the sticking point

So... That Happened

My wife and I had just been discussing whether to give our building's superintendent a Christmas tip this month when we saw him (and several other building workers) dash into the side door the other day. Remember, this Super is the primary reason we had to get rid of our family dog in February. (The whole Jackson backstory is on this page.)

In 2006, the Super's two interactions with us, as tenants in his building, were thus:
1) The aforementioned forced-removal of beagle-dog Jackson.
2) A visit to our apartment to tell us we are not allowed to keep a doormat outside our apartment door.

Every single time I see our fellow tenants walking their four- and five-month old puppies through the hallways and on and off the elevators, I wonder why the Super had to make an example of us.

Anyway, I don't want to rehash all that. But it's important to remember as I tell you what happened on Wednesday, after we saw all the guys running into the building. We were waiting at the basement elevator (because building rules forbid bringing baby strollers through the lobby) when the Super, I'll call him Elfer, comes out of one of the many doors in the catacomb-like basement. Behind him, we can hear water gushing onto the floor. Elfer shuts the door, says hello to us, and trots down the cinderblock corridor. As he comes to the first left turn, we see him slip and WIPE OUT on the painted floor. There's a sickening thud. (In the histories of both literature and reportage, there are indeed only two types of thud: sickening and regular.)

From our vantage point, all we can see are his legs. He was flat-out. We could tell he was face down, and we heard him let out a little moan. It didn't sound good. As we watched for another second, we see the legs slide forward across the floor, like Elfer is doing a sort of crawl with his elbows. My wife glances at me as I decide to treat the guy like a human being and go help him.

When I get to him, he looks pretty bad. Face down, moaning, writhing in pain, and holding the side of his face. He is not getting up. I put my hand on his back, bend down, and say, "Can we get our dog back?"

No, of course I didn't say that to him as he lie there in pain and all fucked up, but it occurred to me. Along with: "These painted floors get slippery, no?" "See, there ARE roaches on the floor down here!" and "Settle a bet: How much Christmas bonus does a mean, dog-hating, do-nothing Super get?"

I lifted him to his feet and leaned him against the wall, and suddenly I was a corner man and my boxer's head was swirling. He was well on his way across goofy street. After a minute of actually swooning, he thanked me and said "A pipe burst." I asked, "Did a dog cause that?" (In my head, I asked.) Off he went, dizzily bouncing off the walls of the basement like a pinball.

Here's this week's Friday 10, and a new type of thud.

01 Private World - New York Dolls: You know the band, you know this song. It's been available on vinyl or CD for the last 30 years, and still sweeps the floor with most of what's come in its wake. What can I tell you here that you don't already know? Perhaps nothing, but I'll give it a shot: The new album... no matter what your preconceived notions or anti-nostalgia-record prejudices, is damn good. It's worth a listen.

02 A Pretty Girl is Like A... - Magnetic Fields: The answer is simpler than you think. A pretty girl is like a pretty girl. Stephen Merritt is an amazing songwriter. And that's that. (Get it on 69 Love Songs.)

03 The Sound of The Sinners - The Clash: Strummer is the voice of God on a superb track from Sandinista! that rarely gets a mention. I always thought that the Clash tried to do something a little different on each of the six sides of this album, and I quite liked side 3 (on which this song appears), because it seemed to speak to music's power to heal, inspire, and incite. Of course, that's my opinion; I could be talking out of my ass. Anyway, if that was their intention, it was lost once this came out on CD. (On later editions of Sandinista!, like the 1999 remaster CD, the song is re-titled "The Sound of Sinners," without the second article the in there. This was probably a proofreader's error, because I think the band was making a sly self-reference in the original song title.)

04 Butterfucker - Butter08: I don't know if this is pronounced "butter eight" or "butter oh-eight," but I know it's Miho from Cibo Matto and Russell Simins of JSBE, and the shit is fun. I've always loved Miho's voice, it never mattered to me that she was usually singing about chicken, ice cream, and other edible delights. The other band members include the graphic designer (but not REM bassist) Mike Mills, and Skeleton Key's bassist Rick Lee. (Which reminds me: I've got to clear up some megabytes on the the iPod and add some Skeleton Key. THERE was a band ahead of its time!) You can find this cool song on Butter08's self titled disk, but mine came off a Grand Royal comp called A Sampling of Our Prestigious Pedigree that I got at a show. I think I wrote about it a few months ago, after hearing a Kostars track on an F10.

