Everyone seems to have a horror story about dealing with Comcast customer service, but in the 2 years I’ve dealt with them, I had always had relatively pleasant experiences. Sure, the first time they were supposed to come set up my cable they didn’t and I had to wait around for a week with no internet access, and sure they tried to tell me I wasn’t using an authorized cable box even though they gave it to me, but hey—mistakes happen, right? Every six months I’ll get on the live chat and threaten to switch to AT&T U-Verse, and every six months they keep giving me the promotional rate. In short, Comcast and I have had a relatively painless relationship. Yesterday, that all changed.

I woke up yesterday morning and did the daily email/Facebook check on my phone while laying half-asleep in bed (hey, you never know when someone might “like” one of my comments…that shit’s crucial to know first thing in the morning). For some reason, Facebook wasn’t loading, and I had gotten no email in the middle of the night—not even Amazon wanting to sell me every Monk record ever, or Barnes & Noble trying to get me to buy Danielle Steele’s latest novel (B&N, you should take a lesson from Amazon’s customer solicitation department…). What was going on? Had the terrorists finally gotten our ultimate freedom and knocked out the internet for good? Did someone blow up some major infrastructure component? Did a squirrel gnaw through the cable line? How was I supposed to find this out…the damn internet was broken!

After this minor crisis, I actually got out of bed and stumbled into the office, where my computer alerted me that the wireless router couldn’t find any DNS servers. Ah, so I guess our freedom is intact (take that, Tea Partyers!) and our connection is wonky. Being a relatively techy guy (read: nerd), I did all the things you’re supposed to do when troubleshooting. I restarted the router to no avail, hooked up to linksys (how is there always an unsecured linksys connection?) and made sure my DNS servers were right (they were), and made sure there were no known Comcast outages. By this time, Carolyn was awake and worried that she wouldn’t be able to do her important things (actual important things, not just Facebook and webcomics, which were my chief concerns). Begrudgingly, I picked up the phone and called the oh-so-helpful Comcast customer service line.

A brief aside: although I do kind of hate people, I’m generally a reasonable person. I understand that working in a call center sucks (been there, done that), and that lots of people that call in don’t actually know what they’re doing and restarting their computer actually helps them. I also understand that sometimes you have to wait for a call to be answered. I understand, I promise. Really. End aside.

So I call the customer service line, get through a reasonable number of “press this for that” automated responses, then actually get to a real person. This person was actually mildly helpful, after I kind of explained that I know what I’m doing, and that I’ve done all the typical troubleshooting-type things. After 20 minutes on the phone or so, she deduced that the problem was with my modem. However, because Comcast was doing some scheduled maintenance on their network, she couldn’t tell if the problem was on their end or mine. She said that I could get a new modem, or call back in an hour or so and by then the system would be back up and they could test it out and see if it was their problem. I thanked her and hung up. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought. Yeah, it’s stupid that they don’t do system maintenance in the middle of the night, but she was kind of helpful, and I’ll do some work and call back later.

Fast forward an hour and a half. I took a shower, graded some papers (might I actually get more done if I didn’t have the internet?), and tried to do some reading (which I could not do, because I needed a recording from Variations…tricksy internet!). I call 1-800-COMCAST again, went through the little automated thing, and waited on the line. And waited. And waited. After like 25 minutes of hold music that stopped only to give me a false sense of hope (“Thank you for your patience. We’ll be with you shortly.” Fuck you…let me listen to my smooth jazz until a real person actually answers the phone), I hung up and tried again.

I’m getting frustrated at this point, but still have a glimmer of hope. I go through the automated thing again, and stay on the line 3 or 4 minutes and someone actually picks up. I explain to her that I called an hour and a half ago and that my internet was busted, she transfers me to someone else. This new lady listened to my spiel, then told me that uh oh, she worked in the cable department and didn’t know anything about the internet (oh hell no). She asked for my phone number, and then said that I had called the wrong call center (pretty sure I just dialed 1-800-COMCAST, but that’s fine…blame your redirecting problems on me), but she gave me a number and said that she’d transfer me over to the right place. The new person picks up the phone almost immediately (might someone actually be able to help me?!) and says to wait just a moment or two while she restarts her computer (Seriously? Why the fuck answer a call if you can’t actually do anything?). I say fine, and wait on hold 3 more minutes. She then comes back, but doesn’t say anything, so the line is dead. I say “Hello?” and she says “Oh yes, sir, just a moment.” Minutes pass. More minutes pass. I say “Hello?” again. No answer. I say “fuck you” and hang up. (Anger starting to boil at this point).

