Anecdotal Excuses

Oddly enough, I have nothing for you this week. However, I have produced some explanations regarding the absence of content for the week. Excuses are like assholes: everyone's got them, and they stink.

Here now, for your viewing pleasure, please consider the following assholes excuses...

[Excuse Number One: The Ghostwriter's Dog]

Gupo, an Ecuadorian native with an affinity for wellingtons, ghostwrites for this blog.  He has a dark, smooth complexion, hazel eyes and jet black hair.  Contributors of ShavedGolf are paid handsomely - fifty cents American for every page (single-spaced, 10 pt font, Times New Roman).  Gupo excels.  He has a strong command of the English language and a vibrant future in writing.

Gupo has a dog.  We chose him together at the local animal shelter.  Black and tan fur and a mutt in every sense.  After a very logical argument, Gupo and I settled on a name for the mutt - Syllogism.

Ill tempered with a mean disposition towards Americans.  Once, on a brief visit, Syllogism laid a turd in one shoe and puked in the other - my Doc Martins have never smelled the same.  Perhaps it is Syllogism's bigotry that led him to devour some of Gupo's manuscript for ShavedGolf StoryTime.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Two: The SWG Strikes Back]

The definition of "screen" has become very loose over the years - the word now covers all luminescent projections of entertainment.  Sadly, this blog is a victim.  The Screen Writers Guild demanded that I cease and desist my blogging or face dire consequences - solitary confinement with piped in reruns of Mad About You.

My days are now spent picketing local movie houses, and not only am I on strike from writing but from food as well.  A hunger strike until the SWG gets what it deserves: better pay, more control over content, and a submarine fortress...Aquaman style.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Three: Smart Phone Carpal Tunnel]

Carpal tunnel from furious games of Words with Friends has resulted in a smart phone ban by my primary care physician and seven specialists.  My weekly wordsmithing allotment was totally consumed by the game and my friendships began to suffer.  Sleepless nights were common and I began drinking heavily. Much of my days were spent perusing thesauruses and dictionaries for the perfect letter combination.

The stress of games with all consonances or all vowels finally caught up to me.  Police escorted me to a detox cell at the local precinct for allegedly rolling naked in a pile of books in a Barnes & Noble while simultaneously attempting to roll doobies out of the pages of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States.

In addition to the WwF breakdown, the smart phone's auto correct had become the bane of my four-letter word existence.  Expletives were constantly being altered: fuck, shit, piss would become duck, shot, loss.  Blog content severely suffered.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Accidental Walking Stranger Stalking

There are people in this world with terrible spatial awareness.  They lack peripheral vision.  They are easily distracted.  They seem unconscious to the world.  And somehow, as a pedestrian, I constantly find these people milling about Portland.

Encounters with these day-walking, daydreamers normally ensue as follows: the oblivious one will be roughly a block ahead.  I'll continue walking at my normal click because this Helen Keller of the sidewalk hasn't been identified as such by yours truly.

Now, I'm no Olympic Ecuadorian speed walker.  No, my gait is not that of Jefferson Perez, but I generally walk with purpose.  My accidental stalking victims seem to be on a nonchalant stroll to nowhere.  The difference between us is one of intent - my feet are being used as a mode of transportation, but the vic (as they say on CSI) is out to enjoy themselves.  Out for a merry walk to exercise and daydream.

For some reason the snail finds it necessary to daydream down the center of the sidewalk, thus making any attempt to pass uncomfortable for both parties.  Comparable to camping in the fast lane of I5 while simultaneously star gazing out your sun roof.

Suddenly I realize that I'm too close.  I've caught up.  And worse yet, they haven't noticed my presence.  By the time I'm close enough to recognize I'm slightly stalking this person, it's too late.

Now I'm committed.

To avoid the awkward moment when the slow-walker realizes they're being followed at close range, the stalking must continue.  The stalking becomes premeditated and strategic.  I'm treading ever softer so my footsteps don't give me away. My breathing is calm and controlled.  Hands into my pockets so my clothes don't rustle and coinage doesn't jingle.  I turn my cell phone to silent.

