What Moonves should do is send the valet’s kids to college, or at least give them roles as extras on “Two And A Half Men.”
I find few things as frustrating as dealing with customer service representatives. Generally, I consider myself a patient person. Slow waitstaff and inefficient baristas are only a mild irritant, like seasonal allergies or when my cat knocks over a full glass of water off my bedside table. I’m effusively polite with those in the service industry, because I remember what it was like to serve demanding customers who want both soy milk and half and half in their iced coffees. I tip well, I smile. But, when it comes to customer service representatives, generally, I’m a giant asshole.
I am, perhaps to my own detriment, a person who doesn’t complain very often.
Last night, I went through my credit card transactions (as I like to do on weekly basis), and noticed that on Oct. 17, I was charged $8 by Delta in Atlanta, Georgia. That was this last Friday, and I was here, in New York, eating a fried chicken sandwich in Brooklyn at the time; the charge for the sandwich appeared next to it.
While I was in the middle of writing a long meditation on the moral obligations of the rich, I received the following email…
So, I basically built up a ridiculously amount of credit card debt when I moved to the city a few years ago and had to intern for six months earning next to nothing. I’ve been sloooowly paying it all down, but I have a credit card payment of $250ish due, well, tomorrow, and I don’t have enough money to pay it.