the drama over here continues. seems little miss second floor has been making trouble for the landlord over her rights as a tenant and with two lawyers for parents she is not missing a wherefore. for the most part its very hard not to have sympathy for her concerns as i live in the building and more or less have had to put up with the issues which plague her. the money she spends on rent is not insubstantial despite what the landlord believes is the "true value" of the space. for it to approach the true value, yaknow, would require more than the minimal work outlays she is requesting. and yet he has rights too, particularly because the number of units in the building gives him greater latitude on setting rental rates.

now to a degree her troubles are spilling over into my kitchen and im not anxious to deal with the mess, with anxious being the operative word. already some housing officials have made us clear the hallways, so my bike has to take up space in my apartment and supposedly we are to be monitored on this more closely. she claims this was not her doing but the landlord while shaking the five enveloped citations within his enraged fist was adamant that they cited her as the source. this is, of course, ironic because she has been the worst offender of us all, leaving all sorts of detritus for months on end outside her door waiting to be removed. if she did complain it was about the state of the garbage at the doorway which is an eyesore, but more so, a nosesore, and as it turns out, not surprisingly, a violation. again, more irony, as the landlord was eager to show me the notarized letter with the well researched violations she had presented him with, and none of which i was in any disagreement with but nonetheless had essentially made my peace with.

so ive made my modest effort at peacekeeping but both sides have encroached on the neutral zone and im getting my blue-hatted ass out of the dmz although i may make one more effort to have her accept the merits of moving rather than unleashing the dogs of war. ive heard all sorts of horror stories about collateral damage and i have no desire to become a blameless statistic.

as my tete a tete with the landlord ended, a congress in which i had unilaterally engaged, he began crooning "que sera sera" and i endeavored in a final note of conviviality to name the artist who made it a hit. he, of course, had no clue and was not interested in playing along but a captive and attentive audience suited him just fine. in the end, i settled upon rosemary clooney and after little thought he agreed with me. i was pleased with my depth of knowledge although not convinced of my certitude by any measure but wanting to end it on a high note stretched out my hand, unclenched my jaw and secured future good will for the third floor for the foreseeable future. as it turns out it was doris day that charted with that mouthful of wist but between you, me and the broken doorbell it will be scented with rosemary for one red-nosed sharp-tongued landlord.

(unedited at publication)