sub~Urban Blog

Digging for Votes

Much to my annoyance, despite the fact that we let the cat out daily, he never fails to return at night. Some people might think it’s the food that brings the cat back home, but I know better: It’s the litterbox. There’s just something about a nice clean box of easily diggable clay gravel that makes the anuses of cats atwitter.

Litterboxes, however, have to be cleaned. And so late one Saturday morning, I got ready to clean ours by having a couple of shots of Ouzo. Just as I had reached that level of unconsciousness that would allow me to handle a box of mammalian fecal matter interspersed with cat urine (I admit I am at a loss for a embellishment that would accurately describe cat urine). The doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a young couple at my door. Both were wearing suits—his a navy blue, and hers a kind of sandy green. The man had a wire coming from his ear, and the woman had a clipboard, as well as a small satchel on her shoulder that was stuffed with leaflets.

I recognized the breed immediately: They were campaign workers. One interesting thing about where I live is that we have a really early primary. In many ways, it’s a great deal for those of us who live here. It means free donuts and coffee for us as we wait for our morning commuter train. It means having some politician explain his plan for reestablishing the gold standard on mortgages while an aide pumps my gas. And it means all of the prices at the liquor store are doubled.

“Excuse us for interrupting your day,” The woman said, “Are you a Republican?”

“Well, I believe in a republican form of government, so yes, I guess you could say that I’m a republican.”

The guy in the suit cracked a faint smile. “As opposed to communist?” He asked. He was wearing wrap around style sunglasses with mirrored lenses. I realized then that he wasn’t a campaign worker, but rather a secret service agent, doing some advance work before I was graced with the presence of a candidate that had enough media support to warrant secret service protection. “Do you have any potted jasmine plants in this house?”

“Um, no. Would that be a problem?”

“The senator can become unstable in their presence. It has something to do with his time in the embassy.” Our state’s senior senator had risen to prominence after being one of the hostages in the U.S. embassy in Iran in the late 70’s. Actually, he wasn’t a hostage—he was one of the people smuggled out by the Canadians a few weeks after the students took over the embassy.

“I just have a few ficuses and philadendrons. Nothing fancy like jasmine. I also have a couple of dogs and a cat, if that’s a problem.”

“No, that’s okay,” Said the woman. “The senator likes cats.”

This was a lot more scat then I had been expecting, so I excused myself and pounded down another shot of Ouzo. When I returned to the door, the senator was just arriving, with two more aides in tow.

“Well hello there, sir, I’m your senator in congress!” He bellowed, “And I’d like your vote for president!” His tie was a bright red, with darker red splotches that made it look like he had recently had trouble eating spaghetti.

“I don’t know who I’m voting for senator. I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“Do you have any questions for me about any issues?”

“Actually, yes I do have a question for you. I’m pretty concerned about the proper distribution of capital to citizens, and how it will be handled by the anticipated socialist dictatorship. How would go about that if you were president?”

I knew I was going to get an earful when I saw his chest expanding like some kind of tropical reptile. “I understand how important that issue is to you. The management of money is an important issue for all Americans. When I was in Iran I learned the true value of understanding issues as I plotted my escape from that rouge regime. As a result, I can assure you that if I am elected to the executive office I will give proper …” he probably would have gone on for a while longer, but the cat picked this moment to see what was going on by the front door. “Is that your cat?”

“Not really. He just showed up one day and has stuck around since.”

“I like cats!” I noticed that the senator’s nose had some veins that looked like some kind of bike trail map.

“Would you like this one?”

Unfortunately, he ignored my offer, as most people do. “When I was being held hostage in Iran, a kitten befriended me. His tenaciousness inspired me to escape. What other issues do you have?”

“Well I do have a pressing domestic issue. It involves waste management.”

“Well, I’m sure I could help you with that. What is it?”

“Well, sir, I need to clean my cat’s litterbox.”

I thought he was going to laugh. But instead he said, “I understand how issues like yours would be important to all Americans. My escape from the terrorists in Iran was aided by the fact that I told them I was simply changing my kitty’s litterbox.”

“Changing his litterbox would make a great photo opportunity,” Said the woman with the leaflets. “It would be good for three or four poll points.”

And so, after calling over a couple of journalists who were patiently waiting outside, the senator changed my litterbox. He actually did a nice job, too--he washed the crusted litter off the bottom, and put in a new liner.

I just hope he wasn’t pregnant.