Luckily, dumbass #2 had given me the proper phone number to call, so I dialed it, went through the automated thing yet again, waited a few minutes, and actually got to someone. Our conversation went something like this:

Her: “Hi, may I have your phone number?”
Me: “xxx-xxxx-xxx”
Her: “Oh, I’m sorry, your number’s not in our system!”
Me: “Really? It’s x…x…x-…x…x…x-… x… x… x…x”
Her: “No, I’m sorry, not finding it.”
Me (really pissed at this point): “Let me explain something to you lady. I called an hour and a half ago [really more like 2 hours by this point] and talked to someone. I have an issue with my modem and ALL I need to know is if the problem is at your end or mine.”
Her: “Please restart your computer.”

JESUS CHRIST. This went on for 15 minutes, all while I’m explaining to her that I’ve already done this shit with somebody else. Finally we get to new territory, where she asks for my modem MAC address, serial number, and whatnot. She’s convinced I don’t know what I’m doing because I’m not getting proper IP addresses (no shit! That’s the whole fucking reason I called in the first place!!) She tries to ping the modem, and can’t find it on the network. At some point (ok, like an hour beforehand), I get fed up and ask how to get a new modem. She says I can go buy one from Best Buy and call to set it up (oh fuck me…another 2 hours on a phone) or go down to my local Comcast office and they’ll add it to my account and I can plug it in and go.

Trying to avoid another miserable phone call, I make my way over to my friendly local Comcast office, where I am greeted by a line out the door. Ah, yes…it’s the first of the month, at lunch hour, and all the old people have to come down to the office to pay their bill in person. Great. I resign myself to standing in line, knowing that this can’t possibly be as bad as talking to people on the phone. Half an hour later, I get to the counter, where I explain to the girl (my age) working that I need a modem. I give her my account info, and she looks blindly at the screen. Again, our conversation went something like this:

Her: “Did you call earlier?”
Me: “Yeah, like an hour ago.” [after the drive there, and waiting behind all the old folks]
Her: “Yeah, somebody’s still logged into your account.”
Me: “What does that mean?”
Her: “Well, somebody at the call center is still logged into your account, so I can’t do anything.”
Me: “You can’t log them out?”
Her: “Nope. There’s no way of finding out who this person is, so you’ll just have to come back some other time.”
Me (a fuming ball of rage): “Seriously? I wasted two hours on the damn phone and half an hour in this fucking line and you can’t even log into my account? Thanks!”
Her: “…”

Needless to say, by this point I was beyond pissed. WHY THE FUCK can’t someone override that shit? WHY THE FUCK would someone still be logged into my account an hour later? WHY THE FUCK do old people not mail in their damn payments? I drive home (by way of the Burger King…I didn’t expect to be busy for 3 hours that morning) and just fume. By this point, I actually had to go to class, but stopped by Best Buy on the way to pay the damn 60 bucks for a cable modem, resigning myself to another phone call with Comcast (lest you forget, Facebook is really damn important!).

I came home from school, in a slightly better mood (thanks to Carolyn), and plugged the new modem in. Hooked up my computer, got a real IP address, and registered my new modem via the internet, without ever talking to a real person at all. Fuck Mondays.

I hate every minute, not only because it’s mind-numbingly dull and repetitive, but because I am completely and utterly aware of what a GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS I AM.  Seriously, I get it–you’re Very Busy and Important and can’t be bothered to talk to me.  It’s fine, really it is.  I don’t give enough of a shit about this job to take it personally.  Every now and then I talk to a person who realizes that yes, these market research surveys are actually designed to benefit them, but most of my day is spent grappling with secretaries protecting their precious masters from the Evol Pseudo-Telemarketer who wants just a mere moment of their time.  Most people that I speak with, thankfully, are polite, if wary–if they’re not interested, they tell me, I say thanks, and we both go about our merry ways, both parties relatively unscathed.

But some people.  Jesus.

Here’s the thing–the poor saps calling you know they’re annoying.  BeLIEVE me, we know.  But we’re just poor schlubs doing our jobs–JUST LIKE YOU.  We don’t WANT to call you, really–if we could pull in a paycheck just by sitting on our asses and wishing you to call us and volunteer your time, we would, but the world just doesn’t work like that.  There are shitty jobs the world over, and guess what–if yours truly weren’t at the headset helm, some other schmuck would be, and you’d still be getting called.  If you tell us to leave you alone, we will LEAVE YOU THE FUCK ALONE.  It’s not difficult.  Deal.

