The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

Rant Control: How to List Your Apartment on Craigslist April 23, 2009

Filed under: Advertising,City Living,Home,How-To,Manifesto,Neighbourhood — Little Evie @ 11:52 am
And you say you'll SELL me your used futon? 25 percent off?

And you say you'll LET me buy your used futon, too, if I take the place? At 25 percent off? Where do I sign?

 

As July 1st, aka ‘Moving Day’ approaches, Montrealers are looking for places to live, like so many hermit crabs exchanging one dirty rotten husk for another. Between overcrowded open houses and Facebook pleas for help, it appears we’re getting desperate… but not that desperate. In my hunt for a clean, livable property I’ve come across more than my fair share of hell holes. But I swear – sometimes half the battle is just slogging through the Craigslist ads (or Craig’s List, if you prefer). Don’t these people WANT to rent their places out? Don’t they know they could get a few more bucks a month if only they put in a little effort? It boggles the mind.

 

Anyway, as is my way, I’m using my first post on The Tragically Unhip to complain loudly and to tell other people what they’re doing wrong. In this case, it’s listing and renting (or, god forbid, selling) a Montreal apartment.

  • Include photos. It’s the internet, people, not the back of the Mirror. If you can’t afford the $75 needed to buy a basic digital camera, borrow one.
  • Include good photos. You don’t need to be Annie Leibowitz, but fer chrissakes use your head. Offer shots of the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedrooms and whatever else potential tenants might actually need to see to help them evaluate a property. It’s really great that you sprang for a fancy crystal doorknob when you moved into the place pre-WWII, but offering three shots of it instead of, say, a snap of the bathroom just won’t do. Same goes for those of you who think detail pics of toilet plungers, Italian tiles, water meters, etc., are more important that shots of the kitchen.
  • Also, enough with those low-angled shots that stretch out tiny spaces, making them appear immense – we just might get wise when we actually visit the location. (And can someone please explain the reasoning behind including nothing but exterior shots? I can’t help but assume that these ads are posted by hobos with internet access who just snap facades at random and put them online in the hopes of conning people out of deposit money. Because if you were honestly trying to sell or rent a place, wouldn’t you be allowed inside?)
  • And hey, how about cleaning the fuck up? I’m not even asking you to paint over your delightful aqua and neon yellow walls or trash your precious used beer bottle collection (though, again, either would up your price significantly), just try taking your drying clothes off the door before you let me in for a viewing. Or shove all your old pizza boxes from one corner to the other, if only for a second, when you photograph that snazzy ‘European’ living room.
  • Oh, and please keep your creepy roommate out of the photos.
  • Include relevant information. Sure they may seem like minor details, but many potential tenants like to know little things like the apartment’s general location, the number of bedrooms, whether or not utilities or appliances are included, your contact info, etc. Trivial stuff. The whole 3.5/4.5 system used to denote number of rooms in Montreal apartments is mildly retarded, I agree, but that’s why you get a whole description along with your post’s title. Remember, you aren’t paying by the word – in fact, if you’re posting on Craigslist, you aren’t paying anything at all.
  • Don’t make me trek to HoMa and tell me it’s the Plateau. It seems, this year, that crafty landlords have dropped the term ‘Plateau-adjacent’ in favour of straight-out lies. No wonder so many are reluctant to list specific addresses – they know we can just GoogleMap that shit. I’m particularly amused by how many listings include magical areas like ‘Plateau North’ (Laval) and ‘Plateau West’ (NDG), which, oddly, don’t seem to exist outside of Craigslist’s real estate pages. Oh, and you might want to find out if I’m from here before lying your ass off about how long it takes to get to St. Laurent Blvd. from the east side of Lafontaine Park.
  • In the same vein, enough with your ‘creative’ interpretations of the word ‘room.’ A doorway is not a room. A balcony is not a room. And don’t get me started on what I’m supposed to consider a ‘bedroom,’ including door-less alcoves and 5ft x 5ft spaces containing washer and dryer hook-ups. Quebecers got so tired of this shit that they made it illegal to pass a window-less room off as a bedroom (or maybe it was just the fire hazard), leading many kind property owners to install plexiglass squares to let the sun shine in on your miserable existence.
  • That balcony? It’s a death trap. Honestly, I am telling you this for your own good. Don’t say I should have a BBQ out there because it will collapse, I will die, and you might feel bad for a second. (I think I might actually do a whole photo essay on the phenomenon of terrifyingly unsound Montreal balconies. That or the alarming number of Xmas trees and wreaths only now making it to the city’s curbs.)
  • Remember, this is Montreal. We’re cheap bastards. No one’s renting your one-bedroom for $3500, no matter how much work you put into it. (This is the part where the New York-based readers all laugh at how cute Montrealers are when they get angry about a little hole in the drywall, low water pressure, and paying over $1 per square foot.)

