Death Comes With A Lunchkit
Dear rakkity,
I’m blogging this, even though I fear you’ll jump in with an equally horrible Mac tale. A customer, now friend, called to say AOL was offering DSL for $24.95 a month, only four dollars more than she was paying for dial-up. She wanted me to help with the conversion. I’d already set-up their brand new Hewlett Packard 3 GHZ PC running XP, which Dan had picked out for them at Costco, so I agreed.
I couldn’t get to the very first step, which is to read the instruction CD, because it wouldn’t display on the screen. The install software senses an AOL connection and asks me to first quit it. AOL, mind you, is neither dialed in nor even launched. Again, I called my main PC man, Dan, and he tells me to kill all the AOL processes. Start menu >control panels > services > processes > kill, kill and kill some more), which I proceed to do. (Incidentally, is there anything anywhere as silly as that services panel?) Doesn’t help a bit. The error message won’t go away and now I look as dumb as the homeowner.
I call AOL and get stuck in an infernal robot loop. I answer all the questions asked, desperately waiting for the step which will take me to a flesh and blood human – of late this is an Indian in Mumbai, by the name of Steven Jones. My seventeeth instruction is a plea to call back if I’m talking on the line I will then be using to connect to the internet. I hang up and redial using my precious cell minutes, and while I’m waiting for the first robot, I crawl under the computer desk to make sure all my wires are in their proper ports. I roll over on my back as soon I hear that impossiblly irritating sing-songy voice.
“What is your telephone number?â€
“blah blahâ€
“What is your user name?â€
“blah blah.â€
“Good, we know who you are and we’re accessing your account.â€
In the past, I’ve circumvented robots by mumbling something unintelligible. They eventually short circuit and allow me talk to a fellow biped, however the real problem is I’m impatient and I’m losing it. I’d anticipated fun computer time and here I am again in Cyber Wasteland, recalling the last new PC I set up which wouldn’t read its own install discs.
“Go to Hell!â€
“What did you say? I can’t understand you.â€
“Forget it.â€
“Can you describe your problem? Say something like, ‘I have a connection problem.’ “
“No, I have a PC.â€
“Please repeat. I can’t understand you.â€
“I said if I had a Mac I’d be leering my favorite porn site and not talking to a blithering robot.â€
“I heard you say you are connected. Is that right?â€
Under the table I have my right hand on my forehead and I’m about to stamp my feet.
“No! I said I hate you and I want you to burn in hell with Bill Gates.â€
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you.’
“I said it’s six degrees out, I’d planned to work outside until this cushy indoor job came along, and now I want to pull my hair out, kill everyone in this house, and then slit my throat.â€
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.â€
“You know what? Quite often these days neither can my wife. I said I can’t get a connection because my stupid computer won’t read the CD. You offered DSL for what you said was a great price and now I’m married to an inanimate object while lying on my back in a dark space. My wife is away, my mother is in failing health, my son barely talks to me and you’re asking me a line of inane questions at a pace guaranteed to drive a parish priest insane.â€
Long pause. “I’m sorry,did you say you can’t get connected? If that is what you said, please say yes.â€
“I said Fu*k You. What about Fu*k you do you not understand?â€
From under the table with my hand now covering my eyes I hear the pitter patter of little feet. It’s Amelia who asks, â€Michael, is everything alright?â€
Humiliated, I surrendered that afternoon, but I skulked back to Amelia’s the following day. Some computer genius I am. This time, however, I’m conversing with a living being, an AOL rep by the name of Katherine, who uses words like cool and awesome. Though a bright young college student, she proves as infuriating as the mechanical female because she can’t match her AOL with the one installed in “my†computer, and she can’t stop saying click on blah no matter how many times I tell her blah does not appear on MY screen. This time Katherine surrenders. She says, “Call Verizon,†and with a voice as cheerily irritating as the robots, she ends with, “We’re having a special on broadband connections. For only $24.95 a month, only four dollars more than what you are already paying, you can have DSL … .“
By the time I dial Verizon, I need a psychiatrist and a couch, or Valium and a bed, or a just a gun. Shonnica, at Verizon, bless her, pulls the gun out of my mouth, loosens my shirt collar, brushes the donut crumbs from my lap, and politely guides me to a working connection in ten minutes. For the last three of those minutes, I lean back and watch her remotely complete my set-up while we laugh about some of her inane support calls, commiserate about the recent snow, and generally stroke each other’s egos. When she’s finished, Shonnica asks, “Is there anything else I can do for you?â€
“You’ve done everything but cook me dinner.â€
“I’ll make you dinner if you make me lunch.â€
*****************
About the title. Sometimes it’s harder to invent a title than a story. Jennifer addressed it in Foretelling. Well, I was listening to The Whistler the other day, and I thought why can’t I come up with interesting titles like Death Has A Thirst or The Body That Wouldn’t Stay in The Bay, or Death Comes With A Lunch Kit?
So here it is, the long-advertised Death Comes in a Lunch Kit.
One wonders if, somewhere, an AOL tech is writing on his blog about how they record all their customer’s interactions with the robots, and can you believe the one we had last week?
Speech recognition software is a cool concept, but at the moment, it seems to me that it’s good for exactly one purpose, and you’ve discovered it.
Maybe Diane and my Dad should set up their answering machines the same way, so that their patients can let out all their anger on the unhearing robot before they ever get to the therapist. You could take credit for the idea, license it to other therapists, and make millions!
Comment by pesky godson — March 12, 2006 @ 6:40 pm
The only problem with your concept is, though I instantly glomed onto competent Shonnica (after all, she’s the one to toss me the Mae West), I said some awful and regrettable things to Katherine. Those robots only escalated my anger.
