Moar Blotter
Thursday, May 7, 2009

OK -- So, longer-time readers of my blog may remember my penchant for the police and sheriff's blotters in my hometown newspaper (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, please read this post).

Last week, I was talking to a friend on the phone and we fell into the inevitable "reading each other things hysterically funny things from our respective hometown newspapers" thing -- so I thought I'd share some of the recent Police and Sheriff's blotters entries with you (because they're just too good to keep to myself). Please note -- the blotter entries are verbatim. My comments in italics.

Sunglasses, a flashlight and other items were stolen from an unlocked 1996 Geo Metro in the 500 block of 22nd on April 27. (Poor thing -- probably left the Metro unlocked hoping that someone would steal the CAR.)

A 41-year-old man called police to report that his 47-year-old live-in girlfriend was "running her mouth" on April 27. Police made a report of the verbal dispute. (No comment, lest my Beloved turn me in for "running my mouth".)

A 44-year-old Port Hadlock woman and her 20-year-old son got into an argument about who would pay for the gas related to a landscaping job they were doing in the 1500 block of Lawrence on April 29. Police took a report.

A Hadlock woman called to compaint about her 15-year old daughter not behaving on Jan. 18. She called back before a deputy arrived and said to disregard her issue.

(RE: The two entries above -- please refer to my first blotter post, which contains one of my favorite blotter entries ever -- the woman who called 911 to report that "her relatives were annoying her" -- I will simply repeat: REALLY?!? You can call 911 for these things? Who Knew?)

On the night of April 29, a 23-year-old transient woman said she was robbed of $40 in the parking lot of an apartment building on Gaines. Police and a witness were unable to locate the suspect. At 3:40 a.m. the next day, police were called back to the same building, where a resident complained that the woman, who used to live there, was keeping people up by using the laundry equipment. (Because, apparently, reporting these two things in the same entry maintains Cosmic Balance -- since we all know that transient-being-robbed is offset and utterly neutralized by transcient-keeping-people-up-by-using-the-laundry-equipment.)

A 53-year-old man parked his 2003 Chevy truck in front of a food vendor in the 2400 block of Washington at noon on April 30 to have lunch at a nearby restaurant. The food vendor asked him not to park there, police said, but he declined the suggestion. When he returned, he found a chunk of asphalt on top of his truck with a note telling him not to park there. Police are investigating. (This entry drives me to distraction -- was the chunk of asphalt wrapped in the note? Was the note held down by the asphalt so that it wouldn't blow away? Inquiring minds need to know.)

OK -- the next three are filed under -- zuh??

A 27-year-old man reported that a painting he had on display in a Water Street coffee house was stolen May 3, but it might have been a misunderstanding, police said.

A pistol was found at Snow Creek and turned over to authorities April 26. It had not been stolen.

A Quilcene woman returned home April 29 from a vacation and found her house in disarray. She determined a relative was responsible and declined to pursue charges.

(And on that last one -- So, not only can I call 911 when my relatives annoy me, but also when my house is in disarray?)

Meth was said to be a problem in Hadlock on April 24, a woman told deputies. (Well, I should say so.)

Carpentry tools and power tools were reported taken from a weekend cabin back in February. (Reported in the May 5 paper, but apparently, the blotter was so thin this week that we needed to include a three-month old report. Maybe someone complained. "Hey! I didn't see my report in the blotter three months ago! Unfair! 15 minutes! I was told 15 Minutes of Fame in the brochure!")

A Hadlock woman said a truck turned a corner April 25 and a sheet of glass flew off and broke into the roadway on First Street. The woman said she swept the glass off the roadway and the owner denied losing anything from the vehicle, but a half hour later the woman flipped off the driver, and that caused a brief argument to ensue requiring deputy patrols. (I love my little town, where professional police reporting includes the phrase "flipped off the driver".)

A dead raccoon was found March 30 in a trap left in the woods at Middlepoint and McCurdy Point Road. (When I read this to my friend, all I had to do was clear my throat, indicating a new entry, and speak the words "A Dead Raccoon" to induce rflmao.)

A prowler was said to be outside a home in Ludlow on April 5 and making coyote noises. A deputy saw no sign of a prowler. (It probably _was_ a coyote (or a dog who was part coyote -- heh-heh).

Tips and the jar they were in were stolen April 6 from an espresso stand in Discovery Bay. (As my friend said: "When they find the $33 in small bills and change on grandad's dresser top, they'll be like -- 'Well phew! At least we know he didn't steal it -- because he doesn't have the jar'.")

A tie was found burnt in the middle of North Jacob Miller Road on April 9. There were no other signs of a fire or problems in the area. This is definitely in the top ten for my all-time favs, but read below to see why I don't think it may not make the final cut. Even though it's probably not the Best Blotter Entry EVAH, it does have a very nice Twin Peaks-ish ambience going on there.

Now -- Drum Roll, Please! My current front-runner for Best Blotter Entry EVAH (though surely it may be knocked off its pedestal as the saga of my little town unfolds) is:

A woman said two Mormons came to her door Jan. 21, and she was concerned that they might not be real Mormons.

I heart my tiny little town with an unrivaled fury.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:00 AM 1 comments  

My Blog Has Fallen and It Can't Get Up
Wednesday, May 6, 2009

I honest to fuck don't know what it is -- I just don't seem to be able to blog lately.

It's not for want of ideas and notions and things to say -- in fact I'd say it was the opposite -- there is a constant swirl in my head -- a cacophony of concepts that vie endlessly for blog-space.

Perhaps I'm just too egalitarian for my own good. I can't decide which one should go first.

So I'm blogging tonight in the hope of blasting out whatever clog is in the pipes.

I haven't even been able to comment much at my favorite blogs -- every time I start typing something, I think: "This is of no pertinence or interest to anyone", and as often as not, I simply scrap the whole thing.

It's true -- I really have been focused elsewhere -- working, gathering myself, trying to think what direction I want to go next. I've been pondering big issues like Life and Death, and who I am now, and who I've been in the past, and who I might want to become in the future.

Here's hoping this post is some magic wand that gets me back blogging.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:41 PM 9 comments  

Little -- The Reacher Creature
Monday, April 6, 2009

This morning, at 3:52 am, our Little Petunia crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

From Little

She was a cat of many names -- most usually, just "Little" -- but also -- "Pinky/Pinks" (because OMG that nose!), "Reacher Creature" (because she had the most endearing habit of reaching out for you with one or both paws -- as you passed by, as you sat too far from her on the bed -- oh, just any time!), and of course, "Sweet Little Petunia".

