And like much of the future, it sucks. My Mom has it -- so she can't dial 911. Mind you, her VOIP service comes from the very same Big PhATT Phone Co. she has always had, the very same outfit that she gets cell phone service (with functioning 911) from, but by the eternal howling flame of the spirit of Mr. A. G. Bell, they can't figger out how to make her VOIP tell the system where her house is and find the right 911 call center to connect to.
They also seem to have gnarfed up her first effort at a wearable call-for-help button. Something about the connection provided by the plain-old-phones jack on the VOIP multimodemockery has the call-for-help hub convinced it should otta pulse-dial and there's no way to correct this short of getting the provider of that service to dial into it. This, of course, they will happily do Monday through Friday between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m., when it is well-nigh impossible for me to be there to plug the thing in. Can't leave it connected, you see, because then it complains, loudly, every few minutes, asking, "PLEASE CHECK THE TELEPHONE CONNECTION. PLEASE CHECK THE TELEPHONE CONNECTION," and who doesn't love that?
Made of freaking win. Or not. Oh, Don Ameche, we hardly knew ye. And we never appreciated what we had.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago