HAIRBALL GAZETTE
St. Petersburg Feb 3 2007
Molly Ivins has died. Has humor lost it’s voice? Will anyone step up to the plate? Will they be allowed in our age of censorship? In this humorless world, she will be sorely missed. Thank you, Molly, for having shared yourself with us.
Never meant to start each gazette with a death notice but that’s what’s happened. It seems the comics, cartoonists, humorists and just plain, crazy funny people are leaving us. Not good.
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The gazette is going weekly for the time being. We’ll see how it works. The new blog address is http://hairballgazette.blogspot.com
You can leave your comments there or email me for those who have the address.
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War Update
The boy, nocca, must have had a bad day. I’m here writing at 430 in the afternoon with the sun softly filtering through the blinds, the windows open to the cool air, he arrived home, started slamming doors, grunting and crashing things on the floor up there. Maybe it’s some sort of therapy—here’s a contest with no prize but satisfaction. Name the method he’s using (Think it may have been devised by a Dr. Moronus Rednecki from the Duchy of Costive. (look up costive, you’ll be surprised) Not much used for obvious reasons—like how much Mel Mack dinnerware can you break or does it bounce?). Dr. Von Hairball suspects there could be deep seeded rage stemming from improper toilet training here. Maybe he’s being accosted? Shall I call 911? No, I’ll just send a thank you note.
War turns ugly: (this part isn’t funny but could be—may have to pull my troops out)
A 2:50 a.m., Nocaa upstairs came down, rang my bell repeatedly and pounded furiously on the door.
He then went to my open bedroom window and shouted for me to come out right now and talk to him.
(If you need a visual here, picture Deputy Dog from the cartoon, with the personality of Yosemite Sam. They look very much alike, nocca and Deputy Dog.)
I did not open the door but called out that if he didn’t go away, I would call the police and said that this was harassment.
nocca said he would call the police and tell them that I had pounded on “his” ceiling. (imagine the reaction of the dispatcher who answered that call—“come again?”) I’m 5’1” and cannot reach the ceiling, ergo I did not pound on the ceiling, his or mine. (I sound like Clinton) I’m getting territorial here, the ceiling in my apartment is my ceiling. I did hear the noise and thought it was him because he’d been crashing around and maybe moving furniture. My God, is there another nocca living here?
After I repeatedly threatened to call the police and did tell him I would inform the landlord on Monday he went back upstairs to his apartment and proceeded to stomp across the floor, which sadly was no different from his normal stomping. Another great visual of a petulant child stomping across the floor because his parents wouldn’t let him watch late night TV or Deputy Dog muttering, “which way did he go, which way did he go?”
This is all very childish (didn’t Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam do this for Warner Brothers?) but frightening and embarrassing. I’ve never before had a neighbor harass me and shout outside my door, let alone my open window. As result, I am now afraid to open my windows.
This is the second time this door pounding has occurred. The first time, I successfully ignored him—no open windows.
Prior to that I had taken a note up to him asking that he turn down his TV. He opened the door and politely suggested that I get earphones. (Didn’t the Treaty of Versailles have similar lame suggestions?)
I did call the police at the urging of friends later that day and was told they could do nothing after the fact. They offered counseling, but I declined. Already had counseling from the friends who told me to call the police.
I don’t know if he’s a nutter or a jerk with no manners. I spent a sleepless night sitting in the living room with the lights on as opposed to the mostly sleepless nights I spend because of the noise upstairs. He’s beginning to bore/scare me.
Did counter with the Colorado/Nashville hockey game. The Colorado fans are the loudest in the league, blowing bull horns constantly. Have recorded the game for my arsenal, just in case. Love you, National Hockey League.
Once again, this isn’t a cry for help unless you are a member of the St. Pete police and willing to do something.
***
Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow this year. I’m always surprised he can see anything given all those lights shining in his face. An early spring? We haven’t had winter here in Florida yet and are running around in shorts while blasting the ac. Those of you up there in the land of frozen touchies (I reserve the right to misspell anything. It’s my gazette.) should be pleased. How early is early? Not early enough I suspect.
Groundhog Day is my favorite holiday—nothing required of me. Poor Phil is dragged, kicking and screaming, from his luxury condo in Punxsutawney City Hall by a bunch of goons in top hats and tails, stuffed into a hole in the ground and photographed as he crawls out. Sort of reminds one of the way they found Saddam Hussein. Where our troops wearing white tie? If not, they were under dressed. Special occasions require a little extra effort.
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Critters in the Hood
Mr. Benchley, black patent leather cat and head dude of the hood has been very standoffish lately. A opossum has joined the buffet line along with three morning doves. Poor ole Benchley is having to share his cat food. These have to be the dumbest birds on earth, eating out of a cat dish. Benchley needs the Dick Chaney course on birding. Does that mean I have to take him to Eddie Bauer for an outfit? Benchley did get involved in fisticuffs with another cat out front a few nights ago. Why, Benchley, do you fight with other cats and wooze out with the birds? At least you’re picking on someone/something your own size. I know you can do birds, Benchley, because you leave dead ones on Larry’s porch.
