Termagant Tuesday

Termagant Tuesday: “Yachts (A Man Called Adam Remix,” Coco Steele and Lovebomb

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“I don’t know much about being a millionaire, but I bet I’d be darling at it.”

Dorothy Parker is my spirit guide, as anyone who knows me will tell you.  I can rattle off any number of her bon mots.  The above quote is always the one that pops into my mind over the summer.  I know for a fact that I would be really talented at swanning around Capri or Monaco on a yacht.  I’d really be excellent at that.  Why?

  • I look great in hats
  • I look great in sunglasses
  • I can speak lovely French and the things I don’t know I can whizz by with a smile
  • I know the entire history behind, in addition to being able to make and drink sizable quantities of, a French 75

So, really, what I need to do with the remainder of my youth is come into a vast fortune, and spend a season every year in the south of France on my boat.  I really don’t see why this would be complicated at all.

Termagant Tuesday: “Hora Decubitus,” Charles Mingus

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You know what’s really fun, Tune-Up fans?  Really curl-your-socks, better-than-pancakes fun?

Spending four hours on the phone with Sears customer service.  YOLO. 

Actually, I need to back up.  This was an actual saga.  This whole thing was cursed from the start.  First of all, I made the mistake, ten years ago, of moving to Washington, D.C.  For those of you who have never visited, let alone lived here, it is habitable for, collectively, fifteen days out of the year.  Beginning in late May and petering out in mid-October, it is brain-bendingly hot and humid.  It’s like the rain forest with more food options but fewer parrots.

But no point dwelling on the past.  I moved here.  I stayed here.  I will doggedly continue to stay here, idiot that I am.  But to do that, I need an apartment that is cool.  For that to happen, I need window unit air conditioners.  “Easy peasy,” said I!  I ordered one from online from Sears.  (Let me say that again.  I ordered it online.  This will come up again later.)  A few days later, it was delivered.  Excellent!

Except not excellent.  Not even remotely excellent.  It was delivered, alright – to my old address.  My old address is a quick ten minute walk away, if unencumbered by a 78-pound metal box filled with toxic coolant.  So I had to figure out a way to get it out from inside the apartment of the woman to whom it had been delivered (and who had taken possession of it without notifying the super, which was a little weird, but that’s neither here nor there).  Thanks to the ministrations and car and forbearance and arm strength and all round good-person-ness of Mr. Yankette, I got it out of the old apartment, into the elevator, down the stairs, into the car, down the street, around the corner, up the stairs, into the elevator, and into my new apartment.

Just in time for the installation guys (who charge about a hundred dollars) to arrive.  Phew!  

Except not phew.  Installation Man did his groovy installation thing, popped it in, screwed it to the window, caulked the gaps, turned it on, and *beep!* went the air conditioner.  It might as well have been programmed to say, “Hello!  I am an expensive piece of equipment and am programmed to disappoint!  I have a hidden camera to record the number of times and different ways you will fiddle with my wires and read my instruction manual and after you’ve collapsed in tears I will send the tape electronically to my manufacturer for the company’s blooper reel!  It’s a real hit at our holiday party!”

The air conditioner blew hot air.  That’s all it did.  It looked very pretty blowing hot air – like so many humans – but hot air was not what was required.  “$%&!,” said I.  So I did what anyone with an as-yet-unmaxed credit card and a grudge does: called an independent third party to verify the results.  So two hours and two phone calls later, Verifier Man shows up.  “Yep,” said he, “you got a dud.”  He urged me to call Sears and get them to fix the problem.  “But it’s not going to be easy – they’re going to fight you on this one.”

Tell me, O muse, of the ingenious air conditioner repair man who warned the unsuspecting client of the vagaries of Sears customer service, before the death of charity and reason.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to identify the correct number, amongst the fourteen options provided, to dial in order to tell a company their product is defective?  It turns out they really don’t make it easy for you to do that.  Amazing.  Anyway, I found the general customer service hotline and three minutes later, I got a human.  I explained to the human my situation.  The human sympathized in a pre-programmed way and transferred me to their online purchases department.  After four minutes on hold, I spoke to Online Purchases Department Human.  Online Purchases Department Human said that she can’t find my records online but since it got installed today she would transfer me to the installation department.  “What?  Why?”  “Hold please.”  “What – …okay.”

