Greenpoint: A New Era

After spending New Year’s Eve with most of my closest friends, it was time to effectively and efficiently get the fuck out of my shitty sublet in South Williamsburg. I hadn’t been able to find an good apartment or roommate for longer than 10 months in the last three years. My soul was wearing thin and I knew that the next place would HAVE to be amazing, right?

Seriously, it had to be.

My friend Jeff (who will be known as Jeff The Roommate) finally made his arrival from Virginia and we began hunting for apartments. We had hoped the goober I was sharing my sublet with wouldn’t come home from his holiday trip to Jupiter until after we were long gone, but alas, Joaquin arrived on a late night space shuttle the day after Jeff The Roommate arrived in town. This left all of us in an awkward position. Copious tension filled the tiny space.

Jeff and I had looked at apartments separately without much luck. It seemed that any neighborhood we wanted to live in only had dumpy and small apartments in our price range. We met at an apartment on Jewel Street in Greenpoint, which was the first apartment that we were going to be looking at together, and fell in love with the place. We put down a deposit, filled out some applications, and immediately started harnessing The Secret.

The next day, the real estate guy told us our credit scores were under what they wanted in an ideal candidate. He asked us for guarantors, which to me is a nice way of saying “Buzz off!” We asked if there was any way we could pay more money up front. The real estate guy said he would ask the landlord.

We Secret-ed all night long.

We thought we would have an answer in the morning, but something had happened to the real estate offices computer system and we would have to wait another day. “Thanks for your patience and co-operation”, the real estate guy emailed.

Another thorough evening of Secret-ing was upon us. Now, you might ask what that entails. It involves radiating light and positivity in reference to your goals. Visualize yourself already in that apartment. How will you decorate it? Where will you put your favorite chair? I decided I wanted navy blue paint on three walls in, what was to be, my bedroom. Jeff and I talked about who we would invite to our Mojito Party in our soon-to-be-ours backyard.

We received word that the apartment was ours that morning.

They didn’t even make us pay more money! There is no other reason than for The Secret that we have this apartment. It’s in a great neighborhood in Greenpoint, very close to the G train, or a healthy walk to the L train. Polish diners, furniture stores, and bars in the immediate areas. A cute school on the corner offers the hustle and bustle of family life. AND, as far as the eye can see, there are no black kids yelling ‘faggot’ at me. I win.

Thanks Secret!!

My New Old Roommate

My awesome new roommate – who moved here from California four weeks ago – has moved out. Yes. I came home last night and he told me he bought a plane ticket for today. He moved back permanently because “my life is all about visions and I no longer see myself living in NYC”.  Well la di da. I have a vision of living in a clean apartment and working in the entertainment industry in some way, but that hasn’t happened yet. I’m hoping since I gave myself more than four weeks to accomplish that, it will happen one day.

He is (was) a delightful person so I’m not hating on him too much. I mean, you gotta do what your heart tells you. I get it. It just so happens that my heart tells me I’m stuck with the full month of utilities and some left over frozen pizzas in the freezer. Yay me!

Two roommates in two months! This could be a new record!

Fred Helps Me De-stressify

Good Enough: The Story of My Life

It’s official. I found a place. A room. A room that is mine. For at least one full year. I know that it is mine because the chill actor I am subletting from told me I am allowed to paint the bed room and re-arrange the living room.

I live on S. 3rd and Roebling in awesometown Williamsburg. My rent may have gone up, but the area is delightful. I can feel a part of a community, get a drink, go to a club, meet some people, go to restaurants, see a concert, walk around, go to a park, buy a hemp lampshade,  whatever. I can do all this within walking distance of my front door and I don’t have to worry about getting called a ‘faggot’ while I walk down the street or have some brat yell ‘hey fatty’. While the room doesn’t feel like “mine”, I will make it mine. It’s gonna be a new experience living with someone off of craigslist. ADVENTURE! Now, I just have to pack and get all my shit there without bursting a blood vessel in my face.

My stress level has gone from 240% to a comfortable 81%.

I can’t wait to be a hipster!

Room #7: 221 S. 3rd St.

Along the way to the apartment from the train station, I passed a hemp store, a lava lamp store, a real Mexican food place, 18 hot guys, 4 hot girls, kids playing baseball in the street, a used book store, a mom and pop video store, a bunch of restaurants and cafes, 6 more hot guys, and a pet store. I love this neighborhood.

The apartment was in a 5th floor walk-up. HUGE stairs. Each step reminded me how heavy I am. Thanks, stairs. I met the guy who I would be my roommate. He was in his 30’s, straight, chill guy who works in web design for musicians. His girlfriend lives in the city. That’s code for “he’s not there all the time because he fucks his chick in her studio apartment in SoHo”… or something. We chatted for 20 minutes and got along very well.

Why did I spend 20 minutes to chat with this guy? Because the room was fucking hella-wicked-fierce. That’s why. Three big windows, air conditioning, cable ready, big bed, nice closet, decent sized living room, huge kitchen, ginormous hallway for art or winter shit, and a free TV. Not that I needed a free TV, but that’s awesome.

