Apartments 3, 4, el Cinco, and 6

I love going out on H Street. There are so few idiots at this point- it's like someone filtered all the interns and asshats out of Adams Morgan. Not a popped collar for miles. So I thought an apartment close to H Street would be the apartment of my dreams. Let me sum up apartment three by saying: crushed dreams. That is what this apartment was built of. A low slung paste-box of an apartment, the floor was coming up from water damage, the ceiling was about seven foot, the dimensions of the rooms were mean. Also, smelled funky. I wanted it to be so good- right off of H Street, near some funky bars, a few coffee shops, and a rib joint. Who doesn't need ribs in this city? Everyone needs ribs. But it was not to be. Also, two seconds after I arrived, the familiar drone of yet another idiot asking for change started up. "Hey man, can-ah you spare some coin? For me to ride the bus?" I told him that I was from the future where change was outlawed. He stared at me for a moment, and continued to weave down the street. Blah blah, people who are just now firing up their email to yell at me about how we should celebrate the urban-ness that getting asked for change indicates, shut it. It bothers me to no end and it always will.

Apartment four I never even went into. I have no idea what lurked behind its citadel-inspired walls, but I don't want to living in a building where the first thing you see when you walk up to the front door is a gigantic metal sign that states:

NO SMOKING, DRINKING, TALKING, DISCUSSING, SITTING, LOITERING OR STAYING ON THE FRONT WALK OR STEPS.

I like most of those things. Why can't I do them on the front step of my apartment building? No less repellent was the small sign taped to the inside of the glass

Please call 911 to remove any loitering persons from the stoop, even if they are residents of the building. The police are responsible for enforcing this code. Do not call the management.

So what, I am going to pay to live in a police state? I think no.

Apartment El Cinco, as I call it, had a great location: directly across from the Consulate of Honduras, on 10th Street. I mean, the neighborhood was kind of crap, but it was so close to other neighborhoods, who cares, plus if I ever need some Honduran visa work done, I was in the right place. The building manager, Jose, was totally awesome too, and he gave me the lowdown on how to get the lease approved even if I had bad credit as soon as he learned that we could conduct the tour in Spanish. Too bad the apartment was the size of my shoe.

Ahhh, sweet apartment six. I thought you would be the one for me. Great Capitol Hill address, close to fun bars and restaurants, close to a grocery store, in a well managed building with a ROOF TERRACE! Everything was coming up Milhouse! (This is my new phrase. I try to use it once a day at present.) Apartment was so small, with broken floor boards and a kitchen that was the size of an airplane galley. Also, we, as the renters, would be required to sign a year lease, but the owner wanted to sell the unit as soon as she could, which in DC can be done with only four months notice. So basically, we agree to pay her every month for a year, but she agrees that after four months, she might sell it to some other asshat. Maybe I would rather stick sharp pokers into my eye. On second though, into her eye.

That's all for apartment hunt round-up for today. If you want two totally cute gay boys to live in your house (while paying minimal rent and being generally odd), feel free to email me.