She had white ballerina slippers in the front and white Nancy Sinatra hip-boots in the back.

In certain light, her eyeliner rivaled any goth-queen's (or Richard Alpert's).

She was a tuxedo cat (actually, maybe a grey-morning-suit kitty), who also had tabby stripes in her undercoat that only showed in Summer (so you could gauge the seasons by her).

She was small until middle age (like me), and she loved for you to comment on how diminutive she was -- if you said things like "Where is Little? I need a microscope to find her!" or "Who's the tiniest cat of all?", she would purr and reach and purr some more.

She walked out of 58 acres of forest to me, all skin and bones and well-honed mouser sensibility. She weathered my many moves without a mew of complaint -- happy to just be with me, exploring our new digs with curiosity and the good sense to be in by nightfall in coyote country.

She kept me on the planet, many times, during the years that I was remembering and healing my abuse -- because there were times when she was the only living being I felt accountable to -- she was my family -- and as much as I despaired sometimes, and wished myself gone, I wouldn't leave her on her own.

Her passing was graceful and swift. Her breathing was suddenly rough and difficult yesterday, and by 4 am today, she was gone. We buried her under the pine tree, on the first really Spring-like morning we've had.

May she frolic with endlessly-entertaining mice who don't mind being caught, amidst acres of catnip.

I cross-posted this at Shakesville, but for my regular readers here, I'll add a bit more:

I feel sad, but not heart-broken, and I found myself marveling and impressed by how she slipped out of her body -- without drama, but with frank expression of herself -- that's the death I would want for myself.

Another thing that happened today is that I received my bankruptcy discharge in the mail -- so it feels like a time of beginnings and endings, and all in all, I feel a bit altered and strange as I pass through this day. Everything is the same. Everything is different.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 3:36 PM 14 comments  

Cousin George -- Or -- My Rather Copious Thoughts On Death
Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Last week, my cousin George died.
He was just three years older than me.
It was unexpected.
My Mom and Dad phoned to give me the news.

When Mom started with the opener that usually prefaces reports of the passing of 90+ year-old grand-uncles/aunts -- "We're calling with some sad news . . . . ", I didn't suspect, even a little, that it would be George.

George -- the kidder, the scamp, the guy who shared my first joint with me.

George, who I hadn't laid eyes on for 15 years.

George, who I can't say that I really knew, but with whom I clearly acknowledge a connection -- because he was: Family.

No matter that the word "family" is vague and serious and confusing and real and raw and muted and cloudy in my head. No matter that I hadn't actually known him, in my definition of knowing . . . . he was still that: Family.

As always, Death has evoked contemplation of Life for me.

I've spent the last week pondering myself into George's place -- into the places of my aunt and uncle, and my parents, and other cousins, and my siblings, and George's widow -- thinking about what legacy I would want acknowledged by those who might survive me (and how that may or may not match up with the legacy I've actually created).

I've thought about these particular words that are used in obituaries: "S/he is survived by . . . . ", and how I would want those who "survived" me to think and feel and act around my inevitable passage from this mortal coil -- all the while knowing that I have absolutely no control over their thoughts, feelings, or actions.

I sometimes think that the way I think about death is unusual, compared to most people -- but honestly, I sometimes wonder if my attitudes about the "final passage" really are all that peculiar.

I mean, there are the ways that we are culturally trained to think/speak/act about death -- the expressions and deeds that we bring to the deathbed and the funeral home and the graveyard -- and then there are the private, internal cogitations we all go through when considering death in general or our own passing in particular -- and it seems to me that those things don't always match.

Take me, for instance -- for myself, I am:

A) Not afraid to die.

No, really. The fear of death left me a long time ago. When I think about dying, the stuff that worries me is not the dying part itself, or being dead -- it's more fear of pain/discomfort in the process, or worry about the pain that people I care about might experience.

B) I don't see death as necessarily "tragic" -- especially not my own.

I feel sad sometimes, missing people who I can no longer hug in their physical bodies or kiss on their physical cheeks, and I feel sad when I think about the sadness of others who are dealing with their sense of loss, or shock at the sudden absence of someone who had been previously present with them, but I don't really feel sad for the dead person.

I know some of the things that formed these attitudes in me.

For example -- being seriously suicidally-ideated for more than half a decade will take a certain punch out of the whole death thing for you.

I mean, if you've spent five years genuinely wishing that a random semi-truck jack-knife or a freak mudslide or a statistically-improbable flash flood would "take you out" and relieve you of having to decide on the messy business of ending your own life -- it starts to look really disingenuous for you to carry on about how awful death is -- know what I mean?

I've found myself in a quandary in the last week, because I harbor a belief that people in my family would not want to have a discussion with me that included my real attitudes about death and dying.

You know who I've found do want to have those discussions, though?

People who are in the process of dying.

With an amazing consistency, the most real conversations I've had about the subject of death have been with the experts -- people who are "dying".

Ironically (or maybe not), these "dying" people have also consistently been the most present and truly "alive" people that I've ever interacted with

I've been up close with the dying and the dead more than most people in our culture, I suppose.

I worked with fragile elders for a decade, and lost dozens of friends to AIDS in the 80s. I've been the one who found the body. I've been the one who watched and waited at the bedside. I've been awakened in the middle of the night by the shocking phone call, and I've received the news days or weeks later from someone who was too stunned to call me sooner.

And every single time, the death of someone else puts me in mind of the fact that I am alive (which I just somehow magically seem to forget so many days).

Thinking of how they affected me -- what I remember of them, and what I carry forward from our time together -- reminds me that I am affecting someone, and that they will carry forward something of me.

My last big close-up death experience was with a friend who was "too young to die" -- but who died nonetheless.

The experience of sitting with her during her last three days in physical form changed my entire existence. Honestly, I've never been able to find words adequate to the task of describing how profoundly her passing affected me -- in a very, very good way.

Sometimes, I feel weird saying that -- because it seems unfair that she (who wanted so much to live) should die and I (who wanted so much to die) should live -- but it is undeniable that her death was a life-changing catalyst for me.

It transformed me so deeply and irrevocably that, for me, this was her legacy -- and it doesn't matter to me whether this was Fate, or Karma, or Dharma, or Soul Agreement, or Serendipity -- no philosphical box I could shove it into would change the fact that I was changed.

And if it were me passing out of body into whatever awaits us (even nothingness, if that's what might await), I would gladly take the life-change-for-infinite-betterment of one person as an absolutely acceptable legacy.

