MORE PROOF I AIN'T LIVING RIGHT

This man is the super in my building.

I could kvetch here about how I'm going to have to explain to the management assessor that the stains all across the ceiling are not my doing but that of either the person living upstairs or the decrepit condition of the pipes, which wouldn't be an issue if my super were more reachable, which is part of why I'm leaving for brighter, more spacious pastures. And if I'd known my super (My! Super!) was keeping spammers in business almost singlehandedly, instead of tending to the job I (and the rest of the building) pay him apparently about $40,000 to do, I'd have smeared goat blood on his front door or something (probably a nasty letter-writing campaign, but really, same diff) long ago.

But I'll save the standard New York City Tenants' litany for a time when I have even less to write about than right now.

Because what really tans my haunches is that apparently, the best way to get an article about yourself in the Wall Street Journal (and have one of those neat-o pointillist daguerrotype portrait thingys done of yourself) is to simply be real gullible and fund people who make everyone's life hell by their very obnoxious existence.

It may not be better in the new place, but I'll settle for different.