A place of my own

The first time I lived away from my parents' house (for more than a couple of weeks at a time - for camp and junk) was when I went to college. For anyone who doesn't know, I'm not from Buffalo. I'm one of the rare few who moved INTO Western New York. And it was like driving the wrong way down the freeway. Lots of traffic going the other way.

I went to Canisius College from 1994-1998. My first place was Bosch Hall 603. And that wasn't really my own - Mike LaFlesh lived there, too. When you get right down to it, I didn't have a place of my own until I moved to 148 Forest Ave in 2003. I stayed there almost all the way through law school.

That place sucked. It smelled like cigarette smoke and there was barely enough space (in the living room/kitchen - which was one room) for my drum kit and bass and amp and two couches and coffee table and entertainment center and "dinner" table. The bathroom was a good size, but only because it had a stall instead of a tub. I did have a washing machine in there that I never hooked up. The toilet was stained the entire time I lived there. I don't think I even tried to clean it. The bedroom was big, but "L" shaped, which was inconvenient. When I got my king-size bed, it went in the living room. (Don't worry, by then the drums were gone.) My dryer was in the bedroom closet, which was really the utility closet - holding the furnace and water heater. The dryer was hooked up. Beagle liked it, because he could just hang out in the yard without anyone bothering him. And the Latino street gang on the block watched out for me, like the time I went to visit my parents for three days and left the front door open. Not unlocked - ajar. When I got back, a couple of the guys stopped me in the parking lot and said "Don't worry, nobody messed with your stuff." I said, "Thanks." They said, "You got a big TV." I miss that place. Especially the hookers that worked in that area, who always thought I was stopping to pick them up when I pulled into my parking lot. They were nice.

Now Amanda and I live together, and I'm not moving again until we buy a house. So we'll deal with the shirt-less landlord, the overly-friendly landlady, the nine dogs next door who go out to pee every day at 7 a.m., and the alternate street parking.

Yet another reason I need a damn job.