Rock and Roll is...

With the exception of a couple of former employers, one or two former classmates, and most of the Bush Administration, I don't really have any ill will toward anyone on the planet. I love people. As long as they leave me the hell alone.

Still, I always find it galling to see people who I thought were oafs or incompetent, or worse, incompetent oafs, making out well after they've stopped pestering me. For example, my wife, who works at our former alma mater and monitors just about every thing that happens on campus and forwards it to me via AOL Instant Messenger all day long (as well as just about every Buffy and Angel spoiler she can find... Hon, do you do any work up there?), today sent me a note about a former (now retired) professor of mine in the communications school getting "Emeritus" status. Translated from the Latin, that roughly means "you invite me to parties but you don't pay me."

This prof was my "advisor" in college, charged with helping guide me through my major to best improve my future. Our sessions together consisted of 10 minutes each semester. He would count up the number of credits I needed and tell me how many I had to take the following semester. Then he's shoo me away. Hard work for a PhD.

His lack of mentoring skills are not what I remember most about the Doc in question, however -- he was the prof of my first ever course in college, Introduction to Mass Media. The course also had a textbook with the exact same name -- no surprise because it was written by the Dean of the school. It featured chapters on every form of media you can imagine, from movies to radio to tv to music to books. It was a hysterically funny tome... these old white guys would try to explain things to us youngsters, my favorite being a laundry list of all the ways they would define "Rock and Roll." I wish I could remember it exactly, but it was something like:

Rock is loud.

Rock is personal.

Rock is a driving beat.

It was like they wanted to say "You kids get off my lawn!" but knew they had to be nice. My professor, of course, took it very seriously. Therefore, I couldn't take him seriously.

So congrats to my old professor, who I always will associate with the most pathetic discussion of popular music I've ever seen in print. I bear you no ill will, but stay off my lawn.

Posted by Eric G. at 11:30 AM | Comments (0)

Fun with Telemarketers III

RING

Long pause as the computer that called me connects me with a man in India.

Shecky: Hello?

Me: ...

Shecky: Hello?

Me: Oh, Hello! It's so nice to hear from you!

Shecky: Yes sir, thank you. I'm calling from AT&T to tell you about your free gift of $50 that you've earned --

Me: Woah, waitaminnut, hold the phone! Fifty dollars you say! Why, that's a lot of money!

Shecky: Yes sir, it is. Can you tell me how much your long distance bill is each month?

Me: Why, that's so cool. You calling and giving me money and stuff. I really don't know what to say.

Shecky: And sir, this is a fantastic deal, as you'll get the prepaid card for $50 for use toward --

Me: They make money in card form now? Wow. I remember it being all papery and with metal coiny things before.

Shecky: Sir, it's not actual cash, it's a card that you use as --

Me: It's cash you say? I love cash!

Shecky: No sir, it's a card you spend like cash. You can use the $50 toward your phone charges, or get a $25 card for purchases toward clothing and other items as your favorite stor--

Me: Wow, cash in the form of a card, what will they think of next.

Shecky: .... [starting to catch on now] Sir if you take advantage of this now you'll be able to make calls completely toll free to your friends and family that use AT&T. Just so you know sir, AT&T owns over 70 percent of the telecommunications market in the United States, so sever out of every ten calls you make will be free.

Me: Wow, 70%! You guys must just sit back and cackle all day long, owning that much. You're like -- like telecom dictators over there! You're the Saddam's of telecom!

Shecky: Sir, can you please tell me how much your long distance is a month?

Me: Well, sure, it's got to be, what, uh, lets see... carry the one... square root of Pi... uh, around $50! I can pay for it with the cash you send me!

Shecky: [Annoyed] So would you like to go for this or what?

Me: Huh? Go for what?

Shecky: The services from AT&T?

Me: Services? You want me to accept services for money?

Shecky: Yes sir, the deal requires you to get AT&T service to be eligible for the free gift.

Me: But that's not free! That's like -- a conditional gift! And accepting services... [sobbing now] I'm not your whore! I'll thank you not to call here again.

Shecky: Yes sir, don't worry, I will not be calling you again.

