Watching TV the Roku Way

All of us have been told in one form or another “get with the program”. It might have happened at work or in some aspect of our personal lives, but all of us have been advised at some point to conform and stop being difficult.

Sometimes, it even comes from within.

I have described my dislike of twenty-first century cable TV many times. The ever-spiralling cost of watching blocks of decades-old programming while being repeatedly subjected to the water torture of five-minute commercial breaks had burrowed beneath my skin and was beginning to itch. Badly.

But I kept it. As I saw it, streaming was a chain with many more links and hence, more-prone to breakdown, malfunction and so on. And in the end, was it really any cheaper?

An October price-hike from my cable provider pushed me over the edge. Spotty reliability, shrinking Internet bandwidth and the fact that it had become my largest non-housing-related monthly expense drove me to dump them.

(My most-damning indictment of AT&T is that their's was the only business phone number I knew by heart. I'll leave it to your supple imaginations to puzzle-out why.)

So. There I stood, perched on the precipice of twenty-first century television technology! I was going to stream! Watch Netflix! Have access to all of the fascinating and groundbreaking programming I'd been hearing about, appearing nightly on my TV!

Hoo Boy!

If I have a failing, it's that I allow myself to be carried away by stuff. Despite my robust cynicism, I—at times—believe the hype. And my first foray into this brave new world was no exception.

On the advice of a relative far-more conversant in TV tech than I, I ventured online and bought a Roku device. All was well until it arrived. The initial set-up was simple, as promised. The problem started when I attempted to connect it with my WiFi.

Even despite forty minutes on the phone with a certified Roku tech and another foray under the viral hood of my Internet to confirm the password, nothing. The Roku device steadfastly refused to play nice.

The tech concluded it had to be defective and urged me to initiate an exchange.

In 2021 this is not generally a difficult thing to do. Unless one is working with Roku. Since they claim their customer service telephone number had been deactivated because of COVID, I was left to navigate their cumbersome e-mail system.

Even with the confirmation of one of their own, the exchange took three business days to approve. If that weren't enough, Roku was asking me to foot the bill for the return.

I was not made glad.

I informed them I no longer wanted to exchange the device but return it outright. Shockingly, this was okayed in just twenty-four hours.

I dropped it off at the local post office in a USPS Priority mailer. On the same day the post office confirmed its delivery in San Jose, California, I received another Roku device in the mail.

First, let me acknowledge that consumer expectations are much higher in 2021 than they were in, say, 1991. Computerization has shortened processing and delivery timelines as well as consumer's patience.

As a (mostly) sympathetic consumer, I will also acknowledge that not all customers are responsible. We twenty-first Americans have learned well from the business and political classes and are quite adept at gaming the system—even if it's at a level far below that of the aforementioned populations.

While the wonders of online shopping are touted far and wide, there's a dark side: the rate of return for items purchased online is four times what it is for items purchase in-store, proving conclusively that nothing beats having a potential purchase in hand.

And those returns impact profitability. Someone, somewhere is paying for it. (My guess is that company's mid-to-lower-level employees. No surprise there.)

I am not a capricious shopper. I buy only after examining and re-examining every facet of the item I'm considering—especially clothing. I don't wantonly order three different sizes in four different colors thinking I'll just return whatever doesn't fit or that I don't like.

But I am in a minority. So if companies were to raise the threshold on returns I would—to a point—understand.

But this was different. I had a defective unit confirmed by one of the manufacturer's own technicians. I wasn't returning the device because it didn't match the drapes. Why was I paying to return it?

With the receipt of a unit I hadn't wanted or requested, I was now quite angry. I fired-off a heated e-mail to Roku expressing my displeasure. I graciously offered them two choices: either pay the postage for the second device's return or let me have it free of charge.

That was over a week ago. Their sole communication in that time had been an e-mail telling me they hadn't received the original unit.

Yep.

Their re-enactment of Dumb and Dumber was nerve-wracking. The glacial pace of their processing a no-brainer of a return jaw-dropping. I'll put this as clinically as I can, but it was clear to me I was having sexual intercourse with a vagina made of sandpaper.

I mean, this was not going well. I called my credit card company. And as I was on the phone detailing this transaction to them an e-mail appeared from Roku.

They had confirmed the device's return and were now initiating the refund process.

Problem solved, right?

Two days later (which happened to be the three-week anniversary of this calamity), I received another e-mail from Roku. This one asked when I was going to respond and advised me that if I failed to do so within three days the file would be closed and marked 'resolved'.

If you ask how bad something can get you will inevitably find out.

Since when does a two-sentence e-mail that consists of a greeting and an announcement that they have begun their refund process need to be responded to? What's more, the company that had been dragging its feet for three-weeks was giving me deadlines? Seriously?

I complied and re-stated the obvious and added that, yes, I was still interested in a refund and that nothing had changed. (Sometimes my sense of humor can be remarkably subtle.) That was over a week ago.

