Unneighborly neighbors

Most of my neighbors are lovely people, friendly and considerate. But, just like every body has an asshole, every group has one, also.  

One of my neighbors is this group’s asshole.  He (and his wife) are very inconsiderate and seem to take pleasure in the pain of others. I was told that they used to have a habit of taking anything and every little thing to small claims court – until a dying child, playing in a neighboring yard, broke a small branch off of one of their trees to make a toy. After they sued the child’s mother for the cost of replacing the tree (with labor – a sum of about $1000!), the judge not only gave them nothing, he threatened to fine them for filing frivolous and malicious filings, if they ever made a similar claim!I don't know if it's true but it sounds like them.

The property of these obnoxious people borders mine. Every time it snows, they use their snowblower to clear snow into my yard. Their snowblower is powerful and they use it to fling snow high enough to clear their boundary fence, so it plummets with a lot of force when it finally reaches the ground.  I have a long downspout on the gutter that's closest to their property, which runs through hedge in front of my house to drain onto my lawn. The outflow is glued onto the downspout, which is, in turn, glued onto the gutter. In addiiton, the downspout is supported by a cinderblock, strategically hidden in my hedge. Several times, the heavy load from their snowblower has knocked the downspout off of my rain gutter, which allows water to collect along the edge of my foundation, occasionally flooding my basement. It really annoys me. I’ve asked their son to not do this (and he stopped) but the old man continues to do as he pleases.  The couple used to spend most winters in Florida and when they did, their son would clear their snow. For the last few years, they’ve stayed all winter in Massachusetts; I wish they’d go back to Florida and never return!

                I’ve got to confront the old man and tell him to stop flooding my basement. He’s not nice, though, and I dread confrontations with any unpleasant people, but these ones are particularly unpleasant.  Is it my discomfort in confronting him worth not having my basement flooded? Hmmm.I need to think about this a bit more, probably until the NEXT heavy snowstorm!

Before Jack was born, one of the neighbors was my obscene phone caller. He only called when I was alone, so I knew that he could see who was home by which cars were in the driveway. And he called frequently. I would hang up but he would keep calling. Usually, I would have to unplug the phone when I was alone but then I couldn’t get calls from anyone else! It really annoyed and frightened me. I had someone watching me – what if he decided to do more than just watch and call? He even called all night as I wallpapered the living room and hallway.

                I tried all kinds of things to try to get him to stop calling.  From the sheer number of time that he psycho-called, my merely hanging up seemed to turn him on, so I got a loud whistle and blew it into the phone. Sometimes he would hand up, but more often, he would just continue with his stroke fantasy. I would set the phone down on the floor, off of the hook, cover it with a towel, and walk away. Eventually, he’d hang up and it would start the “off the hook” whistle. Nothing really worked to make him stop. Then, accidentally, I found the magic response.

                I was taking summer school class – calculus II. The course met for daily for six weeks and I had homework every day. It was hard work and I needed to do my homework as soon as I got home, while the material was still fresh in my mind. John had started his car business, though, and people would call the house, asking about cars that he’d advertised.  On this day, after class, I drove home and, as I started to get out of the car, I heard the phone ringing in the house. It pulled me from my musings about how to solve that day’s integral problems. I yanked my keys out of the ignition, ran up the steps, and quickly unlocked the door. I lunged across the kitchen to catch the call before my caller gave up. It was him, breathing and murmuring the usual nasty things. I was irritated. I had too much to do to put up with this fool. I took a deep breath, moved the phone receiver from my face, looked at it quizzically, and said, out loud but to myself, “Oh, GREAT. It’s my pervert.”

                I looked around for my whistle to try to blast his eardrums but suddenly, I heard the dial tone! My obscene caller thought that I was talking to someone in the room and he hung up on me, mid-perv!

                He never called again. Apparently, he only got his thrills in calling if I was alone and frightened. Seemingly accompanied and bitterly sarcastic, I was no longer attractive to this pervert. I often wondered which house he lived in. Another neighbor told me about the fellow on the corner, who routinely stood in full view in the front window, naked and with an erection, as she drove past every morning. He moved out shortly after my last call. It might have been him, but another neighbor had been caught peeping through windows, so you just never know! 

