Iʼm supposed to have super-duper awesome benefits with United Airlines because I have a Chase credit card. A couple of weeks ago, I decided to see what those benefits are. Naturally, the link on the Chase web site was broken. It just looped though a login screen over and over.
Since Iʼm a paying customer, I moaned about it to Chaseʼs customer service.
I ended up booking my ticket on another airline, and forgot all about it until I got this in the the mail today. I guess someone at Chase figured it would be faster to mail me a book about the benefits than to fix the link.
I guess this ends up being a story about good customer service, because not only do I have the book, but I just checked, and the link is fixed, too.
One of the work-from-home workforce in my building answered a call from his boss while cooking lunch. You can see the rest.
When we evacuated the building, I grabbed my work laptop, but not my shoes, so I ended up working the rest of the day from Day 6 Coffee in my pajamas and slippers. However, this being downtown Houston, I was the least-oddly dressed person there.
Interestingly, both the Metro Green and Purple line trains were suspended because the nearest johnny pump to my home is across the street, and the firefighters had to run hoses across the train tracks to connect to my buildingʼs risers.
Based on the junk mail that comes in, the lady who used to live in this apartment was some kind of interior designer. She must have been a pretty high-end one because sheʼs constantly getting solicitations from companies trying to get her business. Last week, UPS delivered three boxes of candy from a lighting company trying to score her business.
I donʼt know if the lights are any good, but the candy was excellent.
When I want to get things off my chest, I bang the words into an old TRS-80 I keep in the closet. I do it in story form.
I’ve found that writing stories is a good way to expend excess mental energy. I’ve written hundreds of stories on that machine. Every month or so, after they’re perfected, I pull out the batteries and the stories disappear forever.
It’s like in the old days when people would write their confessions in letters and throw them in the fireplace, or deliberately mail them to undeliverable addresses.
You used to be able to buy bundles of these letters from the Post Office’s sorting facility’s Dead Letter Office. I don’t think you can anymore. Now they’re probably auctioned off in palettes with other undeliverable to big companies that throw away the letters and sell the wayward packages on Amazon.