One Thin Wire.

Growling

Back when I was a kid if some neighborhood geek blew up the local telephone party-line as a result of messing around with the telephone (I wonder who did that?), the Continental Telephone Company was out making the necessary repairs within a couple of hours of said experimentation. It didn’t matter what was involved, they did what they had to do to have dial tone to their customers before the end of the day. In no time Beulah was back chatting with Maude about what the latest “Gabbing with Gen” column in the local paper was about.

It was a given that the telephone would work when you picked up the receiver.

Fast forward to today. More reliant than ever on that thin piece of copper, many count on their telephone or cable connection to keep tabs on the rest of the world. They chat with friends, they watch life-changing videos (read pr0n) and their telephone service goes over this vast network of tubes we call the Internet.

Why does it take nearly 24 hours for the repair to come to the door?

Our internet connection has been sporadically flaky for the past several weeks. It would disappear for hours at a time and then magically return on it’s own. Having worked in the industry for several years, this type of behavior pointed to human error; someone had cross-connected the wrong wire, someone had powered down the wrong piece of equipment, or someone was setting up a field cross-box for potential overtime. We’d ride it out for a couple of hours and I’d bitch about the incident via Twitter over my iPhone connection.

And then all was right with the world.

Yesterday morning the internet connection just died. It didn’t fade away like it usually does, it just went buh-bye. After listening to a message announcing that the cable television/high speed internet service number had been disconnected (and the new one is unlisted!), I finally bluffed my way through a number in California that transferred me to the right department. The friendly technician named Brian told me there was a wide spread outage.

Turns out it was so widespread that it was two states away. Uh, no. After calling back to find out the ETR (estimated time of repair – it throws them off when I use industry lingo, Chuck), I was informed that I was misinformed and that they would have to send out a technician. “Tomorrow”. “We can squeeze you in between 8 and noon”.

“But I need to leave at 11:30.”

“We can not alter the time frame. We have 8 to noon or 1 to 5”

“Is that a commandment?”

Unfazed, the response was “No sir, what time are you available?” I mumbled 8 to noon and then got very antsy for the remainder of the day and night.

My Twitter messages via iPhone were becoming more desperate:
“No Internet connection again. No afternoon porn break.”
“The tech support number for Time Warner has been disconnected. Welcome to American customer service.”
“The Internet outage here didn’t really exist. They’ve scheduled an spot for tomorrow a.m. Roadrunner sucks skanky balls.”
“Its official. RoadRunner blows chunks.”
“My God I’m watching American Idol due to no Internet. At least Chase the bear was cute.”

The merriment continued today:

“Waking up to still no Internet is hard to do”

Impressively, Rob the cable guy came to the house at 9:20. His first proclamation was, “I remember you! It’s down again?” He made his equipment beep and told me that a line crew would be out to the house within the next 48 hours.

I didn’t kill Rob, for he did something that made our internet connection at least trickle.

Surprisingly, the cable crew was out here within an hour and they spent several hours replacing everything except the cable that runs under the driveway. As the tech told me, “whoever buried the cable under the driveway knew what they were doing, it’s four times bigger than it needs to be and it’s a dry as the Sahara.” I guess that’s good.

So today we are once again live on the internet. Let’s hope there isn’t a geek somewhere in the neighborhood experimenting with the wires.

Stay Tuned.

I have a brilliant blog entry formulating in my head but RoadRunner is down again. Where’s my credit? Yeah, I thought so.

Maybe tomorrow.

I’m Not Crazy.

I love this song. Presenting Brian Kent and “I’m Not Crazy” from 2006.

Still Dumb.

A while back I refrained from commenting on the apparent stupidity of Sherri Shepherd on “The View”. I read somewhere that she had never voted before so I decided to see if there was a clip on YouTube stating this.

Of course there was.

If you pay close attention you’ll notice that she quickly says she’s never voted before because she didn’t know the voting dates.

Um, hello? I think it’s in third grade social studies that we have our first mock election on the first Tuesday (following the first Monday) in November. Some of us even got to dress up as a president or something.

