When I was in college, I wrote a short story entitled Agoraphobia that recounted the aftermath of a teenage boy recovering from his first real heartbreak. In order to jolt him from his doldrums, the boy's father takes him to their family's summer cottage by Lake Erie and has him chop a few cords of wood. As the boy starts attacking his chore, he listens to nearby seagulls, starts thinking of his ex-girlfriend's laughter, which eventually transmutes into the laughter of every other girl in his future destined to break his heart. The more laughter he hears, the more ferociously he chops the wood. His interior monologue is filled with self-loathing, misogyny and paranoid delusions. When he's finished, his father walks up, satisfied that he's taught his son a valuable object lesson about using manual labor to mend a broken heart. The boy, exhausted and a bit crazed, looks out at the roiling lake and wind-swept acres of land and experiences an epiphany of apoplexy while he considers the vastness of life, heartbreak and pain awaiting him.
You know, the story doesn't sound half bad when I retell it now. Back when it was written, however, it was nothing more than a histrionic, not-so-subtle rip-off of James Joyce's Araby ( http://fiction.eserver.org/short/araby.html ). My profs liked it, though, and it ended up included in my creative thesis years later. So why am I recalling this somewhat juvenile effort now? Because I'm in the middle of almost four months of writer's block, and whenever I'm creatively constipated I invariably remember the conclusion of that story: the final image of all that open space and the resulting terror of confronting life's countless succession of eventualities, permutations and failures.
Writer's block is often described as fear of the blank page. This may be the case for some writers. But for me, writer's block is creative catatonia brought on by the endless open vista of ideas whirling around inside my brain. My friend and long-time collaborator Tony Lewis jokingly refers to me as The House of Ideas because I have a tendency to call him whenever my brain conjures its latest Big Idea. He's seen me through the script of Worlds Apart and the completion and publication of Cat & Cat. He's read my early drafts of Stalking Mule, as well as some of the stories in White Picket Jungle and outlines for three upcoming Chris Telamon novels after Stalking Mule. He's also been my sounding board for countless other "projects" I've conceived over the years:
Mighty Men, a graphic novel set in the 1800s featuring Paul Bunyan, Davey Crockett and a host of other folklore heroes pitted against a villainous Count St. Germain.
Zeitgeist Protocol, a novel about a failed artist turned detective in 1880s Austria investigating a series of Jack the Ripper-style slayings.
Fuges, an alternative-history novel about modern-day fugitive recovery agents in a world where the Union did not win the American Civil War.
Most recently, I called him to brainstorm an idea for a novel featuring Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart as a Masonic secret agent caught up in the political intrigues of mid-late 18th century Europe.
Add all these creative germs to my unrealized movie scripts - a comedy about a guy who wins the Lottery and decides to have the best work week ever; a psychological thriller about a guy who ends up volunteering to search for a missing child; a comedy about a guy trapped in a weekend professional development seminar run by a New Age Cult ... honestly, the list goes on and on and on and ooooon. So, for me, writer's block isn't about fear of the blank page. It's about the knowledge that I'll never be able to cultivate all my potential novels, plays, screenplays and other high-minded concepts to fruition. Which puts me right where my teenage narrator was in Agoraphobia, frozen by the revelation that I am cursed with limitless possibilities in a very limited life.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Saturday, January 31, 2015
The Most Influential Books of My Life I - Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds
When I was in 10th Grade, I discovered the key to the universe at B. Dalton Bookseller at the Great Northern Mall. The Prophecies of Nostradamus: The Man Who Saw Tomorrow, by Erika Cheetham, outlined mankind's future history with a dire albeit vague certainty further corroborated and cemented as fact by the Orson Wells' narrated "documentary" of the same name. As a kid hellbent on unraveling life's mysteries before the age of 16, I devoured and digested both book and film with the hunger of a newly-converted True Believer. Of course, once I'd had a taste of the Great Seer, I needed more. Cheetham's magnum opus only whetted my appetite. What I required was a veritable smorgasbord of Nostradamus, and I knew exactly where to find it.
My favorite place in the universe at that time was the Cleveland Public Library downtown. From the age of 13, I'd been taking the 75 Bus down Lorain Road in North Olmsted to the Library on Superior. Back in those days, kids did stuff like this without much concern from their parents. Yes, Evil was out there; it just wasn't part of the 24-7 news cycle, mostly because there was no 24-7 news cycle. Anyway, armed with Cheetham's bibliography at the end of her book, I entered my fortress of solitude and immediately attacked the Library's mammoth card catalog located in the basement "tombs".
Back in those days, there was no internet nor any kind of computerized cataloging of information. Diligent researchers needed to wade through thousands of tiny typewritten notecards filed meticulously in huge wooden drawers with only a knowledge of the Dewey Decimal and Library of Congress catalog systems to guide them. If you were looking for a particular author or title, the process was fairly easy. For those investigating a particular subject, however, such as the prophecies of Nostradamus, the searches became a little trickier. The catalog included "Subject Cards," but these leads could often turn a paper chase into a wild goose chase deep into an intellectual thicket. Thus, in my quest for volumes regarding Nostradamus' Quatrains, I found myself jotting down the names of at least forty books that may or may not provide me with the answers I was looking for.
