They’re a lot faster than old school hard drives, which work still kind of like a turntable playing an LP. With a fast fingered DJ.

So I dropped by the Apple store at Oxmoor the other day, figuring one of Steve Jobs acolytes working there would be more than anxious to share if there was any buzz that SSDs would be standard in the next go round of iMacs?

So I asked the first geek that pounced in my direction.

“I’m curious,” said I, “whether there are rumors that maybe the next edition of the iMacs will have solid state drives as standard issue.”

“You know, we just came out with a new line of upgraded iMacs . . .”

“Yes, yes, but I was wondering about the next release, and whether you’d heard anything?”

At which point, this lad went all snotty on me — “We’re not allowed to dispense any information about future products of Apple.” — as if he was privy to the info I desired, having been informed by Jobs himself over coffee at Heine Bros. that very morning.

What I wanted to say was, “Just answer my legit question you arrogant little shit.” What I did was turn on my heels and exit.

Turns out, after a little nosing around, that you can get an iMac now with a SSD. At a healthy premium, of course, but available nonetheless.

Why do some clerks these days have to be so ornery? And, in this case, haughty?

That’s the yin of customer service. Fortunately yang won out.

* * * * *

I’ve had a periodic hard to diagnose glitch with my 50 Mb broadband signal from Insight. Nothing overwhelmingly bad, but a vexation that needs to be addressed.

Last week, a couple of techs came out, ran a lot of tests, check the poles, ran a new line in the house — all good stuff — but were unable to completely diagnose the situation. This Insight fellows were professional and polite. Efficient and knowledgeable. Delivery of broadband, at times, is not an exact science.

So, in rapid response to my call this week that the situation had not been rectified, Insight sent out the cavalry. Inside support. Outside support. More tests. A new router. Branches cleared in the alley that were weighing against the cable lines. A promise for new lines in the alley where squirrels had gnawed their way through.

So far. so good.

My point is this. We often hear about how Ma Bell or MSD — to name two very inefficient, and, in the latter’s case, ineffective responders — or L G & E or the Water Company are slow to respond and hard to deal with. Insight too.

Well, I promised to tell the blogosphere how responsive and professional Insight has been when I’ve had problems through the years that need to be solved. Actually L G & E too.

So I have.

* * * * *

Finally a big thumbs up to Teddy and his assistant over at Classic Car Wash.

I have to say it was a bit disconcerting when Teddy kept calling me Mr. Chuck. But I know he was simply trying to be nice.

But he and his helper detailed and waxed my car today and did a boffo job. Finished early too. Plus they took real pride in their work. Teddy’s second mentioned how he left the floor mats in the sun so they’d get “crispy dry and fresh.” Everything in my glove compartment and door shelves was in a plastic bag.

They earned a big tip, and got one.

* * * * *

I know, I know. These aren’t the most scintillating of stories.

But the world needs to know when we’re treated right. And not.

]]> http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/07/14/keeping-the-customer-satisfied-the-yin-the-yang/feed/ 0 http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/07/05/old-school-rock-roll-weekend-cosmo-another-mule-funky-meters/ http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/07/05/old-school-rock-roll-weekend-cosmo-another-mule-funky-meters/#comments Tue, 05 Jul 2011 19:22:28 +0000 mail http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/?p=1421 When my friend Jane arrived to our table at Jim Porter’s on Friday night, she was holding her head with both hands in wonder, her mouth agape, her eyes befuddled.

“Look at all these people,” she, H.S. Class of ’62,  gasped. “Everybody’s so . . . old.”

“Jane,” I replied, “this is us.”

The occasion was a show commemorating the 50th anniversary of Cosmo & the Counts, one of Louisville’s seminal early rock & roll bands.

Cosmo is Tommy Cosdon, a seriously talented R & B singer — trainer of last place Derby finisher Rae’s Jet and former entrepreneur of Cosmo’s Wiggery — whose voice still holds sway as he rockets toward age 70. He was lead singer of The Sultans, the most popular Louisville band in the early 60s. At least in the East End. Johnny Hourigan and The Trendels (originally The Four Frantics), teamed with The Carnations, were as popular in other areas of town.

As such evolutions are wont to happen, Cosmo split off from The Sultans and started his own group in ’61. Friday night, he was still at it a half century later.

