Day 4 of no home Internet: AT&T still hasn't found the squirrel; I'm not sure they're really looking

I published my sad tale of home Internet loss on Monday evening. I'd figured out/remembered how to turn a cell phone into a hot spot by then. Thus, I had two hot spots -- the one under my collar and the aforementioned phone -- and a means by which to inflict my admittedly First World problem back upon the Internet itself.

I fancy myself a writer these days. Writers write. (At least, we're supposed to.) And, as Mark Twain may or may not have said, "Write what you know." (Maybe it was Hemingway who said it. Whatever. This sort of direction puts a person like me at a competitive disadvantage, given how little I know about anything. But I knew about not having Internet. So I wrote about that.) The trick, of course, is to frame one's complaints in a way that proves instructive or at least amusing for others. When successful, this raises the output from mere whiny journaling to something more. Not much more, perhaps (after all, it is still whining), but that is for the reader to decide. Either way, I found the exercise therapeutic.

Yesterday morning, still pleased with my effort, I Tweeted out a link to the post. (I still say "Tweet" when referring to a posting on X. If I were to write 'I X'd something out' it would be, in my view, ambiguous. Had I crossed something out, rendering it illegible, or had I launched it into the wider world on the social media platform now known as X?)

The X-post elicited a response from AT&T. A person who is probably not known as Emma to her actual friends and family left a comment which read, in pertinent part, "I completely understand how important it is to count on reliable connections and I truly apologize for the inconvenience this has caused to you. I'll definitely look into this. Could you please help me with the zip code?"

I provided it. Soon thereafter, Emma left another reply, "Thank you for sharing the zip code. As I have checked with the shared zip code there is no service interruption from our end." Welcome to Corporate America, where the customer is always wrong. But I was prepared for this; I had (you may recall) figured out how to sign onto the AT&T website and check for outages that way. I published a photo of my laptop screen, similar to the one above. Identical, really, except the one above is from this morning. I also published another screenshot, this one showing the area of outage. It's small. No more than a block or two in any direction. (Which is why I assume that a squirrel caused it, as opposed to the North Koreans or some piratical band of Eastern Europeans.)

Anyway, confronted with the evidence of her own website, "Emma" was forced to concede, "As per the picture it looks like there's an outage at your location. I'll definitely get this checked for you. Could you please meet us in a DM so that we can take this further."

Now I have to admit, despite Doomscrolling far more than I should on X, I have never used the DM feature to any great extent. My first mistake was thinking I was to find a way to DM "Emma." But that's not how it works. Eventually, I figured out that I had to DM AT&T itself. "Emma" was there waiting... but not for long. I also didn't know how or where to look for DM responses, so I didn't see her responses until after she completed her shift.

"Emma" was replaced by "Juan."

Hello, Jack. I understand that you are experiencing issues with the Internet service due an outage. We're really sorry to know about the situation you're experiencing. You can be sure our specialized tech team is working hard to get everything up and running as soon as possible.

I sparred with Juan for awhile yesterday afternoon and evening. He sent me back to the website which I've visited a hundred times in the last few days. Shockingly, it still showed an outage. It still does. Juan later insisted, "I've carefully reviewed and checked the area, we have our engineers working right now to bring the internet back on and repair all the lines damaged." He thanked me for my non-existent patience. Both Juan and Ella were unfailingly polite.

But you know what? It doesn't matter. My Internet is still out. It's a relatively nice day today here in Chicago; I could, and did, take a good long walk through the neighborhood this morning, looking for any specialized AT&T engineers. I didn't find any. And my Internet is still out.

On the other hand, I also didn't find a dead squirrel. Maybe finding the bloated, decaying rodent corpse is more difficult than one would think... but, then, I lack any sophisticated squirrel detection equiptment: I am not a specialized AT&T engineer.

Day 2 of no home Internet is about to become Day 3 and desperation is beginning to set in

I'm not Andy Rooney, but I'm feeling cantankerous and curmudgeonly these days and, like the late Mr. Rooney, I'm not afraid to tell you about it.

I don't know for certain when our home Internet went down. It may have been out Sunday morning before my wife and I went to Mass; it was certainly gone afterward.

I don't overreact. I know the drill. First unplug the router, then restart it.

Nope.

Then unplug the Internet modem. Restart that.

Nope.

Only then did I try to find a telephone number where I could report my situation and, perhaps, find out whether my issue was a failure of my equipment or whether I was caught up in a larger problem. I found a number fairly quickly.

The AI that answered my call told me, in an annonyingly cheery voice, that it needed to run a few tests to check the problem. These tests took a bit of time. "Thank you for your patience," the cheery AI said. Goes to show you how bad AI is at reading us meatsacks: I had no patience at all. And that was at the beginning of this odyssey.

When the tests were concluded, the AI agreed that there was an outage in our area. But, the AI enthused, AT&T is aware of the problem and they are working to fix it. The AI estimated that repairs would be complete by 2:14 p.m.

