I had a bad, bad day with the computers today, from a tech support standpoint. ( No one around here tells me anything. I seem to be one of the few people who knows what some of these errors mean. )

( The computers around here take a lot of abuse, like the thing with the power button being accidentally sabotaged. )

I bitched at some length about the sheer amount of special it took to do that to a computer, and the Obso1337 Supervisor brought forth some of the latest workplace gems. It seems that the Plaid Geek (the one who I ran into when I was doing the interminable disc project) was cracking the cases on some of the non-working items brought in to him, and he found things inside.

Gum foil. Lollipop sticks. Soda bottle wrapper. All of these things are things that the call center supervisors see jammed in machines with more or less regularity, so we were impressed by the Plaid Geek's touching faith in the integrity and garbage collection abilities of the average phone goon (evidenced by his outrage that some of these unspoken Rules of Computing were broken). I started wondering how long it would take before the other shoe dropped for him; Obso1337 Super indicated that it already had.

"It's a surprise that some of these machines were still running," was Darkside's take on the matter, when I recounted the Tale of Woe (or "This is what I did at work today, honey!") to him.

"Mind you, these were the ones brought in for repair," I said. "Like the one he found with the underwear in it."

"UNDERWEAR?!?"

Yes. Underwear.

All discussions of that PC seem to have short-circuited at about that point, with the usual newspaper barrage of questions like Who? Why? How long ago? Wouldn't someone notice? Was it theirs? Were they ... you know ... used? Boxers/briefs/panties/G-string? and other such frivolities. Such is the zen of employment at this call center that the old-timers have found that it is safest to not even begin to ask most of these.

Though if we knew the Why? we would probably know the Who?, and likewise. No one who works with me (except for the IT guy, who is new) thought to ask the question Who in their right mind stuffs underwear inside the case of a computer? because we all know that no one who works there is actually sane.

This may well be a final farewell from the One Man Bald Nudity Crusade. Who else would pick such a charmingly literal way to tell the computer, "Eat my shorts!"

"My babysitter's running low. ...Late."

Strawberry blonde! Now made with real strawberries!


The guy who called up, called us fucking sons of bitches, et cetera, and then called us from a cellphone and whistled at us. Rev. Not-So-Nice Super eventually answered the phone on him. (He's infamous for answering the phone. We don't let him do it often.)

Someone insane called up wanting to know if we had an internet connection. Rev. Not-So-Nice Super said yes. The someone wanted to know how fast it was. Rev. Not-So-Nice-Super wasn't able to answer the question, and "put them on hold" ... complete with humming and bopping some "hold music" through his fist into the microphone. By the time he was about to "transfer" to Comic Pirate Super, who was going to take the call, the dude had hung up.


"My computer locked up!"
"What did you do to the computer this time?"
"IT'S THE COMPUTER'S FAULT! IT CAN'T EVEN SPELL!"

"What part of 'find a booth in Area 2' did you not understand?"
"I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO READ ALL THAT SPAM!!"
"Job-related paperwork being put on your desk is not spam."
"I DIDN'T ASK TO GET IT! IT'S SPAM!!!!"


(in short? Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.)
Calling Darkside after work never looked like such a good option. A minute and a half with him at the end of lunch break. So good.

Backlogged on comments still/again. Inbox is sitting around 110 read-and-queued messages, not all of which are urgent, but none of which I've actually had the time to address.

Sunday is my Friday.

Sunday may also be my day where I say "fuck it" and go off to Mesa and bother Darkside. (If he'll let me.)

Today had some Technology Moments. Computers lost their desktop wallpaper. This led to at least two people coming up to the bullpen and declaring "My screen turned blue!" One of them was the One-Man Bald Nudity Crusade. I helped him shut down the computer and gave some cheerfully practical advice, like pointing out that that's the desktop, and as long as there's a little Start button down there, it's all good. This was evidently an invitation for him to unload a flood of bitterness about his own PC that stopped working all of a sudden and how computers should be designed to keep working, and he would have to PAY MONEY to get un-hostage-ized the stuff he had on disks, to the tune of $20 for printout, and so on and so forth.