I suspect that unneighborly neighbors are the bane of most American nieghborhoods. These unpleasant people and their victims certainly fill the schedules of a multitude of “small-claims court” television programs on daytime TV.

Thinking about Chris, just now

     I miss Chris. 

                That was originally his name, before Chris Robison the man-boy became the famous writer, Augusten Burroughs. I’ve known him since he was 12. I remember him as a cute but obnoxious pre-teen. I desperately wanted to rescue him when he was mixed up with his psychiatrist’s cult, but there was nothing  I could do, then. I rejoiced when he finally made it out and started his adult life. We talked for hours on end over the telephone when he worked in advertising in Chicago and later, in San Francisco. He would call me, drunk, and we would talk about anything and everything. He read me most of his first book, "Sellivision" over the telephone.  It was a good book – not deep, but funny. Chris was always funny. 

                When I passed my master’s thesis defense, as a surprise, he overnight-mailed me two open round-trip plane tickets to Mexico, for me to take Jack, because I wanted to go. He just did things like that. 

                He built a house on the same street as his brother. In his writing, he could be cruel. I was glad that I never appeared in any of his books, but I was also glad that they were so popular.

                Then, Jack got into trouble with his chemistry. Chris got mentioned in a news report as Jack’s uncle. Chris stopped talking to both of us. Then, Chris broke up with his long-time partner, who I really liked. I always liked Chris, too, but he never responded to any of my communications, not one in the last five years. 

                Periodically, I hear or read something, or just think about something that I think he would find amusing and I stop. I’d like to talk to him to share it but I can’t. It’s like one of us died. 

I miss Chris.

Foot and boot-cast blues

It peeled off today. At first, I thought it was an old bandaid, soaked from my shower. Then, I thought it might be a piece of plastic that somehow had become stuck to my foot. It was neither; it was a thick chunk of flesh, the complete callus that had formed at the base of my little toe, on the side of my foot. Ick!

My orthopedic boot-cast is wearing out; I’ve had to replace the rubber on the bottom twice and the padding on the inside has shifted. My foot had worn a nest, somewhat diagonally, into the padding. A ridge of metal surrounds the foot, originally it was padded with thick foam but now, the bare metal was exposed on an edge near my little toe. My foot is encased in a fabric liner, within the metal and rubber boot, but my skin reacted to the metal chafing against it by creating a thick callus. The callus had recently become painful; it was pressing on a nerve. This was not acceptable. The purpose of the boot is to protect my foot, not injure it in novel ways.

I went to a discount store and picked up some molefoam and a package of callus-removing bandaids. I added the molefoam to the boot, where the original foam had disappeared, and applied one of the special bandaids after my shower. I changed the bandaid after every shower for days. The callus became oddly discolored last week – a dead white - so I removed the bandaid and didn’t replace it.  I also added a thick layer of padding from an old brace to the inside of the boot liner, where it wrapped around my toes, and ignored the callus as it had stopped hurting. Tonight, my foot itched, so I scratched and found myself peeling off the disgusting wad of skin. 

Now, the side of my foot is graced by a crater-like feature. The edges of the callus are still present and it looks odd. I’m going to give it some time for the center to heal; I suspect that the inner area is tender, much like what happens when the top of a blister peels off. In a few days, I’ll sand the rim down with the callus file I got at the discount store. 

I’m glad I can take my boot-cast off at home. I need it in place of a shoe everywhere else because I can’t keep my ankle from rolling sideways when I’ve got a shoe on, but bare- or sock-footed, I’m fine. Except for needing my arch-supporting orthotics. Too bad I can’t glue orthotics to the bottom of my feet. I know! I should invent orthotic socks! All cotton, of course!

Not a pretty blog entry.  Sometimes, life isn't pretty. Sometimes, it's even a little disgusting. So are blogs.

Ann Coulter

        Ann Coulter, a conservative commentator on several television networks, made a rude remark about President Obama during his third debate with Mitt Romney. She tweeted, "I highly approve of Romney's decision to be kind and gentle to the retard."

