After leaving The Grey Yonder, some friends and I moved into The Radiator House. This was just across the street and much nicer than the previous place, an actual house that had been divided into two separate areas: a downstairs where a peaceful hippie couple lived, and an upstairs where the four of us shared a few tiny common areas.
Everything would have been fine if it weren't for THE CRACK HOUSE NEXT DOOR.
The guy who rented it was an extremely quiet, perpetually-stoned, moderately well-off young man who seemed to never go outside. At night he'd put his speakers in his windows and play bass guitar at top volume.
We knew he was selling drugs because a constant stream of traffic was always pulling in and out of his driveway, one of those terrible King St. North constructions that scrape the bottoms off of cars. This driveway was the reason for our first real altercation with our neighbour and his patrons.
You see, OUR driveway was a nice, well-graded path that looped around the back into a gravel parking lot. A particularly slick and disgusting fellow -- who we called "American Psycho" -- got into the habit of screeching into our driveway, racing across the parking lot, and driving up the grassy incline into the entrance to the crack house. This allowed him to avoid the terrible hump that was no doubt damaging his flashy low-rider sports car.
The problem was, this route required him to drive directly under the bedroom window of our peaceful hippie neighbours, and he'd do this at 3am every night, spraying gravel everywhere while deliberately gunning his engine. They'd asked him to stop several times and he always said he would, but then the next night he'd do it again, louder and faster than ever before. He was That Kind of Guy.
One morning I woke up to a furious pounding on our door. I went downstairs in my bathrobe and there was the American Psycho, ready to explode.
"WHO THE F*CK KEYED MY CAR?" he screamed, pushing his way into our hallway. American Psycho was big. He wore expensive suits and wrap-around shades and combed his thinning hair backward. He was not a guy to mess with.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"LIKE F*CK! SOMEBODY IN HERE KEYED MY F*CKING CAR LAST NIGHT AND I'M GONNA KICK THEIR F*CKING ASS!"
"Wait--" I said.
He lunged toward me. "YOU F*CKING DID IT!" he yelled.
"I did not, wait..."
"YOU F*CKING KEYED MY CAR!!!"
"Why would I key your car?"
"BECAUSE I DRIVE UNDER YOUR F*CKING WINDOW!"
"It's not my window," I said. "I live in the attic. That's the window for the people downstairs. Why would I key your car?"
He flew into a complete rage and started kicking apart an old desk that we'd left by the front door. I told him he'd have to leave or I'd call the police, and he stalked around the other side of the house to confront the peaceful hippie couple. I heard him screaming, and I heard the peaceful hippie husband scream back, and then American Psycho came stomping back around the house again. He punched our wall and drove away, the scratch on the side of his sports car painfully visible.
He never drove through our parking lot again. The peaceful hippie husband was built like Grizzly Adams, you see. So it all had a happy ending.
Anyway, the quiet bass-playing guy wasn't the only person living in the crack house. He was also sheltering a drug casualty who squatted in the unfinished basement with his girlfriend. We didn't see much of him either, but on particularly spooky nights we'd hear the door slam open and the girlfriend would howl: "FWAAAAAAAWK YOU!"
"Where you gonna go?" we'd hear him slur.
"FWAAAAAAAAAWK YOU!" Slowly, stoned and incapable, she'd stumble down king street. He'd stumble out and follow her, the two of them shambling along, and he'd keep saying "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go?"
"FWAAAAAAAAAWK YOU!" she'd howl, and gradually their voices would fade.
Ten minutes later we'd hear them from the other side: "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go?"
"ffffwwwwaaaAAAAAWK YOU!" And they'd both stumble back into the house, having circled the block and providing us with some sad late-night amusement. This happened a few times and it was always the same. They deserved each other.
------
Eventually the quiet bass-playing tenant left and some friends of ours decided to move into their house because it was really kind of nice. On the first of the month they pulled up with their moving truck, walked inside...and found the crackhead still squatting in the basement.
"I got nowhere to go," he said. "Just let me stay for a few more days." The walls were torn apart and sprayed with graffiti. There were syringes on the floor, circling a highly illegal propane tank which later had to be removed by the police.
Our friends finally managed to coax him out by promising to drive him to a friend's house, but on the way through the door he pointed at the ceiling fan in the living room and said "Wait, dude, that's my fan."
"It's not your fan, it's part of the house."
"I bought that fan. Listen, dude, I'm not leaving without my fan, it's worth a lot of money." So our friends removed the fan and gave it to him, assuming it was a small price to pay to finally get rid of him.
The Radiator House is still there but it has been converted into a massive student apartment, with an addition on the back that actually merges with the crack house. So have things changed and the student slums have grown.
Showing posts with label neighbours. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbours. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Dogs: The Neighbourhood Icebreakers
Today my mother came by to help me fix up my foliage. I've kept it all wet and I've even done some weeding, but there's no substitute for a green-thumb matriarch with a bag full of mulch.
On a beautiful day and under a beautiful sky we worked at separate tasks, drinking and not really speaking. She did the heavy lifting, being only about five feet tall but actually having a functional shoulder. I did the first REAL weeding I've ever done in my life, digging out the grass that's sapping the life from my burgeoning maple trees and my bleeding hearts. It's amazing how tenacious grass can be, it spreads a thick network of tiny roots through the soil. It's almost a shame to pull up such a capable weed.
After my mother left and I was standing on my patio admiring her work, the dog arrived, a huge bouncy orange creature who barked playfully at the children next door. It had come running into their back yard, followed closely by Pearl, a neighbour I'd only previously seen dancing during an impromptu long weekend celebration on our mutual fire route.
Pearl was talking to the small children, and I found myself drawn to the dog. "Can I pet him?" I asked, and suddenly I realized that dogs are "people bridges" who entice reserved people into talking with each other.
Through this dog I met not just Pearl, but also the kids next door and their mother...I don't think their mother is my biggest fan as of yet, but I'm convinced that it's 99% due to the usual problems with neighbours: we haven't spoken yet. I waved at her across the yard and she smiled genuinely and waved back, and wished I hadn't had that second drink with my mom.
Sensing that the children wanted to talk to me a bit, I turned to one of them and said "When I first saw this dog I thought it was yours."
"No," he sighed sadly. "We don't have anything...except for a baby named Jackson."
So I think that people who move into a new neighbourhood should be able to RENT dogs, so we can stand around and wait for somebody to say "How old is he? Can I pet him? What's his name? How big will he get?" followed shortly by "Hi, my name is..."
On a beautiful day and under a beautiful sky we worked at separate tasks, drinking and not really speaking. She did the heavy lifting, being only about five feet tall but actually having a functional shoulder. I did the first REAL weeding I've ever done in my life, digging out the grass that's sapping the life from my burgeoning maple trees and my bleeding hearts. It's amazing how tenacious grass can be, it spreads a thick network of tiny roots through the soil. It's almost a shame to pull up such a capable weed.
After my mother left and I was standing on my patio admiring her work, the dog arrived, a huge bouncy orange creature who barked playfully at the children next door. It had come running into their back yard, followed closely by Pearl, a neighbour I'd only previously seen dancing during an impromptu long weekend celebration on our mutual fire route.
Pearl was talking to the small children, and I found myself drawn to the dog. "Can I pet him?" I asked, and suddenly I realized that dogs are "people bridges" who entice reserved people into talking with each other.
Through this dog I met not just Pearl, but also the kids next door and their mother...I don't think their mother is my biggest fan as of yet, but I'm convinced that it's 99% due to the usual problems with neighbours: we haven't spoken yet. I waved at her across the yard and she smiled genuinely and waved back, and wished I hadn't had that second drink with my mom.
Sensing that the children wanted to talk to me a bit, I turned to one of them and said "When I first saw this dog I thought it was yours."
"No," he sighed sadly. "We don't have anything...except for a baby named Jackson."
So I think that people who move into a new neighbourhood should be able to RENT dogs, so we can stand around and wait for somebody to say "How old is he? Can I pet him? What's his name? How big will he get?" followed shortly by "Hi, my name is..."
Sunday, April 04, 2010
My New NEW Digs
I moved here in September when it was a little bit chilly and everybody was retreating indoors. Over the winter I've barely seen anything of my neighbours.
Now, with the obscenely beautiful weather, I'm learning a bit more about them than I'd like to. We all have little patios so we're sort of in each other's faces. Plus I'm living next door to the Brady Bunch, a family whose uncountable children simply cannot be held within in the confines of a two-bedroom house, so they spill out in all directions and are pretty much below every window and inescapable.
