Life's Little Injustices (Take XXVI): To Renew, Or Not Renew... (That Is The Question)

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take I, The Reckoner>

If I've learned anything from apartment living it's this. Laundry rooms make great communal spaces, because they offer a place for people to drop some real knowledge, to coin a phrase from the hip-hop world. People let their guard down -- removing dirt from our clothes has a way of easing the stiffest of social fronts -- and tell you what's on their minds.

This weekend, I found myself working through the usual mountain of clothes, sheets, and assorted odds and ends -- a few raggedy pillow cases there, a stray towel over there -- when a young woman with bluish-tinted hair bounded into the room.

I had one more load to do, but needed to wait for her, since she had the three working washing machines going. With one drier already going, I just needed to kick-start the last load, and I'd be done for the night.

That's when the conversation really got rolling, after she gestured to the long silenced fourth washer. "How long have you lived here?"

"About 20 years," I responded. "Why do you ask?"

My questioner's eyes bugged open wide. "Really? Wow. How long has that washer..." She gestured at the plaintive "Out Of Order" sign taped to the lid. "Been like this?"

"Hmm, let me think," I ventured. "At least since last summer, I'd say."

"Couldn't be," the young woman scowled. She shook her head vigorously from side to side. "Because I moved in here last April, and it was already broken."

I presumed that my questioner had seen the plaintive exchange, hastily scribbled on that homegrown "Out Of Order" sign:

"Will this ever be fixed?"

"No."

"Fair enough. OK, then, it's probably been broken since the previous summer." A tinge of curiosity stirred in my brain. "If you didn't mind my asking, what's your experience been like here?"

"That's the thing," she responded. "I had a situation where water kept coming down from my upstairs neighbor, into my hall closet, and it got really moldy in there."

"Well, how did they address it?" I asked.

"They just painted right over it! They didn't even clean it out, really." She laughed, almost to herself. I swear I could her brain going: Uh-huh. Yeah, so what'd you'd expect?

"Anyway, I wasn't really using it that much, so I just moved everything out of there, that I already had."

"Sorry to hear that. If you didn't mind my asking..." I paused, to consider the framing of my next question. "What are you paying here, at the moment?"

"$1,255 per month," the young woman responded. "And when my lease comes up next month, I don't think I'll renew. Because the way I see it, you're not improving on anything, so why I should pay more to keep on living here?"

"I see the logic there," I agreed. "As for our household, we did look at other options, but didn't see anything worthwhile -- so we're standing pat, for now. Sometimes, it's easier to work with what you have."

"I definitely get that." The young woman began tossing the contents of her three loads into the driers.

"Usually, if you're looking for a better deal," I continued, "these things come down to timing. Something comes up, and you have the cash to do something about it. If you only have one or the other, you're stuck for a bit longer."

"Oh, for sure." The woman flashed a knowing smile, and finished packing up the driers. "But I don't think I'll be sticking around."

"Well, good luck to you, either way," I said.

"Same here. It's been nice talking with you." And with a great big flourish, she slammed the last of the three driers shut, and headed out, freeing me to start my final load, and finish my final task for the night.

Will she fare better than I did, in light of the shrunken housing market that prompted our household to put that search for the promised land (of lower rent) on hold? Time will tell, though the official word doesn't seem terribly encouraging, as the opening salvo from this Michigan Municipal League policy brief, issued in October 2024, appears to suggest:

"Michigan’s housing landscape faces a conundrum— a surplus of buildings coupled with unmet demand for housing units that people both like and can afford. As the composition of Michigan households evolves, with an average size of 2.48 people per the most recent American Community Survey (ACS) data in 2022, the mismatch between existing housing stock and actual needs becomes even more apparent.

"The release of Michigan’s Statewide Housing Plan in 2023 has further spotlighted the runaway problem facing every Michigan community: with housing prices up a whopping 84 percent since 2013, Michigan residents are facing numerous barriers to securing appropriate housing access."

There you have it, then. That old demon of supply and demand, the usual suspect driving so many of these discussions, doesn't appear to have grown anymore forgiving than it seemed back in 2008, when the housing bubble burst with such a resounding pop. Actually, the MML brief isn't all doom and gloom, as it offers some interesting potential solutions, as you see (click the link below).

Still, if there's a reason for why so many Americans feel caught in a mousetrap, it's not hard to see why. As usual, it comes down to lack of options and lack of resources, creating the familiar knock-on effect of falling further and further behind, with the bounty on the horizon fading ever farther from sight. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, Before
Your Rent Rockets Skyward Again)

Michigan Municipal League:
Hacking Michigan's Housing Potential:
https://mml.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/MML-Policy-Brief-House-Hacking-10_3-Final.pdf

US Census: Nearly Half Of Renter Households
Are Cost-Burdened, Proportions Differ By Race:
https://www.census.gov/newsroom/press-releases/2024/renter-households-cost-burdened-race.html

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take II, The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXV): Hey, If "Nobody Wants To Work," Why Are The Lines So Long?

 

<"My name is Grace Slick, and I'm a tad dissatisfied
with the state of America today...":

Welcome To The Wrecking Ball!, inner gatefold sleeve>

Lines -- long, long, long lines...

Lines -- long, long, long lines...

Pushing in, shoving in, butting in -- cutting up some lines...

Lines for the rat race, you get wasted

All these traces, lines on your faces...

Breadlines, bloodlines,
Standing in the back of unemployment lines...


<Grace Slick, "Lines"
Welcome To The Wrecking Ball! (1981)>

Old records pop into your head at the funniest moments. The above citations came to mind while the Squawker and I endured one of modern life's grisliest rituals, namely, the weekly grocery store outing that you know exists to Hoover as much money as possible out of your pockets. It's basically like visiting that ninth circle of Hell, only without the medieval woodcuts to dazzle your eyes.

