So I've got this neighbor. I've got several, but I've only got one next-door neighbor. And if you know who she is, would you please do me a favor? Would you ask her, "what's the deal?" She's a part-time hater. And from what I heard last night, she's a part-time slut. Maybe I wouldn't be so confused if I had actually met her. But I haven't. She, being my only neighbor, never welcomed me into the complex. I don't hold it against her, good walls make good neighbors, right? But what gets me is the writing on the wall. OK, not the wall but my door. I've gotten a couple of notes from her taped to my door. I know what you're thinking, I said she was a slut, she must be coming on to me.
Wrong. Dead wrong.
Here goes:
Your dog barks nearly the entire time that your are gone. Please do something else with it when you are unable to tell your dog to be more considerate.
sincerely,
Someone more considerate
Nice, right? That was the first one. Next, taped to my door, this:
PLEASE TAKE your dog when you leave. It barks NON-STOP the complete time (all night) your away.
SINCERELY,
Your Neighbor
Seriously, forget the fact the bitch knows nothing of contractions. Also note the use of capital letters, and underlined caps? C'mon. She's redundant, but still sincere. She's getting angrier. Another:
Your Fucking dog is keeping everyone awake. Next time you leave it alone and it barks all night, I'm going to let it out. Perhaps it will find a master that gives a shit.
Then my sincere, yet never present neighbor, was kind enough to download a letter from the Department of Business And Community Development Animal Control Division for Multnomah County Oregon. I won't bore you -- anymore -- with the details, but basically it said this:
Dear Pet Owner:
Your are receiving this letter because a neighbor [my only] is concerned about a barking dog at your residence...The law state "It is unlawful to permit any animal to unreasonably make disturbance..."'Saving Pets One At a Time'"
Wasn't she the one who threatened my dog? Breaking into my apartment and "Letting it out"? That doesn't sound like Saving. That to me sounds like Harming. If not the dog the herself. I'll admit that I had a problem with my dog, until I followed the advice of the downloaded letter -- five pages in all -- and bought a device. The Bark Controller.
Ah, yes. The Bark Controller, available at Petsmart ($24.95), works. It took time. But I know it works. It gives off a high pitched sound heard only to the dog when it barks. The dog learns and ceases to bark. It took a couple of tries with it but now I'm sold. And by tries I mean one more letter:
You have got to do something about your dog barking! I don't want to have to make a report to animal control, but I will if I have to.
I failed to mention that I'm home six nights a week. I go out about once a week. I guess I'm averaging just under a note a week. Not bad. Anyway, back to the slut. Yeah. I heard. I heard her getting taken last night and I wasn't sure if she was enjoying it, but it was definitely audible. Gross, I know, but true. So, do I write her a note. I don't, but if I did it would say:
You have got to do something about your panting, your moaning, your yelping self. You are keeping everyone (ME!) up all night.
Your not-so sincere-neighbor
No, it didn't last all night. I went to sleep after the five minutes her boyfriend put in. But still. Is it time to move?
an ad
Current bookshelver seeks employment elsewhere. Male, 25, with limited skill, in search of new job within the Portland area -- willing to relocate. Able to work full time, but would rather not. Single, and with few issues. Has not been fired in just under a year. Salary requirements: over current wage of $8. Bachelor degree in Geography -- whatever that means. Well groomed, though I may need a haircut. Has transportation...for now. Considering graduate school. Has personnel problems with psycho bitches, fake fucks, ass-kissers, corporate mongrels, supervisors, and anyone using me to step up the ladder. For the most part responsible and on time. Casual dress preferred. Please respond with comment.
An epic
Diagnosis: Neurosis.
We worry a lot. We make stuff up in our heads and we believe it. We fabricate symptoms. We believe we are plagued. And we're neurotic.
It's for a reason though. It tells us something. Keeps us in check. Let's us know where we stand. Suggests we should change. Even when the writing on the wall turns out to be invisible ink, we search for it. We touch the surface, try to feel it. We pull meaning from the texture we touch. It's physical. And we ... We're mental. We can actually will ourselves ill. And we can breathe us back to life. We make it all better and then we do it all again. And why? Because this is what we do. Maybe not all of us. But some: the thinkers, the worriers, the faith-deprived, and the neurotic.
