Life's Little Injustices (Take XXVI): To Renew, Or Not Renew... (That Is The Question)

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take I, The Reckoner>

If I've learned anything from apartment living it's this. Laundry rooms make great communal spaces, because they offer a place for people to drop some real knowledge, to coin a phrase from the hip-hop world. People let their guard down -- removing dirt from our clothes has a way of easing the stiffest of social fronts -- and tell you what's on their minds.

This weekend, I found myself working through the usual mountain of clothes, sheets, and assorted odds and ends -- a few raggedy pillow cases there, a stray towel over there -- when a young woman with bluish-tinted hair bounded into the room.

I had one more load to do, but needed to wait for her, since she had the three working washing machines going. With one drier already going, I just needed to kick-start the last load, and I'd be done for the night.

That's when the conversation really got rolling, after she gestured to the long silenced fourth washer. "How long have you lived here?"

"About 20 years," I responded. "Why do you ask?"

My questioner's eyes bugged open wide. "Really? Wow. How long has that washer..." She gestured at the plaintive "Out Of Order" sign taped to the lid. "Been like this?"

"Hmm, let me think," I ventured. "At least since last summer, I'd say."

"Couldn't be," the young woman scowled. She shook her head vigorously from side to side. "Because I moved in here last April, and it was already broken."

I presumed that my questioner had seen the plaintive exchange, hastily scribbled on that homegrown "Out Of Order" sign:

"Will this ever be fixed?"

"No."

"Fair enough. OK, then, it's probably been broken since the previous summer." A tinge of curiosity stirred in my brain. "If you didn't mind my asking, what's your experience been like here?"

"That's the thing," she responded. "I had a situation where water kept coming down from my upstairs neighbor, into my hall closet, and it got really moldy in there."

"Well, how did they address it?" I asked.

"They just painted right over it! They didn't even clean it out, really." She laughed, almost to herself. I swear I could her brain going: Uh-huh. Yeah, so what'd you'd expect?

"Anyway, I wasn't really using it that much, so I just moved everything out of there, that I already had."

"Sorry to hear that. If you didn't mind my asking..." I paused, to consider the framing of my next question. "What are you paying here, at the moment?"

"$1,255 per month," the young woman responded. "And when my lease comes up next month, I don't think I'll renew. Because the way I see it, you're not improving on anything, so why I should pay more to keep on living here?"

"I see the logic there," I agreed. "As for our household, we did look at other options, but didn't see anything worthwhile -- so we're standing pat, for now. Sometimes, it's easier to work with what you have."

"I definitely get that." The young woman began tossing the contents of her three loads into the driers.

"Usually, if you're looking for a better deal," I continued, "these things come down to timing. Something comes up, and you have the cash to do something about it. If you only have one or the other, you're stuck for a bit longer."

"Oh, for sure." The woman flashed a knowing smile, and finished packing up the driers. "But I don't think I'll be sticking around."

"Well, good luck to you, either way," I said.

"Same here. It's been nice talking with you." And with a great big flourish, she slammed the last of the three driers shut, and headed out, freeing me to start my final load, and finish my final task for the night.

Will she fare better than I did, in light of the shrunken housing market that prompted our household to put that search for the promised land (of lower rent) on hold? Time will tell, though the official word doesn't seem terribly encouraging, as the opening salvo from this Michigan Municipal League policy brief, issued in October 2024, appears to suggest:

"Michigan’s housing landscape faces a conundrum— a surplus of buildings coupled with unmet demand for housing units that people both like and can afford. As the composition of Michigan households evolves, with an average size of 2.48 people per the most recent American Community Survey (ACS) data in 2022, the mismatch between existing housing stock and actual needs becomes even more apparent.

"The release of Michigan’s Statewide Housing Plan in 2023 has further spotlighted the runaway problem facing every Michigan community: with housing prices up a whopping 84 percent since 2013, Michigan residents are facing numerous barriers to securing appropriate housing access."

There you have it, then. That old demon of supply and demand, the usual suspect driving so many of these discussions, doesn't appear to have grown anymore forgiving than it seemed back in 2008, when the housing bubble burst with such a resounding pop. Actually, the MML brief isn't all doom and gloom, as it offers some interesting potential solutions, as you see (click the link below).

Still, if there's a reason for why so many Americans feel caught in a mousetrap, it's not hard to see why. As usual, it comes down to lack of options and lack of resources, creating the familiar knock-on effect of falling further and further behind, with the bounty on the horizon fading ever farther from sight. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, Before
Your Rent Rockets Skyward Again)

Michigan Municipal League:
Hacking Michigan's Housing Potential:
https://mml.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/MML-Policy-Brief-House-Hacking-10_3-Final.pdf

US Census: Nearly Half Of Renter Households
Are Cost-Burdened, Proportions Differ By Race:
https://www.census.gov/newsroom/press-releases/2024/renter-households-cost-burdened-race.html

<"This Property Is Condemned"/Take II, The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXIII): The Flooring Crew Cometh (The Laundry Room Closeth)

<"This Laundry Room Closeth -- TIll Further Noticeth"

The Reckoner>

"This story has just begun,

So please tell me, if I'm wrong...

It takes one hand,

To wash the other..."

--Prince Buster,
"One Hand Washes The Other" (1962)

<i.>

Just when I thought, "I'm done writing about laundry rooms, thankfully," what happens? Almost on cue, another issue pops up The minute you tell yourself, "I won't do X, Y or Z," that's when you jinx yourself, and wind up doing X, Y or Z, all over again.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, right? No dice, apparently, because this is the third piece I'm dedicating to the subject. There's a reason why Sean Connery titled his one-off Bond comeback vehicle, Never Say Never Again (1983). Enough said about that one!