I'm a much more relaxed person now than I used to be, so I am better able to view their activities as "healthy play" as opposed to "intrusively noisy." And I can (so far) drown them out when I really need to concentrate by turning on the furnace fan, which provides the added benefit of air circulation and which the previous owners had on pretty much constantly.
Fortunately this community does not seem to host partiers, at least not the type for whom partying is a lifestyle instead of just a diversion. I much prefer the sound of children playing than the sound of thumping music. And even more fortunately, my other neighbours -- the ones I share a wall with -- are so quiet that I occasionally worry about them. This is a far cry from the days of yore: the barking daschund, the wrestling pre-teens on the stairway, the pot-fueled 2:00am guitar parties on a chilly Tuesday morning.
I think this will be good. I don't know how much any of these people will like me...some of them say hello when I'm watering my terminally thirsty shrubbery, while others just walk past.
Other good things: this place is so nice and tidy that it's a pleasure to clean...well, as pleasurable as cleaning can be. Zsa Zsa adores her extended patio time and her tense exchanges with the Stray Badass Cat, who I surreptitiously spray with water when it looks like things are going poorly.
A VERY good thing: just across the expressway from where I live is the beautiful, unspoiled wilderness of Bechtel Park, but to get there I have to take a huge detour around all the fences and across the overpass. I've noticed a little stream that travels UNDER the expressway and into the park, and I've been wondering if I couldn't splash my way over there that way.
So on Friday I started exploring, and holy cow! The stream does indeed travel through a tunnel, and right beside it there is a SECOND tunnel...FOR PEDESTRIANS! It's long and spooky and black -- the kind of thing that city planners don't build anymore for safety reasons -- but thanks to some skillfully-demolished fences it provides convenient access to the park. Not a place to go at night, but a pleasant and adventuresome trip for the noon hour wanderer in search of some peace.
I think I'll need to use it a few times during the warm patio weather.
Now, with the obscenely beautiful weather, I'm learning a bit more about them than I'd like to. We all have little patios so we're sort of in each other's faces. Plus I'm living next door to the Brady Bunch, a family whose uncountable children simply cannot be held within in the confines of a two-bedroom house, so they spill out in all directions and are pretty much below every window and inescapable.
I'm a much more relaxed person now than I used to be, so I am better able to view their activities as "healthy play" as opposed to "intrusively noisy." And I can (so far) drown them out when I really need to concentrate by turning on the furnace fan, which provides the added benefit of air circulation and which the previous owners had on pretty much constantly.
Fortunately this community does not seem to host partiers, at least not the type for whom partying is a lifestyle instead of just a diversion. I much prefer the sound of children playing than the sound of thumping music. And even more fortunately, my other neighbours -- the ones I share a wall with -- are so quiet that I occasionally worry about them. This is a far cry from the days of yore: the barking daschund, the wrestling pre-teens on the stairway, the pot-fueled 2:00am guitar parties on a chilly Tuesday morning.
I think this will be good. I don't know how much any of these people will like me...some of them say hello when I'm watering my terminally thirsty shrubbery, while others just walk past.
Other good things: this place is so nice and tidy that it's a pleasure to clean...well, as pleasurable as cleaning can be. Zsa Zsa adores her extended patio time and her tense exchanges with the Stray Badass Cat, who I surreptitiously spray with water when it looks like things are going poorly.
A VERY good thing: just across the expressway from where I live is the beautiful, unspoiled wilderness of Bechtel Park, but to get there I have to take a huge detour around all the fences and across the overpass. I've noticed a little stream that travels UNDER the expressway and into the park, and I've been wondering if I couldn't splash my way over there that way.
So on Friday I started exploring, and holy cow! The stream does indeed travel through a tunnel, and right beside it there is a SECOND tunnel...FOR PEDESTRIANS! It's long and spooky and black -- the kind of thing that city planners don't build anymore for safety reasons -- but thanks to some skillfully-demolished fences it provides convenient access to the park. Not a place to go at night, but a pleasant and adventuresome trip for the noon hour wanderer in search of some peace.
I think I'll need to use it a few times during the warm patio weather.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
My New Neighbourhood
Up a hill! Down a hill! I never realized there was such a big hill on the edge of Uptown Waterloo. All sides of it are fantastically steep, and there's even a bit of a valley nestled right in the middle, so I get lots of exercise to and from work.
While coming down the hill towards Weber street there's a BEAUTIFUL view to the north, overlooking Moses Springer park and then -- far off -- the student slums of University and Columbia. I'm intrigued by a huge microwave tower out there.
There is always a lone dove sitting on a powerline near Lincoln and Weber, which is also where the few pedestrians diverge to various buses. Even though there is a bus which goes very close to my house, its route is circuitous and seems to almost willfully avoid the main line. Transfers and waiting at University and King is the only way.
The most beautiful homes are up on the hill. Affluence, in this area, means being set so far away from the road that you are completely surrounded by forest. One house appears only accessible up a long, winding wooden staircase with a mailbox at the bottom. I want to live in that house!
All the homes were built in the '60s and look distinctly "Brady Bunch": A-Frame angles, tall narrow windows, ridiculously high ceilings. The people who live in those houses walk their children to work every day; one father piggybacks his daughter all the way down the hill.
My own neighbourhood is not affluent, it would probably be classified as lower-middle class. They're mostly new families and first-time homebuyers. Most of them seem capable of proper recycling and garbage disposal, but a few think that a bin marked "cardboard" is the place where you throw your old Javex bottles.
The supermarket nearby is exceptionally good. The Blockbuster store is badly in need of cleaning and renovation. The Canadian Pizza place makes great pizza, and it's cheap.
I live near a water treatment plant and I am surrounded on three sides by enormous parks. I have done very little exploring but I'm amazed to discover that I live at the very end of Margaret Street, a long city-spanning thoroughfare which runs through every type of possible neighbourhood. This week I walked from the one end -- near my house -- all the way to the other end, which terminates conveniently at the Registry Theatre. It took about 45 minutes.
On my way to work I pass the cheerful, elderly school crossing guard. On the way home I used to greet the cheerful, elderly golden retriever who ran loosely up and down the immaculately-manicured lawns. But a few weeks ago his owners tied him up in the driveway, put down a blue tarp for him, and left his food and water out. I don't believe he is abused but he's certainly sad, sitting there, unable to greet people on the sidewalk. It makes me sad too.
Two days ago I finally realized that I really do live here. It hasn't sunk in yet that I OWN the place, but it's a start at least.
While coming down the hill towards Weber street there's a BEAUTIFUL view to the north, overlooking Moses Springer park and then -- far off -- the student slums of University and Columbia. I'm intrigued by a huge microwave tower out there.
There is always a lone dove sitting on a powerline near Lincoln and Weber, which is also where the few pedestrians diverge to various buses. Even though there is a bus which goes very close to my house, its route is circuitous and seems to almost willfully avoid the main line. Transfers and waiting at University and King is the only way.
The most beautiful homes are up on the hill. Affluence, in this area, means being set so far away from the road that you are completely surrounded by forest. One house appears only accessible up a long, winding wooden staircase with a mailbox at the bottom. I want to live in that house!
All the homes were built in the '60s and look distinctly "Brady Bunch": A-Frame angles, tall narrow windows, ridiculously high ceilings. The people who live in those houses walk their children to work every day; one father piggybacks his daughter all the way down the hill.
My own neighbourhood is not affluent, it would probably be classified as lower-middle class. They're mostly new families and first-time homebuyers. Most of them seem capable of proper recycling and garbage disposal, but a few think that a bin marked "cardboard" is the place where you throw your old Javex bottles.
The supermarket nearby is exceptionally good. The Blockbuster store is badly in need of cleaning and renovation. The Canadian Pizza place makes great pizza, and it's cheap.
I live near a water treatment plant and I am surrounded on three sides by enormous parks. I have done very little exploring but I'm amazed to discover that I live at the very end of Margaret Street, a long city-spanning thoroughfare which runs through every type of possible neighbourhood. This week I walked from the one end -- near my house -- all the way to the other end, which terminates conveniently at the Registry Theatre. It took about 45 minutes.
On my way to work I pass the cheerful, elderly school crossing guard. On the way home I used to greet the cheerful, elderly golden retriever who ran loosely up and down the immaculately-manicured lawns. But a few weeks ago his owners tied him up in the driveway, put down a blue tarp for him, and left his food and water out. I don't believe he is abused but he's certainly sad, sitting there, unable to greet people on the sidewalk. It makes me sad too.
Two days ago I finally realized that I really do live here. It hasn't sunk in yet that I OWN the place, but it's a start at least.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
T-Plus One
It took only two hours for seven of us to move everything. I hate making other people deal with my own personal shortcomings -- pack-ratting, high dust-tolerance, unfastidiousness -- but everybody grinned and bore it for the duration, despite a few heart-jabbing jokes about hygiene.
