No, this is not regular, but a post should wander into these parts as I'd like to look back a gaze into the madness before donning my cap and gown and getting my whole life returned after graduation.
Today: feel like a forearm shiver to the left temple but happy
Comcast.
Your business model is broken, or at least cracked as the rush to gather modern media outlets and stay with the times of internet programming is at least a step in the right direction.
However, your downfall is the base of that programming. The customer.
For months I paid $160.00 for BLAST!!!!11111 internet service and a pretty shitty/basic lineup of cable channels such regulated me to watching Netflix if I wanted something semi-fresh (and magically found a free hour or two) or a Sunday Gibbs-marathon treat while I work the Sunday Warm-Up at PokerStarsBlog (ya'll are reading there I hope).
But, in those 6 or 7 months of paying this amount, magically there was a bigger media package for the same cost with my name on it sitting on some call service desk in Mumbai or Minneapolis. After calling not one, not two, not three, not even four, but FIVE different 800 numbers and one local number (that basically were the same thing) I finally reach the destination of the “retention office”. Your online chat was quick, crisp, and honest. Well done. But, the multitude of glut with these numbers to reach this place was horrible. It was like one of those time share places offering a TV/Set of Steak Knives which seemed very much reach until they pulled you through another door.
Once reached, the CSR was VERY polite and understanding to my hearing issue and repeating things calmly. Again. Well done. And after seeing for the same price I could get HBO (yes, I already watched half an episode of Game of Thrones, Holy Dinklage! BOOBS! BEHEADINGS!) some assorted movie channels, all the kiddie channels my sugar-induced kids could handle and twice the internet speed/usage. While tiffed that I’ve been overpaying for less service, again, you gave ME value (others may not agree), I like.
But, here’s the cracked part. I did not ask for a phone. I did not want a phone. I did not need a phone.
You gave me a phone.
Why?
According to the CSR my rate actually would go UP if I excluded the phone. What kind of kickback are you receiving that a land line equals discount coupon? Right now I have not the time to dive into the interwebs and research but a customer shouldn’t pay more for less unless they’re shopping for La Perla.
Work on this please.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
114 days
If someone could tell my urinary system that it is 3:21am that would be great. /Office Space
Did you know I’m going to Vegas next month and it’s furthest thing from my mind at this point just because of the amount of work before I get to The Mirage. Usually I can’t sleep knowing in under 30 days I would walk with the unwashed masses in my red and white baseball pajama bottoms at 3am with a hot chocolate in one hand and a clutch of paper slot slips with amounts under one United States dollar in the other watching a slew of workers vacuum the floors while hookers try for one last easy for the night.
I’m never that trick, I’ve never been approached.
Maybe because I would be more interested in hear their story versus a sloppy lay and getting rolled with a side of possible divorce. I know there’s cab confessionals and other chronicles of these ladies of the night, but don’t the best stories come out when the author and/or characters are stripped bare?
I know mine do as I was thrown naked in front of a governance board yesterday about some access that someone requested for me 6 months ago and didn’t show up for the six person meeting to discuss it. We won’t mention I was seeing stars half the day from being so overly tired or barely making out “what do you think Dave?” through the grainy sounds of a conference call.
And people wonder why I don’t like status meetings and interviews. I like to do, not talk about it. I can’t explain my job or writing style any more than why I can throw a bag filled with corn 27 feet away through a 6” diameter hole with accuracy after a full night of sailing with rum and beers with funny names.
Just do it. Not for Phil Knight but yourself.
Did you know I’m going to Vegas next month and it’s furthest thing from my mind at this point just because of the amount of work before I get to The Mirage. Usually I can’t sleep knowing in under 30 days I would walk with the unwashed masses in my red and white baseball pajama bottoms at 3am with a hot chocolate in one hand and a clutch of paper slot slips with amounts under one United States dollar in the other watching a slew of workers vacuum the floors while hookers try for one last easy for the night.
I’m never that trick, I’ve never been approached.
Maybe because I would be more interested in hear their story versus a sloppy lay and getting rolled with a side of possible divorce. I know there’s cab confessionals and other chronicles of these ladies of the night, but don’t the best stories come out when the author and/or characters are stripped bare?
