Geppetto in the Gizhetto
Sometimes I walk through the ghetto. That said, I do this not for the same reasons as my friend Mr. Z is guilty of. I, unlike the boy, do not feel that "tempting fate" is enough reason to brave the South Philly Sarajevo. Nor do I believe, as he does, that the technique of "pretending to be a zombie" will ward off would-be attackers. A gunshot to the head, as is generally the easiest solution in most of the genre's movies seems as though it would still hurt whether or not one is only pretending to be one of the undead. I also have never had the pleasure of crossing that third world country chic terrain east of 6th and south of Washington and smiling when the answer to my relatively benign question, "What time is it?" turns out to be "Time for you to get the fuck out of here Whitey!"
No... I walk through the ghetto because I may soon live there. And that's only if my application gets accepted.
It might come as a shocker to some of you out there but working in the performing arts, especially the vibrant sector of that arena known as avant garde theater, is not the gold mine it might purport itself to be. I know! I was surprised too. That being what it is, I can't really afford to "spend any money" on a "habitable residence." Hence the Ginger Bread fiascos of the past year. [GB Side Note: You'll be happy to know The Bread is safe and sound and back in jail after spending a few weeks back downstairs. Before the law caught up with him for honest to God killing a man (at least we're pretty sure) he managed to stink the whole building of stale cigarettes, put me on a first name basis with two friendly officers named Danny and John, and threaten my roommate with physical violence for removing his illegal cable line] Basically, I am essentially what as known as "in the poor house."
A lot of people might just get a crap apartment anywhere in a decent area within walking distance of the city and resign themselves to living in squalor. Get some horrid little 5 by 5 foot hole in the wall. Unfortunately, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of aesthetics about my living situation. That and a lot of stuff. Like my giant queen size bed. In other words, I really can't stand to live in a shithole, especially a tiny one. Damn, damn, damn. What's a girl to do?
Well, it would seem that there are lots of big, roomy apartment houses that are pretty darn cheap in this city. And some of them, like the one I saw today on my walk through, are old and beautiful and appease some inner sense of serenity, the kind that comes when one feels they could be very at home in a place. The downside being of course, the house is, well... not in the best of neighborhoods. To put it mildly. But people, this house, it had a garden and a giant living room. And a big kitchen with windows and crown molding and high ceilings. And arched doorways!
And it's just so cheap. It's a three bedroom that is about 2 times 2 times 2 hundred (5 x 5 x 2 x 2) dollars. [Ed. Note to Mrs. Valfer: See! I use my factorials to this day.] Do the math and be amazed like I was. Even leaving the third bedroom as a study we'll be paying nothing apiece. And hello, we'd have a freaking study. Not to mention they pay for your water bills! Man, it's too good to be true. Maybe if I just go in my beautiful house and don't leave. Then I'll never notice that it isn't the happiest, soon to be gentrified thanks to folks like me, place on earth.
So there it is. I'm just going to turn in my application and see what happens. If I'm lucky I'll be the next Whitey being told to get the fuck out of the ghetto.
No... I walk through the ghetto because I may soon live there. And that's only if my application gets accepted.
It might come as a shocker to some of you out there but working in the performing arts, especially the vibrant sector of that arena known as avant garde theater, is not the gold mine it might purport itself to be. I know! I was surprised too. That being what it is, I can't really afford to "spend any money" on a "habitable residence." Hence the Ginger Bread fiascos of the past year. [GB Side Note: You'll be happy to know The Bread is safe and sound and back in jail after spending a few weeks back downstairs. Before the law caught up with him for honest to God killing a man (at least we're pretty sure) he managed to stink the whole building of stale cigarettes, put me on a first name basis with two friendly officers named Danny and John, and threaten my roommate with physical violence for removing his illegal cable line] Basically, I am essentially what as known as "in the poor house."
A lot of people might just get a crap apartment anywhere in a decent area within walking distance of the city and resign themselves to living in squalor. Get some horrid little 5 by 5 foot hole in the wall. Unfortunately, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of aesthetics about my living situation. That and a lot of stuff. Like my giant queen size bed. In other words, I really can't stand to live in a shithole, especially a tiny one. Damn, damn, damn. What's a girl to do?
Well, it would seem that there are lots of big, roomy apartment houses that are pretty darn cheap in this city. And some of them, like the one I saw today on my walk through, are old and beautiful and appease some inner sense of serenity, the kind that comes when one feels they could be very at home in a place. The downside being of course, the house is, well... not in the best of neighborhoods. To put it mildly. But people, this house, it had a garden and a giant living room. And a big kitchen with windows and crown molding and high ceilings. And arched doorways!
And it's just so cheap. It's a three bedroom that is about 2 times 2 times 2 hundred (5 x 5 x 2 x 2) dollars. [Ed. Note to Mrs. Valfer: See! I use my factorials to this day.] Do the math and be amazed like I was. Even leaving the third bedroom as a study we'll be paying nothing apiece. And hello, we'd have a freaking study. Not to mention they pay for your water bills! Man, it's too good to be true. Maybe if I just go in my beautiful house and don't leave. Then I'll never notice that it isn't the happiest, soon to be gentrified thanks to folks like me, place on earth.
So there it is. I'm just going to turn in my application and see what happens. If I'm lucky I'll be the next Whitey being told to get the fuck out of the ghetto.
posted by A at 7:20 PM
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