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condo inspection
Friday, March 17 2000
My mission today was to take the train to Santa Monica to attend another housing inspection. Kim had to work and wouldn't be coming. We'd gone to a notary public so I could sign documents on her behalf.
[REDACTED]
The train ride was great fun as usual. This time I sat on the ocean side, watching endless series of black-clad surfers and lazily unrelenting waves. My favorite sight of the ride was a rocky little island off the coast of San Clemente that was completely covered with seals sunning themselves.
The bus ride was an experience of an entirely different color. Leaving downtown Los Angeles took nearly an hour all by itself. Something about Angelenos on Fridays makes them take their cars out onto surface streets and completely jam them with their numbers. On the Santa Monica Freeway, by contrast, we only experienced one brief episode of gridlock. I showed up at the real estate office at exactly 1pm, a half hour later than the bus schedule suggested I would.
Charlie, my real estate agent, drove me to the prospective condo in West LA, where we met up with the seller's real estate agent and the building inspector. This time everything happened by the script, with me signing endless documents (for both Kim and myself). The inspector found almost nothing wrong with the house, aside from some nonuniform settling (doorjams gone rhombic) and minor earthquake damage (superficial stucco cracks). The most interesting thing to observe during the inspection was the interaction between my agent (Charlie), the building inspector and the seller's real estate agent, who turned out to be an extremely pushy woman. The building inspector was downright rude with her. And for her part, she seemed to have great difficulty saying anything without also implying "hurry the fuck up; you're wasting my time."
Charlie returned me to the Los Angeles train station, sparing me another ordeal by Big Blue Bus.
Since I had time to kill, I went for a walk and bought a small hip flask of cheap vodka at a tiny Korean-owned liquor store that didn't appear to have any merchandise in stock costing more than $6.
As I was boarding the San Diegan for the ride home, I randomly ran across Clyde, one of the old channel producers at my erstwhile employer. He quit his job back in the early Fall after coming to the realization that there was no place for someone in the firm with a genuine interest in the educational needs of students. (I joked that the business model, such as it was, was to "serve as a cotton gin for separating college students from their money.") Clyde had heard about my firing, and the story he'd heard was that it was because of some off-color remarks I'd made about people in the Austin office. He'd heard nothing about my online journal.
We talked some about Clyde's new place of employment, community tools, and the positive effect that changing jobs has on a person's salary. But we kept on coming back to the subject of "what was fucked up at [name of my erstwhile employer]." We went through lists of people: the good, the good-hearted, the entlightened, the non-enlightened, and, of course, the evil. It was all entirely off the record.
Clyde suggested that I stop in at a party at Dmitry's tonight. Dmitry is the only remaining "channel producer" at my erstwhile employer, and he also happens to be one of the people who visited me immediately after I was fired. But he's been kind of weird since then, not answering my emails, etc. I'm reluctant proactively socialize with that crowd in this new stage of my life.
Kim picked me up at the train station and, thankfully, everything was once more good between us again. We ended up at one of the few fancy restaurants in Ocean Beach, the Kaiserhoff German Einziehenhaus, where we met up with out neighbors Jenna the German Girl and Lisa. The idea, odd as it might seem, was to celebrate a German-style St. Patrick's Day.
The inside of the Kaiserhoff had a bit more grandeur to it than, say, the rambling German heritage club where Oktoberfest was held in New Orleans. But it also had some of that aura of corny folksyness, right down to the colorful fetishistically-medieval getups the waitresses had to wear.
I took one look at the menu and knew Kim and I had no business being there what with our pecuniary circumstances, so I subsisted on a shrimp cocktail and some of a pitcher of green Budweiser. Kim ordered the cheapest entré on the menu, the $12 meatloaf, and when I tasted it, I found it to be no better than the many meatloafs of disappointment from my childhood. But at least the conversation was good; we all broke into loud laughter on numerous occasions, and even our waiter chimed in now and then. Poor Sophie (the German Miniature Schnauzer) had to wait outside in the car the whole time!
Meine Mission war heute, die Serie zu Santa Monica zu nehmen, um zu sein bedienen eine andere
Gehäusekontrolle. Kim mußte arbeiten und würde nicht kommen. Wir wurden gegangen zu einer
Notaröffentlichkeit, also könnte ich Dokumente in ihrem Namen unterzeichnen.
Die Serie Fahrt war großer
Spaß, wie üblich. Dieses Mal saß ich auf der Ozeanseite und überwachte endlose Reihe schwarz-plattierte
Surfers und lazily unnachgiebige Wellen. Mein Lieblingsanblick der Fahrt war eine felsige kleine Insel weg
von der Küste von San Clemente, die vollständig mit den Dichtungen bedeckt wurde, die sich sonnen.
Die
Busfahrt war eine Erfahrung einer völlig anderen Farbe. Das Verlassen selbst von im Stadtzentrum
gelegenem Los Angeles dauerte eine fast Stunde alle.
Etwas über Angelenos an Freitag läßt sie ihre Autos
heraus auf Oberflächenstraßen nehmen und sie vollständig stauen mit ihren Zahlen. Auf der Santa Monica
Autobahn durch Kontrast, erfuhren wir nur eine kurze Episode von gridlock.
Ich stellte oben im
Immobilienbüro an genau 1pm dar, eine halbe Stunde später, als der Buszeitplan vorschlug, daß ich wurde.
Charlie, mein Grundstücksmakler, trieb mich zum zukünftigen condo im West-cLa an, in dem wir den
Grundstücksmakler des Verkäufers und den Bauaufsichtsbeamten zusammentrafen. Dieses Mal geschah
alles durch den Index, mit mir endlose Dokumente Unterzeichnens (für Kim und selbst). Der Prüfer fand fast
nichts falsch mit dem Haus, neben etwas nichtgleichförmiqem Vereinbaren (die doorjams rhombisch
gegangen) und geringer Erdbebenbeschädigung (oberflächliche Stuccosprünge).
My mission was today to take the series to Santa Monica over to attend another housing check. Kim
had to operate and would not come. We gone to a notary public, therefore I could sign documents in their
name.
The series of travel was large fun, as usual. This mark sat I on the ocean page and monitored
endless series black-plated surfers and lazily unyielding waves. My favourite sight of the travel was a rocky
small island away from the coast of San Clemente, which was covered completely with the seals, which
sunned themselves.
The bus travel was an experience of completely different colour. Leaving from Los
Angeles which was situated in the city centre lasted one almost hour everything. Something over
Angelenos on Friday lets it take their auto out on surface roads and it completely to back-ups with its
numbers. On the Santa Monica motorway by contrast, we experienced only a short episode of gridlock.
I
represented above in the estate agency on exactly 1pm, a half hour later, than the bus schedule suggested
that I became. Charlie, my estate agent, propelled me to the future condo in the west LA, in which we met
the estate agent of the salesman and the construction supervision official. This mark occurred all with the
index, with me endless documents of signing (for Kim and even). The examiner found almost nothing false
with the house, apart from somewhat nichtgleichfoermiqem agreeing upon (doorjams rhombically gone) and
small earthquake damage (superficial Stuccospruenge).
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