Landlords Without Boarders.

Wow. There are a lot of shitty apartments in Portland, Maine. And it feels like we've seen them all in the past few days. All were two or three bedroom places priced between $1,000 and $1,350 per month: not top dollar in Portland, but not bottom dollar by any means. All were advertised either in the local paper, craigslist or just by a sign in the window. Most were either on the peninsula, near downtown or out by the University.

So let's see... there were three apartments that looked out onto gas station parking lots, one that had been painted black and pink by this weird African dude named Lado (the bathroom ceiling was also collapsing), one with laundry machines in a basement accessible only from the outside of the house, one next door to a Midas muffler shop on a busy street and four with dropped styrofoam ceilings (one of these with florescent office lights built in).

Then there was the basement apartment or "sub-dwelling" that the happy-go-lucky landlord "sometimes" occupied a part of. I recognized this man from the night he almost backed over me with his SUV in front of that very apartment as I walked my dog. He had yelled "Why don't you try wearing some other color besides black, moron!"

There was the place where we'd have to mow the lawn ourselves, the place with a loud common stairway above the only place a bed could go, the place that we'd need to flush out the furnace water every 30 days and the apartment with the bedroom looking out onto a home for mentally retarded adults. That place had a sweet non-functional fireplace and a landlord with a dyed mustache who lived upstairs.

There was an apartment that, during the day, always had a stretch Hummer parked in front, as there was a neighbor who moonlighted as a chauffeur. It was the early evening when we saw the place and we were lucky enough to see her leaving for work. She was about 21, tall and emaciated with a tight black polyester suit on and a cocked top hat, made-up like a prostitute.

Another place smelled so awful I almost threw up. There was a poor Pug dog crated in the bedroom, large feathers strewn about and a cat with no tail running around peeing on things; there was also a large boat stranded in the front yard. The landlord drove his Vespa across the grass to greet us, wearing a bicycle helmet.

We knew of a house on our block where the occupants owned a giant lynx with a chain-link collar. That place came up for rent but unfortunately it looked as if the lynx had trashed the place.

One apartment had exclusive access to a storage attic: at least 2,000 square feet of hot, unfinished space. Outside the ground-floor rental unit was a group of sunburned wiggers smoking and drinking at ten in the morning, bobbing and weaving to the sounds from a boom box underneath what would have been our baby's room.

The pièce de résistance was a tiny, dilapidated house out in South Portland that butted up to a sea of mammoth Citgo oil tanks, each seemingly the size of a football stadium. The neighbors had cars up on cinderblocks and kids wove through the streets of the weird little neighborhood on their bicycles alongside big-rig oil trucks.

We did find one place that we love. But it's one of two places that overtly doesn't want to rent to us because we have a baby. And a dog. And two cats. Apparently the downstairs neighbors are very sensitive to noise, so the landlord wants us (including our dog and baby) to meet with them. If the neighbors give us the seal of approval, then we're in! Good thing I didn't mention our snow leopard!

Baby Börn.

It's been a strange time of overt happiness for me this past week, the first week of my daughter's life. Like I don't even seem to care that my taxes, prepared 90 minutes before the deadline, have me owing over $9,000. Or that we gave notice on our beloved apartment and need to find a place by June 1. I guess it all takes a back seat for now.

I tried to take some contract work yesterday and it was a disaster. I was late to both appointments and couldn't do either job; I fumbled my way through and ended up just apologizing and leaving. On the way to the first appointment, I was trapped in a miles-long traffic jam on 295. The next exit wasn't for 10 miles, so traffic just sat there. People were turning off their engines and getting out of their cars to smoke cigarettes and stretch their legs on the median. Eventually I couldn't deal anymore and busted a U-turn across the steeply carved drainage median and found my way via county roads.

At my second appointment, I had to meet with a recruiter at a life insurance agency. He had slicked-back hair and smelled of sugarless gum. His office was festooned with successories and laminated "service pyramids". He looked a lot like Michael Scott and needed me to run wires through his office wall. He was wanting to connect his laptop with a new plasma TV to show powerpoint slides to his prospective recruits. Unfortunately I don't do in-wall wiring and so I told him I'd transfer the work order to someone else.

