A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Suburban Bliss

It's been more than a few months since our hero (me, of course) posted. Sorry, I've been busy. New job, expanded connections w/ the new fam, time w/ the existing fam and, oh yeah, I got cancer.

Some of you already know this, some don't. Regardless, it is what it is. What it is, specifically, is Multiple Myeloma. It's a cancer of the blood. Ironically, it's generally not believed to be related to smoking, so I guess the two pack a day habit I had been working the previous 20-odd years wasn't so bad after all. The good news is, I'm told, due to being caught in very early stages, it should be very treatable. The bad news is, well obviously, it's still cancer which means eventually it'll probably come back. Oh well, what can you do. The saga runs a little something like this...

Early January, 2010: For the first time in forever, I find myself working for a corporate bar. Con - corporate bs, Pro - insurance. When my insurance kicks in, I keep my promise to Rita and go for a check up. After being poked, prodded, probed, tapped, flicked, fingered and generally manhandled, I'm told I'm severely anemic. Over the next few weeks, I see several specialists to determine the cause of this anemia. For reasons unknown to me, it seems the entire medical community could not suppress their urges to shove their fingers/hands/arms up my pooper. Not to sound like a prude, but I'm not a fan of this procedure. It makes Mr. Starfish VERY unhappy. But enough about my sphincter.

My hematologist/oncologist diagnosed me in about two minutes. She's a very sharp lady. Smart and aggressive, I liked her immediately. Her "take no prisoners" attitude won me over out of the gate. I started Revlemid immediately, as well as assorted other meds to combat pain, infection, constipation and any of another dozen afflictions. Things were cool for a couple of weeks, but then took a turn for the worse.

Late February: Deterioration of mass in the femur and the quadriceps (thigh bones and muscles) led to a pretty painful condition and made walking nearly impossible. This landed me in the hospital. While the good people were trying to figure out how to deal w/ it, I wound up stoned as a bat for two weeks and some change. I'm not talking a little stoned. I'm talking gooney-goo-goo, mumbo dog-face, banana patch stoned. I have absolutely no recollection of my stay from about an hour after I hit the emergency room until I "blinked back in" two and a half weeks later. The bad news, I lost two weeks. The good news, I quit smoking. Who knew you just had to get really high on two different kinds of morphine, oxycodone, oxycontin, vicadin and various other pain killers to get the monkey off your back?

Mid-March: After waking up from my med-fueled stupor, my legs were in rough shape. Though they'd achieved the right mix for a cocktail to deal w/ the pain, my legs had deteriorated further, and now I could add two weeks of atrophy to the list of problems. The lower quads wouldn't quite fire correctly anymore. I was gonna have to learn to walk again. Two weeks of physical therapy got me up in a walker and motoring around pretty well. My first day, I was only good for a very painful 20 ft or so. 4 days later, a moderately painful 75 ft. 9 days, 300 ft. 12 days, 600 ft and change and I was tired before I felt any residual pain. the Matty rocks!!!

Now and the Future: I've set up a fb fanpage to keep my homeys apprised of what's going on titled "The Matty vs. Multiple Myeloma". Look it up if you like, join if you like. I appreciate the feedback and it feeds my ego to see the numbers climb.

In the (hopefully) near future, I'll be putting together fundraisers for several Cancer funds that have stepped up to help during my time of need. Since all I really know how to do is throw a party, I'm sure it'll devolve into some type of drunk-fest, but I'll already have the cash in hand, so screw it, just don't drink and drive. The work in progress is a tour of several cities (Atlanta, New York, Chicago and L.A. are the working cities, thus far) to raise money for local as well as national charities.

I'm also setting up a shop page on Cafe Press for T-shirts, hoodies, steins and stuff to help keep the bills paid (not working sucks). If you see something you like, by all means buy it. I'll post the sites on the Myeloma and the Asshats fanpages, so there's no excuse to miss it.

Hopefully, this answers all the questions my pals have been afraid to ask for the last couple of months. Yes, it sucks. No, I'm not scared. Yes, I'm annoyed at the timing (Jeez I finally hook up w/ the greatest gal in the world after 40-something years, and now this). No, I'm not ready to run the white flag.