The installation department now had the con.  After a five minute wait on hold, I got another human.  I explain to the Installation Department Human my situation.  The human sympathized in the most believable way out of everyone I spoke with over the course of these four hours – but, because life loves irony more than the French, was absolutely unmoved in helping me solve the problem.  Here was the problem.  You ready for this?  This was awesome.

Even though I bought my air conditioner online, I had to bring it into the store to get it repaired.  Why?  Because it crossed the “weight threshold” below which electronic items are considered too puny and unimportant to send someone out to deal with.  Never mind my air conditioner weighed 78 pounds, that I had no car, and that, even if it were four pounds and I had a jet pack, that rationale made absolutely no sense at all.  This human: unmoved.  She urged me to call a Sears store and tell them about the problem.

So, I did.  I called a Sears store.  The line was busy.  I redialed.  The line was busy.  I redialed eight times.  The line rang.  I told Sears Store Man the problem and what Installation Department Human had said.  Sears Store Man’s reaction?  “That’s insane.  Call this number.”  The number I got?

The “customer solutions” number.

I went back to the Sears website and could not find this number anywhere which only makes sense if you are actively against providing solutions for your customers.  The plot thickened.

I called customer solutions, and after a seven minute wait (you see how this works? the closer to Olympus, the steeper the climb), I got Customer Solutions Human.  I explained the situation.  Customer Solutions Human said that because I ordered it online (yes!) I would have to be transferred to the Online Purchasing Department (what?!  no!  crap!  not them again!  I have so many plans for the rest of my life!) but in case that didn’t work, here was the number for…wait for it…

Online Customer Solutions.

WHAT.

So I was transferred back to the Online Purchasing Department.  Which is when I met Cody.  Cody is a real, honest to god, human.  Cody is not Online Purchasing Department Human.  Cody is like me – he has hopes and dreams, likes and dislikes, and a healthy respect for the uses of freon and time.  Cody got me.  I spent 53 minutes and 17 seconds on the phone with Cody.  Here is roughly a transcript of what happened after I described the problem.

Me: “So, how can I solve this problem?”

Cody: “Well, let me pull up your records and take a look.  Would you mind if I put you on a brief hold?”

Me: “Sure, go ahead.”

— doooo dooddoe n doot dee dooo…—

Cody: “I can’t find any record of your online purchase, which is weird.”

Me: “That is weird.”

Cody: “Can I have your order number?”

Me: “Yep.  It’s **********.”

Cody: “Thanks.  Would you mind if I put you on a brief hold?”

Me: “Sure, go ahead.”

— doooo dooddoe n doot dee dooo…—

Cody: “Thanks for waiting.  Here is it.  So here’s the problem: because the AC was picked up at a warehouse and delivered by UPS, that’s why they told you you’d have to bring it back to a Sears store.”

Me: “Wait…isn’t that what always happens?  With literally everything you sell online?  UPS picks it up from a warehouse and brings it to the person who ordered it?”

Cody: “Yep.”

Me: “So…if this is standard operating procedure, how is this a problem?  Because I wouldn’t have to pull my fridge from the wall, rent a truck, put it in a truck, and drive it to a store to get it fixed.”

Cody: “Yeah…that’s true…  Would you mind if I put you on a brief hold?”

Me: “Sure, go ahead.”

— doooo dooddoe n doot dee dooo…—

Cody: “Thanks for waiting.  So I spoke to the installation department and the online services department, and I’m sending someone to uninstall the unit for you, for free, and once that’s done, give me a call, and I’ll have UPS come pick it up for you.  How’s that?”

Me: “That’s great, Cody, thanks a lot.”

Cody: “You bet.”

God bless you, Cody, wherever and whoever you are.

And now, since that all took up half of my work day, I will now go about doing the work I had to do during the daylight hours before I go to sleep tonight.  Which, in fact, is what “hora decubitus” means in Latin.  (See?  I always tie it together.)

Termagant Tuesday: “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Sam Levine

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsFt6vELkcw

 

The scene: City Tap House, Washington, D.C.

The people: Four female friends and your Yankette.

The motivation: US v. Ghana, i.e. Grudge Match 2014, i.e. the first game the U.S. is playing in this year’s World Cup.

