Sunday, February 19, 2006
The Presumption, Part 1
I went down this evening - that is, down from my apartment to the lobby - to collect a package that was delivered Friday (this being Sunday). I was in no rush; I knew it was a printer cartridge, and the printer is working all right for now.
I presented the tag that the "concierge" - the security guard - leaves on one's mailbox when there is a delivery. This concierge was new to me; I don't know how long he's been working at our building. He brought out the log, looked up the number on the tag (146), and showed me where to sign. I pointed out to him that the entry was for Apartment 206, whereas I live in 202. He insisted that he showed me line 146, which undoubtedly was the case. I pointed out to him, therefore, that 146 must be the wrong number. I then told him when the package was delivered - I knew it was delivered because Pat (one of the regular concierges and who has known me for years) called me when it arrived - and suggested he check that date. This engendered some confusion on his part as he leafed through the log, and then I realized that he was probably weeks off.
He finally did locate the right 146. Presumably, the log counts up to 999 and then starts over again at 0; in other words, he was looking originally in the log at 1000 deliveries prior to this one. Well, perhaps he is new to the job. Or perhaps he is just not that bright. Or both. He seemed mildly insulted when I told him that the log was in chronological order - maybe he really didn't know.
He handed me the log to sign. I filled out the date and time and printed my name. I hesitated to sign, though. I said I would sign when he gave me the package. (The signature, after all, signifies receipt.) He got up and retrieved the package and I signed.
And then he said, "Did you think I would not give you the package?" He said it in a smiling fashion, as I had when I earlier said I wouldn't sign; but he was annoyed, as I had been. I said I didn't think that, but that someone else might have taken the package, or it might be missing. (Under the circumstances, not such an unreasonable assumption.)
Why had I delayed signing? Did I really think he wouldn't give me the package? No, that is absurd. I think I was put off by his incompetence, and more so by the fact that he sat there at his desk and waited for me to sign before he went to get the package. Did I think that he thought that I wouldn't sign? No, that's also absurd.
What is the point of this story? I will try to make it in Part 2.
I presented the tag that the "concierge" - the security guard - leaves on one's mailbox when there is a delivery. This concierge was new to me; I don't know how long he's been working at our building. He brought out the log, looked up the number on the tag (146), and showed me where to sign. I pointed out to him that the entry was for Apartment 206, whereas I live in 202. He insisted that he showed me line 146, which undoubtedly was the case. I pointed out to him, therefore, that 146 must be the wrong number. I then told him when the package was delivered - I knew it was delivered because Pat (one of the regular concierges and who has known me for years) called me when it arrived - and suggested he check that date. This engendered some confusion on his part as he leafed through the log, and then I realized that he was probably weeks off.
He finally did locate the right 146. Presumably, the log counts up to 999 and then starts over again at 0; in other words, he was looking originally in the log at 1000 deliveries prior to this one. Well, perhaps he is new to the job. Or perhaps he is just not that bright. Or both. He seemed mildly insulted when I told him that the log was in chronological order - maybe he really didn't know.
He handed me the log to sign. I filled out the date and time and printed my name. I hesitated to sign, though. I said I would sign when he gave me the package. (The signature, after all, signifies receipt.) He got up and retrieved the package and I signed.
And then he said, "Did you think I would not give you the package?" He said it in a smiling fashion, as I had when I earlier said I wouldn't sign; but he was annoyed, as I had been. I said I didn't think that, but that someone else might have taken the package, or it might be missing. (Under the circumstances, not such an unreasonable assumption.)
Why had I delayed signing? Did I really think he wouldn't give me the package? No, that is absurd. I think I was put off by his incompetence, and more so by the fact that he sat there at his desk and waited for me to sign before he went to get the package. Did I think that he thought that I wouldn't sign? No, that's also absurd.
What is the point of this story? I will try to make it in Part 2.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Marx-Allen Rule
Woody Allen's masterpiece, Annie Hall, begins with the famous Groucho Marx joke about not wanting to belong to any club that would have him as a member - a paradox of Catch-22 brilliance. Of course, Allen uses it to describe his relationships with women - the only women he wants don't want him, and vice versa - and I certainly can relate to that.