Me: Okay, Thanks. Bye!

CLICK

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

Here's the background:

I moved to Ithaca. I needed a new doctor. I wanted a checkup. My insurance company (Diversified) said pick a doctor in the Beech Street network of doctors. So I did. My doctor works at the local Guthrie Clinic. I had a checkup. I got my cholesterol checked (the bad cholesterol was low, but so was the good, sadly. Thanks for asking.)

But, I got a bill from the Guthrie clinic. They said I owed $18 for the doctor visits (the insurance paid some of it). And $70 for the blood work -- insurance got NONE of it.

I called Diversified to figure out what was going on, why they didn't pay -- they said the $18 is a "Beech Street discount" and I shouldn't have to pay that. And the $70 charge is because they sent my blood to an out of network lab. So apparently it's up to me to dictate to health care pros that they send my blood to only the cheap-ass laboratories that my insurance company (via Beech Street) will cover. Classic.

So I called the Guthrie Clinic billing office and talk to Joanna. Their computers are down, but I explain the issue, anyway. She said Guthrie and my doctor are not affiliated with Beech Street at all and that they go through this all the time. Guthrie says call Beech Street, and have them call Guthrie directly to straighten this out. Cool.

I called Beech Street. First I get a voice menu that tricks you: it says press 2 if you have questions about claims, and then puts you in a recursive loop where they explain they are not my insurance company. Well no kidding. So I call back. I explain the problem to a guy and he looks up my doctor -- yes, she's still in the network. He puts me on hold. I get a second person on the phone, Maria. She is incapable of pronouncing the word "Ithaca." She called it "Utica" and after I correct her, she says "Whatever." She says the doctor is in their network, but they don't know anything about the Guthrie clinic.

"But the address you have for the doctor is the clinic's building," I point out.

Maria still don't know nuthin' bout no clinic in Utica.

I ask her if she could call Guthrie direct and she starts in about how the doctor is in the network, not the clinic. So I say, "I can see it would be much too difficult to expect you to make this call, so I'll have someone get in touch with your supervisor." Click.

I sit back and stare at the wall for a few minutes.

I called the local Guthrie office were my doctor works. I explain the issue to two very nice ladies, but they can't help me. I have to call the billing office again.

I called Guthrie and they are still mystified. The woman I get this time, Susan, is kind enough to initiate a three way call between me, her, and Beech Street. I warn her that if she gets Maria, to transfer to Maria's supervisor.

She has to get back on the line with me as she wrote the number down wrong: "Can you confirm their number is 800-877-1660?"

"No," I say, "it's 1666. A very apt number for them."

Susan tries not to laugh.

We talk to a guy, explain the whole thing... he says we'll have to talk to customer service and we go on hold again.

As we're on hold, during the musical interludes, we discuss: my doctor is not a member of Beech Street, and as long as she's with Guthrie clinic won't be, because Guthrie will not sign a contract with them. Susan says Beech Street should have to pay for this bill for me. From her lips to Mr. Beech Street's wallet. Could my Doc have signed up with Beech Street herself? Maybe, but she'd be in breach of contract with Guthrie then, so that would be a heap o' trouble. So this has got to be Beech's fault.

We get someone on line who sounds competent! They trade some info and numbers... and it boils down to: Beech Street needs a faxed copy of the bill and will go from there.

I tell Susan she should probably send the bill and letter about the issues to my insurance company, Diversified, too, since they're going to need to refigure this all out.

I had to call Diversified and get the fax number for Susan. They started to get a bit defensive, but I went through the entire litany for the eight time in an hour and conclude by saying, "I want Beech Street to pay" (I almost added "for their crimes against me!"), at which she kindly offers up the number. I left it on Susan's voice mail.

And now I wait.

But at least I haven't forked over my $90.

And now I need to find a new doctor. Christ.

He's a What, He's a What?

Thoughts on Disney's The Music Man…

Rock Island was not meant to have music played over it.

My college roommate, Chris, gave Iowa a try. He still lives in Des Moines with his lovely wife and kid (hopefully two by now). I need to call him. I miss a lot of my friends all the time, but he's one I miss the most.

