Live on facebook: Singing for supper and the payback boys

We now return to our signal sessions to Mediapart and the Laske desk.

Where ever, James Hetfield, —i may ROAM

… [L]et’s play Ketch-up, get it? It’s a Pulp Fiction reference, anyhow Mr. Laske, i’d like to apologize because in my panorama of consequences i thought that by Friday —week last— i would be rendering the requested documents to get through your Stonewall gate, in plain–text, that translates to satisfying your company’s receptionist “to-do list”.

Sin embargo, [that’s néanmoins en Español like in the Mexican restaurant that you can see if you look our your window on rue Crozatier] it doesn’t matter how fast or how expeditiously i try to obtain an official document for your company’s receptionist, the fact of the matter is that the pole positioning in this race will be determined by the public servant or clerk sitting or listening on the other side of the intercom or desk.

With that in mind, please note that the underground RATP room from which i had been transmitting since the first lock-down [at least] was “condemned” this past Monday morning by an array of motley uniforms from different security companies and a couple of familiar suits. I happened to have catch those gentleman as i was exiting the facilities, JOE, a fellow Île de La Reunion SDF, was still in the bathroom washing his face as they went in through this door where, later-that-night [i might disclose] i re-arranged the space where my head loses consciousness because of them fucking REM’s.

The security guards and management personal seemed to have brought a competent locksmith this time around, back in late June or early July the stainless steel door was installed but the opening (door handle) was installed on the corridor side, not on the side of the threshold that the door lock is supposed to seal from ALL OF THE ELEMENTS that roam the underground.

Last night, very late in the wee-hours, “Bamako” a fellow from Mali, opened the door from the inside as i was trying to get some sleep, here’s the CATCH, earlier in the day after returning from “la police de la police” headquarters on the 12th arrondissement, to eat my DAYTIME SOUP at the RATP underground, an pair of workers who identified themselves as an ASBESTOS monitoring crew also opened that same stainless steel door.

FULL-disclousure, upon my arrival at about noon, i heard a lot of hammering and pounding coming from the other side of a now CORRECTLY installed one-way door knob, a few minutes later the pounding stops and i heard voices on the other side of the stainless steel door, it was a duo of contracting gurus, and as usual and like other contract workers that i have met in the past 3 years or so, whom i have met in this section of the Parisian underground floor, which i refer to as MY Squat, the two were rather nice. I asked if i could retrieve my folding chair as i saw one of those workers walking out with a metal stool that i used to place at the table from where i used to photograph food and whole bunch of other stuff, but mostly books and food.

The nice gentleman said yes and so i retrieved my folding chair and some dirty Laundry that i could not retrieve last Monday, when the Les Halles suits and the RATP fire and safety crew arrived to once again, “condemned” that section of the -4 floor plan.

Anyhow, Mr. LESKE, last night, when Bamako opened the stainless steel door from the inside, i used the opportunity to run to the lavabo and wash my hands. To my surprise the bathroom had been reshaped, the electric tubing that feeds into a pair of hand dryers had been pulled from the wall, the tile SMASHED with what clearly showed to be the random ball-pin hammer strikes to the walls and floors, AND GET THIS, all of the locks for the doors in the now locked floor plan had been removed an laid spread throughout on the floor, as if a demolition crew was playing “food fight” with these.

Bamako suggested that he opened the door for me to go back in an sleep in that old WORK (jazz) sessions room, he told me when i asked of him “at what time he was going to get up”, since he actually sleeps at normal hours and is an early raiser, —but Bamako cut me off and informed me that he was not sleeping at “the squat” this particular night, that he was there just to open the stainless steel door for me, how Nice.

So I proceeded to step out into the corridor (again) and i locked the door after me, but not before retrieving my broom, and other cleaning supplies that i use to keep this fucking place tidy’ed up… for the record, on Monday afternoon, after the RATP/Mall security team locked every possible entry to my now condemned squat there was no possible way those premises could be opened without the KEY… or kicking the godDamned door in, so there is that.

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