My father drove the big 17' U-Haul truck, and was also in charge of packing everything into the back. The rest of us just carried boxes and boxes and boxes, and -- despite my best-laid plans -- everything got hopelessly muddled. Where's the hammer? Where does this box go? Should I have taken more chairs?
Then the moving in: brazenly parking everybody counter to the condo rules, then my mother -- spade in hand -- turning my ho-hum patio into a beautiful little garden. Vanilla and Jon took me out for lunch and de-stressing, then we returned and I began to put together the brand-new, luxurious computer desk.
Meanwhile my mother got to work on the windows. The previous owners of this townhouse were clean in every way but one: they never touched their windows. My mother was aghast, elbow-deep in black mould, fly sh*t, and "at least forty spiders." I have to console myself that whatever my housekeeping shortcomings I have NEVER left THAT sort of mess. Just other sorts of messes...
...so we went back to the old apartment and did some post-moving cleaning-up. I apologize to future renters that the fridge and stove are somewhat gross. As for the cat smell, I promise that's not my (or Zsa Zsa's) fault: it always smelt like that, depending on the day and humidity.
Bell Telephone arrived to hook me up, and I have to say that despite a few problems with them in the past, this time they were absolutely GOLDEN. Everything's working perfectly and -- what's more -- arranged around my beautiful new desk. My keyboard is in a comfortable spot for the first time in...well, forever. My feet no longer hurt when I sit and type.
My hope was that the single party wall in this townhouse would be totally soundproof. Well, it's not; I seem to be able to hear them when they're close to their walls, but either they're relatively quiet or the effect decreases with distance. In any case, so far it seems adequate.
It was SO nice to put my filthy clothes (remember, I haven't been able to wash them for almost a week) into MY OWN WASHER, and then into MY OWN DRYER, and then gently fold them in my own good time.
It hasn't sunk in that I own this place; currently it seems like "a place that I'm in." This is partly because I slept on my new couch last night, which is nice to sit on but terrible to sleep on, especially with a cat. This afternoon the guys from Sleep Country arrived and put my new bed together in TEN MINUTES. They even wore protective booties.
There is a lot of stuff remaining to be done. My life revolves around easily-performed routines, none of which are established in this new place. 95% of my stuff is still in boxes, and there are a lot of things I still need to buy, and I can't wait to try out the coffee maker that my sister bought me.
But my first real moment of bliss came when I went out back to sit in my yard. I sat on my new patio furniture and read Vladimir Nabokov in the cool morning air. Zsa Zsa explored the shrubbery, and then settled down to watch the neighbours as they passed by my gate. For the first time I really felt the words "My house," and then I thought "Good," and it was like something hard inside me melted just a bit.
My father drove the big 17' U-Haul truck, and was also in charge of packing everything into the back. The rest of us just carried boxes and boxes and boxes, and -- despite my best-laid plans -- everything got hopelessly muddled. Where's the hammer? Where does this box go? Should I have taken more chairs?
Then the moving in: brazenly parking everybody counter to the condo rules, then my mother -- spade in hand -- turning my ho-hum patio into a beautiful little garden. Vanilla and Jon took me out for lunch and de-stressing, then we returned and I began to put together the brand-new, luxurious computer desk.
Meanwhile my mother got to work on the windows. The previous owners of this townhouse were clean in every way but one: they never touched their windows. My mother was aghast, elbow-deep in black mould, fly sh*t, and "at least forty spiders." I have to console myself that whatever my housekeeping shortcomings I have NEVER left THAT sort of mess. Just other sorts of messes...
...so we went back to the old apartment and did some post-moving cleaning-up. I apologize to future renters that the fridge and stove are somewhat gross. As for the cat smell, I promise that's not my (or Zsa Zsa's) fault: it always smelt like that, depending on the day and humidity.
Bell Telephone arrived to hook me up, and I have to say that despite a few problems with them in the past, this time they were absolutely GOLDEN. Everything's working perfectly and -- what's more -- arranged around my beautiful new desk. My keyboard is in a comfortable spot for the first time in...well, forever. My feet no longer hurt when I sit and type.
My hope was that the single party wall in this townhouse would be totally soundproof. Well, it's not; I seem to be able to hear them when they're close to their walls, but either they're relatively quiet or the effect decreases with distance. In any case, so far it seems adequate.
It was SO nice to put my filthy clothes (remember, I haven't been able to wash them for almost a week) into MY OWN WASHER, and then into MY OWN DRYER, and then gently fold them in my own good time.
It hasn't sunk in that I own this place; currently it seems like "a place that I'm in." This is partly because I slept on my new couch last night, which is nice to sit on but terrible to sleep on, especially with a cat. This afternoon the guys from Sleep Country arrived and put my new bed together in TEN MINUTES. They even wore protective booties.
There is a lot of stuff remaining to be done. My life revolves around easily-performed routines, none of which are established in this new place. 95% of my stuff is still in boxes, and there are a lot of things I still need to buy, and I can't wait to try out the coffee maker that my sister bought me.
But my first real moment of bliss came when I went out back to sit in my yard. I sat on my new patio furniture and read Vladimir Nabokov in the cool morning air. Zsa Zsa explored the shrubbery, and then settled down to watch the neighbours as they passed by my gate. For the first time I really felt the words "My house," and then I thought "Good," and it was like something hard inside me melted just a bit.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
"Boxcar"
Another odd little video that I finally finished this morning: "Boxcar."
What do you do when your neighbour parks his junker car on your front lawn? You turn it into a constructive project.
I took my camera and tripod and filmed every piece of the car that I considered to be interesting. Since the horizon was rarely level with the car itself, I made a decision to always orient the camera based on the car's surfaces, which I think was a mistake: it causes the surrounding surfaces (roads, hedges, etc.) to appear skewed in a distracting sort of way.
Eventually I got the hang of avoiding reflections, and I also realized that late-afternoon light is very pretty when it bounces off metal.
My original idea was to mix the video clips with painstakingly hand-edited stills of the car, to make it look like a cartoon in the midst of a live landscape. Then I decided that it was a "too-tricky-clever" idea without any real point.
And since I was reading Iain Sinclair's "Lights Out for the Territory," I found myself getting more interested in the style of a film he frequently wrote about: "London" by Patrick Keiller. I hadn't seen the film at the time, but Sinclair's description of droll narration, motionless camera, and no-nonsense cuts was subconsciously inspiring...I was also thinking about Peter Greenaway's "The Falls." By referencing objects in the clips themselves, I wrote a little story and tried to find images that reflected the mood (rather than the content) of the clips.
I intercut with black frames to break the monotony of the images, and I threw a deliberately glitchy shot into the middle for the same reason. The background sounds are the ones from the clips themselves, with rougher sounds (like busses) removed and lots of denoising to compensate for my camera's crappy mic.
I hope you like it!
What do you do when your neighbour parks his junker car on your front lawn? You turn it into a constructive project.
I took my camera and tripod and filmed every piece of the car that I considered to be interesting. Since the horizon was rarely level with the car itself, I made a decision to always orient the camera based on the car's surfaces, which I think was a mistake: it causes the surrounding surfaces (roads, hedges, etc.) to appear skewed in a distracting sort of way.
Eventually I got the hang of avoiding reflections, and I also realized that late-afternoon light is very pretty when it bounces off metal.
My original idea was to mix the video clips with painstakingly hand-edited stills of the car, to make it look like a cartoon in the midst of a live landscape. Then I decided that it was a "too-tricky-clever" idea without any real point.
And since I was reading Iain Sinclair's "Lights Out for the Territory," I found myself getting more interested in the style of a film he frequently wrote about: "London" by Patrick Keiller. I hadn't seen the film at the time, but Sinclair's description of droll narration, motionless camera, and no-nonsense cuts was subconsciously inspiring...I was also thinking about Peter Greenaway's "The Falls." By referencing objects in the clips themselves, I wrote a little story and tried to find images that reflected the mood (rather than the content) of the clips.
I intercut with black frames to break the monotony of the images, and I threw a deliberately glitchy shot into the middle for the same reason. The background sounds are the ones from the clips themselves, with rougher sounds (like busses) removed and lots of denoising to compensate for my camera's crappy mic.
I hope you like it!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
What's Going On:
Here's a quick and impromptu recap of the last few weeks!
If you've ever bought a home, you know what I've been doing: planning, coordinating, waiting, worrying, and spending. I've been dealing with official-type people such as mortgage brokers, lawyers, insurance agents, and bankers. I've also been counting my pennies and trying my best to make sure my finances stay in good shape, while still keeping myself happy and amused.
