On December 8, 2010 @ approximately 7pm:

I just went to bed and R., whose key to the front door I had re-possessed a few days earlier, crawled through the dog door out back and ran up the back steps into this apartment where I was napping yelling: "I love you" and that she wanted to fuck me then and there.

So, then R. blurts out that she stole her mother's car and hit a parked car to come to see me!

I got her the hell out of my apartment, put her in my truck, drove the three blocks from the apartment house to the wrecked car where the police had just arrived to initiate investigation.

I waylaid the point officer on that street five seconds before the officer could initiate investigations with the victim's car by saying to the officer that this is a mental health issue and that the driver of that car (the wrecked car) is in that car (my truck).

My truck idled for an hour on that street with my dog inside it on a 14 degree F night and I did not have a coat on me.

I stood on one leg for a twenty four 1000 count and other tests while R. told the officer who split us on the sidewalk that R. used her key to get into my apartment.

I had told the the TRUTH to the officer that she had come into the apartment through the dog door and up the back steps.

Then, the officer says to me that "somebody is lying."

That officer stepped across the street at that point while another officer stood watching me on the sidewalk where I was shivering and my hands became numb.

Then, I said to the officer watching me on the sidewalk where I was ordered to stand that "there is no lying about it.  I have R.'s best interest utmost in my mind."

Ten minutes after I say that to the watching officer after shivering for an hour on one leg as I was ordered to, the PPD allowed me to drive R. home to her mother.

Not only that, but the PPD gave me the copy of the accident report to take to R.'s mother.

And then, I came back to the apartment along the same route on that street three blocks away from the apartment where I CACA and managed to retrieve my AAA card that I offered AAA to tow R.'s mother's car that R. wrecked.

All while CaCa Brains was shouting at CaCa Debul, CaCa Brains!

text to my ...

I gave up the driveway parking spot, I bought a solar lantern for the hall, I paid for the 1st floor to help clean the back yard, I offered carpet, etc. and all I asked for was nothing in the fire corridor: which is what this is all about here. The police agree with me. They say that if she didn't want anybody above her, she should've rented the top floor. Ask the dispatcher.

------------

Even my wife said that "the property manager gets the worst bitches!"  

"Jen" at police dispatch knows and she doesn't care.  Jen agrees with me: "if she didn't want anybody above her, she should've have rented the top floor."  Jen said "yes , I agree to that."

I even said to "Jen, the dispatcher" that "I have a 1st amendment right to use the toilet at night, but that it is directly over the 2nd floor bedroom."  

"Jen, the dispatcher" said "Yes, I agree."

And the two officers who came out at 1:44am last week laughed at me and said have a nice night.

I called the police on myself both of the last two times.  Disability Rights knows.

Do you have anything to say to all that before I go nap!?

[No response].

--------------------

No, ma'am.  I want to keep the appointment.  I need the harassment to stop.  Sorry about all the emails, but that's the best way to convey the information.  I do NOT want to have to go to the Human Rights Commission.  There are serious issues with people in my life concerning me.  I used to work, I cannot work any more.  I collect SSDI under the BOND program, but I cannot fathom as to why I have been stopped by police 44 times since January 1998.  I have most of it logged on my blogspots and in my books.  There is something askew concerning me in this city leading to when I arrived: my being name called "chicken" by high school students because the landlord purchased chickens for the back yard in 2001.  Most of the info is in those emails which I sent to you.

Thank you,

another day in a colony called "Maine" located < onthePlanetUranus- > 2015-05-30 20:08

LAST WEEK WEDNESDAY:-/

"Do you have any conditions? Are you on any medication?" 

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then, you are not allowed to ask me that: are you!?"

The point Officer turns to his partner standing on the side walk behind where the point Officer has one foot on the front steps. He, then, turns back towards me sitting in a "Crazy Creek Chair" at the top of the steps on the porch. I reach into my left pocket.

"Here is my license. I don't have any weapons on me."

"I don't need to see your license," he says as I pull out my renewed license from my wallet.

I hand the license to the Officer.

"Do you see an 'M' on that license!? ... No, you do not!!! There is only an 'A' for spectacles. ... Here is my old license. Do you see an 'M' on that license? Yes, you do. DMV knows about it!"

The point Officer hands back the old license as he grinds his boot into my old dog Russel's commemorative, artistic poster that I made out of pictures of "Russell, the dog" for Russell's seventy-five visits to a retirement community when Russell was alive.

I had pulled the poster out from under the door mat in front of my front door after unpinning it from a corner wall in my apartment and sliding it under the door mat in advent of a five minute wait for the Officers to show up (as I was informed), but ended up being twenty minutes since the phone call to ask the dispatcher as to why Officers had been knocking at my door an hour before while I lay in bed trying to nap and the wife watching TV at the time.

Needless to say: the poster was put into the recycling and picked up the next day by garbage men in City of Portland, Maine.

they're gonna catnap my cats ...

I was stopped July 5, 2015 for the forty-fifth time since January 1998 by police in Portland, ME.

While I lay in bed with my wife and dog, there came a knock on the door at precisely 21h11. I checked the clock. 

"Is that a knock!?" 

"Sounds like it." 

"Don't answer it!" 

More knocking! 

"They're not going to go away ..." 

"Alright. You get the door ..." 

My wife steps down the thirteen odd steps to answer the door. The dog is barking and is at the second floor door with her when my wife answers the door. The dog barks. I overhear that it is the police. My wife is saying to the policeman that 'we had just gone to bed.' 

"I'm coming down," I say from the top of the thirteen odd steps. "No weapons," I say to the male officer at the door and the female officer with a flash light behind the male officer as I put my hands in the air and then lower my hands. 

"What was going on?" the male officer asks. 

"Listen. I spoke with 'Jen,' the dispatcher and explained to her that I have a First Amendment Right to walk on my floor boards at night. 'Jen, the dispatcher,' said 'I agree.' I said to 'Jen' that my two cats and dog also have a First Amendment Right to walk on the floor boards. 'Jen' said 'I agree.' I even said to 'Jen' that I have First Amendment to use the faucet in the kitchen at night and to use the toilet at night, but just that the bathroom is directly above the second floor bedrooms. 'Jen' said 'I agree.' I said to 'Jen:' if 'she' didn't want anybody above her, 'she' should've rented the top floor. 'Jen' said 'I agree.'" 

"Are you allowed to have cats?" 

"Yes." 

"Who is your landlord?" 

"CaCa Brains." 

"So, CaCa Brains is your landlord and they let you have pets?" 

"Yes." 

"When did this all happen?" 

"Just like a week or two ago ..." 

"Just try to keep it down ..." 

"I got her a solar lamp for the hallway and bought carpet. I have three sets of headphones and gave up my spot in the driveway. You try herding cats ..." 

"OK. Have a good night ..." 

"Bolt the door," I say to the wife as I ascend the steps. 

What I did not tell the officer is that the second floor occupant has violated the HIPPA law by checking my 'pulse' under guise of being a nurse.

CaCaBrains:

I am going to see the doctor today and after the doctor's appointment, I plan to not be on any medication anymore.  (I won $4520 NET from a lawsuit over deleterious medications in 2014). 

You and dad are no longer on my emergency contact list due to this past summer's false accusations about me from hear say, such as "hubba bubba."  

Also, there is no requirement for me to be on medications, which are deleterious to my health and well being, as I am not a criminal and I have never been arrested in spite of being stopped 47 times in Portland since moving here: all false reports.

You should know that I told you a long time ago that the tenants here interfere with our relationship rendering it very difficult for me to be able to communicate with you or dad.  

Like Bill E., the LCSW, said: "they [my parents] are not a support to you."