I feel the true measure of a Harold Hill is not in the singing – for there is little required in the role (and no one would accuse even the great Robert Preston or Matthew Broderick of having the greatest pipes) – but in how they deliver one line in the most important song in film, "Ya Got Trouble." The line is: "… words like "Swell," and "So's yer old man"?" Broderick didn't do anything special – Preston always made it look like he was just coming up with those words of the top of his head, even tho the audience knew he had it all planned way ahead.

Kristin Chenoweth is probably the only woman in this production that can really sing.

Why on earth does Amaryllis ask why Winthrop is so upset? She just laughed in his face because he has a lisp. He should have kicked her in the shin with his shiny patent leather shoes and asked "Why is she screaming in pain like that?"

Victor Garber as Mayor Shinn is one of the most spectacular pieces of miscasting I've ever seen. Molly Shannon, however, is beautiful.

I think I might be annoying Bon by not only singing along, but also reciting dialog.

She went to bed an hour before the film finished… I sat here and wrote this, and spent the $50 gift certificate she bought me for Amazon.com. As much as I think The Music Man is the greatest musical of all time, I think the last half is a yawn, no matter what the venue, film or stage, and I am gladly heading to bed. Right after I watch the 300th ep of the Simpsons.

What I Want to Teach my Nephew.

It's entirely likely I will never be allowed to mold the minds of the young. Apparently to do so requires more advanced education than I am currently willing to get (though check with me again next time I'm laid off and that might have changed). Thus my only other current option will likely be occasionally spending an hour or two warping the mind of my nephew. I've been thinking about what I want to impart to him....

1) Show tunes are not inherently evil.
2) Don't settle for being just a "boob man" or a "leg man" or an "ass man." Consider the whole package. Especially the parts you can't see.
3) Sleeping in on weekends until 2pm is your God-given right until you are at least 19.
4) The toys are much better now.
5) Deep Space Nine was the best Star Trek. Period.
6) Don't join the school band unless you really, really, REALLY love music... and carrying an instrument a lot.
7) Avoid clothes that use the term "husky."
8) The cartoons on Cartoon Network that aren't made specifically for Cartoon Network? They suck.
9) Nothing tells a girl you like her like snapping her bra strap.
10) Comic books are meant to be read. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't treat them like delicate collectibles.
11) Crocheted doilies, on the other hand, are expendable. You can use them as napkins.
12) Spelling words out completely when using Instant Messages is much cooler than using bizarro truncated spellings.
13) Swirlies (face into flushed toilet) are to be given, not received. Actually, you should only give them in return. Bring friends as backup.
14) Picking a signature style of clothing in high school will go a long way toward setting your personality. For instance, I wore tie to school every day for years. I would recommend, however, by the time he start high school around 2014, that he try something more space age. Perhaps tin-foil hats. Or a cod-piece made of black rubber.
15) Yes, it's true, Spider-man is REAL.
16) The way you feel about girls while in high school? All hormones. You don't have any real feelings that can be trusted until at least age 20.
17) Thus, telling a girl you love her three days into a "relationship" is not smart and only works out very, very seldom.
18) Those geeky kids in computer club? Becareful... you might grow up into one. Albeit with better skin.
19) Always referring to friends by their last name is cool and people like it. Unless the person's last name is "Kratz."
20) You can always successfully divert blame for flatulence when there are three people present. Two people and one dog will also work.

Good-day, Sunshine!

It's 5:25pm and still daylight outside. Is there anything more beautiful?

(okay, yeah, light at 7:25pm accompanied by 82 degree weather -- 72 degrees with the wind chill. But I'm going for a glass half full feeling here after a few weeks of the glass feeling completely empty.)

Lucky Number Seven

An accounting of the birth of my nephew, told from the perspective of a person who couldn't see much of the mother and father:

10:30am: I left home, drove up to the Ithaca College campus, double parked and picked up Bonny so we could drive on to Hornell.

12:05pm: Arrived at my parents house, dropped off our dogs, fed them some lunch.

12:30pm: Arrived at the hospital and found my mom and dad sitting in the waiting area by the main elevators, just outside of maternity. We're told my sister-in-law, Jennifer, is nine centimeters dilated. Sounds like we arrived just in the nick of time, baby should be here any minute!

