I got a letter in the mail from a law firm out in Minnesota, asking for my participation in a class-action lawsuit against Guitar Center for wage violations during the time I worked there. One of those "we don't admit wrongdoing but we'll pay a few million to make it go away" kind of deals. Based on the couple of months I worked there, I think my take will be about 45 bucks before taxes.
Guitar Center was an odd place to work, to say the least, but I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I met Skip Lefti there, and went on to run sound for the band he played with, King Domino. It led to the first revival meeting I ever went to - the only white person in attendance at a hotel in downtown Rochester over two days (no idea how I got talked into that - just felt that SOMEONE should accompany about ten grand worth of sound equipment we'd lent out for reasons that made sense to my manager).
I suppose I should do a run on those stories, but as I'm sitting here drinking coffee alone on a Sunday morning, I have one very happy memory.
The store staff was a bunch of guys (with the exception of the payroll clerk, who was drop dead gorgeous and an amateur boxer not to be trifled with - but I digress), and as with all fraternal organizations, there were stupid crap we did. And one was a "call on Line 9" in your department.
The phone extensions only went up to 8. "Call to Pro Audio on Line 9" translated to "there is a fantastically hot chick headed to your department, you lucky bastard".
So one particular day, announcement comes over the system, "Pro Audio, you have an urgent call on Line 9. URGENT CALL, Line 9."
Someone's head got spun...let's see who this hottie is...
And she was. Jaws dropped, heads spun. Long red hair, curves for miles, legs to die for.
And she came up and kissed me. :)
"Hey dear, just wanted to stop by and say hi and find out when you were coming home."
"I'm closing tonight, so I should be home by 9:30 or so."
The department was dead silent as she walked out, with all the other clerks staring at me. And I just smiled.
I don't know why that memory came up when I got the mailing, but it did. And I'll have to write up some other GC stories - it was an eventful couple of months.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Le Roy
Bad Craziness in the town of Jell-O. I am camped out in my bedroom with a quart of rum, coffee on standby for the morning, and the Gurkha knife I smuggled out of Germany as a degenerate sixteen year old twenty years ago. The doors are locked, but that will merely slow them down with their offers of A Friendly Beer and Just Wanting To Talk. The bastards are closing in, and I fully expect the room to be lit by the flames of my burning car any moment now. At least that will give me the light to see the fuckers and make some sort of desperate escape...
And it all started by just wanting to do my laundry over Labor Day Weekend...
Photographic evidence of the degeneracy and foulness of the laundry area is available on my Facebook page. I would like to state, for the record, that the photographed condition is the rule, not the exception, though I am usually able to stagger over the trash to do my laundry. However, with my new position requiring a veneer of respectability (or at least dress pants), I declared at top volume my annoyance at the state of affairs and the need to do my laundry at the laundromat, which required actual money. This resulted in the thousand-yard “fuck-with-me-I-dare-you” stare of the wife, and the “oh” of the husband.
As I filled two washers at the laundromat with $2.25 each (incidentally, the price of a draft beer at the local bar, where I was informed this weekend that I was eligible for a Medal and Commendation if I remained in my current apartment for over six months, by local legend), I seethed over the domination of my life by the downstairs Harpie wife, the “neighbor Sarah” incident (some know, and that is a tale worth telling all its own if you haven’t heard it), and the constant diatribes by the Beck-head husband about the Evils of Progressives and the oncoming Rapture. I was angry. I was enraged. I found my spine straightening. And I Brought the Hammer Down.
I called the landlord to tell him the laundry area was unusable, and to tell the full tale of the “Sarah Incident”.
(This may not seem extreme, or even unreasonable. But, the wife downstairs specifically pulled me aside when I moved in to let me know they were Decent and Reasonable People, Good Americans, and that any issues I might have I could happily take up with them without involving the landlord, who was a known Crude and Degenerate Man, not to be bothered by Trivialities.)
(Another side note - the landlord asked me to drop off my rent in person this week, not only due to it being three days late, but he wanted to chat. He had heard rumors about the “Sarah Incident”, and wanted to assure me to not only not take any guff from the downstairs neighbors, but to please let him know if any Bad Craziness was going on, as they were “inches away from eviction” as it was. So I was under an Obligation.)
