When I got home for lunch today, I was unfortunately not surprised to find that our high speed internet connection was dead once again. It typically goes dead during the day, a fine example of the quality service from Adelphia Communications, the local bankrupt cable provider in our area.
I called their tech support number, on my cell phone which I thankfully have not canceled as of yet, though I do intend on doing so, and reached their automation hell. I was prompted to enter my ten digit phone number and then select from the 65 or so options as to what my problem was. After jumping through several menus and numerous hoops, their system bonked some touch tones in my ear, apparently in an effort to transfer me to a human. I reached friendly Dave, who the inquired as to my home telephone number (which I had already punched in), my address, my account number (let me check the tattoo on my ass for that one) and my social security number. Asking me for my social security number always makes me bristle. I mean, what does my internet connection have to do with the benefits I’ll receive or my tax return? Is that number suppose to be a guarded number and not thrown about like something trivial like one’s net worth or age? Dave demanded the social security number so that they knew they were talking to the right person in the interest of security. I gave him the last four digits and told him that I strongly object to this method of confirming one’s identity. I highly recommended that everyone make the same amount of noise when it comes to your social security number; no one except select organizations in the federal government should care about your social security number. Everyone screams about a National ID card and then gives out their social security number to just about anyone. It’s just wrong.
Anyways, Dave pittered and pattered on a keyboard within his reach while my modem was unplugged and ran some diagnostics. He couldn’t see my end of the circuit. I resisted the urge to say “No shit, Jiffy-Pop, the modem is unplugged.” but instead I went along with his script. He needs to send a technician out to the house. On Thursday. Between 1 and 3 p.m.
This is not good. I’m on call this week and I rely on a working internet connection. Dave didn’t care. I have to be here at the house on Thursday between 1 and 3 p.m. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll leave a love note for the Adelphia tech to get a clue.