There is nothing about these 2 minutes and 15 seconds that isn’t perfect to me. Play it at my funeral and then light off a string of M-80s inside my coffin.
Kristine Cooper: Hello Adam! Thank you for being a valued Bank of America customer!
Kristine Cooper: How may I assist you with your credit card account today?
You: [LONG STORY]
Kristine Cooper: Upon checking on the account, I see here that the payment was returned because there is an insufficient funds from the account where you initiate the payment.
Kristine Cooper: I am hoping for your kindness.
You: Did you read the part where I explained that my bank has no record of you ever attempting to process the payment?
Kristine Cooper: Yes, I understand that and I do get your point.
Kristine Cooper: If you wish I can send the statement of 03/2013 and 04/2013 so that you we’re able to see the payment has posted and then returned.
Kristine Cooper: Is that something that you would like to consider?
You: No, because I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You: I can see my own statement.
Kristine Cooper: I am sorry for the confusion. Let me explain it the best way I can.
Kristine Cooper: I highly respect your decision with regards to this.
Kristine Cooper: Are you still with me?
Kristine Cooper: I am glad we are still connected.
Kristine Cooper: I am glad we are still connected.
You: So am I, Kristine
You: You were going to explain the best way you can.
Kristine Cooper: I am sorry. Sure! One moment please.
Kristine Cooper: Upon checking on the account, I see here that there was a payment posted on the account on 03/04/2013 of the amount $4524.00. There was a returned check fee assessed because there was a payment posted on the account.
Kristine Cooper: The return check fee was assessed on 03/13/2013.
You: I know all that.
Kristine Cooper: Thank you for your understanding.
Kristine Cooper: I did my very best with regards to the $25 return check fee, however it is a valid and it was assessed correctly on the account.
You: BUT MY BANK SAYS THAT IT NEVER RETURNED A PAYMENT ON THAT DATE FOR INSUFFICIENT FUNDS OR ANY OTHER REASONS.
Kristine Cooper: The payment of $4524 is posted on the account on 03/04/2013.
You: You keep saying that.
Kristine Cooper: Thank you for waiting. I’ll be with you in just a moment.
Kristine Cooper: The funds of $4524 is from your funds. The account was assessed a return check fee because the payment of $4524 is already posted on the account.
You: With all due respect, Kristine, that sentence makes no sense.
Kristine Cooper: I am sorry to hear that. Let me try to explain it again for you.
Kristine Cooper: [“explains”]
You: I don’t know where that information came from, but it is incorrect.
Kristine Cooper: I completely understand your point however I would need to refer you to your bank to provide the details why there is no sufficient funds when we are cashing the check.
You: I feel like you’re not listening to me, Kristine. It’s not a good feeling.
Kristine Cooper: I am really sorry if you feel that way.
Kristine Cooper: I am sorry however I am unable to provide more details about this because I do not have enough details about the check. If you wish to, I can refer you to our checking/savings department.
Kristine Cooper: Whichever you wish to do, I will be more than happy to help.
You: I feel like you have no idea what I’m saying.
Kristine Cooper: I am sorry. What I meant was, for the return check fee.
Kristine Cooper: Let me talk to my manager with regards to this.
Kristine Cooper: Thank you for choosing Card Services. How may I provide you with Exceptional Service?
Kristine Cooper: I do apologize. Rest assured that I will be staying online once we already resolved this
Kristine Cooper: Adam I will be transferring you to a senior chat specialist who will assist you further. A specialist will be online with you in just a moment. Thank you for your patience.
You: I’ll never forget you, Kristine.
Brian: Hello Adam. My name is Brian and I am a Senior Chat Specialist.
@theleanover secretly runs a plumbing-supply store in the midwestern US
Apartment fire. They were neighbors in an apartment building that just burned down. It happened in the very early morning and they wait around to see if anything is salvageable and, if so, to defend against scavengers and looters. The sun rises behind the smoldering remains of their MDF furniture.
Post-heist. They have escaped deep into the desert after committing a heist. They sit 20 yards apart and eye one another distrustfully as each resists sleep. At first light, they share a Power Bar and a blue Gatorade.
