After four years of apartment dwelling, I think I’ve finally learned what “Paid Heat” really means. An apartment complex that advertises “paid heat” is in fact saying that in July, when the air conditioner they provided disintegrates into useless bits and you can hardly bear to step into the shower for fear that you’ll be boiled alive, you can collect all the heat you want. And you’d better save plenty in a safe spot, because when November’s iron talons close in, that’s where you’ll have to turn for warmth: the memories of sweat-laden summer.
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Why do people trying to establish a sense of respectability with their home’s décor always equip their bathroom with a framed picture of another bathroom? Is this an unspoken (or perhaps spoken, I wouldn’t know) principle of elegance? Inevitably the hanging image is some artist’s rendition of a much nicer, richer, less-used bathroom than the one in which you’re doing your business.
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With a power line wrapped around my passenger side mirror it was hard not to wonder if I’d recently offended whatever ancient, omnipotent deity it is that underwrites Time Warner Cable. Maybe it was because, during my stint of internet-lessness, I leeched off of the nearby wireless networks instead of groveling, crying out to the heavens for the reinstatement of my connection to the world wide web. Or maybe because I’m moving to Japan where Lord TWC holds no power. Whatever the case, it had been only a week since my Internet had been repaired when I found myself snared in one of those soaring black electric eels that provides for civilized life in America.
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