The thinking here is that one of two things will happen prior to them becoming aware: either, A), I reach my destination and no longer have to follow, or B), the stalked turns in another direction.  However, as I continue to close the distance and neither of these two things have happened, I panic, thinking, "How in the hell can I let this moron know I'm behind them without startling the poor ignoramous?!"

Strategies to alert such a person include, but are not limited to:

• Slight cough - not too loud, not to soft, just enough to bring them out of their trance.
• Clearing of the throat - the only danger here...they might then expect you to say something.
• Dragging of the feet - a little scuff on your Pumas might help signify your presence.
• Produce keys from pocket and jingle like a bell - recently tried this method...while slightly unorthodox, it did the trick.

But you know what...screw 'em.  They're hogging the pedestrian thoroughfare.  There's no reason for me to feel socially awkward.  So confidently, boldly, eloquently, I gently clear my throat and say, in the snottiest, pompous, and most standoffish way possible, "Exxxxcuuuuuse me."

The shocked space cadet reacts with disbelief that some creeper is halfway up their pant leg attempting to pass them during their state of mental vacay.

Chest up, nose in the air, I arrogantly parade by the absent minded pedestrian - another stranger successfully stalked in the Rose City.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf

Dr. Comcastic or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Cable Provider

For years those with mediocre social lives have turned to cable television and internet pornography, but to enjoy those simple pleasures one must run the gauntlet with a misunderstood corporation - Comcast.

In a recent move from Beaverton suburbia to alphabet district oasis, I had the displeasure of setting up a new Comcast account. To set the scene, I called the Comcast sales line, was set up with a package, and then had subsequent issues getting a tech to arrive at the agreed upon time.

I've chosen to post the following email to help my fellow man crack the Comcast code and make contact with an often out of touch giant.  You're the customer.  You have a God given right to demand satisfaction.  So stand up, put your pants back on, and follow my lead...

---

To Whom It May Concern:

I was instructed to send an email to this account by @ComcastMelissa because I had voiced a complaint on Twitter regarding issues I experienced when setting up service in my newly rented apartment.

Story goes like this: Called up Comcastical sales line and was getting set up with double play TV and internet.  Guy on the other end was extremely helpful - only tried to up-sell me twice.  After that initial account setup, I was transferred to a call center (guessing it was outsourced) somewhere in BFE (see urbandictionary).  The woman on the other end fought through a shaky phone connection to confirm details of my account and arrange for a tech to install components necessary.  

We agreed on Sunday, 3/27 between 10 and 11 in the morning.  I wrote this down.  We confirmed it at the end of the phone call.

Woke up early Sunday morning (3/27) with a blistering hang over, but was determined to clean and prepare my man cave for the tech's arrival.  Pulled my TV out from the wall, exposed the cable outlet from behind the lazy boy, and lit scented candles.  Like a loyal dog awaiting his owner's return, I sat by the door waiting for the Comcast tech.

10:00...10:17...10:32...10:41...10:56...10:59.5...nothing.

Waited another hour just to be sure the tech wasn't showing up before calling the Comcastical help line.  A sultry female computer on the other end informed me I had an appointment scheduled and asked if I would like more details.  I played her game.  She shocked me when she explained that my appointment was indeed on Sunday, and yes it was between 10 and 11, but NO it was for NEXT Sunday.

I spent the next hour and a half crying.

Reasons why I cried and remain weepy:

1. March 27th happens to be my birthday, so I'll cry if I want to.
2. Called Comcastical help line the next day to speak to a real person and got little sympathy.
3. Techs work the most inconvenient hours for anyone with a job...I'm assuming...most of your clientele have one of these.  I work a regular 8 to 5 job Monday through Friday and don't feel it necessary to take time off from work to come and meet a tech at my apartment.  I'm the customer.  I shouldn't have to work around your schedule to pay you $50 set up fee and $100 monthly.
4. Oh yeah...a $50 set up fee.
5. Cut off from the interwebs for a week longer than anticipated.  Had to read a book and listen to the radio.  The horror!
6. My Facebook Farmville went to hell in a hand basket.
7. et cetera

Anyway...I'm upset.

