Do Not Call Waiting into that good night,
Telemarketers should burn on weekend days,
Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.
Though wise men turn off their ringer and know that it is right,
Because their peace is valuable and want no interruptions they
Do Not Call Waiting into that good night.
Working men, the last hours by, crying "Enough, All Right!"
The answering machine keeps the evil at bay,
Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.
Tired men who get caught by a survey about their next flight,
And learn, too late, Caller ID would show the way,
Do Not Call Waiting into that good night.
Desperate men, with sleeping babies, who tip toe around at night.
Red eyes blaze at the sight of "Out of Area" on their phone display,
Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.
You, my phone company, there on lofty height,
Curse you, Private Callers still come through. Bless me, I pray.
Do Not Call Waiting into that good night,
Rage, rage against the phone's blinking light.
Ok, so I just murdered Dylan Thomas' most accessible work. Seriously, though, with the onslaught of political phone calls I've been getting, someone needs to die. I'm not going to go into my own personal views on politics. Save that for the blogs who cater to that kind of thing. This is about the phones and how they ring incessantly when I have just put my daughter down for a nap.
Growing up we didn't have all the luxuries that we have not. I'm not talking about having to walk to school, uphill, both ways, through three feet of snow. I'm talking about call waiting, call forwarding, and additional phone lines in the house. In fact, my parents still do not have call waiting at their house. Until a couple of years ago, they still had the same phone in their kitchen. It was a rotary phone with a 500 ft cord that was only usable short of two feet. It was coiled and knotted up into something that resembled a dreadlock. Let me give you an example of how bad this was. The phone rings and you go to answer it. You go to take a couple of steps from the phone trying to utilize that football field long cord, only to have it bunch up. As you reach for a pen and paper, the phone pulls off the wall and onto the floor. You could spend days trying to untangle that cord. To put it bluntly, Stevie Wonder would have better luck at solving a Rubik's cube.
When we moved into our new house circa 1985, my parents installed an additional phone line for my older brother and sister, who were in late teens. It was a phone line that existed in all the bedrooms but my parents'. That way, they could talk to whomever they wanted and not tie up the regular phone. Being that my father is an insurance agent, he tends to get calls from his clients in the evenings, especially if they've had a car accident or otherwise. Still, they had one phone, another rotary model, and they had to share it. So, it sat outside one of their bedrooms on the floor near the stairway so you could hear it. Then, if you went to bed early, you ended up killing yourself after tripping on the phone cord and falling down the stairs. Still, I told all my friends and a few that weren't that they could call me on my private line. Just as long as it wasn't during dinner and after I was done with my homework. Oh, and not on Monday's at eight, either. I'll be watching MacGyver. I felt so empowered that at the age of 11, I had my own phone line. Although, my name wasn't listed alongside my siblings in the phone book and, if they were home, I couldn't even look at the phone, let alone use it.
The next issue we had was that our phone number, which has been my parents’ phone number for more than 33 years, was so similar to a lot of other phone numbers. We had calls from people looking for AT&T. They had the same prefix and last four digits as us but had the 1-800 in front of their number. We also had people looking for the driver of a local senator. For years, I asked my parents why they never changed their number if it was such a pain in the ass to get a lot of calls from people with the wrong number. Their response was, "Let AT&T change their number. We had ours first." Of course, to this day, you always hear how AT&T continually gets calls looking for my father. "I'm sorry sir. I feel bad that someone hit your car, but we are the phone company."
We also didn't have an answering machine. Let me rephrase that. We didn't have an answering machine that worked properly. The outgoing message sounded like it was recorded with the same equipment that was used during Watergate and the incoming messages were better interpreted by someone at NASA than in my house. When I began my five year mission to graduate from college I got my first taste of voice mail. I spent hours coming up with the perfect messages that would be funny yet entice people to leave me praise in lieu of an actual message. "Hello, we called to let you know you are in delinquent on your student loan. But, you know what? That was such a fantastic greeting that we are going to just rip up your records. Have a nice day." I ended up spending more time recording the messages than I ever did on the phone.