Tommy’s got a great rock & roll voice, full of soul, always on the beat, slightly thin and effectively nasal. His hands may shake, but he still hits the notes. The night was full of the cover songs he’s been doing for years. His take on Bobby Marchan’s “There’s Something On Your Mind’ was sweet as usual. I’ve always been of the opinion that Cosmo finds the soul of “St. James Infirmary” as well as anybody. So he did again.

So the old folks danced. On the fast ones as well as the doo wop. I loved the guy doing the Lindy with a blue tooth in his ear.

And, if not exactly like the VFW of yesteryear, it served as yet another reminder that Louisville was a pretty swell place to grow up in the 60s. And that Tommy Cosdon remains one of the town’s musical treasures.

* * * * *

Summer Sunday nights in Triangle Park at the foot of Cherokee Park are a weekly reminder that Louisville is a pretty swell place to age in the ’10s.

The series is Tony Lindauer’s baby, and it’s just damn pleasant. Many of the groups that play annually are put together ensembles. Some good, many just average, the latter allowing for more schmooze less listen. Not a bad thing.

Another Mule is — actually was — Louisville’s ultimate good time band . . . well . . . ever. They owned this town in the late 70s and early 80s and now reunite yearly to play in the Triangle on the Sunday closest to Independence Day.

Here’s what I wrote of a past Triangle Park concert of theirs. It still applies.

…Another Mule is another story. Once the burg’s best bar band, they ceded the dream, such as it was. They went adult. Except for saxman Michael Murphy, who took U.S. Bonds admonition to “blow, daddy, blow” as a lifetime order. Now the Mule plays a reunion gig or two every year. Old fans put on their sailin’ shoes and head for the dance floor. Sunday night they ripped the Triangle. Send lawyers, guns and money. Parents boogied with kids conceived in clandestine spots behind the Headrest. Tell the 50s preacher men who blasphemed this tuneage that rockin and responsibility coexist.

I’d stick in a youtube video here. But there don’t seem to be any of the Mule. Which, frankly, brings a smile to my face, as big as the one when I hear them break into Little Feat’s “Old Folks Boogie.” Some of life’s pleasures are simply too good for the cybergalaxy.

This past Sunday, Another Mule found the groove from the opening note. When I mentioned to the band that it sounded as if they’d actually rehearsed for the gig, they laughed. As if to say, “not a chance.”

* * * * *

The Funky Meters were an interesting choice to head the 4th of July bill at Waterfront Park.

Successors to The Meters — Brian Stoltz and Russell Batiste replacing Leo Nocentelli and Zig Modeliste on guitar and drums; Art Neville and George Porter Jr. staying put — this conglomeration has never been a headliner. While known to serious funk fans, they haven’t a serious following outside New Orleans, as best I’m aware.

Which is not to say that they aren’t a righteous krewe when on their game, just that they’re one of many bands that floats under the radar. But some of us were stoked.

First the bad news about last night’s gig. The sound crew for this show is in serious need of never doing one again. There was a long delay before De La Soul because of technical problems and sound problems during the hip hoppers’ set. Then an even longer delay — well over an hour — before the Funky Meters finally, frustrated and anxious to play, took the stage without several vocal mics working.

The good news. These guys are pros, not some upstart prima donna wannabes. They took the snafu in stride, blasting past the problems after a shaky start on their opening song. Soon: “Africa,” always stalwart.

Then, apparently because of the lateness of the hour, the Waterfront folks started the fireworks show right in the middle of the set. Carpe diem. The band sequed seamlessly into a Hendrixian version of “Star Spangled Banner.” Brian Stoltz can play Jimi as well as anybody who isn’t Jimi. Which anthem morphed just as easily into a most appropriate “Fiyo on the Bayou.”

While most in the crowd were there for the aerial pyrotechnics, and treated the band at that moment merely as background sound, those who paid attention heard one of the most incendiary guitar solos in these parts in a long while.

* * * * *

Three shows during the weekend of the Fouth.

A hat trick of good times for the Old Schoolers.

So it was my first WW at what may be its new home under the Big Four Bridge.

As for the music: The Film Babe and I missed the opener because of a standing early Wednesday evening commitment. We arrived during the middle of Abigail Washington’s set. My sense is her quirky Americana needs a quieter, more attentive audience. It appeared she failed to resonate, at least in the area we were sitting. Which is not to condemn her music or talent in the least. It was just hard to connect.

Interesting stuff. But it was hard to concentrate on it. Perhaps it was my attempts to take in the new venue and become accommodated.

Nicole Atkins is a comer. (As if you needed me to tell you that.) Her guitar slinger Irina Yalkowsky is certainly one of the more interesting young players I’ve heard in recent years.