Purchasing this townhouse condo has been an all-consuming process. Every day I email, telephone, and fax the people who need to coordinate their efforts to make this happen. I've suffered through a drastically "stuck" hedge fund which threatened to leave me $18,000 short of the required down payment...fortunately this appears to be resolved today. I have gone from a total fax newbie to a virtual fax repairperson in the space of a month: scanning, dialing, confirming, crossing items off the checklist, moving to the next one...
I'm AWFUL at this stuff. I hate bureaucracy and have managed to avoid it for most of my life. Now I suddenly find myself competent, able to learn the ropes and harass the foot-draggers. These skills alone are worthwhile results of this whole ordeal.
I followed a house inspector as he poked into every nook and cranny of my upcoming home, and I was thrilled to hear that it's in tip-top condition (considering it's exactly as old as I am). Meanwhile, every day I look at the real estate listings, dreading the moment when The Perfect Home becomes available, and I'm happy to say that nothing even CLOSE has appeared. Everything else is too expensive, too far away, or too crappy...often all three.
I've started packing, which is silly because I still have a month to go. People are giving me cardboard boxes. My basement is FULL of boxes, each one waiting to be filled with my life's irreplaceable trivia.
When I told my landlords that I was moving, I initially felt a bit guilty: they've been conscious of my needs and we've always had a pretty good relationship, and ten years is an awful long time. But then -- after chopping down the precious greenery under my living room window -- one of the tenants next door got permission to park his "for sale" junker car on my front lawn. And -- totally by accident -- I discovered that this building has been on the market since the week before I said I was leaving...at least *I* had the decency to tell them we were through!
Meanwhile, in consideration of prospective buyers and tenants, I've been monitoring Zsa Zsa's catty smell, the result of a kidney condition which causes her to pee about eight times a day. Any odour in this apartment instantly spreads through the entire building -- and my unit has always smelled a bit like cat-spray, since before I even moved in -- but I still want to make things as painless for others as possible.
Last weekend I spent five hours with my mother, aunt, and grandmother looking for new living room furniture. I am determined to leave as much of my ramshackle and mismatched furniture behind, and five hours of comparative shopping -- and sitting in about six hundred chairs -- was more than worth it. I'm looking forward to planting some shrubs, and having my own washer/dryer, and not sharing ventilation with anybody except those who I invite. I want a coffee maker. I want my own home.
I am hopeful and happy and busy. This is probably the most significant thing I have ever done. That might seem silly to those of you with spouses and children, but for me it's a big deal...and wonderful!
If you've ever bought a home, you know what I've been doing: planning, coordinating, waiting, worrying, and spending. I've been dealing with official-type people such as mortgage brokers, lawyers, insurance agents, and bankers. I've also been counting my pennies and trying my best to make sure my finances stay in good shape, while still keeping myself happy and amused.
Purchasing this townhouse condo has been an all-consuming process. Every day I email, telephone, and fax the people who need to coordinate their efforts to make this happen. I've suffered through a drastically "stuck" hedge fund which threatened to leave me $18,000 short of the required down payment...fortunately this appears to be resolved today. I have gone from a total fax newbie to a virtual fax repairperson in the space of a month: scanning, dialing, confirming, crossing items off the checklist, moving to the next one...
I'm AWFUL at this stuff. I hate bureaucracy and have managed to avoid it for most of my life. Now I suddenly find myself competent, able to learn the ropes and harass the foot-draggers. These skills alone are worthwhile results of this whole ordeal.
I followed a house inspector as he poked into every nook and cranny of my upcoming home, and I was thrilled to hear that it's in tip-top condition (considering it's exactly as old as I am). Meanwhile, every day I look at the real estate listings, dreading the moment when The Perfect Home becomes available, and I'm happy to say that nothing even CLOSE has appeared. Everything else is too expensive, too far away, or too crappy...often all three.
I've started packing, which is silly because I still have a month to go. People are giving me cardboard boxes. My basement is FULL of boxes, each one waiting to be filled with my life's irreplaceable trivia.
When I told my landlords that I was moving, I initially felt a bit guilty: they've been conscious of my needs and we've always had a pretty good relationship, and ten years is an awful long time. But then -- after chopping down the precious greenery under my living room window -- one of the tenants next door got permission to park his "for sale" junker car on my front lawn. And -- totally by accident -- I discovered that this building has been on the market since the week before I said I was leaving...at least *I* had the decency to tell them we were through!
Meanwhile, in consideration of prospective buyers and tenants, I've been monitoring Zsa Zsa's catty smell, the result of a kidney condition which causes her to pee about eight times a day. Any odour in this apartment instantly spreads through the entire building -- and my unit has always smelled a bit like cat-spray, since before I even moved in -- but I still want to make things as painless for others as possible.
Last weekend I spent five hours with my mother, aunt, and grandmother looking for new living room furniture. I am determined to leave as much of my ramshackle and mismatched furniture behind, and five hours of comparative shopping -- and sitting in about six hundred chairs -- was more than worth it. I'm looking forward to planting some shrubs, and having my own washer/dryer, and not sharing ventilation with anybody except those who I invite. I want a coffee maker. I want my own home.
I am hopeful and happy and busy. This is probably the most significant thing I have ever done. That might seem silly to those of you with spouses and children, but for me it's a big deal...and wonderful!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Real Estate Rhumba
I mentioned last month that some changes were in the works...well, today marks their potential fruition: I just made an offer on a condominium.
I love where I live right now. It's a nice neighbourhood, and my apartment is big, and it's within walking distance of my work AND a car-share car. I could see myself staying here for the rest of my life, except for two very important considerations: I'm renting, and the soundproofing is AWFUL.
The mice aren't exactly a bonus either.
I've been gradually working towards buying my own place. I got pre-approved for a mortgage two weeks ago, and then set out with a wonderful real estate agent to find my dream home.
I quickly learned that there are no guarantees and no right answers. The better the place is, the more you invariably have to pay, and the second-scariest phrase I've learned during this whole ordeal is "house poor."
The scariest phrase -- one I'm already well-versed in -- is "bad neighbours." I am not a fighter who wants to grab the world with both hands and twist it to my will...rather, I want to snuggle up in my own corner of the world and try to quietly coexist with my fellow snugglers.
So besides the essential considerations such as location (I have no car) and price (I am not rolling in dough), I have done my best to consider the people who will live around me. How much will they impact on my homelife? How will they respond to me walking through the door in a pair of high heels?
Unfortunately, assessing your potential neighbours is not like assessing your plumbing. Today we looked at a townhouse that is unfortunately somewhat buried in its little cluster of townhouses; you walk through the door and you are on stage. But I tried to look for tell-tale signs of neighbourly badness, and even on a sunny Sunday afternoon I didn't see them: no couches on the front lawn, no beat-up cars, no garbage, nobody yelling. As a matter of fact I saw some nice flowerbeds and some well-cared-for lawn furniture.
In terms of the townhouse itself, it's a two-bedroom end unit that is slightly larger than my current apartment (though it feels smaller because it's staggered on four levels). It's well-maintained and has lots of potential. The front and back yards are sort of crappy, but that's nothing a few trees and shrubs couldn't improve. The single shared wall felt solid and I sincerely hope it is.
What's more, it's only a short walk from a grocery store and a bus route, and even the walk to uptown Waterloo (and therefore my workplace) is doable. And the price is right.
Standing there with the real estate agent, I started to sweat. Even though I knew that a decision would eventually need to be made, I found myself completely unprepared for it. This was a hurdle I had to jump: the grown-up necessity to step into an uncertain long-term committment, without anybody there to make the decision for me. I had to be my own grown-up, for better or for worse. And I found it in myself to do so...I put forward an offer.
I'll find out tomorrow night if it's been accepted, and even after that there are a lot of conditions which need to be met, but I feel like I've made the biggest step of the entire procedure, if not my entire life so far. If the offer is refused, the next decision will be a bit easier.
My recommendation for those who are considering buying their first house or condo: find a GREAT real estate agent (I'll be happy to pass the contact info for mine if you're curious), be aware of hidden costs (water heater rental!), and...well, have some idea of what's important to you, and how much you're willing to pay for those things.
I wonder: is this whole process a little easier for couples?
I love where I live right now. It's a nice neighbourhood, and my apartment is big, and it's within walking distance of my work AND a car-share car. I could see myself staying here for the rest of my life, except for two very important considerations: I'm renting, and the soundproofing is AWFUL.
The mice aren't exactly a bonus either.