 

(And to anyone who ever read my old, crappy blog – god forbid – yes, this is a slight rehash. No one listened the first time around.)

 

Late Night Letters: Words of Dad December 27, 2008

Filed under: Culture & Society,Home,How-To — Meagan Burbidge @ 7:50 pm

Dear Christian Parenting Weekly, Daily, and For The Rest Of Your Hell-Bound Days, Monthly Editor, Mrs. Michael Noah Callahan, III:

 

Allow me to start this letter by saying that I found your article on using real butter very insightful. I never thought of olive oil and other substitutes as un-American but when you really think about it…

 

Anywho, I have a situation that I really think your staff might have some opinions and/or thoughts about. The other day, maybe it was night (I’m losing track), I came downstairs to find my children watching television. I know that in the typical American home, this is not uncommon. However, I wasn’t so much surprised at finding human beings watching television in my home nearly as much as I was surprised to discover that these humans were my children.

 

Now, before you start name-calling, hear me out. This has been difficult for all of us. I mean, here I am, in my own house—my castle—and these little bastards are just sitting there: existing. It was the strangest sensation of betrayal. Now I know how Heston must have felt when he realized that he was actually on Earth the whole time in Planet of the Apes.

 

Being a go-getter, a glass-half-full sort of person, I decided to make the best of it. I thought to myself, “These kids need me. They need to know they need me or their spirits will die and they’ll just crumble.” So I engineered a character-building and connection-based obstacle course for them: a character-building connectstacle course, if you will.

 

I began with a lesson in dominance. This was easily accomplished as they were sitting down and I was standing. I obviously towered above their tiny structures to show them I was boss. I also pulled on their ears and flicked their noses, which I thought worked because they looked rather disturbed, which I read as: “Whoa, I better not mess with this guy.”

 

Except it didn’t work at all! The girl poured herself the last cup of coffee and went outside with a cigarette. I looked to the boy, who was hurriedly making a ham and cheese sandwich, which I presumed was for me as an apology. Instead, he just returned to the couch and ate it himself while watching rap videos.

 

So next I tried stern verbal reprimands. “Bad! Up!” I exclaimed. There was no response. “UP!” I repeated more aggressively. Still no response. At this point I recalled a passage I had read about Rottweilers and how disobedient they can become if they are not employed. So I said nothing and left, returning shortly thereafter with three full baskets of my dirty laundry and a stack of hand-written business letters that needed to be proofread and typed.

 

Four hours later, I returned from the local “watering hole” to find not my alleged children clean and pressed and smiling up at me with high hopes of more employment, but an empty couch and—you’ll never believe it—the three baskets of laundry and the stack of letters completely untouched! To say I was a bit upset would be a lie. I screamed and yelled (and cried, a little). I even broke my poor late mother’s favorite cricket dart. I bemoaned to the Heavens: “What could I have done to deserve such lazy children?”

 

Hours later, I figured I should try a more nurturing approach. I called up a pediatrician and asked for a recommendation. They asked if my child was screaming and moody and unresponsive to my attentions. I said yes and they told me that it may be the Terrible Twos, to which I told them that yes, I have two children. In the end they recommended freezable chew toys for teething, which I quickly obtained from our Armenian neighbors.

 

When I asked my wife what in the creeps I could do about all this stuff with the kids she asked me, “What kids?” I explained to her about the people I found in the living room, in silent hopes that perhaps I was mistaken or that I was like Nicolas Cage in that Christmas movie and would just wake up in my Financial District penthouse. But instead my wife told me to get the eff out of her room and locked the door behind me.

 

As it turns out, my children are 19 and 23 years old and there are rumors of yet another one somewhere out there. I don’t know. I guess I just got my days and months mixed up somewhere in that time frame. Honestly, all this time I thought that the neighbors just had a really loud TV. I figured the small-sized bikes were part of some strange circus-inspired aerobics regimen my wife was on.

 

So, CPWDFTROYHBD Monthly Editor: Help! I have slightly older children who need to be taught to respect and fear me. Suggestions are urgently requested!

 

Please send more pudding samples.

 

Thank you,
Papa “T-Dawg” Burbidge

 

Friday Night Police Lights November 15, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Home,Neighbourhood,Nightlife — Kimberly Senf @ 4:43 am

There isn’t much that tops calling the police at 3:30am—except maybe a good night’s sleep. Yet sleep was not in the cards for me tonight, because when I got home I was greeted by the sounds of a scuffle going on above my head. From screams to shouts to plate breakage, it was all going down on the second floor of my humble abode. That’s when I pulled out the mobile and called 911 for the first time—and got put on hold.