Strange but True
Don’t know what’s going on upstairs. nocaa is screaming no, no, no at the top of his lungs and stomping his feet on the floor (my ceiling). Can’t be sex, that’s usually yes, yes, yes and has never once, in my experience, involved stomping feet. I’ll check the Kama Sutra. If there had been time, the musical accompaniment to his stomping fit would have been the March of the Toreadors from Bizet’s Carmen. Could it have been a computer game? Overflowed his bath, hope not, it’s over me. Pinky ring or earring down the drain? Disappointing phone call? Last pill down the drain? Why the foot stomping? Smoking material dropped on the carpet? Not cigarettes, he doesn’t use those. Could it be something that didn’t come with a tax stamp? Naughty, naughty. We’ll never know. Does this mean I have another thank you note to write? So little time. Off meds or on? Let’s vote.
Nominations for the Dumb Bastard Award for February are open til month’s end. Send your entries. I may have to give it to Mr. Benchley for sharing his cat food with birds.
Oldsmar Florist will give you at 10% discount if you mention the Hairball Gazette: 813/855-4590 and 1/800-330-4500, http://www.tampabayflorist.com. They are a family owed and operated business, located a 3906 Tampa Road in Oldsmar that delivers all around the area and can wire your order any place in the country. They’re good, real good.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Profile
Feb 4 2007
Profile of the Hairballer
I was born at a very early age to eccentric, wonderful parents in rural Pennsylvania.
As an only child, I was both only daughter to Mother and only son to Dad. Learned how to dress, do makeup, use silverware and throw a baseball. My little league team won the pennant with me playing first base—Yessssss.
My Father was Peter Pan, my Mother, not so much.
From my Mother, I inherited a love of books and classical music. Remember the Firestone Opera Hour? Maybe not. Anyway, I saw Jussi Bjorling standing like a stone column signing to a silhouette of a woman through a fake window. Sadly, I had no idea I was hearing greatness.
From my Father, my love of hockey and baseball, the New York Times, Teamsters and people.
We were a political family (ward healers) and many mornings I’d step over passed out drunks on my way to the kitchen where I shared coffee and toast with Dad before school.
School was bumpy and I was bored but I got through it and college(s) too, studying business, which was not my forte at all.
I wanted to be Dorothy Parker. In some ways, perhaps.
Early on, I moved to Washington DC to continue my education and work. Must have been the right mix because I stayed until the summer of 2001. After 20 years at The New York Times Washington Bureau—I was the adult—an early age stroke hit me because of the stress and I decamped to Florida. I do now and always will consider Washington my hometown. Feel about that city the way George M. Cohan felt about New York.
I write, I paint. To what end? So far, it is only part of the journey.
Have tried the burbs in Florida, three times, with returns to DC. Now I’m living in St. Pete and hope the urbanity will help me stay put.
Politically, I’m fairly liberal but not knee-jerk or bleeding heart. I believe in unions, the environment, the first amendment and human rights and refuse to patronize businesses that violate them. Humorless people leave me wondering why they are cluttering up my planet.
My motto is, “It is to Laugh,” a quote from Daffy Duck, who is my alter ego.
Profile of the Hairballer
I was born at a very early age to eccentric, wonderful parents in rural Pennsylvania.
As an only child, I was both only daughter to Mother and only son to Dad. Learned how to dress, do makeup, use silverware and throw a baseball. My little league team won the pennant with me playing first base—Yessssss.
My Father was Peter Pan, my Mother, not so much.
From my Mother, I inherited a love of books and classical music. Remember the Firestone Opera Hour? Maybe not. Anyway, I saw Jussi Bjorling standing like a stone column signing to a silhouette of a woman through a fake window. Sadly, I had no idea I was hearing greatness.
From my Father, my love of hockey and baseball, the New York Times, Teamsters and people.
We were a political family (ward healers) and many mornings I’d step over passed out drunks on my way to the kitchen where I shared coffee and toast with Dad before school.
School was bumpy and I was bored but I got through it and college(s) too, studying business, which was not my forte at all.
I wanted to be Dorothy Parker. In some ways, perhaps.
Early on, I moved to Washington DC to continue my education and work. Must have been the right mix because I stayed until the summer of 2001. After 20 years at The New York Times Washington Bureau—I was the adult—an early age stroke hit me because of the stress and I decamped to Florida. I do now and always will consider Washington my hometown. Feel about that city the way George M. Cohan felt about New York.
I write, I paint. To what end? So far, it is only part of the journey.
Have tried the burbs in Florida, three times, with returns to DC. Now I’m living in St. Pete and hope the urbanity will help me stay put.
Politically, I’m fairly liberal but not knee-jerk or bleeding heart. I believe in unions, the environment, the first amendment and human rights and refuse to patronize businesses that violate them. Humorless people leave me wondering why they are cluttering up my planet.
My motto is, “It is to Laugh,” a quote from Daffy Duck, who is my alter ego.
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