Charter sucks (part deux)

For those who care, I've updated my diatribe on my on-going battle with Charter. Click here if you dare.

I got a haircut today

I got a haircut today.

Please, no more applause.

This was a bit of a milestone for me, not just because I needed one but also because I took the plunge and finally went to a new hair dresser. In a salon. Like, there were actually plants, decent music and faux-hardwood floors there. I'm used to going to one of those in-and-out ten-dollar jobbies.

I am generally loyal to a hair dresser. I find that they are people with whom it's worth it to build a long-standing professional relationship. Even in the in-and-out ten dollar jobbies I always saw the same stylist. In fact, there was a period when I went to the same stylist for almost ten years. I saw her through two husbands, three lesbian lovers and yet another husband.

Did I mention she also eventually found Jesus?

Yes, she had three husbands, three lesbian lovers and she found Jesus. Though it wasn't necessarily in that order. As I recall Jesus came after the lesbians and before the third husband.

Oh my God, did I just say that? That sounds like a line from a racy South American romance novel doesn't it? I will surely burn in tuna for that.

I kept going to her through all that.

That is until one day . . .

(insert blurring image of present day and slowly steadying wavy image of past event)

(Oh yeh, and the sound of someone strumming on a harp)

When I began chemotherapy a few years ago, I knew my hair was likely to fall out. That's a given that most people know about chemotherapy. Your hair falls out. What many don't realize though is that you don't just wake up one morning bald. Hair loss is a gradual process that starts with a few strands on your pillow, then more in the shower, and after several more rounds of intravenous Drain-O and weedkiller your hair becomes patchy and gross and makes you look like the cancer kid that you are.

Being the cancer cult resistor that I am, I didn't want to let my hair get to the point where it looked like I was trying to elicit sympathy from others, so one day I went to my stylist and told her it was time. She knew about my diagnosis so it was no surprise to her. She even had another customer with the same form of cancer.

Testicular for those not already in the know.

Anyway, she cut and buzzed and cut and buzzed and I watched as clumps of hair fell to the floor. I know it sounds sad but choosing baldness before it chose me was actually quite liberating. The only problem was that even the closest setting on a pair of clippers will leave a minimal amount of hair at each follicle, and I didn't want to leave a trail of mousy brown hair dust in my wake.

You never know when that Grissom and his team are going to be trailing along after you with forceps and a plastic baggie. Can't you just see that muppety assistant of his looking at hair under a microscope saying, "we ran tests on it, and it showed traces of bleomycin and cisplatin. That can only mean one thing." Then Grissom would say some cheesy line like "it looks like the ball's in our court now." If you ask me that program jumped the shark about three metro areas ago.

But back to our regularly scheduled blog entry.

So my stylist got this idea and she went to retrieve the wax they generally reserve for eyebrows. A rather novel idea I thought and I told her to go for it. Unfortunately she didn't have enough wax or large enough strips do do a whole head, so she sent me to the beauty supply store to buy my own.

When I came back twenty dollars poorer, she and another stylist took turns running to heat up wax and ripping the last bit of hair from my head. It wasn't as painful as I thought. The only place it hurt was around my ear and at the nape of my neck. As for the rest of my head, it was bright red from the whole ordeal but at least when they were finished I was truly bald.

Here's the kicker.

When she rang me up, she told me my total was seventy five dollars.

SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS!

A seven. And a five.

And that didn't account for the twenty I spent at the beauty supply place.

When I asked her if she was joking she explained that had I gone to a more upscale salon and had two stylists working on my hair for that amount of time, they would have charged me $150.

"Would they have asked me to buy my own wax?" I asked.

She crossed out the $75 and instead wrote $55. Remember, this was in one of those in-and-out ten dollar jobbies. With a stylist I had gone to for years. Years, I tell you. When it was busy at times, I'd even be the one the stylists would ask to answer the phone and schedule peoples' appointments for them.