So thank you, George, for your life and your death. Thank you for that first toke, and for always being one of the family that I didn't really "worry" about finding out that I was queer. Thank you for the presence you were with me, and for helping me to think and feel more about the concept of "Family", which has been on my homework list for the past few months, even though I've been resisting/procrastinating on it -- thank you for kicking my ass with the Death Hammer, and pointing me back to my Life.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:23 PM 9 comments  

A Very John Waters Bankruptcy Hearing
Wednesday, March 4, 2009

As some of you may already know, I was recently distracted by a 65-page document.

It's not something most people want to talk about (their bankruptcy) -- but I simply cannot continue to think of myself as a truly sharing person if I refrain from regaling you with the following tale (every word of which I swear to Ceiling Cat is completely true and wholly unexaggerated) -- because the story is simply too quirky to keep to myself.

Shamelessly Truncated Backstory: Filed for personal bankruptcy. Received summons to "341 meeting" -- aka "meeting of creditors".

So, yeah, I was nervous.

Not nervous in the "I'm hiding something" way -- more in the "I realize that the trustee may be a raging homophobe, or be having a really bad day, or I might look just like his horrible ex-" kind of way. (Because -- yes, servants of the court are supposed to keep that shit out of it, but sometimes, they don't.)

I was that kind of nervous.

Now, I live in a tiny little town, so there was a bit of driving involved in order to get to my 341 meeting, which was to be held in the municipality that I shall simply call BigBoxStoreO'Ville (or, as it is referred to locally: BigBoxO'Hell -- the town that you go to if you want anything from Home Depot, Staples, or Petco, etc. -- but the town that you don't go to at all, if you can help it).

So, with the drive, I had an extra hour and and 15 minutes to feel that nervousness.

Two stalwart companions accompanied me. One of them drove while I checked and rechecked the Mapquest directions in the jump-seat of her truck. (I know, I know -- this doesn't sound so awfully quirky yet, but be patient -- it gets better.)

Five years earlier, I had accompanied a friend to her 341 meeting at the courthouse in downtown BigBoxOVille, so I thought I knew what to expect -- a tiny, run-down courtroom, clerks and attorneys and clients lingering in the hallways -- however, when I checked Mapquest against the address in my meeting notice, it didn't look like this was the same location that I remembered, but rather, some other place called: Gateway Center.

I knew that BigBoxOVille had been doing a lot of downtown renovation, so I imagined "Gateway Center" as some kind of chromy/glassy edifice -- a bustling hub of civic offices and civil servants -- all sexy-whole-foods-indirect-lighting and spacious entryways, with busy receptionists residing cooly behind sleek corian counters.

Which vision hadn't exactly made me less nervous.

There had been something tired but friendly about the old courthouse where I had sat with my friend in her hour of need -- a dumpy, frayed-around-the-edges feeling that carried a reminder that people in their thousands had passed through this place -- winning cases and losing them, being found innocent and guilty, being arrested and posting bail, marrying and divorcing -- it put the proceeding my friend was about to endure into some kind of perspective for me. Nothing new under the sun, and all that.

Imagine my surprise when, as we drew closer to our destination, I called out the address to my friend once more and she said:

"Huh? Well, then . . . this is it. We're here."

And here was . . . . ? A strip mall.


Not just any strip mall, either -- this was one of those tiny, sad strip malls from the 80s -- there were six spaces on the mall sign at the edge of the parking lot, but only four of them containing signage (and it turned out that two of the businesses listed were no longer in operation).

As we pulled into the parking lot, I felt a rush of relief.

I believe that what came out of my mouth was: "A strip mall? A fucking strip mall? A fucking dying strip mall?!?! Wow. If they don't have any more respect for themselves than this, what am I being all nervous about?"

Let me paint the scene: Dingy. Dismal. Shabby. Dinky. ("Not a nice place you have here, Joe.")

Two spaces were occupied at one end, and then a series of echoing, empty, glass-fronted caverns stretched to the other, presumably once occupied by entrepreneurs who, in their haste to depart, hadn't even bothered to retrieve their signage.

I scanned the markers above each door for "Suite D". There it was -- but it, too, was empty. (Turns out the Bankruptcy court met next door to Suite D -- more on this in a bit).

The two enterprises carrying on discernable trade in the mall were: 1) A rather cute coffee-shop/deli, and 2) A Dollar Store, prominently festooned with signs saying: "CASH ONLY!" and "NO Checks" and "Credit Cards Not Accepted".

Which just seemed so . . . . perfectly perfect. My relief deepened.

Being a believer in all things woo-woo, my compatriots and I had been affirming all the way to BigBoxOVille that today, we would navigate to the "Utopian Version" of Bankruptcy court. We declared that we would experience the day as affirming and uplifting and educational and expansive.

It was starting out well, I had to admit. The setting alone had stimulated my sense of humor.

Since I had insisted on arriving an hour before the actual meeting time (I have similar tight-assery around catching airplanes), we decided to explore the coffee-shop.

Imagine my delight when I found that they make their own doughnuts from scratch, every morning.

Heaven. We do not have a doughnut shop in our town, and I refuse to use the sacred word "pastry" when referring to the rubbery items passed off as donuts at the local Safeway.

AND! -- The barrista chap behind the counter was almost certainly a Friend of Dorothy, who connected with us in a manner that indicated that he suspected that we, too, had more than a passing acquaintance withToto's mistress.

Better and better.

We pretty much had the place to ourselves at first, as we sipped coffee (a rarity for me) and bit into what I like to refer to as: Wheels From The Divine Chariot.

People came and went -- some nervous and pacing, others calm and bored (the latter, by their dress, were no doubt attorneys waiting for their client's meetings) -- but get this -- I'm 95% certain that every single person that I saw during the three hours I was at that mall was there for not-Suite D.

Which was a whole 'nother interesting twist -- because that coffee shop would probably be filing for bankruptcy itself, if it weren't for . . . bankruptcy court. (I adore the occasional brush with ouroborian reality.)

Amongst the nervous-/pacing-type customers was yours truly.

I would get up from time to time, go out into the parking lot, through the entry next to Suite D, down the narrow hallway to the door with one little peeky-hole type window in it, and then I would wrestle with the choice of just going in now and seeing what was going on in there, or wandering back to Oz and Priscella Queen of the Dessert (who had also seen fit to bring some free truffles to our table, because he "just needed to taste-test them so that I could describe them to customers, and they're really too big for me to eat a whole one, but if I split them into four pieces, well, that leaves a piece of the maple-citrus and a piece of the almond fudge for each of us!").