We'll get better. We'll try. We'll have to get disciplined and we'll have to work. We'll have to take care of ourselves, one another. Reaffirm. Show concern. Make better. Be honest. It won't be easy. We'll probably fuck up. We have in the past. We will again. We'll say sorry, and we'll mean it. We'll make sense. We'll be right, but we'll also be wrong. It happens; it happened.
We can work it out. If not for each other then for ourselves. It's best to think of ourselves in a time like this anyway. I'm most important to me right now because if I don't take care of me then I won't be able to take care of you. Same goes for you. Please. Please take care of yourself. That's my wish. Don't hurt yourself because it also hurts me. It's got to be about you. I'm a man, but I'm only one man. And I'm not you. I want to help you, but if you help yourself you'll help me too. You'll help us all.
I'm not through. Not with you. I want to make it work. I need to work to make it work. I ask you do the same, and if it doesn't work out between us then we'll never be able to say we didn't try. That we didn't give it a shot. That there wasn't a chance.
Will this go on forever? It won't. Nothing is forever. We're here for only a short time. And then gone. Gone to somewhere else. Maybe somewhere better. Now, however, we're here. And this is real. As real as it's going to get.
We worry a lot. We make stuff up in our heads and we believe it. We fabricate symptoms. We believe we are plagued. And we're neurotic.
It's for a reason though. It tells us something. Keeps us in check. Let's us know where we stand. Suggests we should change. Even when the writing on the wall turns out to be invisible ink, we search for it. We touch the surface, try to feel it. We pull meaning from the texture we touch. It's physical. And we ... We're mental. We can actually will ourselves ill. And we can breathe us back to life. We make it all better and then we do it all again. And why? Because this is what we do. Maybe not all of us. But some: the thinkers, the worriers, the faith-deprived, and the neurotic.
We'll get better. We'll try. We'll have to get disciplined and we'll have to work. We'll have to take care of ourselves, one another. Reaffirm. Show concern. Make better. Be honest. It won't be easy. We'll probably fuck up. We have in the past. We will again. We'll say sorry, and we'll mean it. We'll make sense. We'll be right, but we'll also be wrong. It happens; it happened.
We can work it out. If not for each other then for ourselves. It's best to think of ourselves in a time like this anyway. I'm most important to me right now because if I don't take care of me then I won't be able to take care of you. Same goes for you. Please. Please take care of yourself. That's my wish. Don't hurt yourself because it also hurts me. It's got to be about you. I'm a man, but I'm only one man. And I'm not you. I want to help you, but if you help yourself you'll help me too. You'll help us all.
I'm not through. Not with you. I want to make it work. I need to work to make it work. I ask you do the same, and if it doesn't work out between us then we'll never be able to say we didn't try. That we didn't give it a shot. That there wasn't a chance.
Will this go on forever? It won't. Nothing is forever. We're here for only a short time. And then gone. Gone to somewhere else. Maybe somewhere better. Now, however, we're here. And this is real. As real as it's going to get.
on a walk today
A few blocks from my sometimes confining apartment is Forest Park, the largest forested city park in the United States -- it's 5,000 acres. I go there sometimes, but not enough. When the weather is bad, or I'm feeling gray, it is easier to go to Chapman Elementary -- two blocks away. But when I have an hour or more, which happens, I'll make the journey from Marshall to Thurman (think Alphabet District, where a block represents a letter), 26th to 3oth. Then I go down some cement steps, and some metal steps under a bridge, to the Lower Macleay Trail of Forest Park. This is a small trail that takes you to a stone house -- once a restroom -- in the far southern part of the park. The trail intersects with Wildwood Trail at the stone house. Wildwood is the longest of the Forest Park trails and winds 40 or so miles. Clearly I've only seen a small portion of this park. I will hike more, but from what I've seen I know this is the place for me, at least for now.
