veryone knows that customer service is generally insipid, across the board, in every type of industry.  Everyone who works in customer service, across the board, in every type of industry, knows that the vast majority of customers with complaints are complete idiots. Having been on both sides of this issue, I am well-qualified to comment on it, when something about CS comes up in the news.

You can find some more of my writing on this topic, from a personal perspective, on the Sports: Fans page. It would be added here if that page hadn't existed first.

Newer entries are added on top of this page.

December 13, 2003

Since I've been promising the story of my haircut, here it is.  I should note that the actual haircut wasn't that bad; it was the whole process and time consumed that brought it down.  Here's a pic of me from Friday night, all dressed up after returning from the Xmas party at Malaya's work, and don't I look neat and clean cut?  Bleh. Click the shot to see it larger.  Jinx is really the cutest part of the picture, IMHO.

Anyway, flashing back to Wednesday.

I badly needed a haircut, since it had last been cut in June, and had grown rather red-neck'ish on the back, though the sides and top looked okay.  I was finger combing it over to the sides and using some gel, which gave me a decent look with the hair on top hanging down to about the bottom of my ears. I mostly didn't like the sides and back, which were all shaggy, and was tired of having to gel it to keep it out of my eyes.  I'd taken to wearing a blue felt ski cap all the time, more for convenience than for warmth or a fashion statement.

Anyway, I went over to get it cut while our clothes were washing at the laundromat, since there was a haircut place elsewhere in the mini mall.  I don't know what the name of it was, but it was a local, family-owned place; not Haircutters or Supercuts or any chain store.  This was my first mistake.

There was no one there, I mean literally, I was the only customer when I went in, and the staff appeared to have been imported from a Chinese restaurant. Two guys who spoke okay English but with heavy accents, and a woman who I assumed was the sister or wife of one of the guys. She was the one who actually cut my hair.

The first problem was that none of them spoke very good English, and the woman's was the worst.  I tried to explain how I wanted my hair done, which was really pretty simple, and she listened for a minute and said several things I couldn't understand, and then said, "Let me get book."

She then walked over behind the counter and rummaged around in a box for about two minutes.  Literally.  She finally pulls out this coffee table book and brings it over and hands it to me, as if I'm going to start leafing through it hoping to hit upon a guy who has hair just like how I want it, when I'm hoping to get a simple haircut in about 15 minutes and be gone?  Uh huh...

Of course the photos in the book are all male and female mixed together, and look to be circa 1995 or so.  Every guy I saw had hair like one of the Backstreet Boys, all poofy on top and feathered in on the sides. At that point I was figuring I'd retired my blue ski cap a bit prematurely, if this woman was going by those looks.

I handed the book back to her and said, again, "I want a flattop, but I want the hair on top left about three inches long, so I can wear it parted or back, and it won't be spiky. But I don't want the top exactly even on the side.  Not like a bowl cut.  And I want the sides as short as you can do them with scissors."

She expressed incomprehension, so I showed her.  I just grabbed up all the hair on top of my head and pointed to the sides, and said, "I want all of this about one inch long, all the way up to the top, so my hair will lay flat on the sides. I'd like it blended a bit in the back though."

She's just lost here, so I have to go over it again, and eventually got across the concept that I wanted the hair on top about four inches shorter, and the sides and back much shorter, as close as she could do it without shaving me, since my hair gets spiky if it's that short. The whole explanation process went on a lot longer than I'm writing it here, since it nearly killed me at the time, and I'm not about to relive that whole experience just for your amusement/boredom.

At last she appeared to be getting the program, and started cutting.  This surprised me, since I had gel in my hair and hadn't washed it that morning before putting in the gel, since I knew I was getting a cut and figured they'd just wash it out.  I hadn't been anywhere to get a haircut in San Diego in at least the last decade where a shampoo wasn't part of the deal; it's just automatic.  It takes about three minutes, and they have to get your hair wet and clean to cut it properly anyway.  And I'd been paying $11 or $12 or so for haircuts there; I was paying $16 for the one here.

So needing it or not, I got no shampoo or washing.  Instead she used a squirt bottle to wet it as needed, and she had to keep rewetting it since she cut it so slowly, and it was all snaggily since there was gel in it already.  I mentioned this to Malaya later, while I was venting and we were folding the laundry, and she was surprised.  Not that I hadn't gotten a shampoo, but that I was used to it. She said she hadn't heard of any places in the Bay Area that included a shampoo for the haircut price, and that it's always $7 or something extra for a shampoo, which is of course ridiculous when you can do it yourself at home for free.  Odd that that's a difference between haircutter in SD and up here, and I can't imagine why.  It's not like water or shampoo are cheaper down south, or that building 3 or 4 sinks with reclining chairs is a big extra expense.

Oddly enough, I'm now consumed with the desire to go get a haircut when I'm in SD around Xmas time (no date is yet set), just to get my free bonus shampoo.

So no shampoo, and she's hacking away pretty well on the sides and back, while she's got the top clipped up with a couple of hair clamp thingies. But she can't use them properly, and has to keep readjusting them, and hairs are escaping and falling down into her way the whole time.  Of course I've asked her to cut four or five inches off the top already, so if she'd just do a rough draft of that now, it would be out of the way even without the clips.  I didn't make this suggestion out loud, of course, since it would have necessitated another five minutes or explanation.

