After a day of nonstop appointments, shrieking 20-going-on-12 future tenants, and no food, my Tuesday ended in a nice treat as I dragged my husband to Milwaukee to see a band I’ve managed to miss on every tour for the last decade. (3 Doors Down with Theory of a Deadman and Pop Evil for anyone who cares about these kinds of details.)
Now, I’ve seen many a rock concert in my day. The money I’ve spent on concert tickets and related expenses in my teenage and adult life could have paid for a down payment on a reasonably sized midwestern home. Twice. We’re talking concerts in the near triple digits at this point.
A few years back I started getting tired of your average-joe concert goer. All the 18-year olds drunk off the one Budweiser they scammed off the bartender. The concert videographers who blocked my view with their fuck-you-phone to shoot grainy, low resolution video. The social butterflies who hung around the middle of the floor chatting with their friends over the music, and taking hundreds of flash pictures to prove they were at a show for a band they only recognize by their current single. The one-man mosh pits (I hope you enjoyed that broken nose, asshole.), and the concert groper who manages to single my ass out at every show (I hope you enjoyed your broken rib, asshole.)
My point here is that I HAVE PAID MY CONCERT DUES, and any tickets I’ve purchased in the last few years have been exclusive or VIP seating. Tuesday’s show was no exception. We got reserved parking, lanyards, and an escort to our seats in the VIP balcony, conveniently located to the complimentary VIP bar. And did I mention that they also had cocktail waitresses taking our order from our seats? I was a fucking rock princess, yo.
And perhaps not so surprisingly, most of the other VIPs were people near our age or older, but they were not nearly as cool as Ken and me. It was a motley crew of rockers past their prime, much like Motley Crüe themselves. There was the 40 year old guy in the balcony next to ours who looked like Michael Stipe and played air guitar like a creepy uncle in the throes of a grand mal seizure. There was the pair of 40 year old moms sitting next to us who spent more time spilling drinks and narrowly avoiding a fall over the edge of the balcony while getting down like rejected extras in a Whitesnake video.
And our personal favorite: Big Rosie.
She was a something, let me tell you. A whole lot of something. And she was getting down with her big bad self like a finalist on So You Think You Can Dance. The balcony was shaking. The balcony was rocking. Rosie was dangerously close to falling over the edge and taking out at least a dozen people on the floor below.
At one point during her Soul Train routine, Ken leaned over and sang to me,
“She ain’t exactly pretty
She ain’t exaclty small
You could say she’s got it ALLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!”
To which I replied, “I’m pretty sure she’s got more than 19 stone up in there.” (And if you don’t catch the reference, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore.)
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is snark done right.
For my regular day to day fuckery, this is campus showing season and I don’t think I’ve spent more than 5 hours in the office all week. I love doing the lease tours, because you get to see some interesting shit in college apartments. Case in point? I was in an apartment today that had a 3 foot by 4 foot curtained off area inside the front door which contained a wingback chair facing the wall, and a length of nylon rope.
But I hate all the prep that goes into scheduling, for the slim chance of seeing something fun. Calling everyone 24 hours before, uploading the schedule to my phone, finding appointment slots for students who will not, under any circumstances, forego the first 45 minutes of Thirsty Thursday to look at 3 apartments. At one point yesterday, a tenant accused me of singling his apartment out for showings just to fuck with him. Yeah, because I get a kick out of showing people what the next generation of herpes looks like on your couch, versus the one next door. You have a unique floor plan, fuckrug. Now shut the fuck up and let these girls see your hovel. And then, there’s the group of dillholes who think I should have to schedule around them. And to these insufferable fuckwits, I write the following love letter:
Dear soon to be departed Frat-tards,
I’d like to get a few things straight with you because you seem to be mistakenly under the impression that you’re master of my domain. Let me assure you that you are WRONG. When I call to give you notice of a leasing tour, I’m not asking your permission. I am TELLING you what time I’ll be there. No, I don’t give a good god damn if you won’t be home, I have my own set of keys, and I carry a bolt cutter to remove unauthorized door locks. And really, I don’t care if the appointment time “doesn’t work for you,” my schedule is the only one that matters from 8:00-6:00, Monday through Friday. Don’t think for one second that I won’t start showing your apartment at 8:00 am Saturdays just to spite you.
Also, when I tell you to get the keg out of the building because it says on the first page of the lease that you’re not allowed to have it, GET THE KEG OUT OF THE FUCKING BUILDING. I don’t believe for a goddamn second that you “won’t open it.” Yeah, and you don’t go home every night and masturbate furiously to pictures of cock from Rush Week hazing. You’re dickbags and I delight in the misery the oppressive rules which are your lease agreement bring you. In fact, I am so delighted that I just stepped up enforcement. Weekly inspections, bitches! See you Monday at 8:00 am!
Them’s the breaks, skidmark. Don’t like it? Eat a dick. Eat a great big bowl of ’em. That’s what you greeks are into, right?
Hugs and rainbow shitting puppies,
Your dispassionate Landlady.
Anyone else have a shout out to the object of their contention?