Month: March 2009

UPDATE: The reworked post is below.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: No, it’s not. Wha???

Okay. The post that was here for a momentito — well, I flubbed the explanation, I think, of what I was asking of you. Thank you, and I mean it, to NF for pointing it out. Nicely, because he IS a gentleman.

I was in a hurry and flubbed it, pippa! ACK!

Okay. It will be up later, reworked, but now I gotta go!

As a preface to this little playlet, please know that, yes, during the months leading up to our foreclosure in January, because we were just a tad distracted with packing and moving and intermittent sobbing, the registration on MB’s vehicle lapsed, which, as we all know, is a felony. He’d gone in and paid the fees, was told to get it smogged, got it smogged, and, oh, paid a couple of unpaid parking tickets — extremely easy to get in this completely bankrupt town and I mean “bankrupt” literally — and which, as we all know, are felonies. After paying all this, the DMV issued us a temporary registration that did expire a couple of weeks ago. We have been distracted, but that’s an explanation, not an excuse. Because our state is also bankrupt, the DMV is now closed on certain Fridays, all Saturdays, and they don’t take appointments anymore. You have to be able to spend, literally, your entire day there. Slightly harder when you’re self-employed. Still. Shoulda gotten it done because, it should be noted before we continue with this scenario, the only thing missing is the tab. The little sticker. Yeah, that.

Yesterday, a.m. MB and Tracey are in MB’s vehicle.

Because MB is moving his office, there is video/film equipment stacked in both the back seat and the back of the vehicle. They drive past a cop, not a Highway Patrolman, a cop. He pulls them over, approaches the window.

COP: License and registration, please.

MB hands it to him.

COP: (looking at the registration with MB’s name on it) Do you own this car?

MB: Uhm, yes.

COP: Okaaay.

Cop starts to act weird. There is immediately a strange vibe, as if he thinks, based on the stuff packed into the back of the vehicle, that MB and Tracey are living in the car, which, praise Jesus, they are not.

COP: Well, Mr. Beloved, your registration is expired.

MB: Here’s the paperwork. I’ve paid the fees, just got it smogged, all that.

COP: Okay. But your temporary expired a few weeks ago. Why haven’t you gotten that fixed?

MB: Well, Officer —

COP: (interrupting) Because, you know, there are rules. Everyone needs to follow the RULES.

MB: Yes, sir. I understand, but —

COP: (interrupting) It’s within my power to impound this vehicle.

TRACEY: Officer, can I say something? We recently lost our home and we do intend to get this taken care of. It slipped through the cracks.

Tracey needs to learn to shut up, just in general. Mercifully, she doesn’t speak again in this scenario.

COP: Well, you know, lots of people are having problems, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’ll be back.

Cop returns to his bike. MB and Tracey sit there discussing what’s going to happen. MB says “It’s a fix-it ticket, obviously.” Tracey says, “He’s gonna take our car.” Cop is at his bike for a long time. Tracey, big baby, starts to tear up. Who knows why anymore? Finally, he returns.

COP: Well, Mr. Beloved, you know what? This registration thing is the least of your problems. You’re driving on a suspended license.

MB: What?

COP: Yep. Your license is suspended. You have some unpaid parking tickets.

MB: WHAT??

COP: You were sent noticed of this via certified mail in January.

MB: I didn’t receive any certified mail, Officer.

In the passenger seat, Tracey shakes her head to reinforce the truth of this. The cop, of course, with his head above the car window, cannot see this all-important emphasis.

COP: Well, it was sent. Certified mail.

MB: Officer, I showed you proof that those tickets are paid. Here it is again. I don’t have any other tickets outstanding. They were paid.

COP: It doesn’t matter. And I didn’t check, but for all I know, there’s a warrant out for your arrest.

MB: WHAT??

COP: So I’m going to go ahead and impound your vehicle.

MB: But, Officer, I’ve paid everything. I just need the tab.

COP: You need to exit the vehicle. Take out anything valuable.

MB and Tracey sit shocked for a brief second. Tracey — that pain in the ass — starts to cry, having relinquished months ago her strict policy about not crying in front of strangers. Whatever dignity she once possessed has vanished into the ether, to be absorbed and assimilated by drunken homeless people stumbling about the streets. MB and Tracey climb out onto the sidewalk, start to unload the car. The cop suddenly begins to act conciliatory, giving MB detailed instructions of what he needs to do to stop being a felon. Tracey refuses to look at the cop again. They realize, since they are now walking home from where they currently are, that there’s no way they can schlep all of the equipment. They decide what to take and what to leave. The cop calls for a tow and tells MB where he can go to bail the car out of car prison. He then tells him how to fix his “suspended license for unpaid parking tickets” and be made whole and human again.