But I have this feeling right now, as I listen - painfully - to Reiner Schwarz on JAZZ-FM. This man is so full of shit I can smell it wafting out of my radio. If the average person produces 60 ml. of flatus - gas to you not up on your Latin - in a day, this bozo must churn it out in gallons. In a radio universe not lacking in obnoxious personalities, this guy takes the cake. He is so vain, so self-absorbed, so in love with his own radio-tempered voice, that you want to murder him. That is to say, I want to murder him. Here he is as I write, quoting the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Earlier, he spouted some incomprehensible babble about the current uproar in the Muslim world that managed to say absolutely nothing yet to be vaguely offensive. And now, here he is reminding us (or himself, but a blogster shouldn't go there) that he interviewed Gwendoline McEwen; as earlier he recounted in depth how and when he first interviewed Frank Zappa. Nothing or precious little said about McEwen or Zappa, of course: the point of the story was to remind us of how important Reiner was.
If this show lasts four hours, 240 minutes, and let us deduct, say, 24 minutes for commercials - leaving 216 minutes, I would guess that at least 24 of them - no, more like 30 - are devoted to this man's verbal diarrhea. He has only one show a week, I think, because it takes the other six days to clean the crap out of the studio.
So wherein lies my deep malaise? Oh God, he used that word tonight. Well, the problem is ... I like his taste in music. When he does manage to put a cork in it and actually play something, by and large I like it. (There are exceptions, of course. Sheila Jordan sounded like Reiner singing, with her self-indulgent patter.) So what does that say about me? It is that age-old fear, that we are or are becoming the person we hate.
Oh please, let there be a monitor, a super-ego, a homunculus, who will stand by me and tell me when I have achieved Reinerschwarzhood. And then ... JUST SHOOT ME.
But I have this feeling right now, as I listen - painfully - to Reiner Schwarz on JAZZ-FM. This man is so full of shit I can smell it wafting out of my radio. If the average person produces 60 ml. of flatus - gas to you not up on your Latin - in a day, this bozo must churn it out in gallons. In a radio universe not lacking in obnoxious personalities, this guy takes the cake. He is so vain, so self-absorbed, so in love with his own radio-tempered voice, that you want to murder him. That is to say, I want to murder him. Here he is as I write, quoting the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Earlier, he spouted some incomprehensible babble about the current uproar in the Muslim world that managed to say absolutely nothing yet to be vaguely offensive. And now, here he is reminding us (or himself, but a blogster shouldn't go there) that he interviewed Gwendoline McEwen; as earlier he recounted in depth how and when he first interviewed Frank Zappa. Nothing or precious little said about McEwen or Zappa, of course: the point of the story was to remind us of how important Reiner was.
If this show lasts four hours, 240 minutes, and let us deduct, say, 24 minutes for commercials - leaving 216 minutes, I would guess that at least 24 of them - no, more like 30 - are devoted to this man's verbal diarrhea. He has only one show a week, I think, because it takes the other six days to clean the crap out of the studio.
So wherein lies my deep malaise? Oh God, he used that word tonight. Well, the problem is ... I like his taste in music. When he does manage to put a cork in it and actually play something, by and large I like it. (There are exceptions, of course. Sheila Jordan sounded like Reiner singing, with her self-indulgent patter.) So what does that say about me? It is that age-old fear, that we are or are becoming the person we hate.
Oh please, let there be a monitor, a super-ego, a homunculus, who will stand by me and tell me when I have achieved Reinerschwarzhood. And then ... JUST SHOOT ME.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The attack of the 40 foot face
Okay, that was a mistake. I didn't want my monster punim staring out at you like Big Brother or Mr. Rogers or whoever that head shot is supposed to look like. It was just supposed to be a little photo, like a newspaper columnist's. Perhaps it would undercut the nagging, whiny tone of this blog. But I couldn't do it. I am electronically challenged.