05 Love Song - The Damned: A classic off the Machine Gun Etiquette album, which I've been listening to since I was in high school with Theodore Roosevelt. If you like this record, you probably know that Big Beat (Chiswick in the UK) released the 25th anniversary edition a couple years ago, with all the b-sides, the single versions of this song and "Smash It Up," and the (once) dreadfully rare alt version of "I Just Can't Be Happy Today."

06 After The Lovin' - Englebert Humperdinck: Oh, no he didn't! Yes. I DID just type that. Random song number 6 today was this "gem" from Englebert. It's on my iTunes because -- for years -- I'd jokingly sing this song to my wife, and she never believed me that it actually existed. So, I had to download it illegally to prove that yes, there is a song about singing to a woman immediately after intercourse, and ol' E.H., was just the crooner to bring it. Hard to believe there exists a tune in the American musical canon which includes lines like "So I sing you to sleep / After the lovin' / I brush the hair from your eyes / And the love on your face is so real that it makes me want to cry." But indeed there is. (And, um... that's not love on her face, pig, get a towel.)
And More On That Subject, Dept.: I saw Englebert Humperdinck in concert.
It Gets Much, MUCH Worse Than That, Dept.: It was dinner theater, actually. And my "date" was my grandmother. And I wore an actual, no bullshit, corduroy leisure suit. I shit you not, Sticking Point readers. I saw Humperdinck at dinner theater, with my Grams. I wore a wide-wale cord tan leisure suit over a black, superwide-collared shirt, and I had the veal. It was around 1976, I suppose. I was nine years old, and all I can remember from the show (apart from the toughness of the veal) was that the guy could hit some high notes, and that I spent most of the time wishing he'd stop talking dirty. He billed himself as the King of Romance, but all he kept talking about was sex. He even made weak and inappropriate wordplay on the last syllable of his name. All this made me cringe in my seat because, even at age nine with a limited understanding of what the Humper was talking about, I knew I didn't want to be hearing it next to my Grams. So, thanks, E.H., you pathetic, ghetto-brand Tom-Jones douchetard.

07 Teenage Warning - Angelic Upstarts: Nice way to cleanse the palate, with some (late) first-wave UK punk, don't you think? Their Teenage Warning album was produced by Sham 69's Jimmy Pursey, and he got a real good sound out of it; not like many other punk records of its time, it sounds almost mainstream.

08 Come Back To Me - X: A great one from the great ones. The album it's on, Under The Big Black Sun, is a solid record, and I wouldn't trade it in or anything, but for me, Wild Gift, Los Angeles, and More Fun in the New World are... the business.

09 Out of Step - Minor Threat: Ian MacKaye is a chapter of rock and roll history all by himself: Teen Idles, Minor Threat, Embrace, Egg Hunt, Fugazi, and now The Evens. No two of these bands are alike, and they are all so consistently good that Ian may be the Elvis, Lennon, and Dylan of indie music. Minor Threat was Lyle Preslar, Jeff Nelson, Brian Baker, and MacKaye, and I always thought of them as a sort of perfect musical storm: fans like me are lucky that those four guys got together to make that music. Their importance cannot be understated. "Out of Step" is from the legendary album of the same name -- the only real "album" the band ever released. You can get it, combined with all the singles, on the Complete Discography comp. That one's like the Gideon's Bible -- you knock on any punk rock fan's door, and you'll find a copy inside.

10 Simply Irresistible (L) - Rilo Kiley: Robert Palmer did a shitload of coke and then he died. But before he did, he wrote and recorded this song. And then after he did all that, Blake and Jenny of the great Rilo Kiley played an all-acoustic show at SUNY Purchase (01.21.04) and did a sweet, sweet version of it. This is on a boot I got off the RiloKiley.net site.

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This... was a fucking great Friday 10. But why should I have all the fun? Put your mp3 player or digital jukebox on "shuffle all songs," and let us know the first ten songs out the chute.

