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.)
Are you kidding me, Trace? Are you actually going to write about this?
Shut up, you. I got me a bee in my bonnet. I can’t stop. I need to ramble aimlessly. So shhhhhh now, Voice of Reason. Go to sleep. Nighty-nighhht.
~ So here we go. We went to a matinee of Watchmen this weekend, more out of curiosity than desire. Three hours later, sadly, we were left with neither curiosity nor desire. For anything ever again. We were brittle empty shells. Soulless spectres. Even worse, really cranky. Honestly, watching the Watchmen do nothing that even remotely resembled watching was a truly enervating experience that I’m sure will attract tons of people who long for enervation and make heaps of money for people who already have heaps of money, and, well, congratulations to all involved, but whatevs o’plenty from this li’l lady. Super-hero or comic book movies are generally not my thing. Too much of a fan-boy vibe going on for my taste, although I do like Christian Bale as Batman and I like Tobey Maguire as Spiderman. Still, I don’t chomp at the bit to see these types of movies; I don’t line up at midnight in latex and a cape. No. I’d rather save that for when I go to see The Reader. With this movie, I strolled in at 10 a.m. to a surprisingly empty theater, considering all the hype, and was glad for the emptiness so that as time slowed and slooowed and then flat-out stood still, I could sigh loudly and say things to MB like, “I am really tired of his blue penis” or “Ooh, hello, Mr. Bottom” or the more all-encompassing, “I hate this movie.”
Fleghh. I’m realizing I don’t even have the energy to give this movie an actual review and yet, I keep clicking away, I think to purge my sense of gyp that I spent three hours in the presence of these characters and I just did not care about them. Inevitably, someone will now email me and say, “Well, why didn’t you just leave?” to which I will say, “Uhm, because there was still popcorn in the bag? Duh, wiener.” Now I am aware that I am probably supposed to care about this movie, nay, probably even like this movie, but KAPOW! I say to the people who think I’m supposed to like it. Three crawling hours could have easily been edited down to a swift 90 minutes; should have been edited down, you know, just to be slightly more humane, and still I would not have cared one eensy little bit. I despaired over the acting of that chick who played whoever the heck that chick was. I don’t even know. The Chick, the main chick. Oh, you know. With the long dark hair and bangs? Yeah, her. She’s part Natalie Portman and part Xena Warrior Princess — both of whom are better actresses, by the way. Yes, even Xena. Whenever I closed my eyes in the face of the carnage — which I did a lot, because, yamahama, that movie be gross, pippa — it bothered me that she sounded like Drew Barrymore, a good actress, an actress I like. But, you know, she looked hot, so I’m sure all the little dudes and the lesbians will be quite happy. She did get naked with a shockingly geeky Patrick Wilson, an actor I enjoyed in Little Children and not just because he got naked in that movie, although I do remember his bottom quite well and it was smaller in that movie; he was a tad chunkier here, obviously from the steroids he took to become whatever superhero he was in “Watchmeh” because, again, I just don’t care — as you can tell by how much I’m writing about this — so I don’t even remember his name. Supernerd or something. Oh, wait. His name was Dan. Yes, Dan. “Save me, Dannnn!” And, really, I tell you true that “Dan” is a much better name than whatever retarded superhero name his character had. It was something like Supergoggles or Wiseass Owl or something. So I like Dan better. I mean, do you think you’re more likely to be rescued by someone named Supergoggles or Dan? I thought so.
~ Oh. So Dr. Blue Balls. What UP, dude? I see that you’re blue. And not in an “oh I’m so sad” kind of way, but actually physically blue. Aqua, even. Your entire body is just a minty fresh tube of freaky. Clearly, there is an urgent need for medical intervention with your condition, and yet you wander about, blithely doing as you please, ending the Vietnam War, flaunting your minty fresh penis and whatnot. But me, I sit there in a darkened theater staring at you and worrying that your entire circulatory system may very well be gravely compromised. I’m not a doctor so I don’t know the medical solution here. Supplements? Ginkgo Biloba? Something, certainly, but you need to care; you need to be proactive about your own health issues. All I can do is point out what I see, from my layman’s perspective, and what I see is so obviously problematic, it doesn’t take an expert to discern it. Beyond your circulatory impairment, those milky white eyes of yours just scream raging unchecked cataracts, if not total blindness. And they don’t move. Your eyes do not move. They are frozen milky white marbles and, you know, if I were talking to you, they would drive me crazy because I could never be sure if you were actually even looking at me, which I would find very cold and alienating. People in general don’t like that. It may very well be a medical problem but, interpersonally, it manifests itself as a possible mental/emotional problem. This kid I knew in grade school never looked at you when you talked to him and, later on, guess what, he ended up diagnosed as some kind of dangerous whack job. It was really sad, but we all simply nodded our heads at the rightness of it all. Really, I’m just sayin’, Blue Balls, that your frozen milk eyes make friendship with me, at least, highly unlikely. And, might I add, Natalie Warrior Princess left you. So there’s that. Oh. Let’s not forget, too, that you seem to suffer from some form of super-gigantism that is both sudden and intermittent. One moment, you’re human-sized; the next, you’re building sized. Could not hang with that, no way. I would certainly not want to clothes shop for you and throw my money away. Nor would I let you drive my car unless it was a convertible. Nor would I have sex with you because my fancy place is not so much a convertible. Size might matter, Blue Balls, but sudden size really matters. Owie owie owie. Poor Natalie Warrior Princess. It’s becoming so obvious why she left you for Wiseass Owl, isn’t it?