I retorted: "they give me money."

Bill E.: "that's not support."

Dad is verbally, psychologically and physically abusive towards me and has always been so towards me, which might be a major indicator as to my having had problems up to and including hanging myself in 2008.  You and dad bear most of the responsibility for my problems in that you two stigmatise me by everything from laughing at my rib contusion to laughing at my plantaciatitis.

You should know that you cannot hold me over a barrel as to fabrications about me that you hear about me from tenants and say to the doctor that I am not supported if I don't take medication.

I implore you to stop breaking the HIPPA law regarding me by discussing medication or sz with anyone when the focus of the conversation is about me: including Bill Ullman or anybody.  

Finally, you have just about ruined my life with your lies about me and stigmatising me stemming as far back as 1993 so that now R. finds it suitable to stigmatise me regarding sz in spite of my having fed her, clothed her, housed her, transported her and obtained a credit card for her to use.

Why people ask if I am getting along with my wife and not the wife getting along with me, I don't know: but, I am under no obligation to provide R. with cigarettes, which is the major contention that I have with her as she feels entitled to my cigarettes.

I have signed the divorce papers so that all that R. has to do is take $120 and the papers to the court house.  (I am not coughing up $120 for that).

My point is that R. took over the entire apartment without a space for me and she insists on moving my things around the apartment, which is why we have been fighting.

I thought that by moving to Bethel: R. would have her apartment; Prop Mngr would be rid of her headache, which is me; dad would be able to rent apartments and you would have me living nearby you for the first since you kicked me out to Lambrook.

As far as "out of my house with nothing but the shirt on your back" and "hubba bubba:" I give up.   

I am not the one spending your money.  I negotiated the TWC bill from 229.22$/month to 44.88$/month, which is what it is now.  I complained about wasting heat on one degree mornings because the tenants were leaving the door open and I suggested a door spring closer, which they installed.

As for the woman this past summer: I never cat called women "hubba bubba" and no ... I am not deserving of "attack."  You, dad, BU, J., Jo., PPD and random people in the community have all harassed me to no end.  

IT IS TIME FOR IT TO STOP!!! 

Suing the American Psychiatric Association:

I am looking for an attorney to help me sue the American Psychiatric Association for the culture of stigma that exists in communities, media and the public's perspective against a diagnosed person when a person is diagnosed with a major mental illness diagnosis out of the DSM IV.

I have extensive personal evidence and records of stigma against me in my community as a mental ill diagnosed person as well as a quick search on the Internet will result in many applicable and evident documentation of stigma, including renowned psychiatrist Dr. E. Fuller Torrey's quote of "schizophrenia is the modern day equivalent of leprosy."

As no person is autonomous in this world and it takes two to tango, I can document verbal and physical stigma against me on the part of police in the community wherein I live, mental health staff at clinics to which I have had appointments, family, so called friends and strangers resulting in a degenerative well being for me: such as excessive suicide ideation and a suicide attempt in 2008 for which I was hospitalised for the eighth time in my life.

Frustrated:

Of all the ways that I have tried to communicate ideas, plans, experiences, life events, etc. or try to communicate about those things are always met by devil's advocate rebuttals and retorts that end in people hanging me out to dry.

I have no way of expressing anything utilising the English language, much less to a lot of people with a tongue in cheek, lexicon repertoire in utilising the English language to communicate my thoughts.

I find that I cannot communicate verbally with a lot of people due to the fact that most in this community are the kind that if I look at someone funny: they are liable to beat me up.  The world is full of con men and narcs who call the police over nothing.

I am tired of my situation and need a change.  I need somebody to whom I can communicate through talking in English.  Sometimes, I will say a word another person doesn't understand and the person will have a perplexed look as if they don't understand what I just communicated, but the person will not interject and ask what a word means in constructs of English language to express thoughts and ideas.

Fed Up:

The next door house is hosting a loud, underage party singing Happy birthday to the nation on the night of the 4th, 2014 and set off fireworks amidst tinder box houses all built circa 1910 with dry timber all up inside the erections at caterwauling teeny-boppers being prompted to "drink, drink, drink." 

I managed to drown out the noise with my 10,000 BTUs.

They are the same neighbours from out west who move here, have no idea and accuse me who has been living here for thirteen years of ransacking change out of their vehicles.

What I don't understand about the time that everybody's tire is slashed is why the tire slashers didn't slash two or all four tires on all the vehicles and rip apart the windshield wipers too with a key swipe across the paint jobs on the vehicles that night!?!  (I guess that they didn't think of it!)

Not the first time that I am accused and it is a plethora of times that I am accused from everything like stealing heat living above another apartment when I explain "heat rises" to a list too long to list here without it reading like a rant.

All I know is that if I even "squeak" my chair or speak an octave higher than a whisper, the police will be knocking at the door because someone calls them on me: much more if I am to host an underage, drinking party keeping the neighbourhood awake with fire crackers and "drink, drink, drink" chants...

The 40th Time:

"Jesus!  How you doin'?"

"Alright man."

"Come on.  Follow me."

"Where are you going?"

"Over to the corner to panhandle.  Come on."

Richard leads Jesus through a park walk on a bright day in May to the corner.  Richard sets a bag with books down on the ground along with his water cup and holds a sign standing on the curb that reads: "Jokes $1: Books $10."  Richard also holds a self published book and a clown horn in his hands dressed in full clown regalia.

"OK, man.  I'll be over here."

"OK, Jesus."

A man holding a "no drugs: homeless" sign stands across the one way street on the driver side of vehicles passing and Richard stands on the passenger side of drivers stopping at a red light.  Richard and the panhandler on the other side of the street exchange words being jocular.

After about five minutes, a bicycle policeman pulls up from behind Richard standing on a curb holding his sign.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm selling my books.  What!?  Did somebody call you?"

"No.  This is my patrol.  I patrol this area.  What does your sign say?"

"Jokes $1.  Books $10.  I talked to Bud at the City Clerk's office this morning in lieu of Janice and he said that I am well within my first amendment rights to do this."

"Where are the jokes?"

"The jokes are in my head.  Do you want to buy my book?"

"I don't have any money.  OK.  But no weaving in and out of traffic."

Richard thinks to say: 'and, you have a job?'

"I'm not weaving in and out of traffic.  Can't be right in the head to stand in a median."

A police cruiser pulls up along side Richard and the bicycle policeman on the curb.

"He's selling his books."

"Books?"

"Yeah.  Can I borrow ten bucks to buy it?"

Richard hands the book to the adolescent passenger in the front seat of the cruiser who, it seems to Richard, is a plebe in the police force.

"That's the first time I have stepped off this curb," Richard states to the bicycle policeman handing over the book.

"He's masturbating in the front seat..."

"He's masturbating in the front seat?  Who's masturbating in the front seat?"

"That's what it says right here."

"So, what!?  What are you going to do: vet the book?  They sell these at the bookstore in town.  I made eighteen bucks off of them.  So, are you going to buy it?  The book is ten bucks."

"Where are the jokes?"

"The jokes are in his head," the bicycle policeman interjects.  "How much do they sell them at the bookstore?"

"Uh ... I don't know.  Whatever."

"OK.  Let's just take a picture of you.  Maybe some of the boys down at the station will buy your book."

"Hold up your sign and the book," the bicycle policeman says.

The picture is taken by the policeman in the driver seat of the cruiser out of the open passenger window stealing from Richard's soul his clown spirit to exercise free speech.  The cruiser turns the corner and the bicycle policeman says that Richard's dog tied to a post off the curb might need shade.

"I'm out of here anyway, soon.  I am not accomplishing much here."

