Tao of Scott

Hi Nichole,

Reinvention is getting tough.

As you know my past career took a bad turn. It still exists but in a greatly fucked up fashion compared to the old days. I could go back to it but I would have to work much harder for way less money and still be at least as liable as ever. This, assuming of course, that I could get up to speed on all the new software designed to increase the production of bullshit reportage on a bullshit market place for a bullshit mortgage industry which still puts it’s best minds to work on finding new ways to bullshit the new bevy of bullshit regulatory agencies and side step the new bullshit regulations which in turn are designed to bullshit the citizenry into believing that the government is not bullshitting them when it says “we cannot allow this financial Titanic to sail again.” Well, I’m here to tell you, sail it will. Anyway, I just can’t seem to get motivated to stick my head back in the lion’s mouth, however, as the calendar pages fly off it is becoming increasingly apparent that I may, at the very least, have to set up business in the lion’s cage. I have some applications out. We’ll see.

Chris and I were reviewing a list of unsavory employment options, all of which are attached in some way or another to the mortgage lending industry, and sinking ever deeper into the rotting, reeking, swamp of disgust and hopelessness which so often accompanies this exercise when, like the fading of a hangover, it dawned on us. PERMANENT DISABILITY! At our age (57 and 60 respectively) this is not out of the realm of possibly and warranted at least a cursory investigation. We started to list our qualifications.

“Hell, I’m on anti-anxiety medication and have been for years. I have a long history of fruitless doctor visits and medical consultations all resulting in a single diagnosis. ‘You’re fuckin’ nuts, take it easy why don’t cha.’ That should account for something!” I exclaimed with more than a modicum of confidence.

“Shit, that’s nothin’” Chris said. I could picture him leaning back in his swivel chair, putting his feet on his desk and looking upwards through the ceiling to the sky above. “I’ve had two heart attacks, I got a pace maker, I’ve had a pernicious case of colitis for most of my life and I’m living with a second hand liver.”

“Lucky.” I said crumpling my resume and tossing it into the trash barrel.

At least we’ve done our part in helping the medical community stay afloat in these times of woe. Not that they need much help. With most of the population approaching, if not exceeding, my age (57) there is no shortage of potential patients. You go in for a physical and of course the primary care physician is going to find something that needs further testing. In my case I’m a sucker for tests due, in no small measure, to the fact that in the past eight years I have lost eight close friends to either cancer or heart ailments. The oldest of which was sixty three years old. So now if I get a hang nail I go up to Kathy (registered nurse for 25 years) and ask “hon, do I have finger nail cancer?”

“I don’t think so but maybe you should get some tests run just to be sure,” she says. “What a fuck nut.” she adds as she turns and walks into the living room.

So I start having all these panic symptoms due, I think, to the collapse of western civilization. I get all this incredible upper digestive track gas which causes my stomach to expand to the size of a dirigible which puts amazing pressure on my major artery going into my heart which cuts off the blood flow which mimics a heart attack which sends me to the doctors office. I tell my story. Doc says, “Let’s send you over to the cardiologist for some tests.” Three visits to the cardiologist and “everything appears alright” he says, “let’s send you to another heart specialist for more tests.”

“More special than you?” I ask as I put on my shirt.

“Look, just go to this other medical mall fifty miles from your house and see this doctor whose name I’ve written down here, show up at the time I’ve designated there, and don’t cause any trouble.” the heart specialist says, perturbed at my lack of respect for his level of specialness.

“K.” I acquiesce.

I schlep over to the medical mall, fifty miles from my house, and see the extra special specialist. Extra special specialist says, “You’ve got an extra wire in your heart. Causes confusion. Alls I gotta do is send this tube with these tiny scissors up this artery here, into your heart and snip that little sucker.”

“How often does this condition become fatally dangerous?” I ask, off handedly.

“Never.” answers the extra special specialist.

“How often is this procedure fatally dangerous?” I obviously continue.

“Oh, about two percent of the time.” extra special specialist shrugs.

“I’ll get back to you.” I say terminating the consultation.

I go back to primary doc’s office with a full report on my adventures in cardiology.

“Hmm, let’s go ahead and order an upper gastro-intestinal test. See what happens,” is his advice.

I go to the gastro-intestinal specialists, tell him my story, he says, “Forget the test, you’re gulping air.”

