Appealing Citation

Dear very attractive members of the Parking Ticket Appeal Committee:

This appeal is in regards to the white, unscented, 2-ply citation found on my windshield issued July 14th, 2006. I am a student of good standing at Art Center College of Design, and would never dream of crossing the line (no pun intended). Thus, I feel compelled to write this appeal to defend my integrity. I realize you read through many appeals per session, and apologize for interrupting your lunch hour. For your sake (and happiness), I at least hope it was Taco Salad Day.

I would first like to apologize for my unruly disregard for Art Center College of Design law. I am aware of the parking procedures as set forth in the handbook, as well as indicated by the flier that has been posted near the entrance of the campus. However, I believe my actions may be justified, and have detailed my reasons below. Thank you for considering my appeal.

When I pulled into the parking lot a little before 9am for my morning class, I slid my dirty Pontiac Grand-Am next to a silver Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren (Forbes rated second most expensive car of 2005) who was encroaching in on my left side of the line. Not wanting to take a chip out of the $452,800 paint job, nor possibly taint the Mercedes with bits of mud and dirt particles that seem to grow from my own car, I inched my Ponty to the right as much as I could afford. Squeezing out my door (thank God I have a 28-inch waist) I checked to make sure I was within the parking boundaries, returned to my car and straightened out. Although my wheels were indeed on the line, I thought the parking attendants would understand why I had crossed the border, and naively believed my selflessness would be pardoned.

At that hour of morning, the car to my right was a Volvo S40 small sedan. I felt confidant the driver of the tiny vehicle would be able to easily enter his or her car upon leaving. So I left my Ponty far enough away from a very expensive car and a very small car, albeit crossing the parking lot line. At 6pm, when I returned from a long day of classes and constructing set on Stage 2, I found the aforementioned parking citation. To my chagrin, I discovered the reasons for my ticket. No longer parked next to me were the Mercedes or Volvo, so I was left with no alibi.

I have included a photograph illustrating the way in which my car was parked, not nearly as severe as the citation states. I would like to point out that the parking flier suggests it is possible to get a ticket for parking in such a way, but not indefinitely, and alludes to extenuating circumstances which I believe my case to be. I would greatly appreciate it if you could dismiss my citation, or possibly divert it to the unanimous driver of the Mercedes. In fact, if you are able to get his number, I would be very interested in settling the score with him personally. I’m sure he will be appreciative of me not wanting to harm his very expensive vehicle. And I am in the market for a Sugar Daddy. If he does not, indeed, swing that way, may I give him your number Carmella? Would your husband mind?

Thank you again for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Frank-Joseph Frelier
4th Term Illustration

PS Suzanne, that color shirt you’re wearing looks fabulous on you.

Tool Time

I recently bought my first power tools. I have finally graduated from my brightly colored KidKraft Tool Set, and settled upon a beefy DeWalt 14.4-volt Drill Driver. Now, I’m not sure what the hell 14.4 volts do, or why words like “torque” and “carbide jaws” will be applicable to my chosen profession, but I know that as a Production Designer I must own power tools. And unfortunately, know how to operate them.

In Junior High shop class, I was able to get around having to operate construction machinery with ease. If I buttered Elaine up with a little gossip, she would gladly run my masonite through the bandsaw. My cousin, with the obedience of a Labrador puppy, would diligently haul, saw, and chop anything I requested. And more often than not, I could convince the instructor to do my work for me, insisting he “show me how to do it one more time” before he had effectively cut out all the necessary project pieces.

Unfortunately, along with the classic bandsaw and table saw, my Materials of Design class required students to learn how to use machines like the router, drill press, vacuform, and the terrifying lathe. Adding to my knowledge of foreign words were things like “jib,” “dado,” “miter,” and “styrene.” But similar to years prior, I got around it. The guys in the shop were incredibly helpful, and if I brought a set of boobs in the form of Michelle, they would happily conquer the building process.

