I broke and then repaired my satellite radio in my car practically simultaneously (and at the same time as my friend Dave used to ALWAYS add) within fifteen minutes late yesterday afternoon. In recent weeks I've been listening to new compact discs of old music-a lot of the remastered Beatles catalog. Actually I only got four of them, Abbey Road, Revolver, Rubber Soul and Sergeant Pepper since I didn't want to have to explain to my wife that I'd blown the money for groceries for this month (and the next) on yet more Beatles music.
I have the entire US catalog on vinyl, plus all the UK pressings (virgin vinyl where the masters are used for no more than 25,000 sides and then replaced) PLUS all the original mid-Eighties US compact disc releases (accomplished before the invention of equalization, judging from the tinny (at best) sound of most of them) and now these new, marvelous remastered compact discs. I really like The Beatles and I suspect someday their publishing rights will net Michael Jackson a lot of money and in the end, well, you know the rest of that tune.
I was almost home when I realized the satellite receiver wasn't on, which it never isn't , if you follow. For reasons that made sense then, but fifteen minutes later when I had "Adam" (not this one, a different one, I think) on the phone, not so much. My first instinct upon which I acted was to call my provider and see what had gone on. I made a lot of movies to include the usual one about a screw up with the bill or the wrong receiver being activated (that was funny-everyone at their help desk, which was located in St. Thomas, the U. S. Virgin Islands, agreed. The only one who didn't think so (even a little bit) was me, mon).
The longer I spent with Adam on the phone the more I wished I had looked before I leaped. Once he reassured me my account was in order, I really didn't have anywhere to go not that this has EVER stopped me, and again it didn't. I asked him how far behind an account would have to be 'before you repossessed the music?'. Ouch. It sounded almost as inane when he repeated it back though his voice was a mix of quizzical as well as wary as if he had just discovered he was seated next to a live grenade as we hit a cobblestone roadway.
Yeah, not a really good phone call for me, in my continuing crusade to make friends everywhere through enlightened and informed discussion. While I shifted uneasily in the driver's seat, struggling for a way out of this conversational cul-de-sac, I glanced down and realized my salvation was at hand, literally.
Getting into the car, I had managed to entangle the power extension that runs into one of the auxiliary power plugs of my Forester and it had become disconnected. That, not a sinister force or a Divine warning shot, was the source of my problem. Adam and I had a brief foot race where I tried the thank him for helping me faster than he could point out, correctly, he hadn't actually done anything when I summarized hastily 'then thanks for nothing' and rang off.....realizing minutes later (never said I was a sharp knife) how you never get a second chance to make a good first impression. Next time I call the help desk, I'll be forced to wear a disguise and dial with my left hand.