"OK."

The bicycle policeman rides off down the street.

"That's the fortieth time," Richard yells across the street at the homeless man holding a "no drugs: homeless" sign.  "I have to go write a short story.  I'm out of here."

"Good luck guy!"

The 39th Time:

"Morning."

"Morning."

"I'll be right with you."

"OK."

Richard waits for the waitress to serve a table.

"Now.  What was it?  Sausage, egg and cheese?"

"No. No.  Bacon, egg and cheese.  Actually, I want two.  I need an egg and cheese and a bacon, egg and cheese."

"OK.  Let me get that right in."

"Wait.  I'll pay first."

"Oh.  OK."

The waitress about faces and walks towards the front counter by the front door through which Richard enters the diner and he pays the waitress.

"Those'll be ready in just a few minutes."

"OK.  I'll be right back."

"OK."

Outside, it is a wee hour and the sun is not risen yet at a dark hour of dawn.  Richard sits with his wife and dog in their vehicle parked in a spot in front of the brightly lit diner.  He begins to roll a cigarette from his pouch on his lap when three policemen stride up to Richard's window shining flashlights at Richard's face through the half rolled down window.

"We had a report that you were driving erratically."

Richard reaches to roll down his window.

"What is that?" the officer states shining his light into Richard's lap.

"Oh. This?  This is just cigarettes.

"Were you driving erratically?"

"No.  I came from where I live, up the hill, down the street past the convenience store and I stopped for all the red lights and red flashing lights."

Richard places his hands on top of the steering wheel in plain sight while looking out at the inquisitive officer questioning Richard while two other officers stand at ready with shining lights at Richard's face.

"Well, we had a report that you were driving erratically and that you might be drunk."

"No.  Nope.  I just woke up from an eight hour nap.  I just ordered a breakfast sandwich.  I ordered two of them.  One for my wife.  This is routine for me.  I am here often."

"OK.  You got your breakfast sandwich to go?"

"Yes."

"Well, you seem fine to me.  I don't know why they would call.  But still, I need to see your license.  Do you have your license?"

Richard reaches into his left pocket to retrieve his license from his wallet.  He hands it to the questioning officer.

"Alright.  Sit tight.  I'll be right back."

Richard overhears the questioning officer some steps away from his driver window radio dispatch while another officer keeps a light on Richard in his driver seat with hands on top of the wheel.

"That's thirty-nine times, Jenny."

"I know."

Richard's vehicle radio drones news programming while Richard, wife and dog sit awaiting the questioning officer to radio dispatch.

"Alright.  You're all set.  Here is your license back."

"OK.  But can I mention something?"

"Yeah.  Go ahead."

"This is the thirty-ninth time I have been stopped.  The thirty-ninth time someone has called the police on me in this town."

"Since when?"

"November 1999."

"I see.  Do you keep track of this stuff?"

"Yes.  I keep a log."

"When was the last time you were stopped?"

"March 1, 2013.  I was at the tire centre and someone called the police.  I was sitting in my camping chair in the parking lot waiting for my truck to be serviced when I was stopped.  Said he had a report of my being messed up."

"Was there another time?  Sometime a little while ago?  Where you called us?"

"Oh yeah.  January 5th or 6th of this year.  That was after that fifty below day.  I had windburn.  But listen: I tried to clear this up with Joe Freedman, but he is hard to get in touch with.  You know, the mental health liaison?"

"OK.  I see.  Well, you're all set tonight."

"OK."

Richard re-enters the diner after the inquiring officer strides off into darkness of a parking lot along the side of the diner and the waitress hands to Richard a brown, paper bag with two tin foil wrapped breakfast sandwiches in it.  Policemen who question Richard enter the diner for breakfast at a large group table in the back of the diner, a hotspot for early breakfast.

Outside, Richard and his wife eat their sandwiches then drive off into the city's night for a coffee at a convenience store on their way home.

A Zero Point or Parking Ticket License:

I line up to parallel park on a street that I frequent for coffee with blinker flashing and reverse lights in gear.  The vehicle behind me is on my tail so I can't reverse into the spot and park.  I reverse a tad bit after idling for some minutes while more traffic lines up down the street behind the vehicle in my rear view.

The driver of the vehicle behind me pulls out and flips me the finger through her passenger window as she crosses the double yellow around my vehicle.  Some ten vehicles that were behind the vehicle in my rear view who flips me off cross the double yellow to pass me who is trying to park.

It is not the first time that someone flips the finger at me while crossing the double yellow to go around my parking a vehicle on a street.

In SFO once upon a time, I am parking and a driver in a european make crosses the double yellow.  My driver side bumper nicks the passenger door of her vehicle.

The woman driver stops and calls police when I tell her that police in SFO will not write a report unless there is human injury.  Besides, she crosses the double yellow to drive around me while I am parking with signals and reverse lights in gear.

Police show up and tell her what I tell her about police in SFO not filing reports for "ding-a-lings."

Another time in SFO, I cross the double yellow to drive around a rail car and a policewoman pulls me over issuing me a ticket for a moving violation.  I go to traffic school, as is also the law (to go to traffic school) in California: but, not here.

I notice that most drivers here cross double yellow lines to drive around a parking vehicle.  An exception is emergency vehicles, which I notice stop and wait for idling vehicles with signals to park instead of crossing a double yellow.

I have yet to notice an emergency vehicle here stopping traffic for a driver who crosses a double yellow.  I notice tickets for jay walking and running red lights, but not for crossing a double yellow in an event where it can be avoided.

Next door to the coffee shop, there is a post office outside of which a big postal truck stops double parked morning and evening.  Drivers cross the double yellow to drive around the postal truck without flipping off the postal worker.  The same is true for beer trucks and other delivery drivers.

I have a "hurry up and wait" sticker on my bumper.  Is that irksome?  

Depraved:

"She looked in and there he was just looking right back up at her."

- News Anchor about a peeping tom inside an Ossipee, NH camp ground toilet some years ago.

The man said he lost his wedding ring in the toilet and that was why he climbed into it.

A teenage girl used the toilet and looked into it after peeing only to see the man.

The man showed up to court in a urine-yellow, collared shirt with his obese wife and was let off with a slap on the wrist.

They pumped the toilet and did not find a wedding ring.

Vignettes in which People Call Police

It is a clear, crisp, November day with a southern exposure and autumn leaves are strewn on the sidewalk and lawn in front of me and the dog as we sit on steps up to where I have lived for thirteen years.

The dog begins to bark as a passerby walks down the block of three story apartment houses and I say to the dog to "attack" releasing the dog's collar as the male passerby walks past where I am seated on steps up to the front door.

The dog leaps across the front walk to the sidewalk and begins to bark incessantly at the passerby's legs.

"What the hell!?" the man yells.

"Oh.  I'm sorry.  Toodles!  Toodles!"  I say standing up and calling my dog who stops barking at the passerby when I call him.

"You know some people are afraid of dogs.  You've been drinking too much beer.  I could call the police on you," the man yells at me noticing a beer in my hand as I wave my hands upended in the air saying "sorry, it was just a joke."

---

It is a clear, crisp, April day with a southern exposure over the bay from my car in a tight space on a Sunday.

I am about to go for a swim in the ocean.  I park between two, tightly spaced, white, parking lines next to a metallic blue mini van on the driver's side so that when I open the driver door to change into a swimsuit, my driver door taps the minivan side panel.

I notice the driver of the minivan sitting in the driver's seat and he notices my tapping of his van with my driver side door while changing.  I indicate through his passenger window to roll it down so that I could speak to him.

"Sorry about that.  It's just that these spaces are painted too tight."

