Hairball Gazette Jan 11 2007

HAIRBALL GAZETTE©

St. Petersburg Jan 11 2007

Lilly Munster died. Another hero gone.

Buffalo Boy, now known as nocaa (no class at all—please note lower case), upstairs told me to either move or get earphones when I asked him to turn down his TV. I am not an air traffic controller. Why would I want to look like one. Love it. Insults are stories and people pay for stories. I don’t have electric candles with blue flames in my windows. I don’t even own electric candles, I have real ones. I wonder if he covers his TV with a crocheted snood at night. (I don’t know how to spell snood and neither does spell check so I’m going with this.) Probably not because he watches TV all night. Have I mentioned I hate TV? Am I being judgmental and elitist? Oh yes. The other night he pounded on my door and rang the bell for 5 minutes before stomping away. Ah, life beneath the buffalo. I now keep a can of mace beside the door (bought it at Walgreens). This is the same man who told me he once heard that “big, fat opera singer man.” Guessing he means Luciano Pavarotti. Hello, ever hear of Babe Ruth? Another household name. Suspect this man has been living under a rock and therein lies the problem. Definitely raised by wolves. This will work out, it will, it will. I resolve to stop saying that and stop whining. I really do love this place, even though the noise level from upstairs has driven me to the edge and beyond.

The Dumb Bastard Award for January has been given to me. While helping out, and I use that term lightly, at Oldsmar Florist, I watered an artificial bamboo and flooded the front of the shop. Sorry Sunday. May it grow and prosper. Perhaps it’s a testament to their products that it looked so real.

For those unfamiliar with the Dumb Bastard Award, a brief history. The award was first given in the 90s to Mike Keza, photographer extraordinaire, for taking a cab from Washington DC to Dulles Airport (about $60) checking his bags for the flight, then calling his office only to discover his trip was the next day. I’ve made it my own and award it once a month to anyone, myself included, who does something extremely screwy. Never given to evil people--they are undeserving. The guy upstairs is a dumb bastard and doesn’t need an award. I do take nominations and anyone wishing to put someone forward during the upcoming months, should send an email—self-nomination is fine—confession is good for the soul, I hear.

Another cat has entered my life in a good way. He’s a totally black, witch’s cat who roams the hood and I’ve named him Mr. Benchley after the great Robert Benchley of the Algonquin round table. After struggling with the idea, bought a very kewl dish for outside and IAMS dry food. Mr. Benchley is helping to reinforce my Dorothy Parker image and comes twice a day to chow down—he’s actually in line when I get up. Makes me feel like the Wal-Mart selling TVs for a dollar to the first five customers. Benchley considers this the all you can eat buffet, which it is. Thus far, he’s a no touch cat and I respect his independence (do I see a lot of me in him?), but we do have conversations where I practice my Parker accent. I still miss Cypress up there in Accokeek. She was definitely the reincarnation of Mrs. Parker.

The kitchen ceiling fan is dismembering itself. Came home the other day to find one of the blades lying on the floor. Perhaps it’s screaming to be cleaned after years of neglect. Fan’s been replaced. It’s twin in the bedroom will go soon—it will, it will. Perhaps the solution to getting things fixed is to break everything. I could have a sledge hammer party like Patrise did when she remodeled the kitchen in her house on the Hill. Sorry I missed that.

Amazing but true. I lost 3 lbs over the holidays. Must be moving weight. Thought for sure after eating two large pieces of Larry’s super cheese cake that I gained. Larry, you should market that as cheese cake that takes inches off your hips. You’ll get rich.

The hood. I’ve decided this neighborhood resembles New Orleans (wishful thinking?) with all the old buildings and flowering vines but not as romantic or exciting—yet. It’s a mix of the Garden District and the 9th Ward. Turn a corner and it changes. Thinking of reforming (Bob G, reforming is another one of those heteronyms) my “all kazoo symphony orchestra,” into a marching band and doing a New Orleans style parade down Locust Street. Might be the only street in St. Pete where I could get away with it. (Well, maybe down there in the jungle of Old South St. Pete—look out Carol and David. I’ll call soon. I’ve been driving back and forth to Oldsmar and haven’t had the energy for anything else.) Picture it. The guys in white coats (no, not the I’m coming to get you kind) and fedoras, the ladies in tank tops and shawls with table clothes wrapped around their waists as skirts. Oh, and do-rags (I just bought a couple at Bealls Outlet for 99 cents each). Shoes, we don’t need. Everyone playing When the Saints Come Marching In on kazoos from the Dollar Store (colors will vary). My surrogate cat, Mr. Benchley, could ride on a float made of artificial fur and bougainvillea doing a Queen Mom wave or not (Larry has threatened to clip the plant that blocks my back door—it would be useful and recycling in a way). The possibilities are endless. It’s so good to be at sea again. Volunteers? Definitely more 9th Ward. I just saw laundry hanging off the second floor walkway and a woman in a bathing suit sunbathing on a folding lounge in front of the building (not a pretty sight, the woman). Oh, if they could just play music and jam.

Once again for those who don’t know, I formed the all kazoo symphony orchestra when at the New York Times. We played the Marine Hymn for Ret. Gen. Mick Trainer in celebration of his birthday. Thought he’d faint when we walked up—I, of course was the conductor. I have no talent for actually playing musical instruments. That’s what he gets for wanting to be a reporter. Loved him too—he smoked cigars. One of the good ones. Of course, you’ve all read the book he wrote with Michael Gordon last year. Yes?

Watched the Lightening vs. Wild. The Wild have red and green uniforms and look like evil Xmas elves skating around with intensity and malice. That or animated bottles of Tabasco.

It’s 1:34 am on Tuesday, January 10, and the crashing and moving of objects upstairs in deafening. nocaa must be taking down his Xmas decorations. Goodbye for another year, blue electric candles. (Tears) War has now been declared. My first salvo is Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia, with Thomas Allen and Agnes Baltas, conducted by Neville Marriner. Tomorrow night it’s Bruckner’s 4th. Lots of timpani. Just think, only 2,999 CDs to go. (Yes, I’ve collected my CDs from the Gailey’s upstairs closet—thank you once again, Joyce and Phil for free music storage while I’m off being a gypsy.) If Bush could only fight wars with such, he’d wear them down. Actually I preferred the insulting cartoon thing between the Iranians and the Danes; now that takes talent, thought and planning. It’s good to be at war again. God, have I missed my music. Oh, I’m also having a martini.

Last night for this edition and nocaa is still up at 4:27 am. Heard a resounding crash. He either fell out of bed (doubtful since he’s been walking around), dropped his shot-put or a breakfront (Dennis, could this be the one you lost? If so, it’s busted.) Heard loud groaning earlier, which was either sex or a difficult bowel movement. That’s disgusting.

I’m settling in, I’m glad to be in St. Pete and actually getting to know my way around. Want to spend more time here, get to know the city, maybe do some work for the orchestra and see my friends. Right now, doing research into eBay to supplement my writing. The apartment is becoming home, albeit torturous. Perhaps I’ve found a place to be, at least for a year. Actually, I pray every day for a call to go cover hockey and get away from that nut case upstairs. Harry Hamburg where are you and guys from Philadelphia who were going to pound people’s heads on car hoods?

Will probably have a house blessing in February. If it’s warm enough, we can take over the street. I’ll let you know.

Reminder that I now have a phone that works. I’ve broken down the phone booth, the corner by the front door with the folding chair and plastic table, which was the only place my cell phone would work. It was known as the time out corner because all the calls timed out and cut off, curbed my calling considerably. Cingular sucks and only works while driving Rt. 19, a great place for calls to catch up with friends.