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Last night we welcomed the newest addition to our family, the glorious Wii. It’s hours of fun. It’s an exercise routine. And all future domestic disputes will be settled in the Wii Boxing ring.

By the time we went to bed, Ellen had already morphed into the superior Wii Tennis athlete. She’ll be working late tonight, which means I’ll have hours of training.

Bailey was not a big fan of the Wii. Here she’s just puzzled by the box. But when we were playing – to her, flailing around wildly and without reason – she shifted into crazy puppy mode, making it difficult to bowl.

She was much happier when the evening’s Wii festivities had concluded.

But when the consumer electronics gods giveth, they also taketh away. Earlier that night, our crock pot was ruined by what smelled like a delicious pork roast. Not sure what went terribly wrong, but our slow-cooking days are over.

A month after my drama with Sprint, The Consumerist picks up the story. They also print the names, phone numbers and email addresses of pretty much everyone at Sprint.

So far, no fraudulent charges on this month’s bill.

Here’s an overwhelming article from today’s New York Times about our town’s PTA. My favorite paragraph:

In Livingston, the PTA at the Collins School sends out a fat packet about its 55 committees to all new kindergarten families. Some have questioned why a school with 426 students needs so many committees; as one mother pointed out, the House of Representatives runs an entire nation with fewer than half that number.

This makes for a nice transition to my latest mental_floss post, about “helicopter parents.”

My first job after college involved answering the phone in my alma mater’s Office of Student Development.* During orientation, students and parents were given pens with my phone number beside the words “Need Help?” I did not realize this for months.

“We’re planning a trip over fall break,” a concerned parent told me early in my tenure. “Does my son have a lot of studying to do around then?” After politely explaining my limited psychic powers, she turned it up a notch. “Well, can’t you call his professors and find out?”

“Get out a pad and write this down,” an angry dad once ordered. “I’m giving you instructions for installing an air conditioner in my daughter’s window.”

One mother asked for her daughter’s mailing address. Armed with a phone book and aiming to please, I filled her in. “What are you doing?” she scolded. “How do you know I’m really her mother?” She had called to test me.

I can’t believe the term “helicopter parent” never came up. But now it’s everywhere. And not just on campus.

According to a recent survey of the young and employed, “25% said their parents were involved in their jobs ‘to the point that it was either annoying or embarrassing.’” The Times’ Lisa Belkin wrote about a mom who contacted the CEO of the PR firm that employs her daughter. She wanted his help planning her a surprise sushi lunch.

This area is rich with anecdotes. Head on over to mental_floss and share your own stories of getting buzzed by helicopter parents.

*This statement is not true. My first actual job after college was power washing, staining and painting decks. I spilled an inordinate amount of paint in my hair and was quite happy to accept a job behind a desk.

I rarely hob-nob with Manhattan’s young media elite. So when I do, I’m thankful someone thought to bring a camera. This photo was taken last week at Butter, where I attended a Good Times gathering. With free drinks and food and gift bags, we celebrated the launch of two new offerings from The New York Times – the UrbanEye newsletter and T Beauty, a fashion mag coming in April.

My goal was to recruit a few good media planners and cash in on Renegade’s referral bonus. This goal was not accomplished. So, if you’re looking for work and want to sponsor my summer vacation, drop me an email.

Also, the gentleman on the left may be in the market for new housing. He’s the perfect accessory to any Manhattan or Brooklyn apartment. Let me know if you want to make him an offer.

Exciting news. Our Wii is on the way! On a truck, heading east from Redmond, Washington. According to the online tools provided to me by the United Parcel Service, this journey takes quite some time.

Any current Wii owners have any recommendations for me? We’re starting small, with Wii Sports and Wii Play. I’m told Wii Play includes Fishing, a video game concept long overdue. I’ll wait for Madden ‘08, but would consider an NHL game if one is offered. As far as Ellen’s sports tastes go, baseball’s her game. Not sure if that translates to video baseball.

A big thanks to co-worker Jessica Levine for brokering this deal. She’s got contacts in high places.

