It has been time for me to find a new place to live for some time now and nothing sucks more than apartment hunting. I hate filling out forms, I hate paying to fill out forms, and I hate that all of the apartment complexes makes you fill out the same damn form.
Since I am in my nascent adulthood, I am not what you would call "a rich man." In fact, I am more of what you would call "a guy you would like to punch in the face." Also, I am poor (For being in my twenties).
My biggest expenses these days are either alcohol or secondhand dvds. I love shopping for those dvds being sold outside of a 7-11, especially while drunk. I would buy up to a dozen movies a month, and the fact I was never truly sober enough to watch them was never a deterrent to my acquisition.
These twin passions (possible soft-porn title) of dvds and booze left me little money for rent, so I may be forced to live in iffy locales, like Bedford. In fact, desirable housing is next to last on my list of priorities, just ahead of charitable giving.
Good Lord, I've seen in some depressing places so far. I'm not just talking rotting-wood depressing, but rotting-possum-litters-behind-stoves- that-have-to-be-fished-out-with-a- toilet-scrubber depressing.
It sure is a conversation killer to explain to guests that what they call "pet stains" is what the coroner called "the putrefaction of the decedent." Yet that's how I discovered that area rugs are a great way to make a place more homey, and less crime-sceney.
The fact is that rough neighborhoods can offer an excellent value to the bargain renter. The faint of heart never consider how much a dicey neighborhood can lower the rental price. That's why I offer you:
Kevin's Guide to Apartment Hunting in Rough Neighborhoods
1. Go online to find your next neighborhood. Skip Craigslist and MLS and go straight to the city of Dallas' crime map. See all those colorful dots? Some may see them as "cyber pins indicative of serious crime," but I prefer to think of them as "Skittles of opportunity." Once you have found the neighborhood with the most dots, you've found home.
2. Drive the neighborhood. In a quarter hour, count the gunshots and un-neutered dogs. If the ratio is 2 to 1 and totals around 30, you've found a place to put your dvds and alcohol.
3. Look for signs. Avoid signs that say "for rent" or "for lease," as these are pricey properties meant for lottery winners and heads of state. Instead look for signs that say "keep out" or "prohibir la entrada." These are the hallmarks of a good deal.
4. Meet the landlord. A good landlord is better than a good drug dealer, but chances are he will be both. Talk with him. Communication is important between landlord and tenant. If a landlord doesn't speak English because his tongue has been removed by adversaries, move on.
5. Ask if there is a security deposit. If there is, ask if you can not pay it. Giving a landlord an interest-free loan is a horrible way to build up a financial cushion, and a great way to give his skanky girlfriend a fortnight of meth.
Finally, remember: If you simply don't feel safe in your new neighborhood and can sense your own impending strangulation with baling wire, you're in the right place.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sunscreen
"Don't forget to wear sunscreen."
"Mom, I'm just walking to my car to get my phone," I say.
"Well, just put some on your nose so you don't die like Aunt Bell."
(Author's note: Aunt Bell died of breast cancer in 1947, but mom's always been a big-picture person.)
I take the tube of SPF 200 from her soft hand and kiss a dollop of white onto my nose. It makes me cross-eyed.
"Mom, since when did you care about sunscreen? Certainly not when I was a boy. Back then, you used to make me go out and get burned at the beginning of summer to 'get a good base.' Then I'd use aloe vera only until I could transition to vegetable oil. Now, you act like we're vampires."
"This sounds like drugs talking." Her voice breaks.
"Mom, I'm not on drugs. Sometimes I don't know why I stay here."
"I don't either. All you ever talk about is vampires and drugs. It breaks my heart."
"Mom, I know you care about me. And your concern is sweet, but – "
The steel circle of the barrel pokes into my chest and stops my breathing.
"Put on more sunscreen or I'll send your vampire-obsessed heart to be with Aunt Bell."
There is a trickle of blood coming out of her nostril. I can smell the gin as I hear the muzzle blast.
Scene.