But the Bears game started at noon! We cut the cable cord some years back; streaming was cheaper (well, it used to be). On the other hand, recent Bears games had all come down to 4th quarter; perhaps it would be alright.

The oddly specific estimated time for restoration of service came... and went... and the angry red lights were still flashing on the Internet modem. I called again. The AI was still cheery, but it may have been drinking. After again running a few tests ("thank you for your patience") and confirming that there was still an outage in my area, the AI offered a new estimated restoration time of "dollar sign-brackets." The Bears managed to win without my watching.

I called a couple more times yesterday, but the AI, perhaps embarrassed by its estimated restoration time of "dollar sign-brackets," refused to give any more estimated restoration times. After running its lengthy tests, while thanking me -- again -- for my patience, the AI did add -- in its insistently upbeat way -- that it understood how frustrating this was, but I didn't believe that any more than you do.

The Internet was still down this morning. So I called again. After running a few more tests (how many are there?), and thanking me for my patience, and conceding that there was, indeed, still an outage in my area, the AI braved a new restoration time: 4:50 p.m.

I understand that it's cold outside. But wouldn't you think that a ginormous corporation like AT&T could dispatch a technian to look for the remains of whatever squirrel that bit through the wire that brought down our local Internet service? Given how much it charges for its services, AT&T presumably could even furnish its technician with a heated truck.

If AT&T did have someone driving around the neighborhood looking for a squirrel carcass, he or she was not successful in his search, because 4:50 came and went this afternoon and the Internet was not restored.

I figured out how to sign on to the AT&T website today; this way, I don't have to listen to the AI anymore. But, since the 4:50 p.m. restoration time slipped by, the website has stopped guessing restoration times. At least it didn't tell me that my service would be restored by dollar sign-bracket.

And, without the distraction of TV, I had a chance to catch up on my reading a little. I read my AT&T bill for one. It seems AT&T is going to increase my bill by $5 starting next month. Who'd have guessed that?

Thank you for your patience.

I've often wondered why the Trojans let that horse in....

I don't know if the Millennials and Zoomers use antivirus programs; if they do, I suppose they would call them "apps," not programs. But the names of the unfortunate Trojan guards in the cartoon above should be familiar enough to the younger generations to prompt a chuckle, even from them.

The rest of us have paid for McAfee or Norton since before the Earth's crust cooled. Norton now operates on a subscription basis; actually, I think Norton was one of the first programs to require subscriptions. I know I was a subscriber in 2010, when I dealt with an actual 'trojan horse' virus. Much as I don't like subscriptions, I suppose a subscription model makes particular sense for antivirus programs, given the rapidity with which new security threats evolve in the online world.

But am I the only one who thinks the most common feature of antivirus software is trying to upsell the user on new products or features? The occasional scan may be reassuring, but the results always come with a warning that there are all sorts of unnecessary files or applications slowing down your computer -- and, if one tries to click toward a solution, an offer to 'solve' the problem by upgrading one's subscription for only several dollars more per year.

It feels less like protection... and more like protection racket. Hey, this is a nice computer you got here... it would be a shame if something happened to it.... It does leave the user -- this user, anyway -- wondering what it is that we are actually paying for now....

-------------------------------------------------------
The cartoon above was taken from a Facebook site called Writers, Readers and General Tomfoolery. I tried, but failed, to decipher the creator information at the top of the image so that I could give proper credit to the actual cartoonist. I apologize for that. I will gladly update to properly credit the original source if it can be ascertained.

Too big to fail, and too big, even, to pay attention...

We live in a marvelous age. From my computer, or even my phone, I can order almost anything, from almost anywhere, and have it on my doorstep in a moment. If I order from Amazon, and I'm willing to wait a couple of extra moments, Amazon will give me a digital credit besides.

Amazon has my credit card; I have my desires. I get stuff without having to leave the house; Amazon gets money.

Most of the time, it is a satisfactory relationship. Not healthy, necessarily, but satisfactory.

The picture above shows a Ninja Foodi Programmable 10-in-1 5-Quart Pressure Cooker and Air Fryer.

Amazon thinks I ordered one of these on August 21 of this year and directed that it be shipped to Vancouver, Washington, a place where I know no one and where I've never been.

I found what appeared to be an Amazon email in my inbox on the morning of August 22 advising me of this "purchase" and, of course, I completely lost my mind.

Mind you, as a sophisticated netizen, who knew damn good and well that I had not ordered this item, I did not click on any of the inviting links in said email. I fired up my computer, opened Amazon, and went to my recent orders page. And, of course, the order was not there. How could it be? I hadn't ordered it.

I found a "report a scam" address somewhere on the Amazon homepage and forwarded said email, advising of my suspicions that this must be some sort of phishing expedition.

Pretty good for an old guy, right?

But I am not just a good netizen, I am a cautious consumer. I went next to the webpage of the ginormous bank which issued the credit card I had linked to the Amazon account.