Nor could I manage to insert a link to my son's blog. (Patience, it will come.) I did, however, manage to delete a link to Google News. Hey, why should they get free advertising on my blog? Do you get a link to the Philippic when you go to Google? It's like wearing clothing with a designer's name on it. Why should I pay for the clothes and then advertise the brand for them? Screw that.
Alas, it is easier to delete than to create. And that's my word of wisdom for the day.
Nor could I manage to insert a link to my son's blog. (Patience, it will come.) I did, however, manage to delete a link to Google News. Hey, why should they get free advertising on my blog? Do you get a link to the Philippic when you go to Google? It's like wearing clothing with a designer's name on it. Why should I pay for the clothes and then advertise the brand for them? Screw that.
Alas, it is easier to delete than to create. And that's my word of wisdom for the day.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
No free lunch
Free offer. Free trial offer. Ever heard this before?
I tried Bell Sympatico's free trial offer for three months beginning in October. I thought it was cheaper than the ISP I've had for years, Pathway. Of course, using Sympatico seemed to interfere with Pathway, but that's par for the course with computer software - it's not just that different programmes are incompatible with each other, they seem to have secret code guaranteed to fuck each other up. Having said that, Sympatico did seem to connect to the Internet more quickly and reliably.
But free? Ha!
What was this charge of $18.42 per month on my Mastercard statement? Oh, that. That would be virus protection, plus some other bullshit I didn't realize I was being charged for and didn't need, like a pop-up blocker. I have a pop-up blocker, which does a great job of blocking pop-ups and causing monster conflicts with the rest of my system.
By December, I decided to stick with Pathway. In fact, I upgraded to high-speed. Well, medium high speed. I cancelled Sympatico.
So, what was this charge of $42.85 on my January statement? Well, there was a 30-day cancellation policy. So yes, it's free - aside from the hidden charges - but once you cancel your "trial", you get charged for one month.
Bell, of course, now faces competition from various companies with respect to all of its services. That's why they've become so consumer friendly. I won't recount my conversation with the customer service agent this morning. Basically, her response was that I agreed to these charges. Who knows, maybe I did. Was I warned of them? Of course not.
Let the buyer beware, n'est-ce pas? (Caveat emptor, to those who like a little Latin in their diet.) And I say, Hang the rich.
I tried Bell Sympatico's free trial offer for three months beginning in October. I thought it was cheaper than the ISP I've had for years, Pathway. Of course, using Sympatico seemed to interfere with Pathway, but that's par for the course with computer software - it's not just that different programmes are incompatible with each other, they seem to have secret code guaranteed to fuck each other up. Having said that, Sympatico did seem to connect to the Internet more quickly and reliably.
But free? Ha!
What was this charge of $18.42 per month on my Mastercard statement? Oh, that. That would be virus protection, plus some other bullshit I didn't realize I was being charged for and didn't need, like a pop-up blocker. I have a pop-up blocker, which does a great job of blocking pop-ups and causing monster conflicts with the rest of my system.
By December, I decided to stick with Pathway. In fact, I upgraded to high-speed. Well, medium high speed. I cancelled Sympatico.
So, what was this charge of $42.85 on my January statement? Well, there was a 30-day cancellation policy. So yes, it's free - aside from the hidden charges - but once you cancel your "trial", you get charged for one month.
Bell, of course, now faces competition from various companies with respect to all of its services. That's why they've become so consumer friendly. I won't recount my conversation with the customer service agent this morning. Basically, her response was that I agreed to these charges. Who knows, maybe I did. Was I warned of them? Of course not.
Let the buyer beware, n'est-ce pas? (Caveat emptor, to those who like a little Latin in their diet.) And I say, Hang the rich.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Decisions, decisions
I have just set up this damn thing, and am too exhausted to actually say anything.
Like a trip to any retail outlet, there are far too many choices. Format, font, colour. I just want a coffee!
I'll get back to you - this - anon. When I'm ready. Don't forget, I have serious moral qualms about this whole enterprise.
Like a trip to any retail outlet, there are far too many choices. Format, font, colour. I just want a coffee!
I'll get back to you - this - anon. When I'm ready. Don't forget, I have serious moral qualms about this whole enterprise.
