No tickee, no raundry...

Someone sent me a Craig's listing of an "immaculate" 1 bedroom apartment on the lower east side, so I decided to check it out.

It was in the low, low east side—deeply Chinese, which is cool.

I checked out the place, it was pretty big, but seemed like it could have been Dick Cheney's undisclosed location...flourescent bulbs, ugh. Narrow, one tiny window in the entire place. I said I would think about it.

I walked through the neighborhood, which was extremely exotic to me, and tried to picture myself living there. Plus side? Lot's of restaurants and weird groceries. Close enough to walk to our office on Chrystie Street (albeit a long walk).

On the negative side, I didn't see a single pet. So I decided to pass. I didn't want Frankie to live in fear that he would end up on a pu-pu platter somewhere down there.

"Wow, nice coat! What is that, Golden Retriever?"

When I first got to the city, I was looking at the possibilities uptown (Harlem, Washington Hts. Upper West Side) as well as Brooklyn, but as the month has progressed and I have realized what a monumental task this is, I decided to narrow my focus to Brooklyn. It seems I am priced out of all the places I would like to live (Ft. Green, Cobble Hill, Park Slope) and being that I have lasered in on the F-train line, I decided to take a stab at a neighborhood I am not familiar with and that is off of the J-line (which I don't know at all).

Saturday I was up for such an adventure, so I thought I'd look at some more modestly-priced neighborhoods and I thought, "Why not Bushwick?"

Why indeed. This is a question I can answer definitively at this point. Because Bushwick sucks. In fact, if I wanted to live in Bushwick, I could save about $1000 per month and live in East Dearborn.

I had a nice tour around the neighborhood though. Took one subway stop too far, so as I wandered past the liquor stores and laundrymats I had to ask directions to the street I was looking for. A nice man with golden teeth and a fur coat which looked alarmingly canine in origin pointed me in the right direction. His clingy companion eyed me with a suspicious dagger-like stare.

I found the address...new construction on a treeless boulevard. I didn't take the interior tour.

Spite, Brooklyn style...

I have been somewhat mystified by NYC landlord paranoia...UNTIL TODAY.

I've been a landlord for years and have operated on a hearty handshake and "hale fellows well met" kind of vibe for years in Ann Arbor.

I DID have a short term horrific deal with a compulsive liar who wormed his way into my rental unit, but all it took to nip that in the bud was to find his mommy and daddy. It was over very quickly, very cleanly.

In any event, today I went to see a "garden apartment in Park Slope." New bathroom, large apartment, $1,975.00 per month. A big stretch financially, to be sure.

So I take the subway (my beloved and somewhat OCD-centric F train) to the address on 4th Avenue in "Park Slope."

"Hmmmm, why, this seems a bit like Warren Avenue in Detroit" I think to myself. There is a fenced in vacant lot next door strewn with garbage, a tire shop across the street called "Rim Job" and a rather shabby exterior. "Oh well, maybe it's nice inside." heh-heh.

I call the landlord, Joe (pronounced "d-Jow" for those not used to the Brooklyn flav).

He shows up, super nice guy. There is a yellow form on the front door which I didn't deem fit to read before he got there. He rips it off the door with a flourish and says, "it's the city sniffin' money." Then he gets out his keys so we can take a look at the apartment.

Unfortunately, something seems to be wrong with the locks.

"There is a key broken off in the lock!" he tells me. "I can get in from the upstairs apartment."

He dutifully goes up and bangs on the upstairs flat. I wait in the wrought-iron vestibule below.

DJow opens the front door and I enter. Apartment #1 (the "garden apartment") has two locks. Both have broken keys in them.

"I evicted the guy this weekend," Joe explains. "He's a hairdresser, works with celebrities, but then he got hooked up wit dah drugs."

I hear the sound of running water as dJow works on the locks.

Eventually the locks give way and we get in. The crackhead hairdresser who was evicted has stolen every lightbulb in the place. He has stolen all the parts of the stove. He has locked the "newly remodeled" bathroom and left the water running for two days. The "garden" out back is a cement slab covered with piles of dogshit. There are piles of garbage and junk everywhere and holes in the wall as well. (not that it was any great shakes to begin with).

But the highlight of the situation: an 2'x2' oil painting of a gaping asshole, left for "dJow," on top of one of the many piles of garbage in the middle of the room. A "fuck you" amidst a sea of fuck yous.

Poor Joe just had to laugh, but I know he was embarrassed and mad, and trying to keep good humor. I really sympathized with the dude.

I wished him luck and left.

I think I'm in love with the Dumpling Man™

"Paralyzed, flat on my back" (to quote Gang of Four)

Apartment hunting is "hard werk" to quote the C- Augustus.

...thank Jeebus I am currently within the tiny grid of a delivery zone for The Dumpling Man. Cash only baby.

vid here: http://www.dumplingman.com/video/video_1_QT.mov

"What sign would you like me to be?"

So, I'm waiting to hear back from my only solid apartment lead...in Windsor Terrace near Prospect Park. WT is a neighborhood without a lot of night life, yet pretty affordable in contrast to some livlier Brooklyn spots like Park Slope, Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens (I have a few strories about all those places). Also on the F Train line, which is really convenient since our office is on the lower east side.

The apartment by NY standards is HUGE. It's in an owner-occupied limestone building, about a block from the park. The Realtor really seemed to like me and set me up to meet the landlord—a painter, she told me.

I'm thinking, GREAT. I love Bohemian types, these are my people.

This was a naive notion born of midwestern ignorance of the NY landlord paranoia that plagues EVERY situation I have come across so far, a paranoia I have found to be sensible under the circumstances (see upcoming Park Slope "Garden" apartment reference).

I go to meet the landlord in Windsor Terrace. She is very guarded and not overly friendly, but pleasant. I compliment one of her paintings in the front hall. Immediately she tells me it is from about "ten years ago" and I am ushered into her apartment to the smell of insence and a nightmare gallery of Dali-esque, saggy-titted, sallow-faced portraits that compose her more current work. She has four cats.

We make a little chit-chat...she is not only a painter but an art-therapist social worker in one of the 5 boroughs. We talk about house restoration, I mention that I am a landlord myself in Ann Arbor, I mention my age, then she sees her opening..."What is your sign?" she asks.

"Sagitarrius," I reply, (I can see the wheels turning).

"I'm a Virgo," she replies. By the tone of her voice I can tell I may have made a fatal error.

We chit-chat some more, then I zoom back to the LES on the F train so I can furiously google the compatibility of Virgo-Sagitarrius. It does not look good.

Despite this possible pitfall, she requests I bring my dog out to meet her. So my sis drives in from the farm (where Frankie is living until I get a permanent place), and we go back to present him for her approval. This was a week ago Monday...I don't hold out a lot of hope on this one.

Did I mention I've moved?

I decided to revive the old Wild Bore...I recently decided to pack and move to NYC. Right now I'm posting on low batteries at some coffee shop in Park Slope, following a disasterous segment of the ongoing drama called "looking for a permanent apartment."

Here's a picture of my current (temporary) digs in the East Village. I took over the end of a lease of a friend at MTV and am to be out on Tuesday, so I have to get cracking on finding a new spot. I'll regale you with a few choice tales of New York/Brooklyn landlords in a few more posts soon.