When it came time for me to finally have a phone of my own I was in my mid twenties. My carefree nature began to dwindle and this once social moth soon became a hermit. Don't call me. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit alone in the dark and get old. Why is it that we go from an age of wanting to have access to a private phone line and the recognition of our name in the phone book that would make Navin Johnson say, "Simmer down," to an age where we want our number unlisted and Caller ID and answering machine have replaced the normality of picking up the phone and saying, "Hello" to someone? Is it us or is it THEM. You know who I mean. Those bastards that want to sell you something. Those freaks that want to discuss your long distance or credit card habits. I'm not talking about bill collectors. I mean Telemarketers. While I feel bad for the poor bastard on the other end of the phone line when I go off on them, I am reminded that they chose to work in that field and they chose to call me. Gloves off, game on, it's go time, mofo. "My prediction? Pain."
I love how telemarketers have gone to great lengths to get around Do Not Call regulations. You think if they put that much time and energy into contacting me about my long distance carrier, think about what they could accomplish for worthwhile causes. They could be calling foundations and other trusts getting grants and donations for medical research. When will they learn that no one is going to embrace a telemarketer? If they do, it's probably someone who is lonely and hasn't had a phone call in years. I remember a particular incident where I was trying to call a bowling alley to get information for a group of friends. I misdialed the number and ended up talking to this sweet old lady in a nursing home. It was right around Christmas and I felt sorry for her. She was alone and her family hadn't even come to see her for the holidays. I put aside my hurried nature and spent five minutes letting her talk. She understood that I called the wrong number but was overjoyed that she got to speak to someone after such a long time. At the end of the call, I wished her Happy Holidays and went on my way. I'm sure she's no longer around but for one brief moment, I felt as if the phone was finally used in the manner to which is was meant. Instead of using it to sell something or ask someone if their refrigerator is running, I used it to communicate. I reached out and touched someone and they didn't have to pay $5.95 a minute for it.
It used to be that people looked at phones as an instrument of evil. These electronic gadgets will cause the death of human interaction. Then as we moved into the end of the 20th century, people looked at email as the death of human interaction. Now, instead of speaking to someone, you can send them an instant letter. Cell phones in all their razr sidekick chocolatey goodness has replaced both instruments by allowing us to talk to someone or text them. I mostly use my cell phone for taking pictures. I bet there are people out there that have replaced their talking minutes with text and data minutes. If we continue this trend, in 1000 years or so, we may have lost the ability to speak, altogether. Some scientists theorize that we may evolve into eight toed mammals just like our appendix has become a vestigial structure, not really having a purpose other than to be removed when it gets infected. Since we are so bent on using technology to communicate with each other, the art of writing as well as proper grammar will disappear as we tend to type most communications, disregarding writing standards, to which I am a repeat offender I'm afraid. Who knows? Perhaps aliens will travel to our planet and find fossilized human remains consisting of eight toes, no vocal cords, and enlarged thumb bones. They will ponder why our culture needed big thumbs. They may postulate that maybe it were a civilization of hitchhikers or maybe because of the deep space transmission of television waves we were a cult that worshipped Arthur Fonzerelli, yet lacked the ability to say "Ayyyy!" They won't understand that we lost the need to speak due to our enlarged thumbs perfect for texting. They will find drawings on ruins and strange lettering. They will try to piece together our language from the phrases, "OMG" and "ROTFLMAO."
Of course, this is all speculation and I'm sure nowhere did Nostradamus write, "IMHO teh world will be FUBAR from to BFF n00bs who got pwned in WOW and decided to say WTF, let's flame this POS world." At least he could get through one of his writings without a phone call from someone claiming that he was signed up for their service and they wanted to do a courtesy call to check on them while his nine month old daughter is trying to nap. They didn't disturb his five minutes of peace from chasing her around the living room after the cats' tail and trying to put a piece of lint in her mouth. No. No. He didn't have to collect all the phones and turn down the ringers in hopes that she got a full two hour nap and didn't wake up cranky. I'm just saying. By the way, anybody else getting hang up calls from (484)-548-6400 or (610) 571-2709. These bastards keep calling and there is no one there. They always call during the baby's nap and I want to rage, rage against the phone's blinking light!
