2004-05-01 - 3:01 a.m.
It feels as if I should say at least something in defense of the home I've so heartlessly maligned in past posts. Despite its symbolism it is rather love-er-ly.
I've lived in New York for two years. I've always intended to be the responsible renter, polling different brokers, reading the ads a month or two early to catch up with current trends in the market, maybe even make a few visits to Craig's list in the hope that three extremely well off record producers need to sublet their brother's bedroom while he vacations in the Poconoes...
These high faluten plans fall through inevitably...sometimes literally. (My first apartment burned down. My second was wrenched out from under me when my landlord took issue to the fact that I played "Bowling for Colombine" too loudly one night. ) Two years in a row I've had one week to find a place to live.
Most recently, a "dead lock" on a cheap as fuck sublet in the "good part" of Washington Heights, fell through at the last possible moment thanks to the genius of a man who shall remain nameless, both here and on the grave stone I'll construct for him after I turn his bones into a creamy milk shake and pour the remains into a ditch.
It was at this point that I turned to the dreaded broker with his, well there's this place that opened up in bay ridge, and don't forget my ten percent and...
I cannot bitch too terribly as my broker has been more than helpful on more than one occation, saving me a good stack of bills. I can say that I would have hoped he would have brought a box of tissues to our first negotiation. I begin to understand why women consider men so unromantic and inconsiderate. Some Listerine too much, bulgy pants?
First of all, one must note the mathmatical failures...the building was five blocks away from my old apartment, not three, and the apartment was on the sixth floor, not the fourth.
It's that sixth floor in an apartment without an elevator that stands the greatest obsticle. I've gotten used to it, and garnered myself self-dubbed 'thighs of steel.' Though I'll admit, as a smoker...my lungs aren't feeling so carefree as my legs. The Sherpa climb has greatly lessened the women who'll hook up with me.
Random Note: Why is it that it is always the fourth floor when I start to get tired?
Four rooms, railroad style, and a big bright shiny window in each of them. This sounded nice enough until one mentioned the collection of piping running along serveral walls, each strolling in at about sixty-six degrees celcius. That or the white paint offset by white floors. The fact that the toilet backs up and sends one hell of a stench through the bathroom, or the general lack of a shower head...or occationally water.
One need not mention my additions, such as the thirty dollar, looks like a yellow paisly tie, fugliest love seat you've ever seen. The ricketty table, or unopenable cabinets need not be described.
Still living onthe sixth floor in BK has its advantages...teh way the sunlight catches on every wall and bounces around like a crack-addled tennis ball.
When people come over, I tell them, put one foot on my foot locker and one on that chair. Looking at the clean pane of my bedroom window you can see the sunset over brooklyn.
Somehow that makes up for a lot of things.
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