So, we're all like: "Get out! -- free Chocolate? I love the Utopian Bankruptcy Alternate Universe!"

In one of my pacey/nervous moments outside, I ran into an acquaintance from a nearby town who used to be a client in the parking lot.

"Portly?" she queried.

I queried back, delicately, cautiously: "Are you here for . . . the same reason I'm here? . . . . . . Suite D?"

"Yes. Yes, I am -- but it's a good thing. Really." She looked into my eyes after we hugged, and repeated with more emphasis, "It really is a good thing."

As she walked off to her car, she added: "By the way, they're more than an hour behind."

Having now wired myself up with unaccustomed caffeine (and weighed myself down, with unaccustomed pastry), I decided to go into "the room".

It was an ordinary, large, conference-type room, with conference-type chairs, a low acoustic-paneled ceiling, and flourescent lighting. A roster outside the door listed, in alphabetical order, the cases that were being handled today -- fifteen or so cases to the hour, each hourly group organized from A-Z -- I was the last person on the roster for the day.

I squeaked the door open and tried to enter without drawing undue attention to myself. Forty or so chairs were arranged in rows at one end of the room, with a big desk up front, and a set of chairs off to one side where sat The Attorneys (or so I surmised, because I recognized one of them from his picture on the business card he had enclosed in the letter he sent some weeks earlier).

Oh, and about those letters -- those letters that began arriving in the mail the day after my bankruptcy filing became a matter of public record?

To date, I have received four letters from attorneys who all began their missives with "Dear Portly: I noticed that you are filing Pro Se, and would like to notify you of my services . . . . ", but who all also managed to end their missives with some variation of ". . . . . . because you really don't understand how dangerous it is to represent yourself in these matters". I have received four credit card offers, and 42 (count 'em! Forty Two!) offers of pre-approved car loans (at an average of $32G each -- which is something like $1,344,000.00 worth of car loans). As my Beloved said when these letters started arriving: "Oh look, dear -- vultures."

My compatriots and I sat and watched as each person or couple was called up to sit at the desk, where the Trustee swore them in and repeated the same basic script ("This is a copy of your petition. Did you see these documents before you signed them?", "Have you listed all your property on these documents?", etc., etc., etc.).

I listened to the little bits of their stories that the questions brought forth. Of all the 25 or so cases that preceeded mine, only one seemed the slightest bit questionable to me -- all the others were stories of health crises, business plans gone awry, unforeseen circumstances, or people just trying to make ends meet in tough times.

When the Trustee reached the end of the docket ahead of mine, he addressed the 11 am group (which I was in) and gave us a little briefing about what would happen next.

He was serious but kindly, and went through the speech (which he has probably given a nonnillion times) efficiently, while peppering it with a few wry witticisms that had this room full of nervous people chuckling aloud from time to time. He had a wonderful type of deadpan humor, but he maintained the decorum of his office at all times. I was impressed.

Especially when he said stuff like this: "So -- you need to cooperate with me. No, actually, you have to cooperate with me. It may seem unfair, but the truth is, this is an unequal relationship -- you have to cooperate with me if you want your bankruptcy to be discharged."

I appreciated his honesty, and his clear attempt to put us all at ease as much as he could under the circumstances. He was extremely funny in his serious way, and he looked tired -- and very human, which I also appreciated.

By the time my turn came, there were only the four of us left in the room -- my two compatriots, the trustee, and myself.

He called my name and I took my seat in front of the Big Desk.

Before he turned on the tape recorder, I said: "You know, you may have a future in stand-up."

He raised his brows a bit as he peered over the desk at me (uh-oh), and said: "Not gonna go there."

At which I straightened my ass up and did what I was supposed to do -- just affirmed that I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the blah-blah-blah, and answered simply "Yes" and "No" to his questions.

But I swear that there was a little twinkle in his eye.

I had the sense that he was in that difficult place where his role prevented him from connecting with me fully as a human, but I honestly had the sense that he wanted to make that connection. I can relate to that. When I was a social worker, I was often in situations where the requirements of my role as a professional impinged upon my ability to relate to my clients in certain ways. Which is one reason I stopped being a social worker.

I'm a stubborn little thing, though. Once the tape recorder was off, I said to him:

"Seriously. You helped put me at ease today, during an experience that could have been much more difficult for me. Thank you."

He didn't really respond to that, but there was that little tiny twinkle again, and he asked me about my tiny town and how it was weathering the current financial climate. Next summer, our peninsula will become a virtual island for 3 months, right in the middle of tourist season, because of a bridge closure. He said: "I just wonder how [tiny town] is going to hang on."

Then we left, and he left, and the lights went out in not-Suite D for the day.

My compatriots headed back to Oz for a few minutes, to get some of the day-old pastries to take home.

I went to the Dollar Store.

The CASH ONLY!!! Dollar Store.

Next to the bankruptcy room.

I spent five dollars and forty-three cents. The cashier there didn't need to use her cash register, because everything in the store is $1, and she has memorized the sales tax for every integer from $1 to $150 (I asked her). She just counts up your items and says: "Five Forty-three."

I purchased:
1. A pair of reading glasses (which I needed)
2. A pair of compact flourescent light bulbs (which I needed)
3. A package of those funky light bulbs that are supposed to look like candle-flames and which are the only light bulbs that fit the dining room fixture (which I needed)
4. A knife sharpener (which I needed), AND

5. A lobster cracker (which I hope to need someday)

Because it just seemed like a fitting end to the day.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 1:57 AM 5 comments  

Rush Limbaugh Needs Better Friends
Monday, March 2, 2009

I consider that some of the best friends I've ever had have been those who were willing to pull me up short when I was hovering at the abyss of assholery.

You know -- friends who are willing to say something to you like:

Posted byPortlyDyke at 9:30 PM 2 comments  

65 Pages
Sunday, March 1, 2009

You may have noticed that I haven't blogged much at all lately for nearly a month and a half.

You might say that I've been . . . . . distracted.

Yes . . . distracted . . . . . . .I think that's the right word.

One of the distractions was the preparation of a life-changing 65-page document.

But before I get into the nitty-gritty of that oh-so-distracting document, let's begin with this, shall we?



You see, the 65-page (as opposed to two-page) document that I was working up is called -- "Voluntarily Petition for Bankruptcy".

In truth, that's only three pages (the "voluntarily petition" part) -- the attendant forms and provision of detailed personal information comprised the other 62 pages.

Before we go any further, let me make a couple of things perfectly clear:

1. The primary reason that I'm blogging about my bankruptcy is in the hope that recounting my experience might be helpful or supportive to someone else.
2. I'm posting this after I've progressed through the hearings portion of the process, although I've been working on this post for some time.
3. I'm surprisingly un-traumatized about the whole thing.

Let's go back to the beginning, shall we?

I took my first real job at 17, and was employed by someone else until I was 32, when I started my first business. For the past 20 years, I've been self-employed, and that was a good choice for me.

I've never remotely approached being "rich" by status quo/cultural standards (but that's never been my goal in life anyway, and I think that I'm "rich" by my own standards).

I was raised by hard-working school-teacher parents (one, the child of Kansas farmers who lost pretty much everything during the Dust Bowl, and the other, the child of an Arizona widower who managed to survive tough times in the mining industry during the Depression pretty well).

For most of my formative years, my parents were only separated from "working class" status by virtue of the prestige of their positions as teachers (certainly not by their salaries). I grew up in a Kansas farming community, and let's just say this: The Work Ethic Is Strong With Teh Portly Dyke (read in your best Darth Vader, of course).

That work-ethic has served me well, I believe.

I've never felt deeply deprived of anything that was really important to me, I once co-owned a house, and later, gave it up and went back to renting. I've never starved or been homeless. I've lived simply, but very well, and still do -- and I think that it's important to mention here that I have lived this way by choice, and according to my own standards.

I generally did well being self-employed and maintaining a simple lifestyle. I've had varying levels of debt over the course of my life, but in the past ten years, I'd never made a late payment or missed a payment on any debt I had.

I was "getting by", and that was OK with me.

In the past two years, though, things got a bit tighter.

I did what I usually did when cash-flow was tight -- considered purchases more carefully, didn't eat out, traveled only for work -- stuff like that.

After 20 years of self-employment, I'd seen slumps come and go, so I wasn't particularly concerned. In fact, I figured it was probably just the Universe nudging me to do something different, so I did something I'd felt strongly urged to do -- I started working on a project that a lot of people had asked me to get out into the world -- a video version of a class that I'd taught in person for the last ten years.

I figured out how to finance a lot of this project by offering a pre-purchase deal to the people who had asked for it, and used some of my available credit line to fund the rest.

Yes, this would mean my debt-load would go up, but from the pre-purchase response, I figured I wouldn't have any trouble recouping it once the project was released.

Then, early last year, one of the community-members that I'd lived with for five years (and with whom I shared expenses for rent and utilities) suddenly decided that he wasn't interested in continuing to live in community anymore.

His decision was abrupt and messy, and I was already in the middle of the project -- we didn't have a candidate to replace him, so we decided we'd tough it out through the Summer as I got the project finished, and remain where we were living.

I'd already decreased my regular bread-and-butter work for a few months so that I could focus on the vid-project, and it seemed like a huge (and possibly project-killing) distraction to stop production in order to make a major residential move at that time -- a move that would also involve dismantling the video studio that I'd just set up (and somehow hoping that we'd find a place where I could "re"-mantle that studio).

So we stayed where we were, with rent and utility obligations that had increased by a third.

We did "what you do" -- we cut back on luxury utilities like cable TV and down-sized our phone plan. We ate very simply, cooking from scratch most of the time, and always ate at home. We sold some stuff that we weren't using, or that was expensive to keep up.

That all felt pretty good, too -- it was more aligned with the way that I want to live.

So, by September, the video project was ready for release -- to a public that had lately been put on notice that its economy was a shambles (which meant that buying an expensive set of DVDs was probably very low on the list of fiscal priorities).

It didn't really phase me. I've never been the type of person who thought that anyone else "owed" me a living. I've always been realistic about the nature of my work, and have known that a) it's not everyone's cup of tea, and b) if it's a choice between food/shelter/warmth and some service that I offer, I would always encourage a prospective client to procure that food/shelter/warmth before working with me.

I just kept on keepin' on -- paid my bills on time and in full. I ate even simpler, and cut non-essential expenditures even more, and my Beloved and I started looking at the reality of our financial situation -- we were going to need to move, we figured, and that was OK, too (even though we love this place).

We might even have made it through without the bankruptcy, if it weren't for the people that I owed money to -- credit card companies.

Credit card companies that began raising interest rates and lowering credit lines, even though I was on-time and paying in accordance with agreements, starting as early as last Spring -- even before my debt-load went up -- and even though they knew that lowering my credit limits would screw up my credit rating (which was pretty damn good at the time) because the lowered limits would make me look like I was maxing out my credit line, which I wasn't (at least not until they lowered my credit line)-- which would then trigger other creditors to raise my interest rates and cut credit lines I might have with them, which would screw my credit rating further.

They did this even though I wrote them nice letters and had polite telephone conversations with them about the fact that cutting my credit line right now would probably result in a cascading clusterfuck of credit hell. They did this even though they told me, straight out, that yes, I'd always been an excellent customer, and they wanted to keep me as a customer.

They also said that they were doing it because they could, according to our agreement (and they were right about this -- they could do it -- the agreement said that they could change my credit line or interest at any time, and for any reason -- although they never did so until it was clear to them that it would be very difficult for me to simply say "no" and cash them out on the debt).

When I asked them why they were doing it, they said that it was because my recent credit usage made me look like a higher-risk customer -- never mind an 18-year credit history with only one late payment ever, and that due to the vagaries of the US mail (long before it was possible to check one's credit card statement online) -- never mind that I was current on my debt.

The irony is that they actually made me a higher-risk customer.

My increased payments were eaten up by increased interest rates (one card raised me from 9.9% to 26% overnight -- for no reason other than "our agreement says that we can change your rate at any time for any reason" -- another card attempted to raise me from 12% to 33% -- although they relented after a letter in which I threatened to close my bank accounts with them) -- and the resultant lowered credit rating that triggered other cards to jump their rates up or bring my credit line down was actually what tipped the scales for me in terms of the bankrupcty.

When we came to the end of one month and barely scraped our rent payment together because we had paid the credit card debt on time, I did something I had not wanted to do -- something I had chalked off the options list for myself -- I began considering personal bankruptcy.

It took a couple of months for me to get absolutely clear on it. I had those midwestern values to struggle with, and other options to examine, and that hope that springs eternal, blah, blah, blah -- that somehow, things were going to suddenly shift.

I think the real turning point for me was when I called a credit-counseling company and explained my situation, and the counselor there said:

"Well, we have this plan (blah, blah, blah), but honestly, I think I'm just going to give you the number of the attorney that we refer to for bankruptcies."

She said this, even though recruiting me to their "plan" would have involved me paying her company a lot of money for quite a long time. They would negotiate my debt and my interest, but by the time they added their cut on top of the monthly payments, I'd still be scraping for rent and my credit-score would be screwed anyway.

(Actually, it was nice of her to be honest like that, even though it meant that her company wouldn't benefit.)

So, I stopped paying my credit-card bills, and moved forward with the bankruptcy.

I filed "Pro-Se" (which is a nice Latin way of saying "can't afford a lawyer"). This is in no way advice or recommendation, but it worked for me -- my bankruptcy was very simple -- I don't own a house or land, my car is 13 years old, I had no investments, savings, or "secured debt" -- and my decade as a wage-slave in public service did serve me well in this regard: I'm pretty handy with a form.

That said, after filling out, checking and re-checking, and mailing those 65+ pages, plus communicating by phone and mail with the BK court myself ever since -- ?
-- I can easily entertain the possibility that most bankruptcy attorneys actually earn their keep.

The most difficult part (for me, at least) is over: Making the choice to declare bankruptcy at all.

It wasn't an option I wanted to exercise, but I came to a point where it seemed clear that it was the wisest choice for me to make.

I don't feel like a victim. I played in that game, and this is where it took me.

I participated with an industry that I knew from the start was relying on my sense of fair-play and responsibility, while knowing that said industry would skirt fair-play and avoid responsibility in every way that it legally could.

In truth, I think that the credit industry still made money on me, even with the bankruptcy -- I haven't totted up every single figure yet, but I'm pretty sure that over the last 18 years, they made every bit of their money back, plus profit -- which is what the game was all about, really.

So I don't resent them, and I hope they don't resent me. This was the game that we played together. It's like a casino, really -- you go in knowing that the odds are against you -- but you go in anyway.

The hardest bit has been dealing with my midwestern ethics thing -- examining those internal voices that might want to brand me a "failure" -- and getting past the cultural entrainment that we all have to Be AFRAID -- Be VERY AFRAID!

Truth is, operating my life on a purely cash basis feels pretty good.

We're still eating very simply, and our household could currently be used as a case study in the research project: "Creating an Antithesis to Conspicuous Consumerism".

But right now? -- I'm well-fed, and warm, and sheltered.

And really, what else is there but -- right now?

Yes -- there are times when I find this thought in my head: "What if an emergency happens and I don't have any/enough creidt?!?!?!"

-- but I also thought that same kind of thought when I had "enough" "available credit", and when I had a "regular paycheck", and when I owned a house, and when I had "extra" money . . . . . . . . and -- when I had no money at all.

So it's clear to me that this thought -- "What If Something Bad Happens!?!!??!" -- is a thought I could have at any time -- under any circumstance --

-- just as I could have the following thought at any time, under any circumstance:

"You know, I think Everything's Gonna Work Out Just Fine."
======================================================
(Blog Note: Yes, I am back to blogging. Yes, I think that my hesitance to speak about this particular aspect of my personal life -- the bankruptcy -- created a big old Blog-Clog for me. Yes, I feel scared to share this, and worried that my internal midwestern-ethic voices will be reflected in disapproving voices from the Blogosphere.
And finally -- YES -- I will be blogging further about my "bankruptcy experience", because there are some stories from this process that are just too surreal and luscious to pass up. Watch for them.)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:59 PM 16 comments  

About Today -- A Walk on the Moon
Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Today, I skimmed back and forth between working and catching what I could of the inauguration coverage.

I managed to be there for the live coverage of the swearing in, and President Obama's Inaugural Address.

I was awed by the sheer mass of humanity on the Mall.

I was moved by the music, and even more by the cut-aways to people in the audience -- their faces streaked with tears of joy, their eyes searching hungrily for external signs that the hope they hold inside is justified, and their faces relaxing, brows smoothing out, as they seemed to have found those signs.

I watched what I could of the parade, in between clients (cuz I'm a sucker for a marching band -- plus, I wanted to see the queers tooting their horns -- no pun intended).

As I watched, I had the same sense that I had on Election Day 2008 -- a strange mixture of solemnity and giddiness as I witnessed something historic -- something being logged into a history that I would want to claim.

This feeling is not entirely unfamiliar, although it seems like a long time since I last experienced it.

I felt something like it as I stared into my television set to see the first moon walk, and President Nixon announcing the end of the Vietnam War, and Nelson Mandela walking out of prison, and the Berlin Wall being knocked down.

Still, today felt different, somehow.

I should note that my giddy/solemn sensation of today has a nasty cousin, too -- a feeling of similar solemnity, but devoid of all giddiness -- a response that's all sinking stomach and aching heart.

I felt that the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and again, when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, and yet again, when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated, and after the massacres at Kent State and Tienanmen Square, and when the first Bush authorized "Operation Desert Storm", and on 9/11/01, and when the second Bush authorized "Operation Iraqi Freedom", and as I watched thousands of people abandoned in the aftermath of Katrina.

On those days, too, staring into my television, I knew that I was watching something that was"historic" -- but as part of a history that I emphatically did not want.

Yet today seemed something more than a simple antithesis of that "nasty cousin"-ish feeling.

I kept reaching, all day, for a clear understanding of what I was feeling -- I searched for it in the confused sensations that flirted around the edges of my heart and mind as I watched the inaugural festivities.

I searched for it in the expressions that lingered on the faces of joyous, tearful, boisterous crowds, and in my own confused and tender caution as I watched Michelle and Barack Obama step out of the presidential limousine during the parade. ("No! Be careful!" my inner mother-hen whispered, and then, a moment later, my inner activist cried: "Yes! Be Unafraid!")

I kept crawling around in my own brain and heart and body all day, trying to put my finger on the exact "difference" that I felt, until I saw this clip in the online coverage I was watching (forgive any commercials, please -- I'm not in control of that, but I wanted you to see the vid):



That's when I knew what was so different for me today.

Barack Obama's presidency does not erase the agony of Myrlie Evers-Williams' loss of her husband Medgar, or the tragedy of our collective loss of her husband as a powerful, committed voice against racism and discrimination of all types.

Barack Obama's presidency does not remove the grueling pain of daily discrimination that Medgar, Myrlie, their children, grandchildren, and countless other people of color have faced in the 45 years since Medgar's murder -- much less mitigate the suffering that centuries of abuse, oppression, and discrimination have perpetrated upon people of color during the history of this nation.

