Ami Sletteland lives in Eugene, Oregon. She writes a blog called, My Crumbling Empire, and is regularly
heckled by her mother. She is a psychology student, and has a collection of over sized gold dollar-sign
necklaces, she likes to wear them while cleaning. People tell her she eats too much salt, but she doesn't let
that get to her. She owns a copy of The ButterCream Gang, enjoys the Oxford comma, and she just spent her
last dollar on wax lips and a mustache comb. http://mycrumblingempire.com/
heckled by her mother. She is a psychology student, and has a collection of over sized gold dollar-sign
necklaces, she likes to wear them while cleaning. People tell her she eats too much salt, but she doesn't let
that get to her. She owns a copy of The ButterCream Gang, enjoys the Oxford comma, and she just spent her
last dollar on wax lips and a mustache comb. http://mycrumblingempire.com/
Know Your Rights
Since most of what I do is mediocre, my art has become leaving behind secret and confusing messages for people. Bacon in a
tree, a shoelace smoothie in a church parking lot, and for my old landlord, a coffeepot full of vomit. To me the messages are loud
and clear. Bacon in tree; I'm bored without you. Shoelaces in a blender; there is no God. Coffeepot vomit; you're a jerk and a
shitty landlord.
I may get this from my father who, instead of leaving notes behind, leaves shoes to let you know he stopped by and you've
missed him. I am the only one who can decipher his cryptic messages. If the shoe is upside down, he just got out of jail and
wanted to say hello. Sideways shoe means he will stop back by in a few hours. Shoe with laces removed means when I see him I
must refer to him only as Rich Kennedy, that being the alias he came up with to use while speaking to police officers. He believes it
acts as a subliminal tool. No one wants to mess with a Rich Kennedy.
My aliases have been far less effective. I was going by Awesome McCoolrad when I was arrested, the arrest resulting in the
aforementioned eviction. The arrest itself was pretty standard: histrionic friend freaks out and calls an ambulance because she
believes I have consumed too much alcohol mixed with too much Valium. Police show up, demand I accompany them outside, I
remind them I am of age and drunk in my own home, they get me outside hogtied and deposit me in the back of the police car.
After the event, I pressed charges and the harassment began.
It started with officers spontaneously showing up at my house to "have a look around". I incited their rage by politely refusing to
let them in. After the fifth attempt to enter my apartment, an officer shouted through the door that he was coming back with a
search warrant. I invited him to do so. In the meantime I turned my fog machine on full blast and sat waiting on the couch with my
sunglasses on.
The officer came back saying he had obtained a search warrant - impossible in such a short period of time, but why waste a good
bottle of fog juice? I let him in. When he asked what was going on, I told him that I had my fog machine going (by this time you
couldn't see your hand in front of your face), reminded him that it is perfectly legal to run a fog machine in one's own home, and
invited him to look around while I relaxed on the couch.
Later, the officer contacted my landlord to let her know I was running a “rat factory” out of the apartment and the unit should be
quarantined. Having a pet rat apparently constitutes a “rat factory.”
I’m not even sure what one does with a rat factory, but I imagined rats with clipboards and goggles training other rats in the ways
of factory work. “Here is where you punch your time card, this is where you hang your coat, and this is how you spread the
plague.”
My landlord visited me a few days later and asked that I move within three days. My reaction was to flee to San Francisco. Leaving
behind most my belongings, I tacked up the panic attack disorder pamphlet explaining my behavior, puked in a coffeepot and
walked out the door. The police were coming at me full force for filing charges against one of their boys, and my old “Don’t you
know who my father is?” line wasn’t working on them. They knew I was young, poor and probably didn’t know most of my rights.
Now I know that the next time the police come knocking on my door, it is well within my rights to respond with a lacquered copy
of 1984 and a clip-on mustache pushed through the mail slot. They’ll understand what I mean.
Since most of what I do is mediocre, my art has become leaving behind secret and confusing messages for people. Bacon in a
tree, a shoelace smoothie in a church parking lot, and for my old landlord, a coffeepot full of vomit. To me the messages are loud
and clear. Bacon in tree; I'm bored without you. Shoelaces in a blender; there is no God. Coffeepot vomit; you're a jerk and a
shitty landlord.
I may get this from my father who, instead of leaving notes behind, leaves shoes to let you know he stopped by and you've
missed him. I am the only one who can decipher his cryptic messages. If the shoe is upside down, he just got out of jail and
wanted to say hello. Sideways shoe means he will stop back by in a few hours. Shoe with laces removed means when I see him I
must refer to him only as Rich Kennedy, that being the alias he came up with to use while speaking to police officers. He believes it
acts as a subliminal tool. No one wants to mess with a Rich Kennedy.
My aliases have been far less effective. I was going by Awesome McCoolrad when I was arrested, the arrest resulting in the
aforementioned eviction. The arrest itself was pretty standard: histrionic friend freaks out and calls an ambulance because she
believes I have consumed too much alcohol mixed with too much Valium. Police show up, demand I accompany them outside, I
remind them I am of age and drunk in my own home, they get me outside hogtied and deposit me in the back of the police car.
After the event, I pressed charges and the harassment began.
It started with officers spontaneously showing up at my house to "have a look around". I incited their rage by politely refusing to
let them in. After the fifth attempt to enter my apartment, an officer shouted through the door that he was coming back with a
search warrant. I invited him to do so. In the meantime I turned my fog machine on full blast and sat waiting on the couch with my
sunglasses on.
The officer came back saying he had obtained a search warrant - impossible in such a short period of time, but why waste a good
bottle of fog juice? I let him in. When he asked what was going on, I told him that I had my fog machine going (by this time you
couldn't see your hand in front of your face), reminded him that it is perfectly legal to run a fog machine in one's own home, and
invited him to look around while I relaxed on the couch.
Later, the officer contacted my landlord to let her know I was running a “rat factory” out of the apartment and the unit should be
quarantined. Having a pet rat apparently constitutes a “rat factory.”
I’m not even sure what one does with a rat factory, but I imagined rats with clipboards and goggles training other rats in the ways
of factory work. “Here is where you punch your time card, this is where you hang your coat, and this is how you spread the
plague.”
My landlord visited me a few days later and asked that I move within three days. My reaction was to flee to San Francisco. Leaving
behind most my belongings, I tacked up the panic attack disorder pamphlet explaining my behavior, puked in a coffeepot and
walked out the door. The police were coming at me full force for filing charges against one of their boys, and my old “Don’t you
know who my father is?” line wasn’t working on them. They knew I was young, poor and probably didn’t know most of my rights.
Now I know that the next time the police come knocking on my door, it is well within my rights to respond with a lacquered copy
of 1984 and a clip-on mustache pushed through the mail slot. They’ll understand what I mean.
Ami Sletteland