With a little help and support from family and friends, I'll beat this by the end of the year. No doubt...no fear...no problem.

Big Love to all.

The Archives

Talking with a guy in a restaurant the other day, I was reminded of a few stories/exchanges from the last several years...

Randomness -

Snotty NYU bitch: "I'm never coming back to this bar. It stinks like vomit!!!"

As she turned away, the source of the odor she was complaining of was evident. The back of her skirt was covered in barf. I'm guessing someone lost their Chicken a la King on her. Oh, well.

St. Patricks Day -

A young lady staggered from the bar, leaned over the A-frame sign, and blew chunks in front of God and everyone. After her purge, she lurched over to the wall of the next building and proceeded to dry heave for several minutes. During this time, her dutiful boyfriend exited the bar to be supportive, hold her hair and do the "good boyfriend shit".

When she finished expunging the devil liquor from her system, she rewarded him in classic style. With a a hug and a kiss. He tried to pull away, but wasn't quick enough. When they separated, he had a nice racing stripe of barf running from the middle of his chest to his belt. Ah, young love.

Randomness II -

As I was escorting a young gent to the door for acting like an asshat, he stopped abruptly and announced "I don't wanna be here anyway! This bar SUCKS!!!"

Me: "You know, you're right. Let me fix that"

I took him by the shoulders and moved him out the door onto the sidewalk.

"There, now the bar doesn't suck anymore. Thanks for pointing out the problem, douche."

You're Parents Must Be Proud -

I entered the bar from a smoke break and saw one of the regulars flagging me relentlessly.

Ed: "That guy...PEE!"

Me: (looking at a guy at a table by the door sitting with his back to the wall) "That guy? What? When?"

Ed: "Now!!!"

(leaning over, I saw the monkey-fuck was, in fact peeing on the floor at that exact moment in time)

I casually walked towards the door. As I approached the failure in Darwinism, I grabbed the table and jerked it away. He was like a deer caught in the headlights...with his johnson hanging out. He tried to run by me, but I grabbed him by the arm and shoulder.

I presume he was fearful of catching a beating, so he collapsed on the floor and curled up in a ball. I quickly made an executive decision. Since he couldn't have weighed more than 150, I decided to allow him live, but endure a different kind of "walk of shame".

I grabbed one leg and his hair and began sliding him back and forth on the floor. I was, in fact, mopping up the pee with the little douchebag.

He screamed, and protested that I was "getting pee" on him. Well no shit, rocket scientist.

After several swipes through the puddle, I let him go. He was drenched on his back and side from his hair to his shoes in his own urine. Ah, sweet satisfaction. He left, crying, never to return.

He never bothered to put his tool away, even as he left. What a butt-munch.

Words of advice for when you go to the bar -

Have an idea of what you want. If you say "Oh, just make me something good." I'll respond "Oh, I'm sorry, I only know how to make drinks that taste like flop sweat."

It's more than a little silly to complain that a bar is crowded on a weekend night. If a bar isn't busy on a weekend night, they'll soon be out of business. Find something else to bitch about.

If you really think it's acceptable to recycle random drinks (ie pick up discarded drinks and consume them as if they were your own), please find the nearest national park, cover yourself in a blanket of raw meat and wait for wild animals to come consume you. You're too dumb to live in my world.

My 9/11

My day, 09/11/01

Shortly before 9:00 a.m., my roommate entered my room. She said "they blew up one of the twin towers". As I had been in the bar until 4:00 a.m. throwing darts the night before, I was not in the mood for her "stupid shit" and told her as much. "How could anyone blow up the whole building? You're overreacting". Several minutes later, she came back and told me the other tower was now ablaze. Infuriated at the interruption of my sweet slumber, I went upstairs and looked out the window, as our view of lower Manhattan was excellent. The towers were, in fact, burning.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the television. They were talking about terrorists. They were talking about possible attacks in the subways. They were talking about some seriously scary shit. About 9:20, all bridges and tunnels to Manhattan were closed.