Please note that the preceding was only a dramatization, even though it actually happened. Seriously, do you remember back when we didn't worry so much about sunscreen? Back when we were younger and cancer was something that only happened to janitors and relatives whose names you'd only seen in the front of family Bibles?
I know sunscreen is important, but I'm going to punch the next person who pushes a tube of summer-smelling stuff in my face and tells me it's time to reapply only minutes after I drained the last tube. I can't handle the pressure. I'd rather wear a beekeeper outfit while playing beach Frisbee than constantly worry that I "missed a spot."
This summer vacation, I should've punched myself, because I must have reapplied 4 million times. I've internalized all those voices of doom. I couldn't enjoy one moment under our common star without fretting about skin grafts and biopsies. Oh, to be young again.
As kids, we might have hated the weeklong lobster-red feverish skin and the achey, nauseated feeling, but we knew there was a reward. First, we'd attempt to peel the backs off our friends in long snakeskin sheets that would finally shrivel like popped gum and wrap our wrists like Saran Wrap. Then we'd get months of browned, carefree, sunkissed skin. Now we live like vampires and our mothers accuse us of drugs. What the hells?
"Mom, I'm just walking to my car to get my phone," I say.
"Well, just put some on your nose so you don't die like Aunt Bell."
(Author's note: Aunt Bell died of breast cancer in 1947, but mom's always been a big-picture person.)
I take the tube of SPF 200 from her soft hand and kiss a dollop of white onto my nose. It makes me cross-eyed.
"Mom, since when did you care about sunscreen? Certainly not when I was a boy. Back then, you used to make me go out and get burned at the beginning of summer to 'get a good base.' Then I'd use aloe vera only until I could transition to vegetable oil. Now, you act like we're vampires."
"This sounds like drugs talking." Her voice breaks.
"Mom, I'm not on drugs. Sometimes I don't know why I stay here."
"I don't either. All you ever talk about is vampires and drugs. It breaks my heart."
"Mom, I know you care about me. And your concern is sweet, but – "
The steel circle of the barrel pokes into my chest and stops my breathing.
"Put on more sunscreen or I'll send your vampire-obsessed heart to be with Aunt Bell."
There is a trickle of blood coming out of her nostril. I can smell the gin as I hear the muzzle blast.
Scene.
Please note that the preceding was only a dramatization, even though it actually happened. Seriously, do you remember back when we didn't worry so much about sunscreen? Back when we were younger and cancer was something that only happened to janitors and relatives whose names you'd only seen in the front of family Bibles?
I know sunscreen is important, but I'm going to punch the next person who pushes a tube of summer-smelling stuff in my face and tells me it's time to reapply only minutes after I drained the last tube. I can't handle the pressure. I'd rather wear a beekeeper outfit while playing beach Frisbee than constantly worry that I "missed a spot."
This summer vacation, I should've punched myself, because I must have reapplied 4 million times. I've internalized all those voices of doom. I couldn't enjoy one moment under our common star without fretting about skin grafts and biopsies. Oh, to be young again.
As kids, we might have hated the weeklong lobster-red feverish skin and the achey, nauseated feeling, but we knew there was a reward. First, we'd attempt to peel the backs off our friends in long snakeskin sheets that would finally shrivel like popped gum and wrap our wrists like Saran Wrap. Then we'd get months of browned, carefree, sunkissed skin. Now we live like vampires and our mothers accuse us of drugs. What the hells?
Crazy Train
Arlington, Texas is the largest city in the United States without mass public transportation. It would be nice to be able to live in a city where that option is available but then there sometimes that I am glad that I don't.
The Summer season can get extremely hot and uncomfortable at times and cars may breakdown due to overheating. This is also the same time of year where more and more people will ride one of the very few forms of transportation near me. That, of course, is the TRE.
The TRE, or Trinity Railway Express, is a train that will only go from Downtown Fort Worth to Downtown Dallas with 7 stops in between. Every once in awhile, and only if someone is lucky enough, they will be graced with a complete crazy nut of a passenger like my train was earlier in the week.
It was a hot Monday afternoon and the only train cart with available seats was the one with the broken air conditioning. This should have been the first clue that this was not going to be an ordinary train ride.