 

A couple of minutes later I was able to tell the operator the issue at hand: that my neighbours were having some sort of disturbance that seemed to be out of their control. They assured me that they would send a car to check things out, so I hung up, sat in my living room in my pyjamas and impatiently waited.

 

Ten minutes later the first police car came to a stop outside my house. Now, I live in a pretty residential neighbourhood; this isn’t Hochelaga-Maisonneve or even the Plateau, where the partying can sometimes get a little out of hand. We’re talking Cote-des-Negies, where people’s grandmothers grow old and eat bagels. This isn’t where the police spend their Friday nights giving away noise complaint tickets, so I think they were as surprised to be here as my neighbours were to see them.

 

While the first set of cops went upstairs, I was pleased to see that my call had been taken seriously and that two more police cars were waiting outside my house. The culprits from upstairs spilled onto the sidewalk and began a drunken embrace that seemed to last for decades while the officers looked on in semi-amused silence.

 

By 4am the last cop car had left the scene and those who’d broken the peace had not so quietly vacated the premises. The only problem now is that it’s the middle of the night and I’m wide-awake and rather annoyed. I thought I no longer lived in the part of the city that merited phone calls to the police at all hours of the night? When I lived in Genevieve D. Markle’s sketchy building I never had to call the police on my many crazy neighbours, yet somehow they’ve managed to find me in Cote-des-Neiges. Next time around, I’m moving into an attic.

 

Paper Thin Hotel September 26, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Home — MP*erron @ 4:38 pm

As I sit, pensively contemplating my latest writing project, my brain irately pulses under foreign attack. What could possibly be causing this dirt-poor poet to writhe in torment? Why, the wretched dance club-wannabe beats thumping from the apartment next door, that’s what. You see, despite the fact that we pay $1000 in rent, my roommate and I have very little privacy. It seems that in converting the beautiful old home into a series of marketable apartments, the owners skimped on the most important material of all—insulation.

 

I quickly learned that the quiet I had briefly enjoyed at the start of my stay here was just an illusion. My roommate doesn’t complain much about noise, which leads me to believe that my room is poorly located in the heart of the building—a sound-sensitive torture dome nestled among everyone else’s pleasure. 

 

The first time I felt tempted to use the decorative saw that hangs on my wall was one Saturday night, a few weeks after I moved in. The frat boys upstairs were having a party that raged through the night. From my bed I could hear their living room/porch activities clearer than my own heartbeat. Later, when they took to chasing each other up and down the stairs, my roommate and I prayed that the landlord would exit and beat them.

 

But, alas, the landlords were away! This I discovered upon their return. You see, the previously quiet apartment downstairs became an echo chamber once its inhabitants returned. I kid thee not, I could actually make out entire telephone conversations from the comfort of my own bed, to say nothing of the baby-talk the landlady occasionally assaults her grandchild with.

 

Upstairs I have Mr. Schlong. A heavy-set, blonde Russ, short, with a disturbingly Suidae face. From my bedroom I can hear his romantic romps, exercise routine, and varied grunts of dis/pleasure. Aside from this, Mr. S is responsible for a dull, whirring sound that often invades my chamber. Baffled by this mechanical sound, which usually comes at night and continues until dawn, I often lie with my head between two pillows and curse.

 

But the worst addition by far, is my next-door neighbor, Miss Euro Beat. Miss Euro B. moved in at the end of August. Prior to that the apartment had been blissfully empty and sound-free. During the last week or so of August I began to hear conversations and paint-rollers from next door. I knew I was in trouble right away. And boy was I right. The moment her couch was installed, Miss Euro began to torment me. First came the loud, shrill telephone marathons at night. Next it was laughing fits with her roommate (or girlfriend) at one a.m. And finally—just when I thought it could get no worse—Friday night. Club night. In anticipation, Miss Euro Beat begins to pump her favorite tunes at, oh, around 3:30 in the afternoon. It just so happens that my bedroom is connected to her living room. While my roommate can hear the music from her room across the hall, she misses out on the fun vibrations which rattle my possessions and skull.

 

One day I came home just as Miss Euro was exiting her place with her boyfriend. I was not surprised to see a long-haired, fake-nailed, orange-y club girl teetering in 5-inch heels. You know, the frosted lipstick, foxxxxx look. Her man made less of an impression on me; he is caught in my memory as a quick blur of black and goatee.

 

So, there you have it. 