Ruh roh! Ginormous Bank showed a charge had been made for this item ($124.95, if you're comparison shopping).

Now we'd entered a different realm: Someone was trying to live in an even more marvelous age than thee or me. This person had found a way to order almost anything, from almost anywhere, and charge it to someone else's credit card. I had been hacked.

But I knew what to do. After fighting my way through not-at-all-helpful phone-menu Hell, I eventually got hold of a human at Ginormous Bank, advised of the fraudulent charge, and canceled the compromised card.

Meanwhile, later that same day, Amazon sent me an email proudly announcing that it had failed to cancel the fraudulent order but instead had shipped it.

In fairness, my initial email to Amazon (written before I knew that a charge had been made to my credit card) did not say outright that this order was fraudulent. When I forwarded that first email, advising that the order appeared to have been placed, I wrote, "This looked legitimate -- as well as fraudulent. I checked my account online to verify that no such product was ordered, but this is a definite phishing attempt."

So -- again -- good netizen and good customer that I am -- and within a few hours of receiving same -- I dutifully forwarded the shipping email to the Amazon "report a scam" address with a more carefully worded email, the pertinent portions of which are as follows:

I have received another email on this fraudulent transaction. I am forwarding this email herewith.

I reported this fraudulent transaction by email this morning.

I did not see this order show up on my Amazon Orders page. It is not there yet. However, the credit card that I have linked to Amazon was charged $124.95 in connection with this fraudulent purchase.

I have reached out to the card holder, disputed the transaction, and the card will be reissued.

I will change my Amazon password immediately.

Is there any other action I should take?

Thank you in advance for your anticipated prompt response.

Perhaps my communication skills are slipping... but I believe the above and foregoing was surely adquate to convey the fact that the order in question was fraudulent. This email was sent on the afternoon of August 22. Amazon said it planned to deliver the item in question -- to Vancouver, Washington -- on August 28. In other words, they had more than enough time to take the darned thing off the truck.

If they wanted to. If anyone was actually paying attention.

Amazon did not respond to this email specifically.

But that very night, in the wee small hours of the morning, Amazon sent me another email 'confirming' my order of a plant stand that I wanted sent to Barre, Vermont.

Another place I've never been.

And, of course, I had not ordered any plant stand. I fired off another email to Amazon "report a scam."

I must confess: Some ALL CAPS were involved....

But things seemed to settle down after that: Ginormous Bank issued me a new card. I linked said new card to my Amazon account and resumed ordering such gimcracks and gewgaws as I required. All seemed well with the world....

... Until last night. Why does Amazon send these things at night? (I fear I may know the answer: Our future AI-overlords have no need of sleep....)

Anyway, this latest email says, in essence, golly, your credit card issuer reversed the charge for this item... but we'd like our money anyway.

I've spent the morning trying to find a telephone number to call to complain. I did find a way to ask for Amazon to call me -- and someone did call -- and I related the facts as set forth here. Perhaps a bit more loudly. It didn't help that the "customer service" screens had no option for me to report (again) a fraudulent transaction. It also did not help that the call dropped twice. The poor lady who had to deal with me called back the first time; I guess she'd had enough after the second drop. I don't suppose, really, that I blame her.

Thereafter, after re-reading the latest Amazon email, I composed a terse, but rational, response (copying "report a scam" just in case they've never been introduced).

So far, I've received a generic reply to my response, mostly telling me to do all the things I did in August... when I first reported the situation. The interrupted phone call yielded this email:

I haven't responded, of course, because I don't know if the problem is resolved yet or not. Time will tell.

I am not entirely optimistic....

Why fix things that aren't broken? Aren't there actual broken things that need fixing?

Answer the second question first, please.

And, obviously, there can be only one answer to that one.

But, no, this morning, after being forced to reboot my fast-failing computer for the fourth time in two days (not counting the couple of times it's decided to reboot itself) and finally signing onto Blogger, your Internet home for this page and Page One of FWIW, I got the chilling message (reproduced above) in the upper left hand corner of my screen.

Things that actually work don't need improvement... such as the sign-in page for this site... and they especially don't need allegedly cosmetic 'look and feel' fixes.

Like how they "fixed" Quicken. Here was a perfectly good checkbook program, that worked well on its own, tied in with TurboTax, tied in with banks -- but, oh no, it needed improvement from a program that one updated every few years... to a subscription-only app, with an annual fee.

Gee... who did that help? Me? Consumers generally?

Now, instead of starting on command, Quicken begins its duties by looking for 'updates' -- and almost always finding them -- what is there to update so often? -- asking permission to download the updates found (you really don't have a choice) -- and then, after downloading said updates -- more often than not -- going back to sleep.

When I restart it -- again -- I can almost hear Quicken say, what? you wanted me to do something? I think it's mocking me.

