Three weeks into this bizarre, denial-laden experiment with Florida, New Times, and life as a staff writer, I am reveling in a moment of homeyness with my roommates. The three gals are sitting in our soon-to-be demolished little red house (that now has a hole in its ceiling exactly the size and shape of our landlord's thigh, acquired last week after a rain), watching Murder at 1600. Russ, our foul-mouthed, cancer-ridden token male, is padding about insulting his dopey beagle, AbbyLou, in the kitchen as he does laundry. I am couchbound, attempting in vain to catch up on three weeks of postponed emails.
As I speak, Aimee and Meredith have just decided to make brownies.
Life has not always been this idyllic. I finished my first story for New Times on Wednesday, barely. There's nothing like a 9,000-word draft written in two sleepless days to drive home the fact that one is a fraud and a hack, masquerading in a job that requires deep reservoirs of practice, experience, and skill. The piece comes out next week, but instead of celebrating, I am panicking about the cold hard reality that I don't have anything in the hopper ready to go. Which means I'm already a week behind on the next one.
And then there's the homelessness issue. As I mention, my landlord's leg fell through my roof this week. This is because he, in classic slumlord style, neglected to properly re-roof our house post-Hurricane back in November. The first noticeable effect of this was the buckling of the ceiling in my room and the wrinkling of my wallpaper. That and the gallons of water that had soaked into my carpet.
So after inspecting the roof and having his leg fall through, our landlord came down into the house and informed us that we should "probably relocate." He'll help us, of course, with the moving. How magnanimous.
So I'm in the market for roommates and housing, and have spent the weekend touring apartments and meeting shifty landlords who ache to screw me over just like the last one. Aimee and Meredith and I went in on a 3br/3ba that overlooks the Wilton Manors river today, but there's no assurance that we'll get it, and I'm casting about for other leads, including, possibly, my editor's own apartment, provided that he moves out. Transience. It's become a way of life for me.
But heartening, Ft. Lauderdale will be here for me when I decide to settle down. The somebody who told Beccah that there's a "cool scene" here in Lauderdale turns out to be somewhat right. I went to a music festival downtown last night, and was surprised and delighted by the close-knit music scene that was preening on the promenade. Mod-punks next to tranny-boys next to redneck rockers, all of them affiliated with the two fonts of alternative culture in Ft. Lauderdale, my paper and its competition, the anemic yet indestructible CityLInk. One of the bands, the Bitter Cups, was fronted by a guy who does listings for New Times, whose wry day-time persona was eclipsed by exuberant poppy punk-rock microphone calisthenics. Similar feats of transformation were hap penning all over the bandstands. Adorable. This Fort does, perhaps, have a claim to awesomeness.
julia, I want to move down there and start a band with you. move over, trannies and rednecks.
so, everyone is affiliated with the papers? close-knit indeed. Funny how the alternative world survives thanks to the alternative papers.
to quote Campbell McGrath, "Florida, Florida, at times I can't believe what I see."
Posted by: airplane | January 24, 2006 at 07:46 AM