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lapsedmodernisti know, my dears, it's been a while since Slumlord update. In fact, the last encounter recorded in this medium for posterity dated back to early summer. The summer has been relatively uneventful, since the gate seems to be succesfully deterring break-ins (knocking on wood)--either that, or the persistent members of our local burglary outreach program have died as per the Slumlord's insane prediction; the ceiling seems to be holding, the Mexican standoff over replacing my room door with the much sturdier oak closet door that I took off the hinges expressedly for that purpose seemingly went the way of Cold War in the 1980s, with lost of bitching but no Cuban Missile Crises on the horizon, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
constintina's and mine fabulous new roommated J. Mu (well, not so new anymore, she's been living here since may) quickly became the Slumlord's new favorite tenant/preferred object for low-grade sexual harassment, and thus my contact with the Slumlord has been, thankfully, minimized.
But, like Slim Shady, guess who's back.
So; previously, on "Altercations with the Slumlord": Slumlord came over to install my AC in the window; for reasons unbeknownest to me (aside from the fact that he is a grade-A prick) he refused to take his nasty, dirty, poop-colored street boots while installing the air conditioner. My room is set up in such a way that it is physically impossible to circumnavigate the bed to get to the window, and it is equally impossible to move the bed, since the parameters of my living space demand that it be boxed in by the window, the bookshelves and the shelves-and-linoleum contraption that is serving duty as my bedside-adjacent all-purpose shelves/storage unit. It, in turn, is blocked by the table. So yesterday Slumlord comes over to turn on the heat (a week later than he is legally obligated to, but who's counting?). This presupposes the removal of all AC units in the apartment (we had three going, because it was a hot July). As soon as I heard his footsteps, the world momentarily collapsed into an all-encompassing crimson canvass (like in the anime sequence of "Kill Bill") and my temples started throbbing like an early 90s Moby album. The footsteps continued, bringing doom, like the footsteps of the Comandor in "Don Giovanni." Then I had what can only be described as a preemtive deja-vu, and I am sure Nabokov would have (or did) come up with a much more poetic and astute description of that state, but it just made me want to seizure. And sure enough.
Slumlord: I have to take your AC out.
Me: Ok, but you have to take your boots off before you climb onto my bed.
Slumlord (loud and aggro): No. I have to keep my boots on. I am anal retentive like that.
Me: Your boots are dirty. I sleep here. Will you please take them off.
Slumlord: No can do,anthrochica, do you know anything about human psychology?
Me (internally): I know that you are a fucking prick
Me (out loud): I am not letting you walk all over my bed in your street boots.
Slumlord: Then I can't take out your AC.
Me: Then you can't take out my AC.
Slumlord: Sorry,anthrochica; I need a couple more sessions with my shrink before I can take off the boots.
I slam and lock my door.
My roommates point out that once the Slumlord's delayed primitive reasoning processes the events, he will return freaking out over the fact that THE HEAT IS ON AND IT CAN ESCAPE THROUGH THE AIR CONDITIONER and then he will torture us to death by asking repeatedly if we have seen his heating bill, or by freezing us. I respond that that I will remove the AC myself with the aid of someone, you know, sane, liketotalvirility or J.
Overnight the heat goes up to eleventy thousand degrees. Everyone wakes up parched like Disney characters trapped in Disney deserts by contrivances of Disney plots. You know, cross-eyed and with tongue sticking out and afraid of Robin Williams because everyone is, or should be afraid of Robin Williams. I go to school to search for my missing zip disk; apparently while I am gone, J. Mu leaves me a long hysterical message, the gist of which that she called the Slumlord to complain that we are being fried alive like ants under magnifying glass of a cruel boy named Bobby, and he freaked the fuck out demanding to know why she did not call him before. She, logically enough, retorted that she was not going to call him in the middle of the night, and he screamed that yes she SHOULD HAVE called him in the middle of the night, and he would have dropped everything he was doing (for his wife's sake let's hope it was not her) and came right over. Right, because Slumlord and His Logorrhea is just what we are missing at three in the morning. He asked if she opened a window (duh! we open our windows all the time! cuz we like to breathe!) and she replied that she had to or she would have suffocated. There was much gnashing of the teeth and slamming of the phone receiver and a promise of "I'm comin' over right now" and I really hope that our Slumlord never suffocates on his own bile on the premises of our apartment because the only thing worse than his too-frequent visits now would be if his nasty, psycho ghost haunted our house forever.
constintina's and mine fabulous new roommated J. Mu (well, not so new anymore, she's been living here since may) quickly became the Slumlord's new favorite tenant/preferred object for low-grade sexual harassment, and thus my contact with the Slumlord has been, thankfully, minimized.But, like Slim Shady, guess who's back.
