"Hello, this is Gordon of the Violent Femmes…

…and I've just been locked inside my house, so I can't go out and uh get my bus and stuff and get up there by one 'clock. I'll...someone's coming over to rescue me so... it wasn't my fault. My parents had locked me in. So, I'll get there whenever I can. Maybe I'll try calling Victor at his house or something like that. OK, ah bye"

OK, so I really didn't think it was possible—but today I got locked inside my own house. And I have to admit that it incited a minor panic attack.

Last week the roommate and I moved into our new palatial abode which is located about one mile from downtown (we were previously about 25 yards from downtown). So, now when heading over to Pearl Street we have begun to refer to it as "going into town." As if it was the kind of trek into town from some rural lean-to that requires at least half a tank of gas, sled dogs, CB radio, emergency blanket and list of supplies and dry goods to be schlepped back.

Around 11 the roommate "went to town" and miraculously remembered to lock and close the front door as I was in the office at the back of the house--and he's not what I would describe as a "safety concerned" kind of guy. About half an hour later I went to leave and "go into town" for my lunch meeting and when I went to turn the handle on the front door—it did nothing. I had just gotten out of the shower, so maybe there was lotion or something on my hands making them slippery. So, I wiped them off and tried the door again. No dice. WTF am I supposed to do now…call my client and explain that I am locked inside my house…?!?

I know this is completely ridonkulous, we live in a 3 bedroom ranch style house, that is quite spacious and all the windows were open, but I actually started to feel incredibly claustrophobic and was having a hard time breathing and thinking (guess those two are related…)

Now we do have a side door, but the catch is that the landlord lost the keys to the side door and is in the process of replacing them. So, technically I could leave, but I couldn't lock the door, now it is Boulder, so odds are pretty safe that the house would be safe—but I'd hate to be the douche bag that gets robbed because they didn't lock the door. I decided to bank on Karma and called the roommate to alert him of the door situation, crossing my fingers he would remember it when he got home later and not try to break down the front door (it's happened before…twice, wouldn't be a good thing to happen the first week we live there).

All in all, the house was safe. And the roommate and I spent half an hour dissecting the doorknob and yelling at each other through the front door and over the rumble of three fans. "I said hold the knob god damn tight." "No, you said turn the knob to the god damned right." Wow, the neighbors must love us already.

Anyhoo, now I get to make the embarrassing call to the new landlord explaining that we are locked in the new house.

Not Even My Junk

So, this is pretty bad. I'm sorting through some old files in preparation to move and I came across not my resume from 7 years ago...but a 2 inch thick file of resumes and writing samples from interns that applied to a program that I ran 7 years ago!!! Not even just the one from the intern that I hired...but the ones from all the little UA underclassmen that applied. And even worse, this means that I have boxed and schleped this 1/4 pound of paper approximately 4 times in the last 7 years. I'm not sure if there is a sadder example of Pack Rat behavior. This is just pathetic. Although I guess it makes me as bad as google. When my name is googled it apparently lists that you can still apply for this internship...oy vey.

Now That's With Flair

I have to admit, I "heart" the Chotchkies. Whatta game and whatta team that really watches out for their own. Rock on Adonis!!!

Note from Adonis:
Hey y'all,

As I sit at in front of my computer machine (I'm a slave to the most philanthropic company in the world), I thought of something.

We clearly have stellar talent on our team; however, I fear our team spirit might be waning (just a bit). I propose we schedule a team outing where we can all get together, cut loose and have a fantastic evening of fun...without a kickball game.

It's a proven fact that those that party together, perform more effectively together (haven't y'all ever hung out with Japanese businessmen?). Everyone's on an even keel when they go out. There is no CEO nor secretary. No: team captain, nor glamorous catcher whose been waiting nearly a decade for the best boob-trap fly ever, nor Cy Young award winning pitcher whose not afraid to toss the 1 eyed jenny, nor elder statesman with a pulled hammy who proceeds to run full bore to make fantastic catches in the outfield, nor stunning wife who claims to be afraid to catch only to pull in an over the shoulder winning out, nor smoking diesel supermom who has more athletic talent in her little toe than most yet cannot seem to figure out how to kick a ball, nor tempting compact speed demon who regulates 3rd with an iron fist, nor shortstop who successfully affronts every lady he'd like to bed, nor unsung hero 1st baseman who takes ridiculous shots to the dome yet holds onto the ball and says nothing in the face of an absurd call, nor provocative lady who's not afraid to blast the ref with an f-bomb after witnessing her man thrashed and degraded by a bad call, nor tantalizing pink machine whose not afraid to play sans shorts, nor consummate base coach with Adamantium hips who shows up to every game and dwarfs us all in the realm of team spirit, nor supreme athlete with the body of Adonis and mind of Aristotle whose been relegated to an area of the outfield where he sees as much action as he does in his very single life.

These are just a few examples of who is not what, when you go out in Japanese society (and only for those who showed this evening). But we should deviate from the Japanese way in one aspect and one aspect only--allow the women to attend the festivities.

So I propose we all get together on Friday, the twentieth of July (I am picking this date randomly, but without a date nothing happens) at 6:30pm to quickly blow through our meager gift certificate to Harpo's. If it will entice any of y'all to attend, I'll grab first round (and probably many after that) and all cabs from Harpo's to Pearl Street to continue the festivities.

He really is a god. Thank you!

Don't Ask, Don't Smell

The roommate and I are preparing to move soon, so it only makes sense that after four years of renewing the entire house would go to shit--literally, just a few weeks before we have to clean and restore it to "give us that full-deposit with interest back" condition.

Over the years we have tolerated the temperamental nature of the plumbing in our uber retro condo...we know which sound coming from deep within the walls means step to the side in the shower as it's about to get hotter then a whore in a church and the sound that means artic waters are about to flow. We tolerated a dishwasher that shook both stories of the building, permanently adhesived rice and cereal flakes to all of our dishes and was as water tight as a vegetable colander.

Then there were the "our oops occasions" like roomie dropping my comb in the toilet or the eyeliner pencil in the toilet fiasco caused by 4 people attempting to change into Halloween costumes in our 3 foot by 3 foot mirrored bathroom a few years back that sent us running to Target just minutes before close on a Saturday night and being assaulted by the misguided mentality of the general public. Please, please explain to me how seeing the two us squatting in front the cleaning supply section comparing the merits of Draino vs. Liquid Plumber and making deals with the devil to not have to call our landlord at 11pm at night gives someone the idea to saunter up and ask us "Whatcha get stuck?" as if it was a great opening line and a fine time to make some new friends. "Yeah let's get together real soon and compare hair clogs from the tub, what fun!"

But the most annoying and most recent has to be the recent combination of continual marathon running, overflowing and lack of flushing ability of our toilet. Now after 4 calls to the landlord and a week of plunging, augering, bleaching and praying—our plumber Todd has come by to tell us that he has ordered us a new throne, the old one can't be fixed…but it won't be here until Friday…uh it's Tuesday dude, and we have ONE bathroom.

So, until Friday at 8am our household motto is going to borrow from the fine town of Vegas and the Navy to survive with some remote dignity. What happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom and don't ask, don't smell. Thank god we are moving soon and taking our damn auger with us...