[posted with ecto]

Jackson (Pt. VI)

Here's a bit of an update, because kind and thoughtful people have been asking. Sorry if it's “just the facts,” but the nerves are pretty raw right now and I don't want to wiggle this loose tooth all that hard.

Jackson doesn't live here anymore.

By the beginning of last week, it looked like legal defense wouldn't hold up, offers of extra money to the landlord were refused, and we resigned ourselves that Jackson would need to move in with the perfect family mentioned in the last part of this post.

We called them, and the short story is: they flaked out. The wife was “unsure” about it. The guy even thought it was necessary to tell me his wife has OCD and that she grew up with a father who convinced her that loving a pet was pointless.

I don't care. But thank you for wasting our time, gasoline, and emotional energy. Pig fucker.

S called the kind lady at the landlord's legal department. She told us that as long as we were looking for a good home for Jackson, and weren't going to take this to court, then we could have some more time past the February 16th deadline they'd given us to remove the dog.

Three days later (Saturday) we received a pair of letters, via certified mail, informing us that we had 10 days to move out before eviction would be served. Not move the dog out, it said move the family and furniture out too.

So, this morning, we brought Jackson to his good friends at Monster Mutt, who will hold on to him, and help us find a nice adoptive family. (If that's you or anyone you know, please contact them.) It was hard. My wife said goodbye to the beagledog in the car, and I brought him inside. It hurt. I had a lump in my throat the size of Texas when I walked out of there. I wanted to turn around and take one last look... but I couldn't. I wish I had.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “Spectacular Views” from the album The Execution Of All Things by Rilo Kiley

Jackson (Pt. V): Three-Pronged Attack Dog

We are using a three-pronged approach to this business with Jackson.

1. The Legal
The letter we received from the lawyers for the landlord company have given us until February 16 to remove the dog from our apartment or they will begin eviction proceedings. I've been in touch with a lawyer who has suggested that this case would be awfully tough to win. I had been trying to follow up with him for a few days, to keep him abreast on new developments, but he wasn't available to talk and slow to return my calls. When I finally did speak to him, he interrupted me in the middle of my explanation to ask: “Are you prepared to pay to pursue this?” I swear I heard the italics in his voice. I said, yes, and that I wanted to share more of what I could so that he can help me make a more informed decision about my next steps. He interrupted again and said, “I'm going to transfer you to a colleague of mine. Her name is Nancy Pghdsuyichsnoy” (that's how I heard it), “and she can better help you with this matter.” After bouncing around the switchboard, I finally got through to Nancy's voicemail and left a message. I haven't heard from her since. (This was Thursday.)

Simultaneously, my wife will again be calling the concerned, kind woman in the landlord company's legal department. She's been nice to us through this, even sharing some off-the-record, I'll-deny-ever-saying-this-if-I-have-to information with us that has been somewhat helpful. She has a dog and a young child at home so she's sympathetic to us. My wife is sweet and even-tempered when they talk on the telephone, which probably has something to do with her willingness to help as well. The next time S talks to her, she'll ask if there is a financial incentive that might make the landlord change his/her mind. As I've written before, there are approximately 20+ dogs in the building; this landlord has decided to crack down on new doggy tenants. (And we, as of today, have lived here for 71 days.) I'm not going to bankrupt us, but I know how much a lawyer's fees cost, as well as how much it would cost to move, and paying an extra month's rent every 12 months is still worth it -- and I don't care if it's cash, right into the LL's pocket.

Interesting side note: On Friday, we finally got a copy of our lease. (We signed it November 4th.) The landlord's office had told us not to expect it until mid-March. On page one of the 20-something-page document, imprinted in one-inch rubber-stamped letters, is “No Dogs Allowed.” This stamp wasn't on the document we signed. Admittedly, we were aware that the no dogs rule was contained in the paragraphs within it when we signed. But this disingenuous “message” they're sending us is a bit heavy-handed. And... is it even legal to alter a signed document ex post facto?

