Paul McCartney is Still Hot Hot Hot

... at 60-plus, because he (seems like he) is a Good Man. Think about it, girls.

Press 1 if You're a Big, Sweaty Ass Wipe

Greetings from the Seventh Circle of Customer Service Hell.

In changing our address with the numerous purveyors of utilities and magazines, I've had to navigate some interesting phone menus. In my day-to-day work I concern myself (in the big picture) with connecting customers with content - in helping them to buy things. Consequently I've come to expect a certain level of expediency in my own transactions, whether the result is information or products. I'm consistently disappointed in the user experience of these automated phone menus, though I understand the need to automate triage of routine calls.

My question is, what about calling a magazine to change one's address is NOT routine? What self-respecting publisher doesn't have this as one of the first options? What the eff else am I calling Cook's Illustrated about - that their scone recipe last month was a bust? Why do I have to enter my account number in the Keyspan system before I can get a rep, whose first question after a five-minute wait is "account number, please?" Why do I need to know my subscriber number to enter a site to change my address? What if I don't know that number? Why do I have to enter my name and address in three instances of the Conde Net database to change my address for the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and Domino?

As someone whose gig is the reduction of redundant data in the world, and the disambiguation of processes surrounding technology that's supposed to be helpful, this is cruel and unusual.

Edentulous

I had to have a mold of my teeth made for a nightguard that I wear at night. I had chewed through the last one so they made me a hard plastic one that I'm now working on. When I was packing some of the stuff downstairs I was horrified to find that I'd saved the plaster cast of my teeth that they gave me, inexplicably, once the nightguard was ready. What did I think I was going to do with those ghastly things, except scare myself when I found them again? Now a ghoulish reminder of my unique identity sits atop my desk, just in case I forget who I am.