The other horrible thing... happy ending this time

Okay, so I alluded to another horrible thing that happened on Christmas night.  Well, really it was the morning of the 26th, around 5 am. 

I'd just gotten into my apartment by climbing the pillars to my balcony and getting in through the sliding door.  

I was cold, hungover, upset for a number of reasons, and bone-weary.  

My mom's friend chose this moment to call me from the east coast. I don't know why she was calling at that hour, but I answered, and she said she needed to know if a particular piece of mail had come in.  

I'd been putting all the mail (except my Netflix DVDs) in a big pile since the holidays had started. So I went through that pile for her mail, and found something official looking addressed to me.  Uh oh.  

After I concluded the call, I opened the official thing. It was from the Santa Ana Supreme Court, and it was a $50,000 warrant for my arrest.  ($50,000 was the bail amount.)

Now, some of you may know I got a DUI last April.  I've been dealing with the fallout ever since.  The court gave me a bunch of things I was meant to do to keep my parole.  One of these was to attend a Mothers Against Drunk Driving panel.  Not sure what that entails exactly, but I was fully willing to comply with everything. 

Thing is, I lost the paperwork that told me where to go, when to go and how much to pay.  So not only did I no longer have the info, but they also required that I bring said paperwork to the panel.  Which I couldn't do, having lost it. 

I spent a lot of time looking for this solitary green sheet of paper amongst the reams of crap I've got in general and the reams of legal stuff in particular.  No dice. I tried calling the MADD people.  That was useless; even if I could've gotten through to a real person (I couldn't), they still needed the papers I no longer had. 

I didn't know what to do. And neither, it seemed, did anyone else. 

So now I find out that because this qualifies as a parole violation, I could be arrested and thrown in jail for up to six months (unless I posted the $50,000 bail) and/or a $1,000 fine. 

Needless to say this killed the tattered remnants of my Christmas spirit (see previous blog).

On Friday, I asked one of the staff at the DUI class I'm required to take weekly.  It was a move of desperation, but it turned out to be the right one.  He gave me the information I needed:  What I had to do was go to the courthouse and try to get my panel attendance rescheduled.  

I had a 50/50 chance of getting arrested in the process but showing up on my own volition was the best chance I had. 

Today I went. I spent a lot of time being shuffled between departments and smiling hopefully at bored men and women behind plexiglass windows.  Finally I ended up in a courtroom with a paper that said, "Parole violation. Parole Revoked."

I don't mind saying, I was terrified.  Getting thrown in jail, while not the Worst Thing Ever, would still fuck a lot of my shit up.  I'd lose my job, I'd miss my payments on all the things I have to make payments on, and of course I'd have to become much more conscious of my grip on the soap.  

When my time came up, I stood before the judge.  Because of my hearing problem, they'd given me a sheet with my rights on them to read. He asked me if I understood those rights. 

"Mostly, sir," I said, striving to keep my cool. 

He smiled kindly and said, "Well, what didn't you understand."

I swallowed and replied, "Well sir, I had no idea I was in this much trouble." I went on to explain why I'd missed the panel. "I've really been making an effort to comply with all the court orders, sir. I've not missed a single class or meeting.  There was just this and I only just found out what I was supposed to do about it."

He looked at me for a moment, spent a few minutes going through my file. I waited nervously. Finally he said, "Okay, you really need to pay closer attention to dates and requirements, James.  I'm putting you back on the program, lifting the warrant for your arrest and reinstating your probation.  You'll be rescheduled for the M.A.D.D. panel and you just need to be sure to do that, okay?"

I could not believe my good fortune.  The judge was letting me off the hook! Giving me another chance.  I thanked him profusely and sat shakily down. 

It took another hour or two to get all the paperwork, but by 3:30 I was walking back to my car with a little of my faith restored in the goodness of my fellow men.  

I hope none of my friends ever have to face a DUI charge -- because the whole business sucks from beginning to end -- but take it from me if you do: Follow the court's orders exactly and with alacrity. Don't procrastinate, don't let anything slide. Because they will not let you get away with anything. 

I mean, yeah, I got away with this, but it was an honest mistake; I wasn't trying to pull anything. But even so, I had to go through some major unpleasantness to get it sorted. Not worth it. Hell, the trouble you can get into for Driving Under Influence = SO not worth it.  

