Make Your Own Fun. Or Else.

Look out, folks! Pet peeve of the week is a-comin' your way!

PEOPLE WHO NEED TO BE ENTERTAINED.

I cannot emphazise this enough. It's not that I have something against entertainment. Movies and TV can be art at best and loads of fun even when they're terrible. But there's something intensely tragic about people who require some form of passive entertainment.

We've all seen it. Sitting around sad living rooms that never seem full no matter how many people plop down on the ugly blue couch and stare vacuously at the TV while their beers go flat. Suddenly, the movie or the game cuts to a commercial, and an awkward pause hangs over the audience. Taking advantage of the silence, the sponsors blare on about hemmorhoid cream until someone says, "Uh, are there any more nachos?"

It doesn't have to be this way. For starters, I personally believe that far too many living rooms are really just TV rooms. Try pointing the couches and chairs at each other. All of a sudden you'll notice something freaky - there are OTHER PEOPLE in this room! Chances are some of them even have something to talk about.

The fact of the matter is, a group of grown-assed adults sitting around complaining that there is "nothing to do" is just pathetic. Play cards. If you don't have cards, play charades. Tell a damn story. Walk down to the liquor store and spend forty-five minutes debating what to buy - and trust me, if you don't have a story to tell on the way there, hang around. You'll be sure to have one for the way back.

This is something I find deeply troubling about my generation. Perhaps too many of us spent too much time being shuttled from practice to practice in minivans, or maybe we're just dumb, but listen: you're going to spend roughly a third of your waking hours from age 18 on working for someone else. When you're off, you're off. Your time is your own. Don't just hand it over because you can't think of anything else. Embrace your time. Do things. Build things. Redecorate. Move the furniture. Open the hood of a car and stare at the engine until you know what that noise is.

But please, please, please - don't just sit there.
Nemo.

My Xmas Miracle

This Xmas I drove my car into a tree.

What a shitty year it's been. Every month getting worse and worse. And I drive my car headlong into a tree on Xmas. Fuck me running. Or driving. Well, if anything I am fucked. Good and proper.

I was coming down Eastern right past Barret and skid off the road, smashing a sapling, kissing a fire hydrant (Thanks Jake, I don't think I'll ever forget that phrase for the rest of my life) and driving smack dab into the trunk of a very large tree.

I'll tell you this much, my life sure as hell didn't flash before my eyes. Hell no. Nope, all I experienced was "Fuck, I'm toast."

THEN POW THE AIR BAG GOES OFF.

My first post-near death experience was to simply get really pissed. I had already left a party pissed and had just wanted to get home. Now? I drive my car into a tree. I can't even afford to pay my rent let alone repairs. and OH FUCK I JUST LEFT A PARTY WHERE I HAD A BOURBON AND COKE FUCK. 

I don't know if I turned the car off or if I just started wailing on the steering wheel. I mean, what a god damn way to end this shitty shitty year.

Then I walk out of the car. YES OF COURSE IT'S FUCKING COLD OUT. But then it occurs to me that I should probably check for bodily injury. Well, fuck me running, I'm without a scratch. Not even a burn from the air bag. Oh but wait a second I just drove my car into a fucking tree dammit all to hell!

Then up stroll a couple of guys. Start asking me if I'm ok and whole spiel. Turns out that one of them was apparently a paramedic who just happened to be driving the opposite direction and saw the whole thing. Starts asking how fast I think I was going and then starts telling me

"Oh, no you were probably going faster than that."

"Wha-"

"So where did you come from"

I didn't even have time to take it in that he would have confronted me about my mistaken judgement but whatever. I tell him I just came from up on Norris AveStDrWhatTheFuckEver

Of course he wants to know what's going on and getting in my business and asking a lot of dumb questions. Which of course, leads to the inevitable life lessons he's passing down. Now, it's not life lessons in the sense that "you should drive better." It was life lessons like "at least you're not dead". I was close to telling him to go fuck off, but I figure that in some fashion I'm making him feel better. I'm sure everyone of you who read this would have definitely surely told him to fuck off, but hindsight is 20/20 here, gang.

So inevitably, the cops show up and they take everybody's statements."I was coming from a party, had a drink..."

Pause. 

At this point, I'm not even going to try to lie to a cop. I'm no liar as it is. Besides, I JUST HAD THAT BOURBON AND COKE. I don't see how it's possible for him to not notice this. I just tell him how it is.

"... I was angry after the party, and I just wanted to go home, and the car started to skid. I tried to correct myself but flew right off the road into this tree. I would say I was going 45, but my friend here... well."

"Oh, he was going 50 at least for sure..."

What the hell can you do? I just let it go. I had enough to worry about and besides I wouldn't have to see this asshole again. Because why have an asshole when you've got a cop whose first question is always the ultra comforting

"Have you ever been arrested before?"

