Thursday, August 30, 2007

A Path Less Traveled

Three weeks of sick leave is hard to enjoy when the reason you're taking it is because you are, in fact, sick. Very sick. Between the illness and medicine I was worse than useless. All I really recall of more than a week of lying in bed was the dreadful thought that I was unable to think. I couldn't watch an episode of Top Gear without getting lost. I couldn't even follow the story line of a lottery drawing. I wondered if that's what Alzheimer's is like and that scared the piss out of me. Luckily I could no more hold onto any train of thought for more than a few seconds than I could hold a 747 down on the ground.

Upon my return to work I found I still had almost as many tickets as I'd had a few weeks before, most of them with requests to the customers to wait for my return since I'm the specialist for that particular problem area. Great. Loads of low score surveys await me.

I plowed into the mail first. After re-sorting to highlight the 2000 useless, auto-generated internal mails about problems with systems I don't use, the ETAs for service restoration, the extensions and completions I had a manageable 1500 or so to slog though. Best to start at the top and get the most current shit sorted.

Shit was right: ESCALATION!!!11!shiftone

The topmost mail was from some manager who'd promised an idiot yesterday that I'd call him today. Bullshit. I won't be in my office when they arrive at theirs and I can't stay late.

I fired off a note stating that such an action was unacceptable. You don't make a promise on my behalf without clearing it with me first. You don't presume to know my schedule and you sure as shit don't volunteer me to stay at least three hours past my normal working day. I have a life outside this fucking cubicle and that's too short as it is.

The E-Mail I sent back expressed these sentiments. Fuckwit manager, rather than accept reality, took offense. I've now insulted her as well as clearly refused to do my job. That got me a 15-minute talk with Greg, a former peer and now manager covering for my other managers who are all away. For fifteen fucking minutes I sat there explaining my mail and my position on the subjects it covered, all to his nodding and follow-ups beginning with "Yes, but..."

Greg has apparently already had the managerial prerequisite lobotomy.

Idiot Manger in the US got her way: some poor schlub over there is in the assist box on the ticket. She made him call the fuckwit. His notes span eight entries. And I was right: the fuckwit not only never bothered to look at the answer he was sent two weeks ago, he didn't understand the subject matter at all. My poor colleague had spent more than four hours on this fuckwit. Four hours! To explain -- using monosyllabic words and diagrams with pretty pictures of bunnies and duckies -- the following ultracomplex 3-step procedure:

  1. Go to the NetSource Admin screen
  2. Go to DataSource subsection
  3. Enter the true network storage paths with FQDNs after testing that they're pingable through a fucking command prompt.

That's it. Open the fucking admin application, go to the right page, enter the fucking path, done. My technotard girlfriend could complete that inside 30 minutes.

If your job is in a data center/NOC and you have no idea what the fuck "UNC", "path" or "FQDN" mean, you are not a "network administrator", you're a fuckwit.

Root Cause: 17

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2 Comments:

Blogger AAhelp pulled out a crayon and scribbled:

One down. 1499 more to go. Life is good.

30 August, 2007 17:02  
Anonymous kernelman pulled out a crayon and scribbled:

Glad you're back, REC. Hope this type of illness doesn't happen to you too often; as in, at most once every 50 years.

Take care and remember: for each ticket closed god saves a kitten!

OK, that didn't make any sense. Just Gambatte.

30 August, 2007 18:18  

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and would also like to see the implementation of Root Cause: 17-Fuckwit.