Gone, but not forgotten...

I finally got tired of life in Lousyana, so I packed up and moved to Wyoming. That's right: Wyoming.

Why Wyoming? Why not?

(1) It's got mountains: proper mountains, with snow on top. I've never lived anywhere with mountains.
(2) Laramie is a nice, clean little town, where there aren't murders every week-end and people are friendly, and they don't scream obscenities and throw things at me and try to run me over, just because I ride a bicycle.
(3) It isn't damp. Even the cold feels nicer, because it's dry. And, it's cool: we've had a few snow flurries this week. Yeah, it can be really cold, but I'll take cold over heat any day.
(4) I have friends here who want me here and are doing the best they can to see that I get settled and am comfortable and enjoy life.
(5) Laramie has some really, really cute boys! There is a university here and it's dripping with cute boys, and a lot of them are really nice. And cute. Did I mention cute?
(6) It is about as far away from Lousyana as I could afford to get. I would have left the country if I could have. I have been criticised for voicing negative opinions about that beknighted state, so, just to set the record clear: I hate Louisiana. I particularly hate Baton Rouge. The state is packed with ignorant, intolerant, rude, crude, bigoted, small-minded, inbred, low-life, trashy, homophobic, money-grubbing, ostentatious arseholes. And those are the nice ones! Now, I do realise that there are some very good people in Lousyana; it has been my privilege to have met and known and worked with some truly wonderful people, but 7.4% of the population (and this is a figure tempered by kindness) is not enough to keep me there. FAREWELL! GOOD RIDDANCE! HASTA LA VISTA, BABY!

Now, you might think that, considering my feelings for the state, that it would be glad to be rid of me, and want never to have anything to do with me, ever again, but that is not the case:

The long arm of Lousyana has reached out 1500 miles to continue to screw with my life. Today, I rode three miles, out of town, to obtain my Wyoming driving license, only to discover, to my surprise, that my Lousyana license had been suspended, and that I could not obtain a Wyoming driving license until it is cleared up. I have no bloody idea WHY my license was suspended; I never received notice of any pending action of any nature from DPS, or I would have taken care of the matter BEFORE I moved 1500 miles away, so that I would not have to fix the problem long-distance, which I now have to do.

I was given an 800 number to call, which I did, as soon as I got home, only to discover that it had been disconnected. So, I went online and spent a good 20 minutes navigating their convoluted and confusing website and finally found a new number, which I called, only to find that the office shut at 4:00 (3:00 Mountain Time). It was 3:05.

I am going to spend more time this evening on the wretched DPS website, in the hope that, tucked away in some dusty electronic corridor of that ancient and outmoded menu system, some kind of form or something that I can fill out to discover what the hell I did or did not do to incur the wrath of the Lousyana Department of Public Stupidity. I have a feeling that I will waste a lot more time and be unsuccessful, and that I will have to call the new number on Monday and muddle through an equally ancient and convoluted telephone menu. Hopefully, I will eventually discover what Lousyana wants from me (probably money) and for what, so that I can clear up this beaucratic clusterfuck and, with any luck, completely eliminate any hold Lousyana has left on me, so that I can live in peace and harmony with all living things with all kinds of warm and fuzzy feelings, to the betterment of myself and for the Greater Glory of All Mankind.

Somehow, I doubt that this will be an easy task.Lousyana's dubious excuse for a government has taken incompetence to the point of high art: this is incompetence so baroque, so labyrinthine, so mind-bogglingly counterproductive that it almost has to be a result of intense and meticulous planning, unless (possibly) the result of some unforseen and hithertofore unknown rift in the fabric of time and space which causes any endeavour which has any worth at all to be sucked into another universe and replaced with an anti-endeavour which is just, for lack of other words to describe it, really stupid. I'm working on the proof of this theory. I may be some time.

This is why I have little hope of clearing this mess up with alacrity:

Quite a few years ago, I had the pleasure of encountering two of Baton Rouge's Finest (not to be confused with the nearly identical Baton Rouge's Finest now under investigation by Federal authorities over allegations of racism and misuse of power following Hurricane Katrina). My inspection sticker had expired and I was on my way to have my vehicle inspected when these two valiant defenders of the public pulled me over. Of course, I knew why they had pulled me over, and I told the officer who took my license that I was on the way to get the car inspected and pointed out the garage where I was headed, three sodding blocks away.