Coyotes fouled my goalie

So down the street and around the corner from where I live, there is a park. It’s not a wimpy little green space, but rather acres and acres of pure sub-urban paradise, replete with soccer fields, tennis courts and a water park that attracts the Barney Army like it was some kind of aquatic crack house. On the far edge, a large hill provided sledding in the winter, and the whole thing has walking paths throughout like varicose veins of some recreational beast.

I was walking there one day when I noticed a construction crew busy digging a hole. Not being aware of any new projects, I stopped to inquire. Being highly efficient government employees, they immediately stopped what they were doing to talk to me.

“Hi guys,” I said, “What are you building?”

“It’s a warning horn. You know, kind of like the ones they use for warning people about lightning strikes.”

“I thought we had one of those already.”

“This one is different,” Said the worker who wore a red ballcap with the municipal logo, so I assumed he was in charge. " It warns when there are coyotes in the area."

“Coyotes? That’s a problem? I didn’t know we had coyotes around here.” Actually, I did, because I’d seen them before. I actually like coyotes—they’re just dogs that don’t bother anyone by begging for food at the table or using body spray.

“Yeah, they’re a big problem. They come from over there.” The guy in the hardhat waved his arm over towards the sledding hill. “Parents are worried that they’re gonna snatch their kids during a soccer game.” Each Saturday morning, the park filled with legions of offspring playing soccer while parents without a clue cheer them on. I paused for a moment and imagined how much fun a pack of coyotes raiding the fields would be. Too bad coyotes don’t hunt in packs.

“Oh. So will it work on other animals? Like dogs?”

“No,” the one wearing the ballcap said. “It only works on wild dogs. Something to do with the way their brains generate electricity or something. I’m not sure on how it works. It was invented in Australia, where they use it to detect dingoes.”

“What about cats?”

“No, it doesn’t work on them for some reason.”

“So it won’t work on bobcats?”

“I guess not. Why, do we have bobcats round here?”

“Sure. I just saw one the other day. They’re called Felinis Concoctipus. They’re pretty vicious, but they only hunt small animals, like rabbits and aldermen. They’ve always lived around here, unlike the coyotes, which are alien to the area.”

“You mean the coyotes are like illegal aliens?” The one wearing the hardhat asked. “Maybe they just need a guest worker program.” He thought that was pretty funny.

“Oh, we’ll tell them that back in the Wildlife Control Office,” the one wearing the ballcap said. Yes, my municipality is deluded enough to think that wildlife can be controlled by a municipal office. I figured I had wasted enough taxpayer money, so I let them go back to work.

So a few weeks later, a particularly nice fall day came. It was on a Saturday, and the weather was perfect. Not too hot, the trees still had their brightly colored leaves, and the sky was devoid of clouds. I grabbed a leash for the BFD and we went to the park.

All four soccer fields were packed with kids. The field closest to me had no concept of offsides, so there were gangs of similarly clad kids attacking the ball. Over on the far field, I could see that someone had been inserting hockey rules by allowing full body checks. The smell of grape sports drink skipped across the breeze.

I took in this scene as I slowly made my way across the park. I admired the peaceful parkscape as I walked closer and closer to the coyote warning tower. As I got close, the peace was shattered by a loud horn, and a disembodied electronic voice shouted “Warning! Warning! Warning! Coyotes are in the area!”

Immediately, all of the soccer referees blew their whistles. The kids closest to me ignored them, and continued to chase after the ball as if it were the coyote culprit. Over in the far field, action mostly stopped, except for one kid who continued to tackle random players. On the sidelines, parents stood up and started hastily stuffing juiceboxes and tubes of steroids disguised to look like Jell-O into diaper bags and duffels.

As the warning continued to blare, the mass of kids and parents began to obscure whatever remained of the games. A mad rush of parents toward the cars left a trail of folding seats, coffee cups and the occasional beer bong across the grass. From the parking lot, a quick-witted person who was obviously someone’s grandpa retrieved what appeared to be a shotgun. Sound spanked the fleeing crowd as he fired a shot in the air.

I guess the vet wasn’t lying when she told us that the BFD had some dingo bred into him. And I guess dingo is simply Australian for coyote.

On Monday, the local newspaper carried a story explaining that due to the disruption of Saturday''s soccer games, the Wildlife Control Office would provide armed guards for the rest of the season.