I've been gradually working towards buying my own place. I got pre-approved for a mortgage two weeks ago, and then set out with a wonderful real estate agent to find my dream home.
I quickly learned that there are no guarantees and no right answers. The better the place is, the more you invariably have to pay, and the second-scariest phrase I've learned during this whole ordeal is "house poor."
The scariest phrase -- one I'm already well-versed in -- is "bad neighbours." I am not a fighter who wants to grab the world with both hands and twist it to my will...rather, I want to snuggle up in my own corner of the world and try to quietly coexist with my fellow snugglers.
So besides the essential considerations such as location (I have no car) and price (I am not rolling in dough), I have done my best to consider the people who will live around me. How much will they impact on my homelife? How will they respond to me walking through the door in a pair of high heels?
Unfortunately, assessing your potential neighbours is not like assessing your plumbing. Today we looked at a townhouse that is unfortunately somewhat buried in its little cluster of townhouses; you walk through the door and you are on stage. But I tried to look for tell-tale signs of neighbourly badness, and even on a sunny Sunday afternoon I didn't see them: no couches on the front lawn, no beat-up cars, no garbage, nobody yelling. As a matter of fact I saw some nice flowerbeds and some well-cared-for lawn furniture.
In terms of the townhouse itself, it's a two-bedroom end unit that is slightly larger than my current apartment (though it feels smaller because it's staggered on four levels). It's well-maintained and has lots of potential. The front and back yards are sort of crappy, but that's nothing a few trees and shrubs couldn't improve. The single shared wall felt solid and I sincerely hope it is.
What's more, it's only a short walk from a grocery store and a bus route, and even the walk to uptown Waterloo (and therefore my workplace) is doable. And the price is right.
Standing there with the real estate agent, I started to sweat. Even though I knew that a decision would eventually need to be made, I found myself completely unprepared for it. This was a hurdle I had to jump: the grown-up necessity to step into an uncertain long-term committment, without anybody there to make the decision for me. I had to be my own grown-up, for better or for worse. And I found it in myself to do so...I put forward an offer.
I'll find out tomorrow night if it's been accepted, and even after that there are a lot of conditions which need to be met, but I feel like I've made the biggest step of the entire procedure, if not my entire life so far. If the offer is refused, the next decision will be a bit easier.
My recommendation for those who are considering buying their first house or condo: find a GREAT real estate agent (I'll be happy to pass the contact info for mine if you're curious), be aware of hidden costs (water heater rental!), and...well, have some idea of what's important to you, and how much you're willing to pay for those things.
I wonder: is this whole process a little easier for couples?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Curse of the Recurring Canine
I live in a duplex, and over the past few years I have had three sets of neighbours: the girls who exercised, the family of wrestlers, and the smooth-playing horn-man.
These neighbours have NOTHING in common except for one bizarre trait: they all decide to adopt dogs halfway through their tenancy.
Why? I don't know. If I were to use my neighbours as a representative sample I'd have to assume that everybody in the world owns a dog.
These neighbours have NOTHING in common except for one bizarre trait: they all decide to adopt dogs halfway through their tenancy.
Why? I don't know. If I were to use my neighbours as a representative sample I'd have to assume that everybody in the world owns a dog.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Lost Girl
This has been a very strange day.
A few hours ago I heard a man saying "Where's your mommy? Where do you live?" I wandered outside and saw a middle-aged man wandering around my parking lot, trying simultaneously to corral a little girl and attract attention to his problem.
"Is she yours?" He asked me. "I saw her crossing Union Boulevard. She won't talk."
Union is right around the corner from my house, and it is a very busy street with limited visibility; the thought of this two-year old tottering her way across it made my skin crawl.
So we quizzed the girl. She refused to say anything and kept diving toward the street. Meanwhile my neighbour across the fence was shouting "A little girl and you don't know who she belongs to? CALL THE POLICE!"
It was my theory that the toddler couldn't have travelled far, so I ran inside to put on my shoes and do a house-to-house canvass. By the time I came back outside the child's parents were running across Union Boulevard, terrified and shell-shocked, as the old guy half-heartedly berated them.
I suppose this story is only REALLY scary if you're familiar with Union Boulevard. *I* get nervous crossing it.
A few hours ago I heard a man saying "Where's your mommy? Where do you live?" I wandered outside and saw a middle-aged man wandering around my parking lot, trying simultaneously to corral a little girl and attract attention to his problem.
"Is she yours?" He asked me. "I saw her crossing Union Boulevard. She won't talk."
Union is right around the corner from my house, and it is a very busy street with limited visibility; the thought of this two-year old tottering her way across it made my skin crawl.
So we quizzed the girl. She refused to say anything and kept diving toward the street. Meanwhile my neighbour across the fence was shouting "A little girl and you don't know who she belongs to? CALL THE POLICE!"
It was my theory that the toddler couldn't have travelled far, so I ran inside to put on my shoes and do a house-to-house canvass. By the time I came back outside the child's parents were running across Union Boulevard, terrified and shell-shocked, as the old guy half-heartedly berated them.
I suppose this story is only REALLY scary if you're familiar with Union Boulevard. *I* get nervous crossing it.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Lines To My Next-Door Neighbor"
Here's a poem from the December 15, 1928 issue of The New Yorker, and it really resonates with me. It's called "Lines To My Next-Door Neighbor."
Why do I want to listen? Certainly not to hear anything juicy. I just want to find some justification for why I'm forced to hear the sound in the first place. A nonsensical-but-deliberate noise is far more annoying than a noise with a rationale, in the same way that it's easier to excuse a rambunctious birthday party than it is to excuse a "just because we felt like it" kegger.
PS: The above poem was written by the virtually anonymous "J.C." If he or she was unwilling to clarify their identity...well, so am I!
I don't mind your callers,Oh, I agree! It's MADDENING to hear human voices muttering JUST BELOW a comprehensible volume. Part of me wants to press my ear against the wall, and my other part says "Jesus, Muffy, don't be so nosy!"
Since youth must have its flight;
But what I do object to
Is quite a different thing
Since New York walls are made of paper,
If you must talk
Will you please talk
Loud enough so I can hear
What you talk
About?
Why do I want to listen? Certainly not to hear anything juicy. I just want to find some justification for why I'm forced to hear the sound in the first place. A nonsensical-but-deliberate noise is far more annoying than a noise with a rationale, in the same way that it's easier to excuse a rambunctious birthday party than it is to excuse a "just because we felt like it" kegger.
PS: The above poem was written by the virtually anonymous "J.C." If he or she was unwilling to clarify their identity...well, so am I!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
An Urge to Skin the Noisy Cat
Oh, jeez. For the last few days my cat has been demanding food at 5:00am. I have ignored her, locked her out of my bedroom, and given her a hard swat on her famous bum, but if anything this morning she was TWICE as bad. And when I finally DID feed her at 7:30am she didn't even EAT any of it, which means she wasn't particularly hungry beforehand.
My cat and I have a "don't give me no guff" relationship; she learned long ago that pestering me doesn't help, and she generally only meows obsessively when she's communicating an urgent message (like "mouse in the vent!" or "radiation cloud!")
But I've noticed, recently, that her needy meowing has slipped the bonds of necessity and become sheer annoying petulance. I think she's becoming a bit senile.
Anyway, this 5am breakfast demand has got to stop, if not least because it probably wakes my neighbour up. But the only way I can stop it is by continuing to ignore her.
My cat and I have a "don't give me no guff" relationship; she learned long ago that pestering me doesn't help, and she generally only meows obsessively when she's communicating an urgent message (like "mouse in the vent!" or "radiation cloud!")
But I've noticed, recently, that her needy meowing has slipped the bonds of necessity and become sheer annoying petulance. I think she's becoming a bit senile.
Anyway, this 5am breakfast demand has got to stop, if not least because it probably wakes my neighbour up. But the only way I can stop it is by continuing to ignore her.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Madly Revolving Neighbours
What is it about my apartment building, anyway? DOES IT SUCK SO BAD?
Nobody manages to live in the unit next to me for more than a few months at a time. Sometimes this is good -- as with the chain-smoking woman and her psychotic dog -- but now it turns out that I'm losing the first REALLY GOOD neighbour I've ever had there.
My definition of "really good" is "I barely know he's there." I haven't written about him because I don't him to get angry and stuff gobs of feces into the air vent. I also don't want to jinx a good thing...traditionally, as soon as I say a person is "quiet," that person decides to open a boozecan and take up the drums.
I just learned today -- through secondhand gossip -- that my mysterious neighbour is moving out soon. My first thought was that he got tired of hearing the Doctor Who theme across the wall, but chances are he viewed this apartment the way so many people do: as a springboard to a house. May his first home be a happy one.
