CANTANKEROUSLY YOURS

by Wendell Abern

 

A Little Surliness is Good for the Soul

 

 

Dear Curious, Dubious and Skeptical Readers,

 

          To my surprise (and delight), I actually receive fan mail!  Not the usual type.  I get e-mails that say things like, “Stick it to them!” and, “How does your wife put up with you?”  Okay, not terribly flattering.   Still, it’s gratifying to know that some people can identify with my cantankerous observations.

          Many readers ask the same two questions:  “Were you always such a crab?”  And, “Do you ever run out of things to kvetch about?” 

          No.  And no.  And they’re linked. 

Years ago, I actually possessed a moderate temperament.

Then the world started to change, and my bouts of anger and frustration grew in frequency and intensity as technology exploded.

First, someone invents long-playing records, and all my 45s become instant antiques.

Then someone invents huge-screen television sets, and my 19-inch Zenith becomes puny.

Then someone invents computers, and my typewriter becomes a joke.

I start to become edgy and skittish, finding refuge and solace only in huge quantities of salami.

Then someone invents CDs, and there go the long-playing records replaced my 45s.

Then someone improves on computers, and I have to replace my PC, which has became slow and obsolete in two years.

By this time, we have moved to Florida, and my usual sunny disposition is well on its way to crankiness, expedited by two-hour waits in doctors reception rooms, and countless older women who look like they are devouring their steering wheels while approximating the act of driving.

Then someone invents plasma TVs and my 35-inch Sony turns into a relic.

This is followed by cellphones that take pictures and broadcast ball games, automobiles that talk and give directions, and I feel like I am being whisked into some kind of weird time-and-space warp where Playstationing and MyFacing and BlueTubing are taking over the world. 

Everyone is Twittering and Tweeting, and it sounds like the making of a global porn movie, while I’m still trying to figure out how to leave an outgoing message on my telephone answering machine without hanging up on myself.

One day, I wake up to the fact that all of this new gadgetry, which is supposedly making life easier for all of us, is turning me into a crotchety old curmudgeon. 

Furthermore, whenever I need help in fixing or understanding any of these new whiz-bang creations, I rely on phone systems with menus and recorded messages that ultimately end up putting me on hold before I can actually reach a live human being.

So no, I was not always so crabby.  It took about 67, 68 years before I reached permanent ballistic mode.  And I think it’s good for the soul to express a little surliness now and then.  As for running out of things to kvetch about, there’s a better chance I’ll win the lottery.

For example:

A few months ago, I reported, in this publication, on my horrendous experiences with Dumbcast.  I wrote a column headlined, “Yes, This Really *@!#&!+! Happened.”  Shortly after the column was published, I received my monthly bill. 

Instead of sending in a payment, I looked up the name of the CEO of Dumbcast (Mr. Brian Roberts), and will share with you a small section of the letter I then wrote to him:

 

Dear Mr. Roberts,

 

Enclosed is my March column, starring Comcast.

 

Your portion of my frustration and aggravation wasted more than two hours of my time.  Most of it on hold.  A direct reflection of your pathetic communications set-up. 

 

And now you send me a bill.  Mr. Roberts, I don’t intend to pay you a cent until I hear from you.  And when you (or one of your chattels) contact me, I expect to be told that I will receive free service for the next three months.

 

          A few days ago, I heard from his lackey just before this column went to press.  He is in charge of “Acceleration” in Dumbcast’s regional office.  He told me he was passing my complaint to the Operations Director.  Whatever the outcome, I promise to pass it along to you in my next column.

Anyway, shortly after that disastrous episode, my wife and I decide that we don’t need two e-mail servers.  I want to get rid of Dumbcast, of

course; my wife wants to dump AOL for the silly reason that we will save more money.

We/she settle on AOL.  We/she also decide I will be the one to handle the cancellation.

I start on the Internet, hoping to avoid phone calls altogether.

First, I go to the AOL site, looking for “Cancel” on their “Help” menu.

I get a pop-up:  “’Cancel’ is not yet available.  Come back soon.”   

 

I decide to phone instead, and spend another five minutes looking for a phone number.  AOL does not publish a number on their website.  I have to look it up on Google.

In preparation for yet another wonderful phone experience, I make myself two three-inch-high ham and cheese sandwiches.  After punching my way through their phone menu and being put on hold, I start to eat. 

          I finish the sandwiches and work my way through half a pack of beef sticks before Edna comes on the line. 

After asking a few questions, she tells me I have now cancelled the main portion of AOL, but to cancel the two premium programs (which I didn’t even know I had), I have to call someone else and give them a special cancellation confirmation number.  Which she then gives to me.

I call and reach Gerald.  After confirming my name and request, he says, “What is your cancellation confirmation number?”

          “7933690843 dash 26.  What’s yours?”

          “Excuse me?”

          “C’mon, I gave you a number, now you give me one.”

          Gerald is too busy to engage in levity with the riff-raff.  Instead, he says, “Sir, you have now cancelled the special feature preventing pop-ups on your AOL site.  Would you like to also cancel the special spyware?”

“Yes,” I say, dreading what he will say next.

          “You’ll have to call another number.”

          Gritting my teeth, I wait until he finishes giving me the number before telling him he has bad breath.  Then I hang up, eat another sandwich and wait until today to call the number Gerald had given me.

          And as I sit here, I think to myself … of course I get upset!  To me, what is really strange is that the rest of the world doesn’t also.

         

Cantankerously Yours,

 

Wendell Abern

Wendell Abern can be reached at .