As for the Chinese/English problems afflicting the verbal intercourse in the salon, I don't care if the staff in a Chinese restaurant can't speak English very well. In fact I almost hope that they can't, since I figure the food will be better. (Another Bay Area difference, since most of the staffs in Chinese food places in SD can't speak English either, but that's because they speak Spanish, not Chinese.)  So long as the menu is written in understandable English and they can understand my order, I'm cool.  Unfortunately, they don't have a series of head shots on the walls in a salon, from which you must order.  Everyone wants their own style of haircut, and wants customizations on a haircut even if they get a trendy one.  So it's pretty much mandatory that the person cutting your hair speaks the same language as you.

I eventually got more or less the haircut I wanted, and it even looked pretty good, but it was just so much fricking work to explain and explain and explain and correct and explain that I was very glad I didn't really give a shit how it looked in the end, since I eventually just gave up and said, "That's fine. Fine." when it really wasn't, but was close enough, considering it'll all just grow out again in a month and I'll probably get my next trim in about April.

So no shampoo, and her technique is a train wreck, but eventually she's got the sides and back pared down pretty well, and has been made to understand that I don't want the sides in a wedge or page boy or bowl cut; I want the hair on top of my head to reach about two inches above my ears, and I especially don't want it all even on the sides.  I want it about the same length all over, so the natural topography of my skull will have it falling down in a somewhat staggered fashion.

She's cutting away, and cutting, and cutting.  I'm talking like single hairs at a time, and I'd never wanted more to just be able to duplicate myself, so I could stand behind my head and give me the haircut I wanted. I'd have been in and out of there in 5 minutes.  Cutting hair is easy; it's just hard to see to cut your own, other than the bangs, and who wears bangs anymore anyway?

She eventually got the sides and back okay, other than insisting on layering the sides near the top as she went up. So the hair behind my ears is like 3/4 of an inch, and then up over my ears it's 1.25 inches, and then at the top it's 2 inches.  Which I hate, since it looks poofy on the sides and won't let my hair fall flat.  And which I'd specifically asked her not to do at least 3 or 4 times, using the shortest words I could think of to make the request.

Fortunately she wasn't in any hurry, so I could lift up the side-hanging top hair and point out that I really did want the sides all the same length, even up to the top, rather than being blended in.  Just like a flat top or crew cut or whatever she wanted to call it, except that it wasn't quite that short.  *sigh*

So she makes that correction, and then finally has the top more or less how I want it, but it's too long in the back, and she's trying to shave the hair on the back of my neck in a square shape, which I see sometimes on guys and always think looks Frankensteinian. And yes, I know it's Frankenstein's Monster, not Dr. Frankenstein himself, but that's too long to say and no one cares.

I ask her to cut the back shorter, just like it is on the sides, and she's all confused but eventually realizes that just because I want the back somewhat layered up to the top doesn't mean I want it layered to the sides, or just longer in general, for no apparent reason.

At about this point one of the other guys working there has been arguing incomprehensibly on the phone for something like five minutes, and the woman abruptly walks away from my head and goes over and grabs the phone from him (I'm watching in the mirror to distract myself from thoughts of suicide.) and starts arguing in equally-incomprehensible fashion.  She's speaking English, and not yelling, but I couldn't make heads of tails of it.  Her side of the conversation went about like this:  "You got perm... bad perm... when?  November 25th?  Perm? Who did hair?  When?  What color? You remember who did hair?  Color?  When perm?  November?  Three weeks ago?  November 25?  What wrong with perm?" and so on, for at least 5 minutes.  I had time to send Malaya a text "Worst haircut ever!" and then deleted the trash from my inbox and outbox, and considered changing my ring tone selections before she finally hung up and came back to my head and picked right back up where she'd left off. With no more word of apology or explanation than she gave when she stopped the haircut some time before.

Keep in mind that I was paying for this haircut; she wasn't paying me for the work experience or doing it for free at a barber college.  This was the real thing.

And the whole time she's cutting, she's slower than slow.  I want four inches off, so she takes off about two inches with 50 small snips, and then goes back to get two more inches, with yet more small snips.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that they're playing some canned Xmas music, and it's just death. All the worst slow/soft rock renditions of the songs too.  I'm talking acoustic guitar solos in the middle of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and remixes of Silent Night with like, African drums and shakers for the rhythm section. I'd quit if I had to work somewhere that played that shit all day.

Are you getting exhausted reading this?  In real life, I explained all of this at least three times more than I've written it here, so you can probably imagine why "good enough" was becoming a major theme in my coiffure evaluation.

At last she thinks she's done, and to show me the back of my head... she holds up a little hand mirror behind my head.

Now one other person has come in by then, but it's a gray and cloudy day, and there aren't very many lights on in the place. The only things that are well lit are the mirrors in front of the hair cutting stations, and my mirror is at least eight feet away from me.  Which means I'm looking like 18 feet to the mirror she's holding behind my head, and then back another couple of feet to my head, which is not well lit anyway.  In short, she could have carved a Swat-sticker back there, and I wouldn't have been able to tell.

