"Do you smell gas?"

This weekend -- what an unmitigated disaster. Apart from hanging out at Holly's on Friday watching movies and then having her over for dinner on Saturday night, the theme of this weekend was disaster. I should have taken pictures.

Let us cast our sights back to Sunday's apartment searching . . .

Apartment 1: Nevermind that the address for this place is 666 Flushing Avenue -- too much temptation for fate. Though not far from where I live now, it's in a part of town that borders Bed Stuy. Jane and I noticed one of the bedrooms has a window that faces a brick wall. Second bedroom has a twin bed in it courtesy of the last tenants. On this bed is a bottle of lighter fluid and a pack of cigarettes. Great. The whole place was swarming with flies.

Apartment 2: Also in the same building, but on another floor. Bigger than the first place, this apartment was a wreck -- fridge has been pushed into one of the bedrooms, there were holes in the wall, cabinets askew, water damage in the hall outside, and more flies.

Apartment 3: Two words -- shit hole. Railroad style, you had to go through one windowless "bedroom" to get to the main bedroom. The previous tenants must of been frat boys or a family of sixteen with a penchant for Pabst Blue Ribbon. The kitchen was filthy as was the bathroom. When Jane went to open the bathroom door, it came off its hinges. The toilet had vomit on it (or worse) and the century old floors sagged and looked ready to collapse. The suspicious hole in the bedroom window looked like it was made by a bullet. "That will be fixed," the hassidic man showing us the apartment said to each egregious problem we pointed out. "Can you gut renovate this place in a week??" I wanted to ask. I should have swiped the lighter fluid from the pervious place and struck a match.

Apartment 4: Right on Maria Hernandez Park in Bushwick, I was really hoping this place would work out. Not so. The building was a shit hole and the apartment was a shit hole. Also railroad style, someone had kindly scratched the word "sex" into the wall of the main bedroom. The place also looked like a family of sixteen had lived there for many years. Jane and I didn't stay long, especially after the guy showing the apartment remarked, "Do you smell gas?"

Apartment 5: Gorgeous. I'd never been that far up into Greenpoint, but the neighborhood was tree lined and filled with old brick buildings and brownstones from the nineteenth century. Albeit on the bastard G train, this place looked like a palace compared with apartments 1-4. Unfortunately the Polish guy showing the recently renovated apartment said as we entered, "You'll see what the problem is." Well yes. The bathroom is only accessible from one of the bedrooms. Not good for two roommates, so back to the drawing board.

Apartment 6: What to say? It smelled of cat piss and none of the lights worked, which made it difficult to view the apartment at night. Also a railroad apartment, neither Jane or I fancied going through one bedroom to get to the other. Fuck that.

Apartment 7: The guy wasn't there and we waited around to see if he'd show up. The building was dingy and the apartment door looked as though it had just been installed -- there was wet plaster everywhere. After waiting for 10 minutes, we gave up and went home, beaten and exhausted.