Enter the Dragon

The weekend is over. Well, it is for me, or us, meaning the lovely Miss Claire and I. We had a four day weekend that started Wednesday, which is a tribute to our respective good judgment or, more precisely, dumb luck as we rode out two days of a most unpleasant stomach malaise. You know, the kind that has you clutching both sides of the toilet bowl and howling as if you were riding a mechanical bull at an interstate honky tonk bar, hopped up on watered down draught and cheap tequila shooters. We don’t drink, her by choice and I by necessity, but I still remember those morning after Linda Blair ala Exorcist moments clinging to cold damp porcelain wondering if any vital organs were going to begin ejecting from my body as a result my self inflicted debauchery. Those days are long gone, but being sober for close to four years apparently doesn’t inoculate one from projectile vomiting and other unpleasantries brought about by opportunistic germs in the atmosphere.

My new sweet studio pad, which I have now officially dubbed “The Corner” in tribute to the noble sages at NRO, has been decorated with all the little touches that make one’s abode one’s home, but not before the we completed the final battle last Friday. The apartment was cleaned (or so I was assured) by professional cleaners prior to my arrival. The only mystery was that when you walked on the tile and looked at the undersides of your feet, it looked as if you had just walked barefoot on the floor of an Indonesian pay toilet. It puzzled me, so we mopped, swept and Swiffered repeatedly (I have a fetish for all products that start with the word Swiffer), but it was to no avail. Our meticulous janitorial assaults on the floor were utterly useless, so with the aide of a friend we attacked the tiled maze medieval style on our hands and knees with the help of hand held scrub brushes and a bucket of water laced with an industrial strength cleaner with a non-threatening name. The floor is now safe for sock-footed pedestrian traffic, requiring only 8 hours of labor and over 32 refilled buckets of water.

The problem was that the tiles of my apartment have many small crevices and grooves, and the previous tenant, whom I met only briefly, looked like the sort of chap who was more familiar with the words “bong” and “Doritos” than he was with the words “broom” and “cleanliness”. As if to leave a testament to his character, he left all his belongings behind in the apartment, including his cat, and only took one thing with him - A framed velvet portrait of Bruce Lee.

On Saturday night a hemp fueled Gilgamesh proceeded to knock on my door for 15 minutes at 4am, no doubt attempting to score some hooch, which I assume the previous tenant provided ample supplies of. I had to call the police to get the nitwit to go away. Once the officer arrived, he acted as though having 6 foot scary looking people with resplendent mullets pounding relentlessly on your door at 4am was a common occurrence, and I got the impression that he felt I was overreacting. Where are the taser-happy Johnny Blues when you need them?

Some people just use up air, as a wise friend of Claire’s once opined over coconut pie. I’m sometimes inclined to agree.

Cordially

Joe