They "fixed" Adobe similarly. I would have liked an update to my legal copy of Adobe Acrobat 9.0... but I was not going to agree to an open-ended subscription. Although version 9.0 was no longer sufficient to open new cases when the "new and improved" Illinois Courts website launched, I could still use Reader for that. For my own appellate work, and for occasional discovery responses, Adobe 9.0 carried me through right up until when I shut down my practice...

...at least up until the point where Odyssey introduced "enhancements" that made it impossible for me to use WordPerfect to print a brief to .pdf in a single step.

I figured a way around that, too. It was clunky and inelegant, but it got the documents filed. But it was anything other than an "enhancement."

I know I sound like an old guy that complains about every change in my routine.

And there is an element of truth in this, I admit.

If I didn't so admit, my kids would tell you all about how I fulminated at my first smartphone, calling it all sorts of names, as I tried to make the screen not blank out or change every time I touched the darned thing, the most polite of which may have been "Spawn of Satan"... but it is not true that I tried to buy a smartphone with a rotary dial. The kids exaggerate.

Some, anyways.

But I eventually reached a modus vivendi with my phone... and, now, one or more phones, successors to that original fiend, are my inseparatble companions. I can learn. And grow. And adapt.

I can even embrace change, sometimes, when I can find some advantage or benefit in it.

But I don't hold out much hope for Google's planned improvements here. And I know there are plenty of real problems that Google could address first... but won't.

Waiting for a telephone call from an oil change place....

I'm not Andy Rooney, but I'm feeling cantankerous and curmudgeonly these days and, like the late Mr. Rooney, I'm not afraid to tell you about it.

And right now, too, since I'm effectively prevented from doing any of the other things that I am supposed to be doing right now while I wait for a phone call.

The Millennials and Gen Zers are already rolling their eyes at this point: OK, Boomer. Nobody makes phone calls anymore.

But -- let me quickly interject -- I agree with that sentiment. I am indeed in total accord with same. I resorted to a telephone call only as a last result.

All I wanted to do was make an appointment for an oil change for the family vehicle. As a true modern person would, I visited the website of said oil change place for that express purpose.

Admittedly, I used a desktop computer and not my phone. The young people may be asking what's a desktop? In 20 years, or maybe in only 10, that may be a serious inquiry. I hope not, but it may. Right now, however, it's just heckling.

I prefer to see what I am doing, and the larger screen of the desktop affords me a better opportunity for this than does my phone. Also, I can type. Therefore I can fill in the blanks on a website form faster and more efficiently on a desktop than most Millennials or Gen Zers can on their phones, even with their amazing thumbs. My thumb is not nearly so nimble. Consider the desktop as a sort of accommodation.

I have successfully scheduled oil changes on this site previously. On a desktop. Without incident. So (anticipating the follow-up line of heckling here) I did know how to use the site, thank you. I fully expected to repeat my previous accomplishment on this occasion without undue difficulty.

Yet my expectations were not realized.

The website loaded fine and I specified the services I needed with no difficulty. But for some reason, though I could select a date for my appointment, I could not select a time. The drop down menu would not drop down.

I tried clicking around a few different ways. I got out of the site and started again, but ran into the same problem.

But I did not despair. Nor did I yet resort to a phone. The site was not working properly in Chrome, so I tried Firefox instead.

But I ran into the same problem again, and at the exact same spot on the form.

It was only then that I determined to make an actual phone call.

I called the telephone number specific to the location where I hoped to obtain service.

But, of course, that's not where the phone was answered. The company I was trying to deal with has several locations in the Chicago area. Apparently calls directed to any one of these are answered at some central location.

I explained myself to the person answering.

"You are attempting to schedule this appointment for our Niles location, is that right?" she asked.

Yes, I did not say, that is why I dialed the number for the Niles location. I did not say this because this response sounded more snarly than sunny, no matter what reading I gave that line in the privacy of my own head. I realized it might have seemed hostile. I did not mean to seem hostile.

But, now that I knew this was some central location, after confirming my intent to reach the Niles store, I proceeded to explain the website issue. She said she'd have someone look into that right away.

No, I don't really think she'll actually tell anyone about that either.

Anyway, she tried to ring the Niles store while I waited. But, she said apologetically, the manager must be on the phone because there was no answer. She asked for my information, so the manager could call me back when he was free. I dutifully provided it.

And now I'm stuck here waiting for the phone to ring so I can accomplish the two-minute scheduling task that I undertook about two hours ago.

At some point, obviously, I have to go on with my day. But I asked for this phone call... and so, I think, I must be honor-bound to wait some time for the call to be returned.

What were the rules in college? If the teacher failed to show on time, the students were free to leave, but only after waiting a sufficient interval. Was it 10 minutes for an assistant professor and 15 minutes for a full prof?

Well, I've waited one whiny essay for the manager of the oil change place. Surely, that should be reasonable.

Except... well... if he calls and I don't answer... then I have to call back and start the whole process over, don't I?

I hope they get that website fixed soon....