I hope my readers learn from my mistakes so they don't have to learn it firsthand. 

Sermon over. I'm SO relieved right now that I don't have this warrant hanging over me anymore. I'm going to be celebrating tonight!

So Christmas sucked, but things are already getting better. I think New Year's Eve will be big fun and I've still got like a week of vacation left to make up for the suck!

I guess that's just what I get (or, D is for Disaster)

Well, it's been a fucking dramatic holiday, that's for damned sure. 

But now I just got the bloody cherry on top.  I could gussy this up and make it a really nicely written blog, all gripping and stuff but I'm actually too annoyed and disillusioned right now.

I was going out with this girl.  We'll call her "Blondie". Because against my usual type, she's a blue-eyed blonde, almost as tall as me.  Now, she apparently considers that going out a couple times and having me pay for everything doesn't equal "dating".  Yeah, that was a red flag, and I did see it, but all the other indicators seemed good so I let it pass. Granted things were in the early stages, but how is that not "dating"? If you go on dates, you're dating, right? 

Anyway, right in the beginning she mentions that she prefers guys who are communicative. Right, I can do that.  Hell, I'm a fucking champion at that.  So no worries there. 

I didn't exactly bombard her with emails and texts. Really, I didn't.  I think I was pretty restrained, actually.  If she didn't answer, I pretty much left her alone. 

Thing is, after the second date, she got to not answering more often than not.  This was puzzling, but she said she tends to wax and wane on the communication.  Okay, weird but I'll go with it for now. 

Then disaster struck on Christmas night: My keys were stolen.  I couldn't get in my house or my car. I didn't want to freeze my ass off camping out on my doorstep if I could avoid it. So I took a chance and sent her a message asking for help. A warm place to crash on Christmas night.

She was not sympathetic or inclined to help at all.  Her response was pretty much, "WTF? Don't know what to tell you." Wow, thanks. 

Something else unpleasant happened too, something disrelated, but I'm not going to bring that up here. Suffice it to say, it was a really crappy night. Although I did eventually get into the house and to bed, without having to wait for the groundskeepers to come to work. 

Today I log on to MySpace and discover she's changed her status: "[Blondie] is giving up on dating."

A MySpace breakup, Blondie?  Really?  And an indirect one at that?  

I guess that's just what I deserve for dating a blonde.  Just like I deserved to have my keys stolen for leaving my coat unattended for a few minutes.  

Sometimes it's really hard to keep the faith here. I know there are good people out there. I even personally know good people.  And I consider myself a good person. But with the events of the past four days, it's putting my willingness to trust people under a lot of strain. 

And people bloody wonder why I tend to keep to myself. Psh. 

But in writing this, I also realized the other side of this:  Upon hearing of my ordeal on Thursday night, a friend came by on Friday night and her company kind of warmed my chilled heart, as cheesy as that sounds. And a couple other friends gave me some much-needed information and reassurance in relation to the other crappy thing that happened.  

So, really, for every person who knocked me down, there's been another who helped me get back to my feet, who dusted me off and helped me feel a little safer. 

I can't always get what I want.  Occasionally feels like I can't ever get what I want. But even so, sometimes I do get what I need.  And I wouldn't be me if I didn't rather focus on that. 

Movie Review: The Spirit

I do love movies. I watch a lot of them.  Part of this is a sort of "catch up" or "research" capacity. In that I will eventually, if all goes according to plan, become part of the pop culture through my writing, I think it's a good idea to be aware of what that culture is. 

Within reason. I'd not be caught dead watching 90210, for example.

Anyway, consider this the introduction to one of the "things" I'll be doing on my blog: Movie reviews.  Even though I have all of two readers that I know of, and I know our cinematic tastes are by no means identical (though they're reasonably similar). What the hell.  Like I said. I love movies. 

Yesterday I watched the somewhat anticipated The Spirit.  I wanted to see it because A) It's a comic book movie; B) It's done by the same guy who did Sin City so one could reasonably assume it would look cool.  But most importantly, C) Eva Mendes is in the movie, and I like her almost enough to see a chick flick (i.e. The Women). Almost. 

