About a month and a half ago, I bought a car, a 1996 Chrysler Concorde wih a 3.5 liter V-6 out of a 1997 Dodge Intrepid, which was the same car except for a different nose and tail and a non-premium interior.
I walked on to the lot where the local body shop displayed bargain-basement cars that they bought at auction to supplement their apparently meager income as an actual body shop. This baby caught my eye like a well-dressed hooker at Hunt's Point. Sleek, black and very, very sexy. Smooth, rich leather interior, computer-controlled everything, big, fat, road-gripped tires mounted on sparkly alloy rims. Mmmmmmm. So, I picked her up. And, like a hooker from Hunt's Point might do, she's been bleeding me dry every since. What's worse is, no amount of polishing up will change the simple fact that she is an absolute whore.
Every lightbulb over the last month has blown out and been replaced. The cruise control stopped working, but it's working now, so troubleshooting is impossible. It even had a component failure, a Manifold Tuning Solenoid, that the dealer said "should never fail. Never seen one fail. Never replaced one. Pretty strange." But wait, there's more.
Changed the spark plugs with premium Bosch Platinums. Changed the wires. Replaced the ignition coil and the two upper oxygen sensors (there are four!!! on this bitch) and cleaned the throttle bodies. Replaced hard and soft hoses, removed and cleaned the Powertrain Control Module (the computer that controls the engine,) the Body Computer. Spent $1400 replacing all three catalytic convertors, $350 replacing the lower O2 sensors and another $657 getting ripped off by another mechanic for "troubleshooting." And I STILL have a Check Engine light on the dash which means, you guessed it, I CAN'T HAVE THE CAR INSPECTED.
I am an idiot. For $3500, I could have easily bought a Honda that would have lasted me ten more years. But, at the time I bought this car, I didn' have $3500. I had $1000: that's what I had. So, in six weeks, I've spect $600 a week on repairs.
Now, the above doesn't address the late-shifting tranny (no, this has nothing to do with my gay piece from yesterday) or the squeaky noise coming from the driver's side front wheel. And it only occured to me today to check the parking brake which ALSO DOESN'T WORK which means, you guessed it, I CAN'T HAVE THE CAR INSPECTED.
Garsh. Still, I love her. She kicks me when I'm down, takes my retirement money and still, I can't set fire to her. Wait just a minute . . . sounds a little like my taste in womyns. Ha, ha. LOL.
It's because I don't want to lose in this competition between me and the car fates. Oddly, I get my Honda back in about two weeks and this will be a non-issue, sort of, except, what the hell do I do with it? Can't sell a car you can't inspect. Sigh. I should be a Good Jew and pretend I know nothing about things mechanical. That really would be best.
Friday, October 31, 2008
I Said No!
Life is not all it's cracked up to be. God closes one door, opens another and then, savagely, slams it on your fingers. Lookit: it's the human condition, blah, blah, blah, frittering away time with busy work, just like this column, as if anything at all mattered. Even "tragedy" is mundane when viewed through the lens of indifference that's borne of commonality. I'll give you a personal example.
I was officially divorced on October 15. This was the culmination of two years of pure torture from, wait for it, my crazy ex-wife, who is either an OSCAR(tm)-winning class performer or really is suffering from BPD. I, and my psychiatrist, believe the latter to be true. Okay, so she's a nut. I get no satisfaction from that, in fact, I am doing everyhting I can in my last thirty days in what's now "her" house, though it was bought with entirely my money, to stay far, far away. The tragedy in this is that she is either unwilling or unable to see how unneccesary this all was. My kid has suffered from this and will continue to as my ex sees my daughter as property. This is a tragedy. From the reader's point of view, it's more like, "So what? You don't have cancer." Yes, that's true, I don't. Would my having cancer qualify me for a high enough TQ* (*Tragedy Quotient?) If so, maybe the fact that I owned a business that used highly-carconigenic plastics for 22 years, am a smoker and spend too much time in the sun will tip the scales for you.
"It's all in how you look at it," say my doctor as she deftly cashes my check. That's true, too, but how I look at it is that I have no house, no child, no where to live, no one to be close to, not much of a career future, no family and, at the moment, a limp penis. Hey, you'd have one, too, if you were in this notch in the patent-leather belt of time.