Since he'll be leaving and I can no longer offend him with personal details, let me tell you a little bit about him:
* He's a fantastic trumpet player, but he only plays it in moderation. One day his teacher came over and they did a jazzy back-and-forth that was actually worth listening to. I'm glad he doesn't play it all the time, but it's nice to hear him play occasionally.
* He eats very early breakfasts. Each weekday morning at 4:30am I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs drifting through the cracks in the walls. Do you know how hard it is to fall back to sleep when you're smelling such a thing?
* For some reason, a female visitor in a little red car would always come over and park in the middle of the parking lot. Like, she wouldn't park in an actual parking spot, she would just pull in halfway and leave the car as an obstacle for everybody else to get around. She was otherwise extremely nice, and to this day I'm unable to figure out why she did such a thing.
So no more mysterious neighbour. As usual I offer up my semi-monthly "Unit A Prayer," which goes something like this:
Nobody manages to live in the unit next to me for more than a few months at a time. Sometimes this is good -- as with the chain-smoking woman and her psychotic dog -- but now it turns out that I'm losing the first REALLY GOOD neighbour I've ever had there.
My definition of "really good" is "I barely know he's there." I haven't written about him because I don't him to get angry and stuff gobs of feces into the air vent. I also don't want to jinx a good thing...traditionally, as soon as I say a person is "quiet," that person decides to open a boozecan and take up the drums.
I just learned today -- through secondhand gossip -- that my mysterious neighbour is moving out soon. My first thought was that he got tired of hearing the Doctor Who theme across the wall, but chances are he viewed this apartment the way so many people do: as a springboard to a house. May his first home be a happy one.
Since he'll be leaving and I can no longer offend him with personal details, let me tell you a little bit about him:
* He's a fantastic trumpet player, but he only plays it in moderation. One day his teacher came over and they did a jazzy back-and-forth that was actually worth listening to. I'm glad he doesn't play it all the time, but it's nice to hear him play occasionally.
* He eats very early breakfasts. Each weekday morning at 4:30am I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs drifting through the cracks in the walls. Do you know how hard it is to fall back to sleep when you're smelling such a thing?
* For some reason, a female visitor in a little red car would always come over and park in the middle of the parking lot. Like, she wouldn't park in an actual parking spot, she would just pull in halfway and leave the car as an obstacle for everybody else to get around. She was otherwise extremely nice, and to this day I'm unable to figure out why she did such a thing.
So no more mysterious neighbour. As usual I offer up my semi-monthly "Unit A Prayer," which goes something like this:
Please God, don't send me a loud person.
Make sure they're gentle and peaceful and odourless.
Definitely no pets.
Please God, give them quiet feet on the creaky stairway
and no loud parties in the parking lot,
and a sleeping schedule that's identical to mine.
If they MUST have a pet, make it a lizard or a turtle.
Please God, provide them with open minds
and a friendly, considerate attitude.
May their intercourse be fast,
and may I stay downwind of their stinky food.
If there's a baby I will die.
Amen.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
High Noon at Six P.M.
It was the first warm day in weeks. Zsa Zsa had been begging to go outside. After dinner, at 6pm, I strapped her in her harness and we sat on the porch.
Zsa Zsa was thrilled. She descended the steps into the back yard and ate some grass. I read my book and luxuriated in the sunlight. Everything was good.
Suddenly I became aware of the unnatural stillness. Zsa Zsa had bunched herself up and her ears were flat, and she was staring at a shape creeping around the corner.
Penny. The neighbourhood tough-cat. The little town terror. Come for a fight.
We froze into a silent tableau, the three of us, staring. The cats began to vocalize, coaxing strange moans out of their throats. These moans would start low and then cycle up into looping howls, gaining in volume, interspersed with hisses and alpaca spits.
Penny began to move, making slow ninja steps around the edge of Zsa Zsa's reach. The howls grew louder, their hackles rose, I was witness to a kitty showdown the likes of which I had never hoped to see.
I wondered: should I interfere? Penny was twice the size of Zsa Zsa and she's used to fighting in the wilderness, but I didn't want to wound Zsa Zsa's pride by pulling her inside; maybe she could do it. Maybe she could win. Maybe I should let her try.
Stillness.
A twig snapped.
STRIKE! Penny lunged and battered Zsa Zsa with her paws. Zsa Zsa got a few pitiful swipes in and then she turned and ran, back up the porch, the battle lost. Once again Penny was victorious.
I jumped up and chased Penny away. Zsa Zsa was not wounded but she had entered a mind-altered state, growling and hissing in consternation and shame. When she had calmed down a bit I inspected her for wounds, then picked her up and put her back on the battleground, thinking this might bring some of her confidence back. She hunkered down and growled, hissed, howled, hackled.
Ten minutes later she was back inside and meowing for treats. She may not remember the conflict but *I* have learned a lesson. Next time Penny approaches my cat, I'm going to punch her in the nose.
Zsa Zsa was thrilled. She descended the steps into the back yard and ate some grass. I read my book and luxuriated in the sunlight. Everything was good.
Suddenly I became aware of the unnatural stillness. Zsa Zsa had bunched herself up and her ears were flat, and she was staring at a shape creeping around the corner.
Penny. The neighbourhood tough-cat. The little town terror. Come for a fight.
We froze into a silent tableau, the three of us, staring. The cats began to vocalize, coaxing strange moans out of their throats. These moans would start low and then cycle up into looping howls, gaining in volume, interspersed with hisses and alpaca spits.
Penny began to move, making slow ninja steps around the edge of Zsa Zsa's reach. The howls grew louder, their hackles rose, I was witness to a kitty showdown the likes of which I had never hoped to see.
I wondered: should I interfere? Penny was twice the size of Zsa Zsa and she's used to fighting in the wilderness, but I didn't want to wound Zsa Zsa's pride by pulling her inside; maybe she could do it. Maybe she could win. Maybe I should let her try.
Stillness.
A twig snapped.
STRIKE! Penny lunged and battered Zsa Zsa with her paws. Zsa Zsa got a few pitiful swipes in and then she turned and ran, back up the porch, the battle lost. Once again Penny was victorious.
I jumped up and chased Penny away. Zsa Zsa was not wounded but she had entered a mind-altered state, growling and hissing in consternation and shame. When she had calmed down a bit I inspected her for wounds, then picked her up and put her back on the battleground, thinking this might bring some of her confidence back. She hunkered down and growled, hissed, howled, hackled.
Ten minutes later she was back inside and meowing for treats. She may not remember the conflict but *I* have learned a lesson. Next time Penny approaches my cat, I'm going to punch her in the nose.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Feline Love Symphony
Whenever I delve into pre-60s entertainment I am bound to run across more than one account of cats and dogs getting sexy in the night. You can find tons of novelty songs about this situation (my favourite is "Mama Will Bark"), folks in television shows were always throwing boots and cans at cats on their fences, and the love-howls of cats were a notorious part of the typical "tenement symphony."
So why don't I ever hear them?
I think I heard a cat in heat once -- a brief unearthly howling under my window that was hopefully feline in origin -- and I remember seeing two dogs hopelessly coupled many years ago, but other than that...nothing. The cats just skulk around in search of squirrels, and the dogs just bark out of housebound anxiety, not because they're trying to entice.
(I do have to mention the platonic man-dog love affair carried on between my neighbour and his whippet named "Frodo." Whenever Frodo disappears, my hulking, car-fixing, hyper-masculine neighbour goes staggering around the block screaming "FROOOODO!!!")
Do I live in a well-mannered neighbourhood? Or have we so absorbed the "have your pets spayed or neutered" mantra that we've cut down on late-night amorous yowling? I don't know. But I think I'm glad I'm missing out.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Lullaby In An Apartment House
My good fortune can't hold out forever; someday people will move into the unit adjacent to mine, and all my neighbour-troubles will begin again.
When I come here to whine and moan, please sing me this lullaby from the October 6, 1928 issue of The New Yorker.
Admittedly my potential neighbours may require a verse for themselves:
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Permit your tired mind to heal
While 'cross the wall shouts Schnapps the Seal,
With "Doctor Who" on endless reel,
Sleep, little one, sleep
Or that freak will getcha,
Sleep, little one, sleep.
When I come here to whine and moan, please sing me this lullaby from the October 6, 1928 issue of The New Yorker.
Sleep, little one, sleep.(Howard Cushman)
The sandman's going his rounds once more,
While red-hot jazz from the Palais d'Or
Steals in from Apartment 24.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Hush-a-bye
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Drift off to the land of slumber, pet.
