Wednesday, August 20, 2008


My Tonstant Weaders know the back story.

For several years now, a rash of idiots have felt perfectly entitled to park in my private parking space when all the "fun" events take place in The Hamlet and public parking is non-existent. Irrelevantly-- apparently-- this parking area in which I park my car is infested with signs reading "Private Parking", "No Parking", "Tow Zone", "No Parking Tow Zone", and finally, "Private Parking Tow Zone No Parking".

The entitled rash of idiots don't care what the signs say. They simply want a convenient parking space for their car so they don't have to walk to additional 100 feet to the fucking music festival, clay festival, restaurant, farmers' market, bar, concert, beer festival, marathon finish line, art festival, holistic festival, or whatever stupid noisy event is going on down the street that's supposed to make The Hamlet's tax base stronger-- oh sure!-- our tax base is stronger but somehow, even though I work for The Hamlet for pennies an hour and have no health care with The Hamlet because I can't afford it, these outliers come here and park in my spot... but I digress!

I used to get even with those interlopers who stupidly parked in my spot:

I would smear thick, smelly cat laxative on the interloper's windshield wipers, door handles and locks, but that got a little dangerous as people who parked in my spot would almost catch me redhanded, hunched over their stupid car, smearing pet laxative on their door handles. I tried towing the offending asshole parkers' cars, but one night the towtruck driver was slipped some money by the outliers, he backed their car off of the tow truck, bade them goodnight. The outliers and I had a verbal altercation wherein they called me a "bitch", and I retorted, "Oh, please. Can't you come up with something better than that? I mean really." They drove off laughing at me, presumably to another private parking space.

So today I came home and someone was parked in my spot. Again.

So I got to use my new tool! It's a cool little gadget thingy that, when placed on the tire's air valve and pressed, allows air to escape from the tire, flattening it. I did this to the outlier's front left tire.

Two hours later, upstairs waiting for Mellie to come and share dinner with me, I looked out my window to see if the outlier had returned to the car. The outlier had not. My car, blocks away, waited for me to put it in its proper place. I fumed. I paced. I mumbled. I bit my thumbnail.

"This is not good enough," I thought to myself, pissed beyond all recognition.

Mellie arrived and I told her to be my lookout. "What are you going to do?" she asked nervously as I grabbed my butcher knife. "Never mind," I said, "Just tell me when someone's coming."

We went down to the outlier's car. Mellie posted herself at the front of the entrance, and I slashed the outlier's driver side and left rear passenger tire.

"Oh my," said Mellie. "Couldn't you have called the tow company?"

"I did. They want the owner of the parking lot to be here to okay the tow. I don't own this parking lot, but I sure as shit pay for the space. That doesn't matter to the tow guy. They aren't going to do anything, so I am."

I turned to Mellie as we walked up The Hovel's stairs. "You know, Mellie," I said quietly, "I'm sick of people fucking with me."

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Cheesehead No More.

As you know, Dear Readers, I relish my bad habits.

Once in awhile I will saunter half-heartedly into the Land of Health by swallowing vitamins and various nutritional supplements, stretch languidly with yoga and even allow those super-positive thought thingies into my consciousness.

This never lasts too long.

My much-loved pursuits do require the rapid-fire of brain cells, but are tempered with many hours devoted to sitting on my ass. These pursuits include reading, writing, eating and drinking. Other pursuits I enjoy require a minimum of effort, such as strolling through a gallery or a museum, poking around in a library, perching on a bar stool listening to music, or just sitting on a couch, talking, talking, talking.

To other people. Not to myself.

So keeping this in mind, sports are the dead last thing on my mind (see my post one year ago about MARATHON WEEKEND). However! Recently I've been captivated by the on-going saga in Green Bay:


I know!!! Isn't it nuts? This is so completely out of character for me. It is.

The other night at the restaurant, a bunch of waiters were standing around talking about the possibility that Brett might come out of retirement. One guy was saying, "Who cares if he comes out of retirement? Who cares?"

An alien being took over my body and I piped up, "I CARE. I don't even care about sports, or football, or any of it. BUT I CARE ABOUT BRETT FAVRE."

They all turned and stared at me-- me, with my eyes wide, eyebrows up, hand over mouth.

Until I said it, I didn't even know (read: acknowledge) that I'd been visiting Sports Illustrated's site every day for the past week, that I'd open stories about Favre posted on CNN, that I'd been pondering Brett's possible return over my morning coffee, that I'd hoping he'd come out of retirement and KICK SOME ASS AND TAKE SOME NAMES!!! YEAH!!!

So when I voiced my opinion about Brett Favre, it was as odd as shaving my head on a whim or tossing my books out the window of a moving car. I mean, I'd entered a parallel universe. My concern for Brett was part of me, but I didn't know it was part of me!!! And suddenly, there it was, like I'd gotten out of bed and suddenly noticed I'd grown three extra fingers overnight! On my forehead!!!

Today I read with great interest that Brett had been traded to the Jets. Oh, Green Bay. I understand your logic-- "That train has left the station" etc.-- but the Jets are going to have a fantastic year. A fun, glamorous year, filled with anticipation and excitement.

I may subscribe for NFL Extra this year.

Favre? Just one of the coolest guys on the planet.

That is all.