For those who don't know, Welcome To The Wrecking Ball! (1981) marked Grace Slick's third solo outing, before she returned to her Jefferson Starship day job, so to speak. It came as a surprise to people, amounting to an about face from Dreams (1980), its moodier, orchestral-driven, ballad-oriented predecessor/

I'm suspecting that the contrast was intentional, with crunchy power chording carrying the day on Wrecking Ball!, whose key players (producer Ron Frangipane, engineer Ed Sprigg, and guitarist Scott Zito). Although it's somewhat favorable, I take issue with Allmusic Guide's characterization of Wrecking Ball! as Slick sounding like "she's fronting Genesis vocally while the band dwells on hard rock."

Actually, the results sounded closer to much of the AOR hard rock of the era, down to the token moody ballad ("Shooting Star"). The results peaked at #48 in Billboard, so somebody liked it, right? Still, with Grace Slick working the mic, the results will sound a notch or two above what the Foreigners and Journeys were doing back then. "Lines," though, is the real gem here -- essentially, Grace free associating whatever connotations of the word pop into her head, most of them negative (surprise, surprise, right?).

All I know is, the song made my best friend in high school and I laugh our asses off at the audacity of the whole thing. For two teenage boys, Welcome To The Wrecking Ball! served its purpose - provide an enjoyable way of passing a Thursday afternoon, waiting to see what the weekend would bring. What I wouldn't give back to go there, considering how fucked up so much of our world seems today, eh?

And, while it probably won't win any positions on those All-Time Greatest Album lists, it does what it says on the tin, as they say in the UK. Sometimes, that's enough. At any rate...

...something else stuck with me on this particular shopping trip, which came right at the end. As the Squawker and I pulled our carts into the checkout lanes -- of which there were just three, with cashier and one bagger apiece to work them. The self-service machines were humming, jammed with the legions of people using them, which is why we glided past them, though that wasn't the only reason, as I'll explain shortly.

What struck me were these long and winding lines, created by the simple act of sticking as few people behind the counter and the cash register to work. At least Squawker and I could sit down, but I saw a lot of visibly irritated people shifting from foot to foot, as they rolled their eyes, and looked straight ahead, waiting for that ninth circle to end.

Grocery stores, in particular, seem to really enjoy pulling this scam. Big box or small one, it doesn't seem to matter, because I see this phenomenon everywhere I go, with the inevitable long faces and weary sighs of resignation providing the perfect counterpoint. What else is new, right? So many businesses, I swear, have adopted "Customers are cattle" as their new working motto.

And yet -- and yet -- over and over again, the captains of industry continue their lament: "Nobody wants to work." It's repeated like some perverse variation on the Rosary, as if one more mumble of the relevant Scripture might finally change the game.

So, I'll serve up a few questions, for the sake of public service, which go something like this:

If nobody wants to work, why are the lines always so perennially long, and why are we still stuck with so many of them? And why are we being herded into them, even now?

And for those do end up working -- or "wanting to" schlep the cash register for that minimum wage, in RichPeopleSpeak -- why do I see so many of them walking to work? I bring this up, because Matthew's, our local grocery store, is only two miles down the road from our complex. Driving past there, on any given day, I see many of those who man the registers heading there, on foot, dressed for work. 

So, let me repeat the question, for the overdogs who somehow missed it -- can we finally, simply, and realistically admit, that one job is nowhere near enough to pay the bills anymore? Because however many hours they're getting, it's clearly not enough to afford a car, right?

And, last but not least: who decided this was AOK, and why do we continue putting up with it? As the saying goes: answers on a postcard, please. The sooner, the better, because the picture's not getting any prettier. --The Reckoner

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXIV): Not My Bumper Sticker, Not My Neighbor

 

<"How's My Driving?
We Don't Wanna Know..."/
Take I:The Reckoner>

Apologies in advance, as they say, if this graphic seems like a crude way to start off this time. But sometimes, it takes a crude image to generate a suitably pointed response, as I'm doing here (with a bit of artistic license, via Yer Humbler Narrator). My rendition captures the sight that greeted me a couple of tropically humid weeks ago, when I went outside, to take out the trash.

Basically, the image is of a bumper sticker that I spotted on one of our building resident's cars --  not the sprawling, battleship-sized likes of the Ford F150, if I recall correctly, but something like it. My eyes did a double take, as did my brain (Wow, people really do act this cartoonish!), especially when I glanced around, and saw no obvious signs of damage.

Whew, I told myself. That's a relief, at least. Had this guy sported a grotesquely damaged bumper, or the visible scars of battle all around the body, I'd have made a mental note: For Christ's sake, if you see this bumper sticker during your daily travels, keep a car length away, at least. 

I hurled the latest trash bug into our dumpster, and thought no more of the sticker... That is, until a week or so later, when I heard a disturbing sound, while working into the wee hours, as usual. It was 4:00 a.m., and the Monkees were doing their cheeky-cheery-chappie thing, on some marathon or other, while I pecked away at the keyboard.

Then the insistent rattling started coming from the foyer entry door. At first, I did what everyone else does, in this situation. I ignored it. Somebody just forgot their keys, and doesn't know -- or can't summon up, from the darkest corners of their brain -- the four-digit entry code that opens the door. Somebody'll come get them, or they'll go away. Either way, though, it'll blow over.

Or so it seemed. A mere five minutes or so later, however, the sound had returned, this time, amid a torrent of pounding fists, beating on the door in waves, with the manic energy that only the truly unhinged can summon:

Whump-WHUMP-whump-whump-WHUMP! Whump-A-Whump-A-whump-whump-whump-whump!

