You may now know it (or will soon) as your one-stop-shop for your undecided self, but why is this blog called "The Higgins Plan" (besides being the strongest of titles)?
Back in 2005, I was living with two roommates who happen to also be my band mates. Living with your band was a romantic dream, especially as a drummer; never having to lug and setup, then breakdown and lug again, the heavy and cumbersome drum equipment - it could stay set up - and set up perfectly - forever. You could eat your dinner and be ready to practice. Even better, no one had an excuse to be late or not show up. Of course, living with two other twenty-something musicians had its downsides. A roommate with four cats and three litter boxes, the battle to split chores, and most importantly, paying the bills. Being the most put-together person (and let me tell you, if you knew me in 2005, the bar was set lower than my kick drum pedal) of the three-man crew, I took it upon my immensely naive and stubborn self to put all the utilities in my name. In my defense, not much else besides partying, sleeping and the occasional George Foreman hamburger, would see the light of day if it were up to my stereotypical rock-star-in-training roomies. It was bad enough I had to come around as the house tax collector and squeeze these dudes for their share of the gas and electric. It got so bad one month, I dumped my sad piggy bank on the bed, counted what change I had, and, with a tear in each eye, tromped down to the bank to make a deposit that would just about cover the checking account for the utilities. That morning solidified the regret of not renting that upstairs studio apartment closer to town months prior.
Alas, I digress. This post is NOT about Judd's adventures living with some messy, lazy cats. This is about The Higgins Plan. The one, the only; the winning plan. At the end of our year's rockstar-lite habitations, we sat in the front yard finishing our last cigarettes atop the one couch we just could not (read: didn't want to) move. Not that anyone would want this scratched and stinking pile of accumulated cat detritus. All at once, we flicked our cigarettes into the street, secretly hoping time travelers were filming a 90's Reality Bites-meets-Gin Blossoms inspired music video. It was time for us to go our separate ways. I, of course, was left with more than the burns on my finger from practicing my cigarette flicking skills. As the adult in the house, I had final bills to pay. With literally a $700 stipend and food stamps from my two year stint in AmeriCorps (I can't say enough good things about AmeriCorps, just bad things about the government taxing my education award - worthy of a post itself), I had one last call to put on the tax collector's hat and get my money. With the roommates gone like the wind, I was out of luck. Thankfully, my mother took pity on her poor, emaciated son, and, with only the love known by children from their mothers, she paid the two thirds remaining bills due with some of the money she inherited from her own recently deceased mother. To this day, a part of me remains the newspaper boy in Better off Dead asking for my three-hundred-and-two dollars from the deadbeat roommates.
Because of the rage I felt having my dear dead grandmother's money to pay for the roommates share of the utilities, I made sure to read and re-read every bill that came due. One of the last bills I received was from our landlord. It was a one-page invoice with one absurdly large amount due. There was no breakdown of charges, no itemization, just a number that I certainly could not afford. I then began diligently researching, asking friends and the internet to see what others' experiences had been when moving out. One day, I came across a government website detailing tenant laws and found a statute explaining that end-of-lease invoices must be itemized. That is all I needed. I had found my legal ticket out of this bill from hell. A few days later, after researching small claims court, I also had my path forward. I ran and got the paperwork from the county courthouse. The paperwork stated I had to have the name of the actual landlord, rather than the company, so I walked on down to their marble and waterfall clad office. The man that greeted me was none other than the owner's son. He was the same person who, earlier in the year, whilst showing our house for potential buyers, opened the door to my bedroom where I was listening to the iTunes Acid Jazz Radio Station and burning not one, but two sticks of Nag Champa Super Hit. A comical cloud of incense, rolling off the zodiac sign ceiling tapestry, welcomed him and the potential buyers. He met my slow gaze with a frown and a cough. No one bought the house that year. Was it the kitty litter and incense? Back in the present-suing-mode-moment, I had the pleasure of asking this son-of-slumlord to confirm his father's name. The look on his face was priceless as he answered; that same frown with a bit of anger mixed in. I like to think they were used to getting taken to small claims court and he could not believe the jazz loving, incense breathing, long haired hippie freak could get out of the house long enough to even consider suing them, a high class operation; "marvel at our marble your rent pays"! I left with a smile and sense of accomplishment in greasing the wheels of personal justice.