About 9:45 a plane hit the pentagon.

I was trying hard not to freak out. Not only did I have friends working in and near the WTC, many of my co-workers at the bar worked as flight attendants for American Airlines. I had no idea where anyone was, and with the phone lines overloaded, no way to find where they were.

10:05 - the south tower collapses. A few minutes later, still another plane goes down in Pennsylvania

I'm able to get signal on my cel phone sporadically, and get through to my cousin in Atlanta, and tell her to let the family know I'm ok.

10:28 - the north tower comes down.

I kept trying desperately to reach friends. My boss and friend Gina was traveling to the Bahamas that day (on American) and I had no idea at that point where she was. I was bordering on frantic, but trying hard to keep it together. I knew, with limited phone service, staff and friends would eventually go to, or call, the bar to check in. No trains were running, though, so I was boned. The point was moot. Mayor Rudy told everyone to stay out of lower Manhattan about 30 minutes later.

I finally got ahold of Gina, and she had checked on the girls from the bar. To her knowledge, no one had been in the air. Now I just had to worry about where everyone was that morning. Partially relieved, I still felt I needed to get into the city. A few minutes before 3:00 p.m., Mayor Rudy said the trains would be back up shortly. If nothing else, I knew to take it to the bank that the trains would be up...Rudy said so.

I threw some things in a bag and hauled ass to the "L" train. I got there a few minutes after 3, and damned if there wasn't a train waiting on me. Providence. I was in the city 12 minutes later.

I came out of the subway to a surreal sight. No traffic. Just people. Dirty people. Crying people. People so obviously in shock I have no idea how they kept going. There was smoke and debris in the air...and a stench I can't describe. People were walking, running, doing whatever they could to get as far away as possible from what is now called Ground Zero. The Mayor had closed the city below Canal St, about 13 blocks away. The only way these people were getting out was on foot.

I went to the bar and found a regular sitting on the steps. He was, apparently, well into his 2nd 40 oz. "I'm sorry Matty, but I didn't know where else to go." Then he wept. I comforted him the best I could, then let him inside. We were followed shortly by my friend and coworker Ryan, who heard the same news about the trains and came running.

Throughout the day, regulars, neighbors, friends, and coworkers stopped in or called to check in and check on each other. I had been right. The bar was a second home to these people. We were family. Today, we were one.

Fortunately, the staff was accounted for and all were safe. A few regulars were not so lucky, and perished in the buildings near Broadway, though I wouldn't know it for a few days. As night approached, the horrors continued, however.

One of the guys from Ladder 3/Recon 3 (3 house of the FDNY serves the East Village and is located around the corner from the bar) was passing on his way to the house and I stopped him. He told me the attack had come at shift change. This meant 12 guys from our company had responded. None survived. A dozen friends, regulars, heroes had fallen from our block.

I wanted to break down, but I couldn't. My people needed me. The people in the bar weren't there to drink. They were there for comfort. I did my best to accommodate. I'd have to mourn my friends a little later on my own time.

The streets were deserted, except for locals, by 9:00 p.m. (no traffic was being allowed below 14th st. at this point). As the regulars began filing out, headed for their homes, Ryan and I closed up shop around 11:00 p.m. and went for a drink at another bar. We talked about what had happened with friends and tried to absorb what had happened. I thought of the boys from 3 house.

We didn't stay late. Ryan went north towards Queens, I went east towards Brooklyn. I stopped for a smoke before getting on the train. The streets were littered with debris. Assorted garbage, tons of soot and grime, random papers and debris from the towers were everywhere. That damned smell wouldn't leave for weeks. I saw a cane, the kind a blind person uses, in the street. "That's odd" I thought to myself. "How could a blind guy lose his cane on a day like this?" Ah. Question answered. A little further up the street, I saw a shoe. A little girl's shoe. One of those patent leather jobbies w/ the buckle.

That was it. I was done. It was my turn. I sat down on the sidewalk by the subway and cried. I had had enough.

I had seen pain and the worst humanity can offer. The days that followed would show me some of the best. New Yorkers were standing by each other as I had never seen them. It was "us" against "them".