2. Craigslist
We've been trolling the site, looking for a new apartment. Must love dogs, as they say. This weekend, we stopped in and looked at a couple rentals, but in what we saw, we'd be sacrificing too many of H's needs. We also pulled up in front of an open house near Metropolitan Avenue, and S ran out to have a peek. I sat in the car with H and looked around. The house was sooo cute, three floors and a basement, and it's right near the village-y part of town. I was hoping S would open the car door and say, “You've got to come in and look at this, you're going to love it, and they're only asking....” Instead, she came out and told me I was lucky I didn't go inside. “It would have given you nightmares.” She described a filthy, smelly house, in which the current occupants slept and sat on the floors and had swastika-looking designs on the walls. She was fascinated that someone could be holding an open house and not bother to clean up. The house was in disarray and disrepair. And they're asking $650K.

You know how it is, the places read great on a webpage, but the reality is a whole other story. We'll keep looking about. It is just going to be hard to find something on par with a 3-bedroom, 2-bath, 1250+ sqft apartment with ten huge closets, zoned in a neighborhood with 3 of the top 5 schools in NYC. But we're looking, and that means a lot because, as a guy who's had 15 addresses in the last 21 years... I just want to fucking stay someplace.

3. The White Flag
It has to be considered. Giving up the fight and giving Jackson away to a good home. We learned about an interested family who are friends of a friend's boss, and contacted them last week. S set up a meeting for yesterday. They live quite a ways out on Long Island, out where you're never too sure if the next exit is farmland, wine country, or the beach.

The night before, I asked S if she could believe what we were about to do -- that we were considering giving up, and making our dog audition for a new home. I was sick to my stomach. During the one hour drive to their house, I had a POV adjustment: Jackson wasn't auditioning, this family was. If I didn't like them -- and before meeting them, I already didn't -- they wouldn't even get a chance to pet the dog. I went out there, totally prejudiced. I was not going to like them, and they had a HELL of a hill to climb to be considered worthy.

We got there and met. The short answer is: they are worthy.

The long answer is thus: They're a young couple with two sweet daughters -- a 3-year old and a 10-month old. They have a very nice house, clean, with a fenced-in yard. The husband and wife were very nice. As he greeted us on the front lawn, I was quick to say, “that harness on Jackson is not a muzzle.” And he said, “I know. It's a Gentle Leader.” Damn good start. Throughout our time there, I noticed the guy's interaction with his daughters; he is an attentive father, and not the kind of father who suddenly gets attentive when witnesses are around. (The tip-off is the dad who knows not just where the markers and crayons are, but when they need to come out, and when his child might like a cup of hot chocolate.) The guy has quite a bit of dog ownership experience; he's owned them, raised them, bred them. He even told me he was sympathetic to my feelings, as he's had to give a beloved dog away. (To his sister, while he was in college.) He knew plenty about dogs, even about the beagle tendencies like “reverse-sneezing.” (Which can sound like an asthma attack to the uninitiated, but bears no harm to the dog.) For his wife, this would be her first pet. Their situation is just like S and me, back when we got Jax in December 2001.

As excited as the older girl was about this friendly beagle in her house, she was perfectly indifferent. I expected to watch my dog's eyes bug out as she picked him up and squeezed a hug into him, or pulled his ears or paws. Nothing like that happened. She pet him a little, and let him be. She went about her business of being a 3-year-old in a house with toys.

Jackson enjoyed himself, exploring the rooms and the backyard. He sniffed everything, licked everyone who let him, and finally found a spot on the family's rug near the sliding glass doors to bask in the sun. We told the husband and wife all about him, and they loved what they heard. The wife was particularly happy to hear that Jax likes to be part of the family -- that he likes to sit on laps, watch you watch TV, and that he'd love to sleep in your bed if you let him.

The couple wanted to hear all about Jackson's habits, as well as the specifics of what he likes to eat, what treats he likes, etc. I got the strong sense that they wouldn't change his life around. They were also sincerely sympathetic to the pain of giving up our dog. To this end, they said a lot that eased our jangled nerves. He told us that any time we wanted to see Jackson, just let them know. “You're welcome to come over anytime you want, and we'll bring him to visit you whenever we're in the city, if you want.” A short while later, he went ten steps further. “Listen, I know how hard this is for you. I talked to my wife about this, and we want you to know that if you ever wanted to take Jackson back. We'd understand. I've even been explaining it to [his 3-year-old] that way. I told her, 'We'd just be watching Jackson, but he belongs to someone else.'”

