After
sitting in a chair, leaning back
one leg crossed over the other
pensively smoking a long cigarette
24 hours ago I was not a man
I was an animal
cut loose from anything and everthing familiar
flying too high in an infinite prison
all around, on every side of me
all things were possible
and now I have the feeling
it make take years to sort it all out
20020829
20020827
20020824
Febo Rules
Sometimes I dream about visiting other cities in other countries. I don't really give a shit about monuments or landmarks or bright sunshine or clubs or shopping or any of the usual tourist bullshit. I dream about finding a place where, if you so desire, people will leave you the fuck alone and let you do what you want. Solitude is a more extraordinary thing than most people realize or desire. I'm sure I'll never find exactly what I'm looking for. But Amsterdam is pretty fucking close.
Sometimes I dream about visiting other cities in other countries. I don't really give a shit about monuments or landmarks or bright sunshine or clubs or shopping or any of the usual tourist bullshit. I dream about finding a place where, if you so desire, people will leave you the fuck alone and let you do what you want. Solitude is a more extraordinary thing than most people realize or desire. I'm sure I'll never find exactly what I'm looking for. But Amsterdam is pretty fucking close.
20020823
Fun With a Student's Life
I am currently seated in front of my mother's computer, quietly seething, as I have just been informed that I am "not eligible for a federal Pell grant." For those of you who don't know, the Pell grant is the grant that actually affords poor people the opportunity to attend college. With the Pell grant, it's almost possible to pay for tuition, books, parking, gas, supplies, etc. Without it...you're fucked. I cannot possibly imagine why I am not eligible for the grant. Last year I was still considered a dependent and my income was almost 100% greater than this year. Now, I am considered independent and I've made horseshit compared to 2000. Yet, for some reason, my expected family contribution shot up from 0 to $5,385.
At this very moment, I can completely justify all forms of hatred in the universe. I want to destroy all. I want to torture everybody associated with FAFSA until they scream for mercy, so I can coldly remind them that they are "not eligible for mercy." Fucking bastards...
I am currently seated in front of my mother's computer, quietly seething, as I have just been informed that I am "not eligible for a federal Pell grant." For those of you who don't know, the Pell grant is the grant that actually affords poor people the opportunity to attend college. With the Pell grant, it's almost possible to pay for tuition, books, parking, gas, supplies, etc. Without it...you're fucked. I cannot possibly imagine why I am not eligible for the grant. Last year I was still considered a dependent and my income was almost 100% greater than this year. Now, I am considered independent and I've made horseshit compared to 2000. Yet, for some reason, my expected family contribution shot up from 0 to $5,385.
At this very moment, I can completely justify all forms of hatred in the universe. I want to destroy all. I want to torture everybody associated with FAFSA until they scream for mercy, so I can coldly remind them that they are "not eligible for mercy." Fucking bastards...
20020814
I was coming home on Sunday, driving my sister's car. A large man with tattoos driving a lifted Ford Bronco pulled off the exit in front of me. When we rolled up to a stoplight he pulled over and spit at me. After that he pulled into an adjacent Rite-Aid parking lot and waited. I told my sister about it after I returned her car and she said the guy probably thought I was gay. That made sense: I am tall and thin; my sister's car has pink seat covers, Power Puff Girls stickers, and a license plate frame that says "Bitch".
What I don't understand is why he took time out of his day to harass someone he thought was a homosexual. I was on my way home to get ready for a date with a woman. Wherever he was going wasn't important enough to prevent him from annoying me. I can't help but think that if he indulged in regular sex with a caring, attractive woman, he wouldn't have had the time nor the inclination to bother me.
What I don't understand is why he took time out of his day to harass someone he thought was a homosexual. I was on my way home to get ready for a date with a woman. Wherever he was going wasn't important enough to prevent him from annoying me. I can't help but think that if he indulged in regular sex with a caring, attractive woman, he wouldn't have had the time nor the inclination to bother me.
20020812
20020811
Since I'm quitting my job to go to Europe a Taiwanese lady I work with invited me to her house for a barbecue. She has good taste in classical music so I went. There were a few other people from work there too, including the vice-president's mom and dad who were also from Taiwan. After we finished eating we went into the living room for a soiree of sorts. She called her children in, a boy of fourteen and a girl of thirteen. I fully expected it to be an awkward show-off session, obviously instigated for the sole purpose of impressing us at the children's expense. To the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it at least as much as the rest of us did. The son, Robbie, performed a Kabelevsky piece on violin with his father on piano. The daughter played a few pieces on the cello after which the mother, Rose, asked me to play. By that time I was happy to do so but I wanted to break the mold a bit, so I played them a solo rendition of my own piece "You Be Quiet". They liked it well enough and asked me to play something else, so I borrowed their acoustic guitar and whipped out the Beatles' "Girl".