And here’s the other thing–you know how much time it takes to be polite?  I mean, I guess it takes a lifetime of training to be a decent human being and treat other people the way you’d like to be treated, but overall?  Like, seconds.  I know, they’re PRECIOUS PRECIOUS seconds from your SUPER BUSY AND IMPORTANT day, but seriously.  A polite, quick, “Sorry, I’m not interested,” will garner you a cheery, “I understand, thanks for your time!” from me.  Because I understand.  I’m not going to badger you to do this damn thing, and if I do, then you’re justified in getting snippy.  But not before, when I’ve been so unfailingly kind to you.

To the woman who returned my call, waited on hold for several minutes to specifically speak to me, and then proceeded to SCREAM HER FACE OFF AT ME: umm, do you feel better now?  I remember how spent my two-year-old (at the time) sister would be after throwing a tantrum that epic.  Seriously.  You’ve told “[us] people a million times to STOP CALLING [YOU]!!!”?  Um, we’ve no record of that.  Could you perhaps be referring to someone else?  Maybe, I dunno, any other company who could have been calling you for market research?  Because sure, I’m happy to take your name off our list, but will take no pains to clarify that it could actually be the company we’re doing the survey for who’s probably calling you.  In the future, I would look into getting my facts straight before verbally abusing an employee who has no control over the situation.  Have fun with what I’m sure will be your third stroke when they call you back, you stupid cow.

I’m over the airs of superiority that seep through the phone, coating me in their unctuous condescension and smugness.  For example, I’ve recently been on a project that involved calling a lot of law offices.  As a result, I’ve spoken with a lot of attorneys (who are usually [understandably] too busy to talk), but worse than them are their secretaries.  I hate to say it, and I don’t want to generalize, because many of them have been lovely, but the derision I’ve received at the hands of so many of these people is appalling.  ”I’m sorry,” they sneer, “just what exactly is this about?”  After cheerfully explaining my mission, the rote response is, “I’m sorry, there’s no way [Insert Bigwig Lawyer Here] would ever be interested in talking to you.  Buh-bye now!”

…

I’m sorry, but where I come from (being raised in the Church of Being Nice to Others), this kind of asshattery has no place in the workplace.  Last I checked, you weren’t the hotshot lawyer yourself, but the hotshot lawyer’s bitch.  Just like I’m the call center’s bitch.  And just because you’re the bitch at a fancier place than me does not entitle you to talk down to me.  Also, how about you deliver the message and let the lawyer decide for him/herself, mmmmmkay?  I know you’re judging me hard because you think I’m a bonehead in a menial job, and you’d never once pause to think that I could possibly be more than a telemarketing monkey.  I know this is just a temporary blip on my radar, but you know what?  Even if this were my full-time job, what I did for life, could deal with it and didn’t ever want to leave?  SO THE FUCK WHAT?  Leave your elitist classicist bullshit views for your cosmo nights with your girlfriends who also work in unchallenging, glorified, slightly-more-than-minimum-wage jobs and giggle about the unwashed masses on your own time.

Or put it in your blog.  That seems to work for me.

Warning: whiny academics and conservative, proselytizing Christians should not continue (well, you can, but don’t say I didn’t waaaarn you…).

The catalyst for this post was our musicology reading group’s latest discussion of a recent article in JAMS, John H. Roberts’s “False Messiah,” critiquing an article from a couple years back in JM, Michael Marissen’s “Rejoicing Against Judaism in Handel’s Messiah.”  Sorry, “critiquing” really isn’t the appropriate word for this particular article–”threw a temper tantrum in article form” is more fitting.  Some very, very brief background: Marissen published his article two years ago, interpreting texts from Messiah within the context of early 18th century theology, and coming to the conclusion that the work was heavily anti-Semitic (I haven’t read the article yet, so I can’t attest to the quality of the argument; the professor who leads our group finds a lot of merit in it, though, and I tend to trust his opinions).  This article made quite a splash, and was mentioned in a lot of mainstream publications.  Did it ruin Messiah for many people?  Possibly.  Did it change the way we look at the work and provide us with a potentially greater understanding of both the piece and the historical context in which it was conceived?  Certainly.