Dempsey’s early goal set the mood.  Ghana’s late goal to tie the match set the bar into hyper drive.  Then when Brooks, a sub – a substitute (could this get any better?  Jesus, it was like Dan Gladden in the ’91 World Series) – scored the winning goal, I have never, ever heard cheering like that.  Portia overturned the popcorn.  Megan almost dropped her beer.  Anahi, Leila and I threw our arms around each other.  And the entire bar, in chorus: “USA!  USA!  USA!  USA!  USA!”

Do I think we’ll win the World Cup?  Who knows.  But that was a pretty beautiful moment.

SHAME WEEK! Termagant Tuesday: “Tapestry,” Michael Jones

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Wood varnish, modern dance, and New York City.  Those are the three things that come to mind when I hear this.

Wood varnish: I am seven.  My mom refinished…man. I lost count of the number of things she refinished in the house I grew up in.  Our beautiful old upright piano, tables, chairs.  Not to mention all of the other home improvement projects she had going on.  A Michael Jones cassette was part of the music rotation she would put on the paint-splattered radio-tape player that kept her company when the fumes were too strong for a kid to deal with.  Michael Jones was soon supplanted by Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” and I took “Pianoscapes” for myself.  It heavily influenced my own early compositions.  Don’t get me wrong – this music isn’t that great.  But what it did do for a little kid writing her own stuff was make it okay to experiment with melodic changes, time signature changes, and rhythmic changes.  It also made it okay to write “songs” that were more than ten minutes long.  You’re welcome, neighbors.

Modern dance: I am ten.  I took a bunch of different styles of dance when I was a kid but modern dance was the only one that I really got into because – surprise! – there aren’t a whole lot of rules.  Perfect.  One homework assignment was to create our own dance and set it to music.  The person who came up with the most popular dance (decided by a very public vote) would choreograph a whole group routine.  I used “Tapestry.”  I did not win.

New York City: I am thirteen.  For my thirteenth birthday, I got to go to New York City and visit my godmother.  She lived by the courthouse in Manhattan and worked in the fashion industry.  She was (and still is), very tall and very glamorous.  She took me shopping to buy my very first make-up (Clinique – what’s up).  She bought me my first pair of black cigarette pants.  We ate escargot and went to the theater.  It was incredible.  We also went to a bookstore that had a CD section and I bought the CD version of the now six-year-old cassette tape.  I put it on her CD player when we got back to her enormous apartment and I remember walking around her very modernist two-bedroom, looking at the city lights glowing in the dark, with this piece pouring out of the speakers.  That’s a very happy memory.

Termagant Tuesday: “5 Steps,” Radiohead vs. Dave Brubeck

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PQQPUb8Rl0

 

It can take a long, long, long time to figure things out.  The sermon in church this Sunday*, preached by the absolutely marvelous Stan Fornea, talked about this at length.  Specifically the idea of mystery, and how we as Christians, and American Christians to boot, are problem-solvers: we don’t like dealing with the unknown.  We like certainty and facts.  We apply this to the religious sphere by attributing things to God that aren’t really God’s problem.  As hard as it is to swallow, some stuff might just be completely random.

I think this is absolutely maddening and also delightfully freeing.  To not have to ascribe meaning to a screw-up, a bad day, a good day, a human interaction, any of it – to not have to dig around in the dirt for some ultimate purpose – means we can throw up our hands, say “aw the hell with it,” and try again.  Or not!  Devoid of the suffocatingly cloying “everything happens for a reason” maxim, a fluke is just a fluke.  You’re not destined for anything.  We aren’t forced to give a damn.  It’s kind of great.

“How come I end up where I’ve started?  How come I end up where I went wrong?”

Who knows.  But you get to decide whether, and how, you want to figure it out.

*Yeah, it says Luis Leon; it’s Rev. Fornea.  Trust me.  Also – you’ll have to trust me on this too – Rev. Fornea preached without notes.  He’s amazing.

Termagant Tuesday: “Fear of the South,” Tin Hat Trio

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I know.  It’s the first work day after a long weekend.  We’ll get through it together.  Throw your shoulders back and march into the office with vigor and aplomb.  Make up a story about how you got that sunburn that’s even better than the truth.  No one will believe you actually went paddle-boating anyway.