The Spirit is a pulpy, anachronistic study in monochrome. All the men speak in clipped, gravelly voices; their vernacular, transport and clothing, are all lifted straight out of the 1930s, even as the characters pull out their cell phones, stare balefully at a flat-panel computer screen, or activate the electronic targeting on their Really Big Guns. 

It's a movie that embraces the over-the-top camp of the 30s pulps, a tongue-in-cheek, deadpan homage to the source material.  Don't see this movie expecting The Dark Knight.  The lead femme fatale (Mendes' character) is named Sand Serif, for Pete's sake.  If you don't know what that means, look up "sans serif".  Naturally, as a longtime typesetter, I not only got the joke but loved it. 

Visually the movie is much like Sin City: Filmed through monochrome filters, the remaining stark and lonely colors threaten to burn stylised holes in your retinae; the use of blank white to etch out details, such as the eponymous Spirit's shoes, and unshaded red for his tie, give the film a cartoonish appearance bolstered by the subject matter and some of the goofier characters. 

It's a fun movie, good for light escapism and another chance to see Eva's bum.  Perhaps because I was still feeling way wiped out from my Christmas night ordeal, I couldn't really muster up any strong feelings for the movie, other than getting a little annoyed by the overwhelming use of red.  I loved seeing Mendes be all-out sexy, I enjoyed watching apparent newcomer Gabriel Macht trade blows with the always fun Samuel L. Jackson and it was all cool.  I do recommend it, but I rather suspect it's not going to end up in my DVD collection. 

Although naturally I will see it again so I can watch with subtitles. That may make a huge difference (it did for 3:10 to Yuma, for example), because as usual I missed a lot of dialogue. 

Watch out for a review of Benjamin Button; I plan to go see that sometime this weekend. I've also got a stack of DVDs so there may be other reviews in the days to come.  Hell, maybe I should start another blog just for the reviews!

Another reason I don't like TV...

So I spent Christmas day all alone in my apartment, watching DVD after DVD.  Except for one voicemail I don't think I spoke all day. 

This is not a cry for sympathy.  I'm actually okay with how the day went. It's kind of a relief not to have to be all social and have to pay attention to people. 

The bulk of my DVD watching was season seven of Smallville.  Yeah, I watch it. I've always been a Superman fan.  If you'd been in my family, you would be too. Shut up.  

Anyway, I'm watching and I gotta say this season has left me underwhelmed.  I finally figured out what was really bugging me about it: Blatant and gratuitous product placement.  

I mean, seriously -- they don't even try to hide it anymore.  They make special camera cuts specifically to display products.  They may as well have the actors stroke the things, a la Vanna White.

Yes, they have always done that, it's true. Even from the pilot episode when Clark opens the fridge (this is two minutes in), displaying rows of Mountain Dew and Coke.  But that was funny, because he totally disdained the soda and grabbed a bottle of milk instead.  So that wasn't so bad.  And yeah, they've kept on since then. Every now and then you'd notice. 

But I think they're getting worse.  I mean, in season seven there's an episode that takes place in the Stride gum factory!  I mean, come ON. 

I'm only bitching because it's throwing me off, distracting me from the story.  Me no likey. I wanna watch my stories.

I thought at first that I'm only really noticing it right now because it's been a while since I've watched American programming. But then I thought, "No, I've been keeping up with House, Fringe and Chuck online and none of those shows are 45-minute commercials for Sprint Sidekick."  Although, to be fair, Heroes does push Nissan Rogue a little too hard. 

Anyway, I had to vent about that.  Besides, if I don't get ANY writing done today, I'll hate myself in the morning. 

C is for...

Canada and California, the two places I've called home so far this lifetime. 

I've lived in each for approximately equal amounts of time. I'm about ready to move again, and it may well be somewhere completely different.  Hell, I could even make it another "C".  I hear Cabo San Lucas is gorgeous... 

Anyway. I miss Canada sometimes. It's colder and rains more, but that also means it's cleaner and greener, and I miss that. I also miss the fact that people in Canada (at least where I grew up) are just generally friendlier than people in California. 

It must, however, be admitted that California has a lot more hotness.  And I ain't talking about the weather.  

