It's a Concert not a Concerto

I’ve written about Wilco, and hence Jeff Tweedy indirectly, before. So if you don’t like it why are you here? Yes, I’m going to write about Jeff Tweedy again.

I went to see Jeff Tweedy play a solo show in Montreal at L’Olympia. Just Jeff Tweedy and 6 or so acoustic guitars. It was seated (read shitty) but there was a bar (read double Jim Beams). So we proceeded to drink our way through the opening act, at the bar, and waited for the headliner. We were seated well enough in advance that we didn’t disturb the precious Mr. Tweedy.

Before I go on, a bit of historical perspective. Jeff Tweedy is well known as a curmudgeon (I know). In the past, he was quite acerbic about it (read when he was on painkillers) but now sort of comes across as funny. I say sort of because you always wonder if there’s a bit of F-You in there (there likely is). I read a review of the previous night’s show in Toronto and someone from the crowd yelled “turn it to 11!” Jeff Tweedy looks at his acoustic guitars and says “I don’t have anything that goes to 11.” Pretty funny, but you know he was thinking “screw you pal” on the inside.

So, knowing this, I was tempted all night to start some witty banter (read double Jim Beam) with Mr. Tweedy. Luckily, I refrained. However, he did play one of my favourite songs (I don’t recall which – double Jim Beam) and at one point I started clapping. Again, this is a concert, with people whooping, hollering and the like. At one point during the song, others joined me in clapping. I can keep time, trust me, I paid for the lessons to learn how to keep time. But I got bored pretty quickly, as I am wont to do, and grabbed my drink and stopped clapping. The song ends and Jeff Tweedy says “I’d like to thank…” and in my head the sentence concludes with “…Mr. Mills for joining me on this song as my percussionist.” Rather the sentence ended “…whoever got that guy to stop clapping, it was distracting.”

Come ON! It’s a concert and I clapped. Heaven forbid I have some fun at a show. At least, Mr. Tweedy, you didn’t get Jim Beam spilled on you like the guy, um, nowhere near me.

The NHL Missed the Net

I've been trying to write about this in a logical yet passionate way since Tuesday evening but I can't. There is no logic and I can't remove my emotions. Yes, I'm talking about the hit that Zdeno Chara laid on Max Pacioretty in Tuesday night's Boston v. Montreal NHL game. I just can't find the words to say what I want. It's rare that I'm at such a loss for words.

In the meantime I've been digesting it all and chatting back and forth with the original curmudgeon (the OGC). The OGC suggested a post that sums it up quite nicely. I've been hoping for this for a while and now, here's the OGC:

NHL leadership stinks and the league is becoming a joke. Every time they have a chance to make a statement, they take a pass. This is the same league that hands out suspensions for vulgar gestures and flipping someone the bird. But when a guy is brutally injured, they turn a blind eye like it's nothing.

A caller to The Team 990 said it perfectly. How can players be held responsible for their sticks when they're falling on their butts and the stick flails, but not be held accountable for their elbows, shoulders and fists when in full control of their body? Only one word sums this up: bullshit.

Well put OGC. But he wasn't done. In response to this article on the Boston Herald website, in particular this line:

The true villain, though, is the architectural genius who placed that small, exposed stretch of boards, stanchions and glass right in the area between the benches and created a tremendously dangerous hazard.

The OGC had this reply:

Is that a little like blaming a rape victim because of the low cut dress she was wearing? In your world, Mr. Harris, I guess the aggressor is never at fault.

Customer Dis-satisfaction Part Deux

Bad service happens, I know, and a lot of my friends are servers so I understand that shit happens. But shit can happen in a good way or a bad way.
Case #1

We're at a bar that I won't name, but it rhymes with goners. We arrived around 12:30 and ordered a beer. We frequent this place and don't recognize our server. She serves us one beer and brings the bill at 1. We're all "hey, we're drinking more, we don't want the bill." She says "Oh, sometimes people leave without paying so I thought I'd bring it just in case." Again, we frequent this bar, the other servers know us. We're not going to dash and even if we weren't regulars, she shouldn't just make that assumption. And even if she does, she shouldn't fucking tell us.