I swear that I heard some muffled cursing, too, but I couldn't be sure. When the battering ram approach didn't work, the Unknown Knocker started rattling the entry door -- first, at a steady tempo that resembled a nagging itch. Soon, however, that itch gave way to a frenzied hammering. Metal rattled against metal, and then, against glass, without ever giving way.

Whatever someone coming to rescue them, or stop their insanity, I knew that the Unknown Knocker was doomed to leave empty-handed. Whatever they wanted, they'd succeeded in jangling every last nerve of mine. The minute the chaos started, I clicked off the TV, and kept a keen eye through my tightly shuttered blinds, pacing back and forth.

What if their fists start hammering on my window, like barrages of hail? Will I have to call the cops to sort them out? However, I ruled out the idea. Remember, I tell myself: police reports are public information. Anybody can get their hands on them.

Next thing you know, they might show up at your door...once they've figured out who filed it. As the Dead Kennedys frontman Jello Biafra once observed, in a different context: "Sometimes -- it makes sense to chicken out!" Not that I'm proud of myself, mind you, but I live in a small area, where urban anonymity isn't an option.

Eventually, finally, mercifully, though, the raging doofus finally gives up, and fades into the night. I don't see their handiwork till the next day. The glass face of the entry door is literally covered with finger marks, and smudged-up imprints, where somebody's clenched fist  -- or palm, perhaps -- has made its mark.

The damage to the chair, though, is the most startling sign of how much pent-up rage I actually heard. For as long as I can remember, that chair has been bolted to a table, where the delivery folks drop off their packages. The chair legs, in turn, screw onto two wooden slats, that are similarly connected to the table. 

Or they were, until this weekend. In their frenzied attempt to gatecrash their way inside, the Unknown Knocker -- some way, somehow -- had managed to break the chair off both slats, and apparently, briefly, enlisted it as a makeshift battering ram.

Management hasn't replaced the chair, a move that the Squawker decries ("I need a place to sit down, while you're checking the mail!"). I honestly don't blame them, though. For all we know, the Unknown Knocker might be my neighbor down the hall, or some friend of theirs, maybe even a casual acquaintance who stayed the night. Would you rush to install another chair, after what just happened? Not me, Your Honor.

Which brings me back where I started, to that damn sticker. Is the person who slapped "1-800-EAT-SHIT" so proudly on their rear bumper -- where you're guaranteed to see it, remember -- the same one who battered the entry door, and broke the chair off its moorings? Probably not, but it's not such a stretch to imagine, considering how much this nation celebrates mindless aggression for its own sake.

We saw it during the early 2000s, when popular culture buckled under a counterrevolution of gleaming plastic boy bands, and ever more brainless action movies -- with all their barrages of curses, special effects, bangs and explosions -- as if the yawp 'n' yaaarrrggghhh! of Kurt Cobain, and quirky '90s-era film fare like Clerks, Drugstore Cowboy, Naked Lunch, and Private Idaho had never even happened.

We saw this same phenomenon rear up again during the 2010s, as the official economy started coming apart at the seams, thanks to all that make believe money getting hoovered up by the overweening likes of Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, and Steve Jobs. What do they have in common? They're all celebrated for their ability to make one dollar become two, three, and four, followed by the inevitable B-movie villain punchline, when someone dares to push back against them: "I'll crush you like a bug! You hear me? Like a bug!" If you don't believe me, just look at the checkout counter, and see who's getting all those glossy magazine covers. I don't remember seeing Raffi on any of them.

And we continue to see it during the 2020s, driven by your favorite James Bond-style villains and mine, Donald Trump and J.D. Vance, and all their knuckle-dragging acolytes, many of whom exhibit the darkest, basest, most twisted of attitudes toward women, especially those who don't seem interested in becoming their permanent trophies or appliances. They come off as the eternally clueless incel who couldn't find the G-spot without a map and a compass, doomed to permanent preteen-hood on the comfort zone of their Boomer mom's couch, like some hellish reality show version of Beavis and Butthead, without any of the punchlines.

Yet we're now expected to just keep staring straight ahead, and pretend that everything's "back to normal," or something like that, right? The bumper sticker on that truck, and the wreckage in my foyer, tell me otherwise. Whatever brought on that mindless outburst, I've no idea, but until we stop celebrating it -- or sweeping it under the carpet, where it's easier to overlook it -- we won't ever get past it. The tea leaves are there, for those who care enough to read them. We ignore them at our peril. --  The Reckoner

<"How's My Driving?

We Don't Wanna Know..."/

Take II:The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXIII): The Flooring Crew Cometh (The Laundry Room Closeth)

<"This Laundry Room Closeth -- TIll Further Noticeth"

The Reckoner>

"This story has just begun,

So please tell me, if I'm wrong...

It takes one hand,

To wash the other..."

--Prince Buster,
"One Hand Washes The Other" (1962)

<i.>

Just when I thought, "I'm done writing about laundry rooms, thankfully," what happens? Almost on cue, another issue pops up The minute you tell yourself, "I won't do X, Y or Z," that's when you jinx yourself, and wind up doing X, Y or Z, all over again.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, right? No dice, apparently, because this is the third piece I'm dedicating to the subject. There's a reason why Sean Connery titled his one-off Bond comeback vehicle, Never Say Never Again (1983). Enough said about that one!

Still, the power of repetition is an awesome thing. I'm remined of a quote attributed to Lorne Michaels, the man who gave us "Saturday Night Live," whenever his cast -- or the critics -- griped that all those repeating characters and bits were making the show feel stale. His response mantra went something like this: Do something once, it's unique; twice, it's a runner; three times, it's an institution.