She joked that it was job security because now I wasn't going to be seeing her for several months.

Several months? Do you realize how badly I wanted to shout I got cancer, Lady; I might not be coming back at all. Though, come to think of it, then she probably would have scratched out the $55 and put $95. The money wasn't even the issue; it was the principle of the thing.

Oh well.

That was the last day my hair hit her floor.

Anyway, I got my hair cut today.

Charter sucks

Note: This entry has been updated as of March 31, 2007. The amended text is to be found at the bottom of the screen.

Dear Charter Communications,

The bad news is you suck. The good news? I think I can help. Allow me first to provide you with some background information and then I'll offer free suggestions as to how you can make your technical support service more efficient.

Because you are a near-monopoly in my area for high-speed internet I have to subscribe to your service if I want to look at the innerwebs. Yes, I have the option of paying a gazillion dollars per megasmurf for a satellite-based connection, but since I can't begin to afford that, I pay you. In return you provide me with shoddy service and technical support that is pisspoor at best.

Here is where my help comes in.

When I call your line and am finally connected to you, I have likely spent the last five minutes of my time fighting my way through a response-driven automaton that requests that I perform such seemingly pointless tasks as unplugging the modem, turning off the computer and confirming that the modem you sent me has in fact worked in the past. After nearly every response I then have to answer the same question again because the fembot on the other end of the phone asks stupid things like I think I heard you say you're having trouble connecting to the internet. Is that right?

Additionally while on hold I likely had to listen to ads for high-speed internet service, the very service, mind you, that I'm calling to complain about. The ads add insult to injury because they talk about what high quality service Charter provides and even goes so far as to call that service an "always-on connection."

News flash.

If the service were truly always on, I wouldn't be calling.

So you see, before you ever answer the phone, my frustration is being elevated even further by the automated prompting and solicitous teasing your company subjects me to. That being said, here are a few things you can do to not irritate me more.

DO NOT ASK IF I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN PURCHASING A FASTER INTERNET SPEED.

If your company cannot even provide me with cheapest speed for which I now pay, why do you think I would be willing to pay you even more money for a service that I imagine would be equally as unreliable?

LIKEWISE DO NOT ASK IF I WANT TO PURCHASE CABLE TV FROM YOU.

Again, even if I were interested in cable television, which I'm not, why would I purchase it from a company that can't even get my internet up and running?

Am I making sense?

Do you see where I'm coming from?

DO NOT ASK IF I WANT TO PURCHASE THE SO-CALLED WIRE PROTECTION PLAN OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED.

I have called to report my internet being down who knows how many times, and each time a technician comes out to discover the problem is on your end. I resent whole-heartedly the fact that you try and play on my supposed insecurities or lack of intelligence in order to get me to purchase some $6 monthly junk fee so that in the rare instance when my internet connection isn't working because of something I've done you will come and fix my mistake.

If I had paid the $6 fee for the 48 or so months that I've had your service I would have paid for your CEO's orthodonture bill three times over by now with no benefit to me. Conversely if it should happen that someday my internet connection isn't working because I pummeled my modem with a sledge hammer or something I would therefor have to pay $35. You do the math.

DO NOT TRY TO MAKE IDLE CHITCHAT WITH ME WHILE YOU'RE JUMPING THROUGH THE HURDLES YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH IN ORDER TO GET A TECHNICIAN OUT TO MY HOUSE.

I am pissed when I call, and you asking about the crying baby in the background or what my local weather's like surprisingly doesn't make me any calmer nor does it make me want to be your new friend. Asking me things like whether I use the internet for business or pleasure will only result in making me angrier. When I call you, I'm not using the internet for business or pleasure. I'm not using it because you won't provide me with the always-on service you tout. My internet isn't on. That's why I'm calling.

Capiche?

One agent actually had the audacity to ask me how my voiceover internet phone service (i.e. Vonage) was working out for me. First of all this question reaks of a segue into asking if I'd be willing to purchase some phone service from you for an additional fee and secondly, I have no problems with my current telephone service provider except when my internet connection is down. In other words, my phone works until you mess it up.

