Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 7
Penthouse Suite
Everyone wants a top floor, penthouse apartment. Those who live in big cities dream of it. Those who have seen movies about big cities dream that if they ever lived in a big city, they would have a penthouse apartment. But there's always a catch. They're too expensive. What most people don't know is that money is not the main prerequisite to living atop the world. There is another set, a secret set, of prerequisites that will get anyone into the penthouse. I have discovered this by observing the people who live in the penthouse in my building. I offer them now as a service to the world.
Meet my upstairs neighbors. An ill wind blew in our first meeting. I stood out on my balcony with some teenagers visiting from the States. My neighbors hung out over their balcony and yelled down at us. I translate.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. We're having friends over for pizza, beer, and dancing. You like to dance?"
I quickly made excuses. Not because I dislike dancing, but because I knew the roof to my apartment would soon collapse and I needed time to flee the scene and establish an alibi. I knew, of course, that this boded no good. Upstairs neighbors who like to dance. Upstairs neighbors who like to drink beer and dance. Upstairs neighbors who drink beer and dance every Saturday. Upstairs neighbors who drink beer and dance every Saturday and have only tile floors and not one inch of carpet in their apartment.
Not only do they dance every Saturday, but they wear high heels. They wear high heels to dance. They wear high heels to work. They come home from work and slip their feet into high heels. They cook in high heels. They go to the bathroom in high heels. They jazzercise in high heels. They sleep in high heels, with one foot on the floor that bounces with each breath. They put high heels on their dog.
For some odd reason, they also love marbles. They keep a jar, or two possibly, by their bed. Every night around twelve they pour them out on the floor from a height of no less than six feet. It's great fun. I can't sleep anymore without hearing something crash and break.
Sometimes they bowl, too, but that's not really a habit, so I don't include it in my list.
So, next time you want an apartment that looks down on all of the little people, dress for success at the interview. Wear heels, dance the salsa, and knock over every breakable thing in sight.
Update: Wednesday Night Culture at Club Centenario.
Last night Centenario had a talent show. That is a veritable plethora of horrors I couldn't stand to miss. However, except for a slight oversaturation of light jazz, no one was really, truly bad. I was ready to leave when a sixty-year-old woman stepped onto the floor to dance the salsa in a skin tight pink, green, and black flower print dress. Enoch turned to me. He said:
"That's the stuff dreams are made of."
She turned out to be the best of the night. Got a standing ovation. There's one thing you can count on. People will dissapoint you any way they can.
Penthouse Suite
Everyone wants a top floor, penthouse apartment. Those who live in big cities dream of it. Those who have seen movies about big cities dream that if they ever lived in a big city, they would have a penthouse apartment. But there's always a catch. They're too expensive. What most people don't know is that money is not the main prerequisite to living atop the world. There is another set, a secret set, of prerequisites that will get anyone into the penthouse. I have discovered this by observing the people who live in the penthouse in my building. I offer them now as a service to the world.
Meet my upstairs neighbors. An ill wind blew in our first meeting. I stood out on my balcony with some teenagers visiting from the States. My neighbors hung out over their balcony and yelled down at us. I translate.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. We're having friends over for pizza, beer, and dancing. You like to dance?"
I quickly made excuses. Not because I dislike dancing, but because I knew the roof to my apartment would soon collapse and I needed time to flee the scene and establish an alibi. I knew, of course, that this boded no good. Upstairs neighbors who like to dance. Upstairs neighbors who like to drink beer and dance. Upstairs neighbors who drink beer and dance every Saturday. Upstairs neighbors who drink beer and dance every Saturday and have only tile floors and not one inch of carpet in their apartment.
Not only do they dance every Saturday, but they wear high heels. They wear high heels to dance. They wear high heels to work. They come home from work and slip their feet into high heels. They cook in high heels. They go to the bathroom in high heels. They jazzercise in high heels. They sleep in high heels, with one foot on the floor that bounces with each breath. They put high heels on their dog.
For some odd reason, they also love marbles. They keep a jar, or two possibly, by their bed. Every night around twelve they pour them out on the floor from a height of no less than six feet. It's great fun. I can't sleep anymore without hearing something crash and break.
Sometimes they bowl, too, but that's not really a habit, so I don't include it in my list.
So, next time you want an apartment that looks down on all of the little people, dress for success at the interview. Wear heels, dance the salsa, and knock over every breakable thing in sight.
Update: Wednesday Night Culture at Club Centenario.
Last night Centenario had a talent show. That is a veritable plethora of horrors I couldn't stand to miss. However, except for a slight oversaturation of light jazz, no one was really, truly bad. I was ready to leave when a sixty-year-old woman stepped onto the floor to dance the salsa in a skin tight pink, green, and black flower print dress. Enoch turned to me. He said:
"That's the stuff dreams are made of."
She turned out to be the best of the night. Got a standing ovation. There's one thing you can count on. People will dissapoint you any way they can.
posted by Josh Hardin | 9/21/2006 05:05:00 PM
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