After that the father, son, daughter, and I took turns on the piano. They all played well and the father turned out to be a very good sight-reader. I couldn't resist showing off my chops so I played a bit of Mozart's "Turkish March". It turned out to be a very enjoyable evening and reinforced my desire to one day have children if for no other reason than to have my own band.
After that the father, son, daughter, and I took turns on the piano. They all played well and the father turned out to be a very good sight-reader. I couldn't resist showing off my chops so I played a bit of Mozart's "Turkish March". It turned out to be a very enjoyable evening and reinforced my desire to one day have children if for no other reason than to have my own band.
20020810
Last night I had an unexpected opportunity to see Weezer at Irvine Meadows. Murray Webb, a friend and former coworker (soon to be of "Murray File" fame), had an extra orchestra ticket. I like the green album a lot so I decided to go. Sparta and Dashboard Confessional opened up for them and I would have been completely happy paying $25 just to see Sparta. They appeared to be by far the youngest of the three bands, somewhere in their mid-twenties by my estimations, thus making them a full decade older than the average audience member. They played with complete urgency, something I found the other bands to be lacking in.
Some other highlights of the show included:
Murray bumped into someone as we were walking back from a beer stand. The guy started to get in Murray's face so I stepped in between them, looked him in the eye, and said, "Don't fuckin' do it." He gave me a look like "Alright then, I'll kick your ass", and just then a large woman walked right into the beer I was holding in my right hand. She started cussing at both of us so we went back to our seats.
When we got back to our seats there were a couple of hot chicks in our place and they hung out with us for the rest of the show. Somehow they had gotten ahold of some VIP passes from a backstage assistant. I asked one of the girls if the assistant was cute and she said, "Not as cute as you guys." Despite the encouragement I didn't think we'd really be able to compete with real live rock stars, so we left.
We made it back without getting pulled over.
Some other highlights of the show included:
Murray bumped into someone as we were walking back from a beer stand. The guy started to get in Murray's face so I stepped in between them, looked him in the eye, and said, "Don't fuckin' do it." He gave me a look like "Alright then, I'll kick your ass", and just then a large woman walked right into the beer I was holding in my right hand. She started cussing at both of us so we went back to our seats.
When we got back to our seats there were a couple of hot chicks in our place and they hung out with us for the rest of the show. Somehow they had gotten ahold of some VIP passes from a backstage assistant. I asked one of the girls if the assistant was cute and she said, "Not as cute as you guys." Despite the encouragement I didn't think we'd really be able to compete with real live rock stars, so we left.
We made it back without getting pulled over.
20020808
20020807
"Love is against the law. Fucking is allowed."
My sister's friend arrived early and I offered her pate and cabernet. I am good at keeping plants and I am kind to bugs. I won't try to sleep with a woman unless she makes me laugh and/or has good taste in music.
The only solution, as I see it, is to become a homosexual.
Yet I find myself continually attracted to the female form: their tender breasts that yield to the touch; silky smooth stomachs seemingly made to caress and explore; long, creamy thighs that you could suck on for a day or two and their luscious, succulent lips that long for my kiss.
My sister's friend arrived early and I offered her pate and cabernet. I am good at keeping plants and I am kind to bugs. I won't try to sleep with a woman unless she makes me laugh and/or has good taste in music.
The only solution, as I see it, is to become a homosexual.
Yet I find myself continually attracted to the female form: their tender breasts that yield to the touch; silky smooth stomachs seemingly made to caress and explore; long, creamy thighs that you could suck on for a day or two and their luscious, succulent lips that long for my kiss.
I took a beginning piano class at Southwestern Community College many moons ago. I thoroughly enjoyed the class, and the teacher loved me. I actually learned some stuff, and I got a little better at the piano. One thing I noticed, while I was taking the class, was my propensity to change the written music on the page without even realizing it. The teacher would usually catch me and correct me. Then I realized that the reason I changed certain songs was because the way I played them sounded better than what was written. As I reflected on that thought earlier this evening, I came to the conclusion that the purpose of my existence is to correct everybody else's mistakes. So far I'm failing miserably.