I am not necessarily opposed to purchasing additional services from you, but before I do so, I'd like to see the one service you do provide me with operate continually for at least six months. Does that sound unreasonable to you?

IF I ASK FOR YOUR OPERATOR I.D. DO NOT RESPOND BY ASKING ME DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG?

One of your agents was kind enough to explain to me that because you are not permitted to give your last name to me for security reasons, you are then required, when asked, to give out your operator ID. I have worked in a call center so I understand the hesitancy in doing so, but the fact is you have to do it. If you refuse, I will immediately call back and ask the agent who answers for the operator ID of the last person with whom I spoke. I will likely preface this request with something like The last person I spoke with was so helpful that I'd like to write a letter telling the VP of sales what a good job he did. So taken aback was I with his outstanding service that I neglected to get his operator ID. Would you be so kind as to give it to me? Thanks.

Granted, that's usually a ruse, but I have written such letters in the past to express my gratitude for exceptional customer service. Regardless, if you were the paranoid ninny who wouldn't give me her operator ID, I did call back to get it from one of your next-cube neighbors.

So booyah!

Now for a few kudos . . .

On the past two occasions I've had to call because my internet service is down (both calls were made in the same week), a technician came out to my house the same day of my call. Before when I would call I was told to wait for as long as two weeks before someone would come out to the house. And even then that person could only diagnose the problem. I had to wait even longer for someone else to come out and fix it.

This newly implemented prompt service could simply be an improvement in your company's inner workings, but I can't help but wonder if it's because my customer profile shows I've previously filed a complaint against you with the FCC. Regardless, thanks for the speedy service.

I do however wish you would send someone out to my neighborhood to bury the cable you currently have stretching across three driveways into my lawn. The makeshift repair job your crew did has already been disconnected once. I'm tempted to blame some hoodlum kids waiting for the bus because I'm crotchety that way, but truth be told it could be the result of any of the three next-door neighbors pulling out to go to work in the morning. For all I know a squirrel is the culprit, but it wouldn't have happened if you made the necessary repairs.

I swear that doohickey R2-D2-looking thing down the street where you have all those bootleg wires coming out is reminiscent of the communications device that E.T. jerry rigged using a Speak & Spell and some dental floss. Is that actually dangerous or just ghetto? 'Cause either way, we don't roll like that around here.

In closing, I just want to state that I don't think the biggest dumbasses out there are your customers; they're your stockholders. Sure, I continue to pay you for a crappy product which is pretty stupid when you think about it, but if your company continues its current standard of service once regional monopolies are busted up by encroaching competition, Charter sales will plummet and so will your NASDAQ rating. I'm no doomsdayer. This just goes without saying.

Once this happens, Charter Communications will go the way of Betamax and meanwhile I'll still be trying to get my blog fix via some clothesline and 1980s children's toys.

With any luck Drew Barrymore will show up and offer to take me trick or treating.

Sincerely,
The Management

3/31/07 -- Because my headache with Charter continues, I have decided to keep a running log of progresses and setbacks I encounter along the way. Here's a brief rundown of today's events.

I received a bill in the mail for $90.29, a whopping $40 more than my usual bill. Closer inspection showed a $35 charge for cable television service for which I do not subscribe and the price I normally pay for internet service increased by $5. I know from personal experience having worked in a call center that these types of issues are best handled one at a time, especially if the customer service rep isn't a native English speaker. I got the impression from this rep's accent that indeed he was not.

No worries. I don't care if a guy has an accent. I just want my problem solved.

I spoke with Michael who freely gave me an operator I.D. He was polite, efficient and easy to understand. He claimed that the $35 was a one-time service charge because of the technician who came out to half-ass repair a broken cable along my street.

OK, half-ass was my wording not his.