         An athlete in this year's Special Olympics, a man with Down's Syndrome, John Franklin Stevens, wrote an incredibly moving and articulate blog post, asking Coulter to reconsider the use of the word, "retard,"and to moderate her speech  - inviting her to attend the Special Olympics and to learn more about the disabled. Coulter then doubled down with her invective on Alan Colmes' Fox News Radio show on Thursday, lashing out at Mr. Stevens and others who were offended by her tweet.  Coulter dismissed her critics as the "word police."

        “Oh, screw them,” she said. “That’s what they feel I do? I feel they’re being authoritarian bullying victims.”

         I had a hard time understanding her. She takes such glee in causing emotional injury; she's like a teenaged "mean girl" - except she's fifty years old! At first, I thought that she had no empathy, an accusation that is commonly leveled at people on the autism spectrum. Her behavior is very different, however, so used Wikipedia to look up sociopathy.

        Wikipedia cites the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems, 10th edition, from the World Health Organization, defines a related disorder, "dissocial personality disorder." It is "characterized by at least three of the following symptoms:
             1. Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
             2. Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for  social norms, rules, and obligations.
             3. Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.
             4. Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of agression, including violence.
             5. Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.
             6. Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.

There may be persistent irritability as an associated feature."

          There you have it. Ann Coulter certainly has a callous disregard for the feelings of others, indeed, she has repeatedly taken pleasure in crushing the feelings of her political enemies and anyone who defends them or their ideas. In so doing, she has exhibited a persistent and gross disregard for appropriate behavior in a civilized society. She has never married and has no children although she has, by all accounts, been involved in a number of short-term relationships. She is incapable of feeling guilt about her words and actions and she routinely blames others in order to rationalize her behavior, showing a low tolerance for frustration, lashing out as she did in this case when she is corrected, however gently. I've never seen her offer physical violence but she is an emotional atomic bomb. And she certainly seems irritable, every time I've seen her on television (admittedly, not often, as I tend to change the channel to avoid hate-mongers).

        I'm NOT a psychiatrist. However, I don't need to be a biologist to recognize a female dog when I see one. It is my opinion, as a human being, that Ann Coulter is missing a large part (if not all) of her soul. I would pity her if she wasn't so poisonous and so influential. She may well be a sociopath. She certainly acts like one.

Then, my arms melted….

At a neighbor’s tag sale last week, I was reminded of an event from my work for Ace Frehley, which was reinforced by an internet meme today, so here’s my story.

Ace wanted to have the effects modified in the lit guitar. He only ever used a single pattern and sometimes, the controls got bumped while he was playing. He wanted them disabled. John and I drove down to Providence, Rhode Island, where KISS was playing that night. Once we got there, it was apparent that the smoker also needed some work. We hadn’t brought the special wire that it needed – the insulation on ordinary wires wasn’t sturdy enough for the temperatures inside the smoker so Teflon-coated wire was needed - but even it was damaged over time. The closest source for Teflon wire was back in Wilbraham, at Industrial Components Corporation, just down the road from us but a five hour round trip from Providence, and there wasn’t enough time to go back before the show! John called our neighbor’s son, Ronny, who was only too eager to pick up the wire and drive to Providence immediately if it meant that he could meet Ace and see the show from backstage.

Ronny arrived about two hours before show time – plenty of time for John to replace the wiring in the smoker. I couldn’t do anything with the lit guitar before the show as it had to be recharged and there wasn’t enough time to do it twice; Ace always wanted a full charge on the battery or the lights would die before the end of the song. I was hungry; I’d been hanging out at the venue since 10 AM and hadn’t eaten any breakfast before we left the house. It was dinner time and I wanted food! John had promised that we would get a good dinner (I wanted seafood) but there just wasn’t time to go and return before the show. I considered running out for a grinder but John pointed out the crew buffet in a nearby dressing room.

I found a paper plate and napkins, extracted a breast from one of the rotisserie chickens with my jackknife, selected a roll and buttered it to make a sandwich with the meat, and considered the available drinks. The pickings were thin; there were a few cans of Coke but I only drank Diet Coke. A full pitcher of orange juice was covered by plastic wrap and large plastic glasses were laid out nearby. I filled a glass, grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the bowl, and sat down to consume my dinner. 