Anyway, small offense, no biggie. 2am rolls around and we have half a beer left, we've paid and tipped well. She comes by and says "If you guys aren't done your beer in a few minutes I'm going to take it from you." Not "could you finish up, we're closing", not "guys, sorry but you gotta leave soon." Not any of that. She freaking challenged us. Bad idea.

We sit around staring at our beer and the clock waiting to see what she'll do. She pops by again and I say "the bar is full, people still have beer, let us finish and we'll go." It's 2:15. She sighs and rolls her eyes then storms off. 10 minutes later, she yanks the beer from Greg, while others in the bar are still drinking.

I don't mind being asked to leave. But there's a right way and a wrong way to do it.

Case #2

(recounted perfectly by Rachelle, but I'll try anyway)

We went out for dinner at a restaurant in Chinatown that I won't name but it rhymes with Bang-guy. A couple of us were there early and it was empty. That didn't stop the server from taking her good old time to serve us. She was obviously new, so I wasn't really holding it against her. In fact, I felt for her because she seemed to be on her own with the exception of the bartender. Anyway, the night goes on and things get worse. I won't duplicate what Rachelle said, but I'll summarize in case you haven't checked her site:

• Appetizers do not get delivered
• Orders get mixed up
• It takes 30 t0 6o minutes to get drinks/apps/mains
• The server spills a beer in an entree and says "do you want me to do something about that?"
• The server, after spilling the beer says "it will taste like beer now."
• The server does not return to clear our table.
• The server does not return with our bill.
• The place fills up with people to see a strip spelling bee and the emcee says "I know people are eating and finishing up, we're doing a spelling bee so finish up." as we're begging the bartender to get us our bill so we can leave.
• The server returns, after being called by the bartender, with the bill and a plate full of fortune cookies (Rachelle put it best, and I'm paraphrasing, "It's much too late for that.")

I've never considered dining and dashing, but I felt like it would have been the right thing to do that night. No apologies from the staff, no discount, nothing.

Thankfully the nights in between at the Pump and the Murray Street were phenomenal as always. There is great service in this city, which is why bad service sticks out like a sore thumb.

Customer Dissatisfaction

There's a music shop in Ottawa that I've always despised. The first reason was its location (it's on Rideau street and hard to get to). The second reason is the service. When I first started to visit the guys wouldn't even look at me. They'd pander to the regulars and professional musicians. Fair enough. But then I got older and had some money to burn. As soon as I had money to burn they were helpful, until I had to take said thing back.

Case #1 - The Tele

I didn't return my Telecaster. I never would. But when I bought it I was told to take it in sometime in the first six months for a full tune up as the intonation and other shit I didn't know shit about would need to be adjusted. Fair enough.

So I learned about intonation and shit and one day noticed the strings rattled and didn't before. So I took it in for the free tune up. They told me it would be ready in two days and I said, "I'm out of town until next Saturday, so I'll just pick it up then." Next Saturday being a week away.

Next Saturday arrives and I show up at the store. "Sorry sir, your guitar isn't ready." OK, I'm somewhat upset, but shit happens.

"Can I have it for Thursday? That's the next jam."

"Sure."

Thursday arrives. I call at noon to make sure I can pick it up at 6. "Is she ready?"

"No, but we'll have it ready by six."

I arrive at six and they can't find it. They scurry and scrounge and I look behind the counter and say, "that's it, did you fix it?"

"Yep, sure did."

"Can I try it?" I ask, recalling the 6th string rattle.

"Sure."

"It wasn't fixed." I say.

"Hey (insert name here), did you fix the black Tele?" the guy yells to the back.

No is the response from the distance. So they fix it there while I wait, which begs the question, couldn't they have done that the first time I was there?

Case #2 - The Recorder (no, not that kind of recorder)

We record some songs we play. We have this dual input thing that plugs into a Mac (half the problem) via USB. This means that we have to play the song 3 times to get all tracks recorded. Which is fine, I think professionals even do this, but it's time consuming.

A couple of days after the holidays I'm surfing this store's website, partly because I'm a sucker for punishment, but mainly because a cute girl said she wanted a guitar. Anyway, I see this recording device similar to ours except it has 8 inputs. 8! Perfect! I call the store and they have one in stock. I ask them to hold it and they do.

Saturday arrives and I head down to the store. My machine is waiting, but I'm nervous, it's so inexpensive, like beer at a Legion. "Are you sure this will work?" I ask, "And if not, can I take it back?"

