A Bit On Savannah; My Favorite City (Mostly)

One of the things about lovely Savannah, GA that I’ll probably never be able to fully grasp is the waterfront, on River Street. Highly lauded as “the place to visit when in town“, it’s really the very worst experience that Historic Savannah’s downtown has to offer the unsuspecting.

First, you need to descend to it via any number of steep, old and back-breaking cobblestone stairways. These all lead to the most uncomfortable and dangerous jumbled, cobblestone alleys down to River Street. A dislocated knee would be more expected than not. On the way down you can stop at any number of lovely restaurants or somewhat crummy ginmills that seemingly never close.

The river itself is an abhorrent sight to see. It is filth personified. Detritus, flotsam, jetsam, what have you, floats by. It almost seems as though seeing a dead body tangled within it would be no surprise at all. There is some sort of dredge type watercraft that is charged with trying to clean it up, but no matter how frequently or for how long it runs, it is fighting a losing battle. That craft, itself, is the oddest looking thing I’ve ever seen. Made up of three parts, it combines the prehistoric with the mechanical to create the ugliest looking thing any waterway has ever hosted. It’s a three-part affair, with the front and rear parts being some steel skeletal looking ‘arms’ that are pushed and dragged, swinging out, to and fro, to try to gather up this mess. The center part is, I gather, the heart of the thing, as there’s a cabin and a smokestack. It’s made of a smattering of unmatched sheet metal, apparently thrown together of spare parts. Designed by Committee, as my wife likes to say of abominable architecture. It certainly has it’s arms full, as the each of the enormous freighters, barges, tugs, etc. stir up the garbage like a witches’ brew. The freighters themselves are so tall, that if you’re sitting on the third floor of a restaurant that sits some forty feet above street level as it is, completely blocks all the windows during the time it takes to pass.

There is a non-stop flow of tour boats, offering everything from searching for pirate’s treasure to mystery-theater to dining to dolphin watching. There is also a small, walk-on ferry that keeps traversing the river, bringing convention attendees to and from the Westin Hotel and Conference Center, which lies on an island across the river. An eyesore of a complex, enormous, modern and hideous. Pleasure craft are rare, as this is truly a commercial waterway.

The famous shopping area is a mish-mash of total, touristy junk. I mean, literally junk. Keychains, BIC lighters encased in locally oriented wraps, generic pieces of ‘art’ that all depict Savannah, but are mass-produced in China. If a design happens to have been done by a local artist, they sell it as ‘genuine, local art’. That alone is the worst form of false advertising. There are zillions of other trinkets; foam beer can coolers than depict the word Savannah in various ways, cheap T-shirts that fall apart after the first washing, if they make it that long, flip-flops, phony sea shells, overpriced wind chimes that you can pick up at any dollar type store. You get the picture. Every other doorway is either a taproom or an ice-cream shop, with the junk stores and candy shops mixed in. I’ll give you that fact that the ice cream hits the spot, and the candy is homemade and second to none. But, $17.95 for a pound of fresh pralines, that is really only three or four of them, is pretty damned high.

The restaurants, that line the street, above the shit shops, are typically good, tastefully done and über expensive. A few are reasonably priced, but you get what you pay for. Our most recent trip to Savannah, which was a long Easter weekend, found us dining at many of the nicer, costly restaurants for both lunch and dinner. A few were definitely standouts, like Vic’s On The River (www.vicsontheriver.com), where we’d eaten during previous trips and is always impeccable in both food and service, not to mention the wonderful atmosphere with 16 – 20 foot ceilings and as original in every way as possible. Vic’s actually still has a snifter of custom match-books at the maitre de’s station!

We usually eat at The Chart House restaurant at least once, as we did this trip. It’s a lovely, 3 floor affair. Great atmosphere, and typically very good. But, this trip was a rare and disappointing exception, and hopefully not trend. Our reservations were for 8:00 PM, and we were seated promptly, but being the master of my own destiny and personal space, I was a bit pissed off when the gent that seated up took the liberty to actually place the napkin on my lap for me. I gave him ‘the glare’, and immediately removed it back to the table until I was damned well ready to put it on my lap. Our waiter, or the head waiter for our table at any rate, was named Matt. A nice fellow, but so over the top that I’m surprised that he didn’t float. A spiky, gel-headed youth, he hovered over us like a black cloud during the entire meal. I say black cloud, as he was dressed from head to toe in black. Somehow he was granted immunity from the white shirt that the rest of them wore. He had help for the hard stuff, like actually handling the almost fiery hot plates, but at approximately every third bite he was back, asking how everything was. It was good, from the bottle of Pellegrino right to the final spear of asparagus, but shit, man, leave me alone! That type of hovering was out of the norm for The Chart House, and though it would be considered attentive service, I found it nearly annoying enough to announce a hunger strike right then and there.