Barack Obama's presidency does not end the ongoing reality of racism and the toxicity of its impact on our nation.

But it does erase, remove, and end this:

The notion that the agony, pain, and toxicity that is racism is inevitable in our country.

Racism does not have to exist. It is not "natural" to human beings, nor is it necessary to society. When people of all colors share power and responsibility, nations not only do not crumble -- they rise, and celebrate, and grow stronger.

Myrlie and Medgar Evers knew this. I knew this. Mostly likely, if you're reading this blog, you knew this.

But today, in the United States of America, Barack Obama demonstrated this.

Today is not the end of racism in the United States, but I honestly believe that it is the beginning of a new era in the process of eradicating racism in the United States, because today, a template is set and a precedent created -- it is now possible, beyond any argument, for a person whose skin is not "white" to hold the most powerful office in our land.

That is what was different for me today.

When I think back on the other times I had that "giddy-solemn-historic" feeling, only the moon-walk begins to parallel it -- wars have been ended before, and walls knocked down -- but to walk on the Moon?

A single footprint on the Moon means that anything is possible.

(Full Disclosure: Yes, I have complaints with Barack Obama and his campaign/transition teams. Yes, I'm not satisfied with Obama's dealings with queers and their issues. And finally -- Yes, I am an incredibly complicated being who is capable of simultaneously experiencing deep disappointment about discrimination that is peculiar to my situation while experiencing profound joy as I watch my brothers and sisters who are discriminated against for a different, equally fucked-up, reason rejoice in a breakthrough in the particular area of oppression that has kept them down, and capable of understanding that "their" victory is "my" victory, because -- you know -- they are my sisters, and my brothers -- they are ME.)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 8:47 PM 3 comments  

We All Have Our Dirty Little Secrets
Thursday, January 8, 2009

I have a confession to make. I was a kiddie-viddie starlette -- no, not porn -- real kiddie video -- as in Wee Sing -- as in Big . . . Yellow . . . . Rodent.

Here -- check out marker 00:24. I'm the yellow one.


To see some actual footage (a little scary, really) with decent video quality, not the trailer, try this link: Big Rock Candy Mountain 2 (not embeddable, otherwise, I'd be torturing you here).

Yes. I was a Meecy-Mouse. It's true. I wore that enormo, hot costume, and the prosthetic make-up, and the mittens, and the ears (in the middle of August), and I acted really, really goofy. For money.

There are a couple of weird things about this -- if I reveal that I was in Big Rock Candy Mountain, many, many people that I know who were raising kids after 1991 (and most of the young adults that I know now who were kids in the 90s) will say something like: OMG! My kids loved that video! or

"I used to watch this tape 24/7 as a kid, and listen to the cassette of the songs in the car."

(Now, if you didn't watch the unembeddable linked footage above of the actual video, the next vid might not make much sense to you -- it's a tribute video made by the young adult youtuber I just quoted. This is obviously not the real soundtrack.)



I also had my niece email me recently to tell me that she had spotted this little meecy mouse in a very weird youtube that a friend had turned her on to. She said: "quite honestly, the song sucks...but that's beside the point. you can imagine my surprise when around 2:30-3:00 into the video, my dear aunt appeared!"

I mean, how strange is it that something that I did which I thought of as a kind of a bizarre but enjoyable side gig is now indelibly branded into the minds of people that I might be working next to?

It's like I'm folk-art or something.

But it doesn't stop there. In fact, my meecy-mouse run was my second endeavor with the WeeSing crowd. A year earlier, I had appeared in another kiddie-viddie -- "The Best Christmas Ever" -- then, as an elf (I "hang face" briefly at 00:34 and 00:52 below -- and Oy! with the prosthetic makeup and squeaky voice already!)



When I took the elf job (my first with WeeSing), it was on a lark, really. Somebody told me that they were looking for diminutive actors, and I showed up at the cattle call (with my equally short girlfriend).

I landed the part of the elf "Snooter" (hence the prosthetically-enhanced schnoz, and the many jokes from the crew about my character's secret cocaine habit).

And yes, you heard right -- the hero elf was, in fact, named "Poofer". Hmmm.

And as a completely fun fun-fact, the "secret handshake" they do was the one my Dad taught me when I was a kid. The Director wanted a secret elf handshake, and liked my Dad's when I showed it to him. I love that it's immortalized there.

Mind you, I actually have formal training in theater -- with a degree and everything -- and in my film acting classes, I had always been told that when acting for the camera, you were to scale everything back by at least a third -- gestures, inflections, characterizations, everything.

It was incredibly disorienting to be introduced to a film-set where I was actually directed to amp it up by at least 2/3rds. You see the results above.

I am a passable actress -- really, truly, I am -- but it seems that small children like big hams, so what's a girl to do?

Apparently, I was a quick study at hamology, because they wanted me back for the mouse thing, and later, as a puppeteer in two other productions (see below).

Now, when I say puppeteer, I don't mean sticking your hand up the bum of Kermit the Frog.

I mean full-body puppeteering -- the kind of costume where you are encased head to foot, with wired calipers in the hand-sets of your costume that allow you to blink the eyes and move the mouth of the character. I was not voice talent for either of the two characters below (apparently they didn't need Piercingly-Shrill for these particular roles) -- I operated the character body - - so all I had to do was lip-sync. In a penguin suit.

Think Disneyland. Think hot. Think ice-packs held against your body in a special mesh vest so you don't pass out, and bisquit fans in your "helmet" (head piece) so you can get enough oxygen. In Summer. In a studio blazing with lights.

Oh, and in the case of the penguin "Weeber" below? On my knees. Often, 12 hours a day.

Let's face it -- I'm bat-shit crazy.



My favorite song in that production (WeeSing Under the Sea) was the one at 07:21 in this clip -- "Clam Dance":



You would have thought that experience would put me off the full-body puppeteering thing, but no -- I took on one more job, this time with the same production company, but not for Wee Sing.

I'm proud to say that I ended my stint as a full-body puppeteer in style -- as a Kitteh -- that's me -- the big yellow Wooleycat (and isn't that so cosmic and totally cycle-of-life of me? Big Yellow Mouse to Big Yellow Kitteh?)


Just so you know -- I think what brought me back and back to these productions was that the people I worked with were absolutely, positively great and fun, and honestly, the messages that the vids put out were pretty cool and kid/life-affirming (ex: Under the Sea had an environmental message).