I’d like to encourage more discussion here on the site. Of course that means I’ll need to write entries worth discussing. So far, these first two sentences don’t lend themselves to dialogue. But if you’re ever inspired to comment, speak up.

On a related note, I’ve recently tightened my spam filter. I’d been getting over 250 spam comments each day. We’re now under an Orange Alert, graduating from “Elevated” to “High.” So while I urge you to make conversation, you must also be warned. If your comments include any of the following words or phrases, they’ll be automatically deleted.

• All things pharmaceutical. No Oxycodone, Hydrocodone, Wellbutrin, Amoxicillin, Quitting Hydrocodone, Phentermine or Tums.
• No “pantspissing,” or videos featuring the practice. Though you can get around this with a hyphen.
• Nothing about Mongolia. A lot of tourism-related spam coming out of Mongolia. Just for that, I’ll never visit.
• And silence your ringtones. I don’t want to hear catchy ringtones out in the world. I certainly don’t want to be offered them here.

Sorry to go all FCC on you.

While we’re talking about conversation, I should mention my inaugural appearance at likemind. My friend Noah started likemind with his friend Piers, an attempt to meet for coffee with like-minded people – people who happen to read about it on their blogs. In just a few short months, it’s grown into a global phenomenon, with sixteen likemind events last Friday. I set the alarm for 6am, hopped on the 7am bus, and was enjoying free coffee with strangers by 8.

I don’t usually attend gatherings like these, and don’t ever do anything so early. But I very much enjoyed myself. What makes it work, I think, is that the group is self-selected. If you’re not going to be engaging, you’re not going to show up. I didn’t notice anyone standing awkwardly by themselves (my biggest fear, besides blindness). If there were, someone swooped in to chat them up. Nobody trying to sell anything, no one acting too cool. Breezy conversation with interesting people is a good way to start the day. I’ll be back next month. You should come.

What wasn’t a good idea were my two large cups of coffee. I need to be more careful. In a typical year, I’ll drink roughly eight cups of coffee. My pecks were quivering well past lunch.

Good thing I had today off.

Back in college, I secured an interview with Bates, a large and storied and now-defunct advertising agency with headquarters in New York. I drove 530 miles for this interview, rehearsing while cruising up I-95. During the meeting, I asked a question about the Bates Rising Stars Program, an effort to prove I really had done my research. Or at least glanced at their website.

“Uh, yeah, I wasn’t accepted,” my interviewer told me. “But I know what I need to work on. Next year.” Clearly my candidacy was a high priority. He went on to say they weren’t really planning on hiring entry-level people. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted two tanks of gas for this.

That gets my vote as my worst interview experience, but at least no laws were broken. You’ve got to be careful when it comes to what you ask. The following are illegal interview questions:

• “Is it Mrs., Miss, or Ms.?”

• “What’s your maiden name?”

• “Can I see your birth certificate?” (NOTE: This is kosher after you’ve been hired.)

• “Could you have your church officials send over a recommendation?” (OK, not all of these are surprising.)

• “Do you have children?”

• “So, you’re no longer in the military. What gives?”

• “It says here you speak Spanish. Where’d you pick that up?”

• “No convictions. But how about arrests?”

• “Can I take your picture?”

I posted this over at mental_floss last week, prompting a bunch of great stories about horrible interview experiences in the comments. Have a look and add your own.

By the accepted definition of the word, our dog Bailey is not well trained.

If we sent her out to fetch the paper, it’s highly unlikely she’d ever return. She jumps on strangers and mauls her friends. Every morning she steals the bath mat; every night she gnaws her leash (and, when that fails, she tries to pull my shoulder from its socket).

But we love her anyway. We’re dog people, and she’s a people dog. I’d do anything for Bailey, including wrestle an overly aggressive Bernese Mountain dog (long, embarrassing story). According to Jon Katz of Slate, maybe she’s better trained than I thought.

Consider the possibility that pets are, in evolutionary terms, manipulating human responses, that they are the equivalent of social parasites. Social parasites inject themselves into the social systems of other species and thrive there. Dogs are masters at that. They show a range of emotions—love, anxiety, curiosity—and thus trick us into thinking they possess the full range of human feelings.