If you've ever had a real haircut, you probably know the solution to this; they spin you around and hand you the mirror so you can look over your shoulder via the small mirror, and see your head in the big one, where there's enough light to see it!  Don't they cover that sort of common sense thing in barber junior college anymore?

So I ignored the mirror she was holding and ran my fingers through the back of my head and figured it was good enough, mainly since I no longer cared.  I waited, figuring she'd pull off the cover plastic poncho thing and let me go.  Nope.

She gets the tiny razor they use to do your neck and sideburns, and starts buzzing up and down all around my head, while using a comb to move out the hair and occasionally remove about a millimeter from one or two at a time.  I'm staring in the mirror in semi-disbelief, and this goes on and on, for at least five minutes, as she circumnavigates my entire cranium about three hairs at a time.

Finally I think that's done. But no!  She starts in with the razor again, this time on my neck, perhaps thinking that it had been so long that she needed to shave them again. I'm thinking, "If this goes much longer, she'll have to do my whole head again."

Fortunately that wasn't necessary, and she finally declared herself done, and asked if I wanted some gel in it.  Of course I had gel in it already and while much had been combed out and cut off, there was enough left and dried that I had what looked like a cowlick about three inches behind and to the left of my right eye, while the rest of my head was all puffy and fuzzy. Yes, I wanted some gel applied.

So she did, and it looked okay, and Malaya even didn't hate it, when she saw it when I finally returned to the Laundromat just in time to help fold up the clothing out of the dryers.

The end result isn't that bad, but I'm definitely not going to get my hair cut there ever again.  At least not unless I need to kill several hours and have no other alternative.

May 7, 2003

I called SBC, my phone company since they Borged Pac Bell, yesterday to get my long distance changed.  The only person I ever call long distance is Malaya, and she's been the one doing the calling thus far, and I'd like to even things up some since I am not cool with her having all of the phone bills. SBC claims to offer an $18 per month, unlimited in-state calling plan, which would be cool.  Their normal long distance plan is no monthly fee, and 5 cents a minute.

Which sounds nice for normal people, but that's $3 an hour, and Malaya and I talk something like 2-3 hours about 5x a week.  If I made all of those calls that would be say 12 hours a week, and that's $36 right there, x4 weeks per month.  $144 a month? Ouch.

So I wanted to get the $18 in-state thing, and called them around 3:30pm.

I can report that they have pretty good music on their call waiting, infinitely better than the DMV has.  I got to listen to the DMV's oldies station choice on Monday, but only for about 10 minutes, thank God.  I was literally agape at how awful the music was, staring into space, wondering if it was some sort of tactic to get you to give up on the DMV phone wait. (I had to call them 15x in about 10 minutes just to get into the phone system, rather than hitting a busy signal.)

How bad was it?

So bad that I actually remembered the name of one song, (something about "Cherokee Nation") and looked around on Google a bit just now, and now only found the song lyrics, but a site with a MIDI version of it! I listened to 5 seconds of it and started to shudder.

It's called Indian Reservation, by Paul Revere and the Raiders.  I defy you to listen to more than 10 seconds of that song.  I defy you.  The actual version is, if anything, even worse than the MIDI version. If you can imagine.  I can't; for fortunately, the memory is fading.

Anyway, SBC had some random semi-new age-y instrumental stuff, which was crap, but at least not actively awful.  Which is a good thing, since I was on hold for at least 45 minutes before I got to talk to a real person.  And as is so often the case after a long wait, the employee made it immediately clear why there was such a wait.

She made small talk!

I mean great, you're working the night shift (not that their phone service has a night shift; 8-6 and you'll like it) and it's slow, you chat some, what the hell.  But not in the afternoon, when people are waiting damn near an hour to talk.

So after I tell her what I want, she's asking me how I like San Diego (obviously she knows where I live from my billing records), who I'm calling, if I like the weather better here or up in San Francisco, and she was in Chico and thought it was hot, but her son had lived in San Diego for a year and he loved it.  I'm just muttering answers, sort of amazed at the turn the conversation had taken.  Well actually, I was amazed that it had become a conversation at all.

After that she goes into a long lecture about about how her husband had just gotten back surgery, and how he couldn't hardly walk for a week with his stitches hurting so, and how the nurses were really strict about making him get exercise, but how the hospital had so many nice walk ways out in a garden area, and benches to rest on, and...

I shit you not, this went on for at least 5 or 6 minutes after she'd started to change my service. I suppose that possibly she was waiting for the computer to do something, or was tapping away the whole time, but it certainly seemed like she just wanted to talk about stuff, and since I had called her, I must have been interested.

I was just staring at the phone in amazement, and figuring that this was not one of those service calls where you get the, "this call may be recorded and used for training purposes..." message.  At least I hope to hell not.

The punch line is that when I tried to call Malaya hours later, around midnight... I couldn't.  The phone rang twice and clicked and I got a recording saying I didn't have a long distance service selected and should contact my local service provider.  Certainly made the hour on hold and listening to the crazy woman's medical story worthwhile.