20020806
Today we finished watching a movie in French class titled "Momma, There's A Man In Your Bed" or something to that effect. It's about a poor black French cleaning lady who has five children by five different ex-husbands. She works the night shift in an office building in which all sorts of shady dealings take place during the wee hours. The head of the company is framed by one of his associates who is eager to take over as CEO of the company, Blanlet Yogurt. The cleaning lady ends up helping the CEO out of trouble and as a result he winds up falling in love with her and marrying her in a severely ridiculous public ceremony, happily accompanied by her five children and ex-husbands.
It was interesting to note the inherent cultural differences between French and American cinematic drivel. We had a discussion about it in class after the movie and here are some of the more interesting things I thought about:
Francois Mitterand had a long-time mistress who was present at his funeral, along with his wife. I think that's a stroke of cultural honesty the United States is CENTURIES away from.
I am dating a black woman and I don't see her as "black". I see her as a person who laughs at most of my jokes and happens to have darker skin than I do.
I dated an Asian woman and I didn't see her as "Asian". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes and happened to have darker skin than I do.
I dated a white girl and I didn't see her as "white". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes but not the ones I thought were funny. That hurt.
It seems as though I am determined to date the entire spectrum before I call it quits and shack up with your mom.
It was interesting to note the inherent cultural differences between French and American cinematic drivel. We had a discussion about it in class after the movie and here are some of the more interesting things I thought about:
Francois Mitterand had a long-time mistress who was present at his funeral, along with his wife. I think that's a stroke of cultural honesty the United States is CENTURIES away from.
I am dating a black woman and I don't see her as "black". I see her as a person who laughs at most of my jokes and happens to have darker skin than I do.
I dated an Asian woman and I didn't see her as "Asian". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes and happened to have darker skin than I do.
I dated a white girl and I didn't see her as "white". I saw her as a person who used to laugh at some of my jokes but not the ones I thought were funny. That hurt.
It seems as though I am determined to date the entire spectrum before I call it quits and shack up with your mom.
20020801
Who Are You?
Have you ever been asked this question? How do you respond? Ray Holmes, Tom Amans, Aaron Cohen, Bob, Joey Joe Joe? Could you offer a more ambiguous answer to an equally ambiguous question? I suppose you could answer I AM, and of course you would be correct in doing so. But Inquisitors don't care about right and wrong. They just like to torture and burn people. As I wasn't saying, have you ever thought about the fact that at some point you had to learn your name? I didn't; until today. People of Earth know me as Raymond L. Holmes III, but I don't. To me I am known as I, me, you, or shut up. I think Universe knows me as I, me, or you as well. How truly fascinating! " I am he as you are he and you are me..."
Have you ever been asked this question? How do you respond? Ray Holmes, Tom Amans, Aaron Cohen, Bob, Joey Joe Joe? Could you offer a more ambiguous answer to an equally ambiguous question? I suppose you could answer I AM, and of course you would be correct in doing so. But Inquisitors don't care about right and wrong. They just like to torture and burn people. As I wasn't saying, have you ever thought about the fact that at some point you had to learn your name? I didn't; until today. People of Earth know me as Raymond L. Holmes III, but I don't. To me I am known as I, me, you, or shut up. I think Universe knows me as I, me, or you as well. How truly fascinating! " I am he as you are he and you are me..."
"To protect and serve"
Has there ever been a more misleading motto? Is it just me or do you too consider every encounter with a police officer a potentially life-threatening situation? Some may call that paranoia; I call it GOOD PLANNING.
As I pulled up to a stoplight the other day, I found myself staring with blind hatred at an officer who had just pulled someone over. I reminded myself that he was a human being and not all police officers are pigs. At times like these I often wonder what it would be like if I could legally have a hand on MY gun the next time one of them asks me to sign a fix-it ticket.
Has there ever been a more misleading motto? Is it just me or do you too consider every encounter with a police officer a potentially life-threatening situation? Some may call that paranoia; I call it GOOD PLANNING.
As I pulled up to a stoplight the other day, I found myself staring with blind hatred at an officer who had just pulled someone over. I reminded myself that he was a human being and not all police officers are pigs. At times like these I often wonder what it would be like if I could legally have a hand on MY gun the next time one of them asks me to sign a fix-it ticket.
