Meet The New Place, Same As The Old Place
April 6, 2009
I don't want to say too much, because it isn't a done deal yet, but I think we've found a new apartment. We're applying anyway. It's a lateral move in a lot of ways — that is the unit itself isn't very different from where we are, slightly bigger maybe, but with lower ceilings. It has nice windows, but they aren't quite the expansive wall of windows in our current place. But what good is a wall of windows when it overlooks an auto body shop?
Like our current building, the new space is a converted factory, but unlike the one we're in now, it's perfectly legal.
There goes my street cred.
There have only been two tenants in the unit. The first guy to live there built an awkward S- curved wall near the front entrance, creating a impractically shaped "bedroom" or "den" in the otherwise open layout. When the guy moved out, the next tenant chose to keep the wall in place. The girl who showed us the loft said that if we didn't like the wall, they would remove it for us, but that if we chose to keep it, it would be our responsibility to take it down whenever we moved out. Not only is the wall impractical, it's ugly too, painted in a marbleized rust-colored finish that looks like puke. It's stair stepped and looks vaguely Mexican — not legitimately Mexican, but rather like a ChiChi's or a Chili's or the entrance to some other middle of the road chain restaurant.
I commented on how awkward the wall was and how you couldn't do much with the tiny corner it created. "Too tight in there to store anything but dust." said.
"You don't have to keep it," the girl said again. "It's up to you, but a lot of people like it."
"A lot?" I said.
"Well, the guy who made it, obviously. And the tenant after him kept it—"
"That's two."
The ground floor is home to a spa. It's not part of the building's amenities, per se, but as an incentive to prospective tenants, the building management offers a trial membership: Three months free for two people, or six months free for one. We were given a tour. As we entered the hot tub area, we walked in on a young guy sitting in a lounge chair fondling the tits of the bikini clad chick straddling him. She adjusted her top and tried to look nonchalant as we meandered past, but the guy couldn't have cared less about our interruption and continued to let his hands roam.
We walked through to the next stop on the tour — a private room with a jacuzzi big enough for four, a television a couch and a sliding door which opened to a small, dark massage room.
"What goes on in here, I wonder?"
"All kinds of things," the girl winked.
"I'll bet."
In any case, like I said, I don't want to say too much until I'm sure we're moving. If we do, there'll be plenty to write about, I'm sure.
In case you're wondering how the hell these photos fit in, they don't. (Do they ever?) They're from New Jersey where we went for my mother's birthday, which included a nice Sunday drive, a short walk in the woods, and an early bird special at a lobster shack.
"This is by far the earliest bird I ever ate at," said Deborah.
And if I can budget my time a little better I'll tell you all about it.
April 13, 2009
"Lived in a brownstone, lived in a ghetto. I've lived all over this town."
Deborah and I signed a lease for a new apartment on Friday. The application form provided a single line to explain "reason for moving" and although we would've needed to attach an extra page to list everything — things that, if I were 22, I might count as "reasons for staying" — we kept it simple and merely said: "Don't like the neighborhood."
It's an over-simplification, of course. There's plenty to like around here — enough that we even looked at a few places in the area — but the more we looked outside this little art-ghetto enclave, the more "right" it felt to leave it. And anyway, I'm sick of talking about "how much the neighborhood has changed."
Of course, in a place like New York, there's no way to escape changing neighborhoods. Nothing stays the same for long. I probably talk as much about living in Chelsea in the late 80's as I do about living in Bushwick at the start of the new millennium. "This used to be that and that used to be some other thing." It gets tiresome.
"I want to move to a neighborhood where the topic of conversation isn't constantly about the neighborhood," said Deborah.
When Deborah goes home to her parent's house in rural western PA, "back to the farm," as they say, it's like stepping into a glue trap in time. Nothing ever changes. Her parents are older, of course, but their house is the same, the neighbors are the same, the street is the same, the town — if you can even call it that — is the same. It's extreme in the opposite direction and she gets absolutely stir crazy when she spends more than a few days there, but at the same time, she envies the stability and would love it if she could inject a little into her own life.