12:40pm: Went back to the maternity room to see Jen and my brother, Paul (aka, the daddy). Jen's mother and sister are there. Jen is uncomfortable (physically). I get uncomfortable socially, as we degenerate into a discussion of what a freak Michael Jackson is.

1:00pm: Bonny, Mom, Dad, and I partake of a lunch of hospital food in the St. James Mercy Hospital cafeteria, which is quite different from when I last ate there a decade ago. Though the food is not different. In fact, it might be exactly the same food. Made 10 years ago.  (Four meals cost $11 though... can't beat that.)

1:30pm: Jen gets her epidural (set at 10). She is feeling no pain now.

2:30pm: My mom tells me someone I know is in the gift shop. I stop in and find the volunteer behind the counter is Josie, my 11^th grade English teacher. She was a good friend of the family of my high school best friend, Mark, and thus by extension was friend of mine even though she was a teacher. She doesn't look much different than she did 15 years ago, though she apparently retired from full time teaching in 1989. Not teaching does not age a person much, I guess.

3:00pm: Nothing is happening.

3:10pm: My dad and I leave -- we have to take my parents new dog, Sunny, a very neurotic Shetland sheepdog (neurosis because even though 8 months old, was never socialized to people... because dog breeders are idiots), to the vet for his first checkup. We also have to pick up my grandmother's 16 lb cat Mickey, who was there being treated for a bladder infection.

3:44pm: While at the vet, I call the hospital and page mom. She tells me still nothing is happening. Jen is in "bouncing on the ball." I assume this is some kind of pregnancy euphemism and hang up.

4:15pm: We've dropped off Sunny at home (my dogs look at me with digust as we leave) and then take Mickey down to my grandmother's house in Canisteo. My grandmother has become a great grandmother about 7 times in the past, so having another great-grand-child up at the hospital doesn't do much to phase her.

4:30pm: We arrive back at St. James. The OB/GYN has taken the liberty of breaking Jen's water. That'll show that water. Baby should be out in seconds. I find out "Bouncing on the Ball" is literally -- she's bouncing on a handle-less Hippity-Hop, trying to jar the kid loose.

5:00pm: No change. They start to turn up the Pitocin level on Jen to artificially increase he contractions.

5:30pm: We Griffith's in waiting area are getting hungry. (We don't go to the room much, as Jen's mother and sister are hovering, determined to be the first to hold, or at least be the first to hear the crying, of the child). Griffith's start to discuss the viability of pizza.

5:45pm: Still no change, so Bonny and I go to my parents house to feed our mutts and then to get a couple of large pies at the Hut.

5:55pm: While feeding dogs, mom calls me on Paul's cell phone (I'm carrying it for him since using it in the hospital would cause the plane to crash. Or something) -- the baby is crowning! Should be out by the time we get back!

6:10pm: We pick up the pizzas. Bon I bitching the whole time: "We missed it! God dammit, we missed it!"

6:20pm: Back at St. James -- we didn't miss a thing. Jen is in active labor. (We found out this morning though that whoever told Mom the baby was crowning at that point was some kind of, uh, idiot.)

6:30pm: Eat pizza. We give one to the maternity ward nurses, since they've got four pregnant women/deliveries that day, so they probably can't get to dinner. They are turning Jen's epidtural down to 4 -- she's pushing, but can't feel anything, so she's not pushing at the right times.

7:00pm: Still pushing. Dad and I go over to Paul's house to let his three Great Danes out so they can "do their business."

7:15pm: Jennifer's mom leaves to go home and feed her dog, Abby (a Great Dane with a eating disorder -- she can only eat while her upper body is elevated, so she swallows while her front paws are on a chair). If you think we all have lives revolving around our dogs just a tad too much, well... yeah.

7:30pm: The nurse's discover they have pizza. Jen still pushing.

7:35pm: Still sitting in the waiting area. Reading 2 month old People Magazine. Bonny burst out laughing. I ask her why, she just repeats one of my brother's favorite lines: "Prairie Doggin'" [[I'm not going to explain it.]]