20020731
20020730
Metaphysical Bullshit
"What?"
He sounded startled, as if forcefully shaken from some waking dream.
He stood facing the bed staring at the wall.
She was lying on the bed naked. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her legs were spread slightly apart. One hand cupped her breast, playfully pinching her nipple while her other hand, positioned near her vagina, rested lazily on her lower abdomen. She playfully stroked and rubbed her clitoris. Muffled moans emanated from her mouth, their origins lying somewhere deep in her belly.
"Come here," she whispered slyly. Her upper lip quivered in a playful sneer.
He stood staring at the wall.
She tried again, "come on baby."
He did not move.
"What are you gay or something?" she asked sarcastically.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he responded.
"I'm laying here naked on the bed, waiting for you, and you aren't even responding." She seemed disgusted.
"How would that make me gay?" he asked. "Your assumption is that sexual denomination has something to do with eroticism. You're wrong. Any honest heterosexual male would admit that the sight of two gay men in the throes of passion is a turn on. Just as the thought of two women is equally arousing."
"You are gay!" she shrieked in accusation.
"I believe you're missing the point, dear," he chided. "Even if I am gay, the sight of a nubile young woman pleasuring herself on my bed would probably be equally as stimulating as a young male."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked in exasperation.
"What is wrong with me, love, is that I do not exist. None of this exists. I am a representation of something from another world entirely. I-"
"What the fuck are you talking about!?" she asked as she slowly crept backwards against the headboard. She hugged her knees to her chest.
"We…are not here. I am a replica of the author."
"What author?"
"The author of this story."
"What story? What author? What are you talking about? You're starting to scare me." She hugged her knees more tightly.
"You, my dear, are a fantasy. You are the perfect woman. You are the culmination of all the traits that the author of this story would attribute to the woman of his dreams. Although I would venture to say that your personality has strayed dramatically from the script. One could hardly blame you. Look in the mirror. What color are your eyes? What does your nose look like? For that matter, what do I look like?"
"You look…you look like, uh…" her voice trailed off.
"Do you see? We don't exist. We are phantasms; ghosts in the mind of our creator. We have form only in so much as, to fantasize about human sexual intercourse, we need to have a basic human form. We have no face. We have no thoughts. At least not thoughts that are our own. Think (no pun intended (what a stupid joke…did I really just say that?)) about it. What did you do today? Before you came here."
"I-I don't know."
"Neither do I."
"This is weird. Where did my legs go?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.
"I suppose they were not needed during our prior conversation, hence they were not…painted so to speak. What a fascinating discovery." His eyes seemed full of fire at this new discovery.
"I don't know if I like this, this…author. Whatever he's doing, he's giving me the creeps."
"I like him. How could I not? I'm supposed to be him."
"Yeah, but what kind of sick asshole writes a story like this and calls it a fantasy."
"I'm not sure," he said shrugging his shoulder, "I believe it started well, but it took a wrong turn somewhere. I suppose he just has a lot on his mind. This is truly fascinating. The implication here is that…"
"What?" she asked, her voice full of anticipation.
"He is our God."
"How can he be God. He's already screwed up this simple story."
"Yes, but you don't know that? First of all, who's to say that this isn't what the story was supposed to be like. And secondly, even if this is a botched experiment, nobody's ever really proven what God is. We seem to assume that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omni-benevolent probably because we hope that God is something better than us. Something that can help us and get us out of trouble. I wonder if anyone has ever suspected that God is fallible. This is starting to blow my mind. I am the author that writes my story. I wonder who writes his…"
"What?"
He sounded startled, as if forcefully shaken from some waking dream.
He stood facing the bed staring at the wall.
She was lying on the bed naked. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her legs were spread slightly apart. One hand cupped her breast, playfully pinching her nipple while her other hand, positioned near her vagina, rested lazily on her lower abdomen. She playfully stroked and rubbed her clitoris. Muffled moans emanated from her mouth, their origins lying somewhere deep in her belly.
"Come here," she whispered slyly. Her upper lip quivered in a playful sneer.
He stood staring at the wall.
She tried again, "come on baby."
He did not move.
"What are you gay or something?" she asked sarcastically.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he responded.
"I'm laying here naked on the bed, waiting for you, and you aren't even responding." She seemed disgusted.
"How would that make me gay?" he asked. "Your assumption is that sexual denomination has something to do with eroticism. You're wrong. Any honest heterosexual male would admit that the sight of two gay men in the throes of passion is a turn on. Just as the thought of two women is equally arousing."