That's nice to watch but it's actually a constant masochistic torture, because most of that hotness ain't never gonna be MY hotness. 

It took a long time to become inured to that particular pain.  

California is also the land of sun and sand, neither of which I've really availed myself of as much as I ought.  In that I'm always on the computer for one reason or another, I have what has been brilliantly termed an "etiolated" complexion.  

Etiolated: (of a plant) pale and drawn out due to a lack of light.

There's your new word for the day. 

I don't have anyplace in particular to go with this. The two places have been my home each for 14 years or so.  In each case it's been less out of specific desire than necessity, so further significance based on place alone is senseless. But they've both got a lot of memories, good and bad.  

But mostly good. 

B is for...

Birthdays. 

December is a big month for birthdays for me.  I don't know why the hell this should be, but a lot of people who are important to me one way or the other have a birthday in December. 

First is my ex-wife. Her birthday is December 5th.  I know, I know -- she's EX, why should she make the list now?  Well, for one thing, bygones are bygones; she and I were together 8 years and that's not something you just bury or forget about. We aren't in touch very much anymore, but on those rare occasions our paths do cross, we give each other the affection and respect that we're due. Furthermore, after 8 years there is no way I can forget that date.  It's been drilled into my forehead ever since I got it wrong just that one time...!  Ha ha. 

Next, as already covered in another blog, my good friend Ashley, on the 15th.  

Then the Venti Twins, Farrell and John, on the 20th and 21st respectively.  "Venti" because that's "twenty"... yeah, you get it. 

Like Ash, Farrell and John are MySpace friends. But that doesn't make it less a real friendship.  They would be on the short list of people I would invite to my own private island, if I had one. That list isn't very long!  I'm even invited to Farrell's wedding. Hell, I might be one of his boys backing him up at the altar. 

God, I sound like one of those giddy girls.  I only mention it to illustrate that we're good buds. It's an honor and all, but I'm a guy. It's not something I lose sleep over or anything. 

Anyway, I had a letter to name and a blog to write, and this seemed as good a subject as any. Certainly my people deserve to be acknowledged for their days.  

Happy Birthday Typhoid

Once again copying my friend, not because I'm lame that way, but because shit, it's a good idea. 

I'm going to keep this short and sweet. 

It's Typhoid Ashley's birthday today. And I just had to say something about it. 

I consider her one of my best friends, even though we've lived five hours apart and have pretty much failed to close the gap for the entire time we've known each other. It's already been what, 2 1/2 years? 

It's an Internet friendship, yes. 

No, I've got real-life friends! Fuck you. She's one of my besties because our personalities complement each other that well. And she's been there for me when I needed someone and no one else was. And more than that, she was effective in her being there. She didn't just give me tea and sympathy -- she gave me good, sensible advice. Plus she was never afraid to tell me when I was being an idiot. Sometimes I needed to hear that.

I like to think I've returned the favor once or twice, in one fashion or another. Because that's what friends do. 

But that entirely aside, we've had some good times talking over the years. Ash has most definitely enriched my life with her ballsy, no-nonsense approach to life. She's also been my pop culture mentor, helping me get up to speed, which I needed pretty bad. You can't buy that kind of help. 

Well, yeah, you probably can. But I didn't have to, thanks to her. 

I already said Happy Birthday to her directly (well, online). I just wanted to underscore it with this blog; take a moment on her day to list some reasons I'm glad she's amongst us. 

Hope you had a great one, Litlbit.  

A is for

Well, since the friend who introduced me to this website is doing this, I suppose I will, too.  She said she needed some blog buddies. What the hell.

Also I felt I should write something goofy so my eventual readers will know I'm not all serious all the time. 

A is for asshole. 

Yes, America has, it seems, more than its fair share, but that's not actually what this is about. 

When I was around ten or eleven and in school, there was this course we all did that taught us about grammar.  The course included drills, to get the students accustomed to using the different parts of speech and whatnot. 

One of these drills involved making up sentences that used the article "an".  I was working with a friend of mine and he was really having a hard time.  He just couldn't seem to grasp that "an" is used before a word beginning with a vowel.  

No amount of explaining would help this poor kid; he just didn't get it. So when it came to this drill, he got stumped pretty quick. 

