I got a parking ticket about a month ago for being 12 feet from a hydrant. NYC deems 15 feet or more an acceptable distance. I honestly believe I was far enough away, and I am certain that I was not obstructing access to the hydrant in any way. My car had been parked there since a Wednesday afternoon, and the police officer wrote the ticket at 4:39am on Friday. I bring that up because there was plenty of time for the traffic police to give me a citation if they thought I was in violation. Being convinced that I was "innocent," I asked two cops that were sitting in their car how they measured the distance between the car and hydrant when they wrote a ticket. Their answer was simple: we don't measure it. I asked how to defend myself against this, and they told me just to take a picture and bring it down to the hearing location. I told them the car had already been moved, and they said just take the picture anyway at a hydrant.
Immediately, I thought this city is rife with corruption. A cop can just write a ticket knowing that the violation is borderline or even not a violation but that most people will probably not waste their time and just pay the ticket. Since I have been unemployed since November, I thought it would be time well spent to pay a visit to the traffic ticket hearing location. I did so this morning, Good Friday. I walk quickly almost all the time, and I was hustling into the building. An older fellow was on the escalator in front of me, so I had to wait behind him. We got up to the floor and I darted over to the reception area which had no line. There was one person being served at the counter. However, I did not enter via the roped off designation "line forms here" area and was just waiting behind the person at the counter. The fellow on the escalator had entered the proper way and was waiting. The woman called next, and I stepped up. This led to a bit of a rant on her part about how I didn't do it right and wasn't on line. Seeing that only the older man was behind me, I asked her if I should go to the end of the line, which I would have done. She told me not to, but continued to hammer home that I was wrong. I'm sure I was less than pleasant at this point, but I said that it was a simple mistake since I saw no line of people waiting.
As I walked away to my next encounter, she was then sqwaking in a loud voice about how I had cut the line and got some of her compadres involved in the libelous slaying of my character. I did my best to brush it off even though it had gone on for at least a minute, maybe two. I tried to remain calm for my next phase of seeing a person about a judgement on my citation. I waited in the area like an upstanding citizen, although I haven't shaved in a week and was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. What else is new. I get called in to room 45 by a screeching woman. I entered and was not greeted by any means by a rather unwelcoming figure. She was a bit overweight and not attractive by any means. However, I have no reason at all to hold that against her. I sat in one of the chairs and put my jacket on the other. I kept the ticket and the printed picture evidence I brought with me in the book I was reading which I set on her desk. In no more than 15 seconds she told me to remove the book from her desk. Seemed a bit abrupt, but I was willing to accept it for the fate of my $115 fell in her hands. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth which I did except for my address. I just gave the address on my license which is my parents' address. So maybe I set myself up for bad karma since I was lying. I presented my evidence and gave my case reciting that a police officer said that they don't measure. After some keystrokes in her PC and a minute or two of contemplation she asked if I had anything else to say. I responded "other than the police officers told me they don't--" She promptly cut me off and said something to the effect of you already told me that and I asked if there was anything else you had to say. It was pretty harsh in tone, but again I was willing to swallow it. I think I even apologized.
She then printed something out and handed it to me. In doing this she said that the fine stands and I could appeal if I like. I asked what her basis was and she said that she thought the evidence was insufficient since there was no address visable, no time and that the car could have been moved. She thought that I was likely closer to the hydrant than 15 feet and she even made reference to the fact that I had said that I was outside of 15 feet. She claimed that I must have done some research and knew rule and thought I could have fought this. By this point, the Billy that went in to the room trying to be somewhat calm, reverant and repentant had just left the building. Blood pressure, pulse, and temper were at about 9,000 RPMs at this point. In other words, well into the red. I snapped back and asked how was I supposed to get a date and address into the picture. She shot back with "that is not my job to tell you how to do that." Beyond livid. Seriously. Again, this is a woman that I would not keep in my close circle. Probably not even in my most distant of circles. In fact, I would have a better shot of being tight with Kim Jong Il than her. So I told her as I started to walk out that if she was having a bad day that she shouldn't take it out on me.
I ended up paying the fine at the cashier window while grinding my molars into flat, smooth stubs. I walked out and towards the subway allowing anger and frustration to envelop me. One thing I've learned in my program is to pray for people I am at odds with. Not to pray for their death and destruction but rather that they find happiness. Well let me tell you, I was not ready while I was walking. Still spewing hate. I finally got into the subway and closed my eyes while bowing my head a bit. I prayed for this woman that she may find some happiness and asked God to forgive me for not carrying myself as I should have. I'm not writing this to tell you how great of a person I am. I am not. I am simply trying to learn how to do things better than I've done in the past. For it is not unlike me to carry something like this around for a few days and probably let it affect my interactions with friends, family and my girlfriend.
