Engineering by the Gays

Our apartment was assaulted by the rain this weekend. No, not rain. A monsoon. Of Indian proportions. I felt like we needed a wedding to qualify for this type of deluge.

And our apartment is worse for the wear. A lot of water decided to come through the window casement and pour all over the floor. Hurray! I was at work, so J. had to do some emergency rigging to keep the water off of our precious and ever-soluble Ikea furniture. Seriously, I fear that our Poang chair would melt into a pile of paste if we let it moisten. J. did a fantastic job using nothing but trash bags, blue painter's tape, towels, and some buckets. Impressive.

Art posing as Form.

And as a reward, now begins a long process of repair in which builders will demolish the front wall of our apartment and mess up our beautiful paint job, while simultaneously forcing us to live in a cloud of plaster dust. Excellent!

How much do we REALLY need to fix this? Can't we just ignore it? You know, throw a towel over it or something?

Shiny and New Update

The boxes have been lifted, the furniture has been hoisted and wrangled, all of the odds and ends hunted down and thrown into bags where they will most assuredly never be found and will perish when I get tired of looking at all of the unpacked things. Thanks to the friends that helped, we even got done in record short time. Now comes the part where everything must be sorted and put away.

A place for everything, but most things on the floor.

Apartment, Found.

At long last, the contract is signed, the ink has dried, and a breathtaking sum of money has been wired to the landlord. We have a new place to live.

After looking at 32 apartments (that's right. Thirty-two. Not a typo.), one worked out. It's a one bedroom with a great kitchen only three blocks from the metro. It's a hundred dollars more than we wanted to spend, but considerably better than anything else that we saw.

What have I learned from looking at thirty-two apartments in our nation's capital? Oh, I've learned a lot. Get a drink.

(1) Real estate agents are full of shit. At all times. They speak a language that, while similar to standard English, is not really English.

(a) Cosy means so small you can cook a delicious omlette while simultaneously bathing.
(b) Charming means decrepit.
(c) One Bedroom sometimes means an apartment with one, separate room for sleeping, but it also means studio, efficiency, one big room for everything, or livingroom with attached closet that you could sleep in if you were 4'2. Studio and efficiency also have variable meanings, but often they mean closet with a stove and a toilet.
(d) You are going to love it means "this building is currently on fire".

(2) People who own property are incapable of telling the truth about their own buildings.
(3) "Convenient to Metro" indicates that, from the property in question, it would be convenient to be able to fly to the station, because otherwise you are looking at a half hour walk.
(4) People don't like it when you point out what can generously be called embellishments, but more honestly can be called lies:

Agent: "This apartment is a steal for 1400 dollars! It's metro adjacent and has alot of charm!"
Me: "It's in Anne Arundel County. And there is a racoon living in the ceiling."
Agent: "Well, the owners might not like to rent to a person with a negative attitude."
Me: Punching the agent in the head until their ears bled.

(5) You will hate finding an apartment more than almost any other thing you have to do in life.
(6) Karma does not apply to the real estate market. Mother Theresa would be hard pressed to find an affordable one bedroom in this town.
(7) This process will be easier if you just break in a window and squat in an unused condo. I know that's what I am going to do next time.




So, up next! Moving fun! Plus, a chance to explore our new neighborhood, Capitol Hill. Huzzah!

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.

Weekend Update: Apartments Nine, Ten, Love's Labor Lost, And Eleven

And we continue. I rode my trusty stead, Calvin (I name all vehicles. Even other people's vehicles), over to Capital Hill to meet an estate agent who, I would later learn, was riding the short bus. But first things first. Apartment Nine: Big rooms, nice layout, new carpet. The catch? Besides the kitchen, that appeared to have been recently shipped in from 1971 when it caught on fire, the new carpet felt as if it had been laid over old floorboards, so it worked kind of like one of those moon bounce things at the fair. Which could be fun, but I can't imagine my couch and coffee table sitting nicely on the inflated, yet oddly sagging, surface of our new living room.