As the TRE Enforcement when from cart to cart to check for valid tickets, they came across a man who didn't believe in purchasing a ticket or being quiet. I didn't hear the first part of the conversation between the no ticket guy and the TRE Enforcement Agent but I did hear the end of it.
From nowhere, I started to hear guy grunt as loud as he could like a wild boar being attacked by another wild boar. The man started to complain that he doesn't need to buy a ticket and became very hostile with everyone around him. At one point, the crazy man even started to get in the faces of his fellow passengers because they bought tickets and their fee should be enough to cover his cost.
This went on for almost 25 minutes. They guy just went nuts and didn't want to pay the 10 for the all day TRE pass. Numerous people tried to calm the disgruntled man down but nothing was stopping him. Not even the 2 TRE Ticket Enforcement Offices, the conductor of the train, or other fellow passengers could make this guy shut up for at least 1 minute.
At one point during the ride home, the conductor and the No Ticket Guy actually got in each other faces and started to yell at each other. As this was going on, people started to get out of their seats and sit somewhere else because of all the incoherent nonsense the guy was yelling at the female conductor.
When the stop before mine came, everything calmed down and became quiet. Everyone on the train, or at least from my point of view, assumed that the No Ticket Guy got off the train. We were way off on our judgement. The No Ticket Guy did two things that were extremely odd and creepy.
The first thing he did that was creepy was adjusting is bandanna. Originally, he was using the bandanna to wipe the sweat off of his head and face. After yelling at the conductor and calming down from a 10 to a 9.5 on the crazy scale, he adjusted the the bandanna over his face to resemble a cowboy who is about to rob a stagecoach filled with the mayor's money and daughter.
He would then point at people for a couple of seconds while staring at them with a blank face. This was obviously my clue to not look at this guy for the remainder of the trip.
He must have gotten tired because after he pointed at people for a couple of minutes, he gave up and just fell asleep on the a row of seats in the train. Apparently the Texas Heat and a small dose of crazy will have its toll on anyone.
I haven't seen No Ticket Guy on the train since, so I am thinking he either stopped using that form of transportation, got arrested at the final stop, or he just died of craziness. Either way, that was the craziest guy I have seen on any form of public transportation, and I have been to New York too.
The Summer season can get extremely hot and uncomfortable at times and cars may breakdown due to overheating. This is also the same time of year where more and more people will ride one of the very few forms of transportation near me. That, of course, is the TRE.
The TRE, or Trinity Railway Express, is a train that will only go from Downtown Fort Worth to Downtown Dallas with 7 stops in between. Every once in awhile, and only if someone is lucky enough, they will be graced with a complete crazy nut of a passenger like my train was earlier in the week.
It was a hot Monday afternoon and the only train cart with available seats was the one with the broken air conditioning. This should have been the first clue that this was not going to be an ordinary train ride.
As the TRE Enforcement when from cart to cart to check for valid tickets, they came across a man who didn't believe in purchasing a ticket or being quiet. I didn't hear the first part of the conversation between the no ticket guy and the TRE Enforcement Agent but I did hear the end of it.
From nowhere, I started to hear guy grunt as loud as he could like a wild boar being attacked by another wild boar. The man started to complain that he doesn't need to buy a ticket and became very hostile with everyone around him. At one point, the crazy man even started to get in the faces of his fellow passengers because they bought tickets and their fee should be enough to cover his cost.
This went on for almost 25 minutes. They guy just went nuts and didn't want to pay the 10 for the all day TRE pass. Numerous people tried to calm the disgruntled man down but nothing was stopping him. Not even the 2 TRE Ticket Enforcement Offices, the conductor of the train, or other fellow passengers could make this guy shut up for at least 1 minute.
At one point during the ride home, the conductor and the No Ticket Guy actually got in each other faces and started to yell at each other. As this was going on, people started to get out of their seats and sit somewhere else because of all the incoherent nonsense the guy was yelling at the female conductor.
When the stop before mine came, everything calmed down and became quiet. Everyone on the train, or at least from my point of view, assumed that the No Ticket Guy got off the train. We were way off on our judgement. The No Ticket Guy did two things that were extremely odd and creepy.