“What?”

“You get all tense and excited and you secretly gulp air. Blows your stomach up like a dirigible.”

“How many advanced degrees did you need to come up with that diagnosis?” I wonder silently.

I go home… “Kathy, the guy says I gulp air. That’s my whole issue, I gulp air. What the fuck?” I‘m incredulous.

“Well hell, I coulda told ya that. I see you do that shit all the time. You know, whenever you get all tense and excited and shit.” Kathy notes as she is putting groceries away.

So anyway, just last week, your grandma goes to the doctor for a check up. X-ray shows a tiny spot on her lung. Better run a cat scan. Cat scan shows a tiny spot on her lung. Better run a pet scan. Pet scan confirms that there is in fact a tiny spot on her lung. Hmm. Better get a biopsy. Four sections of tiny spot are taken. Biopsy is analyzed. All four samples indicate scar tissue, nothing more. Radiologist says, “we need a diagnosis, let’s do another biopsy.”

What the fuck!?

Your grandmother says, “Fuck that I’m going down to the Bird Cage and getting a drink.”

“What, da’ ya think I’m crazy!?” she mutters as she is leaving the radiology lab.

Oh ya, I’m going in for my bi-annual physical on Monday. You know, refresh my prescriptions, get a battery of blood tests, stuff like that.

Love dad

Hi Nichole,

Well Annie Rose, Bryan, the amazing Kaz, and the two very furry dogs are settling into life in Tucson with its dry 106 degree temps. This seems like a brutality to most folks but it’s important to note that they just came from Sacramento with its very humid 106 degree temps. So, you know, there’s that. Ben and Sylvia are gasping through the Phoenix summer with its 114 degree temps. Dry or humid at 114 degrees what the fuck’s the difference it’s fuckin’ hot! I think summer in the Arizona desert actually helps families get along.

“What’s for dinner?” might be posed by the body lying prostrate under an evap cooling vent.

“Shit, I don’t know. I’m too hot to think about it. Probably something, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe later when it cools off I’ll start thinking about it or whatever.” This could be answered by the body sitting on the sofa, wearing only a flimsy cotton dress, arms and legs spread open as far and wide as possible. This posture, by the way, is designed to allow air to flow to the maximum amount of skin surface, not to invite sexual activity.

“K.” Would be the response coming from the body lying prostrate under the evap cooling vent.

Nothing is contested. Any activity beyond breathing is excessive and finally superfluous. This certainly includes sexual activity. I mean Jesus, could you imagine?

“So let’s go to San Diego and visit my dad.” Kathy and I agree. “78 degrees, ocean breeze!”

The last time I saw dad he was having his 80th birthday celebration. There was me, from marriage number 1. Steve and Cindy from marriage number 2. Tamara and Cindy, step daughters from marriages number 3, 5 & 6. Several grand children and two great grand children. Then of course all of Joann’s kids and their kids showed up as well. Joann is marriage # 8 if my count is correct. I really liked wife number 4. Wife number 7 was so vile that it’s best not to speak of her and on this point we are all in agreement. Joann is by far the best of the batch when considering dad’s emotional well being. So let’s see, that’s six wives spread over eight marriages. I wonder what would have happened if he had lived in the Arizona desert rather than costal California?

Dad was especially nice to me on this particular weekend. Very complimentary to you as well, Nichole. Now, as you know, dad and I have maintained a rather volatile relationship over the past, oh I don’t know, forty five years or so. He, I think, has wanted to correct his own foibles and follies through my life somehow. Like, if I would simply follow his rigorous instruction each step of the way I could be the person he wished he was, I could live the life he had wished for himself. He could fix himself through me. I, on the other hand, had to prove that my vision of myself in the world and my intuition as how to best live an emotionally and spiritually successful life were in fact the superior tacks to follow.

These needs, his requirements for resolution and my requirements for recognition, were of course mutually incompatible. The continuous arm wrestling was spirited and sometimes battering yet we always respectfully nodded to one another at the end of each round. On this most recent visit however the armor was not donned, the sword was not drawn, the face to face stance was not taken, we would not enter into the breech once again, we would not enter the valley of death. Finally in our old age my father had found his resolution and I my recognition, the location of each illuminated, at least in some measure, by the light of our fiery passion. After all, he only wanted me to be happy and fulfilled and I only wanted my life to exemplify something in which he could point to with pride. So, you know, it’s a win-win situation.