When I explained to Michael that I had been told I would only have had to pay the $35 if and only if the wiring problem was inside my house (which it was not), he put me on hold, came back and removed the service charge.

That was nice, but I still had lots of issues with my bill.

I pointed out that my previous bill had been for only $50.29 and most recently I was being charged $54.99 for the same service. Michael again put me on hold and returned saying I was sent something in the mail about an upcoming increase in my monthly service charge. Because I had received no such notice, he not only said he would reinstate my $49.99 plan but also give me three months of a promotional deal at only $39.99 per month. This would take effect on my next three billing cycles, i.e. the bills I would receive on or around April 27, May 27 and June 27.

Already let me just say that Michael has provided me with far better assistance than most of the previous people I've spoken to at Charter put together. And that's a shitload of people. Then again if Michael worked for a company that better handled its billing and service provision, he wouldn't have to deal with people like me on the phone.

Anyway, I still had some concerns about my bill. The front of it looked like this:

Mind you this was after a bit of scribbling on my part, and I edited out my personal info and such. I don't need you weirdos trying to hunt me down.

But notice the charge for cable television and the increase in charges for internet service. Incidentally I love the little blurb that says Expect More from Charter.

Trust me. I do.

A lot more.

But the back of my bill looks like this:


I'd like to say it sheds more light on the whole matter, but really it just confuses me further. Look at the $5 fee. You know what that's for?

You'd think by looking at it that I rent a cable modem from Charter, but indeed I don't. I own the modem outright. When I asked for further clarificaiton on this charge, Michael informed me that this was a fee I pay . . . are you ready for this? . . . because I don't order any other lines of service from Charter.

In other words, they charge me for internet service, and on top of that they charge me more money because I don't order anything else from them. You might think they'd just roll the fee in to my one service fee, but they don't. They write it out plain as day.

Well, not exactly plain as day. They try and make it look like it's for a legitimate service, i.e. modem rental, when in fact it's nothing more than a penalty fee. To further confirm this, I asked Michael if I were to cancel my Charter services (trust me in that I've thought about it on multiple occasions) would I be expected to then return the modem?

"Certainly not," he said.

While Michael provided me with more help than I expected, he still was unable to provide an answer to my next question. Frankly, no one else at Charter has either. That is: What happens if I receive my next bill one month from now and at that time Charter's maintenance team still has not come out to my house to repair the jerryrigged contraption in my neighborhood with a cable that stretches across three driveways?

So far my answer has been that once they do come out, I can call and get a credit for the time the service was down. As I understand it, this means they expect me to continue paying for lack of service with the expectation of getting back the money I already paid once the service comes back up.

As ludicrous as this sounds, I might be okay with that if I were truly going to receive a credit dating all the way back to when the service was down. But something tells me that when that time does come and they do bury the cable in the neighborhood, I'm going to call back for a credit dating back to March 21, and they're going to tell me I'm out of luck because I already paid the bill for that billing cycle.

I don't know this for a fact, but I do suspect, and I'm going to let you know if and when it happens.

I am thankful for the help I received today, and I likely will write a letter expressing my gratitude and restating what was said to me for purposes of clarification. After all what people say to you on the phone means nothing. It's what they bill you for that counts.

Incidentally does anyone know what happens if I write to the governement agency they list as the franchise authority in small print at the bottom of the page? In my case they said it's my county commissioner's office though they didn't capitalize the name of my county. There is no excuse for that.

Gwinnett is great, y'all.

Beverage Superstore presents the tasting room

There are a number of firsts that dads and daughters celebrate together like the first steps, the first word and the first dance recital, but few of these momentous occasions measure up to the one my daughter and I recently shared at the Beverage Superstore in Suwanee. I'm talking of course about my ten-month-old daughter's first wine tasting.

Oh, stop!