The Smiths have a brand new five-tube set.
If you wake at twelve 'twill be going yet.
Sleep, little one, sleep
If you can.
Sleep, precious one, sleep.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Skim the sky on a fleecy cloud,
As Jenks next door makes drinks for the crowd.
In another round they will get quite loud.
Sleep, little one, sleep
For your own protection.
Sleep, angel one, sleep.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
The silver moon casts a magic spell.
From the Roxy organ comes "William Tell,"
As Dr. Cadman discusses hell.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
In your trundle bedlam
Sleep, harried on, sleep.
Admittedly my potential neighbours may require a verse for themselves:
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Permit your tired mind to heal
While 'cross the wall shouts Schnapps the Seal,
With "Doctor Who" on endless reel,
Sleep, little one, sleep
Or that freak will getcha,
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
All My Neighbours: At the Grey Yonder
The Grey Yonder – where I lived for a year between 1994 and 1995 – was a three storey slum packed with students. Each floor had the same configuration – five rooms, common area/kitchen, two bathrooms – and the landlords were…well, pretty much absent. It seemed customary for tenants to skip out on their rent, and also customary for the landlords to have a blasé attitude toward fixing things (ie, never actually doing so).
Of the five of us on my floor (the top one), some were friends so I won’t talk about them. But our most notable top-floor roommates were R. and C.
R. was a good-hearted guy, but he definitely lived in his own world. A raver to the core of his bony little body, R. had arrived somewhat damaged by his experiences growing up in the Yukon…not the ideal place for organizing a youth gang, apparently, though there was lots of room for skateboarding.
The first thing he did when he arrived was to spray his gang’s tag on his bedroom wall. He assured us that he’d take adequate precautions, but as the hours wore on and the smell got worse we began to fear for R.’s brain cells. He finally came crashing out of his room, eyes bigger and crazier than usual, covered head-to-toe in pink dust and confessing that he didn’t feel good. It turns out that his precaution of opening his bedroom window for ventilation was defeated by his ignorance of “storm windows"...his fan was blowing at the tightly-sealed SECOND pane of glass, which he didn’t realize was there. R. got very ill and his room was tinted pink.
Other than insatiable hunger for those “people falling off of skateboards” videos, R. was a sweet guy and a considerate roommate. But then his older brother started spending nights in apartment, then spending weekends, until finally we discovered that he had a new (non-paying) tenant sleeping in the common area. He stayed until R. finally moved out a few months later.
Nunich – the most gregarious of our legitimate roommates – dubbed him “Polkaroo” for reasons that I don’t remember, but I DO remember that he was a creepy guy. You’d get up early in the morning and find this scruffy man in this early 30s sleeping in the kitchen. He’d hobble around on his cane and stare lasciviously at females. He brought an element of sexual tension into our already unstable world.
Our other roommate – C. – was the QUEEN of sex. She had an assembly-line of simultaneous lovers who would enter through one bedroom door and leave through the other. While waiting for sex, her lovers sat in the common area and intimidated us. Nunich called them “LoveCo” and gave us this early-morning anecdote:
The divider between my bedroom and hers was just a piece of drywall, so I became an unwilling audience to her sexual exploits. She would howl and – occasionally – actually bark like a dog. One of her boyfriends got wind of her revolving-door approach to sex and – at 1am – started beating her as she screamed “Help! He’s killing me! Help!” Nunich and I huddled in my room and listened, knowing that if we called the police she’d just deny everything and hate us forever. The next morning – covered with bruises – she sat in the kitchen and moaned about her beastly boyfriend, but later that day we heard her showing her “trophies” to one of her girlfriends, and bragging that this incident proved how much he loved her.
We had so much excitement on our own floor that we rarely paid attention to the people below us, but one of the notable neighbours on the first floor was "J." His nickname – as displayed on an illuminated sign in his bedroom window – was “Hot Johnny Five-Star.” When he bought a new bed we put his old one in the common area (so Polkaroo and LoveCo could sleep on it). We were delighted – but not at all surprised – to discover honest-to-goodness notches in his bedpost.
Of the five of us on my floor (the top one), some were friends so I won’t talk about them. But our most notable top-floor roommates were R. and C.
R. was a good-hearted guy, but he definitely lived in his own world. A raver to the core of his bony little body, R. had arrived somewhat damaged by his experiences growing up in the Yukon…not the ideal place for organizing a youth gang, apparently, though there was lots of room for skateboarding.
The first thing he did when he arrived was to spray his gang’s tag on his bedroom wall. He assured us that he’d take adequate precautions, but as the hours wore on and the smell got worse we began to fear for R.’s brain cells. He finally came crashing out of his room, eyes bigger and crazier than usual, covered head-to-toe in pink dust and confessing that he didn’t feel good. It turns out that his precaution of opening his bedroom window for ventilation was defeated by his ignorance of “storm windows"...his fan was blowing at the tightly-sealed SECOND pane of glass, which he didn’t realize was there. R. got very ill and his room was tinted pink.
Other than insatiable hunger for those “people falling off of skateboards” videos, R. was a sweet guy and a considerate roommate. But then his older brother started spending nights in apartment, then spending weekends, until finally we discovered that he had a new (non-paying) tenant sleeping in the common area. He stayed until R. finally moved out a few months later.
Nunich – the most gregarious of our legitimate roommates – dubbed him “Polkaroo” for reasons that I don’t remember, but I DO remember that he was a creepy guy. You’d get up early in the morning and find this scruffy man in this early 30s sleeping in the kitchen. He’d hobble around on his cane and stare lasciviously at females. He brought an element of sexual tension into our already unstable world.
Our other roommate – C. – was the QUEEN of sex. She had an assembly-line of simultaneous lovers who would enter through one bedroom door and leave through the other. While waiting for sex, her lovers sat in the common area and intimidated us. Nunich called them “LoveCo” and gave us this early-morning anecdote:
NUNICH: (Making breakfast) Good morning.C. bought a rabbit because she thought it would be cute. The rabbit peed all over her carpet and ate her furniture. One night we were playing cards in the common area when we heard two loud thumps from her room. C. wandered out, wearing a nightgown and holding a belt, and simply said “I have killed the bunny.” She became known as “The Bunnykiller” and relations with her broke down after that.
LOVECO: (Farts)
NUNICH: Oh (Continues making breakfast)
LOVECO: (Farts again)
NUNICH: Would you please stop doing that?
LOVECO: Do you mind? It’s just a butt.
The divider between my bedroom and hers was just a piece of drywall, so I became an unwilling audience to her sexual exploits. She would howl and – occasionally – actually bark like a dog. One of her boyfriends got wind of her revolving-door approach to sex and – at 1am – started beating her as she screamed “Help! He’s killing me! Help!” Nunich and I huddled in my room and listened, knowing that if we called the police she’d just deny everything and hate us forever. The next morning – covered with bruises – she sat in the kitchen and moaned about her beastly boyfriend, but later that day we heard her showing her “trophies” to one of her girlfriends, and bragging that this incident proved how much he loved her.
We had so much excitement on our own floor that we rarely paid attention to the people below us, but one of the notable neighbours on the first floor was "J." His nickname – as displayed on an illuminated sign in his bedroom window – was “Hot Johnny Five-Star.” When he bought a new bed we put his old one in the common area (so Polkaroo and LoveCo could sleep on it). We were delighted – but not at all surprised – to discover honest-to-goodness notches in his bedpost.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Uncertain Wisdom of a Saturday Night
Yes, so I often come home after a Saturday night and spout my alcohol-tinged thoughts. This may not be an admirable thing to do, but at least I don't delete these blog entries afterwards -- which would be worse, I think. As though I were ashamed that I drink booze, I come home, I think, and I crash.
I can't even begin to put "tonight's thoughts" into a convenient package. Suffice it to say that it was the last weekend of Oktoberfest, shortly before Hallowe'en, and me expecting -- at any moment -- the yearly "explosion" that tends to happen when somebody doesn't like me. An aggressive attack. Something nasty. The last one happened a year ago and I find myself waiting for the next occurrence.
So there I am in my "Ilsa on Ice" outfit, playing into the Oktoberfest-ish-ness which I outwardly disdain but inwardly understand. Drunken boys are picking up drunken girls. I'm at Club Abstract, MY safe place, MY dancing place, and as always a part of me is wondering: why do you people have to come HERE? Aren't there OTHER places you'd rather slum? I end up yelling insults at a guy in a tracksuit who is quite gracious, and who turns out to be PERHAPS a nice person (or a very good actor) as other people (not me) yell "NICE TRACKSUIT!"