I know mine do as I was thrown naked in front of a governance board yesterday about some access that someone requested for me 6 months ago and didn’t show up for the six person meeting to discuss it. We won’t mention I was seeing stars half the day from being so overly tired or barely making out “what do you think Dave?” through the grainy sounds of a conference call.
And people wonder why I don’t like status meetings and interviews. I like to do, not talk about it. I can’t explain my job or writing style any more than why I can throw a bag filled with corn 27 feet away through a 6” diameter hole with accuracy after a full night of sailing with rum and beers with funny names.
Just do it. Not for Phil Knight but yourself.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
115 days
This.
These people.
My people.
This is who I am.
Work hard, play harder, rinse, repeat, find a wheelchair (proverbial or not) if needed.
Day yesterday started at 4:14am according the muted blue glow of the alarm clock. It would end at 9:23pm due to sheer exhaustion which today my throat is telling me, "don't grab those 2 for 1 margaritas tonight at your sis-in-law's birthday dinner".
But, I'll ignore that.
One thing that has gotten me this far is time management, especially this quarter with a full four 4000 level classload. Bed before 9:30pm every night, only exception is Saturday and only then if work is done to a certain point. Playing with kids for at least an hour a night as getting sucked into social media can happen after they are tucked in. Help around the house as much as possible. As last night despite sending in a concerned customer service call to Comcast about value for what I'm paying (and getting double the amount of channels, internet speed/usage, and free phone for what I pay now), doing a load of laundry because my daughter's bladder is on par with the Bellagio fountain show as not knowing when those streams are going to leap after she is sent off to learn about magnets and singing robots.
Yes, daddy washed the "backup" pants so you return them to school.
Because daddy doesn't want to be an invisible figure anymore. Over the past half of year, I tried a little experiment with asking them to name one thing EVERY day that they did at school. For three month I got crumbles of salad and mutters of "everything". But, now both are happy to share something different like my toothless girl's singing robots or my son's report of taxidea taxus. See example below:
Won't do this everyday, or maybe in once a week but typing a few letters on these pages may slow my sprial into the abyss of become a corporate drone. Or a bar olympics semi-pro.
These people.
My people.
The Bar Olympics at Sundance Bowl
This is who I am.
Work hard, play harder, rinse, repeat, find a wheelchair (proverbial or not) if needed.
Day yesterday started at 4:14am according the muted blue glow of the alarm clock. It would end at 9:23pm due to sheer exhaustion which today my throat is telling me, "don't grab those 2 for 1 margaritas tonight at your sis-in-law's birthday dinner".
But, I'll ignore that.
One thing that has gotten me this far is time management, especially this quarter with a full four 4000 level classload. Bed before 9:30pm every night, only exception is Saturday and only then if work is done to a certain point. Playing with kids for at least an hour a night as getting sucked into social media can happen after they are tucked in. Help around the house as much as possible. As last night despite sending in a concerned customer service call to Comcast about value for what I'm paying (and getting double the amount of channels, internet speed/usage, and free phone for what I pay now), doing a load of laundry because my daughter's bladder is on par with the Bellagio fountain show as not knowing when those streams are going to leap after she is sent off to learn about magnets and singing robots.
Yes, daddy washed the "backup" pants so you return them to school.
Because daddy doesn't want to be an invisible figure anymore. Over the past half of year, I tried a little experiment with asking them to name one thing EVERY day that they did at school. For three month I got crumbles of salad and mutters of "everything". But, now both are happy to share something different like my toothless girl's singing robots or my son's report of taxidea taxus. See example below:
Won't do this everyday, or maybe in once a week but typing a few letters on these pages may slow my sprial into the abyss of become a corporate drone. Or a bar olympics semi-pro.
Monday, February 25, 2013
116 Days
Recently, I have never begging for normal more in the past two months than even my lowest of lows. If one’s life is past upon experience and stretching the outer reaches of emotions without breaking, I have pulled that rubber band back as far it will go for maximum sling. Or a sharp snap.