"You are gay!" she shrieked in accusation.
"I believe you're missing the point, dear," he chided. "Even if I am gay, the sight of a nubile young woman pleasuring herself on my bed would probably be equally as stimulating as a young male."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked in exasperation.
"What is wrong with me, love, is that I do not exist. None of this exists. I am a representation of something from another world entirely. I-"
"What the fuck are you talking about!?" she asked as she slowly crept backwards against the headboard. She hugged her knees to her chest.
"We…are not here. I am a replica of the author."
"What author?"
"The author of this story."
"What story? What author? What are you talking about? You're starting to scare me." She hugged her knees more tightly.
"You, my dear, are a fantasy. You are the perfect woman. You are the culmination of all the traits that the author of this story would attribute to the woman of his dreams. Although I would venture to say that your personality has strayed dramatically from the script. One could hardly blame you. Look in the mirror. What color are your eyes? What does your nose look like? For that matter, what do I look like?"
"You look…you look like, uh…" her voice trailed off.
"Do you see? We don't exist. We are phantasms; ghosts in the mind of our creator. We have form only in so much as, to fantasize about human sexual intercourse, we need to have a basic human form. We have no face. We have no thoughts. At least not thoughts that are our own. Think (no pun intended (what a stupid joke…did I really just say that?)) about it. What did you do today? Before you came here."
"I-I don't know."
"Neither do I."
"This is weird. Where did my legs go?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.
"I suppose they were not needed during our prior conversation, hence they were not…painted so to speak. What a fascinating discovery." His eyes seemed full of fire at this new discovery.
"I don't know if I like this, this…author. Whatever he's doing, he's giving me the creeps."
"I like him. How could I not? I'm supposed to be him."
"Yeah, but what kind of sick asshole writes a story like this and calls it a fantasy."
"I'm not sure," he said shrugging his shoulder, "I believe it started well, but it took a wrong turn somewhere. I suppose he just has a lot on his mind. This is truly fascinating. The implication here is that…"
"What?" she asked, her voice full of anticipation.
"He is our God."
"How can he be God. He's already screwed up this simple story."
"Yes, but you don't know that? First of all, who's to say that this isn't what the story was supposed to be like. And secondly, even if this is a botched experiment, nobody's ever really proven what God is. We seem to assume that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omni-benevolent probably because we hope that God is something better than us. Something that can help us and get us out of trouble. I wonder if anyone has ever suspected that God is fallible. This is starting to blow my mind. I am the author that writes my story. I wonder who writes his…"
Why I Despise All Forms of Government
Dear Governor Davis,
I'm sure you often receive letters from young citizens and students, like myself, telling you how great you are for being a horrible governor, or how horrible you are for revoking their right to get drunk on a public beach. However, that is not the aim of my letter. I'm writing to give you just a bit of insight into how "the other half" truly lives.
Let me begin by sharing with you a tale of less than moderate excitement. One day, I was driving to my friend's house, ready to enjoy an exciting evening of philosophical debauchery, when I was pulled over for not being old and white (damn! one out of two ain't bad, I suppose). The officer, after insisting that I was drunk, explained to me that the reason he had pulled me over was because one of my headlights was not functioning properly. This was news to me, but I obligingly signed the ticket that he shoved in my face. He explained that he had given me plenty of time to take care of the problem, and that if I got pulled over again (for not being old and white) that I need only show my happy little ticket to the hypothetical officer, and he/she would let me go (after accusing me of being drunk). What a nice guy. Needless to say, I continued on to my friend's house and had a good time despite the new friend in my wallet.
The next day I purchased a new headlight and replaced it with no problems. Then, I completely forgot about my citation.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into more than weeks, and finally the deadline to "post bail" had lapsed. Of course I did not realize this because I had forgotten about the ticket.
Today I received a letter in the mail from the Superior Court of San Diego stating that I was a criminal and that my "account" had been sent to a collection agency for…collection. The next letter I opened was a notice from a collection agency stating that I was a criminal and that I "owed" them $334. This, Mr. Governor, is where my complaint begins.
