Crawling With Aggravations, One Hand On Privates

15 Aug

Sunspot Babies

Sunspot Babies

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Have been breezing through the PageMill 2.0 tutorial, after all these many months of fretting—about sinking into the mire of yet another program's learning curve. It's actually easy, and what's more, it's fun. Phantastic built-in transparent GIF pheature. May adopt it for that neat trick alone.

Photoshop 4.0 still has a knack for crashing during GIF operations, so I've steered wide of transparent GIFs, opting instead, since I've been using solid background mostly, to colorpick around the transparency issue, but that fails when JPG washes out in lower resolution displays—creating slightly off boxes around the graphics in the display, defeating the purpose. Globetrotter is still good for specialty tasks, so I don't mind having dropped a hundred bucks for an image map generator (obliging for over a year now).

Looked down this morning while in BZT mode (sitting at the Bitterzone Terminal) and discovered about nine inches squared of blood splotches staining my favorite white shirt (read: softened with enough wash & worn aging, stainless, and untorn). I snatched the panel up in mild panic and discovered several other marks to my dismay. After scratching gently back the crusted blood I found it difficult to discern just what prompted the blood rush sometime during the night, some small inadvertant scratch, egads, an ant bite? This summer-long drought of record-smashing proportions they say has us crawling with aggravations as these queen-driven pests abandon their parched nests six inches below garden level in a long migration toward the inside caverns of man's futile hutch in unquenchable thirst for water. They are everywhere. The grillyard garden is still in rather fine till this season thanks to my daily care, but is infested with long files of marching black picnic ants. Red armies have deployed ruthless skills in trenching out the shady sumacs before I brandished spray chemicals to ease the damage. But in general, I've enjoyed this year's version of the Dollhouse English. Not House & Garden standards quite, but the best I've ever had a hand in flourishing. This despite this astounding drought. I've watered almost every morning and most evenings the backyard spoils. (Now if only I could manage some English in the bedroom sense. Billiard English? Who cares? Meanwhile the computer room, kitchen, upstairs bathroom, and more recently the bedroom has been attacked by these crawling creatures—has me thinking Adam Ant is about due.

After I explained the situation from my perspective of facts and presumed legal rights and acknowledged by the company rep that there seemed indeed some kind of mixup I nevertheless was several times galled to have her suggest that she was willing to work out a pay plan to address the sixty-five hundred dollars remaining on the mortgage statement.
Further dismay in discovering some of the brown moles on my belly near the blood source have enlarged and while not exactly painful, are noticeably intolerant of pinching and roughing as the nearby unblemished skin. My mother has been hospitalized several times, a half dozen maybe, for melanoma cancers, and yes, I have my mother's body genetically speaking, to a decidedly greater degree more so than any of my other five siblings, several who definitely favor my dad and his darker, hairier more German personal features' package. Maybe I scratched myself. Hope so. Too early by a decade at least to start dying of bizarre bangups.

Opened some mail yesterday addressed to the man who sold us this house ten years ago last April. We've been getting mail rather regularly from creditors addressed to this Marco Zamora since we took possession in a very straight-forward realtor transaction. For the longest time we marked them up as belonging elsewhere, and stuck them back in the mailbox. I knew he and his wife had bought a place somewhere along Anacostia's mansion row. After a few years I simply began tossing them in the trash. Yesterday I inadvertantly stumbled into an eyeopener. This finance company was threatening foreclosure on THIS Eighteenth Street property unless overdue charges were immmediately paid. Stunned at the possible repurcussions of this letter, and still thinking that this was just some minor addressing problem, I dialed the 800 number and was finally connected to a person of authority. The company's name included the name of the man who once stated that his customers could have any color car they wanted as long as it was black, so I guessed that this was perhaps an automobile default. But apparently not. After I explained the situation from my perspective of facts and presumed legal rights and acknowledged by the company rep that there seemed indeed some kind of mixup I nevertheless was several times galled to have her suggest that she was willing to work out a pay plan to address the sixty-five hundred dollars remaining on the mortgage statement. I finally determined that the loan that Zamora was in danger of defaulting was initiated in April 1987, the same month we bought and financed elsewhere the house from him. How did he manage to get a 10-year deal on a house he had sold to us? No way was I paying his shady deal off. In fact we have the standard title insurance that protects against this sort of lien shenanigans. Finally I was able to clarify the situation enough for this woman that she told me that there was obviously some logical explanation for this mix-up, to give her a few days to research from her end, and not to panic.

