I don’t answer my phone
“So don’t answer yer phone,” I told my brother.
We were at Allegheny Crossing near Altoona (PA) to chase and photograph trains.
Altoona is where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain in the 1840s, an engineering triumph at that time. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, but it’s still Pennsy’s line.
My brother had just instructed his caller to put him on their “do-not-call” list.
“I never answer my phone,” I said; “unless ‘caller-ID’ identifies a caller I have in my phone.”
“I hafta answer,” my brother said. “I’m on-call. Suppose Boston suffers a total electrical blackout?”
(My brother is involved in Boston’s electrical generation.)
“I can’t get this standby running. Boston’s mayor is yelling at me! Next it will be The Donald himself fierily and furiously screaming “Yer fired! I can get someone else to fire in 11 days, then tweet everything at 3 a.m. from the presidential Great White Throne.”
So here we are in the rural outback of central PA, off some woody rutted jeep-track, miles from civilization, nine hours from Boston, and some coworker can still ring up my brother.
Okay, collect six-figure income, plus parry all the charity solicitations wanting money to fund their CEO’s 89-bazilyun dollar salary.
Or...
“Consider this yer final notice. You too can lower yer credit-card interest-rate. Touch ‘One’ now to speak to a live representative.”
My brother and I always find this amusing, since we pay our credit-card bills in full.
They start chargin’ me interest, and they’re toast!
How many voicemails have I deleted trumpeting reduced credit-card interest?
And how many e-mails have I fiddled to “unsubscribe?”
My widower friend bewails his daughter never answers when he calls. And he’s doing it from his landline, where “caller-ID” is blocked.
She’s probably doing what I do. “If it’s that important they can leave a message.”
Often they do. “This is the IRS. You are under arrest. Our storm-troopers are coming. Please call with yer Social-Security number.”
I get so many it’s wasting my time.
We were at Allegheny Crossing near Altoona (PA) to chase and photograph trains.
Altoona is where the Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain in the 1840s, an engineering triumph at that time. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern, but it’s still Pennsy’s line.
My brother had just instructed his caller to put him on their “do-not-call” list.
“I never answer my phone,” I said; “unless ‘caller-ID’ identifies a caller I have in my phone.”
“I hafta answer,” my brother said. “I’m on-call. Suppose Boston suffers a total electrical blackout?”
(My brother is involved in Boston’s electrical generation.)
“I can’t get this standby running. Boston’s mayor is yelling at me! Next it will be The Donald himself fierily and furiously screaming “Yer fired! I can get someone else to fire in 11 days, then tweet everything at 3 a.m. from the presidential Great White Throne.”
So here we are in the rural outback of central PA, off some woody rutted jeep-track, miles from civilization, nine hours from Boston, and some coworker can still ring up my brother.
Okay, collect six-figure income, plus parry all the charity solicitations wanting money to fund their CEO’s 89-bazilyun dollar salary.
Or...
“Consider this yer final notice. You too can lower yer credit-card interest-rate. Touch ‘One’ now to speak to a live representative.”
My brother and I always find this amusing, since we pay our credit-card bills in full.
They start chargin’ me interest, and they’re toast!
How many voicemails have I deleted trumpeting reduced credit-card interest?
And how many e-mails have I fiddled to “unsubscribe?”
My widower friend bewails his daughter never answers when he calls. And he’s doing it from his landline, where “caller-ID” is blocked.
She’s probably doing what I do. “If it’s that important they can leave a message.”
Often they do. “This is the IRS. You are under arrest. Our storm-troopers are coming. Please call with yer Social-Security number.”
I get so many it’s wasting my time.
posted by BobbaLew at 10:09 AM
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