I would also manipulate materials in ways that would not subject me to splinters, blood, or possible (and probable) dismemberment. While the other students machined intricate structures and practical products with Plexiglas and plywood, I employed a bathtub, oven, and sewing machine to make a dress. That’s right, I made a dress in shop class. Consequentially, the dress was displayed in the Art Center Student Gallery because of its creative use of materials. Visualizing the Story, however, required me to load up on the Production Designer gear: tool box, level, measuring tape, hammer, screwdrivers, paper tape, carpet tape, fishing wire, nails, screws, nuts and bolts, and of course the electric drill.

It’s a great feeling, really, having bought my first power tools. It’s like a right of passage, an affirmation of my masculinity. I haven’t felt this butch since I changed a flat tire outside a gay bar in West Hollywood, dressed in size 7 Sevens and a tight Polo.

En Fuego

Digging through my closet, I reached past my Emilio Pucci collection, past the custom tailed suits from Vietnam, and pulled out a bright red Lacoste shirt. It was perfect Independence Day Red, and would go well with the themed party I was primping for. Wallering on the floor, Kevin lazily told me his plans for the evening while little bells went off in my head. I heard the sirens the moment I smelled the smoke, but it took another few seconds for realization to hit. Fire.

I ran to my window, drew the shades and yelled, “Holy shit, guys! The house across the street is on fire!” My housemates crowed the window, and we stared in shock. Crawling out onto the small balcony, we had a first class, smoke-level view of the blaze. Already 5 fire trucks had filled the street, and dozens of curious locals stood in our lawn watching the inferno.

I can’t say I wasn’t fascinated. From our window, we saw the inhabitants of the house run out the front door, cell phones in hand. The neighbors had brought out garden hoses, and were spraying the burning house. Unfortunately, Aeolus sent flames over to the house next door, whose beautiful Los Angeles bungalow gables erupted into flames as well. I quickly scanned the area, wondering if our house was in danger. What would I take? Could I rescue it all? What was most important?

Standing against my wall was the French easel that had traveled the world with me, whose sides were dinged from hauling it over rocks and through forests, multi-hued from hours upon hours of projects. In a 1940s makeup box were tubes of oil paints, the most precious of which I bought at the same paint shop Renoir and Monet had frequented, choosing pigments that would influence the 1900s art scene. Close by was the sacred leather-bound box of pastels my father had inherited when he was a boy studying in Paris. Alongside my great-great-aunt, this same box of pastels had attended art classes taught by Rosa Bonheur, the most famous woman artist of the 1880s.

Tucked behind my desk, and sewn through the room was my own artwork - over-sized folders with work from high school, USC, and Art Center. My cherished oil landscapes adorned my room, framed in gold, the only artwork I proudly display. In small bound books were the landscape paintings I did on Semester at Sea, irreplaceable reminders of the vistas I experienced on my journey around the world. Beside them lay stacks of CDs and photos documenting some of my most incredible moments of SAS, Art Center, USC, and every summer in between. Harvey the Dinosaur and Harvey the Skeleton-Man, delicate anatomic sculptures I created, sat on the shelves near my bed.

In the recesses of my bookcase were the Star Wars comic books I’d been collecting since I was 13, some signed by artists, authors, or actors. Above the comics was the magazine collection I obsessively bought and poured through each month: Flaunt, Wallpaper*, Navigator*, and Surface. Displayed under my bed were rows upon rows of DVDs and movies. How could I live without those? Or my coveted Pucci collection? Or more importantly, my Powerbook??

By now, no less than 10 fire trucks crowded the street, hosing down the skeletal top floors. On our lawn now stood the ash-covered residents, watching Menlo 2713 fall to ruin. Mercifully, the bottom floor remained untouched, and the firemen were able to put out the adjacent fire before much damage could be wrought. But what about the rooms upstairs? What about the memories that had been lost?

It seems moronic to be boggled down by all of these material possessions, wondering what matters most and what I could survive without…on Independence Day. But isn’t that what July 4th signifies? It is a day put aside to remember our rich history and revel in past accomplishments. It is a celebration of the United States and the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. So it doesn’t seem too far off to be worried about all of my shit going up in flames.



Worthless Fourth of July fact:
Always the progressive state, Massachusetts was the first legislature to recognize Independence Day in 1781.