I Hate Apartment Hunting.

$850 / 6br - So Unbelievable, It's Not Even True!

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Reply to: hous-360724404@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-26, 1:14PM EDT


This is an amazing property, so amazing it couldn't possibly exist! Or could it? I am a real estate agent, so nothing I say can be remotely trusted, or even considered based in reality! There are six huge bedrooms, a yard, pool on the roof, lots of light, gourmet kitchen, maid's quarters, six full baths, a living room, lounge, dining room, library and the whole thing is made of gingerbread. You are going to love it! It's cozy, yet spacious. Traditional yet modern! Cheap yet expensive! It's the paradox of housing! SO hurry up and apply for this amazing property in your minds eye! Application fee: First Born Child.

350 at M St NW google map yahoo map

• cats are OK - purrr
• dogs are OK - wooof
• Location: AdMo/USt/HSt/CapHill
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 360724404

Apartment Update

Yeah, I don't really know what is going on. A place that we applied to, waited for, and then never heard from and had written off, called and said they were close to a decision. I had to ask the guy to repeat the address. He seemed shocked I wasn't still waiting with baited breath two weeks later. HELLO PEOPLE. WE WERN'T APPLYING FOR FUN.

We saw a place on Saturday that is *perfect* (Apartment No. 20). I will wait to describe it, as I, while normally being a rational person, have decided to suspend disbelief and engage in cognitive dissonance, and I think that telling you about it would spread the bad karma, and I would be punished by having this perfect apartment burn to the ground, or given to some idiot with a popped collar and pleated kakhi pants.

What's the patron saint of apartment hunters? I feel like I need to be buying some candles from the hispanic section of Giant and burying a statue of some saint in the yard.

Goodbye, Grandpa.

I buried my grandfather on Tuesday. It's been a tough year for grandfathers. When I moved back from Asia, I still had four grandparents. That's a lot of grandparents for any 29 year old. I was lucky to have known them. But in the year since I moved back, two decided that was enough and died. So now I am left grandfatherless. It takes some getting used to.

My grandpa was a hilarious person, who was always playing tricks on people and told terrible, truly groan worthy jokes, normally punctuated by either a lewd body part or a racial slur. I know. Racial slurs are bad. But old people have to be forgiven because, much like babies, sometimes they are stupid. My grandpa called me catfish. It was unclear as to why he called me this, but it seemed to make sense at the time. It made me feel special that he should have this special name for me.

My grandpa barbecued as if someone was going to pry his Weber grill out of his hands at any moment; he smoked meatloaf, roasted vegetables, and charred many a beast, all while holding a cold Schlitz. He loved Royals baseball, even though they have been the worst team ever since they won the world series when I was in first grade (that was in 1984, for those of you convinced that the Royals have always sucked and always will). He liked to talk about world war two. It was important to him that he had done something good for his country. He was always a patriot, a true patriot- the kind that understands that saying the president is wrong and standing up for what you believe in is the essence of patriotism, not treason.

He can be summed up this way: he wasn't the president, but then again, he didn't want to be. He was happy to have a roof, some family around, and a little extra to spend on ribs and cold beer. He lived a good life. He was faltering at the end, connected by a mortal coil of oxygen tubes. I think he was ready to go. This is what we tell ourselves. We don't know if they were ready. But we hope they were.

My grandma spoke with brevity what I could take pages to explain:

“He was a good man and a good husband. We had a lot of fun. We did the best we could with what we had. We had a good run.”

I hope to do as well.

Nonsensical Twittering from on High

Thirty thousand feet above Michigan, I realize what it is that has been bothering me since I sat down in my seat. I am being conveyed back to the Midwest by the Midwest. They quiet politeness of the people on the plane, the general pasty whiteness of the passengers, the announcements spoken with just a hint of that nasal, long-voweled accent: these are my

people flying this plane. They know what hotdish is and when you bring it to your neighbors.

I find that airlines often reflect the nature of the country and culture they serve. Sometimes it is a deliberate attempt to stand apart from their competitors, but it is more interesting when it truly reflects the people that run the airlines. The Thais joke a lot, the Japanese are obsequious and happy to serve, Germans efficient and clipped. Most American airlines treat you as if you are an accidental inconvenience and should be dispatched as quickly as possible, which, while not complimentary, is the way Americans like to deal with most service situations. Think of American airlines as simply an extension of our post office.

“You want what? A stamp? What the hell are you doing here at the post office then? Here you go, a stamp. Don't say I never did anything for you.”

Just replace 'stamp' with 'a seat to San Diego' and you could easily be having this conversation at the airport.

Before friends scream that I am being crazy, that there are plenty of asshats from the Midwest, that I am just protecting the home clan, let me disclose: I am from the middle. I don't want to live there anymore, but now that I am an adult I can see things more clearly. Yes, it might be stifling sometimes, but people are nicer. People are more friendly. It might be flat, there might not be that much going on, we might talk about the weather a lot, but things are easier. Am I saying that if the Midwest was as crowded and busy as the East Coast that things wouldn't be the same? No. I am sure that people would be total jerks and owning property would be a sacrifice of great pain, just like it is in our fair city of Washington. But it's not.