So now I have to call them back again today and see what the hell.  Please God don't let me get the same woman.

March 30, 2003

I needed new shoes for work.

Sneakers for work are one thing that I take seriously. Most clothing I never even give a thought to, and shoes especially.  I have 4 pairs of shoes, if you can even call them that.  One pair of sandals.  One pair of big ugly black work boots that I got at a WalMart in Colorado about 6 years ago when I was in Breckenridge for a week on a snowboarding trip and realized that my semi-cowboy boots, while warm and waterproof, were entirely lacking in traction to walk along snowy streets. One pair of very comfortable light gray Nike hiking boots that my mom got me for my birthday about four years ago.  And one pair of black Nike air sole sneakers that I have never worn anywhere but work.

I realize I'm not including my imitation Ugg boots that I wear around the house every minute it's not too hot, two pairs of old retired sandals, about five pairs of old retired black work sneakers, my slippery-soled retired semi-Cowboy boots, and various other worn out slippers. But since I don't wear them, screw it..

I like the sandals the best since they are the most comfortable with good arch and heel support, and wear them every day when it's not a fashion faux pas. Since everyone in San Diego wears sandals all the time, it seldom is.  The only funny thing about it is when I'm occasionally in a picture with them on people from elsewhere in the country or world will find it very odd to see sandals over socks, with long pants.  Regional thing here; probably 25% of the men I see out at night here have them on, and more than that in the day.  I think white sneakers look ridiculous on a man, if he's not actually playing tennis right at that moment, but they seem to be quite common all over the country. But do I feel the need to point that out when I see someone wearing them in a picture?

Well, sometimes.

Anyway, I got a new pair of black shoes for work, and here is where this little tale was actually going to begin.

So I went to SportsMart and it was worthless.  They have all the stock out in stacks all over a corner of the store, with zero organization.  Just shoes and more shoes, sorted by brand, not function.  So there were like 80 Reebok shoes, all types, high tops, low tops, walking, running, hiking, etc.  No consistency in design or type, so I could only feel the insides to check for reasonable padding. Same with the Nikes, New Balances, etc.

I found a guy working in the section and explained to him my need for maximum heel padding in a black sneaker of any type and he looked somewhat perplexed, then lead me to the New Balance section, where he pointed out a black low top that was for walking, but that felt like a rock.  There was almost no heel to it, and the inside foot padding was about 5mm thick and like old leather.

I said that I had some Nikes from a year ago that had the gel padding and heel for more absorbency, and it was like I had asked a dog about calculus.  Except that dog's wag their tails and look endearing when they are perplexed.

He takes me to the Nike section, and finds a white one with some sort of gel support heel, but it's like $110 and I have to have mostly black shoes for work.  And he goes, "This might be it, but it's for basketball. Not walking."

I said, "I don't care if it's for lawn darts, I need a black sneaker with a lot of heel support, and the gel stuff worked well in the last ones I had."

More confusion.  Somehow he had fastened onto my "I walk a lot on concrete at work." and was now fixated on the whole "walking" concept. And shoes that didn't actually say "walking" on the box were out of the discussion.

So I asked him, "Do they have something like this in black?  and that's not so expensive?  The ones I got last year were like $40 and were great."

Silence.  Confusion.  "These are for basketball, I think." as he points to a black Air Jordan that was shiny and about $120, and had no gel heel support at all.

"Well," he concluded, "You can look around, all the stock is out here on display." And he walks away, back to stocking tube socks or something.

I did look around, but they had a pretty shitty selection and seemed overpriced.  There was a Foot Locket in the mall elsewhere, so I walked back over to it and ducked inside.

At the door was a black guy and an ugly woman folding shirts, and they seemed in a battle to announce that everything in the store was on buy one get another for 50% off sale.  While I was in the store I heard them say that to at least another fifteen people, and they always said it like that.  "Buy one get another for 50% off."  What's wrong with "half price?"  Wouldn't that be easier to say?  Just for variety once in a while?  I suspect they get a script from some store manager who doesn't trust them to improvise.

And he's right not to, as I found out.

Foot Locker has a far smaller selection than SportMart, but they have higher end shoes, or so it seemed. They had several with the gel soles, all from Nike, which limited my options somewhat. None had a good insert with gel pockets, as my shoes from last year did, but a couple of pairs of them had mostly gel for the soles, with the transparent plastic so you can see inside them.

Unfortunately these were more expensive than the more pedestrian rubber/plastic soled sneakers.  *Savors the pun*

The nicer pair were $85, and the others were $45, and according to the sales guy, once I finally got him to aid me in my quest, the $45 ones were the older model.  They looked and felt a bit less padded also. I looked at the others some and finally asked him to bring me out a size 10 in each type.

I don't know what the back storage room must look like in Foot Locker, but I'm thinking something like the ending warehouse scene in Indiana Jones, since it took him at least 5 minutes to come back with my shoes. You can walk from one end of the store to the other in 5 seconds, so maybe the organization back in the storage is bad or something, but it was pretty ridiculous.

