six-packs and shotguns

August 29, 2002 &bull uncategorized

Reflections on the 89er, part one

I used to describe it as “just like living in the dorms, except rather than a six-pack of beer under every mattress there’s a shotgun.” Probably the funniest thing about it is that my mom, of all people, hooked me up with the place.

At the time I was living in what could be termed a “punk rock house.” Although it’s not very relevant to the issue at hand, I should define what a “punk rock house” is, or at least what I think it is. A punk rock house is, simply stated, a house filled with people of the “alternative lifestyle” persuasion, half of which are paying rent. There are a lot of requirements to living in such a house. I’ve picked out five of these requirements to provide a little background; they are as follows:

1. You need to listen to punk rock music (obviously)
2. You can’t shower more than 3 times a week
3. You are forbidden to clean or pick up anything within, or outside of, the house
4. When you are at a bar and it closes down at 1:00am, you are required — required — to round up the shadiest characters and invite them over for all sorts of activities
5. At least once a year a make-shift tattooing parlor must be set up in the kitchen; all of your friends need to come over and get free tattoos from “a guy that does this all the time”

If you know me now you probably wouldn’t believe that I could live in such a place. However, I have to say that living in that house was probably one of the coolest things I had ever done up to that point in my life. It most definitely wasn’t the Holiday Inn, but it was cool. I saw things there that I had never seen before and probably never will see again. I met some incredible people and was able to learn a lot about life and myself. But, all good things must come to an end. I was longing for a clean kitchen, carpet I wasn’t afraid to walk on, and a place to put my 4 cup coffee maker (besides my bedroom floor). In other words, I wanted a place of my own.

My mom came to town and said that she would head up the apartment hunting efforts while I was at work. I really didn’t feel like touring a bunch of crummy apartments so I thought it sounded like a pretty good deal. A month later I moved into the infamous “89er” in downtown Fargo.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be presenting some vignettes about the apartment complex I called home for two years. I’m not sure why I have the desire to relive some of these odd moments — I guess I’ve always been sentimental when it comes to places I have lived, even if those places are less than perfect. But then again, it’s really the memories in those places that make them perfect or imperfect.

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