"Well, don't do it.  You're not chipping the paint are you!?"

"No.  The paint isn't chipped.  I'll try not to, but it's tight."

The driver of the minivan rolls up his passenger window from a push button on the driver side door.

As I finish changing in a tight spot with my driver side door tapping the minivan with the driver in the seat, the driver of the minivan rounds the back of his van to inspect any damage.

"See.  There is no damage.  All I was doing was this," I say as I show him how hard my driver side door was tapping his minivan while I was changing.

"Well, I could call the police," the driver of the minivan says.

"Call the police.  Do you know what their number is?  Call 911."

"Oh.  I'm not going to call 911."

"Do you know what their number is?  It's 867-5309.  Call them."

"Oh.  I know what the number is ..."

"Good.  Call them!"

The man walks round his van again to enter the driver seat and I go swimming.

---

It is a clear, crisp, April 15th, 2013 morning dressed as a clown buying what I am told is a soda pop put into a brown, paper bag by a store clerk up the street from where I go to drink the "soda pop" on a stoop off a parking lot behind a coffee shop. 

A barista steps out of a back door to the coffee shop from the parking lot, sees me sitting on a stoop next door with a brown paper bag and "soda pop" while the barista throws trash into a dumpster and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop only to exit the coffee shop to throw more trash away into a dumpster and have a word with me drinking a "soda pop" from a brown paper bag on a stoop next door to the coffee shop in a parking lot on the day of the Boston Marathon Bombing.

"You can't be doing that there."

"What can't I be doing?"

"You know.  Drinking that!"

"Drinking what!?  It's a soda pop."

"Yeah right, it is.  Either you move or I'm calling the police."

"Call the police," I say looking dumbfounded at a barista of the coffee shop that I have frequented for fifteen years.

"OK.  I will.  You should be easy to find," the barista says and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop.

I swig my "soda pop," leave the bottle by the stoop where I had been sitting and round the block building to the front of the coffee shop where I enter, buy a coffee dressed as a clown and exit without being seen by the barista who is calling the police on me in the back of the coffee shop.

lawyer

I was telecommuting from my apartment to New Jersey recruiting lawyers for a 450/hr job when a lawyer says: "why would I do that?  I make 700/hr."

I replied "good for you. I make 10/hr calling you."

He hung up.

It's a 'Forrest Gump' Life:

"How did you two meet and how long have you known each other?" 

"We met on a bench at the university in 2003.  We've been hanging around each other since 2006.  We had a mutual friend who was his neighbor.  I was coming out of his house one day and Forrest called down from the window."

"Yeah.  I wrote my name and number in her French book, but she never called.  Between 2003 and 2006, we saw each other around town going in and out of the coffee shop."

"So, seven years?  That's a long time.  Well, we have something in couples therapy called irreversible disputes, which are problems that you two will just have to live with each other.  Have you been living together?"

"Yes, we've pretty much been living together the entire seven years we've known each other."

"Her mother won't let her go live with her anymore.  Not after last weekend."

"Well, it was the weekend before."

"Go ahead!  You tell her what happened, Jenny."

"No.  You tell her."

"Well she disappeared the Saturday after Boston was on lock down to go panhandle in Boston with her friend on her way to Mississippi.  White people are on meth in Mississippi and black people are on crack there.  They only made it as far as Connecticut.  Worried the hell out of everybody.  She quit a full time job to do it."

"I just had to get away from him.  He was talking about how he would kill himself and he's always shouting at me."

"Yeah.  I had a bad week that week with my emotional cycles.  One time the police showed up on June 26, 2012 and like I told the cop when he asked if I was being boisterous, I said no, that I was being vociferous.  He said 'well, there's no law against that!'  They thought I was beating her up.  I've been stopped thirty-two times in fifteen years.  I was stopped for sitting in my Crazy Creek Chair waiting for my truck to be serviced.  I was diagnosed schizophrenia and she was diagnosed bi-polar.  I think it's profiling because I was advertised in the Casco Bay Jerkly back in 2000 as having schizophrenia."

"Schizophrenia?  What is that like?  You hear voices?"

"Ask me how I tolerate stupid questions ..."

"Well ... schizophrenia is a pretty major deal ... and, you're bi-polar?"

"Yes."

"And you are applying for social security because he told you to ...?"

"Yes ..."

"Well ... she has been through twenty to twenty-five jobs since I have known her ... Tell her a little about it, Jenny ..."

"Well ... I don't like waitressing jobs and those jobs are the only jobs I am qualified for."

"Like when I go to the coffee shop, it is one seventy-seven for me and three fifty-four for her.  The first few years I knew her, it was five dollar coffees for her and mine cost a buck.  I had more money then.  I was working at the university then for eight years.  The longest job she ever had was at the hospital pushing food carts for eight months and of course: the hospital doesn't feed her ... so ... she would come home hungry and I'd have to shill out twenty dollars a night for pizza when she came home."

"So ... it's about money ...?"

"Not all about money."

"And you are on disability?"

"Yes."

"When were you diagnosed 'schizophrenia?'"

"1996."

"How long have you been on disability?"

"Since 1996."

"So ... you're trying to live on disability and she has no income?  Jenny: what do you want to do for a job?"

"Dietary Technician."

"Seems kind of odd you would quit the hospital job in food.  Does that make sense?"

"Well ... it was pushing trays and I couldn't push those heavy carts.  Dietary Technicians tell people what to eat."

"I see ..."

"I went to vocational rehab on Monday and I have an appointment on Friday."

"Well ... you know at the hospital they have something called tuition reimbursement ..."

"But, I don't work at the hospital anymore."

"Well ... there might be some time before the financial aspect is cleared up between you two if you are applying for disability.  It could be a long wait."

"Hell!  They approved me the next day ..."

"Well, they would you with your diagnosis ..."

"Well, I've had all the diagnoses in the book.  I've been diagnosed bi-polar, schizophrenia, schizoaffective ..."

"Is your schizophrenia treated?  Is it under control with meds?"

"I see doctor McGeachey downstairs.  We both saved each others lives.  First, she saved mine and then I saved hers."

"So, it is treated? ... How did she save your life, Forrest?"

"I hung myself.  She got me cut down.  I was angry about a few things and was on the phone to my mother when she said the inevitable as to what she always says that it is 'all in my head.'  I am so sick of that.  Everybody and my neighbor asks if I have had my meds adjusted or if my head is screwed on tight as soon as they hear that I have schizophrenia.  I am me: not a label!"

"I see.  And, how did he save your life, Jenny?"

"I was having an episode and stole my mother's car and ran into a parked car.  I left the scene of an accident and ran to his house.  He took me back to the scene and told the cops not to arrest me that it was a mental issue.  They let him take me home to my mother who waited for my uncle and they took me to the hospital."

"Well, so you both obviously want to spend time with each other even after seven years.  What happens after seven years is a couple will have recurring disputes, going over the same old arguments.  What are some of the problems that you have had with him, Jenny?"

"Uh ... mostly household chores.  He won't clean up after himself.  I do all the laundry, all the dishes, the sweeping, the mopping, the cooking ... he won't do anything.  Recently, he has had a cleaning woman come in and help, but he won't do it.  He'd rather pay someone to do it."

"Well ... it sounds like you need a job.  Why doesn't he pay you to do it instead of the cleaning woman?"

"I did pay her and do pay her, but she doesn't want to do it anymore.  Now, she just gets money from me without doing anything ..."

"I see ..."