And when he comes back, he's got one box of shoes.  They didn't have the $45 type in my size, just the $85 ones.  I ask if they had it in 9.5 or 10.5, since shoes vary a bit from the listed size, and he gave me a blank stare almost the equal of the one the SportsMart guy had.

"I'd have to go check." he said.  How do you work in a shoe store and not do that automatically?  Half the time I buy shoes I get a 9.5 or 10.5 since the 10 varies in size so much from brand to brand.

I told him not to worry about it right then, and he went off to get some ugly white shoes in a 9 for another guy.  Ten minutes later I was pretty well sold on the shoes he had brought out, and he had come back once to tell the other guy they didn't have them in a 9.  And then gone back to look for a 9.5, since the guy said his feet were a little bigger than a 9. Clearly I'm not the only person telling him to look for half sizes.  Yet it seems to not be sinking in.

So I was going to get the $85 ones since they felt good, and weren't real tight on top, which meant I could put the gel sole insert from last year's shoes in as well.  I can never have too much heel or arch support, but some shoes the toes are tight and it'll be blisters galore on top of them if I go with double padding for my full foot.

The problem came here in that they had that half price, sorry, "50% off" thing going, and if I was dropping $85 on a pair of shoes, I wanted to drop $25 more and get a $50 pair as well.  This proved difficult.

I asked about a silver Nike that was similar to the $45 black one that didn't come in a 10.  And I said if they didn't have that, but had a 9.5 or 10.5 to bring that out.  I was thinking 9.5 might do it actually, since the 10 felt a bit large, like it was made to be worn with thick socks, which I wasn't wearing (and usually don't, at work).  He's gone for long enough for me to take off the shoes, put them in a box, put it on the counter, and browse for other stuff.  He finally returns with a box of size 11's and says they didn't have any 10 or 9.5 or 10.5 in that shoe.  Which I humored him by putting on, but they were almost large enough for me to carry a spare foot inside them.

I didn't want to get another pair of sneakers just for the hell of it since I never wear the things and I don't care what my shoes look like. Especially since the gel sole ones are the only really comfortable type if I'm doing a lot of walking, and they appeared to only have one type of those anywhere near my size.

I could always use another pair of sandals though, so I had him get some $25 ones.  They were weird, just made of this stretchy stuff on top, and no adjustable straps or velcro tabs.  Cute, easy to slip on, but they were too big for me, and I didn't really like the style.  The other sandals were $10 or so, and I hardly wanted to bother, I mean $5 off on my big discount.  Bleh.

But I asked him to get ones in a 10, and he goes, "I'm supposedly to only get 3 pairs of shoes per customer, so I don't know if I can."

At this point it's near closing time and the only other people in the store are a woman and her daughter looking at basketball jerseys.

So I told the guy, "I'd like to get these for $85, but I'm only going to if I find something else for half price to make it more of a discount."

With that he seemed to think it wise to go back and get the goddamned sandals.

And as you've probably guessed, they didn't have them in a 10.  I no longer cared enough to ask about 9.5, and I didn't care enough to try on any other shoes, not with the 5 minutes or more to fetch each pair. I also didn't want to have to go shoe shopping again tomorrow, so I just said screw it. I am a horrible bargain shopper, since the whole practice of shopping is so profoundly annoying to me that I'd rather pay extra to get it over with quickly.  And therefore I usually do.

I can earn more money.  I can't get the wasted hours back.

This idiotic story isn't over yet, by the way.

They had plain cotton shirts on sale at 5/$20.  So $4 each.  But you actually had to buy 5, you couldn't just get 4 for $16.  I asked if I could get that half price with the shoes, and the woman, who appeared to be in charge of the cash register, said yes, but it would only apply to one shirt.

"So that's 5 for $18 then?" I asked.

That threw them off, and complicated head math ensued.

"Yeah." she announced at last, having stopped just short of removing her shoes to aid in the calculation.

Remaining somehow untempted by the remarkable $2 discount, I got 5 shirts for the normal $20 and looked for something else to buy.  I will never in my life wear a shirt advertising any sports team or athlete (I dunno why, I watch sports and enjoy it, but I just have a pathological aversion to wearing any team stuff. I guess it just seems so "sportsbar loser".) which rules out about 95% of the clothing in Foot Locker.  In desperation I spotted some socks, and got two packs of 3 pairs of thick black athletic socks at $11 each.

"Since you guys didn't have 3 types of shoes in my size, and these I'm getting are a lot more than I wanted to pay, how about you give me 50% off on two packs of socks?"

Silence.  Then, "we can't do that."

I replied to the girl.  "Sure you can.  The socks are only $10 anyway. I would have gotten another pair of shoes for $45 if you'd had them in stock."

"No, we can't do that."

You'll note the complete absence of anything resembling "sorry" or "rain check" or "our apologies".  The manager should put "exude false sympathy" on the script, methinks.

So I said, "Okay, I'm sorry but I can't pay $85 for shoes and get just $6 discount on some socks.  Thanks anyway."

This did at last wake the guy up, as he saw his commission going away, and he mutters to the girl a bit and with an angry glare she says, "Fine."  Ahh, customer service.

So the guy starts ringing it up while she stalks off into the stock room.