I'm not sure she's going to get her wish since the neighborhood we're moving to — Wallabout, near the Brooklyn Navy Yard — is another one of the many Brooklyn neighborhoods in flux. But, hopefully, it will be enough to simply have a lease to a legal apartment with an actual C of O.
In the meantime, we've started to pack. In a move that will break the hearts of some of my friends (Crys and Travis come to mind) I gave away all my old vinyl albums — many of which I'd had since high school. A few even dating as far back as middle school. I offered them to a guy I worked with during the Stephen Sprouse installation. It was just an off the cuff offer, made before I knew I was moving, but once I started packing and felt the weight of my possessions, I made the decision to jettison the heaviest of the lot.
"Still interested in my records?" I asked Paul.
"Sure."
My friend Brandon helped me load the eclectic collection into the back of my truck and I drove them to Paul's loft. I rang his buzzer and he came outside to help me unload them and we piled the three heavy boxes one on top of the other in his hallway.
"I hope you like YES."
April 27, 2009
The building management listed our current apartment as vacant and handed out keys to realtors like candy canes, or rather Chanukah gelt. The realtors, salivating over their potential commission, began showing up at our apartment in droves, keys in hand and unannounced.
Deborah was indisposed a few days ago — that is to say, she had just showered and was prancing around naked the way she often does — when she heard a set of keys rattle in the door. “Whoa, hello? Who is it?”
She threw on a robe and then threw a fit, tearing the realtor a new asshole and undoubtedly scaring off the prospective tenants who were cowering behind him. She immediately called the management office and told them the situation was unacceptable. They apologized and promised it wouldn’t happen again. Since then, the realtors have been extremely polite but no less aggressive, calling us several times a day to make an appointment.
A thirty-something German couple came yesterday. “We live in the East Village,” the woman said. “We can’t take the scene there and are hoping to get away from it by moving to Brooklyn.”
She obviously doesn’t read the newspaper.
“Our neighbors are awful,” she continued. “I bang on the walls every night to get them to shut up. I have to sleep with earplugs and it’s still too loud.”
“I doubt you’re going to like it any better out here,” I said. I told her that Deborah sleeps with earplugs every night. too.
She and Deborah compared notes for a while, chit chatting about this and that.
“They were so nice,” Deborah said when they finally left. “They seem like cool people to hang out with. I wish they moved in next door after Adie left, instead of that kid with his fucking Drum & Bass music all day. I mean, who even listens to that crap anymore?”
I knocked on our neighbor’s door one night to ask if he could turn the music down. A young rather clean preppy looking kid answered the door. “It sounds like your speakers are right against our wall. Maybe moving them to another spot might help,” I suggested, hoping to find a compromise. “Where are your speakers?”
He waved his hand around, pointed to the ceiling and the walls, pointed to a couple of rooms. “They are everywhere,” he said.
Next to arrive were two young college girls, accompanied by the mother of one of them. Our apartment is currently a maze of boxes and bubble wrap. Deborah was in the middle of sealing up a box of kitchen supplies when they walked in.
"Are you packing?" the mother asked. I assume she was just making conversation.
The girls were disappointed that we hadn’t built rooms. A lot of the people who come by are disappointed about that. The realtor told us that our unit was the only one he’d seen in the building that didn’t have rooms built. “I know,” I said. “Some of the larger units are converted into regular little shanty towns.”
I have a hard time understanding why. To me the attraction of an open loft is that it’s open. But I guess when you’re trying to cram as many kids as possible into a single unit, it’s nice to have a little privacy.
Another young couple came by to see the place the other day and asked why we were moving. Deborah said we were over the neighborhood, that the building is a notorious party building, and the scene was getting pretty old. Or, more precisely, that we were getting pretty old.