"Snap out of it," quoted my special friend lo these many years ago, now, when I was totally beside myself with anxiety and stupidity. Wait, wait - there's the real tragedy: I brought this all on myself.
What an idiot! I should have figured this out before just now, huh? If I screwed it up, I should be able to unscrew it, right? Maybe, maybe it's possible after all . . .
POSTSCRIPT: I know I'm off my game, not having written anything for more than a month, but I tried to abandon my muse and that was clearly a mistake. All-in-all, I am a fool. But, I'm not dead. So. That's a start.
I was officially divorced on October 15. This was the culmination of two years of pure torture from, wait for it, my crazy ex-wife, who is either an OSCAR(tm)-winning class performer or really is suffering from BPD. I, and my psychiatrist, believe the latter to be true. Okay, so she's a nut. I get no satisfaction from that, in fact, I am doing everyhting I can in my last thirty days in what's now "her" house, though it was bought with entirely my money, to stay far, far away. The tragedy in this is that she is either unwilling or unable to see how unneccesary this all was. My kid has suffered from this and will continue to as my ex sees my daughter as property. This is a tragedy. From the reader's point of view, it's more like, "So what? You don't have cancer." Yes, that's true, I don't. Would my having cancer qualify me for a high enough TQ* (*Tragedy Quotient?) If so, maybe the fact that I owned a business that used highly-carconigenic plastics for 22 years, am a smoker and spend too much time in the sun will tip the scales for you.
"It's all in how you look at it," say my doctor as she deftly cashes my check. That's true, too, but how I look at it is that I have no house, no child, no where to live, no one to be close to, not much of a career future, no family and, at the moment, a limp penis. Hey, you'd have one, too, if you were in this notch in the patent-leather belt of time.
"Snap out of it," quoted my special friend lo these many years ago, now, when I was totally beside myself with anxiety and stupidity. Wait, wait - there's the real tragedy: I brought this all on myself.
What an idiot! I should have figured this out before just now, huh? If I screwed it up, I should be able to unscrew it, right? Maybe, maybe it's possible after all . . .
POSTSCRIPT: I know I'm off my game, not having written anything for more than a month, but I tried to abandon my muse and that was clearly a mistake. All-in-all, I am a fool. But, I'm not dead. So. That's a start.
Shame, Shame
For shame. Shame on me for not uttering a peep here for more than a month. Thant's not like me at all.
I was writing to my gay friend Bob, who, we'll call Tim in order to protect his identity. Now Tim is really, really gay. I worked and socialized with gay men for more than twenty years as the music business is rife with 'em. He's the furthest thing from a straight-acting gay man without being a total queen. And let me simplify things for you stupid homophobes: although gay men and gay women are both "gay," it's typical and customary for homosexual men to be referred to en masse as "gay" and gay women to be referred to as "lesbian." Okay?
So, like I was saying, Bob, er, Tim, I mean, is really gay. To top it off, he's a nudist. Now, I'm a casual nudist and it's not a sexual thing entirely but a feeling of sensual freedom. But he belongs to clubs and even a nude bowling team. Truthfully, that's something I'd really like to see. Anyhow, he was telling me about the nude, gay party he went to last weekend. I queried him (ha ha) as to how he could stand it in such dry, chilly weather to which he replied that a bar full of men provides plenty of body heat. Yuck - sorry, but hairy butts are just not my thing. I told him that I thought it must have looked like a walnut and vienna sausage festival. I await his reply, hopefully with pictures.
No, I'm not gay, or bi-curious or any of that. In fact, what I think is commonly misunderstood is that there's the sexual aspect of gay-ness and then there's a cultural aspect. What's true abbout me is that I relate strongly to that aspect. Let me say again, I'm not a fag, excuse me, gay. But I do relate to the (true) elements of the stereotype rather perfectly, except for the penis-rubbing part. I like to cook, clean, sew, design, be creative, garden, decorate (though I'm bad at it,) be outrageous and melancholy, love fashion, dahling, and I even work in a gay industry, cosmetics, fragrance and personal care. And I love David Sedaris. But I'm not gay. I swear.