"And then she comes up with these grandiose ideas like just this morning she says to me that she has a job idea, a new one.  I say, 'oh boy!' and leave to go get in the truck.  She comes down to the truck and I ask her what's this new job idea?  She says MLS, Master of Library Science.  The closest school is in Boston, she says.  It's just not practical!  It's not doable for her to do that.  She might as well do engineering.  I can name countless ideas that she has had over the years that just don't make any sense at all.  I mean just the other day she was expressing her fears of going on disability and not having anything to do with her days.  Well, I can understand that!  Sucks not having anything to do.  So, I am all for her going to the community college for the Dietary Technician.  Give her something to do.  But the ideas she gets are crazy ..."

"And what do you do Forrest?"

"Well, he writes all day.  He likes to write.  He spends his days on the computer."

"What do you write, Forrest?"

"Well, I have portlandmainepoliceblogspotcom.  portlandmainecityhallblogspotcom.  And, I used to have McgeacheyHallblogspotcom, but I changed the name to MentalMaineblogspotcom.  I write in a Hemingway voice.  It is what I have developed my writing voice to be.  I studied Hemingway in community college.  Do you know Hemingway's '49 Short Stories? ... How about 'Hills Like White Elephants?'  Or, how about 'A Clean Well-Lit Place?  Do you remember those stories?  I write short stories like that."

"I read a lot, but I don't remember a lot of what I read.  So, you just write all day?  You have blogs?"

"He tries to make money off of them with ads."

"You try to make money off of them with ads?  What are you selling?"

"He's not selling anything ..."

"It's Adsense, but nobody clicks the ads."

"So, you just give this stuff away for free on the Internet?"

"Yes.  Pretty much."

"And, what are these stories about?  What do you write about?"

"I write about things that happen to me."

"Like what?  Give me an example."

"Well, she didn't read my chapbook, but I write about things that happen to me.  Oh wait!  You read the one story about the hospital patient, didn't you?"

Jenny nods.

"What was that story about?  Tell me about it."

"Well, I get up at three sometimes and go out and one morning a few weeks ago I was at the seven eleven drinking coffee, listening to the news and a hospital patient from the hospital had just been released.  He walked up to the seven eleven with a white hospital issue blanket and wearing a T-shirt on a cold morning when it was cold a few weeks ago.  I knew he was a hospital patient from the white blanket.  Well, I left and drove down to the smoke shop waiting for it to open in front when the patient whose name was Nicholas McCarley as it turns out comes down the block in his white blanket trying to stay warm and yells across the street at me in my truck.  He asks me to take him to the hospital.  I say hospital?  why?  He says he is cutting.  I say what you mean cutting?  He says he means he doesn't want to live anymore.  So, I end up buying him a pack of smokes, a soda and giving him my coat with some change in it.  I tell him he doesn't want to go to the hospital because just look at how he was treated there sending him out on a cold morning like that in a T-shirt.  I write things that happen to me."

"I see.  So you write about things that happen to you.  And, that happened?"

"Yes.  Pretty much.  I am kind of an Internet troll and unemployable."

"What does an Internet troll do?  Do you take a political stance?"

"No.  I take no stance.  A true troll takes no issue with anything on the Internet or any kind of position."

"I see.  So, you take no political stance ...?"

"No.  I write about things that happen to me.  I can find anything on the Internet.  I sent an email to Charles Polk.  I found his email on the hospital Web site.  They since erased all emails off the site when that happened.  I was pissed about something with him when I sent that email."

"Oh.  You did?  Well, drop him a line for me, won't you?"

"OK.  I will.  I'll tell him you told me to email him."

"Alright.  You do that! ... Wait!  Who do you mean!?  You mean my boss: Charles Polk!?"

"Yes.  Your boss ..."

"No.  Don't email him about me!"

"No.  I'm going to email him about you ... tell him you told me to email him ..."

"No.  Don't do that.  I thought you were talking about the Marx Brothers ... I bet you were wondering what I was talking about ...!?"

"Well, yes.  I was wondering."

"Hmmm ... OK."

"I'm really not as crazy as I am made out to be ... there is method to my madness."

"Uh-huh.  Do you see a counselor, Jenny?"

"Yes.  I have been seeing a counselor."

"And you Forrest?"

"No, not currently, but I have seen a counselor before.  I saw Bill White next door, I believe a number of years ago for a time."

"Oh.  Bill White retired."

"Oh.  Really?  Much more walking time on the Eastern Prom for him."

"Oh?  You see him there?"

"Yes.  Sometimes.  At 6am."

"I see.  And, you smoke?"

"Yes, I smoke a lot."

"Do you smoke, Jenny?"

"Yes, but not as much as him.  I smoke about a pack a day and he smokes one hundred cigarettes a day.  I want to quit."

"Wow!  Really!?  Hmmm ... Well, you know you might not be able to get him to quit.  He might smoke for the rest of his life and never quit.  Do you drink, Forrest?"

"I drink, but I try to keep it to just beer."

"He's an alcoholic."

"Yes.  I'm an alcoholic.  I've been diagnosed alcoholic."

"How does that affect you, Jenny?  Do you mind it?"

"Well, he goes back and forth.  He spends time sober and drunk.  He does AA for a time and drinks at other times."

"Yeah.  I go back and forth.  Just today I was thinking I'd do seventeen days without drinking or smoking."

"We're getting married at the end of this month."

"You are!?"

"Yes."

"Well, the thing about couples counseling and working things out for the long term is what's called the five to one rule, which is scientifically proven.  It's where you stress five positive things about each other to every one negative thing.  The psychologist who came up with it worked out of the University of Washington on a study with many couples and charted that it takes five positive things to every one negative thing for a successful couple.  I am going to give you two some reading material to go home with as a little homework.  What do you like about Jenny, Forrest?"

"I like that she always comes back.  All my other girlfriends ran away.  I yearn for Jenny.  Like when she went out this morning and said she was going to the dollar store, she was gone two hours.  I wanted her to come back.  I was looking for her.  She went to Goodwill.  When she comes home, I always go yay and the dog starts barking hysterically.  I like her because she always comes back.  It's a Forrest Gump life."

"I see.  And Jenny?  How do feel about Forrest?"

"I feel the same.  I think he is my soul mate.  He's always there for me."

"Yeah.  I've got the ring on now.  It doesn't come off.  Look see.  I'm not taking it off either.  If she goes, she can always come back."

"So, you like him because he is steady?"

Jenny nods.

"Alright.  Here is the paper work for your homework.  This is just a chapter out of a book.  This one has some questions on it to ask each other about to see how well you know each other.  Go ahead, Forrest.  Ask a question."

"Uh.  OK.  Let's see.  'What is my favorite song?'"

"Oh.  I don't know.  You have many favorite songs."

"Call Jenny!  867-5309 ..."

"Oh yeah!  That!"

"Alright.  You two.  When do we make the next appointment?  Two weeks?  One week?"

"How about three weeks?"

"No.  Not three weeks."

"OK.  Two weeks?"

"Yes.  OK.  Two weeks."

"OK.  Two weeks it is.  Just take this to reception and make your next appointment."

"OK.  Thank you."

"Thanks."

US Sets New Records:

April was the 195th straight month that the number of American workers collecting federal disability payments increased, to a record 10,962,532 beneficiaries.

In December 1968, there were about 51 full-time workers for each worker collecting disability.

In April 2013, there were only 13 Americans working full-time for each worker on disability.
http://www.zerohedge.com/news/2013-05-09/number-us-citizens-disability-now-larger-population-greece

And what? in 1968, 1 in 51 people were diagnosed with a disability.

1 in 5 people were diagnosed with a disability in 2006.

In 2012, 1 in 4 people were diagnosed with a disability.

What will it be in 2016? 1 in 2?

Some doctors already say 1 in 2 people in the US are disabled.

