Kurt Almighty For those of you who enjoyed my prior flood, you will be pleased to note I have already had a “flood” in my new condo. If you're wondering, Kirsten is my sister, who does not love me. It seems as if every apartment I have lived in San Diego has been flooded at some point. From Mt. Ada Rd. which leaked during a rain, or even a thick fog, to my Noahnian flood at Legacy, I cannot seem to escape my fate. The day after my entire family, with the lone exception of Kirsten, left I awoke in my usual moving-up-4-flights-of-stairs induced deep-body ache and staggered meaningfully towards the kitchen to wreak cleanliness upon the devastation that was my new kitchen. The kitchen was left a truly brobdingnagian mess by my ravenous kin, with the lone exception of Kirsten, and I put my aching muscles to work repairing the epic destruction. Utilizing the ancient Chinese art of Tetris, I filled the dishwasher. The resulting load warped space and time in the vicinity of the dishwasher to such a degree that my microwave clock was running noticeably slower than the clock on my Tivo. The result was that a carefully planned route around my living room would lead to me arriving upstairs before I actually closed escrow. Those of you who have seen my fearsome stairs will understand why I did not toy with time travel, not even to kill my mother. Having loaded my dishwasher in such a relativistic manner, I began the wash (Quantum cycle, of course, with extra heat). Shortly thereafter (or, due to the extreme warping of space-time, it may have been before) there came a knocking, a knocking upon my front door. “Tis some solicitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my front door.” While I pondered, weak and weary, over many a stair of which I was leery, the knocking began once more… Currsing mightily I plunged downstairs and into the thicker air. Upon my doorstep stood a repairman, who looked beleaguered, and implored “leak!” and nothing more. Crap. So they began examining my shiny, new condo and discerned that the leak must be coming from improperly connected pipes in the dishwasher. The remedy was straightforward – rip off the toestops, punch holes in the drywall and set up a number of fans and dehumidifiers which running in concert sound an awful lot like a Harrier jet engine at full throttle ingesting a lot of very surprised ducks. At this point, I am concerned that my condo is violating FAA regulations somehow. The current situation is that the jet engines and ducks are probably going to be here until Monday. The drywall and paint should be repaired by Thursday. And finally, with the lone exception of Kirsten, who was not here, I blame everyone for causing the leak.