Twenty-six thousand eight hundred seventy one dollars AND sixty six cents!

A day before I was scheduled to move out of the condo, I received two letters in the mail.  They  were from a collection agency.  A Department of Defense collection agency to be exact.  Seeing as I'd anxiously ripped open the envelope, my only option then was to actually read the letter.  The letter--actually, both letters were informing me of a debt that I owed the Department of Defense. 

$26,871.66! 

Was this some kind of sick joke?  

There I was, standing in the middle of the living room, staring at these two letter in total disbelief.  With no other option--other than to completely ignore the letters and to throw them in the trash, I decided that I would, instead, call the agency and get the full scoop on the matter.  I called the 1-800 number and after listening to some ridiculous country tune (this was the government after all), I was finally connected to an actual person.  That's when I delivered this speech:  

"Hello...I'm calling in regards to these letters that I just received in the mail and I wanted to acknowledge them and to express my intentions...I don't know how you arrived at this total of 27 thousand dollars, but I want you to know that I have absolutely no intentions of paying this debt whatsoever..."  

The woman on the other end, listened patiently at first, then she began to spew her own words to me; none of which I paid any attention to.  When it was my turn again, I continued:  

"Look, you can't really expect that I'm going to pay any of this.   The last two years that I was in the military, I received no pay at all...I was thrown out of my place all while the government continued to garnish my wages and now--almost four years later, I get a letter from you guys saying that I still owe you.  I'm sorry, but I flat out refuse to pay you anything..." 

She then went on and explained how the government could continue to garnish any future wages that I may have.  She also quoted some law that I really could care less about. It was my turn again:  

"I have news for you, ma'am...I have no money and even if I did, what makes you think that I would just send you twenty seven thousand dollars?!  I'm calling to let you know that I received the letters, I'm acknowledging them and I have no intentions on paying you period.  Please make a note of this in your records and please do not send me anymore letters regarding this." 

"Sir... " she started, but was cut off with me hanging up the phone.  

This is downright ridiculous.

Stereolab--Ping Pong

Ladies & Gentlemen--STEREOLAB! 
Enjoy.

Scrambling for Peanuts.

Last week, while scanning the San Diego 'jobs' section of Craigslist, I came across a listing for some open positions at a downtown hookah bar.  The write-up describing each of the open positions sounded interesting and even though they were looking for part-time help and offering only a minimum wage salary, I was interested.  "You must be comfortable working in a smoke-filled space..." the ad proclaimed.  The smoker that I was, I knew I could handle the smell of soft-scented tobacco for a  few hours.  They would be conducting interviews on Tuesday; the listing informed and I made a note to go downtown to check it out.   

Still without a bike and no cash for the bus, I set out walking towards downtown from Hillcrest.   Thankfully, it wasn't too hot and although there was a slight breeze, I was still sweaty and flushed by the time I reached downtown.  I'd anticipated this happening and had another shirt in my bag, in addition to bottled water and a face towel.  A quick stop on campus at City college (I could still use the facilities)to freshen up and I continued on, this time at a more leisurely pace so as not to start sweating again.  

The hookah bar was located on G Street, south of Horton Plaza and two blocks from the Gaslamp district.  From the intersection where I was, it appeared as if they were open for business--even though their hours (according to their website) stated that they didn't open for business until much later.  There was a large crowd of mostly young people lingering around outside.  I was about to head inside the bar when, upon closer observation, I realized that everyone standing outside the bar had employment applications in hand!  

There were atleast fifty people standing outside!   This was not what I'd expected. 

Since I'd made the effort to show up, I figured I may as well stay.  Per their instructions, we were to fill out an application and once we'd completed it, add our names to the list then wait to be called inside to be interviewed.  As I was adding my name to the list, I saw that they would be interviewing sixty-one people for three positions--all with part time hours!  And as it seemed, I was the very last person to sign the list.  What's worse is, the interview process started at 4 o'clock and here it was not even 4:30!  

The interviews were being conducted at a quick pace, with some people being interviewed two at a time.  Finally, almost an hour and a half later, only me and a young lady were left sitting outside at a table.  

"We're really going to have to sell ourselves, you and I." I said, smiling at her. 

" Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.  I guess this is what you get when you post an ad on Craigslist." 

She was right.  The crowd that showed up to apply for this job were a bunch of people just like me.  We start our mornings everyday, scouring the employment listings on CL, looking for that one job and hoping that we're the only ones that find it.  I didn't anticipate a crowd this big all trying for the same--minimum wage, part-time job as me.  I figured there would be maybe 10 applicants at the most.  This crowd was simply a grim reminder of how bad things had become--not just for me, but for everybody.  

