Not Very Appealing

Art may not imitate life, but customer service, I’ve learned, does imitate physics in startling ways. That is to say: each good customer service experience has an equal and opposite customer service experience.

A few weeks back, I ordered a Dell Dimension 8200 for my audio recording tasks. Definitely a formidable machine at (based on my time of purchase) a competitive price. This past Saturday, I decided to put together the furniture for my “studio room”, and also got the machine up and running. Well, sort of.

Ever have the feeling that you’ve seen something so bad and irritating that you think you’re going to have a brain hemorrhage? Yes, I got a similar feeling when I opened up the box that contained the (Dell) CPU, and noticed that what Dell seems to have shipped me was a Dimension 4400, and NOT the 8200 that I’d ordered.

Figuring that maybe I’d ordered the wrong thing, I referred to the packing slip, and confirmed that I had indeed ordered the Dimension 8200.

So, realizing that I’d probably be asked a whole bunch of questions upon seeking support from Dell (with regards to their screw up), I decided to hook the damned thing up and see what would happen when I booted it.

I was equally surprised when I booted the machine and it came up as a Dimension 8200, with the specs that I’d ordered, and NOT a 4400. This morning, I got on the phone with Dell. After a slew of menu options, and a few incorrect redirects by the Dell staff, I was sent to technical support:

Me: Hi, I ordered a Dimension 8200 and it seems that the machine has been shipped in a 4400 case.
Dell support: Oh, uhhh… (pause) can you give me the tag # of the machine?
Me: No, I’m not sitting in front of the machine right now.
Dell support: Well, sir, you’ll need to call us back when you have the tag #, so that we can walk you through your issues.
Me: (aghast) There is no “walking through”, as you say, because the issue is one of an incorrectly filled order and not one that’s related to me needing technical support for something that’s not working.
Dell support: (sighing) Well, okay, what did you say that the problem is again?
Me: The Dell that you shipped me has been shipped in the wrong case, and I’m not so sure that I can trust that everything else has been installed by Dell as it should have been.
Dell support: You say, then, that the 8200 has a 4400 sticker on it? Why don’t you just peel it off?

Needle scratching across record.

Me: (shocked as fuck) Ummm, if you’re talking about the plastic plate that’s near the power button, it’s not possible to peel it off. It’s glued on.

Editor’s note: it’s not often that you hear someone telling you that when you remove the Chevy emblem from a Camaro, it becomes a Ferrari.

Dell support: Oh, I guess that you’re right. So, what do you want me to do for you, then?
Me: I’d like to get any parts replaced that are missing or that have been incorrectly installed.
Dell support: Well, let me give you to customer care.
Me: Are you sure that’s who I should be speaking to? They’re the folks who gave me to you earlier?

And on and freaking on…

Finally, I found someone who explained that they’d have to build me a new machine, but that I could keep the existing machine until the new machine ships out. They’d send me a “sticker” to attach to the box for shipping to a courier, and an 800 number so that I could have a courier come and pick up the broken machine.

This process took an hour. Staples, for a similar matter (of something being, shall we say, rammed in the ass), took 5 minutes for everything.

Yeah, We’ve Got That

I love technology. I mean, at every turn I find something that’s new and neat and functional and everything.

But usually, there’s some god-awful collision in between technology and customer service that leads to waiting on the phone for over an hour, talking to too many people who are telling me different stories (whilst not knowing the correct answer), and/or being generally unhelpful. I’m sure that you’ve run into this everywhere, including places such as your bank, the IRS, your car dealership. Oh, and “record” or other music-related stores are the freaking worst in terms of customer service.

But I digress.

Last week, I bought some stuff from Staples (staples.com, actually). One of the things that I’d bought — was on sale, so I was more than surprised when I reviewed my order slip and it didn’t have the sale price listed.

As usual, when not wanting to deal with what I think will be a lengthy and unproductive time on the phone, I procrastinated. This past Saturday, I gave Staples a call, and feared for the worst as their automated service forewarned me that call volume was high and that it might be 15-30 minutes before a “live person” spoke with me.

Good grief.

But, in an awesome twist of fate, somebody answered the phone in less than 2 minutes. I heard the bell, and now I was drooling.

Of course, knowing that a “live person” is on the other end of the phone should never be grounds for consolation, but I decided that with a 2-minute intervention, maybe things wouldn’t be that bad. And guess what? They weren’t.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: <explaining situation about being mischarged>
Staples person: What’s your order number?
Me: <Gives order number right away like a good customer.>
Staples person: And what’s the item number in question?
Me: <Gives item number.>
Staples person: (Looking item up in directory.) You’re right. We’re so sorry about the confusion. You’ll see a credit for $X on your credit card statement for staples.com. Is that okay?
Me: Absolutely. Thank you.
Staples person: No problem, sir. Sorry again for the inconvenience. Is there anything else that I can do for you today?
Me: <Thinking evil thoughts.> No, but thanks for taking care of this promptly!