Truth is Atkins’ set got lost in the schmooze. As often happens at these affairs. Seeing old friends and renewing acquaintances usually trump hearing an unfamiliar band. Unless the group has the presence to reach out and grab your attention. Ms. Atkins and Ms. Yankowski aren’t quite at that level . . . yet.

As for the Bridge Four location vs. Harbor Lawn.

Fuhgettaboutit.

Despite the overcrowding, this event needs to return to its roots, to where it once belonged. There is something intimate about the Harbor Lawn locale. The pie shaped definition of the space gives the event some personality. The downtown backdrop which is absent up river adds to the urbanity of the scene.

The Big Four venue simply felt odd, impersonal.

Which is not to mention one very practical reason why the Big Four locale sucks.

Parking. Actually, the lack thereof.

An egregious lack of planning by the Waterfront Park folks. If you intend to have events these days, you must have places for people to park. It’s a contemporary imperative.

By chance, I secured a spot literally right across the street at the corner of Witherspoon and River Road. Parking karma. Most weren’t’ so lucky, walking a mile or more from car to the event.  Unacceptable.

One guy’s opinion. Easy choice: Return ASAP to Harbor Lawn.

Long may it stand.

While the brouhaha over the pavilionesque structure in Cherokee Park isn’t the most important issue facing our burg these days, it does seem to be striking a raw nerve. It sure has with me.

Seems Metro Parks and the do good Olmstead Parks Conservancy have developed a Master Plan — doesn’t that sound official — which includes the demolition of the teepee and the erection of some new structures. Apparently that hallowed Master Plan calls for two “more appropriate” replacement structures, which would bring the area into compliance with “the most fundamental of Frederick Law Olmstead’s vision.” Which, according to a C-J letter to the editor from the Conservancy’s president, is that anything that interferes with focus on the landscape must go.

Obviously none of those folks developing the Master Plan hung out under that teepee back in the day, honoring the herb and/or adhering to the focus of Kentuckian Owsley Stanley. Otherwise, they’d know that the teepee in no way infringed on seeing the forest and the trees and all they represented in the evolution of conciousness. The teepee, it can be argued, helped many get in touch with their inner Native American. You know, like Jim Morrison.

President Zinniel, I know your letter to the editor and your Master Plan are well intentioned. The Conservancy does great work. Really great work. Cherokee Park, where I still play to this day as I have been lucky enough to do since my youth, is looking great, thanks to your group and its volunteers.

But your polemic about how we’d be better served by “more appropriate solutions” is a bunch of non-indigenous ragweed.

It’s not like the teepee turned Hogan’s Fountain into a Wigwam Village, like the motels down near Mammoth Cave.

There was a different pavilion there in my youth, if I recall correctly. I’m not sure when the funky teepee was erected, but it’s way nifty. Even if such Native American erections were built mostly by the tribes on the Great Plains.

The teepee is working just fine. The people who picnic regularly during the warm months seem to be enjoying themselves. (As do the guys and gals playing hoops at the adjacent b-ball court. My guess is Mr. Olmstead wasn’t that big a basketball fan, but I don’t hear you talking about getting rid of the court. Or, the parking lot necessary in these contemporary times.)

So, let’s shelve all the “more appropriate” crap. Repair the teepee, and move on to more important matters.

That would be the really appropriate thing to do.

While working on the computer — something of import I’m sure though I can’t remember what — I was thwarted by a pop, then out went the lights.

After immediately advising L G & E, I called my friend David.

“You’ll be pleased to hear this,” I advised. “You’re the second to know our power went out.”

In all the power sapping weather events of the last couple of years, our house until yesterday had suffered but a nanosecond hiccup of no lights one time. While David’s home, not that far away, has been hit every time out, often for extended periods. Save yesterday.

Not so instant karma finally got us. David was kind enough not to lord the outage over me. But did immediately commence to fret over possible loss of power at his place — even though the storm had already passed. Seems he’d planned his day around watching Rory McIlroy’s transcendent W in the U.S. Open.

Easy for me to say — since this was our first extended loss of power, lasting a reasonable 9 hours — but it seems this is simply one of the symptoms of the modern era. The rather rudimentary infrastructure of electric delivery. (In future millenniums they will laugh at the though of electricity being delivered over wires.) Increasing severe weather events due to global warming. The maturation of large, fragile trees in the neighborhood where I live.

It was a nuisance, but I did not move to a state of agitated discontent.