The Sign

 

There’s a speed limit sign that my local municipality has placed in my front yard. It was vandalized a few weeks ago—someone covered it with red paint. The other day, the municipality sent out two workers to replace the sign. I was digging holes for daffodils, while they were working, and overheard the following conversation:

“Hey, lately my thoughts have been about horses.”

“Horses? In what way?”

“I don’t know. Kind of an earthly sense, like out in the woods or something.”

“Oh, something like in a biblical way?” He paused for a moment. “Not that there would be anything wrong with that.”

“No, not like that. More of the urgent combination of man and beast. Like we were one against nature.”

“You mean kind of like a mountain man?”

“Yeah, that’s closer. Mountain men are cool. They lived for months in the mountains harvesting beaver.”

“Well, I’m not so sure it was that good. Remember there was that economic crash of fashion in the mid-1800’s.”

“Oh, yeah. Back in the day when belts were uncouth, and all men wore hats and suspenders. Those hats went out of fashion around that time.”

“We have it so easy now. We can wear what we want to. Like jeans or argyle socks.”

“That’s not always such a good thing. Your toolbelt totally makes your butt look big.” He paused. “Like a horse.”

“You’re back to the horses, again. So if it isn’t like a mountain man, then what is it?”

“More primal then that. Kind of like when people were only animals themselves, living in the proverbial garden of Eden before the knowledge of sophistication sullied our innocent psyche.”

“You really think it was a knowledge of sophistication that banished us from the Garden? I always thought it was our intellectual ascension that caused us to wander from that idyllic life in paradise.”

“Well, our initial phase of existence in the garden was based upon our basic needs. You know, kind of like what Freud was talking about when he referred to the pleasure principle.”

“I thought that was Janet Jackson.”

“No, it was Freud. He said that the moment that we recognized that our lives were not merely bound by the pleasure principle we left the garden. That’s when we became slaves to the pain principle by entasking ourselves to making our lives better and wearing neckties.”

“Freud didn’t say that.”

“No, but he would if he was here today. It’s obvious.”

“Well, I know what’s obvious—it’s what you need. You need a yurt.”

“A yurt? What’s a yurt?”

“It’s a felt tent used by nomads on the steppes of Asia.”

“And how would that help me?”

“Those nomads live with their horses. If you had a yurt, you could set it up in your back yard and imagine that you were a nomad living at the edge of civilization. You’d sit back on the floor, which would be piled with rugs and pillows sipping fermented mare’s milk while you sharpen your steel for tomorrow’s battle. Your woman would be over in the corner pre chewing flank steaks that would be your dinner, and your children would all be outside playing with your herd and drawing their art in the dust. It would be glorious.”

“Hmm, that might work. But I’d still need a horse. But now I think it’s got to be a mare.”

“You have to be careful. Horses can get sick. Also, it might bother your wife.”

“No, that wouldn’t bother her. It would actually help me solve a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know what to get my wife for Christmas. I’d get her a horse, but she’s already got that Segway.”

“So what would you get her for Christmas?”

“Well, you know that they make ropes from horses. I’d get her one of those.”

“That’s cruel! How can you make a rope from a horse? You’d kill a horse just to make a rope?”

“No, you make the rope from their hair.”

“Oh. You know, felt is made from hair. Maybe you should buy her a yurt.”

Shakedown Sidewalk

My street has all the trappings of a typical sub-urban streetscape, save one: we have no sidewalks. Rumor had it that the sidewalks weren’t built because of a deal between the original developer and the then mayor, which redirected construction funds into a college fund for the mayor’s daughter. 

After quite a few years, people who lived on my block began to question their absence, and wonder how difficult it would be to actually have them built. The year after we moved in, an ad hoc committee was born during the annual block party that was dedicated to tracking down the ex mayor’s daughter, and making her refund the sidewalk fund. The committee met with only minor success, as they were able to locate the mayor’s daughter. Unfortunately, she had dropped out of college and became one of the 127 people still supported by the Grateful Dead. The ad hoc committee went on to form a lawnmower drill team, but was unable to actually compete due to the rampant use of steroids. 

So the idea languished in the gutters aligning the primly mowed front lawns, and schoolchildren continued to walk down the street providing truly annoying obstacles for those of us that liked to drive fast. One night, a knock came at my door. When I answered, there was a middle-aged man wearing khaki pants and a blue denim shirt. He had brown hair that was beginning to go gray, and he was armed with a white clipboard.

“Hello, are you the owner here?”

