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Tech lifestyle
no match for
The Hole

Astrologers call it Mercury in retrograde, a period of inexplicable delays, communications breakdowns, technical glitches and/or Britney Spears weddings.

Less-celestial Digital Slobs, however, have a more down-to-earth term for the vortex of doom that pulls us into the seedy underbelly of the Digital Age.

We simply call it The Hole.

Anyone can weather the isolated server crash, the sporadic cable outage or the not-worth-the-deductible fender bender.

But sometimes, such a single sour note serves as a prelude to a cacophony of chaos. My last turn in The Hole began three Fridays ago -- after opening a certain e-mail, I could feel "The Omen" soundtrack murmur all around me.

"Your order has been canceled," the subject line said. Normally, it could've said "Your mother is dead" and I would've still deleted it unopened as spam -- with prejudice. Unfortunately, it was about my holiday gift purchases. I won't name the company, but let's just say it often sells items that it has in great supply; one might even say it "overstocks" things.

It said my $102.16 PayPal transaction did not go through. I checked -- it DID go through -- the sum had been taken out of my bank account. Money received, yet services will not be rendered. Passionless, icy, errant efficiency.

I called Customer Support. The company said it was PayPal's fault. PayPal said it was the company's fault. I was willing to blame Jack Kilby, the man who invented the microchip in 1958, assuming he was still alive and willing to give me back my $102.16.

Customer Support thought that was funny. Maybe they saved the tape for their supervisor. They put me on hold. I started Googling for Kilby's last known address.

The ruling: My money would be refunded. But I'm still waiting, and thinking that if I'd tied up $102.16 this long in an IRA account, it would have matured enough to pay for a 40-inch plasma TV for my RV when I turn 70.

I bet Mr. Kilby has a rockin' plasma TV in his RV.

But my stint in The Hole had only just begun.

Apparently, a recent move to another condo 90 yards due east put me out of range of my cell phone provider. So on this same Friday I tried to cancel my contract without paying a penalty -- turns out, that's like trying to break up with Liza Minelli without getting hit in the head.

I won't name the company, but let's just say if you walk by one of its retail stores, you might want to move rapidly at top speed for a brief period, or "sprint" away.

"Canceling service requires a $150 fee," the phone lady recited, as if from instinctive memory at the genetic level.

"But the only reason I'm canceling is because I'm not getting service," I said.

"We don't guarantee service in residential areas," she said. So, I can pay for no service, or pay to cancel service I'm not getting -- perfectly circular logic honed at sales representative ninja camp. I asked to speak to her supervisor.

"Not available," she said.

"Oh," I said, only moments away from accepting check mate. Maybe one last flailing attempt:

"Would you happen to have the phone number for a Mr. Jack Kilby?"