Chief among these titles was a book bearing a fascinating and thoroughly compelling title, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, by Charles Mackay. I mean what 10th grader wouldn't want to check out a book by that name? Scouring the stacks looking for my prize, I eagerly anticipated a tome dedicated to unraveling the predictions of Nostradamus in relation to huge waves of angry mobs, riots and other social tumult soon to unfold. When I finally secured the book and started reading, however, I discovered a completely different work.
Mackay's book studied charlatans and frauds. Certainly he can't consider Nostradamus a fraud! Starting at the table of contents, I frantically paged through the book searching for a section or even a citation lionizing my revered seer. What I discovered, however, shook the very foundations of my new faith. And I quote:
... the chief astrologer of that day, beyond all doubt, was the celebrated Nostradamus, physician to her husband, King Henry II. He was born in 1503 at the town of St. Remi, in Provence, where his father was a notary. He did not acquire much fame till he was past his fiftieth year, when his famous Centuries, a collection of verses, written in obscure and almost unintelligible language, began to excite attention.
Of course the language is obscure. He was transcribing visions and had to encode his prophecies so as not to be accused of withccraft ... I read on:
They were so much spoken of in 1556, that Henry II. resolved to attach so skillful a man to his service,and appointed him his physician. In a biographical notice of him, prefixed to the edition of his Vraies Centuries, published at Amsterdam in 1668, we are informed that he often discoursed with his royal master on the secrets of futurity, and received many great presents as his reward, besides his usual allowance for medical attendance.
See? He was obviously no charlatan!
After the death of Henry he retired to his native place, where Charles IX. paid him a visit in 1564; and was so impressed with veneration for his wondrous knowledge of the things that were to be, not in France only, but in the whole world for hundreds of years to come, that he made him a counsellor of state and his own physician, besides treating him in other matters with a royal liberality.
So he was definitely the real deal ...
“In fine,” continues his biographer, “I should be too prolix were I to tell all the honors conferred upon him, and all the great nobles and learned men that arrived at his house from the very ends of the earth, to see and converse with him as if he had been an oracle. Many strangers, in fact, came to France for no other purpose than to consult him.”
After reading that sentence, I knew that Mackay's remaining words could only further venerate Michel de Nostradame as the real deal:
The prophecies of Nostradamus consist of upwards of a thousand stanzas, each of four lines, and are to the full as obscure as the oracles of old. They take so great a latitude, both as to time and space, that they are almost sure to be fulfilled somewhere or other in the course of a few centuries ... He is to this day extremely popular in France and the Walloon country of Belgium, where old farmer-wives consult him with great confidence and assiduity.
Whaaaat?! In three mere sentences, this pompous blowhard had glibly dispensed of my prophet as yet another charlatan to be derided and mocked. But how could this be? According to Cheetham and Orson Welles, Michel De Nostradame's powers of prognostication existed far beyond any kind of doubt - reasonable or unreasonable.
Furious, I decided to read Mackay's book and note every error and libel I could find. Turning back to the beginning, then, I slowly began meeting alchemists, fortune tellers, magnetizers and a whole host of madmen and mountebanks perpepetrating ill-advised and often illegal shenanigans: the Mississippi Scheme, the South Sea Bubble, Tulipmania. By the time I caught up to and reread Mackay's dismissal of Nostradamus, sober reflection had replaced fervent faith. Mackay had administered an intellectual bitch-slapping I still recall to this day.
Of course, I continued conducting further research into the prophecies of Nostradamus, just to see if there really was anything there. By time I read James Randi's The Mask of Nostradamus in the 90s, however, I'd pretty much come to the conclusion that Michel de Nostradame, like all other psychics and fortune tellers, are only as accurate as their proponents believe them to be. The "truth" of their powers is a matter of Faith, not Science. In the case of Nostradamus, "Hister" (or Ister) only means Hitler - and not the Latin name for the Danube River - if you choose to believe he foresaw Hitler. The same goes for Nay, Pau and Oloron, which is either an anagram for Napoleon or three French towns ( http://www.1st-for-french-property.co.uk/property/town/location.php?ss=Sud%20Barn%20:%20Pau,%20Oloron,%20Laruns,%20Pontacq,%20Nay®ion=Aquitaine&dept=Pyrenees-Atlantiques ).
