This is why I pace.
I'm in LA today. I'm in LA, and not at home, where I should be.
I mean, I should be in LA, because me being in LA is directly related to me bringing home some money every two week.
But I don't like it, none the less. It's been a long trip. And at home, contractors have started: they've ripped out the water heater, torn up the back yard (dug a pit actually) start tearing things up and chopping things down. Cleverly, I'm sure.
And I'm in LA while Paula deals with all this. This makes me anxious.
I am ESPECIALLY anxious, my beloved reader, ESPECIALLY anxious because of the phone call.
The phone rings, and I waddle out the studio and it's Paula.
PAULA: "Um, I need to talk to someone RIGHT now because I am going to explode if I don't. I just talked to the contractor, and he found... he found out that...."
ME: "...."
PAULA: "He said that the surveyor said OUR LOT HANGS THREE FEET OVER INTO THE NEIGHBOR'S THE ENTIRE LENGTH".
This is math and money. This a work stoppage, with a starting from scratch sort of vibe to it. Like new plans, new money, new ways of acquiring money, woe, pain, suffering and no hot water for a long time.
PAULA: "We going to have get new drawing, new permits, we're going to have to pay for the work done, we're going to have to live under a tarp. We're not going to get a new bathroom. We're going to lose our side garden. We're...." (YOU SEE WHAT I WAS UP AGAINST YES? YES?)
ME (LAMELY): "Could we get... a new surveyor? Like a second opinion?"
PAULA: "Maybe. Maybe we do that. That could be something we do."
We're doing something. So, good. We are affecting our destiny.
We aren't doing shit.
I wander the hallway of the production company stunned at the instantaneous total claim on my life this data had (okay, I'm being a baby. But it had just happened, okay?)
FUCKFUCKFUCK
I looked at a fake lizard attached to the wall (for whatever reason this production company has a Mexican village interior design scheme) for a minute to gather myself and get back to work, when my phone rang:
PAULA: "Nevermind. The Contractor misunderstood. We're fine."
Oh, what the fuck????
That's a bad magic trick, Mr. Contractor Man.
Take it away, Senator Davis:
I mean, I should be in LA, because me being in LA is directly related to me bringing home some money every two week.
But I don't like it, none the less. It's been a long trip. And at home, contractors have started: they've ripped out the water heater, torn up the back yard (dug a pit actually) start tearing things up and chopping things down. Cleverly, I'm sure.
And I'm in LA while Paula deals with all this. This makes me anxious.
I am ESPECIALLY anxious, my beloved reader, ESPECIALLY anxious because of the phone call.
The phone rings, and I waddle out the studio and it's Paula.
PAULA: "Um, I need to talk to someone RIGHT now because I am going to explode if I don't. I just talked to the contractor, and he found... he found out that...."
ME: "...."
PAULA: "He said that the surveyor said OUR LOT HANGS THREE FEET OVER INTO THE NEIGHBOR'S THE ENTIRE LENGTH".
This is math and money. This a work stoppage, with a starting from scratch sort of vibe to it. Like new plans, new money, new ways of acquiring money, woe, pain, suffering and no hot water for a long time.
PAULA: "We going to have get new drawing, new permits, we're going to have to pay for the work done, we're going to have to live under a tarp. We're not going to get a new bathroom. We're going to lose our side garden. We're...." (YOU SEE WHAT I WAS UP AGAINST YES? YES?)
ME (LAMELY): "Could we get... a new surveyor? Like a second opinion?"
PAULA: "Maybe. Maybe we do that. That could be something we do."
We're doing something. So, good. We are affecting our destiny.
We aren't doing shit.
I wander the hallway of the production company stunned at the instantaneous total claim on my life this data had (okay, I'm being a baby. But it had just happened, okay?)
FUCKFUCKFUCK
I looked at a fake lizard attached to the wall (for whatever reason this production company has a Mexican village interior design scheme) for a minute to gather myself and get back to work, when my phone rang:
PAULA: "Nevermind. The Contractor misunderstood. We're fine."
Oh, what the fuck????
That's a bad magic trick, Mr. Contractor Man.
Take it away, Senator Davis:
Labels: Greg's Life As Nincompoop, Weltschmerz
posted by Greg Mills at 9:38 PM
4 Comments:
Greg,
If it's actually true you should talk to a lawyer, there's some law that let's you take possession of land if you are using it for a long period of time (years)and the owner doesn't respond (right of possession or something like that.
andy d
The only logical thing to do in situations like this is to kill the neighbor.
The thing is I have been killing my neighbor, very slowly, over the pass five month or so. I should up the does, shouldn't I? My concern is that the bitter almond taste will really start to stand out.
I find that lemonade is an excellent masking beverage- you're kind of out of season for it so I would suggest throwing a festive "block party" which will make the requisite lemonade stand seem perfectly normal.
(or there's always baklava- isn't that sticky crap make out of almond paste anyway?)
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