Still, the power of repetition is an awesome thing. I'm remined of a quote attributed to Lorne Michaels, the man who gave us "Saturday Night Live," whenever his cast -- or the critics -- griped that all those repeating characters and bits were making the show feel stale. His response mantra went something like this: Do something once, it's unique; twice, it's a runner; three times, it's an institution.

So goes our latest laundry room tale Last month, management at our apartment complex announced the temporary removal of our washers and dryers, so it could redo the floor. Hence, the laundry room would close, from Monday through Friday. No worries, the notice reassured us. The machines will be reinstalled by Friday.

I had various editorial projects going on, so I didn't feel overly concerned. At worst, I thought, they'll miss the Friday target, but we'll get our machines back on the Monday. No worries, right? I should have known better, of course. By Monday afternoon, The Squawker began to voice considerable angst about that ever-growing, Great Big Massive Clothing Mound -- from bed sheets to clothing, dish clothes to wash clothes, and towels to T-shirts -- rearing its ugly head from the confines of our cobalt blue laundry cart.

I duly headed upstairs, and took a look, though it seemed funny that we hadn't been officially informed yet. Hmm, I thought, don't they usually send us some type of notice?

Sure enough, the minute I padded upstairs, I saw some type of brown vinyl flooring in place -- but no machines. Needless to say, this news didn't play well, when I informed The Squawker of these developments.

"How the hell are we supposed to get our laundry done? I'm almost out of clothes already, and it's not even the weekend!" The Squawker railed, as mere impatience yielded to the throes of sheer bloody frustration. "What the hell do we do now?"

I suggest heading down to Beacon Laundry, a mere 10-minute drive away. With a nod from Squawker, I load the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound into our van, and take a notebook -- the better to jot down some reviews for my 'zine. It'll drain a couple hours of my time, plus a chunk of my wallet, my brain tells me. But it sure beats the alternative, right?

<"We're Sorry, Maaan -- We're Really, Really Sorry..."

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Well, sort of, as it happens. Beacon is actually the result of a sale, having opened as Whistlestop Wash, back in 1959 -- as one glance at the Art Deco-style, boxlike building will instantly tell you. I'd used it from time to time, whenever I couldn't access our own laundry, but in recent years, I'd begun avoiding the place, honestly.

The fiftysomething female manager in place at the time seemed burned out and embittered by the tight-fisted management, and I found the kiddie-level metal chairs and tables -- which screamed of the Jack Webb era of TV -- too unforgiving and uncomfortable to tolerate using. As a result, I often wound up working on projects in the van, which is hardly ideal when you're trying to keep track of your laundry.

In contrast, Beacon beams with the reassurance that only a business sale can bring, from the Sesame Street-ish primary colors that dominate its repainted interior, to the glowing silver facades of its latest, greatest machines. Gone are the kiddie-level tables and chairs, though their replacements feel only slightly more comfortable.

It's also incredibly, maddeningly, all too typically, bloody expensive. Two and a half hours later, I finally return home, about $40 poorer for my efforts -- or about double what it costs to clean the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound at home. 

<"To Whom It May Concern..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Week Two passes by, at first, with nary a word from management. For The Squawker and myself, it's a worrying development, since money's thinning on the ground. And neither of us wants to repeat the $40 experience that blew such a large hole in last week's budget.

Come Thursday afternoon, there's still no sign of those elusive machines. Every day, I troop upstairs, and do my dutiful due diligence, but it's not a quality that seems to make the machines return more expeditiously. Quite the opposite, in fact. Or so it seems, anyway.

"The hell with it," snaps Squawker, when I confirm -- yet again -- that our washers and dryers have yet to return. "Why don't you call them, and find out? Call them. I can't go another weekend without my clothes!"

I don't need to hear that request twice! "And we can't get by for another week, dropping 40 bucks," I agree, and begin dialing.

I don't reach our manager, who's taken the day off. However, her fill-in promises to get the answer, and proves as good as her word -- five minutes later, the phone rings again. "The machines are definitely being re-installed tomorrow," I'm told. "No ifs, ands, or buts. That's what we've heard."

The Squawker makes a skeptical face. "What makes you think it'll happen this time?"

"Well, in part, because I don't have a choice," I answer. "We have to believe, since I can't part with 40 bucks this week, anymore than I did last week. Time will tell, basically." 

And indeed, it does. Friday (Week Two) rolls around, and indeed, the machines are back in place, as if the whole debacle had never happened. 

Hang on, though. There's just one more sting in the tale, as I learn later that afternoon, when I've finally finished the Great Big Massive Clothing Mound.

I've just finished taking out the trash, rolling our 39-gallon container across the concrete. It's an eightysomething degree day, so I pause, and sit down in the second car, and let the sweat roll off me. Just then, our manager pulls by, and stops. "Did you get my message?" she asks.

"Yeah, your cohort passed it on," I nod. "Thanks. What was the problem, exactly? I mean, from looking at the walls, all they had to do was re-connect the machines..."

The manager pauses from petting her dog in the back seat. "They just kept ignoring me, so finally, I had to get Corporate involved, reach out to their corporate..."

"I see. Well, even then, it shouldn't have taken quite that long..."

"Well, see, that's the thing..." The manager frowns, and purses her lips. "The machines were here, the whole time."

