Water Boy

The adolescent in his forties who lives upstairs, whom we’ll call by the purely descriptive Stompy Fucking Guitar Boy, has twice fiddled with his radiator and succeeded in causing a leak into my bedroom below. He did this two years in a row. Last night, the water pipe that stretches from my backyard into his burst, pouring into my yard (luckily, it’s well-drained concrete.) Although the super turned off the external water months ago, Stompy FGB evidently thought it was a good idea to turn it back on (the basement is usually locked to prevent such incompetent menaces, but unfortunately seems to have been open to his threat lately). I heard him using the hose the other night. Since then, of course, the water he filled the pipe with froze. Funny how that will happen in January. I’m sure the idiot thought it was warm enough during the days…. From what I understand, while my apartment was being renovated several years back, Stompy FGB flooded the bathroom down here by fiddling with his tub. Guess the asshole is into water sports.

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In sweeter news, while in Stamford yesterday, I was splayed out in the sun on a picnic table during my lunch break. I kept hearing an oddly familiar bird cry. Parrots, I thought? Sure enough, I got up, put my specs on, and saw about eight monk parakeets flying over the channel, croaking all the way. The little knob of park next to the soulless business plaza is a surefire kill site: I saw two seagulls remains, one quite fresh, the breast bones still red. There must be a peregrine about.