The first thing he did that was creepy was adjusting is bandanna. Originally, he was using the bandanna to wipe the sweat off of his head and face. After yelling at the conductor and calming down from a 10 to a 9.5 on the crazy scale, he adjusted the the bandanna over his face to resemble a cowboy who is about to rob a stagecoach filled with the mayor's money and daughter.
He would then point at people for a couple of seconds while staring at them with a blank face. This was obviously my clue to not look at this guy for the remainder of the trip.
He must have gotten tired because after he pointed at people for a couple of minutes, he gave up and just fell asleep on the a row of seats in the train. Apparently the Texas Heat and a small dose of crazy will have its toll on anyone.
I haven't seen No Ticket Guy on the train since, so I am thinking he either stopped using that form of transportation, got arrested at the final stop, or he just died of craziness. Either way, that was the craziest guy I have seen on any form of public transportation, and I have been to New York too.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Drive Thru Death
A funeral parlor in California opened up a drive-thru visitation lane this week. Since I love drive-thrus let me state THIS IS AWESOME.
Paying your respects has never been so disrespectful, or convenient. No more watch-gazing. No more bumming Percocet off of widows. No more, "Oh, doesn't she look natural" while you're standing over a silly putty sculpture that used to be your grandmother. Just drive by, flip off your cousin's dead body and head straight for the club.
Just like you, I hate funerals. I know some people see them as a celebration of life, but I tend to associate them more with death. It seems like birthday gatherings, the ones where everybody gets drunk and swaps wives, celebrate life more properly. After all, what commemorates life more than creating a new one with your neighbor's spouse?
At a funeral, there is too much crying and ill-fitting clothes. I have a suit that I bought 20 pounds ago, yet I shoehorn myself in it every time someone I know kicks it. Loved ones think I am crying because "Tommy" died, leaving a wife and two sons, but I'm really springing saltwater because an aggressive seam has my balls in the 10-2 split.
I will find any excuse to get out of visitation. I've told people that I'm under psychiatric orders not to attend funerals, because the last one I went to, I lost it and worked the corpse like a marionette, making it apologize to everyone for dying. It works about half the time.
I really hate open caskets. I grew up Catholic, and our kind looks for any reason to stick a prop rod in the casket. Doesn't matter how much bodily damage has occurred, the Catholics will hold a nice viewing to help you "accept the death." No thanks. I accepted the death when I read about the standoff in the paper the next day. I don't need to actually see the SWAT team's handiwork. Plus, as a kid, all this viewing of dead bodies was traumatic for me.
"Doesn't Brother Petey look good, lil' Kevy? You'd never know he was in the water for six days."
I don't know why they exposed me to that, but I do know that 6 years of age is way too young to learn about the circle of marine life.
In our fast-paced culture, drive-thru visitation helps our lives by giving us more time to live them. I think this concept is genius, and can even be improved upon.
1. Combine the drive-thru visitation with actual fast-food service. In an age of co-branding and 15-minute lunch breaks, this works.
"I'd like to let the Johnsons know I am thinking of them in this time of sorrow. Also, I'll have the No. 2 with cheese and a fried pie. Oh, and do you still have the chili-cheese tots? Because the funeral home down the street still has them."
2. Maybe have a stoplight beside the casket allowing only five seconds per car. This will ease traffic congestion and cut down on the amount of time one is obligated to spend in overt displays of mourning.
3. Install a still camera, like the ones at tollbooths designed to catch cheaters, or the ones on roller coasters designed to catch nip slips. The reason for this is that it documents for the family that you were actually there. Plus, you can smear your makeup ahead of time to look like you were completely sobbing at the proper moment, when in reality you were actually blasting some Katy Perry or bouncing to Jay-Z.
Just don't bounce too hard. Hard to explain the funeral nip slip.
Paying your respects has never been so disrespectful, or convenient. No more watch-gazing. No more bumming Percocet off of widows. No more, "Oh, doesn't she look natural" while you're standing over a silly putty sculpture that used to be your grandmother. Just drive by, flip off your cousin's dead body and head straight for the club.