Then came the soft sell. He started to ask me questions about where I live and my family, angling for a policy sale. He fished out two creepy Lance Armstrong-style wristbands that said "LIFE HAPPENS" from a bulk bag of thousands, acknowledging that they might be "a bit big for the little one yet, ha ha ha."

I was frustrated and dazed when I left the insurance office and drove toward home. I was hungry and a Wendy's drew me into its drive-through. I got my food and drifted into the adjacent WalMart parking lot, shoring up next to a white Ford Windstar. I ate my food, shifting my focus between the Windstar, the Wendy's and the WalMart. I wondered why the Windstar had the word "Sport" splashed in teal across the front quarter panel. Maybe because it had alloy rims?

I wondered why the wristbands didn't say "DEATH HAPPENS" as I tossed them into the Wendy's bag with the detritus of my lunch, crumpled it up and headed home to see my baby girl.

Sketchy Days.

A three-year-old drew this picture of me yesterday. It really captures my state of mind well, i think. When do kids stop being able to see into people's souls so well? Soon he'll be drawing prototypical houses with smokey chimneys and dump trucks and stuff, but for now he's almost clairvoyant. Ellis is the son of a client of mine here in Portland. When he drew this picture, I was three days into major surgery on his dad's only work computer, and I was very stressed about not losing any data and about him being offline for so long.

Also on my mind was the fact that I'm unemployed (I barter with Ellis's dad for picture-framing services). And that rent is past due, and that my former employer is probably not going to give me my final paycheck just to be a dick, and that we can't afford our apartment anymore so in 6 weeks we'll be moving to god-knows-where (someplace where they don't care that I'm unemployed?), and that our car is literally falling apart, and oh yeah, that we're having a daughter two weeks from today.

On the brighter side, I have applied for three good-looking jobs recently, all of which I'm strongly qualified for. Hopefully by the time my daughter can draw pictures of me, I won't look so lost.

Telephone Anxiety.

A symptom of my depression and anxiety is that I hate the telephone. I hate answering it and I hate calling people. Yet I have a fancy phone and lots of minutes and options. I guess maybe the options are all ways to circumvent talking. I rely on voicemail to field the calls, my data plan enables email on my phone, and unlimited text messaging allows me to reply to many voicemails without having to talk to the person. In fact, did you know you can deposit a message in someone's voicemail box without even calling them? I LOVE that!

Ironically, I don't really use my caller ID because it doesn't matter who's calling; I won't answer. Maybe the best thing would be to not have a phone, and maybe subscribe to a voicemail service so I'd have a phone number, but not a thing that rings. This Google service lets you manage a voicemail number via the web.

Researching "telephobia", I have come across some interesting observations. Check out this bizarre poem:

"The telephone, my nemesis! Spawn of Alex Bell.
The 1880 genesis, connecting Earth and Hell!"

I can identify with this person:

"Perhaps you can trace your phone anxiety to something someone said to you on the phone or maybe you have a fear of something that may be said to you on a call. Not many people understand why I don't answer my phone, and I learned not to care what they think. When you turn the ringer off, you will never know if it rings."

A doctor's insight:

"Fear or anxiety accompanying the use of the telephone is a symptom that is not uncommon. In my own experience it has appeared exclusively in male patients. In the majority of cases in which it has been encountered, it is relieved fairly readily by treatment. The symptom most often appears in the patients' discourse at the time when they are occupied with material from the oedipal phase."

I guess the oedipal part means people get anxious about having to be in the middle of a situation, maybe being forced to make a decision about something or to choose a side? Anyway, if you call me and I don't answer, don't take it personally.

Manimal.

I've been reading, in Freud's Civilization and its Discontents, about the death instinct, the tendency towards destruction. I also have been fascinated by Freud's assertion that civilization has done little to tame the beast in man and that we still inherently want to kill one another as a form of self-preservation (Darwinism in a sense).

