Alien Tummy Tuck

Just checking my hair. No apparent reason, just throwing a passing glance in the mirror on my way to turn on the shower, and saw some little blemish on my face. Closer inspection revealed nothing of consequence. But then i looked closer in the looking glass...(Alice never had a trip like that through the looking glass) closer...until i could see the pores on my skin, touch the bags under my eyes and saw how loose the skin was....my skin had become loose somewhere along the way. Not the skin of my 20's,or even 30's, but the skin of someone growing older... someone who could hear the mortal ticking of the clock...The puffy skin of my eyes was tight enough... if i got rid of the puffiness, it would just be another patch of loose skin.

Then i started wishing i was not 41. that i could invert the age or something But that would make me 14, and i'm not sure i'd want to be 14 again. When i was 14, I lived in a big blue split level house in the country, and the windows in my room were ground level. There, i used to spend hours writing in my journal, and playing with my Johnny West collection, and hiding in a cubbyhole under the stairs, the entrance of which was under the shelf that served as a desk in my room. That was like my little sanctuary.

During that time, i also saw a UFO from the backyard, and managed to get a picture of it, but no one believed me. That photo is in storage somewhere.

I have forgotten most of the details of that time in my childhood. Various therapists over the years have been convinced I'm blocking some trauma; some child abuse. My parents were way too apathetic to be abusive. Theirs was a sin of omission.

Maybe what i was blocking was that i was an abductee. I have that photo to prove there was opportunity...maybe I was TAKEN. Maybe i could get those aliens to abduct me again, and forego the anal probe and just do a tummy tuck to tighten all this loose skin i have.

I watch the skies, ever hopeful.

Alien Tummy Tuck

Cruel and Unusual

Not so long ago, i considered myself a liberal, but i find that my take on things is moving a bit more toward the middle. Take this captured terrorist thing: I could not believe my ears when i heard the ACLU was blathering about how we should not extract information from the terrorists by any effective means. Seems there's concern that we may be stepping on their "rights."

Well, my opinion is that since they are not Americans, they should not be afforded the same rights as Americans. They are treasonous. They are a threat to the safety and well-being of life as we know it. They hate us. While i believe that compassion has its place, i don't feel that this situation is one of them; at least not the kind of compassion that prevents us from protecting ourselves. Yet, at the same time, i don't believe it's right to use torture as a first line of defense in gathering intelligence. But there has to be a hard line drawn somewhere.

Imagine my disgust and dismay when the ACLU further stated that the new idea to use Truth Serum to extract information was considered "Cruel and unusual punishment." Never mind that the American Military and the American government used that very same Truth serum to extract information from our own soldiers and operatives. Never mind that the military and/or government also injected plutonium and uranium into the veins of 12 human Guinea pigs in the 1940's. The same government who infected 400 African-American men with syphilis, under the guise of treating them for "bad blood." These are just some of the incidents we know about, and I'm confident there are others.

I mention this only because there is an inherent hypocrisy in "maintaining" compassion that does not exist in the first place. I'm not sure this is even the point. The point, to me, is that we must be a nation that never throws the first punch, but finishes the fight with a vengeance when the punch is thrown at us. There is no shame in self- defense. I say, try every humane way (including sodium pentathlon) to extract information about terrorism activities, terrorist cells, strike intelligence, etc., and if that doesn't work, get creative. Get mean. Do what it takes. These terrorists are not one of our own. Why should we treat them with more respect than we often treat Americans? In general, when we're talking about the ability to destroy entire cities and cripple everything in our nation, including our freedom, all bets are off, Skippy.

Cruel and Unusual

Terrorist attack

The Terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001:

Since the horrible tragedy of that day, i have watched CNN way too much and been interested in all the news much more than usual, but have resisted the urge to research Nostradamus prophecies. It might scare me too much.

I understand that this will not be a simple war. I understand that even if we go to Afghanistan and assassinate Osama bin Laden, the other cells of terrorists throughout the world will still exist. And there are still governments (like the Taliban) who recognize him as some sort of hero. We know this is not the definition of heroism. Heroes don't kill innocent people.

So this endeavor will be one of great detail and calculation and shrewdness. We are a society of Instant Gratification, and this will be our true test of patience. I hope America continues to feel united in the long months--and maybe years-- to come.