I sat down at my desk again with shaking hands, and I told Comic Pirate Super that I really really wanted to hit someone right about now.

Comic Pirate Super was very understanding. (Comic Pirate Super brightened up my morning by saying "chu'" rather than "Activating!" in DIvI' Hol when he was setting up things on the dialer this morning. Did I mention that I adore some of my co-workers a whole lot?)


Rev. Not-So-Nice Super is plotting some cooking exploits (I was looking up the ingredients and methods for gelatin the other weekend, good gods) and conducting a sociology experiment. He hopes to write it up in paper form and publish, and then run for President on the platform "Homie G Super thinks I'm a nice guy!" I told him that if it didn't get taken as a paper, he should market it as comedy, and honestly, his plans for a reality show were totally unnecessary. In point of fact, I went on, he should just have somebody follow him around with a camera, and that would be reality show enough.

He was honest-to-goodness flattered by that. He and I are brothers in thrall to Thalia, see.

I'm thinking that informing him that his exploits are already entertaining portions of an interesting crowd online might be not such a good idea. As encouraging as it is to him, it might be a little too encouraging, and furthermore, that opens up the whole "work is a regular selection on LJ" can of frickin' worms.


I was sharpening pencils Friday night and Rev. Not-So-Nice Super entered the copy room. Sharpening pencils is noisy, and puts one's back to the door.

"BOO!"

"Waaaigh!"
He departed snickering. After my pulse un-spiked, I fell over giggling. Just on general principle.


Called the Darkside this afternoon after bidding farewell to the 9-hour shift. He was busy working on the computer. I called back two hours later. Still busy. (This sounded like a value of "working on the computer" that involved re-installation or at least heavy maintenance rather than an actual personal or work-related project.) I've been consciously referring to him as a man rather than a boy, at least when I speak, and especially when I speak to his mother.

Still need to ask him about the renfest.
Still need to poke him about a regular meetup. (And get a response. Somehow. I keep poking from time to time, and he keeps evading.)

Comic Pirate Supervisor has decided that the One-Man Bald Nudity Crusade is generally a farce.

Today's events featured said guy mentioning the respondent who took down his name and threatened to report him to the Attorney General. He said that in the future, he'd take down the number of the person in question to track them down and handle it one-on-one.

... the guy just skeeves me out.

This is the sort of story that could get dull and tedious if told in the fully-illustrated form. So I'll pare it down some.

In training room:
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: *prepares for training class* "Hi, people, and welcome to the wonderful world of Being A Phone Goon at Hell, Inc., recently merged with other subsidiaries of Underworld Ltd. Isn't it a wonderful lovely day? And, you. In the hat. You're going to need to take it off at work. Welcome to our dress code, by the way. Here, everybody, have a copy."
One-Man Bald Nudity Crusade: "DISCRIMINATION!! You're DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME!"
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: "Eep. Um. Check with the office because they do allow for religion and --"
OMBNC: "I'm BALD! You can't make me take off my HAT! You're DISCRIMINATING AGAINST BALD PEOPLE!"
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: "... wtf."
OMBNC: "YOU HATE BALD PEOPLE! DISCRIMINATION! OMGZWTF!!"
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: "I'll have you know my husband's bald, and when he worked here he wasn't allowed to wear a hat either. STFU and take a copy of the dress code."
OMBNC: *sulks*

