I’m feeling all up in the “fuck you” action.

I finally got and activated the ATM card for my new bank account. So I wrote a mighty big check to myself from my assholic Bank of America soon to be bank account that was. Over the past few months, I’ve been taking cash out and spreading it around. But, now, with a new checking account and all of the checking accoutrement, I’m done.

Adios and suck my ass, Bank of America. Take your fees, take your mind-blowingly bad customer service and your good old mega-conglomerate ways and fuck off.

And, Nicky, boy. Oh Nicky. I’m going to ask for volunteers in your final fuck off. Now it’s just a little bit of build up to the main event.

In today’s episode, for some unfathomable reason he called M.’s old boss and chatted him up. The unfathomable part isn’t that he called the old place of work, because disorganized old men getting a number wrong, ain’t exactly news.

No, the part that’s on the uncomprehensible side is why he talked with the guy. He stopped and chatted enough to lie to him about needing to get in touch with M., because we hadn’t given him proper notice to vacate the premises. Um, what the fuck, Nick?

How fucking inappropriate is telling a stranger that there’s some kind of financial issue. Let alone making up shit and selling it to create a non-existent issue.

M. called him and called him on it. Um, right, you got the letter didn’t you, bad boy?

He offered M. a good deal, if we move out right away, and he gets a new tenant right away, he’ll pro-rate for us and we only have to pay until the new tenants start. Hey, old man, that’s the fucking law, not let’s make a deal.

You know what else, old man, we’re staying until the date we said, because time is money to us. Guess what, the law is totally hip to our thinking.

What I think though, apart from wanting to make book that the placid M. freaks out on Nick before it’s all said and done, is that I need to hold the first ever, invitational, let’s all screw with Nick’s head open.

If you got any good ideas on how we can mess with an old man as we wave goodbye, give me your best shot in the comments section.

(Anything all psycho and fecal, though, man, I don’t want to know about that sick shit (no pun).)

M.’s taken to stalking our new digs. He ostensibly went for a run yesterday, but at some point ended up parking on the new street and walking to that Trader Joe’s.

We’re both chomping at the bit to get the hell out of Dodge. Nick hanging around today, as seems to be the case whenever I have a long weekend, is kind of driving the desire home, as it were.

Jesus, Nick, just let me have an unbalanced load of laundry in the little laundry room in fucking peace. We don’t need to go through each item speculating the automatic mass of each sweatshirt, its absorptive properties, its bulk, its tendency to shift in the universe to figure out why your piece of shit dryer is rattling.

Best quote, “Oh, see that, they call those ‘Turkish.’ [Pointing to an actually very plain white towel, possibly one I stole from a mid-range hotel chain.] Yeah, those kind of towels hold water. Absorb water.” Um, dude, we bought the towels to dry shit. We fucking want them to absorb water for christ’s sake.

It’s not that bad a place, and I can’t blame him for the neighborhood’s decline. But, for fuck’s sake, I can’t figure out why he makes every mundane situation so goddamn painful.

But, M. and I together are amassing quite the list of “You might be a slumlord if…” jokes.

My fav Nick fix in that vein these days is in said laundry room. The door to the little hut had a little country window with a little country curtain. Cute. But, in Nick’s vigilant and vigilante fear of the changing ‘hood, the glass clearly was a temptation to ne’er-do-wells and the dreaded minorities. A crime beacon.

Many people might take off the door with the cute little window and slap up a whole new door. Not our hero. Nope, why spend that, what $150 at Home Depot, when you’re handy with the tools? What you do is take a hunk of not quite square, rough hewn scrap wood, don’t bother cutting it to size to fit in the window slot or anything. Now, slap that over the window, and hammer away. Paint it a similar color and you’re good to go.

The two details I love best — The curtain still remains on the interior, and the board didn’t quite fit, so maybe the door knob didn’t turn. At least I’m guessing by the whittled curve around the knob’s circumference.

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 these
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.

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.

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.