Monthly Archives: January 2007

Who's making your pie?

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I’m mildly obsessed with the kid from Missouri that they found after disappearing four years ago when he was 10 or 11. How fucked up must it be to be living that kid’s life.

My obsession, though, is on kind of a side note. And, that note is not that the alleged fuckwad perpetrator, likely pedophile, shares a family name with my fam. Nope that’s kind just the fun part.

My obsession is on the angle CNN seems to be taking, more in its broadcast teases than online. The whole disbelief that this pizza guy/mortician helper could do it drama I get. Like he could be a dickwad over parking spaces not a kidnapper.

OK, got it, classic fucked up dude next door quotes. Ted Bundy helped shovel snow, Jeffrey Dahmer was polite, yada. That angle on CNN is classic (or hackneyed). But they keep ominously dropping in phrases like, “And, none of his neighbors questioned who was living at his apartment…”

Um, what? From now on, anyone moves in with a teenager or younger, I’m assuming pervert. I think that’s what CNN wants. If he don’t never bring home a pizza, my hypothetical neighbor, I’m fucking calling the SVU squad. We are all fucked up pervs lusting in pedophiliac fugue states waiting for our moment to nab a kid of our very own.

I totally dig it taking a village. I’m psyched to be moving to a neighborhood where there might even be folks who act neighborly and shit. And, hell yeah, I hope if I hear some crazy ass shit going on next door, I don’t act as courageously as Kitty Genovese’s ‘hood.

But, pretty much, I can’t be living ever so suspicious 24/7. I mean, I can hate people all day long, but I just can’t be assuming they’re completely fucked up creeps.

By the way, what the fuck kind of part time job mix is that–making pizzas and answering phones for dead people, or whatever you do as a phone operator at a funeral home? (I never paused to think of mortuaries as high volume enough to need phone answering as a specialized task.) I got friends (I swear I do) who mix up avocation, vocation, part-time gigs, full-time gigs, and all sorts of odd jobs. But pizza and death seem so incongruous.

Satisfaction

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The buzz at the place that pays the bills is the results of a survey on disgruntlement. ‘Course, they don’t call it that.

All in all, though, I’ve been through desert and pestilence and political wars and reorganizations. Petit and petty bureaucrats. Thefts, lies, adultery and a vague sense of malfeasance. By now a bad job that I would report on a survey as a bad job might involve demons and regular hot pokers in places I don’t want poked.

But, not so for some of my co-workers, it would seem.

Reminded me of a kind of classic compare and contrast of the current job and the one before that. In seven years at the old digs, I got three gifts from my boss. The first was a McDonald’s promo digital clock that tied in with some cartoon, maybe “Ants” or “A Bug’s Life.”

The second was after becoming the bosslady — She called me into the office and asked my advice on the protocol for her needing to get something for the admin staff that now reported to her. A chore. She sent me down the street to buy small, gift boxes of Godiva chocolates for one tier of support and gift cards at the bookstore for the next level. She told me to keep one of each for myself.

The third was what the kids might call a “Benjamin.” Crisp, green and foldable inside a card thanking me for keeping shit together that was clearly falling apart. I believe it to have been sincerely given that bit of currency. It felt a bit like a payoff.

In less than two years, I’ve been fortunate and my expectations from that past wildly exceeded. Cool stuff from world travels, and thoughtful gifts that truly seemed to have been considered with care and attention to the recipient. I have to put up some pics of the kickass Timbuk2 messenger bag I decided to customize myself.

Not to mention the annual bonus for all employees, unlike the competitive and politically charged bonuses I had been given a couple times in the past gig.

It is work. But for the survey, my answer would have to be that the suckitude is manageable.