Just like you, I hate funerals. I know some people see them as a celebration of life, but I tend to associate them more with death. It seems like birthday gatherings, the ones where everybody gets drunk and swaps wives, celebrate life more properly. After all, what commemorates life more than creating a new one with your neighbor's spouse?
At a funeral, there is too much crying and ill-fitting clothes. I have a suit that I bought 20 pounds ago, yet I shoehorn myself in it every time someone I know kicks it. Loved ones think I am crying because "Tommy" died, leaving a wife and two sons, but I'm really springing saltwater because an aggressive seam has my balls in the 10-2 split.
I will find any excuse to get out of visitation. I've told people that I'm under psychiatric orders not to attend funerals, because the last one I went to, I lost it and worked the corpse like a marionette, making it apologize to everyone for dying. It works about half the time.
I really hate open caskets. I grew up Catholic, and our kind looks for any reason to stick a prop rod in the casket. Doesn't matter how much bodily damage has occurred, the Catholics will hold a nice viewing to help you "accept the death." No thanks. I accepted the death when I read about the standoff in the paper the next day. I don't need to actually see the SWAT team's handiwork. Plus, as a kid, all this viewing of dead bodies was traumatic for me.
"Doesn't Brother Petey look good, lil' Kevy? You'd never know he was in the water for six days."
I don't know why they exposed me to that, but I do know that 6 years of age is way too young to learn about the circle of marine life.
In our fast-paced culture, drive-thru visitation helps our lives by giving us more time to live them. I think this concept is genius, and can even be improved upon.
1. Combine the drive-thru visitation with actual fast-food service. In an age of co-branding and 15-minute lunch breaks, this works.
"I'd like to let the Johnsons know I am thinking of them in this time of sorrow. Also, I'll have the No. 2 with cheese and a fried pie. Oh, and do you still have the chili-cheese tots? Because the funeral home down the street still has them."
2. Maybe have a stoplight beside the casket allowing only five seconds per car. This will ease traffic congestion and cut down on the amount of time one is obligated to spend in overt displays of mourning.
3. Install a still camera, like the ones at tollbooths designed to catch cheaters, or the ones on roller coasters designed to catch nip slips. The reason for this is that it documents for the family that you were actually there. Plus, you can smear your makeup ahead of time to look like you were completely sobbing at the proper moment, when in reality you were actually blasting some Katy Perry or bouncing to Jay-Z.
Just don't bounce too hard. Hard to explain the funeral nip slip.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Oh S**t, its vacation time
You should know this about me: I prepare for vacation the way Pharaohs prepared for death on a grand scale and with my organs in mason jars. I must have my entire life squared away. I put the will on the desk, leave passwords in secret envelopes, and put the love doll in a Dumpster (to be retrieved later). The house must be cleaned, and projects I have been working on for months must be completed. I don't know why. It's not like I would have completed the projects had I stayed home. But there I am, last minute before I have to leave for the airport, frantically organizing my 1st grade baseball card collection.
It's as though I am preparing for death rather than a fun vacation. I even leave instructions for an estate sale and "talking points" for my obit.
I know every year in these pages I predict that I will not return from summer vacation, but this time I might actually be correct. I am heading into the wilds of Africa, where I'm sure I'll be torn apart by elephants who mistake my large head for one of their own.
Traveling to Africa is an exciting hardship. The 19 hours of flight will be filled with booze and boyhood dreams. I can't wait to spot my first slinky leopard and snorting cape buffalo and battle my first case of malaria. It's all romantic until reality clubs you in the kneecaps.
I'll be standing at the Botswana baggage claim full of whiskey and regret. The conveyor belt slowly circles with the same two pieces of third hand luggage. I turn to the lion next to me.
"Can you believe this?" I ask.
"No. They lost my steamer trunk last year," he says as he smokes nervously and reads a racing form.
"Well, I can't live two weeks in the same pair of clothes."
"You got that right," the lion says. Then he kills me. The rhino in the ill-fitting uniform glances up from his podium for a moment then goes back to his Harry Potter.