If you watch a little further, you’ll note that her reason for voting is because she’s on “The View”. Forget any sense of patriotic duty that that side of the aisle is always preaching, Sherri is more concerned about looking good.

Oy.

Private Broadcasts.

It was a number of years ago that the US FCC (Federal Communications Commission) considerably relaxed the rules of radio station ownership. These changes resulted in large corporations buying up a ton of the Mom and Pop stations in our area. They held onto them for several years, using the stations to simulcast broadcasts from larger cities and then after discovering that the audience felt alienated by this approach which in turn caused them to lose money, the stations were then sold off to the highest bidder.

The highest bidders on these stations turned out to be religious-based companies in many circumstances. Driving from Albany to Utica today I scanned the dial and hit three religious stations between 99.1 and 102.1. There were others, many of which were duplicates/simulcasts of the three different stations I heard in that span. I think in all I stumbled upon seven stations broadcasting religious programming within a 75 mile radius of any given point along my journey.

That’s a whole lot of preachin’.

I find the concept of a religious radio station to be odd (and it certainly helps boost iPod sales). Growing up in rural Upstate New York being a God fearing Christian was assumed. You went to church on a regular basis (even if that regular basis was twice a year), you put money in the offering plate and you learned the Lord’s Prayer (even if it involved singing the Top 40 version in your head to recite it properly). In my family, religion wasn’t something that we talked about. At all. Ever. Once in a while I’d pose a question to my mother and she’d answer it in her best “mom-ism” (i.e. “God can hear all telephone calls at the same time”) but other than that religious discussions were kept at a minimum.

I guess there was an unspoken code in my upbringing that stated that to be preachy of your religious beliefs was tacky. Your religious beliefs were a personal connection between you and your chosen deity. They should be quietly and privately celebrated. The loudest you should get is with a hearty “Amen” at the end of the supper prayer. To inflict those beliefs on another was rude. I don’t think this approach was a bad thing.

I recognise that everyone has their own (or lack thereof) religious beliefs. I don’t care what people believe. If you feel your just reward is earned by worshipping a bottle of ketchup then get crazy with the ketchup, I’m certainly not going to stop you. However, don’t infringe on my territory by telling me that I have to worship a bottle of ketchup. You’ve got your way, I’ve got mine. It’s a bit of a leap for me to admit this but while I have my own spiritual beliefs (which would be considered to be part of “the fringe”), I don’t subscribe to the whole organised religion thing. I believe to pigeon-hole “God” into a “He” that gets cranky from time to time and sends his children to eternal damnation is utter rubbish. To me the idea of throwing more money into the collection plate during one hour out of 168 (and then be mean as hell the other 167 hours in a week) just so you get in the express lane to “heaven” is crazy. Organised religion makes it too complicated; I believe the message is simply “live a good life, do good things, show respect, share your love”.

But that doesn’t really make people money, does it? Fear is what makes those in power money. “You can’t eat meat on Friday. You can’t masturbate. You can’t love someone of the same sex. If you do any of these things, you’re going to hell.” I remember asking my mother what hell was. She looked around nervously (because we didn’t talk about these things) and then cautioned out this answer. “I believe this is hell. If we survive this, we get into heaven.”

In many ways, I think Mom had it right.

Anyway, so when I stumble upon the evergrowing number of religious stations on the radio, my first thought is “how rude!”. That thought is quickly followed up with a “they must not believe what they’re saying if they have to say it so much.” Then I hear “Blah blah blah Hallelujah!” It doesn’t even sound as friendly as Charlie Brown’s teacher voice.

A number of years ago I hired a man that was quite religious. I knew it going into the employment contract; he mentioned his church a LOT on his resume. However, his qualifications were unparalleled and his religious beliefs were none of my business. Until he told me, on his second day of work, that I would be burning in hell because of my relationship with Earl. That’s when I smiled and sweetly said, “You can read your Bible all you want. You can believe your Bible with every ounce of being. You can go to church every waking moment and you can give your entire salary as an offering for the fast track to your heaven.

