The Comcast guy came to set up the cable and internet. Things were actually looking up at first. He showed up on time, seemed like a good dude, and got the cable up and running in two rooms in no time.

This shows how out-of-whack my priorities are, but I felt a burst of giddy excitement when the TV started working in the bedroom, involuntarily dancing a little to the muzak playing on the public access/events bulletin channel.

Sadly, getting the internet to work proved far trickier. At first I found it funny that the cable technician has to deal with the same terrible phone customer service that, well, the customer's do. As I watched the TV in the bedroom flash the words, "Everyone knows that numbers are important," I could hear the cable guy's Russian-sounding voice from the next room saying, "Yes, man, I already turned it off and on. I did that. Still not working."

After a few hours, my amusement wore off and the poor Russian cable guy seemed more and more demoralized. (He was in the apartment twice as long as the whole move had taken the day before.) "I don't know, man, I don't know. It should work. I'm so sorry, man. I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll come back tomorrow, man. It doesn't make any sense."