Work life, home life, parent life, social life, all-consuming with only brief interludes of silence, just enough to recharge the dead battery so the next step can be taken towards graduation. More work, more involved at home, being a dad instead of dude behind a laptop, and double-fisting Captain and Cokes because there’s no reason to sit on the sidelines anymore.
Be happy scares me more than sitting in a dark corner combing through the day, the week, the lifetime trying to find meaning when I can’t sleep because the constant re-evaluating of my life. Is going through this stressful time worth the college degree? What is my marriage going to look like afterwards? Will I continue to try to be a better dad/husband/friend/son? What is this receipt to SexWorld doing in my pocket?
People don’t understand you. They never will. There’s no book, no psych course, no spouse/friend/parent that will ever understand you and why you’re standing in front of a mirror at 5:13am half-naked with Crest with whitening power dribbling down the right side of your lips. However, they can help pull a person into a better state of mind. At least that’s what I tell myself daily, stop fucking with my own head, and just do. For years and even now, I still believe my disability is the reason why people treat me the way they do. As sort of a loyal dog that will never bite no matter how many times kids pull on its ears or forget to feed it.
Even at work where I do well enough to get praise, it seems fake, only patting my head “GOOD JOB BOY!” because I am an employee tax deduction due to my inability to shape noises into conversation. Just once I would like to kick the piss out of the cynic in me and throw him into the woodchipper ala Fargo. Just once I would like to hear “Excellent job on fixing that dispute!” instead of “I’m only saying this because I need more from you”.
That’s my problem.
Because I sit today 116 days from my unicorn, my Eleanor if you will. My daydreams of held back tears. My piece of paper that cost north of $46K and some priceless sanity to get. And while it will be a grand relief to get free time back, I will need to fill it because that cynic will have more time to think again and open its mouth wider than before.
Then again, I have all the people surrounding me that would tell that cynic to fuck off and buy me a drink to discuss why Taylor Swift should cross her legs more and stop whining about her boyfriends through multi-million dollar screeching. I hope to see those people again sooner than later.
Work life, home life, parent life, social life, all-consuming with only brief interludes of silence, just enough to recharge the dead battery so the next step can be taken towards graduation. More work, more involved at home, being a dad instead of dude behind a laptop, and double-fisting Captain and Cokes because there’s no reason to sit on the sidelines anymore.
Be happy scares me more than sitting in a dark corner combing through the day, the week, the lifetime trying to find meaning when I can’t sleep because the constant re-evaluating of my life. Is going through this stressful time worth the college degree? What is my marriage going to look like afterwards? Will I continue to try to be a better dad/husband/friend/son? What is this receipt to SexWorld doing in my pocket?
People don’t understand you. They never will. There’s no book, no psych course, no spouse/friend/parent that will ever understand you and why you’re standing in front of a mirror at 5:13am half-naked with Crest with whitening power dribbling down the right side of your lips. However, they can help pull a person into a better state of mind. At least that’s what I tell myself daily, stop fucking with my own head, and just do. For years and even now, I still believe my disability is the reason why people treat me the way they do. As sort of a loyal dog that will never bite no matter how many times kids pull on its ears or forget to feed it.
Even at work where I do well enough to get praise, it seems fake, only patting my head “GOOD JOB BOY!” because I am an employee tax deduction due to my inability to shape noises into conversation. Just once I would like to kick the piss out of the cynic in me and throw him into the woodchipper ala Fargo. Just once I would like to hear “Excellent job on fixing that dispute!” instead of “I’m only saying this because I need more from you”.
That’s my problem.
Because I sit today 116 days from my unicorn, my Eleanor if you will. My daydreams of held back tears. My piece of paper that cost north of $46K and some priceless sanity to get. And while it will be a grand relief to get free time back, I will need to fill it because that cynic will have more time to think again and open its mouth wider than before.
Then again, I have all the people surrounding me that would tell that cynic to fuck off and buy me a drink to discuss why Taylor Swift should cross her legs more and stop whining about her boyfriends through multi-million dollar screeching. I hope to see those people again sooner than later.
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