Back in July, I saw an announcement for Charlie Daniels Band concert in November. The venue would be River City Casino, a place I was not familiar with. OK, I thought, could be interesting.
I totally despise Ticketmaster, but I signed up for 2 tickets online. Ticketmaster charged me $150 for two $57.50 tickets. Do the math. That in itself is enough reason to hate Ticketmaster.
Got the tix in the mail. Time passed, and it was November 4, date of concert. Left home plenty early for the 7:30 concert, even though we all know a 7:30 concert doesn't start at 7:30.
Turns out that River City Casino is a big deal. The casino, hotel, etc, occupy a huge chunk of real estate on the Mississippi River bank just south of St. Louis. It's a monster place, quite new. We parked and walked in, not having a clue where the music would be played.
Down a wide hallway, past a large cocktail bar, we see the entrance to the concert. Beyond that, the casino. It's still early, so we go to the bar for a drink. Then, with a few more minutes to kill, we walk into the casino.
Judy puts 10 bucks in a slot machine and loses a quarter at a time for 15 minutes, at which time we are 10 bucks poorer. Goddam smokers are everywhere in the casino, and they air purification systems are sadly lacking. We gotta get out of there.
Off to the concert hall. Charlie is busy sawing his fiddle in half. It's only 7:40, and the 7:30 concert is already underway!
We find our seats, which are halfway back on the floor, on the aisle. The venue is small, so we are close enough to see Charlie's big belt buckle and even-bigger gut, and we have an easy in/out. Great.
But the sound is very loud. Judy gets out her phone and fires up an app to measure the dB level. I see 110 on her screen. She puts fingertips in her ears. I turn my hearing aids off, which reduces the sound, and also attenuates the higher frequencies, making the music very bassy -- not at all the way you would want to listen to music.
No way she can hear me, so I text her: "We can leave anytime you want." I know we invested $150, but I am prepared to call that water under the bridge -- or is it over the dam? She reads the text and nods.
We have been in our seats less than half a song, but we get up and walk back to the entrance. Once through the doors, Judy suggests we ask for our money back. I tell her it's a long shot, but what the hell.
She finds the guy in charge and tells him we can't stay because it's too loud in there. He offers ear plugs. Judy declines the plugs and asks for our money back. While we are standing at the ticket counter having this conversation, another couple arrives asking to buy tickets to see Charlie. The agent sees an opportunity. He gets on the phone with Ticketmaster, secures a promise that our money will be refunded, and sells our barely warmed seats to the new arrivals.
I was, at that point, extremely skeptical that the cocksuckers at Ticketmaster would honor that commitment, but hey, I had been ready to walk away with no effort toward a refund anyway. I got the agent's name, Wes Randle, figuring that it could help in the argument that was sure to take place with the aforementioned cocksuckers later.
We drove home. I put a "Check for refund" reminder on the calendar.
So a week later, the Visa card website showed me a $150 refund from Ticketmaster had been posted the day after the concert. I am stunned.
Now I am going to ask the slot machine for our $10 back.