Mystery is a stench ready made to plunder. Will his French exchange guest Stefan join in the festivities, or will any of the cheeze whiz chicks Bob invited show to degenderize the stereotype of boys, cigars, and feckless jokes about wanton ladies currying favor with the jewels of the dealer? Will the pokerface truly mesmerize the shirts off the backs of us sharks, or will the game end as just another luck of the draw?
Of course Sue just yesterday morning left on her flight out to Georgia on her way to this year's Carribbean cruise. I tore through the Dollhouse hill and dale, crack and crevice, in the shadows and on the deck, searching for our mortgage papers, and found them right where I filed them a few feet away. The personal financial records were digital, but as Julius was to Caesar they were locked out by password, so I was no help to this woman on the phone. She wondered if I could not possibly track this man down? Is this my responsibility I wondered to myself, while telling her no I could not possibly find him, remembering how private his reputation had already characterized him. A subsequent peek into the phonebook proved that indeed he is not listed. A 411 later revealed "at the customer's request..." I may have stashed hundreds of clever detective moves from Kojack to Dirty Harry to Columbo into my fat asteroid belt over the years but I suspected unlike when I was nine years old and claiming I knew how to swim "because I saw it on TV" that there was more to tracking and cornering a bad guy than figuring out where this bad guy now kept his own stash of bait and switch routines.

This was obviously an illegal transaction. However Zamora pulled it off, he apparently has intended to pay it off. His last payment was in April of this year. That could have been his last payment on a ten-year note (a term nearly hinted at by the Ford rep). Reading between the lines of what was said over the phone and what I've observed over the years with billing statements directed here in his name I suspect this six grand plus tab includes accrued late charges, and penalties which Zamora has no intention on paying. It boggles the mind. Hell, he's probably never even received a late charge request since they all arrived here. This is a sticky legal mess. I'm not in panic because I believe we are completely covered, and once the truth about our ownership is fully revealed to this creditor, they'll put a detective on the Zamora path, and only drag us into a legal battle as last resort, and perhaps we will have resorted to Rick "Wonder Boy" Alcalde as our legal counsel by then. And Sue called last night and seemed unimpressed by the threats of legal mud. I just want to grab this thing by the albino short hairs soon enough to thwart any possible surprise attacks by bankers on the move. It's nothing to shrug off, even if we do have all our fuckie duckies all in a row.

So anywaze, what else is happening? Going over to Blum's tonight for a friendly game of low to midland stakes poker with the guys and dolls of Bob's World. Mystery is a stench ready made to plunder. Will his French exchange guest Stefan join in the festivities, or will any of the cheeze whiz chicks Bob invited show to degenderize the stereotype of boys, cigars, and feckless jokes about wanton ladies currying favor with the jewels of the dealer? Will the pokerface truly mesmerize the shirts off the backs of us sharks, or will the game end as just another luck of the draw?

Always the man about town, Steve's gone to Philly for the weekend job joust and general enjoyment, what else? Landry's dusting off the SF scene after her usual Friday afternoon corporate massage, I presume. Peter's busy with hair Goth beaver and loaded with air. I've got to finish my 10-page web presentation to A&F so I can bag those two accounts (Hector's Andalusian sales account, the other). Pitch, the PR has fizzled apparently. Sue says that he's unlikely to join us for the crab feast at Captain Billy's down on the western shore Labor Day, or the day before, I forget which. Last week's crabs were delicious at the West Virginia University alumni gathering at Andrews Air Force Base; were nothing less than corpus delicti . . .

The most delicious thing I can say about crabs is MORE MORE MORE.

GT

P.S. By the way, for those of you who have signed up for the iMote automated newsletter I shall be sending out the first of the monthly scraps very soon. There are three of you, and other than Landry, who announced her surly intentions on being there, I do not know who the other two are. The automated service from GetReminded! to which I subscribe "protects" the e-mail identity of the recipients of the newsletter from the owner/writer. Basically the first note will announce the splitting of the old iMote domain into the new commercial iMote (Internet Made Only Too Easy) frontispiece and my new domain, which will now house all the other personal arts and confusion formerly nested at iMote and GeoCities. Take care fadwalkers, have a decent fry, sat, and sun.

© 1997 - 2017, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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