No, my little post here isn't meant as an attack on psychics and the paranormal. Far from it. My fascination with prophecies and accounts of the supernatural persists to this day. But as Charles Mackay pointed out to me 35 years ago, we must always keep our eyes peeled for charlatans and mountebanks and never, never, never believe the first person you hear. For those of you interested in checking out Mackay's complete work, it can be found on Scribd: https://www.scribd.com/read/234160024/Extraordinary-Popular-Delusions-and-the-Madness-of-Crowds and also Google Books :: http://books.google.com/books?id=Ff7QH7bF3zgC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0
My favorite place in the universe at that time was the Cleveland Public Library downtown. From the age of 13, I'd been taking the 75 Bus down Lorain Road in North Olmsted to the Library on Superior. Back in those days, kids did stuff like this without much concern from their parents. Yes, Evil was out there; it just wasn't part of the 24-7 news cycle, mostly because there was no 24-7 news cycle. Anyway, armed with Cheetham's bibliography at the end of her book, I entered my fortress of solitude and immediately attacked the Library's mammoth card catalog located in the basement "tombs".
Back in those days, there was no internet nor any kind of computerized cataloging of information. Diligent researchers needed to wade through thousands of tiny typewritten notecards filed meticulously in huge wooden drawers with only a knowledge of the Dewey Decimal and Library of Congress catalog systems to guide them. If you were looking for a particular author or title, the process was fairly easy. For those investigating a particular subject, however, such as the prophecies of Nostradamus, the searches became a little trickier. The catalog included "Subject Cards," but these leads could often turn a paper chase into a wild goose chase deep into an intellectual thicket. Thus, in my quest for volumes regarding Nostradamus' Quatrains, I found myself jotting down the names of at least forty books that may or may not provide me with the answers I was looking for.
Chief among these titles was a book bearing a fascinating and thoroughly compelling title, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, by Charles Mackay. I mean what 10th grader wouldn't want to check out a book by that name? Scouring the stacks looking for my prize, I eagerly anticipated a tome dedicated to unraveling the predictions of Nostradamus in relation to huge waves of angry mobs, riots and other social tumult soon to unfold. When I finally secured the book and started reading, however, I discovered a completely different work.
Mackay's book studied charlatans and frauds. Certainly he can't consider Nostradamus a fraud! Starting at the table of contents, I frantically paged through the book searching for a section or even a citation lionizing my revered seer. What I discovered, however, shook the very foundations of my new faith. And I quote:
... the chief astrologer of that day, beyond all doubt, was the celebrated Nostradamus, physician to her husband, King Henry II. He was born in 1503 at the town of St. Remi, in Provence, where his father was a notary. He did not acquire much fame till he was past his fiftieth year, when his famous Centuries, a collection of verses, written in obscure and almost unintelligible language, began to excite attention.
Of course the language is obscure. He was transcribing visions and had to encode his prophecies so as not to be accused of withccraft ... I read on:
They were so much spoken of in 1556, that Henry II. resolved to attach so skillful a man to his service,and appointed him his physician. In a biographical notice of him, prefixed to the edition of his Vraies Centuries, published at Amsterdam in 1668, we are informed that he often discoursed with his royal master on the secrets of futurity, and received many great presents as his reward, besides his usual allowance for medical attendance.
See? He was obviously no charlatan!
After the death of Henry he retired to his native place, where Charles IX. paid him a visit in 1564; and was so impressed with veneration for his wondrous knowledge of the things that were to be, not in France only, but in the whole world for hundreds of years to come, that he made him a counsellor of state and his own physician, besides treating him in other matters with a royal liberality.
So he was definitely the real deal ...
“In fine,” continues his biographer, “I should be too prolix were I to tell all the honors conferred upon him, and all the great nobles and learned men that arrived at his house from the very ends of the earth, to see and converse with him as if he had been an oracle. Many strangers, in fact, came to France for no other purpose than to consult him.”
After reading that sentence, I knew that Mackay's remaining words could only further venerate Michel de Nostradame as the real deal:
The prophecies of Nostradamus consist of upwards of a thousand stanzas, each of four lines, and are to the full as obscure as the oracles of old. They take so great a latitude, both as to time and space, that they are almost sure to be fulfilled somewhere or other in the course of a few centuries ... He is to this day extremely popular in France and the Walloon country of Belgium, where old farmer-wives consult him with great confidence and assiduity.
Whaaaat?! In three mere sentences, this pompous blowhard had glibly dispensed of my prophet as yet another charlatan to be derided and mocked. But how could this be? According to Cheetham and Orson Welles, Michel De Nostradame's powers of prognostication existed far beyond any kind of doubt - reasonable or unreasonable.
Furious, I decided to read Mackay's book and note every error and libel I could find. Turning back to the beginning, then, I slowly began meeting alchemists, fortune tellers, magnetizers and a whole host of madmen and mountebanks perpepetrating ill-advised and often illegal shenanigans: the Mississippi Scheme, the South Sea Bubble, Tulipmania. By the time I caught up to and reread Mackay's dismissal of Nostradamus, sober reflection had replaced fervent faith. Mackay had administered an intellectual bitch-slapping I still recall to this day.