And that was IT!

My Adidas

Like every person, I have my “things”. You know, those “things” that you seemingly can’t live without, and while you don’t need them at all, when you do get them you develop that warm, comfortable and happy feeling inside. Yeah, I had one of those days today.

My “things”, for what it’s worth, are comfort foods, video games or software, technical or (food) cookbooks, getting my haircut (although it’s not nearly as full and stylish as it used to be) and *sneakers*. That’s right, sneakers. You know, the comfortable things that you put on your feet.

So, I went to the mall tonight. My sneakers were more than worn out, and were looking pretty pathetic. I mean, I usually get 3-4 pairs of sneakers per year (and maybe own 2 pairs at a time), but I’ve been really busy as of late, and have had no time for little things like this.

I decided on “Foot Locker” as it was, unfortunately, the only half-decent sneaker store around. “World Foot Locker” is awesome, as there’s room to move around, but your good ol’ “Foot Locker” kind of stinks since it’s a little bit cramped.

Anyways.

I was looking at this quarter’s fancy schmancy line of sneakers, and I decided against anything that had any visible signs of Michael Jordan on it. Yeah, he’s the best and all, but there’s only so much marketing BS that one fella can take. Oh, and the irony of a basketball-type of sneakers is that — get this — they RARELY have size 13 or larger in stock. What the FUCK, man?! I mean, aren’t these *basketball* sneakers? I don’t see Allen Iverson’s mark on this brand anywhere!

So, I find a pair of basketball sneakers that I liked, in size 13, and then — out of the corner of my eye — I spotted… a brand-new pair of leather, 3-stripe Adidas. Yes, when I say 3-stripe Adidas, I mean the SAME ones that Run-DMC wore for years and years.

I had another one of those moments. In this case, the “quiet voice” escaped my head and I apparently said, “Awwww yeah”, to which this black clerk looked at me and said, “excuse me?”

“Oh”, I said, blushing, and pointed at the sneakers, and poster of Ice Cube on the display. Thankfully, he got a kick out of it and started laughing.

Then my honky clerky guy returned with the Adidas — in size 13 — and offered to lace them up for me. I most VOCALLY refused. I mean, I can be a tool and a square and all that, but if I’m going with a leather pair of 3-stripers, it could be the case that they never get laced. Would you like me to send you my laces? I really don’t need them.

Now, all I need is a way to gold plate a Sun Microsystems emblem. It would match my rope chain that I think I’m going to buy next week.

Me and my Bad Language

I work a job that can be incredibly stressful at times. I know that it’s led some people to drink excessively, do drugs, drink too much coffee, develop ulcers all over the place, or otherwise completely spaz out. None of that stuff really suits me, I guess.

I just use excessive amounts of bad language. Oh, and I think that I smoke too many cigarettes (even more in conjunction with using bad language).

Often times (when not at work), I visit Chris (cms), with whom I engage in conversations that are comprised almost entirely of “curse words”. For example:

CMS: FUCK. This OSX package totally pulled down my pants and smacked my cock with a mallet.

Me: Fuck, dude. That sucks.

CMS: Yeah, it’s almost like “Deliverance” in each and every block. That’s fucked.

Me: Yeah, that’s fucked. It’s almost like being tongued on the underside of your cock by a crackwhore who’s wearing a head gear.

CMS: Yeah, dude.

Me: Yeah. Fuckers. HEH.

And sometimes I forget that “work Nate” doesn’t use too much bad language or innuendo, which — when it slips out — has lead to some embarassing consequences. For instance, I work with this woman who eats too much fruit. I mean, she’s got a drawer (in her office) full of fruit-related snacks. On one such occassion, she pulls a plastic baggie out of her desk drawer which contains some chunks of a yellow whiteish-looking substance. She passes the baggie to me and offers me some.

L: “Nate, do you want some of this?”

Nate: No thanks. I really should stay away from crack rock. But thanks for offering.

L: Umm, okay. But this is dried pineapple.

Now, in my former life as a technical person who worked for “Joe Dot Com du jour”, I could get away with most forms of abstract expression as long as I’d remembered to wear clothing to the office. But in my current life as a corporate droid, I wasn’t prepared for the offended look on L’s face, to which I felt compelled to apologize immediately. Either she isn’t hip to crack jokes, or was really offering me crack rock and didn’t appreciate me poking fun at it.