I actually felt something tug at my heart. That's a tall order of emotional generosity, and probably more than a child should bear. I said, “Well... if Jackson came to live with you, he'd be your dog. I would never want to do to your family what my landlord is doing to us. I'd want your children to know Jackson is their dog.”

They were really great. Really great. The kind of people I could imagine would be friendly acquaintances of ours if our kids played in the same park or were on the same hockey team. They're like summer barbecue buddies. And, I left their home feeling at ease that if... IF Jackson had to move out, he'd have a great place to go. Hell, I don't even like admitting it, but in some ways that environment has more to offer him than we do. The success of yesterday's mutual audition took a big weight off my shoulders.

Some one of these three pursuits is going to come to fruition, and around February 17th, we'll know for sure which one.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “Rejection” from the album Come In And Burn Sessions (Disc 2) by Rollins Band

Jackson (Pt. IV): And Then My Heart Sank

Jackson and I came home from his afternoon walk today and S had some grave news for us. “The lawyer from [our apartment building's] management company called. They are sending out a letter that says they'll begin the legal process of eviction if Jackson isn't removed.”

So there it is. For the last five weeks or so, we've been status quo. We had been told (sincerely, but off-the-record) that we should wait it out, keep living as we were (with Jackson) and if there was any news, we'd hear from them (at the office) again. We were hoping to make it to the 90-day milestone, when the dog would be grandfathered and become a legal canine tenant. Today is Day 58, and now we're hearing again. The woman S spoke to today (the lawyer) said she's awfully surprised that the managing agent is pursuing this, but that the agent has decided to crack down on new dogs in the building.

I don't know what we're going to do. (Well, I know I will, at least, start by slipping into a deep funk.) I want to know more about my legal recourse. This building has about 20-30 dogs in it. Why does my family have to get torn apart, forced to follow a rule that others don't?

Since this all started up again, I keep thinking about how great my son and the dog are together, and my memory keeps striking back to December 15, 2001, when my wife grabbed the leash of her first-ever pet. Her smile was so pure and so dazzling. That moment was captured on video, and I made a photograph print of the very frame when she flashed that smile. I look at it every day.

Does anyone have any thoughts, any help or advice to offer?

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “Vengeance” from the album Burning Ambitions [A History Of Punk] Vol. 2 by New Model Army

Muzzle Yourselves

It happened in the old neighborhood, too, but here in the Anti-Canine Belt of Forest Hills, it's worse. I go out walking Jackson, and hear one of the following comments or questions:
1) Does he bite?!
2) Do he bite? Why he got a muzzle on then?
3) That dog must be vicious.
4) Beagles aren't mean... that dog shouldn't have a muzzle on.
5) Why do you have that muzzle on him?
6) What's that muzzle on his face?

It's annoying as hell, but at least these are the people who speak up or ask. I get a lot of dirty looks from people who just walk past silently. I watch moms and dads quickly pull their children out of the way of the oncoming “feral Beagle.” I think it's worse in this neighborhood, too, because it's not very dog-friendly in Forest Ills. The apartment building situation has been well-documented. But everywhere we go on our walks, I see signs warning that grass has been “chemically treated” to keep dogs away. (Um, poisoned?) One sign, near the YM-YWCA, shares the information that “dog waste transmits disease.” (To be fair, pet owners in this area aren't exactly helping their own cause. Are my wife and I the only ones who pick up their dog's business?)

So, anyway.

Stop asking. It's not a fucking muzzle. It's a Gentle Leader. Among its many benefits, it prevents Jackson from gagging himself when he pulls at the leash, because it puts the pressure on the back of his neck instead of the throat. It's not a fucking muzzle. He could bite. But he won't. I will.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “Punished or Be Damned” from the album Demos 1977-78 by Screamers, The

Jackson (Pt. III)

“...The lows are so extreme

That the good seems fucking cheap

And it teases you for weeks in its absence”

-- Rilo Kiley “A Better Son/Daughter” (Lyrics by Jenny Lewis)

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Here's the latest: This morning, the SuperSnitchtendent finally gave us the phone number for the landlord. And he said to ask for M-----. A woman's name. I felt a slight hopefulness. I thought that when my wife calls her to make a plea this landlord might respond to it emotionally. This might be sexist.