This got me thinking about about my time living in Seattle, a place that prizes political correctness above all else. I felt that many people there, while PC on the surface, were terribly angry and hateful. It seems the more you constrict people's ability to say what they really feel, the more volitile people become and their true animal nature moves closer to the surface.

"...men are not gentle creatures who want to be loved, and who at the most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness. As a result, their neighbour is for them not only a potential helper or sexual object, but also someone who tempts them to satisfy their aggressiveness on him, to exploit his capacity for work without compensation, to use him sexually without his consent, to seize his possessions, to humiliate him, to cause him pain, to torture and to kill him. Homo homini lupus. [Man is a wolf to man.] Who, in the face of all his experience of life and of history, will have the courage to dispute this assertion?

In consequence of this primary mutual hostility of human beings, civilized society is perpetually threatened with disintegration. The interest of work in common would not hold it together; instinctual passions are stronger than reasonable interests. Civilization has to use its utmost efforts in order to set limits to man's aggressive instincts and to hold the manifestations of them in check...

In spite of every effort, these endeavours of civilization have not so far achieved very much. It hopes to prevent the crudest excesses of brutal violence by itself assuming the right to use violence against criminals, but the law is not able to lay hold of the more cautious and refined manifestations of human aggressiveness. The time comes when each one of us has to give up as illusions the expectations which, in his youth, he pinned upon his fellowmen, and when he may learn how much difficulty and pain has been added to his life by their ill-will."

Hell, No.

Remember my new job? Yeah, well, that didn't work out so well.

Over the course of seven weeks, my "guaranteed" 20 hours per week had slipped to between 11-13 hours, my initial rate of $45/hour had slipped to $30, and my boss began picking and choosing which hours he felt like paying me for.

According to his twisted logic, you can't charge a client more than he wants to pay. So if a job takes me 6 hours to do, my Korean boss, Hans (what up with that name, dogg?) would chicken out and charge the client for 2 hours, at my expense. Then when I'd object, Hans would attack me, usually via email, CC:ing my colleagues, and insist that I am being naive and tacky.

Hans' accent is eerily Kim Jong Il (in Team America), as is his disposition. He runs a struggling PR firm and I suppose the IT company is a side project to keep himself afloat. He's always swearing at someone or throwing temper tantrums. Every email I would send to the group would immediately be replied to all with a scathing personal attack, usually based on an ESL-related misunderstanding.

So last Wednesday, Hans dramatically called a meeting inviting everyone to attend, the agenda being to discuss my "inability to follow clear instructions." It was during this meeting that Hans screamed across the table at me telling me I am inflexible and difficult to work with and that we should part ways because I'm more of a headache than I'm worth.

I can be stubborn and call people on their attitudes, but I never did that with Hans. I knew from the very beginning that he was an immature drama queen, but I also knew I needed the money so I'd better kiss ass anyway, which I did. I'm actually pretty proud of myself for not walking into his traps on several occasions.

I'm almost expecting a final fuck-you in the form of Hans withholding my last paycheck, even though I gracefully excused myself after he skewered me in Wednesday's meeting. If that turns out to be the case, I will enjoy writing letters to all of the clients I worked with explaining how Hans stole money from a good worker with a baby 3 weeks away and asking them to boycott his firm.

My Boss Is A Hateful Sadist.

That is all.

Drunk Blogging.

Although I'm not drunk now, I Treo'd the following stream-of-consciousness when I was drunk indeed, a year or so ago in Brooklyn.

And while I'm not drunk currently, I am at a bar and on my second Moinette. In that spirit, here's what was on my mind this time last year...

stuff:
violent femmes' self-titled.
Dinosaur jr.
Fate. Luck. Love. Sex. Friends. Booze.
irony(/)wit.
Fashion/style.
old/new tom waits.
obesity.
The bus.
Losing weight/gaining.
Touring then/ touring now.
city/suburbs.
$70 per hour/ $30 per hour.
Dating?
family. Sara.
Maine/nyc.
what's so great about nyc? (maybe that ppl have stories and/or are passionate about something. Or are they just lame. Or something in between. Or neither?).