So goes our latest laundry room tale Last month, management at our apartment complex announced the temporary removal of our washers and dryers, so it could redo the floor. Hence, the laundry room would close, from Monday through Friday. No worries, the notice reassured us. The machines will be reinstalled by Friday.

I had various editorial projects going on, so I didn't feel overly concerned. At worst, I thought, they'll miss the Friday target, but we'll get our machines back on the Monday. No worries, right? I should have known better, of course. By Monday afternoon, The Squawker began to voice considerable angst about that ever-growing, Great Big Massive Clothing Mound -- from bed sheets to clothing, dish clothes to wash clothes, and towels to T-shirts -- rearing its ugly head from the confines of our cobalt blue laundry cart.

I duly headed upstairs, and took a look, though it seemed funny that we hadn't been officially informed yet. Hmm, I thought, don't they usually send us some type of notice?

Sure enough, the minute I padded upstairs, I saw some type of brown vinyl flooring in place -- but no machines. Needless to say, this news didn't play well, when I informed The Squawker of these developments.

"How the hell are we supposed to get our laundry done? I'm almost out of clothes already, and it's not even the weekend!" The Squawker railed, as mere impatience yielded to the throes of sheer bloody frustration. "What the hell do we do now?"

I suggest heading down to Beacon Laundry, a mere 10-minute drive away. With a nod from Squawker, I load the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound into our van, and take a notebook -- the better to jot down some reviews for my 'zine. It'll drain a couple hours of my time, plus a chunk of my wallet, my brain tells me. But it sure beats the alternative, right?

<"We're Sorry, Maaan -- We're Really, Really Sorry..."

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Well, sort of, as it happens. Beacon is actually the result of a sale, having opened as Whistlestop Wash, back in 1959 -- as one glance at the Art Deco-style, boxlike building will instantly tell you. I'd used it from time to time, whenever I couldn't access our own laundry, but in recent years, I'd begun avoiding the place, honestly.

The fiftysomething female manager in place at the time seemed burned out and embittered by the tight-fisted management, and I found the kiddie-level metal chairs and tables -- which screamed of the Jack Webb era of TV -- too unforgiving and uncomfortable to tolerate using. As a result, I often wound up working on projects in the van, which is hardly ideal when you're trying to keep track of your laundry.

In contrast, Beacon beams with the reassurance that only a business sale can bring, from the Sesame Street-ish primary colors that dominate its repainted interior, to the glowing silver facades of its latest, greatest machines. Gone are the kiddie-level tables and chairs, though their replacements feel only slightly more comfortable.

It's also incredibly, maddeningly, all too typically, bloody expensive. Two and a half hours later, I finally return home, about $40 poorer for my efforts -- or about double what it costs to clean the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound at home. 

<"To Whom It May Concern..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Week Two passes by, at first, with nary a word from management. For The Squawker and myself, it's a worrying development, since money's thinning on the ground. And neither of us wants to repeat the $40 experience that blew such a large hole in last week's budget.

Come Thursday afternoon, there's still no sign of those elusive machines. Every day, I troop upstairs, and do my dutiful due diligence, but it's not a quality that seems to make the machines return more expeditiously. Quite the opposite, in fact. Or so it seems, anyway.

"The hell with it," snaps Squawker, when I confirm -- yet again -- that our washers and dryers have yet to return. "Why don't you call them, and find out? Call them. I can't go another weekend without my clothes!"

I don't need to hear that request twice! "And we can't get by for another week, dropping 40 bucks," I agree, and begin dialing.

I don't reach our manager, who's taken the day off. However, her fill-in promises to get the answer, and proves as good as her word -- five minutes later, the phone rings again. "The machines are definitely being re-installed tomorrow," I'm told. "No ifs, ands, or buts. That's what we've heard."

The Squawker makes a skeptical face. "What makes you think it'll happen this time?"

"Well, in part, because I don't have a choice," I answer. "We have to believe, since I can't part with 40 bucks this week, anymore than I did last week. Time will tell, basically." 

And indeed, it does. Friday (Week Two) rolls around, and indeed, the machines are back in place, as if the whole debacle had never happened. 

Hang on, though. There's just one more sting in the tale, as I learn later that afternoon, when I've finally finished the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound.

I've just finished taking out the trash, rolling our 39-gallon container across the concrete. It's an eightysomething degree day, so I pause, and sit down in the second car, and let the sweat roll off me. Just then, our manager pulls by, and stops. "Did you get my message?" she asks.

"Yeah, your cohort passed it on," I nod. "Thanks. What was the problem, exactly? I mean, from looking at the walls, all they had to do was re-connect the machines..."

The manager pauses from petting her dog in the back seat. "They just kept ignoring me, so finally, I had to get Corporate involved, reach out to their corporate..."

"I see. Well, even then, it shouldn't have taken quite that long..."

"Well, see, that's the thing..." The manager frowns, and purses her lips. "The machines were here, the whole time."

Now it's my turn to screw up my face into a frown. "Say what? You're kidding me!"

"No, I'm not," the manager responds. "But see, the maintenance guys can't even touch the machines, under our contract..."

"Oh, yeah, sign of the times. I get that. Well, better than late never, I guess..."  I shrug. "Thanks for your follow-up,  though."

"Have a good weekend!" And with that, our manager shoots off, as ready to start on her weekend. Or, at least, as ready as anyone can be, after (finally) getting off at the princely hour of seven o'clock! 

