Right now I am having a very Sean Corcoran moment. By that I mean I am plauged by outside forces intent on keeping me from sleep.
Let me Explain: Right now it is 1:30 AM PST and I am awake. My apartment building is a U-shape with my apartment on the inside curve. Sitting like half of the worlds nastiest umlaut on what would be the top of the U is the "Healing House." It is called this because various groups meet there to, and I'm just guessing, heal in some form, most likely spiritually due to its proximity to a church.
I know it is the Healing House because a sign in its window tells me this.
Another sign tells me that homeless people are not allowed to sleep on the porch.
Right now the house is doing anything but healing. More accurately, it is staging an all out war on any in earshot. Some Christian rock band is playing a late night concert, though I use the terms "playing" and "concert" loosely. Truthfully, I am not sure they are even a Christian group. I just hear words that sound like "glory" and "Him" rocketing out of their amplifiers. For all I know, "He" may be Lee Majors. Plus, I'd like to think a Christian rock group would follow the Golden Rule.
I am sure of one thing: They are terrible. Everything they play follows the same pattern. The lead "singer" mumbles into the mic and then begins bleating. There is a crescendo, a drum break, and then comes the chorus, even more shrill and toneless than the preceeding stanzas. Repeat drum break into whining chorus 30-40 more times and you've got something that someone somewhere might incorrectly consider to be a song.
Enough bellyaching. Now some complaining.
That important measure I mentioned was voted down. Here is a playlet that dramatizes this event:
(Curtain opens on a land in crisis)
56% of Oregon: Woe is us, times are hard. Why is Oregon in such bad shape?
State: We are really struggling economically. So, here is a proposal for a temporary tax increase. If you just chip in a little bit, we'll get out of this dark patch.
56% of Oregon: Nah.
(Curtain Closes)
Sorry for the bitterness. I'm tired, cranky, and Joe Millionaire voted off my favorite one.
It has been over a week since I began my 23rd trip around good ol' Mr. Sun, and very little has happened. I've got over 1,000 hits on this site. Clearly, this makes me the most popular person on the internet. I can't wait to go mad with power!
I also got a haircut. Apparently, in describing the type of cut I desired, I merely slurred together a bunch of sounds which the lady cutting my hair took as "Please cut my hair painfully short, highlighting my receding hairline and making me look like Susan Powter with a glandular problem."
Before you make any knee-jerk reactions about me being "Un-American," please listen to this: Tonight I tried reading Dante's Inferno. It was hard, so I quit and watched 'Bridezilla' on Fox.
I am as American as the obsession with Ben and J.Lo.
Ok, maybe it's not him. But it would be cool if it was.
You're right. No it wouldn't.
So, me, if I'm reading this, I implore me to read this and cast my ballot.
(Editors Note: Don't worry me, I did.)
It has become fairly apparent to me over the last two weeks that I am back in Portland. As a result, I have gone back to my usual routine of reading a lot, watching a lot of movies, and failing to find work. I've sent in a couple of TV-related resumes as well as some non-TV applications. It would be really nice to get a job that utilizes my talents, that showcases what I am best at. But I doubt anyone would hire me to feel sorry for myself......unless I could also play guitar.
My car stuff seems to be all worked out, which is good for a number of reasons. I noticed that this website had sort of become a compendium of my automotive struggles, when in fact, this site was only supposed to highlight my day-to-day struggle with existence. Now, since my car is getting repaired and I was recently physically pushed around by an old lady that lives in my building, it seems this website should soon be back on track.
One More Thing About The Car: When I returned to Portland, I found the insurance company's long-awaited estimate in my mail. I had some questions about it and wanted to contact them, but I managed to misplace the scrap of paper on which I had their phone number. I noticed that their information was printed on the estimate so I dialed that number. Eventually, a rather breathy woman came on the line and told me I had reached the girl of my dreams. "Great," I thought "She'll know what to do about my car!" And although the nice lady offered to do a great number of things for me, none of them involved answering my insurance questions. Either I misdialed, or office policy changed drastically during the two weeks I was away.
Yet One More Thing About The Car: Since my car is the one being serviced, I got fixed up with one to drive around in the meantime. That way I can get food, return movies on time, and, oh yeah, perhaps something job related.
My car is a Ford Contour. The car I am driving while I wait is a Buick Park Avenue. This car is designed with solely for old people. It has a denture holder on the dash, it constantly smells like pot roast, and the radio is permanently tuned to NPR.
I think that Park Avenue actually operates by spinning the earth underneath its tires, forcing the planet to move rather than the car itself. As a result, I can only drive West or else I'd throw the planet into chaos.
Also, I have updated the Pictures section to include pictures of jerks I know. The only ones up now were taken by my friend Dave at Mahoney State Park in Nebraska. If you are a jerk, and I know you, send me your picture and I'll put it up along with a forced attempt at writing a funny caption.