Ok, so I just murdered Dylan Thomas' most accessible work. Seriously, though, with the onslaught of political phone calls I've been getting, someone needs to die. I'm not going to go into my own personal views on politics. Save that for the blogs who cater to that kind of thing. This is about the phones and how they ring incessantly when I have just put my daughter down for a nap.
Growing up we didn't have all the luxuries that we have not. I'm not talking about having to walk to school, uphill, both ways, through three feet of snow. I'm talking about call waiting, call forwarding, and additional phone lines in the house. In fact, my parents still do not have call waiting at their house. Until a couple of years ago, they still had the same phone in their kitchen. It was a rotary phone with a 500 ft cord that was only usable short of two feet. It was coiled and knotted up into something that resembled a dreadlock. Let me give you an example of how bad this was. The phone rings and you go to answer it. You go to take a couple of steps from the phone trying to utilize that football field long cord, only to have it bunch up. As you reach for a pen and paper, the phone pulls off the wall and onto the floor. You could spend days trying to untangle that cord. To put it bluntly, Stevie Wonder would have better luck at solving a Rubik's cube.
When we moved into our new house circa 1985, my parents installed an additional phone line for my older brother and sister, who were in late teens. It was a phone line that existed in all the bedrooms but my parents'. That way, they could talk to whomever they wanted and not tie up the regular phone. Being that my father is an insurance agent, he tends to get calls from his clients in the evenings, especially if they've had a car accident or otherwise. Still, they had one phone, another rotary model, and they had to share it. So, it sat outside one of their bedrooms on the floor near the stairway so you could hear it. Then, if you went to bed early, you ended up killing yourself after tripping on the phone cord and falling down the stairs. Still, I told all my friends and a few that weren't that they could call me on my private line. Just as long as it wasn't during dinner and after I was done with my homework. Oh, and not on Monday's at eight, either. I'll be watching MacGyver. I felt so empowered that at the age of 11, I had my own phone line. Although, my name wasn't listed alongside my siblings in the phone book and, if they were home, I couldn't even look at the phone, let alone use it.
The next issue we had was that our phone number, which has been my parents’ phone number for more than 33 years, was so similar to a lot of other phone numbers. We had calls from people looking for AT&T. They had the same prefix and last four digits as us but had the 1-800 in front of their number. We also had people looking for the driver of a local senator. For years, I asked my parents why they never changed their number if it was such a pain in the ass to get a lot of calls from people with the wrong number. Their response was, "Let AT&T change their number. We had ours first." Of course, to this day, you always hear how AT&T continually gets calls looking for my father. "I'm sorry sir. I feel bad that someone hit your car, but we are the phone company."
We also didn't have an answering machine. Let me rephrase that. We didn't have an answering machine that worked properly. The outgoing message sounded like it was recorded with the same equipment that was used during Watergate and the incoming messages were better interpreted by someone at NASA than in my house. When I began my five year mission to graduate from college I got my first taste of voice mail. I spent hours coming up with the perfect messages that would be funny yet entice people to leave me praise in lieu of an actual message. "Hello, we called to let you know you are in delinquent on your student loan. But, you know what? That was such a fantastic greeting that we are going to just rip up your records. Have a nice day." I ended up spending more time recording the messages than I ever did on the phone.