I will be the first to admit that I made a mistake. I succumbed to a horrible disease capable of attacking any human being on this planet: I forgot. I accept that. And because I forgot, I'm even willing to pay a little extra for my "bail" as punishment for my forgetfulness. However, I cannot seem to justify being forced to pay $334. Based on my own calculations, I have been charged approximately 26.35% interest (compounded daily) on a $10 ticket for fifteen days. The court calls this a "civil assessment." I call it usury. I believe that I have been the victim of a crime that this same court system has sentenced thousands of people to prison for, yet the court appears to practice the same crime with impunity.
You, Mr. Governor, may be one of the majority of people who would argue that, because I signed the ticket, I am responsible to pay my fine and accept any "civil assessment," charged to me by the California legal system, no matter how exorbitant the assessment may be. I would remind you, Mr. Governor, and the rest of the majority, that I did not sign the ticket because I agreed to pay outrageous fines; I signed the ticket because a large man with a gun told me to.
That being said, I feel I must let you know that the point of this letter is not to whine, to threaten, or to ask for some sort of pardon. No, this letter was drafted to express the opinion of many people who have experienced the same atrocious behavior that I have. If you do truly care about the people you claim to govern, then I would suggest that you do something about this situation and the multitude of others like it.
In closing, I would like to congratulate you Governor Davis. The machine, which you call the state of California, has once again succeeded in demoralizing and dehumanizing a productive and intelligent member of its own society. As I am now a "happy," check-mailing slave, any response to this letter may be sent to me via my true identity: [my SS#].
Thank you for your time.
Dear Governor Davis,
I'm sure you often receive letters from young citizens and students, like myself, telling you how great you are for being a horrible governor, or how horrible you are for revoking their right to get drunk on a public beach. However, that is not the aim of my letter. I'm writing to give you just a bit of insight into how "the other half" truly lives.
Let me begin by sharing with you a tale of less than moderate excitement. One day, I was driving to my friend's house, ready to enjoy an exciting evening of philosophical debauchery, when I was pulled over for not being old and white (damn! one out of two ain't bad, I suppose). The officer, after insisting that I was drunk, explained to me that the reason he had pulled me over was because one of my headlights was not functioning properly. This was news to me, but I obligingly signed the ticket that he shoved in my face. He explained that he had given me plenty of time to take care of the problem, and that if I got pulled over again (for not being old and white) that I need only show my happy little ticket to the hypothetical officer, and he/she would let me go (after accusing me of being drunk). What a nice guy. Needless to say, I continued on to my friend's house and had a good time despite the new friend in my wallet.
The next day I purchased a new headlight and replaced it with no problems. Then, I completely forgot about my citation.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into more than weeks, and finally the deadline to "post bail" had lapsed. Of course I did not realize this because I had forgotten about the ticket.
Today I received a letter in the mail from the Superior Court of San Diego stating that I was a criminal and that my "account" had been sent to a collection agency for…collection. The next letter I opened was a notice from a collection agency stating that I was a criminal and that I "owed" them $334. This, Mr. Governor, is where my complaint begins.
I will be the first to admit that I made a mistake. I succumbed to a horrible disease capable of attacking any human being on this planet: I forgot. I accept that. And because I forgot, I'm even willing to pay a little extra for my "bail" as punishment for my forgetfulness. However, I cannot seem to justify being forced to pay $334. Based on my own calculations, I have been charged approximately 26.35% interest (compounded daily) on a $10 ticket for fifteen days. The court calls this a "civil assessment." I call it usury. I believe that I have been the victim of a crime that this same court system has sentenced thousands of people to prison for, yet the court appears to practice the same crime with impunity.
You, Mr. Governor, may be one of the majority of people who would argue that, because I signed the ticket, I am responsible to pay my fine and accept any "civil assessment," charged to me by the California legal system, no matter how exorbitant the assessment may be. I would remind you, Mr. Governor, and the rest of the majority, that I did not sign the ticket because I agreed to pay outrageous fines; I signed the ticket because a large man with a gun told me to.
That being said, I feel I must let you know that the point of this letter is not to whine, to threaten, or to ask for some sort of pardon. No, this letter was drafted to express the opinion of many people who have experienced the same atrocious behavior that I have. If you do truly care about the people you claim to govern, then I would suggest that you do something about this situation and the multitude of others like it.
In closing, I would like to congratulate you Governor Davis. The machine, which you call the state of California, has once again succeeded in demoralizing and dehumanizing a productive and intelligent member of its own society. As I am now a "happy," check-mailing slave, any response to this letter may be sent to me via my true identity: [my SS#].
Thank you for your time.
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