Same old story. I was supposed to have a coffee table delivered today. I bought it like six weeks ago, and a couple weeks ago the store, CB2, called to set a date for delivery. Today was that date. They said they'd be calling me to tell me what time they were coming, but I never got a call. So around noon today I called the store to see what the deal was.
The table wasn't in stock, and somebody was supposed to have called to notify me but didn't. The girl on the phone had no explanation as to why this had happened. She apologized. She set a new delivery date for next week.
This is constantly happening to me. I pay good money for a product or services, somebody is supposed to contact me but never does, and then when I follow up after my time has been thoroughly wasted, it's always, "We don't know why no one contacted you."
I know why: incompetence. It's everywhere. It's infiltrated every person working at every company on planet Earth. And it really chaps my goddamn lips already.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Club Scene
Went to a Hollywood club the other night. Was immediately reminded of why I don't go to Hollywood clubs.
I went out of pseudo-obligation: it was my girlfriend's friend's birthday party, and my girlfriend's other friend was promoting the club, and thus had her own table. This is the only reason I went; having your own table at a Hollywood club is key, because it allows you a place to sit and drink and not have to constantly get jostled around somewhere in between the bar and the dance floor amidst all the riff-raffians and douchebaggery.
I was there for all of a half hour before Club Promoter Friend announces that we all have to get up because she "sold the table." I don't even really comprehend what this means; all I know is that 45 seconds later I'm being hustled over to the purgatory I was previously guaranteed to be able to avoid, and some other people are settling in to relax where I had just been sitting.
This, to me, was really the height of uncoolness between friends. You invite people to a club you're promoting because you have a table, then "sell" the table and force your friends to stand around like common assholes? This would be like if I invited you to a baseball game, then scalped the tickets in the parking lot and told you to call a cab home. Some nerve.
So, let the jostling commence. As I was standing by the women's bathroom, waiting for my girlfriend and her friends and trying to pretend like I was having a good time (or at the very least like I'm not a weirdo who patrolls women's bathrooms), I noticed a fat girl who was freaking another girl in a wheelchair. This confused and depressed me. What was a girl in a wheelchair doing at a club? What is the point of that? If I lost the use of my legs, this would be the last place I would go. "Hey man, you coming out to the club tonight?" "Sorry bro, paralyzed from the waist down. Just gonna chill tonight and watch On Demand."
At the end of the night, I was just thankful not to be there single, because I would commit suicide trying to pick up girls in a place like that. It would be fine if everyone knew sign language and you didn't have to scream at people to be heard. Or if I was a good dancer and could just shimmy up to chicks. But as it is, these places are not for me.
I went out of pseudo-obligation: it was my girlfriend's friend's birthday party, and my girlfriend's other friend was promoting the club, and thus had her own table. This is the only reason I went; having your own table at a Hollywood club is key, because it allows you a place to sit and drink and not have to constantly get jostled around somewhere in between the bar and the dance floor amidst all the riff-raffians and douchebaggery.
I was there for all of a half hour before Club Promoter Friend announces that we all have to get up because she "sold the table." I don't even really comprehend what this means; all I know is that 45 seconds later I'm being hustled over to the purgatory I was previously guaranteed to be able to avoid, and some other people are settling in to relax where I had just been sitting.
This, to me, was really the height of uncoolness between friends. You invite people to a club you're promoting because you have a table, then "sell" the table and force your friends to stand around like common assholes? This would be like if I invited you to a baseball game, then scalped the tickets in the parking lot and told you to call a cab home. Some nerve.
So, let the jostling commence. As I was standing by the women's bathroom, waiting for my girlfriend and her friends and trying to pretend like I was having a good time (or at the very least like I'm not a weirdo who patrolls women's bathrooms), I noticed a fat girl who was freaking another girl in a wheelchair. This confused and depressed me. What was a girl in a wheelchair doing at a club? What is the point of that? If I lost the use of my legs, this would be the last place I would go. "Hey man, you coming out to the club tonight?" "Sorry bro, paralyzed from the waist down. Just gonna chill tonight and watch On Demand."
At the end of the night, I was just thankful not to be there single, because I would commit suicide trying to pick up girls in a place like that. It would be fine if everyone knew sign language and you didn't have to scream at people to be heard. Or if I was a good dancer and could just shimmy up to chicks. But as it is, these places are not for me.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
God Bless
When exactly did it become mandatory for all baseball players to point two fingers to the sky after even the most minimal of achievements? What are they doing? Thanking God for allowing that bloop fly ball to land in short right field for a single? Paying tribute to a dead grandmother who was the inspiration to play the game as a child?