Then I started seeing fire and rescue trucks from other cities and states. Then I started seeing benefits and relief efforts from other cities and states and even countries. "Us" had just gotten a whole lot bigger. People offered support, love and hope from every corner of the country and around the world. It was reaffirming.

Epilogue

Mike Moran gave a speech at the Concert for New York City the following month you might have seen. It went a little something like this...

...our friends, our brothers, our fathers are not gone, because they are not forgotten...

and Osama Bin Laden, you can kiss my royal Irish ass.

Mike was off the day of the attack. His father and brother, weren't. He lost them both. He never missed a day of work after the attack, and he spent every off day for months down in the pit. He never missed a beat and he never stopped being a stand up guy. He's a hero, too.

The Parting Shots:

For the record, I only thought I knew what hate was until that day. It grew several days later when they pulled the 3 rig from the rubble. This is what they found. www.mefeedia.com/entry/fdny-ladder-3/18252613

I still hate Bin Laden and his thugs...and I can't forget and won't ever forgive what they did to my city, and my friends. The rest of the country, and New Yorkers in particular, gave me hope for the future, though. That hope is what lets me carry on.

And one more thing I learned...never wait until it's too late to tell people you love how you feel. You never really know when you'll be out of chances.

Exile in Kennesaw

It's not quite how it sounds. I've intentionally stayed in/near the house for two weeks, now. The reason? I put down the cigarettes.

Now before you start being congratulatory and supportive, and all that crap, let me be perfectly straight...I would feed you into a woodchipper for a Marlboro Light right now.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not jonesing so bad I'd smoke a menthol, but I see that day in the not too distant future.

I'm pretty annoyed about the whole thing, actually. For years, every do-gooder and "concerned" friend and family member has been riding my ass to quit. Finally, I gave in, due to my current domestic situation. A couple things I have found to be true...non-smokers generally have no clue what quitting smoking is all about, and I now want to punch the majority of everyone that told me to quit right square in his/her junk.

Allow me to elaborate. While no one ever said quitting would be easy, not one of my "quit buddies" ever told me about the following reactions that, evidently, come with putting down the smokes:

1) Insane headaches - not just headaches, these super-gripping ultra mau-mau numbers that grab you by the back of the head and treat you like a prison bitch on OZ.

2) Rolling pain in the legs - I don't even know what to do with this one. From my upper thighs down to the middle of my shins, I've had twitches, tremors, convulsions and general muscular revolutions for about a week, now. I had to Google this symptom, because I was convinced I had scurvy or SARS or some such delightful malady. It turned out, of course, it's just one of those side effects no one told me might happen...fuckers.

3) Sense of Smell - totally misleading. Everyone told me my sense of taste and smell would improve and I'd experience old sensations for the first time in years. Kiss my big country ass. The only new smell I've encountered is this sickly, moldy stink that I smell everywhere I go. Nothing good, just the rough equivalent of a bums foot that is suffering from rot. Oh, joy!!!

4) Blood Sugar - huh? I don't know too much about this, other than apparently, I'm compelled to eat more frequently due to it taking longer for sugar to be delivered to my system, or some such crap. Or I have an oral fixation. Or I'm just a hog. It depends on what pseudo-scientific monkey-fuck you ask. The vast majority of them, apparently, have never smoked so they're really just guessing. Bite me. As a result, my weight shot up quickly. Yay.

5) Just taking a break here to thank all the "quit buddies" that pushed for this over the years. I feel so much better now that my weight is up, my patience (which was never really strong) is gone, and of course there's the whole woodchipper thing. sigh

6) Bleeding gums - WTF? I'm told that my improved circulation is the culprit here. Huh??? I quit smoking, now I'm gonna bleed to death as a result? At least my breath will be minty fresh, right? Geez.

7) Chest pains - yep, chest pains. I'm 41 years old, my blood pressure pre-quit was so low, people were actually envious of my big ass. Now, I'm having chest pains and shortness of breath because I'm "getting healthier"...WHAT THE FUCK??? How in the hell is that supposed to work?

