Letter from New Haven

Fresh in from New Haven, this update from my roommate Daniel Mochimbo Kanataka:

So I’m currently trapped in my bedroom. Like R Kelly, if the closet were really big and if I had a gun. A saga in five acts.

Act 1: Mid-December. [The Llama] leaves a giant bag of potatoes that we’d bought for our last balcony bbq in our coat closet, next to his bedroom.

[I dispute this. You're the potato man and you know it, Dan.--Ed.]

Act 2: Holiday Break. The potatoes linger, then rot.

Act 3: Early January. [The Llama] notes that something smells funny is in the coat closet, figures Dan spilled some kind of cleaning fluid. Addresses situation by closing closet door.

Act 4: Yesterday. The unholy stench begins to break through its feeble cage. Dan inquires into the death and disposal of any animals or small children over on [the Llama]’s side of the apartment. [The Llama] tries to figure out what is the source of the pungent fragrance. Fails. Leaves for Peru.

[This is true.]

Act 5: Today. Dan initiates a search of his own. First finds puddle of brown rotten potato juice. Then finds potatoes. Weeps. Cleans. But the smell lingers. So he sets up a fan to air out the closet. But the stench has to go somewhere. So he opens the sliding door to the balcony. Where it’s 21 degrees out. And the whole living room starts to stink. So Dan holes himself up in his bedroom, emerging only to run to the kitchen, grab coffee, and run back.

Such is life man. Rotten potatoes happen. I told you I smelt something in there. Thanks for taking care of that, it's awful nice of you.