Termagant Tuesday: “Pennies From Heaven,” Louis Prima

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To follow up on yesterday’s super-inspiring Peruvian llamas post, about which a number of you wrote me to suggest perhaps I needed a vacation (thanks, genius), here’s a song that will make you feel like you just won one for free.  And because you got lippy with me, I’m going to tell you, in the longest, wordiest possible way, how it was I came to find this song.  Aren’t you excited?  …Say you’re excited.

Long before there were iPods and MP3 players (aside: I love how we still say “MP3 players” even though the market for Apple alternatives only existed for about 20 minutes), there were discmen and CDs.  And poor students have existed since the beginning of time, or at least since the beginning of the $800 college textbook (hi, Dad!).  So it was a big deal when my university’s student union would have CD sales.  This being a student union at a small university in the middle of nowhere that nevertheless attracted a healthy international student body, the selections were really weird.

This one particular afternoon, after I’d slept off my hangover (sorry, Dad…), I padded down the street to the union to get a cheap late lunch before gently installing myself in the library. And when I walked through the front doors, what hit my senses first?  Well, yes, stale beer on the floor, but – a huge rack of CDs.  Hot damn!  I got three: a Meatloaf album, a classical thing of some kind, and our pal Louis Prima.

Whenever I have a hard day that still allows some room for bucking up, unlike those days that are so frustrating you just want to hide in a dark closet, I put this on.

Now aren’t you glad I took you on that stroll down Memory Lane?  …Say you’re glad.

Termagant Tuesday: “Jeeves and Wooster,” Annie Dudley

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I’ve lived in D.C. for ten years now.  Before that, I lived in the U.K.  Both places have the same arresting, and misunderstood, quirk, which is this: everyone spends the first five minutes of each new interaction trying to size the stranger up.  This manifests itself in different ways in both places.  In the U.K., I was asked questions about what school I attended, where in New England precisely I had lived, and – delightfully – what my family was “in.”  (That one in particular made me feel like I was at Epcot Center and the British person to whom I was speaking was actually an acting student from Gays Mills, Wisconsin.)  The obvious purpose behind all this was to assess where in the crusty social strata I fell.  Here is where the misunderstanding kicks in.  I learned over the course of many years that it doesn’t stop there, that there was a further point beyond that one, which was to ascertain how much of their own life were they now going to feel comfortable divulging.  It really didn’t have much to do at all with stereotypical snootiness, beyond the tacit acknowledgement of the existence of a social strata in the first place.  They just wanted to know who they were talking to so they didn’t do anything stupid.

The exact same principle exists in D.C.  Washington also has social strata, layered on top of which is the fascinating reality that no one just sort of ends up here: people come to D.C. by choice.  Therefore, where you work can speak immeasurable volumes about who you are, and everything that means: your politics, your background, your values, your level of cultivation, your drive, your everything.  So, the very first question you get asked in D.C. is, “So where do you work?”  Again, like the U.K, this isn’t only a yardstick of how you stack up against this stranger as much as it’s a gauge of how much you can relax around them.  Say you and your work friends from the E.P.A are out at a bar blowing off steam after a terrible day, and you run into an old college acquaintance who’s got some friends of her own in tow.  You’re not going to ask people where they work so you can pat yourself on the back again for going to Bennington.  You’re going to ask them where they work so that you know whether you can sound off about that coal country Senator who is still deciding whether or not to block the passage of muscular clean water legislation, or whether that new guy in the madras shirt is his legislative aide.

This is one of the many reasons I felt so at home in the U.K., and why I feel equally – if ironically – at ease in D.C.  I like living a life that cautions me against gum-flapping about Russia because I might be sitting next to the new President of the German Marshall Fund at the symphony.  True story.  (It was so awesome OMG.)  Puts me mind of my favorite Wodehouse quote, whose hilarious “Jeeves and Wooster” stories were turned into one of the best TV shows ever made:

“I’m not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping.”  — P.G. Wodehouse, “Carry On, Jeeves”

Termagant Tuesday: “Cultural Exchange,” Louis Armstrong (et al)

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Years ago, at a house party in a dodgy part of D.C., I got into what soon became an argument with some random guy while refiling my drink.  I was in my early 20s and very ego contra mundi; with my college degree, international job, and over-priced one-bedroom apartment, I had a lot to prove.  So anyway, I’m at this party.  It’s a mix of people – some international types, some private sector types, probably about fifty people or so.  Some friend of mine from work had brought me, and, after a few whiskey-sodas, I was having a pretty good time.  Robbie Williams, of all people, was on the stereo, I remember that distinctly, and I remember thinking, “why is Robbie Williams playing?!” as I walked to the bar (aka someone’s dining room table) in the corner to get another drink.