When I did get called in to be interviewed, I was relaxed and had the biggest smile on my face.  There really was no need to be on edge and I figured the woman who was about to interview me was probably ready to call it a day.  Normally, I would had a look of defeat on my face, but instead, I answered her questions truthfully and overall, I think I made an impression on her.  We talked about the establishment, what they were looking for and what I could bring to the position.  The interview was brief and she informed me that due to the overwhelming turnout, they would be holding call backs for another interview for a selected few.  She didn't give me a definite yes that I would be called back, but I left there feeling pretty good and thinking that I may very possibly have secured one of the few open part time, minimum wage paying positions at the hookah bar. 

I'll keep you posted.

Obsessing about Facebook.

Back in May...

As the Spring semester was winding down, one of my classmates from City, Matt threw a party at his house.  Everyone from our Honors Core classes showed up, in addition to some of Matt's friends.  The party was a blast and it was good for all of us to unwind and talk about how we all were looking forward to the upcoming summer months.  This also was the chance for some of us to see friends from the fall semester classes in addition to biding a farewell to some who were transferring on to four-year universities.  

It was at this party, while talking to a friend, Tiffani that I would get reacquainted with Facebook.  She and I were talking about exchanging photos and how to get in contact with each other.

"I know," she suggested. " Give me your Facebook and I'll send it there."  Without giving it a second thought--I'd brought and smoked a lot of pot on this evening, I gave her the link.

The next day, I realized that while I did indeed have a profile on the networking site, I didn't have any pictures, friends or any of the cool things that most users of Facebook have on their pages.  In fact, I couldn't recall anything that was on mine, other than the mere basics.  I figured I was supposed to have a profile on the site--just in case it ever came up.  Much like it had on this evening.  I made a mental note to one day, sit down and actually devote some time to building the profile.  This was around the time, mind you, that I was also saying that I was going to create a new blog (this one)--whenever I got around to it.  

Fast forward to this week...

I received an email, alerting me that Tiffani, whom I talked to at the party was requesting to add me to her friends' list.  I accepted immediately.  From there, I set about checking out her profile and seeing her friends' list, while at the same time, starting to work on my profile.  I realized that quite a few of my old classmates from last year all had profiles on Facebook!  Suddenly, I was sending out friend requests and updating my status.  I was writing on my friends' walls.  I was searching for people that might possibly have a profile and looking for new people to network with.  

Over the past two days, I'd become a mad man; obsessed with my Facebook page.  I've brought my old classmates up to date about what's been going on with me since I dropped out of school this semester.  I've emailed two buddies who are studying abroad in Argentina.  I'm waiting for a friend in Chicago to add me to her friends' list.  And I've joined a few celebrity groups.  

I love Facebook!  Now, in addition to this blog and my many other profiles on other sites, I have my Facebook profile, which I plan to nurture much like I do the others.  Once I figure out how, I intend to link that profile to this blog. 

As soon as I finish this post, I'll switch to my profile there--just to see if I've missed anything during my time away from it.  Whoever reads this, if you're on Facebook; look me up and let's link each other.

I am indeed a man obsessed.

Closer to the Breaking Point.

I was walking out of the city library in University Heights, talking on the phone to Lucy, when I noticed it.  

"You're not going to believe it, but I'm looking at my bike right now and somebody has stolen my front wheel."  I told her, trying not to freak out.  

"What?!"  Lucy yelled into my ear.  As I walked towards the bike rack, I could feel the anger building up inside.  Why would somebody steal my wheel?  

What's more, where the hell would I get the money to replace it?  This was the last thing that I needed.   Let's recap:  no job, no money, barely a place to live and now this.  I mean, how was I supposed to get around town now?  

"I need to get off the phone," I said to Lucy.  "Let's talk later." 

She could hear the frustration and anger in my voice.  I could feel my chest starting to tighten.   Lucy was going on about not wanting to get off the phone with me, but I could barely hear her.  I was still trying to figure out who would do such a thing.  My bike isn't flashy or super expensive; in fact, it's a mass produced bicycle.  And weren't there people around to see the whole thing happening?  The city library was next to a grocery store, not to mention, there's a bus stop in front of the building.  It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and I'm sure--no, I'm positive there were people nearby. 