It was a little heartening; I had figured the landlord would be a man who would arrogantly repeat “rules are rules” while my wife tried to speak. Now, maybe this female landlord will care to listen to a description of the gentleness of our dog, and how attached to him our son is.

This might be sexist. I suppose I have a subconscious sexism that paints men as business-like and women as more receptive to an emotional appeal. I can't make this better right now. But it gave me slight hope this morning, and I'm holding on to that. I just want to keep our dog. I want this thick, dark cloud that's been with me since the day we moved in to burn off. I want to hear music again. I want to taste my food. I want to smell... the coffee. I can't keep my head up and I hate where I live.

S tried calling M a couple times while I was still home this morning, but she wasn't in yet. She thought it best not to leave a message, but to try again later. Now I'm sitting here typing this and waiting for the phone to ring. With a flaming cauldron in my gut.

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Tomorrow night is the show to which I have looked forward more eagerly than maybe any concert: The almighty X at Roseland Ballroom. But then, the shine has been taken off of even this by the Forest Hills and Jackson anxieties.

Jackson (Pt. II)

There's nothing much to report about Operation Keeping Our Beagle. We are waiting for the SuperSnitchtendent to call us with the phone number of the landlord. My wife will call the landlord and plead our case for keeping Jackson. He's a quiet, well-trained dog and our 1 1/2 year-old son is attached to him.

Plus many more talking points including, near the end, offers to pay extra monthly rent or an extra deposit. And a mention of the dozens of other dogs in the building. And, if all else fails, a plea to simply give us more time to find him a proper, loving home. Christmastime is an emotionally devastating time to be parting with your pup.

Because we've been given one week, and have just 6 days of it left, we need to simultaneously be working the phones and emails to find Jackson a loving home/new owner. And that's what we're doing; we're reaching out to friends and asking if they, or their friends are interested.

This. Hurts.

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Jackson's web page

Jackson

“That's the story of my life

That's the difference between wrong and right

But Billy said 'both those words are dead'

That's the story of my life.”

--- Velvet Underground, lyrics by Lou Reed

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This morning my wife opened a certified letter from our new landlord saying that we have one week to get rid of our family dog or an eviction process will begin.

This is heartbreaking.

Jackson has been part of our family since December 2001. Loving him, and the unconditional love he gave back, has gotten S and I through some really harsh and heavy times. His temperament is amazing, he gets along with other dogs, and loves people. He's wonderful with our son. (They've been sharing their play space since the baby was six months old.) He's been the perfect pet, and I always dreamt that he'd be our boy's best friend for years.

Our new apartment building has a No Pets policy. We knew this when we signed the lease last month. We also knew that there were an estimated 25 dogs already in the building. Residents we spoke to told us they've never been bothered about their pets. My wife and I thought it was an un-enforced, look-the-other-way rule. (Sort of like when the agent at the management company said the landlord didn't want a dishwasher installed, but what you do on your own -- no one has to know about it. Wink wink.)

He's a quiet dog, well-trained. All he needs is some food and a warm pillow to sleep upon. He likes to play, but he's just as satisfied watching the three of us play.

Last Friday, when S took him out for his morning walk, they bumped into the Superintendent, who reminded my wife about the no pets rule. He told her to think about what we were going to do with the dog. Then he added that he was sending a pair of workers up to our place to install child safety window-gates and replace our sink.

Within hours (we know now) the Super contacted the landlord and told him we had a dog, and the certified letter went out post-haste. We were dreadfully wrong to think we'd safely skate by like everyone else in the building, and I feel such a load of guilt about this. My poor, sweet dog. But on the other hand, why us? With so many dogs in the building, why would they select us to make an example of? It seems unfair.

S spoke to the Super again this afternoon, and he told her he's new, and didn't want to get in trouble for allowing dogs, like the previous Super did.

And now.

The BoyDog who brings our family so much happiness and is such a loving companion for our toddler... must go.

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I've been reaching out to friends all day. Looking for advice, help. I just don't know how to get my brain -- or my heart -- around this.