Several weeks passed. I had left my college town for good, moving in with my parents temporarily before heeding one of the many phrases of my father "Go West, Young Man" and traveling to the great Puget Sound. Shortly before I was to catch a plan to Washington state, I had my day in court. I borrowed my dad's Saturn and drove back to the old stomping grounds with my best green sports coat, green button down shirt, green tie, and (somewhat) matching green pants. The morning of the fateful day I wanted to be prepared as possible. I awoke early and took myself on a jog, finding a swing set along the way to do some terribly weak pull ups. I was making my own Rocky Montage dammit! I had the eye of the tiger and was not going to be defeated in my first court case. Showered, dressed in my court-day best, with beard overgrown and hair pulled back into a recently learned bun, I made my way to the courthouse. Before the actual court case, unbeknownst to me, there was a mediation period. This meant the defendant's lawyer and I were sent into another room to try and work things out like men, with words, not laws. My memory likes to label the room as the crying room, as in the sad, windowed rooms at the back of Catholic churches I frequented as a child. What that says about me as a child, I'll leave to your imagination. The lawyer was the first to parley. He said that I had no case and that it was a waste of all of our time to try to take this in front of the judge. Ha! Hadn't he known I ran a whole half mile and did two pull ups that morning? I had done a Rocky Montage - I was unstoppable! I like to think that I took a deep breath in, slowly turned my head and let the fire in my eyes burn into his soul as I loudly but slowly said, "I will see you in court". In reality, I was nervously shaking, my Catholic guilt memories amplified by being in a strangely reminiscent church room being talked down by a supposed authority figure. I stammered out a "We'll see what the judge says."
Sitting in front of the judge at the table on the right, with the lawyer to the table on my left, the case began. Besides my suave looks and power suit (honestly, I looked like someone had taken a hippie to the Goodwill and gave him a scrunchie), I had my only weapon, but a secret weapon: a print out of the (1) state statute detailing the requirement that end-of-lease invoices be itemized and (2) the copy of the invoice. Because I was suing the landlord, I had the first word. I simply referenced the statute and showed the court the invoice and rested my case. Even at that moment, I felt victorious and knew that watching Law and Order, NYPD Blue, and Homicide in the 90's was about to pay off. It then came time for the landlord's lawyer to present his case. Was he going to laugh and, with a smirk on his face, spew a gallon of legalese upon my freshly pressed shirt? Was he going to wink and nod at the small-town judge, say a few words, and confidently rest his case? No. To my nervous astonishment, he stood up, faced the judge, pointed a finger at me and uttered the most amazing phrase I have ever heard: "According to the Higgins Plan...". After these words hit my ears, I forgot all else. While I am sure he was trying to prove to the judge that I was a no-good-money-grabbing-wannabe-rockstar-hippie-in-a-faux-suit with his blather, all I could hold onto was the repetitive words "The Higgins Plan," this "The Higgins Plan" that. And repeat this phrase he did, with such disgust and condemnation. So much so I almost cracked a smile. I would have laughed if my aforementioned Catholic guilt-slash-fear of Authority didn't keep me in place. Let us not even begin to mention the absurdity of a defense that I, this long-haired-bearded tenant, had concocted a nefarious plan, laying it out by reading from a piece of paper with a legal statute on it. The Higgins Plan was a technicality found through anger-fueled research. And if there's one thing I am good at, it is research, minus the anger (most of the time).
Everything that morning after the lawyer christened the best name of a blog, band, album cover, you-name-it, is a blur. All I know is that my research paid off. My Rocky Montage paid off. My thrift store power suit paid off. I had unknowingly pulled off the first and best instance of The Higgins Plan. A month later, sitting on the porch on an island in the Puget Sound, watching the sun set behind the Olympic Peninsula, I received a letter from the courthouse informing me I had won the case! The fines on the invoice were reduced to the extra garbage fee for removal of the front yard couch where the silent machinations of The Higgins Plan all began.
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