CC on Yeamax : The Best of the Long

Despite how strangely the first half of that title reads, it's accurate.  My job here, as the tail end of the Best of the Blog, was to take a post by our illustrious leader Hal Yeamax, the Iron Fist, and describe why it's the best. Or as I like to call it, the Best of the Long.

You see, the dusty despot of this ol' blog is a fan of the long blog.  We even call him Long Blog Larry on occasion.  And while I am sure we all love his posts (this isn't sarcasm, I love his posts), having to review an entire year of them doesn't exactly take a minute (though we all know what does, right?  Amirite?).

And by doesn't exactly take a minute, I mean it.  I had tickets for Osheaga in Montreal this past weekend and had to miss the entire fucking trip, in the name of the blog!  Anyway, the rest of the boiz would've had my head on a pole (something something joke ex-wife something something) if I hadn't had this post up by midweek, and that's the way I likes it.  So I read some posts, and read some more posts, had a quick cider and nap, and read some more.  And I had a problem: my favourite post of his was also the shortest.

Apartment Swap Journal, Unwanted Visitors Edition

January 12, 2012 - Sometime in the afternoon (I'm sure neither of us really care that much)

Here I sit at the wobbly table, CC’s laptop weighing it down so heavily in my direction that I’ve considered making a pre-emptive call to the search and rescue folks. There’s nothing worse than getting buried alive under a pile of newspapers, a Scrabble board, and its accompanying scorebook filled with pathetic seven point tallies – just ask Seymour Skinner.

So I was busy manning the apartment today, minding my own business. A knock at the door. “This can only be trouble,” I thought as I trundled over to see what all the fuss was about. I opened the door to a couple scruffy looking dudes – one carrying a tool box and some weird panel of something-or-other, the second a fella that had come to the door two days prior to “fix” something (though he didn’t even know what it was until I told him – the bathroom; all of it, please). This guy hadn’t actually fixed anything two days ago, since CC was showering when he arrived. Rather than wait out the ten minutes for CC to vacate the bathroom, the man decided to stand in the kitchen for about seven minutes and subject me to his ravagingly awkward presence, then leave just moments prior to the bathroom being vacated. Oh well, I suppose I can deal with this guy one more time.

As soon as I opened the door the two men burst into the apartment as if executing a search warrant on a drug den. “Hello?” I offered. No response. These two fellas were clearly far too busy and important to exchange customary greetings. Their important standing in this world also exempted them from taking their boots off. Cool, we’re not trying to keep the place tidy or anything.

“So what is it that needs fixin’ in here?” the shorter, stockier, and stupider (not a word, I know) of the two inquired. “I thought we went over this the other day,” I pretended to say out loud. “I’ll call the people that live here and check.” This clearly wasn’t going anywhere productive. I called Henry and kcerwd to confirm what needed to be done. As I suspected, it was exactly what I had told this idiot the other day. 

By this time the second guy was in the bathroom, spilled all over the floor like my ex-wife after a night of drinking. “Alright, well the problem here is someone who didn’t know what they’re doin’ went in and welded this part here, but he did it too high, blah, blah, blah, I was dropped on my head a half-dozen times before the age of three, blah, blah, blah,” he spewed in an accusatory tone. “No, I didn’t try to weld away the water pressure issues,” my brain said to my inner ears. 

“Well, people aren’t gonna be happy with you guys; I’m gonna have to get Derek in here to shut the whole system down. No water or heat for anyone in the building for half a day, minimum.”

“Well, let’s get a bucket under that leaky faucet in the bathtub and we should have enough to cover half the building’s needs by morning,” raged the conversation taking place in my brain.

“I don’t live here. I’ll pass the message on,” I politely replied. Blank look. More browbeating over what he suspected to be a clandestine welding operation I was running out of a swapped apartment.

And so for the second time this week, they packed up and made their way out of the apartment; not before exchanging “you’re a fucking idiot” looks with me.

Sure, I’d love to have at least a modicum of water pressure coming from the tap in the bathroom sink. Having the faucet in the tub not gurgling 24 hours a day would be swell, too. Why not patch up that gaping hole in the wall that inexplicably spews cold air all day and night? These would be great upgrades to get me through the home stretch of the apartment swap; but if it means encountering these yahoos again, I’d rather just do without, thanks.

Hatefully yours,

Yeamax

Waverley and MacDonald, The First 48 Hours

Tuesday January 11th, 2011

11:14 PM - The first 48 hours have came and went and just as I'm getting to know this latchelor pad a little better, it too is getting to know me. I've finally come to believe the constant gurgling sounds are actually the fridge and not a dying cyborg, as I originally had thought. In turn, the bed, despite being the center piece of the latchelor pad, has probably guessed that it will not be made before I leave for work tomorrow, just as it has not been made the previous two mornings. Day by day, hour by hour, chez Winters becomes more like home.

The most trying part of living in a new apartment is getting used to the subtleties. As previously mentioned, the dying cyborg in CC's closet, errrrrrr his refrigerator, is a completely new noise to get used to. Especially when trying to get some shut eye, "the gurgle", as I have not so affectionately coined it, has proven to be a little trying. The pressure washer the landlord installed in place of the shower, seemingly ideal to most, is very different than the weak steam we've gotten accustomed to on Cooper Street. Although not ideal, we've gotten used to that weak stream and in doing so, have started to like it. By the time hour 168 approaches I'm sure I will begin to loathe going back to the weak stream, but I'll be happy to get away from the cyborg.