Another favorite, this one a lunch spot, is called Fiddler’s Crab Shack, which is coincidentally right across the alley from The Chart House. That’s easy, no? No chance of not finding it! We historically sit on the outside balcony, but for the first time it was full, which dampened my spirits almost enough to make long for some spirits, but I wasn’t about to throw away 11 years of being ‘spirits-free’ just because I was pissed off. After all, it was really those damned people who got there ahead of us that I was pissed at. Obviously they couldn’t just tack on a balcony extension just to satisfy little old me. We were seated inside, at the oddest table I’ve ever been seated at. It was attached to the wall, and the wall being old, was crooked. So, the table was crooked. I’m pretty anal, so this bothered me. The side that I sat at would seat one overweight person and one beanpole. The side that my wife sat at, though she is far, far from it, would seat two very overweight people with ease. The sole reason that I so enjoy Fiddler’s Crab Shack is actually not for crabs, but for the smoked, cold salmon salad. Lovely, tender and chilled salmon over a large bed of greens and various other salad fixins, with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Lovely, just lovely. But they were out of it. No chilled salmon to be had. My wife had it with hot, grilled salmon. I was so distraught that I went without. Anything. No lunch. And what really pissed my off was that she was charged extra for the grilled salmon, even though in my opinion she had to ‘settle’ for something other than what she wanted. I don’t care if I wanted a basic cheeseburger and had to have filet mignon instead. I’m still settling for something my taste buds weren’t jumping up and down for. And our waitress, unlike the spiky headed Matt across the alley, was practically invisible, to the point of our having to crane our necks to stare out into space, hoping upon hope that she might make some sort of appearance so that we could flag her down for a refill on the sweet tea, a Savannah ‘must‘.

Oh well, it was a lovely trip none the less. We enjoyed 96% of it. Our room at the Double Tree was lovely, every other dining experience was excellent, my nightly ice cream was wonderful, as were the $5.00 chocolate chip cookies as large as dinner plates and as thick as the old Christmas-time Sears Wishbooks. Now that we live in North Carolina, we can drive there. No more flying down from Vermont and worrying about how little we can buy and bring home for ourselves and others. Speaking of which, I still have a little surprise for our neighbor, A., who took top-shelf care of our two cats (Scooter and Samantha) while we were away.

Life goes on, the river will remain dirty, chilled and smoked salmon will be replenished and Matt might tone it down a bit. We will continue to visit our lovely Savannah, even more often now. It’s all good, despite a rant now and again. And for those of you who actually know me, ranting is just one of those things you’ve come to expect from me.

Spotification

SPOTIFICATION: 1. The act of becoming a Spotify addict  2. Using Spotify and your computer as your primary audio source component.

As a confirmed audiophile, at least on some level beyond novice but below D.I.Y. capable, I am almost ashamed to admit that my primary source component in no longer a turntable or a CD player, but a computer! Through which I avail myself of the services provided to me by Spotify. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘provided’, as I do pay the $9.99 per month for Premium Service, which allegedly provides a higher grade of audio, I presume through some variation in the stream of bits and bytes.

I also use an audiophile grade, silver USB cable, running into a NuForce USB/DAC, and then through audiophile grade, silver interconnects to my amplifier. I can stop the descriptives there, as this shit is pretty boring to most people. So, my Spotify is set up as well as it can be, save for dumping additional hundreds into a more expensive USB/DAC, but I think the theory of diminishing returns would be chasing me around the lamppost for the rest of my natural life if I start getting into that process, only to find out that my initial $200.00 one was every bit as good as the $2,000.00 one that I ended up selling for $800.00 and replacing with another $200.00 one.

But more onto Spotify as a source. First, the Premium Service adder, in this case, is money well spent. Unlike being a paid Pandora member, which also allegedly boosts audio performance but really doesn’t, or using Amazon’s Cloud service or iTunes where your only privilege is in paying for the song, Spotify delivers on their promises. It does sound superior to the other services, at least the ones that I am familiar with. I’ve fiddled with Grooveshark, but I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it’s set up, and since I keep my computer set at 125% for internet use, it’s always telling me that I’m out of focus. Well, fuck you for that! And, let’s face it, how many pay-by-the-month services do you want? Granted I could use Grooveshark, or Spotify for that matter, at no cost, but I always take sound to the next level when I can.

I first read about the birth of Spotify in the weekly magazine, Bloomberg Businessweek (or whatever it’s exactly called). It was founded and launched in Scandinavia …. Norway, I think. It spread quickly, and is now linked to Facebook. Long-term success is virtually guaranteed, barring some totally ridiculous choice that could topple the whole thing. Facebook may even own it by now; I’ve really no idea, and I really don’t care as long as they continue to add to their catalog, which is already very, very extensive. My favorite jazz label, ECM, is represented almost in full.