Gay culture is very specific and different from straight-man social culture. I don't love sports and drinking beer, though that's not to say that gay men don't drink beer. It's just that they drink better beer, preferably imported from Belgium. Yums! I do believe in picking up my underwear and putting it in the hamper and in coordinating my sock colors. I buff my nails to a healthy shine and I don't even pretend to begin to understand the concept of a monster truck rally.
So, gay men and straight men don't particularly travel in the same social-leisure circles. Suits me. I can cherry-pick the dirt-dishing AND take care of the dirty dishes. So what's the problem that non-gays have with gays, anyhow?
Jealousy, I'd say.
I was writing to my gay friend Bob, who, we'll call Tim in order to protect his identity. Now Tim is really, really gay. I worked and socialized with gay men for more than twenty years as the music business is rife with 'em. He's the furthest thing from a straight-acting gay man without being a total queen. And let me simplify things for you stupid homophobes: although gay men and gay women are both "gay," it's typical and customary for homosexual men to be referred to en masse as "gay" and gay women to be referred to as "lesbian." Okay?
So, like I was saying, Bob, er, Tim, I mean, is really gay. To top it off, he's a nudist. Now, I'm a casual nudist and it's not a sexual thing entirely but a feeling of sensual freedom. But he belongs to clubs and even a nude bowling team. Truthfully, that's something I'd really like to see. Anyhow, he was telling me about the nude, gay party he went to last weekend. I queried him (ha ha) as to how he could stand it in such dry, chilly weather to which he replied that a bar full of men provides plenty of body heat. Yuck - sorry, but hairy butts are just not my thing. I told him that I thought it must have looked like a walnut and vienna sausage festival. I await his reply, hopefully with pictures.
No, I'm not gay, or bi-curious or any of that. In fact, what I think is commonly misunderstood is that there's the sexual aspect of gay-ness and then there's a cultural aspect. What's true abbout me is that I relate strongly to that aspect. Let me say again, I'm not a fag, excuse me, gay. But I do relate to the (true) elements of the stereotype rather perfectly, except for the penis-rubbing part. I like to cook, clean, sew, design, be creative, garden, decorate (though I'm bad at it,) be outrageous and melancholy, love fashion, dahling, and I even work in a gay industry, cosmetics, fragrance and personal care. And I love David Sedaris. But I'm not gay. I swear.
Gay culture is very specific and different from straight-man social culture. I don't love sports and drinking beer, though that's not to say that gay men don't drink beer. It's just that they drink better beer, preferably imported from Belgium. Yums! I do believe in picking up my underwear and putting it in the hamper and in coordinating my sock colors. I buff my nails to a healthy shine and I don't even pretend to begin to understand the concept of a monster truck rally.
So, gay men and straight men don't particularly travel in the same social-leisure circles. Suits me. I can cherry-pick the dirt-dishing AND take care of the dirty dishes. So what's the problem that non-gays have with gays, anyhow?
Jealousy, I'd say.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sexy Lady
I got a new car. No, I mean I got a new, used car. For some reason, I bought a Chrysler. Maybe it's because I'm into leather an' sh*t, but maybe it's because I only had a thousand bucks. It has some problems, but it sure is pretty . . . a lot like most of my ex-girlfriends and wives . . . what the hell is wrong with me?Today, I found out that the passenger side trailing link had been replaced with a piece of 1-inch pipe. God, what is wrong with people?
Excuse me, but I have to go polish it.
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! Leave My Kid Out Of It!
The end of a marriage is like a death of a patriarch where the survivors choose to spend the rest of their days picking over the bones of the estate of what can no longer be changed, just for sport, it seems. F*cking assholes.
Here's an e-mail I wrote to my crazy-ass ex-wife regarding her insipid use of my child as blackmail. I print it here only because I like the pretty words.
In order to respond to your false characterization, I would need to point out that you insisted on raising unrelated issues using strong and intimidating language and making statements that were patently false and argumentative, but rather than do that, I would prefer that you simply understand that I'm asking you to reciprocate the support I've provided consistently to shore up our daughter's view of this period as one of difficulty and strife between her parents but not having anything to do with her directly.
My behavior has been consistent and responsible. I have done my best to not respond in difficult and belligerent encounters in kind. On the other hand, there is a limit. When I asked you to respect me as a human being and allow me to simply finish a sentence, you cut me off as seems to be your practice, indicating to me that you don't need to hear what I have to say. I beg to differ.