The point is not the tracksuit. The point is the desire to have a GOOD place to drink and relax and have fun, without some jerk being...well, a JERK. This, I think, is the theme of my life: trying to find a place, some place, any place. And I can be nasty if I feel my place is invaded.
But anyway, fast-forward the hours through many WONDERFUL experiences to me coming home, and discovering that my suspicions were true: with windows closed and vents open, my neighbour's cigarette smoking is very much obvious. The first floor of my apartment smells like her f*cking ashtray.
So what do I do? The SECOND floor smells okay (in fact, better than it used to), and since I SLEEP on the second floor -- and she tends to smoke at night -- that's not such a bad situation. But again, I want the "good place," a place where I don't need to worry, a "nest," a happy spot.
Then it occurs to me: a person can CHOOSE not to be upset about a situation, right? I can DECIDE not to let this bother me. I mean, that may be unrealistic, but MAYBE I can sit here and DECIDE that my neighbour's inconsiderate behaviour is just...human, right? And that *I* bother her in other ways -- by listening to Electric Light Orchestra while getting ready to go out -- and that SHE might be tolerating ME, right? Because this is my pseudo-resolution: to acknowledge that all people (including me) are thoughtless, and to RESIGN myself to that fact, and just get on with my life...right?
Oh, it's so sad. Now I can smell the smoke upstairs too. I'm breathing her second-hand smoke and there's no way to get around it. I dunno. I need Out. I need Thomas Dolby. And for that reason, I'm posting one of the most beautiful songs ever written: "Airwaves."
I can't even begin to put "tonight's thoughts" into a convenient package. Suffice it to say that it was the last weekend of Oktoberfest, shortly before Hallowe'en, and me expecting -- at any moment -- the yearly "explosion" that tends to happen when somebody doesn't like me. An aggressive attack. Something nasty. The last one happened a year ago and I find myself waiting for the next occurrence.
So there I am in my "Ilsa on Ice" outfit, playing into the Oktoberfest-ish-ness which I outwardly disdain but inwardly understand. Drunken boys are picking up drunken girls. I'm at Club Abstract, MY safe place, MY dancing place, and as always a part of me is wondering: why do you people have to come HERE? Aren't there OTHER places you'd rather slum? I end up yelling insults at a guy in a tracksuit who is quite gracious, and who turns out to be PERHAPS a nice person (or a very good actor) as other people (not me) yell "NICE TRACKSUIT!"
The point is not the tracksuit. The point is the desire to have a GOOD place to drink and relax and have fun, without some jerk being...well, a JERK. This, I think, is the theme of my life: trying to find a place, some place, any place. And I can be nasty if I feel my place is invaded.
But anyway, fast-forward the hours through many WONDERFUL experiences to me coming home, and discovering that my suspicions were true: with windows closed and vents open, my neighbour's cigarette smoking is very much obvious. The first floor of my apartment smells like her f*cking ashtray.
So what do I do? The SECOND floor smells okay (in fact, better than it used to), and since I SLEEP on the second floor -- and she tends to smoke at night -- that's not such a bad situation. But again, I want the "good place," a place where I don't need to worry, a "nest," a happy spot.
Then it occurs to me: a person can CHOOSE not to be upset about a situation, right? I can DECIDE not to let this bother me. I mean, that may be unrealistic, but MAYBE I can sit here and DECIDE that my neighbour's inconsiderate behaviour is just...human, right? And that *I* bother her in other ways -- by listening to Electric Light Orchestra while getting ready to go out -- and that SHE might be tolerating ME, right? Because this is my pseudo-resolution: to acknowledge that all people (including me) are thoughtless, and to RESIGN myself to that fact, and just get on with my life...right?
Oh, it's so sad. Now I can smell the smoke upstairs too. I'm breathing her second-hand smoke and there's no way to get around it. I dunno. I need Out. I need Thomas Dolby. And for that reason, I'm posting one of the most beautiful songs ever written: "Airwaves."
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Soundproof Your Floor and Your Head
I see from my blog stats that lots of people are looking for soundproofing tips. They come here because I've whined about living in a duplex with wooden floors, holes in the walls, and a barking dog.
I've already explained the importance of stuffing "tundra foam" (or some other foamy substance) into baseboard-cracks, and filling up smaller cracks with "DAP Quik Seal" (or some other sealant). This stops higher-frequency noises (like chatter) and cigarette smoke from drifting in. If you find that your wooden floors have small cracks in them, you might considering putting down a thick rug...I know that the holes from my neighbour's apartment travel underneath my hall and bedroom floors.
But what about the thumps and the barking? I can't block that stuff out of the ENTIRE apartment -- we share a huge common wall that seems to actually TRANSMIT sound -- but I have two techniques for getting to sleep.
First, a box-fan. Get one that's a little bit noisy (but doesn't rattle) and put it outside your bedroom door, in between you and "the noise." If low-frequency bumps are traveling through the floor (as they often do), the fan will not only block atmospheric noise but will also help jam the "floor-signals." If your bed is transmitting those frequencies from the floor and into your mattress, try putting over-stuffed pillows under the bed's legs.
Second, earplugs. If earplugs have never worked for you before, I bet it's because you either didn't buy the right ones or you didn't insert them properly. I'm using "Rexall" foam plugs. I twist them into little cone-shaped corkscrews, pull on the top of my ears (to open the ear canals), push them inside (in the direction of my nose, which seems to work best), then hold the plugs until they untwist and expand. They aren't exactly comfortable -- and hearing your own heartbeat can be disconcerting -- but I've gotten used to them.
And hey, throw out the earplugs when they start to get gross. Fresh ones work the best.
I've already explained the importance of stuffing "tundra foam" (or some other foamy substance) into baseboard-cracks, and filling up smaller cracks with "DAP Quik Seal" (or some other sealant). This stops higher-frequency noises (like chatter) and cigarette smoke from drifting in. If you find that your wooden floors have small cracks in them, you might considering putting down a thick rug...I know that the holes from my neighbour's apartment travel underneath my hall and bedroom floors.
But what about the thumps and the barking? I can't block that stuff out of the ENTIRE apartment -- we share a huge common wall that seems to actually TRANSMIT sound -- but I have two techniques for getting to sleep.
First, a box-fan. Get one that's a little bit noisy (but doesn't rattle) and put it outside your bedroom door, in between you and "the noise." If low-frequency bumps are traveling through the floor (as they often do), the fan will not only block atmospheric noise but will also help jam the "floor-signals." If your bed is transmitting those frequencies from the floor and into your mattress, try putting over-stuffed pillows under the bed's legs.
Second, earplugs. If earplugs have never worked for you before, I bet it's because you either didn't buy the right ones or you didn't insert them properly. I'm using "Rexall" foam plugs. I twist them into little cone-shaped corkscrews, pull on the top of my ears (to open the ear canals), push them inside (in the direction of my nose, which seems to work best), then hold the plugs until they untwist and expand. They aren't exactly comfortable -- and hearing your own heartbeat can be disconcerting -- but I've gotten used to them.
And hey, throw out the earplugs when they start to get gross. Fresh ones work the best.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Silent Films with Crazed Animal Commentary
I'm watching "More Treasures from American Film Archives Volume One," a collection which features more muttonchops/minute than a documentary about Canadian Confederation.
Sometimes I find silent films to be tiresome, but this time I'm blessed with running commentary by Jackson, my neighbour's dog.
Jackson's silent film commentary is insightful, especially since he can't actually SEE what I'm watching...all he can HEAR is the torturous ragtime piano they always dub over these things. When the bronco knocks the cowboy off his horse, Jackson lets loose with a machine-gun staccato of sharp, horse-hating barks. When the furniture falls off the back of the carriage, Jackson makes a terrible wet gargling noise, as though he were trying to eat a stinging jellyfish. In the end, when the hero gets the girl, Jackson's only comment is a mournful, ear-piercing howl, as if to say "when will *I* have a girl to love?" Or perhaps he's just saying "HELP!"
Sometimes I find silent films to be tiresome, but this time I'm blessed with running commentary by Jackson, my neighbour's dog.
Jackson's silent film commentary is insightful, especially since he can't actually SEE what I'm watching...all he can HEAR is the torturous ragtime piano they always dub over these things. When the bronco knocks the cowboy off his horse, Jackson lets loose with a machine-gun staccato of sharp, horse-hating barks. When the furniture falls off the back of the carriage, Jackson makes a terrible wet gargling noise, as though he were trying to eat a stinging jellyfish. In the end, when the hero gets the girl, Jackson's only comment is a mournful, ear-piercing howl, as if to say "when will *I* have a girl to love?" Or perhaps he's just saying "HELP!"
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