March Rant

Three months after it began in earnest, my web site redesign is done. As with any massively detailed and thoroughly engrossing job, its successful completion has left Gimp simultaneously percolating with delight and limp with an overriding sense of bereavement. Can’t be helped, I suppose. When you invest this much of yourself to an assignment whose deadline is self-imposed and therefore rigidly obeyed, it’s hard to go about your post-project life and not be aware that something large, like a lung, has gone missing.

It was a welcome diversion, I must say. News of the economy since last November has been terrifying, if you follow this sort of thing – and who doesn’t these days? Add to that the scrotum-shriveling spectacle of financial panic as it eviscerates your market … at Christmastime, no less; the one season upon which many retailers bet their entire businesses. And, newly separated, I spent my holidays without the kids or extended family.

It’s been a gloriously shitty year. To tell the truth, Gimp is a little fed up. With everything. This blog; the web site; suppliers all clamoring for money (“Hey, why don’t you drop everything you’re doing, right now, and overnight a check?”); customers flying into a frenzy when their parcels arrive a day late due to a National Fucking Holiday; jerkoff pickup-truck drivers; my dog’s kidney stone; gutters torn by ice from the side of my new house; Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce raising my personal line of credit interest rate by a full percentage point, because none of their money-grubbing-asshole-fraudster-should-all-be-in-prison colleagues are using bailout money to actually ease the credit crunch; rightwing goofballs declaring Barack Obama’s presidency an utter failure, one month after he’s taken office; Canada’s Conservative government spending millions on attack ads against the leader of our Loyal Opposition, almost immediately AFTER an election and in the middle of a financial crisis, because Stephen Harper wants us all to know that Michael Ignatieff is a big stinkhead. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, where does it all end?

I’ll tell you where. Aboard the Celebrity Summit, bound for Dominica from Puerto Rico on March 14. You read correctly: Gimp is checking out for a week; in a way, doing his part to rebuild the economy by spending money he doesn’t have on a cruise of the southern Caribbean, youngest son and girlfriend in tow. My first true vacation in five years, maybe longer.

You’ll excuse the attitude, gentle reader. It isn’t you vexes me, but life, and I’m taking my tonic in less than a week. I’ll write again, perhaps even optimistically and without a healthy side dish of venom, when I get back.

Peace.

Brookstone sucks, Vuzix rocks

You’ll forgive me if I’ve been incommunicado of late. I’m redesigning the MenEssentials web site, from scratch. My poor weed-addled brain, it seems, can process only one major task at a time.

With much sighing of relief, I have come to the successful conclusion of an annoying but not unexpected customer-service experience. I thought I might share it with you. You know, as a sort of cautionary tale. Also, because Brookstone still won’t answer my emails, publish my reviews of their service, or otherwise lend me voice to my mounting frustration – and what good is a blog, after all, if I can’t bitch in public?

In my “I love my electric snow blower” post of December 11, I mentioned once that I have an uncanny ability to pick from myriad identical consumer products the one defective item on the shelf. What can I say? It’s a gift.

That particular form of luck kicks into overdrive especially for the holiday shopping period. I know this, so I take additional care in my Christmas gift selection. This season, for instance, I stood for nearly half an hour in front of a stack of Xbox 360 game consoles, trying to calculate which was the least likely to have been manhandled and damaged by Best Buy’s careless customers or staff. Seems a smidgeon ridiculous, I’ll admit. But an original Xbox, that I bought as a gift for my boys several Christmases back, came out of its carton in completely dysfunctional condition and Toys ‘R Us wouldn’t exchange it for another that worked. I had to mail the wretched thing to Microsoft and wait almost two months for a functioning refurb. So it goes.

My luck also extends to online orders. Naturally, I have no control over which of the many identical items arrives at my doorstep, so you would think my odds might improve when someone else – a warehouse employee, perhaps – does the picking for me.

I spent almost two weeks casting about for a well-considered gift for my eldest son. He’s 20, lives nearly rent-free with his mother, has his university fees covered, and waits tables part-time at a popular eatery in downtown Ottawa. Meaning, he has more money than God. Not exactly the easiest kid to buy for.

While tooling around the ‘Net, I came upon the Vuzix iWear AV230 Video Glasses at Brookstone.com. This is a goofy looking iPod accessory that allows you to view downloaded videos and movies on the virtual equivalent of a 44” HD screen. In surround sound.

They weren’t cheap. Neither was shipping: $82.00 for “express” delivery, plus $33.00 in taxes and duty, applied together as a lump sum and therefore impossible to know for certain which unspecified tax I was paying or what percentage the duty consumed.

My small, lightweight, $82.00-plus-$33.00 express-delivery parcel arrived nearly three weeks after I made my purchase. (For reference: my entire business is about cross-border delivery. I know precisely the kind of manure Brookstone's three-week delivery schedule and shipping/duty/whatever smells like.) Still, I was thrilled. I bought the product on November 29 and was mortally a-feared it might not show in time for Christmas. So I wrapped it up and stuck it underneath the tree.