I don't remember this happening before Barry Bonds started doing it as his trademark, pointing to the sky when he reached home plate after every home run. That was his thing. He was Barry Bonds. Don't these nobodies realize how trite it looks nowadays when every single one of them makes the same insincere gesture upon reaching first base after drawing a walk?
I don't remember this happening before Barry Bonds started doing it as his trademark, pointing to the sky when he reached home plate after every home run. That was his thing. He was Barry Bonds. Don't these nobodies realize how trite it looks nowadays when every single one of them makes the same insincere gesture upon reaching first base after drawing a walk?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Super Dupe
Oh man, have I got the kvetch of all kvetches today. This one was a doozy.
Last night I went with my girlfriend and two friends to a concert - the Killers at the Hollywood Bowl. A couple weeks earlier, my girlfriend found a guy selling tickets on Craig'sList: four for $100 each in the Garden Box seats. The face value of the tickets was about $135, so this was a great deal (obviously you can see where this is going). Nevertheless, my girlfriend said she caught the posting about a minute after it went up and the guy claimed he was selling them cheap because he needed cash quickly, so we just thanked our lucky stars and snatched them up.
My friend Adam actually went to meet the guy to pick up the tickets, because he lives not far from where the guy was. He actually remarked that the ticket seller was a nice guy, and that he told him the tickets had been given to him as a gift, but that he couldn't use them because he had been invited to the USC-Ohio State game, and he needed cash quick to get a plane ticket. Stupidly, none of us thought to question this based on the fact that the football game was last weekend, and the concert was on a Wednesday. In one ear and out the other. But I guess when someone tells you a story that's too stupid to actually be true, it's just human nature to assume that it is.
So, here we go. My girlfriend goes and picks up a whole smorgasbord of picnic supplies - two shopping bags full of food, because our "tickets" are to a four person box with a picnic table. We take a cab to the Bowl, nice and early, walk through the security checkpoint, up to the ticket takers, who use their little sensor gun to scan our tickets, and...BEEP-BOOP.
I had never heard the BEEP-BOOP before when having my ticket scanned. It's usually just a happy, upbeat BEEDLE-BEEP! This BEEP-BOOP was a discouraging sound, like when a contestant gives the wrong answer on a game show. The ticket taker looked at her gun. "Invalid ticket," she said. She scanned my girlfriend's ticket. Same sound. Same response from the ticket taker.
We all looked at each other, stunned. We continued exchanging stunned looks as someone led us to a security office and explained that we had been ripped off. They showed us three other packets of fake tickets with our exact seat numbers that other naive rubes had been sold by the same brilliant but dastardly con artist. A regular Frank Abignale Jr. had gotten his hands on us.
As this was happening, I flashed back in my mind to when my friends had shown up at my house prior to the concert and handed me my ticket. I recalled a brief blip of a thought going through my brain at the time that the ticket didn't feel quite exactly like a real ticket...the texture of it was almost imperceptably off...but this fraction of a notion quickly vanished - most likely because someone put a cocktail in my hand, and I moved on to thinking about drinking it.
In any case, this ignored premonition was of little use to us now, standing around outside the Hollywood Bowl with bags full of food and no tickets to the show. The security officer gave us a photocopy of our fake tickets and encouraged us to file a police report. She said that if this guy had ripped off enough people - and from the looks of it, he was on quite a roll - then his crime could escalate to a serious charge. Again, little solace was taken in this at this particular moment.
Luckily, I went to the box office and was able to purchase four more tickets in very similar seats in the Garden Box section, for only $25 more per ticket. Of course, this was on top of the $400 we had already flushed down the toilet. But we did get to see the show, which was great (kvetch-free!). And we do have a pretty good story.
All I know is, this asshole has some pretty intense karma coming his way. This isn't like someone breaking into your home and stealing your TV. This is: you made plans, made preparations, invited friends, got excited for something you were looking forward to, got in a car and went somewhere...only to have it all taken away from you. That's a pretty shitty thing to do to someone...let alone however many people Dickwad McMoneybags did this to.
Last night I went with my girlfriend and two friends to a concert - the Killers at the Hollywood Bowl. A couple weeks earlier, my girlfriend found a guy selling tickets on Craig'sList: four for $100 each in the Garden Box seats. The face value of the tickets was about $135, so this was a great deal (obviously you can see where this is going). Nevertheless, my girlfriend said she caught the posting about a minute after it went up and the guy claimed he was selling them cheap because he needed cash quickly, so we just thanked our lucky stars and snatched them up.
My friend Adam actually went to meet the guy to pick up the tickets, because he lives not far from where the guy was. He actually remarked that the ticket seller was a nice guy, and that he told him the tickets had been given to him as a gift, but that he couldn't use them because he had been invited to the USC-Ohio State game, and he needed cash quick to get a plane ticket. Stupidly, none of us thought to question this based on the fact that the football game was last weekend, and the concert was on a Wednesday. In one ear and out the other. But I guess when someone tells you a story that's too stupid to actually be true, it's just human nature to assume that it is.