“Kind of.” Actually, that’s not true. Due to some political experimentation in College, I found that it was very difficult for me to get a mortgage. Hence, the house is in the Bride’s name. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Ted. I live down the street. I’m passing around a petition to have the city install sidewalks.”

“Oh, that sounds cool.” I reached for the clipboard. “How are you going to do that?”

“We’re going to have Violet do it.” Violet, you see, was the name of the ex-mayor’s daughter.

“I thought she was out west, and wasn’t able to return any money.”

“This is a petition to have her come back here to put them in herself.” I looked closer at the petition. Sure enough, it was addressed to the current mayor and City Council, and asked that Violet be “compelled” to return and construct the sidewalks.

“This isn’t going to work. She can’t build sidewalks.” I handed the clipboard back.

“Sure it will. Once she gets here, she can start digging. Apparently she majored in construction, so she should know how to do it.”

“But she doesn’t have any of the materials or equipment.”

“That’s okay.” He eyes began to glisten, and he straightened his posture. “I’m sure the city can provide that.” He handed the clipboard back to me.

I had misgivings, but decided to sign anyway. Sure enough, a few weeks later, the petition is presented to the town council, who dutitifully and expeditiously passed it without reading it too closely. The following week, two police officers flew out to San Francisco to retrieve Violet. Upon their return, they put Violet up in a nearby hotel because, after all, she wasn’t a prisoner they could jail. Violet was then brought up before the next City Council meeting to address the sidewalk issue.

I went to the council meeting simply because of the councilcreatures. Our town produces some of the most interesting breed of councilcreature—they tend to be a bit older, have white hair and warts, and always wear some kind of green polyester with American flags in their lapels. The men tended to slick back their steel gray hair, where the women appeared to all sport massive amounts of white hair perched upon their slightly shrunken heads. They start each meeting by reading the Pledge of Allegiance and the Apostle’s Creed. Then they went to work on Violet.

“Violet, we understand that the money you used for college was supposed to go to sidewalk construction?”

“My name isn’t Violet anymore. I’m called Moonbeam.”

“But the money for the sidewalks?” an angry councilman persisted.

“I didn’t know that it was for sidewalks. I thought it was for me to expand my mind. That’s what you’re supposed to do in college, you know.” Moonbeam lit some incense.

“But surely, Miss Violet Moonbeam, you did something with that money. What did you study in college?” This particular female councilcreature was wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like a birdhouse.

Did you just light up some marijuana?” Another councilcreature asked.

“I started out studying civil engineering, but then transferred my major to psychology. I didn’t like that, so I changed it again to English.” The chamba scented smoke wafted around her.

“Oh, so you had some civil engineering. That’s good news.” The mayor chimed. “You can build the sidewalks yourself.”

“But I was there for only nine weeks.” Moonbeam responded.

“Well, Miss Violent Moonbeam, you’re still responsible for the sidewalks.”

“I’m sorry, your honor, but what name did you just call me?”

“Violent Moonbeam. That is your name, isn’t it?”

“No, my name is Moonbeam. I was violet, back before I achieved cognizance. But when I came aware, the deep purple of my life grew to glow in such an intense fashion, that it was best described as a moonbeam.” She took a deep breath. “I can see that this town doesn’t have any heart, and that the sunny side of the street is dark. It is void. It is empty. It has the tang of anarchy, the anarchy you all fear. It is violent. And for me to persevere, I will become Violent Moonbeam.”

The awkward silence that resulted from Violent Moonbeam’s soliloquy was ended by the mayor instinctively requesting an executive session, which caused the council to slowly fade away as if the keg had gone dry at some frathouse party.

Because the city council hadn’t taken any action regarding Violet Moonbeam, her stay at the hotel continued. This would have been a problem for the town’s budget, except after three days, Violet Moonbeam moved out to a felt tent set up in Memorial Park, next to city hall. She legally changed her name to Violent Moonbeam, and started strumming on a guitar she bought in a garage sale while singing something that might sound like a protest song if you get too close.

But she never started construction on our sidewalks. I asked her once when she was planning on starting, and she said, “Maybe the dark is from your eyes.”

Axes of Evil

A spectre is haunting our community--it haunts the bedrooms and the soccer fields and creeps into our schools and fast food parking lots. It is the unquenchable desire of a teenager to obtain sophistication at any cost. Today's menace is body spray.