Now it's my turn to screw up my face into a frown. "Say what? You're kidding me!"

"No, I'm not," the manager responds. "But see, the maintenance guys can't even touch the machines, under our contract..."

"Oh, yeah, sign of the times. I get that. Well, better than late never, I guess..."  I shrug. "Thanks for your follow-up,  though."

"Have a good weekend!" And with that, our manager shoots off, as ready to start on her weekend. Or, at least, as ready as anyone can be, after (finally) getting off at the princely hour of seven o'clock! 

So runs life in the corporate outsourced technocracy we call America today. Pass the inefficiencies onto the customer, with a side of legalese to go, if you please. Ah, well. Maybe I can get a jump the laundry before that Great Big Massive Clothing Mound rears its ugly, unwashed head once more. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (So Hurry Up,
As You Rub-A-Dub-Dub...)

Dead Milkmen: Laundromat Song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPB-TjZcfXk

Pretenders: Watching The Clothes Go Round:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ

Prince Buster: One Hand Wash The Other:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca9j3gLThKw

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXI): Hey, Mr. Monopoly (Your Five-Star Review Isn't Forthcoming)

 

<"Thumbs Down!"/The Reckoner>

Blogs are better than therapy. I've no trouble reaching that conclusion lately, as the problems at our complex multiply. Regular readers may recall the mother and daughter duo I profiled in my last entry of this series (see link below), which focused on who'd washed up on these crumbling shores, after the owner of the house they'd been renting suddenly decided to sell it.

As I recounted, they weren't thrilled about stepping down a notch, to a place like ours, but vowed to make the best of it. Last week, The Squawker and I ran into Mom Sixtysomething (as we'll now call her), in mid-junk mail persual.

We'd barely exchanged pleasantries, when she rolled her eyes, and said, "Boy, we can't wait to get out of here."

"Hm, couldn't imagine why," I responded, with a smile. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"We were promised a one-bedroom when we moved in here." Mom Sixtysomething's face squinched into a frown. "But that's not where we ended up."

"So what happened?" Squawker asked. "Was it something they did?"

"You could say that," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "The manager claimed that she couldn't show the apartment, because it was still occupied. But I've read the lease, and it's not an issue. There's no language against seeing the unit, whether anybody's in there, or isn't."

"Well, wouldn't be the first bait and switch that happened to anybody," I offered. "What did you end up doing?"

"A studio," Mom Sixtysomething said. "The circuit breaker's so old, the air conditioning and the heater often run at the same time. The flashing around the window has crumbled, so the wind and the rain blow through it. We've been flooded a couple times, too." Her face hardened beyond mere exasperation. "Our lease is up in July. We can't wait to get out of here!"

"Trust me, nobody will hold against it you," I assure her. "Especially when they hear where you lived last."

"Well, that was the thing," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "We were renting a motel room for almost a week, while we waited on that one-bedroom. When we found out it wasn't going to be available, we bit the bullet, and moved in."

I allow myself the luxury of another smile. "I take it, you're not leaving a five-star review, whenever you do go?"

"They'll be lucky if it's one star!" Mom snaps back.

We dissolve into peals of raucous laughter that bounce off the ceiling. With that, we adjourn the discussion, and head back to our separate existences.

The review I'm referencing is a prominent feature of our so-called resident portal, where you pay that exortionate rent (now that management stopped taking checks and/or money orders, about four years ago). As soon as you log in, the pop-up slaps you visually upside the head:

"Leave Us A

Review On Google!"

A quick glance at Google shows that 51 people have done just that, yielding 3.5 stars on a five-star scale. As I've written here before, that's a decent mark, though not exceptional, an impression that only strengthens when I read the more niggling verdicts.

I'm surprised that our complex's rating is that high, given the increasing MIA status of our maintenance team; the ever-spiraling rents; the increasingly grubby appearance of hallways and stairwells, that no longer get regular attention; and the erratic performance of fixtures like the baseboard heaters, whose giant knobs would elicit a familiar groan from anyone who struggled with them during the "Cosby Show" era.

So will it discourage anybody from renting here? Maybe yes, maybe no. The thumbs down notice that scares off more discerning renters may not matter so much during economic downturns, when the dismissed and the desperate have to check their pickiness at the door.

And, of course, we've all heard that old saying, "The only thing worse than bad publicity is no publicity at all," right? As the above conversation shows, Mom and her offspring had to hold their nose, and sign their lease, the because they had to figure an alternative, fast. Motels are expensive, right?

There's a reason why John Lydon once said, in dismissing his former cohorts' post-Sex Pistols ventures, like "Silly Thing": "If you notice a drop in quality, that's neither here nor there."

I just ran into another refugee from our complex, a nice twentysomething couple, whom I'd talk to in passing. They were checking out the dairy options, with their five-month-old son, when I asked how their new apartment was working out. They both expressed satisfaction, especially since their new abode is costing them $200 less in rent per month.

"I can't blame you, because I'm looking at some changes myself," I tell them. "The maintenance department is quieter than the cemetery."

"Yeah, well, we moved in with broken blinds," Mrs. Twentysomething offers. "And that's how we're leaving it. And that was the least of it."

Naturally, I want to dig a little deeper, drill down more, but they have to go, and get their son fed, before he gets restless. "No worries," I tell them. "I get it. Hope we get another chance to talk more next time."

