't know if anyone ever actually identified a predictable fuse. As his friend I knew that there were certain triggers, the most touchy of which was incompetence. Unexpected change was right up there, too. This little trip was not looking good. Time to sit back and watch the fireworks.

So Joe orders, under pressure to find something new and quickly. He orders a chicken box, it was like eight or ten pieces. When he ordered it he said, "I want the 8-piece chicken." Something like that. Well, the carnival geek behind the microphone can't figure out what that means, and so asks, "You want eight pieces of chicken or eight orders-?" Click. Herewego!

"Yeah, I want f*cking 82 pieces of chicken!" And I mean to tell you my friend Joe yelled it across the car into that microphone. I imagine it echoed inside. My ears certainly rang.

We are still laughing some 21 years later about it. I'm laughing right now reading over it.

Joe had two younger brothers who, despite Joe's best efforts, managed to survive childhood. Randy was the youngest and used his brains to circumvent Joe. Chris, on the other hand, had far too much will. He was a fighter. He was hopelessly outsized by Joe (plus, Joe never seemed to give much credit just for being his relative), but held his own. I remember - again, random memories - I remember a pair of needle-nosed pliers being hurled across a room. They stabbed into the wall within inches of Chris' head. I nearly wet my pants; Chris didn't flinch, he just got mad.

One of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life occurred while we were loading the trailer for a camping trip. I was in the house for some reason, but looking out the bay window toward the trailer. The usual sounds of commotion between Joe and Chris were wafting through the air, but otherwise it was a nice morning. Then a shovel, tumbling end over end, passed by the window. I don't remember who threw it at whom, or even if it struck its target, but I remember thinking at the time, "Now there's a metaphor in action!"

I know the brothers had their hard times together just as I did with my own brothers. For that matter, Joe and I had conflict occasionally with one another, but heck, we were like brothers ourselves. We could finish each other's sentences and always seemed to know what the other was up to. Chris was closer to our age than any of the other siblings, which meant I got to know him a little better than I did Randy but - unfortunately for Chris - it also meant he was more often within arms reach. I've probably blocked a lot of things from my memory that we did to Chris. Well, at the very least it made him tough. Sorry, Chris.

Joe and I stayed close through much of college. He joined the Corps of Cadets for a time halfway through our freshman year. Joe definitely didn't have the personality for it. I never saw him enjoy being bossed around, yelled at, or physically punished. I think he just wanted to be with his friend. I know that I supported him all that I could - he eventually left the Corps - but now the second guessing starts and I ask myself if I did enough, if I could have made more of a difference in his life. I don't think I could have but I guess that doesn't really matter now... I've lost the chance.

Joe and I worked together at a Tex-Mex restaurant. He taught me dirty words in Spanish and tried to teach me to be a good waiter. (I was much better at the Mexican profanity.) Joe was an incredible waiter. All the customers loved him and requested his tables. When I sat people it wasn't unusual to run out of tables for Joe and have to sit his customers elsewhere while he handled it all with ease. He worked these people like a psychologist and raked it in with tips. He invested magic bowls and special dip and... uh, just go watch the movie Waiting and always remember to be nice to people who handle your food or work on your brakes.

Towards the end of our college careers I could see Joe starting to drift into another direction. I talked to him about it and let him know I wasn't too fond of some of his friends. Did I do enough? Could I have done more? Would it have made a difference? I don't know. I was just starting a family. I didn't know what I was doing. Who was I to tell my friend Joe how to live his life? Who was I? I was his friend. I don't know if I could have done anything more, and I never will.

Joe and I made contact a few times here and there over the last decade or so. Brief visits in Houston or a short phone call. It seems we often allow life to eat away at those things that make it worth living. Just a few weeks ago I tracked Joe down on one of the social networking sites. I had tried in the past without success, but now...

We exchanged several messages and "chatted" one evening over the computer. I was happy to see we could still, after all these years, finish one another's sentences. He told me life was going much better for him and that he was planning on moving to Tulsa before too long. I sure was happy to find my friend Joe.

When he was younger Joe rubbed people the wrong way. He always seemed out-of-step with the rest of the world. I think that's why I liked him so much. I think that had a big effect on his life. It was his defense mechanism. We all have one. Me? I always told jokes, figuring if I was making you laugh you wouldn't ask any personal questions. Some folks use athletics. Others books. Cars. Clothing. Makeup. Music. We all have a defense mechanism and with everyone you know you had to break through a defense mechanism. I broke through Joe's.