While the whole not-peeing-inside trick is still my favorite, I have to say her ability to slyly manipulate my emotions for food and shelter is quite impressive.

[From mental_floss]

I waited around all day for the snow to melt. With all the talk about global warming, you never know what to expect. I’m very patient when it comes to not shoveling.

This was a long shot.

Eventually I cleared an escape route. Speaking of snow removal, it wasn’t a banner day for the Livingston snow removal professionals. I never saw a plow.

Just in case anyone’s Googling for a Livingston Dog Walker, I wanted to give ours a plug. Joan is like a part of the family. We really hit the dog walker jackpot.

Email me if you want the details.

Here’s what I’ve been writing elsewhere the last few weeks:

• Fictional Sitcom Employers For Which I’d Like To Work

• The Presidential Candidate Theme Music Draft

• Ten Infamous Game Show Moments (here I was simply channeling my co-worker and game show scholar Gordon Pepper)

• Three Things I Didn’t Know About…Three’s Company, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out!! and The Super Bowl

• He Did It! (O.J.’s confession gets buried on page B7 of last Saturday’s Times)

• Where Are They Now? Video Game Stars of the 1980s (nearly all of the credit for this belongs to Rich Barrett)

• New Scientist Really Wants You To Quit Smoking

• The Booming Baby Stuff Industry

• The Road To The Super Bowl (For The Super Bowl Trophy)

• Memories of Action Park

Making its first appearance on my wish list, the Nintendo Wii! I’m still an amateur, parked near the bottom of the Renegade Wii Tennis rankings. But while I’m guaranteed a low seed in the upcoming Wii-bledon Championship, don’t expect me to bow out quietly.

Here are a few action shots from the week. Notice the progress.

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It took all of six minutes for the Executive Services VIP Analyst to settle my account. She apologized profusely and refunded every penny of the $630. With an additional $75 “service credit,” my balance due dropped to -$20.

Six minutes.

I am very thankful. My heart rate has returned to normal. I’ve lifted my boycott on the Nextel Cup, and can start watching Ron Livingston movies again.

Do I have any confidence that Sprint won’t screw me again? No, absolutely none. But it’s a depressing industry. Tales identical to this happen all the time, even to Cingular and T-Mobile and Verizon customers. For now, Sprint and I have made up. Better the devil you know. Especially the devil whose Executive Services VIP Analyst’s phone number you know.

I appreciate all the comments and emails and posts and insider tips. Where do we go from here? Out of this little ordeal will come two things. First, a renewed interest in finding examples of great customer service. Gotta balance out the negativity I’ve poured in the ocean. Second, if you’ve gotten your ass kicked by a cell phone provider (or any large entity), I’d be happy to help you demand satisfaction. No guarantees. Just fire me an email.

But I can’t stop thinking that being the anti-cellphone company is fertile ground for a newcomer, the way jetBlue made the stodgy old airlines seem obsolescent. What if Apple had announced the iPhone would only be made available through this non-existent carrier? Oh well. I’m locked in with Sprint for another 23 months. Maybe by then someone will have filled the void. Sir Branson?

Previous Entries: My Marathon With Sprint; An Open Letter to Sprint CEO Gary Forsee; Update: Sprint CEO Emails Me.

On Saturday I posted a rambling diary documenting my dealings with Sprint Customer Care. My latest bill includes $630 in fraudulent charges and the 108-year-old telcom company is unable and unwilling to help. Their answers – “We’ll give you a $150 credit” and “We won’t charge you for the accessories you were told were free” and “We’ll make you eligible for a mail-in rebate” – have only heightened my anger.

I was going to give up. But after my post, I received some great comments and emails from people urging me to fight on. Like Roger Clemens, I’m retiring from retirement. My first order of business is an open letter to Sprint CEO Gary Forsee.

Dear Mr. Forsee,

I read that Sprint is searching for a new advertising agency. Yearly estimates of your ad spending hover around $1.2 billion. That’s a lot of money.