I find stuff on there that has long been out of print, I find brand new stuff on there, it makes recommendations every time you choose an artist, which exposes me to even more music that I’d previously been unfamiliar with. Most of the playlists that I make consist of full albums, partly because I’m just anal as it gets when it comes to this type of thing and partly because I’ve never been one to just enjoy only the ‘hit’, when often the best material is that which you don’t hear on the conventional airwaves. I would also have to presume that, but for some mobile (car) users, satellite radio is going to go the way of the eight track tape. I had Sirius in my truck when it first came out, and thought it was great until I saw through the ruse and realized they were just looping the same playlists over and over. I knew exactly at what time each day a certain loop was going to hit. I abandoned it well before Sirius and XM even thought of merging, and Howard Stern was still on FM.

The only downside to Spotify, as far I can tell, is that there seems to be some cut-offs when a song is longer than seven or eight minutes. Not always, but very often. You can tell it’s unavailable because the title is not in bold face. If you do click on it, it will tell you that at the request of the artist such and so track is not to be had. But, if you poke around and find a greatest hits collection of that artist you may well find that song and be able to click and drag it into proper position in the album’s order. It takes all of an extra six seconds, but it’s time well spent. I’m playing my ‘J T on The Edge’ playlist right now, as I type, which is not composed of full albums, but a mess of heavier, edgier tunes. At this precise moment in time? Alice Cooper. To be followed by DIO. Naturally it’s all placed in alphabetical order, but I do use the shuffle feature to abate any ennui.

When I had first discovered Pandora, I had thought it was great. And, to some extent, I still do. I am still a paid member, in my third year. It has drawbacks, though. If you ‘create’ a station, very often they’ll play three or four songs that fit the bill, but then they’ll waver off into some other territory. For example, my Blues station will spin off into Funk or Soul. If you’re not there to hit the “thumbs down” button, they’ll continue going down the wrong path. So, Pandora can take a lot of attention. They also, paid member or not, will arbitrarily stop playing unless you see the pop-up asking if you’re still listening. This can be a pain in the ass if you’re dozing! They give you this completely bullshit message that they don’t like playing to an empty audience. Well, dudes, you’re a computer. You have no feelings. And you’re getting paid to play. SO PLAY!

The other shit, like Amazon’s Cloud service and iTunes are just crocks of crap. They seemed like fun when there was nothing else that I was aware of, but now I wouldn’t even zero in on them. They have less to offer, musically, than Spotify and my same $9.99 per month gets me 10 songs rather than virtually the entirely of the musical world. That would probably be great if I were inclined to get an iPod, but I am not. When I go for a walk or a ride I don’t need headphones clamped to my head. When I am at home, what the hell would I need an iPod for? I don’t.  So, buying songs for anywhere from $0.69 to $1.29 a clip is about the most pointless thing I can think of. I’d rather give it to the homeless or to animal shelters.

So, until something better comes along, it’s Spotify for me. And, no, I did not get paid to write this.

Abilify

This post is meant to describe ONLY MY experience of taking the medicine Abilify for ONLY ONE month:

Dosage: 2mg/morning

Results: In brief, insanity, but to be more precise:

The first week that I took the drug I really didn’t notice too much difference in how I felt, how I thought about or saw things, or how I behaved.

After the second week, the fun began. And I say that as facetiously as humanly possible, because it was about as much fun as a barrel of asps.

I began, slowly at first, to experience not just a diminished appetite, but a disappearing one. Since I moved to NC my dietary habits went downhill as it was, but this was RADICAL. Forty-eight hour stints with nothing but coffee and cigarettes. And I mean NOTHING. No snacks, no candy bars, no popsicles, no fruit. NOTHING. I just wasn’t hungry.

After that came the onset of those 48 hours stints being comprised of all waking hours. In other words, I didn’t eat, nor did I go to sleep. I couldn’t. I wasn’t tired. Nor for an alcoholic in recovery, H.A.L.T. was screaming at the top of its lungs. Rather than sleep I would busy myself with ‘stuff’. Stuff had to get done! Mind you, this was all stuff that DID NOT NEED to get done. At least not just then, if really at all. These stints of staying awake were only periodic at first, so I wasn’t too alarmed.

Then they became commonplace. The norm, not the exception. Every other day was a straight two-day shot. No sleep, no food. Coffee and cigarettes; the occasional cigar to break up the monotony. Granted I did get a lot done. Like tearing my office apart, rearranging it and then doing it all over again. In the same night. And again the following day. Doing laundry at all hours, running the dishwasher when it was only half filled. Dusting. Vacuuming. You name it, it was getting done. Twice.

By the third and fourth weeks I was having suicidal ideations. I even mentioned at my Monday AA meeting that I was feeling very much as though I might just end it all. No point in going on. I’d done everything I’d set out to do in life, and more, so why continue? I’m in constant pain from spinal arthritis, occipital neuralgia, a left knee that’s hanging on by a thread, daily headaches (no doubt exacerbated by a life of no sleep, no food, 32 cups of coffee a day and two packs of cigarettes). I have always been upbeat at that meeting. I typically walk in, shake hands, contribute and offer my experience, strength and hope. That night, during which I also very proudly announced my atheism, I was just a blithering idiot, a downer and a dink.