A Midwestern airline, it seems, is no different. From the moment I called them on the phone, the agent was all concern and worry (I was calling about a ticket to a funeral). “What a terrible loss for your family! Gosh! I am so sorry.”. The 'o' in her 'sorry' was so long I almost cried. “Let's get you on a plane, boy howdy, right this minute! Ohhh! Are you from Milwaukee? My son has a friend that has that same last name- do you know a Joe in Milwaukee?”. It touched me, stupidly, that this woman would immediately recognize that I was one of us, and assume (correctly) that I wouldn't think it was unfathomable that I would have a cousin in Milwaukee named Joe and that he was her son's friend. I don't, but don't be fooled- it could have been true. This was the kind of thing that annoyed me when I was younger. They flight attendants were painfully chipper and helpful, my fellow passengers as unobjectionable as possible. It's our motto: be unobjectionable and nice. Also, don't think you are better than anyone else. Cause you're not. There is no first class on this plane Everyone on the plane had seats that were wider than normal coach seats, but narrower than normal first class seats, leather upholstered with wide armrests- the Midwestern motto made real, in plane seat form.

But don't get any ideas- we're not better than you. Just our airline is.

The other shoe drops.

Quicker than anyone thought, my Grandpa died. Not so quietly, it sounds, but not painfully either. Maybe with a stroke, maybe with a heart attack. Either way, he's gone, as of last night, in the early, early hours.

My plane leaves tomorrow.

Basement Living Round-Up

Yee Haaaw Cowboys! I'm ready for a drink! And it's not even three pm yet!

Here's how Craphole 17, Turdcave 18, and Apartment 19 turned out.

Craphole 17? It was pretty much a crap hole. It did have one redeeming feature that I totally loved: the open sump pump well. I mean, really, what else would I want behind my refrigerator if it wasn't an open hole in the ground through which flood waters poured? I know! A hole full of water that has an ancient ELECTRIC PUMP in it! I can't wait to grab the refrigerator door one morning while making coffee only to be electrocuted, which would of course short out the pump, which would cause my apartment to slowly fill with water, floating my lifeless corpse out onto 13th Street. Where do I sign?

Turdcave 18. OK, I am being over dramatic here. There were no turds in this cave. In fact, someday it might make a very nice evil laboratory for an evil genius. A 4'11 evil genius.

Apartment 19. This apartment was one of those apartments that is a fake out basement. When the agent turned down the steps, I almost beat them to death with a rolled up copy of the Post classified. I'm glad I didn't. The ceilings were of a good height, the front room was pretty big and had two large windows at the end that let in a lot of light. They are in the process of laying new tile through out. The bedroom and the kitchen were both pretty good size, although the kitchen had a strange angle to it. And there were blessed closets. The apartment was still in remodeling mode, meaning the tile work wasn't done yet and the bathroom and kitchen were pretty filthy. But this place has potential. And here in lies the problem with apartment hunting for two, solo. The boyfriend has seen two apartments. Wait, no, make that three now. I have seen nineteen. I think I can safely say that I have a more realistic grasp on what our price constraints will procure. We saw apartment 19 separately, thus, the following conversation. Apologies to J, who, even being a picky bastard at times, is really the love of my life.

SB: That was a pretty good place, don't you think? Lot's of light!
J: Well, I turned all the lights off and it seemed pretty gloomy.
SB: Well, it has a window in every room, and there are a lot of shade trees in the back yard, so it's not direct sunlight.
J: Still, seemed not very welcoming. So dark.
J: Plus, I am not sure about all that tile work. White tile? Yuck.
SB: It's better than the brown linoleum underneath it, right?
J: Hmmmmm.
J: It's just hard to tell. I am sure we'll find something better.
SB: No, you mean *I'll* find something better for the both of us.
J: Yeah.

K thx bai!

I, Hypocrite.

Sometimes, when I am tired, I ride my bike through a busy part of town after work and I judge people. Everyone else is crap because I ride my bike, and no one else does. All those drivers, cutting each other off and blocking up the streets. I shake my head in mock disgust, I the enviromentalist kick-ass guy, and everyone else monsters who hate the earth. Then, because everyone else is stuck in traffic, I weave in and out, demonstrating the superiority of me, both morally and in my mode of transit.

Then I ride two more blocks and take the bus home.

Apartment Hunting : Like An Autumn Leaf Falling into a Pool

In the Japanese school of thought, the secret to a happy life is to ensure that your way of living keeps you in harmony with the rest of the world. It's called keeping the Wa. Wa is when everything is in balance. Any move you make should be like a leaf falling into a pool: gently, with out reverberation. In that spirit, my last five apartment viewings, in serial haiku form.

Apartment Twelve

I'm sorry we broke
your country, Vietnamese
Man. But really dude

You have balls of brass
to ask $1100
for a deep dark hole.

