The Great Indoor Flood*

We had a mini-Katrina in our apartment last night. Read about it here. What a Super Bowl Sunday. I tell you what. I experienced the gamut of human emotion. The full gamut. All twelve human feelings. I experienced them all. The day started out triumphantly. My freelance corporate hellhole gig got extended indefinitely, and though the job (with the exception of the salary) is like a casserole of everything I hate, combined, those corporate fatcats have a lot of money to throw around. I'm only going to work three days a week, and I'll be making the same money I made at my last full-time, five-days-a-week job. So my financial woes are long-term temporarily over. This job will end in about a year, though I'm actively looking for something more bearable and less far away from my apartment, and they know and I know that I could jump ship at any time. In the meantime, having Mondays and Tuesdays free is a nice consolation prize for the agony and extreme boredom of Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. However, I digress. The point is, I am now a breadwinner again, so I took my wife out to eat on Sunday afternoon. The food was up to par. I did not have to send anything back, as I am wont to do, or yell at the waiter and/or waitress, as I am also wont to do. I'm a real jerk. I actually paid for a meal for the first time in months, and it felt good. Later, I attended a Super Bowl party at a friend's home. There were several attractive things about this party, the most attractive being the total of zero minutes I spent watching the game. I spent several minutes drinking beer, eating hot wings and chips and queso, devouring two slices of New Orleans King Cake, and petting a dog outside in beautiful February sunshine. Then I came home, nicely buzzed and full, read some movie reviews, listened to some music, contemplated going to bed, drank some water, and then disaster struck. Read Spacebeer to get the details. I'm not feeling so bad now. Our apartment is in a cluttered state of disarray, large portions of the carpet will have to be replaced, and I spent a lot of time last night pacing, swearing, yelling, worrying, and generally freaking out, but most of our stuff was saved. I lost one book of Diane Arbus photographs, Mrs. Mystery lost a few books, but the rest of our material possessions are fine and dandy. As a subscriber to the religion of living in the present, I laugh at my troubles. Is that the best you could do, jerks? I survived your flood. Next time, bring me a fire. I will douse it and dance a jig. It could have been a lot worse. It was basically a large inconvenience, nothing more. Seriously, though, if I had gone to bed a few hours earlier like I had planned, I would have lost all my unread books, all my records, and a good portion of my other material possessions that aren't so material, in my opinion. The stuff I need, along with food, to live happily and well. If that had gone down, I would have probably stopped crying in July of 2008. Mrs. Mystery and I toasted the random shitstorms and pratfalls of life over enchiladas, carne guisada and margaritas this afternoon. We'll see a Richard Pryor concert film at the Alamo Drafthouse tonight. Then we'll come home and sleep next to a loudly whirring industrial fan and the stench of wet carpet and towels. You win some, you lose some. Am I right? Heh? Heh? Whoo!

I was tagged by Mary P Pants several days ago. I better get on that. Here we go:
When I was little: three of my favorite songs were "I Love a Rainy Night" by Eddie Rabbitt, "Cum on Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot, and "Panama" by Van Halen. Now, I can barely tolerate the first two, but Van Halen is still on regular rotation. The mysteries of life.
I've never: been to Hartford, Connecticut.
I have seen: a crater left by a meteor in the Arizona desert.
I can: make my wife cry simply by playing Lou Reed's "Metal Machine Music."
I got my first: bloody nose when my dog jumped off the couch and landed on my face.
I sometimes: don't answer my phone.
I will: change jobs often.
I have: wet carpet.
I am an expert: speller and an expert smeller.
I hate: everything but the good stuff.




*A tribute to The Great Outdoor Fight