I felt a little bit of calm after praying. After reflecting for a bit, I finally considered that today was Good Friday. The day Jesus was nailed to a cross and died. An ultimate sacrifice. And that's when it hit me. I was convinced that I had suffered an injustice at the hands of a police officer and a woman at the hearing. I realized that if this was the extent of the injustice that I were to suffer today, having to pay $115, then I was getting off pretty easy. I should pay it and move on and be thankful that I'm not being nailed to a cross today was common 1,980 years ago.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Breathing on me
Anyone that breathes on me, unless requested, will be looked at with hairy eyeballs. I was in a church last Monday evening and the festivities were fairly well attended. I was sitting next to a few buddies of mine both of whom do not have this "thing" I have. When the main event got under way, we all hushed up to listen in since we are devout. Yes, devout.
It didn't take long for my ears to hone in on something. Somewhere behind me someone was snoring or drowning on their own blood and mucus. I completely turned around to scan the audience for a partially slumped over carcass, but to no avail. Within a minute, the situation took a dramatic turn for the worse. Now not only was I hearing this dull roar over the speaker, but I inhaled the distinct odor of halitosis. Trust me, I know what it smells like. I dated a girl who earned the nick name "Haley Tosis" unbeknownst to her. Suffice it to say, our relationship did not last the test of time, but the name is etched in stone.
At that moment, the circumstances of my dilemma became all to clear. The mutant behind me had an awful cold and a case of ass-breath to boot. Having put this together, I immediately craned my head slowly around so as to deliver the first round of hairy eyeballs. As anyone that has sat in a church pew for an hour knows, you often lean forward when you're sitting to break the monotony of just sitting straight up. If there is a pretty girl in front of you, you can also smell her hair, which is an added bonus. Who knows...maybe I was this guy's pretty girl. At any rate, my head is now pretty much in the pew in front of me so as to get as far away from the tainted air as possible. In my mind though, the air was embracing me just like the sleeves of a cashmere sweater tied around the neck of a yuppie prepster at the country club. I must seek sanitization.
Much like being on a plane, I typically prefer an aisle seat just for occasions like this. Bailing out is not an issue. On Monday, February 9th I was boxed between Chris and Todd. Damn it. Where's Batman when you need him? Just drop through one of the stained glass windows and swoop me up like Vicki Vale with one of those funky gadgets. All I can do is wait until it's over to get the hell out of there, but wait. What about that old shaking/holding hands part near the end? Shiiiiite. That would be the equivalent of receiving a stink-palm. Remember Mall Rats?
I stuck it out and then dodged this guy like Brother Dermot when I was late for homeroom. There was no jumping over pews, but I wasn't ruling it out either. I decided the best idea was to go load up on Air Borne Formula, and tell my tale to my main muchacha. She consoled me as best she could, God bless her. However, I think she may have a bit more in common with Chris and Todd when it comes to this "thing," e.g. not believing that this man should be treated as if he just contracted SARS and bird flu and was deliberately trying to infect me. I got home and took a shower and swore that if I was ever confronted with such a situation again, that I would do more than just look at him with hairy eyeballs. I would tell him to beat it and while he was at it, to gargle with bleach. There's a good chance I see him again this Monday. I think his name was Gary. Gary....who's Gary?
It didn't take long for my ears to hone in on something. Somewhere behind me someone was snoring or drowning on their own blood and mucus. I completely turned around to scan the audience for a partially slumped over carcass, but to no avail. Within a minute, the situation took a dramatic turn for the worse. Now not only was I hearing this dull roar over the speaker, but I inhaled the distinct odor of halitosis. Trust me, I know what it smells like. I dated a girl who earned the nick name "Haley Tosis" unbeknownst to her. Suffice it to say, our relationship did not last the test of time, but the name is etched in stone.
At that moment, the circumstances of my dilemma became all to clear. The mutant behind me had an awful cold and a case of ass-breath to boot. Having put this together, I immediately craned my head slowly around so as to deliver the first round of hairy eyeballs. As anyone that has sat in a church pew for an hour knows, you often lean forward when you're sitting to break the monotony of just sitting straight up. If there is a pretty girl in front of you, you can also smell her hair, which is an added bonus. Who knows...maybe I was this guy's pretty girl. At any rate, my head is now pretty much in the pew in front of me so as to get as far away from the tainted air as possible. In my mind though, the air was embracing me just like the sleeves of a cashmere sweater tied around the neck of a yuppie prepster at the country club. I must seek sanitization.
Much like being on a plane, I typically prefer an aisle seat just for occasions like this. Bailing out is not an issue. On Monday, February 9th I was boxed between Chris and Todd. Damn it. Where's Batman when you need him? Just drop through one of the stained glass windows and swoop me up like Vicki Vale with one of those funky gadgets. All I can do is wait until it's over to get the hell out of there, but wait. What about that old shaking/holding hands part near the end? Shiiiiite. That would be the equivalent of receiving a stink-palm. Remember Mall Rats?