"I'm living at home right now," the guy said. "I am so ready for a notorious party building, I can't even tell you! For real."
"Oh, perfect," Deborah said, and was tempted to tell them about the conveniently located cocaine dealer down the hall, but decided she'd let him sniff that one out for himself.
When we saw the weather prediction for yesterday, Deborah wanted to hit the beach. "We can pack later," she said.
"I have to work all week, this is the only time I really have to get my shit together — to mentally prepare. I can't go to the beach. There'll be more nice days ahead."
As a compromise, we took a break in the middle of the day and went to McCarren Park. We weren’t the only ones. It’s not a particularly nice park, not very large, without much in the way of healthy grass to spread out on, but no one seems to care. Most of the people are just there to pose anyway and being crammed on top of each other only improves the chances of being seen.
I can't say it was particularly relaxing, but it was nice to be out in the sun.
April 30, 2009
Onward and upward.
Tomorrow is the big move. Internet service is shutting off here overnight and service in the new place isn't scheduled to connect until Monday so unless I can piggyback on an unsecured WiFi network in the new building, it looks like I'll be incommunicado for a few days. (Service in the new place isn't scheduled to be connected until Monday, but I was told it might connect sooner. We'll see.)
Deborah brought home some dessert from her bakery bookkeeping job and picked up a bottle of sparkling cider for a pseudo-champagne farewell toast to our old apartment. "Are you drunk yet?" she laughed after our second glass.
"Are you kidding? I was born drunk," I said.
"I think our neighbor is having sex again."
I put my ear to the wall, but didn't hear anything. Nothing like the racket he was making a few weeks ago when we heard the cartoonish squeak-squeak-squeak of a box spring under the strain of youthful humping. But there were no grunts or groans or screams or moans and we couldn't be 100 percent positive of what was going on. "Maybe he's working out," I said.
"Maybe."
In any case, he was a lot louder the other night when he thump-thump-thumped himself another one of his big bass super sub-woofer one-man surround sound disco dance parties. Loud enough to shake away whatever lingering doubt I may have had about our move.
I wanted to plug in my Marshall half stack, place it up against the wall and turn it up to eleven, but it was impossible because I don't have it anymore. I gave it to my trusty pal Erick who has promised to do his best to sell it for me.
Before I did that, though, I plugged a guitar into it to make sure it still worked. I knew it was going to be a mistake. I knew I was going to get nostalgic and try to convince myself it made sense to keep it. "Hey man, I'm getting the band back together—"
May 5, 2009
Leaving the old place better than we found it.
A logistical nightmare, nothing more, nothing less. The movers arrived right on time. "You don't have any bedbugs, do you?" the foreman asked.
"No, do you?" Deborah replied.
"No," he said. "But this building was flagged in the bedbug registry. It's the first thing I saw when I googled the address to find directions."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "It's one of many reasons we're moving. We've been lucky so far, but we figure our luck can't hold out forever."
The movers showed up with a 26 foot truck which looked like plenty of room to hold all our accumulated crap, but after a few hours of packing the truck was filled to capacity. A bag of last minute odds and ends fell off the truck as one of the movers closed the rear door. He smushed it back on the truck and held it in place while he carefully rolled the door closed over it. Everything that didn't fit in the movingt got tossed into the back of my pickup.
"Your pickup truck is huge," the lead mover said as we puzzled things into its bed. It's a compact pickup so I was a little confused, but what he meant was it was a huge plus. "You saved yourself a lot of money by having this thing right now," he said.
Deborah sat in the truck with me, along with two cat carriers with one terrified cat in each. I gave the movers directions to the new place and we were off.
When we arrived at the new place, only a couple of miles from the old one, the movers and I idled our trucks out front while Deborah hopped out with the cats and alerted the doorwoman to our arrival. The doorwoman told her that we had to move in through a basement door accessed through a parking garage on the side street. "The super will meet you there," she said.