I was, though, having suicidal ideations. My wife was, and still is, worried sick. Hell, I don’t blame her. I’ve been behaving like a moron on auto-pilot. I think even my cats have been looking at me as though they’ve lost their Daddy. Oh, yes, I’ve been paranoid as well. I would parody, in my head, a Beatles’ song: ‘Woke up, got outta bed, put a gun up to my head.’ Of course the only problem with that is that I wasn’t getting up and outta bed, as I was never in it!

During the days I was basically useless. I played with Spotify, making playlists. I’d screw around with Facebook games half the day. Once a week I’d call my friend Bill, in Florida. He was worried, too. He thought I sounded quite ‘off‘. No shit. But then I’d come alive, or as alive as I could become, at around 6:00 PM, and start this cycle of activity again.

Last Sunday I started painting in my office at 2:30 AM. STARTED at 2:30 AM. In case nobody knows, you don’t do a great job when your eyelids are at half mast. You THINK you’re wide awake, but you’re running on malnourished fumes. Thankfully the door actually did come out OK. That’s what I was painting; the door. It’s a new door and I was sick of looking at the nakedness of its bare pine. Instead of staining it, I painted it the same color of green as the accent wall that it’s hanging in. The same doorway I’d seen myself hanging in.

I saw the doctor that prescribed this shit yesterday, and was immediately taken off of it, it being replaced by some little pill called something else. Sadly, though, the Abilify is still percolating in my system, because it’s now 5:29 AM and I’ve not gone to bed. I did go to bed the night before, though. We’d had an early Valentine’s dinner out because my wife was leaving on business (now) last night. I haven’t had dinner. I’m floating away on a sea of Folger’s Black Silk coffee. My lungs are scorched. I’m not suicidal, though, and I think it’s because I know that this has to be the last night of this bullshit. In fact, I hope I go to bed after I get the oil changed in my car, which should be around 1:00 PM. We’ll see. I can’t last forever.

So, should Abilify be put on your medicinal color palette, be careful. Be very careful. And don’t say that nobody warned you!

I think I’ll go do some plumbing now. I think the sink probably needs a new spray nozzle and hose. I have the parts, so it must. No point in letting my eyes close the rest of the way, right?

A Refund? OK, But, Wait …

When you buy something on-line, from an ‘e-tailer’, you have to pay for the item before you get it. After you’ve paid, you then have to wait until A) They ship it in the first place and, B) For the carrier to get it to you.

Now let’s assume, that for whatever reason, you have to send it back. Maybe it’s defective; maybe you’ve decided that what you’d thought was a need for it has suddenly morphed into a different plan. It does not matter what the reason is, as you always have at least SOME time frame within which to return it. If you simply refuse shipment, it’s a no-brainer. Instant refund. ESPECIALLY if it’s a shipping refusal when it’s NEVER EVEN BEEN OPENED! 

Maybe.

In the case of this particular post, I’ll cite two companies that argue two invalid points, during which I’ll touch on what I THINK to be the reason.

1. The company will refund your purchase, but processing takes 7 – 10 days. Invalid, and unacceptable behavior, guaranteeing no more future business from this buyer.

2. The refund is allegedly processed right away, but it takes a few days to show up as a credit on your debit card. Invalid and unacceptable excuse, guaranteeing no more future business from this buyer.

THE CASES:

I purchased an audio subwoofer from:

Only Factory Direct (www.onlyfactorydirect.com). You’d never know it from their website (which in itself should be a violation of trade law), but they’re located in or around Sunnyvale, CA.

In the interim, indeed, my system parameters changed such that I no longer needed the subwoofer, nor indeed, could I have even used it. Due diligence prevailing on my part, I e-mailed them to alert them that I’d be refusing it when it arrived. I was told not to worry; a full refund will be issued immediately upon its return.

After 12 days or so of hearing nothing, and knowing that it JUST HAD to be back in CA from NC by then, I ran the tracking number and saw that they’d had it back for 7 days already. Count them: SEVEN. I immediately e-mailed them TO TELL THEM THAT THEY HAD IT, and ask as to the status of my refund. I was told that nobody in the warehouse told them it was there, but that they would issue the refund immediately. For the past week now I’ve been getting a major and bogus runaround that the refund will be forthcoming, right up to, “the refund was issued on 2/10/2012, but it will take a few days to show up.”

Well, I know that that’s bullshit, as when Amazon sends you a notice that they’ve RECEIVED YOUR PACKAGE BACK and a refund WILL BE ISSUED SHORTLY, the money is back in my checking account before I am even finished reading the e-mail. Ditto L.L. Bean, Talbots, Barnes & Noble, Crutchfield, American Musical Supply and a host of other reputable companies. Ergo, the argument is invalid and unacceptable, because it’s a pack of lies. I suspect the refund is only when there’s enough money in the bank, when they’re able to re-sell it to get the money from another buyer, or when they decide to crawl into their home-office from their garage and actually get off of Facebook long enough to do it. No matter the reason, it’s entirely bogus, and horrendously poor business practice. Proof that a slick website does not mean that there’s any substance behind it.