Not nostalgic at all

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Here’s what I won’t miss, won’t miss one bit:

    Nick
    Electricity going out, a lot
    Commuting
    Teenagers in the carport when I get home
    Illegally parked cars in the carport when I get home
    Heating that makes too much noise and feels like a car heater in an old beater — Two speeds, sweltering or off
    Waiting 10 minutes for the hot water to be hot
    Cold showers when I can’t wait 10 minutes first
    Scalding from when the hot water kicks in, hard and hot, but not in a good way
    Layers of mildew from almost no ventilation in either bathroom, even with a window
    Being told by Nick I have to keep the window all the way open in the shower, regardless of the outdoor temperature
    Two burners on the stove you have to jiggle and push before they fire up
    Cold spots on the stove
    Setting the smoke alarm off while taking a shower
    Setting the fire alarm off while cooking anything in the oven
    Setting the fire alarm off while making toast
    Random alarm noises
    Duct tape holding up a shelf in the refrigerator
    Having no little welcoming light in the refrigerator
    Fucking sink strainers — Nick loves thesestrainer
    He threw away the normal one
    Cheap hair trap annoying plastic things for the shower (also another of Nick’s loves)
    No dishwasher (just a plywood repair in the cabinet, like a ghost of the washer that once was)
    A working garbage disposal we’ve been warned not to use for various forms of, um, garbage
    Neighbors yelling at each other
    The crazy old lady across the street who freaked and claimed I hit her car while un-parallel parking
    Only one official parking space (in the new place we get a two-car private carport, woohoo)
    Strip malls, lots and lots of strip malls
    The weird sobbing child I can hear from one of the other apartments and that goes on and on.

I’ll miss the heat in summer. M. won’t. At all.

I’ll miss thinking of Dionne Warwick every time I tell someone where I live.

I’ll miss hating on Nick, because I’m an asshole.

I’ll miss some of the diversity.

I’ll miss the huge amount of space we currently waste.

I’ll miss that it was M.’s and my first place together in California. An experiment that has seemed to work.

What's Greek for schadenfreude

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Ah, Nick. M. gave him the call this morning. Said our adios, landlord man.

He offered to cut our rent a hundred bucks or so. Hmmm. Could it be ‘cuz he’s going to have to lower the rates anyway to rent, as the cars and trucks parked illegally add a certain je ne c’est quoi to the carport, and the trash blowing in the street really brightens up the neighborhood? Not really a huge favor there, Nicky. Not to mention, what price is freedom from your control freakish ways?

When the money dangle left M. unmoved, he inquired as to our future locale. He claims it’s prone to flooding. Yeah, man, what with creeks, salt marshes and an ocean nearby, I can dig some water problems. But, I must’ve missed the telethon to save some multi-million dollar shacks lined up among some of the country’s richest real estate. Katrina/N.O. this ‘hood ain’t.

I did a little search engine action. Apparently, in the great flood of ’98 Palo Alto and Menlo Park floated away. Oh wait, no they didn’t, but their were some, egads, mud-littered garages and basements. And the lights went out for literally hundreds of people. Several people had to use candles.

Of course, he had to admit the downtown shopping area that’s been around awhile and where we’ll be living is a “nice place.”

He also pointed out that even in the best of towns cars like mine get broken into and crime happens.

Right, Nick. We’ll be hanging out in a downtown where regularly, in regular old metered spaces, on the street, logos for Porsche, Ferrari, Mercedes, BMW, Bentley, Lotus, Maserati and Maybach, intermingle with everyday Hondas and Lexuses and whatnot at the curb. We’ll have two, covered, private and tucked away parking spots, and in at least one of the adjoining spaces, we noticed a couple of bikes with wheel locks but chained to nothing.

I’m going out on a limb. No one’s going after the VW with other choices abounding. And, if the neighbor’s bicycles aren’t being rolled away, what’s the likelihood of a tougher, more vandalism fun-like thing like my roof stabbing happening.

Meanwhile, I’m mentally kissing the security deposit goodbye, but I’m gearing up for the battle. My prep involves reading through some shit from last year.

Farewell to Nick and San Jo

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Tonight we paid the deposit and our first little bit of rent to move in I guess in 30 days, the notice Nicky requires.

We are moving on up, sort of one step below gated community without the gates. They don’t need ’em, the riffraff are easy to spot. Consistently, in the new ‘hood, there’s been the one homeless guy sitting on a crate outside the gourmet grocers and thats about it.

We’re leaving this (per Wikipedia):

The per capita income for the city was $26,697. About 6.0% of families and 8.8% of the population were below the poverty line, including 10.3% of those under age 18 and 7.4% of those age 65 or over.