So runs life in the corporate outsourced technocracy we call America today. Pass the inefficiencies onto the customer, with a side of legalese to go, if you please. Ah, well. Maybe I can get a jump the laundry before that Great Big Massive Clothing Mound rears its ugly, unwashed head once more. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (So Hurry Up,
As You Rub-A-Dub-Dub...)

Dead Milkmen: Laundromat Song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPB-TjZcfXk

Pretenders: Watching The Clothes Go Round:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ

Prince Buster: One Hand Wash The Other:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca9j3gLThKw

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXII): The Blow-Up (Not The Movie --The Laundry Room!)

 

<"Laundry Room Blues/Take III": The Reckoner>

You can always tell when cramped conditions get to people. Today strikes me as a timely reminder of that principle, as I hurry to get The Squawker's and my own laundry done, on the second floor of our building. I have until 6 a.m. tomorrow, because management is closing the laundry down all week, so the flooring can be redone. Which also means that Sunday, being recast as D-Day, will likely prove competitive than usual.

As usual, my hunches aren't far off when I head upstairs about eight o'clock-ish, or so. Two washers are going full steam ahead, and so are three dryers. I just about manage to load the full contents of my cart into both of them, and head back down.

Come Trip Number Two, nothing changes. The same number of dryers are tumbling away, so I stuff the entire contents of my cart into the remaining one (Dryer #2) -- beggars not being choosers, and all that sort of thing, blah-blah-blah. 

An hour later, I pop back up. This time, I notice that Dryer #3 has long since stopped, but nobody has emptied it yet. Same story for Dryer #4, as well. I turn around, and notice a squat, thirty/fortysomething young woman casting a thumb anxiously in my direction.

"Is that stuff yours?" she asks. Her voice betrays a note of anxiety (as in, Christ, I'm still dealing with this crap -- just when I wanna go to bed, so I can get up for work!)

I snap open Dryer #3. Nothing in there, really, but a huge, fluffy pillow, and a couple blankets. I unceremoniously begin emptying them out, which doesn't take long. "Look," I tell the woman, "in rock 'n' roll, things have to happen on the beat, or you won't make it. Same story here. It's been sitting like this for an hour, at least. I'd go for it."

She nods, and begins emptying Dryer #4, which is far more filled -- mainly with children's clothing -- while I hurriedly parcel half the load from Dryer #2 into its neighbor, that I've just emptied out. The magnetic stripe on my e-card does the rest.

Another hour and a half passes. Right, I tell myself. Time to head back up, and finish off the job. I plonk down a chair in front of Dryer #3, and begin peeling off its contents into my cart. I'm vaguely aware of two pieces of paper taped to the wall, behind the machines, but at first, I'm too preoccupied to read them. But when I do, I can't stop laughing, starting with Note #1:

"Please remember, that wasn't your clothing in the dryer. It's disrespectful to touch another person's belongings. Thank you! :-)"

But it's Note #2 that inspires the loudest, most prolonged ripples of laughter from Yer Humbler Narrator, as you may well agree:

"It's also disrespectful to leave your clothes all night in the dryer, and not collect them when they're done. Thank you! LOL. :-)."

So did that woman I encountered write Note #2? I've no idea, but it wouldn't surprise me. The impatience flashing across her eyes when she popped her question ("Is that stuff yours?") told me everything I needed to know. 

In any event, I suspect the writer of Note #1 didn't expect that response -- assuming it stays up, if they make it up before 6 a.m. rolls around. Suffice to say that when the chips are down, crowded conditions don't bring out the best in us. What else is left to say here, though, except: "Game, set, match?" That'll do nicely, I think. --The Reckoner

<"Laundry Room Blues/Take IV": The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXI): Hey, Mr. Monopoly (Your Five-Star Review Isn't Forthcoming)

 

<"Thumbs Down!"/The Reckoner>

Blogs are better than therapy. I've no trouble reaching that conclusion lately, as the problems at our complex multiply. Regular readers may recall the mother and daughter duo I profiled in my last entry of this series (see link below), which focused on who'd washed up on these crumbling shores, after the owner of the house they'd been renting suddenly decided to sell it.

As I recounted, they weren't thrilled about stepping down a notch, to a place like ours, but vowed to make the best of it. Last week, The Squawker and I ran into Mom Sixtysomething (as we'll now call her), in mid-junk mail persual.

We'd barely exchanged pleasantries, when she rolled her eyes, and said, "Boy, we can't wait to get out of here."

"Hm, couldn't imagine why," I responded, with a smile. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"We were promised a one-bedroom when we moved in here." Mom Sixtysomething's face squinched into a frown. "But that's not where we ended up."

"So what happened?" Squawker asked. "Was it something they did?"

"You could say that," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "The manager claimed that she couldn't show the apartment, because it was still occupied. But I've read the lease, and it's not an issue. There's no language against seeing the unit, whether anybody's in there, or isn't."

"Well, wouldn't be the first bait and switch that happened to anybody," I offered. "What did you end up doing?"

"A studio," Mom Sixtysomething said. "The circuit breaker's so old, the air conditioning and the heater often run at the same time. The flashing around the window has crumbled, so the wind and the rain blow through it. We've been flooded a couple times, too." Her face hardened beyond mere exasperation. "Our lease is up in July. We can't wait to get out of here!"

"Trust me, nobody will hold against it you," I assure her. "Especially when they hear where you lived last."

"Well, that was the thing," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "We were renting a motel room for almost a week, while we waited on that one-bedroom. When we found out it wasn't going to be available, we bit the bullet, and moved in."

I allow myself the luxury of another smile. "I take it, you're not leaving a five-star review, whenever you do go?"

"They'll be lucky if it's one star!" Mom snaps back.