"Yes" he says.

So I cancel drinking plans with football buddies. Wait, I move my drinking plans from my football buddies to my band buddies and head to the jam space to figure it out. We can't. But we're not worried, we're smart guys, we'll figure it out.

Fast forward to next week and after finally reading the instructions, it works. Woohoo, let's go grab a drink.

Fast forward to next jam night and we can't get it to work. Fast forward to next jam night and we still can't get it to work. We then test it out direct to amplifiers and it doesn't work. So I check the receipt, it's within 30 days and I take it back.

I talk to a guy at the counter and tell him my problem and he says, "we don't have another one in stock."

"That's fine," I say, "I didn't want another one anyway, I just want my money back."

"We don't give money back." he says.

"What? Why? It's within 30 days." I say.

"Well, that'd be just like renting. Nobody gives money back like that."

"Are you serious?" I say, "Everybody gives money back."

"...."

"Everybody."

"Well, I guess we don't, but you can have store credit."

"Fine, I'm missing Lucky Ron. Gimme the credit."

So now I have store credit at a store I don't want to visit. It's about $250, exactly the price I'd pay to fill that thing full of shotgun pellets.

Poltergeist

Poltergeist was one of my favourite horror movies as a kid. You had an ancient burial ground, creepy blond kid, creepier old woman performing a séance, and a little girl being abducted by a TV; what’s not to love? In retrospect, it also had Coach. Seriously. What’s not to love?

Problem is now I’m beginning to think I live with a poltergeist (or I have extremely bad luck and a lack of rest). It started with what the Irish call “the old hag”. You can look it up for yourself and correct me in the comments, but the gist of it is as follows: you are in a state of half wakefulness and half sleep, the brain being awake and the body asleep. You are aware of what is going on around you but you can’t move, you are paralyzed. This manifests itself as something holding you down. I now know this is just a common, natural occurrence. But in June of 2008, in a new apartment, I didn’t really know. So, it’s not really a poltergeist, just a lack of sleep. Or is it?

Occasionally, when I slept at night, I would wake up to the sound of a thud. I’d search the apartment and find the light cover in the entryway on the floor, unbroken. I’d simply reinstall it and it would fall off again a few days later. I had it replaced and it hasn’t fallen since. So no poltergeist. Or is there?

My door would fly open on its own on windy nights. You could push it open if it wasn’t locked, so a bad lock I suppose. Or is it?

Fast forward to October of 2009. I break my ankle. This has nothing to do with the poltergeist (or does it). I just happened to live in the apartment when it happened. Is that coincidental?

Skip ever so slightly to November of 2009. I’m trying to do laundry with a broken leg and crutches because the night before, when I initially planned on trying to do laundry, the upstairs neighbour was doing her laundry – ALL 6 LOADS. This ordinarily wouldn’t bother me, but she remarked to me the next day that she saw my trying to do laundry and apologized for taking up the washer and dryer so long. To summarize, she saw me, hobbling on crutches, with a backpack full of laundry, trying to get in and out of the laundry room multiple times and continued to do 6 loads of laundry without even stopping by my apartment (which she does for more dubious reasons and she has to pass to get to and from the laundry room) to say “hey, I see you struggling with your laundry. I’ve got a ton to do so I just wanted to let you know so you don’t have to go back and forth 6 times tonight”. No she didn’t think to say that. Rather, the next day she says “Yea, Isaw you trying to do laundry last night.”

Anyway, where was I? Oh yea, the poltergeist. I’m doing laundry the next night, which is done down the driveway to the back of the house, and after starting the laundry a car hits my house (perfectly summarized, along with the broken ankle, here). So, again, you can’t really blame a poltergeist for this. Or can you? The guy lost his cat. Cats are evil. See the connection?

Fast forward to November 2010. I come home from work and my door is kicked open. Some thieves have taken my TV, guitar, amp, glasses, universal remote, and cash. Not the work of a poltergeist, or is it?

Finally, last week. I wake up (admittedly hungover) and there is a broken glass all over my kitchen floor.

One of these things happening isn’t so bad, but combine them all together in the span of 2.5 years and that can’t be a coincidence. That’s it. I’m calling the Catholic Church for some help.

PS. Blogspot spellcheck isn't accepting contractions?