If it ain't broke, don't replace it -- even if it is avocado

Persons who spend too much time online -- a group that probably includes you inasmuch as you are reading this (it certainly includes me) -- will recognize this meme from Facebook or IG or, as Bill Belichick might put it, Snap-Face:

I can't credit the originator of this work, but I tracked this image down this morning on a site called MemeZila.com.

In The Free Press this morning Walter Kirn offers a more literary, and therefore lengthier, take on this fundamental truth. In Kirn's essay, O Holy Crap, the indestructible appliance is a citrus juicer, not a sickly green refrigerator (marketed as "avocado").

But the idea is the same: After introducing us to his immortal juicer (it dates to about 1940, he has determined), Kirn recounts a host of appliances, large and small, all purchased with the best of intentions and often from the very tip-top shelves (Kirn has enjoyed some material success as a novelist) that have wound up consigned to the local landfill, exposed as mere gewgaws and gimcracks, and all too soon. He writes:

It’s important to get to the essayistic part, where I ask what it means when the objects in our lives demoralize us in a blizzard of malfunctions that seem to be hastening by the month. But it’s also important—to me, emotionally—to bury the reader in details of the unceasing material disappointments I’ve faced. Disappointments of the sort we will all be facing en masse in a few days. Merry Christmas!

I could also cite several examples of my own seemingly indestructible appliances, surviving long past their freshness date. I won't, of course, because, well, karma. Don't tempt fate; that's my motto.

But I have to admit that the idea of older things lasting longer and working better than their newly-minted, would-be replacements is one that has become increasingly appealing to me as time goes on. I can't imagine why....

Apparent complicity: The fatal flaw in streaming

Today's Dustin comic (by Steve Kelley and Jeff Parker) illustrates a dilemma that may be familiar to many readers: trying to figure out what program to stream.

The old joke was that, when we were kids, there were five channels (2, 5, 7, 9, and 11) and there was nothing on. (Channel 26 came later -- remember the bullfights? In an apparent nod to American sensibilities, they always cut away before the bull was dispatched. Still later came Channels 32 and 44, the latter with White Sox games, Harry Caray and Jimmy Piersall, and Falstaff beer commercials.)

Anyway, once upon a time, there were five channels, with nothing on. But at least it was free. Then came cable, with 500 channels, and still nothing on. And we had to pay for the privilege. And now we have streaming... 50 different streaming platforms, some free, some for-a-fee, 5,000 channels, and it's harder than ever to find something to watch. The Office and Friends are more popular now than ever as the Ed Kudlicks of the world often settle for the TV equivalent of comfort food.

But the extravagant number of choices alone is not the only thing that makes choosing a program so difficult: When we choose to stream a Hallmark Holiday movie, or the Tiger King, or the Honey Boo Boo Reunion Tour (if that's not a thing yet, I'm sure it will be) we are in a real sense endorsing the content.

Statistics are kept. Numbers are crunched. And you, the viewer, are branded.

And it's worse than tuning into a rerun of Gilligan's Island on a UHF nostalgia channel. Yes, estimates are made of who has watched that show, and perhaps, if the channel was accessed via cable, a record is made of your particular visit to that station for that purpose. That record may or may not be entirely anonymous.

However, should you happen to turn on your cable or broadcast TV again, your last visit to Gilligan's Island will not be displayed for anyone watching with you to see: "Because you watched Gilligan's Island" -- and the streaming home screen will offer all sorts of allegedly similar video offerings. I know it's meant to be helpful, allowing you to make new choices more quickly. But you are labeled just the same.

I suppose we will get used to it in time. Just as we got used to the pharamacy knowing when our medication refills were coming due. Or how we got used to Amazon knowing when we probably need razor blades or books we are likely to read or movies we are likely to buy. But it's creepy nonetheless.

Besides, whether you flip over to Green Acres on UHF late at night or not, it will still be broadcast. Until someome takes it out of the programming rotation. But when you select that same show from a streaming platform, not only will the next person who looks at your TV know what you did, you are in some personal sense complicit in keeping that particular show available. You have voted for it. You have endorsed it. It adds a degree of difficulty, and an extra burden of responsibility, to making that streaming choice. Which, whether you realize it or not, or whether, in the comic above, Ed Kudlick realizes it or not, makes the choice of a program to watch that much more difficult.

All PDFs are not created equal... at least not for e-filing

You might have read, or been told, somewhere along the line that PDFs are the universal file format. Everyone has at least Adobe Reader (to the point where we giggle smuggly at websites that offer users a chance to download the "Free Adobe Reader" program -- can we still say program instead of app?) and every device can open a .pdf file.

When e-filing started to menace the legal world, more than a decade ago, the concept was that all documents would have to be converted to PDFs. And even before that: I kinda, sorta recall turning in a 3.5" floppy disk with a brief I filed in the 7th Circuit back in 2003. I had to have help doing that from the good folks at Kinko's. I remember the employee in the clerk's office figuratively patting me on the head. "At least you tried," he said.