I should add here that the ringing it up process is ridiculous. He is scanning in the bar code for every shirt individually, and then both socks individually.  This guy would last about half a shift in a real job, where time was of the essence.  Scan one, x5, bang.  Or scan the same one five times.  And if there is some sort of complicated inventory system that actually has different codes for every single shirt, or every color of shirt... that system needs to be changed, since it's idiotic and slow.

And as he scans each shirt, he has to reach over to the register and click some sort of override button, and manually type in "4" instead of the "$9" that scans up from the price tag.

I'm using my credit card, and he rings it up and the price looks about $10 too much.  I sign for it and think it over, and say, "Did you ring it up right?  It's more than it should be."

More confused panic ensues, as he looks at the pile of 5 shirts, one box of shoes, and two bundles of socks like the proverbial dog with the proverbial calculus proof.  "Um..."

I tried to help, "The shoes are $85, the socks are $6 each, the shirts are $20.  That's like $115 plus tax.  You've got $128 plus tax."

He takes the itemized receipt out of the bag and scans it.  Fortunately the woman has returned by now and she looks and sees that he charged me for 6 shirts, one of them at full price.

So no problem, just give me a $9 CC credit, or $9, and I'm off, right?

You'll join me in a hearty chuckle at the thought of it being possibly so easy.

No, she has to register everything as a return, which means taking them out of the bag, scanning all 8 tags again, having me fill out my name/address/phone on another form, and while I'm doing that she scans them all in again, doing each shirt tag individually just like the guy.

This time she got the total right, and at last I was free to go.

In all it took me at least 45 minutes to do what should have been done in about 10, and could have been done in 5 if they had the damn merchandise where it could be easily-fetched. For one thing, how about we stack up the cheap shoes out in the store, in a corner?  Sandals at least?  I can understand keeping the boxes of $50 and $100 shoes in the back so kids won't steal them, but $5 sandals that aren't made to a very exact size, and that people would like to try on quickly and buy on impulse?  And then counting those towards the absurd "three pairs of shoes per customer" fetching rule?  Somehow I doubt that practice goes on at Lady Foot Locker, given how women are with shoe shoppng. *cough*

God help me, I would turn that place upside down in two days if I worked there or ran the store.

Their shoe storage is obviously a disaster, and shoe fetching time is at least 3x longer than it should reasonably be. They have no idea what's in stock at a given time, and take forever to realize that they don't have it. (While I was trying on my shoes another guy had one pair he liked, couldn't find a pair in another color in his size, and didn't buy them; he just left. As I probably should have done.) Their employees are inept and rude and dumb, and their cash register practices are archaic and clumsy and very slow.

Other than that, it all went pretty well.

December 28, 2002

The head of NYC's customer service office has been fired after posting a hell of a rant on a city website.  His comments include:

"I take painkillers, sleep a lot and think about killing every citizen and employee of New York City every minute I'm awake," he fumed in the bizarre tirade.

"Every day, someone gets thrown off welfare improperly because some imbecilic caseworker can't tell her ass from a hole in the wall," Vredenburgh wrote.

He also said his "valuable" time had been taken up by "dumb f - - -s from the public and dumber f- - -s that work for the city."

Of course the mayor's office is in full damage control, and handily the guy is from the last mayor's regime.

Bloomberg's aides were appalled last night after learning about the official's remarks from The Post. The aides noted that Vredenburgh was a holdover from the Giuliani administration, and quickly canned him.

Now what is not even hinted at in the article is that pretty much every person on earth in any sort of customer relations position has had every single thought that Vredenburgh was foolish enough to voice, at least five times a day.  They've just known enough not to say it in public.  The biggest subject of office gossip in almost any field is talking about how stupid the public or customers or other vendors or whoever you have to deal with on a daily basis.  You just keep it in house, with other people who will understand and commiserate with your feelings.

I don't work in customer service, nor will I ever, for any amount of money. But I do field a lot of general purpose emails and questions at the D2 site, and I can't even begin to tell you how dumb quite a few of them are.  Not just dumb as in uninformed, or new to things, or from a person who doesn't play the game 18 hours a day, but just out and out idiotic.  Angry at me for things I have no control over and that have nothing to do with the d2 site, asking questions about things that are clearly answered on the page they're asking about, and just generally not paying attention.  Perhaps my favorites are the regular Warnings mails that demand that we restore their hacked character, or lost items.  What makes those so special is that they come to the email address on the Warnings page, which, if you look, sports a rather prominent page header informing the reader that we are not Blizzard and can not help them with any sort of hacked character or lost item problems.

I would say the most common "dumb" email we get is of the "Please think for me, I can't bear to." variety, where someone mails to ask what something means on a page, when there's nothing more to add than what the page says already. The, "Your page says if I do this my character will be deleted.  I did this and my character was deleted.  What can I do now?"

The dumbest thing of all are the constant mails we get from people who were on Battle.net, had someone tell them they could DL a program and use it to cheat.  So they DL'ed the program, ran it, and had all of their items drop, or got their account stolen.  And they mail us, all full of righteous indignation that while they were trying to cheat a cheater cheated them.  Or they mail me and CC it to Blizzard.  I've always thought that was a bit like calling the police to report you'd been ripped off while buying cocaine. But since people do it all the time, perhaps I'm wrong.

