Won’t you be my neighbor?

Welcomed a Luna Invasion [great name for a band, no?] last night. Natalie and her dog swung by on their way to Cleveland. Some beers, some chatting, some discussion of colonial costuming, a city’s reputation, quirks of marriage and life with the dogs, among other things. It’s always nice to have company, to catch up on the gossip and the folk of days gone by!

Mismatched wood paneling: That’s just one of the “attractions” of an apartment Iain and I checked out the other day. Damn, but he’s a good sport. I got it into my head that it’s time for us to move out of this crackerbox and found an ad in the Sun’s real estate section: “Ground-floor apt., util. inc., spacious LR, DR, quiet neighborhood.” I called the number and talked to “Noel” — like Joel with an “N.” I agreed to show up in the next ten minutes — apparently, the place is a hot commodity — and dragged Iain off to see it.

I was envisioning a stately old manse, beautifully landscaped, with a spacious first-floor apartment, hardwood floors, original moldings, huge windows. What we saw was a few rooms in the basement, an artificial dropped ceiling that only just cleared Iain’s head, the aforementioned paneling, spiders, industrial carpet, and fading yellow fluorescent lighting. Pittsville. Granted, the old guy only wanted $525 a month for it, which is a veritable steal ‘round these parts, but Jesus. You’d have to pay me double that to live there. Plus the “quiet neighborhood” was a dead-end street walled off by sound barriers blocking noise from the Beltway and sandwiched between an auto dealership and a crab shack.

Not quite what I had in mind.

So within five minutes we were backing out the door, calling “No thanks!” over our shoulders and hightailing the hell home.

Ice, ice, baby: The gods, better known as the HVAC experts, made a house call Wednesday. The miserable stuffy closet we live in, whose air-con has been woefully absent during these 90-degree days, is suddenly a blissful icebox of comfort. They replaced the filter, which is apparently as old as my high-school sister, and Voila! We got AC like normal people now. We’re using it just because we can. And after the dreadful debacle that I call Summer in Sandusky in a Crappy Old House With No Ventilation, you best believe I’m gonna git that sucker pumping. ‘Specially since our old box fan makes noises that set area squirrels to chirping and dogs to wailing.

Enter and win! My campaign to import friends to Baltimore hasn’t been very successful. [Why’s that, I wonder?]. So I’m gonna up the stakes a bit. If you quit your job, break your lease, move out here, wallow around in our hideous job market, and drink with me at The Barn, I’ll make it worth your while. Grand prize: space on the futon and a year’s supply of Natty Boh [a.k.a. National Bohemian, B-more’s drink of choice]. First prize: An old Oriole’s ball cap and drinks at Fells Point. Second prize: Two tickets to the Blacks in Wax Museum. Third prize: a three-week old copy of the City Paper with Shaka N’Zinga on the cover.

Write your name and address on a post card [preferably a tacky one] and mail it to me, c/o … well, Iain. Winners will be notified by screeching telephone call.

The Hearse You Came In On: So this guy, Tim Cockey, wrote a book, and set it in Charm City. I love when people do that. Plus, the book was fairly good … if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am. I’ve moved laterally this week from Trashy British Fluff to Murder Mystery Fluff. Hmm … which reminds, me, I’ve got to update my reading list.

July 18, 2003 | Filed Under auto-categorized