“Just don’t beat me over the head with your Bible.” He never said another word on the subject.

Back On Track.



365 Days: I Lost Track., originally uploaded by iMachias.

This is today’s tough guy look. You can’t tell from the picture but I’m purring on the inside.

I’ve had the sniffles for the past couple of days. Everyone is hacking and coughing at school but I’m ahead of the curve by hacking and coughing only on the weekends. Perhaps I shouldn’t make out with my classmates in the bathroom, then I wouldn’t get sick.

It’s been a surprisingly good Monday. I probably could be classified more super than tomorrow’s Super Tuesday.

Football Jersey.

Football Jersey.

I heard something about a football game today, so I thought I should wear my football jersey for the occasion, even though the Eagles came nowhere close to today’s matchup.

The Dublin Thing.

Dublin

So I’m busying myself around the house working on various projects: editing video for Earl’s workplace, editing music for Greg and the Connecticut Gay Men’s Chorus, tweaking computers, playing with wires.

As I busy myself around the basement I have a streaming radio station on courtesy of LiveIreland.com. I’m listening to Channel 2, which is contemporary music from Irish artists. LiveIreland.com broadcasts live from Dublin City along the River Liffey.

Listening to the music, the talk of Dublin and the delicious accent easily transports me to our all-too brief (but overwhelmingly enjoyable) trip there last October. I can almost feel the energy of the city. The key word is “almost”.

During my rant the other day I mentioned that few understand my desire to move to Dublin, as I’ve only spent 48 hours in the city (out of seven days in the Republic of Ireland) and have only seen the city through the eyes of a tourist. Since that trip in October, I’ve done a huge amount of reading on Ireland and nothing that I’ve read has deterred my feelings on the subject. Practicality tells me it’s a dream.

It’s a good thing that I believe in dreams. In the meantime, technology allows me to experience the city from afar.

After Hours.

Being back in the swing of weekly DJ gigs again, after a successful night last night Earl and I decided to head to our local Denny’s after the bar closed last night for a quick bite to eat. Most areas of the northeast have a wide selection of all-night diners, here we only have Denny’s as the locally owned diners are only open until 8 p.m. at the very latest. Even our IHOP closes at 11.

This area is a disappointment to diner fans worldwide.

Earl reminded me that I had been to the local Denny’s once before for after hours, as I had insisted on eating breakfast after hanging out with friends at the bar. Quite frankly I don’t remember much of the experience as I was under the influence of alcohol at the time. No worries, he was driving during that excursion. My mandatory breakfast consisted of a chicken sandwich and french fries. Because of my minimal memories of that experience, I was not aware of what our Denny’s is like after hours.

It’s a mess.

They have bouncers/fake security guards at the entrances and at the restroom doors. These thugabes (tough guy wannabes, I just made that up) are there to help keep the drunks under control and the food fights contained. They’re also there to assure that everyone pays for their meal before leaving.

They’re failing miserably on that last point. Two liquored up parties left the diner without paying during the 45 minutes that Earl and I were there. The resulted in shouting from the hostess who was also cooking and the waitress who apparently had to pay for their food even though the thugabes weren’t doing their job and the hostess, who also collects the money, was cooking. One of the ladies from the liquored up party fell into my lap on her way out. I set her upright and pushed her in the right direction.

Our service was pretty good. Earl and I sat for no more than five minutes before we had our drinks and our orders submitted to the harried server. Since we try to fit as many calories as possible into the wee-hours of dining, our appetizer of chicken strips was out within five minutes of our request. This prompted one of the lesbians from a nearby table (I know she was a lesbian because she was making out with her girlfriend earlier in the evening) to come over to our table and glare at us for eating. She stood at the table and looked like she was ready to pounce. I didn’t offer her any food. Apparently they had been waiting quite a while for their food. This prompted more shouting behind the counter. The customers were yelling at the servers who were yelling at the hostess that was cooking while the thugabes talked on their cell phones while another customer escaped with an unpaid check.

All in all, the harried server was doing her best, the food was mediocre and the experience was frightful.

Next time I’ll be sure to be drunk.