Saturday, November 3, 2012

What a wild, weird, (and wonderful) year it has been!

     Like, TOTES.

    As you may have noticed, I have not been around much typing lately.      I also have not been playing my guitar,  going for walks,  lifting weights or painting as I usually do.

   This last year sure has been a big one.   I got married.     I moved in with my wife (another person) into a cool old Victorian house downtown.    I have been busy working.    I also recently found out that I am going to be someone's dad next year.   

  This is sort of crazy...     Good crazy.     At first I was riddled with fear for a few days, and now it just sort of does not seem real.     Eve and I wanted to go to England as a sort of delayed honeymoon (And I Was going to make a business trip out of it, importing some Land Rover Defenders back home) in the Spring, but we have not moved out plans right on up to this month so we can travel before she is large and/or uncomfortable.    In the meantime, she is pretty moody (but PLEASE do not tell her I said so), so we'll see how two weeks in a car together driving around in a cold mist collecting old car parts goes for us. 


    I need to keep this brief today, but I wanted to make an installment.     I just got back from a walk by the river, and I  forgot how great it is to get outside and make some time for walking and reflecting.     I need to write more!    I need to exercise!      I HAVE stopped drinking (not that I needed to, but I thought I would help provide a Unified Front for the Missus, who sadly can not drink for 6 or 7 more months) and this is a good thing.   

    I have been more productive than I have ever been.   I have saved a lot of money.   I have finished most every dangling, nagging obligation that has been haunting me for the last 6 years.   I am stepping into the next big chapter of my life, both at home and at 'work'.    I will have a little person screeching in a basket soon.     Will it love me?    Will I be overbearing?   Will it like cars?    Will it find me old and boring? Will it be funny?   WILL IT BE HEALTHY???

    So,  I am off.    This is the start of new things though, and I will be back soon to update.    There are pictures, too.      There will be many more.   There are stories and plans, and things are happening a lot like I imagined they would, and I feel grounded and much more calm, like I always imagined I would.      How many people can say that?     That they were getting to have the life they planned on having, and it felt as good as they thought it would??

1959 Jaguar.  Helping finance the England Trip.  Wish I could keep it!

Yes, that is the GREEN CAR, and yes, it is done.
   

Friday, August 10, 2012

A quick note regarding 'honesty' :

A)   I always try to be honest with the people in my life.    Especially about my feelings, and I have always been aware of trying to provide a safe and reliable receptacle for other people's honest admissions and critiques.

B)  Everyone tells you they want you to be honest, and that they themselves are honest,  but history teaches us that this is not the case.

C) I am not talking about that type of rude or cruel honesty here like when asked about your special person's footwear and you say "I think those shoes are ugly"  - I am talking about mining of the soul for real truth here, truth which can be offered in a pleasant way, or at least not an unpleasant way.

D)  I think I have finally found one person, well, one 'new' person other than the one or maybe two I have had for the last twenty-plus years, who is also honest,  AND IT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN MY LIFE.   This is something I absolutely needed, required, and I somehow got it.  I will provide examples of this soon here when more time allows.

E) I do not understand what sort of a life one lives when one is not able to live true to the beliefs they know to be true, or can not say the true thoughts about their feelings or actions to the people they are supposed to care about.     How does that work?   Is it about fooling oneself?   Straddling either side of that line, how does one maintain respect for oneself or those people they are lying to?

F)  Is this a fair conclusion:  People do not want to receive or witness your example of real honesty because it will make them aware that they are not honest people themselves and become uncomfortable in that moment?

G)  The real purpose of this entry was to quickly record that I am actually happy right now (this observation about myself/ my dear peoples)  , and however long it took for me to get to this place, it has been worth it.

     

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Grown Men Also Bleed


                               5/18/2012

    Dear Portland Parking Enforcement People  :

       I recently bought this vehicle, a 1999   Land Rover Discovery  Tennessee plate # 974JSD .    I also recently   (February 2012)  Moved into a house at 1517 SW 17TH st, Portland OR 97201.    