To summarize: Evil cigarettes are out of the picture, but now I'll most likely have a brain aneurysm while running for help for my scurvy/SARS affliction, assuming I don't pass out from low blood-sugar while smelling the unwashed ass that seems to be following me around and bleed to death via my gums just a little before my heart attack finishes me off.

At least my clothes will smell fresh. Bite me, you do-gooder asshats.

The State of the Union

I'm a little over a month into my suburban relocation experience and I thought it time for my "State of the Union Address...Asshat edition".

For those of you that missed it, I recently took the State of Georgia Driving Exam. As a result, the rules mentioned in the Drivers Manual are pretty fresh in my mind. I even researched questions that might not have been listed in the Manual. I discovered the following:

1) There is no state requirement for you to leave your turn signal on for three miles after you turn/change lanes...pull your head out of your ass, moron.

2) Similarly, there is no rule or law that I can find that forbids you from actually using the turn signal to announce a turn and/or lane change...I know it's tough to walk and chew gum at the same time, but a little effort might help those around you.

3) It's not mandated that you change lanes to the left and immediately slow down. It's actually encouraged to maintain speed (or actually increase speed) if you enter the "fast" or "passing" lane. Travelling in aforementioned lanes at or near the speed limit while traffic in the lanes to your right speed by you does, in fact, make you a motorized asshat.

WTF????

I pulled in to meet a friend at a local watering hole the other day and parked next to a guy in an older Jeep Cherokee. His doors were missing, as was his tailgate.

Me: "Aw, that happened to a couple of buddies of mine up in Brooklyn. Sorry about that, bro."

Kentucky Fried Motorist: "Whuu-uutt?"

Me: "Your doors. I'm assuming they were stolen."

KFM: "Hell no, I took 'em off. It's summer!!!"

Me: "Ummmm, you realize it's been raining off and on all day, right? That's why the inside is wet."

KFM: (looking amazed that I didn't understand) "You ain't from around here, are you?"

Me: "Actually, born and raised. I did something like that when I was about 17. I stopped when I realized how tough it was to get everything reattached properly and I got tired of being wet." (translation - I stopped being a dumbass)

I was told later by my dear betrothed that this was not an uncommon occurrence among the denizens of North Cobb near the lake. To this phenomenon and the participants, I have but a single question... "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

General Rants

1) If you are truly confused by the drive-thru menu at any fast food establishment, and can't order your burger and two happy meals in less than 7 minutes...you may be too dumb to breathe the air I might otherwise destroy with a cigarette.

2) I'm a fan of maximizing your consumption of "the good stuff" at the Golden Corral. I absolutely understand the theory of not filling up on bread, or salad, or other items of less expense so you can cram as much meat, desert, and more expensive items so you get the most for your $9. That being said...Really? Dude, you have gravy on the side of your head by your friggin' ear. Really?? Hmmm, you have pizza on your plate,,,topped w/ a slab of roast beef,,,partially concealed by two pieces of chicken,,,complemented by a dousing of white gravy,,,w/ a mountain of ice cream w/ chocolate sauce on the side,,,all on the same friggin' plate. Did you think they were going to run out of anything, or were you just too lazy to use multiple plates, or were you afraid carrying two plates might make you look like a pig? News Flash...If you have gravy and chocolate sauce on the same plate, it's time to consider stepping away from the trough...Really.

3) If you really can't manage to turn your phone off while dining in a nice restaurant, can you at least take the earpiece out of your ear? It's not a status symbol anymore. On a similar note, if you absolutely must take a call in said restaurant, or on a crowded bus, or other crowded public area, please let me know ahead of time. I'd like to meet you there to punch you in the neck as a bit of relief to the people around you.

3a) If you're using your phone as mentioned above in an elevator...YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE RECEPTION YOU FRIGGIN' MOUTHBREATHER!!! SHOUTING WON'T HELP!!!! Please exit the building, drive up into the hills and allow yourself to be dragged away by the first mountain lion available. Sometimes even Darwinism needs a kickstart, and there's no reason an asshat like yourself can't do his/her part.

