There is a loverly BritCom benamed Black Books that covers the antics of a triptych of wacky friends and their exploits. The introductory episode presents us with the main character, Bernard Black, owner and operator of a small bookstore in London, faced for the first time with having to do his own taxes (as his accountant, it seems, is rather suddenly on the lam from MI5). About midway through the episode, Bernard discovers a helpful clause in the instructions for completing his "accounts," which states, in sum and substance, that if the filler-outer gets seriously ill or injured, he is exempt from filing his taxes. Upon reading this, of course, Bernard sets about on a series of failed attempts to irreparably maim himself. A ridiculous notion, and obviously a formula for comedy.
But I daresay this falls into the "it's funny because it's true" category.
Somebody make me unresponsible for finding my new apartment, for the underpinnings of an entire law practice, for putting my personal life in order (Is a personal life ever really "in order"?), for healing my body and for scheduling my theatrical commitments. Somebody hit me with a brick (Patrick?), kick me in the face (Nat?) or rerupture the frail hydrostatic pressure preventing my urine from invading my ballular region (Myself?). Actually, skip that last one; there's simply got to be a better way. But the first two I'll take! I actually thought to myself last night, looking for the subway in BedSty, "This neighborhood = not so great. Maybe I'll get mugged and I can retreat into a passive-aggressive hole for two weeks until this whole apartment hunting thing blows over." Alas, 'twas not meant to be. I still have the same finsky in my wallet, and my psyche remains arrogantly intact.
That last might fall into the "it's funny because it's blatantly false" category, actually.
I can feel the edges of my psyche curling up in retreat from all the B.S. of the hunt. (Trivia tidbit: My psyche is actually a potato bug.) Yesterday I saw two places, both of a goodly size for my modest needs. The first was in crap condition, however, and they wanted $650 there and then, non-refundable and unrelated to rent or an additional broker's fee, to secure it. Lots of promises for new windows (I lived for two years with windows with holes in them in Richmond) and a working intercom, the which I could always comfort myself with as I wrote out my $1,000 check every month for at least a year. The second was a really nice place, and could have been mine for a check there and then for a month's rent, which was lower than advertised: merely $875. But I felt pressured, and so didn't take it there and then. Which was good, because come to find out the reason all the new security had been installed was because the building's only (ginormous) neighbor across the street was a mandatory acceptance homeless men's shelter. Social conscience aside, not the sort of foot traffic I wish to submit me and mine to.
But I daresay this falls into the "it's funny because it's true" category.
Somebody make me unresponsible for finding my new apartment, for the underpinnings of an entire law practice, for putting my personal life in order (Is a personal life ever really "in order"?), for healing my body and for scheduling my theatrical commitments. Somebody hit me with a brick (Patrick?), kick me in the face (Nat?) or rerupture the frail hydrostatic pressure preventing my urine from invading my ballular region (Myself?). Actually, skip that last one; there's simply got to be a better way. But the first two I'll take! I actually thought to myself last night, looking for the subway in BedSty, "This neighborhood = not so great. Maybe I'll get mugged and I can retreat into a passive-aggressive hole for two weeks until this whole apartment hunting thing blows over." Alas, 'twas not meant to be. I still have the same finsky in my wallet, and my psyche remains arrogantly intact.
That last might fall into the "it's funny because it's blatantly false" category, actually.
I can feel the edges of my psyche curling up in retreat from all the B.S. of the hunt. (Trivia tidbit: My psyche is actually a potato bug.) Yesterday I saw two places, both of a goodly size for my modest needs. The first was in crap condition, however, and they wanted $650 there and then, non-refundable and unrelated to rent or an additional broker's fee, to secure it. Lots of promises for new windows (I lived for two years with windows with holes in them in Richmond) and a working intercom, the which I could always comfort myself with as I wrote out my $1,000 check every month for at least a year. The second was a really nice place, and could have been mine for a check there and then for a month's rent, which was lower than advertised: merely $875. But I felt pressured, and so didn't take it there and then. Which was good, because come to find out the reason all the new security had been installed was because the building's only (ginormous) neighbor across the street was a mandatory acceptance homeless men's shelter. Social conscience aside, not the sort of foot traffic I wish to submit me and mine to.
Tonight bodes more of the same. Leaping from inaccessible place to inaccessible place, calling to apologize for lateness and trying to suck up without falling into a myriad of traps and pressure situations. Tonight I am aiming for three places, which I tried but failed to do last night. Hopefully they will not all be wastes of time. Hopefully, all my problems will be solved by 9:00 PM tonight. But I'm not counting on it. There's nothing I'm counting on, at this point.
Except perhaps a friend with a hobbling post.