   On 4/27/2012,    I went outside to find two parking tickets on my car.     One was for parking in a ‘loading zone’   directly in front of my house.     It was my understanding that that space had a 20 minute time limit from 7AM-8PM M-Friday, and I was issued this ticket at 7:11 in the morning,   less than 20 minutes before the enforced time of 7:20 -       I do not think I should be responsible for this parking ticket because it was actually issued before it would have been a violation.


  At the same time  I was issued another ticket for expired registration (more than 90 days current)   for $140 –   I actually had a trip permit at the time hanging in the car that was not observed by the parking officer.     I should not be responsible for this ticket either.


    In the meantime I have sold the vehicle for scrap, as it was suffering from a number of complicated problems.     Good Riddance to that one, I say.     It is gone,  and I want it’s associated parking violations to be gone along with it.    I will not be haunted by its memory, or semi-paranoid visions of parking enforcement officers lurking nefariously in their tiny carts, waiting to descend upon me, like vultures upon something dying or already dead.    The car is gone, and I want nothing more to do with it, and I say the parking citations issued on that hideous morning are invalid, and predatory to boot.  

    Please find the enclosed afore-mentioned citations.    I recommend you shred or burn them, whichever is easiest for you there in your office.      If you feel that you want to pursue the issue further,   if you feel your agent was justified in their issuance of said citations,   if you feel truly righteous in this matter, then by all means make a copy for your records and  then mail to them to me again at my address there in Sector A and hear from my lawyer in short order! 


     Please forgive me for bleeding all over the citations and envelopes provided for them.    I am in fact a hemophiliac with high blood pressure and discovering the tickets that morning sent me into a spell.    I did not bleed on them on purpose, as I have been accused of doing in the past,   it was due to circumstances beyond my control and I apologize.    I am not meant to be long here in this world, but please, do not let that influence your decision to blight my final days here on this Earth with your parking citations.    If a demand must be made for payment, I suppose this sort of thing may be best handled in probate court after my passing…    I’m sorry,  I digress.  The point was,  I AM sorry for bleeding on your citations. 

  I can be contacted at 503-505-7113 , and all correspondence can be mailed to me at my residence: 1517 SW 17TH ST, Portland OR 97201 -   

    Thank you, Zak Mosieur

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Okay, but where is my shit?

After a perfectly worded request for a tracking number, I get this:



Hi. You should be nervous, I am!!! I went to the Post Office amongst much personal drama going on . . . feels like I can barely hold it together. I got my first non-payments ever . . . two this week! They could not locate the box . . . I have to go back, as they are trying to figure out who was delivering to my house & if they know anything. There are three different delivery people & they are lazier than the next. I want to refund your money until this is resolved. I have never refunded anyones money before & I am worried about how it is done. I don't have all the money in my Paypal . . . about half. I know it's linked to my back account, I just don't want it to take long. I want it to go right back to you. Do you know what happens if I hit the refund button? I will try it in the morning if I don't hear from you. I will also go back to the Post Office before work tomorrow. I'm going to tell you a secret. It's dumb, but I want you to know why I'm very worried about this situation. There is a rumour that I am having an affair with the Post Master. I t sounds silly, I know, but someone (I am assuming who works there) called my husband at his office & told him this. My hubby came unglued & we had alot of problems since. There is no possible way this could be true which makes it so nasty. I think one of the workers has a crush on the Post Master & started this rumor. I am considered very attractive & I think they are jealous & petty. I've gotten threatening letters through the mail & the old Super-visor actually came to my house "to find out why the delivery guy took so long at my house". I sold a lot on eBay at the time, which was the only reason. There was a constant stream of packages coming & going. One of the deilvery guys would also park his truck across from front door & leer at me. Very gross. The stories get even worse! I am embarrassed that you are dragged into this. Do you use Jicky or collect the bottles? I may have another.

   The next day,   it gets weird:



Hi . I swear it's getting crazier & crazier around here. I got into it with my hubby because I thought maybe he had picked it up & not told me. But, he said he didn't. I The Post Office claims that only the Supervisor can trace it & that she wasn't in. I gave them the tracking number & said I'd be back, but I got held up at work & couldn't get back. When I looked at the clock it was too late. This is driving me crazy! So, you wear the scent? I was selling these from my Hubby's collection. He wears Jicky becasue I love how it smells on him! I wanted to tell you that we have another bottle of the cologne. I was selling his doubles. The bottle is full & smells nice. I actually tested it a couple of times when my hubby wasn't around becasue I wanted to smell it. He got mad at me. Said only he could wear it! Anyway, I would send it to you if you like. I know I won that bottle for over $200. You know there is another buyer having the exact same problems that I'm having with my Post Office. It's really eerie, I thought I was the only one! Check out the negative feedback I just got. I swear, everyone's going crazy! She told me to cancel the bid & then she gives me that feedback!! Yikes!