Of course, I continued conducting further research into the prophecies of Nostradamus, just to see if there really was anything there. By time I read James Randi's The Mask of Nostradamus in the 90s, however, I'd pretty much come to the conclusion that Michel de Nostradame, like all other psychics and fortune tellers, are only as accurate as their proponents believe them to be. The "truth" of their powers is a matter of Faith, not Science. In the case of Nostradamus, "Hister" (or Ister) only means Hitler - and not the Latin name for the Danube River - if you choose to believe he foresaw Hitler. The same goes for Nay, Pau and Oloron, which is either an anagram for Napoleon or three French towns ( http://www.1st-for-french-property.co.uk/property/town/location.php?ss=Sud%20Barn%20:%20Pau,%20Oloron,%20Laruns,%20Pontacq,%20Nay®ion=Aquitaine&dept=Pyrenees-Atlantiques ).
No, my little post here isn't meant as an attack on psychics and the paranormal. Far from it. My fascination with prophecies and accounts of the supernatural persists to this day. But as Charles Mackay pointed out to me 35 years ago, we must always keep our eyes peeled for charlatans and mountebanks and never, never, never believe the first person you hear. For those of you interested in checking out Mackay's complete work, it can be found on Scribd: https://www.scribd.com/read/234160024/Extraordinary-Popular-Delusions-and-the-Madness-of-Crowds and also Google Books :: http://books.google.com/books?id=Ff7QH7bF3zgC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Work Song
Before we get into the subject of work, watch this video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AnjhQ6WH2k
Honestly, Mr. Darin pretty much says it all for me. Yes, I know my 9-5 ring-around-the-collar job pushing tin around the globe for International Widgets doesn't exactly qualify as working on a chain gang. But lawdy, that's exactly how I feel every bleeping minute I'm manacled to my desk dying one email at a time. That's why I 'm always flabbergasted when I hear someone talk about how bored he gets sitting around on vacation or when she delivers a sentiment like: "If I won the lottery, I'd still keep my job because, you know, what else would I do with all my time ..?"
Really?! You've watched every great film? Read every great book? Listened to every great piece of music? Seen every great work of art? Traveled to every corner of the globe and visited every landmark and shrine? Mastered every art & science known to man? Written every novel, short story, poem, play, screenplay, essay and/or memoir locked inside you? Who are you? Mr. Terrific? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mister_Terrific_(Terry_Sloane)
Now before you get the wrong idea, this little missive isn't going to be some rant about how I hate my job. Or how I wish I had a career doing X, Y or Z. What I'm talking about here is my utter detestation and loathing for the actual concept of work itself. Or rather, the crushing reality that in order to survive and take care of my familial, domestic and financial obligations I must be gainfully employed.
But maybe you just haven't found the right job ..? Look, let me tell you a story about a guy I met whilst living in NYC in the early 90s. Ira (his middle name) had the dream job - at least what a single guy in his mid-late twenties considered a dream job. Ira produced and starred in porno movies. In fact, if I gave you his stage name, any porn fan would recognize it immediately. (And NO, he's NOT Ron Jeremy!) Ira was a true giant in the industry; in fact, he served as the inspiration for a Hollywood film character that netted his portrayer an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe. I met Ira while working at Shakespeare and Company Bookstore on the upper West Side. He was a frequent customer, and we shared the same eclectic literary tastes. He also knew one of my coworkers, Ian, and that gave me several occasions to break bread and share few pints with him. Anyone who thinks people in porn are stupid needs to meet a guy like Ira. He was smarter and more erudite than most PhDs I've met. And NO ONE could spin a story like him.
Anyway, the first time that Ian and I met him for dinner, we were all talking about our jobs and lives, and then - to my shock - he started bitching that he had to go to a shoot later that evening. I thought he was pulling my leg at first. I mean what guy complains about having to leave dinner with two schlubs so he can go have hours of no-holds-barred sex with not one, two but three pornstars. When I asked him this, he looked at me, sighed, and then told me exactly what awaited him at his job. After hearing him describe every unsavory sight, sound and smell accompanying a porn shoot, I learned a valuable life lesson. No matter what the job may be, for some of us unfortunate souls work always always always sucks. I guess maybe some of us are just hardwired differently.
Since my earliest memories, I've always looked upon work as captivity. Punishment. Something I'm forced to do because I'm not rich enough to avoid it or indolent enough to simply ignore it. When I have a job to do, I tap into my bottomless black hole of rage and ATTACK it, striving with every fiber of my being to finish the tribulation as accurately and quickly as possible. Not because I care about the work. Rather for the simple reason that I hate work and want to extirpate every last molecule of it from my existence. I've had coworkers observe my ferocity and tenacity, and then tell me I'm a workaholic. They have absolutely no idea what the F*** they're talking about.
I'm breaking rocks on the chain gang and serving my time. That's it! And I'll keep working .. working .. 'cause I got me so terrible long to go.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AnjhQ6WH2k
Honestly, Mr. Darin pretty much says it all for me. Yes, I know my 9-5 ring-around-the-collar job pushing tin around the globe for International Widgets doesn't exactly qualify as working on a chain gang. But lawdy, that's exactly how I feel every bleeping minute I'm manacled to my desk dying one email at a time. That's why I 'm always flabbergasted when I hear someone talk about how bored he gets sitting around on vacation or when she delivers a sentiment like: "If I won the lottery, I'd still keep my job because, you know, what else would I do with all my time ..?"
