If you haven't read Part I, well go read Part I. If you have read Part I, well then, you've made a wise decision, as you will be enlightened by even more mover trauma.
Yes, still nothing has been done.
Well, I shouldn't say nothing. A lot has been done--aggravating me to no end. There was an attempt to repair the sofa, to which I was told would be returned to me within 5-1o days. In it's absence, I was given a replacement sofa, a mustard yellow knit couch that appeared to have seen it's best years in the early 1900's in some old dilapidated living room of an elderly woman at least 110 years old, lacking all sense of taste for decorum. Now picture this couch, and then picture my face when I receive an email from Tsuri (the manager in charge at Ben Hur--and more about him later) asking me if I'd like to keep the replacement sofa instead of having them repair my damaged leather full-sized sleeper sofa. My jaw dropped and nearly knocked my Blackberry out of my hand from which I was reading this disturbing piece of mail. Apparently the sofa wasn't the only thing damaged, but also the "brain" of this incompetent "manager" of Ben Hur.
Needless to say, I turned down such an gracious offer, and insisted on retrieving my leather sofa within the 10 day period. Well day 12 comes and goes, and still no sofa. Day 13--the same. I then call Dr. Sofa, the so-called, Dr. fix-it of furniture, to ask why the delay. Another useless company, I soon realized, as they refused to give me any information, and said all such dealings must be with Ben Hur. So now I have one useless company referring to me to the other useless company and vice versa.
But I prevail, and after another 256 phone calls, get out of one of the "fix-its" that the reason for the delay was that they just received the sofa from Ben Hur, who first tried to repair it themselves! So now, my face is bright red, near to exploding, my sweating palms gripping the Blackberry as if trying to turn coal into a diamond.
Well no diamond came out of this call, or any subsequent calls. And, once again, my lawyer was back making threatening phone calls to help further this endless process along.
After much more back and forth, the wall was painted, the sofa was re-examined, and the piano was now attempted to be fixed. But, wait. They ordered the wrong replacement parts for the piano, now sitting damaged and unused in my apartment for nearly 2 months.
I just received a call from the Yamaha store in midtown Manhattan calling to schedule a time to come examine the piano so they can quote Ben Hur a repair estimate. Well here's a quote for Ben Hur, "Close shop, stop moving, and find a new business!" Or better yet, don't do business at all.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Beware: Movers May Be More Careless Than They Appear
It's come to that point in the economy where lavish lifestyles don't meet meager incomes or even the more common 7.2% unemployment rate. At this point, many are choosing, or often forced, to downsize their homes in square footage and in price. And with this, many a moving company will be called. But I warn you now, beware Ben Hur, for their movers may be more careless than they appear.
After a disastrous experience of my Upper West Side building burning down, I had not choice but to move. However, I did have a choice of movers. And boy did "you get what you pay for" ever hit home more than ever. I chose Ben Hur because of the price--the cheapest price I could fine around. I got on-site quotes, on-line quotes, phone quotes--you name it. But, chose to go with the cheapest quote, a flat rate given over the phone without even evaluating my property in person. This should have been red flag number one. But I proceeded. I hired the movers, packed everything up, and was set to embark on yet another moving fiasco.
Early on the morning of October 31st, Halloween, I was greeted by three "movers," whom I've now come to believe may have just been in costume in the holiday spirit, for there is no way these guys could be professionals. They insisted I pay their parking meter for the duration of the move, nevermind that I would be paying nearly $1000 for their "services" as it was. Red flag number 2. I obeyed, let them into my smoke-laden abode, and they went to work.
I was off to my new apartment to prepare for the mover's arrival there, so I was not around to babysit these "professionals." However, I did have time to notice them scurrying around, clearly moving as fast as they could, to get the job done as quickly as possible. Little did I know, it meant half my furniture would look like they took it on the subway, rather than a padded moving truck, driven with finesse. Red flag number three.
Interestingly, upon their arrival at my new place, they refused to unload until I signed the acknolwedgement of receipt papers--confirming I was satisfied with the move--and turned over the $850+ cash, the quoted price of the move. And to weazle me more, they accounted for other items "not included in the order," and said the price would change, though they could overlook it if I "hooked" them up--another $115 cash tip forked over to a still incomplete job. Flag number four.
So they moved, and they moved, and they moved, like busy little bees, though apparently I was sent the blind colony (no offense to blind people--so please don't write me letters complaining), as nothing arrived as it had left early that same morning. The brand new leather sofa was drawn along my newly contstructed wall like nails across a chalk board, gouging out the paint, scuffing up the leather, scratching the wooden feet, and tearing the hide to the bone in many places. Surely this couldn't be happening. But this was just the beginning. Flag number...well at this point, I've lost count of the flags, and now am doing anything not to surrender.
