Sunday, June 13, 2004
I once saw Hilary Duff kill a street person with her bare hands.
At first, this entry was going to be about my childhood obsession with Christine “Moose” McGlade. You know who Moose is, right? (Who the hell am I addressing this to? Like anyone is actually reading this hastily typed cry for help) Moose was the wise-cracking, Canadian tomboy who stole my eleven year old heart during her run on Nickelodeon’s only decent sketch comedy show, “You Can’t Do That On Television.” Unfortunately, (or "fortunately," depending upon how you look at it) the electricity went out right before I had a chance to post the entry, and I ended up losing my rambling, nonsensical love letter to a former teen actress who’s probably in a cubicle somewhere in Toronto, making spreadsheets and cursing Alanis Morrisette’s existence.
So instead of retyping it, I decided to use this entry to talk about my foray into the wacky world of apartment hunting. Enjoy, imaginary readers!
I went to take a look at an apartment near Little Five Points the other day. The good thing about the place was that it was in a hip, trendy part of town near all of my favorite stores, like Criminal Records, VideoDrome (Their selection of Asian and Italian films gives me a geek hard-on whenever I walk through the door), Junkman’s Daughter, and Wax n’ Fax. Unfortunately, the cool location was about the only thing the apartment had going for it.
The first warning sign came when I entered the hallway and saw a sign on the wall that said, “If you see a homeless person sleeping in the hall, please call management.” Wow. That can’t be good. When the landlord- a short, nervous looking man with cartoonishly thick glasses- showed up to take me inside the place, I thought he’d accidentally opened the wrong door and was showing me the interior of a broom closet. The apartment was so tiny that I was almost afraid to breathe because I thought I’d use up all of the oxygen. The bathroom was in awful condition- it reminded me of that scene from Trainspotting (come on, you know what scene I’m talking about). And if you looked at the hardwood floor long enough, you could almost make out the faint traces of a chalk outline.
I’ve been looking through the paper and I found a few more reasonably priced apartments near L5P that I’m going to check out during the week. I need to find a place soon, because I’ve only been home for a week, and it’s already driving me up the wall. Which reminds me: is there some sort of law that says teenage girls are required to spend a minimum of thirteen hours a day on the telephone?
So instead of retyping it, I decided to use this entry to talk about my foray into the wacky world of apartment hunting. Enjoy, imaginary readers!
I went to take a look at an apartment near Little Five Points the other day. The good thing about the place was that it was in a hip, trendy part of town near all of my favorite stores, like Criminal Records, VideoDrome (Their selection of Asian and Italian films gives me a geek hard-on whenever I walk through the door), Junkman’s Daughter, and Wax n’ Fax. Unfortunately, the cool location was about the only thing the apartment had going for it.
The first warning sign came when I entered the hallway and saw a sign on the wall that said, “If you see a homeless person sleeping in the hall, please call management.” Wow. That can’t be good. When the landlord- a short, nervous looking man with cartoonishly thick glasses- showed up to take me inside the place, I thought he’d accidentally opened the wrong door and was showing me the interior of a broom closet. The apartment was so tiny that I was almost afraid to breathe because I thought I’d use up all of the oxygen. The bathroom was in awful condition- it reminded me of that scene from Trainspotting (come on, you know what scene I’m talking about). And if you looked at the hardwood floor long enough, you could almost make out the faint traces of a chalk outline.
I’ve been looking through the paper and I found a few more reasonably priced apartments near L5P that I’m going to check out during the week. I need to find a place soon, because I’ve only been home for a week, and it’s already driving me up the wall. Which reminds me: is there some sort of law that says teenage girls are required to spend a minimum of thirteen hours a day on the telephone?
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It's great to know that I'm not the only one who used to be obsessed with "You Can't Do That On Television." Watching Canadian child actors get green slime poured over their heads while cracking one-liners was always the highlight of my day when I was a neglected, young latch-key kid.
I love that you actually wrote in, asking to be on the show. In retrospect, maybe it's a good thing that you weren't on the show. Just go to IMDB and browse the post-"You Can't..." filmography of any of the cast memebers, and you'll see what I'm talking about.
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I love that you actually wrote in, asking to be on the show. In retrospect, maybe it's a good thing that you weren't on the show. Just go to IMDB and browse the post-"You Can't..." filmography of any of the cast memebers, and you'll see what I'm talking about.
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