Tag Archives: upstairs neighbors

Usual Rubbish

No quarter.

I don’t remember this room being this cramped. For crying out loud, what did they do to this place? Where’s my plastic furniture? I was weeks collecting that bedroom set!

Oh well … there’s bound to be a few glitches in any complex negotiation. The important thing is, we’re back, baby! We’ve won the right to squat in our beloved Cheney Hammer Mill once again. And when I say “beloved”, well … that’s a relative term. Next to the potting shed we’ve been crammed into all summer, the mill is a veritable palace. Sure, we have to share it with lunatics, but even that’s not unprecedented. (Just take a look through our back pages and you’ll see what I’m talking about.)

All that said, there are a few restrictions on what we’re going to be able to do as residents of the mill from here on out. Maybe it was a mistake to deputize Anti-Lincoln as our chief negotiator with the crazy upstairs neighbors. Our main thought was that he was, after all, an old country lawyer … or the antimatter equivalent of one. It’s that second element we didn’t fully consider. Antimatter country lawyer means the opposite of country lawyer … so, I don’t know … city outlaw? In any case, Anti-Lincoln didn’t come away with the better part of THAT deal.

So this is what we have to deal with:

No Tap Dancing. Okay, this shouldn’t be a problem for anyone except Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has brass feet and sounds like he’s tap dancing when he’s just walking across the floor.

No Cops. Again, not a problem for most of us … in fact, a positive benefit for some … like Anti-Lincoln, who is (as mentioned earlier) an outlaw.

Nah, none of that, Marvin., thanks to old honest Abe, here.

No Boiled Asparagus. This is getting up my nose a bit. Unfortunately, when I complained about it, our nasty neighbors stuffed raw asparagus up my nose.

Mandatory Clapping for Fireworks. I think I may have mentioned that our upstairs neighbors love a nice fireworks display. Apparently they want to spread the love around a little. And when I say “spread”, what I really mean is enforce through the power of contract law.

No Loose Coins. I can’t figure this one out at all. They prefer that we use paper money. What the hell am I going to do with that barrel full of quarters I’ve been filling since third grade? That’s my retirement, people!

Those are the highlights. There’s more, but I’ll save it until I locate my plastic side table. Thieves!

Usual Rubbish

Weather or knot.

Hmmmm. That looks like light coming in. Not necessarily a bad thing, except that’s a wall, not a window. So, I don’t know… somewhat problematic.

Okay, it turns out that a potting shed is not the best place to hide during a hurricane or other extreme weather event. Who knew? Seemed sturdy enough when we moved in. I know you’re used to hearing us complain about nearly everything, but we had very few complaints about the shed, aside from the fact that there was no screen for the fireplace. Our landlord’s response? “Run for your lives! The potting shed doesn’t HAVE a fireplace!”

Yesterday the wind started kicking up and water came pouring down from the heavens like one of those super soaker shower heads. (Actually the shower head is like the rain, but never mind.) Then the entire structure started to sway lazily in the wind. Far from keeping the weather out, the shed was practically inviting it in, and frankly, this shed isn’t big enough for me and some screaming ‘nado. Well, there was some noise, and Marvin (my personal robot assistant) sounded the alarm klaxon (really just a digital recording he plays back on such occasions). The shed lifted up and came down like a tossed coin, rolling around on its edges as it came to a clumsy stop.

Cheese and crackers!

Naturally, we broke out our foul weather gear, which looks pretty much like our fair weather gear, except that we keep it in a different cardboard box. I do have one Gorton’s Fisherman style hat that allows me to cross the courtyard on occasion and pound on the hammer mill door in hopes that our nasty neighbors will grow a compassion bone and decide to let us back in.  No luck yet, but what the hell. I’ll tell you, this puts a real damper on rehearsals. There aren’t a lot of genuinely waterproof instruments in the kind of music we play, so our songs start to sound a bit waterlogged by the end of the first half-hour.

I don’t know … how long does it take a sousaphone to rust? Depends on the brand, I’m guessing. Got an umbrella …. anyone?

Usual Rubbish

Letters home.

Haven’t you finished that symphony yet? Well, get going. You’ve got a piano concerto to write as well. Don’t hurry or anything …. it’s due to the publisher on Friday. That’s today.

Man, some of these deadlines are hard to meet, particularly when you’re living in a crowded, leaky potting shed in the courtyard of your former sqauthouse, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We’re just trying to keep the ship afloat here, folks, and to do so we cannot limit ourselves to any single genre of music. That’s why I have Marvin (my personal robot assistant) composing music for hire. This week he’s working on modern classical music … long hair stuff. Marvin knows what that’s all about. I plugged a Classical Gas album into his tape drive.

With all the disruption, you’d think our mail wouldn’t find us, but never underestimate the power of mail carriers to find their target. They dropped us a parcel of letters, postcards, and newsletters as thick as your ass. And as I was sorting through this bounty, I found a missive from one of our closest neighbors. In fact, it was from the very people who kicked us out of our beloved hammer mill. At first I was reluctant to open the letter, as I thought it might be booby trapped with gelled explosives or one of those greeting card sound chips playing Yakety Sax. (I think I might slightly prefer the explosives.)

Is that for me? Holy cats.

What did the letter say? Aw, not much. They asked if we were liking the potting shed as much as they liked sending us there. I thought that was sweet. They also invited us to share favorite recipes that include ingredients we left behind in the hammer mill kitchen. I’m sending them a dog-eared copy of the Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee.  It’s got some of my favorites in it. Now, I know you’re probably thinking I’m being too indulgent with our belligerent hammer mill usurpers, but never fear. The Natural Chef by Gilbert Humvee doesn’t really exist, and neither does Gilbert Humvee. It’s just our way of being neighborly.

I can’t wait to write back to Otis, Marjory, and Kirsten. (Those are the new squatters). I feel I could call them by name now when they kick me out. There’s a lot of love here!