The second issue is for a far larger and more secure firm, Parts Express (www.partsexpress.com), with whom I have had difficulty on approximately a 70% frequency schedule. For example, they’ll lure you to spend just $8.47 more to recieve free shipping.” So, you buy another gadget, vibration isolation sheet, tube, whatever to reach the $98.00 needed for said free shipping, only to find out that they’re going to ship it via Pony Express with a broken wagon wheel. At least they have the balls to let you know, though, that they’re at: 725 Pleasant Valley Drive, Springboro, OH 45066.

But, in my case, the item I purchased was just so cheesy that it had pieces popping the hell out of it. It had nice fit and finish at a glance, but the build quality of a sand castle. I needed to return it, was given an RMA#, and guaranteed an immediate refund. Oops ….. that tracking number killed them, too. I knew they had it, and for how long. Next, the perfunctory, “Where’s my refund?” e-mail. Same old shit. In the case of Parts Express, it’s received, re-approved and then sent to accounting, after which it takes 7 – 10 days to process and then a couple to a few more to show up in your checking account.

Note here: When you use a debit card, and a credit is issued by a retailer or e-tailer, it DOES show up on the same day. Fuck what they tell you, as they don’t know their asses from input jacks. Or, they just lie really well. I guess if you perpetuate a lie it starts to just roll off of your tongue, just like the 10 – 15 minutes for Chinese food that inevitably takes 4 minutes to scrape out of the bucket and slop into a styrofoam container.

Well, people, let me ask you this: Why then, won’t they ship it to YOU, and then let YOU pay THEM in 7 – 10 days, after you figured out that A) It’s not a piece of shit and, B) You still have the intended use for it?

Oh, not a chance. Not in this greedy fucking world. Now Parts Express is F-A-R bigger than Only Factory Direct, so I’m guessing that they’re just holding my money to gather as much interest on it as they can. Either way, it’s been well over 10 days and I’ve seen squat. They don’t even respond to me anymore. I’ve been cast aside like Tom Hanks when the FedEx jet went waterbound. Anybody that wants to call on my behalf and call them a bunch of dwing-dicks can do so at: 1-(800) 338-0531. They other wad-heads, Only Factory Direct, can be reached at 1-(800) 910-3575 (or leave a message, their site says, smacking of Mommy will get back to you after she scrapes the shit out of Junior’s diapers).  

I bet if you ask for accounting at either place, you’ll get a voice mail that A) Needs to be listened to carefully as the menu options have changed and, B) Has a necessity to leave a voicemail that will never be paid any attention to, much less granted a return call.

I’m not talking about much money here. Only a couple hundred bucks between these two scheisters. But, IT’S THE GODDAMNED PRINCIPLE! Act like a fucking business, will you? You are a business that deals with people. Those people, if they return the junk that they bought from you, and since said junk is such total junk that it needed to go back to whence it came in the first place, they very possibly could use whatever monies they’ve tied up, in whatever fashion, freed up so that they can either get something elsewhere that works, or feed the kids, pay the rent, what-all-ever.

The wanton disregard that companies like this exude is enough to make someone like me want to report them to every authority available to me in their respective geographies. So, I guess I will. Fuck you both. Deeply. And Unconventionally.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Near hurricane force winds are keeping my porch sitting to a minimum tonight, so it’s time to write!

Happy Valentine’s Day (ladies)!

Or, that’s what was said to my wife today, and not by me. At the time she and I had just sat down from a totally hectic morning, so it was about noon, I reckon. For my part, the ‘hecticity‘ (I’ve been known to invent my own words) was my own fault. I’d purchased a new fridge on Tuesday, and totally forgot that it was going to be delivered today between ten and noon.

So, forgetful fella that I am (and I ain’t kiddin’ … I forget what the hell I’m talking about mid-sentence sometimes), I also scheduled myself to meet someone at 11:00 AM, off site. That was a favor for a friend, which to me is sacrosanct. But, I was able to get the dude I was meeting with on the phone and reschedule him for 9:45 AM …. not perfect, but better.

On my way to meet this guy I was playing a CD, that the same friend I was doing the favor for, had burned for me, of Brian May’s first band, called Smile. Indeed, playing that pre-Queen music, I was totally smiling. I got back to the house at the stroke of 10:00 AM and which truck is parked alongside the house? Yup. Best Buy. When I need these bastards to be early I’m on the tail end of the list; when I need them to be late they’ve practically spent the night outside in the truck. No matter, no worries. We had fun with the two guys, as they told us of their first delivery, where they had to wait, listen and just imagine (I guess) while the couple went back into the bedroom to finish up some  morning sex, which they told the drivers they could watch on Channel 2, as they were streaming it to their TV! Somehow. I tipped ’em a twenty and told ’em to go spend it at Hooters, but “keep your hands ABOVE the bar!”