Sympathy to all the families and Friends of the victims of the September 11, 2001 Terrorist Attacks on New York Washington and Pennsylvania, and prayers for a Higher Power to touch these terrorists with love and remorse for their actions and wish for an end to terrorism.

Terrorist attack

Cognitive Dysfunction.

(this entry was made before i knew that the problem was i had Grave's Disease, and my thyroid was dying)


A new phrase with echoes of old demons. Almost every difficulty I experience these days is directly related to some sort of cognitive dysfunction. I have multiple physical ailments, but the most overwhelming, the most debilitating, seems to be related to memory, concentration, and all the peripheral sub-routines that stem from it. Frustration is a major example of that. I am so disgusted and stressed by the betrayal of my own brain function. It's as if I have had part of my brain matter removed, or that it is simply atrophied. To wit:

When I am doing something creative, i.e. painting or writing, i move into this "zone" that blocks all the stimuli. I become peaceful, meditative, and pleasant. When I put the creative project away, and have to deal with everyday stressors--bills, busy work, the prospect of moving, the desire to purchase a home, the irritants of other people, noise--I become almost maniacal in my reactions. I have angry outbursts, crying jags, and sometimes, at crescendo, the overwhelming desire to cut myself or mash a lit cigarette into my skin.

When the phone rings, I am flooded with dread. I'll have to talk to someone. I'll have to answer questions. I'll have to deal with problem. I'll have to feign understanding, pleasantries, interest.

I look up a number in the phone book, turn around to dial it, and the number evaporates from my short-term memory.

I forget when I did things, when I said things, what I did, what I said--even if the event only happened the day before.

I've developed aversions and intolerance to certain things. I can no longer stand the sound of silverware scraping a plate or bowl-- I have to use plasticware. I am rendered psychopathic at the sound of incessantly barking dogs; shrieking birds; snoring; someone drumming their fingers; the chatter of a friend; the hum of florescent light bulbs; bright lights or sunshine; alarm clocks; those shouting announcers on car commercials; the decline in quality customer service; eating the same thing more than once; anyone controlling any part of my life; anyone asking anything of me...

I can be driving somewhere, and suddenly forget where I'm going. Many times, I've had to pull over and gather myself, struggle to remember...

I cannot focus on two things at once. If I am doing something on the computer, and someone is talking to me, I lose my train of thought. I can't recall what I was doing.

I no longer remember my dreams.

I hear someone talking about something that they experienced in childhood, and I can't recall very much about my own. When asked what my life was like when I was 10 or 15 or 20--I simply have no idea. Likewise, if asked to remember an event--even, sometimes, memorable ones, I can't draw that information out.

I don't visualize things, so that i can retrieve the visualization later. The memory seems disconnected. There seems to be no trigger. If I don't write down my ideas or thoughts, they vaporize into mist.

I cannot find the right word, although I know it exists in the vocabulary portion of my brain, and so I just stop communicating.

It's very much how I imagine an amnesiac would function (or not function). And I get so angry with myself; So angry with others for their lack of understanding. I often feel I am being singled out for torture by the Universe or the Powers That Be. I feel persecuted, abused, neglected... retarded. I often liken the function of my brain, with the function of my own computer. My brain thrashes, struggling to pull something from the hard drive, it crashes when too many applications are up at once, it's buggy and inefficient. The operating system needs badly to be upgraded.

Cognitive Dysfunction.

Wish in One Hand....

2001/07/21

Wish in One Hand....

...and Spit in the Other, And See Which One Gets Full the Fastest...

In our quest to reach Vermont, we have made Plan A, Plan B, Plan C....let's see...have we run out of alphabet? Perhaps we're back at plan A now, having wound around after reaching the end. At the root of it all, is the lack of money. Story of my life. We were going to rent a U-haul truck and pull my van on an auto transport. But then LS announced that she had this bad feeling about my van--that it was about to fall apart. Some major mechanical issue was about to tax our finances even further. And since i don't have a warranty because i paid cash, as is, 2 years ago, there was little security if that happened. She suggested i try, even with my current credit blemishes, to buy a new car with a warranty. Often, the car dealerships will make special arrangements. I was skeptical, but what the hell.

