Category Archives: Nick

Life on the interwebs

Jammed in the SPAM files of my email box when I got home was this great little email, which I retrieved, that was sent via this here website:

Slanderous Statements wrote:
Here are two court definitions you need to understand of which are currently displayed on this website:

LIBEL: Libel is a published or fixed form of defamation of character; a civil wrong that falsely impugns the reputation or character of a person or entity, opening the target up to public scorn or ridicule. Online libel, or cyberlibel takes electronic forms such as email, mailing lists, newsgroups, chat rooms, podcasts, vodcasts and WEB PAGES.

DEFAMATION OF CHARACTER: Defamation of Character is often used to describe accusations of slander, libel or both. Slander involves verbal derogatory statements, while libel involves written ones. In a court of law, the plaintiff pursuing the lawsuit would charge defamation of character to cover any form of false or damaging allegations.

Thus, please amend your accusations accordingly.

No real email address was provided. It said “noneofyourbusiness@noneofyourbusiness.com.” It wasn’t tagged to any particular post.

I had to laugh that I was being asked to amend something with being told what it was I was meant to amend. Seems like if you go to that bother, you’d want to be specific and sure. Otherwise, I might figure it’s Paul Wolfowitz mad at me for showing bad pictures of him and his gal.

What the email did have, and what everyone who manages a website knows about, is an IP address.

Here’s a little bit of an Internet tip for you kids out there. If you are going to send a cowardly email implying wrongdoing, um, don’t use your fucking work computer. Especially, if your work is a Silicon Valley company in the neighborhood, which has not just an identifiable address, but shows on my website stats with its own browser on its own operating system. It’s a well-branded, but unique, computer company.

Checking the trail of what the person was viewing on this website to get his panties wadded up, which resolved back to a Google search of a particular name, the name jumped right out of the data — Good Old Nick. Probably not a coincidence, his son works at the company whose IP address left a trail.

I’ve updated the old website to remove Nick’s distinctive last name. What the hell, I figure. Whilst I’m going to be engaging in a small claims court hearing, might as well keep the profile lower. Court records will weed us all out eventually.

For the helpful definitions contained in the email, though, they aren’t entirely accurate in terms of legal precedents so far in folks spouting shit on the internet. One key fact is contained in those paragraphs that is indeed important is the word FALSELY.

What I have mentioned so far is FACT. We did not trash the apartment. The apartment we moved into was NOT professionally cleaned or maintained, and we left it in the state we found it. Nick did invade our privacy, and perhaps quite legally and factually, trespassed. He also removed our belongings without our permission.

His “invoice” to us requesting money OVER and ABOVE the security deposit was improperly documented per California State law. It also falsely claimed damage that never occurred (or if it did somehow, not by us and not when we lived in his property).

Conversely, our letter to him was written appropriately under state law and was documented properly. It was also ignored by good, old Nick.

We have spoken about our tenant/landlord dispute to a lawyer in an unofficial capacity, several other tenants and another landlord, and we asked them to review our documents. In all conversations, we have been encouraged to proceed in small claims court, because we can well document our good faith actions as tenants and demonstrate that we merit the money owed to us.

None of the above statements are libelous, since they are true, factual and without malice. (Although, there is all sorts of dumbassery and hyperbole on my part.) We are involved in a dispute where one side has documented adherence to and an understanding of the laws governing our tenancy and one side has not.

When we win in small claims court, I will link to whatever public websites there are that indicate how we were treated unfairly in this particular business relationship. Further, it is through the same web and public records that I was able to discover that we are not at all the first tenants to have a dispute with this landlord.

If the writer of the email sees this post, he may also want to do a more thorough search of libel law and the whole net thing. More than a few reputable sites point to a change in the world, such as this quote from Forbes.com: “What the Internet may do is make the whole idea of libel law seem old, says Eben Moglen, a law professor at Columbia University. Moglen argues that the idea of libel law is archaic and based on the “village complaint,” where intimations about one’s chastity or morality could be devastating.”

One common thread is that the unique nature of the internet allows people to talk back. If you don’t like what I’m saying AND CAN PROVE ME WRONG, have at it. I’m supplying the bandwidth.

Reply anyway, because at least dialogue, even if it’s to call me a horse’s ass is really what I had hoped for when we moved. What we got was incoherent ranting and unprofessionalism.

And, I’m minding my p’s and q’s thanks to the good folks at the Electronic Frontier Foundation.

