It’s not vindictive, it’s a fight for justice
Last night, we saw a car that was similar to one that is parked in the drive across the street. It had a plate similar to the one by us (K### URT), which stood out. The immediate thought was that possibly the plate was a clone, and it would be a way to report a nuisance neighbour who is pretty clearly doing something illegal over there.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be an extreme coincidence, with two shitty Mazda convertibles apparently owned by dudes named Kurt.
I say unfortunately because it took away one of my life’s pleasures — reporting something that is wrong. I take great joy in reporting things to the Council (online only, or in extreme cases through a strongly worded letter, never by phone, never in person).
Somewhere in my head is a code of conduct that I expect everyone to live by. This includes reasonable prices for drinks, not playing music through mobile phones while on the bus, not having a stupid big exhaust on a car, having the songs I might want to hear myself or a friend butcher at a karaoke night, and various other things that range from the mundane to the nearly religious.
When faced with something that contradicts this code of conduct, I go into an almighty strop about it. If this happens when I’m drunk, I have been known to unleash a stream of expletives, explaining to all who will listen how things have been done wrong.
Even when entirely sober, I can take things a bit far. I still have a personal boycott against a Chinese restaurant in New York that gave me particularly bad service during a lunch break in 2002.
This was all a great trait when I was a professional political rabble-rouser. If your job is to point out injustices, rally people behind the cause of fighting that injustice, and organise marches and protests and whatnot… it’s great to be so passionate about even the smallest of injustices.
Now, though, I don’t do political work. Now I’m just bordering on the crazy old woman who is always parked in front of the returns counter, demanding money off of shit.
I am the old man trying to send back soup in a deli.
I know this isn’t a great thing for me anymore, but the satisfaction of reporting a badly parked car as abandoned is like a drug sometimes. Maybe there’s a 12-step for being a bitchy neighbour.
Maybe there’s not. There probably isn’t. There should be. It’s discrimination. (This is a common line of thought in my code of conduct… Mcdonalds not serving customers on foot at the drive through window — discrimination.)
I guess this is my cross to bear in life, and as long as there’s a proper outlet for it, it’s a good thing. Meanwhile, though… don’t block my drive, make too much noise outside my window, or give me the wrong change.