We dissolve into peals of raucous laughter that bounce off the ceiling. With that, we adjourn the discussion, and head back to our separate existences.

The review I'm referencing is a prominent feature of our so-called resident portal, where you pay that exortionate rent (now that management stopped taking checks and/or money orders, about four years ago). As soon as you log in, the pop-up slaps you visually upside the head:

"Leave Us A

Review On Google!"

A quick glance at Google shows that 51 people have done just that, yielding 3.5 stars on a five-star scale. As I've written here before, that's a decent mark, though not exceptional, an impression that only strengthens when I read the more niggling verdicts.

I'm surprised that our complex's rating is that high, given the increasing MIA status of our maintenance team; the ever-spiraling rents; the increasingly grubby appearance of hallways and stairwells, that no longer get regular attention; and the erratic performance of fixtures like the baseboard heaters, whose giant knobs would elicit a familiar groan from anyone who struggled with them during the "Cosby Show" era.

So will it discourage anybody from renting here? Maybe yes, maybe no. The thumbs down notice that scares off more discerning renters may not matter so much during economic downturns, when the dismissed and the desperate have to check their pickiness at the door.

And, of course, we've all heard that old saying, "The only thing worse than bad publicity is no publicity at all," right? As the above conversation shows, Mom and her offspring had to hold their nose, and sign their lease, the because they had to figure an alternative, fast. Motels are expensive, right?

There's a reason why John Lydon once said, in dismissing his former cohorts' post-Sex Pistols ventures, like "Silly Thing": "If you notice a drop in quality, that's neither here nor there."

I just ran into another refugee from our complex, a nice twentysomething couple, whom I'd talk to in passing. They were checking out the dairy options, with their five-month-old son, when I asked how their new apartment was working out. They both expressed satisfaction, especially since their new abode is costing them $200 less in rent per month.

"I can't blame you, because I'm looking at some changes myself," I tell them. "The maintenance department is quieter than the cemetery."

"Yeah, well, we moved in with broken blinds," Mrs. Twentysomething offers. "And that's how we're leaving it. And that was the least of it."

Naturally, I want to dig a little deeper, drill down more, but they have to go, and get their son fed, before he gets restless. "No worries," I tell them. "I get it. Hope we get another chance to talk more next time."

I'm not a betting man, but this much I know. I doubt they'll leave a review, but even if they do, it sure as hell won't be a five-star one, let alone three. That's why we have blinker lights at busy intersections, after all. So we don't get blind-sided. Or T-boned by another car. --The Reckoner

<"Thumbs Down!" (Take II)/The Reckoner>

Links To Go (The Girl Can't Yelp It):
Ars Technica: One Apartment Complex's Rule:
You Write A Bad Review, We Fine You $10K:
https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2015/03/one-apartment-complexs-rule-you-write-a-bad-review-we-fine-you-10k/

Ramen Noodle Nation: Life's Little Injustices (Take XX):
"We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice":
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2023/07/lifes-little-injustices-take-xx-we.html

Life's Little Injustices (Take XX): "We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice"

 Oh, Saturday night

Mmm, everyone's having fun

I'm down at the laundromat

Trying to get my washing done

Time and time again
Watching the clothes go 'round
Another week sees its end

Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round

<The Pretenders:

"Watching The Clothes">

A couple Sundays ago, I happen to be wrapping up my weekly pile of laundry, when a couple of older women enter the room.

For much of my time here, our laundry room has served as a monument to how ancient civilizations lived -- as the twin presences of the '60s-era cigarette machine, and '80s-era pop machine, can attest.

Both took up an enormous amount of space, for the longest time, until somebody or other finally removed them. And, oh yeah, the laundry's on the second floor. Who does that nowadays?

Another reminder of the Mike Brady Era of Architecture, when nobody bothered about such things. Ah, they'll trudge up the stairs. They'll curse under their breath, but they'll put up with it. They won't have any other choice.

Anyway, I'm minding my own business, like usual. Two drying cycles have come to a halt, at last. Time to start folding and stuffing clothes into the cobalt blue cart that helps me haul them back and forth. 

Just when I look up again, I notice two women -- this one, sixtysomething, with fair white hair, that one, taller and stockier, in her forties, with braided brown hair, also wearing glasses -- bent intently over the washers.

They seem like a mother and daughter team. I watch them study the washer controls for a couple more minutes. Finally, I speak up. Must be new arrivals, I told myself. They don't know that management switched over the machines, from coins to e-cards, a couple years back.

"If you're trying to decide between medium or heavy, the only difference is the time, honestly," I say. "They just raised it a quarter not too long ago." (I now pay $2 per load, per washer.)

"Oh, thanks." Mom flashes a quizzical look. "We just moved here a couple weeks ago, so we're still figuring everything out."

"Well, in that case, welcome," I answer. "What brings you both here, if you don't mind me asking?"

Now it's the Daughter's turn to sigh. "We were both renting a house, until the owner decided to sell it..."

Mom finishes the thought. "And didn't want to rent it anymore." She frowns, as the memory seems to flash, still fresh, still raw, across her lips. "They waited until our lease was up to tell us, too."

"Lovely timing, as usual," I agree. "Nice of them, wasn't it? No worries, I get it. I've heard a few stories like that, in my time."

"Yeah, that's how it worked out," Daughter says. "We moved out, because we had no choice. We had to find another place quick, and this is where we ended up."

"A familiar story. Well, good luck, then," I say. "If you need to know how anything else really works around here..." I've been here awhile, so I've seen a few changes in my time."

"Will do," Daughter says. "Thanks for your help."

