Smokey Diamond and I enjoy the local newspaper, the CDT, in spite of the fact that it has very little content—we’ve usually seen the few news items they do run in the New York Times the day before. But there is something about a local paper that evokes memories of an editor—ink stained shirt sleeves rolled up dealing with the likes of Clark Kent, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen—with colorful but not too colorful language. The office is up on Main Street, isn’t it?
We have been subscribing to the Centre Daily Times for 40 years or so, so it was reasonable for them to turn my account over to a collection agency because my credit card, which had been cancelled and reissued under a different number, was declined. As I recall, they had called once last week as my wife and I were navigating the roads out of Cleveland and I had asked them to please call back. Too difficult I suppose, when turning the small bill over to a collection agency was so much easier.
Frustrating? Yes. But what is more frustrating is my inability to speak to someone on the phone, with some actual interest in the newspaper. When you call you get a service. Dial 1 for, Dial 2 for… By now, we are all aware that the secret to talking to a person, on an automated service, is to hit zero again and again, but you never get the person you really want to speak to.
I want to speak to Perry White. I want to tell Editor White just what I feel my loyalty has earned me. I want to scream at Perry instead of screaming at some poor woman in “whoknowswhere” making minimum wage to people the phones. I can’t. And that is exactly what is wrong with America.