Fuck Bush. Fuck him. Fuck his bloody war.
At least he remembered to wear his serious guy frownie face. Probably practiced all fucking day to hold back the smirk.
Oh yeah
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What's Greek for schadenfreude
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
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?
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
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.
Polls is for losers
Check out my new poll. Maybe some day, I’ll check out yours.
Has time ended yet?
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.
Internet makes you stupid
I totally get that people have completely different skill sets, and computers ain’t the be all and all of ease and sense for a lot of folks. But, still and all, I get emails that just make me want to thunk myself hard on a desk-type surface or the palm of my hand and groan a “D’Oh.”
So, being as I took a class or two at the community college (as in it gots it’s own zip code community), I’ve been added to their email list serve. They send out something like this today:
With just five days left to register, Winter Courses are filling up quickly. But there is still time to sign up for one of the 100+ courses and events offered this quarter.
Here are just a few courses that may interest you (click on the links below to search for even more open classes):
Liberal Arts and Science
– Artsy Fartsy and Smarty Pants class listingThe Writer’s Studio
– Ideas for that desperate cry for help and stuffProfessional and Personal Development
– Money, who doesn’t love to get it, here’s how.Public Programs and Special Events
– Public stuff and free, good times. In addition, mark your calendars for the following special events: Bach Birthday Bash, and Rumi: An 800th Birthday Celebration with Robert Bly.To register for a course or an event, or to see a complete listing, visit our website…
It ended like this:
To unsubscribe: You are receiving this newsletter because you indicated during registration that you would like to receive periodic information about Continuing Studies. If you wish to be removed from our mailing list, please send your name and email address to: continuingstudies@communityville.edu and type “Unsubscribe” in the subject line. We will remove you from our email distribution list.
OK, so here’s some basic shit we learned. There are over a 100 classes, woohoo, and that’s so many they ain’t listing them all, but hey it’s 2007 so there’s like a website thingie. Something called “clicking” will show you more, and you could sign up with the clicking. And, apparently there’s some kind of email magical robot power where you can “unsubscribe.”
So, imagine my surprise when I (and countless others) minutes later get this email:
I haven’t had calculus,but I am interested in the course relating to
the TV series Numb3rs, is it sitll available, and if so would you ask
the teacher if i could take the class; the highest math i had (30
years ago) was trigonometry and matrix algebra. Thanks, Marcia
Marcia missed a few clues, and clearly doesn’t understand how listserves work. That’s cool, I understand, I empathize, but, um, maybe she could have tried clicking instead of replying.
(Parenthetically, the course description apres said click says:
This is not a course for those who want to improve their math skills. Instead, it is designed to look at a new and expanding application of mathematics in society.
Prerequisite: A mathematics education up through calculus will be required in order to fully appreciate the course material.
Leading me to believe that it’s up to the taker if they get to “fully appreciate the course,” but there won’t be any pop quizzes. And, the course is still open. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.)
I’m probably not total dick enough to make fun of Marcia alone. I do dig her computer skills may not be fab, and with algebra 30 years in the past, she’s likely a bit further past prime than I am. And, I feels for us old ladies and aging math ability.
Nope, what gots my goat was the follow-up emails. Can it, people. Seriously, you get a stupid email don’t reply. If you get a reply to a stupid email, don’t reply. If you see someone else replying to a stupid email and a reply, don’t reply. And so on.
Is this train of emails necessary?
Please remove those of us who rec. the “reply all” answers…
Please! TMcE
Hi
Somehow this appeared on my e-mail.
Dr. Howard
Sorry I don’t know how this message got to me but it shouldn’t.
I’m a student and there is something wrong here!Please check who this person is and why she got my email and please let me
know…Thanks.
Elena
Please remove me too. I don’t even live in your state!
I’ll second that.
-Surnish
Chuckleheads.
Perversity redux
M.’s toe is not broken, just badly bruised.
But, fucking “OW.” It still looks mighty painful.
Behold what the evil of petty burglary has wrought.
Living perversely
Cursed. That’s what it amounts to — or without the awkward preposition dangling, and a different kind of awkard — Cursed is that to which it amounts.
Yeah, I fucked my own karma and M.’s too.
My thought at the eve of the new year whilst showering this morning was, “Huh, the suck part of an uneventful, rather contented life is no fucking good stories.” With the large amount of shithead guys of the past, I was guaranteed an awesomely tragic New Year’s Eve. Tears, for sure, maybe some yelling, perhaps an unanswered phone call or 386, woe, misery and the sense of shattered expectation and bad choices.
Ah, the good old days. Days of drama. Days of sturm und drag, sound and fury, rage and tears.
Good stories.
Now, I thought, what have I got. Peace with no narrative.
Until, the curse. Going out to the car and finding the glove comparment mysteriously open. Weird. Until M. looks up to the hole slashed into the convertible’s rag top, and sunlight filtering in where it ain’t meant to be. Fuck me.
The GPS device, not covered by insurance, has gone the way of the buffalo, or more apropos the way of the scumbag youth, likely. Unfortunately, not an endangered species.
The car, and it’s attached but now sliced in a few places roof, is covered by insurance. But, not until after the fucking $500 deductible.
Now, and here’s where my cursing M. comes in, we’re at the HMO HQ. Looks like he’ll be getting the last X-Ray of 2006.
Seems kicking a box in impotent rage and frustration over the aforementioned burglary was a poor decision for the big toe of M.
Results and news of anything beyond bruising to be told.
Merry fucking New Year.