Sincerely Disappointed,

[ShavedGolf]

---

Result: Received a speedy email response asking for account details and a good contact number.  Received phone call roughly three hours after sending original email from an account rep expressing sympathy, profusely apologizing, and relaying Comcast's gratitude that I took the time to provide feedback.

Comcast provided the following credits to my account:

• Refund of initial setup fees - $80
• Customer Service Guarantee - $25
• HD box fee waived for first six months - $7 x 6 months = $42
• Total credits - $147

Advice: 

• The squeaky wheel gets the grease.  Do yourself a favor and start bitching.  @ComcastMelissa instructed me to contact Comcast via we_can_help@comcast.com.  That email address almost prompted the creation of a new gmail account why_didnt_you_help_the_first_time@gmail.com; however, if you're having issues, contact that address and you will get a response.

• When sending an email, include your account and contact information - if you don't, they'll email back asking for it, so speed the process up for everyone involved.  Include your full name, the number used to set up your account, and a number to be reached at.

• If you are denied satisfaction by the 1 800 help line (1 888 824 8264) and the above email address, then take to Twitter.  Really any form of social media will do.  Keep in mind, Comcast is a communications company...they're keeping tabs on what is said about them on the interwebs.  Blast Comcast on social media and you'll be contacted by a rep...if you burn them bad enough.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf

Spin Wars: Revenge of the Douche

The second installment in the epic saga of Spin Wars. Many have read and can relate to astonishing douchebaggery that is Steve (see Steve the Spin Douche).  Last week the Spin Douche returned with a vengeance.

Spin had been quite enjoyable as of late due to the Spin Douche's absence.  Workouts were peaceful.

Theories of Steve's absence varied - concern/fear/excitement/disbelief that maybe, just maybe, the Spin Douche had stumbled upon my little blog and was too embarrassed to return to a class with a spinmate this vicious and begrudging.  This could never be the case - Steve the Spin Douche is never embarrassed.

My heart immediately sank upon spotting Steve the Spin Douche - my respite from his douchebaggery had been short lived.

On this day, Steve the Spin Douche carried a wide rule, spiral notebook with "P90X" scrawled on the front in sharpie.  It explains a lot.  Spin Douche was proud of the notebook and placed it at an angle at the front of the spin room for display.

Prior to class starting, the Spin Douche let loose with usual unabashed rhetoric including his latest TMI tidbit.  The entire spin class, thirty strong, learned that Steve the Spin Douche was dumped via text message. This over share provided a plethora of visceral responses:

• Who cares?
• No one cares.
• Shocking...
• You date things?

For the next hour we were at the mercy of the Spin Douche and he did not disappoint.   We were treated to the frequent grunts and moans signifying hard work.  He blurted lyrics to songs he only partially knew in true karaoke form.

At some point Steve the Spin Douche lifted his shirt to use as a sweat rag and look at himself in the mirror.  His pudgy tummy clearly affected positively by strenuous spin and yoga classes.  The Spin Douche was proud.  The rest of us cringed.

But it was the end of class that filled me with horror and spurred this installment of Spin Wars: Steve the Spin Douche announced his intention to become a spin instructor.  He explained, with a wide, arrogant grin, that it had been a goal since he began, and he would be taking his instructor test soon to gain certification.  [See initial response here.]

The room began to spin.  I blacked out.

I came to with Steve the Spin Douche in my face preparing to give mouth to mouth.  I haven't been back since.

Subsequently I have found a new gym; dreadful with the knowledge that I'm still not safe. Steve is still out there and his influence is spreading like herpes...

xoxo,
ShavedGolf