I'm not a betting man, but this much I know. I doubt they'll leave a review, but even if they do, it sure as hell won't be a five-star one, let alone three. That's why we have blinker lights at busy intersections, after all. So we don't get blind-sided. Or T-boned by another car. --The Reckoner

<"Thumbs Down!" (Take II)/The Reckoner>

Links To Go (The Girl Can't Yelp It):
Ars Technica: One Apartment Complex's Rule:
You Write A Bad Review, We Fine You $10K:
https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2015/03/one-apartment-complexs-rule-you-write-a-bad-review-we-fine-you-10k/

Ramen Noodle Nation: Life's Little Injustices (Take XX):
"We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice":
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2023/07/lifes-little-injustices-take-xx-we.html

Life's Little Injustices (Take XX): "We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice"

 Oh, Saturday night

Mmm, everyone's having fun

I'm down at the laundromat

Trying to get my washing done

Time and time again
Watching the clothes go 'round
Another week sees its end

Watching the clothes go 'round
Watching the clothes go 'round

<The Pretenders:

"Watching The Clothes">

A couple Sundays ago, I happen to be wrapping up my weekly pile of laundry, when a couple of older women enter the room.

For much of my time here, our laundry room has served as a monument to how ancient civilizations lived -- as the twin presences of the '60s-era cigarette machine, and '80s-era pop machine, can attest.

Both took up an enormous amount of space, for the longest time, until somebody or other finally removed them. And, oh yeah, the laundry's on the second floor. Who does that nowadays?

Another reminder of the Mike Brady Era of Architecture, when nobody bothered about such things. Ah, they'll trudge up the stairs. They'll curse under their breath, but they'll put up with it. They won't have any other choice.

Anyway, I'm minding my own business, like usual. Two drying cycles have come to a halt, at last. Time to start folding and stuffing clothes into the cobalt blue cart that helps me haul them back and forth. 

Just when I look up again, I notice two women -- this one, sixtysomething, with fair white hair, that one, taller and stockier, in her forties, with braided brown hair, also wearing glasses -- bent intently over the washers.

They seem like a mother and daughter team. I watch them study the washer controls for a couple more minutes. Finally, I speak up. Must be new arrivals, I told myself. They don't know that management switched over the machines, from coins to e-cards, a couple years back.

"If you're trying to decide between medium or heavy, the only difference is the time, honestly," I say. "They just raised it a quarter not too long ago." (I now pay $2 per load, per washer.)

"Oh, thanks." Mom flashes a quizzical look. "We just moved here a couple weeks ago, so we're still figuring everything out."

"Well, in that case, welcome," I answer. "What brings you both here, if you don't mind me asking?"

Now it's the Daughter's turn to sigh. "We were both renting a house, until the owner decided to sell it..."

Mom finishes the thought. "And didn't want to rent it anymore." She frowns, as the memory seems to flash, still fresh, still raw, across her lips. "They waited until our lease was up to tell us, too."

"Lovely timing, as usual," I agree. "Nice of them, wasn't it? No worries, I get it. I've heard a few stories like that, in my time."

"Yeah, that's how it worked out," Daughter says. "We moved out, because we had no choice. We had to find another place quick, and this is where we ended up."

"A familiar story. Well, good luck, then," I say. "If you need to know how anything else really works around here..." I've been here awhile, so I've seen a few changes in my time."

"Will do," Daughter says. "Thanks for your help."

I watch them load the washer, slam the lid shut, and leave, without another word. I wheel my cart behind them, following in their footsteps, as the clock ticks on. "There goes my Saturday night, without a fight," just like the song says: it's almost midnight. As usual, I have way too much work to do. --The Reckoner

<This Image:
"Laundry Room Blues/Take II"

That Image (At Top):
"Laundry Room Blues/Take I"

The Reckoner> 

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before Another Spin Cycle Betrays You Again...)

The Pretenders: Watching The Clothes:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0huPnNi6ZhQ

Support National Rent Control (Don't Let Landlords Stuff The Ballot Box!)

 

<Screenshot from the More Perfect Union 

mini-documentary (see below)>

Picking up from our last post, I want to call another opportunity to your attention, one that will prove interesting to those who follow housing issues. This email bulletin came through People's Action, a million-strong grass roots organizing group with 38 member organizations in 28 states.

Tomorrow (Monday, July 31) is the deadline to voice support for rent control and tenant protections that the Federal Housing Financing Authority (FHFA) is considering -- including a ban against evictions without good cause, limits on rent hikes, and standardized leases. These changes would affect landlords who receive federal financing, in an estimated 12.4 million apartment units nationwide. 

For those who don't already know, the FHFA is the entity tasked with regulating Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, whose money has been used to buy apartment complexes like so many dominoes (see More Perfect Union documentary link below), one of the most obscene aspects of the whole skyrocketing rent craze. Are the FHFA proposals some type of atonement, or a tacit admission of guilt? Either way, it works for me.

Now comes the sticky part, as Peoples Action's email details: "In a callous and greedy move, corporate landlords are flooding the comment portal, opposing tenant protections, and trying to drown out the voices of hundreds. It's critical that they hear from you." Here is the place to do it:

https://tenantcomment.org/?link_id=3&can_id=4e6c8046819e1ba183f676fa03eddc7a&source=email-join-us-in-dc-next-week-to-defend-medicare-and-medicaid&email_referrer=email_2001960&email_subject=final-days-to-weigh-in-on-tenant-protections

Landlord industry groups have spent $10 million lobbying against the proposals. That's an awful lot of legalized bribery, though nothing on the scale of the pharmaceutical and healthy product industry's spending spree ($372 million alone in 2022, according to Open Secrets).