I first was introduced to this olfactory menace when I discovered that the (teenaged) kid’s high school had a policy about distributing marketing materials on campus. Rather then allowing for useful items like condoms or switchblades, the school only permitted various insipid marketing programs. Usually, it was organizations like the U.S. Navy who passed out useless items like chewing tobacco and dried squid and various colleges with pamphlets that make college seem like hanging out at modeling school, but when the (teenaged) kid returned from school the day they passed out free samples of body spray, I could tell something was in the air.

I thought it was the dogs. I figured they had found something that actually smelled nice somewhere in the back yard. But unlike most dog smells, except for flatulence, this came and went. Finally, one morning before school, I realized the smell was coming from the (teenaged) kid. “What’s that smell?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s just my body spray.” After he went to school one morning, I searched his room and found seven missing dishes, my cordless drill, a copy of People magazine and six bottles of body spray with three different brands and five different scents.

I next noticed that the body spray phenomenon had spread to the (teenaged) kid’s karate activities. One Sunday morning, I noticed he was giving off sweetly pungent clouds as we drove to a tournament. I didn’t say anything other then to remark that the tournament must have a new event associated with olfactory assaults and defenses. As expected, the (teenaged) kid was not amused at my observation.

But I finally realized how widespread this was on a Saturday when I gave the (teenaged) kid and a few of his friends to a Dungeons & Dragons tournament. Now, as far as I can tell, kids who play D&D generally tend to be social outcasts, so when I noticed that the car gained a new aspect of polished body spray odor with each teenager I picked up, I realized that this malady had advanced to the dorks and geeks.

Next came a letter to the editor in the newspaper written by a concerned grandparent. It started by explaining that body spray was an imposition of sophistication upon our impressionable teenagers, and the marketing programs used to turn them on to the wonders of body spray were laying groundwork for a loss of morals through the marketing of vices. It also indicated that body spray was responsible for a recent increase in teenage pregnancy, and that it was possible that teenagers were using body spray to fool drug-sniffing dogs.

A week or so later, a photocopy of the letter printed on garishly yellow-green paper appeared in my mailbox. Shortly after that, the (teenaged) kid brought home a note announcing a special assembly next week with a presentation by the municipal police department.

I arrived at the school a bit early to get acclimated. The assembly was in a gymnasium decorated for an upcoming badminton game (At least that’s what I think they meant with signs that said ‘Hide the Birdie’). I got a seat up front as the gymnasium began to fill up with a bunch of noisy but nice smelling kids.

The vice principal started by having the assembly recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and then discussed later class periods and the resanitization of the locker rooms due to the appearance of ringworm. At least that’s what I think he said because he had this annoying habit of saying everything in a bizarrely complicated way.

He continued: “The administration is not unaware that most of the student body says no to illegal drugs. However, there have been numerous media messages saying that not just a few students who body spray are utilizing it in such a way as to make themselves immune to detection by a drug sniffing dog. We have taken the not simple steps today to demonstrate to the student body in no uncertain terms that body spray does not serve to distract canine officers.” I'll spare you the rest.

At this point, a municipal cop emerged from the stage wing, accompanied by a small white dog that looked suspiciously like a shaved Maltese. The officer and dog sniffed around the vice principal without incident. They then walked over to the opposite side of the stage, where the dog sat down and said, "Damn, there's a lot of body spray around here. And someone has chicken." I then contemplated how much more interesting this assembly would have been if they had brought a drug-sniffing iguana.

The vice principal then was handed a can of body spray and a sandwich baggie filled with what appeared to be fairly decent marijuana. He then proceeded to spray the baggie liberally with the can. Sporadic gasps could be heard from the audience, and someone behind me who I suspected was an anthropology teacher chortled. The vice principal folded the baggie and put it in his pants pocket. “Okay, officer, you can make another searching pass for contraband.”

The officer and dog completed another casual stroll around the vice principal with an air of indifferent detachment. The crowd began to laugh as the dog circled the principal two or three more times without incident. The roar of laughter and voices grew to drown out the vice principal. Above the din an electronic gong sounded, and the multitude of pleasantly scented students filed out to their next class.

The following week the school district sent out a letter saying students were forbidden from wearing body spray, or having it in their lockers or backpacks. And yet another bastion of sub-urban bourgeoisie wrecks havoc upon the youthful proletariat.

Home to Jesus

So I was lying in bed the other night, and I heard a dog bark.