On a call to my credit card company, I was informed that in our business-friendly country, businesses have up to ten days to issue a refund. Why? It's probable that corporate lawyers are oilier and sneakier and better manipulators than government lawyers.

With today being day number-ten, I sprang from my bed and opened my credit card account to scan for the long-promised refund.

Nothing.

I dialed the phone. “Hello, credit card company? I'd like to dispute a charge.”

After Growing up in Illinois, How the Hell Did I Become a Democrat? (pt. 2)

Welcome to part two of my After Growing up in Illinois, How the Hell Did I Become a Democrat? post, which examines the Democrats who have controlled Illinois politics for the majority of my life.

Michael Madigan was born on April 19, 1942 and again when he assumed the speakership of the Illinois House of Representatives in 1983.

One of the most cunning politicians to ever draw breath, Madigan parlayed the representation of a small, non-descript district on the southwest side of Chicago into what is effectively the governorship of Illinois.

I can count the things I agreed with former governor Bruce Rauner about on one finger, and that was his observation that Michael J. Madigan controlled the state of Illinois. John Kass, a Chicago Tribune columnist, refers to Illinois as Madiganistan.

I can't disagree.

Imagine a man with the unquenchable thirst for power and control as our current president. Then sand away the need for attention and adulation. Then add a couple dozen layers of epidermis.

Next, fold in a big ol' dose of self-control. Cunning. And bump up that IQ a little bit. Okay—a lot.

Now you're looking at Michael Madigan.

Madigan is Francis Urquhart, the slithering, deadly predator around whom the brilliant BBC production House of Cards revolved. Like Urquhart, Madigan never gets too greedy. Or impatient. Keeps his profile on the down low. And is as unyielding as a diamond.

Madigan lapsing into Twitterrea is unimaginable.

Sadly, this political genius never sought to use his talents to enable Illinois and its citizens. He used it to enable Michael Madigan.

First and foremost of Madigan's greatest hits is his relationship with the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees union, or AFSCME. For decades, he has successfully lobbied the state legislature to relentlessly fatten their pensions without ever troubling himself over the means to pay for it.

Which is why Illinois teeters on the cusp between solvency and ruin today. Our 137.3 billion-dollar unfunded pension liability leads the nation. Madigan has single-handedly placed Illinois' financial future into an industrial-strength meat grinder in a manner Donald Trump only dreams of.

And thanks to a re-written state constitution, it is forbidden to alter those benefits in any way, precluding the obvious common sense solution of downsizing them to a point that doesn't suck the state and its citizen into a deep, dark hole beyond the reach of light and time.

To paraphrase John F. Kennedy, ask not what Michael Madigan can do for you, ask what you can do for Michael Madigan. 

But at least Mike still has a job, right?

Sadly, tossing a state's economic viability into the garbage for political gain isn't a crime. But consorting with a public utility and a telecommunications giant for political gain is. And thanks to the same federal probe that has Ed Burke morphing into Sweaty Eddie, Mike Madigan might be rethinking some career choices.

Friends claim they have repeatedly advised the seventy-eight year-old to step down. What have you got left to prove? Or gain? Why don't you relax and enjoy your money for whatever time is left to you?

Like all power-mad obsessives, Madigan can't see a life beyond the state capitol. “What would I even do?” he is reported to answer. Hopefully the federal government will help supply an answer.

Ever make license plates, Mike?

This is just a rudimentary outline of Madigan's career. Truth to tell, there exist enough skeletons to fill every closet in the Palace of Versailles.

Again, I wonder at his ability to convert a few thousand votes in his home district into the governorship of the State of Illinois. It's akin to electing a president based on the returns of a single county. Or even state.

It's ludicrous. And insidious.

But change is afoot. With the bright lights of that investigation upon him, Madigan's cronies are distancing themselves ASAP. Governor JB Pritzker and Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot, obviously relieved to have the weight of the bully's foot off their necks, are speaking out and calling for accountability.

Despite being a Democrat, I would be happy to see Madigan take his meals on a tray for the remainder of his natural life. It's the least he could do.

So. With so many bad examples of politicos so close to home, how the hell did I ever come to declare as a Democrat?

It took awhile. My father was a Republican, and in my first presidential election I voted like him. Gerald Ford was an affable guy who seemed capable of reuniting the county after the duress of the Nixon years.

Plus Jimmy Carter struck me as an overly cautious born-again religious zealot, which wasn't something I embraced in the sex, drugs and rock and roll-filled years of early-adulthood.

Carter was equally uninspiring in the next election, leading me to commit this crime against humanity: I voted for Ronald Reagan.

Within a year I was confessing to friends that I ought be in a maximum-security federal prison. It couldn't have been more obvious what a callow and ignorant human being I was not to have known the difference between Reagan and Carter.

It haunts me still.

But just like hangovers, frostbite and hemorrhoids, voting Republican has a lesson to teach us. And it was taught to me in indelible, bold-faced type: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, VOTE REPUBLICAN AGAIN.

And with rare exceptions (all on a state or local level), I haven't.