Upon my return from doing laundry and getting a haircut (the less said about that the better - a wretched butchery deserving of its own rant), I informed the husband about my conversation with the landlord.
“Ohhhh...not good...not good...”
Whatever, I thought. Not my fucking problem. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride, and let the Chips fall where they may. And I slept well. Which might just see me through until tomorrow, as there is no sleeping tonight...
Returning home his evening, I found the foyer had been superficially cleaned. Swept. Bag of trash gone. Other, deeper foulness remaining, of course. Amazing what a call to the landlord accomplishes, I thought.
I was greedy - drunk on the recently successful campaign. I wanted more. And, after an unrelated phone call that put me in an evil and foul mood on top of the crazy, I confronted the husband in front of the house, in the presence of the kids (a fatal error in judgement that will haunt me in this exchange, and much of the reason for the Bad Craziness resulting in locked doors and blades for protection).
I informed him that I was scouring the hallway on Thursday evening. Anything remaining in the hallway Thursday morning would be tossed on the curb for municipal trash pickup after I tagged it. And the hallway was a common area, not their storage area. It was to remain clean.
Following that, all complaints regarding their behavior would result in a call to the landlord. This included the wife roaring into the driveway at top speed with rap blaring loud enough to shake the windows, having to climb over bags of trash to exit my apartment, or Screeches by the wife at Top Volume at Ungodly Hours threatening to Kick Someone’s Ass. I had tolerated enough, and I was done.
“Yes,” the husband informed me, “you are, in fact, Done.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Having seen no evidence of Spine previously, I was caught unprepared. This was not part of the Plan.
Then it dawned. Ah yes. The Children. Teenagers, but still. Or perhaps, especially. The Children. My fatal error. I had Spoken Ill of the Absent Parent in front of the Children. I had ceded the high moral ground. I was fucked. It was now merely a question of degree and depth.
“The fact that you called the landlord rather than talking to me tells me she was right about you. Slinking around taking pictures of the hallway. What kind of shit is that?”
(I considered telling him that the photos were not to show the landlord, but were instead for the shock and amusement of my friends and associates on Facebook. However, realizing this would not exactly strengthen my position at this point, I remained silent.)
“So I ask you - since I have to clear my shit out of the hallway, are you prepared to deal with the trash can every Thursday?”
I was stunned. I had vacated the moral high ground, prepared for a royal reaming for redemption in the eyes of the children, and this petty shit is what he comes up with?
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll even buy a new trash can.”
“And are you prepared to purchase your own snow shovel, since you told me to clear my shit out of the hallway?”
Again, the mind reeled. “Ummm...sure....”
“And are you prepared to kick in for part of my electric bill, since the light for the hallway is on my meter?”
This crossed the line of sanity - I could take no more . “I will buy a fucking flashlight,” I informed him, and headed up the stairs, turning out the light and ascending in the pitch darkness. Fate smiled on my key selection in the blind shadows, and I quickly opened and closed the door.
I fired up the stereo. Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin” followed quickly by “Bitch”. No sense in beating about the bush. Good Mick Taylor riffs, drowning out the bad noise of the downstairs - sixteen year old threatening to leave the house (bad flashbacks - where’s the rum...ah, rum....devil rum...), wife coming out, ranting about her Unfair Position as the bad guy, that she never DID anything to deserve it, and maybe I just needed my Fucking Ass Kicked to prove how innocent she fucking was.
Pizza. Rum. Stones. “Dead Flowers.” Clear the air. Clear the mind. Make it go away. Bad noise about calling the landlord about ME. But what had I done? What could they possibly say? More rum. Nothing. I was innocent. White sheets straight from the washing machine I couldn’t use this weekend due to the foul and filth....
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
On edge, immediately, like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. NO ONE ever knocks on my door in this town.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
“Who me?”
“It’s me - you know which me. I want to talk with you over a beer. Got ‘em right here...”
Sure. Along with your crazy-ass wife and a fucking shiv...