I’m supposed to meet the guy who is subletting tonight to go over specifics. Could this be lucky #7? I thought perhaps Apartment #13 was going to be the lucky apartment, but we never got that far. Let’s just wait and see. I’m meeting him in 48 minutes exactly….

Room# 6: 2 Charles St.

A room in the West Village for $850.00? Sign me up, please. A husky voice answered the intercom.

“Hello?”
“Oh hello! Is Karen there?”
“This is Karen”
“It’s Jeff. I’m here!”
“Of course, you’re here, otherwise I wouldn’t hear you!”

“She” was attempting humor, but it just came off gruff and grumpy. When I reached the apartment door, I could smell broccoli. I once lived with a vegan who obsessively cooked broccoli. Tiny pieces of green, wilted shrubbery were a constant presence in the kitchen. Vegetable carcasses. Everywhere. I learned to dislike the smell of broccoli, even though it’s one of my fave veggies.

Karen greeted me in a jade colored robe that contrasted lovely with her blonde curls. I think it may have been silk. Or fake silk, rather. There was a lot of imitation going on in this apartment. “She” had done a really great job in looking like a woman. I would be totally convinced if I hadn’t heard “her” voice or seen “her” sausage through her pajamas. The news was on in the background, prompting “her” to start a rather heated debate with “herself” about Obama vs. McCain. I smiled and nodded and said as many pro-Obama tid-bits as I could. Seems that “she” had really been rooting for Hilary Clinton (women power!) and that since Hilary didn’t win, she was going to vote for McCain “just for spite”.

WHAT A FUCKING BIMBO.

OK, OK, I didn’t come over here to get irritated about politics, you stupid cow. Let’s see what we all know I came here to see. “She” led me into the bedroom. Hmm. It was fully furnished and decorated with a slight asian flair. There was a twin bed in one corner and a loft bed on the other side of the room. I could tell there was a bathroom hiding behind some beaded curtains.

“Here is the room that we would share.”
“Oh? I thought you had a room for rent.”
“I do. It’s a one bedroom share.”
“Of course, but I only share with Cher.”

What a cunt. I left without shaking “her” hand because I didn’t want to touch “her”. For a dude, “she” made a pretty good bitch.

My New Favorite Word…

Loftstel

Fucking hippies.

Room #5: 62 Dobbin St.

Just north of McCarren Park. Lovely.

Before I even saw the room, the lady lit up a cigarette and yelled at her cat. Over it.

Comic Sans Sucks

Room #4: 299 Jackson St.

Well, isn’t this apartment a vision of beauty? What an absolute perfect place for two people. Too bad there was a cute lesbian living there. Her dad lives upstairs so “she got a good deal”. It was just off the Graham L train stop in real Williamsburg.

It had a great patio, big rooms, and two awesome cats. I consider cats in an apartment to be a big selling point for me. Exposed brick, gorgeous hardwood floors, a multitude of windows, and a price tag of $1000.00 – a hundred dollars out of my price range. We chatted about ourselves and what I “hope to get from a roommate situation”. Ugh. I thought it might be inappropriate to say “No crazy girls”, so I made up some bullshit about a friendly and communicative environment. Then, we started talking about iTunes.

She wanted me to keep in touch. I liked her fine, but I wanna see what else is out there. I feel like I’m definitely barking up the right tree. I’ll call her tomorrow and say I found a place in Chelsea.

Room #3: 687 Broadway

I’m pretty sure Brian decided over email today that we are officially looking on our own now. I’m not totally certain, but if I were to guess, I would guess that I’m flying solo. It’s really fine since I sort of suggested that several days ago. Our price range and choice of location are pretty opposite and that out-ranks living with a proven good roommate for both of us. Sure, if something perfect pops up anywhere other than Crown Heights, then sign me up. Until then, I’m off to meet random artists, lesbians, and graphic designers to see what they have to rent for around 900 bucks.

My first stop today was right next to the JMZ train. No one uses that train, but the G train was decent walking distance, which is what I would use to get to work. The adorable Filipino girl who answered the door showed me around the two level apartment. I didn’t realize it was so big! Two kitchens! Two living rooms! Three bathrooms! Nine bedrooms! What the fuck? This was quite The Real World house, only minus the cameras and free booze.

The girls who I met were delightful. However, I would be crazy to think that I could even possibly live with 8 other humans. Even if I liked them all, that is insane. I mean, I would do it if I was allowed to start drama for TV purposes, but 31 years old is too old to be reliving the dorm years I never had in the first place. After a nice chat with some other prospective tenants, one of which worked for Greenpeace, I peaced out and went to my next appointment. On the way there, one of the girls called me to tell me that if I was interested, they would love to give me the room.

I won! Not really, but at least I wouldn’t be homeless. Maybe things are moving in the right direction…

Apartment #12: 140 Lexington St.

Remember Apartment #5? The easiest way to blog about Apartment #5 was to post a video of the dingy, gritty bathroom in the movie Saw. Well, Brian accidentally made an appointment to see the same place. I just kept walking past the building to the nearest liquor store. I bought a bottle of White Zin, ordered some Chinese food, and watched some episodes of Ugly Betty on DVR.