I watch them load the washer, slam the lid shut, and leave, without another word. I wheel my cart behind them, following in their footsteps, as the clock ticks on. "There goes my Saturday night, without a fight," just like the song says: it's almost midnight. As usual, I have way too much work to do. --The Reckoner

<This Image:
"Laundry Room Blues/Take II"

That Image (At Top):
"Laundry Room Blues/Take I"

The Reckoner> 

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before Another Spin Cycle Betrays You Again...)

The Pretenders: Watching The Clothes:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ

Life's Little Injustices (Take XIX): Hey, AT&T Greedheads: You're Scrambling My Budget!

 

<Cover art: goodreads.com>

<i.>

Not so long ago, I found myself rereading The Saga Of Hawkwind (2004), written by the late Carol Clerk. If you haven't come across it, by all means, check it out: it's a fantastically written, 500-page epic history of the Founding Fathers of space rock, as they're commonly called. 

Clerk dishes out everything you ever wanted to know about Hawkwind, but didn't know what to read, or where to ask. At its core, it's a narrative defined by 50-odd years of constant lineup changes, and dueling egos, often working at cross purposes, amid the usual music biz skulduggery, with one constant (guitarist Dave Brock) at the center of the vortex.

Some of the most relevant tidbits happen when Clerk explores various aspects of the industry that make it hard for musicians to stay afloat. As Brock himself notes in the last chapter ("Dave Brock: God, Satan...Or Just The Captain Of The Ship?"): "The trucking companies are getting more than I'm getting on a tour.

"The rock 'n' roll business being so corrupt, all these different people, trucking companies, bus companies -- the guy who's driving the bus wants £10 food and £30 per diem, and he's paid to drive the bus.  It's all these things around the periphery which piss me off."

After revisiting that passage, all I can say is: Dave, you have my deepest sympathies, as I know the feeling. I got a fresh reminder of this phenomenon last week, after my phone bill landed in my mailbox.

<"Sick 'N' Tired, 

So Sick 'N' Tired..."

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

This is how crazy it gets 'round the periphery: last month, I had a $3.46 credit. This month, I'm starting down a bill of $236 and some change. 

See, when November started, I'd paid two months' worth of bills, because I'd fallen behind. Chalk it up to that cost of living/inflation thing everyone's going on about lately, so when I got a surplus of 200-some-odd bucks, I'd promptly paid it, to get caught up. 

That mess started around the second week in October, when I tried calling the doctor, and got a nonstop dial tone. I realized something was up, as a panic-stricken email from my supervisor confirmed ("Your phone has been busy all day. Please call me, I can't get through"). I wound up calling AT&T, who duly confirmed they'd cut me off. 

I don't recall getting a disconnect notice, I protested. Of course, you got it, the rep stoutly maintained. Once upon a time, they called to pester you, whenever you fell behind; now, they've switched back to paper notices, apparently. Whatever.

In the end, I borrowed from my supervisor to get the phone back on. Of course, that meant having to repay her, forcing me to repurpose another amount intended for something else. That's how it works around the periphery: one domino topples another, creating a ripple effect that scrambles your budget.

Of course, the chaos came during a particularly busy week. I didn't really have time to fight it, let alone think about it, so I did what anybody in this boat does. "Right," I told myself. "Here's your $110, and some change. Now please go away." And that's the last thought I gave it, essentially. That is...until the new bill arrived.

<"Thank You For Your Business..."

The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Lo and behold, that $236 amount jumped right out at me. "What's going on here, then?" I ask myself. A quick scan confirms my worst fears. Apparently, they've whacked on a $30 reconnection charge, which they told me was coming. I can live with that, I suppose.

Guess what, though? They've whacked on $30 and $50 sums for a pro-rating of the bill. Say what? How or why that happened, I'm not sure but I'm still on the hook for it, so I'll have to let it slide. It's not like there's a Phone Bill Appeals Board to hear my case.

By the time you include the inevitable taxes ($11.74), they've added $129 on an otherwise unremarkable monthly bill of $100 or so. Luckily for me -- if that's the right word -- I can spread the cost over a couple weeks, and minimize some of the damage. Sure, a couple more dominos will topple, but it's the beginning of the month, and I'm getting paid again. All's well that ends well, right?

I suppose, but it pisses me off, all the same. It's all part and parcel of the corruption around the periphery of Big Business, as in, "We know you're hurting, so guess what? It's time to squeeze you a little harder." It's the same mentality that you see with local governments, when they whack the cost of somebody's forced lawnmowing bill onto their taxes. Or water bills that they're struggling to pay, because they're double the local average. Or retroactively compounding interest, as many student loan borrowers discover, to their everlasting regret.

The same story holds true at the grocery store, where the Squawker and I spent $350 -- literally, half my paycheck -- to avoid making the trip for another couple weeks A loaf of bread? Ka-ching!  $5.89. A jar of mayonnaise? Ka-ching! $5.49. Eight-ounce package of sliced turkey lunch meat? Ka-ching! $4.29. A bag of onions? Ka-ching! $2.99. A bag of tomatoes on the vine? Ka-ching! $5.66. And so on, and so forth.

God knows what everything will cost next time, as prices like these keep on rocketing upward. Even a meal out, to give you a break from cooking, averages 25 to 40 bucks in this town. But there's the dirty little secret, right? It doesn't cost them $30 to turn your phone back on, anymore than it costs $350 per person to get your food on the grocery shelf. A lot of this stuff is just the banksters making out like bandits. Because they are bandits. 

Even after a catastrophic global pandemic, we're still left where we started, of agitating for change that most people see as long overdue, and desperately needed. That is, anyone who isn't a rich right wing greedhead, like a certain rogue billionaire who just bought a certain media platform, that a certain rogue ex-President publicly poo-poohs interest in reclaiming. They're fine with all the chaos and crap that they've stirred up. 

