Archive for May, 2007

T·Mobile blues

Tuesday, May 29th, 2007

So, I made a mistake ordering a new cellphone. I ordered the Motorola RIZR, when what I wanted was the Motorola KRZR. It didn’t help that I was being guided by a review at phonescoop.com, which pictured the KRZR in the color I prefer, blue, while T·Mobile offered the RIZR in blue only and the KRZR in gray. I got them confused.

Moments after finishing all the typing in of address and credit card numbers, I realized my error and called T·Mobile to repair the order. It was midnight. No one on duty, call later.

I got up in the morning, early, the only time this year. I got a person. He found the order.

“No.

“You can’t do that.

“You have to wait until you get the phone, call and get an authorization to return it, repackage it, relabel it, bring it to UPS and have them bring it back to us. After we get it and cancel your account, [in about two weeks] then you will be allowed to reorder the phone you wanted.”

All that and I’ll probably get charged for shipping and restocking, and God knows what else.

T·Mobile actually has no mechanism for stopping a shipment anytime after the order is sent to their shipping facility in Texas. On-line orders are automatically sent within a few minutes. And that means no alterations are ever allowed on orders placed on-line after hours. Period.

Of course, this probably goes for orders placed by any other means as well.

I expect bear-traps and bullets to be irrevocable. But irrevocability is anathema to good customer service, especially when that service is the customer’s first encounter with you. It ensures that the customer, once extricated from the relationship with you, will never return.

I’ll be getting my KRZR somewhere else. Maybe even blue.

Pomp and Circumstance

Tuesday, May 22nd, 2007

The day is gorgeously Springlike, clear, and blue, and as bright as one might demand if one were in charge of making it so.

There have been more seizures of recent days; I mean me, and Epilepsy. Not that this publication pretends to be anything like a daily journal–but a reference to the beauty of life is as good a segue as any to the infirmities of life.

It was six days ago, and I wonder if then I considered staying in the place where I go when I seize? I wonder if that is how the end will be; just a choice to not return. Not the ineptitude of some intern in an ER, but just my decision to enjoy no more the soft and gentle sunsets like today’s?

Or the cool and pale sunrises, like tomorrow’s. I can speak of that event since I have waited to see it before writing about it. I think, all this other stuff aside, time is what I’ll really miss. Not the contents of the moments, but the stately passage of the moments themselves. Time is the pomp and circumstance of existence. All the rest is often just tedious and annoying–not difficult to discard at all, really.

It is most curious that the seizures are likely the result of the incipience of an antidepressant, which didn’t anti-depress much if you ask me. Certainly any effect the Zoloft did have was countered by the effect of my inchoate excursions in and out of consciousness over the last week. And this is doubly curious, considering that I once thought that the occurrence of seizures had an antidepressant function, like nature’s version of ECT. Hmm. Well, I use to think something similar about sex, too.

If I hadn’t so thoroughly diminished sex in my practice of it, then I would probably miss that, too, when I die, just as I will miss the passage of time. Nonetheless, I will miss what sex always had the potential to be, even though it was twisted by me into being something else.

Today’s Sun offers a hope as fresh and bright as yesterday’s sky, and I should just go to bed; I should crash, I should come down off this Zoloft-withdrawal high which I seem to be enjoying and get on with the day’s business.

Old Entries

Monday, May 21st, 2007

Here is bouyance from Tuesday, December 31st, 2002. Apparently all the old entries are accessible and still magical…

Cleaned the apartment Sunday night. Spent yesterday bitching, moaning, napping, and downloading cute games for the iPAQ, which pretty much is a useless device—I carry it around hoping I might need it for something, and I worry about losing it. But back to Sunday night…

Stayed up until 6:00 AM Monday morning cleaning. Used every rag, sock, and towel in the place. I now have a 300 pound pile of laundry on my bathroom floor that smells like Murphy’s Oil Soap. I had to get the place at least tenable looking because the landlord’s cute blonde grandson was coming with a locksmith at 9:00 AM to re-key all the locks in my building. His note said it would take about an hour.

They came and woke me at 9:30 AM and stayed for four hours. I started out tired, cranky and irritable. My usual, I know. But then I got worse. The fat, ugly locksmith comes in with globs of slush, takes the locks apart, leaves the pieces on the floor and goes away for twenty minutes. He did this six times. The pretty young blonde hovered about being useless, but polite, during each visitation. This made me anxious in addition to annoyed; attractive young men make me anxious, especially if I am not having (or not able to have) sex with them. By 11:00 AM, when I had expected to be back in bed snoozing recuperatively from my all-nighter, it had become clear that this would take a couple hours more. My overwhelming desire to be alone was in diametric opposition to my equally overwhelming desire to fully engage the fever of having this adonis within speaking distance. Alone won.

I was all but snarling audibly by early afternoon. I think I even caught their attention briefly with a little petulant cabinet-slamming, or a loud expellatory sigh. Or two. I guess I blew my chances for a blow-job; there won’t be any illicit encounters with landlord-grandson, at least not in the apartment which I occupy. Oh well. Maybe I really do prefer the view of him through imperceptibly parted venetian blinds as he scurries about outside my windows. Despite my pining for contact, maybe I do prefer to be alone. Maybe.

But maybe I just do not know how to do it; me and the cute boy, or me and you, or me and anyone at all. The game is tedious for me for some reason, at least it is the way I play it. Probably I am not ‘following through,’ as in a perfect golf swing. Probably I am not surrendering to the flow, swimming with it, cooperating with life, and even redirecting it a little as the course of things might allow. Probably somewhere long ago I chose to fight, and to make that my sole companion, to dig my toes, my whole legs even, deep into the muck and fight the flow while also trying to keep my head above it.

Could it really be the complete opposite? That this stream of experiences—this dream of existence—is really the bouyant of my life instead of its inundation?

lifefall

Saturday, May 12th, 2007

“Does anyone ever fall from the trees?”

“Yes. You fall when your life is over.”

–Bahadur, of the Nepalese Raji, quoted in an article by Eric Valli appearing in the June 1998 issue of National Geographic magazine.