The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Wednesday, January 28, 2004  

I'm Ready. Oh, Am I Ready.

I can't wait until my landlord starts showing my apartment.

The nasty, trashy woman who serves as their agent today sent me notice that she has initiated a municipal court proceeding against me. I am all of one month behind with my rent.

Fine. Good luck and all that. I'm leaving. In fact, I can't wait to get out of here.

And when she, or one of her minions, starts showing the apartment and waxing rhapsodic about the apartment's six-foot -- and unbelievably leaky -- windows, I'll be ready to counter with this:

You know, you really should call Peco and get the history of utility bills for this apartment. That's your right as both a prospective tenant and a ratepayer. Pay particular attention to June, July, August, and September, when massive air-conditioning is often a must, and to November, December, January, February, and March, when similar efforts are required to keep the hovel warm.

And for every other purported amenity, benefit, or feature, I have appropriate responses.

I love it when small-minded, big-haired people try to engage me in a war of words.

Who the hell do they think they're dealing with? I do this -- the war of words -- for a living. You're going to lose.

[Post-publication addendum: Oh, and if you, the small-minded, big-haired one, think I'm going to clean this place to make it "showable," think again.]

[Post-publication addendum: Hey, and guess what, the building has yet to fix the water damage in my bathroom resulting from the burst pipe about which I warned them more than 24 hours before said bursting, a catastrophe that mysteriously was greeted in its most heinous form not by me (and I’m surprised because I’m prone to experiencing such nonsense), but my across-the-hall neighbor. “Luxury Living in Center City.” I guess it all depends upon what you mean by “luxury” and “living.”]

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