     And after a week, there's this: 


 
 Hi. When it rains, it pours! My Paypal business card was stolen & whomever stole it drained it at KMart! I've been really worried that they had access to my bank account, but apparently that can not be accessed except online. According to Paypal's rules, the only way I can get my money back is to close the account. Sadly, I think I know who stole my card & thought I could confront her. But apparently, I am chicken. I had my chance to, but I couldn't. If I have to close it, I will refund you before that. I've had 2 other packages lost & found during this week. One found it's way here & there is no explanation what happened. Another found it's way to my buyer & she said the mess up was with her Post Office & it was too complicated & stupid to explain, but she got her perfume, so she's happy. That only leaves yours. On another strange note, creep-o Post guy is now delivering my mail again! I came home after being away on the other side of the island (ex-husband drama) & I was getting my over-night bag out of the truck & here he comes! I ran back in the house since I had my night-clothes on & my son waited to see if there were packages. He walked right by my son & walked it to the door~ I had to slam the door shut before he saw me. I've had my kids waiting for any packages, but it was just my car part~ my hubby seems to think he's a mechanic now (NOT!).


-(name hidden to protect the drag-addled&insane) 

   

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Grown men also cry...

   I woke up this morning a little chilly, as I had kicked my blue sleeping bag with the defective zipper off of my person while I was sleeping.   I was on the floor, outright,  Sultan Faggers coiled away someplace at The Shop as I could not abide travel with the top down on the Saab with the weather in the state that it was in.

   Last night I brought my first load of the bare necessities over here to the new Victorian house on 17th; some towels, a pot, a pan, two drinking glasses, three cans of tuna fish,   half a jar of mayonaise,  400 Starbucks napkins, a laptop, speakers for the laptop, a modem,  250 computer cables, a roll of toilet paper, some old bread, a section of an onion that was wrapped in an old produce bag on the top shelf of my refrigerator at the Old House for the last week, 4 pillows that should have been burned long ago,  and two pairs of thick, clean socks.

   What a night I had!   Unpacking my napkins and displaying a few here and there on counter-and-tabletops I was overcome with a sense of calm, of optimism,  things are really looking up now!  I admired my own attention to detail as I remembered to bring both a can of tuna  - and get this-  a can opener.   Maybe I am finally growing up?   I took care of myself just fine, and made a tuna sandwich and enjoyed one of these last fine evenings I will ever experience again stag.

    You see, the FMM could not make the journey into town as she had promised to me  that morning, due to an early appointment in Salem to see her eyelash doctor.      At least that's what she told me.   I'm sure it had nothing to do with not wanting to sleep on a floor, freezing, eating tuna fish sandwiches long into the night and possibly arguing about where we should store the dried pastas.   There was inclement weather about as well, and one would not want to tempt any dark fate navigating traffic amongst the blind and thoughtless people driving out there like a bunch of Chinamen.

   So I was by myself,  and after enjoying my sandwich I bundled up and went out on a little tour of my new neighborhood.  Could there be a purveyor of frozen yogurt nearby?  Could my recent good luck extend that far?   I told myself I was going to find out.

    The news was bittersweet as I found there was indeed a nearby  yogurt shop, but the owners apparently had the bad taste to close before 10:17PM on a Wednesday.    I made a mental note to have a discussion with them about this matter on my first visit, which would be as soon as possible.

   I continued on through the slick, black streets of Portland, hands in pockets and nose down to keep these things warm, or at least not-frozen.   Around and around I walked, up hills and down making mental notes - a Thai 'bistro' ?  Hmmm.    Several bars were passed by in acts of willpower exercise.   Culinary Institute of Portland?   Churches old and new...  Lots of old houses and a few high rise apartment buildings were admired, the occupants in each window displayed like  Japanese fighting fish in their separate bowls on some great rack  someplace.    The walk was peaceful and productive and after about an hour, I had had enough.   My toes were finally getting numb.

