I might drop a few bucks and get a desktop interface for weblogging. Because, by god, this shit I write needs back-end bells and whistles.
Here’s a picture, because it does that.
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We came home to a brown envelope from the local courts.
On the case where fucking Nick was suing us, the plaintiff, Nicky, got a fucking goose egg. Nada. Vacated. Done.
On the case where we did the paperwork correctly, and which ended up on top, we, the plaintiffs, M. and me, we are OWED BY Nick. The net result from our entire security deposit after living at his place for two years — He gets to keep 9 American dollar bills. Yup, less than $10 dollar from what he claimed was our trashing the place beyond $2 grand.
HAHAHAHA.
We’ll be sending collection agents to his house if need be for our whole little bonus.
I’m proud to be an American.
The other day I got a social network invite from someone I know through the comedy scene. Innocuous and common enough, right?
No. Fucking asshole, shithead, stupid, poopy brain computers. The site asked to crosscheck my address book for other members, and then proceeded to SPAM the entire list with invitations. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.
I should have Googled the company name BEFORE joining. Always a good thing to check it out before clicking on the invite to the party. But, the spammers WANT you to trust your friends and acquaintances and NOT question an invite.
Had I searched Quetchup or Quechup, I would have seen a bunch of other victims. I would have found this site, or this blog, or this one, or this one, or this one, or this one, or this one. AAAAARRRGGGGHHH.
In short — DON’T JOIN QUECHUP. And, if you got the time and inclination, write some dirty words in an email and send to the fuckers at: legals@quechup.com and spam@quechup.com.
If I spammed you and you joined, I’m wicked sorry.
Fucking Nick, the smallest of petty, small people. We got to see him today. Fucking yay.
Here’s the timeline. Exactly 21 days from moving from his shithole (OK, it was livable, but a spiritual shithole), we got the ridiculous letter. The one where not only was he keeping our security deposit, but he wanted $800 or so more bucks for his shitty, old carpet. We waited a week or so, just to be chill and all, and sent him our own letter stating directly and with legal references, “You got to be shitting us,” and asking for our security deposit back.
Again, for the chillness of it all, we gave him a couple of weeks to reply and send a goddamn check. Then, we filed our court paperwork and got a June date lined up for the hearing.
Alrighty, then, up until about then I was thinking I knew what was what and how this whole thing might roll. Win, lose or draw, we were just doing our paperwork and not lying down on Nick’s ridiculous cash grab.
We hadn’t heard anything, nary a peep, other than from the nice process servers, who said Nicky boy had been served.
Of course, though, Nick, my man, did not want to cough up some reasonable cash or otherwise make it easy, chill and non-litigious. Nope, instead he changed the court date from June (which I had picked) to early September because of an alleged summer sojourn in the ancient lands of his Grecian roots.
So, we knew two things — He got our papers, and he had the court date (and the hearing ID number from the paperwork we submitted).
What we didn’t know is he had his own dealio going on the whole time. Turns out Nick had wanted to sue our asses all along. Only thing is he’s so monumentally fucktarded, we never got notified until last week.
A couple of certified letters showed up whilst I was vacationing in Scotland. M. picked them up when I got back. Nick was, I thought, countersuing. But, he was just suing suing with his own case number, his own paperwork, his own set of dates, only he ain’t never told us.
So, we showed up in court today, a day earlier than the changed date we had been sent after Nick headed to Greece. Nope, that day, our date, was set for tomorrow. We showed up today, a day early, following the date on last week’s new letters.
The mandatory chat in the hallway to try to settle the stupidity was an exercise in futility. Not only was Nick’s idea of settling demanding we write a check for the full amount, he was just oozing to show us his pictures.
Apparently, Nick’s an Arlo Guthrie fan, because he came to court with a pile of “colored glossy pictures with circles and arrows on the back of each one to use as evidence against us.” Our judge was sighted, though. And, his photos were fucking crazy with notes like “urine” next to an arrow pointing to an obvious rust stain on the bolt holding the toilet together.
So we went back in and had a hearing.
A fair amount of our hearing was taken up by the commissioner just trying to get that procedural stuff straight and figure out the paper trail. She had combined the two cases and was especially hung up on the reality that M. and I got no where near the 10 days at least the court said we should get from notice to hearing. Better yet, I never actually signed that I got the paperwork (Nick didn’t bother putting an apartment number on my address and the PO let M. get my letter). Ergo, I was never officially served, and M.’s certified letter wasn’t dated, and she implied he was served half-assedly.
She asked if we wanted to “waive service” and go on with the deal or get more time. We went a long and waived. Who the fuck wants to keep going back over so stupid a situation?