M., the champeem

M. finished another marathon. The San Francisco Marathon. To see himself at dawn on Sunday, when it began, on into Sunday midday, when he finished, please go to my photo galleries at either http://dee-rob.com/zenphoto or http:://picasaweb.google.com/FarfromBraintree.

BEFORE:
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(I think the before shot looks a bit like it was shot way before. Like 1980s before. Boy band 80s.)

AFTER:
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(Looking good for having just run 26.2 miles and walked around a bit. His mental capacity was a little slow. Just like I like a man. Although the pants-load awkward strut of stiff knees was more funny than hot.)

When in Rome, yada yada

Only I wasn’t in Italy. I found myself in Napa on occasion of a work retreat I had the unenviable job of planning. And, god how I hate being in charge of those kind of logistics.

Here’s what I learned growing up in a large family and evolving into the youngest child, whose role was apparently, table setting, celery stuffing with cream cheese or doing whatever the fuck the mater needed me to do to get things done before the onslaught of holiday dining, I don’t suck at planning gatherings. I get the logistics. I sort of can figure out some other human beings different wants and needs. (Although, admittedly, I care a whole fucking lot less about their wants, if I’m in charge.) And, I know that the dessert usually comes later, the snacks earlier.

Overall, though, it cranks my anxious self into high gear. You just can’t sit the fuck down, enjoy or take it all in when there are 20 folks needing you to get them food, beds, beverages and a reasonably (a definition by which mileage can vary hugely) quiet room in which to be trapped and meeting. There’s always something or the tension of anticipating something.

As a side note, my usual anti-nurturing self was in its usual simmer for not wanting to deal with adults who were too hot, too cold or whatever state or condition I can’t control. My usual, though, was stumped by this year’s twist — not one, but two women telling me their ghost in the hotel room experiences. Just do what I do ladies, neurotically toss and turn all night. Ghosts don’t fuck with insomniacs.

One thing I learned back in the sous chef days of adolescence and family holidays, though, is the planner gets to make some choices. Like once I tried real cranberry sauce, I could effectively embargo the canned shit. This time around, choices were made and I am pretty sure I ate this last night. I think it was that. It was leafy and succulent and weird and salty-ish and crispy.

Why might have I eaten a weed by my own choice? Because a visit to Napa is all about food. Actually, pretty much all of Northern California is all about food snobbery and fresh and simple and dining and sauces and ethnicities and all manner of ways in which mankind can elevate gluttony into high art and eating and drinking into some kind of religious experience. In wine country, that kind of bullshit is taken to a whole new level.

In addition to your basic catered hotel meeting fare with a whole lot of snacking going on, I had to pick some restaurants for group dining enjoyment. When I figured out a celebrity-esque chef was whipping out a lot of majorpublication reviewed vegetables, I had to give Ubuntu a whirl. Plus, you know, Linux distro good karma.

I ate shit like farro, which if it was good enough for the Roman guard, it’s good enough for effete Napa snobs. There were also ox-heart and purple haze carrots, ice plant and fingerling potatoes. I also ate pesto encrusted olives. Normally, I fucking HATE eating an olive, what with all that olive flavor, but these organic little nuggets were converting me. I think there was some bacon or something hidden in there, because they were mighty tasty.

Turns out you can fill up on biodynamic produce. Also turns out there are many fine local Napa bottles of wine than can make this shit go down even smoother. Add in the fact that work paid for 20 of us to gang up on the “community table” and, well, yeah, I did it, I ate vegetarian.

Better yet, if you are in charge of herding 20 people over to a dinner, and seeing someone pays and all, them yoga loving hippies (’cause what highly rated restaurant isn’t also a yoga studio?) are pretty chill hosts. We were a half-hour late and raucous, and unlike just about every other restaurant in the county they didn’t require faxing and repeated in writing confirmation.

Peace, love, farro, and zinfandel, y’all.

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High probabilities

The title of the post is directly related to my trying for something unifying. It’s a stretch, that’s what it is.

Here’s the primary reason for thinking about predictability — Fucking Nick. If the man was a horse race the odds would be 1:1 and everyone would be betting on a sure thing.

Next week was to contain the scheduled date for our court showdown. Dog the Bounty Hunter, or whatever the fuck the delivery service I hired was called, had sent a letter indicateing Nicky had been served. Yup, the whole “Here’re are your papers, sir, now get your bad self to court.”

