Shit City

Pant, pant. Mo'Nique tired, babies.

John, my landlord, called last Monday to tell me what I already knew, which is that my lease is coming up. He gave me the option to renew it, but I'd be hankering for a change of scenery for a while now, so I told him I'd be moving on. Au revoir, old 8th & 12th! I want to live somewhere a little less baby-centric, a little cheaper, and Jesus fuck on a better subway. Over the past few days I've been looking for (and at a few) places in Sunset Park, South Slope, and Greenwood Heights -- basically, 4th and 5th Ave. below 50th St. is my target area.

Liz hooked me up with a former buddy of hers from Corcoran who, given my somewhat stringent price demands, immediately showed me the perfect place, a huge studio, over on 45th and 5th. Too good to be true, of course: The landlord won't take cats ("If I say yes to cats, I can't say no to dogs," he reportedly claimed. What?). Anyone want Kitty? Alas, she is the lingering -- and, sad to say, sometimes unwelcome -- legacy of Saint Mer Reese. Then he showed me this place over on 43rd and 9th which was kind of dingy and dark but had a nice little courtyard. But, you know, I don't know, no one seems to want to come visit me as it stands -- I can't ask my friends to hike up to fucking 9th Ave. This morning I went to go see a place over on 21st and 3rd, which was basically acceptable, except that it has an enormous kitchen and a tiny little living room (partitioned by a weird little narrow countertop, and it's $1100, which is a bit more than I think it's worth.

It was raining and I got soaked, and, to be honest, I'm feeling kind of discouraged and lonely. Whatever -- I've only been looking for a couple of days. Searching for places on the Internet (i.e., poring over craigslist ads written in halting and uninformative English) is driving me fucking nuts, though. Here's what I would like from a real estate listings site:

• A discrete keyword description of the size of the apartment (e.g., "STUDIO" or "1BR")
• The exact street address
• The price
• Absolutely nothing else

Don't try to hide where the apartment is -- it's not like I'm not going to find out if I come see it. Don't tell me how charming the neighborhood is or how close the place is to "shopping." I know this, man. Maybe I'll start my own site. Ugh.

Last Wednesday I went to see this Spunk Lads show at Southpaw. It's been a while since I've been to, you know, a shitty, neighborhood punk show along, and it was kind of nice to dance around to a band I'd never heard before but who are kind of good. The thing is, this show was apparently a benefit for Develop Don't Destroy Brooklyn, whose mission I couldn't be more conflicted about. Guess what, all you I-Love-Brownstone-Brooklyn aristocrats: If you own property and it's worth several million dollars, you don't get to take to appropriate, you know, countercultural dialectic with a straight face. The 'Lads played a song with the cringe-worthy chorus "This is what hypocrisy looks like / This is what democracy looks like;" they and another band in the lineup covered Redemption Song. I mean, for fuck's sake. Nonetheless, the Spunk Lads are basically a cool band, and their guitar player, Bloody Dick, literally threw his guitar (his signature move, research reveals), without looking, right into the audience as he walked off stage. The 'Tube has some video of the show. Also check out the song "Ink" -- probably their best -- on their MySpace.

So that guy Kurt Vonnegut's dead. Everyone on MeFi is going kind of apeshit with grief, and, you know, yeah, it's sad, but the guy only brought so much to the table, idea-wise. He's probably responsible for the uncompromising Utopian aspect of my political orientation, but I feel like too many people mistake his particular, peculiar variety of reductionist profundity for, you know... actual intellectual effort. But he's dead, so I guess I should say something like "So it goes."