Having seen the musical Rent, and having listened to Fugazi, and having generally been the victim of a liberally minded education, I always considered evictions a crime of evil, heartless landlords perpetrated against honest, unlucky citizens who were trapped in a cycle of oppression.
As it turns out, evictions are like birthdays! What I mean is, when I went over to Kriston's on Friday to take the dog for a walk, and the landlord came by to announce that the cocaine-peddling, prostitution-ring spearheading, phone box blowtorching, illegal-cable extorting, steel-toed tap-dancing cyberqueen upstairs was about to be evicted, well! It felt like someone had just given me a present.
Now, Christmas would be if the city would finally condemn Ye Olde Neighborhood Cracke Haus, so that the proprietor, Joe, and his delightful friendly callers would have to take their business elsewhere. Of course, I pity anyone who bought Joe's place and renovated it. I'm sure they'd suffer months of toothless drifters with wild eyes banging fists on the doors and windows, screaming "JOE! OPEN UP! JOE!"