How typical of the bastards to pull these stunts, isn't it? The only democracy they understand is the one they can buy off the rack. The only representatives they respect are those they can bribe unconditionally, intimidate absolutely, or control completely. The only concept of civic engagement that interested them is the sound of the coins clanking into their perennially overstuffed, bottomless money bins.

All of their noxious, malicious, feral notions of unimpeded and unrestrained commerce are directed toward feeding the monstrous status quo that empowers them at our expense. As Shane McGowan puts it: "Greed knows no boundaries, greed does not feel." 

Obviously, this type of proposal is only a starting point for what should happen nationally. That's of the great curses of our system, with all its endless Rube Goldberg mechanisms -- like the Electoral College -- designed to thwart the most badly needed changes.

All of us need basic protections against these predatory operations, not just those living in federal housing. Otherwise, we're doomed to playing a perennial game of 50-State Whack-A-Mole, which benefits the monied interests and their deep-pocketed far right allies -- the same ones who brought us the "Corporations are people, too" logic that saddled us with the infamous Citizens United ruling.

The other obvious thing that needs to happen is getting the next generation -- the voices of the Tennessee Three, and others like them -- into power sooner, rather than later, and finally start nudging all these Boomer politicians off the national stages that they've hogged for decades. Obviously, getting that goal done is a much bigger job, but a necessary one, too.

The flipside of the argument is that we have to take our opportunities when they pop up, to negate whatever ballot stuffing that these outfits are trying to do. So take some time to review the video link -- there's lots of good info there, I've seen it -- and crank up that Pogues song, as you fill out your comments. as Peoples Action asks us to do:

"We know that the rent is STILL too damn high. And we know that this is flexible, so we will keep fighting for our rights and our homes. These proposed tenant protections are a critical step toward holding greedy corporate landlords accountable, and your voice needs to be heard."

To which I can only say, "Amen, and then some." You don't have to be religious to get behind that sentiment. Still, it's fair to say that if Jesus ever returns, in all of his apocalyptic glory, he'll likely send landlords and their corporate allies tumbling into the Lake of Fire first -- before he gets around to the other sinners on his list. --The Reckoner

Too much pressure, and 

all them certain kind of people

Too much pressure, them having it easy

Too much pressure, them having it easy

Too much pressure, them sail through life

Too much pressure, them have no joy

Too much pressure, them have no joy

It's too much pressure, it's too much pressure

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before Your Rent Goes Up Yet Again):

More Perfect Union:

National Rent Control? It Closer Than You Think:
https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/185881030087155227/6806614908906792346

The Pogues: Bastard Landlord:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rjd1WprEkZo

Life's Little Injustices (Take XIX): Hey, AT&T Greedheads: You're Scrambling My Budget!

 

<Cover art: goodreads.com>

<i.>

Not so long ago, I found myself rereading The Saga Of Hawkwind (2004), written by the late Carol Clerk. If you haven't come across it, by all means, check it out: it's a fantastically written, 500-page epic history of the Founding Fathers of space rock, as they're commonly called. 

Clerk dishes out everything you ever wanted to know about Hawkwind, but didn't know what to read, or where to ask. At its core, it's a narrative defined by 50-odd years of constant lineup changes, and dueling egos, often working at cross purposes, amid the usual music biz skulduggery, with one constant (guitarist Dave Brock) at the center of the vortex.

Some of the most relevant tidbits happen when Clerk explores various aspects of the industry that make it hard for musicians to stay afloat. As Brock himself notes in the last chapter ("Dave Brock: God, Satan...Or Just The Captain Of The Ship?"): "The trucking companies are getting more than I'm getting on a tour.

"The rock 'n' roll business being so corrupt, all these different people, trucking companies, bus companies -- the guy who's driving the bus wants £10 food and £30 per diem, and he's paid to drive the bus.  It's all these things around the periphery which piss me off."

After revisiting that passage, all I can say is: Dave, you have my deepest sympathies, as I know the feeling. I got a fresh reminder of this phenomenon last week, after my phone bill landed in my mailbox.

<"Sick 'N' Tired, 

So Sick 'N' Tired..."

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

This is how crazy it gets 'round the periphery: last month, I had a $3.46 credit. This month, I'm starting down a bill of $236 and some change. 

See, when November started, I'd paid two months' worth of bills, because I'd fallen behind. Chalk it up to that cost of living/inflation thing everyone's going on about lately, so when I got a surplus of 200-some-odd bucks, I'd promptly paid it, to get caught up. 

That mess started around the second week in October, when I tried calling the doctor, and got a nonstop dial tone. I realized something was up, as a panic-stricken email from my supervisor confirmed ("Your phone has been busy all day. Please call me, I can't get through"). I wound up calling AT&T, who duly confirmed they'd cut me off. 

I don't recall getting a disconnect notice, I protested. Of course, you got it, the rep stoutly maintained. Once upon a time, they called to pester you, whenever you fell behind; now, they've switched back to paper notices, apparently. Whatever.

In the end, I borrowed from my supervisor to get the phone back on. Of course, that meant having to repay her, forcing me to repurpose another amount intended for something else. That's how it works around the periphery: one domino topples another, creating a ripple effect that scrambles your budget.

Of course, the chaos came during a particularly busy week. I didn't really have time to fight it, let alone think about it, so I did what anybody in this boat does. "Right," I told myself. "Here's your $110, and some change. Now please go away." And that's the last thought I gave it, essentially. That is...until the new bill arrived.