Only, it wasn’t exactly expected that Nick would go all gentle and all. I mean the official suit against him, the one in the real courthouse not the small-claims dealio, took two years or so to settle, because he was a no-showing, letter writer. So, when the stakes were high, he wasn’t on it. In this case, why would I expect anything different?

And, so it goes. We got the letter Friday evening from the courts, the case has been continued to September as Nick, globetrotter and bon vivant, is out of the country through August. At least that’s what the handwritten letter from his son to the court alleges.

(Total aside: It’s so cute that all of the court documents on record from that family are hand written. Very quaint. Particularly charming in that the son who wrote it works for a Silicon Valley company with its own flavor of word-processing. Old school.)

We were in Nick’s neighborhood yesterday. There was a teeny, trouble-making part of my brain that wanted to cruise by his house and/or our old place to see if he was around.

Maybe he’s in Greece, what with the free time of landlording in general and disputes holding that up anyway. Or maybe he’s just claiming unavailability. Either way, I was certain that the set date was anything but a sure thing.

The only other sure thing in my life these days was the lure of the fair. As I sat and wrote yesterday, I could hear a local carnival off in the distance.

It was certain that by nightfall, I would have visited said carnival. My man won me some plush, we ate a fair-based dinner, and I capped it with funnel cake (I don’t think there’s fried dough west of the Missippi). Life is grand, fucking grand.

funnel

Can you hear me screaming?

We waited on Nick’s letter with the final accounting of the security deposit. Waited with breath baited. Waited in shivering anticipation. I picked up as a certified letter this morning.

Who knew? Maybe, just maybe a sliver of humanity would shine among the arguments and recriminations. Maybe given that the apartment was in plain, ordinary, non-professionally cleaned, non-new carpeted splendor when we took it would prod his conscience, and he would return our security deposit.

You know, we kind of took the place, because it wasn’t shiny and new. It was a bit homey and lived in looking. The cobwebbed fireplace he warned us not to use. The ducktape holding up a refrigerator shelf. It was endearing in that I have never lived among perfection and pristine.

In some unfamiliar terrain for me, I struck an optimistic string (not a chord mind you, don’t be stupid). I thought, maybe, he might, you never knew, take a few bucks or a hundred or so off the top, but return the rest.

Motherfucker, why did I have any faith?

HE’S BILLING US FOR $800 and change. BILLING US!

Fucking A. He wants us to pay for new carpeting, professional cleaning, all the shit we NEVER had.

AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH.

In some vague place I waffled on my resolve to take him to court. But, now? There is no fucking way he gets one fucking dime more of our hard earned cash.

That name again folks — Nick Tsilipounidakis. A landlord unparalleled.

I won’t say anything libelous. But, if you ever Google that name and come across these words, welcome to my world.

Here’s the simple reality. We are a professional couple who were home quietly in the evening. But, most of the time, we were at work or eating out. We ate out more than in then any other apartment I’ve dwelled, because the stove was a broken down mess.

We had no pets, no babies, neither of us got sick, bled, peed, or shat on the carpeting. We did walk on it, because levitation is a bitch. And, hell, it wasn’t new when we got there. We threw caution to the wind.

As he invaded our privacy over the weeks once we had given our notice to vacate going through each room, while we were out, and commenting later, he told us both casually and specifically not to hire professional cleaners or do too much ourselves.

I agreed, because, can I say it again, it wasn’t professionally cleaned when we moved in and I’d be fucking goddamned if I would leave a rented apartment better when we left than when we started. Seriously, bite me on that concept.

We owe him nothing.

In my opinion, he is completely unqualified to rent a dog or doll house.

Nick watch

Nick has one day more before missing the 21-days he had to send us our security deposity and/or the itemized list of deductions from same.

Nick has about two weeks before I let him know he done been sued. The kindly chick at the housing advocacy organization suggested waiting a couple of weeks so the officer of the small-claims court, who may be a grumpy retired judge or some other peevish and unpredictable type, could see we’re not money-grubbing, mental cases. All nice and easy we’ll be like, judge, man, sir, whatever, um, we gave him a couple of extra weeks to do the right thing, blah fucking blah.

Meanwhile, she suggested writing a business-y cordial “reminder” about the 21 days. And, throw in the request for reimbursement on the shit he helpfully threw away BEFORE HE COULD LEGALLY RE-ENTER the dump.

Blammo, we win, because we’re sane. Admittedly, it’s a relative scale which Nick skews completely hard by the nutty side.

