I can't believe it's not a democracy!

Sorry for not posting, but I've spent the weekend

walking around the city. I had a nice long walk to the East Village and back on Saturday (Fran: passed your former employer's headquarters on my way).   Sunday I met up with my friend Jim and his two talented, bright and beautiful daughters for a walk on the High Line. It's really impressive. Beautiful work. That's what you get when New York City elitists contribute money to maintain the elevated train tracks and make it into a first rate public park. A must see when you come to the City. We left the High Line to go to the Chelsea Market which was PACKED (note to self: do not go to the Chelsea Market on a weekend again). Then a nice walk back home.  All told, I had to have done at least 7 miles. Not a marathon, but it was nice to see the city on my feet.

Tomorrow I go back to the salt mines and posting should pick up. Hope you all had a lovely and relaxing weekend.

Once again we are battling another fucking building issue.

This time, yet again, it's the hot water.  Or lack thereof, to be specific.  Had to boil myself a bath on Friday.  At least it wasn't a whore's bath (which entails boiling only enough to wash one's face and naughty bits), but it's getting old.  So when I left the building there was no hot water, and on my return...the same.  Apparently repairmen came and went, but each time the boiler worked for only two hours.  The owner of the boiler repair company allegedly is coming this afternoon.  It is almost 5:00 p.m. and no one has seen him, so tomorrow may be a sad repeat of Friday. 

I spoke to a neighbor who tag teams the managing agent/super with me to get the low down.  He told me about the repairmen visits.  He also told me about the latest interplay involving our neighbor's screamer girlfriend.  Seems my neighbor and the screamer were having some afternoon delight around 4:00 p.m. yesterday when he heard an unknown male voice in air shaft saying, "hey, how come we can't hear the guy too?"  (Note: you can only hear the chick, the boy is apparently silent or, um, can't speak at the time).  She continued screaming.  Two minutes later, the male voice asks, "are you masturbating?"  The screaming stopped.  Hahahahahahahahahahaha.  I love you, new neighbor.   We are going to get along just fine.

What am I doing tonight?

Just catching my friend Maud and her pals writer Kate Christensen and poet Lizzie Skurnick at Housing Works (126 Crosby Street). Ok, that's not a lot of notice, is it? Next time--I promise--I will tell you when Maud is doing a reading well in advance of the date. And what can be better than a reading by maud and her friends? How about a reading with Maud and her friends and beer and wine. Doesn't get better.

Update: And a fun time was had by all. Maud and Kate Christensen's readings were captivating. Now I'm more a prose reader, but Lizzie Skurnick was just fabulous. Her found poem based on lines from dating sites? Priceless. Laughed my ass off. And yes, next time I will give advanced warning, because it really was a wonderful time. Hey, if I have to put up with a crazy super and questionable heat or hot water, I should at least enjoy the best that New York City has to offer, no?

Heating, hot water update:

I got a call today from German, my not so super, who wanted to tell me that boiler repairmen were coming over to clean the boilers and they would have to shut the system down at noon and it might not be done until 7:00 p.m.  Hurrah!  So I said to German, "thanks for calling me, but, um, I'm at work.  Shouldn't you tell the people who are in the building now? I mean, a couple of people work from home."  "Oh, I'm calling some people," he said, "but I have a lot to do.  Could you call them?"  Yeah, so now I'm working for the fucking landlord. 

And yes, I called one neighbor to give her the head's up and asked her to call another neighbor who I know works from home.  As of 7:00 p.m. we have hot water, but no heat.  The boiler repairmen are still in the basement, so I assume the heat will come on at some time.  I hope this is the last of the no heat-no hot water drama for a while.  Crossing my fingers.  

Update: Well, I guess they cleaned the boilers.  The heat is on. The water isn't really hot, but it's getting there.  And, finally, no fumes.  At least the weekend should be trauma free.  Yeah, I know, I just jinxed myself.  Oi. 

I hate my super.

Yep, no heat....again.  We had no hot water one day last week and again last night, but German, our not so super, came early this morning to turn the hot water on.   You see, after the boiler repairmen came and replaced or fixed the hot water boiler's pump last week, we started getting an oil smell in the building and it was making one of the tenants on the first floor ill (his apartment is right over the boiler room).  So someone came here today to look at the boiler (or so I was told).  Another tenant thinks that only one boiler is working and, as a result, they decided we should have hot water, not heat.  Last I checked, my lease required both.  So does city and state law.  Yes, I am not pleased.  