<"Thank You For Your Business..."

The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Lo and behold, that $236 amount jumped right out at me. "What's going on here, then?" I ask myself. A quick scan confirms my worst fears. Apparently, they've whacked on a $30 reconnection charge, which they told me was coming. I can live with that, I suppose.

Guess what, though? They've whacked on $30 and $50 sums for a pro-rating of the bill. Say what? How or why that happened, I'm not sure but I'm still on the hook for it, so I'll have to let it slide. It's not like there's a Phone Bill Appeals Board to hear my case.

By the time you include the inevitable taxes ($11.74), they've added $129 on an otherwise unremarkable monthly bill of $100 or so. Luckily for me -- if that's the right word -- I can spread the cost over a couple weeks, and minimize some of the damage. Sure, a couple more dominos will topple, but it's the beginning of the month, and I'm getting paid again. All's well that ends well, right?

I suppose, but it pisses me off, all the same. It's all part and parcel of the corruption around the periphery of Big Business, as in, "We know you're hurting, so guess what? It's time to squeeze you a little harder." It's the same mentality that you see with local governments, when they whack the cost of somebody's forced lawnmowing bill onto their taxes. Or water bills that they're struggling to pay, because they're double the local average. Or retroactively compounding interest, as many student loan borrowers discover, to their everlasting regret.

The same story holds true at the grocery store, where the Squawker and I spent $350 -- literally, half my paycheck -- to avoid making the trip for another couple weeks A loaf of bread? Ka-ching!  $5.89. A jar of mayonnaise? Ka-ching! $5.49. Eight-ounce package of sliced turkey lunch meat? Ka-ching! $4.29. A bag of onions? Ka-ching! $2.99. A bag of tomatoes on the vine? Ka-ching! $5.66. And so on, and so forth.

God knows what everything will cost next time, as prices like these keep on rocketing upward. Even a meal out, to give you a break from cooking, averages 25 to 40 bucks in this town. But there's the dirty little secret, right? It doesn't cost them $30 to turn your phone back on, anymore than it costs $350 per person to get your food on the grocery shelf. A lot of this stuff is just the banksters making out like bandits. Because they are bandits. 

Even after a catastrophic global pandemic, we're still left where we started, of agitating for change that most people see as long overdue, and desperately needed. That is, anyone who isn't a rich right wing greedhead, like a certain rogue billionaire who just bought a certain media platform, that a certain rogue ex-President publicly poo-poohs interest in reclaiming. They're fine with all the chaos and crap that they've stirred up. 

In one sense, I guess I could consider myself fortunate, in that I can generate income beyond my day job to deal with these problems. But in another sense, I'd say, "Maybe not," since the same greasy global shuffle is going on -- or, as Don Letts says, in "Outta Sync," the teaser for his forthcoming solo album: 

"Predictions of dystopia? 

Three jobs to pay the rent.

The threat of just a few degrees? 

We're talking two percent." 

We'll find out how close to reality those predictions come, as dire as they are. Because, you see, that's another collateral consequence of life on the periphery -- we usually know what's going down before everyone else does. 

We feel the social ills first; when things fall apart, we're first to catch cold. When things finally rebound, we're the last to catch up. Because, unlike everybody else, we don't exactly get to shop till we drop. See you at the checkout line. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, 

Grab Your Ticket Outta Babylon

Because It's Burnin' Red Hot, Hot Hot...):

Don Letts: Outta Sync (Official Video):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7Zf0KWPJoE&t=108s

My Corona Diary (Take XXXVII): Welcome To The Boardwalk (They're Jacking Up Your Rent)

 

<"Under The Boardwalk...

Take I"/The Reckoner>

<i.>

Only a couple months ago, the Squawker and I were pondering what the impact of new management on our apartment complex might mean next year. Well, we need not wonder anymore. Management's happy to re-up, but they're also jacking up our rent by roughly $130, in fact. Fifteen-odd years of $25 and $50 increases will now become a distant memory, as we prepare for the reality of paying $992 a month, starting in May.

On one hand, the situation is workable, thanks in part to a year-long contact job that I started last December. I'm making about $600 more per month than usual, ensuring that some of our money sticks around in the bank -- instead of whizzing through the front door, and out the back, to pay somebody-or-other with their hand held out. 

That's the pattern we experienced before the pandemic. Let's face it, most people's accounts are just pass-throughs to pay bills. It's a slightly different pass-through than someone like Senator Ron Johnson is used to seeing, with the $30 million or so in wealth that the Wisconsin Wingnut married into. But I digress.

But I might manage to soften the blow, I assured Squawker. At the moment, I make $100-odd per month, filling out surveys -- money I could set aside, presumably. There's also the $1,800 cherry dangling at me, if I finish out my current contract successfully. We could set that money aside, too.

Still, we're left wondering where the future will take us. When I asked the manager, "Why is it so steep," she responded that market rates will guide the new ownership. In other words, if our rapidly gentrifying little town continues to support what the greedheads already charge, we'll get slammed, right along with them. For that reason, she admitted, a similar $100-plus increase is possible next year, too. Fast buck, feral capitalism at its finest. Ain't it grand?

I don't blame the manager, who's only the messenger in these situations. Others had voiced similar concerns, she acknowledged, which is hardly surprising, given the preponderance of seniors and people with disabilities living here. It's worlds apart from announcing more upbeat news (like the upgraded laundry we got several months ago).

