vituperation

December 13, 2004

I feel so multicultural today.

I had to call Sony to see about getting our digital camera — the one that someone who shall remain nameless dropped on the slate tiled floor in the kitchen — repaired. I placed the call because the crappy Sony web site wouldn’t recognize the model (DSC-V1) of the camera. Hell, it wouldn’t even recognize the family name (Cybershot) as something they make, the bastards.

So I called.

First, I spent a half-hour on the phone with Bob, the (not so) helpful computerized voice recognition system. Bob understood that I did, in fact, have a Sony digital camera, and that I did, in fact, need it repaired. Bob determined this by asking me roughly 47 questions, each of which I couldn’t answer until Bob was finished talking. On a humorous side note, I cleared my throat once while Bob was talking. He stopped, paused for a beat, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”

Heh.

Finally, I got across to Bob that I wanted to know the address of the nearest authorized Sony repair center.

“Just one moment while I locate that,” Bob said. Two seconds ticked by. “I’m sorry, my computer seems to be having problems. Would you like to speak to a customer representative?”

I told him I did.

A moment passed, and Abu the helpful Indian man came on the line. Abu wouldn’t tell me the nearest Sony repair center until he’d registered me in their system, which took maybe ten excruciating minutes. I have no problems at all with non-native English speakers, but I sure wish they didn’t man the phones in so many places, because I get all tense trying to make sure I understand them. The last thing I want is to sound like a foreigner-hatin’ NASCAR-watchin’ inbred sister-humpin’ redneck Bible-thumpin’ Bush voter.

Go ahead, call me a xenophobe; I’ve been called worse.

Abu informed me, after collecting all sorts of unnecessary information guaranteed to fill my mailbox with crap, that the nearest Sony repair center is in Laredo, Texas. I dialled the number he gave me.

And got to talk to Esperanza, the hispanic receptionist. We had another long, drawn-out conversation, wherein I explained the situation with the camera to her. She transferred me to the repair department.

Manned by Hoshiko, the Asian flower who apparently knew English as a third or fourth language. That conversation was like having teeth pulled, but I finally got their address and some instructions from her on what to do. I hung up the phone, exhausted.

As well I should be. After all, I practically went around the world, without ever leaving my desk.

“Alright, we’re almost there,” I said. “It should be just a ways around this curve up here.”

Yesterday morning was gorgeous, a respite from the endless days of pouring rain. Brilliant azure painted the sky from horizon to horizon, the sun a dazzling yellow diamond hanging in the east. My father and I decided to take advantage of the weather by hiking around Monte Sano for a while. We started at the hiker’s parking lot, and I led him down through the valley and up to the stone cuts, our breath pluming out in the crisp air as we climbed. From the stone cuts we went even higher, through the super cuts, before descending the other side of the hill toward Flat Rock.

Though I’d seen all these things numerous times in the past, my father hadn’t, and I was as excited as a schoolboy bringing something neat to show and tell. I’m a dork that way.

Our trail–called the “Flat Rock Connector” trail, after its function–merged into a larger trail and my father stopped, examing the ground.

“I think this used to be an old wagon trail,” he said, pointing. “You can see the ruts.”

I agreed, and we discussed what life might have been like back in those days, rattling over the mountain in an ass-bruising buggy at three miles an hour. We rounded the curve deep in conversation, maybe a hundred yards from Flat Rock, and found ourselves coming up on something entirely unexpected. An all-terrain vehicle sat parked across the trail. Just beyond it stood a man regarding us with cool eyes. He wore a camo jumpsuit and a blaze orange hat. In his arms he cradled a rifle.

A big rifle.

“Hello,” I said, lifting an arm in a half-hearted wave. My testicles raced one another in a mad dash to climb into my body.

The man didn’t answer right away, but continued to watch us approach. Finally he spoke.

“You coming from Monte Sano?”

“Yes sir.” I’m always a polite fellow, even more so when the other guy is holding a gun. “Just hiking down to Flat Rock.”

“Did you know you’re on private property?”

In the chasms of my mind, I heard the echo of two banjos, frantically dueling. I swallowed.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t know. We’ll turn right around.”

“You left state property when you turned off the main trail,” he said.

I apologized a second time, and hoped I didn’t have a purty mouth. He nodded and shifted in place, lowering the gun so it didn’t look quite so intimidating. His face softened.

“We don’t mind it in the summer,” he said. “But we don’t like people out here during the winter, hunting season. We don’t want to risk any…accidents.”

I felt like I needed to pee. I apologized yet a third time and we started back up the hill. The whole way up, I felt like someone was watching me through the scope of a rifle.

So close, and my dad still hasn’t seen Flat Rock.

It being the Christmas season and all, I’m ready to give out a present. As usual, I’m going to make you work for it. Here’s what I have for the winner:

Superstar on VHS, the 2001 Broadway remake.
It kicks total ass, if you’re into this sort of thing.

Want it? All you have to do is answer my question via email and you’re entered. The winner will be chosed at random from all the correct entries at 5:00 pm CST Wednesday, December 15. The video will be shipped on Thursday via priority mail, so there’s an excellent chance you’ll get it in time for Christmas. Send your answer to me via email and make sure the subject is “Superstar” or it will be discarded. Make sure to include your mailing address in the email so I know where to send the video.

Ready?

If I crawled into a certain piece of furniture made from a certain tree grown from the core of a certain apple from a certain wonderful place, I might find myself taken to that wonderful place. Once there, I may very well encounter a decidedly uncowardly lion, whose name I shall not give you. In an upcoming movie based on what I just told you, this lion will be voiced by a certain actor. That actor once played a minor character in a good movie, a role that was later taken by a second actor in a sequel to the movie. That second actor made the character a household name. What’s that character’s name?

Time’s a’wastin’. Get cracking. Please do not post hints or the answer in the comments, for that would make you an assnugget.