We tried everything, and went to a plethora of dealerships. All of them turned me down. Even one that promised "Second Chance Finance." All because i got behind on credit cards. That was because i had to stop paying them in order to afford to move us here from Colorado when we became trapped at that apartment with bad phone lines and no employment for her to be had. Long story. I wouldn't even have gotten the damn cards, but a real estate agent there had told me he was about to put me in a house using my VA Certificate of Eligibility, and said i had to get those cards to build "new credit" after my bankruptcy 4 years ago. Well, that all fell through, horribly, along with other things we had planned. Long story, as i said. Regardless, these delinquencies killed my chances.

During this process of driving all over the coast, my A/C began to blow warmer...at first i thought it was just the heat-it was 110 to 115 degrees heat index. But it became apparent that the A/C was about to go, too. And then we heard this odd knocking in the engine, down low. Ominous.

So we spent a week driving around in that heat without air, nearing heat stroke, and to no avail. It made us even more determined to get to Vermont.

So the next plan is for me to simply list my van in the paper and sell it to an individual-perhaps a mechanic who needs something to work on. That money will help out quite a bit with our trip, but i will be without a vehicle again. I was so proud of myself when i bought that van. I paid cash from my settlement, so i wouldn't have a payment. I wanted to keep my overhead low so I'd have more money left over each month. But it was ill-advised. The blind leading the blind. LS is right: better to have that payment and know you have a warranty, because a dependable vehicle is a great part of security. Even moreso than owning a house. Somehow, that reasoning escaped me when my money came through. Probably because i had never owned a new vehicle with a warranty. Again, she was a Light Switcher.

Wish in One Hand....

Something Dead

I tried to go to sleep, but just kept smelling this horrible odor. I sniffed my pillow, I sniffed my pits. I even sniffed her pillow and was convinced it was her pillow case. It smelled like something dead.

SO I removed her pillow case and laid back down. But there was that smell again. Maybe it was coming from outside. So I got up and stepped outside and the wind whipped around my head and I said through the window, "It's out here--something really strong."

So I came in and closed the window. But I still smelled it. I sprayed neutralizer all over the room. No change. I went to the bathroom medicine cabinet for some aspirin, because the smell had given me a headache. I opened the mirrored door and my eyes caught the ear wax removal bottle.

Then it hit me.

I had put some in my clogged ears earlier. I reached up and poked my finger into my ear and sniffed it. Oh my god.

The whole time, I couldn't get away from that smell because I was carrying it around in my ears.

So the next time you smell something dead...

Something Dead

Comfort Food

When i start feeling down, i want comfort food. Sometimes that's mashed potatoes, or chocolate, or pizza...tonight it's a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup...


Why do so many of us eat when we're depressed? According to the National Health and Nutrition Survey, about two thirds of Americans are obese. That's a lot of depressed people.

http://nhlbisupport.com/bmi/

Sometimes I think it would be just as much comfort to get into a giant bowl of mashed potatoes or tomato soup and just move around a little bit in it. Then we wouldn't be obese because we would be swimming--getting our cardiovascular exercise... and we'd still have the comfort of the food itself. But it sure would be a hell of a mess to clean up. OF course, that would be good aerobic exercise, too.

Comfort Food

Strangled by An Angel

When things get this bad I look for the point. There always has to be a point. Otherwise, what's the point? It's an existentialist's nightmare.

I almost expect to see Roma Downey from Touched by an Angel standing outside the van in the Toys R Us parking lot in the middle of the night. Her aura an unearthly glow. She will say, in that endearing accent of hers, "Jae, Got loves yew. . .He only wants the best fer yew . . ."

And suddenly it would all be clear to me, and my heart would fill with love and understanding and I would sleep peacefully through the night finally, waking to find my whole world had changed...the claim had gone through with the VA, the lawyer calls and tells me he has a fat check from Social Security, a publisher is desperately trying to reach me to publish my book. I would gleefully deposit the money in the bank, buy a house and a new van, start a band, and then the real love of my life would enter, stage right.

In my distorted dreams, it's more like an ugly, unshaven angel appears, puffing on a big cigar he got from his deal with Castro, smiles at me with rotten teeth and from within his aura of soot and smoke, he says, "God doesn't love you. He thinks you're a miscreation. He only wants you to suffer." At which point he leans forward and burns me with an ugly finger.

An angel never touches me. God doesn't send any messengers, except of the foul variety, and I wonder why life can't be just a tiny slice of what Hollywood tells us it is.