<"A Matter Of Perspective":

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

In another sense, though, I'm not surprised. One of the new management's first moves was to offer reserved parking, for $50 per month. Squawker and I found this development something of a surprise, since neither of us recalls seeing any one percenters picketing the place, until they got their precious reserved pieces of real estate.

Honestly, though, who needs a reserved space, other than people with disabilities? I've seen how it twists people, like the publisher at one of my previous media jobs. One day, Blowdried Bobbie dropped in for lunch, only to flip out, on seeing a delivery driver parked in her privileged spot. 

Bobbie scoured the building, presumably to surprise the unwary driver, and send him moving (or packing). Thankfully, she didn't find him. By the time she'd finished her pirate raid through the building, the driver had taken his bundles, and left. Nobody gave him up, and the whole episode was quickly forgotten. If that's the kind of customer our new owners want, they're welcome to it.

So what's all this have to do with the price of rice, to lift a phrase from one of Howard Beale's soliloquies in Network (1975)?  Well, on the surface, it's not a huge move. I'm certainly not adding $50 per month more to my rent, just so I don't have to walk a few more yards. Yet it's also the kind of gesture that signals, "You're a walking dollar sign. Get used to it."

<"Under the Boardwalk..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

The Squawker and I have girded a long time for this day. From time to time, we've done a classic tabletop exercise. It's an emergency management term for a scenario that the participants discuss, to work out how they might react, and then, develop a plan along those lines.

You might start off such an exercise by asking, "An armed gunman shows up near ABC School, off XYZ Street. What would we do, and how would we respond?" In our case, the Squawker asked, "Can you find an apartment in the county at, or only slightly above, the $900 per month we pay now?"

Our current hometown offers no obvious solutions. The cheapest places start at around $1,200 per month, and rapidly escalate to $1,500 to $2,00, whether you're renting an apartment or a house, another option that we've discussed. If we want relief, we'll have to look elsewhere, apparently. 

So far, the returns aren't terribly encouraging. We've found two smaller towns, 15 to 25 miles away, where rents average around $700-800 per month. The downside? Their apartments are quire a bit smaller, in more isolated areas, with fewer of the supports that we're currently accustomed to having (like our visiting home doctor, for example). But until we take a recon trip or two out there, we can't be sure.

Nor is it much better elsewhere, as my sister informed me, during our weekly phone chat. Apartments in her neck of the woods (Metro Big City Ohio), start around $1,800 per month, and rocket upward from there. One sign is her former workspace, which her agency's leaving for a smaller building, "because we're all going to be working remotely from now on," she said. 

I remember that old building well. I interviewed for a job there once, hoping I'd get the government gig of a lifetime. What's happening to that structure, you ask? That's destined for condo-hood, apparently, she reckons. "It's all about what they can crank out of people."

As for me? I think John Lennon said it best: "“I’m warming to the idea of having it in an asylum.” He was referring to potential touring plans that morphed into the Beatles' celebrated rooftop concert of 1969, but the way things are going around here, we'll all be sleeping in front of the asylum, next to John's ghost. 

This is where the Rental Arms Race leaves us, trapped in the usual mindless binary non-choices (Aetna or Cigna? Chocolate or vanilla?), with nothing in between. Have no fear, though. Long before then, the Squawker and I will know if our quest is a real possibility, or only a pure pipe dream.--The Reckoner

<Coda>

Update (3/28/22): For some reason that management has yet to explain, one of the newly-minted reserved spaces has now migrated -- across from it, where people with disabilities park. So, for now, at least, that spot is open to all comers again. Our "pole position" (one of them, anyway) is back on track.

The Squawker and I spent part of our weekend going through old housing files, including applications and waiting lists. So far, the returns haven't been terribly encouraging. We've even contemplated moving back to Highlandville, one of our former ports of call, but one brief glance at the rental prices has prompted us to think twice.

Rents at our former crackerbox palace, we've found, now range from $630 to $900. Yes, Virginia, an area often derided as the place as that time forgot has now caught up with the other greedheads fighting for profit in the Rental Arms Race. "It's a truly rich irony," I tell Squawker, "but one that's perfect for us." We'll see how the search goes....stay tuned. Time will tell, I guess.

My Corona Diary (Take XXXVI): Our County Feels Like A Giant Monopoly Board (Should We Move To Finland?)

<"Coming Soon...":

The Reckoner>

Wherever you lay your hats, you're home
Is that true?

Wherever you lay your hats, you're home
If that's true, why are so many people confused?

<Fun Boy Three, "Going Home">

<i.>

Not too long ago, the Squawker and myself had one of our periodic conversations about whether it's time to bid our current complex goodbye, and look at renting a house. Lots of positives, we figured, when we started discussing the issue again. 

A bigger area to roam around, without some nosy neighbor, nor their dog, shadowing your every move. A chance to strike a better deal for less than what we pay now ($900 a month, which includes $35 or so for water, sewer and trash). A single owner is more flexible (theoretically) than a management company, which typically charges the highest rents.

A shot at getting some decent garden space, which Squawker capitalized on last summer, when our church built a large wooden box for that purpose. The array of cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes and zucchini that we grew helped our food budget, and then some. Small steps like that make a big difference in helping you control your destiny.

So I delegated the Squawker to have a look at rents around here, and guess what? Our search gave us a severe case of sticker shock. It didn't take long to figure out that everything starts at $1,200 per month, and rapidly escalates from there. With one exception, that is: a neighboring town, 10 miles away, dominated by Seventh Day Adventists. Rents over there average $700 per month. Who knows? Maybe the David Koresh image keeps the landlords in check.