We pretty much stuck to the game plan — Shut up, answer questions and stay calm and chill and hope for Nick to live as he assuredly, inevitably must. And, he stayed true to form. He harangued and lied and didn’t answer questions and made no sense. I think the judge noticed.
My bloodboilingest moments were when my feminist ire was baited. Part of his story was how he couldn’t complete the walk through when we left the apartment, because I was getting upset. The other moment of misogyny was while explaining the allegedly ruined carpet (what with it’s 18 spots of varying sizes and hues), professional shampooers told him the two, small, red ones would never come out. He didn’t know, but he thought the red ones were “a woman’s makeup or something, your honor.”
Not to mention that in the aforementioned hallway, ostensibly to discuss settling, he said that M. should decide what we should do, and he was waiting to hear.
(Comedian to the core, I did get my one laugh from the other folks waiting around the courtroom. I told the judge that I don’t wear makeup and “neither does my boyfriend.” In my favor, I think and hope, neither did she.)
At the end, after trying to get the stories straight and trying to figure out what the cash situation was and who might owe who what and for what, the commissioner asked if there wasn’t anything left to be said. Sho fucking ‘nuf, Nick had to get in his last words. He’s a last word getting in kind of OCD guy.
He said something like, “They never so much as touched a broom in two years, and that’s God’s truth.” He definitely ended his bald-faced lie with an invocation of God and truth.
(Of course, he didn’t actually notice that in his story, he complained about the cleaning supplies we used only to wrap up the whole deal by saying we never cleaned once. Um, continuity there Nick, you lying sonofabitch.)
Now we wait. Wait to see what the system of jurisprudence and all that kind of democratic fun stuff will or won’t offer us, and whether our story had that right ring of credibility and non-crazy rambling and Nick’s didn’t.
The good thing about the long weekend and the desire to lie on the couch and mope is that I got caught up on a lot of pictures.
First is the exiting day that M. got his free TV from out of his office. It was a great thing, a momentous ocassion and a thing to behold — A 47-inch technological marvel that was M.’s reward for kicking ass in his place of work and winning a quota contest.
Here’s some hanging out in Alameda beforehand and the ritual getting and uncrating with the help of our friends Bob and Nancy. (A propos nothing, whenever we get together with them I feel so completely Californian. The statistics in Boston just didn’t favor the likelihood of our hanging with another couple of people rocking the Chinese-American hook up.)
(The TV is sadly becoming a bit of a Stephen King third character of evil around our apartment. Fuck Comcast and their shitty signal and shittier cable fixer guys who are meant to fix their suck signal. The TV mocks us and channels an angy demon within M. that I fear and loathe.)
Also, I took a million and a half, approximately, photos whilst in bonnie Scotland. Here they all are, minus the pics of the Naked Comedy Showcase, because believe it or not I have a wee bit of restraint.
Scotland Day 1 (And a long fucking day it was. I got off the plane after a cumulative 15 hours in the air to meet up with my old friends, troll a mall, buy pants, eat a variety of things, catch comedy shows and dazedly perform a set.)
The next day. (Feeling a bit better after some sleep, I got to see the city crazy packed with tourists and perfomers for the fest. And, I saw more comedy, including catching some late night action with Reggie Watts. Somewhere in the same day, I saw The Trachtenburg Family Slide Show Players, alas no pics just memories.)
And then some more days and ancient sites and some more time after that.
Somewhere in among the days spent at the Fringe Festival, I got to see doktor cocacolamcdonalds. Awesome. Especially this picture.
I wanted a fairy tale reunion with M. I think we both missed each other. We got a massive fight, instead. Probably, it will all be cool. I’m counting on it all being cool. But, one thing I can’t do when I’m upset is sleep. So, thank god for all the laborers who are giving me the long weekend to try to relax.
Meanwhile, there have been some notes of high-ness. Some good among the bad. Some fairy tale moments among the real world.
For example, I spent Friday desperately trying not to channel Pat. I went to work in an absolute Pat frame of mind. Nervous, expectant, worried. Why? Because whilst I was out of town, M. had the notion to schedule a cleaning service to come in and, well, clean.
It’s a fair concept and compromise to our both have full-time jobs and full, time-consuming interests like writing (of which I have done little) and running (which I think he has done and I never will) and, well, living things that are far fucking more interesting than cleaning one’s living space. I am eager to have the weight off of my domesticity failures with the simpler act of check writing.
But, wholey moley, talk about flashbacks. Some time in the 70s, when Pat recognized the Supermom phenom was bullshit and even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t for her, in between whipping up meals from Peg Bracken’s I Hate to Cook Cookbook, teaching full-time and raising five children, Pat briefly hired what was then called a “cleaning lady.” An individual, a local woman, probably a personal referral, before the service industries blossomed with a thousand services. (I loves me the service economy.)