So; previously, on "Altercations with the Slumlord": Slumlord came over to install my AC in the window; for reasons unbeknownest to me (aside from the fact that he is a grade-A prick) he refused to take his nasty, dirty, poop-colored street boots while installing the air conditioner. My room is set up in such a way that it is physically impossible to circumnavigate the bed to get to the window, and it is equally impossible to move the bed, since the parameters of my living space demand that it be boxed in by the window, the bookshelves and the shelves-and-linoleum contraption that is serving duty as my bedside-adjacent all-purpose shelves/storage unit. It, in turn, is blocked by the table. So yesterday Slumlord comes over to turn on the heat (a week later than he is legally obligated to, but who's counting?). This presupposes the removal of all AC units in the apartment (we had three going, because it was a hot July). As soon as I heard his footsteps, the world momentarily collapsed into an all-encompassing crimson canvass (like in the anime sequence of "Kill Bill") and my temples started throbbing like an early 90s Moby album. The footsteps continued, bringing doom, like the footsteps of the Comandor in "Don Giovanni." Then I had what can only be described as a preemtive deja-vu, and I am sure Nabokov would have (or did) come up with a much more poetic and astute description of that state, but it just made me want to seizure. And sure enough.
Slumlord: I have to take your AC out.
Me: Ok, but you have to take your boots off before you climb onto my bed.
Slumlord (loud and aggro): No. I have to keep my boots on. I am anal retentive like that.
Me: Your boots are dirty. I sleep here. Will you please take them off.
Slumlord: No can do,
anthrochica, do you know anything about human psychology?Me (internally): I know that you are a fucking prick
Me (out loud): I am not letting you walk all over my bed in your street boots.
Slumlord: Then I can't take out your AC.
Me: Then you can't take out my AC.
Slumlord: Sorry,
anthrochica; I need a couple more sessions with my shrink before I can take off the boots.I slam and lock my door.
My roommates point out that once the Slumlord's delayed primitive reasoning processes the events, he will return freaking out over the fact that THE HEAT IS ON AND IT CAN ESCAPE THROUGH THE AIR CONDITIONER and then he will torture us to death by asking repeatedly if we have seen his heating bill, or by freezing us. I respond that that I will remove the AC myself with the aid of someone, you know, sane, like
totalvirility or J.Overnight the heat goes up to eleventy thousand degrees. Everyone wakes up parched like Disney characters trapped in Disney deserts by contrivances of Disney plots. You know, cross-eyed and with tongue sticking out and afraid of Robin Williams because everyone is, or should be afraid of Robin Williams. I go to school to search for my missing zip disk; apparently while I am gone, J. Mu leaves me a long hysterical message, the gist of which that she called the Slumlord to complain that we are being fried alive like ants under magnifying glass of a cruel boy named Bobby, and he freaked the fuck out demanding to know why she did not call him before. She, logically enough, retorted that she was not going to call him in the middle of the night, and he screamed that yes she SHOULD HAVE called him in the middle of the night, and he would have dropped everything he was doing (for his wife's sake let's hope it was not her) and came right over. Right, because Slumlord and His Logorrhea is just what we are missing at three in the morning. He asked if she opened a window (duh! we open our windows all the time! cuz we like to breathe!) and she replied that she had to or she would have suffocated. There was much gnashing of the teeth and slamming of the phone receiver and a promise of "I'm comin' over right now" and I really hope that our Slumlord never suffocates on his own bile on the premises of our apartment because the only thing worse than his too-frequent visits now would be if his nasty, psycho ghost haunted our house forever.