I am officially putting myself in charge of making appointments tomorrow.

Apartment #11: ??? Troutman St.

The puerto ricans were having quite the party across the street. Their van was blasting loud, spicy beats for the entire street to enjoy. I can’t wait to be their neighbor and pull up my van and blast some Coldplay. (PS. Goddam you Coldplay for making me like your new, overplayed single) We entered the addressless apartment.

This apartment was a little less finished. The Hasid told us how the walls were going to be built to make bedrooms. The kitchen was separate from the living room, which made it feel a touch less feng-shui-ed. The apartment seemed a little smashy. The basement was very clean and every unit had an extra storage space that came with a locked door. It was almost like having another room in the house. The Hasid showed us where there would be a common area where “you could put a ping-pong table or something”. I immediately got a visual of every apartment in the Hasidic area of Williamsburg having a ping-pong table. That must be what they do on Sundays!

On the way out the door, I noticed that there were three quarters on the beam for the staircase. The money seemed to have been discarded. Another piece of evidence that this Hasid was nothing like Evil Zalman. We shook his hand and said that perhaps we would be in touch.

Is a spacious two bedroom in Chelsea for $1600.00 too much to ask?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAAH

Apartment #9 & #10: 200 Stockholm St.

The Hasid who showed us these apartments seemed a lot nicer and more trustworthy than Evil Zalman. I’m pretty sure it’s because this guy had light blue eyes and a reddish-orange beard. So, I have narrowed down my racism towards Hasids to exclude those who have blue eyes and red beards. He had even heard of Evil Zalman’s reputation. He didn’t know him personally and laughed when I described Evil Zalman as the “one of the most awful human beings I have ever met.” So, I guess Evil Zalman didn’t put our names into a Hasidatabase.

The first apartment was a nice size. Rooms on either end of the apartment. The kitchen and living room were open and comfortable. Laundromat right across the street. It was a nice distance from the L train, which is a main vein to Williamsburg, the East Village, Union Square, Chelsea, and the West Village. The neighborhood is predominantly Puerto Rican, which is much friendlier to me than the black people who shoot cops in Crown Heights. It’s weird. A year ago, I was really skeeved out by Bushwick. I’m not saying it’s amazingly welcoming, but it feels like about a 14% upgrade from other places I have looked. Also, there were a lot of authentic latin restaurants, which I love.

The second apartment up for rent in the same building was the exact same layout – with one exception. It had a window in the living room and kitchen. For this extra feature, you paid an additional $150.00 a month. Really? REALLY? The building had been “gut-renovated”, which to me, means that the owner takes care of the building enough to re-paint, re-tile, and re-construct. I like that.

All in all, I liked it fine, but I feel like gambling a little this week and see what may turn up on rent-direct.com. I’m guessing that these apartments will still be here in a few days.

UPDATED ENTRY

Ever since getting linked by some ultra political activist on a Bushwick blog, my traffic to this blog has increased a million times over. Since all the readers of his blog only read this entry, they have accused me of being racist. I am not racist. I just hate stupid people. Well, I take that back. I am totally racist against Hasids. I’ll give you that, but no one likes them, right? So, that’s OK, right?

Also, people fail to see that this is a comedy blog. There is a lot of sarcasm, flippant comments, and attempts at rich humour. As a bitchy faggot, it is my responsibility to uphold my own subculture’s stereotypes so that you can write me off as just a bitchy faggot. Right? RIGHT?

Here is some actual proof that there are actual black people shooting actual cops in actual Crown Heights. It’s not racism, I just don’t want to live where people shoot coppers. Also, if you watch South Park, they use racist material all the time and it’s HILARIOUS. All hail South Park… not that I’m comparing myself to South Park. See? I was a step ahead of you haters…

here
or
here
or
here

there was more, but I got tired from reading all the violence in C.H.

Room #2: 57 E. 11th St.

Price: $750.00 Location: 11th & 1st. Ave in the real East Village.

The ad claimed that the renter was a “sober gay man” looking for “sober roommates”. I assumed that just meant, at most, no boozing/drugging in the house. Sure, ok then, I’m sober. Let’s see what this place has to offer. I made the appointment for 9am on a Saturday. A little on the early side, but that’s what Al suggested, so I complied.

Al was a sweet, older gentleman who was in charge of the community garden. His cat, Bootsy, was adorable and affectionate. I love cats! I love community gardens! The room wasn’t super huge, but it was nice, and came with an A/C and a full bed. Clean bathroom. Check. Organized kitchen. Check. Comfy living room. Check. I looked around for a reason to say ‘no thanks’. I didn’t see one.  Al asked me about my job, my age, how long I’ve lived in NYC etc. I asked him the same questions. I discovered his favorite flower is a rose. He had another appointment coming at 9:30am, so we wrapped up and he said that he would give me a call either way. He checked that he had my right number written down in his neatly kept notebook. I left, but for some reason, I hoped that he just wouldn’t call.

It’s noon now and there’s no call. I’m thinking of a lie to tell him if he calls me and tells me I got the place.