My Video Montage Sequence Day
Mar. 18th, 2004 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabSometime, when I was lost to the world and doing Nothing But Watching Buffy, the Comcast people shut off our cable/modem for nonpayment. This is understandable, seeing as we hadn't paid them, yet irritating, because there's no way for a web writer/eBayer like me to obtain money without the Internet.
I emerged from Buffy to discover the shut-offedness today at about two o'clock, at which point I called the Comcast people and begged for them to restore our service so's I could find money and pay them for said.
[It's important -- though, actually, not that important to the story -- to note that the roomie,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ptpatricia had gone to Chicago to have her sister's baby, or, rather, to watch her sister's baby being had, and therefore was not around to help me with this predicament. Not that important to the story because a) Patricia has no more money than I have, and b) the division of labor we've worked out here seems to involve me paying for the internet/TV while Patricia makes sure we have water, gas, and power. Also, her sister's having a baby. So.]
The nice guy at Comcast assured me -- in that way people have of saying "there's no way I can override the software from here" -- that there was no way to get the internet back without paying the minimum -- not the full -- balance of $187.09. I didn't even ask what the full balance was.
"Is this call being monitored?" I asked.
"All calls are recorded," the nice guy at Comcast, who we'll call Brent, because that was his name, said.
"Oh," I said. "Because I want to ask you something but I don't want to get you in trouble."
"All calls are recorded," he said, "but not all calls are monitored. Maybe I can help you."
The distinction -- which meant nothing to me -- seemed to mean something to him, so I pressed on.
"What would happen if I went into the Comcast office here in LA and wrote a bad check? Would they turn my service on?"
"I don't know," he said. "You mean --"
"Yeah," I said. "I could write a check that I knew would bounce, just to get the service back on so I could get the money to cover the check so it wouldn't bounce."
"Let me find out," he said, and put me on hold.
He came back in a little while, very apologetic. "I tried," he said. "I didn't tell them what you were planning, but I learned that, even if you pay at the office, service won't be restored until the check clears."
I sighed, a big sigh. "But I can go into the office and pay cash and they'll turn the service on immediately, right?"
"Yes," he said.
Cue video montage sequence music, in this case discordantly LA's country music radio station, KZLA.
I scoured my bookshelves, assembled everything I could part with and some things I couldn't, threw 'em in a bag.
Scoured my CDs -- the meager stash I'd managed to reacquire after the Big CD Car-Broken-Into Thefts of This Past Summer -- and my DVDs and threw those in a bag.
Scoured my closet and my drawers, looked for anything springish/summerish/designerish/vintage, found bag, see previous. Put on my cutest vintage blue polka-dot dress (the onefuries helped me pick out this summer), put on cute blue high-heeled sandals, figuring it was more profitable to seduce than walk in my condition, got in the car and went to the bank.
The bank -- who had sworn to hold my last deposit for the ten years it takes to hold a deposit -- didn't want to release any money to me till March 23rd, which might as well be next year in offline time. The nice guy at the bank, who we'll call Arvid, even though that's not his name but is close within a letter or two, suggested I use the bank customer service phones to call bank customer service and beg. The clock was ticking. I called. I went on hold. I begged.
Score! They released me a hundred bucks, which, coupled with the one dollar in my wallet put me $101.00 closer to that $187.09. The clock was ticking.
First, to Amoeba! Where I laid out the CDs and DVDs on the counter. The guy behind the counter looked at my Hong Kong X-Files disdainfully. "There's not really a market for these," he said. "Not a lot of people use PAL."
"They're not PAL!" I said. "Really! They're just -- they have subtitles! You can turn 'em off! They're from Hong Kong! But they're real!"
He poked at them. He looked at each disk for scratches. He squinted at me. "Yeah, I can't take these," he said. "Even if they're in English, not many people have PAL players."
"They're NOT PAL!" I insisted. "Put them in a thing! Try 'em!" He shook his head.
