Google is my new Bestest BFF

Google is my new best-friend-forever. How do I know this? Easy - over a dozen people I've never met have emailed me to tell me so in the past day.

Google replaced a colored bar with numbers. The implications are huge. The enthusiasm over the transparency, on the other hand, is what's curious. Google, so far ahead of the pack in so many things, is now catching up to much smaller keyword traffic analyzers who have offered numbers for decades.

Did those smaller keyword traffic analyzers become my BFF by doing so? Did everyone and his pet gerbil email me, frothing with joy when they heard? No. Because TRANSPARENCY should be a rule, not an earth-shattering exception.

Bless their hearts.

Stalkers, Hackers, Pests, Online Lice

A friend of mine is under 'stalker' attack. Every time she turns around, there's this guy. He's chased her from social bookmark site to a social network to another website to another social network to another social bookmark site, and on and on. Friendly fan? Sicko weirdo? She can't tell, but it's freaking her out.

Advice welcome. She is my friend and I do not want her scared of the surf. It makes me very grumpy.

Surpriiiise - You've Been Opted IN

I signed up for something last week, unchecked the default-checked Check This If You Wish To Hear About Special Offers From Our Partners checkbox, read the Terms 'n Conditions and Privacy Statements before pushing any final buttons.

Within two days my email inbox began filling up with dozens and dozens of Special Offers From Our Partners Only Available Through This Email Right Now! stuff.

I nav'd back to the original source of all this noise and did some poking around under the hood (View Source on a webpage sometime for a real treat). Sure enough, the wires to the checkbox to opt in were dangling in midair, connected to nothing of substance in the form code.

For a place so eager to send me sh*t, they are amazingly reluctant to get any back. Their own Contact Us email bounces back in abject failure.

Yet another thing for me to gripe about, like I really needed more. Yay.

Press THREE If You Are a Moron

So I had a bit of a problem with a piece of electronic gear the other day. Checked the obvious and less obvious: Yes, power. Yes, power at the outlet. No, have not operated while showering.

Checked the troubleshooting guide in the back of the manual. Followed the usual suspects through to elimination.

Ran the recommended diagnostics. Twice. Joyless results.

Checked the manufacturer's website for lurking upgrades and failures. Nada.

Bit the bullet and called the non-toll-free number. Got put on hold. Forever (ok, 10 minutes).

Friendly customer service dude asks for all the pertinent info - make, model and serial number of the device, my name, location, date of birth, mother's maiden name, father's middle name, name of my favorite dog, lead character in my favorite soap opera, area code of the phone number of my matron of honor from my first wedding, the last five digits of my firstborn son's drivers license. This will help him find my problem. Uh huh.

Please Hold While I Look Something Up. Sorry For the Inconvenience.

I ran the numbers in my head. For slightly less than half the cost of what I will spend on phone calls and on-hold time with this company, I can drive the nine miles to Wal-Mart and buy a new version of this electronic gear. It will work right, out of the box, or I can drive back to Wal-Mart and exchange it under warranty. Even factoring in gas prices, I'll be better off.

What is wrong with this picture? Has customer service and product integrity really fallen so far?

I propose a new voice-mail menu system to ease their pain and mine:

Hello, and welcome to Pointless Electronics LLC, a division of Way-Too-Big Industries.

Your call is very important to us. Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed since your previous Pointless call.

Press 1 to continue your call in English.
Para continuar en espaƱol, por favor, pulse dos.
Press 3, followed by the pound sign, if your Pointless device is not working.
Press 3, followed by your VISA or Mastercard number, followed by the pound sign, if you lost your Pointless device manual and cannot run diagnostics.
Press 4, followed by the star sign, followed by the pound sign, if you think you know what the problem is with your Pointless device.
Press 5, followed by the pound sign, if you have read the manual but have not yet consulted the Pointless website for further assistance.
Press 6, followed by the pound sign, if you have not yet tried slamming your Pointless device against a wall.
Press 7, followed by the pound sign, if you think you are smarter than our entire Customer Service department and want validation of this misperception.
Press 8 to speak with an operator or to be placed on hold for one hour until the next Pointless Customer Service representative is available.
Press 9 to hear these menu options again.


Happy Fourth of Whatever

I made a mistake today. I IM'd a "Happy Fourth of July!" to a coworker in New Jersey. I might as well have thrown a stink bomb into the foyer of LA's finest dining establishment.

"What the HELL are we celebrating!?" he exploded in response. "Our so-called leadership is comatose, our military is enslaved to a conflict that can't POSSIBLY be resolved, our economy is sinking like a stone, gas prices are orbiting the moon, job stability is at the mercy of --"

I nodded politely as he continued his IM rage. Far be it for me to interrupt him long enough to point out that we are celebrating the fact that he is free to express those very thoughts.

Bless his heart.


We're still a new nation. We may not have gotten things right yet.

Relative to some of the older world powers, we're teenagers - and teenagers make mistakes. We have the know-it-all ego of a fifteen-year-old adolescent, the bluster of a schoolyard bully. The maturity of a tween fawning over the Jonas Brothers (or the Everly Brothers, if you're my age). We do stupid stuff, and sometimes we should be grounded for our own good.

Stupid stuff, rants 'n all aside, it's our birthday, dammit, and I want cake.