The New Family

For those of you entering into new living arrangements with members of the opposite sex, this is for you. There are also a few points dealing with the instances of moving into a home with pre-existing children.

Day 1:

Me: "Honey, I'm gonna grab a shower. Where's the soap?"

Her: "In the shower." (pointing) "Right there."

Me: "Ummm, this isn't soap. It appears to be a bottle of rejuvenating body wash w/ moisture beads and ancient sea widgets to exfoliate, cleanse and propagate the degeneration of testosterone within the species."

Her: (rolling her eyes) "It's soap."

Me: "Does that mean we don't have any soap?"

Her: (reaching into the closet and producing a bar of Irish Spring - Yay) "Here you go, sweety. I wouldn't want you to feel emasculated by the soap."

Me: "It's not soap. Where are the wash cloths?"

Her: "There's a couple in the shower."

Me: "There's a couple of things on strings that look kind of like a cross between a flower and a tumbleweed."

Her: "There you go."

Me: "So, we have no wash cloths?"

Lesson learned? Men have men stuff, women have women stuff. Never the two shall meet

Confession

In an effort to maintain fair reporting and the integrity of this blog, I do hereby offer the following:

Many years ago, a roomie extolled the virtues of babywipes for that extra little oomph of freshness, particularly after dropping a particularly gnarly deuce. The other day I chose to partake in this refreshing practice, as the deposit I had just made would, if made in a combat zone, been classified a war crime.

Only after removing the wipe and drawing it perilously close to the soiled area (the tainted taint, if you will) did I glance again at the box.

Authors note: Though they look similar, baby wipes are NOT interchangeable with Clorox Sani-wipes. Unless you're looking for a scented bleach enema, read the label. Here endeth the lesson.

Question of the day:

Bigger loser/stalker/manipulator/douchebag...Peyton Wellesly or Lanier Thames?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Fear and Loathing at the DMV

Upon my recent return to the land of my birth, I found myself venturing into that 7th circle of hell that all suburbanites must deal with...the DMV.

Having lived in the City for a decade, and therefore having no need of the use of an automobile, I had let my license lapse several years earlier. Now living in suburbia, I girded up my loins and trudged into the new and improved Division of Driver Services (known as the DDS). Evidently, they were seeking to avoid the negative connotations of the previous name - the dreaded DMV, and changed it.

Upon arrival, I was surprised to find an open, well lit expanse with 21 windows for service, most of which were manned. This was a far cry from the tiny, dimly lit DMV I had previously dealt with in my previous suburban life. Might they have actually improved things?

I entered shortly after 4 p.m. and presented myself to the Gatekeeper (the old gal at the reception desk) and explained what I was there for. She promptly issued me a numbered ticket and paperwork to fill out. I took a seat and began filling out said paperwork. Before I could complete the line marked "address" my number had been called. I was a tad dumbfounded.

Approaching the assigned window with great trepidation, I spoke with a friendly older gent. After explaining my situation, he directed me to finish filling out the form and wait for my number to be called for the written test (since my license had expired, I would need to take both the written and road tests). As I was walking back to my previous seat, my number was called at a different window. Wha?????

I scurried to the next window, scribbling furiously. Another kindly old gent spoke with me while I completed my paperwork. After punching information into his terminal, he assigned me to a terminal where I took the written test for the next 20 minutes or so. Once the test was completed, I returned to the window. He told me it was too late to get a road test in, but if I came early the next day, they could have me taken care of in short order.

Total time in DDS approximately 40 minutes. Total time waiting approximately 20 seconds. Could this be?

The next morning, I was third in line at the door when they opened the office. I waited about 15 minutes and was called to take the road test. After completing the test, I waited a little less than 10 minutes to be called to another window, ostensibly to pay my fee and have my picture taken. Once my number was called, however, things took a decidedly DMVish turn.

The lady at this window told me my license had a "hold" on it for unpaid tickets in Atlanta. I was stunned that it was even possible for tickets to stay in the system for over a decade. I'd have to contact the City of Atlanta and straighten things out with them and get a letter of clearance before receiving my license. After that, they would hook me right up, I was assured. Fine.

