America’s Worst Housing Crisis. Ever.

The Walker – Fitz & The Tantrums

So in the past seven days I’ve gotten four parking tickets and one towing of my car. Grand total of $500 worth of fines, give or take a punch in the wall. Nice chunk of change.

Even more fun was being towed from an area that isn’t a tow zone (they claim it was as a once-off for an hour on this particular day, who cares if there was no sign up). Even better again was realising there was another violation ticket on top of that towing bill (they can only tow after they give a ticket which is a nice money earner for them). All of this after getting an $85 ticket the day before for parking in a spot that a parking office walking by told me was OK to park in (he then gave me a ticket the minute I left my car). Sneaky whure.

Added to this, the bumper of my car was damaged while being towed. So far I’ve been sent back and forth between the West Hollywood City Hall (also known as C.*.*.T.S) and the Hollywood Tow Service (also known as B.A.$.T.A.R.D.S) as to whose fault the damage was and who should pay and you should go their office, oh they sent you here, while we’re sending you back there so run back to them pony boy gimp Hayes, as so on. Safe to say, it’s been a great week.

In fairness, the ticket I got today was my own fault. And the one I got last week was my fault too. Street cleaning on my street. Can’t park on that side of the road in the morning. I know this. My fault. Still, I’m frazzled. That amount for such little offence is a lot. $65 for being in an area for ten minutes longer than I should’ve been that hadn’t even been street cleaned yet so nobody got obstructed? Thieving whures with their camel tows.

Safe to say all these tickets have my brain short circuiting, scattered, no longer caring. I read some quote the other day about postive attracts positive and negative attracts idiots so I’ve taken an “Ah sure, no point dwelling on it.” (Or as I used to say to my cows back home, don’t dwell on past pastures.) Pile those tickets on, I say. I’ll eventually just drive my car through the nice expensive windows of the West Hollywood City Hall and give them the keys of my car as payment for all my gross misdemeanours.

Parking tickets haven’t been the only dodgy thing going on in my life. Showed up for a gig the other day only to realise I was double booked with someone else and even though it was my gig that other person had shown up first so sorry about that. Off you go, gimp boy pasty Hayes, here’s no money as compensation. Nice chunk of change, not in the back pocket.

Yesterday I had a follow up meeting that was pretty big. Walked in. Sat down. Jeans ripped. Set the tone. People who had gotten me in the first meeting were now pitching me all sorts of unsuitable stuff. Also. They kept calling me Jack from Wales. As opposed to Mark from Ireland. So that was nice and awkward when I kept correcting them.

At least I know the root of why all of this is going on: America’s Worst Housing Crisis. Ever. Worst the country as seen since the bubble burst. Bring back the days when the bubble was big and bubbly. Basically what I’m saying is: I need to move abodes. Something I hate. Not a fan. Worst thing ever. Uprooted. Unsettled. Unfeathered. My life is out of sorts. So now everything is in disarray. All coming crashing down.

For the past four years I’ve lived in the same abode. Perfect set-up. Roommate. Sound. Quiet. Chilled. Good laugh. Then his girlfriend moved in. And things changed. No longer was the A/C set at a cool 72-74 degrees. Now the A/C was turned off. Toasty 80 degrees. Disgusting climate for an Irish man.

Even last week when the weather was 96, 98, 100 degrees, I came home to a sweat box of an abode with them sitting in front of the fire “There’s a bit of a breeze blowing in, it’s kind of cold.” WHAT!?! I would scream back with my eyes, ARE YOU MENTAL? I would then ask as politely as I could. Wry smile in return. Oh I get it, you’re smoking me out. And so commenced our version of the Cold War, the passive aggressive Hot War.

Things have been less than ideal. Sly comments about my choice of food (who doesn’t like the smell of bacon versus fish, garlic and parsley?). A usual quiet abode now getting blasted by Latino music from one room and Jazz music from another room at the same time at all times of day, night and early morning. Overhearing stuff you don’t want to hear, you know. Thin walls. Dose. But I get it. Time to move. Asked to vacate. Tomato. Potato.

And then, a glimmer of hope shone in my window. A buddy was also looking for an abode. Start of June. Same as me. Happy days. Told current roommate I’d be gone. Moving on. Bigger. Better. Brighter pastures!

And then my buddy informed me he won’t be able to get a place until August. Dose.

And then my roommate asked if I could actually be gone earlier than June. “Like in the next week or two. Friends coming to visit. We told them they could use your room. In fact, we will more or less pay you to leave. The sum of all your parking tickets.” Fair enough. “Do you mind leaving your bed too?” I do.

Now the hunt is on to find a temporary abode. Oddly enough the thought of moving my bed has me most discombobulated so I’m half tempted to leave it behind. Everything else can be put in a suitcase or picked up and moved by my soon to be impounded, marked by traffic wardens, car. The bed though, that’s big. Although it is nice. Still, maybe I’ll just burn it and start again from scratch.

So far so good on my temporary nine week abode hunt. Went to one place yesterday where the owner (a fat, old, bald, sun-bed tanned, gay guy) asked me if I would be comfortable – and interested – in seeing him naked? That was nice.

Then this morning I went to look at a room in an apartment that turned out to belong to a Satanist who told me I looked like Jesus. Nice girl. I felt a connection. Pity the bedroom was so small.

Anyway, hunt on as they say. I now know my new purpose in life too: I’m going to be the Harvey Milk of West Hollywood parking ticket injustice. Somebody has to, might as well be me. Murky Milk. Until then, namaswahey.

P.S. If anyone needs me I’ll probably be living out of my car for the next ten weeks. Fight the justice. Stick it to the power. Murky Milk all the way!

Tags: Abode, Camel, Comedian, Comedy, Fitz And The Tantrums, Hollywood, House, Ireland, Irish, Mark Hayes, Mark Hayes Irish, Mark Hayes RanDumb, Mark Hayes Writer, Parking, Pricks, Rent, Stand-Up, The Walker, Towing, Weho, West Hollywood, Writer