There was nothing left to do.  I didn't dare barge back into the library; though I was tempted to.  Instead, all I could do was unlock my bike and carry it home.  Fortunately, it was only 2 blocks.  Walking down the sidewalk of Park Boulevard, lugging my bike while trying not to let my bag fall off of my shoulder, I was so angry.  Maybe Lucy was right:  maybe it was time for me to give up this crusade that I was on--but going nowhere.  Maybe I should just leave everything behind and head back to Texas.  This was too much.  And I really didn't think I could handle anymore.   Thinking about that, combined with just being fed up with it all, all I could do was hurl my bike and its one wheel into the grass nearby.  I flung that bike two feet in front of me and watched as the front reflector on the handlebars cracked and broke.  

I was getting closer and closer to that breaking point.  

Fifteen minutes later, I was in front of our building and ready to explode.  The first person I saw was John.  

"Look at this!" I yelled, sitting the bike down to rest on the front forks which originally held the wheel in place.  "Some asshole stole my wheel!" 

I didn't want to run into him.  In fact, I didn't want to talk about my bike with him.  But I needed to do something.  Yell...scream...cry...ANYTHING.

There wasn't too much to say.  I stood in John's office, bag still on my shoulder and just thought about it all.  The tears started sliding down my face and all I could do was cry out, "Why me?" 

It wasn't until later on in the evening, after talking to Lucy again and finally pulling myself together did I decide to post my rant on Craigslist.  I don't know why I decided to do it there, but I was angry; hell, I still am.  But seeing my rant posted there did make me feel a little better.  Buying a new wheel for my bike will definitely set me back a few dollars.  And the small paycheck that I have coming soon will probably just barely be enough to cover it, setting me deeper and deeper in debt.  So I typed out my anger.  Even though there's a small chance that the thief will actually read my rant, it still felt good to type it out.  As with policy on Craigslist, the post will be deleted in a few days, but don't worry.  The screen capture, above is here to stay.  Click on it for a closer view.

The truck in front of Rich's house.

My friend, Rich has a beautiful house.  In fact, his and his next door neighbor's are the best two houses on his street.  His lawn is always taken care of and the house has a striking appearance even while the others along his street are in need of more care.  Upon initial glance, his home's presence says a lot about Rich, himself.   He lives a very orderly live--free of clutter and anything that's unnecessary.  The beauty, that is his yard is the direct result of the hard work that he puts into it.  The man is a skilled landscaper.  

I'm writing about his house to create a funny contrast.  Some time, last week I was invited to have dinner with Rich, Truc and Dino.  I rode my bike from Hillcrest to his place in Normal Heights and just as I wheeled up to his sidewalk, that's when I saw this monstrosity parked in front of his house.   It took my breath away--literally! 

"We've already called the city about it," Rich informed me after I told him how I was loving the piece of...hmm...what would I call it...trash on wheels.  While he didn't know which of his neighbor's the truck belonged to, Rich did know that one of them had carelessly parked the truck and left it there.  

I kept reminding myself--and forgetting, to bring my camera to snap a picture of it.  I mean, this was something that couldn't be described in mere words.  I had to have a photo of it.  I'd even suggested that on Sunday, we all would gather around it and have our pictures taken with it lurking in the background.  Of course, I slept in and was too lazy to ride over to do so.  But finally, before the truck and all of its contents were towed away, I was able to get over there and snap some pictures of it.   Only now, someone has moved the truck a few feet from in front of Rich's house.  A few minutes before sunset, I stood next to the hideous thing and snapped away even while a few of his neighbors watched, curiously.  

Overflowing with useless junk and trash and a gleaming white porcelain toilet on top of it all, La Tacoma is now posted on this page for all to see.  

And then there are those who do.

I made a mental note two weekends ago to snap the pictures above.  The pictures are from the neighboring building across the street from ours.  I first noticed the basketball while hanging out with my neighbors on their terrace.  As usual, we were talking about the latest gossip, news stories and of course politics when, as if on queue, Robert, another of our neighbors came out on to his terrace and directed our attention to the window across the street.  

"Check out that basketball." He told us, indicating with a slight head nod towards the building.  Kimberly and I didn't have to strain much before we could make out the five letters that brought a nasty taste to our mouths.  All we managed, however was a simultaneous gasp.  

This post isn't about me trying to sound political.  No, it's nothing like that.  This afternoon, I was looking out the window, once again, when I spotted the basketball which was still in window.  I grabbed my camera and snapped three shots and knew right then that I would have today's post.   I'm not going to blog about how I can't understand how anyone would be bold enough to deface a perfectly fine basketball with those five letters.  Nor am I going to to blast my neighbor for expressing her support for her VP candidate.  After all, John and I did the exact same thing with our Obama 08 placards, which we proudly displayed in both our bedroom window and his office.  