As it was Saturday, I had to wait til Monday to begin the next leg of my Odyssey. After spending the better part of an hour on hold, the gent helping me told me I didn't exist. After further explaining when these tickets were issued (11 and 12 years earlier), he transferred me to another office. I then spoke with a nice lady that said I did, indeed, have tickets on my license. She told me the tickets had been dismissed years earlier, though. *sigh*

Me: "So, what do I need to do?"
Nice Lady: "Just come down and I'll give you a clearance letter."
Me: "Oh, so no fines?"
NL: "No, just come get the letter."
Me: "Oh, well can you fax it to the DDS, by any chance?"
NL: "No, we don't do that, sorry."
Me: "No problem"

The next day, I went down to the Atlanta Municipal Building w/ a spring in my step. Sure, it was inconvenient to go all the way downtown, but it could be worse...right??? Oh, yes. It could surely be worse...and it would be.

I approached the window, explained the situation to the man working. After being met with a blank stare for several moments, he pushed a form through the slot in the window.
Lazy City Employee: "Fill this out and bring it back to me. You can pick up the letter in four days or so."
Me:"Ummmm, four days?"
LCE: "Yep. We'll call if it's earlier."
Me: "Are you fucking insane? How can it possibly take that long? The lady I spoke with yesterday said it was basically walk in and walk out."
LCE: He shrugged "Don't know what to tell you."
Me: "You can tell me it's not gonna take a week to get this done. That's absurd. I'm gonna need to talk to a supervisor, this is totally unacceptable."
Sighing deeply, he removed his ass from the vinyl of his chair and trudged out of sight for several minutes. Upon returning, I was told I could pick it up after lunch. Recognizing it would do me no good to attempt a neck punch through the security window, I retreated.

After killing several hours with the friend that had driven me downtown, I returned and retrieved the letter. Armed with the document, I hauled my butt back to the DDS to spend some more time with my new cadre of friends.

Upon arrival, I explained everything that was going on to the lady at the reception desk, who assigned me another number. Things didn't move as quickly as the previous two trips. An hour later, my number was called. The guy at this window told me I would now have to pay reinstatement fees for each individual ticket.
Me: "But I didn't even owe fines."
Surprise Guy: "Still have to be paid."
Me: "You guys can't even tell me what the tickets are for. How could they all have resulted in suspensions, simultaneously?"
SG: "Can't say."
Me: "Ummm, if you can't say, how can you charge?"
SG: "It's how it works."

THIS is the DMV I remember. All rules, no logic or interpretation.

I stopped trying to rationalize and handed over my credit card. After running it, the guy looked at me and asked "What about South Carolina?"

"What about South Carolina?" I returned.

"You've got a hold in South Carolina."

"One - I haven't been in South Carolina in 20 years. Two - It's after 5, couldn't someone have told me I had a problem earlier today, or the last time I was here? I could have it squared away, by now."

"Don't know what to tell you."

*sigh*

The next morning, I called the SC DMV and got things squared away. They were looking for a shakedown from literally 20 years earlier that I had no idea was even on my record. Ugh.

The following morning, I was back at the DDS (the artists formerly known as the DMV).

"Please. Please don't hit me with any more surprises" I said to the guy at the window.

"Well Mr. Martin, I have good news and bad news."

I began scanning the immediate vicinity for blunt objects.

"The bad news is you won't have to come back anymore."

Were they banning me from the office, now that they had extracted all the money they had asked for?

"The good news is, you can go to the window and get your picture taken and get your license."

Oh, Happy Fricken' Day!!!!

Total time spent - 6 days
Total time spent on the phone with various agencies - 3 hours
Money spent - Don't ask

Old DMV slogan - "Don't know what to tell you."
New DDS slogan - "Don't know what to tell you...but open your wallet and bend over."

Let Me Smack One More Asshat...

It's been a month since the last blog. Quite a bit has been transpired. For those of you not in the know, I packed up the circus tents and left the city that used to never sleep. My last week or so in the City went a little something like this...