I was taking a morning walk down by the harbor while we were in San Diego and noticed some sort of dust-up going on out in front of me. As I approached the fracas it became apparent that the discussion was political in nature. Dad and I had buried our political hatchets just the night before so with this new “pax familia” mental environment in which I was basking I walked among the various combatants as if I were an alien from a far away world. I could hear their accusatory remarks being slung at each other from opposite sides of the street. I could read and understand the bumper sticker philosophies and proclamations scrawled in magic marker on their respective placards. I could feel the rancor in their hearts clogging the avenue of reason, yet I could muster no visceral attachment to either side of the debate. The clarity was redemptive. At about this moment I noticed that, as each of the opposing groups were on opposing sides of a major traffic artery jammed with speeding vehicles, there was no safe haven for those of us holding a middle ground.

Love, dad

Hi Nichole,

Man I’ll tell ya, nothin’s easy.

Annie Rose, Bryan, and their illegally cute son Kaz are moving to Tucson. Kathy and I spent all Monday morning packing our shit which amounts to clothes (2 shorts, 2 shirts, 2 underwears, and 1 flip flops per person), 2 coolers (one devoted entirely to beer), our own pillows (we never depend on motel pillows), a portable stereo system, like seventy cds, (just in case we inexplicably need to listen to music we never listen to at home), and all of our brooms, mops, dust pans, scrubbing devices, and gallons of heinous chemical cleaning fluids. Annie’s new house may need a little sprucing up. We completely fill, to the gills, the Ford Expedition, check to make sure we have everything, get into a biblical argument about something that I can’t even remember, I remove all my stuff, bring it back into the house and announce that I am not going. “So is this what you really want?” I ask rhetorically. After we get my shit back into the vehicle we head out of town with our marriage mostly repaired within about fifteen miles.

So the plan is we are to meet Annie Rose and Kaz at the airport. As you know, you are not allowed to stop in the passenger pick-up/drop-off zone at the airport, so I slow to two miles an hour, Kathy shoulder roles out of the Expedition, bounces to her feet and goes to baggage claim to find Annie Rose and Kaz. I proceed to drive in circles around Sky Harbor International Airport (one of the largest in the world) in 110 degree heat, over and over, and over again until mom, daughter, baby, and luggage are waiting at the curb in front of baggage claim. I risk coming to a full stop, note the armed guards rustling in alarm at our lack of forward movement, scream to the fam, “HURRY THE FUCK UP!”, luggage is thrown in, baby tossed in, Annie jumps into the rear seat, Kathy in the front, all doors slam simultaneously, Annie looks over her shoulder and screams “STEP ON IT FOR GODS SAKE!” I stomp the gas, the tachometer shoots up to 5000 rpms and the truck grinds forward at a rate of approximately ten feet an hour. It appears that the protracted slow speed circling of the airport in the 110 degree heat cooked away the transmission fluid and the gears are slipping. So it begins.

Finally we pick up Annie’s brother Ben and slip and rev our way down I-10 towards Tucson. The motel is nice. Kathy and I stay at this place every time we come to Tucson. We get adjoining rooms and install Annie Rose, Ben, Kaz, Kathy, Scott, and what has now become a stupid amount of stuff into the rooms. The schlepping of the luggage from the truck, up three flights of stairs, to the rooms scares the motel management. “Who are these people?” management would wonder. “How many of them are there?” management would quiver. “How long will they stay?” management would calculate while reaching for the phone. Call the authorities. Which authorities? Realizing that it is a week day in the middle of summer in the Sonoran desert and there are no other guests in the three hundred room motel the manager thinks better of calling in the constabulary and we settle into profuse beer consumption and wait for Annie Roses’ husband, Bryan, to arrive with the Budget Rent-a-car moving truck containing all of their worldly possessions.

Rent a truck, put your shit in it, drive from Sacramento to Tucson, unload your shit, return the truck. What’s the big fuckin’ deal? What follows is an odyssey of Homeric proportions.