Too many quacks?

Romney talked about the 48%, but the 52% of 'quackery' types put them there.

And the lawyers incomes from handling disability cases show a similar uptrend.

Then, there are "baby boomers" coming of age for disability as of 2013.

Also, MLK was not entitled to near the benefits as say the present Governor of Maine in 1968, if anything.

Because guys likehttp://pinterest.com/pcactionfund/mitt-romney-s-billionaire-backers/
pay people to write a tax code that doesn't encourage investment in businesses that hire people, let alone pay their fair share of taxes?

"The Title II programs have suffered
significant episodes of fraud, and the costs to the
Social Security trust funds can no longer be
ignored."

"Most fraud involving the Title II
benefits programs is the result of deliberate
deception, and arises when an applicant falsifies a
document or record offered as proof of disability..."

http://www.justice.gov/usao/eousa/foia_reading_room/usab5206.pdf

Fraud on the part of whom?  The diagnosed disabled?  The health industry?  Lawyers?  Government?  Bankers?  Media?  Capitalism?  Socialism?  Ethnics?  Education?  The 48%?  The 52%?  The 1%?  The 99%?  POTUS?  Joseph Kony?  George Costanza?  Schizophrenia?  Yes.  The world is diagnosable with schizophrenia.   

"And, you want to be my latex salesman?"

Mentally Ill Prophecy:

 

My time has come to feel good about myself as of September 12, 2009, the first day suicide ideation was remote from my thoughts in my adult life since February 23, 1993 when I made a decision to follow a delusion to regain my soul, the which I had lost to the wiles of a woman in the bowels of New York City, or so I believed.

On or about February 23, 1993, someone pranked my sister with baby at the time at 5am saying that I was on acid, which was a lie. I was sobering up in San Francisco at the time attending SFSU and and my family was spread out across the country and world.

When I moved to San Francisco, I knew no one. On February 23, 1993, I had word from my brother that I made that call to my sister, the which I denied.

To this day, I don't know who made that call, but suspected a few people.

In time, I would narrow it down, but as of September 15, 2009, one year and three days since the collapse of Wall Street in 2008 and eight years and four days since that fateful day when the President at the time was in a kindergarten class and rushed back to work, I don't know who made that call and I still deny making it.

However, I believed nefarious people were at work to destroy me since the fight where I was beaten down in a 94th and 5th Ave apartment by kids from Trinity HS in NYC 1989.

When I left NYC after five years living in a two bedroom apartment and going to school between ten years old and fifteen years old, the woman or girl I had befriended at fifteen and whom would ultimately break my spirit when I was in SF by 1993, called me and told me horrific news of what the Trinity HS kids had done to her and told me to keep it a secret, sullying any feeling I might have once had for her or anyone in NYC by February 23, 1993 when in SF.

So, on February 23, 1993, I felt that I lost my soul or had lost some important reminiscence of my self, if I did not quite put my finger on it being my soul at the time.

I was in AA during the spring of 1993 when I joined a church having rarely been to church before, proselytized and by May of 1993, was escorted from classes at SFSU by my father who had traveled from overseas where he was working to come fetch me and place me in a psychiatric hospital in NYC.

After the hospital stay, I flew back to SF where I stayed until December 1993 when I left to live with my parents overseas for six months maintaining my conviction to follow whatever it was that had thunderstruck me on February 23, 1993 reading the Bible.

By May 1996, having left overseas in May 1994 and driving around the country with no word as to where I was going to my family, I was in Seattle, WA taken to another psychiatric ward by a distant family member who happened to be a psychiatrist.

She had collected me under guise of needing help 80 miles north of Seattle though I had never met her before.

In May 1996 in Seattle, I was diagnosed with SZ and, to be true, I had experienced hell in the months preceding May 1996.

Also, by May 1996, having already read the New Testament, I had finished the Old Testament among many other literary works by Hawthorne, Hemingway, Norris, Cervantes, etc spending the between years in the library at WWU.

When hospitalized in May 1996 in Seattle, my parents and a friend of theirs came to see me and enrolled me in social services. Between May 1994 and May 1996, I had been living in a truck going to community college in WA. I achieved an Associate of Arts despite my troubles at the time.

By October 1997, I drove for the eighth and last time across the country to Maine where I would stay with my parent's friend for two years in a small town until November 1999 when I moved to Portland, ME, where I reside until this day.

When in the small Maine town, I had a small dog I had adopted upon arriving who was caught in a trap in the woods. I rescued him and he was fine, but I was shook up and wrote a letter to the editor of the paper in the small town invoking "by opposing end" ignobly for my quest to regain my soul for it was then that I realized my former conviction in 1993 once again, sidetracked in Seattle from ascertaining my goal by being diagnosed with something as horrific as SZ.

The letter was included as an after log of a short novella that I wrote in 1998 called "Cherub, an epic episode." On the back cover of "Cherub," I invoked a Grateful Dead line from a song called "Estimated Prophet:" "my time coming any day... don't worry about me, no."

Meanwhile, I had entered college in Portland, ME and moved to Portland in November 1999 and started "Portland Radio Theater" at the college station being featured on January 6, 2000 in a local weekly at the time.

Soon, things spiraled out of control in my fifteen minutes of fame whereby everyone knew me by my photo in the weekly as Portland is a small town and miscreants of all kinds lambasted me during my meanderings around town saying go back to Kansas.

Meanwhile, the local rock station was staging an event at a theater doing promotions on the radio of the significance of Pink Floyd and The Wizard of Oz.

I rode my bike in town in June of 2000 with my small dog on the bike rack.

Hence, go back to Kansas and the fact that I had written a surreal piece on SZ of two brothers a world apart intersecting metaphysically when one dies and the other had been bragging of winning blood money, but then goes crazy.

So, I had a stigma.

All the while, I had searched for a job and had found a job at the university where I had started Portland Radio Theater. I fled town in summer of 2000 to the small town where my parents had now bought a house to commute two hours each way for a part time job to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.

I returned to Portland in September 2000 to resume my apartment living and be close to work only after suffering from a hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 at a wedding for my landlord in Portland in the small town two hours from Portland to and from which I had commuted in summer of 2000 to avoid being ostracized by miscreants. The winter of 2000 was spent resuming drinking as I felt bad from being stigmatized.

By April 2001, the same miscreants crawled out of their walls in Portland and saw me riding my bike with my dog on the rack again and resumed teasing. I was determined to hold my ground. The landlord at whose wedding I had had the hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 was to purchase chickens for his backyard.

The wind carried the news and I was promptly egged as a chicken by miscreants on the street for which I assumed was because I had left Portland the previous summer to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.

So, determined to hold my ground, I dawned a clown's nose and bicycle horn and on June 7, 2001, I rode the streets in the West End of Portland crowing like a rooster. I had told the landlord and his wife that I would get them a rooster if they got chickens when they told me they were purchasing chickens for the backyard.

My apartment turned into a construction zone with the carpenter landlord and his helper stepping on my bed with shoes due to my crowing like a rooster and there was no help to be had from anybody.

On June 7, 2001, I was stopped by three burly officers of the law in cruisers at Longfellow Square in the West End and was asked why I was crowing like a rooster as they had reports of my yelling slurs.

I explained that I was not slurring people; that I hated nobody and that I was crowing like a rooster because miscreants were calling me a chicken adding:

"I was walking in VD Port the other day reading the 'Casco Bay Jerkly' when all of a sudden one of those high school kids and you know how they hang out down there up and says 'have fun going home with your dog.' So, being a clown I tooted my bike horn twice like a clown does."

One of the officers said that this was good, but told me to go home and go to work. I did.