Enter Roberts, and his “rebuttal,” full of ad hominem attacks against Marissen and his predecessor (for both their motives and their scholarship).  The tone of the article is petulant from start to finish, the familiar air of a butthurt Christian who is DEEPLY OFFENDED THAT YOU COULD SUGGEST MESSIAH IS ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN THE TINY PRECIOUS BABY JESUS AND HOW HE IS GOING TO SAVE US ALL FROM ETERNAL HELLFIRE EXCEPT FOR ALL YOU ATHEISTS AND MUSLIMS NYAH NYAH NYAAAAAAAAAH.

Okay, I exaggerate, but only slightly.  First and foremost, as an academic, I have a real problem with authors who write articles for the sole purpose of rudely tearing apart another’s research.  Providing your own analysis, interpretation, and argument is one thing, but repeatedly calling out another scholar from start to finish is not only immature, it demeans the value of your own work.  Secondly, if you’re going to try your hand at a polemic, please: do it in style.  You need the acerbic wit of a Stravinsky, or the finely-honed rhetorical technique of an Artusi.  Not a repeated whine of “ur doin it roooooooooooong.  Handel was a nice guy, YOU GUUUUUYSSSS.”

Marissen sent, via an email to our professor, a response to the article.  Very classy, very de-personalized (many of his statements were along the lines of “the article” does this or that, never “Roberts” or “the author”)–there is an art to disagreeing, and doing it in such a way that you don’t come off as a GIANT ASSHAT.  One thing he pointed out is that Roberts actually misunderstands 18th century theology entirely, and ergo, his entire argument is null and void (umm…oops), but his parting thought was one that, as academics, we should always bear in mind: just because you could be right does not mean that I am wrong.  In any academic field, the room for interpretation is enormous, certainly big enough for multiple opinions.  In fact, no hypothesis that Roberts suggested in any way rendered any argument Marissen posited “incorrect”–the two ways of thinking can very happily co-exist.

So, back to butthurt Christians (but really, when does it not come back to that?).  What struck me as so disgustingly offensive about this article was the overwhelming sense that its origins were not couched in the pursuit of knowledge–his whole agenda was so personal.  The whole thing was a defense of Messiah, a work beloved by many, with Roberts selflessly taking up the role of its savior.  ”No no, hush, children!” he croons.  ”Don’t listen to that nasty Marissen–Messiah is only about how much Jebus loves you, and nothing related to Him could EVER contain anything as vile as anti-Semitism!  Lie back, don’t think too hard, and relax while I save Messiah for you!”  His whole approach comes off as a condescending Sunday school teacher.

Never mind the fact that plenty of anti-Semitism has been linked to the Christian church.  Never mind the fact that “anti-Semitism” meant something entirely different in the 18th century than it does now, and that just because Handel and Jennens (the librettist) were “good guys” doesn’t mean they would never fall prey to this.  Anti-Semitism is, and should be, morally reprehensible by our standards today, but zeitgeist accounts for a lot of “good guys” succumbing to things we find despicable now (Founding Fathers owning slaves, anyone?).  Just because Messiah could have meant something anti-Semitic to its creators and its audiences doesn’t: a) necessarily mean the terrible things it means today, and should be considered with 18th century sensibilities, not 21st, and b) mean that it can’t mean something entirely different to audiences today (which it arguably does).

It should be mentioned that I do not, in general, have a problem with Christians or any other religious people–in fact, part of me admires those who are able to maintain their faith, because I attempted for many years to do so.  I do not, and will never, have a problem with those for whom religion is a quiet, private affair.  I do, however, have a problem with self-righteous proselytizers, those who scream that theirs is the only way, that the United States was founded on Christian theology (umm FALSE), support or actively seek legislation to that end, and then scream OPPRESSION when the truly oppressed fight back.  When I was young, my father taught me a very simple tenant that I continue to abide by to this day: “My rights end where yours begin.”  I will never, ever deny someone their right to think, believe, or worship how they want–why won’t the Pat Robertsons of the world afford me and others outside the Christian fold the same courtesy?  Christian thoughts and beliefs are not everybody’s and as such, should not be forced on everybody.  Want to pray in a courthouse?  Fine, just don’t force them to post the Ten Commandments.  Want to wish people a “Merry Christmas”?  Great!  Do it, but don’t get pissed and scream bloody murder about the WAR ON CHRISTIANITY when stores have their employees wish people an inclusive “Happy holidays.”  Don’t want a gay marriage or abortion?  DON’T GET ONE.  In other words, don’t confuse people starting to not put up with your monopolizing bullshit with true “oppression,” go back to your privileged lives, and SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY.

And please, leave my beloved JAMS and JM out of it.  I do so hate when they fight.