I stuck it out and then dodged this guy like Brother Dermot when I was late for homeroom. There was no jumping over pews, but I wasn't ruling it out either. I decided the best idea was to go load up on Air Borne Formula, and tell my tale to my main muchacha. She consoled me as best she could, God bless her. However, I think she may have a bit more in common with Chris and Todd when it comes to this "thing," e.g. not believing that this man should be treated as if he just contracted SARS and bird flu and was deliberately trying to infect me. I got home and took a shower and swore that if I was ever confronted with such a situation again, that I would do more than just look at him with hairy eyeballs. I would tell him to beat it and while he was at it, to gargle with bleach. There's a good chance I see him again this Monday. I think his name was Gary. Gary....who's Gary?
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Shit Shoes McGee
So I was on a flight from JFK to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico on 11/29/08. I always request an aisle seat because I typically drink so much water and coffee in the morning that I could be on an over-active bladder commercial. I'm sitting in my seat looking at my fellow passengers with my usual contempt when I notice a guy just across the aisle. He's about 60 years old with a graying mustache and hair. Dressed in the usual attire that some guy his age that is not traveling with a woman wears. You know what I mean. They're his Sunday's best, and he knows he looks good.
As I do this head-to-toe scan of a TJ Maxx special button down, white khakis and whoa, what's that on those white sneakers. You guessed it. Shit all over his sneakers. I don't mean just on the bottom of one. It was smudged around the upper back heel part as well as up by his toes and also on the bottom. Basically this poor bastard tried to polish his shoes with shit. We haven't even pushed back yet, and I'm in full panic mode fearing that I might start smelling it next. I mean, this is going to be a long flight.
This could have been Pope Benedict, but since he was sitting next to me, with feces on his sneaks, I instantly hate this man. I know that if the plane goes down, he's the last one I'm helping. We take off smoothly, and Shit Shoes McGee finally looks down and notices the train wreck on his feet. He kicks off his shoes and slides to the window seat because there is no one else sitting in his row. Now, the sneaks are just sitting there smouldering 3 feet from me at the aisle seat. Let's fast forward to the good part.
Just before we begin our descent and Shit Shoes realizes that he can't step onto the tarmac looking like this. He proceeds to take napkins that he hoarded during drink service to wipe the shit off his sneakers. This wasn't working so well, so he takes an ice cube out of his drink and holds it on the soiled part of his sneakers. He wipes again with the napkins which he then stuffs into the seat pocket in front of him. At this point I'm dry heaving and seconds away from full body convulsions.
Shit Shoes is no dummy; he's quite a resourceful fellow. Realizing he needs more surface area, he grabs the Delta blanket that was so cordially provided to him and attempts to remove the stool with that. Now I've seen more than enough. My feelings for him go beyond loath. He works diligently with the blanket/ice cube combo for about 3 minutes until the white sneaks meet his satisfaction. With a carefree whim about him, he tosses the blanket to side for some poor soul to pick up and fold and probably put back into the plastic for someone else to use.
I spent two weeks down there surfing, eating, meeting new friends, and telling anyone that would listen about what I witnessed on the plane. When Sadie and I got on the plane to head back on 12/13/08 I took my seat and looked at her with a quiet sincerity that is unusual for me and said, "see that guy right there? That's him. That's Shit Shoes McGee."
As I do this head-to-toe scan of a TJ Maxx special button down, white khakis and whoa, what's that on those white sneakers. You guessed it. Shit all over his sneakers. I don't mean just on the bottom of one. It was smudged around the upper back heel part as well as up by his toes and also on the bottom. Basically this poor bastard tried to polish his shoes with shit. We haven't even pushed back yet, and I'm in full panic mode fearing that I might start smelling it next. I mean, this is going to be a long flight.
This could have been Pope Benedict, but since he was sitting next to me, with feces on his sneaks, I instantly hate this man. I know that if the plane goes down, he's the last one I'm helping. We take off smoothly, and Shit Shoes McGee finally looks down and notices the train wreck on his feet. He kicks off his shoes and slides to the window seat because there is no one else sitting in his row. Now, the sneaks are just sitting there smouldering 3 feet from me at the aisle seat. Let's fast forward to the good part.
Just before we begin our descent and Shit Shoes realizes that he can't step onto the tarmac looking like this. He proceeds to take napkins that he hoarded during drink service to wipe the shit off his sneakers. This wasn't working so well, so he takes an ice cube out of his drink and holds it on the soiled part of his sneakers. He wipes again with the napkins which he then stuffs into the seat pocket in front of him. At this point I'm dry heaving and seconds away from full body convulsions.
Shit Shoes is no dummy; he's quite a resourceful fellow. Realizing he needs more surface area, he grabs the Delta blanket that was so cordially provided to him and attempts to remove the stool with that. Now I've seen more than enough. My feelings for him go beyond loath. He works diligently with the blanket/ice cube combo for about 3 minutes until the white sneaks meet his satisfaction. With a carefree whim about him, he tosses the blanket to side for some poor soul to pick up and fold and probably put back into the plastic for someone else to use.
I spent two weeks down there surfing, eating, meeting new friends, and telling anyone that would listen about what I witnessed on the plane. When Sadie and I got on the plane to head back on 12/13/08 I took my seat and looked at her with a quiet sincerity that is unusual for me and said, "see that guy right there? That's him. That's Shit Shoes McGee."
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