That didn't matter, he told me, and wrote me a citation.

"You're a real prick," I said. He just handed me he ticket.

Of course, I did not pay the fine. I waited for the court date on the citation to come around so that I could contest it.

I was at work, about a week before the court date, when a co-worker, who had been in traffic court over another violation, got my attention.

"Dude," he said. "I was at court today, and they put a bench warrant out on you."

"That's ridiculous," I said, naively. "I'm not due in court until Monday."

"Well, you better call them," he said. "Before they put your ass in jail."

So, the next morning, I called the Clerk of Court. The woman on the phone assured me that, yes, there was a bench warrant out for my arrest for failure to appear in court the day before. When I read her the appearance date off of the ticket, there was the clicking of a keyboard in the background.

"The appearance date was moved up," she said.

"I didn't receive any notice," I said. "How can you expect me to appear in court on a different day from the one on the citation when you didn't notify me?"

"It is the responsibility of the accused to know when they are supposed to be in court," she said. I hung up.

The next Monday, I went down to the courthouse and asked to see the assistant DA assigned to traffic court. He saw me right away. He was very cordial and very apologetic when I explained the situation and showed him both the citation and the receipt for the inspection sticker, which had the time imprinted on it twenty minutes after the time recorded on the ticket. Again, he was apologetic and assured me that the charge would be dropped and the bench warrant recinded. He blamed the unfortunate episode on new software in the Clerk's office, with which the staff apparently had not completely familiarised themselves. He took my copy of the ticket and stapled it to a stack of multicoloured papers, we shook hands, and I was on my way. You would think this story would be over, but it doesn't end here:

Two years later, I was stopped at one of those fucked up insurance and/or drink driving checkpoints. I gave my license, registration and proof of insurance to the Valiant Server and Protector (it said so on his unit) of the Public. He held some kind of conference with two other Heroes in Uniform. I waited forty minutes. I was then asked to step out of my vehicle, was subjected to a body search and handcuffed. I was informed that there was an outstanding bench warrant for me, and that I was under arrest. I was asked if I had any illegal substances with me and was asked for permission to search my vehicle. I refused to give it. They searched my vehicle anyway.

I told them the story about the bench warrant. They told me it didn't matter. My car was towed away and I was transported to the city jail. It was a week-end, so the jail was full of drunks, dope heads and other various offenders. The cells were all full, so I spent six hours standing, handcuffed to cell bars before the Idiot in Charge got around to me. Fortunately, I had my checkbook with me, and I wrote a check for the $300 bond. I was released. It was four AM on Sunday morning. I had to walk three miles home.

It cost me $185.75 to get my car out of impound. I went to court on the offense that had presumably been dropped two years before. I had no proof of anything, because the assistant DA had taken the citation from me and hadn't given me any kind of receipt or waiver or whatever the fuck he should have given me. I spent 4 hours in court and paid an attorney $150 to represent me. Someone finally produced the paperwork that supported my case, and all charges were dropped. When I asked the judge about the $185.75 for towage, the $300 bond and the $150 I had to pay the attorney, I was advised that the only thing I would receive back was my $300 bond.

It took three months for the court to mail me a refund check for the bond. The check was for $264.50, minus $35.50 in court costs.

And you ask me why I hate Lousyana?

Just Random Shit

Hung out with Travis and Fernando yesterday. We did wash and ate lunch (at FUCKING MACDONALDS!) and just hung for a while. Our cute young friend, H., came by. He is 22 and an avid runner, and had just completed the Crescent City Marathon, down in New Orleans, and was so pumped by the experience that that was all he would talk about, which was okay, because he is such a nice kid, and it made me feel good to see him so excited about his achievement. He is SO CUTE! Oops, shouldn't say that: he has FRIEND status, but he has hot little ass ...

We were talking about Mike the Tiger. For those of you who don't know, Mike the Tiger is an icon in Baton Rouge. He is the living mascot of Louisiana State University, and the current one is Mike VI, mixed Bengal and Siberian tiger, so it's really an university tradition. All of our athletic teams are "Tigers", especially the football (American) team. I swam at LSU, and we were the "Tiger Tankers". So, it's a big thing.