So calls were made, e-mails sent and no response has been forthcoming.  Of course.  On the bright side, I finally met the screamer in person.  She is a very lovely young woman.  Attractive and friendly.  I wonder if she realized as we were chatting that I am the one who yells "shut your fucking window" when she and her boyfriend have sex by the air shaft window.  I'm guessing no.  I felt a little bad since she's so nice, but the screams really are too much.  

New York City living.  Not quite as glamorous as you may have suspected, yes?   

Update: The heat is on, but there is this chemical smell that is really bothering a tenant on the first floor.  As much as I love heat and hot water, I told him that if he feels ill he has to call 311 and have them send someone out.  That means the fire department.  And yes, they will shut the boilers down.  Sigh.  Let's hope the fumes dissipate and we get to have both heat and hot water until the end of heating season (May 31st, for those who are curious). 

So, um, it is Sunday evening at 7:18 p.m., yes?

So why do I hear a fucking jack hammer outside my bedroom window?  I suspect it is going to be a long night.  Sigh.  

'Tis the season.

So I found an envelope taped to the outside of my apartment front door this morning.  Inside was a holiday card from my super along with a 3" X 5" card containing his address and the following message:

Dear Tenant, best wishes and Happy Holidays to you and your family from your superintendent.  Hoping this coming year, and many more,be filled with happiness, good health, positive energy, and lots of money.  Sincerely, Super's name

Someone must have told my super that some supers get tips at the holidays from grateful tenants and he thought that a little extra cash would be a good thing.  Sadly, whoever told him about the tipping protocol failed to tell him tips should not be expected where the super: 1) refuses to return calls; 2) accuses a tenant who is calling to complain about, say, no heat or hot water of being the only one complaining of a building wide problem, implying that the caller is lying; or 3) shows up days, weeks or even months after tenants complain of a collapsed ceiling (not me) or a malfunctioning toilet (yep, over a week where I had to keep a bucket filled with water near the john to flush).  Hiring people who are mentally disturbed to clean the building also is a no-no, as is making the guy you hired to clean the floors use a broom on the carpeted stairs because the landlord is too fucking cheap to buy a vacuum cleaner.

And that is my rationalization for refusing to give my super a fucking dime this holiday season.  But I'm not a complete bitch.  When my super finally drags his lazy ass in to fix something in my apartment, I tip him for his work right then and there.  My thinking is that maybe, just maybe, he will remember that I throw him some green love when he responds to a complaint.  Doesn't work, of course, but at least he gets something.   

And so New York City's coffers begin to bleed:

New York Pays Back $800 Million in Business Tax. Why is New York City paying back businesses $800 million dollars in business tax? Because some companies "overpaid their taxes this year based on expectations of a more robust business performance." Ruh-roh. What happens when businesses start amending past returns to carryback current losses against the gains the reaped a few years back? It's going to hurt, that's what. Not going to be pretty.

yes, I am still at home. Why?

Waiting for my goofball super to come over and get the hot water going. No worries....we had heat (thank goodness), but I can't shower and I would rather not follow the example of certain of my co-workers who think that bathing is an occasional thing. It's not. So I wait.

I'm posting earlier today because I need to go to bed before 11:00 p.m. this evening.

Seems the 4:30 a.m. wake up call is now a regular thing.  I had to go to bed by 11:00 p.m. yesterday--early for me--to make sure I would get at least 5 hours of uninterupted sleep.  I can't do this for much longer, though.  This phantom selfish asshole neighbor has to be stopped.  Just to confirm that others are also affected, I sent an e-mail to a friend in my building asking her if she can hear the alarm.  Even though she is two floor above me (and at least three above the likely perpetrator), she can hear the alarm quite clearly and has responded by  screaming to the unknown miscreant to shut off the radio.

So tonight I haveto go to bed even earlier to get some catch up sleep, but not before working out a plan of attack.  First, I will prepare signs to post in the lobby of the builidng most likely harboring the filthy selfish whore who is tormenting us.  The signs will tell whomever is making the 4:30 a.m. wake up calls to stop.  If that doesn't work, I will join forces with others to find out who is behind this and we will respond in kind.  Maybe after a few phone calls at 1:00 a.m. she'll (we are pretty sure it is a she) will get the hint.

If that doesn't work?  There are other options.  Have I ever told you the story of my friend Tom who made the cabbies stop honking their horns on our street armed with nothing but a good aim and a super shooter filled cheap salad dressing?  Tom died over four years ago, but the cabbies to this day rarely honk.  Just saying.

Update: So I ran into my neighbor who screamed at the miscreant this morning and another neighbor who also is pissed. One thing seems clear, there is a unified anger and we will do what we have to to make it stop. I am dragging my ass tonight. Looks like I may in bed by 10:00 p.m. Haven't done that in a long time.