I didn't actually let her taste anything, partially because she's ten months old but largely because these wines were all over $55 per bottle. I'm not wasting those libations on a kid whose pallet hasn't yet developed beyond Similac and Gerber stage threes. A mere glass of any of these wines at a restaurant would set me back somewhere between twelve and twenty dollars. As far as I'm concerned, Meryl's going to have to do a little better job earning her keep before dad lets her enjoy the pricy Italian reserves.

For a mere three dollars -- yes, ewe red me write, only three dollars -- I got to have a hearty sampling of five different wines, none of which came from a box and all of which would normally find themselves far outside of Daddy's price range. For a fraction of what it would cost me to sponsor one of those ungrateful hungry children in the Third World, I got to taste from the following bottles:

• Banfi Brunello di Montalcino..............................................$69.99
• Fresobaldi Castel Giocondo Brunello di Montalcino...........$54.99
• Antinori Pian delle Vigne Brunello di Montalcino...............$59.99
• Terra Rossa Brunello di Montalicino..................................$54.99
• Il Palazzone Brunello di Montalcino...................................$59.99

I was in heaven. My Italian consumpton is usually no more exotic than your basic sub-par chianti and the ever-famous That's-a-spicy-meataballa, both of which generally run $4 per box slash can. Here I got to taste the nectar of the gods while hobnobbing with some of Gwinnett County's wine snobs and slobs.

So what if I had to hold a twenty-pound baby the entire time. After I bit her wrist twice, she knew not to reach for Daddy's glass anymore, and the Beverage Superstore provided crackers and bread for her to nibble on. She kept the squealing to a minimum and elicited the usual number of oohs and ahs from fellow lushes wine connoisseurs.

Currently the Beverage Superstore in Suwanee offers wine tastings every Saturday from 1:00 PM to 3:00 PM and for the price this is a real bargain. It was more like a class than a tasting. Meryl and I are taking mom next time, as this made for an ideal date activity especially if you tie it in with a visit to the Suwanee Town Center park. Sure, one of their rules is no alcohol, but with just the right amount of concealment, who's going to be any the wiser?

A fatty day

County workers are in my neighborhood this week ripping up and reinstalling slabs of the sidewalk that line my street. Somebody came through a few weeks ago saying they were going to be installing some kinda water lines or cables or something. I wasn't paying attention. For all I know they're probably looking for weapons of mass destruction.

Damn you, Patriot Act!. Damn you!

Anyway for a few days now one piece of the sidwalk in front of my house has been broken up into pieces so that these "county workers" could plant some sort of intelligence devices outside my home. Little do they know, there's no intelligence to be found here but I digress.

Yesterday morning the cement truck shows up along with three guys whose job it is to replace the sidewalk. I carry Meryl out to the mailbox under the pretense of checking for mail even though our mailman never shows up before noon. I just wanted to see what they were doing.

"You guys having fun?" I asked. They just kinda chuckle so I ask. "Anybody want a beer?" I was not joking. I had a plan.

Two of the workers give a courtesy laugh while the third one says,"I tell you what. You bring it out here in a cup where my boss man can't see and I'll drink a beer."

Not wanting to seem like a bad host, I went in and poured the entire contents of two beer bottles into three party-variety paper cups and sat them out next to the newly poured sidewalk. The three guys apparently had left to go repair sidewalk elsewhere in the neighborhood, so i just left the beer there for them to find once they returned.

I quicky went back in, retrieved my daughter from her Bright Starts Round we Go activity center, removed her socks, and carried her out to the sidewalk so she could leave her footprints in the cement where they would be preserved forever more. Or at least until the government feels it needs to further destroy things that were put in place for the common good.

Anyway I picked Meryl up, held her above the sidewalk and lowered her feet onto the wet cement. Only her feet didn't quite stay on the wet cement. They went in the wet cement. Not such that I successfully left her footprints in the cement either. I mean her feet went ankle-deep into the cement. Not exactly what I had planned.

Now not only had I totally effed up the work these guys were doing far beyond the point of being cute, but I had also left evidence of the fact that I was the culprit. The plan was that maybe if I tempted them with sweet sweet liquor they wouldn't fill in the footprints.