So, we were talking, and H. says it's so cruel to keep a tiger in a cage (actually, he has a really nice little habitat, with stuff to play with and a swimming pool), and I said, well, you really don't know cats, because all they really like to do, besides play and eat, is sleep, and that's what they do most of the time, when they are not destroying everything that you own, and using your DVD collection for skateboards.

So, day before yesterday, I was on my way to work. There is a "bike trail" along Dalrymple, which is on my way, but half of it is so rutted that it is unusable, and, yesterday, there were so many fucking joggers and baby stroller pushers and dog walkers on it that I couldn't use it. So, I'm on the road, on the right side, obeying the FUCKING TRAFFIC LAWS, when a pickup, redneck-equipped, passed me, and the passenger side cretin leaned out the window and screamed "BIKE LANE", to which I answered "ASS HOLE", and gave him my best three-fingered salute.

Which reminds me of something that happened years ago, when I was on my way home, around midnight, on my bike, on Perkins Road. Another pickup, with three stupid shitkickers in it, passed me, close, blew the horn and screamed obscenities at me. I yelled "fuck you", and they actually turned around and came back for another pass, so I got up off the road, laid my bike down, and put my U-lock (a really heavy thing to lock a bike up with) in my hand, in case they got out of the truck.They didn't. One of them threw a beer bottle at me, but it missed. Then they drove away.

Well, I got up to the next major intersection and, lo and behold, the same truck is parked outside of a popular bar. So, I got the multitool out of my tool kit and cut all four valve stems off of the tyres. This was a Saturday, and the truck was still there on Tuesday. Every time I drove by, another wheel was up on a cinderblock. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and it was a chilly night.

So be nice to cyclists: we don't fuck with you, pollute the environment or drive up oil prices. Plus: you may get away with it today, but may God help you if I finally catch up to you. And, I mean that.

How to Become Homeless

I'm actually writing this without an internet connection. I spent my paycheck today, pretty much. I bought about $60 worth of bike parts that I needed (since it's the only transportation I have). I am spending my one night a week at La Quinta: had a shower when I checked in, and I'll have another before I check out. Bought some deodorant, some insect repellent (de rigeur at the Possum Hilton), some shave cream,and AAA batteries. I was riding last night and my front blinky light was fading fast. I wondered about that until I remembered that I had used the batteries a few times in my little portable vibrator (okay: I don't get any sex these days ... and I don't think, in my current circumstances, that I would want to have sex with anybody desperate enough to have sex with me. Give me a fucking break!), so I got enough for blinky light and happy-toy. Oh, and it's not an anal vibrator, okay: just one of those massage things, for relieving tension. It blinks colored lights, too. Neat-o.

I had lunch at Zippy's, which is this cool taco/burrito place on Perkins Rd. Had a couple of happy hour margaritas (you might think I like margaritas) and tamales. Their prices (especially lunch) are great, and everything is fresh. Hung out with the owner for a while. He is a really nice guy. Then, I rode to La Quinta and checked in. Nice and cool here, but WiFi wouldn't let me connect to the internet. The front desk gave me a number to call, so I called it. The woman on the other end had a foreign accent, and I could hear Russian spoken in the background, so I asked her, in Russian, if she spoke Russian, and where in Russia she was. Turns out she is Polish, and she was speaking to me from Warsova (her Russian was flawless). We spent almost two hours on the phone, while I reconfigured every fucking thing I could reconfigure on my machine. I had this happen at La Quinta before: there is a physical cable problem with the goddamned access point. You can't fix that from Poland. Outsourcing has limitations.

Went to work and worked 6-12, then came back here. It is cool and there are two beds. I wish I could sleep in both of them at the same time. I wish I could drag one back to the Possum Hilton, where I will be spending the next week, until I get payed again. This rut is getting deeper.

Oh, yeah: last night, when I got back to the PH, I found my sleeping bag on top of one of the washers. I had stashed it in the dryer because I was tired of carrying it around. The dryer was full of clothes, so they must have actually fixed the damned things. Wow. So, I plugged my laptop in and worked on my novel for a while. About an hour later, this twenty-something dude came in, and jumped when he saw me.