But as I looked at the pictures and then out the window, I started wondering did our neighbor purposely place the basketball in her window to counter our placards which faces her windows?   This neighbor, whom I've met, is the type of woman who--after meeting her, it comes as no surprise that she would support such a vile person.  

And that's saying more than I could ever type here.   

College Dropout.

Managing to narrowly escape an arrest record this over the holiday weekend, I was eager to put my energy into getting settled in to the new Fall semester at City College.  I was looking forward to focusing on my classes and any upcoming school projects that would take my mind off of the fact that my relationship with John was over with absolutely no chance of reconciliation.  The life that I'd become comfortable with was about to change drastically and I was only a sneeze away from finding myself homeless, broke and penniless.  

Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, it dawned on me.  There would be no possible way that I would get through this semester of school without losing my mind!  Something would have to give.  And that's when it occurred to me.  

I would have to drop out of school.    

After looking forward to starting the new year and surviving the crazy summer months, you can only imagine how angry that piece of news was for me to handle.  But it would have to be done.  I would have to drop out of school.  There was no way around it.  

I was sitting on the floor of the empty vacant condo, after moving most of my things out of our place next door when it occurred to me.  Trying my hardest not to burst into tears about what was about to be reality, I settled into the notion.  I would drop all of my classes this semester, but--I promised myself, I would resume my studies in the spring.  I didn't want to have to drop out of school, believe me, I didn't.  But it was something that I was going to have to do.  

Thankfully, we were out of class on Monday which gave me one extra day before I would have to go down to the campus and speak with an advisor.  In the meantime, I was angry.  I didn't want to have to drop out of school, but I knew that this was the one time when it would be best that I did.  There was no way I would be able to focus on my studies with all the other things that I needed to focus on.  School would simply have to wait.  

I skipped my Tuesday classes, choosing instead to stay home and sulk some more.  I didn't want to see John and I couldn't really call Lucy. How had I allowed all of this to happen?  I kept asking myself over and over.  I loved school and now I was going to have to drop out.  I didn't think I could handle any more.  

Wednesday morning, I jumped on my bike, cranked my iPod up as loud as I could handle, donned my sunglasses and rode down to City.  I didn't want to do it.  I had to do it.  Ten minutes later, I was at City--waiting to speak with an advisor, while at the same time, resisting the urge to bolt out of the office and instead run to my afternoon secondary Algebra class.  

My advisor was a nice man who expressed concern over my sudden deciding to withdraw from my classes.  

"Just know," he informed me.  "That whenever you're ready to resume your studies, you're welcome back here anytime.  I understand that you have more important issues to tend to, but City College will be here."   I thanked him, grabbed my backpack and quickly headed for the exit.  I could feel the sweat starting to run down my face.  

Or was it tears?  Either way, with strength that I managed to muster from deep within, I got out of that office and into the morning sun.  Secure behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses, I headed out of the building, across the quad and back to the bike rack.  

And did nothing to stop the tears that were sliding down my face.

MAD MEN!

When I left off on the last post, the police had showed up to our house.  After speaking with John first, the two officers (normally, I would comment on how attractive they both were, but seeing as this was not the time, I'll digress) wanted to speak with me.  First, I apologized for them having to come out on such a petty matter, but it was out of my hands.  The two men explained to both of us that there really was nothing, in fact that they could do.  No one was in any danger and no one had been assaulted.  

"There's really nothing we can do, but come out and access the situation," the cute blond--I mean, the policeman informed me.  With that and about fifteen minutes wasted, the officers left.  

Still shaken up by this whole dramatic afternoon, I managed to look at John who was seated in his office.  I was angry.  No, I was beyond angry.  I was pissed!  

"That,"  I said to him, pointing my thumb at the door.  "That is so not us.  We're better than that.  We're better than this."  With tears in his eyes, John nodded in agreement.  

With that, I walked away.  

Half an hour after that whole ordeal had finally died down, the doorbell rang.  It was my good friend, Rich.  He was hysterical and could hardly get his words out. 

"Can I come and hang with you?"  He blurted out.  He was crying and he was angry.  

Much like the crazy afternoon that I'd had with John, Rich was going through his own afternoon of madness.  

"Tell me about yours and I'll tell you about mine."  I said, giving my friend a big hug.