My landlord dropped by this morning just as Germany was driving in the final nail into the hearts of 67 Million Koreans. A bit early if you ask me. I was heavily drugged up on two pots of coffee, a half a box of golden grams and two Turkish crisps when he stumbled through my back door with a tub of plaster and a trowel. He looked frantic and determined to get to work. I was teetering on the verge of an athletic collapse in the 82nd minute of play. I threw him a crisp, muttered something to him about the possibility of my rent being hella late this coming month and then demanded that he fix the sprayer on my sink that Kelly broke as part of her weekly dismemberment plan of my possessions (first it was my mushroom lamp, then the mirror, my computer, and last – my sink sprayer). He mouthed a few words that were drowned out by the determined fans of Korea. Man that country is going to be horse for a week solid.

I’m always the first stop on my landlords rounds. He’s great. Really. No slum lord he. It’s become a weekly ritual now. He stops by just as the coffee’s piping hot and I got booty amounts of bagels, crisps or jelly rolls out on the counter. I was more polite before the world cup started. He obviously doesn’t give a damn about soccer and can’t wait to get on with his daily “projects”. I guess the cracks in the plaster behind the tub have gotten to him as he’s already got a fresh start on the fissure repair when I give him the red card and demand some bathroom time. Denver. I feel like i’ve been in Korea all morning watching the game. I’m exhausted already and now I’ve got to put on the other game face and try to pass as employee, friend, and creative upright citizen.

He doesn’t seem to mind the pause in his work. I can hear him going for his third donut. I wonder if he thinks about wheather Brazil’s got what it takes to put away Turkey.