The Privileged

“White privilege.” “Rich privilege.” “Pet privilege?”

Let’s talk about the baffling nature that is the “pet privilege” fee at most corporate apartment complexes. We’re running into this arbitrary fee more and more with each place that we tour. And let me just jump in before the “well most places have pet deposits”: yeah, they have those too...in addition to this so-called “fee.” The general numbers that we've been encountering are: $200 pet deposit (refundable), plus $20 a month pet rent AND $300 non-refundable pet privilege fee. It’s not for the extra cleanup and airing out that inevitably comes with renting to people with pets; that’s what the deposit is for (like most apartment deposits). And the rent is...just like people rent, I suppose. At $20 a month, I’m not going to complain a whole lot.

But a completely random non refundable $300 just because? What the shit?

If you want some extra money, just say so. Because you know that if you have a particularly messy pet, they’ll sure as shit keep most or all of that deposit and charge you if any additional services are required; it isn't coming out of that “privilege” fee. And what’s with the name, “pet privilege fee”? Like they’re doing us a solid by letting us have pets.

Out of all the complexes we checked out, only one didn't allow pets, but were in the process of changing their rules (as they were losing a lot of prospective renters because of that policy).

Pets are already expensive enough without these fees. And in a way it’s punishing people, such as Halbastram and I, who adopted an older pet so that it may have a second chance at living in a home environment. We’re not doing it for the lolz; we did it because we care. And apparently caring costs about $500 up front.

So, figuring conservatively at one of the complexes on our short list, before we've even received a key we have to pay: $500 total for the cat; $975 (one month’s rent); $35/each application fee; $125 security deposit; and some other stupid numbers I can’t remember. But just using those above, we need $1670 to get the ball rolling, not to mention the truck rental and the time off from work. With those numbers, I could just take on a mortgage payment. Sheesh.

This is why I avoid doing good things; there’s always a price to pay.

Quality Bars

It takes a special kind of person to make a determination about future residential prospects based on the neighborhood dive bar.

I am that person.

Last weekend we went to check out a neighborhood in Kansas City’s downtown known as Quality Hill. In addition to being indicative of its landscape, Quality Hill is so named because it’s where the elite of the city lived back in the day- way back in the day, like Grover Cleveland’s day. Now it’s home to a series of townhomes, apartments and other dwellings for KC’s working professionals. While many urban downtowns are usually fraught with high-end dwellings that only the money crowd could even consider living (I’m looking at you, Chicago), Kansas City’s downtown is still in its own “Times Square” transitional phase, and they are trying to remake it into a place where residents and visitors alike will come to play, dine and drink. As it stands, the only thing hopping in downtown KC is the Power and Light District, a very tightly packed city block with bars and restaurants that connect to an open-air courtyard/concert venue, right across from the Sprint Center. Outside of the P&L, driving around downtown KC feels like driving down a town that completely closes down- on Sunday. At the moment it’s still mostly utilitarian, with the office buildings and the corporate lunch locations closed until Monday.

Quality Hill sits just south of the convention center, Bartle Hall, a good jaunt away from the P&L district. What Quality Hill lacks in its location to Party Central it makes up for its quaint buildings, its impossibly narrow sidewalks and its neighborhood dive bars.

The first bar we attempted to patronize, as sports bar, was apparently run by people who are fans of “Spinal Tap,” as the 200 televisions in the establishment were all blazing at 11. Despite that, it was actually quite crowded, which isn’t necessarily a sign of a great place. I’m a card carrying member of Club Laziness; sometimes you just can’t be bothered to find other means of drinking and watching stupid college sports. Luckily for me, I left my membership card at home that day, so we promptly left in search of other libations, remembering a Mexican restaurant we passed on the way to the leasing office.

(sidenote: the leasing office is packed to the brim with candy. that’s all I remember about our visit with the leasing agent. also, something about no units being available for another 60 days. but, so much candy. everywhere. it’s like they knew I was coming.)

Anyway, having failed to locate the actual entrance to the Mexican restaurant (to be honest, we didn’t try that hard), we managed to find the entrance to a dark, ominous-looking bar and decided that, as we were now less than a block away from the car, it would have to do.

The L-shaped bar sat roughly 10-12, with a video poker machine tucked into the corner. Three high tops lined the partition on the side with the bar, and several low tops made up the rest of the space. We took a seat at a high top that was so wobbly it could give a weaker person car/sea sickness. As a frequent view of Bar Rescue, the dark brooding nature immediately gave me pause- in addition to the fact that the paper menus looked like they served the food right on top on it. However, I took a moment to take in the patrons in the bar at the moment, most of whom were there to watch the stupid KU basketball game. A bearded hipster and his floral dress-wearing lady friend sat at the bar, sharing a pitcher of PBR; a professional-looking guy nursed a vodka, waiting for his takeout order; two gray haired ladies sat at a low top, sipping sodas; a group of preppy college boys also sat at a low top, scarfing down wings and water; and a guy and gal who had obviously just come from a Color Run sat in a corner, talking intimately. The mix put me more at ease, in addition to the fact that the drinks were cheap and the selection of craft beers was heartening.

Halbastram ordered a plate of nachos (clearly made with either Ro*Tel or Velveeta, but who cares) and I enjoyed a Fat Tire, while admiring the sign above my head that read “Happy Hour Special: Coors $1.75.”

“I could see you coming here after work,” Halbastram remarked.
“Well, yeah. I mean, Happy Hour Coors for only $1.75. This could be my ‘Cheers’.”

We drank and ate for a little while longer, until the trash factory couple showed up and decided that the bar might be interested in their argument. Despite the gentleman’s repeated pleas of “Megan, stop; Megan...Megan...MEGAN! Stop!” Megan had other plans, so we decided to depart.

Although we didn’t even get to tour a unit (nor were we even sure that there would be anything available for us), I found myself wanting Quality Hill to work out more than anything...because of cheap beer. Within walking distance. Beats the hell out of a “community exercise room” that I’ll never use.