COP: Give me your driver’s license.

There is a uncomprehending pause.

COP: You need to give me your driver’s license. She can drive you wherever you need to go until you get this fixed. There may be a penalty fee assessed, but maybe you can make it in payments. I mean, it’s obvious you’re having money problems.

How this is “obvious,” one does not know. Tracey volunteered the housing information. Beyond that, the car is clean, they are clean, their clothes fit, they do not reek of booze, they aren’t high, although they may be be starting to wonder if they are hallucinating. It would seem the cop still thinks MB and Tracey are living in their vehicle. So let’s take it away from them. MB hands his license over to the cop’s outstretched hand. Tracey sits on the sidewalk, looks the other way, and thinks, “YOU try making those insane mortgage payments, Slappy.”

MB and Tracey load themselves up with their belongings. This shoulder, that shoulder, this hand, that hand. The cop takes an “inventory” of what’s left in the car. Tracey mutters, “Just because it’s written down, doesn’t mean they won’t steal it.” She means the impound people, she does, but the cop hears her and makes a huffy sound. She waits to be hit with the nunchuck, but the inventory is apparently redirecting all of his whuppin’ energy.

Loaded like pack mules, MB and Tracey begin the long schlep home, just as the tow truck pulls up. They are now car-less because Tracey’s car is in the shop for a new clutch. As they walk away, they notice that the cop and the driver seem very friendly with each other.

Much later, after hours and hours at the DMV to get that all-important sticker, that tiny pivotal item, they bail their car out of car prison to the tune of $381, despite being quoted $325. The girl at the DMV had said, yes, all your tickets were already paid. You were fine.

As of today, The Dread Thug MB has an appearance pending in Traffic Court to explain his felonious behavior. Unless, of course, the cops come pounding on the door first waving their guns and that much-deserved arrest warrant.

Curtain.

Wha?? I found the original little drawing that I thought I lost but I don’t know how I found it. Hm.

I realize this is likely interesting to no one but me, but I’m taking what baby steps I can to come out of the deep paralysis of the last few years. Learning Photoshop, meager as it may sound, is part of that. Big deal to me.

Before, just your basic drawing of the woeful cracker factory worker.

After — with some kind of weirdo filter applied. She is now psychedelic and deliriously happy about it, as the whole world can plainly see.

(Oh, and to anyone who may decide now is the perfect time to delurk and critique my “art” here — since it’s happened before — please don’t bother. This isn’t meant to “be” anything. It’s an exercise in learning and experimenting and trying things and I’m charting it here. Friendly warning.)

Okay. So I’m teaching myself Photoshop. Uhm, perhaps you could tell from this image? Anyhoo.

Here’s what I learned how to do in the last 24 hours, as evidenced by this admittedly ridiculous image:

1) Cut an illustration from its background.

2) Alter original illustration.

3) Lose original illustration because I altered it and didn’t save it separately or blah blah something like that, although, honestly, I’m really now sure how I managed to do that.

4) Save things like a crazy woman to the point where I now have, oh, 963 versions of this super scary tree photo I took.

5) Layer one thing on top of another without totally screwing it up. Hooray for me.

6) Use Photoshop text. I kin spel.

Photo that was the inspiration for my original, now lost, drawing, here. Now I know the face here looks nothing like my face in the photo. I was a chubby-faced four year old and she looks like a sad weary woman who just ended her shift at the cracker factory. So, let’s face it, the need for her to return immediately to the sudden yurt commune for the respite of some Twilight readings and Joycean charades is even more urgent, poor thing.

This whole thing came about from selecting a couple of totally random elements I’d scanned and just messing around with the program. This image is for no purpose other than experimentation because I learn best by just pressing buttons. Although, sometimes, it feels more like being the little kid who touches a burner and learns that the stove is hothothot, but, STILL, I am practicing Thee Olde Photoshoppe! Which is clearly necessary!

GO ME!

(Furthermore, if any of you are Photoshop experts and will let me barrage you with questions and moans and whines, I will give up my first dibs on the Sleep-It-Off Trailer for, you know, some mere round-the-clock, drop-of-a-hat assistance.)