My car stuff is finally getting worked out. After not hearing from the insurance company for 2 weeks, I angrily dialed, angrily listened to the rings and then angrily prepared to angrily discuss the mishandling of my claim. Normally, I'm not an outwardly angry guy. I prefer to ball it up and let it eat away at my insides. On this occasion, however, I was ready to vomit spite all over these morons. Turns out the representative mistakenly added a note to my claim cancelling the estimation of the damage by their estimator.
The "problem" was fixed and the esimator did his estimations today, at approximately 9:30. He told me as an independant estimator, he has worked for 100 different companies and nothing like this mistake has ever happened before. Boy, I'm so lucky. God must really think I'm special. Because of this, I am now holding God accountable. That's right, I'm talking about the omnipotent, omnipresent creator of all that is, ruler of the universe. He owes me big for what will ultimately prove to be a minor inconvenience. In fact, I'm hinging my whole belief in the diety on whether or not he make this up to me. (Just kidding, don't kill me Lord!)
I tried to watch Y Tu Mama Tambien, a supposedly wonderful Mexican film, but the version I rented was altered from the original in order for Hollywood Video and Blockbuster to carry it. I refused to watch it and am quite angry at the chains. This just adds to my fervent belief that the thing that is really destroying society is the family.
Christmas came somewhat early for me, as Kathleen and I already exchanged gifts. I also recieved some excellent cds from Blue Blazer Irregular #753, Zach Welch. He saw my list on the site and sent me some of the cds I wanted. I think everyone else should follow his example and buy me the new items I've placed on the list, such as a job, a flat-screen TV, and the Baltimore Orioles.
Kathleen and I exchanged gifts early, as we leave for out respective homes tomorrow. We are all packed and ready to go. I have spent most of the afternoon looking for my luggage locks.
Here's why I lose things: In my mind, I will picture the item in a particular place, regardless of whether or not it is or has ever been there. I will convince myself it is in this place until a exhaustive search proves otherwise. Then I will convince myself it is somewhere else and repeat the process indefinaiely
Here's another reason I lose things: I am careless.
Not much new to report as of late. My car is still messed up. I cannot get it fixed yet because the other guy's insurance company is dragging their feet in getting their estimate guy to come estimate the damage. My broken mirror, which used to be so gracefully held in place by duct tape, has now become a constant source of frustration.
Example: Today I had to drive Kathleen to a place called "Give Us This Day" as part of her placement for school. It was raining heavily and for you non-science people out there: water + adhesive = stickyless. Without the tape, my mirror is left dangling from my door with only a few wires keeping it from flying off into oblivion. I didn't want the thing to flail around and hit my car or to have it fall off, so I did the only logical thing. I drove around holding the mirror in place with my hand, which resulted in a wet and cold arm and a 160% increase in shame. (Bad news for those of you who own John's Self Worth stock)
In one week I travel back to Omaha. But while I am there I can still visit Portland. How, you ask? By checking out the photomatons placed in the updated Pictures section.
Another story: I get my haircut at Great Clips. I'm not proud or ashamed of that fact. The one I used to go to was manned by a large woman with round teeth and streaks of blond in her hair. When she cut my hair, she asked what brought me to Portland. I told her I came out here with my girlfriend and I figured I had a better chance finding a job in a bigger city. "T'cha" she scoffed, followed by a chuckle. Strike One. The next time I went in, I had my hair cut by a different lady, (Some lady from parts unknown with a thick accent and the ability to hear the word "three" every time I said the word "two." Also, at one point during the haircut, she handed me a comb and said "Heere, Ju dew eet"). but the blond streaked menace was still there. On this occasion her customer had a baby in tow and Blondie talked to it the way a person talks to a dog. It's like a version of baby talk only dumbed down.
I needed a haircut this week and I wanted to avoid having my brain explode so I decided to go to a different Great Clips. I walk in and I am greeted by the same round-toothed face. Either she manages all of them, or I have just uncovered a vast cloning conspiracy aimed at driving people away from affordable haircuts to high-priced salons run by men named Sergio.
Also, if you are tired of having a soul and would like to have it ripped from your person, rolled around in dirt, blood, Mrs. Dash and garbage water, then force-fed and digested by Tony Robbins, resulting in a horrid mass whose foul humors must be inhaled if you want any semblance of said soul back, by all means watch Begotten.
A random quote from Kathleen: "I don't want to talk to anybody that actually uses the word 'fruitful'."
First of all, happy birthday to my sister Erin. She is currently at grad school in Columbus, Ohio, getting her Master's degree in Women's Studies with an emphasis on images in the media. I tell ya, that chick is one smart broad. Now if she could only figure out a way to get women to stop talking all the time! Hahaha, guys, you know what I'm talking about...ha ha..(cough cough)..hmm...Tough Room..How about airline food? It's really bad, am I right? No? Ok.....