While you may not want to interact with me on any level for whatever reasons you have that are yours alone, I do desire assent and cooperation from you regarding (our daughter), but I don't require it. I feel I have left you the maximum leeway in all of the issues I've raised thus far without any consideration for my role and my interest in (our daughter). However, I have told you, time and again, that it's unfair and less than responsible for any parent to leverage their child. I haven't done that. That's just not right.
I will say this - I will not play dirty. Perhaps this is a disadvantage, but I have my own sense of honor and my obligation to (our daughter) to consider, in terms of whatever legacy of experience she has to draw on from this time.You can call this conciliatory or self-serving, that's your choice. It's also your choice to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation. You have an opportunity to make a difference in how this will be remembered. I would be disappointed to think that you're not up to the challenge.
************
So, this is basically all a waste of time since the only way I can get this resolved is by going to court, over and over again. When I say "crazy-assed," I mean that she actually does exhibit, quite clearly, all of the indicators of BPD and will likely lapse into some form of madness soon. Real soon, now. Whew - dodged another bullet. Maybe my luck is coming back . . .
Here's an e-mail I wrote to my crazy-ass ex-wife regarding her insipid use of my child as blackmail. I print it here only because I like the pretty words.
In order to respond to your false characterization, I would need to point out that you insisted on raising unrelated issues using strong and intimidating language and making statements that were patently false and argumentative, but rather than do that, I would prefer that you simply understand that I'm asking you to reciprocate the support I've provided consistently to shore up our daughter's view of this period as one of difficulty and strife between her parents but not having anything to do with her directly.
My behavior has been consistent and responsible. I have done my best to not respond in difficult and belligerent encounters in kind. On the other hand, there is a limit. When I asked you to respect me as a human being and allow me to simply finish a sentence, you cut me off as seems to be your practice, indicating to me that you don't need to hear what I have to say. I beg to differ.
While you may not want to interact with me on any level for whatever reasons you have that are yours alone, I do desire assent and cooperation from you regarding (our daughter), but I don't require it. I feel I have left you the maximum leeway in all of the issues I've raised thus far without any consideration for my role and my interest in (our daughter). However, I have told you, time and again, that it's unfair and less than responsible for any parent to leverage their child. I haven't done that. That's just not right.
I will say this - I will not play dirty. Perhaps this is a disadvantage, but I have my own sense of honor and my obligation to (our daughter) to consider, in terms of whatever legacy of experience she has to draw on from this time.You can call this conciliatory or self-serving, that's your choice. It's also your choice to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation. You have an opportunity to make a difference in how this will be remembered. I would be disappointed to think that you're not up to the challenge.
************
So, this is basically all a waste of time since the only way I can get this resolved is by going to court, over and over again. When I say "crazy-assed," I mean that she actually does exhibit, quite clearly, all of the indicators of BPD and will likely lapse into some form of madness soon. Real soon, now. Whew - dodged another bullet. Maybe my luck is coming back . . .
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
This Is The End, My Only Friend, The End
Today, I sold my van. Yay. I felt 12 seconds of guilt when signing over the title and then thought, caveat emptor, sucka, then pocketed the dough. I rented a car and am now tasked with finding a usable vehicle for around $1000. Not so easy a task when under the gun of a daily rental with so much else going on.I got, read and approved the unfair and imbalanced deal that is my settlement agreement that puts my divorce a pen stroke and rubber stamp away. Then, the clock starts ticking on getting the halibut outta here. Caveat emptor, yet again.
And I wondered about you. How I missed your enthusiam, like a rope dropped in a fast-flowing river, pointed at the drowning man, quickly sucked into the current, thus sealing his fate.
C'est la vie. N'est pas (vrai?)
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Coulda Shoulda Woulda
If . . . you hadn't simply decided to throw away a life, my life, with your closed ears and lying heart, then things would be different today, right now. Your decision was unilateral and you blamed me for it. It was your decision, based not on fact but on your own definition of reality. You threw me away like so much lint, without the least thought that tomorrow should have, could have and in fact, would have been different.