It was time to wind down a little, so out to the porch we go, Jan and I. Practically my second office, that porch. I commune with my neighbors, the stray cats, the mailperson, my magazines, my books, my cigars … all manner of people, critters and things that need my attention. Anyway, I’ll try not to digress again this time.

We’re sitting there, a sentence and a half into our conversation and this guy dressed in a gray shirt, silver tie and grey Dickies comes through the gate (I’d forgotten to padlock it after the delivery guys left; I don’t like surprises!). Up the porch steps comes this dude with dreads, pulled back and neat, all friendly and full of piss and vinegar. He hands Jan a nice, fresh rose and a box with a red-foil-wrapped pair of chocolate lips in it. Shit, man, who IS THIS? Some guy from the Ron Jeremy Ministry? And so it begins:

“Happy Valentine’s Day to the lady of the house! That’s you, right?”

> I’m thinking, shit, my hair is down to my shoulders but it sure as shit ain’t me, dude ….

“And what’s you name?”

“Er, Jan?”

“Ah, Miss Jane, it’s GREAT to meet you! I’m D’Angelo, but my friends call me D.

> BTW, I’m not inserting all the people’s initials or names with every quote this time. Use your head. But these inserted lines are my bullshit.

“It’s Jan.”

“Alright, Mrs. Jane ….. got it.”

> No, you don’t.

“Is this the man of the house? What’s your name sir?”

“It’s Jim. How ya doing’?”

“Mr. Jim, I’m doing FANTASTIC! This is a great, great day, Mr. Jim, and I’m gonna tell you and Mrs. Jane why.”

> Light at the end of the tunnel.

“My boss gave me these roses and chocolates and put me out to spread the word. He paid for them all out of his own pocket!”

> Oh, Lord.

“Mrs. Jane, Mr. Jim … do you have any carpets inside with stains, or maybe a couch?”

> Uh, oh …. switch gears. The light is getting dimmer, the tunnel l-o-n-g-e-r.

“Er, well, yeah, D., we do. One. Everything else is hardwood.”

“FANTASTIC Mr. Jim! THIS IS YOUR LUCKY DAY, ‘cuzzin (?) my boss told me to go out, find everyone with a stained carpet and clean it for ’em, FREE!”

> I’m desperately looking next door at A. and S.’s house, cursing them for not having been on their porch, as he had passed by their house first.

“So, Mr. Jim ….. which room is that carpet in? Let’s goes have a look-see. C’mon, now.”

“Well, it’s in the room we don’t know what to do with.”

> He never skipped a beat or blinked an eye with that dumbass answer.

“Well, c’mon Mr. Jim, Mrs. Jane, we’ll get that cleaned up for you in a jiffy and that carpet will look brand new again!”

> Well, I’ve never seen it brand new, and I don’t think Abraham Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation yet, either.

“Ok, D., c’mon in, man. Oh, and it’s Jim, if you don’t mind ….. I’m kinda informal, ya know?”

“Got it, Mr. Jim. Let’s get TO WORK. LET’S GET BUSY ON THAT CARPET, Mr. Jim.

> I guess “Got it” means something other than “OK, I understand” to our D.

> He’s pretty much right in my face, too. I can’t help but notice that his dreads have grey in them, and he puts the shoe black to his eyebrows. An odd look.

“Well, here it is.”

…………………… At this point I’ve gotta skip the next hour, as it’s just too much to type without needing my wrists replaced …………….

The gist of all this frenetic horse shit was that he was hawking Kirby vacuum cleaners. “The Bentley” of vacuum cleaners, I’m now told. I asked him if I could use it to clean the interior of my Bentley. That got a raising of the darker-than-black eyebrows! It takes a lot to throw this guy off-task. I must admit; he was a very, very nice man. In recovery seven years. He’d mentioned something about character defects and I perked up. I asked him where he’d gotten that term, and he explained that he was a friend of Bill W., going on seven years. I told him that I was, too, going on eleven, and he made me recite the Serenity Prayer with him. Serenity is one thing this dude was not exuding. Of course at that point neither was I, unless total frustration masks itself as serenity. He told me he kept his character defects in check, very consciously, no swearing, etc. “Fuckinaaaaay“, I said. Jan shot me a look. Understandably so. I shouldn’t have said it.

The process, as it unfolded over about an hour and a half took us on a tour of every room in the house, except mine, of course. Nolo invito to that/this one. He sucked up dust mites from the mattresses, and showed them to us. That’s scary shit when you see those little pricklets other than on those TV ads for some anti-allergen shit. He hit the sofa in the guest room, our cat Samantha’s chair in the living room (that one was frightening, too … she’s a Maine Coon). Thankfully she wasn’t in sight, or she might have gotten sucked off, too. Well, she is about due for another lion cut. He showed us an attachment that would save us buying the half-dozen cans of compressed air a year that I get to blow out the computer keys and such. That one made me think of a disimpaction.