Well, this lit my fuse, didn't it?  I had no intention of venting.  Anyway, my point was that everyone in CS thinks this about the people they have to deal with, since the majority of the time it's some idiot's own fault or inability to do anything for themselves that is requiring them to involve CS in the first place.  You just can't say that out loud.

And lest I sound too cruel, of course there are lots of people who really do need help with something that they can't possibly solve on their own, and their difficulties are through no fault of their own.  But they are far from the majority, in my experience.  The RSCPA would probably agree with me.

A woman phoned to report that she was trapped indoors because a black cat-like creature had been crouching on her doorstep for 24 hours. She thought it might be the infamous "Beast of Bodmin Moor" - but the skulking beast turned out to be a delivery of phone directories in a black plastic bag.

A number of people across the nation have contacted the RSPCA having heard birds trapped behind their walls or fireplaces. These usually turned out to be smoke alarms beeping because the batteries were low.

December 18, 2002

While doing some Xmas shopping in mid-December, I happened into Pier One.

The most interesting thing of the shopping was the mildly-cute salesgirl at Pier One who was flirting hard enough to hurt herself.  We can hardly blame her, I mean I'm just so good looking and charming and witty, especially in my new leather jacket.  My incredibly overcrowded dating and social schedule just goes to show what a fascinating person I am to spend time with in real life.

I first approached her at the store to ask where the place mats might be, since Pier One is about as organized as your crazy great uncle's attic. The store is a big open square, with tons of racks and displays and shelves and tables, and their odd merchandise heaped up here and there and practically everywhere.  They do seem to group things into a few key categories though.

• Ugly crap you might conceivably consume food and/or beverages from or place upon a table.
• Ugly pillows and throw rugs.
• Weird and ugly faux-foreign knick knacks.
• Tons of candles of every imaginable shape and size except for the normal skinny and tall "taper" variety, since someone might actually buy and use one of those.
• Ugly wrought-iron candle holders, apparently made by the orcs in LotR when they get a break from those impractical chopping pointy pointed swords the Uruk-Hai had but nevr seemed to hit anything with.
• More golden, fringed, crackly, bird seed-stuffed pillows.
• Impractical hippy-style chairs no one has ever actually purchased.
• Rugs, towels and other things with designs Madonna would like.
• Other.

The placemats were all in bins along one wall in the "Ugly crap you might conceivably consume food and/or beverages from or place upon a table." section, which I should have been able to figure out for myself.  The sales girl lead me to them, rather than just pointing me on my way, which would have been sufficient.

When I spotted her to ask her in the first place, she was sitting down moving around the huge candles that no one ever buys. I expected she'd just point me to them, but she was finished dusting the candles and went to get up.  I naturally extended a hand, which she grasped, and I pulled her up. Too strongly, so that she bumped into me chest to chest and then stood there a moment while we shared a good natured nervous laugh, our moist lips and shiny white teeth just inches apart as we gazed into each other's eyes.

Well actually that didn't happen, it only happens in Meg Ryan movies.

What did happen was that I helped her up and she lead me over to the "Ugly crap you might conceivably consume food and/or beverages from or place upon a table." section, and pointed out the wall with the placemats on it, as well as a shelf on one of the other displays that was about shin high, and had truly awful tablecloths constructed of some shiny golden material. And then around a couple of more obstructions/displays to some green and red Xmas-specific place mats.

After a bit more small talk and a burningly-passionate kiss we parted and she headed back to the cash register area while I browsed for place mats. (One of the statements in the preceding sentence is a goddamned dirty lie.)

I did find a couple that I liked enough to gift someone with, amazingly-enough.

As I looked around for some other junk, I remembered that I was supposed to be getting a present of some sort for my semi-niece, Jenna.  She's the daughter of old friends of my mother, and is 13 I believe, and I think of her warmly, despite not having seen her in the flesh in probably 4 or 5 years. Apparently she thinks of me the same way, as her Uncle Eric, which is kind of odd, since after all, we hardly ever see each other.  At least that's what my mother tells me that Jenna's mom says, so my information is third hand at best and perhaps when we do see each other this year, she'll wonder who the hell this guy in the leather jacket is at Aunt (Great aunt?) Sharon's house.

At any rate, I was wandering around wondering what to get, and practically bumped into the same salesgirl, who was back out roaming the store, heading to clean the cobwebs off of the hideous black wrought iron candle holders.  Or something.

I intercepted her and stated my Jenna-present dilemma, and she (the salesgirl) didn't have any brilliant suggestions.  In amidst the small talkery I said something to the effect of, "I thought you might have an idea for a 13 year old girl, being as you're a lot closer to both states than I am."

She looked surprised for a minute, then burst into laughter and gave me a little touch on the front of my shoulder, sort of lightly stroking the soft leather jacket.  With that she lead me off on a little tour, pointing out potential gift ideas in Weird and ugly faux-foreign knick knacks (picture frames), Other (wind chimes, Ugly crap you might conceivably consume food and/or beverages from or place upon a table (decorative mugs and glasses), and finally mentioned the last ditch option of a gift certificate.

