Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Friday, the day in which we ask ourselves “Is it too late to marry well and quit our jobs?”
And the answer to that?
"Yes, I’m sorry. It is too late."
But never mind that.
In keeping with tradition around here, let us consult the songs on my iPod from this morning’s commute to determine the direction of our weekend, shall we?
Heart Attack and Vine by Tom Waits
Watch The Tapes by LCD Soundsystem
Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
Mind’s Eye by Wolfmother
Idioteque by Radiohead
Adderall by The Hold Steady
Ballroom Blitz by Sweet
You heard it here first, folks. I suggest we buy a case of beer apiece and meet in the park, hunker down ‘til the cops come.
Speaking of which, when you’ve heard that I am facing felony charges regarding having stuffed a small flat-screen TV down the throats of the downstairs’ renters, weep not.
I did it and I meant to do it.
This is not a cry for help.
Many of you know that Willie Throckmorton the III and I are landlords in Minneapolis. We live on the second floor of a three-story, 107-year-old house. We have a friend staying on the third floor and have three tenants on the first floor.
The first-floor tenants are delightful. Late 20s, early 30s, single, eclectic. They have lots of friends, are easygoing, and generally pay their rent on time.
They are also, apparently, deaf.
And so it was that I awoke not long past midnight to the movie they were apparently watching. I will never know, of course, nor do I care, what the movie was; but whatever it was, it would quiet down long enough to pacify one back to sleep, just in time for the BOOM of the explosions lurking just around the corner.
Must’ve been a love story.
But why? Why do the tenants deprive me of sleep? Why do they hate me?
Is it the violent orange we allowed the previous tenant to paint the bathroom? Is that it?
Normally, I like to punish unruly tenants by creeping around the outside of the house dressed in naught but a pair of tube socks and yelling into their kitchen in high school French.
Scares ‘em into complacency.
Alas, everyone’s sensitive these days. It’s all “she violated my right to not be visually assaulted” and “”I can no longer enter the kitchen without flashbacks”.
So we will, of course, have the obligatory Come To Jesus meeting in which I tell them how poorly I operate on four hours of sleep and how much it would pain me to point out the Peaceful Enjoyment Clause in their lease and kick their excitable butts out into the snow.
That oughta do it.
It better do it.
It’s far too cold for the tube-sock trick.
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