Which is where I met this guy.  His name was Jonah.  We did the obligatory “where do you work” tango, and got to talking about his job.  Jonah worked at the State Department facilitating educational exchanges of foreign college students to the United States and vice versa.  Jonah seemed a little down on it, and I pressed him to explain why.  Jonah said that he thought educational exchanges were fine, but really, what encouraged the growth American values abroad was the spread of capitalism.  I furrowed the ol’ eyebrows and said that seemed a bit of a limp argument.  If it were purely capitalism and free markets, why is America a nation of immigrants?  Because America is an idea, and that idea is self-determination.  Capitalism is an expression of self-determination, it isn’t the end-all, be-all.

We parried and thrusted about this for a while until Jonah, whose stock value was rapidly decreasing, snorted and said something like, “well, I mean, come on: the Soviet Union.”  To which I responded, “uh…what about the Soviet Union?”  He said, “blue jeans, man.  People wanted to buy blue jeans.”  I arched an eyebrow.  “You mean to tell me that, according to you, we brought down the Soviet Union and ended the Cold War with…pants?”

I probably should have left it there, but, well, I didn’t, and I battered him on how the greatness of America lies in the delicate balance between the power of the market and the power of the individual and how people wanted the choice of what kinds of things to buy (like pants), and so on.  If I’d been able to continue, I would have added the power of music – especially the freedom encapsulated in jazz.  But I think Louis Armstrong articulates this far better than I did.  And I bet no one tugged at his elbow and gently suggested maybe it was time to go.

—

From reports on Dizzy Gillespie
It was clear to the local press he
Quelled the riots in far off Greece
Restored the place to comparative peace
That’s what we call cultural exchange.

When Diz blew, the riots were routed
People danced and they cheered and shouted
The headlines bannered the hour as his
They dropped their stones and they rocked with Diz.
That’s what we call cultural exchange.

Yeah! I remember when Diz was in Greece back in ’57.
He did such a good job we started sending jazz all over the world.
The State Department has discovered jazz
It reaches folks like nothing ever has.
Like when they feel that jazzy rhythm
They know we’re really with ’em.
That’s what we call cultural exchange.

No commodity is quite so strange
as this thing called cultural exchange.
Say that our prestige needs a tonic?
Export the Philharmonic.
That’s what we call cultural exchange!

We put “Oklahoma” in Japan.
“South Pacific” we gave to Iran.
And when all our neighbors call us vermin,
We send out Woody Herman.
That’s what we call cultural exchange.

Gershwin gave the Muscovites a thrill (with Porgy and Bess)
Bernstein was the darling of Brazil (and isn’t he hip?)
And just to stop internal mayhem
We dispatch Martha Graham.
That’s what we call cultural exchange
That’s what we call cultural exchange

Yeah, and if the world gets whacky
We’ll get John to send out Jackie!
(You mean Jackie Robinson?
No man, the First Lady!)
That’s what we call cultural exchange
That’s what we call cultural exchange.

Termagant Tuesday: “Semper Fidelis March,” Bob Crosby

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What with all the hoo-hah happening in the world (yes, I am a defense analyst, hello), it occurs to one, especially this American one, that there are certain things we all count on to maintain order and stability.  Among these things, which would include trade and commerce, diplomacy, and a worldwide dislike of Justin Bieber (at least among those old enough to make powerful decisions), is the United States Marine Corps.  Say what you will about the use of American power abroad, you can’t deny that there is a reason why “Marine” has a powerful ring to it.  To salute my male and female friends in the Corps, most especially one friend in particular who is welcoming his first child into the world, I offer up this zippy Bob Crosby number.  Semper Fi!