When it came time for me to finally have a phone of my own I was in my mid twenties. My carefree nature began to dwindle and this once social moth soon became a hermit. Don't call me. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit alone in the dark and get old. Why is it that we go from an age of wanting to have access to a private phone line and the recognition of our name in the phone book that would make Navin Johnson say, "Simmer down," to an age where we want our number unlisted and Caller ID and answering machine have replaced the normality of picking up the phone and saying, "Hello" to someone? Is it us or is it THEM. You know who I mean. Those bastards that want to sell you something. Those freaks that want to discuss your long distance or credit card habits. I'm not talking about bill collectors. I mean Telemarketers. While I feel bad for the poor bastard on the other end of the phone line when I go off on them, I am reminded that they chose to work in that field and they chose to call me. Gloves off, game on, it's go time, mofo. "My prediction? Pain."
I love how telemarketers have gone to great lengths to get around Do Not Call regulations. You think if they put that much time and energy into contacting me about my long distance carrier, think about what they could accomplish for worthwhile causes. They could be calling foundations and other trusts getting grants and donations for medical research. When will they learn that no one is going to embrace a telemarketer? If they do, it's probably someone who is lonely and hasn't had a phone call in years. I remember a particular incident where I was trying to call a bowling alley to get information for a group of friends. I misdialed the number and ended up talking to this sweet old lady in a nursing home. It was right around Christmas and I felt sorry for her. She was alone and her family hadn't even come to see her for the holidays. I put aside my hurried nature and spent five minutes letting her talk. She understood that I called the wrong number but was overjoyed that she got to speak to someone after such a long time. At the end of the call, I wished her Happy Holidays and went on my way. I'm sure she's no longer around but for one brief moment, I felt as if the phone was finally used in the manner to which is was meant. Instead of using it to sell something or ask someone if their refrigerator is running, I used it to communicate. I reached out and touched someone and they didn't have to pay $5.95 a minute for it.
It used to be that people looked at phones as an instrument of evil. These electronic gadgets will cause the death of human interaction. Then as we moved into the end of the 20th century, people looked at email as the death of human interaction. Now, instead of speaking to someone, you can send them an instant letter. Cell phones in all their razr sidekick chocolatey goodness has replaced both instruments by allowing us to talk to someone or text them. I mostly use my cell phone for taking pictures. I bet there are people out there that have replaced their talking minutes with text and data minutes. If we continue this trend, in 1000 years or so, we may have lost the ability to speak, altogether. Some scientists theorize that we may evolve into eight toed mammals just like our appendix has become a vestigial structure, not really having a purpose other than to be removed when it gets infected. Since we are so bent on using technology to communicate with each other, the art of writing as well as proper grammar will disappear as we tend to type most communications, disregarding writing standards, to which I am a repeat offender I'm afraid. Who knows? Perhaps aliens will travel to our planet and find fossilized human remains consisting of eight toes, no vocal cords, and enlarged thumb bones. They will ponder why our culture needed big thumbs. They may postulate that maybe it were a civilization of hitchhikers or maybe because of the deep space transmission of television waves we were a cult that worshipped Arthur Fonzerelli, yet lacked the ability to say "Ayyyy!" They won't understand that we lost the need to speak due to our enlarged thumbs perfect for texting. They will find drawings on ruins and strange lettering. They will try to piece together our language from the phrases, "OMG" and "ROTFLMAO."
Of course, this is all speculation and I'm sure nowhere did Nostradamus write, "IMHO teh world will be FUBAR from to BFF n00bs who got pwned in WOW and decided to say WTF, let's flame this POS world." At least he could get through one of his writings without a phone call from someone claiming that he was signed up for their service and they wanted to do a courtesy call to check on them while his nine month old daughter is trying to nap. They didn't disturb his five minutes of peace from chasing her around the living room after the cats' tail and trying to put a piece of lint in her mouth. No. No. He didn't have to collect all the phones and turn down the ringers in hopes that she got a full two hour nap and didn't wake up cranky. I'm just saying. By the way, anybody else getting hang up calls from (484)-548-6400 or (610) 571-2709. These bastards keep calling and there is no one there. They always call during the baby's nap and I want to rage, rage against the phone's blinking light!
