So I went to try and get my Cure tickets the other day. The ever-so-helpful nitwit at the Ticketmaster booth asked for the credit card to which I charged the ticket.
As my long-time viewers will no doubt recall, I no longer have said credit card, thanks to some random asshat. I thought this might be a problem, so I was prepared. I knew the credit card number, I had my confirmation number on me, and I had several pieces of ID so I could prove who I was. That is, I could prove I was the guy who had already paid for those motherfucking tickets.
No dice.
Nitwit calls Ticketmaster's Evil Mountain Customer Service Lair. She hangs up, and then tells ME to call them. (Hmm? Handing the fucking phone over didn't occur?) She hands me a phone number, saying I have to call them and change the credit card number of the order (huh?) to pick up my tickets, because there are more than two days until the time of the show.
This says to me that she could have given me the tickets. She just gave me runaround because she could.
Argh.
So the next day, I woke up early to make sure I'd have some business-hour phone time (long distance, no 800 number, no less) before I headed into the office, and I get to deal with the most obnoxious little jackass on the phone. He wasn't rude - his tone just reeked of "I get to be a little customer service nazi and lord it over any poor customers who may need my assistance."
Grr.
Now, I wasn't particularly thrilled to be giving the new credit card # out, given the cruel fate of the last one. But I did it. And I'm going to pick my tickets up tomorrow, I reckon.
And God help them if I have the slightest headache getting them this time. Monday night, I'm gonna be rocking out to the Cure and hoping to run into my homeboy extraordinair dholokhov at the concession stand.
Much love, all.
Oh, but fuck Ticketmaster.
As my long-time viewers will no doubt recall, I no longer have said credit card, thanks to some random asshat. I thought this might be a problem, so I was prepared. I knew the credit card number, I had my confirmation number on me, and I had several pieces of ID so I could prove who I was. That is, I could prove I was the guy who had already paid for those motherfucking tickets.
No dice.
Nitwit calls Ticketmaster's Evil Mountain Customer Service Lair. She hangs up, and then tells ME to call them. (Hmm? Handing the fucking phone over didn't occur?) She hands me a phone number, saying I have to call them and change the credit card number of the order (huh?) to pick up my tickets, because there are more than two days until the time of the show.
This says to me that she could have given me the tickets. She just gave me runaround because she could.
Argh.
So the next day, I woke up early to make sure I'd have some business-hour phone time (long distance, no 800 number, no less) before I headed into the office, and I get to deal with the most obnoxious little jackass on the phone. He wasn't rude - his tone just reeked of "I get to be a little customer service nazi and lord it over any poor customers who may need my assistance."
Grr.
Now, I wasn't particularly thrilled to be giving the new credit card # out, given the cruel fate of the last one. But I did it. And I'm going to pick my tickets up tomorrow, I reckon.
And God help them if I have the slightest headache getting them this time. Monday night, I'm gonna be rocking out to the Cure and hoping to run into my homeboy extraordinair dholokhov at the concession stand.
Much love, all.
Oh, but fuck Ticketmaster.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
1. Hair. Its hair is about eight months longer than in its profile pic. it is 'combed' in a style which makes co-workers remark "y'know, you could spend enough time grooming to make casual observers think you actually have a job." Although as it's concert day it might be a little more tidy.
2. Size. It is very small. Probably about the size of your friend Ginny. (The profile pic, in fact, is life sized).
3. Coloration. it will be wearing electric blue (rather than blueberry) 8-hole doc martens with neon yellow laces. If it can find it, it will also be wearing a "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me" tour shirt.
4. Natural range. In the standing room area/pit. Due to its size, it will probably be -
a) being knocked about helplessly in a mosh pit (if antiquated cure fans are able to start one)
b) possibly trying to sneak between people and up to the very front where its face will inevitably be squished against a barrier - or -
c) trying to jump up and down to get a look over the top of the taller people who invariably stand in front of it.
(Do I remember reading that you were in the 9th row or something? If so, I will scan behind me and look for the telltale shaved head).
Actually, I'll send you my email through your contact and if you want to we can arrange something. Me and my friend are a little shaky about when we'll show up. We don't know if we'll even leave work early, and we have to get to the amphitheater from our workplace in Scarborough. I would really like to catch Interpol and he wants to see Mogwai, but beyond that we're not sure about stuff...