“I have nothing to say to you tonight.”
“C’mon man, I thought we were friends...”
Sure - I listen to you rant about the Evil Progressives who want all your hard-earned unemployment money while you drink my beer. Still not worth a shiv in the spleen, fuck you very much...not tonight...
“I have nothing to say to you. Maybe later. But not tonight. Not now. Go away.”
A sigh. “I’m really disappointed in you, man.”
“Likewise.” I don’t know if he hears. I doubt he would admit it even if he had.
Silence as I’ve typed the following words, and the lack of flickering from my windows tells me my car is not on fire. It is likely soaked from the recent rains and open sunroof, which was not enough of an incentive to go outside to brave the possibility of either having my Teeth Kicked In or suffer the Offer of a Friendly Beer. (Frankly put, the Friendly Beer is the more terrifying possibility - Teeth Kicked In is a simple and uncomplicated assault charge.) It is early enough that I don’t dare fall asleep - I will get merely an hour, and it might be best to remain awake with the assistance of heavy stimulants. Or perhaps just an hour of uncomplicated sleep before the hammer comes down tomorrow. Hard to say. Either way, tomorrow promises to be highly interesting, in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse. Good night and good luck.
And it all started by just wanting to do my laundry over Labor Day Weekend...
Photographic evidence of the degeneracy and foulness of the laundry area is available on my Facebook page. I would like to state, for the record, that the photographed condition is the rule, not the exception, though I am usually able to stagger over the trash to do my laundry. However, with my new position requiring a veneer of respectability (or at least dress pants), I declared at top volume my annoyance at the state of affairs and the need to do my laundry at the laundromat, which required actual money. This resulted in the thousand-yard “fuck-with-me-I-dare-you” stare of the wife, and the “oh” of the husband.
As I filled two washers at the laundromat with $2.25 each (incidentally, the price of a draft beer at the local bar, where I was informed this weekend that I was eligible for a Medal and Commendation if I remained in my current apartment for over six months, by local legend), I seethed over the domination of my life by the downstairs Harpie wife, the “neighbor Sarah” incident (some know, and that is a tale worth telling all its own if you haven’t heard it), and the constant diatribes by the Beck-head husband about the Evils of Progressives and the oncoming Rapture. I was angry. I was enraged. I found my spine straightening. And I Brought the Hammer Down.
I called the landlord to tell him the laundry area was unusable, and to tell the full tale of the “Sarah Incident”.
(This may not seem extreme, or even unreasonable. But, the wife downstairs specifically pulled me aside when I moved in to let me know they were Decent and Reasonable People, Good Americans, and that any issues I might have I could happily take up with them without involving the landlord, who was a known Crude and Degenerate Man, not to be bothered by Trivialities.)
(Another side note - the landlord asked me to drop off my rent in person this week, not only due to it being three days late, but he wanted to chat. He had heard rumors about the “Sarah Incident”, and wanted to assure me to not only not take any guff from the downstairs neighbors, but to please let him know if any Bad Craziness was going on, as they were “inches away from eviction” as it was. So I was under an Obligation.)
Upon my return from doing laundry and getting a haircut (the less said about that the better - a wretched butchery deserving of its own rant), I informed the husband about my conversation with the landlord.
“Ohhhh...not good...not good...”
Whatever, I thought. Not my fucking problem. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride, and let the Chips fall where they may. And I slept well. Which might just see me through until tomorrow, as there is no sleeping tonight...
Returning home his evening, I found the foyer had been superficially cleaned. Swept. Bag of trash gone. Other, deeper foulness remaining, of course. Amazing what a call to the landlord accomplishes, I thought.
I was greedy - drunk on the recently successful campaign. I wanted more. And, after an unrelated phone call that put me in an evil and foul mood on top of the crazy, I confronted the husband in front of the house, in the presence of the kids (a fatal error in judgement that will haunt me in this exchange, and much of the reason for the Bad Craziness resulting in locked doors and blades for protection).
I informed him that I was scouring the hallway on Thursday evening. Anything remaining in the hallway Thursday morning would be tossed on the curb for municipal trash pickup after I tagged it. And the hallway was a common area, not their storage area. It was to remain clean.