No luck.

When I came back out, I noticed the three cups of beer were all empty and cast aside. Also the ankle-deep holes Meryl had left were now filled in and smoothed over. I was actually kind of glad. I had wanted to make cute baby footprints, not potholes the size of hamburgers.

Assuming they were kindly providing me with a second chance at defacing government property, I again took Meryl outside, roller up her pants legs and placed her, gently this time, into the cement.

Much better.

One footprint was still a little off, but this time our artwork definitely looked like baby footprints and some hazardous technique used to dissuade skateboarding. I took the empty cups back inside and threw them away.

You'd think these guys would get tired of covering up the footprints of an innocent baby whose daddy is kind enough to provide them with libations, but no. I'll have you know it took me four times of taking my kid outisde (once waking her from a nap) to stick her feet in the uncured sidewalk before these guys finally quit for the day and went home.

Fllash forward to the evening when my wife goes out to admire our handywork and says, "Somebody wrote A FATTY DAY in the sidewalk next to Meryl's footprints."

"A fatty day?" I ask making certain I heard her correctly.

"Yes, a fatty day."

"You must be misreading it. Who ever heard of a fatty day?" I asked.

"Go see for yourself. It says a fatty day."

Low and behold, some ne'er-do-well even more miscievious than I took a stick and scratched in bold letters A FATTY DAY.

I like having my kid's footprints in the sidewalk outside my house, but frankly I don't want the words a fatty day to greet me everytime I go to the mailbox. It doesn't even say have a fatty day. It just says a fatty day.

Normally I'd call the county and ask them to come fix it, but since I too am guilty of the very thing this fatty fantom did, I can't really tattle. Even I know that free beer will only buy you so much leeway.

What's a father to do?

Having watched the workers cover all evidence of my debauchery I knew it was possible to erase A FATTY DAY with the aid of a few household tools, namely a pushbroom and a trowel. Because I don't own a trowel however, I had to use a the long edge of a snow shovel instead. The sun was going down and the cement was curing, so I knew I had to work fast, but with some effort and determination I partially succeeded in somewhat erasing A FATTY DAY.

Sort of.

It looks better than it did anyway. You can still make out the F in FATTY and the Y in DAY, but I don't think you'd be able to look at it and tell it once said A FATTY DAY.

Unless you're the culprit who did it. In which case, I will find you.

Oh yes.

I will find you.

Crazian jewelry

I take my wife's watch to be repaired at a local jewelry shop. It's one of those small strip mall boutiques you find sandwiched in between a grocery store and a Subway. A man I'm guessing is one of the owners stands outside smoking a cigarette as I walk in with my soon-to-be toddler in tow.

"It's open," he says in an undistinguishable accent and motions for me to go on in which I do.

Immediately upon opening the door I can smell the incense burning in this place. It smells like a cross between chocolate chip cookies and Asian mysticism. To add to the ambiance they also have several statues of Eastern gods I don't quite recognize but seem to recall seeing in a few restaurants around town where they serve raw fish and seaweed. I want to say they were of Shiva but I think Shiva has multiple arms (i.e. more than two) and I'm guessing the proprietors aren't Hindu.

I mean, I'm not going to ask them about their spiritual path to enlightenment or anything, but they just don't . . . you know . . . look the part.

Anyway, the woman behind the counter is most polite and takes great pleasure in trying to make my daughter smile which she never seems to like to do on command. When the cigarette smoking man comes back in to look at the watch, the woman tries to engage me in conversation.

"This weather crazy," she says.

"What's crazy? Oh yes, the weather did you say? Yes, the weather's crazy."

"Warm weather in the south. Tornado in the north. It crazy," she goes on to say.

"Yes," I respond awkwardly, "Crazy."

"Weather crazy. Everything crazy. We not know when war will end," she says.