We drove around the corner, but the garage entrance was blocked and the street was plastered with brightly colored no parking signs. A member of a film crew loitering outside the door of a restaurant on the building's ground floor walked over and informed us we had to move — no pun intended, I'm sure.
The film crew was shooting an episode of the television show, "Hell's Kitchen", a reality show featuring a foul mouthed Scottish chef who arrives at troubled restaurants and attempts to whip the kitchen into shape. I've never seen the show, but I can guarantee you that the chef's foul mouthed antics pale in comparison to the show Deborah put on when the super arrived and told us we couldn't bring the truck into the garage because he'd rented out all of the available space to the film crew. He suggested we negotiate with the crew to carve out some time and space on the street, which meant carrying the contents of fully loaded 26 foot truck from half a block away and then down the long ramp and into the garage.
"This is fucking unacceptable," she said. "I scheduled this move three weeks ago, three fucking weeks! You knew we were coming. I'm paying these movers by the hour there is no fucking way in hell that we're going to have them carry everything from half a block away — we'll be here all fucking night. Where the hell is the fucking building manager?"
The building manager arrived several minutes later and suffered equally from Deborah's wrath. Negotiations went on for several minutes before the super and manager finally buckled and the movers were allowed to bring the truck into the garage. Once we got it inside, I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. There was plenty room.
I helped unload the truck while Deborah brought the cats upstairs to the new apartment. When she walked in, there was a guy there still painting the walls. One of the walls is brick which, when we originally looked at the space, was painted a brick-colored red. Deborah didn't like it and requested that it be painted white.
It wasn't.
"No one told me," the super said. "It will take two coats. There's no way we can do that for you today, but we'll get it done by the weekend.
Needless to say that too was unacceptable, and by the time the movers were finished loading everything into the apartment, the brick wall was white.
Pictures of the new apartment will come, eventually, but even after spending all weekend unpacking (waiting for the wall to dry before arranging furniture, etc) the apartment is still not together. The bed is set up so at least we have a nice place to sleep, and we already made our first trip to Ikea to buy some cheap shit with what little money we have after paying the movers. We have a cheap IKEA bookcase to replace our previous cheap IKEA bookcase that I carelessly smashed to bits while trying to dismantle it in preparation for the move, but there's still work to do. Hopefully it will all get done before we leave for Hong Kong next week. It would be nice if we could come home to a home.
May 7, 2009
Meet the new place, same as the old place. Not really, but with all of the same things in it — including Deborah sitting naked on the couch — it doesn't look much different.
I forgot to mention that when Deborah first walked into the new apartment, before we moved anything in, she found a pile of things on the kitchen counter including several condoms, a couple of business cards for phone sex lines and escort services, and a small bag of what appeared to be high quality marijuana. She gathered it up, marched into the management office, and dumped it on the desk of the girl responsible for renting us the place. "Someone left this in our kitchen," she said. "We don't want it. Thanks," and walked out. (Actually, on the way down the elevator she had second thoughts about giving away the pot and slipped it into her pocket. Why give the girl a gift?)
Once everything was moved in — most of it piled in the corner on the dry side while the painter finished painting the brick wall — one of the movers stood at the kitchen counter and went over the bill with us. It was higher than the original estimate, but not as high as it could've been considering the extra time it took. It was a little too soon to laugh about all the trouble we had — especially seeing it reflected in the bill — but we tried. Deborah had calmed down considerably, and apologized for flipping her lid and swearing like a sailor in front of everyone. "I feel like the Queen Bitch," she said.
The mover told her not to worry about it, that he understood her frustration completely. Then he made a comment about how Deborah and I had handled the situation so differently. "You guys are such opposites," he said "I think it's a good thing. You compliment each other."
"I say to-MAY-to, he says to-MAH-to," said Deborah.
"Yeah," I said "Only in our case, I say tomato and Deborah says fucking tomato."