Really?! You've watched every great film? Read every great book? Listened to every great piece of music? Seen every great work of art? Traveled to every corner of the globe and visited every landmark and shrine? Mastered every art & science known to man? Written every novel, short story, poem, play, screenplay, essay and/or memoir locked inside you? Who are you? Mr. Terrific? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mister_Terrific_(Terry_Sloane)
Now before you get the wrong idea, this little missive isn't going to be some rant about how I hate my job. Or how I wish I had a career doing X, Y or Z. What I'm talking about here is my utter detestation and loathing for the actual concept of work itself. Or rather, the crushing reality that in order to survive and take care of my familial, domestic and financial obligations I must be gainfully employed.
But maybe you just haven't found the right job ..? Look, let me tell you a story about a guy I met whilst living in NYC in the early 90s. Ira (his middle name) had the dream job - at least what a single guy in his mid-late twenties considered a dream job. Ira produced and starred in porno movies. In fact, if I gave you his stage name, any porn fan would recognize it immediately. (And NO, he's NOT Ron Jeremy!) Ira was a true giant in the industry; in fact, he served as the inspiration for a Hollywood film character that netted his portrayer an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe. I met Ira while working at Shakespeare and Company Bookstore on the upper West Side. He was a frequent customer, and we shared the same eclectic literary tastes. He also knew one of my coworkers, Ian, and that gave me several occasions to break bread and share few pints with him. Anyone who thinks people in porn are stupid needs to meet a guy like Ira. He was smarter and more erudite than most PhDs I've met. And NO ONE could spin a story like him.
Anyway, the first time that Ian and I met him for dinner, we were all talking about our jobs and lives, and then - to my shock - he started bitching that he had to go to a shoot later that evening. I thought he was pulling my leg at first. I mean what guy complains about having to leave dinner with two schlubs so he can go have hours of no-holds-barred sex with not one, two but three pornstars. When I asked him this, he looked at me, sighed, and then told me exactly what awaited him at his job. After hearing him describe every unsavory sight, sound and smell accompanying a porn shoot, I learned a valuable life lesson. No matter what the job may be, for some of us unfortunate souls work always always always sucks. I guess maybe some of us are just hardwired differently.
Since my earliest memories, I've always looked upon work as captivity. Punishment. Something I'm forced to do because I'm not rich enough to avoid it or indolent enough to simply ignore it. When I have a job to do, I tap into my bottomless black hole of rage and ATTACK it, striving with every fiber of my being to finish the tribulation as accurately and quickly as possible. Not because I care about the work. Rather for the simple reason that I hate work and want to extirpate every last molecule of it from my existence. I've had coworkers observe my ferocity and tenacity, and then tell me I'm a workaholic. They have absolutely no idea what the F*** they're talking about.
I'm breaking rocks on the chain gang and serving my time. That's it! And I'll keep working .. working .. 'cause I got me so terrible long to go.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Happy F---ing Birthday to Me or Adventures at the Ohio BMV
Okay, grab a cup of joe and pay attention because this latest Kozakian mishap has more twists and turns than a Nelson Demille novel, It all started back in September/October when I bought my new/used 2009 Kia Sedona and scrapped the 2005 Sedona (RIP). I gave the tow truck guy the junker and the title, and then I took the license plate & new title memorandum to the BMV to see if I could get the old Sedona plate on the new Sedona. Following me so far? Good. Because the BMV clerk never even got close.
It seems she didn't transfer the license plate I physically handed her. Noooo ... For some reason known only to God and the clandestine cabal that has been plaguing me since my birth, she went into her database and transferred the license on my 2004 Kia RIO to my new Sedona before pressing a button, launching a cyber Photon torpedo and literally expunging all record of the Kia Rio from the BMV database. She then handed me back the memorandum, took my money and sent me on my merry way completely clueless as to the egregious a**-r*ping that just transpired.
So, for the last three months Jen has been driving around the 2004 Rio, which now doesn't exist according to the BMV, and I'm driving around my 2009 Sedona with the "wrong" plates. Meanwhile, the BMV thinks the 2005 Sedona is still chugging merrily along Ohio's highways and byways. Fast forward to yesterday, three days before my tags expire.
I stroll into the BMV, get the same clerk who "helped" me in October, and the whole tangled skein slowly and tortuously begins to unravel. Of course, I have all my documents in my car, right where I left them in October. As we start reviewing them, it all starts making sense. Net result, I have clear, unequivocal WRITTEN and NOTARIZED proof that SHE bunged up the whole mess. Her reaction? Utter bald-faced DENIAL. Then she uses those great people skills possessed by all BMV employees and quips, "Well, I may have made an error, but you just have too many Kias .." hahahaha.
Needless to say, Mark was NOT laughing. Why? Because after she resurrected my 2004 Kia Rio in the BMV system she discovered that the e-check records can't be re-instated. So I now need to get an E-Check on the 2004 Rio. That wouldn't be a big deal except for the fact that the Check Engine light is on. I know what the problem is. It's a $1,000 O2 sensor. Since the Rio is a 2004, I didn't need to have an e-check this year, which gave me a year to make the repair or buy a new car. That is until Madame Curie at the BMV "helped" me in October.
