UNREMITTING FAILURE

We Think We Have Mice in Our Apartment Again

This time, no fooling around.  No catch and release gizmos.  We're buying a gun.  Because while mice are cute, we don't want to share our living space with them.  And if we have to put a few bulletholes in the walls to get rid of them, so be it.

The last infestation was a fiasco, with the one mouse we released on the fire escape sailing off the edge to his doom and us seeing little mouse heads peaking under the bedroom door at night.  We can't go through that again.  We need to take more radical measures, such as tiny foliage-covered pits lined with punji sticks in the kitchen and mouse-sized antipersonnel mines and the like.  If we had a cat we wouldn't have this problem, but instead we have dogs who howl when the mice are around but do nothing whatsoever about them. 

We thought we scared them off after the last episode, which ended up being a circus of blood. But evidently the mice didn't get the message.  So now it's violence time, and we're leaving early today to set up the guillotine.

As a Government Bureaucrat

Our biggest problem is finding a safe place to take a nap.   Under the desk is too risky, and the conference rooms are always being invaded by "teams" looking to do some real work.  Recently, we hit upon the gym.  It has a big aerobics room that is dark and empty much of the time, and we asked the staff if it would be okay if we stretched out on an exercise mat in the there and caught some shut eye.  They said fine, even agreed to wake us up when we wanted, but the problem is that people are constantly going in there to pursue their solitary exercise regimes and we feel uncomfortable sprawled out in the corner, on our blue mat, covered by a yoga blanket.  Twice we've tried, and twice we've been chased out, once by a middle-aged woman who practices her belly dancing there (she makes a jingling noise that makes it hard to sleep) and once by a woman who marched around the room like she was rehearsing for a musical about Mussolini.  It's very annoying.  Here's this whole room just offering itself up to us, and people keep fucking us over.  The one day (this was with the belly dancer) we hung in for almost 20 minutes, but every five minutes or so we felt obligated to do some leg lifts to give the impression that we weren't in there just napping, for Christ's sake.  Who would do such a thing?  Not us.  Not until we find the room dark, empty and quiet, at least.

They Say Natural Disasters Come in Threes

First we had an earthquake.  Then a hurricane.  What's next, a Mick Jagger solo album?

Mos Def

Dick Halligan, trombonist extraordinaire of Blood Sweat & Tears, celebrates a birthday today.  BS&T played an important role in our childhood development, for it was they who made us want to grow up to be a deaf-mute.

How the Dogs Fared

During the "height" of the storm Alex didn't want us to let Rudi out on the patio, lest the wind pick him up and blow him over the railings.  That would have been horrible.  But we ignored her warnings, because the wind wasn't strong enough to blow up a balloon, much less Rudi into the abyss.  He would run out, oblivious to the rain, stick his head through the railings, and let out a few impotent barks to the let the hurricane know who was boss, then trot back indoors, shaking himself.

Maddie had no interest in testing the rain.  She hates rain, and won't even walk the day after a good storm.  And when she does finally condescend to take a walk, her sole interest lies in lapping away at puddles with rainbows of oil and antifreeze in them.  We're constantly yanking her away from such poisoned wells.  

So they got to spend Saturday sprawled on the bed, happily freed from the responsibility of going outside to relieve themselves.  It's easy to call them lazy, but we wouldn't like it very much either if we  had to leave the house every time we had to take a piss.

We tried to find replacements for their walk, exercise-wise, but in vain did we attempt to talk them into reenacting the epic tank battle of Kursk, with Rudi playing a King Tiger tank and Maddie playing the part of a dependable Russian T-34.  Turns out dogs don't care much about World War II, all they care about is getting jerky treats.  Which, if we were a dog, is probably all we'd care about either.  That and barking.  Rudi's a lot like us, which is why, despite his pronounced anti-social behavior, we love him so darn much. 

Hurricane Irene

We were privileged this weekend to experience the dullest natural disaster of all time.  It was Hurricane Irene, which swept up the east coast and bored millions with its subpar performance.  Basically all we got in DC was approximately 24 hours of rain and some winds that managed to push a dozen or so sickly and on their last legs trees over.  It was like, "Don't go outdoors, you might get hit by a wet leaf!" 

Evidently, somebody forgot to include the disaster part of the phrase natural disaster.  We (Mrs. UF and yours truly) were worried because we neglected to go to the store prior to the hurricane to stock up on staples, like popsicles and bagels.  We saw ourselves huddled in a darkened apartment, starving for lack of foresight while all the people who looked ahead were enjoying pate and other delicious foodstuffs, in the light thanks to the battery-powered lanterns they picked up at the hardware store.  We got the last laugh.  Not only did the rain not stop us from going out to restaurants, but all the convenience stores were open to satisfy our candy cravings.  And the power didn't go out, so we just sat inside and watched cheesy horror movies and back episodes of Wilfred and Louie.  Nor did the winds materialize, so we didn't have to worry about flying projectiles impaling us on our walks around town. 

But if you think we're happy about the way things turned out, you're wrong.  We were promised a natuaral disaster, and got bupkis instead.  It was boring.  We kept looking out the window, waiting for a cow to fly pass, but nothing.  The occasional bird landed on our railing, and gave Rudi something to get apoplectic about.  Nor did the streets fill with water and sweep automobiles to the river.  We even went jogging.  You should not be able to jog during a hurricane.  Or at the very least you should be hit with a large falling tree branch, to teach you a lesson.  But Hurricane Irene had no lessons to teach us, except beware predictions of doom from well-dressed TV weather forecasters.

