This Rogue’s Town . . .

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My momentary mood of deep angst (as always, pronounced "AHNGST" for added effect)-brought about by the latest in a litany of job prospect rejections-was interrupted this evening with the welcome intrusion of further aging coked-up neighbour fuckhead dilly. 

This time, I heard someone knocking persistantly on their door . . . something unheard of in the past few weeks, at least since the last stand of psycho sledge hammer-wielding girl outlined a few posts below.  Noticing that it was the sustained, and relatively calm, voice of two men, I turned the tv off just in time to hear . . .

"This is the police.  Please open up!"

The police, for whatever reason, most likely for lack of warrant or probable cause, left when there was no answer.  Thing is, I was nearly positive I didn’t hear either of my neighbours leave.  So, why did the police show up? Who called them on it? And for what? Since the door knob-smashing incident of a few weeks back, things had been relatively quiet.  In fact, I’d been lead to believe that all the proceeding drama had been the handy work of psych sledge hammer girl.

Alas, the plot has thickened.  And the police went on their way.  Absent any background facts, I’m not sure if they have any reason to establish probable cause and obtain a warrant from a neutral and impartial magistrate.  Not that I’m itching to see my neighbours get arrested, but, what can I say, things are pretty dry on my end.

In related news, the frame from their window seems to have lost its bearings and is now jutting across the fire escape. 

If you’ll excuse me now, a rapping of much less dramatic variety is at my chamber door: Sesame Chicken from Noodles on 28. 

Not being Easter observant (in fact, being raised in a faith that doesn’t even believe in the New Testament version of either the crucifixion or the resurrection) , you can imagine my confusion when the family friends down in NJ asked me to join them for Easter dinner.  I figured they hadn’t seen me in a while and they’re in the really precious habit of giving me completely unsolicited amounts of cash (like oh, say, $500 for the EXPRESS PURPOSE of playing the slots at The Borgata). 

Anyways, I made the treck down to Middlesex County on this otherwise dreary day, sustained two disappointing NCAA matches (sob . . . my poor Badgers), a semi-decent vaguely Egyptian homecooked meal ("Yes, I’ll have some Bisquick casserole to go with that Kharouf Doni"), and more conversations that I’d care to about the present state of my legal job hunt, before my surrogate uncle surreptitiously palmed me with . . . let’s count it now . . . 20 . . . 40 . . . 60 . . . one sec. . . 200 dollars cash.  I didn’t bother to count it all in front of him, but he patted me on the shoulder and gave the traditional salutation of "Kul Senna W’inta tayyib" that Arabs say on birthdays, religious holidays, special occasions . . . and, I guess, holidays observed by other religions that commemorate things completely contradictory to your own belief system. 

But anyways, with $200 cash (that didn’t come as the result of standing around, waiting to seat people), I shouldn’t complain.  Now, I have to devise some new way to make it all disappear fast.  What’s that now? My rapidly shrinking credit card balance? Excuse me? You’re breaking up . . .

Sure enough, I got awoken yesterday morning by the sound of angry coked up chick trying to smash the doornob of the neighboring unit to pieces, all the while screaming repeatedly, "Oz, let me the fuck in!! Don’t make me break down this door!!!". 

No real narrative here, the facts kinda speak for themselves.

Bacardi 151
Congratulations! You’re 153 proof, with specific scores in beer (80) , wine (100), and liquor (130).

All right. No more messing around. Your knowledge of alcohol is so high that you have drinking and getting plastered down to a science. Sure, you could get wasted drinking beer, but who needs all those trips to the bathroom? You head straight for the bar and pick up that which is most efficient.

. . . someone spilled beer on my shoes on my way to work today. Good thing they’re the Asics and NOT the Kenneth Coles . . .

I ought to mention that I haven’t had a good nights sleep in days since I began preparing for the MPRE’s.  I should also mention that my Hotmail account is momentarily out-of-service, holding within its grasp my admissions ticket, username, and password.  Having just gotten off the phone with the MPRE represenatitive, I was told to make my own admissions ticket for tommorrow, whereby I tape a 2×2 inch photo of myself to a piece of 8.5×11 inch paper with my name, ssn, address, and signature on it. 

(insert sideshow Bob-like groan) . . . I need a nap.

My boss told me today to try and find pro bono legal assistance for this ministry in Queens that is about to be evicted. After finding the names of a couple of organizations that could help, I went and called the clients and the outgoing message on their answering machine played out as follows:

“God is good all the time all the time god is good . . . please leave a message after the beep and we will return your call expeditiously”

Trying an alternate phone number, the gentleman who picked up simply said:

“Praise the lord”

Awkward silence that ensued led led to the following exchange:

“. . . Hello?”

” . . . Yes?”

“Praise the lord”

“Um . . . Hi. This is Hani Khalil from blah-blah-blah”

A little amusing suffice it to say. No offense to the more Jesus-y among us, but I run a strictly secular legal referral service.

It’s 11:30 am and they’re playing THE CULT at top volume . . . or at least it sounds like The Cult.  I don’t know more than a song or two from them ,