It wasn't too long after that when I went out and bought Adobe Acrobat. And at some point, relatively early on, I figured out that WordPerfect would print a file to PDF. Between Adobe and WordPerfect I eventually got pretty good at creating and efiling my documents (not that there weren't hiccups on the way). And there was one time that I scanned a lengthy Memorandum Opinion and Order into a .pdf file never noticing that, while trying to scan the two sided-pages, I somehow got them all jumbled. I used the Record copy in preparing my brief... but included the .pdf I had on hand in the Appendix, never noticing the problem... until I started printing out the court's paper copies. Kinko's again. Now FedEx Kinko's, but you know what I mean.

But, for the most part, I've struggled along, lurching awkwardly into the 21st Century.

Not too long ago, the Illinois Courts website started putting up Appellate and Supreme Court opinions and orders in .pdf files that my venerable copy of Acrobat would no longer open. That's not right -- "universal" standards should surely be backward compatible -- but Adobe Reader provided a free and easy workaround, so I didn't complain. Much. Where anyone could hear me, anyway. I probably should upgrade my copy of Adobe -- but when was the last time you saw Adobe Acrobat on the shelf in the store? (Noooooo... everything is a subscription download these days... but I'll spare you that rant, for now.)

The latest problem began just a few months ago. I needed to file a motion in an appeal in which I'd already appeared -- just a half dozen or so pages including the motion, supporting affidavit, proposed order, and proof of service -- nothing I hadn't done, without incident, dozens of times before. And the "envelope" was rejected -- not by the Clerk, mind you, but by Odyssey. Today, they called it a "submission failure." I didn't save all the emails from my initial encounters with this phenomenon, but I believe the terminology then was similar, if not identical.

Experienced and stubborn fellow that I am, I probably re-submitted my envelope a dozen or so times, always getting the same result, albeit at a steadily increasing pulse rate.

Eventually, I printed out my papers, handscanned each page into a new .pdf file, and submitted that. This, finally, went through.

But what had changed? I went looking for answers online. This is what the Odyssey site is saying today (click to enlarge):

"Enhancements"? That's an Orwellian use of a word; in the real world, an "enhancement" means something got better, not worse. WordPerfect may no longer be the leading word processing program; obviously, thanks to the monopolistic oppression of Microsoft, it hasn't been the industry leader for many years. But it is an infinitely superior program, IMO, to Word. (Indeed, Word has one---and only one---actual advantage over WordPerfect, namely, the Track Changes feature.) For an attorney, the chief advantage of WordPerfect is its flexible formatting: WordPerfect lets you set up a page or paragraph the way you want; Word lets you format any way that Mr. Gates wants -- and he evidently has a limited imagination. And woe betide you if you try and change or modify the least little aspect. I get it... people can get used to anything. They conform. They think they're doing things "right." But they are only doing things the Microsoft way.

Here's the link to the "Online Help Article" referred to in the screengrab above. Among the "common reasons" for submission failure is use of "PDF Producers other than Adobe Acrobat or Microsoft Word." Some "universal" standard, eh?

With a brief due date looming, I'd begun dreading another filing attempt. But reading the article gave me hope. This passage in particular suggested a way out: "When your document fails submission, you will need to recreate the file before resubmitting. The most common method of doing so is to print the document and scan it back into your computer."

I wasn't going to hand scan each page of a brief... but I could create a new PDF by 'printing' my unacceptable WordPerfect-generated copy of my brief to a new PDF. And I could do that with and from Adobe Acrobat -- supposedly one of the last remaining acceptable PDF-creators in Odyssey-land.

That's what I thought. But, of course, this morning... "Submission Failed."

A call to the Odyssey help line got me over the finish line. And for anyone else who uses a real word processor, you, too, may find this helpful.

The problem was that I had printed my brief from Adobe Acrobat to Adobe PDF. Despite the plain language of the Odyssey help article, this was ineffective.

Microsoft gets its oar in no matter what: There's a print option in Acrobat for "Microsoft Print to PDF." That's what I used... and that's what worked. It took a file that was a cozy 4.6 MB in size as originally created (and only 1.5 MB when reprinted to Adobe PDF) and huffed and puffed it into an elephantine 16.5 MB. But that was still within the Odyssey file size limits... and the filing went through.

And, as near as I can tell, the reprinting via "Microsoft Print to PDF" didn't screw anything up. Of course, my required paper copies are being run off at FedEx Kinko's this evening... so I guess I'll find out for sure tomorrow. But, in the meantime, there's an apparent workaround for this latest "enhancement."

O brave new world, that has such enhancements in it....

Survey says... just about everything these days

Late last week I attended a breakfast at Elmhurst College. The breakfast was provided as a reward to persons who'd volunteered as mentors, provided internships, interviewed students for actual post-graduation jobs, or otherwise participated in the school's professional development program. (I was invited because I had participated in one panel discussion for pre-law students -- no, it wasn't much of a contribution -- but, then, I took only one small sweet roll and a cup of coffee at the breakfast, so I wasn't dramatically over-compensated.)

