I just saw a big fucking rat outside the window.
I went out with my entrenching tool (basically a little shovel), but it had hidden, I think behind one of my wife's planter boxes.
Yes, I'm pretty sure it's illegal to use firearms within city limits. I could shoot the hell outta that little bastard. There would be massive disapproval. My wife would probably disapprove, the neighbors probably... then there's always the police. I will restrain myself.
Greycat came out with me, but seemed unaware of the larger project. He's still out there sniffing around. Maybe he'll get lucky and the rat will be stupid. He brought a dead rat home once, back when he was still living on the porch. Today would be a good day for an encore. That first rat only covered about a tenth of the medical bills we've invested into him. If he catches this one, we'll call it even.
I'm not holding my breath. Most likely we'll contact the rest of the association and call in a professional.
Showing posts with label urban. Show all posts
Showing posts with label urban. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Greenlake Motel
The Greenlake Motel is being shut down with little notice for health and safety reasons, putting many of the long term tenants in a tough situation.
The reminds me of a subchapter in my life when I had something of a relationship with that dump:
A few years ago, I started a vending machine business. I didn’t feel like my job was going anywhere and I had dreams of building an entrepreneurial empire. I overpaid for the machines, and they never brought the types of income ‘promised’ by the folks who sold me those machines from the ‘Business Opportunity’ ad in the newspaper.
I hired an older gentlemen who specializes in this sort of thing to find locations for the machines. One of these locations was the Greenlake Motel. These weren’t giant, complicated machines. They sold small candy (M&M’s or whatever) on one side, and peppermint patties on the other. I had endless problems with that peppermint patty side. The candy tended to melt and get smashed, gumming up the works and leading to an unsatisfactory experience for my customers, not to mention maintenance hassles for me.
Most of my locations made little money. The better ones earned maybe $6 per week, some less than $1. The machine at the Greenlake Motel, however, was my golden egg. That thing made $20 - $30 per week. I could barely keep enough candy in the thing. If they all performed like that, I probably would have stayed in the business.
One week, I serviced the machine during the week, rather than on Saturday, which was my normal routine. The owners of the motel happened to be there, and saw me shoveling the pile of quarters into my bag. The next week, the manager (an obese, but nice guy who sometimes told me stories of slum motel goings on), said that I had to take the machine away, orders of the motel owners. Apparently they didn’t want anyone else making money inside their cheap motel.
I wonder if they ever put a different machine in their lobby. The tenants probably didn’t have a whole lot of simple pleasures in their lives; I hope my little $.25 handfuls of candy gave them a little something more to look forward to each day.
The reminds me of a subchapter in my life when I had something of a relationship with that dump:
A few years ago, I started a vending machine business. I didn’t feel like my job was going anywhere and I had dreams of building an entrepreneurial empire. I overpaid for the machines, and they never brought the types of income ‘promised’ by the folks who sold me those machines from the ‘Business Opportunity’ ad in the newspaper.
I hired an older gentlemen who specializes in this sort of thing to find locations for the machines. One of these locations was the Greenlake Motel. These weren’t giant, complicated machines. They sold small candy (M&M’s or whatever) on one side, and peppermint patties on the other. I had endless problems with that peppermint patty side. The candy tended to melt and get smashed, gumming up the works and leading to an unsatisfactory experience for my customers, not to mention maintenance hassles for me.
Most of my locations made little money. The better ones earned maybe $6 per week, some less than $1. The machine at the Greenlake Motel, however, was my golden egg. That thing made $20 - $30 per week. I could barely keep enough candy in the thing. If they all performed like that, I probably would have stayed in the business.
One week, I serviced the machine during the week, rather than on Saturday, which was my normal routine. The owners of the motel happened to be there, and saw me shoveling the pile of quarters into my bag. The next week, the manager (an obese, but nice guy who sometimes told me stories of slum motel goings on), said that I had to take the machine away, orders of the motel owners. Apparently they didn’t want anyone else making money inside their cheap motel.
I wonder if they ever put a different machine in their lobby. The tenants probably didn’t have a whole lot of simple pleasures in their lives; I hope my little $.25 handfuls of candy gave them a little something more to look forward to each day.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Riding Metro
Nora and I were on the 48 this evening, coming home after spending the better part of the afternoon watching David Lynch's Inland Empire. We stopped at Mcclelan st and Rainier when the driver announced that we had to pause for a minute. With both doors open, we sat. And sat. We were only two stops from our own, and very much in walking distance, but I kept thinking we'd start any moment. We were probably there for five full minutes, which is a long time to stop a bus for no apparent reason.
Then, the number 7 passed us, and stopped. A police car parked in the turn lane in ahead and to our left (naturally).
A young black man in the back began making somewhat crazy sounds, "oh mamma, oh mamma...." and no fewer than three police officers boarded our bus. And they took the young black man into custody. He didn't resist, and they didn't use excessive force. They seemed to know him by name. They mentioned that he'd dropped 'dice' during the minor scuffle; Nora and I assumed that was a rock form of drug. Crack or Meth, or possibly heroin.
A few moments later, we continued on our way. As we thanked the driver, she mentioned how happy she was that her evening was almost over. I thought it was a fascinating adventure, but it's probably the sort of thing a driver can do without.
Then, the number 7 passed us, and stopped. A police car parked in the turn lane in ahead and to our left (naturally).
A young black man in the back began making somewhat crazy sounds, "oh mamma, oh mamma...." and no fewer than three police officers boarded our bus. And they took the young black man into custody. He didn't resist, and they didn't use excessive force. They seemed to know him by name. They mentioned that he'd dropped 'dice' during the minor scuffle; Nora and I assumed that was a rock form of drug. Crack or Meth, or possibly heroin.
A few moments later, we continued on our way. As we thanked the driver, she mentioned how happy she was that her evening was almost over. I thought it was a fascinating adventure, but it's probably the sort of thing a driver can do without.
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