26 August, 2011

OK, show of hands.

So, how many people here knew Pete from The League was the front man for a pretty OK indie band called Volcano, I'm Still Excited!? (That's not an interrobang, the band's name is punctuated with an exclamation point and I was asking a question.) Me? I found out only about a month or so ago. Let me check my history...
June 17th. June 17th was the day I found the video to the right and wondered, Holy shit. An actor I like (despite knowing him from only one thing) making music I can tolerate.
Yes. Tolerate. I'm not going head over heels for it just yet. I'm digging it, I'm just not losing my nut over it.
Anyhoo, if you're digging it too, check out their video for "Trunk of my Car.

Also? Say you're stuck working a fourteen hour shift and - since cooking is out of the question - you order a Jimmy John from the shop four blocks away and it takes them forty minutes to get to your place which is not impossible but not expected because they've taken forever before (it usually takes them ten to fifteen minutes) and you know what happens to a sandwich after being jostled around by a bike courier for forty minutes (the bread gets soggy) so you ask the delivery boy how the bread is because -
"Huh? Oh, it should be fine."
Just came from the shop?
"Yeah."
Cool. You tip the kid and go back inside. Say you put your sandwich and your Sprite on the office desk and unwrap the sandwich to find that the bread is now some odd, amorphous, gelatinous entity and your sandwich falls apart. You see the delivery guy on his cellphone and getting on his bike and you run outside and say, Hey!
Kid starts pedaling off.
You're following him. "Hey!"
Kid's to the corner now.
"Delivery guy!"
He's booking it to the next delivery.
Defeated, you think maybe you can eat around the shitty bread. Nope. So now, you do the unspeakable: You call the store. You don't want to call the store, it's a dick move. But then you reconsider because that punk asshole delivery boy just lied right to your face about your fucking sandwich. And you're a notoriously heavy tipper. Fuck this shit: Phone it in.
You do like you always do: You play it cool with the manager. No hopping up and down screaming. No cursing. Don't make any allegations toward that little lying sack of shit delivery boy. Just mention that you placed your order and what you got was indeed not a sub so fast you'd flip, but a sandwich that been sitting in the bottom of a messenger bag for forty minutes and it's... kind of... slowly... falling... apart right in front of you as you're on the phone with a manager who, thanks to you not being a dick, is wonderfully pleasant and promises to make the sandwich personally.
Watch your replacement sandwich show up in ten minutes. Watch that shit. Watch how it shows up with a handwritten apology and a coupon for a free sandwich stapled right to the goddamned bag. Watch that shit happen. And you know why it happened? Because you were reasonable, calm, fair, easy going, hell, you even apologized for calling in with a complaint. Now look at you. You've got what? The manager (who sounded cute, by the way, and you hope that little twat-snot of a delivery boy fucks your sandwich up again so you can call her) personally made your sandwich and wrote you an apology letter and you've got a goddamned free sandwich coming to you.
What I've been preaching for years, mon petit illiterati: Be a good customer.

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