But it wasn’t one of my pooches, nor was it one of the bloodthirsty mongrels next door. It sounded different. I laid there, having been woken by this strange dog’s bark. Unfortunately, the Bride was working the late shift, so she couldn’t get up and check it out. Damn that woman. That was one of the tertiary reasons why I got married again.

But the dog continued to bark. I finally got up and went downstairs to investigate. I opened my front door, and found a strange midsized cocker spaniel looking dog. Now, I don’t like dogs because they smell funny, make a lot of noise and stick their wet noses into your armpit when you’re trying to get dressed, but I particularly hate cocker spaniels because they are, categorically, the stupidest dogs around. They utilize indoor urination as a method of communicating excitement. They forget to eat. And they always give the same answer when watching Jeopardy.

He looked up to me, and said, “Can the BFD come out to play?” I forgot to mention I can hear dogs talk. I know I don’t like dogs, but when I was a kid, I read some book called “The Word of Dog.” It was full of a bunch of dog related stories about such things like a flooded water dish and proper behavior for the freshly neutered. Shortly after losing the book I discovered I could understand Dog. 

“Um, no. What are you doing out here?”

“Just looking for a friend to play with. Hey, what about that fluffy dog? Can he come out? I want to smell what he’s been eating.” He sat down expectantly.

I noticed he was wearing a collar with tags. “No, he’s busy training for the Iditarod.”

“Iditarod? What’s that?” See, I told you cocker spaniels are stupid.

“It’s a race across Alaska where they use dog sleds.”

“Oooh, that sounds like fun. Can I come along? I love car rides.” Now, this might sound perfectly okay, but I have long discovered that dogs lie. There was no way I was going to allow this four footed bladder control problem in my car, much less in a hide covered sled across the Alaskan tundra.

“No, you don’t understand. You don’t ride in the sled—you pull it.”

His disappointment caused his whiskers to droop. “Hm. Guess I would need a little more work on my abs with the Nautilus machine at the club. Well, that’s okay. Can I come in?”

“No.”

“We could discuss Alaska’s position as a last frontier over a cup of chicken broth. I think it’s overrated.”

“Of course you do. Look where you live now. Suburban living does not bring out one’s sense of adventure. You have to seek it out like it was a squirrel.”

“Oh, squirrel? Where? I’ve always wanted to catch one of those.” Cocker spaniels are also easily distracted. I know that my inlaws manage with one only with the help of Ritalin and a large piece of rubber that looks like beefsteak.

It was getting cold, and I had reached my limit. I opened the door and examined the tags. The first was a tag issued by the county certifying that this nocturnal pooch was free from rabies and STDs. Nice to know he practices safe sex, although anyone without testicles generally doesn’t practice any sex. I wasn’t going to tell him that, though, because, after all, he’s a cocker spaniel, and he’s still trying to figure out why his sperm count is so low. The other tag one was a red heart that said "Jesus Loves Me."

“That’s enough of this,” I said, “go home to Jesus.”

The yellow cocker spaniel like dog trotted away. I recalled a line from the Word of Dog—Dalmatians 11:9 "The rejected pooch left without any chicken."

A conversation in which I remember that I've already been through this

So the Bride was lying on the bed compiling the various parts to the latest addition to the family while paging through a catalog on her laptop.

"I’m working on the registry and I want you to take a look.” She handed me a list. One thing that’s pretty convenient about the Bride is her tendency to do research. When, a couple of years ago, the (Pre) Bride and I went to Paris in sin, she spent several weeks beforehand meticulously going over various travel guides and forms of French birth control. It proved to be unbelievably useful, as apparently even something as simple as getting a seat in restaurant or horking on the Metro requires mastering a new social protocol.

I glanced at the screen. “Uh, huh, that looks nice.” It’s kind of pointless for me to say anything because, quite frankly, I am not in control here. Also because when we were in the hardware store last week, I picked up a chainsaw and said “Can we buy this for the Baby’s first chainsaw?”

“No, really look at it. I need your input.” I looked at her face, which was about to break out in pout. Pouting and gestating are best done separately. “I can’t decide which car seat to get—the XJ-49 or the Tot-a-round.”

“Which one fits on my bike rack?”

“Stop it. Just look it over, please.”

I scrolled down and immediately realized that the Bride’s research clearly was focused on how much folic acid to take to make the baby psychic rather than such mundane issues such as baby paraphernalia. “You’ve reserved 24 burp cloths?”