In one sense, I guess I could consider myself fortunate, in that I can generate income beyond my day job to deal with these problems. But in another sense, I'd say, "Maybe not," since the same greasy global shuffle is going on -- or, as Don Letts says, in "Outta Sync," the teaser for his forthcoming solo album: 

"Predictions of dystopia? 

Three jobs to pay the rent.

The threat of just a few degrees? 

We're talking two percent." 

We'll find out how close to reality those predictions come, as dire as they are. Because, you see, that's another collateral consequence of life on the periphery -- we usually know what's going down before everyone else does. 

We feel the social ills first; when things fall apart, we're first to catch cold. When things finally rebound, we're the last to catch up. Because, unlike everybody else, we don't exactly get to shop till we drop. See you at the checkout line. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, 

Grab Your Ticket Outta Babylon

Because It's Burnin' Red Hot, Hot Hot...):

Don Letts: Outta Sync (Official Video):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7Zf0KWPJoE&t=108s

Life's Little Injustices (Take XVIII): Medicine As A Business (Sticker Shock Strikes Again)

<"Watch Out For Falling Bills...

Take I"/The Reckoner>

<i.>

You'd think I'd learned my lesson by now. Last spring, I'd been waiting on a procedure that I desperately needed, to make some "south of the border" improvements near my groin area. I'd reached the point where delay wasn't an option anymore. I was supposed to undergo it last November, only to have it KO'd twice -- once, due to COVID-19, the other, due to scheduling issues with the doctor. 

A freak ice storm pushed the date back yet again, from February 1, to April 22 (see my previous entry, "Life's Little Injustices (Take XVII): Medicine As A Business (You Gotta Love It)"). One more postponement followed, for scheduling reasons.

The May 26 date held, and I underwent the knife for an hour. The doctor only needed to numb the relevant body part, so I was awake the whole time, and didn't feel any pain. I took a couple days off, to ease the recovery process, and went back to work the following Monday.

A $200 bill soon landed on my doormat. I had the cash, so I promptly paid it, figuring it was my portion of the overall cost ($530 and some change). Come July, I received a second bill, for $180, and then, a third, for nearly $90. 

The former statement referenced Some Pathology Practice Or Other, in Toledo, OH. The latter bill contained info at all. 

Wait a minute, I told myself. I know you pay some of these costs for these things out of pocket, but...  I did some quick calculations to see where I stood. Taking these two bills into the equation, I'd end up paying 88 percent! Hmm, that doesn't seem right. What's up with that? I asked myself.

So I did what the pundits tell you. I called the various entities involved, and asked them what's going on, starting with our local hospital, which now owns the urology clinic that did my procedure. (They own everything else that matters here medically, too, but that's another discussion for another day.) 

I also rang up our so-called insurer, who ever returned any of my three calls. That matched what the hospital's customer support staff told me -- they reached out to them, too, but never heard back. Figures, right?

<"Watch Out For Falling Bills...

Take II"/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

July and August gradually faded into September, and now, October, as the big runaround continued. A couple of threatening notices from Some Pathology Practice Or Other landed on my doormat, too. Ironically, though, after months of runaround, I finally got the answer I needed.

Guess what? I'm on the hook for those other amounts, too -- the $90, due to that "out of network" thing. (Mind you, I've never received any info of who's in the network. But I digress. As for the $180? The Billing Department at Some Pathology Practice Or Other told me, "We did send that to your insurer, and they refused to pay it." 

So I'm still paying that 88 percent of the total, or $460. Oh, well, at least I didn't have to pay the entire cost upfront, something that you face constantly, as an uninsured IC (independent contractor). But still...

I'm not faulting any of the billing or customer support departments. They were pretty cordial and professional, and I had no problem getting them to accept the $30 per month I proposed to pay the $180 bill. I don't know how I'll handle the $90 bill yet, but I'm sure I can figure out something.

On one level, it's all good. And yet, on another level, it really isn't so good. Having to pay that 88 percent cost leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Fine, Herr Keaton, I get that it's a business, and you need another designer sweater to grace your already overstuffed hall closet. I'm sure your ex-hippie parents will love it!

Sure, Dr. Huxtable, I know you planned to buy a second Mercedes this year -- for your Roman numeral-entitled offspring. And yes, Mr. Ewing, I'm sure you can buy quite a few boots and 10 gallon hats, once we're all done shelling out 88 percent of your bills. 

<"Watch Out For Falling Medical Bills...

Take III"/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

But you know something? Sure, American medicine is definitely a business, but it's definitely the least efficient, least responsive business I've encountered. I shouldn't have had to burn up four months trying to figure what I was paying, or why.  

In contrast, I remember when Morgan Spurlock did a program on medical tourism. The Thai hospital he visited gave him an itemized bill for the hypothetical procedure that he outlined, down to the last baht. Wow! What a concept, right? Makes me wonder what else they've sussed out ahead of us.

Of course, medicine isn't the only driving force in the big squeeze most of us feel right now. The Squawker and I got a fresh reminder at the store yesterday, where we paid $4.29 for a dozen eggs (Ka-ching!), $7 for a pound of packaged lunch meat (Ka-ching!), and $7 for a package of organic sausages (Ka-ching!).  

Don't worry, though. I'm sure all the endless Biden-related investigations that the Republicans plan, if they retake Congress next month, should reduce all those prices in one fell swoop, right? 

And if you really believe that...I'll let you, Dear Reader, finish the sentence this time. Something's got to give, all right. I'm just tired of it always being me. --The Reckoner