Complex or duplex, rental house or townhouse, it doesn't really matter. Across the board, you're looking at paying $1,200, and in some cases, $1,300, even $1,750 per month, in some cases. Just before I started on this point, I asked the Squawker to look once more, this time on craigslist. Maybe only greedy capitalists hung out at the likes of rental.com, or zillow.com, right?

"After all," Squawker told me, "we might as well try to be fair. Maybe we've overlooked something here."

"Maybe," I ventured. "Though it seems like we'd have run across the deal of the century already."

It didn't take long for the few photos we saw to dash our hopes. "Look at this house," Squawker said. "Three-bedroom, $1,250 per month, and all the fixtures look pretty old. They've got clawfoot bathtubs! I see so many of them." Squawker sucked in a breath. "Listen to this: 'Must have $4,000 income per month to qualify.'"

"Well, even at that price," I pointed out, "you're still coughing up a hefty chunk of that income to them. Hence, the condition. So much for that, I guess."

We agree to keep the door ajar, if only a crack, for the future. Still, the news is pretty unsettling, since I grew up around these parts. If I wanted to realize some nostalgic wish of coming back here, I'd need some awfully deep pockets, or I couldn't do it. Simple as that.

<"Coming Soon"/Take II:

The Reckoner>

Is this my home? This is my home
This is where I'm from
Is this home? This must be home
But is this where I belong?

Fun Boy Three, "Going Home"

<ii.>

Absurd as this whole situation sounds, I could console myself with certain bromides, like this old chestnut: As bad as you have it, there's always someone else worse off. Right? Fair enough, but that bromide only goes so far. If the best result in life is barely avoiding the race to the bottom, well...It's not a recipe for a rich and rewarding one, is it?

Or this one: Possession is nine-tenths of the law, as many of the unfortunates left destitute by COVID-19 have discovered, who made the mistake of counting on rent relief that took too long to arrive, never materialized, or simply didn't help them, because the landlords refused to accept it. If you don't own anything substantial, the law doesn't apply, so it doesn't help you, apparently. Simple as that.

Or look at the West Coast, whose manicured liberal facade hides some ghastly social ills underneath it all. In San Francisco, where studio apartments average $3,000 a month, the city is girding itself to sweep away the "anchor-outs," as they're derisively called -- residents living rent-free, if illegally, on the water -- by 2026. 

City officials tick off the usual abstract concerns -- aesthetic, environmental, and legal, not to mention grousing from deeper-pocketed residents -- as reason enough to finally force the issue, though how much success they'll have remains to be seen (see the link below). Left unsaid is where the "anchor-outs" go, once their boats end up crushed, or confiscated. No answer is coming, because city officials don't have one, or aren't interested, nor organized enough, to provide it.

Or you could try something bolder, as Finland has done, as Juha Kaakinen suggests in this commentary in the September 2016 commentary of the Guardian, which -- along with the bare fruits of our recent search -- inspired me to finish off this post. Kaakinen is the chief executive of the Y-Foundation, which aims to end homelessness in Finland "by increasing the amount of affordable rental housing made available to homeless people."

Now, there's a concept, right? Too simple by half, but one that often eludes urban planners, who often focus too closely on the nuts and bolts of their proposed solutions -- rather than what people need. Like housing, for instance. As you'll read in Kaakinen's commentary, Finland opted to buy flats and convert them into rental apartments for homeless people, as well as creating new housing for them.

For example, one of the key steps involved renovating and rehabbing a 250-bed hostel run by the Salvation Army into an 80-unit apartment building, with on-site staff. Such moves become their own building blocks, so to speak, of a long term, systematic approach, instead of the usual "catch as catch can" approach that planners often take, as Kaakinen writes:

"To get the most out of housing first in terms of social and economic benefits it needs to be mainstream homelessness policy, not just individual pilot projects. Housing first needs housing stock and there is no real homeless policy without the housing supply to implement it. The cornerstone of any decent housing policy is the sufficient supply of affordable social housing. 

"To say that the scarcity of funding in any western European country is the reason for lack of affordable social housing is either an understatement or a conscious misunderstanding. It is simply a question of political will."

A question of political will -- I couldn't have said it better. That's exactly what's lacking, especially in my neck of the woods, where the City Commission has focused on building condos and luxury housing developments for seasonal, summer and weekend residents who don't live here year round -- unlike the Squawker and myself. 

Yes, long term solutions to social ills like homelessness take money and time, not to mention setting aside the resources to tackle them. But Kaakinen's point is well taken. If you don't start, you'll never reach the finish line, let alone the 50-yard line.

It'll be interesting to see how Finland's homeless policy is faring now. Maybe I'll update that for a future post. Meanwhile, the Squawker and myself will keep the door open, if only a crack. And if the political will doesn't materialize? The answer is simple: move to Finland. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before They Buy Your Land From You)

The Guardian:
Lessons From Finland:
Helping Homeless People

Starts With Giving Them Homes:
https://www.theguardian.com/housing-network/2016/sep/14/lessons-from-finland-helping-homeless-housing-model-homes

The L.A. Times:
They Live Rent-Free On San Francisco Bay.

But Now Their "Floating Homeless Encampment" Faces Extinction:

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2021-11-09/they-live-rent-free-on-san-francisco-bay-but-now-their-floating-homeless-encampment-faces-extinction

The Y-Foundation:

https://world-habitat.org/world-habitat-awards/winners-and-finalists/y-foundation/