And if you continue to treat customers the way you do, all that money’s a waste.

Last week, I received a bill with $630 in fraudulent equipment charges (complete details here). I spent six hours speaking with a variety of unhelpful customer care reps. I was driven more and more insane. “Sir, there’s nothing we can do.” The last person asked if I was “100% satisfied.” No percent of me is satisfied.

My tenure as a Sprint customer has been rocky. My first three bills were printed in Spanish. When I called to request bills in a language I spoke, I was told there was “nothing we can do.” That’s a running theme in my dealings with your company.

There is most definitely something you can do.

I want a line item on my next bill with a negative sign propped beside $630. No “we’ll make you eligible for a mail-in rebate” nonsense, or “service credits.” Stop being cute. Just fix it. And not because I wrote a letter and posted it on a widely read website*. Fix it because you were 100% wrong in the first place and it’s your job.

If this is the end of the story – if you’re unwilling to help – then your new ad agency will have to work long and hard to resuscitate your reputation. I don’t think $1.2 billion covers it.

I know of nowhere else to turn. Make this right.

Sincerely,
Jason English
jasonenglish1 (at) gmail (.) com

*I don’t mean this one. I’ve also been documenting the drama on YesButNoButYes.

How the 108-year-old telcom giant stole my money, ruined my weekend, and drove me insane.

My Friday night was ruined before it had begun. Between 7:45pm and 1:15am, I would talk to seven different Sprint customer service representatives. My bill, which was $630 higher than expected, would be deemed both “an obvious computer error” and “completely valid.” I would be transferred and hung-up on and stranded on hold. One time I’d even be called back. I would be told I was the victim of a scam; I would be accused of concocting one.

I would be told nothing could be done and I would be lobbied to upgrade my text-messaging plan. I would strangely bring up the Saddam Hussein hanging, just making conversation.

And I would keep a running diary to document the madness.

6:52pm: While watching a documentary about the 1999 St. Louis Rams on my iPod, I receive this email from my wife: “Sprint has charged you another $600 for the BlackBerry you are now reading this on.” This kills the good feelings born from Kurt Warner’s improbable rise.

7:30pm: Now off the bus, I practice verbally jousting with Sprint Customer Care. I play all roles. Talking to yourself in your car is not crazy, I decide.

7:39pm: At home I see the mess that is my Sprint bill. But at least I can read it. Our first three bills were printed in Spanish.

7:45pm: Dialing Customer Care.

7:46pm: I am told all customer service representatives are busy assisting other customers.

7:48pm: I am told all customer service representatives are busy assisting other customers.

7:50pm: (Again.)

7:51pm: I am now talking to Anna, who is most likely from Canada. (I will later learn that everyone I spoke to was in Canada. They’re probably all in the same room, cackling with glee.)

My Opening Statement: “Before we begin, I want you to know how angry I am. I’ve been yelling and I’m shaking. My eyes are tearing up. But I know this isn’t your fault. So I’m not going to yell or swear or give you a hard time.”

Her Rebuttal: “What is your phone number?”

My measured eloquence is lost on all-business Anna.

7:56pm: I make my case, going back to December 29th. That night I called the Sprint 800 number to inquire about upgrading to a BlackBerry. My sales rep put me on hold for fifteen minutes, during which I watched the run-up to Saddam Hussein’s execution. He returned – “he” being the sales rep, not Saddam – and offered me a great deal, similar to the deal new customers would receive. The BlackBerry 8703e for $139.08. He even threw in a headset and protective case, provided I sign a new two-year agreement (effective that day). I supplied my AmEx number; he shipped my phone. Transaction complete.

7:58pm: Anna tells me it sounds like telesales fraud. These reps work on commission, she said. On occasion, a rep will “invent” a deal, accept payment, but never enter any notes about the sale. Sprint knows I ordered a BlackBerry on December 29th and knows they received $139.08, but does not connect the two events. Thus the $600+ in charges a month later.

She says she will contact her supervisor to delete the charges. This is the last I hear from Anna.

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