“Yeah, they come in fourpacks. Do we really need them?” 

“Well, yeah. To catch the Baby’s burp. But we'll never have one when we need it."

“They burp? Why’s that a problem?”

“Because they don’t know how to burp and so when they do stuff comes out.” I kept scrolling down. “Hey, you have us down for only four fitted crib sheets.”

“Well, they come in two packs. They’re quite expensive. Isn’t that enough?”

“No way. That’s barely a night’s supply. We’ll need about 30. And why do you have us down for 36 receiving blankets?”

“They come in twelvepacks. I only got three. What is a receiving blanket for, anyway?”

“They’re to give to people before you give them the Baby. I know you might want to give the Baby away sometime, but it’s a bit more complicated than just doling out a receiving blanket first. People often know what they are and avoid you. But 36? Damn, that’s a regular baby swap-o-rama.”

“But why doesn’t the baby get the blanket?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this: You know why babies wear diapers—but they also produce lots of disgusting things out of other orifices.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s going to be a time between 3 weeks and 3 years in which the Baby will have a runny nose. Not jut a little drip, but actual rivers of snot flowing from those little nostrils. It’ll be a tsunami of snot. Heck, once my cousin’s baby was so bad, it had snot coming out of its ears. Then there’s the aforementioned burp and diaper failure, plus a lot of gratuitous drool.”

“Gratuitous drool?”

“Yeah. The damn things drool more then dogs.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid so. It’s a simple matter of fact that babies leak.”

Death Warrant for a Tree

So when we moved into the house there was this tree in the backyard. It was a huge tree, a beautiful example of an Elm. It’s massive trunk took up a large portion of my backyard, reducing the need for mowing and providing shade for both my and my Gospel Sucking neighbors.

As trees are wont to do, it dropped it’s share of leaves, seeds, twigs, branches and squirrels. Because it was so huge, it dropped all of this crap all over both yards. I occasionally raked the leaves and allowed the dogs to chew on the squirrel carcasses, but otherwise generally didn’t pay too much attention. Until one day when I noticed that there seemed to be a pattern of sticks upon my lawn.

Okay, not like some kind of crop circle or anything. It was more like the fact that the Elm was dropping sticks in a particular way: There seemed to be more sticks right next to the fence--a lot more. Of course, on the other side of the fence was the Gospel Suckers’ picture perfect lawn. I then realized that when sticks were falling on their lawn, they were chucking them over the fence. Hopefully, they at least hit a dog.

Now, this wouldn’t be without precedent. When we moved in there were two landscape waste bags that I assumed had been left by the previous occupants. The gospel Suckers quickly introduced themselves, and explained that the bags were grass clippings from when they mowed my lawn before I moved in the house. Two full landscape bags was a lot of grass clippings, so I looked deeper in the bag, and found that it was filled mostly with brush from their meticulously maintained shrubbery along with a bunch of pulled weeds and three beer cans.

So I leaned over the fence to talk to her while she was busy hunting down Satan’s flowers, otherwise known as dandelions.

“Hi Annie.”

“Well, Hi Chris.” She immediately came over. She knows I’m a heathen and though I think she is as personally repulsed by me as I am by her, she pretends.

“Nice day for gardening.” I decided to start light.

“Yes, it is. Just wanted to get out here before the weekend. Jenna and her husband are coming over.” She was wearing white canvas gloves with little harps on them. "Are you starting a garden over there?"

"Yeah. I've churned up a patch over there, and now I'm going allow for some contemporary native flora to randomly appear."

"What kind of flowers are you planting?"

"Contemporary native flora. You know stuff like violets."

"Oh, I'm sure that'll be real pretty. But gardens are a lot of work."

"Oh, it's okay. It's self maintaining." I decided to test the waters. “That tree seems to be dropping a lot of sticks.”

“Yes, I’m always picking up after it.” Her gaze wafted over the mounds of sticks and dog fecal matter that dotted my lawn. "It sheds a lot."

“It's kind of funny how they all seem to fall along the fence.” Her eyes followed my gaze. The sticks were quite frequent along the fence, and thinned out considerably before reaching the trunk.

“You don’t think I’ve been throwing them over the fence do you?” Well, actually, yeah I did. But I was a little too polite to call her a liar to her face. After all, I had never seen her throw any sticks across the fence. And it was quite possible that one of the hoard of homeschooled grandkids she calls Prayer Warriors has been doing it. But I never see any landscape waste bags in front of their pristine house.