The anxiety was huge, though. A stranger coming into your home and cleaning your dark corners and dusting your skeletons. And, the failure, the symbolic, unrealistic, stank of inadequacy, because in days that last only 24 hours and the weeks of a mere 7 units, you, the woman, the mother (in Pat’s case) are neglecting the properness of a home, the fortress of your family’s castle.
Will the stranger judge you and your dingy grays?
For me, though, in a new millenium, I was determined to let my true colors fly and not clean the house for the cleaning staff. The prior to arrival ritual of cleaning before the cleaning stranger came was, somehow, coded into my mother’s DNA. I fought it. I fought it hard. (Although, I did load and run the dishwasher (with M.’s dishes from while I was gone mind you) before fleeing our apartment for a day’s paycheck earning.)
The interesting thing is I work with a mix of people from a mix of places with a mix of values and experiences. The vibe I got there when I admitted my anxious eagerness to see my transformed home that evening was a resounding “Hell ya.” If you can write a check, employ someone, earn some time, limit stress it’s a contribution to society well worth the investment.
Maybe it’s because there’s a fair chunk of folks who work with and who have lived in other countries where your need for service is a job and opportunity for someone else.
But, yeah, hell ya, I’s don’t want to scrub and vaccuum and sanitize. And, the Maid Brigade, the company M. found, left mints on the counter. My mom’s cleaning lady never did that.
Almost there, but not quite.
Soon come, I’ll have my own sweet pillow on my own sweet bed in my own sweet little home with my sweet boy-o. At least that’s my tired fantasy that’s keeping me chugging through the air miles.
Meanwhile, leaving town went smoothly, and then it didn’t. As I was patting myself on the back for getting Dot and myself to the airport with time to spare to catch our respective planes, Dot opened the side pocket of the bag Andy asked her to carry back. In the side pocket, Andy’s passport.
Holy shit.
I had already swapped my UK sim card out of my cheapo cell phone, so we didn’t know that after we left the flat Andy had been calling. Somewhere around the time we realized we had his proverbial travel papers, he had as well.
As I tried to figure out what the right key combo was to use my iPhone while it was internationally roaming, and I was trying to call a Scottish-bought cell phone, Andy’s, we heard the public address system click on and page Dot’s name. So we ran back downstairs away from our departure gates and to the ticket counter.
Only problem was the ticket counter chicks were about to end their shift, and therefore, they didn’t want to hold the passport for Andy to pick up. Dot’s plane was close to boarding (might have already been), and we weren’t through security.
I think a touch panicky or maybe just anxious, she left and I searched out the lost and found essentially, and I hope that turned out to be a secure place to leave behind someone else’s documentation. I made it to my plane with fingers crossed and a quick call to Andy to let him know where to go and with whom to talk.
Here’s what I learned from the adventure.
First, if you ever leave something to be held at Edinburgh Airport, they’ll charge you 5 pounds for the minding. Fuckers.
Second, if you carry a buddy’s bag, don’t cop to it when you find something important in the pocket. Airport personnel sure do get touchy what with that whole “Did you pack your own bags, are you carrying anything for anyone else, do you have a bomb?” line of questioning.
I guess if I never hear from Andy again, he never made it out of bonnie Scotland.
Thank fucking god, all of the goddesses and a fair amount of lesser dieties. I got a straight night of sleep.
There have been a couple of dawn awakenings to listen to a young man’s existential journey. Last night the young man in question, a friend, a comic, a truly sensitive soul, was advised to let me the fuck sleep. Thanks, Chris.
One good thing about leaving home is it reminds you of what home is. I miss M. I miss the regular pace of my day. I don’t miss working. Because, duh, that would be fucking stupid.
I’ve been here a week and only performed four times, and I feel burnt out from the foreigness, the walking, the sheer enormity of choices on what to do, where to go, what to see. There are literally hundreds of venues and thousands of shows. In the crowds and confusion, I was never able to find the woman I know from San Francisco who was doing three shows.
If I feel tired, I can’t even imagine how my comrades who spent a month and performed nightly feel. To say nerves seem frayed would be an understatement.
The highlights of yesterday were twofold for me. First, the Walsh Brothers invited Andy, Dot and me to do sets on stage, and there were actually people in the audience (a rarity in a town hosting such a gigantic amount of competing shows). It was like the olden days.
Second, was the literary pub crawl of a few Edinburgh spots off the tourist main stream. The guide, Allan Foster, was incredible, a natural story teller with the kind of trivial notes and little comments on which I thrive.