    I returned home, still impressed that I had a new key and lock to put together and twist, and a new space to possess and explore and slither about in.    I missed the FMM, and felt as if I were betraying her a tiny bit, hanging my towels there in the bathroom without her.    We should have carried our filthy pillows across the threshold TOGETHER.    But, I remembered, there will be plenty of time for that soon enough.    A Forever of time.

   I settled into the nest I built there in front of my laptop and eventually went to sleep to the sound of gunfire and helicopters strafing Mogadishuans issuing from my powerful speakers.    Sometimes, A Man just needs to feel he is someplace familiar in order to get a good night's sleep.

     The trouble started as soon as I looked out the window this morning.    There was a light blanket of snow, yes  -and that was fine-  but there was also a bright yellow parking ticket under the windshield wiper of the Saab.    I looked at the tiny clock on the corner of the laptop screen: 7:12 AM.    It is true I did not yet pay for a parking permit,  but I live here!   Do I need one?  These were my thoughts as I pulled on clean socks and several layers of thermal undergarments before going outside to investigate.  I had already devised a plan to slip out of paying the ticket, which I assumed would be for not having a permit, by taking pictures of the ticket on the snow-covered windshield so I could then claim the permit was hanging, obscured, inside the car from the rear view mirror.     It should be noted;  I am very clever like this.   After taking several pictures which I would include in my scathing letter to the Portland Parking Enforcement Office, I snatched the ticket up and opened it to see exactly how much those mongoloids were going to try to fleece me for.

    $140 for 'Registration more than 90 days expired on plates' .

    I was sort of shocked and numb, trying to calculate what this meant, and at what time during the night was my vehicle's registration scrutinized?    I climbed into the car and started it,  gunning the engine for quicker warmth,  directly below about 50 or 60 windows containing sleeping persons. What is wrong with these parking people?    What kind of a neighborhood IS this, anyway?   I began to have my very first suspicion that things may not go so smoothly here as I had first hoped.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

That horrible Mormon

   I read in the news this morning that Mitt Romney had called his main competitor in the Republican primary race, Rick Santorum,   "A sneaking cheater" for soliciting votes from the democratic voters of Michigan state yesterday.

   Well, all I can say is that it takes one to know one.

    I was already on edge when I read this, as the Future Missus Mosieur has been on edge lately.  It turns out, she is PMS-y,  which in a moment of insensitivity (I was actually trying to cheer her up with a dose of snarky humor) I remarked that PMS-y-ness was immediately followed by a period of MS-y-ness (Which I found quite clever, actually) which not only did the FMM not find amusing, not only denied, but also became quite upset and THEN became silent after hurling a few choice insults .

    You see, accusing a woman of being pre-menstrual has the exact same effect as if someone were to accuse a man of becoming drunk.  The sure-fired way to determine that the accused is in fact in that state would be their spirited denial of it.    The last thing a man who has just consumed seven beers in 45 minutes would ever do would be to admit he was becoming buzzed.     Much the same, the last thing a woman who is about to have her period in a few days would ever do would be to admit she was experiencing the symptoms of PMS.

   So, I was already in a foul mood when I read this headline story about the pot calling the kettle black.

Jump-starting The Machine

   I woke up this morning in the 'Old House' for the last time.    I slept on the couch, as Sultan Faggers had already been folded up, and in the back of the Saab, was ferried to it's new home at the shop some days ago.   The usual complaints issued from my ankle, knee, spine as I began to stir and rise from my nest.

    I was surprised by the sentimental feelings that crept into my consciousness as I swept two dead plants into a brown paper trash bag and pressed the plunger on my coffee maker and poured a cup of 'morning juice' into my beloved mug.   I made a little tour of the place, aware that I would not be living there any longer, and in fact would not be living alone any longer, ever again.

   I looked at disgust at myself in a mirror for a moment, at the puffy face and silly mustache, grown in an attempt at humor, as is the fashion here in the Northwest amongst white men who consider themselves clever.   The extra 30 pounds jostling around the place where my waist once existed was acknowledged briefly before a switch in my cloudy mind flipped and demanded I look elsewhere before I became too upset.