 

Rent Control September 19, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Home,Money,Musings — MP*erron @ 2:17 pm

What’s harder than catching a whiff of celebrity at TIFF? Finding affordable housing just about anywhere. Oh, Montreal! Once the city of cheap housing, untapped musical genius, and vintage frocks—but no more! Everyone knows Montreal has changed, and most natives will give you an earful if asked who’s to blame: hipster culture, American frat boys, and the yuppie-go-luckies slurping up condos across the city. Everyone’s got their own version of the latest G (for gentrification) spot: Parc Ex, St. Henri, HoMa. But not everyone’s paying through the nose for their patch of green. 

 

Yes, I know you’re out there—the few, the proud—settled into comfortable Mile End 3 1/2′s before the youthquake, gathered round the (silver) radiator with fond memories of before Esperanza became Cagibi. I once was one of you; and now, scouring Craigslist at 3 a.m. for 3 1/2′s in the city’s most remote nooks, I stop and ask myself, “Why, why, why did I ever give up that little place on Clark?” And then I remember: syringes in the flower bed, crackwhores in the alley, mould-related allergies, termites in the floorboards, and St. Laurent between April and December.

 

Once known as the House of Slack, my little shack bellow St. Cuthbert became home to generations of unmotivated, malnourished artist types. Anyone who moved into its rooms was doomed, it would seem, to a life of low-income, pot-smoking bliss. The price to be paid for the dirt-cheap rent was the hell that became the Plateau. I got out while I still could, with my rickety typewriter, mustering what little inspiration I had left.

 

I may not regret passing 3845 Clark on to the new generation, but I am envious of all those with rent-controlled apartments in Montreal 2008. And I beg of you, oh kindhearted readers, if you or anyone you know has a much coveted lease that you’re ready to pass on, contact me.

 

Things We Would Do If We Were Cool August 30, 2008

Filed under: Home,Things We Would Do If We Were Cool — Kimberly Senf @ 2:10 am

I would definitely not let the assembly of Ikea furniture take up an entire afternoon and require the help of an assistant. Seriously, they should really start using the written word in their instruction manuals instead of bubble figures that can’t explain why the flimsy pegs just aren’t fitting into their required positions. (And I’m sure they can afford the thirty-odd translations of each one.) I’ll even buy an extra cinnamon bun to help fund my cause.

 

Lendas and Tjusigs and Brädas, Oh My! August 11, 2008

Filed under: Home,Shopping — Kimberly Senf @ 7:09 pm

Billy is my strong, dark, and quasi-handsome bookcase that holds all of my most prized possessions on his less-than-mighty melamine shelves. Brattby lives at the end of my bed and stores anything I ask him to, from extra bed sheets to forgotten sewing machines, and he is truly a chest like no other. I sit here writing on trusty Curry (aka Vika Curry), my modest white table. And the newest addition to the pack is the ever-versatile Expedit, who can be used as a storage shelf or as a bench with cubbyholes to boot.



I have to admit that I’m quite content with my little Ikea furniture family and I don’t think I’m alone in refusing to call my pieces by any other name than the ones Ikea gave them. Billy is not simply a bookcase; he is a trusted friend that has endured more moves than his short lifespan should allow. I know my friends think I’m one flew over the cuckoo’s nest when I invite them to sit on Lillberg or to grab something from Brattby. They look around for people or labels, unaware that they are surrounded by pre-named furniture and that I’m referring to a loveseat, not an actual human.


Brattby and Curry doing their thing. Oh, and an appropriately placed Ikea catalogue that every Montrealer received in the mail. (Photo by Kimberly Senf)

Brattby and Curry doing their thing. Oh, and an appropriately placed Ikea catalogue that every Montrealer received in the mail. (Photo by Kimberlily)



The art of naming the furniture at Ikea is truly up there with ice cream flavours and paint colours: it’s one mighty fine occupation. Apparently it’s not left entirely up to the whim of whoever sets eyes upon the shiny new specimens first, as there is a system in place. A Malm is not just a bed at Ikea, but also a Norwegian town with strong ties to mining. The Gulliver collection of children’s furniture translates to “darling,” and many other articles are given the names of people, places, occupations and even nautical terms. It seems that naming furniture offers up a public relations nightmare as well, considering that what could easily be the term for a blue lake in Sweden means something else entirely to those shopping for the item half a world away.


Yet no matter how many times I hear about Ikea’s reputation for shoddy craftsmanship (aka assembly-line production), I actively refuse to listen and go back for more. Like a junkie who craves their next fix, sometimes I just really need that new organizational gadget whose name is right on the tip of my tongue. But my failsafe rule is this: If I can’t pronounce it, I can’t bring it home.