First mistake. I should have tested it. But I don’t own an iPod – and I figured Brookstone is a big, reputable company: if anything goes wrong, they’ll make good. Which of course was my second mistake.

By the time my son opened his gift, gave it a whirl, and came to the immediate conclusion that his video glasses were defective, Brookstone’s 30-day return policy had long since expired. No extensions for holiday purchases. Certainly no extensions for international orders that take three weeks to arrive.

I called six times between Christmas and New Year’s and never once managed to reach a live human being. Instead, I received a cheery message about Brookstone’s customer-service hours (I was calling well within them), followed by a don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you variety of hang-up. I switched to email:

Hello,

I purchased a pair of Vuzix iWear AV230 XL video glasses (S/N 701285) on November 29, which arrived defective. I have followed the startup instructions, several times, and replaced the battery with several fresh batteries, but the glasses continue to play only audio and no video. Even the On-screen Display, which should appear immediately after the product is powered on (according to the user manual), does not display.

I realize that your return policy is for 30 days past the purchase date. However, I am hoping you can make an exception. I do not own an iPod and I am separated, so my son (the recipient of my gift) was only able to try out the glasses with his iPod Nano (third generation) yesterday. The product was shipped defective; it did not work out of the box.

I request an RMA Number so that I may return the defective item for one that works. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Thank you.

Seems reasonable enough, eh? I’m still waiting for a response.

(I also submitted to the Brookstone.com web site a lucid, dispassionate review of my experience. It was never published.)

Long story short. Once it became clear that Brookstone wasn’t at all interested in my problem, I contacted the manufacturer. According to the Vuzix web site, these guys also produce military and medical applications on top of their consumer electronics. You might imagine what their service is like for a single pair of iPod video glasses. Or you think you might.

I called New Year’s Eve – New Year’s Eve! Reached an exceedingly polite support rep by the name of Todd Ferguson. Todd quickly understood that my video glasses were on the fritz, issued a very speedy RMA, and bid me a pleasant holiday. I mailed my busted specs to Rochester, NY the following week. Todd contacted me a few days later to let me know that his company had received my return, fixed their product that same day, and shipped it back to me later in the evening. I was floored.

In the end, my son received his one and only Christmas gift from me – a month late, but it works and he’s suitably agog. That massive, shit-eating grin the first time he tried them … it was worth the hassle.

Thanks, Vuzix. Screw you, Brookstone.

Six reasons why a White Russian is the perfect holiday beverage

Eggnog is fucking revolting. We’re talking here about uncooked scrambled eggs with sugar. No man in his right mind would consume this toxic sludge on any other day of the year.

White Russians offend the lactose-intolerant. If you think the anti-smoking lobby’s social engineering tactics are extreme, try waving a Caucasian around a crowded room. You might provoke a slightly more hostile reaction by leaving peanuts at the kiddie table – but, seriously, why would you want to?

White Russians are like milk shakes. For alcoholics. These babies go down a little too easy, so guzzle responsibly. Knock back a half-dozen and you’ll be making passes at your grandmother.

White Russians are grown-up versions of piña coladas. I defy you to look like a responsible adult while straw-sipping from a bowl of tropical fruit and a tiny umbrella. You might as well have arrived at the party in a white limousine with your prom date on your arm.

Real men don’t drink Baileys. Sure, the commercials make it look like those hot women are gulping semen from shot glasses. But in the real world, chicks don’t behave that way in public and guys never wear purple velvet.

The Dude drinks White Russians. Need I say more? If you think I do, then you’ve clearly been home-schooled. Go away, you ponce.

How to make a classic White Russian

2 oz vodka
1 oz Kahlua
2% milk

Pour vodka and Kahlua over ice cubes in an old-fashioned glass. Fill with milk and serve.

I love my electric snow blower

I don’t fawn over yard implements. A lawnmower cuts grass. A rake collects leaves. Cutting grass and collecting leaves mean extra work for me. Extra work is bad.

I suppose these devices are labor-saving, in the sense that it’d take longer to manicure my lawn with pinking shears. But, seriously, giddy exhilaration for a yard tool? That’s like working yourself into a froth over oven mitts. Some things are simply beneath a man’s dignity.

Yet I find myself in near ecstasy for a tool that has rendered obsolete my utter distaste for shoveling snow. I’m talking of course about my brand-spanking-new Toro 1800 Power Curve electric snow blower. And, no, before you ask, this isn’t a paid endorsement.

I have a notorious reputation among friends and family for bad luck when it comes to consumer goods. Of the local grocery’s hundred or so identical packages of microwaveable tortellini Alfredo, I will always pick the one that was accidentally filled with Gerber mashed turnip. If I choose a vacuum cleaner off the shelf at Wal-Mart, I’ll invariably discover at home that the factory people forgot to install its suction parts. Every new car I’ve owned has been a stinker. Even my pricey MINI Cooper S, whose front and rear wiper motors and the entire power steering system blew just a few days after my warranty expired.

You may wonder, then, what prompted me to commit five hundred bucks to a skimpy-looking electric snow shovel, when a cool thousand would have acquired one of those massive, throaty, gas-gulping, penile implants you push around your driveway with every taut muscle your groin can summon.

