UPDATED WITH SLIDESHOW AT BOTTOM.
All I want to do right now is jot down a sampling of random shit from the week or month before I forget. I’m never taking this site down, I swear, so this important shit will be an invaluable primary source reference for future societies as they try to reconstruct “Why were they all so bloody stupid?”
1. On the phone with a towing outfit that is a benefit of my HOG membership. Google it, I’m too lazy to explain. HOG. The very word makes some men uncomfortable. HOG.
So the towing thing is a subcontracted outfit that the HOG people (HOG PEOPLE, I SAID, WE MUST MAKE A FUN NEW THING OF THIS) use to provide services like, uh, towing, to HOG ‘members’. Never you mind why I called. Obviously I need something towed! So I called the towing people the HOG people use.
As I was saying, the towing guy. He kept telling me I could not renew my HOG Life Membership with him over the phone, ever. I just wanted a tow. But he explained, because I am dense, that the towing outfit and HOG are not “affiliated.” So he could not renew my HOG Life Membership. Ever.
Me: “It’s a Life Membership.” I said it in Nigel’s voice from Spinal Tap. “These go to eleven.”
Pause. “I’m sorry. WE DO NOT HANDLE HOG membership renewals. You’ll have to talk to the Harley Owners Group people. I can renew your roadside assistance for the towing, if you would like that.
“So, you cannot renew my Life Membership for HOG, is that what you mean? Even though I just want a tow?
“Correct. You would have to get that renewal done with the HOG people.” He was so patient with me.
Everyone I talked to on the phone this week was doing that thing where they talk over you and don’t listen. God I FUCKING HATE THAT. Hence my hatred of the phone.
I used to like online chat-heads for support, but I type way faster than they do so it makes me guilty of “talking over” them, the very thing I dislike about the phone, see? My solution: I type up a huge explanation with all my info and save it to a text doc before I even ringy-dingy, so to speak, the chat-head online.
When the queue empties and the message says I am up, in live support with PEGGY, I paste all the pre-written shit in the chat window and hit send. Peggy aka Ramesh comes on and asks ow I am and talks about the weather and then asks for my name and thanks me for being a customer. Didn’t read a word of what I pasted in, which is so good! It always says hi Peggy, weather is great, how are you, what are you having for lunch, so glad to be a customer, type faster’n you do … then bam it gets to the pertinent issues.
But this method I use has a drawback in that it throws the Peggies off their scripts badly. I end up typing, “Scroll up.” It’s still easier (two words) than interacting and reading repetitive shit that goes nowhere (not unlike the content here). I go do laundry, write a book, run out for lunch, come back. Peggy is scripting on — thanking me for providing all the informations [sic] and apologizing for having to check on something but now Peggy is back (so am I, as coincidence would have it) and has all the facts and will refer me to a link I would never thought to have found on their “FAQ.”
Sometimes I throw in something like “FAQ? Had no idea u had 1. METALLICA SUXXORZ!” just before I abruptly end the chat. Peggy never “LOL”s.
2. I wasn’t going to break this news, but I have had — and am still going through — a horrible experience with a bad bad bad painter and the overseer who hired this poor idiot is vowing to “make it right” but it’s not looking promising.
You would think supervisor-head would hire a painting “crew” and get on with it, because it’s already been a wasted Nov, Dec, and early Jan, and the job is majorly fucked beyond all fucked-up-i-tude, a Cat 6 fuck-i-cane, a clump of seedless fuck-bola pustules in a jar with a partially scratched off label (“–UCKERS”) in the back of your fridge.
Nope. They’ve hired one dude again. And they’re telling me he’ll have all the damage AND all new and properly-prepped re-painting done in just a week. All by himseeeeelllf. Don’t wanna be … all by himseeeellllf anymoah.
On what fucking planet? Which one? Seriously. I’m going with Planet Kilz, because those are good brain damage fumes, if you’ve ever smelled Kilz. And I have. Which explains this writing and yea, the very existence of this website.
3. I’m not “upthet,” most of the time. I just barely survived the last coupla three years. I did. Barely. I almost gave up a few times. I did. You do find out who the real friends are. Few. Very few. Fewer than few. One? Two? That half friend. A few quarter-friends maybe but they don’t glue back together as one whole.
So now my new thing is, “Who cares about anything? Nothing is important if this was your last day on earth, is it?” Carpe diem is a real thing to me now. There IS no tomorrow. The sun is NOT going to come up. Uma Thurman punches her way out of a buried pine box, but I won’t.
Paint? Pfft. I would rather, if this was my last day on earth, NOT be thinking about an idiot’s paint job. I would rather be doing something I love and maybe with someone I love. And if there is no one but me in that last scenario, ever, fine. I’ll be alone and ok doing whatever I want at that last day. You know? “TODAY I SHALL CLIP MY TOENAILS.” Then I croak. Someone smells a smell a week later.
9-1-1, what’s your emergency?
I’m still not over Chris Cornell. I’m sorry, but that one got to me, big time. And my child (‘dog’). I’m not equating, or ranking, I’m just not editing. My mom cussing me out and being a pill-head-alky liar and all. Divorce, emotional abuse, moron attorney, short end of stick, homelessness. Buh-bye, thanks for the memories.
So Painter A, Mr. Royal Fuckup, is gone, and they have retained Painter B to re-do it all, to swoop in with a bucket and brush and fix all the damage in a week. Alone. Alowwwwwwwwww-ohhhh-own.
Is it just me, or is the math there not right? The nagging feeling I have. That if Painter A couldn’t do the job at all right in 2 months, Painter B will not be able to fix Painter A’s shit and re-do all (including “prep work” this time! no painting over dead bugs and dog hair and blobs of sheetrock mud!) in a week. I was never a math person, even though I loved the movie about John Nash because he was so fucked up and so smart, so I’m probably missing something here. Some of the walls are almost like crime scene photos. Santeria ceremony, I dunno what. No there is no red paint being used. I’m just writing. I’m “colorful.”
Here’s a picture of just one type of fuck-up from Painter A that Painter B is going to un-do and re-do, all alone, in a week. There is not a single surface, crack, crevice, hole, or edge, in this entire place that doesn’t look like that or worse. It’s called “lack of supervision with a side of WTF and a mandatory slap upside the head.”
Oh yes, early on, I spoke up. To Painter A. Because the supervisory arm of this operation was MIA.
Me: So. No tape, no tarps, no priming, two kinds of paint on one wall, no sanding, caulk slathered on with a garden trowel. Splatters all over the new flooring. All over the new windows. Black paint in the drawers, on the wall, white paint on the wooden handrail. Crooked lines and a high gloss here and a non-primed wall there. Looks good.
Painter A: Yeah, only a couple hours more and this place is done!
My Face of Concern. Deep Concern. Running through a mental list. Meth? Fumes? What?
Then he took a break and went to 7-11 for a donut. He’d worked an hour. Returned with donut and talked on phone. Time to take off for the day. Started at noon. It’s already 2PM. Be back first thing. I’ll work all day tomorrow, long day!
First thing tomorrow arrives. Nothing. No call.
A week later, “Coming back to hit those few spots and I’m all done!”
Face of Dire Concern with Thoughts of Mild Violence, Anger at Wasted Money. Mine.
To be continued, assuming the sun does come up tomorrow and the exorcist shows up on time.