February 02, 2010

Despite all my tough talk about using spreadsheets to track everything from how often the dog poops to how much radishes cost at the corner store, I make most of my decisions by stumbling around blindly and grasping at things.

Take last week, for instance.

I figured it was time for me to move out of Jason’s basement. I wanted a place with tall windows, windows that in the summer open to a busy street and let the bustle of the city fly up right into my living room.

Sure, I could’ve made spreadsheets with prices and pros and cons.

But instead I said ‘fuck it’ and clicked the first online ad without any photos attached. Online ads without photos are the best kinds of ads.

In this case, the ad lead to a late-night meeting with a lady who rents bachelor apartments above the tattoo studio (next-door to the massage parlour). We spent about half an hour breaking into some dudes apartment. The key just didn’t want to work.

After long moments of awkwardness, the door finally cracked open. Dirty dishes were scattered everywhere. The dude ate lots of beans and liked iron crosses a hell of a lot.

“Good people live in this building,” the lady said. Her boyfriend with tattoos all the way up his neck agreed.

“No dealers or anything,” he said. “I used to deal when I was growing up but not anymore.”

I liked him instantly. The apartment not so much. The windows were the type that didn’t open - just one solid piece of glass buffering you from the outside world.

“I have another place,” she said. “It even has a balcony.”

We climbed a crooked stairway that smelled like urine. All the doors were painted red and awesome. This other apartment had no working lights, and also no dirty dishes. It was vast and superb. The windows were the type that opened to the street below.

“I love it,” she said.

“And you can watch the Christmas parade from the balcony,” she said.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Two days later I got a call. “The landlord wants to meet you,” she said.

***

I met him in the middle of King St. He walked towards me with a limp, looking old and wise, and opened a door to an empty storefront.

Inside and armless mannequin waited for better days.

“So you want the place, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to see it again?” he said.

“No, it’s perfect.”

I’m moving in less than a month. It’s going to be awesome.

January 23, 2010

Sarah came for a visit. So naturally we spent an entire weekend looking at dead people in Toronto. (Narrated by Harrison Ford pretending to be an archeologist.) Ugh. Gross. I know.

But on the up side, we also saw a sad tapir and a rhino drinking its own urine. And it was Sra’s birthday so we ate too many cupcakes. And Sarah brought me books about pigs and happiness and I bought pig gloves which made me happy.

We spent the rest of the time dressing up the dog, which didn’t seem to make her happy at all:

January 03, 2010

I’m immensely relieved 2009 is over — what an shitty year it’s been. One meaningless trauma after another. Now that I washed this lingering stench of disappointment from my bones, let’s never speak of 2009 again.

But the year did end with awesome. And by awesome, I mean crepes. Dave hosted the annual Crepes and Champagne New Year’s party and the dog and I had our fill of chocolate, pets, ultraviolence. And look, pictures of pretty things that are not my wang.

December 28, 2009

I can’t recall a more low-key Christmas since the one I spent in 1989. Back then there were riots on the streets and people dying, foolishly as it turned out. Bullets whizzed by our window all night long and the moon was the weirdest shade of red I’ve ever seen. I was just a little shit and couldn’t do anything, so I had to keep my lights off and huddle to sleep with my stuffed animals at 9pm.

Now, 20 years later, there are no riots. But since Christmas day I’ve been turning my lights out at 9pm and huddling to sleep with my puppy. It’s been pretty awesome.

And I got pants for Christmas. Look how awesome they are. Whee!