He explained the system of motors, filters, etc. He took our Hoover and physically showed us how it couldn’t possibly work. He showed us attachments for ceiling fan cleaning, plate rail cleaning, curtain cleaning, litterbox cleaning, sidewalk & street cleaning and Lord only knows what else. He told us how it actually cleaned the air in the house while it was eating dirt. He threw a Tupperware full of sand on the carpet and showed us how our Hoover, after 40 swipes only moved it around and ground it in, while the Bentley could, and did, suck it up in only six.

Every 16 blurbs he’d look at us and say, “You like it?” Yeah. “You need it?” Maybe; not really. “You want it?” Er, how much?, but maybe, sorta, well, no, not really.

Eventually, after a bit more persuading we did become Jim and Jan. The Mr. and Mrs. are just out of respect, we’re told. Habit. I get that. Old habits are hard to break. On the other hand, I don’t call anyone Mr. and/or Mrs., Sir and/or Ma’am, unless it’s a veiled Fuck You. Maybe not so veiled, either.

Throughout the explanations of the marvels of the Kirby vacuum cleaner I would disappear out to the porch for a smoke, though no doubt it would have sucked the cigarette smoke right out of the air, had I smoked inside, and emitted orange blossoms in its stead. At about the 3rd pack, he came out and joined me. He had handed Jan the price list and was letting her absorb that. I already knew roughly what these bastards cost, but she didn’t. They’re outrageously expensive, not too far south of 3 grand, plus you have to buy all the bags, hoses, belts, etc. from them as well at what would probably amount to $6.50 or so for a single bag. The Bentley of bags, though, no doubt.

So, we finish the smoke, go back in and he picks up right where he left off, but the mood in the house is painfully more quiet. The price obviously was a major pants shitter. Finally, he got around to shampooing the aforementioned carpet. It looks pretty damned good, too. I’m guessing we don’t really need to replace it now, as it’ll be fine for the TV room that we’re actually going to use the room we don’t know what to do with for. Then we’ll have an actual living room. For what sort of living I can’t quite imagine, but some sort, I guess. Visiting with reptiles, maybe. You know, friendly chit-chit, but chit-chat to be leery of.

Sidebar: There are homeless people foraging in dumpsters and sleeping out in the rain, under a tree, and we have a room we don’t even know what the fuck to do with? There’s something radically wrong with that. Just sayin’.

In any event, I felt rather bad for D. by the time he was shampooing the carpet, as he’d already gotten his NO. He said he had tough skin, like a rhino. He pounded his left arm with his right fist. “See? Tough. I can handle no just as well as I can handle yes.” Good thing, pal. $2,600.00 for a frigging vacuum cleaner. David Bowie asked about life on Mars? Kirby salespeople must know all about it. They pretty much have to be living it.

So, that’s pretty much it. We got bits and pieces of our house cleaned. We got the one carpeted room shampooed. FOR FREE! Jan got a nice, fresh rose and a set of chocolate lips.

D. phoned his boss, as they were van-pooling. Canvassing for dust mites with rich parents. His boss showed up to help D. pack up the Kirby and move on the next filthy hole on the street. I went out for a cigarette. Again. By this time I was so frustrated with this whole thing that I could have smoked one with my middle toe, left foot. I couldn’t bear to watch, after all that, D. and his boss pack up The Bentley and drive off into the headwind of the dusty road.

Then, a couple of minutes later, D. comes out, shakes my hand (he was extremely polite, very funny and totally considerate). He says, ‘Mr. Jim (shit, back the Mr.), welcome to the Kirby family. I’m just going to go in and put Mrs. Jane through Kirby college, which is really just the proffering of an instructional DVD.

I was shell-shocked. I needed that disimpaction attachment! Granted, I’d rather always wanted one of those babies (excuse me, Bentleys), just for bragging rights alone, but WHAT? That’s a goddamned hot-shit amplifier, man, were the dough to be spent otherwise!

Apparently the boss made the offer that couldn’t be refused, and the boss didn’t refuse it.

I hope we enjoy our Kirby. I think I’ll nick-name it, sort of like Fernando, my Sock Monkey.

Happy Valentine’s Day. I wish you all a new Bentley with a set of chocolate lips!

 

Audio Advisor, a Michigan e-tailer.

As my first post under the new category, “Consumer Awareness”, I’ll use my own very recent experience. If anyone else has a gripe that they want to air, though, but are either unable or uncomfortable doing so, send it to me; I’ll rip ’em!

A couple of weeks ago, as in well within the thirty day period in which you can return defective merchandise, I bought a Cambridge Audio Azur 560A integrated amplifier for my stereo from:

Audio Advisor, Inc., 3427 Kraft Avenue, S.E., Grand Rapids, Michigan  49512

www.audioadvisor.com

1-800-942-0220

Owner: Wayne Schurmann

Now, granted this is a mid-fi,  just ever-so-slightly bordering on high-end, internet audio dealer. In other words, decent sounding gear that the average Joe can typically afford. It’s norm is to be overpriced by todays standards, as they charge full retail on everything, and everything they sell can be purchased for 20% – 30% less elsewhere if you feel like looking for it. Their service is typically good, though their website is so inadequate as to not inform a customer whether or not something is actually in stock, so you’re better off calling one of their sales guys (whom are all quite nice). I suspect it’s really more of a case where market research has told them that (x)% of people won’t bother cancelling an order when they find out some 24 hours after they’ve ordered it that it’s on backorder. But, that’s only a suspicion. Not the research; that’s true. The practice is only a suspicion. In any event, that’s neither here nor there, as if something IS in stock, shipping is usually same-day. No complaints there.