If anyone has read through this entire yarn and understood it, then you're doing better than me. My head is still spinning, and I feel another wave of PTSD-induced nausea coursing through my weary, beaten body. Happy F---ing Birthday to me!
It seems she didn't transfer the license plate I physically handed her. Noooo ... For some reason known only to God and the clandestine cabal that has been plaguing me since my birth, she went into her database and transferred the license on my 2004 Kia RIO to my new Sedona before pressing a button, launching a cyber Photon torpedo and literally expunging all record of the Kia Rio from the BMV database. She then handed me back the memorandum, took my money and sent me on my merry way completely clueless as to the egregious a**-r*ping that just transpired.
So, for the last three months Jen has been driving around the 2004 Rio, which now doesn't exist according to the BMV, and I'm driving around my 2009 Sedona with the "wrong" plates. Meanwhile, the BMV thinks the 2005 Sedona is still chugging merrily along Ohio's highways and byways. Fast forward to yesterday, three days before my tags expire.
I stroll into the BMV, get the same clerk who "helped" me in October, and the whole tangled skein slowly and tortuously begins to unravel. Of course, I have all my documents in my car, right where I left them in October. As we start reviewing them, it all starts making sense. Net result, I have clear, unequivocal WRITTEN and NOTARIZED proof that SHE bunged up the whole mess. Her reaction? Utter bald-faced DENIAL. Then she uses those great people skills possessed by all BMV employees and quips, "Well, I may have made an error, but you just have too many Kias .." hahahaha.
Needless to say, Mark was NOT laughing. Why? Because after she resurrected my 2004 Kia Rio in the BMV system she discovered that the e-check records can't be re-instated. So I now need to get an E-Check on the 2004 Rio. That wouldn't be a big deal except for the fact that the Check Engine light is on. I know what the problem is. It's a $1,000 O2 sensor. Since the Rio is a 2004, I didn't need to have an e-check this year, which gave me a year to make the repair or buy a new car. That is until Madame Curie at the BMV "helped" me in October.
If anyone has read through this entire yarn and understood it, then you're doing better than me. My head is still spinning, and I feel another wave of PTSD-induced nausea coursing through my weary, beaten body. Happy F---ing Birthday to me!
Thursday, January 22, 2015
From my Scribd Library - Unsolved: True Canadian Cold Cases by Robert J. Hoshowsky
Unsolved: True Canadian Cold Cases by Robert J. Hoshowsky
https://www.scribd.com/book/230100891/Unsolved-True-Canadian-Cold-Cases
Living in the USA, my fascination with contemporary cold cases - i.e. missing persons, unsolved murders and thefts - tends to be a tad provincial, revolving around mysteries encountered on television broadcasts and front pages devoted almost exclusively to "American" news. Opening the pages of Unsolved by Robert Hoshowsky, then, introduced me to a whole new world of who- and how- dunits. As I turned page after page, I couldn't help but ask myself "How the hell have I never heard of this case?"
Take eight-year-old Nicole Morin for example. On July 30th, 1985, shortly after 10:30AM, she left her family's apartment in Etobicoke, Ontario to go swimming with a friend. Before leaving the apartment, she said goodbye to her mother and also spoke via intercom with her friend waiting in the building's lobby. Then somehow, in the course of descending 20 floors, she simply vanished. After waiting about 15 minutes, Nicole's friend buzzed back to Nicole's apartment, got no answer, decided Nicole must be delayed and went off to the swimming pool without her. Only hours later, after Nicole failed to return home, did her family realize she'd gone missing. And that, as they say, is that.
Wow. How have I never heard this story before?
Unsolved is filled with cases like this: the stone-cold whodunit murder of entrepreneur, Frank Roberts; the appearance of seven severed feet washing up on the shores of British Columbia over the course several months (since solved: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2110052/Human-feet-washed-Pacific-coast-people-committed-suicide.html ). In some instances, Hoshowsky even presents some tantalizing theories to explain these untoward events, and this is where his study becomes most interesting. In most cases, however, he refrains from speculation out of sensitivity to the victims and survivors, Although I appreciate his discretion, as a reader and fellow cold case enthusiast I must confess my disappointment when his presentation simply concludes with the known facts.