7:40pm: I start writing out a timeline of the day on the back of a St. James newsletter. Jen's mom comes back and asks "Still nothing?" as she goes by. We nod the affirmative and she sighs a sigh that says "Why would a doctor let this happen?" Because, after all, they're like gods!

7:55pm: Ellen comes out to tell us the baby is apparently too big. Jen is going in for a C section.

8:15pm: I walked back toward the room, but the doctor is still in there having her push (which seemed political at the time --the OB/GYN was not going to do the C, so why not see if she could get it out? Paul said later that Jen had to push since it was active labor.) They turn her epidural back up to 10. Plus they have to give her a spinal for the C-section.

8:35pm: I walked back to the room again. They're still prepping the surgery/delivery room. Jen is in her room, with mom, sister, Paul, plus aunt and her sister's boyfriend. Paul told me to come in. Jen is worried about her dogs, her rabbit, her hamster, can't stop crying. It's full blown pregnancy mania, without the husband abuse. Jen asks the nurse if Paul can still cut the cord, but nurse tells her, no, not during a C. Also, Jen (who is starving, hasn't eaten since the night before) is told she can't eat whatever she wants after a C section -- more crying at this than anything else. Who can blame her?

8:40pm: I tell all this to my parents and Bon, who, wisely, stay out of the way.

8:50pm: Finally, they get the surgeon and anesthesiologist in -- they'd been at the funeral for another doctor's murdered son, apparently. Jen gets rolled into the room.

9:16pm: My dad is locked into maternity -- they have to let him out with a code (the doors go automatically at 9). But he tells us they can hear the baby crying.

At 9:30pm, both families are standing in the hallway, waiting, and finally the nurse wheels out the basinet so we can see this:

John Edward Griffith
Born 9:07pm, February 7, 2003, 21 inches long, 7 pounds, 11 ¼ ounces.

5 Centimeters!

I just called, the head is still up but she's 5 centimeters dialated. I've got the dogs loaded in the car, a video camera with a fresh battery, and we're out of here.

On the Way, Baby!

My nephew, to be christened John Edward Griffith, is about to be born. My mom called at 8am to say my sister-in-law went to the hospital at 4am, but they sent her home after he contractions receded. Then she was back by 7am.

Paul, my brother and the expectant father, called at 8:30. He said she's going to go any time in the next four hours. I just signed myself up for a quick day off from work and once Bon tells me she's done with some last minute work at the office, we'll brave the new snow coating routes 13 and 17 and hopefully by in Hornell before they clean the gunk off the kid.

My goal: tell the nurses that I'm the father so i can make out the birth certificate and make sure the kid is named John ERIC Griffith. Doesn't that sound so much better?

More Fun with Telemarketers

RING

Eric: Hello.

Doofus*: Hey, this is Doofus from the Ithaca Journal, and I'm calling to make sure you received delivery of the paper this morning.

[[Nice tactic.... look like you're just a concerned customer service rep so that when you mistakenly call people who already have what you're selling, you can gracefully get off the line to the next person.]]

Eric: Uh, I don't receive the Journal.

Doofus: Well sir, then I'd like to ask you if you'd like to start receiving the Ithaca Journal. For only a small amou --

Eric: So go ahead. Ask me.

Doofus: --nt of money... [[pause as that sets in.]]

Eric: Well, are you going to ask me?

Doofus: Sir, I just did.

Eric: No you did not. You said you'd like to ask me. But at no time to you make an interrogative statement of any sort.

[[shorter pause as he girds himself for continuing dealing with me... perhaps the people who give him trouble feel guilty and eventually break down to buy the Ithaca Urinal...]]

Doofus: Sir, would you like to start receiving the Ithaca Journal? For only a small --

Eric: No, I would absolutely not like to start receiving the Ithaca Journal. But thanks for asking!

Doofus: Thank you for your time.

CLICK.

*Doofus is not the name I was given by this telemarketer. I would say I used the sobriquet of "Doofus" to protect the innocent or myself from libel, but I really don't remember what he said his name was. Other comedy names I could have used: Goofus, Chester or Shecky.