Woefully, I stuck the Hong Kong boxed sets back in their bag and showed him my little pile of cds. He looked at each one carefully, then punched some things in a calculator. "That's $44 in cash or $55 in trade," he said. SCORE! "I'll take the cash," I said, trying to sound very cool and severiously unimpressed by the Big Money.
So close! Forty more dollars! The sun was sinking over the hills. Back in the car.
This time, to Buffalo Exchange, on La Brea, with two heavy sacks of clothing. I signed in, waited in the chairs, watched lots of pretty Asian girls unload big bags of Prada and get stacks of cash back. I'm feelin' lucky, punk, I thought, and dumped my clothes on the counter.
The girl with the poky ponytails unfolded each tank top and skirt and polyester button-down and examined it with a careful sneer. Then refolded each one and stuck it back in the bag. A half hour later, she'd decided on two items -- a linen polka-dot jumper and a black-and-white striped wraparound shirt -- for the grand total of $8.40.
"Got any suggestions for me?" I asked, taking my crumpled little form and my picture id to the register.
"Try Crossroads, on Melrose," she said. "They're buying for spring."
BACK in the car, took off at a clip for Melrose, past the big-ass brand new Target which is really just astonishingly big and blue but not relevant to the story at the moment.
I signed in at Crossroads and sat in the chair while a couple of other pretty Asian girls ahead of me unloaded their Diesel and Juicy Couture digs and walked away with fat stacks of cash. I brought my bags to the counter, and another punky girl in poky ponytails took out each vintage skirt and flowery sweater and examined it with a painter's eye. Twenty minutes later, she'd decided on one red striped sundress, for the grand total of $3.50. I took the little slip and headed for the checkout.
"Hey," said a pretty Asian girl, on line in front of me. "I really liked that sweater that you were showing them. Are you trying to unload it?"
"Yeah," I said, squatting on my blue high heels to dig around in the bag.
"Can I try it on?"
"Sure."
She left with it for five bucks and I got my $3.50 from the counter lady too. The clock ticked! The soundtrack quickened! Clouds raced across the sun and rush-hour traffic dragged outside.
"Got any suggestions for me?" I asked the tiny spiky tattooed girl behind the counter.
"Try across the street at Wasteland," she said. "They take more vintage stuff than we do."
I shouldered my bags and headed out to Melrose.
"Like hip hop?" a really, really hot guy in dreds waved a cd in my face.
"Yes, but I'm selling my clothes!" I said. "Do you want to give it to me free?"
He laughed. "Sorry, wrong girl today," I said, and crossed the street in traffic.
Wasteland, badda-bing, badda-look, two bags later and they settled on a highly psychotic flowered cape, a carpetbag skirt and an orange wool jumper for the exhorbitant sum of $14. I was SO CLOSE.
Back in the car, back in traffic, up to Franklin where the nice guy at Counterpoint Books grinned when he saw me. Thirty books, twenty-two bucks, and I was THERE.
BACK in the car, back to Willoughby and Cahuenga, the Comcast station. I scraped together my $187 only to find that in my day of jubilee I hadn't managed to stick any actual change in my purse, and I was lost for the nine cents. The nice, and moderately smarmy guy at Comcast winked. "Owe me," he said.
"So -- my internet's on?"
"Give me a half hour," he said, and left to have some popcorn.
With my remaining $10 bill I drove through Taco Bell, bought two chalupas and a big iced tea and raced home. Half hour later and here I am, freshly showered, in soft pants and my Mets tee, with the internet at my service and the cats happy and fed.
Mostly, in case you were wondering, this is what it's like to be me.
I emerged from Buffy to discover the shut-offedness today at about two o'clock, at which point I called the Comcast people and begged for them to restore our service so's I could find money and pay them for said.
[It's important -- though, actually, not that important to the story -- to note that the roomie,
ptpatricia had gone to Chicago to have her sister's baby, or, rather, to watch her sister's baby being had, and therefore was not around to help me with this predicament. Not that important to the story because a) Patricia has no more money than I have, and b) the division of labor we've worked out here seems to involve me paying for the internet/TV while Patricia makes sure we have water, gas, and power. Also, her sister's having a baby. So.]The nice guy at Comcast assured me -- in that way people have of saying "there's no way I can override the software from here" -- that there was no way to get the internet back without paying the minimum -- not the full -- balance of $187.09. I didn't even ask what the full balance was.