Ace strolled in, asked me if the juice was freshly squeezed – it was. He poured himself a glass, too, grabbed some chicken, then left to get ready for the concert. I refilled my glass and dumped a handful of M&Ms into a napkin and returned to help John. He wasn’t hungry and asked where the juice came from. John had a piece of chicken breast, too, and informed me that he never consumed anything that wasn’t sealed – drinks in cans or processed snacks – at concerts. It was too late now, so I ignored his concern for the moment. I was wrong.

About 45 minutes later, I felt dizzy. Things didn’t look right. I’ve always seen lines coming from bright lights but the lines started to have more colored highlights. I also saw stop-motion effects, something I’ve never seen except when running a high fever. I knew that I’d been drugged. I went out to watch the concert. The bright lights were fun to watch but Ace, uncharacteristically, wasn’t playing well; he seemed to be tripping, too. I lay down across some chairs backstage for a while but eventually, the lit guitar had been used and Ace had switched to another guitar. I could go to work.

My arms were melting. I kept having to pick my hands up, off of the floor, and it was hard to hold tools and John told me to just pack everything up. I took the lit guitar home to fix it, but I only had a few days before the next gig, so I didn’t have enough time to make it a pretty fix.

Getting into the car, I was afraid that my arms would stretch so far I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands inside. I was sure my hands would be left on the ground, outside the car, and my stretchy arms would get run over by the tires - my hands would be amputated. How would I ever fix the guitar with no hands? John assured me that he wouldn’t let that happen and he got in and drove up home. I tried to sleep on the ride but all of the lights kept distracting me. I watched them with closed eyes. Eventually, we got home and went to bed. My arms were better the next day and I was able to start the guitar job.

I don’t remember exactly what was wrong with it but I think the microprocessor was acting up or not working correctly. After further consultation with John, I removed the entire microprocessor board and supporting devices, and replaced it with an octal counter and a few other components. An octal counter is a device that counts to eight, over and over again. Since the lit guitar had eight sections of bulbs (seven bars plus the border), and Ace only used the pattern that just marched the lit segments in order, lighting one chunk at a time from the neck to the base, then flashed the border, the octal counter was much simpler circuitry than the original microprocessor – a single (small) chip and a couple of components versus a circuit board full of large chips, half a dozen switches, and wires like a plateful of spaghetti. I didn't discard the board and still have the original circuitry in my collection of electronics.

There were a number of switches built into the side of the guitar, fastened by an aluminum bezel that I had made, years before; I removed all of them and covered the holes in the bezel with a single strip of black electrical tape. There wasn’t enough time for me to make up a new aluminum bezel before Ace needed the guitar back for the next gig.

So, when I ran into Ronny at his mother’s tag sale last week, he reminded me of the part he played in getting the smoker fixed. That and meeting Ace were highlights of his youth and no one ever believed him that they had occurred. He introduced me to his girlfriend and I reassured her that Ronny was not making it up. I’m not sure she believed me, either, but at least Ronny felt better that day. Then, an internet meme about acid today reminded me again of how my arms melted when I needed to work, which prompted this blog entry.

I don't understand

What does it mean when someone tells you that they are a “fashion photographer?” I met a very pleasant young man tonight and that’s what he told me. He had a friend and a model with him, helping him out in redecorating his new studio space. The model was a waif-like young woman with huge eyes and a limp handshake. They were nice enough but I could tell that they were utterly bewildered by me and what I do. The feeling was mutual.

The photographer showed me some photos on his iPad that he that he had taken; they consisted of dramatic poses by various models, often focusing on their facial features, particularly their overly made-up eyes. The contrast between light and shadow was particularly effective in creating drama but I thought that fashion photography was supposed to highlight clothing, not the model. I’ve seen similar poses in various magazines and I often don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at - unless the picture is part of an ad. Then, the advertiser or accompanying text can give a clue if the product isn’t obvious.

But what am I supposed to make of the series of pretty young women with overly dramatic eyes, all wearing size zero clothing? A few were in filmy dresses, translucent skirts attractively billowing in a fan-induced breeze. Most were dressed in yoga pants and blouses – nothing interesting, the clothes just used to highlight their stereotypically model/whip-thin bodies. Nonetheless, I complimented him on the pictures; they were attractive. I just didn’t see what distinguished them in terms of fashion.

What IS a fashion photographer? I understand the photographer part, but what differentiates this “fashion” photographer from a portrait photographer? I don’t get it.