But I do delight in your observation that Death was long-advertised. Now, if I can only get others to queue up. You know BirdBrain returns from Botswana tonight … .
Comment by michael — March 12, 2006 @ 7:32 pm
And I thought the photo in Foretelling of a girl pretty well hidden in plain sight in a location that sells food was somehow foretelling Death at a Lunch Counter. Well, I’m glad it wasn’t.
Meanwhile, I’m re-analyzing my nightmare about world destruction, after being reminded that many people think that everything in a dream is some part of one’s self. It doesn’t make nearly as much sense now.
Then last night I had one of those dreams where each scene segued into something so different that I can’t tell an even SEMI-coherent story about it.
Comment by Jennifer — March 12, 2006 @ 10:27 pm
so glad to hear the same madness from one so close yet so far away.
a friend showed me a piece from fugly.com(?) done by a media person describing mac interactions equally maddening and with similar hilarity.
i think this is one of michael’s best, maybe because it’s the me in him that he let me see.
Comment by pohaku — March 13, 2006 @ 2:53 am
The part of me that is about to explode at the slightest provocation, Pohaku? Or the behind the dormant door sense of humor?
And, Jennifer, you won’t even try?
Comment by michael — March 13, 2006 @ 6:32 am
Pohaku’s comment sent me in search of Mac horror stories:
“A few weeks ago I was walking on the beach, listening to my iPod, when it started to rain. I put the ipod into my pocket, and stepped into a nearby hotel. This is a fancy beach hotel with a pool and a spa. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain long, so I set my backpack with my stuff in a corner, and have myself a dip in the spa! It’s a minute or two before I remember what’s in my pocket.”
“Last Summer while living in a house with a couple of roommates, one of my roommates set up the sprinkler in the front yard. It happened to shoot into my window and arc across the side of my room with my cinema display and powerbook, as well as my bed. For hours. When I went to get in bed I didn’t bother to turn on the light and only realized how soaked my room was when I splashed into bed. Then I flicked on the light and realized my power book was sitting in a puddle, and there was water inside the clear plastic legs of the monitor. Then I had to sleep on the floor.”
Comment by michael — March 13, 2006 @ 7:45 am
Then there are those of us too bottled up to even yell at a machine that only sounds vaguely human … At least you’re the first beneficiary of the soon-to-be-trademarked Michael Method of Outsource Therapy (great suggestion, BTW, PG!).
The “Upcoming” section’s a tantalizing feature, but only when it boasts pending posts (especially those so deliciously — if willfully tangentially — named as this one). Alas, it’s now empty (For the moment … ).
Comment by el Kib — March 13, 2006 @ 7:56 am
Geez! I’ve never had an experience like that in my life, thank you Odin/JVHV/Allah. But your recipe for getting a human on line could be useful in the future.
Going on that sidetrack on dreams…
Last night I had the same dream 3 times in a row. I was a passenger in a car on a snowy road which got steeper and steeper. The driver stopped, put the car in reverse and started to accelerate downhill, while I shouted, “Slow down, slow down!” Is my subconcious mind telling me something?
Comment by rakkity — March 13, 2006 @ 9:30 am
Doesn’t take a man with a first name like Sigmund to figure that one out. Don’t retire, don’t move to Colorado – remain inside the gerbil cage with your friends.
Comment by michael — March 13, 2006 @ 9:35 am
Today it’s 85 F here in MD, and theoretically it’s still winter. What’s it going to be like when spring hits us—95 F ?. Then summer—125 F ? Meanwhile they’ve got snow in the Rockies, and the temp in Denver is 36 F with a chance of snow.
It doesn’t take Sigmund to tell me those gerbils are going to get steamed & fried. And according to Pepco and Balt Gas & Elec., air conditioning will go up in cost by 72% this summer in MD (deregulation strikes). Time to head for the mountains. I don’t care what my subsconcious says, the conscious rules!
Comment by rakkity — March 13, 2006 @ 3:16 pm
Speaking of Queueing up— Lamb’s Slide is boiling out of my subconscious. That’s what the triple dream was about!
Comment by rakkity — March 13, 2006 @ 3:19 pm
Concerning Michael’s request in comment #5: the problem is, I don’t want to risk having someone recognize that some symbols in my dream clearly represent my ______ — almost no matter what ______ is. I’m appalled at some of the things you say to each other (and at least one of the things I’ve said on the blog). I’m not sure my psyche is up to the potential trampling.
Oh, what the hell, I’ve just re-read rakkity’s dream reference and noticed a commonality: I was going downhill more and more rapidly and without control also. My downhill slide was in a LOT of water, however, frontwards, and indoors. Think indoors water ride at a theme park without the boat. This was after trying to find a place to leave the dog where she wouldn’t find anything to wreck, and discovering running water in parts of our house [the world?] that I didn’t know existed. Global warming, anyone? Awaiting lamb, rakkity.
Comment by Jennifer — March 13, 2006 @ 8:29 pm
Jennifer, can’t you take some solace knowing that only the Canning/Miller/BirdBrain contingent could pick you out of a crowd of crowing parents during mom and pop day at Oberlin? And that fundamentally, with what seems to me minor exceptions, most of the attention one garners here on the blog is laudatory? Or that many people (excluding Diane and me) think of dreams as random neuron firings?
Having said that and seeing you’d decided to test the waters, because I no longer remember my own, I’m a vicarious dreamer. Write a detailed entry about your dream. You just might tempt others out of the closet. Adam? BirdBrain?
Comment by michael — March 13, 2006 @ 9:03 pm