Next time you wander into a room where a gang of toddlers are engaged in the Bunny-Foo-Foo singalong, you'll be sure to impress if you point casually to the TV screen and say: "I know that Mouse."

'Cuz I know you've been worried about your cred with da toddlers. ;)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:45 PM 6 comments  

Another Portly True Story -- But First, A Movie!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009

That video put me in the mind of this story:

Portly and the Car Salesman -- Circa 1988, Portland, Oregon

So, on April Fool's Day, 1988, I managed to get in the way of someone who was making an illegal turn across traffic. I walked away from the head-on collision unscathed, but the family's beloved Datsun B-210 station wagon did not fare so well.

So, my then-partner and I began the arduous process of buying a replacement vehicle. We had a limited income, and knew exactly how much money we could spend and what kind of car we wanted (Toyota Tercel wagon -- you know, the one that looked like it had an ATM on the back?).

It was the late 80s. The auto-sales industry had gotten wise to the fact that more and more women were buying cars -- and doing so without the "aid" of a man. I had just read two or three articles in major newsmags about how the industry was re-gearing its sale-pitches and changing its showrooms to re-niche-ify toward the car-buying women's market.

I hate haggling. I've bought only three of the many cars I've owned at car dealerships -- my 1978 Datsun pickup, the Tercel, and my current van (all used). I take some hippy pride in the fact that I have never in my life purchased a new car.

My partner and I went out car-shopping the first time with the kids. (Note to parents: This is a very bad idea. If you want to gain the dealership's sympathy vote because you're raising a family -- ha! -- stuff your wallet with pictures instead -- put a "My kid was an honor student at blah-blah-blah" sticker on your car -- anything. Just do not take them along.)

The dude at the first dealership showed us the Tercel (awful color, nasty-ass plaid upholstery -- glad it didn't work out, really). We told him how much money we had to spend (which was, of course, far below the sticker price), and he herded us into his office, assuring us that he thought he could work something out.

Which began the two-hour agony that followed, where he exercised all the old ploys -- took our car-keys so we couldn't leave, went back and forth and forth and back to the manager's office, etc., etc., etc. -- if you don't know the drill, that's a good thing -- my advice to you is that you keep it that way.

When he got it through his thick skull that when we said "this is how much money we have to spend" what we really meant was,"this is how much money we have to spend" -- that we weren't driving a hard bargain, that we weren't being cagey and conniving -- as this simple message finally penetrated his consciousness, he looked at us, absolutely dumbfounded (two HOURS later), and said: "Well, I can't sell this car to you for that!"

To which I said something like: "Yeah, dipshit -- I thought that was probably the case, and every time I tried to tell you that, you told me you could work something out, and then left us sitting here for another 15 to 20 minutes!"

We regained possession of our hostaged car-keys, and the children never forgave us for the two hours of lost Saturday which they endured. (It did have the fortunate upside of them never wanting to go car shopping with us again.)

The next weekend, just the two of us ventured out once more, this time to a different dealership.

We guarded our car-keys carefully, and, exhausted from the craptasticness of the previous foray, we came up with a signal -- if either of us made the sign-language gesture for "Fuck" (my partner was an ASL interpreter), we agreed that we would both get up, without discussion, and leave. No explanation needed, and either of us could make the call at any time -- we had concluded that life was too fucking short (hence the choice of sign).

The Tercel that we looked at was closer to our price range (on the sticker), so we allowed ourselves to be seated with coffee and really bad pastry in the salesman's office.

At first, it went fairly well. We politely explained that we only had ____ amount of money to spend, and that no, we weren't kidding, and no, this wasn't a counter-offer thing -- it really was the entire amount we could spend (which really confused the salesman, I could tell), and then it began -- the smarminess, the cajoling, the manipulation. It was mostly vocal tones and lack of meetings of gazes, but it wasn't long before I saw my partner give me the sign.

I said: "Thanks very much for your time, we're not interested", and we stood up and headed for the door.

What happened next, I never, ever imagined might occur.

The guy followed us. I mean, really close behind us, and shouted at us that we had to come back. Literally -- those word -- we had to.

When that didn't work (now keep in mind -- we are walking through a very large showroom, and then through a very large parking lot, with this guy right behind us, yelling at us the entire time), he tried things like: "Get back here! You can't walk out of here! You women have no idea what you're doing! I demand that you come back here right now!"

We were kind of glancing at each other now and again, but we basically just kept walking resolutely toward our car, when we heard him scream, at the top of his lungs:

"You're nothing if you don't buy a car from me!!!!!!"

Seriously.

We were still just marching stalwartly to our car, when a manager came sprinting out from the showroom, got between the salesman and us, and started rapid-fire spewing things like: "Please. Don't go. I'm sorry. I know we can work something out." We kept walking. "PLEASE -- Ladies! . . . . "

That stopped us.

It was not planned -- it was not calculated -- but my partner and I wheeled around as one and said, in perfect unison (both in terms of words and level of dripping venom):

"We're not Ladies!!!!!"

The manager then said: "Girls! . . . . . . ."

When he caught the look on our faces, he went silent, his jaw going up and down for a few seconds, and then finally spluttered out -- pathetically -- desperately -- as if he'd only just remembered that the word existed:

". . . . Women!"

But it was too late. We were already gone.

When we got home, I called the owner of the dealership at the corporate office (he was the mega-owner of Blankety-Blank Ford, Blankety-Blank Toyota, Blankety-Blank Honda, etc., etc., etc., now known as the Blankety-Blank AutoGroup).

I was passed from one secretary and middle manager to another secretary and middle manager, and kept insisting on speaking to the owner. I believe that it is possible that I may have uttered words like discrimination, harassment, and lawsuit.

I was finally passed up the foodchain and spoke to the owner directly.

I told him about the articles I had just been reading about the "New Consumer -- Woman!" (yeah, right, we've been here all along), and I inquired of him just how he thought he was going to cash in on that market when he employed these kind of salespeople.

To his credit, he listened (and in the following weeks, he had his dealers calling us every single time a Tercel station wagon that was within our price range rolled onto one of his many lots).

We ended up buying from an private owner after all, and we drove, drove, drove that blue Tercel over the next years. My ex- got it in the "divorce".

I just had to tell that story, after I saw that 60's reel up top.

Although that salesman was an unmitigated ass, I really must thank him for all the laughs he's given me over the years -- whenever I replay his outraged shriek in my mind:

"You're nothing if you don't buy a car from me!!!!"

Posted byPortlyDyke at 9:39 PM 4 comments