Incidentally, there was an article in the "Casco Bay Weekly" in June 2001, the same weekly that had featured me for "Portland Radio Theater" at the college radio station on January 6, 2000 and what ensued to be escaping stigma in summer of 2000 and commuting four hours for a four hour work day at the U., featured an article called "Portland by the Nose," which was about the smells of Portland from the sewage plant to flowers in the West End, the which if you stop to smell them, someone might yell at you.

I was hospitalized yet again for SZ in July 2001 after being beaten down in my own apartment on July 4, 2001 at 1am by the landlord's underage drinking buddies from Portland HS when the landlord and his wife had been out of town and I caught the kids fucking over the chickens being awoken by their party.

I had called the police, but when the police came, they said not to call them anymore as the kids had hidden and then reappeared after the police left.

I was hospitalized for SZ after July 4, 2001 and released from the psych ward on August 3, 2001.

On August 4, 2001, one of those kids from July 4, 2001 shouted at me when he saw me and said that he would "kill me."

I proceeded to notify my doctor, my parents, the landlord's friends down the street and the doctor told me to tell the police and file a report, the which when I went to the station, they escorted me to the hospital yet again.

I have no sympathy for what happened in New York City on September 11, 2001 as everything that happens is supposed to happen: in effect, the Butterfly Theory.

However, all teasing stopped after 9/11/01.

I had long hoped for the day that New York City would sink into the East River and a doctor that I had been seeing following my episode in fall 2002 said that I might get my wish, if that was my wish.

So, I have no sympathy for what happened on September 12, 2008 on Wall Street, at least not for the Madoffs of the world, of which there are many on Wall St., as I take it as figuratively sinking into the East River.

My time has come as of the other day, today being September 15, 2009 wherein I feel good and feel like living and have no suicide ideation or that it is remote from me and that my prayers have been answered since I set upon this road to work through this delusion on February 23, 1993 when in San Francisco until this day in Portland, ME.

My soul has been restored by opposing as I wrote to the editor about the trap in 1998. Now is my time to go back to suffering the slings and arrows as there is nothing left to the delusion after 16 1/2 years of hell called SZ. I have no need to convince anyone. To each his own. That is my story.

After thought: Jim Carroll, author of Basketball Diaries and former Trinity HS student and whom I saw speak at WWU in 1995 as well as wrote a book report on Basketball Diaries in the eighth grade, died September 12, 2009.

Was there method to my madness? No one can really say, not me anyway!

I may be a pathetic, crazy, schizo, teat sucker, asshole, motherfucker, chicken, alkie, fangul who swills his drinks with sperm (all things that I have been called over the years): but now, after so many years of feeling bad, I feel good and know for myself that while there is right and wrong and bad and good, I have always tried to choose the right over wrong and good over bad making me, by and large, a good person. Thus, I feel good now.

Knowing the difference makes me a NON psychopath, as a psychopath doesn't know the difference.

The fact is that while 77% of media stories portray mentally ill people as criminals, the actual number of criminals in the mentally ill population is simulative to the general population, which is 3%.

"It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native criminal class except Congress." - Mark Twain

I am not a criminal and have never been arrested as of age 36.  I don't hate anybody, but do think that mean people suck.  I wrestled for years to reach this point in my life and so now it is no skin off my back what anybody thinks of me because I know that I am a good person and I know that some other people (maybe not a lot of people) know that I am a good person.

"Some people think great god will come from the sky, take away everything and make everybody feel high, but if you know what life is worth, you will look for yours on earth." -Bob Marley

Bad Boy, Bad Boy:

I have been stopped and questioned by Portland Police Department officers 47 times during the thirteen years that I have been living in Portland and I have never been arrested.

During the twenty-seven years of my life before moving to Portland, ME in November 1999, I was stopped by other police jurisdictions four times and was never arrested.

I have never been arrested as of March 8, 2013: yet, I have been in at least ten police paddy wagons, cruisers and ambulances in Portland, ME.

I remember all the dates and times that I was interrogated as well as what was exchanged verbally between myself and Portland Police Department officers, up to and including while waiting for my vehicle last Saturday March 1, 2013 outside of Sullivan Tire and being questioned by an officer who was called by somebody who said (according to the officer) that I was passed out when I was sitting in a "Crazy Creek Chair" on Sullivan Tire property waiting for my vehicle to be serviced.

I was first stopped by police for cutting an officer off with my vehicle on Neal St. preceding Thanksgiving 1999.  I told him that I was in a hurry to pick up my brother from the airport and that we were going to Bethel to see family and that I hadn't seen him.  He let me go with a warning.

The next time was in Longfellow Square around June 11, 2001 while on my bike crowing like a rooster and explaining the reason why I had a clown's nose on and crowing like a rooster to three officers.  The three officers let me go with a warning.

The third time I was stopped by Portland PD was July 4, 2001 at 1am during an underage drinking party for which I called police on Neal Street, but the kids hid when police arrived and an officer told me not to call them anymore.  (I was beat up after the police left that night by the underage kids drinking on Neal Street and I have four rib contusion diagnoses to prove it, one diagnosis as recent as 2012).

The fourth time that I was stopped by PD was July 7, 2001 when the landlord on Neal Street called PD and PD put me in a paddy wagon, then took me out of the paddy wagon and put me into a cruiser and took me to Maine Medical Center.

The fifth time I was stopped by police was when I was released from the July 7, 2001 hospital stay on August 4, 2001 and one of the kids from the underage drinking party on July 4, 2001 threatened to kill me.  So, I asked my doctor what I should do and he said to file a police report.  Of course, I never want to have to go to court: so, when at the police station to make a complaint, PD put me in a cruiser and took me to Maine Medical Center.

The sixth, seventh and eighth time I had interactions with Portland PD was during the fall of 2002.  Albeit, I was under duress and hospitalized three different times (including for a sodium seizure during fall 2002) and have since won a class action suit for why I was under duress.

The ninth time that I was stopped by PD was during December 2002 when I went out to buy condoms and an angry man with a wife and baby attacked me thinking I ran over his baby when his baby was crying behind him on the sidewalk in front of my house because the baby's dad was going to hit me in the head with a weapon while my girlfriend and his wife were screaming.  Police came into my apartment to question me that night.

The tenth time that I was stopped by PD was during May 2004 on Oxford Street and Myrtle Streets for making an illegal left down a one way street.  I told the officer that I forgot what street I was on as Oxford Street a block from Myrtle is one way in the other direction.  The officer questioned me as to whether I had been drinking.  The answer was no and I went home.

The eleventh time that I was stopped was November 2007 for an illegal right on red.  I paid the fine and went to traffic school.

The twelfth time I was stopped was May of 2008 when I had a suicide attempt because I can't take these fucking Maineiacs anymore.

The thirteenth time I was stopped was on Ludlow Street during July of 2008 for no seat belt.  I paid the $74 fine and sent a $50 donation in the Portland PD name to Animal Refuge League because of no seat belt for the dog I had with me.

The fourteenth time I was stopped by PD was the night of December 8, 2010 on Granite Street when my girlfriend at the time was having a health crisis and crashed on Granite.  Then, she ran to my house when I took her back to the scene of the accident, waylaid the initiating officer from contacting the 9-11 callers and rubber-neckers on Granite to tell the officer that it was a mental health issue and that the driver of the crashed car was in my vehicle.  I counted to 24 - 1000 on one leg and a bunch of other things they had me do on that cold night with no coat and then they let me take the driver of the crashed vehicle (my girlfriend) home to her mother.