I was drilling him and getting frustrated. This was easy stuff for me.  So I thought I'd give him a hand.  I said, "Come on, an..." then I mouthed, "apple".  

He brightened and said, "Apple!"  

"Good!" Elephant.

"An elephant!"

"Good!" Orange.

"An orange!" He was happy. He was cheating through the drill. He could pass. But he wasn't getting it.  Instead, he was robotically reading my lips.

Frustrated, I said, "Good!" Asshole.

"An asshole!" he said brightly.  Everyone in the class turned to stare, including the teacher.  My friend's face went pale, his eyes widened.  He was as surprised as everyone.  Meanwhile I was resting my head in my hands, unable to decide if I should laugh my ass off or groan. 

Needless to say, we were sent to the principal. 

United State of Fear

So I've been thinking about this a lot off and on, and I've got a few things to say about the State of the Union. 

Something has changed in American culture, and it's something that should be remedied. 

I've found that in the past several years, words like "creepy", "stalker", even "pedophile" get bandied about in a rather cavalier fashion.  

When I was a kid, well, I'm not sure the term "stalker" had been invented yet.  But activities that today are considered "stalkerish" were romanticism in the 80s.  Guys going out of their way to meet a new girl. Pulling crazy stunts to prove how much they cared, how much the girl meant to them.  Not giving up, because they knew there was a chance.  

These days, a guy tries that stuff and he's probably looking at a restraining order. 

How about "creepy"?  I saw Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist recently.  A good movie, one I was thoroughly enjoying, until one of the characters said, "That's a little creepy."  

No, shithead.  "That" wasn't creepy at all.  It was actually kind of sweet; the "creepy" person was actually revealing their vulnerability just then.  Calling it creepy was itself, kind of creepy.

People today are entirely willing to view any perceived intrusion into their lives as a potential danger. If someone has information about them that they themselves didn't knowingly offer, it's creepy.  

Example: I notice that a girl likes her Corona, no lime.  How do I notice it? I happen to be sitting at the bar when she orders it; I happen to hear because she's yelling in my ear.  Well, maybe she's attractive and I'm interested so later on I bring her a Corona, no lime and try to strike up a conversation. 

Creepy?  To her, apparently.  No, this did not happen to me. But it's pretty real to me that it could.  Similar stuff has.

But here's the funny thing: Most people around my own age or older don't freak out or think it's weird.  They've seen John Cusak with his boom box, and a hundred other romantic comedies. They know a person can make observations, can think with them, can learn from afar.

Or maybe they're cougars.  That happens too. Then I start to worry. Ha ha.

But it would appear that approximately 25 and under is the demographic readiest to freak out.

Here's the thing: In spite of everything, in spite of the tough facade the country puts on, I think Americans are afraid.  They didn't used to be, but they sure are now.  And they're made more paranoid by the knowledge that the government really could be snooping on them through some Homeland Security thing. And by the media splashing the latest school shooting all over the news, or the child molesters, blah blah blah.  Plus the "horrible economy".  

One could assume it probably started with 9/11.  I don't know, myself. That may have just exacerbated things.  It's something that would require research. I suspect that's an excuse.

America is afraid, and the sad thing is, it doesn't need to be. I think a lot of the things people are worried about, are manufactured issues.  

I'm not saying there are no dangers, that creeps, psychos and freaks don't exist.  Sure they do. But what are the freaking odds, REALLY, that it'll happen to you?  I bet they're about on par with lightning strikes.  Do you spend your life in terror of those, too?

There's nothing wrong with vigilance. Nothing whatever wrong with due diligence.  But living in a perpetual state of fear? Worrying about crazies to the point where you see them everywhere, and accuse innocent and well-meaning people of monstrosity? 

Fuck that.  Grow the hell up, America.  You got kicked in the balls.  Grow a new pair and get back to business. 

Intro

Used to just be a MySpace blogger, but I've come to the shocking revelation that MySpace blogs suck.  

Why?  Because older blogs vanish.  Even to the writer.  I've lost some of my best blogs that way, and I'd really rather not lose more. 

I've got some things to say today and in the future -- so I've decided to start a blog account here.  

I hope all who enjoyed my MySpace blogs don't mind relocating here.  I promise you'll be entertained.