Following that, all complaints regarding their behavior would result in a call to the landlord. This included the wife roaring into the driveway at top speed with rap blaring loud enough to shake the windows, having to climb over bags of trash to exit my apartment, or Screeches by the wife at Top Volume at Ungodly Hours threatening to Kick Someone’s Ass. I had tolerated enough, and I was done.
“Yes,” the husband informed me, “you are, in fact, Done.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Having seen no evidence of Spine previously, I was caught unprepared. This was not part of the Plan.
Then it dawned. Ah yes. The Children. Teenagers, but still. Or perhaps, especially. The Children. My fatal error. I had Spoken Ill of the Absent Parent in front of the Children. I had ceded the high moral ground. I was fucked. It was now merely a question of degree and depth.
“The fact that you called the landlord rather than talking to me tells me she was right about you. Slinking around taking pictures of the hallway. What kind of shit is that?”
(I considered telling him that the photos were not to show the landlord, but were instead for the shock and amusement of my friends and associates on Facebook. However, realizing this would not exactly strengthen my position at this point, I remained silent.)
“So I ask you - since I have to clear my shit out of the hallway, are you prepared to deal with the trash can every Thursday?”
I was stunned. I had vacated the moral high ground, prepared for a royal reaming for redemption in the eyes of the children, and this petty shit is what he comes up with?
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll even buy a new trash can.”
“And are you prepared to purchase your own snow shovel, since you told me to clear my shit out of the hallway?”
Again, the mind reeled. “Ummm...sure....”
“And are you prepared to kick in for part of my electric bill, since the light for the hallway is on my meter?”
This crossed the line of sanity - I could take no more . “I will buy a fucking flashlight,” I informed him, and headed up the stairs, turning out the light and ascending in the pitch darkness. Fate smiled on my key selection in the blind shadows, and I quickly opened and closed the door.
I fired up the stereo. Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin” followed quickly by “Bitch”. No sense in beating about the bush. Good Mick Taylor riffs, drowning out the bad noise of the downstairs - sixteen year old threatening to leave the house (bad flashbacks - where’s the rum...ah, rum....devil rum...), wife coming out, ranting about her Unfair Position as the bad guy, that she never DID anything to deserve it, and maybe I just needed my Fucking Ass Kicked to prove how innocent she fucking was.
Pizza. Rum. Stones. “Dead Flowers.” Clear the air. Clear the mind. Make it go away. Bad noise about calling the landlord about ME. But what had I done? What could they possibly say? More rum. Nothing. I was innocent. White sheets straight from the washing machine I couldn’t use this weekend due to the foul and filth....
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
On edge, immediately, like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. NO ONE ever knocks on my door in this town.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
“Who me?”
“It’s me - you know which me. I want to talk with you over a beer. Got ‘em right here...”
Sure. Along with your crazy-ass wife and a fucking shiv...
“I have nothing to say to you tonight.”
“C’mon man, I thought we were friends...”
Sure - I listen to you rant about the Evil Progressives who want all your hard-earned unemployment money while you drink my beer. Still not worth a shiv in the spleen, fuck you very much...not tonight...
“I have nothing to say to you. Maybe later. But not tonight. Not now. Go away.”
A sigh. “I’m really disappointed in you, man.”
“Likewise.” I don’t know if he hears. I doubt he would admit it even if he had.
Silence as I’ve typed the following words, and the lack of flickering from my windows tells me my car is not on fire. It is likely soaked from the recent rains and open sunroof, which was not enough of an incentive to go outside to brave the possibility of either having my Teeth Kicked In or suffer the Offer of a Friendly Beer. (Frankly put, the Friendly Beer is the more terrifying possibility - Teeth Kicked In is a simple and uncomplicated assault charge.) It is early enough that I don’t dare fall asleep - I will get merely an hour, and it might be best to remain awake with the assistance of heavy stimulants. Or perhaps just an hour of uncomplicated sleep before the hammer comes down tomorrow. Hard to say. Either way, tomorrow promises to be highly interesting, in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse. Good night and good luck.
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