They left with a smile on their face as I unpacked. My slight relief they were gone turned into ever-increasing fits of rage as I uncovered one item after another. First my new coffee table was scratched and dinged from one end to another. Then my eyes fixed on my freezer in the distant corner, dented from careless Ben Hur hands. Then I retuend to find my end table equally scratched. What didn't they damage? But if I answered this, this warning would be much shorter, as I'd have nothing much to say.
Then came my electric Yahmaha Claviniva--a full-sized keey board given to me for my 18th birthday, nearly 10 years ago. The music holder was cracked, a piece was missing from the left leg, and God only knows what the inside probably now looked like. Interestingly enough, I have never been certified in moving; I've never taken courses in moving etiquette; I've never been trained in proper keyboard relocation; but I do know that in the 10 years of owning this gem of an instrument, I had to have moved it at least 10 times, and never once did I even remotely but a hairline scractch, the tiniest smudge on this piece. But somehow, between 9Am and 1PM, among three hapless individuals and a box truck, under the umbrella of Ben Hur moving, it was destroyed at every point possible. Flag 4,552!
Then came the ice cream machine shattered from careless carting, and the bedroom wall tarnished from toppled bed frames, and one by one my bits excitement for a new home and ounces of hope for the rest of my belongings imploded. There I stood upong the wreckage of Ben Hur, the carnage of what once was once pristine.
So I dialed the phone as fast as my little fingers could type over my hassle ridden iPhone (another blog for another time). I was transfered from one agent to another to another, man to woman, woman to man, man pretending he was another man, back to the original woman. I finally reached the end of the conversation, to which I felt everything would be resolved. I was t0 email a list of damaged property, pictures, and a completed damage claim form. This wasn't so bad, I'd have my items repaired or replaced in no time.
Suffice it to say, it's now January 26th, and the only thing to have been resolved is a few scratches on one wall--painted hastily by Danny, the commissioned repair man. All that has been replaced, is my trust in Ben Hur, and unfortunately the entire moving race.
I have made innumerable hours of phone calls, written a trace of emails longer than this story, encountered one idiot after another, filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau (another useless endeavor), researched a small claims suit, and enlisted the services of a full-blown lawyer. All for what is still to TBD.
So the saga continues..but rest assured, there are many more stories where this came from, and many more tales to be told. For now, the moral of the story? Don't hire Ben Hur, and if you do, you better at least have great lawyer.
After a disastrous experience of my Upper West Side building burning down, I had not choice but to move. However, I did have a choice of movers. And boy did "you get what you pay for" ever hit home more than ever. I chose Ben Hur because of the price--the cheapest price I could fine around. I got on-site quotes, on-line quotes, phone quotes--you name it. But, chose to go with the cheapest quote, a flat rate given over the phone without even evaluating my property in person. This should have been red flag number one. But I proceeded. I hired the movers, packed everything up, and was set to embark on yet another moving fiasco.
Early on the morning of October 31st, Halloween, I was greeted by three "movers," whom I've now come to believe may have just been in costume in the holiday spirit, for there is no way these guys could be professionals. They insisted I pay their parking meter for the duration of the move, nevermind that I would be paying nearly $1000 for their "services" as it was. Red flag number 2. I obeyed, let them into my smoke-laden abode, and they went to work.
I was off to my new apartment to prepare for the mover's arrival there, so I was not around to babysit these "professionals." However, I did have time to notice them scurrying around, clearly moving as fast as they could, to get the job done as quickly as possible. Little did I know, it meant half my furniture would look like they took it on the subway, rather than a padded moving truck, driven with finesse. Red flag number three.
Interestingly, upon their arrival at my new place, they refused to unload until I signed the acknolwedgement of receipt papers--confirming I was satisfied with the move--and turned over the $850+ cash, the quoted price of the move. And to weazle me more, they accounted for other items "not included in the order," and said the price would change, though they could overlook it if I "hooked" them up--another $115 cash tip forked over to a still incomplete job. Flag number four.
So they moved, and they moved, and they moved, like busy little bees, though apparently I was sent the blind colony (no offense to blind people--so please don't write me letters complaining), as nothing arrived as it had left early that same morning. The brand new leather sofa was drawn along my newly contstructed wall like nails across a chalk board, gouging out the paint, scuffing up the leather, scratching the wooden feet, and tearing the hide to the bone in many places. Surely this couldn't be happening. But this was just the beginning. Flag number...well at this point, I've lost count of the flags, and now am doing anything not to surrender.