So, here we go. My girlfriend goes and picks up a whole smorgasbord of picnic supplies - two shopping bags full of food, because our "tickets" are to a four person box with a picnic table. We take a cab to the Bowl, nice and early, walk through the security checkpoint, up to the ticket takers, who use their little sensor gun to scan our tickets, and...BEEP-BOOP.
I had never heard the BEEP-BOOP before when having my ticket scanned. It's usually just a happy, upbeat BEEDLE-BEEP! This BEEP-BOOP was a discouraging sound, like when a contestant gives the wrong answer on a game show. The ticket taker looked at her gun. "Invalid ticket," she said. She scanned my girlfriend's ticket. Same sound. Same response from the ticket taker.
We all looked at each other, stunned. We continued exchanging stunned looks as someone led us to a security office and explained that we had been ripped off. They showed us three other packets of fake tickets with our exact seat numbers that other naive rubes had been sold by the same brilliant but dastardly con artist. A regular Frank Abignale Jr. had gotten his hands on us.
As this was happening, I flashed back in my mind to when my friends had shown up at my house prior to the concert and handed me my ticket. I recalled a brief blip of a thought going through my brain at the time that the ticket didn't feel quite exactly like a real ticket...the texture of it was almost imperceptably off...but this fraction of a notion quickly vanished - most likely because someone put a cocktail in my hand, and I moved on to thinking about drinking it.
In any case, this ignored premonition was of little use to us now, standing around outside the Hollywood Bowl with bags full of food and no tickets to the show. The security officer gave us a photocopy of our fake tickets and encouraged us to file a police report. She said that if this guy had ripped off enough people - and from the looks of it, he was on quite a roll - then his crime could escalate to a serious charge. Again, little solace was taken in this at this particular moment.
Luckily, I went to the box office and was able to purchase four more tickets in very similar seats in the Garden Box section, for only $25 more per ticket. Of course, this was on top of the $400 we had already flushed down the toilet. But we did get to see the show, which was great (kvetch-free!). And we do have a pretty good story.
All I know is, this asshole has some pretty intense karma coming his way. This isn't like someone breaking into your home and stealing your TV. This is: you made plans, made preparations, invited friends, got excited for something you were looking forward to, got in a car and went somewhere...only to have it all taken away from you. That's a pretty shitty thing to do to someone...let alone however many people Dickwad McMoneybags did this to.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bad Car Wash
Just took my car to the car wash. My car was pretty dirty, but the most glaring blemish was a large white bird shit stain on one of the taillights. When I got home, I noticed a significant portion of it was still there. I had to go upstairs, come back down with a rag, and scrub the rest of it off myself.
I realize it was my bad for not checking the car out before I drove away. But still, come on. That's inexcusable. The most basic expectation of bringing your car to a car wash is for them to get the bird shit off it - if not in the high-powered, roll through washing section, then for sure on the human-powered rub down afterwards. This half-assed effort makes me burn with regret for tipping the car wash employee. But, then again, lesson learned. From now on I'll remember to check and see if all the bird shit is gone.
I realize it was my bad for not checking the car out before I drove away. But still, come on. That's inexcusable. The most basic expectation of bringing your car to a car wash is for them to get the bird shit off it - if not in the high-powered, roll through washing section, then for sure on the human-powered rub down afterwards. This half-assed effort makes me burn with regret for tipping the car wash employee. But, then again, lesson learned. From now on I'll remember to check and see if all the bird shit is gone.
You May Exercise, But You're Still a Hog
Hey lady. Yes, you, the one who's been working out here in the building fitness center every morning this week. The one who never even acknowledges me when I walk in, even though the room can only fit about five people.
I don't know if you've noticed, but there's only just this one TV in here. So whatever is on that TV, that's what everyone has to watch. And yes, I realize the unwritten rule is that whoever gets to the gym when no one else is there assumes temporary ownership of the remote and can watch whatever he or she wants. So congratulations, you always get here before I do. You win. Enjoy your control of the television.
All I'm saying is, if the roles were reversed, and it was me who had the power of the remote every day, maybe one time I would offer it to someone else. Like, say, the only other person in the fitness center who I pretend to ignore when you come in after me every single morning. I might not subject you and whoever else might be working out here to watching the same stupid VH1 video countdown every single morning. Or even if I didn't offer you the chance to watch something you might want to watch, at least I myself might try changing it up, so as not to see the same lame Taylor Swift and Adele videos every single goddamn day. That kind of thing might be considered courteous. As opposed to your behavior, which I consider to be discourteous. I'm just saying.