And then my mind drifts to the only other method I have at my disposal to be touched by an Angel...take that step into the hereafter, hunt one down and say, "Touch me, Dammit!" And when it refused, I would touch it around the neck with both hands--and squeeze.

Strangled by An Angel

Alexander Graham Bell Overture

(from my unpublished memoir, "The Misadventures of No One Famous")

I intended to plug in my laptop through the open side window and into the outlet by the lot light in front of Barnes and Noble. I knew I couldn't take the chance of doing that in the light of day, so I was waiting for the sun to go down like some sort of literary vampire, who can't begin to sully the unsullied page until there's proper concealment.

I spent the usual few minutes staring into space, and was looking at Gizmo's ears. He is supposedly half spaniel, half Chihuahua, so his ears never decided whether to be perky or droopy. They sort of jut from the side of his head like wings that won't retract.

Pulling myself from this insipidness, I begin to read Carrie Fisher's "Surrender the Pink" and someone's car alarm goes off. It's one of those that honks the horn over and over instead of ringing.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

...in a cadence a metronome would envy. After a few minutes of this, I stopped trying to understand that paragraph I'd read four times, and wonder when the owner of the car will take care of the noise.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

That's when a creative soul in another car begins to join in, adding an echoing blast at equally metronomic intervals...

HONK! Honk. HONK! Honk. HONK! Honk.

I start to smile. The Alexander Graham Bell Overture in C Minor.

Then another would-be composer joins in...

HONK! Honk. TOOT! HONK! Honk. TOOT!

And there begins a cacophony of horns about the area. None of them are on their way to Carnegie Hall, but it was good for a laugh.

Alexander Graham Bell Overture

Petting the Hounds of Hell

from my memoir, "The Misadventures of No One Famous"

There was that short period in my life in 1998, when I actually believed all would be well. I had a great job that I loved, it paid well, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I got back on my financial feet. I began to feel good about myself again. Deeply spiritual. Like I had just returned from a sabbatical in an ashram with the Dalai Lama, and was blessed and sanctified by my victory over previous hardships.

Then my paycheck bounced. Then another, and another, and the NSF charges began to pile up since I wrote checks for bills on that amount I expected to be there. I confronted my boss with the admonition that I would need to be compensated immediately or I could not continue to work. The conversation deteriorated from there, turned into an altercation, and a refusal to pay, and I threatened to leave and take the extra computer with me as collateral until he paid me. That's when he called the police.

The officers arrived, a report was filed, and I was escorted to my car-- without a paycheck, and without the computer. I entertained the idea of sugar in his gas tank, or a well-placed banana peel, but thought myself above that sort of pettiness. I was out of sugar and bananas.

Many weeks later, my ex-boss finally sent a check, painfully short of what was actually owed, and wrote a little legal statement on the back stating that endorsement of that check meant that it was payment in full. By that time, my financial status was so bad, I didn't have a choice. I had to take what he offered, even though he owed me over a thousand dollars. So I signed my name to the back of the check, all the while sending really nasty black energy in his direction.

Jobless and in financial hot-water, I took my disabled self to the first job I could find. Delivering pizza. Problem was, the original job description was that I would deliver only. It developed into being on my feet 8-10 hours, carrying large trays of very heavy dough, enormous cans of sauce, mopping, sweeping... all the sorts of things "normal" people can do.

I told the manager on duty that I couldn't do those things, wasn't supposed to do them, but got no sympathy. That conversation ended in sophomoric chastisement in front of several customers. I knew it was only a matter of time before my back gave out. And when that actually happened, I headed for the door with a slipping disc, bent over like a great-grandmother with osteoporosis.

I was practically bedridden for the next two weeks, as the bills continued to pile up. My water was turned off, my electricity was about to be, and I knew I had to find other work, regardless of how long I could keep it.

I started a job at Blockbuster, but soon discovered that 4 to 8 hours on my feet was just as bad as short hours lifting things. I started missing work, and finally went down with another slipped disc and had to turn in my notice. I also had to turn in my notice to the landlord since I was two months behind and saw no end in sight.

A Chapter 7 Bankruptcy and the guest room of an old friend were all that saved me from living in my van. I moved almost all my things to storage in January, '99, while applying for increases in my VA disability and compensation from Social Security.