We started out at the Royal Oak and heard a rendition of Loch Lomond by Alan Hunter that would have put a wee tear in the eyes of the hardest of men.
I know I’m hear for comedy, but I was it was so great to have a pint and some music.
(Dot scooted out to get a pie from the Piemaker during the song that had me riveted. Sometimes I think I’ll never be quite the comedian others are, because there are too many other things I want to hear.)
Here’s why I know I am no motherfucking Janis Joplin rockstar playa scene queen no more (as if I ever were). Now, I fucking enjoy breakfast after a sober, good night’s sleep as much as a all night carouse.
Janis once said “I don’t sleep. I might miss a party.” I’m on edge thinking I might miss the talk of a healthy or big break-y in the morning.
lAlthough my will, my desire, my absolute resolve to sleep was not meant to be. Two divergent realities kept me from my true quest.
Firstly, there are two forces by which travel will always be focused by me. One is moving my bowels, either too much or too little, I will say no more since too much has been said. The other is my complete inability to just fucking sleep anywhere or any time strange and different. Just can’t do it.
I tend to sleep not at all or not well in unfamiliar surroundings. I admire the restive, peaceful faces when I have had houseguests. (M., I think, is the same way judging by the tosses and turns counted in our first nights of any stay.)
Right about now, I’m one thin sleepless line to the psychotic breach of, say, a tortured visitor to Guatanamo.
The second conspirator against my sleep chances and beyond myself was a troubled friend. The only thing is that I can say decades of shitty, shitty relationship experiences and living through to the other side of a veritable Goldilocks, just right existence, give me a bit of gravitas. Having lived through stupid and lovelorn, I feel qualified a bit to offer advice and a shoulder on stupid and lovelorn.
Another cup of tea might make me right as rain or tick me a few more degrees toward edgy psychosis.
Few days down and a few to go.
I can feel myself missing the fresh produce and my California lifestyle, not least of which involves M. It’s good I wandered out of my comfort zone to remember what comfort is.
Guiltily, I broke from the pack this afternoon. Truth is I am one shit companion in the running with the pack gestalt. I ain’t saying I’m some cool, lone wolf, but I fucking do love the illusion of freedom.
Headphones on and a random shuffling of songs on the iPod were accompianment to a calming stroll through the ancient ramparts of an ancient city.
I”ll have some pictures some day, but with shit wi-fi it might be back when I’m ensconced in Silicon Valley, where wi-fi runs free in the streets or at least works a bit better. (It’s the same crappy connection that’s keeping me from properly editing the previous post.)
It was a guilty pleasure, as I escaped on my own at the expense of Dot, from whom I wasn’t actually looking to de-pack. She kindly got cajoled into helping a guy from Boston with a videotape idea he had, and I completely opted out and went on my merry way.
The thing is the guy isn’t someone from the Boston comedy scene I particularly like, because I don’t particularly trust him. You throw on top of that that I don’t live in the burg no more so don’t have to care one bit about whatever power or cache helping him might remotely have. Nope, completely a formula, for me anyone, to walk.
The other thing is that one little mantra around the M. and D. household is time is currency, too. Don’t give it away unless you really want to and know what the commitment means. I say “no” now in this stage of my life, and I regret less.
Still and all, poor, much kinder Dot, willing to lend a hand, didn’t get her own tourist shit done. For that, and any way I might’ve helped, I have a twinge of regret. (But it’s smaller a twinge compared to the glacier-sized remorse I would have felt for killing a day helping someone who could give a flying shit about me. (The Bostonian in town, that is, not Dot.)
I’ve seen a few shows, which is cool, sticking to my gameplan of keeping on the fringes of the fringe, rather than getting some of the main market, hype, good-reviewed fare. Nope, I dig the crazy underdogs.
I’ve also done the Naked Comedy Showcase. I hope my family and loved ones appreciate that I traveled 8,000 miles away to perform to another country rather than sully my name locally now that it’s a “pofessional” type show rather than a private fundraiser as I had done before.
After this adventure, I am a reformed woman. I shall not venture the nude comedy route any further, unless something so monumental and life-changing was about in the universe, like burkas became an absolute law, internationally and universally. THen, I might protest.
Without that, the thrill is gone. From a transcendent experience that helped me free up some stage fright to an awkward gimmick, I think I”ve run my full course.
Godspeed to those who pick up the baton and keep the torch alive. (Or some other series of quasi-grand sounding mixed metaphors.)
I’m dozing at a decent, well before sunset time so I’ll take that as a sign. The sign could either be that I’m tired and need rest or that my writing is so excruciatingly godawful that I’m snoozing midsentence as the dullness of my prose sedates me.)