The fifteenth time that I was stopped was by a Cumberland County Sheriff's bus on the way down Congress Street one morning at 8am sometime between 2009 and 2010.  I cut him off because I thought that he was going to let me into traffic.  The sheriff bus driver said that he was going to pull my papers, but decided not to.  (I felt like telling him: yeah, I woke just this morning to cut off a sheriff's bus.  My whole life: all I wanted was to cut off a sheriff bus).

The sixteenth time that I was stopped by Portland PD was November 15, 2011 on my front walk for doing nothing except walking my dog and a host of underage kids come running up out of the dark at behest of an officer nearby with flashing lights and ask for my ID.  I told the kids to "fuck off" and started walking back to my apartment when the officer in charge of the Nazi Youth doing so called community policing strides up to me on my front walk on Washburn Ave and pulls my license.  He tells me not to be mean to kids again or he'll arrest me.  (Well, I think that I had just come home that day from visiting Spring Harbor's Children's Wards with my pet therapy dog as a volunteer job.  I have a log for proof as does Spring Harbor).

The seventeenth time that I was stopped by PD was on April 6, 2012 at my house having come home from the dog park and 7-11 with beer.  I had called somebody "fat" at the dog park and they called police who waylaid me at my house, my having parked.  I was given a field sobriety test and allowed to keep my beer and cigarettes.  (I have the entire interrogation between the officers and me that night written out in another part of my blogs).

The eighteenth time that I was stopped by police was when some neighbors called police because I had my headphones on in my kitchen (singing) or shouting to heavy metal.  They pounded on my door, then accused me of being "boisterous" to which I replied: "I was not being boisterous, I was being vociferous."  The officer replied that there is nothing against the law with that.  (Really: they thought that because they know I am schizophrenic, I am an axe murderer murdering my girlfriend whom I still see and have been seeing awhile.  Everybody knows that all schizophrenics are really axe murderers.  Try saying "schizophrenia" out loud in a room full of people and watch everybody turn their heads if not call the police).

The nineteenth time was at Sullivan Tire on March 1, 2013 when someone called police because I was sitting in a "Crazy Creek Chair" waiting for my vehicle to be serviced.  Lucky thing someone came out of Sullivan Tire because even the guy who came out of Sullivan Tire said it looked like the officer was going to give me hard time.  That officer was about to lay hands on me and would not listen to me when I said and I quote: "I am waiting for my vehicle.  I made the appointment last Wednesday for 9am today."  (Not like I speak smatterings of Krio, Swahili, Setswana and French to an officer in the Sullivan Tire parking lot)!  When I said that, the officer was reaching for me and I stepped on my dog's foot by accident saying sorry to the dog and patting it when the guy from Sullivan Tire came out and said something.

I remembered one other time subsequently to the previous written nineteen times that I have been stopped: during October 2002 when I was under duress from a poison medicine for me, a girlfriend at the time called the police when I was sitting in my "Crazy Creek Chair" on the my back porch in the sun eating cereal out of a bowl and with a spoon fully dressed and my dog next to me.  I was taken to Maine Medical Center that day and released a few hours later.

THAT MAKES (20) TWENTY TIMES THAT I HAVE BEEN STOPPED BY PORTLAND PD IN THIRTEEN YEARS OF LIVING HERE FROM NOVEMBER 24, 1999 to MARCH 1, 2013.

And then there is the four times that I have been stopped by Maine town police and the two times that I have been stopped by Maine State Police, all six times let go with a warning.

So, I have been stopped (26) twenty-six times in the State of Maine by authorities since October 1997 when I moved to Maine whereas in the previous (27) years of my life living in NYC, Atlanta, MA, SF CA, Seattle, overseas travel, crossing the USA (8) eight times in a pick up truck sleeping in the back: I was stopped and questioned by police jurisdictions (5) five times or since eighteen years old when I obtained my license in NYC, (5) five times in seven years: two of the five times not traffic related. 

Prison smoke traced to inmate cooking in toilet:

talk about noxious stimuli: he'd give for homemade pie! I tell you no lie, my my my: what he'd give for some rye! Almost makes you want to cry: sleeping so close and nearby- a stink pile and a fry pan- makes for a great big sigh!  (Mar 29, 2009 | post #31)

an oil truck next door was making too much noise. -Icalledthepolice- 04/19 09:25:30

I was drinking a root beer from a brown paper bag on the street in Portland, ME on the day of the Boston marathon dressed as a clown.  Someone called police.  Said I'd be easy to find. 
 
My wife took a shower and was indecently exposing herself in front of me. I called 9-11 for the number to sex-anon. 

I put $2 in a Camp Sunshine jar at a pizza restaurant on 202 and River Rd. in Maine and took a Camp Sunshine placard. The store owner called the police.  Fall 2002.
 
I left my change in the leave a penny take a penny and the 7-11 clerk threatened to call the police.  Said all he had to do was make one phone call to police, give them my license and vehicle make and that police would hold me up at gun point when all I did was leave change in the leave a penny, take a penny.  That was in the fall of 2012.  I remember that it was the same clerk at that 7-11 in 2007 when that 7-11 had coin dispensaries at the registers who took change out of the coin dispensary left by the guy in front of me out the door already after paying and the clerk says that he loves it when they leave their change: pocketing it. 
I was eating a bowl of cereal on my back porch back and my girlfriend at the time called the police on me. Fall 2002.
 
I was sitting in my Crazy Creek Chair waiting for my vehicle to be serviced at the mechanic and somebody called the police.  Policeman said dispatch said someone said that I looked passed out.  Mechanic came out and told policeman to lay off, that they had my vehicle.  March 1, 2013.
 
I dinged a guy at a restaurant with no painted lines in the lot and the guy called 9-11. Insurance said that they don't cover it because there were no painted lines.  2010.
 
I was dressed as a clown, crowing like a rooster and and tooting my own bike horn on a weekday morning in Portland, ME.  Somebodies called the police.  June 2001.
 
I had my headphones on listening to hard rock being vociferous in my apartment with my girlfriend.  The neighbor called the police.  June 26, 2012.

Some woman was breast feeding in public.  First, I took pictures as evidence.  Then, I called police.

The toilet overflowed at a shopping mall.  I called mall security.  They called 9-11 who put up police caution: do not enter tape and called in HazMat.   

Some fat person said good morning to me.  I called police.  Too fat: might fall through grates on sidewalk.

Some guy with a big nose walked past me on the street today.  I called police.  Using too much oxygen!

The neighbor's cat was meowing too loud.  I called police. 
My wife farted in bed.  I called police.  I thought it was a gas leak.  Police called HazMat.
I called a guy fat at the dog park.  He left and called police who stopped me walking into my front door after driving home from the park suspecting that the guy had called police.  April 6, 2012 at 11:30PM
I stopped my vehicle and called a guy's kid in his front yard a "tree monster" because the kid held a big branch in his hands.  The guy started running after my vehicle, got into his vehicle after I got out of there seeing him, chased me a short ways in his vehicle and apparently called police who stopped me at Rite Aid in town the next morning to inquire when I told the policeman that all I did was call the kid a tree monster because he was holding a branch.  Policeman said that I could take my hands off his cruiser then.  August 2000.  And, can you imagine my hearing gossip around town about that man!  He ended up divorced, no custody and shooting a Magnum 45 from his back porch into trees down the road at another house eventually.    
Some kids broke into a rental apartment that I was renting while some of them were fucking over the landlord's chickens in the backyard holding an underage drinking party at the house, stealing the landlord's stereo and CD's and leaving me with a punch to the ribs when they would'nt leave the premises.  I called police.  Police told me not to call them anymore when they didn't find the kids who had hid when police arrived.  July 4, 2001 @ 1AM.