Africa on the Fourth of July. I can't wait!
Oh, and by Africa, I mean Lake Granbury which is only about an hour or less away.
It's as though I am preparing for death rather than a fun vacation. I even leave instructions for an estate sale and "talking points" for my obit.
I know every year in these pages I predict that I will not return from summer vacation, but this time I might actually be correct. I am heading into the wilds of Africa, where I'm sure I'll be torn apart by elephants who mistake my large head for one of their own.
Traveling to Africa is an exciting hardship. The 19 hours of flight will be filled with booze and boyhood dreams. I can't wait to spot my first slinky leopard and snorting cape buffalo and battle my first case of malaria. It's all romantic until reality clubs you in the kneecaps.
I'll be standing at the Botswana baggage claim full of whiskey and regret. The conveyor belt slowly circles with the same two pieces of third hand luggage. I turn to the lion next to me.
"Can you believe this?" I ask.
"No. They lost my steamer trunk last year," he says as he smokes nervously and reads a racing form.
"Well, I can't live two weeks in the same pair of clothes."
"You got that right," the lion says. Then he kills me. The rhino in the ill-fitting uniform glances up from his podium for a moment then goes back to his Harry Potter.
Africa on the Fourth of July. I can't wait!
Oh, and by Africa, I mean Lake Granbury which is only about an hour or less away.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
4th of July and a White Trash Party
Its time to get nautical on the lake at a lake house a group of friends go to every year. It always consists of drinks, every meal come from the grill, jet skiing, swimming, jumping from various heights into the water, and of course non stop music that will make sure the neighbors will notice our presence.
The usual groups of misfits and deviants were there: Paul, Katie, Alex, Matt, Boj, Jess, and myself. A couple of new people came to experience the lake and they were Austin and his girlfriend Gabe.
We were only there for a couple of days because some of us had a 4th of July White Trash Party to go to on the actual 4th of July. And after 2 days of basically living on the water, it was time to pack up, head back home, and get ready for that party.
My friends, Chelsea and Eric, were the ones hosting the White Trash party at their house in North Dallas. Since it was a themed party, a costume was required. People wore jorts, torn up t shirts, horrible dresses from Wal Mart, and the ladies set their make up fashion to whore.
We had a good time grilling out, swimming, and playing beer can basketball. For some reason, when our group gets near a grill or any type of body of water, music will be played at its loudest decibel level.
Near the end of the night, we played Apples to Apples before the vodka soaked watermelon was brought out to the group. All I can say is that was the best watermelon that I have ever had.
We were there all day and it was time to leave because the heat drained all of the energy out of everyone and the drinks were starting to have their effect on all of us. Plus, Paul, Katie, and I wanted to get back to Bedford to see the fireworks show near their house.
I am just thankfull that I have the 5th off too so I can rest up before I go back to work.
The usual groups of misfits and deviants were there: Paul, Katie, Alex, Matt, Boj, Jess, and myself. A couple of new people came to experience the lake and they were Austin and his girlfriend Gabe.
We were only there for a couple of days because some of us had a 4th of July White Trash Party to go to on the actual 4th of July. And after 2 days of basically living on the water, it was time to pack up, head back home, and get ready for that party.
My friends, Chelsea and Eric, were the ones hosting the White Trash party at their house in North Dallas. Since it was a themed party, a costume was required. People wore jorts, torn up t shirts, horrible dresses from Wal Mart, and the ladies set their make up fashion to whore.
We had a good time grilling out, swimming, and playing beer can basketball. For some reason, when our group gets near a grill or any type of body of water, music will be played at its loudest decibel level.
Near the end of the night, we played Apples to Apples before the vodka soaked watermelon was brought out to the group. All I can say is that was the best watermelon that I have ever had.
We were there all day and it was time to leave because the heat drained all of the energy out of everyone and the drinks were starting to have their effect on all of us. Plus, Paul, Katie, and I wanted to get back to Bedford to see the fireworks show near their house.
I am just thankfull that I have the 5th off too so I can rest up before I go back to work.
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