"Is this call being monitored?" I asked.
"All calls are recorded," the nice guy at Comcast, who we'll call Brent, because that was his name, said.
"Oh," I said. "Because I want to ask you something but I don't want to get you in trouble."
"All calls are recorded," he said, "but not all calls are monitored. Maybe I can help you."
The distinction -- which meant nothing to me -- seemed to mean something to him, so I pressed on.
"What would happen if I went into the Comcast office here in LA and wrote a bad check? Would they turn my service on?"
"I don't know," he said. "You mean --"
"Yeah," I said. "I could write a check that I knew would bounce, just to get the service back on so I could get the money to cover the check so it wouldn't bounce."
"Let me find out," he said, and put me on hold.
He came back in a little while, very apologetic. "I tried," he said. "I didn't tell them what you were planning, but I learned that, even if you pay at the office, service won't be restored until the check clears."
I sighed, a big sigh. "But I can go into the office and pay cash and they'll turn the service on immediately, right?"
"Yes," he said.
Cue video montage sequence music, in this case discordantly LA's country music radio station, KZLA.
I scoured my bookshelves, assembled everything I could part with and some things I couldn't, threw 'em in a bag.
Scoured my CDs -- the meager stash I'd managed to reacquire after the Big CD Car-Broken-Into Thefts of This Past Summer -- and my DVDs and threw those in a bag.
Scoured my closet and my drawers, looked for anything springish/summerish/designerish/vintage, found bag, see previous. Put on my cutest vintage blue polka-dot dress (the one
furies helped me pick out this summer), put on cute blue high-heeled sandals, figuring it was more profitable to seduce than walk in my condition, got in the car and went to the bank.The bank -- who had sworn to hold my last deposit for the ten years it takes to hold a deposit -- didn't want to release any money to me till March 23rd, which might as well be next year in offline time. The nice guy at the bank, who we'll call Arvid, even though that's not his name but is close within a letter or two, suggested I use the bank customer service phones to call bank customer service and beg. The clock was ticking. I called. I went on hold. I begged.
Score! They released me a hundred bucks, which, coupled with the one dollar in my wallet put me $101.00 closer to that $187.09. The clock was ticking.
First, to Amoeba! Where I laid out the CDs and DVDs on the counter. The guy behind the counter looked at my Hong Kong X-Files disdainfully. "There's not really a market for these," he said. "Not a lot of people use PAL."
"They're not PAL!" I said. "Really! They're just -- they have subtitles! You can turn 'em off! They're from Hong Kong! But they're real!"
He poked at them. He looked at each disk for scratches. He squinted at me. "Yeah, I can't take these," he said. "Even if they're in English, not many people have PAL players."
"They're NOT PAL!" I insisted. "Put them in a thing! Try 'em!" He shook his head.
Woefully, I stuck the Hong Kong boxed sets back in their bag and showed him my little pile of cds. He looked at each one carefully, then punched some things in a calculator. "That's $44 in cash or $55 in trade," he said. SCORE! "I'll take the cash," I said, trying to sound very cool and severiously unimpressed by the Big Money.
So close! Forty more dollars! The sun was sinking over the hills. Back in the car.
This time, to Buffalo Exchange, on La Brea, with two heavy sacks of clothing. I signed in, waited in the chairs, watched lots of pretty Asian girls unload big bags of Prada and get stacks of cash back. I'm feelin' lucky, punk, I thought, and dumped my clothes on the counter.
The girl with the poky ponytails unfolded each tank top and skirt and polyester button-down and examined it with a careful sneer. Then refolded each one and stuck it back in the bag. A half hour later, she'd decided on two items -- a linen polka-dot jumper and a black-and-white striped wraparound shirt -- for the grand total of $8.40.
"Got any suggestions for me?" I asked, taking my crumpled little form and my picture id to the register.