The truck was supposed to be ready by 10:00 am Monday. Bryan waits at the Budget place until noon, looks out the window and watches while poorly paid workers are washing down a truck which has clearly just come off the road. Bryan takes the truck home, loads the truck, loads the car on the trailer (provided by the professionals at Budget) and off he goes. By the way, this truck was advertised as having air conditioning which it was, in fact, equipped with. The air conditioning in this particular truck, however, is not functioning and Bryan is traveling with two very furry dogs in 100+ degree heat. At around Bakersfield our hero senses something is amiss, pulls over and correctly surmises that the only reason the trailer and its cargo have not gone careening out into central valley traffic is that he was traveling down hill and gravity, and gravity alone, was keeping the truck-trailer interface intact. In no other fashion were the truck and trailer attached. Wrong trailer it turns out. Trailer problem somehow rectified, Bryan calls Annie in the motel room in Tucson with a progress report and continues on.

Many hours later Bryan calls Annie from the mountains separating the San Fernando Valley from the San Joaquin Valley with the news that he is making the worst time in recorded history due to the fact that the Budget rent-a-pig is constantly over heating. We are all gathering around Annie Rose and the phone in the motel room, hanging on every “are you fucking kidding me?” and “no fucking way!” emanating from Annie’s part of these conversations. More hours transpire. This waiting for the next disaster would have been miserable ’cept we had beer. So, you know, there was that. Bryan calls from the shoulder of I-5 north of Los Angeles. The Budget rent-a-butt ream has irredeemably broken down. It is dusk. It is hot. It’s L.A. traffic for fuck sakes. Bryan’s cell phone has run out of power. Bryan gets a friend in Redding (damn near Oregon) to go on-line and arrange a motel for Bryan somewhere down in L.A.. Arranging the repair or replacement of the Budget bucket of bolts currently spewing steam on the Golden State freeway is a charge which finally must fall to Annie Rose who, as you know, is hold up with a bunch of drunken family members in a motel in Tucson. Bryan breaks the car loose from the trailer, leaves the rest of the smoking debris on the side of the freeway, drives to his motel which is located in Pasadena, informs Annie of his location and motel phone # and passes out in his room due to shear exhaustion. Bryan at no point in this brutality breaks. Kathy calls the front desk of our motel and informs the desk clerk that we will be extending our stay by one, maybe two days. After a long silence the clerk responds with “ok” delivered in the whisper of resignation and defeat.

Annie swings into action at this point and for two days is making calls to countless, useless as tits on a boar hog, customer service personnel employed by Budget rent-an-abuse. “We can’t fix the truck without Bryan’s permission given in person.”

“But he is at a motel 20 miles away. I’m his wife and I give you permission to repair your own truck.”

“I will ask my supervisor. Wait and listen to brain melting phone music until your ears bleed and I will get back to you.”

It seems that each customer service irritant has a check list of miseries which must be experienced by the customer, on the customer’s time, and at the customer’s expense, prior to the customer being shuffled on to the next customer service waste of space where the insult is perpetuated. The most common morsel of helpful information provided to the ever stalwart Annie Rose is “I’m sorry but our policy clearly states that the one obvious, logical remedy to this situation is not within the scope of our contractual responsibilities.”
Annie Rose knows that any outburst of disgust and dismay will only send her back to zero. She powers on all composed and shit. This is now in to the second day of musical responsibilities. Ben’s girlfriend Sylvia has by now joined us at the motel to assist us with the consumption of beer. Annie has at one point had two phones going, one in each ear. Getting calls to Bryan through his motel people has been hit and miss at best. At last the truck is officially deemed fucked up, towed to a Budget location in south central L.A., unloaded by Bryan and some questionable help, reloaded on to a new truck by Bryan and some other questionable help. And Bryan arrives at the Budget location in Tucson on Thursday late morning. Something in the vicinity of forty hours to make a twelve hour trip.

Had Annie Rose and Bryan not worked so perfectly together, had they not been able to agree as to the best course of action each step of the way, had they not been completely empathetic to one another’s experience all the while each locked in their own death grip battle with a monstrous, corporate sink hole, Bryan may well still be camped on the shoulder of an L.A. freeway and this new little family would remain estranged by circumstance. It’s not easy putting a family together. It’s not easy keeping a family together. Annie Rose and Bryan have their difficulties as do most of us. I have never witnessed team work performed with such patience, dignity and grace as that displayed by Annie Rose and Bryan during this trial.

Oh, did I tell you, Ben and Sylvia are getting married next summer. Maybe at our house.

Love Dad.