I still owed the landlord for that month's rent, and wasn't able to sell that furniture to pay him--which is still in the living room of my ex-house. And Tyler (my ex--the one who ripped my heart to shreds) is moving into that house since they raised the rent where she was...odd...like some sort of personal insult...

So this morning, after a long night of anxiety dreams, I pulled myself out of bed and started a strong pot of coffee... Checked the mail...My thoughts kept wandering back and forth between these things:

• what's the going price for cocaine?
• how many people do I have to kill to join a gang?
• how exactly does one contact the devil in order to sell one's soul?
  
• Does he carry a "sell" phone?
• what should be said in my suicide note?
  

This delightful frame of mind is brought to you by the Sherwood Municipal Court, Hot Check Division: "We're just doing our jobs." These fine people now hold a warrant for my arrest. Talk about adding insult to injury, salt to a wound...

Funny, they managed to put out a warrant for me, but that check from my ex Boss-From-Hell never was covered, even though I filed an affidavit on him. I continue to feel he's responsible for much of this Misfortune Circus that is my life. If he hadn't written me those hot paychecks and thrown me into financial devastation, which meant I had to leave the job-- well, none of this would have happened.

And if I had never joined the Army, none of the past eleven years of crap would have happened, and I would be able to find other work, no matter how physical it was. But my choices are limited.

So there was every possibility I'd end up getting arrested and going to jail--all because I couldn't whip out my checkbook and pay for this fine.

I kept trying to see the point of it-- the larger spiritual picture...I just continued to feel like the Biblical figure, JOB. Funny, that name looks an awful lot like something I wish I had. They should have added an "e" to the end of it. Hey, I even have boils again. Didn't "JOBe" have to deal with that, too? (I would ask the POWERS THAT BE please not to kill my family). That story strikes me as bogus anyway. A Loving God? God kills a man's family in order to test HIS faith....mmm. I must remember to ask Reverend Sid to explain that one.

So what have I learned?

I've learned that it's not a good idea to save the unused canned biscuits for later baking. They come out flat and firm like hardtack. (I only opened them because all I had was a can of 10, and I was hungry. I couldn't very well eat 10 Texas-sized biscuits, even if I am hungry most of the time lately).

So I've learned that now, God. I understand. Now, call off your Hounds.

Petting the Hounds of Hell

It Only Hurts When I Think About it

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

I flipped through the TV channels and found nothing of interest, read some, put the book down and stared at the dust on my alarm clock, and then started thinking about living in my van. How it would be. Would I be able to maintain the fiction that it's a romantic idea once I was actually there, and the temperature drops to freezing? Would my cigarette lighter work so that I could plug the power inverter into it for a space heater? Could I live on ready-to-eat foods? Would I be able to find a place to shower and go to the bathroom when I needed to?

And I won't be able to leave the van for very long because Giz and Bingo would be there and it's cold, and I can't leave them without heat. So I won't be able to sit in warm coffee-shops and bookstores and libraries and movie houses. I will be making my pain, their pain, and I would not let them suffer more than me. It wouldn't be fair.

I hate the fact that I have to depend on anyone else to survive. I want to depend only on me. But I'm undependable. I hate that I can't pick up something heavy and walk across the room without excruciating pain afterward, or during. I hate the way one disability leads to another. . . if my back is out, I have to walk on crutches, then I get a catch in my spine just outside my shoulder blade, and carpal tunnel in my wrists, then I can't write or use my hands without pain, then I can't use the crutches, so then I can't walk. Then I have to lie down a lot, and I smoke and drink to have something to do with my hands, and to numb the pain and to feel like I'm indulging in some guilty pleasure. And when I eat, I know all those calories are just going to turn to fat.

I hate, then, that I'm fat and can't lose weight because I can't exercise. I don't look good in any of my clothes and can't buy new clothes because I can't work and earn the money. I hate that I can't play racquetball or softball or volleyball anymore. I hate that I have to watch other people do that. And I can't dance, so going out becomes a form of self-torture and self-loathing. Then I hate how I feel about myself and I get depressed. And I long to be thin and nice- looking, but I know I never will be.