You denied the incontrovertible truth about was I was telling you. Why? Because it scared you. Scared you so much that you could bear to listen to the end of my sentences and believe that it might be true. Then you'd be on the hook. Then, you'd have to walk with me. Then, all would be different and you didn't want it to be. If you did, you wouldn't have done what you did.
I built my future on your promises and our potential. I gave my heart away. I made career choices and sacrifices that you apparently choose to deny are real. I did all I did and only then, did you throw me away.
Once, you told me you were feeling bad and I said I'd turn around and come to you. No, no - don't do it, I can't do that to you, you said. I told you to not be silly, that I was turning around. I reached out, time and again, and you slapped my hand away and that's your proof that I should have "done something."
Well, I did plenty. I set the stage, made my peace, accept the changes and then you summarily discarded me. Deleted me without so much as a goodbye.
So, all the time I trusted you, confided in you, relied on you, hoped and prayed with you was just entertainment for you. A toe in the water of real commitment without actually having to make that commitment and then, a savage kick to the curb. So, it was a lie and I was stupid enough, as usual, to believe that manipulation was actually caring, was actually something I could count on, that we were family, that there was forever. Apparently not.
I must say that your timing is impeccable. Just as the confluence of the streams of my suffering came to a head, something new. Interestingly, you never bothered, not once, to see whether I was alive or dead. What kind of human being is that cold? And I'm disappointed terribly that the reality of who you are is undeniable in the light of what you've done.
And it doesn't stop there, does it? You need to get your rocks off at my expense, still. You can't leave well enough alone, after taking my life and my future away, now you have the audacity to call me a liar? With facts - not my facts, but real, hard truth - shining brightly, telling you that what I told you was consistent and honest all along, from day f*cking one. And now you're there and I'm here, as invisible as wallpaper.
It should have been different. It would have been much better than you imagined it. It could have been now. It was your choice to make me disappear. It was you who decided to not take the next step, despite all of the facts before you. It was your decision to ignore the truth and my earnestness supported by the facts. You decided to make us unequal, to make me sub-human, not worthy of your consideration. And now, I'm dead to you. Even in that, you get what you want.
You denied the incontrovertible truth about was I was telling you. Why? Because it scared you. Scared you so much that you could bear to listen to the end of my sentences and believe that it might be true. Then you'd be on the hook. Then, you'd have to walk with me. Then, all would be different and you didn't want it to be. If you did, you wouldn't have done what you did.
I built my future on your promises and our potential. I gave my heart away. I made career choices and sacrifices that you apparently choose to deny are real. I did all I did and only then, did you throw me away.
Once, you told me you were feeling bad and I said I'd turn around and come to you. No, no - don't do it, I can't do that to you, you said. I told you to not be silly, that I was turning around. I reached out, time and again, and you slapped my hand away and that's your proof that I should have "done something."
Well, I did plenty. I set the stage, made my peace, accept the changes and then you summarily discarded me. Deleted me without so much as a goodbye.
So, all the time I trusted you, confided in you, relied on you, hoped and prayed with you was just entertainment for you. A toe in the water of real commitment without actually having to make that commitment and then, a savage kick to the curb. So, it was a lie and I was stupid enough, as usual, to believe that manipulation was actually caring, was actually something I could count on, that we were family, that there was forever. Apparently not.
I must say that your timing is impeccable. Just as the confluence of the streams of my suffering came to a head, something new. Interestingly, you never bothered, not once, to see whether I was alive or dead. What kind of human being is that cold? And I'm disappointed terribly that the reality of who you are is undeniable in the light of what you've done.
And it doesn't stop there, does it? You need to get your rocks off at my expense, still. You can't leave well enough alone, after taking my life and my future away, now you have the audacity to call me a liar? With facts - not my facts, but real, hard truth - shining brightly, telling you that what I told you was consistent and honest all along, from day f*cking one. And now you're there and I'm here, as invisible as wallpaper.
It should have been different. It would have been much better than you imagined it. It could have been now. It was your choice to make me disappear. It was you who decided to not take the next step, despite all of the facts before you. It was your decision to ignore the truth and my earnestness supported by the facts. You decided to make us unequal, to make me sub-human, not worthy of your consideration. And now, I'm dead to you. Even in that, you get what you want.
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