The J.C.

The girl who previously lived in this apartment finally moved her shit out yesterday (long story), so a somewhat more sane distribution of box-o-ramaville is now possible and I thought I’d take a little break to say “hey”. Here’s a peek at what I’ve had to dig out of:

Packing paper reservoir after less than half a day unpacking:

I wouldn’t have so much stuff if my bowl weren’t such a packrat and hadn’t insisted in bringing all its crap

Not to mention I bought so much IKEA furniture I could open a store selling nothing but gently-used Allen wrenches.

Anyway, contrary to its luxurious reputation, Jersey City is in some need of financial and aesthetic improvement. Believe it or not, there are one or two verifiable reasons why I can see the Empire State Building from my living room and yet am paying less rent for a bigger apartment than I was in Boston.

There are, however, a few advantages to living in a community whose long-time residents haven’t yet been pushed out by yuppies like myself. For example, I have already had several reasons to be grateful for the local Italian-American community and their efficiency. If you know what I’m sayin.

On my second day in the apartment, after a morning snowstorm, I noticed a leak coming out of one of the door frames. My landlord Carmine (the one with the bright yellow Hummer) was on a business trip, so I called the “super,” who lives on the first floor and is Carmine’s ex-sister in-law (his ex-wife’s other sister lives on the second floor). She shriekingly but happily agreed to call the guy they work with for such things, who was apparently in the neighborhood and could come by within the hour. I wasn’t off the phone 10 seconds before there was a knock at the door and Luigi came in to find out whats-a the problem. The leak had slowed and we agreed it wasn’t safe for him to-a go on d’roof, so he left us with his card and a promise to come by whenever we-a nidennythng.

I then called downstairs to let the super know everything was fine, and mentioned that I didn’t know how we were going to get rid of six tons of cardboard and packingpaper that was taking over two and a half rooms and had already claimed the cat. She said “oh, well you know my husband works for the city, he can have a coupla guys come by this week and pick it all up. You might hafta give ‘em a coupla bucks, but it’s no problem”. Next week, it turned out, was an hour and a half later, when two guys in a recycling truck pulled up out front ready to hall away our shit. Frightened as I was to guess wrong about what “a coupla bucks” might mean, I gave each guy a twenty. Haven’t had any unwelcome visits so far, fingers crossed. The whole time the guys were loading the truck, the super’s kids Anthony and Little Joe (I am not making this shit up) stared out the window.

So there’s still a lot of work to do, but things are coming along. In the mean time, love and hugs from Jersey. And a “yo” from Frankie here.