I hate that I can't have sex when my back is out, even though I might need it-- Need it to feel human, to escape from the confines of my disabilities. And when I can have sex, I can't stop thinking about how I'm fat and ugly, and that no one could possibly be attracted to me. And then I can't enjoy the sex, and I don't get what I need. Then I'm angry and bitter and I push everyone away from me with my rage and caustic words. Then I just hate the Army and the V.A. and that drill sergeant who got me hurt, and I hate that they've taken away my life. Why wouldn't I want to kill myself? It's just finishing a job, isn't it?

Sometimes the subject will come up--the "suicide gesture" as the hospital form said-- When I talk to Terra. about it, she can't hear it. She tells me to stop, it's disturbing. She's more traumatized than I am about it. The only thing I find disturbing is that it doesn't disturb me. Like it was someone else. Or a dream. Or someone else's dream.

I wasn't just depressed when I did it. I was angry. I wanted it all to stop. I didn't have the strength to face another day of starting over. And there was this other part to it. When I got that denial of my claim that day on the 16th of December, 1999, it was like they were saying, "You don't exist. Your pain isn't real. You aren't real." Maybe I thought that if I could bleed, I was real, and that would be proof enough.

Life blood.

The blood of life.

Alive.

If I bled, I was alive.

Isn't it ironic that you have to try to die before you know you're really alive? And then what did that prove?

I was alive, but still pathetic?

It Only Hurts When I Think About it

The Pony Depress

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Sometimes the post office forgets to cancel the stamps on outgoing mail.
The result is free postage, as far as I'm concerned. I've been hoarding those little jewels for months; just like I do those pennies that I drop in that change-sorting contraption I bought at Target. I've molested that stash plenty of times, and now it was the stamp I needed.

I tried to peel the stamp from the orphaned envelope, but tore it at the only place where the glue actually did what glue was supposed to do. "Shit."

I slammed around in the desk drawer for scissors, and liberated the stamp by simply cutting it out of the envelope. I rubbed a withered glue stick on it and pasted it to the envelope I was sending to the Veteran's Administration. It was still another copy of the addendum I sent to them three times before. I sent it every time they asked for more information, having overlooked the fact that my 10 page letter was not a synopsis for my next novel, but actual details about my claim.

I licked one side of the envelope, feeling an odd sensation on the burned portion of my tongue where I had been a bit overzealous with my first sip of coffee that morning. Years of coffee consumption have left my taste-buds a little retarded. I can no longer tell the difference between a Pop-Tart and a sprouted wheat bagel. It would be nice if my hips and stomach did the same, and just cataloged everything "fat free." Anyway, I licked the other side and got a paper-cut on my tongue.

I grabbed my forearm crutches and stood up awkwardly, my tongue bleeding out onto my lip and down my chin. I nestled the envelope between my teeth, and had to quell the urge to bite through the paper, tear it to shreds like a lonely puppy left at home all day.

Hobbling out of the tiny guestroom, crammed with all the worldly goods I could fit into it, I made my way to the door. Halfway down the rickety front steps, I caught the rubber base of one crutch in the crack between the boards, and had to fight to keep my balance. I would not allow myself to do something as theatrical as fall down the steps and lie there in the dirt until my erstwhile roommates-cum-sugar-mamas returned from work.

I wriggled my forearm out of the bent metal cuff, and pulled on the crutch. It came free without much effort, and my excess exertion was rewarded when I managed to knock myself in the head with the top of the crutch. I stood there with my eyes closed for a long moment, waiting for the line of blood to tickle its way down my forehead and pool above my right eyebrow, thankfully not merging with the blood oozing from my paper-cut tongue into a river of crimson disbelief. So that's what eyebrows were for. . .

I didn't bother to touch the wound, I just continued gingerly down the steps and along the driveway toward the mailbox, numb with self-resolve.

When I reached the box and opened its drawbridge-door, a bee flew out and stung me on the chin. I swiped him to the dirt and ground him into it with the rubber tip of my crutch. Taking the envelope from my teeth, I thought about how I'd like to be a bee on the wall when it arrived at the Department of Veteran's Affairs with the bloody imprint of teeth on it. Perhaps it would help my case.

Barely making it to the bathroom, my bladder aching and threatening to inflict still more humiliation, I tried to pull my pants down and deal with the crutches at the same time, and promptly knocked my last roll of toilet paper in the toilet (it wanted to go home). I made do with a paper towel and paused in the bathroom only long enough to apply more antibiotic on the boils I'd developed on my chin.