These Canadian cases, like their counterparts worldwide, beg for hypotheses, theories and conjectures. In an upcoming blog, I will look at the Morin disappearance in more detail and try to provide some possible scenarios to explain her vanishing. For now, though, I can heartily recommend Hoshowsky's book as a fascinating introduction to unsolved mysteries that few, if any, Americans will know. For those wishing to further research Canadian missing persons and cold cases, these webpages may be a good starting point:
https://missingkids.ca/app/en/missing_children_database
http://listverse.com/2014/09/09/10-haunting-canadian-murders-that-no-one-can-solve/
For those interested in more cold cases and unsolved mysteries, check out my Crimes, Cons & Scams collection:
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11872131/Crime-Cons-Scams
https://www.scribd.com/book/230100891/Unsolved-True-Canadian-Cold-Cases
Living in the USA, my fascination with contemporary cold cases - i.e. missing persons, unsolved murders and thefts - tends to be a tad provincial, revolving around mysteries encountered on television broadcasts and front pages devoted almost exclusively to "American" news. Opening the pages of Unsolved by Robert Hoshowsky, then, introduced me to a whole new world of who- and how- dunits. As I turned page after page, I couldn't help but ask myself "How the hell have I never heard of this case?"
Take eight-year-old Nicole Morin for example. On July 30th, 1985, shortly after 10:30AM, she left her family's apartment in Etobicoke, Ontario to go swimming with a friend. Before leaving the apartment, she said goodbye to her mother and also spoke via intercom with her friend waiting in the building's lobby. Then somehow, in the course of descending 20 floors, she simply vanished. After waiting about 15 minutes, Nicole's friend buzzed back to Nicole's apartment, got no answer, decided Nicole must be delayed and went off to the swimming pool without her. Only hours later, after Nicole failed to return home, did her family realize she'd gone missing. And that, as they say, is that.
Wow. How have I never heard this story before?
Unsolved is filled with cases like this: the stone-cold whodunit murder of entrepreneur, Frank Roberts; the appearance of seven severed feet washing up on the shores of British Columbia over the course several months (since solved: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2110052/Human-feet-washed-Pacific-coast-people-committed-suicide.html ). In some instances, Hoshowsky even presents some tantalizing theories to explain these untoward events, and this is where his study becomes most interesting. In most cases, however, he refrains from speculation out of sensitivity to the victims and survivors, Although I appreciate his discretion, as a reader and fellow cold case enthusiast I must confess my disappointment when his presentation simply concludes with the known facts.
These Canadian cases, like their counterparts worldwide, beg for hypotheses, theories and conjectures. In an upcoming blog, I will look at the Morin disappearance in more detail and try to provide some possible scenarios to explain her vanishing. For now, though, I can heartily recommend Hoshowsky's book as a fascinating introduction to unsolved mysteries that few, if any, Americans will know. For those wishing to further research Canadian missing persons and cold cases, these webpages may be a good starting point:
https://missingkids.ca/app/en/missing_children_database
http://listverse.com/2014/09/09/10-haunting-canadian-murders-that-no-one-can-solve/
For those interested in more cold cases and unsolved mysteries, check out my Crimes, Cons & Scams collection:
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11872131/Crime-Cons-Scams
Saturday, January 17, 2015
From my Scribd Library - Badass by Ben Thompson
Badass by Ben Thompson
https://www.scribd.com/book/163580986/Badass
Kudos to Ben Thompson. I wish I would have come up with this concept first. Hard-boiled history written for guys who don't want analysis or political correctness. Just in-your-face action. Perfect fare if you're in the mood for bite-sized bios, ass-kicking anecdotes and rip-roaring yarns. Although his prose can be repetitive at times, Thompson serves up a bevvy of "awesome" one liners amid his over-the-top narrative and crude characterizations. And the history isn't that half-bad either, as long as you take it with a grain of salt and separate the comic hyperbole from fact. I liked Thompson's initial offering so much that I've added the rest of his canon to my library:
https://www.scribd.com/book/163649482/Badass-Ultimate-Deathmatch-Skull-Crushing-True-Stories-of-the-Most-Hardcore-Duels-Showdowns-Fistfights-Last-Stands-Suicide-Charges-and-Military
https://www.scribd.com/read/163612579/Badass-The-Birth-of-a-Legend-Spine-Crushing-Tales-of-the-Most-Merciless-Gods-Monsters-Heroes-Villains-and-Mythical-Creatures-Ever-Envisioned
For those interested in more unbuttoned history and ass-kicking heroes & superheroes, check out my History & Psuedo-History and Heroes & Superheroes collections:
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11872572/History-and-Pseudohistory
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11070342/Heroes-and-Superheroes
MK
https://www.scribd.com/book/163580986/Badass
Kudos to Ben Thompson. I wish I would have come up with this concept first. Hard-boiled history written for guys who don't want analysis or political correctness. Just in-your-face action. Perfect fare if you're in the mood for bite-sized bios, ass-kicking anecdotes and rip-roaring yarns. Although his prose can be repetitive at times, Thompson serves up a bevvy of "awesome" one liners amid his over-the-top narrative and crude characterizations. And the history isn't that half-bad either, as long as you take it with a grain of salt and separate the comic hyperbole from fact. I liked Thompson's initial offering so much that I've added the rest of his canon to my library:
https://www.scribd.com/book/163649482/Badass-Ultimate-Deathmatch-Skull-Crushing-True-Stories-of-the-Most-Hardcore-Duels-Showdowns-Fistfights-Last-Stands-Suicide-Charges-and-Military
https://www.scribd.com/read/163612579/Badass-The-Birth-of-a-Legend-Spine-Crushing-Tales-of-the-Most-Merciless-Gods-Monsters-Heroes-Villains-and-Mythical-Creatures-Ever-Envisioned
For those interested in more unbuttoned history and ass-kicking heroes & superheroes, check out my History & Psuedo-History and Heroes & Superheroes collections:
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11872572/History-and-Pseudohistory
https://www.scribd.com/collections/11070342/Heroes-and-Superheroes
MK
Thursday, January 15, 2015
The Big Lebowski, Best Movie EVER!