Holy shit. I nearly threw up. I do not want to get A) arrested again and B) sent to jail on fucking Xmas for fuck's sake!But I reign it in. I steel my reserve. "I'm not going to get arrested. Nope. Okay, maybe I am. So what. It's just on a Saturday night which means I'll be in until Monday. Fucking shit. Fuck this ye.."

"Yes." and on with those details. And all the rest of it.

Finished with the questioning, he inspects the car and the tire tracks and pops into his squad car. I'm standing out in the freezing ass cold in chucks for what seems like an HOUR (probably 5 minutes) while he fills out his report and paperwork and maybe secretly telling his friends how dumb I am. Finally he strolls out and it happens.

The test.

"Well it's over, me. We are well and truly fucked. We had a good run, but luck has finally..."Wait a second. He's going to test my balancing? My fucking balancing? DUDE YOU ARE MESSING WITH A FUCKING ACROBAT HERE. Or the next closest thing. The one where they balance themselves. Balancarina?

Shit I pass that thing with so many flying colors, I was amazed that he didn't give me a god damn hi-five and a bud light. Confidence, son! I sometimes have it!

Then I finally get to call for a ride. Thank christ that people I know have been in contact with me all night up until the wreck. Of course they've been drinking, so they don't just jump out of the car when the cops are still there, but when the cops are gone, they pop on out. 

One of them is so drunk he starts texting people to tell them that he is really drunk.

At this point I had gotten a hold of a tow truck and told the driver

"Take this sauced up bastard home before he throws up everywhere. He means well, but I don't know if he even knows where he is right now."

30 more minutes of cold. Why did I wear these fucking chucks?

Good ol' boy tow truck finally shows up right after my driver shows up. We handle that situation and it's off to bed for everyone.

So here, finally is where the miracle comes in. I have been struggling with my bills and my income lately and the one major thing that I needed to get rid of that I wasn't sure how was my insane car bill. $310 a month and because of a period of having no insurance an additional $260 a month!

Well guess the fuck what, ladies and gentlement! Today, it is official. The car is declared a total loss, the payout includes more than what I owe Chase and I am getting a small (BUT OH SO VERY NOT NEGATIVE) check.

So I don't have a car. I don't have money right off the bat to buy a car. If anything I'm not buying ANY motor vehicles for as long as I can stand it.

But fucking hell, my quality of life just shot right back up through the roof. I am officially back in the game.

Neighbors

Part of the joy of a low cash lifestyle (LCL) is the neighborhoods you tend to live in.

City dwelling LCLers tend to live in what I call transitional neighborhoods. These are places where uptight white people give you second glances when you live there, then recount an isolated act of violence from 8 years ago involving the neighborhood.

These are not bad neighborhoods, but they generally arn't the best. However, they always have the best neighbors.

I don't know what it is about semi-shitty neighborhoods that breed such great neighbors... I will have a few posts cataloging some of my favorites. There was pumpkin head, boy, dark boy, dark fabio, ob-man-drag, and others too numerous to mention.

I'll start with a personal favorite.

This one lady was an odd duck. She lived in the public housing building across the street, and she wore winter clothes all year long. You also would never see her without a stuffed oversized backpack.

Now, seeing a 50 year old lady walk around dressed for an artic tundra in 90 degree weather wasn't too horribly peculiar for the nighborhood. However, she felt the need to seek us out and talk to us on two occasions.

The first time this lady involved herself in my life, myself and three other friends were on the sidewalk chatting on a summer day. She was walking by on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. One of my friends is telling some pointless story or relating something from a tv show he had seen, when this lady interrupts us with a question:
Lady-"Excuse me, are you all talking about me?"
Me-"No?"
Lady-"Ok. You see, some people have been talking about me. I went to the library on Monday. I went to the movies on Tuesday. And on Wednesday the doctor shot me with a gun, but I got away and got better. And Sally was telling people how the doctor shot me, but I didn't want Sally to tell anyone. I don't like Sally. Were you all talking about me?"
Me-"No..."
Shot-me Lady-"Well Ok. Its not nice to talk about people."
Me-"...right..."
At this point Shot-me Lady walks away. as soon as she enters her building, the four of us collapse in laughter. That is what blooming unmedicated schizophrenia looks like after a wet spring.

Now, some background before this next part of the story. Myself and my then-roommate had reason to believe a serial arsonist was running around our neighborhood. There were multiple large structure fires in the area, and they always occured at the same time of day... (I should also note that I am a firefighter, and therefore have some expertise on the subject...)