Going down the stairs for the 3rd ave "L" train to head for Brooklyn, a young lady was blocking the stairs with herself and several bags, chatting on her cel phone. People were walking up on the other side of the stairwell, so obviously I was unable to proceed w/out a little help from her, and a log jam of several people quickly formed behind me.

Me: Excuse me, hon.

Phone Skank: (looking at me like I'd stuck something slimy on her face) Ummm, I'm on the phone!

Me: I can see that, hon, I'm just trying to get by.

PS: (finger comes up telling me to wait a second as she turns her back to me and continues with her call) I don't know, some guy. I know! He can see I'm on the phone!

Me: (tapping her on the shoulder) Your shit will be at the top of the stairs. (Two bags are picked up and tossed to the top of the stairs)

PS: OMG!!! What are you doing!?!?!

Me: Getting to the train, thanks. (proceeding down the stairs as she rushed up the half-flight to gather her crap). And on behalf of the people behind me that you were slowing down with your phone call...kiss my big sweaty ass, you phone skank.

Getting on the train, a hipster couple that had been behind me on the stairs approached me.

Him: Dude, I've always wanted to do that.

Her: I wanted to clap...what a bitch.

I know, it wasn't poetic. It was simply the culmination of a decade of douche-baggery.

I'm not really complaining, mind you. I've had a great run in the City.

I've met a lot of truly wonderful people.

I've seen the sublime and the ridiculous.
I've seen the absolute best and the worst humanity can offer.

I'd say I wouldn't have traded the times for anything, but that wouldn't be quite true. While I greatly appreciate my experiences, I'd gladly trade them all for an extra decade with Rita.

Since that kind of trade isn't going to happen, I'll gladly pack the memories into boxes and move the show back to the ATL. There are plenty of Asshats down south, after all. They're just a little more polite.

With my departure, I would like to single out a few people...

Erik: My childhood friend that made my early existence in the city possible. He took me in when I was dead broke and just off the train.

Gina: Gave me a job when I needed it and became a dear friend.

Autumn, Dieter, Marisa and Cameron: and the rest of the staff from the old Finnerty's that made it a joy to go to work every day and proved what friendship and loyalty are all about.

Garcia-ville and Mr. & Mrs. Ish: Showed me you can have fun with "grown ups". Well, sorta grown ups.

Ricky: One of my best friends in the city, I could always count on him to come with me to each new bar I took a gig at...and take coffee/smoke breaks that could make Teamsters say "Damn, you take long breaks".

Nick K: The Poet Laureate of 14th st and the Ambassador of Keeping it Real. Quite possibly possessing the dirtiest mind in the western hemisphere, Nick showed me you can be a caring father, still be filthy, and keep your kids from being asshats all at the same time. Kudos Nicky.

Frank: for keeping me on board after turbulent head-butting with his partners and giving me the opportunity to succeed, especially at Boss Tweed's.

Renee: I can't say a whole lot. Probably my best friend in the world besides my fiancee.

I'll miss you all.

Departing the city (for the last time?), I took the same car service I had used dozens of time before. The new driver tried to gouge me on the price, however. I explained to him I had been using the service for years and knew the price as I handed the correct amount over the seat. He attempted to argue. I suggested he call his dispatcher to verify the price, if he truly felt he was being underpaid, which of course he refused. I explained to him that I was leaving town for good. I told him to think about it for a moment, and that if he really wanted the extra $10 I would wait on the sidewalk to pay him in shoe leather delivered to the fleshy part of his ass. I suggested if he reconsidered his position, I would bear him no ill will and wish him a good day and a happy life.

He drove away, and I got on my plane.

I'll save the anti-Bloomberg rant for another day, as it would easily fill multiple blogs. I'll also save the rant of the softening up and dumbing down of what was formerly my island. The City long ago traded the seedy movie houses and dirty underbelly for Disney and Applebee's. I'm not saying it's better or worse (actually, it's a travesty), but it's definitely different. Similarly, the Community Boards are trying their damnedest to turn the best urban area in the world into a giant suburb. All rant-worthy, so stay tuned.

Good, bad, or indifferent, I'll miss a lot.

Goodbye, New York.