In other news, I am never leaving the apartment again. I went to Hollywood Video because most of my stories involve me going to rent a movie and this one is no different. Whilst I was perusing their fine selection, I encountered, among others, a portly, fatigue-wearing gentlemen in a wheel chair who was accompanied by a young lady with something akin to a buzz cut. I paid them no mind as I dashed madly to obtain a copy of that hot hit The Animal (fortunately all copies were in! I certainly lucked out there. Most people probably hadn't visited my Rob Schneider web shrine to get the release date).
Later, I ran into them again in the drama aisle. He was glancing at the back of some movie box, and she was leaning up against the shelves with her chin against her chest. I wanted to get to the other end of the aisle which they were blocking, and being scared of any personal contact with anyone, I decided to go to a different aisle to go around. While in this other aisle I heard the whellchair-bound guy mutter from behind his mustache "How bout this one honey...Honey?" He nudged her and she moved slightly. He then got up from the wheelchair, said "It's ok honey. Here, sit down." and then sat her down in the wheelchair and began to wheel her down the aisle. He looked at a nearby patron and explained "She's narcolepetic" before pushing her out of the aisle and out of sight.
At this point, if I were a cartoon character, I would have pulled out a bottle labeled XXX, shook my head, and cast the bottle away.
Count the number of times I used the word aisle. Get it right and you win nothing but lost time.
To make a long story short, someone hit my car. To make this shorter story longer, I will explain what happened. Kathleen and I went out to buy groceries one Saturday night (we know how to live it up in P-town). I arrived at my car to find a wedding invitation stuck into my door. On this door I also found a sizeable dent, numerous scratches and my side mirror hanging by a few wires.
After 3 minutes of the most scatalogical and devilishly profane display involving out-of-date nautical terms and references to various marching formations, I finally realized that the note and damage were related. The note contained the name, number, vehicular information, and cry for forgiveness of the person who hit my door. This did nothing to quell my anger. Since the note was written in shaky handwriting on the back of a wedding invitation I quickly concluded that this guy (probably some jerky, jocky frat guy), flown with too much libation, had swerved his car (probably an SUV) into me. I thought to myself, this fool can't even write legibly and yet he's driving. What a horrible world.
I finally reached the guy the following day, he was quite a genteel and polite fellow and again expressed his remorse concerning the accident. I was not satisfied and I was still perkolating with frustration. The guy tells me that he's paralyzed and the accident occured because the knob he uses to turn his steering wheel broke off and he lost control. I didn't grasp the latter half of this sentence until later because after he said the word "paralyzed," all rage leaked out of my heart and into my shoes (which made me feel better, but gave me some seriously angry socks). I wanted immediately to drop the whole thing. The guy was in no way asking for pity, but I had replaced my rage with about 3 helpings worth.
We exchanged inormation and the next day I contacted my insurance company. The phone was answered by a receptionist who was clearly doing something important that I was interrupting. I gave her my name and I explained my situation. She absently responded, "OK Mr....what was it?" I repeated it. "And you're insured here?" I said again that I was. "Ok Keith, I'll put you in touch with Sheila." It wasn't until Sheila picked up the line that I realzied the receptionist was talking to me.
I think this Sheila person got into the insurance business to make people pay. She must have been severely wronged in some way in her youth and this set her on a life-long quest to ensure that people were given justice and that wrong-doers were punished severly. This is the only conclusion I could come to after our conversation.
She told me in a real let's-get-this-guy manner that his insurance company was going to have to pay for everything and that they'll have to get me a rental car in the meantime and also, don't let the insurance company tell you where to go to get an estimate, you can go anywhere you want. These last three words were said slowly and pronunciated in a real stand-offish way. I wanted to go "Geez lady, the guy's paralyzed."
She then asked if he left a note or if it was a hit and run. I'll let you find the joke there and shame on you to those who have found it.
In a perfect world none of this would have happened. In a perfect world, soda would flow like water from vast rivers, there would be peace and happiness The Spin Doctors would be banned from not only the radio but also from getting together under any context. Also, in a perfect world, a guy who made references to one-hit bands who have long since passed their popularity would be considered a genius. And of course, in a perfect world, I would have 100 kajillion dollars (by that I mean 100 bills of the currency of the island of Kajillia, well known for its amazing exchange rates.)
I have been getting questions about the validity of the "walking dead guy" story. Yes its true. Everything in this section of the webpage is the gospel truth.
I was at Safeway when I espied a guy talking on his tiny cell phone in one of the aisles. In the hand that he was holding the cell phone he was also grasping a banana. I was hardly able to stifle my laughter as I spent an obscenely long amount of time watching this guy seemingly ask Chiquita what kind of coffee to get. I then looked over and saw a guy looking at me barely stifling his laughter as he spent an obscenely long amount of time watching a guy seemingly laugh at the shelves of milk.