By the time I made my way back to my old brown desk chair, I needed a cigarette. I know I should quit, but it's one of the few creature comforts I have left. Every time I quit smoking, something bad happens and makes me want a cigarette, so I figure if I continue to smoke, things are bound to improve.

I set flame to the blessed cheroot and inhaled, allowing the cigarette to dangle from my mouth like I was James Dean while I logged on to get my e-mail.

I watched the junk mail fill my box with promises of work-at-home riches, zero-percent Master Cards, and sales on peripherals I could never dream of buying. I reached up to pull the evil fire-stick from my lips, discovering too late that it was sort of glued there by whatever magic that's created by spit and dry paper. This caused my fingers to slide down the length of it, where I summarily burned both of them. I yelped, the action tearing skin from my lips as my mouth came open. This released the cigarette, which then fell to my lap and nearly caught a certain intimate clump of bush on fire.

It was going to be another one of those days where I should have just rolled back over into Narnia, and forgot about waking up.

The Pony Depress

Clearly Not An Alternative

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)


With a phone and a pager, I could manage to drum up some clients for my little home pseudo- business. I spent almost all the income from a previous set of shows to make that happen. I went with a digital phone company because I liked the features and they only required $250 for a deposit.

My recent Chapter 7 Bankruptcy insured that a deposit would be required with any new service. Oddly, my previous good standing with the local phone company did nothing to decrease the $500 deposit they required from me in order to have cell phone service.

My first bill arrived, to the tune of $400. I knew there would probably be taxes and such added to the bill, but since I was expecting the $49.99 monthly charge, this was a bit of a shock. In examining the bill, I noticed that I was being charged for an additional month of service, another phone number, the phone itself (which I did not even purchase from them, but from Radio Shack), a month of service for the other phone number, plus taxes, and another deposit AGAIN.

I spent the next two months trying like crazy to remind them of the concept of "customer service." Each time I called the local store, I was confronted with a menu of options. If you’d like information about this, press one. . . If you’d like information about that, press two. . .If you’d like to hear an endless list of our promotions whether you’re interested or not, press three. . . I kept waiting for that selection, If you’d like to speak to a human, press twenty-seven. . . But it never came. Once it got to the end of the menu, the honey-dripping voice instructed me to stay on the line to speak to a "customer advocate." I waited, enjoying the strains of Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, and then Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made it. I recalled this as my High School Prom theme song. Appropriate, since it was a surprise to most of us and our parents that we graduated at all.

Finally, a "Customer Advocate" answered—not by saying "How may I help you?" like in yesteryear, but "Your account number, please." Whether we admit it or not, we have all become just numbers, like those prisoners you see in old movies in striped shirts with digits across their chests. I always hated that. I didn’t want to give them all my information, I wanted to get right to the point. But of course they had to have it in order to pull up my account and verify everything I was saying, because, you know, most customers lie through their teeth about everything.

In great, put-upon detail, I described the problem and got very little sympathy, and a whole lot of attitude. I was put on hold several times while she "researched the problem," and each time she returned from this dubious research, she assured me, in so many words, that they don’t make those mistakes. She asked me if I had a receipt for the deposit, and I said no (kicking myself) because I had paid in cash. *A method of currency unrecognizable and non-transferable after the year 1990.

"We always give you a receipt," she said haughtily.

I told her I received some sort of invoice, but that my deposit was not noted on it. Further, I recounted the fact that after my information was entered that day, their computer system went down, and the clerk had to re-enter everything, and wasn't it possible that the deposit wasn't noted the second time?

She didn't believe this was possible. "Our cash drawers would have been off by that amount if it wasn't."

All I knew was that I had paid the deposit. And maybe, just maybe, the charge was noted, payment noted, bringing me to zero, then entered as a charge, but not noted as paid the second time. This would be an error in their favor, and therefore resistant to change. Money is always the bottom line. My lack of money is always the norm. My lack of luck is always the norm, too. It was like my Guardian Angel was on vacation. I have this theory about Guardian Angels. Some of them are good at their jobs, and some aren't. What I know about the machinations of heaven, you can fit on the head of a pin, but at least I know what the pins are for. They're for gouging out the eyes of some Guardian Angels. I lovingly refer to mine as Murphy: as in "Murphy's First Law: Anything that can go wrong, WILL."