"Try Crossroads, on Melrose," she said. "They're buying for spring."
BACK in the car, took off at a clip for Melrose, past the big-ass brand new Target which is really just astonishingly big and blue but not relevant to the story at the moment.
I signed in at Crossroads and sat in the chair while a couple of other pretty Asian girls ahead of me unloaded their Diesel and Juicy Couture digs and walked away with fat stacks of cash. I brought my bags to the counter, and another punky girl in poky ponytails took out each vintage skirt and flowery sweater and examined it with a painter's eye. Twenty minutes later, she'd decided on one red striped sundress, for the grand total of $3.50. I took the little slip and headed for the checkout.
"Hey," said a pretty Asian girl, on line in front of me. "I really liked that sweater that you were showing them. Are you trying to unload it?"
"Yeah," I said, squatting on my blue high heels to dig around in the bag.
"Can I try it on?"
"Sure."
She left with it for five bucks and I got my $3.50 from the counter lady too. The clock ticked! The soundtrack quickened! Clouds raced across the sun and rush-hour traffic dragged outside.
"Got any suggestions for me?" I asked the tiny spiky tattooed girl behind the counter.
"Try across the street at Wasteland," she said. "They take more vintage stuff than we do."
I shouldered my bags and headed out to Melrose.
"Like hip hop?" a really, really hot guy in dreds waved a cd in my face.
"Yes, but I'm selling my clothes!" I said. "Do you want to give it to me free?"
He laughed. "Sorry, wrong girl today," I said, and crossed the street in traffic.
Wasteland, badda-bing, badda-look, two bags later and they settled on a highly psychotic flowered cape, a carpetbag skirt and an orange wool jumper for the exhorbitant sum of $14. I was SO CLOSE.
Back in the car, back in traffic, up to Franklin where the nice guy at Counterpoint Books grinned when he saw me. Thirty books, twenty-two bucks, and I was THERE.
BACK in the car, back to Willoughby and Cahuenga, the Comcast station. I scraped together my $187 only to find that in my day of jubilee I hadn't managed to stick any actual change in my purse, and I was lost for the nine cents. The nice, and moderately smarmy guy at Comcast winked. "Owe me," he said.
"So -- my internet's on?"
"Give me a half hour," he said, and left to have some popcorn.
With my remaining $10 bill I drove through Taco Bell, bought two chalupas and a big iced tea and raced home. Half hour later and here I am, freshly showered, in soft pants and my Mets tee, with the internet at my service and the cats happy and fed.
Mostly, in case you were wondering, this is what it's like to be me.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:41 pm (UTC)Montage Day
Date: 2004-03-18 08:45 pm (UTC)Go Sab!
Where would we be without Comcast high-speed internet? I won't go back to using a polaroid and paper instead of digicams and email for my side job! NO!!! I pulled the plug on phone and cable, but i will not lose my internet! I'm hooked.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:50 pm (UTC)Pay no attention to me.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 09:43 pm (UTC)We'll just say that we were wrapped up in her fine story-telling skills.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 12:15 am (UTC)Exactly!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 12:16 am (UTC)You're right, of course. Bad me. :)
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 08:56 pm (UTC)Bravo!
The art of scraping by
Date: 2004-03-18 09:09 pm (UTC)(g)
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 11:09 pm (UTC)And now I'm thinking about that Kids in the Hall sketch: please, please, please don't cut off my cable!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-18 11:30 pm (UTC)And they should make an indie film about your video montage day. It even has a title!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 07:08 am (UTC)And well done on getting your internet back!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 10:36 am (UTC)And avoid the shiny new Target, there are many many people in there, and the parking lot is scary, and inside there is much that is shiny and tempting but unneccesary!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-19 01:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-20 08:26 am (UTC)as for losing your screenplays - write this one out. you could win best short film at the oscars and i could say, i knew her when . . .
i miss you terribly. when are you coming again? i'm back in town and staying and isn't this around the time? i want to go eat sandwiches at pete's and clothes shopping in brooklyn. i want you.