"No, we don't," I offer as I look at the man behind the window hoping he'll hurry up and repair the watch so I can get out of here.

"Just can pray to God," she says.

"Right," I say, only it comes out more like a contemptuous prolonged R-I-I-I-I-I-G-H-T.

She goes on to talk about surviving as a small business owner and how sometimes it seems like they work to pay only the government and the landlord. She tries to make small talk about the bond between fathers and daughters and mothers and sons.

All the while I'm holding Meryl trying to get her to see herself in the mirror and smile. There is a wire going up the wall and into a drilled hole next to the mirror. I'm guessing she and I are on a security camera. that's hidden behind the mirror. I'm no jewelry connoisseur but none of this stuff really looks like anything anyone would steal, and a shop like this can't have too much cash in the drawer.

Oh well.

The man returns the watch though saying the problem had just been the battery and that it was a nice quality watch that shouldn't give me any problems. I settle the bill which is all of ten dollars and walkd out. Oddly enough there is another man standing outside smoking now and I wonderd if he is affiliated with the incense-burning jewelery sect.

Something strange is afoot. I don't know exactly what it is though. My spidey sense tells me this might be where they're hiding the Golden Child.

Or maybe selling mogwai out the back door.

Gwinnett Stay at home dad discovers hip hop, jehovah's witnesses and non-conformity

Desperate to receive attention from outsiders and afford my child close proximity to other people her height I recently googled "at home parent groups Gwinnett." My plan was to locate a group of people who, like me, spend much of their waking hours contemplating the real nutritional value of Gerber Graduate Veggie Puffs and reading Pat the Bunny. Again.

And again.

My search led me to a new feature on the innerwebs descriptively called meetup.com. Specifically it's geared toward allowing like-minded people to get together based on personal interest. I guess it makes coffee klatches easier to organize. Other groups you might expect are poker groups, Scrabble tournaments, book clubs, and mall walkers.

But wait. That's not all.

A search for my local area brought up groups that would never have dawned on me in a million years including all of but certainly not limited to:

Atlanta Anarchists;
The Atlanta Lord of the Rings Meetup Group; and
The Atlanta Surf Posse;

Ok, before I move on, let me just touch on these three clubs. Are there really any anarchists out there over the age of sixteen? And if so, should they be assembling with other anarchists, the majority of whom are either under the age of sixteen or reporting monthly to a parole officer?

And you Lord of the Rings people . . . I just don't get your fascination with hobbits and whatnot. Something tells me if I pulled up to park outside one of your meeting places, I'd see at least three cars, all of which would don the Frodo Failed: Bush has the Ring bumpersticker. Each of the owners of those vehicles would think he was somehow quirky and unique.

That Atlanta Surf Posse? I'm sorry but have any of you people looked at a map recently? Dude, I'm sure you're little group is gnarly and all but, there's no ocean in the A-T-L. It's time to find a job and eventually some living space outside of your parents' basement.

For your self-righteous , carnal or otherwise shallow enjoyment, here are a few others you might want to click on:

Atlanta Vampire and Non-Conformists Meetup (this group boasts 249 members!):
The Atlanta Goth Meetup Group; (hmm, let me guess. 249 members?
The Cumming Work at Home Moms Meetup Group (sounds naughty but Cumming is actually the name of a nearby city)
The Atlanta Hip Hop and Graffiti Group (What's next? The Atlanta Country Music and Meth-making Group?)

For the more spiritually minded there's the Jehovah's Witnesses Meetups and for those with sore knuckles who don't mind ostracism from the local Kingdom Hall there's the Ex-Jehovah's Witness Meetups.

Sigh.

As you can imagine the list continues with other religious groups, gold digger groups and people I thought only existed on episodes of CSI. While I wasn't able to find a group strictly for at-home fathers, I'll probably either continue the search or start one myself. In the meantime if anyone out there knows of other guys who've mastered the arts of simultaneously emailing and spoonfeeding, let me know.