On phone floor:
OMBNC: *exits training class* *is still wearing hat*
Quiet Geek Super: "Ah, I see you're new here. Please note that once you actually start work and stop with the training class, you're going to have to lose the hat while on the phone."
OMBNC: "HARASSMENT!"
Quiet Geek Super: "...wtf?"
OMBNC: "I'm BALD!" *demonstrates* *is very bald indeed*
Quiet Geek Super: "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm telling you about the dress code so you'll know about it and not get an official warning, since you seem to be merrily oblivious to it. What planet did you come from?"
OMBNC: (to Stressy College Chick Shift Ops Supervisor) "They're harassing me! This is DISCRIMINATION!"
Stressy College Chick: "Why don't you kill the caps lock and tell me what the problem is."
OMBNC: "The lady in the training class! Told me I couldn't wear my hat! And then this guy! Told me I couldn't wear my hat! This is harassment!"
Stressy College Chick: "That's what the dress code says. If you have a problem with that you need to see the office. I know the one guy who's Muslim --"
OMBNC: "WHERE'S THE LOVE FOR BALD PEOPLE?!" *stomps off, muttering* "IF IT WAS UP TO ME THERE WOULDN'T BE A DRESS CODE. WE COULD COME TO WORK NAKED IF WE WANTED TO." *puts on hat* *exits phone floor*
Stressy College Chick: *boggle*
Quiet Geek Super: "...wtf."
Me: "No one would even think twice about him being bald if he didn't throw a fit about it."
All in bullpen: "No shit."
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: *enters* "OMGWTF CRAZY TRAINEE."
All in bullpen: "We know."
Trader Joe's Queen Monitor: "I see you've met him, then."


On the phones, later:
OMBNC: "Helllllp!"
Rev. Not-So Nice Super: "What seems to be the problem here?"
OMBNC: "The computer! It's crazy! It's not letting me log out?"
Rev. Not-So-Nice Super: "Are you pushing 1 like you're supposed to?"
OMBNC: "YES! It's not letting me!"
Rev. Not-So-Nice Super: "Like this?" *pushes 1*
Computer: *responds as programmed*
OMBNC: "Oh, so it works for you."
Rev. Not-So-Nice Super: "Dude. Off the bad drugs."
OMBNC: "It's a CONSPIRACY!"
Rev. Not-So-Nice Super: <sarcasm> Oh, yes, the programmers have made it so every time you touch the computer it doesn't work. </sarcasm>
OMBNC: "I KNEW it!!"
Rev. Not-So-Nice Super: "You're crazy, son. ...And you're really, really bald."

From my seat in the bullpen, I can see rather a lot of the goings-on in the assorted booths, something that I think some of the phone goons are not quite so aware of as they might be. There's a lot of standing up and turning around and talking when the walkers are not so much in evidence, and since rediscovering the joys of net send, I've been sending little ... erm ... "love notes" ... here and there.

It's nothing dreadful. But since people have this tendency to straighten up when they see a walker coming their direction, it's difficult to call people on it when they're being twits on the job. I can't be everywhere, and I mostly have to stay at my desk because I'm actually doing real work there, but sending little messages to people is at least an attempt at letting them know they need to knock it the hell off.

Not that I tell them "knock it the hell off", exactly, but it's these stiffly-worded little messages that convey that general impression in the most polite and professional of manners. ...Anonymously, even.


I'm not sure whether I actually care about the job or whether I'm pretending I do and just going there to pull a paycheck. Either way, in my twistily insane head, pretending I care involves creating a persona who cares. Today started off badly, because I didn't have the seating chart, just the list of booth assignments in alphabetical order by phone goon. I cannot seat extras like that, and I had a small mob's worth, and I was in pain from hip, arm, and tongue. (Respectively, sleeping on wrong, wrenching, and too-hot pot roast.)

I'd like to banish about half my co-workers to a place where I'd never have to deal with them again, and hide in a corner with a book at a party consisting of the rest of them. When Zapping Gum Super has a problem with a phone goon, it's become a serious issue. Zapping Gum Super gets along with everybody, even Scary Old Lady Phone Goon. But the One-Man Bald Nudity Crusade is too much for everybody, especially when he insists on blaming our computer system for clear ID-ten-T errors.