I’ve had a good relationship with them for years. Probably about six years, actually. I’ve been a loyal customer, despite their gear not being really the greatest, but it’s good enough for casual listening. I have purchased items both on sale and not. I am an impulse buyer, so companies that charge full retail can normally plan to benefit from me.

Now, to this amplifier. It was a close-out, so I did buy it on sale. Two or three hundred bucks off, or some such. I personally don’t care if it’s ‘this year’s model’ or not, as I am not Elvis Costello. As part of this promotion to unload these amps from inventory, Audio Advisor included a FREE iPod docking station, also made by Cambridge Audio (though not really, it’s just a piece of Asian junk and no better or worse than any other of its ilk), and normally selling for about ninety bucks. A totally useless thing to me, as I don’t use iPods, iPhones or iAnythings. I told the sales guy (Tim Hahn – thahn@audioadvisor.com) right up front that I didn’t need that, but it came with, no matter. In our e-mail banter I mentioned to him that I’d end up giving it to a blind friend of mine, who lives in Florida. No biggie. Helping a man with a disability to better enjoy his own toys seems a good end, to me.

The amplifier functioned nicely for about two weeks, and I even had told Tim this. I try to give credit where credit is due. Sadly, I work the other way, as well. Today, for some totally unknown reason (other than the typical Cambridge glitch that they were supposed to have fixed long ago) the amp went ballistic. It kept shutting down, causing all manner of annoyance, as I could not for the life of me figure out what the hell was going on. Nothing had changed. It was still where it had been, running in the same system as it had been. Typical with Cambridge Audio, if you kill the power via the remote and fire it up again, its protection circuits reset and you’re good to go. In the past this was normally caused by a static charge from touching it with your hands, but I never laid a finger on it today. So, after recycling through this process for the third time I heard that god-awful whizzing scream of a blown driver come from one of my B&W CM-8 Loudspeakers. $1,100.00 worth of loudspeaker, by the way. EACH, not the pair.

Finally fed up with this amp, I contacted Tim Hahn and requested a Returned Merchandise Authorization, which he provided in very good time, indeed. Now, when I looked at the RMA, which was  copy of the invoice description, it reminded me that that damned iPod dock had come with. I e-mailed him, explaining that, per what I’d mentioned, I’d given this item away, and asked whether or not this would impact the return. I even tried to play on his sympathies, opining about my wonderful, and now blown, speaker. Sympathy, apparently, is not in Schurmann’s in-house handbook.

Fired right back, in big, bold blue letters comes the info I actually expected from these tightwads. Every single thing, including the iPod dock, each and every bit of packaging material and, probably even, the warehouse guy’s fingerprints on the box needed to be sent back in order for them to be able to accept it. Not being someone to ask a blind gent to repackage something he cannot see and return it to me because Audio Advisor is being inflexible, I let it go by simply threatening to send them the blown CM-8 along with a bill and a copy to my attorney for collection. Obviously I am not going to actually do that.

I want to re-stress this point, though. That silly iPod dock was a freebie, probably something else they needed to clear off the shelves for the new models. Tim Hahn knew I was going to give the thing away. And, I couldn’t get the amp without also taking delivery of this pointless device. It was rather like the burst appendix of the whole deal. A waste of time, space and now, my money.

I am now out $499.99. There’s not a damned thing I can do about it, short of bringing both the Cambridge into a service tech and blowing another hundred before he’ll even look at it, and I’m also out an $1,100.00 speaker, which obviously B&W is not going to replace, as it wasn’t their fault that the voice coil(s) fried.

The crux of all this, my first post in the Consumer Awareness section of my blog (and, also, delightfully on Facebook for all the world to see) is that Audio Advisor of Grand Rapids, MI (www.audioadvisor.com) has successfully ruined my day, dented my wallet by a total of sixteen hundred bucks (more, really, as the other speaker is not of much use now, either), and they have done it with complete and total disregard for simple, little things like customer loyalty, human decency and good business practice.

Not only will I never buy anything from these flushable turds again, I will do everything the internet allows me to do (which is really a menu that goes on ad infinitum) to be very, very certain that as many consumers as possible know that Audio Advisor is even less reputable than WalMart.

So, in closing:

Do Not Buy from Audio Advisor (www.audioadvisor.com) of Grand Rapids, MI unless you are buying something benign like a speaker stand or cable that can’t really go bad on you. Remember, this shit is mechanical, and mechanical shit breaks. It’s historically more comforting to know that your dealer is actually on your side when it does.