Saturday, July 31, 2010

Clinton Wedding, Rocky Horror, Cow Judging, And The Great Tour Shirt Debacle

I've been saving this one up, 'cause it's just too good.
Picture it: Denver, earlier this month; we've just finished with limo-watch.
In the last few years, Paul fans have exploded... almost literally, exploded.
Concerts used to be a rather reserved affair, but not any more; folks practically stampede each other to get to the merchandise, to their seats, to get pictures, even peeving the precious when he sings (I know, I've seen it myself)... it almost makes me look polite about the whole thing. Perhaps you remember the terrible Who Concert Disaster? If that hadn't happened then, we'd be calling it the terrible McCartney Concert Disaster.
Needless to say, they've started putting up merchandise stands outside the venue, before you are even allowed inside. This works out really well for us, because Daddy doesn't go with us to the show, but he can take all our goodies back to the hotel with him when he drops us off.
Once you get to the front of the merchandise line (after fighting with everybody else, of course), they rush you through, take your money as you count it out, tell you to get out of the way, and move on to the next schmuck.
When it was our turn, we got a venue specific shirt, three other shirts, and a jacket (oh yeah, believe it). We were shoved unceremoniously out of the way by a gruff-looking lady, and our buying spree was over. Pleased with our purchases, we accompanied Daddy back to the car, and headed for the doors.
Everything goes splendidly; we have a lovely afternoon the next day, and are on our way home poorer, but happier.
Two days after the show, we finally get the chance for a really good look at our goodies. We admire the jacket, and fawn over the signature on the inside tag; we look at the concert date on the backs of our respective shirts; and then, the venue specific. Well, we knew it was all too good to be true, didn't we?
Imagine my surprise when I arrive home from Denver to find this on the back of my venue specific t-shirt.

Uh, yeah, no.
Not one to give up, I headed over to Paul's official online store, hoping to get contact information. PAY DIRT.
Since it was the weekend, we called first thing on Monday. We were told that it wasn't their problem, and to get in touch with Pepsi Center.
How does one get in touch with Pepsi Center? Who the hell knows. The folks we spoke to on the phone certainly didn't. So. We had to work with this here list of numbers... and believe you me, we tried quite a few of them before we found the right guy. PAY DIRT?
This guy said that he would put us in touch with the bloke we needed, so, we were redirected to the guy on the road with the trucks (PAY DIRT?!); he said we'd have to wait until the shipment for the next stop, Kansas City, got into town before he could send us the right thing. We waited about a week, then gave it a few days, and finally wrote to him, reminding him that he would send us a Denver shirt.
Finally, a couple of days ago, via "EXTREMELY URGENT" FedEx mail, this arrived at my door...
Finally, PAY DIRT, damn it!

This apparently happened to eight other people, so I hope they were as diligent as I was in getting what we paid for.

The moral of this story, children, is to ALWAYS CHECK YOUR MERCHANDISE. And, if it's wrong, BLOODY WELL FIX IT.

It's time for another round of YOU BE THE JUDGE.
Is it just me, or does this guy on the back of our local phone book...

...look just like John Inman?

Though, my favorite phone book advertisement was this one in San Antonio a few years ago...

If you're unfamiliar with Mr. Inman, perhaps this little ditty will refresh your memory...

Hey, if you thought that was questionable, you ought to give this a listen.

Did you see this headline?
I think it's my favorite ever.

At least that headline is a little less baffling than this one...
Some folks have too much fun on company time.


As I was in the process of writing this post, I told my mother it was going to turn out rather annoying.
She said she couldn't believe anything I ever did would be boring.
I told her I said it would be annoying.
She said she could buy that one.
It's vibed, man, fab gear, really swingin'.
No, I don't know what vibed means (I'm thinking it's a regional thing). When I looked it up, though, I found this....

You are now free to go back to your boring lives.

Is It A Subscription Box, Or Something More Sinister? (It's A Subscription Box. Maybe.)