Okay, after my fiftieth viewing of The Big Lebowski, I stand even more firmly convinced that this Coen Brothers classic is simply - and without a doubt - the greatest movie .. EVER MADE. The Dude - his Dudeness, El Duderino - not only abides, he pretty much rules the entire cinematic universe. Okay, I can hear all you Citizen Kane, Godfather, Casablanca fans bleating from the balcony. The Lebowski? Really? So I guess it's just up to me to not only present the case for the Dude, but PROVE that no other film even comes close to one slacker's search for the ultimate Caucasian (aka a White Russian for all you uninitiated).
1) Jeff Bridges as the Dude. Rumor has it that Kurt Russell was also considered for this role. He would have been great. Love Kurt. But Jeff Bridges should have immediately been awarded the Lifetime Achievement Oscar the minute Lebowski wrapped. Every single f---ing scene with Bridges is a clinic. A CLINIC. Some actors need dialogue. Mr. Bridges delivers the finest scene in cinematic history without speaking a word: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fl7o1EB0sYI .
2) John Goodman as Walter Sobchak. Okay, I understand that so-called film critics wax on and on about the "craft" of being a great supporting actor, but honestly John Goodman puts every other performer to shame. Proof? Just watch and listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BdT5mFAk-Y . Watch Bridges just play off Goodman's genius. As for Steve Buscemi, the Academy needs to create a new award for him, Best Supporting Supporting Actor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AEMiz6rcxc . As for John Tuturro as The Jesus, Best Supporting Supporting Supporting Actor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZR58d77a4A .
3) The single funniest scene in cinematic history. The set up is simple. You've seen this scene a thousand times before in a thousand different detective movies. After some investigative work, The Dude and Walter track the stolen ransom money to a high school student who went joy riding in The Dude's car: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PztgWdMEJdg Yes, that's Larry father in the background in an iron lung. AN IRON LUNG! They had to take me out of the movie theater and call an ambulance the first time I saw this I was laughing that hard.
So there you have it. I could go on and on and on and keep proving my point. But right now I feel like pouring myself a Caucasian and just chilling with my rug. BTW, I married my wife because she is the only woman I've ever known who loves this movie and totally gets it. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have married Jen anyway. But her appreciation of this masterpiece sealed the deal. To all bachelors out there, I recommend screening Lebowski with any prospective spouse just to see her reaction. If she can't just kick back and let the movie take her where its going, she may also have the same problem navigating the twists, turns and ludicrous non sequiturs of matrimony. But that's just .. like my opinion, man.
1) Jeff Bridges as the Dude. Rumor has it that Kurt Russell was also considered for this role. He would have been great. Love Kurt. But Jeff Bridges should have immediately been awarded the Lifetime Achievement Oscar the minute Lebowski wrapped. Every single f---ing scene with Bridges is a clinic. A CLINIC. Some actors need dialogue. Mr. Bridges delivers the finest scene in cinematic history without speaking a word: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fl7o1EB0sYI .
2) John Goodman as Walter Sobchak. Okay, I understand that so-called film critics wax on and on about the "craft" of being a great supporting actor, but honestly John Goodman puts every other performer to shame. Proof? Just watch and listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BdT5mFAk-Y . Watch Bridges just play off Goodman's genius. As for Steve Buscemi, the Academy needs to create a new award for him, Best Supporting Supporting Actor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AEMiz6rcxc . As for John Tuturro as The Jesus, Best Supporting Supporting Supporting Actor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZR58d77a4A .
3) The single funniest scene in cinematic history. The set up is simple. You've seen this scene a thousand times before in a thousand different detective movies. After some investigative work, The Dude and Walter track the stolen ransom money to a high school student who went joy riding in The Dude's car: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PztgWdMEJdg Yes, that's Larry father in the background in an iron lung. AN IRON LUNG! They had to take me out of the movie theater and call an ambulance the first time I saw this I was laughing that hard.
So there you have it. I could go on and on and on and keep proving my point. But right now I feel like pouring myself a Caucasian and just chilling with my rug. BTW, I married my wife because she is the only woman I've ever known who loves this movie and totally gets it. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have married Jen anyway. But her appreciation of this masterpiece sealed the deal. To all bachelors out there, I recommend screening Lebowski with any prospective spouse just to see her reaction. If she can't just kick back and let the movie take her where its going, she may also have the same problem navigating the twists, turns and ludicrous non sequiturs of matrimony. But that's just .. like my opinion, man.
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