The Film Babe worked in the yard.

I actually read most of the Sunday New York Times. Jogged somewhat further than normal. And intended to practice piano. Or continue my umpteenth rereading of “The Great Gatsby.” The Mrs. and I gave lip service to the possibility of malling away the afternoon.

As long as all was well, so we could watch “Treme” at 10:00, we’d be okay.

But I was aware of a vague unease. A sitting around waiting syndrome. Got more than a little ootzy. Tried to take Abbey, The Wonder Beagle for an extra walk. It was short circuited by rain drops. Tried to nap, but couldn’t. (A major surprise, frankly.)

Finally, late afternoon, I advised my significant other, I was going to walk the neighborhood to see the extent of the outage. (Thanks to the L G & E app on David’s bride’s phone, we knew there were but 225 folks without power in 40204.)

“I think if I get out of the house,” I advised my bride, “the power will return.”

Let it be said. Let it be done.

Absolute coincidence, I’m sure.

But the sour stomach disappeared. My modem and router synched up the first time. Not a given, mind you.

And we were able to watch — in shock and horror — as Steve Earle’s character was shot at the end of  last night’s episode of “Treme.”

Mama Nature has the power. She does not always shed gentle light.

In hospital scrubs weeks of wearing beyond sanitary, he was oblivious to the inappropriateness of his action.

It was far from artful. There was no sense of aesthetics, though there he stood, unsteady, in front of the Cressman Center, which houses U of L’s Hite Art Institute.

Some cellphoning passersby took no notice. Others looked askance, but made no mention.

I gawked for a moment, then looked away, embarrassed.

For him? For myself?

Or for the permeating sadness that would have him peeing on the sidewalk as he was? In the open, along a busy thoroughfare, in full daylight.

He looked up. I averted his glazed stare. I wished to avoid bearing witness to such desolation.

Scurrying around the corner, I almost tripped over another men tilted against the building, half laying on the sidewalk, shoeless, in a sweatshirt with his hood pulled hard over his bowed head.

At lunch down the block at Hillbilly Tea, I told my companion what I’d seen. A compassionate sort, he took shook his head, as I had, in quickened disbelief.

We chatted of family. And sports. And occupation.

Of trips ahead. Of sumptuous meals.

He spoke with an old friend, who’d apparently had a falling out with his wife and hoped the rift would soon heal.

We ate the special. We drank the berry tea.

When we walked to my car, the men were gone.

Out of sight. Not out of mind.

You don’t need a weatherman/ To know which way the wind blows

My guess is that many of you, sitting in your basements last night, perhaps wearing that toy hardhat you got when renovating your house, with your flashlights, a week’s supply of bottled water, and your cat scurrying about, investigating every dank nook and cranny, might have wondered why such the attention to Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday?

Or, probably not.

But the guy did cut a phrase appropriate for any occasion.

Be glad I spared you the entirety of “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.”

I was down in the cellar last night. With family and lanterns and dog in her favorite chair lugged down there and cat scurrying about, investigating every nook and cranny. And radio, turned to the weather. And TV, tuned to the weather.

And, of course, the Mavs vs. Thunder. (For the record, bobdylan.com lists 15 of his tunes referencing “thunder.” I’ll spare you the gratuitous quote(s).)

Because the weather fellas didn’t mention tornadic possibilities a lot, and because all those computerized, radarized images didn’t ever have any of those little circles that indicate — all together now — tornadic activity, my sense was the worst possibility was some lost power, no internet connection, and perhaps a limb across the hood of a car.

Yet, yet, yet . . . I’ve seen the photos from Joplin. I remember what Cherokee Park, a half block away, looked like after our big tornado.

So, we sat in the glum surroundings. Until the storm hit the West End, and it became obvious that major damage, and the need to avoid it by staying in the basement, wasn’t gonna happen.

Which raises the question whether the hyperbolic TV weatherheads are being irresponsible with their apoplectic rhetoric of upcoming devastation?

Actually, the question is how they can convey the information we need in a way that adequately and accurately portrays potential danger without crying wolf?

Last night, just as in Shyamalan’s “The Village,” there was no real wolf. Will we be desensitized the next time a storm front comes through? Which, given the weather patterns developing because of global warming — yes, you elephants, it’s very real — are going to be coming ever more often.

Well, I’d ramble on with this contemplation. But, I swear I just saw a snippet of sun, if only for a fleeting moment. So, I’m going outside to recreate . . . after I go get some supplies to replenish “our safe place, away from windows.”