Tech support: It's an ordeal, but some fool has to call in

Where were you when the Internet went out this week? Let me guess: in front of your computer. When the Internet died this week across Minneapolis, I called technical support to confirm it wasn't my fault.

The call began as it always does:

"Please listen closely, as our menu options have changed for no apparent reason. If you are calling because you're angry about something you read on the Huffington Post, please contact your son or daughter for instructions on not blaming us. For questions about e-mail, including the sloppy letter you sent to an old lover last night at 3 a.m. when you got back from the bar, please hit yourself in the head with a ball-peen hammer, you idiot. For questions about transferring service, press 4. For questions about transferring service to a country with lax banking laws and no extradition treaties, press IRS, and you will be instructed where to go for sentencing. For the problem you really want to solve, stab 8 repeatedly.

"Thank you. Please hold. The average hold time is [new voice; this guy sounded like the fellow who heats up the branding irons in a Spanish Inquisition deposition] TEN MINUTES."

After 10 minutes of hearing about services I already have and services I do not want -- did you know you could combine your TV, phone, Internet, groceries, pet grooming, prostate exam, floor refinishing and cremation arrangements into one bill? -- a harried tech picked up the line. I always picture a fat, sweating Roman walking down the aisles of the technical support centers, beating a drum, lashing the techs who pause for a second between calls. Not a merry job. Be kind.

He said his name, and I told him my Internet had run out. But first things first:

"Before we go on: I have rebooted the modem and computer, reseated the cords, blown compressed air into the power outlet, sacrificed a goat to Steve Jobs -- aside from the usual one, the black one with organic wool -- and I have not downloaded anything that puts a MEET CZECH BABES NOW toolbar on my screen. All software is updated. I am sitting with proper posture and my taxes are paid. The modem lights are all green except for 'Internet.' Hence our conversation today."

I know that's boilerplate, but how does he know we will get it fixed? I didn't tell him whether the monitor was turned on, but he seemed to assume that was the case.

"OK sir, can you tell me what happens when you try to connect?"

You want to say, "Squat, followed by a brief amount of diddly," but I knew what he meant. "Can't find a PPPoE server."

"OK sir, let me look at your account. If I can just ask you to hold for a minute. Can you hold? Thank you for agreeing to hold. I'll put you on hold now. Thank you." (On hold for 17 seconds.) "OK, thank you for holding. We have an outage in your area."

Would have been nice to have heard that before I was placed in the long and winding queue, but that confirmed my suspicions. It happens: Someone puts a backhoe blade through a fiber-optic line, or a squirrel chews on an Internet trunk line -- and absorbs so much information it becomes a supergenius for a second, and then it explodes. (This is why there are no squirrels in the Senate.)

He said it would be fixed. In "24 to 48 hours."

Two! Days! No! Memes will develop! YouTube videos will become parodied before I can see the originals! Then it struck me: This was what life was like before the Internet. I know there was such a time; I have pictures of people who are, like, outside and stuff. Go outdoors! It's spring! Reconnect with nature! So I went outside. It was cold. A surly wind was tearing blossoms off the trees.

So, back inside. For a while I glared at the municipal wireless node on the pole outside the house, because I knew it was feeling all smug right now.

A day? Two? Well, maybe it would be good for everyone.

A few minutes later my browser refreshed itself and displayed its home page. The Internet was back. You probably never noticed. Well, some fool had to call them and go through that. You're welcome!