A few weeks ago, the news story was published about a woman who walked into her bathroom one day, and just decided to stay. She took a seat, and for two years, she sat on the toilet, until eventually, her skin grew around the toilet seat, linking her to it. Her partner commented that he thought that when she went into the bathroom, she would be out soon, but the minutes stretched into hours, days, weeks, months, and that it just became a way of life for them. Everything was normal, except that she was stuck on the toilet. Things become so weird, and you don’t know how to cope with them, so you eventually start to think they’re normal. Then one day, someone walks into your bathroom and you realize the anomaly of your situation. “Hello Mr. Fireman. What brings you into my bathroom today?”
Gradually, over the past few months, the city water supply to our home has diminished. We already only get water for an hour a day, but for years it’s been enough to fill our tank. Now, every few weeks, the tank runs dry. I call the ever-ready trouble desk at the utility. I say something like, “Salutations. Thou art hearkening to the namesake of biblical kings. I summon thee from yonder naval knoll. Liquid hath gone thither. Wherefore art thy words to bring peace to puzzled souls?” As expected, the answerer at the trouble desk says, “huh?” So I repeat myself, word for word.. “Hello. This is David Khorram. I’m calling from Navy Hill. Our water has run out. Can you help us.” Well, if I’m going to say the same thing, then the answerer is going to say the same thing. He responds, “huh?” This will go on for several exchanges, each time with me using fewer words to simplify the description of the situation, until finally, I’m down to “Nothing water Navy Hill.” The response: “Call back tomorrow.” I call back tomorrow. We do it all over again. Day after day, this exchange takes place with high anticipation of a different outcome. But every day, it ends with the same Shakespearean quote rambling in my head -- “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.” I find myself getting used to the absence of a solution. So, we’ve been paying an extra $100 or so a month to have water delivered to our home when we run out. “Hello Mr. Fireman. Why are you bringing a crowbar into my bathroom today?”
I’ve been doing some work with a freelance graphic artist who lives in a country where snow is currently falling on the ground. All of his work is for clients that live around the world, all done through the internet. I was going to suggest to him that he move to
Let’s just fix it. Power and water. Those are some pretty basic first steps toward calling yourself a developed “investor friendly” “tourist friendly” “resident friendly” place. C’mon guys. It’s time to pry ourselves off the toilet seat.