Heidi, my three-year old Aussie Shepard Basset-Booze Hound loves blazing these trails, jumping into the stream, which parallels Macleay, greeting other hikers, just being in the outdoors. This is why she moved here. She loves it. I guess you could say the same for me. I feel good in this place. The smells of damp dirt, the sight of moss covered trees, the feel of the cool moist air, makes me happy to be here, even if it is just me and Heidi. I walk the trail and have time to observe Nature. I see an uprooted tree, dead but with growth on it, and I realize that there is life after death. I laugh at Heidi and call her crazy for jumping into the cold stream. She shakes it off, heads up the trail, letting me know that I'll never understand. All I get out of it is that we're here to have fun and enjoy now. And though this is a strange time, this isn't such a bad place to spend it.
National Geographic did ZipUSA on my zip code:97210. Check it out at: http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/0309/feature6/
Heidi, my three-year old Aussie Shepard Basset-Booze Hound loves blazing these trails, jumping into the stream, which parallels Macleay, greeting other hikers, just being in the outdoors. This is why she moved here. She loves it. I guess you could say the same for me. I feel good in this place. The smells of damp dirt, the sight of moss covered trees, the feel of the cool moist air, makes me happy to be here, even if it is just me and Heidi. I walk the trail and have time to observe Nature. I see an uprooted tree, dead but with growth on it, and I realize that there is life after death. I laugh at Heidi and call her crazy for jumping into the cold stream. She shakes it off, heads up the trail, letting me know that I'll never understand. All I get out of it is that we're here to have fun and enjoy now. And though this is a strange time, this isn't such a bad place to spend it.
National Geographic did ZipUSA on my zip code:97210. Check it out at: http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/0309/feature6/
The faucet drips and I'm pissed
My faucet drips and I'd just assume it wouldn't. I guess things could be worse. But if one is in fine health even the slightest disturbance can make him feel fair. So it drips. And I sit. I listen. I try and type in rhythm. I ignore it. But it drips, oh does it drip. There are screws that should be tightened and have. I am the grandson of a mechanic. I have the tools. I plumb. But it drips, Jesus Christ does it drip. And, I patiently listen. It's constant. I'll tighten it with all my might and it will slow. But it will also drip. Still fucking dripping. It's water. It's nothing. Wait, water is everything. I should respect it. Appreciate the drip. Thank God it's not a gush. I just wish it would hush. I'm tired of the drip. I close the door on the drip. Pray that the drip stops. But the drip doesn't stop. The drip has never stopped.
My toilet used to run. It used to whine. I went to the hardware store and I bought new toilet insides. It took me some time but I replaced most everything in the tank. I calmed the cry. I stopped the run. As mentioned before, I plumb. And now when I flush it all down I appreciate the quiet. I go to my dripping sink, wash my hands and smile at myself in the mirror. I walk away forgetting the drip.
There's a ventilation fan in my kitchen. I never use it. Even when I'm burning stuff and smoke fills the place, I won't turn it on. It works, but I don't use it. I have. When I did turn it on -- it's up on the wall -- water comes down from it. I don't know what's up there, but it's water and for some reason it comes down when I turn the fan on. So I don't turn the fan on, I open the window or the door. I take the battery out of the smoke detector and I stay dry.
Some how, some way, water forms a puddle under my oven. Now, maybe it comes from the same place that the water from the ventilation fan comes from. There's a sea somewhere. But I'll be walking through the kitchen and step in a pool of water, get my socks wet, curse the world, and then laugh. "Ah water, you rule the world."
I guess it has to do with Portland. It rains a lot here and water has just collected in my run-down apartment building -- I'll live -- but, that doesn't explain why the faucet is still dripping.
My feet are cold. I'm going to put on some socks.
My toilet used to run. It used to whine. I went to the hardware store and I bought new toilet insides. It took me some time but I replaced most everything in the tank. I calmed the cry. I stopped the run. As mentioned before, I plumb. And now when I flush it all down I appreciate the quiet. I go to my dripping sink, wash my hands and smile at myself in the mirror. I walk away forgetting the drip.
There's a ventilation fan in my kitchen. I never use it. Even when I'm burning stuff and smoke fills the place, I won't turn it on. It works, but I don't use it. I have. When I did turn it on -- it's up on the wall -- water comes down from it. I don't know what's up there, but it's water and for some reason it comes down when I turn the fan on. So I don't turn the fan on, I open the window or the door. I take the battery out of the smoke detector and I stay dry.