Squad-car tragedy. They are handcuffed in the back of a squad car. The arresting officer is slumped over his laptop in the front seat. A fatal heart attack took him too young. The air in the car is thick and stale.
Pole smokers. They live near one of the poles, so for much of the year the sun doesn’t rise until well into the workday. The sun’s orange penumbra makes the third smoke break of the day a particularly inspiring one.
Debriefing. While in an emotionally vulnerable state, a very drunk accountant enters into a binding contractual agreement with a prostitute. After he is turned away from the national hotel chain where he has points, they retire to a Budgetel, where the accountant soon discovers that the prostitute is also a man. They discuss the situation on the lanai as dawn breaks over the interstate.
American in Paris. On his last night in Paris, a snaggle-toothed American who self-identifies as a poet meets a lovely French woman who is inexplicably free for the evening and willing to wander the streets with him and listen to his bullshit. They discuss life and love and occasionally stop to rest at a particularly scenic spots along the Seine. As light fills the sky, it is revealed that there is no woman at all, only a pigeon whom the American is touching inappropriately.
"What do you get excited about?” She has to ask me this outright because you could waste a lot of time trying to glimpse it in the wrinkles around my eyes or waiting for a faint rise in the pitch of my voice.
I shrug. I’m almost always taciturn, except in rare and unpredictable moments, which usually come when I’m alone. “I don’t know. You mean in a good way, right?” I ask for clarification because I do have fits of rage — short, but loud — and that is a kind of excitement. But it isn’t what anybody wants to hear about it. “I don’t know,” I conclude.
There are things I like and things I look forward to, lots of them, but I can’t say that I get excited about them. And there are things I could conceivably do that would be exciting in some objective, cosmic sense, but they require large chunks of money or time, which are things that I don’t usually have unallocated chunks of, much less large ones. Time and money are, at least, my rationalizations for not doing things, but it’s at least equally true that I’m in a rut (or, for you optimists out there, a groove). It’s easier just to stay in.
Anyway, I started wondering if I’m incapable of being excited. So I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think I am. I really don’t. I mean, yes, I’m a taciturn sonofabitch, but I’m not a monster.
So much of life is an agenda that somebody else sets. There are employers to keep happy, creditors to mollify, kids who need meals or rides or motivation or discipline, funerals, weddings, urinalyses, weirdly demanding dry cleaners, gutters, court dates, plumbing, etc. And then you have to recover from it. It’s a whole big thing, day-to-day life.
A break from that — a true escape from it — would excite me. Having no agenda, no demands, no expectations — that would excite me. I would be fucking thrilled to have a warm rock to lie on for a good long time, or a strange city to tromp around, or three days in a place where the trees smell good and it gets truly dark at night. I would be fucking excited. (Although please note that if I were about to do any of this stuff, or even if I won the Powerball, you would probably still not detect any excitement in my face or voice.)
So I think I need to make this happen.
When I shock myself on a metal door frame or an office chair or whatever I generally look at the offending inanimate object and say something like, “fuck you in your fucking asshole.” But lately I really mean it.
This morning before work I briefly picked up my guitar and started playing “Paradise,” by John Prine, mostly because it’s super easy. That song has some meaningful associations for me, but nothing that would make me want to cry. Or so I thought; I had to stop. But I was already late for work by then, so maybe it was for the best.
Yesterday when I was late for work, I was listening to a story on NPR about a high-school algebra teacher who makes up raps about triangles and the quadratic equation as a way of making the lessons more enjoyable or relatable to his students. Based on the small sample that I heard, I would say that his rhymes are whack but his flow is acceptably tight. You probably know where this is going: I cried.
I don’t really know what’s happening. I mean, it’s safe to say that it’s all related to going off brain medicine for the first time in 5-6 years, so I understand why. But I don’t understand what.
My experience with antidepressants is that they sheared off the highs and lows, the way they throw out the highest and lowest scores in Olympic gymastics. So, now, emotions that have been flattened out for a long time are manifesting themselves in ways that seem random. It’s like the dam broke, but instead of flooding the valley the water turned into a banana cream pie that keeps hitting me in the face. And making me cry, of course.
from his imdb filmography:
Totally worth the risks I had to take to get this footage