The debate continued with all the other items on the bill, and I explained that I had signed up first on the Internet from their web page, but found out later the page was outdated, and no longer counted as a real order. It must have counted somewhere, because I got charged for the first number and all the fees that went along with it. She said she would research the issue and call me right back.

I listened intently, but never heard my phone ring.

Since I was getting no semblance of "customer service," I called back, waded through the tiresome recordings, reached another human, explained it all again, and asked for the number of a district manager. Happy to be rid of me, she gave me the number, and I hung up to call him. Predictably, I got his voice mail, and left a message, again explaining the problem.

This game of cat and mouse went on for the next few months. Explaining and re-explaining the problem to each new Customer Advocate and District Manager, until I was ready to kill them all. Meanwhile, my bill went unpaid, as I refused to send payment until everything was worked out. My service was disconnected just before a flat tire in the middle of nowhere required me to use my phone to call for help. Naturally, this was necessary because I had a flat spare tire awaiting the emergency in which I could curse it. I had to walk several miles to a pay phone and fill it with change in order to find someone to come fetch me. With my physical disabilities this was particularly unpleasant.

Eventually, I actually spoke to one of the managers, and he agreed to "meet me halfway" by charging me half the deposit again and one month’s service charge. Reminiscent of the cop who was nice enough to give me only two tickets. He assured me the service would be restored if I paid this amount at the local store.

At this point, I was endangering the few clients I had for my computer work, and felt that if I had my service, I could get on with things and eventually get the credit back to me or onto my account. I agreed to pay, albeit under duress. *Murphy’s Technology Law #16: To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.

So I went down to the store as the District Manager said to, and gave them the cash (everything I could scrap up including my rolled pennies). After they took my money, they informed me that I had to pay for next month too, or they wouldn't turn my service on.

I stood there, my system REALLY low on Paxil, and began to feel a little like one of those Postal Workers who show up with an empty conscience and a full clip. I said, "I was told by the District Manager that if I came down here and paid this, my service would be turned back on." She gave me some slime about "policy" tempered with a really shitty attitude, like I was some gutter rat who had the audacity to touch one of their phones--and I just lost it. "I want you to call him and verify what I've said. And I want you to call him right now."

"He's not available right now."

"How do you know that, until you call?"

"I know he's out of town."

"That's okay, he has a CELL PHONE!" I shouted.

"He's NOT available," she said again.

"Who's your supervisor?" I said, REALLY LOUD. *Murphy’s Technology Law #13: The first myth of management is that it exists.

She said SHE was the supervisor. I said, "Who'd you sleep with to get the job?"

The look on her face was almost worth all the hassle from the last few months. She said, "You can't have your service 'til you pay. Next!" And looked right past me to another customer.

It was at this point that I believe I went ballistic. I said, "I want to see a REAL manager, and I want to see one now!" And I went right past her BEHIND THE COUNTER and started searching the back offices. I was aware that I was causing a scene, and that other customers in the store were staring at me, thrilled that they would get to see something as exciting as a "Caught on Tape" episode.

She yelled at me, "I'm calling the police!"

I yelled back, "Call them! I need to file a report on THEFT BY DECEPTION!" and I continued to look for a manager. There was NO ONE to be found, and when I came back to the front, she was on the phone with the police.

I can't tell you how close I came to snatching the receiver from her hand and beating her to death with it. When she hung up, I had decided that those cell-bunks were a little less that friendly for my back, and I didn't want to spend the night on one. So I leaned over the counter and got in her face and whispered, "Watch your back," and walked out. I guess it was a threat. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to have some kind of last word with her before making my exit. "Caught on Tape" was now quickly turning into an episode of "Cops."

*Bad girl, bad girl, whatcha gonna do. . .whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

By the time I got to my car, I think a massive aneurysm was in order. I had earned 4 tickets, been up to my neck in the red tape and bureaucracy of government offices, totally overwhelmed with chronic pain, sick to death of struggling to get by on sandwiches and coffee and five dollars per week, feeling terribly worthless, victimized and generally sorry for myself.Then I had to deal with this garbage on top of all that. I mean, what had I done to deserve such turmoil and hardship? Hadn't I tried? Hadn't I kept my chin up and my head down?

On the way home I cursed God, Buddha, Mohammed, Ghandi, Republicans, fertile women, and a couple of Toyotas.

Clearly Not An Alternative