Oh yeah, and as long as you're going to force me to watch the VH1 video countdown every morning...maybe you could turn the TV up to a volume where we could actually hear the fucking songs. What do you think?
I don't know if you've noticed, but there's only just this one TV in here. So whatever is on that TV, that's what everyone has to watch. And yes, I realize the unwritten rule is that whoever gets to the gym when no one else is there assumes temporary ownership of the remote and can watch whatever he or she wants. So congratulations, you always get here before I do. You win. Enjoy your control of the television.
All I'm saying is, if the roles were reversed, and it was me who had the power of the remote every day, maybe one time I would offer it to someone else. Like, say, the only other person in the fitness center who I pretend to ignore when you come in after me every single morning. I might not subject you and whoever else might be working out here to watching the same stupid VH1 video countdown every single morning. Or even if I didn't offer you the chance to watch something you might want to watch, at least I myself might try changing it up, so as not to see the same lame Taylor Swift and Adele videos every single goddamn day. That kind of thing might be considered courteous. As opposed to your behavior, which I consider to be discourteous. I'm just saying.
Oh yeah, and as long as you're going to force me to watch the VH1 video countdown every morning...maybe you could turn the TV up to a volume where we could actually hear the fucking songs. What do you think?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Nothing Short of Blasphemy
I heard something downright alarming the other day. It was so horrifying, my earlobes nearly folded themselves up into my ear canals so as to permanently prevent me from ever hearing anything ever again.
I was listening to the radio in my car - Star 98.7, I believe it was - when (and I think we can all agree on this) one of the best songs ever written came on: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses.
So there I am, singing along to Axl's sweet sweet vocal stylings. And then, as he finishes up the chorus, it came time for Slash's big solo - one of his best, mind you, and Slash is not a guitarist short on awesome solos. As I set my voice for falsetto mode to screech along to his Les Paul...the song fast forwarded to later in the solo. Meaning, they edited about 30 seconds of it out, skipping right to a later part of the solo.
I couldn't believe my ears. Not only that, but later on in the song they edited another section out. I can't remember which one, because I was still suffering from the emotional devastation of the first edit. Nevertheless, I picked up on something else being wrong, even though I was too woozy to pinpoint it. It was probably similar to what it's like for a soldier to get shot in war, then kind of only barely notice when he gets shot a second time, because of the overwhelming pain of the first bullet. I probably should have pulled the car over, but I didn't. Luckily, no one was killed.
Except for "Sweet Child," that is. Why would they do this? Why would they edit down such a classic rock song? It's not like they censored swear words or anything, like when you watch "Casino" on AMC and it sucks because every third word is "fuck." They just went ahead and shortened it. Why? I don't know. It's not like it's a particularly long song. And even if it was, is there a finite amount of time radio stations have to play music? Are they worried they'll run out of air space that goes on forever? Last time I checked, the radio just plays music continuously, all the time, and will continue doing so until the world ends.
Suffice to say, I am of the opinion that whoever was in charge of this decision to bastardize "Sweet Child O' Mine" is a hater of good, if not all, music, and should be tortured before being put out of his misery.
I was listening to the radio in my car - Star 98.7, I believe it was - when (and I think we can all agree on this) one of the best songs ever written came on: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses.
So there I am, singing along to Axl's sweet sweet vocal stylings. And then, as he finishes up the chorus, it came time for Slash's big solo - one of his best, mind you, and Slash is not a guitarist short on awesome solos. As I set my voice for falsetto mode to screech along to his Les Paul...the song fast forwarded to later in the solo. Meaning, they edited about 30 seconds of it out, skipping right to a later part of the solo.
I couldn't believe my ears. Not only that, but later on in the song they edited another section out. I can't remember which one, because I was still suffering from the emotional devastation of the first edit. Nevertheless, I picked up on something else being wrong, even though I was too woozy to pinpoint it. It was probably similar to what it's like for a soldier to get shot in war, then kind of only barely notice when he gets shot a second time, because of the overwhelming pain of the first bullet. I probably should have pulled the car over, but I didn't. Luckily, no one was killed.
Except for "Sweet Child," that is. Why would they do this? Why would they edit down such a classic rock song? It's not like they censored swear words or anything, like when you watch "Casino" on AMC and it sucks because every third word is "fuck." They just went ahead and shortened it. Why? I don't know. It's not like it's a particularly long song. And even if it was, is there a finite amount of time radio stations have to play music? Are they worried they'll run out of air space that goes on forever? Last time I checked, the radio just plays music continuously, all the time, and will continue doing so until the world ends.
Suffice to say, I am of the opinion that whoever was in charge of this decision to bastardize "Sweet Child O' Mine" is a hater of good, if not all, music, and should be tortured before being put out of his misery.
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