Anyway, the college used the breakfast to roll out a portion of a survey it had commissioned from some international research group, trying to find out what Elmhurst students were looking for in a job or career, what they valued in an employer, how they responded to different sorts of interviews, and how Elmhurst students were the same as (and different from) their counterparts in other schools around the country.

I was, as usual, confused by all this. Who cares what employers are most "attractive" to college students? Sophomores in college may imagine themselves able to choose from among a variety of civic-minded corporate citizens for their future career. College seniors are grateful to find a job, any job, even with the Warts-And-All Corporation, particularly if said job pays enough to make the payments on their student loans. After a few months on the couch back home, college graduates may find hitherto unimagined virtues in an offer, any offer, even from Polluters-R-Us.

I don't understand the value of uninformed opinions. After all, we lawyers wait until after jurors have heard the evidence before we ask them what they thought of our case. (Yes, yes, we begin 'educating' prospective jurors about our view of the case in voir dire -- but that merely proves my point: From the beginning of our trials we do our best to create informed jurors, informed as we would have them informed, whose properly informed opinions will, therefore, be favorable to us when we seek those opinions at the end of the case.)

Anyway, I don't understand surveys generally.

I have come to the conclusion that this may be a generational thing.

As a Baby Boomer, reared on the wit and wisdom of Mike Royko, I was taught to never answer a pollster and, if forced to answer, to lie.

My Millennial children, on the other hand, will not make any significant purchase without scouring the on-line reviews.

I have attempted to see what they see in these. But what I've seen, when I've read on-line reviews, are wildly divergent statements, half apparently written by the seller's mother, half written by the seller's competitors.

And one cannot buy so much as a package of shoelaces without being invited to participate in a survey about the quality of the service provided.

I generally decline the invitation. I paid for the shoelaces, didn't I? If I don't return them, my opinion of them must have been favorable, right? If I return to the store, whether for more shoelaces, or for wholly different sundries, doesn't that alone say something about my opinion of the service provided?

I don't understand why we care so much about what people say they think. It seems to me so much more important to look at what people do. I don't care if my client says that I am the greatest lawyer since Darrow -- what really matters to me is whether said client honors my bill upon presentation.

In other words, I understand data-gathering and using that data to predict how people may behave in future. But I see only the most limited value in surveying people about their actions, or their opinions. Because people lie, often to themselves. They may say what they think their questioner may want to hear (or, if they are the contrary sort, what they think the questioner may not want to hear). It has been my observation that people often say one thing, but do another.

This is a topic I earnestly wish to discuss with people who live and die with surveys. Like political consultants. It is a topic I hope to return to at a future date.

Blogger rants about Blogger

I'm not Andy Rooney, but I'm feeling cantankerous and curmudgeonly these days and, like the late Mr. Rooney, I'm not afraid to tell you about it.

The immediate cause of my grumpiness is Blogger. Not a blogger, mind you, not some individual spewing his or her opinions into a largely indifferent Internet, but Blogger the blog publishing service that has been a Google brand since 2003. These guys:

Generally, I like Blogger. From 2006 until this afternoon, I've put up 2,667 posts on Page One of this blog and (since 2008) another 459 (this is post #460) here on Page Two. Blogger is in my price range -- free -- and it has been fairly easy to use. Despite the fact that I'm no 'techie', I've been able to insert photos and graphics and embed videos and customize my text -- it's not WordPerfect, mind you, but it's not bad.

However, lately, Blogger has made my blogging life miserable -- and today provides a perfect illustration.

Over the past 10 years I've covered Cook County judicial elections in some detail. I've got some substantial archives built up. Put it this way, if there is news about Cook County judicial candidate Joan Smith, and I want to do a post, the first place I look for background is my own archives. Until recently, I could put Smith's name into the search box on my "All Posts" page -- something you don't see -- and, presto!, I'd have every post I'd ever done in which her name was mentioned.

Recently, though, Blogger messed this function up. Now, searches only go back four years or so. Well, Smith may have run unsuccessfully for a subcircuit seat in 2010; that datum might be relevant to my current post. She might have been appointed to a seat in 2012; I'd have a biographical sketch in the post about her appointment that I could update for my new post. But Blogger's search was no longer producing these results.

The first time I noticed this, after some time-consuming work-arounds, I dutifully pressed the "send feedback" button (see below) that resides in the lower right hand corner of my screen when I create a post.

I sent my feedback -- hey you've made it impossible for me to properly search my archives! -- and resumed my daily activities. I didn't expect to hear back from anybody at Blogger -- and I didn't -- but I harbored some small hope that my concern might be addressed and my search function restored.

It wasn't.

Today I wanted to pull up information about persons receiving appointments -- I knew I had a lot of background in my archives on at least two of the three appointees -- but all the stuff I wanted predated 2014 and so was left out of the search results. Once again, I figured out how to work around my problem -- but it took a lot of time that I shouldn't have had to waste.

Blogger has no customer service number -- no 800 number for bloggers to call -- and I suppose I understand that no one would be eager to volunteer to field calls from little old ladies who can't figure out how to publish videos of their adorable kittens playing with yarn. Or from 'political theorists' living in their mothers' basements who would just accuse the call-taker of being in on the conspiracy anyway.

But an email address might be nice. So there could be a paper trail. And maybe even an eventual response from an actual human.

I did try and peruse the "Official Blogger Blog" to see if I could puzzle something out. I learned more changes are coming -- but I can't tell if they'll create new problems for me -- I don't think so -- but nothing about why the internal search function was rendered useless.

I could push the send feedback button again, of course. But, as Einstein didn't say, insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I probably won't hear from Blogger now either. But my grousing about this has already made me feel better. And maybe someone from Blogger will see this -- something about 'spiders' searching web pages -- and fix the problem. Which is all I really want anyway.

It will take time (and terabytes) to rebuild this relationship

Today started as Day 11 of our Internet outage at home. I don't want to name and shame the Internet provider, so I'll just call it by its initials, AT&T.

Readers would presumably be bored with the specifics of my problems. I'll even concede that the poor person employed by the Illinois Commerce Commission to read consumer complaints may not have been entirely riveted by the screed I submitted last Thursday. But, for reasons that will become apparent, I must at least point out that, in the course of allegedly repairing my Internet outage, AT&T disconnected my home phone besides as of Monday, August 4. This was at least our second home phone outage in the past couple of weeks; we'd had an unexplained five-day outage that had only just ended (after our repeated pleas for assistance) on July 28. These phone outages were mentioned in the ICC complaint.

However exciting, or unexciting, my ICC complaint was, it at least seemed to have a salutary effect on the aforementioned telephone monopoly: On Friday I received an earnest phone message from a gentleman in the "Office of the President of AT&T," and if that doesn't sound as official as all get-out I don't know what does.

Interestingly, Friday was also the day that, according to the AT&T U-verse computers, our Internet "upgrade" was to take place. Never mind that, for roughly two blessed hours on Wednesday evening, our Internet was working. Our outgoing phone line was open. Only incoming phone calls were blocked. My foolish mistake was in telling AT&T about this one little flaw. AT&T responded to our request to take care of this minor, remaining issue by scuttling our brand new Internet service and our partial home phone service. My wife and I had just about finished installing the new wireless password on our phones and iPads and other household geegaws when the lights on our brand new U-verse router stopped flashing a uniform, cheery green. From cheery green, the "service" light had gone cherry red. And the phone's dial tone was gone, too.

But that did not set us off. No, we were more or less rational about having the 21st Century snatched away from us -- again -- at least until the AT&T "service" representative told us (our recollections notwithstanding) that our new service had not been installed, but was scheduled to be installed on Friday, August 8. Things got a little heated. But at least the "service" representative did not ask, "Who are you going to believe -- my computer screen, or your lying eyes?"

And, in fairness, a man did show up on Friday afternoon. He worked at a box a couple of blocks away, then came to our house, heading out to the pole in the backyard for awhile, before coming back to the house to tell us that the paperwork was all wrong and would have to be reentered. Meanwhile, my wife and I could return to our unscheduled nostalgia trip to a time before the Internet. And house phones. I had to resist the urge to stop by the general store for some kerosene on Saturday morning.

This morning, when I got into the office (located in the Loop and the 21st Century) I checked the AT&T website to see the status of my "repair appointment." I thought I'd been angry before, when the website said installation was scheduled for a day and a half after it had been up and running, only to have it snatched away from us. But now, when I looked at the screen, and it told me my order was "complete," I'm afraid I may have lost it.

I'm also afraid the attorney in the next suite over is going to look at me with a bit of a raised eyebrow for some time to come.

My wife called AT&T again, while I waited vainly for the earnest young man in the "Office of the AT&T President" to call me back. The person with whom she spoke on this occasion noted the pending ICC complaint and promised that a "senior technician" would be dispatched, a plenipotentiary with full authorization to do whatever it took to put us back online.

And, would you believe it? This time, it worked.

Even the home phone works.

And when the home phone started working again I discovered I had seven voice mails waiting. One was from a credit card company, trying to sell something. The other six were from AT&T. None of the callers seemed to appreciate that they were calling a number they knew, or should have known, not to be in service. This does not inspire confidence.

Nevertheless, I am back. Tentatively. Fearfully. Checking the lights on the broadband modem in between key strokes.

I am hopeful, but I am wary.

I can't embrace the Internet again at home as I had before, not right away. It'll take time. And uninterrupted service. Uninterrupted service for some time. A long time.

I'll try and make this relationship work again. But some scars heal slowly....