Some how, some way, water forms a puddle under my oven. Now, maybe it comes from the same place that the water from the ventilation fan comes from. There's a sea somewhere. But I'll be walking through the kitchen and step in a pool of water, get my socks wet, curse the world, and then laugh. "Ah water, you rule the world."
I guess it has to do with Portland. It rains a lot here and water has just collected in my run-down apartment building -- I'll live -- but, that doesn't explain why the faucet is still dripping.
My feet are cold. I'm going to put on some socks.
Jetta Bastard
Getting to work is a numbers game. So, I see 5:17 on the microwave clock and I see 5:15 on the alarm clock by the door. I'm going to be late or on time. Not early. Not this morning. I snoozed this morning. It was freezing last night. Bellow 32 degrees. Easily. I can tell because I was out there at 5 a'whatever scraping my windows with a piece-of-shit ice scraper. My Jetta was warming up. It didn't need to, like me it's ready to move when awakened. I would have been down the street, but there was no visability. I could see when I was done, but not much better. I would have to scrape both sides of the windows. But I wouldn't. Defrost on 4, even with the noise, I'm fine, warm enough. I'm trying to get the CD player to warm up, it says, "ERROR" and spits out the disc. Unlike the Jetta and myself, it has trouble starting on a cold morning. I let it relax a sec and try again. It works. I might be late but music will get me there.
In the Jetta there are lights. The CD player, when it's working, lights up like a cell phone. The headlights work, and the brake lights work -- last time I checked -- but, no longer do the dash lights work. There was a dimmer to the dash lights. It was cute. I could set my odometer's mood. Shed light on the gas situation. But now it's dark. Except the clock. The clock lights up. And it's reading 5:21 -- I am going to be late. Butbutbut bababy haahhhhooow mmuuuuchch?...ch...ch...Dead. Gas. I'm outta fucking gas. Shit. I'm up hill, so I'll coast down. From the top of the hill, I trying starting. It's running, then it's dead. Great. Bottom of the hill -- 21st street. And Stopped. Middle of the Intersection. A kind stranger, from some reason out -- at 5:25 -- early this morning, helped me push the car into a spot with the sign, "1 hour parking." "Thank you," I said and he was gone. I called work. "Mike, my car busted," I amazed myself with. "Tell Ben to pick me up." Ben did, but he called first. He asked if I had a can. "Nope." And he informed me that they don't just hand those things out. "See ya in fifteen," he also informed me. Wandering the streets on the phone, I went back to the car. It was cold, freezing, and for some reason I didn't have a coat on. I had a golf shirt and a ultra light pullover. The car was warmer and my CD player was working, I'd be fine.
At 5:48 Ben showed -- recognized me by my hazzards. I got in his truck and we were on Burnside in five minutes. The Chevron had gas cans and gas. I bought one, and filled it. Actually, I didn't fill it up because I live in Oregon. It was 5:56 when I finally paid the pumper, 5.95 for the gas can and 3.97 on Pump #3 for the 2.091 gallons at 1.899/gal. $9.92. Back at the Jetta on 21st and Kearny where I'm calling the Jetta my bastard child. I'm pouring gas in the tank and it' dribbling on my hand. I smell of gas. It fixed my busted Jetta and I apologized to my son. You're not a bastard, just lucky it was gas. It's 6:20 when I clocked into work. 50 minutes late. My 7th occurance. Sunday I start using my 80 hours of vacation time. Tomorrow I need to wake up at 4:10 and not snooze.