Living alone is different. I'd done it once before and hated it. This time around I enter with a more open mind but am still struggling to find things to do with my alone time. I find myself sleeping more than usual. I also find myself craving a glass of scotch. Not sure I have ever had a glass of scotch. Both of these things are uncharacteristic of me and I wonder how I came to feel this way? Are they simply the options that have become available to me with the change of apartment? Is there more to it than that? These things will no doubt become more clear as the week lingers on, but for now I wonder...

I also spend time wondering how my old roommate is doing in the latchelor he was afforded for the week. I'm sure he is enjoying some quiet time to read and be alone with his thoughts. I also imagine he has spent some time getting to know the guitars that call his latchelor apartment home. These are the certainties but I have also begun to cook up a few questions. Is he making nice with the crazy cat lady? What hidden treasures lie in Yeamax's closet that may be causing Henry Thorough grief at night? Is the crazy cat lady jammed in Yeamax's closet alongside his feelings and possibly his sexual preference? All these answers and more to be revealed when things get back to normal next week. For now, I'm just left to wonder...

I'll be back soon.

Cooper St., Round 2: The Sequel

January 11 2012, 1:38 PM

I woke up early this morning.  A terrible dream about my frigid ex-wife roused me from a fitful slumber.  She was cooing to me in the dream, and I was as confused as any person would be if they woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room, in an extremely familiar apartment.  As I shook off the cobwebs I realized that the cooing hadn't stopped. What is this woman trying to do to me?, I thought, just as it dawned on me.  It's a damn pigeon!

You see, my swanky digs for #AS2012 has provided me with a balcony, right next to the bed (that itself is difficult to notice under the Everest-sized mountain of pillows.  I myself am a pillow minimalist).  Great news for a nicotine addict like myself, but also great news for this aerodynamic egg-laying rat that likes to call this balcony home.  I prefer confrontation in my underwear–like any good latch–so I jumped out of bed and gave it one helluva fist shake.

Is an apartment swap weird?  Possibly, but I prefer to think of it as a military exercise, a metaphorical 3 AM wake-up call accompanied with a 5 mile run.  It keeps you on your toes, it keeps you fresh. It's not the why that is important here, as a matter of fact we can't even remember why we're doing this.  Rather, it is the because, because we can damn it.  Need an iron every morning? I don't.  Like to unwind with a few hours in front of the flat screen?  Too bad.  Can't go without seeing your beloved grapefruit tree for a few days?  It's tough, but... she'll be there when I get back. 

So I sleep in contention with a battalion of pillows on an otherwise gigantic mattress.  I put my toothbrush in a different pint glass when I'm finished with it.  I use a hashtag instead of a front door fob.  I drink gin instead of scotch, and gentle cooing puts me to sleep instead of refrigerator gurgling.

And I'm a better latch because of it.

Apartment Swap Journal - Cooper St. Edition

January 10, 2012, 12:25pm - Cooper St. low-rise, 3rd floor.

Soundtrack: Dead and Gone - The Black Keys

Everything is foreign to me. Fifteen pillows on my new bed. A laptop computer. Bathroom sink water pressure that likely couldn't summon the power to drown a gnat. A roommate. Bacon and eggs for breakfast. The raw kinetic potential of a $300 noise fine hanging over the apartment from this past weekend's indulgences; threatening to drop like the gavel of a bloodthirsty judge. Peach yogurt, futon sofa-beds, a flat-screen television. An Atari, two woefully incomplete copies of the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword, the "legendary" first draft of Jack Kerouac's On The Road. A record player, scores of empty beer bottles, a glass jar with $22 in it – labelled "apology jar". This may be a little weird, but I'm certainly not sorry for the position I'm in. This is my adopted life for the week. This is the apartment swap.

The swap is already imposing its will on me. My usual slumber was cut decidedly short. Late to bed and early to rise, I was; my sleep bookended by a hastily completed, Bud-Light-fueled two page assignment written for the first day back to school. I did a poor job of it. I don't care, either. I hope my professor reads that last sentence, too; if only to satisfy my own self-absorbed thirst for yet one more reader of this convoluted and depraved blog.

You see, an apartment swap can throw any lad's daily routine out of whack, no matter how mundane his life. Used to coming home after a long day, opening the fridge to pour yourself a cool glass of water? Not this time, pal, you got iced! Like your plain-yogurt-and-berries smoothie every morning for breakfast? You're a peach yogurt guy now. What's that you say? The water temperature in this new shower is more temperamental than that crusty old ex-wife of yours? Get used to it; the boys at Cooper count their blessings when the pipes spit out so much as a drop of hot water.

I think the real challenge lies in the first 24 hours of the swap. So many unanswered questions. How does your pal sleep in this bed with so damn many pillows? Are they a surrogate companion? Why peach yogurt, and not something more manly like plain or blackberry? Am I a psychologist? What an impressive selection of fragrances; I wonder if he'd notice if I... Have I moved into a girl's bedroom? Has he even read half of these books? If so, that's kinda impressive. Can this Foreman grill make toast and cook hash-browns? Better to find out. Why is my roommate still asleep? Should I eat his breakfast? What kind of weird stuff do you think Henry did in my apartment last night? I bet he already ate that can of beans I left for him. Henry loves beans. I wonder if the crazy cat lady knows she has a new neighbour? I wonder.