Maybe this is a
vain attempt to pay us back?
Not cool. Let it go.

Apartment Thirteen

McWhat. Ad sez one
bedroom in nice building.
Building is on fire.

Apartment Fourteen

Wait, what? Oh, yes please!
Nice and spacious. Hardwood floors.
I'm writing a check.

Oh, this apartment
is 250 more
than advertised? Hmm.

I HATE YOU I HATE
YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU
I HATE YOU. GOOD BYE.

Apartment Fifteen

What ever. I'll take it.
It's fine. Here's my check. Take it.
What's that? Other people?

They want it too? She
clerks for Ruth Bader Ginsberg?
Uhhhh, I can eat my

Weight in pork rinds. Oh.
You are giving it to her.
That's fine. You die now.

Apartment Sixteen

Angry faces look at
Me as I cruise by on my
Bike. I hear "Whitey".

It was the first time
anyone ever said that.
To me. Did not like.

Apartment Seventeen

I am so tired
I could weep. Broken floor, leaks,
bugs. No. Never. No

In retrospect, this was nothing like a leaf falling into a pool of still water. Really, it was more like a fat man cannonballing into a pool filled with old people.

The Japanese have
the wrong idea about
apartment hunting.

Fuck going gently
into the night. Rage and angst
are what is needed.

We have to move out in 17 days. Holy crap.

One Year On

Well, it's been a year this last weekend last month (I've been lazy with this reflecting business) since I moved to DC, and a year and a month two months since I walked across that bridge from Matamoros in Mexico to El Paso. What has happened in this last year, the year of our return, the year of the homecoming? To preface, it had been four years since I had lived here, and five since J had. It's not like we had been exiled for forty years, but still, it's interesting to come home after so long away. It gives you an ability to see what you might have missed before. It is not always pleasant, but neither are we. We, as a people, are as much the sum of our flaws as the sum of our virtues. The emotional tint of our shared reality had disappeared, because when I got back, it was no longer a shared reality. Now of course, I enjoy an evening of jew-baiting before driving my hummer home and writing a check to the Republican party. See? The east coast isn't so different.

Crossing the border, we had come up from Monterrey by bus. We took an old school bus painted pink from the bus station to the border check point, and sat down to have one last coke from a glass bottle and smoke one last cigarette before crossing the border (sorry mom). We'd been living out of backpacks for over a year at that point. I would like to say that I was emotionally attached to my backpack and my nomadic way of life, but really I wanted to tip the contents into an incinerator and sit on a couch and watch TV for a couple of days. Still, it was sad to sit there and imagine that it was all over, that it would be the last day of this adventure. Plus, my palms were sweating because I was going to ask J to be my husband/partner/what-ever-the-kids-are-calling-it-these-days and thought my head was going to explode. I think I feel more sad about it now then I did then. I was really looking forward to seeing my brother L and the lovely K, and J and I were both VERY excited about using their washing machine, getting haircuts, buying some non-travel related clothes, and eating cheese. So much cheese we ate.

Dear Asia: learn about cheese. You'll thank me.

The border control agent on the US side didn't even bother opening my passport. He just asked me how long I had been in Mexico, and if I had any booze. He was very concerned with my booze consumption, not so much with the positively identifying me as a citizen. Hm. Well, whatever. If we quit buying washing machines, the terrorists win anyway, so might as well let this slide. We arrived in Brownsville and checked into our Red Roof Inn.

I'm going to need you to go ahead and show me your booze. Also, before I allow you back into the country, you'll have to buy a washing machine. On credit. At an unwise interest rate.

My brother had previously apologized over the phone profusely that this was a cheap, crappy place and they were sorry it wasn't nicer, but that it was only for one night, and they hoped it would be ok. When the door swung open on our sterilized palace, J and I laid on the huge, clean beds and laughed that we could ever think that this wonderland of free soap and clean sheets and spotless white towels and cable tv and air conditioning could be roughing it. We jumped on the beds, showered in the bathroom that was clean enough to eat off of, shaved, and generally tried to scrape off the dirt of the last couple months. Then we ordered pizza and drank beer laying on fresh, white sheets. Can you see that I was slightly obsessed with clean sheets? And hot water! So much endless hot water!

The last year has been that first afternoon in that hotel over and over. Somethings were things I was excited to come home to (wine, cheese, driving cars), and somethings I was less welcome to see (overconsumption, Redneck Ignorance, not-seeing-the-forest-for-the-trees-GO-USA!). It's been an adjustment, to both DC and to the United States. The lessons I learned this year? We engage in a lot of navel gazing. We like to talk about God, but not really pay attention to what he might be instructing us to do. Advertising is taking over our country. Safeway is the best grocery store, ever. Americans think the world likes us a lot more than they actually do. No one is sure what the American Dream really means anymore. We have a higher standard of living than we think we do, and a much lower quality of life than we should. We are so rich our money runs off our backs, slips off of our skin, drops from our pockets: we have more than any place I have ever been. We should remember that.

It's good to be home, though. I missed chocolate-chip cookies.