In the Jetta there are lights. The CD player, when it's working, lights up like a cell phone. The headlights work, and the brake lights work -- last time I checked -- but, no longer do the dash lights work. There was a dimmer to the dash lights. It was cute. I could set my odometer's mood. Shed light on the gas situation. But now it's dark. Except the clock. The clock lights up. And it's reading 5:21 -- I am going to be late. Butbutbut bababy haahhhhooow mmuuuuchch?...ch...ch...Dead. Gas. I'm outta fucking gas. Shit. I'm up hill, so I'll coast down. From the top of the hill, I trying starting. It's running, then it's dead. Great. Bottom of the hill -- 21st street. And Stopped. Middle of the Intersection. A kind stranger, from some reason out -- at 5:25 -- early this morning, helped me push the car into a spot with the sign, "1 hour parking." "Thank you," I said and he was gone. I called work. "Mike, my car busted," I amazed myself with. "Tell Ben to pick me up." Ben did, but he called first. He asked if I had a can. "Nope." And he informed me that they don't just hand those things out. "See ya in fifteen," he also informed me. Wandering the streets on the phone, I went back to the car. It was cold, freezing, and for some reason I didn't have a coat on. I had a golf shirt and a ultra light pullover. The car was warmer and my CD player was working, I'd be fine.
At 5:48 Ben showed -- recognized me by my hazzards. I got in his truck and we were on Burnside in five minutes. The Chevron had gas cans and gas. I bought one, and filled it. Actually, I didn't fill it up because I live in Oregon. It was 5:56 when I finally paid the pumper, 5.95 for the gas can and 3.97 on Pump #3 for the 2.091 gallons at 1.899/gal. $9.92. Back at the Jetta on 21st and Kearny where I'm calling the Jetta my bastard child. I'm pouring gas in the tank and it' dribbling on my hand. I smell of gas. It fixed my busted Jetta and I apologized to my son. You're not a bastard, just lucky it was gas. It's 6:20 when I clocked into work. 50 minutes late. My 7th occurance. Sunday I start using my 80 hours of vacation time. Tomorrow I need to wake up at 4:10 and not snooze.
What's the what?
I have a question, but don't answer. First this:
The only piece of advice that I'm certified to give is, when you're high on life, living the dream, doing good, on-fire, on whatever, I beg of you, if your phone rings, and it shouldn't, it shouldn't be here, -- this place triumphant, you shouldn't have brought it or you should have turned it off, you should have broken it when this happened last Tuesday, don't get it now; it rings, oh, it fucking rings, you've made sure it rings, -- not too quiet, but so you can hear it -- it's been in pocket, out of pocket, left in car, it's always on the same ring: Medium Low; you've missed a call, but then you think, and you check it, and you check the time, "No one called at 12:48. Check," when was the last call? Check Missed Calls...Fuck...This isn't worth it.
So. How many times are you in this Mecca? When else are you resting on this pillow? Think, man. This could be it. Don't answer it. Hit END before there's a beginning. We shouldn't do the phone thing. Not like this. It's too much worry. Socialize with the environment that you're in or nothing. Break rules, don't check in. Call later. No one is growing here. It's out there, and it's not good.
It wasn't you alone. Sure, you helped, you didn't always call, you thought about it, but you didn't always do it. And that's cool, your for the cause: 'Less minutes call time, more minutes face time.'
This is Understanding, and this is why? we know who? now is when? or then; and, here's where?
But what's the what?
What's the what?
And we've got it all.
The only piece of advice that I'm certified to give is, when you're high on life, living the dream, doing good, on-fire, on whatever, I beg of you, if your phone rings, and it shouldn't, it shouldn't be here, -- this place triumphant, you shouldn't have brought it or you should have turned it off, you should have broken it when this happened last Tuesday, don't get it now; it rings, oh, it fucking rings, you've made sure it rings, -- not too quiet, but so you can hear it -- it's been in pocket, out of pocket, left in car, it's always on the same ring: Medium Low; you've missed a call, but then you think, and you check it, and you check the time, "No one called at 12:48. Check," when was the last call? Check Missed Calls...Fuck...This isn't worth it.
So. How many times are you in this Mecca? When else are you resting on this pillow? Think, man. This could be it. Don't answer it. Hit END before there's a beginning. We shouldn't do the phone thing. Not like this. It's too much worry. Socialize with the environment that you're in or nothing. Break rules, don't check in. Call later. No one is growing here. It's out there, and it's not good.
It wasn't you alone. Sure, you helped, you didn't always call, you thought about it, but you didn't always do it. And that's cool, your for the cause: 'Less minutes call time, more minutes face time.'
This is Understanding, and this is why? we know who? now is when? or then; and, here's where?
But what's the what?
What's the what?
And we've got it all.
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