We (myself and my roommate) were working on the first floor of our multistory house. I was hidden in a stairwell about halfway back in the house, and my roommate, Brian, was close to the front door. Someone knocked, and Brian opens the door assuming it is the UPS man for yet another roommate. To Brian's horror, he opens the door to Shot-me lady...
Brian-"uh... Hi."
Shot-me Lady-" ..... "
Brian-"Can I help you?
Shot-me Lady-"Does the fireman live here?" (Me- OH SHIT!)
Brian-"Who?"
Shot-me Lady-"There was a party here last week. And when I was walking by across the street, the fireman yelled from the porch at me. He said 'you got it, yeah, you got it.'" (this yelling incident did not take place)
Brian-"What?"
Shot-me Lady-"He said yeah, you got it. Is he here?"
Brian-"No."
Shot-me Lady-"Are you sure. blah blah McCrazy frakin blah. I don't like people yelling at me. There was a party here and all the people were talking about me and they were laughing...."

While Brian is stuck at the door with this crazy old bat, I had summoned other roommates to the stairwell to laugh at Brian's misfortune. After a few minutes, we call Brian on my cell phone, and whisper "get out". He finally works his way out of the conversation using my phone call, and closes the door on Shot-me Lady. We would retreat upstairs and hide/drink beer for the next few hours.

She would be readmitted to the "home" later that fall. The fires stopped at the same time.

Crazy neighbors....

Sorry

Sorry for the delay in new posts fans!  Multiple factors are slowing posting speeds.  Hoping to return to "normal" soon.

Cheers!

What's a hem?

One of the great misconceptions about the LCL (low cash lifestyle) is that it is a slovenly lifestyle.

Perchance this is due to the LCLers general proximity to poverty, or our propensity for malt liquor.  Admittedly, the LCL lends itself to slovenly behavior more readily than most lifestyles, but they are not inherently united.

Now, a slovenly lifestyle is most visible in one's dress.  Some dudes, especially LCLers, are horrid dressers.  If one dresses poorly, it gives the impression your bed is surrounded by KFC buckets.  If one dresses nice, it  gives the impression your bed is not surrounded by KFC buckets.  There might be KFC buckets in the house, but they are at least down the hall.

When you dress nice, by the time someone finds out your bed is indeed surrounded by KFC buckets, they are already invested.

Further, even us LCLers have to give the impression of being well to do from time to time.  Unless you partake in the highly un-LCL practice of owning a late model beemer, dress is the place to do it.

The reality is some LCLers manage to be dapper dressers while holding onto their hard earned greenbacks.  DeeBee is known for lounging in his home in sport coats.  Captain Nemo is often sporting a fedora.

It does take legitimate effort to undo a habit of slovenly dress.  It cannot be undone in a single night.  Here are some suggestions to help my fellow LCL dude NOT look like he came out from his parents basement because they ran out of hot pockets.

• We all have stained and torn shirts.  Those are called "work" shirts.  They should only be worn while one is doing "work," as in physical labor, not to your friends social gathering.  Stop it, you look homeless.
• Find a god damned belt.  I am tired of seeing your hairy ass.  It must be like buffing peanut butter out of shag carpet down there.   Your toilet paper must get rug burn!  Wear suspenders if you have to.
• Find out what size you are.  I'm talking shirt and pant sizes.  Nothing makes someone look more like Uncle Drunk than a shirt that is 3 times too big, except a stained wife beater.  See bullet #1.
• Stop letting mom buy your clothes.
• Do some clothing research.  I recommend "Details Men's Style Manual" by Daniel Peres and Co, as it is approachable and has lots of pictures!
• Clothes with excessive pockets/cargo pants: this paramilitary look is more Timothy McVey than Chuck Norris.  People think all your pockets are for candy to lure children back to your van.

Remember: don't bring down our low-cost reputation by dressing like a slob.  Help us help you live the dream.  Now, throw out those opinion tees!

LCL: Low Cash Links!

Our first link/photo of the week!

This D.C. councilman apparently has a can of Steel Reserve Malt Liquor on his office desk.

Unfortunately, it is because he was banning the sale of singles, a LCL staple.  But we can dream, can't we?

http://dcist.com/2010/11/so_whats_up_with_the_steel_reserve.php

Grandpa Stoff

Captain Nemo's post, "Chuckin Stuff," reminded me of the high risks many LCL (low cash lifestyle) types take in hoarding stuff.

I don't mean having a kitchen cabinet filled with canned goods; canned goods are useful. I am talking about the truck whose driver sits in a cocoon of salt packs and neatly folded napkins. The deepfreeze in the back room containing trashbags of old clothes. The shelf in the garage covered by jars of various banned pesticides and parts for a vehicle you have never owned. (That's me!)

The issue with this is that if you are a hoarder, and you do not deal with your stuff, someone else will. Allow me to tell a story regarding my favorite hoarder.

Myself and my business partner purchased a house from his grandpa, whom I shall call "Grandpa Stoff." Grandpa Stoff was a hoarder of epic proportions. The cleanout was a nightmare: The man had a bucket of lightbulb ends. ENDS. Just the metal parts... just in case...