While scores of Illinois and Chicago politicians qualify as shiftless, beady-eyed charlatans, their primary offenses were usually confined to accumulating power and any remuneration that happened to accompany it.

But on a national scale, Democrats can't hold a candle to the affrontery presented by a succession of Republican representatives, senators and presidents.

Gerrymandering? The endless manipulation and/or outright gutting of the voting rights act? Citizens United? Their class-leading corporate welfare? Their scared-shitless support of the NRA? Their sanctimonious embrace of the pro-life movement?

The artful button-pushing? The never-mind-the-democracy—what's good for us best practices? The willingness to sacrifice our air, our water and our land for the benefit of the business class? The willingness to exploit sexism and racial hatred in exchange for elected office? 

The belief that the pursuit and seizure of power justifies, well, anything?

At their worst, Democrats may be the ones fudging the estimated monthly payments on your new car sales contract. But Republicans are the ones tampering with your brakes.

 

It's a Good Thing They Didn't Hire Me

Neither the telecommunications behemoth incapable of delivering a reliable cable TV signal to my home, the computer software giant unable to supply my computer with a functional operating system nor the business services firm staggered by the prospect of processing a rebate in less than six months would dream of hiring me.

I mean, as a long-term unemployed old guy, I'd just screw everything up.

The latest example of an enterprise able to remain at peak operating efficiency through its careful and judicious hiring is Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois.

A little backstory: after extracting myself from the morass of HFS and their redeterminations and being elevated to an income strata which precluded Medicaid, I signed up with a Blue Cross Blue Shield PPO late last year.

All was fine until the health care insurer announced the plan wouldn't be offered in 2016. Okay, that's not quite right. Technically it would, but in a highly-altered form which would cost 354% more.

Grateful that my health care wasn't veering into simplicity and ease-of-use, and fairly sure that my income wouldn't see a similar increase, I began a search for a replacement after enjoying the PPO for exactly one month.

Affordable options were scarce. I scoured the offerings repeatedly just to make sure I wasn't missing anything. Visions of Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets nonwithstanding, I swallowed hard and enrolled in a Blue Cross Blue Shield HMO.

(That it cost three times more than the original PPO, offered fewer providers and covered less was just a bonus.)

After clicking the 'submit' button, I exhaled. I thought the fun was over. 

But what did I know?

Predictably, the bill arrived first. Besiged by e-mails warning of the plagues and locusts that would ensue if I didn't enroll and then remit promptly, I hustled my payment off to the mail box and waited for my membership ID card.

I received notices advising me that my PPO would not be offered in 2016. I received notices stating that I needed to select another plan immediately or face government-imposed fines. I received notices detailing the coverage of the revamped PPO.

I received notices about everything except my new HMO and the whereabouts of my membership ID card.

Sigh.

Wanting to continue medical treatment begun under the PPO, I desired urgently to set-up a PCP and locate a specialist who could pick-up where my previous specialist had left off.

Silly me.

Not that I was the only person cast into this healthcare hell by Blue Crosses decision to pull the plug on their PPO. A quarter-million of my fellow Illinoisans were forced to change their plans simultaneously, stretching many Blue Cross Blue Shield resources to their breaking point.

Phone lines were jammed night and day. Provider information was nearly impossible to get. When it was available, it was listed on outdated web sites and it invariably took until the day before an appointment to discover the listings were obsolete.

E-mails to Blue Cross Blue Shield yielded responses which hid behind procedure and protocol. None acknowledged their colossal screw-up.

I was, however, able to print a temporary copy of my plan's ID card. Because of the repeated delays in discovering exactly who was and who wasn't included in my plan, I consider myself fortunate that I never had to use it.

The lowlight arrived in late-January, when I again attempted to learn who my providers were. My joy at having a call answered was, regrettably, short-lived. A carefully-modulated voice on the other end of the line informed me that I wasn't in their database. 

I snapped. I unleashed a torrent of four-letter words. Compound words. Bad words. I took the Lord's name in vain. I was screaming.

"That must explain the bills I'm getting, huh?"

I inhaled. The fresh oxygen provoked a second explosion, the details of which are better left unspoken.

While my health care remained on hold, Blue Cross Blue Shield bills arrived like clockwork. While I was amused to realize they resembled one of my favorite drummers and like him, never missed a beat, I also found this highly irksome.

I pondered it at length. What did it mean? What did it signify? I eventually arrived at two possible conclusions.

Either this was incontrovertible proof that despite the warm, fuzzy marketing that depicts a caring and nurturing collective of medical professionals, Blue Cross Blue Shield is a hard-core, show-me-the-money business as mercenary as any found on Wall Street.

That getting the money is job number-one.

Or, that the folks staffing Blue Cross Blue Shield's billing department were geniuses. They were the only employees able to cope with this giant shift, and by virtue of their unwavering performance, ought to be running the whole show.

That said, it remains a good thing they never hired a long-term unemployed old fart like me. I would've just screwed everything up. 

Not that you could tell.