I missed a great deal in Joe's life over the last 10 years, but I can tell you how he was. As much of an agitator as Joe was, he was extremely compassionate. People hurting people hurt him so much. He hated any story about a child getting hurt or worse. As much as he picked on his brothers (as we all do), no one else was allowed to talk about them. He really did love them. He had a mind that should have brought us a cure for cancer, a new way of creating energy, or a really sick novel or screenplay. He could have done anything. But perhaps Joe's personality couldn't quite bridge his world and his future. I don't know. His brother Chris summed it up wonderfully: "he was just one of those people who moves so quickly and does so much that they can't sustain the pace for long."

I guess I'll wrap this up. I've got some chicken strips cooking in the other room in honor of Joe. He was my friend. I'm very proud to be able to say that. I loved him as a brother. There are many of you out there who never took advantage of the opportunity to get to know my friend Joe. You missed an amazing person.

I am sorry for your loss.

Life on the Farm

Recently I’ve had cause to wax nostalgic about those little virtual pets from the 1990’s. Do you remember them? They were about the size of one of those rubber squeeze coin purses, with a couple of microscopic buttons and a key ring: the ubiquitous companion to 8-year old girls everywhere. They were created in Japan where living space is too limited for anything more than a pet octopus. I never understood why they caught on here in America where I can’t get my kids to feed our real dog on what could be considered a humanely frequent basis. For that matter, I can’t figure out what an 8-year old needs with a keychain, either.

Some of you may be wondering what stimulus could cause me to flash back to those now obscure Happy Meal treats. Others of you will know exactly why they popped into my head. Farm Town. I’m watching my wife play it right now while talking to her eldest on the phone. Yes, a grown woman torn between the emotional needs of that which sprang forth from her own womb and a plot of digital grapes. Allow me to fill any non-Facebookers in on Farm Town.

Facebook, the online community phenom, offers numerous activities you can join your friends in, from racing games to mafia hits to Farm Town. To be honest, I haven’t played any of them. Not because they’re inane wastes of time, but because I’m a very anti-social curmudgeon… I mean, because they’re too complicated for me. But of these none has permeated my world like Farm Town. Everyone in the house is abuzz about it. The wife is talking about “checking the farm,” the boys are glued to the computer screen 25-hours a day… even the dog is playing, although I suspect she just likes looking at the pictures.

Apparently, what you do is accept an invitation from a friend to start your own farm, get plants given to you by these friends, grow the plants on your virtual farm, harvest the crops, sell them, buy more plants and land, accumulate digital farmhouses that will be the envy of all of your virtual friends, and… well, think about it all the time. And that’s the hook that makes it different from other games. If you plant, for instance, grapes, you have to come back online in four hours and harvest them or they die. Plant a fruit tree and it may take a couple of days. I don’t know if you have to feed the goats, but I would if I had crops nearby. My wife has actually given her password to a friend so that said friend can harvest her crops while she is at work! (I’m sure 5 or 6 friends will now be mad that they weren’t chosen as the surrogate harvester.) Does all of this sound familiar? Tamagotchi pets.

To point out the insanity I turned to my wife the other night (we were in our office: I, trying to think of something to fill my next blog; she, harvesting virtual pomegranates) and said, “Honey, do you remember those stupid little virtual pets the girls used to play with back in the 90’s?” Her response, and I quote:

They were very stupid, but look… I can buy fences!

Now, please note that my wife is an exceedingly intelligent woman. Her job is complex and turbulent, yet she wades through it like a neap tide. She is conversant on any number of subjects. She is a very talented photographer. She reads books that have no pictures in them whatsoever. But she is addicted to Farm Town. She says she’s not (“I can quit any time I want”), but I know denial when I hear it (“You think I’m addicted? Look at this girl’s farm. That’s a grain silo, for crying out loud!”).

But hey, what’s a little fun now and then? She did point out that I like to waste time and money hunting animals when there’s plenty of meat at the grocery store. And do I really need to waste time writing a blog when everyone else in the world already has one (http://ultimatetoiletblog.blogspot.com/2008/03/marcos-way-of-rating-toilets.html)? And what about the garden out back with all the weeds in it? The real garden. The one that produces real food. The one with real weeds. I turn to suggest to her that we spend some quality time together by going outside and weeding our garden, but thought better of it as I heard her shout:

I’ve got to get control of these chickens!