They left with a smile on their face as I unpacked. My slight relief they were gone turned into ever-increasing fits of rage as I uncovered one item after another. First my new coffee table was scratched and dinged from one end to another. Then my eyes fixed on my freezer in the distant corner, dented from careless Ben Hur hands. Then I retuend to find my end table equally scratched. What didn't they damage? But if I answered this, this warning would be much shorter, as I'd have nothing much to say.
Then came my electric Yahmaha Claviniva--a full-sized keey board given to me for my 18th birthday, nearly 10 years ago. The music holder was cracked, a piece was missing from the left leg, and God only knows what the inside probably now looked like. Interestingly enough, I have never been certified in moving; I've never taken courses in moving etiquette; I've never been trained in proper keyboard relocation; but I do know that in the 10 years of owning this gem of an instrument, I had to have moved it at least 10 times, and never once did I even remotely but a hairline scractch, the tiniest smudge on this piece. But somehow, between 9Am and 1PM, among three hapless individuals and a box truck, under the umbrella of Ben Hur moving, it was destroyed at every point possible. Flag 4,552!
Then came the ice cream machine shattered from careless carting, and the bedroom wall tarnished from toppled bed frames, and one by one my bits excitement for a new home and ounces of hope for the rest of my belongings imploded. There I stood upong the wreckage of Ben Hur, the carnage of what once was once pristine.
So I dialed the phone as fast as my little fingers could type over my hassle ridden iPhone (another blog for another time). I was transfered from one agent to another to another, man to woman, woman to man, man pretending he was another man, back to the original woman. I finally reached the end of the conversation, to which I felt everything would be resolved. I was t0 email a list of damaged property, pictures, and a completed damage claim form. This wasn't so bad, I'd have my items repaired or replaced in no time.
Suffice it to say, it's now January 26th, and the only thing to have been resolved is a few scratches on one wall--painted hastily by Danny, the commissioned repair man. All that has been replaced, is my trust in Ben Hur, and unfortunately the entire moving race.
I have made innumerable hours of phone calls, written a trace of emails longer than this story, encountered one idiot after another, filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau (another useless endeavor), researched a small claims suit, and enlisted the services of a full-blown lawyer. All for what is still to TBD.
So the saga continues..but rest assured, there are many more stories where this came from, and many more tales to be told. For now, the moral of the story? Don't hire Ben Hur, and if you do, you better at least have great lawyer.
There's a First Time for Everything
THEY SAY THAT blogging is the wave of the future? Or perhaps it's already a wave we're riding, or maybe even one I've missed. But I dare say, it's time for me to catch this tidal wave of electronic media, and get blogging!
So, here goes...
After graduating from the University of Michigan, I moved to New York City with a BFA (big f***ing achievement) and a dream--to be the next Broadway star. Ok, well, maybe not the next star per se, but at least a working actor.
While at first it seemed like a likely road, with agents calling and casting directors inviting me in for Broadway, film and tv, and commercial calls, it soon fell flat. I remember the exact day it happened too. I was sitting at my first class of "Film Acting," taught by acclaimed casting director, Pat McCorkle. She was reading through our resumes, and came upon mine. She said, "Ooh... a U of M-er. I love those kids," later adding, that after a couple years, the new and fresh talent aspect wears off, and you go without work for a long time. And with that, the iron fist came down, as did my career as an actor.
Or so it seemed. I continued to audition, and got closer and closer, as the story always goes, but never got close enough. And yes, I still pursue such a career, and still attempt to fulfill that dream of mine from childhood--to be an actor.
Nevertheless, I wasn't about to wait (pun intended) around as a server at yet another city restaurant, or toss another glass of drinks as a bartender, or shuffle around another tray of canapes as a cater-waiter. I needed to find something more fulfilling, something more lucrative, and something to keep my mind working at the same time.
Enter Real Estate.
And so the story goes ever since 2006. Amidst auditions, and the "getting close" callbacks, I have pursued another career, that of real estate, taking me down a much different path than one would have imagined for me years ago as a little boy adorned with a cat costume singing a collection of songs from Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical smash CATS upon the backyard stage my father built me from the materials of his very own hardware store. Yes, this boy, who did all he could do to get an A in math class, and couldn't understand why mathematical equations would ever play a central role in his adult life, fell into the real estate, an unequivocal, often hyperbolic (I learned that word in math class after all) world of numbers.
And so, he starts his blog. Having joined a new firm (several firms later)--perhaps 3rd times a charm--he gazes into the future of what might be a different career path. Maybe he'll become a Broadway star of a different sort, performing not the leading man role of the latest musical hit, but a leading role of a powerhouse boutique real estate firm (Barak Realty), selling the latest condo luxuries along that great white way.
Stay tuned for up-to-minute real estate news, funny stories, and anything else that may hit the electronic page from the mind of Greg Bibens.
Click the following links to see my company website and my own, personal website.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