Good god fucking y'all, Nick is a master ass

Tonight was the night. The final walk through with Nick for him to note what he thought were the aggregious ways in which we trashed his place.

I so fucking wish I brought a video camera. Words cannot adequately describe. They can’t. And, it was so fucking crazy, disbelief would be the obvious response to any retelling.

I mean, I showed up loaded for bear (or bare or whatever the fuck it is). I was ready, though. I tried to convince M. in the car that he could be the “bad cop” to my good. Together we could attack this guy.

M. pretty much wanted no part of my preemptive strike, saying shit about zen and open mind and maybe Nick would deduct a bit, but all in all it would be cool.

So, we walked into the place. Mind you, Nick was already in there. Legally, he was trespassing as we hadn’t yet surrendered the keys, and we had given today as our final move out. That shit just makes me crazy. He also had already started working on the place. ILL-fucking-LEGALLY. I so want my money back.

I’m edgy, but I follow M.’s lead. Then, Nick whips out the flashlight. Flashlight? You might ask, were there no lights? There were indeed lights.

The flashlight was the tool needed to highlight the grievous amount of dirt and dust and whatnot. I swear to god, he made M. stand on tiptoes to show him the blackness, the filth imbedded in the crevice of the top of the rubber gasket surrounding the freezer. He shown the light on the very top of a refrigerator where I am too short to get everything out of the freezer to highlight it’s woefully inadequate cleaning.

Mind you, this refrigerator is missing the bottom shelf entirely and has another shelf held up by duct tape. Tape that preceded our sojourn for sure, nicely preserved by the chill.

FUCK YOU, OLD MAN. Do you really expect us to have gone along with the ruse that the house was somehow dustfree when we moved in? A sterile environment was it?

I feel wholly culpable, in that I did what I always do when I move to a new place. I cleaned. I cleaned, and he and I walked around looking at wall cracks and loose grout that wouldn’t be our responsibility, admiring the cleanliness that I had actually brought with me. I scrubbed the floors, the stove, the cabinets. All was lined, re-lined, fixed and made new BY ME. Fucking me.

Two years later, an old man is griping in my face that he can’t rent it, it must be cleaned. YES, you are the landlord, that is your fucking problem. You MUST prepare for the next sucker. It’s the goddamn law, and not our problem in the least possible way.

I’m not exactly sure when M. broke. It was maybe when Nick lifted the lid on the stove top we didn’t use, because at any time only one out of four burners was operational, and shown the flashlight to grime, some of which had lived the life of the stove despite my scrubbing and chemical ablutions. Or, or when he did the old, white glove test along a venetian blind and found dust. Dust. Heavens to Mergetroid.

Or, it was the flashlight arc into the toilet, which I myself had cleaned a few days ago, where Nick made M. take a closer look to point out there was evidence there had been URINE in the bowl. Actual, presumably human, piss in a toilet bowl. M. urinated on Nick’s property, I was led to believe.

Also, mind you, the lid on the back of this toilet is held together by mismatched epoxy. Further evidence we weren’t exactly shitting on a golden throne.

Nick advised that (a) there wasn’t enough room on the page to cite all of the infractions so he was forced to leave some off and (b) it would take about an hour before he was done going through every issue he had uncovered with us. He turned a bitter, unhearing ear to any notion of normal wear and tear and our legal rights as tenants.

M. bottomlined it and asked, “What about the security deposit?” Nick explained with false patience and integrity how it was difficult because there was so much that would have to be done before he could rent again, and that’s why he would, he implied, be keeping our money.

A few minutes later, not the hour Nick insisted, we were out the door, letting him know he should send us the money or see us in small claims court, having refused to sign our agreement and consent to his insane litany of infractions.

The weirdest moment came at the end, when we refused to sign our OKs but provided our address for him to follow up, when/if we didn’t hear from him and to settle our dispute. He refused to write it down. I asked three or four times, quite politely, providing pen and paper.

What an ass. Apparently, Nick {Name deleted}, as is his full name, doesn’t realize that public records have him as landlord of note. As will every tenants’ advocacy group and better business organization I can find in the end.

A polite formality for me to ask. A final act by which Nick could annoy.

Of course, I’ve overheard four separate screaming matches with potential or current or leaving tenants and the crazy fucker, and I witnessed two young men looking about to coldcock him. Given his abilities as a carrier and catalyst for angry exchanges, I wouldn’t be advertising my home addy if I were him either.