~ On that same basic topic, uhm, okay, I’m confused. Sometimes you wear clothes. You were in a suit at one point and I simply assumed The Chick dressed you since this was before she left. Then, sometimes you’re naked. This seems to be your preference as if you are weirdly proud of your freaky blue member. Other times, and this is where I got confused, hon, you wear a thong. Now I’m not even going to get into what I think about giant blue men with milky eyes who wear thongs — this isn’t about that. It’s about the logistics, the physics, of your thong because, from what I could see, your thong had a front but it didn’t have a back. From the front, thong. From the back, bare blue bottom. No, no. This isn’t possible. Thongs, Peaches, do have backs. Small backs — strings, strips, bands — yes, but something that holds the flimsy little thing onto the wearer’s body. Your thong, on the other hand, was some kind of space age miracle thong, magically cupping your disturbing turquoise stones whilst leaving the vast panorama of your fanny unmarred by strings. The physics of this just don’t work. There’s obviously some ancient and sinister voodoo going on with all of this and I, for one, reject it outright. You simply cannot walk around in a Colorforms thong, Blue Balls, and expect society at large to embrace you. A comprehensive medical and behavioral evaluation rendered by competent, trustworthy professionals could prove elucidating in your case. Just sayin’.
~ Oh, hahaha. As to the actual movie, pippa? I seriously have no idea. I prefer the moral ambiguity of real life not to taint my superheroes quite so much. That’s just me, I guess. Look. I’m dumb and shallow. If I go to a superhero movie, I want to root for someone, not pray for the total global annihilation of everyone and everything I see onscreen.
And, AND, I don’t like to see my superhero’s minty fresh penis.
But, hey, you like giant blue dongles? Go for it.
God bless this teacher, reading books that aren’t “cool” anymore.
The perfect psychedelic creature for our psychedelic caravan.
This is for real, pippa! Wonders never cease. Seriously. I love stuff like this.
(I think I see a future member of “The Club of Curious Friends.”)
Read the whole story about Pinky, the albino dolphin, found in a lake in Louisiana.
Oooh. Lisa lives closest; she can kidnap it for us. (Didn’t I read this in a Pat Conroy novel?)
Our mascot. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?
Oh, I just love my new life in our sudden yurt commune with the sleep-it-off trailer and the Joycean charades and the albino dolphin mascot.
What’s in My Journal
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can’t find them. Someone’s terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.
~ William Stafford
A hippie motorhome, natch. So we can take our sudden yurt commune on the road.
Look at this floor. I am in love. In love, yes, with a floor. Also, the seat fabric. I want to wrap myself in fabric like this and roll around on this floor.
“Hey, you guys. Where’s Tracey? It’s time for Joycean charades!”
“Uh, she’s in the motorhome. Rolling on the floor. MB’s trying to get her to stop.”
“Poor MB.”
“I know.”
The commune kitchen. Check it out, chef-aroos! Jayne. Nightfly. This is where you’ll be lovingly chained to the counter, ‘mkay?
The psychedelic loft. Where all the hungover alcoholics can sleep it off. Me first!
Wouldn’t it be SO cool to have a Blog Friends Retreat??
And wouldn’t it also be SO cool if we all got together AND everyone got to stay in one of these:
(I am obsessed with this image. My inner Amish hippie pines at the sight of it.)
Isn’t it gorgeous?
All right. The Blog Friends Retreat!
Everyone gets their own teepee-yurt thingie.
Oh, bonus: Cullen will bring his guitar for campfire sing-a-longs. (Sweet mammy. Campfire sing-a-longs! I am hot and bothered already.) Jayne will cook for us and we won’t care that we leave lugging an extra 30 pounds because every morsel that goes in our mouths will be so so worth it. Maggie May, life-saving goddess, will do our taxes — I cannot overstress how much we will love her for this. Sarahk will teach us how to shoot a gun and be gluten-free. I will teach people how to pull an espresso shot and force them to play drama games. Sheila will lead us in Jeff Bridges appreciation sessions and Ulysses readings. Ricki will explain the entire natural world to us. Nightfly will bring The Official Puppy for us to smother with love. Sal will teach us — meaning me, especially — how to sew. Kate P, Young Adult Librarian, will a bunch of the most angsty books from the Young Adult section and we will read from those as well, over S’mores at the campfire, with much overwrought emotion.
And every night, stuffed from Jayne’s cooking, high on S’mores, humming Kum By Ya, we will stumble off to happy sleep under the moonglow in our cozy magic teepees.
Who’s in?