She also suggested I purchase a pack of their extra large condoms, imported from Finland with real essence of raspberry pulp in the latex, and ask for assistance with achieving a proper fit. Well she thought about it, anyway.  Or would have if Pier One actually sold natural raspberry condoms (Rugs, towels, and other things with designs Madonna would like.)  Amazingly enough she was able to tear herself away from me after another moment, and I watched her go, feeling a little corner of my soul blacken and die.  Or perhaps I was browsing the candle holders again.

At any rate, I picked up something for Jenna and as I went to check out, guess who was running the cash register?  No, not Nicole Kidman's hotter and younger and non-Scientologist twin sister wearing nothing but body oil and a smile, this is my fantasy, but not to that extent.  It was the same girl who had so lovingly and yet fleetingly caressed my shoulder just minutes before, while standing near the sandlewood-scented candles the size of a tree trunk (Tons of candles of every imaginable shape and size except for the normal skinny and tall "taper" variety, since someone might actually buy and use one of those.)  She rung up my purchases, giggling when I remarked upon what I did eventually get Jenna, and making a lot more eye contact with me than was strictly necessary.

My total was something like $32.21, and I gave her $42.25, since I had twenties and ones, but no tens or fives.  She took it and was only perplexed by the higher level math for a moment before she punched in the amount and the change due.  And then found, to her horror, that the drawer had a ton of ones, but just one five and no tens.  So I got my two dollars back, along with three others just like them, and a five. I said, "Well, that sort of defeated my whole $42 cleverness." and she laughed again.  And then I left w/o another word.  Yes, it's social skills like that that keep me just neck deep in poontang.

As I walked from there to my car, to throw the junk in the trunk, before I went in to Target to get some stuff for my dad, I pondered why I didn't absorb more about her.  My only memories of her physically, even then, were her approximately shoulder-length blonde/brown hair that she had back in a tight pony tail, her wide eyes with excessive eye liner, and her almost total lack of breasts.  I didn't know her name despite reading it off of her name tag, and I didn't make any effort to sneak a look at her ass.  You can be pretty sure if I don't get a look at the butt, I'm not interested in a woman, since that's the physical feature (aside from the face) that either sets my sails or drops my anchor, whatever the hell those nautical metaphors mean.

I don't know why; she wasn't unattractive and she thought I was funny, but I just had no concept of interest in her.  I was funny and talkative to her since that's just how I am when there's a semi-cute+ girl somewhat near my own age, and if I'm bothering to talk I'm funny; it's just my personality. But now I'll never see her again and I didn't give any consideration whatsoever to asking for her number or email or whatever at the time.

Don't weep for me, I'm already dead. (God I hate when people quote The Simpsons.)

March 20, 2002

Here's my take on service industry people.  A category of people that does not include the librarians this post began discussing, since that's more of a profession taken by choice, with some passion for it, rather than purely of financial necessity.  But anyway:

1) Service workers are tremendously stupid.  They didn't go to college, they barely went to high school, they don't read, they watch idiotic crap on TV, and they don't care at all about their job.  It's a way to earn $6.50 (or whatever) an hour, and if you work all day you might clear enough for a six pack of whatever is on sale, and a couple of new CDs.  Or just one CD, with the comically high prices new ones are going for now.

I've been perpetually amazed at how dumb my co-workers at the San Diego Stadium (Qualcomm Stadium now, to be precise) are ever since I've worked there, and trust me, they aren't getting any smarter.

The problem with them being so dumb is that management can not allow them any leeway in policy.  Management must drum into their half-stoned little brains exactly how to do things at all times, and make sure they adhere to the rules like double-sided tape between two hairy thighs.  If the workers are allowed to do things their way, or make exceptions to the rules, you can absolutely guarantee that they will screw something up.

This means that, unfortunately, rules are rules, and must be held rigidly.

Of course the occasional smart employee can pretty well do whatever the hell he wants, since he's able to see things objectively and see which rules are important and which can be ignored.  The problem is that management can't very well go around setting lists of who must and who mustn't follow the rules; and they will try to punish any smart employees who do their own thing.

Fortunately...

2) Management is nearly as stupid.  They are in charge and make the policies, but they don't have any intelligence to do anything in an enlightened fashion.  Why are they are in charge?  Because all the smart people who work there move on to a real job after college, and smart people don't want to work in boring, menial supervisor positions.  So the only people available for management in service industry are the same slack-jawed clue-free "rules are rules" troglodytes who started there at 16, and stuck around long enough to move up.

They're 30, or 40, or 50, and have no practical job skills, certainly nothing that would get them hired at a real company, doing anything important.  Their only hope is to stick it out long enough that their boss will quit so they can move up.  They have no initiative, no creativity, no imagination, and are extremely unwilling to try anything new or give anyone working there any leeway.

If you happen to work in a real job, surrounded by intelligent, motivated people, and start to think that humans are actually intelligent creatures, able to adapt and thrive in a variety of situations, you should work for a few weeks in a fast food restaurant, or a high school.  A dose of reality in just how stupid and useless most humans are will do you good.

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