Nick's kryptonite

Too late, I discovered that which repels landlord Nick.

The pine scent that says clean and disinfected from barroom to living room to seedy corners everywhere. The tingling distinctiveness of Pine-Sol. pinesol

Yep, went by the old place, and started figuring what was what post our bugging out on Saturday. Right on fucking cue, I’m deep into my iPod and some trashing gathering, and I hear an insistent “Hello,” followed by the rasp of the patio door and screen being slid back and opened.

Fucking asshole, opening the door and coming right in, unbidden, unwelcome.

BUT, what is this? He stops at the door jamb and starts griping about chemicals. I explain it’s Pine-Sol, motherfucker, get over your bitching self. He backs away. He comes back in to bitch about the crappy apartment carpeting looking less than pristine. But he can’t stay, he backs away again. Piney fresh Nick repellent.

Hmmmm. What are the odds of my dumping shitloads of piney clean goodness in every fucking room. Maybe I’ll take a plastic cup of it and shove it behind the refrigerator.

What would be the complaint? It’s too fucking clean smelling?

If I only fucking knew about the magic of Pine-Sol when first I made Nick’s acquaintance. Perhaps, I wouldn’t so hate his annoying, OCD, know-it-all, meddlesome, landlord from hell tendencies. Maybe I would embrace his quirks while wafting pine oil and resin in his general direction.

He wanted to say “Hi,” because he already was in the other day “inspecting,” or as is actually the case, “trespassing,” since no one gave him permission to enter. He’s told me that he’d meet up with us on “Thursday” for the final goodbyes. I pointed out “Friday,” given, I dunno, that was the 30-day notice date and the date through which we paid.

Jesus, what a dick. He explained he needed the extra day to have his wife and maybe some professional cleaners in to clean. I would hate like poison combined with a cup of blood and urine being his wife.

Today’s argument that has my knickers twisted was about carpet cleaning. He plans to deduct the cost of professional carpet cleaning from our security deposit, because there appear to be some spots that weren’t there. I pointed out that California law actually prohibits him from doing so.

It’s called normal wear and tear, douche. Hmmm. Wanna know what other odds I wonder? What are the chances I’ll be fucking with him over the security deposit to the last fucking penny?

Here’s how we were debating whether to leave it.

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Not as rockstar trashed as I was hoping or fantasizing since we left on Saturday. It ain’t too late for me to puke in the corner, light something on fire or shit on the rug.

Time enough to be an American

Not a whole lot of time to write. Gotta get on back to Nick’s ghetto and see what we abandoned. There was a point on Saturday where the consensus was like “Fuck, we’re done enough.”

The thing we can’t decide is whether to just leave it for Nick. Unswept, papers strewn, chaos and a need for a good vacuuming. Or, do we act like the civilized adults we are? There’re very good arguments on both sides.

Both of us like the rockstar fuck it fantasy, I think.

Meanwhile, we took yesterday off from thinking about San Jose. Too much to do here. It was Superbowl Sunday, and godamnit, what kind of Americans would we be to not watch it?

I think there was something going on involving Colts and Bears and Peyton Manning not choking. And, I totally want a name like Lovey Smith.

M. must be the one, since even after moving we’re still on speaking terms.

Small offerings

It is not happy making in my little brain when writing falls on my “to do” list and doesn’t feel like anything I want to make done. Generally, it means shit I no likey has overwhelmed that funny little thing called joy.

M. is making me totally dig the moving thing. He’s like an entire season of the Jeffersons just moving on up. Heretofore, the man has been only vaguely interested in home furnishings and what not. You might have read about nesting? He’s veritably gathering twigs and grass as I write this sentence.

(OK, I’m lying, it’s unlikely we will furnish with sticks. And, if offspring is implied, no, that’s not happening either. I mean, unless he’s smuggling in an orphan I don’t know about.)

His optimism, while incomprehensible to my brain, is something to behold.

Finally, I haven’t written about the decline and fall of our current address. Nick hasn’t mentioned any nibbles on renting, but the signs and portents of his invading our space are ongoing. Seriously, you don’t have the personality for being a landlord if you are so OCD that you have to move charcoal from one side of a patio to another in some incomprehensible pattern.

But, the beauty of our moving is the actual decay we’ll be leaving. The other morning we got in the car to find this sight:

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The carport is collapsing in chunks of plaster it would seem. Rats from a sinking ship I think.