Indeed, a self-respecting hunk of testosterone like me should warm mightily to the awesome geyser produced by an overpowered snow mulcher bristling with rivets and other manly features. But I’m not one for such extravagance. Sure, the price of petrol has dropped like Paris Hilton’s frillies, but it’s maintenance of the thing that exasperates me. Calculating the correct oil-to-gas ratio, polishing spark plugs, purging fuel lines of sediment – even if I were skilled enough to perform these tasks without setting myself on fire, I’d still hesitate. The machine should work for me, not the reverse.

In spite of my history with new gadgets, and ignoring my nefarious male ego urging me to more power, I opted instead for electric. A shiny red Toro, not vaguely reminiscent of the little red wagon I pulled behind me as a kid.

If you read the reviews on Amazon.com, this particular machine is the frugal snow-blowing connoisseur’s idea of manna from Heaven. Some reviewers literally gush like teenage girls at the mere thought of their exquisite devices – such is the geek subculture growing up around the Power Curve. I could hardly resist.

It was something of a challenge to find a dealer in Ottawa. For some arcane reason, Toro doesn’t seem to think of Canada as a good market for its snow removal equipment. We got only 13 feet of the damned stuff last year.

Anyway, I finally located a nearby reseller and called ahead to check for availability. They had one in stock and the next day was to be our first brutal snowfall of the season. I paid for it, sight unseen, over the phone.

I’ll spare you the details of my pickup and hair-raising transit home. Snowstorms bring out the jackasses in this town.

Suffice to say, I was nearly aquiver with anticipation by the time I plugged in my new purchase. I performed a silent genuflection, breathlessly squeezed the starter bar – and nothing. Not a peep. My spiffy new Toro sat there, mocking me with its dysfunction.

This of course is the point where lesser men would swear like lesbian feminists at a Larry Flynt film festival. Not I. Defective appliances are my kith and kin, so to speak. As it turned out, this particular malfunction was entirely the doing of my electrician, who’d been working at my home the previous month and somehow disconnected my outdoor power supply. No biggie. I plugged into a supplementary outlet and gave ‘er another go.

To say the Toro Power Curve works well is something of an understatement. It was like blending a Margarita with an industrial wood chipper. I made short work of my driveway – ten minutes, tops, and with a heavy accumulation of slush – then regarded my neatly swathed lane with the kind of masculine pride that comes after a bitter job easily accomplished.

My neighbors snicker now when I pull out my little red snow blower. I care not. My driveway’s just as spotless as theirs. And for the same reason I don’t drive an SUV – my dick’s big enough, thank you very much.

Christmas spirit in mean times

Retailers have a different perspective on the holidays. It’s not that we’re a curmudgeonly bunch – well, maybe some of us are; I know I am. But by the time the holiday shopping season kicks into high gear, we’re already dreading it.

Starting sometime in July or August, suppliers send out the first of their frequent, and increasingly alarming, order-now-or-forget-Christmas appeals. Most retailers don’t go into the black until December; yet we must dedicate considerable sums of our meager earnings to stock purchases that won’t pay off for another few months, then pray to the gods of consumption that this year’s seasonal buying frenzy doesn’t suffer a premature ejaculation. That particular money shot is virtually worthless if it goes off in your pants.

Forget for a moment that the Big Boxes have already decimated your market with their near-limitless advertising budgets and eye-popping discounts. (That’s more a problem for unwitting Wal-Mart employees, whose only protection from the deal-maddened mobs are a pane of glass and a faulty hinge.) Forget also that many consumers this year will defer their Christmas expenses in favor of simpler luxuries – like food, or heat for their repossessed homes.

Forget all of it. Because by the time those first holiday orders arrive at your transom, you’re already cringing from the mere insinuation of Christmas carols. You’re strapped for cash. You’re doing your best to ignore suppliers’ first (second/third/whatever) overdue payment notices. You’re stressed out and barking at your dog. Acquaintances come to greet you with a hearty handshake, but glimpse the madness in your eyes and fearfully retreat. Your only comfort is that other shop owners have the same haggard expression written across their faces. And there’s still three weeks left to Christmas.

So it is that I find myself wishing the holidays over, before they start. Which, truly, is stinkin’ thinkin’ but can hardly be helped.

I fear many shell-shocked consumers are of the same mind. When the news is nothing but bad – (Did you hear? Canada’s government is about to collapse. Happy holidays!) – it’s difficult to find joy in the spirit of these mean times.

But find it we must, all of us. Look for it in the company of friends and family. Look for it in the warmth of home after a long day’s labor. Look for it in the faces of your children, because Christmas still holds magic for them – and presents need not be expensive, or many, to fill their hearts.

We are not our credit cards. We are not our Calvin Kleins, or Perry Ellises, or Ralph Lauren Polos. We are whom we love, and how we love. We are conscious living things who can, if we wish it, find meaning enough in any small moment.

There’s snow now outside my window: huge, fluffy puffs of it drifting soundlessly everywhere around me. It’s breathtaking…