   An aborted 'TO-DO / GOALS' whiteboard stuck to the refrigerator had no entries after the beginning of last month.    It is true, there was much chaos and turmoil swirling about these rooms and this life, and the promise of a new beginning Tomorrow usually trumps immediate action.     I have to feed  a new thought into the gray folded machine.   I have to jump-start this new life, and it's flashpoint will be this single thought:   I can not be predictable.   I can not become a cliche.

    In short, I need to work.  There is a trajectory that seems to have settled in around me, and I have to break out of it.   As we all remember from our science and physics classes, bodies in motion tend to remain in motion,  and bodies at rest will remain at rest until some action zaps them to life.   You may also remember, it is much easier to keep a body in motion, exploiting it's momentum than it is to get a body at rest to start doing something different.   In fact, it can be very difficult indeed to get this fucking body to do anything you want it to do, if you let the thing rest too long, or wander off on some irrelevant vector.    One has to muster their energies and will to make even tiny adjustments, not to mention major change altogether.    This is the crossroads I recognize I have come to today:   It is time to muster, and I have enough motivations and encouragement to begin right now.   It is Tomorrow!  Clear a path!    From the artificial significance of a new page on the calendar to the very real significance of moving into a new house with another person, I have many motivations to make changes.    This is a distilling of purpose,  this is a new opportunity to pin great colored pieces of paper to the walls and scribble my new strategies and goals upon them,  a new opportunity to mark off days with big black 'X's and tally accomplishments in the appropriate columns.

      There are many new beginnings afoot here now, it is springtime and the plants and animals are making their transitions without even knowing why.   In fact, even my editor is channeling similar vibrations: He stopped by yesterday  and shared with me his resolution to lose 100 pounds - by Memorial Day - drinking nothing but a new herbal potion he discovered on the internet and immediately purchased, mail-order from Quebec, consisting of  powdered shark placenta suspended in a matrix of distilled water, grapefruit juice, and sea algae.    If the science of the drink doesn't do it by itself,  the $1100 price tag is enough to get you to follow the directions included with each bottle:

   "Drink one full 8oz drink of  HearbalBlast every morning, followed by 2 hours of rigorous exercise.   Be sure to eat nothing else for the rest of the day.  You may drink as much pure, clear water as you like.  Do not forget to clench the balls of your feet everywhere you go, and whenever possible squeeze your hands into fists as tight as you can for fifteen minute stretches at a time.  Enjoy one more 8oz vessel of HerbalBlast before bedtime.   Repeat for 45 days..."

    These are magical times friends!     Sometimes I am amazed to discover that even I can believe that anything is possible.

Friday, February 24, 2012

New BeginningZ

   I walked across the bridge again today for the first time in several months.  Certain tinglings surfaced, and the mind began to pulse in anticipation. Anticipation of what?  The future is right out there, dangling and waiting to be owned, like a swollen fruit.

   Speaking of 'Swollen Fruit', I was visited today by my editor.   I had a couple of carburetors out on my workbench, and I was making progress in their disassembly.   Aramotized chemicals were adrift in my section of the building, and I was a little on edge when the garage door rolled up to reveal his corpus magnum there, smiling for some reason unknown to me.    I felt annoyed and tried to pretend this insult was not happening.   It was no use.   There he remained standing beside my workbench, with that ridiculous toothy smile still, fidgeting.    He dug about in the armpit of his nylon parka.   He scratched his bald head, and then began to pick at something on the front of his pants.   His smile persisted.   It reminded me of a great ape at the zoo, or a minstrel show participant sans blackface.     How was I supposed to dislodge a broken main jet carrier bolt from the carb body under these conditions?

    "What is it!"   I finally demanded to know.    "I told you already I would have your money after I was paid this week!  How am I supposed to get anything done with you calling me and stopping by every ten minutes!!?!"

   He glanced down at his shoes, in shame I guessed, and fiddled with his laces for a moment.   This obvious admission of unsavory behavior emboldened my sense of outrage.

   "Speak up man!"   I threw a wrench to the floor to punctuate, "What is it?  Use your words!"