Apartment Ten was analogous to meeting someone you think you are interested in at a bar, but then realizing you have just had too much vodka, and you are not interested. Also, he is the size of a breadbox. This apartment had all the right indicators. He was in the right place (standing alone at the bar). He was unoccupied so we could move in right away (alone, with out visible partner or boyfriend to muck things up). He seemed to have nice accessories, belt (gas range), good shoes (hardwood floors), pants that fit his butt correctly (bars on the windows- I'm a realist here peoples). But then you realized that he was 3'8" and everyone would laugh if you took him to a gay cowboy bar to two step to bad Alan Jackson songs (I would never do this. But just saying.). I could never live in an apartment with J that was that small. We would, after an extended period of exaggerated sighs, icy stares, and not hanging up the bathroom towels, begin poisoning each other, or some other wretched fate. If hell is other people, then people too close up in your business, even people you love, is the seventh circle.

Then I took a break to go see Love's Labor Lost in the amphitheater at Rock Creek Park. I will say, it spoke to me. But since my every thought recently is taken up by an ironically huge amount of mental space that looking at tiny apartments occupies, I caught myself thinking:

"I wonder how much it would be to rent the set from the King of Navarre's scenes? Couldn't be too much. I mean, really, it's made of paste board and I doubt it has more than three walls. Surely the back is open so the cast and crew can have quick access. That should knock a couple hundred dollars off the rent, minimum. Hmmmmm."

Apartment 11 was a low ceilinged hole with an efficiency kitchen, that was maybe 250 sq feet. Really people, THAT DOESN'T QUALIFY AS A ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT. EVER. That is all.

Le Sigh.

Oh My God, Apartment Seven, 8 and Hello, Lover

Let's make this brief: Apartment seven was in the basement of this hippie woman who had obviously purchased way more house than she could afford. She was desperate to get some income out of that basement. I feel sorry for her. But not sorry enough to live next to the railroad switching yards.

Oh apartment eight. Why do you even try? You had me from hello. Had me retching, that is. On to apartment nine.

Hello Lover, Goodbye Skank Whore. The advertisement for this apartment was a complete lie. Much like a romantic internet interest that ends up being a 60 year old man from the Philippines, my 740 sq ft 1BR with hardwood floors, ample closet space and a small balcony turned out to be a 400 sq ft basement apartment with grotty carpet. And the estate agent, who's company manages not just the building I was looking at, The Lanier, a wanker name if I ever heard one, but also the Barclay, Ravenel & Regal, was like "what? what's the problem?". When I said that the problem was that she was showing me the wrong apartment, she just shrugged her shoulders.

Dear Karmic Gods:

Remember the girl that showed me the abortion of the apartment today? Make sure that, at their company barbecue this summer, while they are all laughing it up in a beautiful park, drinking beer and salivating over hamburgers on the grill, and there is a new cute guy that my estate agent is sort of flirting with, and thinking maybe this could be the good thing she has been waiting for for ages, make sure they are hit by a speeding Metro bus while their propane grill tank explodes at the same time that they are being eaten alive by swarms of both angry bees and a flesh eating virus. Also, give them syphilis.

Love,
Badger

I need a drink.

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.

Apartment 1 and 2

And, it begins. I was pleasantly surprised with Apartment 1. It wasn't on fire. No one stole my bicycle, Faustino. Shut up. I'll name my bike what ever I please. So, as you can see, my standards are pretty low. This apartment had more closets that our current one (so that I have space to store the massive amount of crap that I seem to collect), also lots of light, good mouldings, and a big kitchen with nice windows. Neighborhood? Well, compared to where we currently live it seemed pretty nice, but so would Beirut. It's next to something called Big Bear Cafe, which could be either a nice cafe, or a leather bar for gay men. Either is OK, really. Gay bars are good neighbors. They clean up and their clientele, while prone to have sex in the alley, never steal your car.

The second apartment appeared, from it's craigslist ad, to be great. When I arrived, the limits of 185 words on craigslist became painfully apparent. It was a long, low basement room with assorted sump pumps installed to keep the water out and a psychedelic paint job that I was, according to the owner who lives upstairs, "welcome to change, man, but I like it so you'll pay for the paint." No, friend, I won't. I will not pay to paint your dungeon. And what am I supposed to do with a working fireplace in the basement? Use it to dry my sodden possessions after the sump pump fails? Or to asphyxiate guests with as it sucks the oxygen out of my underground tomb? But it does have a washer dryer, so that is one point in it's favor; at least I will asphyxiate in front of a romantic fire while wearing clean socks.