For this (ditto on Wikipedia):

The median income for a household in the city was $84,609, and the median income for a family was $105,550. Males had a median income of $79,766 versus $51,101 for females. The per capita income for the city was $53,341. About 4.2% of families and 6.9% of the population were below the poverty line, including 8.8% of those under age 18 and 7.3% of those age 65 or over.

Diverse the new ‘hood ain’t. It’s Whiteytown in the center of Whiteyville.

The trade off is the cute as a button, picturesque downtown, where we will be right off the main drag, a mere couple of blocks from cafes, wine and shops and galleries we can ill afford. Progress.

I am so looking forward to walking again. Our current place lacks the kind of ambience for perambulation. Unless ambience includes trash blowing on lawns and strip malls.

M. cuts 10-15 miles each way off his commute. My almost 20 mile commute will drop to about 2 miles. Since that couple of miles can be done on a bike path, I think I’ll be bidding the gym farewell.

Now, I have to ponder. The dead lightbulbs or the dead hooker, which would be more exciting and fun for old Nick. I’m figuring he’s gonna nickel and dime every cent of the security deposit, might as well figure out something fun. Or, maybe I’ll get into one last argument with him and fight for every red cent just to fuck with him.

Probably not a coincidence that he didn’t return the call of the rental guy at the new place, who was looking for a reference. Could it be he doesn’t want to lose the non-ghetto working couple who ignores his bullshit?

Poor old, crazy, anal retentive, Nick, dude. The quiet guy tenant in the corner was gone before we could introduce ourselves. The Israeli next door, who had a screaming match one night with Nicky, said he’s done and has given his month’s notice. The only tenant left paying will be the single mom with the teenage son and the ugliest crew of friends and relations who ever yelled at each other and threw about the fuck word on a summer’s patio.

Moving on up?

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Too many visits from Nick, combined with M.’s new commute and my poor car’s roof-slashing, equals looking for a new zip code.

We might have hit the jackpot location wise on the first weekend out, but I’m afraid to jinz the scene. Suffice it to say, if shit works out, we’ll be living in one of the world’s most pricey ‘hoods. Since neither of us are pedophilic pop stars, that doesn’t mean Dubai.

It’ll be fun to tell Nicky farewell.

Visit from landlord Nickolas

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Just when you’re sitting thinking “Shit, I got nothing I feel like writing,” the doorbell rings. Landlord Nick is on the case, making sure our fire alarm is working for 2007.

He presses the test button three, four times before realizing we had wiggled the battery out of it’s harness. It’s placed directly across from a bathroom in the narrowest section of corridor. Steam is kind of like smoke, and taking a shower to the beeping sound of the alarm is unnerving.

Here’s the dialogue:

Me: You need to move the alarm.
Nick: If it goes off when it shouldn’t let me know.
Me: I’m letting you know. You should move it.
Nick: If it’s a problem, we could move it here. (Pointing to a new place.) Just let me know if it goes off.
Me: It goes off. Yes, that’s a good place. It’s a wider space with better ventilation, it’s where it should go. Why don’t you come back and move it?
Nick: Yeah, it should be OK where it is, but call me if it’s not.
Me: It’s not. Please move it.

Upon, finally, leaving (This time it was M.’s turn to get the clean-your-bathroom-with-toxic-chemicals lecture.):

Nick: OK, guys, everything seems to be OK. Let me know if there are any problems with the fire alarm. Should be OK, though. Just let me know.

Clearly, he learned landlording by reading Ienesco plays.

By the way, how come every fucking landlord I have ever had has thought to whine to me about property taxes and expenses of rental properties? Jesus, slumlord, no one made you run a building into the ground.

Has time ended yet?

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The End Times really should be upon us. An African American man has the keys to the Massachusetts Governor’s office. A chick, a fucking liberal, probably some kind of lesbian-loving, San Fucking Francisco chick no less, is in charge of the House of Representatives.

It’s goddamn historic. It’s also just the kind of thang to make the evangelists and conservatives look up to see if the sky ain’t falling.

For all I know, the good’uns have been sucked up in the Rapture, and I’m writing this from the heathenous bowels of a world of Left Behind losers.

But, Harriet Meiers resigned while “our team” ascended. Maybe the world has already ended, but I see a slight puppy-loving rainbow of hope.