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “You kind of startled me.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn't mean to.” He got his stuff out of the dryer and said have a good one and I said you too and that was it. Didn't seem like the type to turn me in. I'm sure he realized I was sleeping there, with my bike, backpack and stuff all there. Anyway, nobody bothered me in the morning, even the possum, who usually gets home about 6:30 or so, and doesn't even glance at me any more.
I'll be back there again tomorrow night, I guess. The place stinks bad, but it isn't from me: it's the possum (and / or possums: they all look the same to me)! I always bring a bottle of water back to the PH, so I'll have water at night. When it's empty, and I wake up and have to pee, I pee in the bottle. I don't just piss all over the place. I'm not a fucking bum or a derelict. I toss the bottle in a trash can somewhere. This one guy, when I told him I was homeless (I make sure that I tell a lot of people: It's like “coming out”) said, “You don't look that dilapidated.” That pissed me off. Like, I have to fit your ignorant ideal? He was fat, rich, and (God willing) on his last fucking triple bypass.

“XCUSE ME ... where do my THUNDERBIRD be at??????”

I do change names in my blog to protect the innocent, but I don't change anything to protect the guilty. My so-called friend, Bridget, and her roommate, Christie, are good examples of the latter. They owe me $480, and have owed me money since May. This is the story of how I wound up homeless:

Back around April of this year, I was living with my father, who has Alzheimer's and rectal cancer. I was working at Albertson's (where I work now) and saving money so I could have my own place to live, since it was only a matter of time before he would have to have a “higher level of care”, which means “more expensive level of care”. Bridget had just bought a new car when she lost her job (and so did Christie) and had an accident, which was a hit-and-run. Her insurance had a $500 deductible, and she couldn't afford it, so I loaned her $500 to cover that, and a further $60 to cover some other bills. I had about $1300 saved, at the time, so I figured I could do it.

Well, right after that, my family (of which I am not a voting member, being a no-good, homeless faggot), informed me that it was time to move Dad into the “higher level of care” (q.v.), and it would be that weekend. They love surprising me. I hate surprises. Don't ever give me a surprise birthday party: I will run away very fast. Anyway, at the same, exact time (go figure), my friend, Bridget, told me that they could not afford to pay their rent, and that they would probably have to move somewhere, and God knows what would happen to them, boo-hoo. Their rent was $500.

Well, dumb-ass Carl came up with a solution: “Hey, I'll give you guys $100 a week to stay at your place, and you can pay me back the loan, and then you'll be covered, and I'll get an apartment, and everything will be way kewl!” It was such a perfect plan. I was so happy that I'd thought of it. Everything seemed so rosy.

But, it was not to be ...

I was at their place for not quite five weeks (more about this later) and was informed that I would have to leave, because Bridget was going to move her sick aunt in, to take care of her (of course, this never happened). I said, okay, just give me the money you owe me, and I'll get an apartment, and like, no harm, no foul. What I got was $40 in an envelope, laid on the inflatable bed I was sleeping on . It had “Carl” written on it.. I didn't have enough money to get a place to live, and I was on the streets, where I have been, ever since.

Since then, I have received another $40. Yay. The last time, Christie brought it to me at work. She acted as if she were offended, because she had to give me money (once again, in an envelope).

“Here,” she whined. “We're going to pay you back. Why are you disrespecting us?”

What a joke. In five months, I have gotten $80 from my so-called friends. I kept them from being homeless, and my reward is to be homeless. I payed their fucking rent and paid to fix Bridget's new car. I sleep with mosquitoes and possums and get one night a week in a bed: WHO THE FUCK IS DISRESPECTING WHOM?????

Anyway, I am supposed to get $100 on Friday. Wanna bet on if I get it or not? Right now, I have $20 left, from my check, until I get payed again, in a week. Every penny I earn, I spend just to stay alive. Every day I live, my anger grows. The only thing keeping me alive now is anger. I have a new respect for this emotion.

Well, I'm watching Robot Chicken now, and I'm about to go to sleep. It's so fucking nice here, in room 233, even if the WiFi is down. The sheets are clean and the bed is a hell of a lot softer than plywood. There are no mosquitoes, and I really don't miss the possum. Oh, yeah: I did buy a bottle of Chardonnay: $6.99, plus tax. This is my nirvana: too bad I only get 12 hours of heaven a week.