“Well, no. But it is kind of odd how they’re all along the fence.” I wondered how she was going to get out of this one.

“Hey, I haven’t seen your cat lately.” Ooh, a change of subject, and a sore one to boot. Our yard seems to be a breeding ground for snakes; the Gospel Sucking wife hates them. It was a perfect situation. Unfortunately, when the cat showed up, it liked eating snakes, which was somewhat annoying but quite amusing to watch after giving him catnip. My only consolation was the fact that she was also violently allergic to cats.

The following year the Municipality’s Department of Forestry was created specifically to condemn the tree because of disease. Fortunately, they didn’t care about sod, and so when they cut the mighty elm down, the hydraulic truck ripped up the Gospel Suckers' yard pretty bad. But it was only small consolation for signing a death warrant for a tree.

Tastes Like Chicken

So the BFD bit some kid yesterday. I suppose it’s kind of tragic, and I should be concerned that the BFD is some kind of carnivorous monster that chews up little children like the walking rawhide they are, but no, I'm not. It simply reminded me that I was overdue for bringing the hairy beast in for his rabies shot.

It happened at the block party. Since it was sponsored by the Gospel Suckers, I wasn't really interested in attending. I had recycled all of the flyers about it without reading them, so I was surprised when I came home in the afternoon and found that the street was blocked off. This was pretty annoying, and it took several minutes of honking and engine revving before I made it to the driveway. I'm sure the fact that my car needs bodywork helped.

I then prepared to ignore the event with a purpose. After all, this was a good time as any to clean out the garage. So I went out back and waded into the mess where our cars were supposed to be. Of course, the garage was filled with antique melon ballers and other kinds of crap that tends to be collected by sub-urban families that we had planned to sell during our garage sale. Of course, once we emptied the garage, we’d fill it up with stuff bought at someone else's garage sale. But only if I thought I could eBay it.

So I grabbed a beer and started sorting out the fiction paperbacks that the Bride bought when she thought she wanted to be a librarian when I heard someone say "Excuse me."

I looked up. There was a slightly older gentleman standing in my driveway. He was wearing some kind of pastel colored polo shirt and khaki shorts, along with some sandals that looked vaguely Roman.

"Yes?" I said, as uninterested as possible. In my mind--already feeding on the frenzy of thought that comes from wading in a garage full of useless crap purchased from other messy people--this guy couldn't compete. Probably wanted to buy a bike or something.

"Your dog bit my son."

"He did? When? Just now? I thought he was inside." Well, it turned out that he wasn't inside. I had left the front door open with the screen door to take advantage of the breeze. when I left them, the BFD and the Fluffbucket had been patiently admiring the legions of walking rawhide chews cavorting in the street.

"I guess the door opened, and he got out. I think …" I'm not sure what else he said because I noticed that he was holding a red plastic cup in his hand. " …and bit him just below the armpit."

"Is that beer in your cup? Do they have beer over there?"

"No, it's lemonade. No one seems to be drinking. It looks like your dog didn't break any skin, so I …"

“Would like me to pour some of my beer into there? It would make it a shandy, and they would never know.” 

“No, that’s alright. I like it the way it is. When your dog got out, he charged my son and bit him just below the armpit.” I noticed that his shorts had pleats.

“Hmm. Don’t know how he could have gotten out.” I picked up a Piers Anthony book. “Do you like science fiction? I know this is third in a series of five, but it’s okay, you can still read it anyway.”

"No, that’s okay, I don't like to read. I was wondering if your dog had his shots?”

“Yes, of course he does,” I lied. "We just took to the groomer last week to get his belly shaved for his tattoo." I discarded the Anthony and picked up a book by Franz Kafka. “Maybe you’d like Kafka? I never really got into 'The Metamorphosis' because of the complex issues between Gregor Samsa and his mother. I liked ‘The Trial’ because K’s issues all arise from his behavior after his accusation.”

The man looked over at the hairy beast we call the BFD. "He doesn't look like he's been shaved. What kind of a tattoo did he get?"

"A cockroach. And his hair grows back fast. So there's no beer over there? Not even a wine cooler? That's warped. Sure you don't want a beer?"

"No, I need to get back. Anyway, I just wanted to make you aware that your dog bit my son. I don’t know why he did, but he did."

He wasn't really indignant or angry or anything, but I had to say it anyway. "He must have tasted like chicken."