We also found: a bucket of melted lead, 30 years of Playboys missing their naughty pics, a 4"x4"x4" box labeled "toilet paper" with a solitary roll inside, nine cubic feet of rat feces, 12 hammers, no phillip's head screwdrivers, an assortment of glassware stolen from local restaurants, a literal ton of rusted and deformed iron pipe, and a large box filled with rubber bouncy balls.

Now, understand that Grandpa Stoff didn't buy all this stuff. Grandpa Stoff was a mailman, and would look through trashcans and take anything he thought had value. He would drag home vacuums just to cut the power-cords off of them. He would pocket the stolen glassware at the end of a meal. But the worst was yet to come...

There was a collapsing four-car garage at the rear of the property, and this is where we found our most terrifying remnant. Buried in the debris of the garage, we found a tightly wrapped grocery store bag. Inside this grocery bag was a used and abused electric buttplug!

This buttplug wasn't a modern silicon and battery powered device. This was old-school hard bakelite plastic with a coiled power cord so it could run off 120 volt household service. This was my business co-owner's grandpa's electric buttplug, likely recovered from a trashcan along his mail route. In a moment of perverse fascination, I plugged the unit in. It sounded like the damn space shuttle.

Sold it at the estate sale for $10. Thats right; I sold my buddy's grandpa's used electric buttplug at a public estate sale at the old family homestead.

So, the moral of the story? Go get rid of your crap. Otherwise, you will bring geriatric anal penetration shame upon your family for generations to come.

Asshead.

Chuckin' Stuff

At first this may seem counterintuitive. How can a low-casher possibly afford to get rid of any of his/her meager capital holdings?

Easy. You don't have "capital holdings" or even "life's possessions." You have, ahem, "junk."

That's right. Junk. Crap piled up to the ceiling. Every flat surface in your apartment morphs into a table, slowly accumulating debris like the silt that builds up on river bottoms. In the future, scientists will drill deep into your piles of useless stuff and extract layered cores for study.

"Look!" they'll say, with excited eyes. "This layer of receipt-ite seems to have been laid down in late 2007 during a period of particularly intense take-out dining activity!"

You don't want that fate, do you? No. On top of that, stuff costs you money. Even after you've bought it, it takes up valuable space that you could be subletting or using for other low-cash activities. If you move, it sucks up your gas mileage and makes you take extra trips. What this means is that all your stuff had damn well better justify itself.

Recently I have been throwing things away. Before any greenies out there get upset, I don't mean everything went straight to the landfill. Things were recycled and donated; I just mean that they were removed from my life. I've got a stack of clothes going to Goodwill next week.

It's really wonderful. A lighter load. Breathing room.

So here's what you do. Start with paper. Pile up all your useless stuff in front of you and make three piles: definitely junk, definitely save, and "decide later." The toughest part of this is not just pushing everything into the middle pile. Go through it. Poem you wrote in high school? Unless you read it at your best friend's funeral, CHUCK IT! Stack of pay stubs from your days at Bubba O'Fratboy's Fake Irish American Pub Chain? Keep the last one so you know how much you sold your soul for, and shred the rest. CHUCK IT! Shred your soul while you're at it; it's weighing you down. Pics of you and your ex who's married now and treated you like secondhand chewing gum that you kept anyway because it was such a sweet short time and you still like to think about JUST CHUCK IT ALREADY!

When you're done, put the "don't know" pile aside, and go back to it a week later with the same triage-style operation. Three rounds of this should finish the papers. Now on to other things...

Clothes: You know that outfit you've been saving for a "special event"? YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL! And let's not even get started on that certain item that bears the "stain of shame"... CHUCK IT!

Books/Music/other 'art': This, I admit, is my weakness. I'm one of those old-fashioned goofballs who prefers to maintain his music collection in CDs - which don't even have to hipster appeal of vinyl - and I think of my books as a permanent lending library established for the benefit of my friends. But even here, cuts may be made. Are you really going to pull out that anthropology textbook one night and dazzle your friends by proving that matrilineal social organization is viable in the modern context? Will you really liven up a party with Bavarian Bruiser Records' compilation "Polka Punks Vol. 4?" Some of you may be nodding. YOU WON'T! CHUCK IT!

The clay sculpture of a frog your little cousin gave you for your birthday years ago? She was so young and cute to give it away as a present AND IS SEVENTEEN NOW CHUCK IT!

Broken-down crap and old parts of things: This doesn't even need to be explained. Are you grandpa? Thrift is great. But if you aren't REALLY going to reuse that stuff, get rid of it. Put it up for sale or rent or in the "just take it for the love of God" section of the classifieds. One man's trash is another man's treasure - the cycle of LCL life. They'll be happy, you'll be free.

Feels lighter already.