We did see somebody's umbrella turn inside out.  That was pretty exciting.  This was while we were sitting at the window in a Thai restaurant, which was empty because everybody else was sitting in their living rooms wearing life preservers.  Their umbrella turned inside out, and they panicked, because it was raining moderately hard at that moment.  When we left the restaurant the rain had slowed to a trickle, as it did on and off through the evening.  Much to our disgruntlement we saw not a single person get swept by angry floodwaters down a storm sewer.  We didn't see so much as a downed tree branch. 

In short, we were hit with two natural disasters (they're calling it the hurriquake) in a single week, and both of them were duds.  As a bored person who doesn't care about the sufferings of others, we demand more.  We demand a wall of water 15-feet high sweeping down 18th Street.  We demand boats in the streets, rescuing homeless people.  Instead we get two futzing disasters that together didn't amount to diddly. 

God hates us, it's obvious. 

The Earthquake That Bored DC Into a Panic!

We have nothing much to add to what has already been said about yesterday's earthquake, which for us pussies living on the East Coast was a very big deal.  In Washington, D.C., we don't get earthquakes. Or tornados, hurricanes, massive flooding, or any other form of natural disaster for that matter.  Living in D.C. is very boring.  All our major tragedies occur in Congress.

We were in a conference room in the "Learning Center" when it happened, praying for something to put us out of the misery that accompanies the occasional training we have to undergo.  The class was dull, and it had been going on all day, and we were near the end of our tether.  Then suddenly, miraculously, wonderfully, the floor began to shake.  We assumed it was a minor earthquake, that or the bombing of the nearby FBI building.  Really it was no big deal.  But everybody jumped up, and unable to believe our good luck, we got up and made for the stairways.  There, giddy, we acted the part of a panicked employee.  A woman dropped a piece of paper and stooped down to pick it up.  "Leave it behind!" we shrieked.  "Leave it all behind!"  We think she took us seriously. 

They shooed us out of the building and across the street, where we stood in front of the National Building Museum and hoped that somebody would direct us all to go home.   Instead, after about 45 minutes they let us back into the building, but passed the word that it would be okay to pack up and leave, to make sure our homes weren't smouldering ruins.  You cannot imagine the joy.  One minute we're in the purgatory of training, the next we're being told we can leave.  It's almost enough to make us believe in a benevolent God.

The only tragedy is that the building didn't suffer any serious structural damage, of the sort that would have turned today into an impromptu holiday.  But you can't have everything.   We avoided the Metro, since we heard it was packed and only going 15 mph, and walked the two miles home.  The streets were thronged with pedestrians, and there wasn't an empty taxi in sight, but we're glad in hindsight we got to make the walk.  It was kind of nostalgic.  We passed the Belvedere, our first home in DC, where our car got stolen and we got charged $1,000 for painting a flying hippie on the wall.  We also passed the Whole Foods, where we buy our Kombucha.  We could have used a Kombucha but by that time we figured we could make it home and drink a free diet cola instead.

The dogs were safe and happy to see us, and the only damage our apartment incurred was a bookshelf door came open and a book fell out.  We're calling our insurer about it today. 

Freedom Isn't Free

It actually costs $2.99 per yard.  You'll be getting your bill in the mail any day now.

There's No Business Like No Business

We, the undersigned slave classes, demand an end to all employment.  It's demeaning, debilitating, and damned boring, and it goes on five days a week.  We didn't grow up to report to offices and factories and building sites at some ungodly hour of the morning--we grew up to get laid and drunk and fucked up on pot at some ungodly hour of the morning--after which we could go to bed, sleep til noon, and then start the whole process all over again.

Our job is boring, which is (we admit) our fault for not learning some interesting trade like catching catfish with our bare hands (we could have gotten a tv show out of it!) or becoming a professional mountain climber or monster truck driver.  But no--we settled for becoming a faceless bureaucrat.

But still.  This whole "work or you don't get paid" thing has gone too far.  We sit in this office, and we vegetate.  And for what? A lump of dough that takes us through the week.  It's a vicious circle.  What did the French Situationists say? "Beneath the paving stones, the beach!"  We don't want to sit in a chair in a cubicle editing torture confessions for misuse of the colon--we want to live! And this office life is the opposite of living.  It's a death in life.  If it weren't for coffee and cigarettes and this blog, we'd go mad! 

What America's--make that the world's--workers need to do is go on strike. Permanently.  No, that won't work.  Nothing will work.  It's truly a fucked situation.  Futility rules all.  They've got us where they want us, and nothing short of Armageddon is going to free us from our unholy bondage.

Why We Fail

We were playing in our backyard when we were eight when we were struck by a flaming fireball of failure.   It came from space we think.  Scorched by ineffectuality, from that moment on our every gesture was futile, and our every attempt to succeed at whatever task it was we were assigned was met by abject defeat.  Our salt map of Lake Titicaca ended up looking like an elephant.  We accidentally left our homework at home, and our forays into kickball always ended with us kicking ourselves in the balls.  We weren't born to lose, we were christened to do so by intergalactic fire.  We have never told anyone about this before, because people are unlikely to believe it.  In other words, our attempt to tell the truth is bound to end in failure.  We suspect that people are randomly struck by all kinds of interstellar fireballs--fireballs of destiny.  Some portend success, others fame.  We just happened to be hit by a fireball of failure.   Then again, perhaps we were already surrounded by an aura of futility, which is what attracted the fireball of failure in the first place.  In which case we were born to lose, and the drop from our mother's womb wasn't a birth, but the beginning of a very lengthy execution.