37 Going On 90

I saw my new next door neighbour the other day. I had developed a bit of an initial hate-on for her as the first few days after she moved in she thoroughly and consistently annoyed the hell out of me by letting her front door slam shut in the early morn, all day and well into the night. Slam , slam, slam, slam, slam…and every time I jumped a foot in the air. I do not like loud and sudden noises and I just couldn’t understand why she didn’t hear and feel the shock waves every time that door flew shut. As suddenly as the slamming started it stopped a few days later. I now think it was either friends or relatives helping her move and unpack or somebody beat her ass down teaching her a much needed lesson. I am betting it was the former as it turns out she is a Professional Old Lady. You know one of those somewhat hunchback types who have carefully set blue hair and fancy coloured coats with matching hats. Basically she looks like The Queen. Outside her door she has a spiffy brass umbrella stand filled with several umbrellas. Probably one to match each of her hat/coat/hair combos. She also has fresh flowers in a nice pot which seem to die within 3 days since there is no natural light in the hallway. She is obviously very good at her profession and has been An Old Lady for quite some time. There is a lot I could learn from her.

I am going to re-enforce my Curmudgeonly Stinky Bum status by crapping on the obvious joy many people are experiencing over the upcoming The Police reunion. I admit I am not a huge fan of The Police but that is not why I think this is a very bad idea. I love The Rolling Stones but totally wish they would retire because it is getting a little embarrassing, frankly. Kinda like watching your parents dance to that new fangled Hippy Hoppy music. I think Mick looks like a caricature of himself is no longer even remotely rock and roll. More like sit and snooze. I loved them when they were young and nasty. Not wrinkly and arthritic. I find Sting fairly creepy (in a ‘He Is Old Enough To Be My Dad But Thinks He’s Sexy’ sort of way) and the horrifying contrast one will witness watching him sing songs he sang as a much younger lad promises to be sad and unsettling. There is something noble and wonderful about letting sleeping dogs lie (or letting aged pop singers lead tantric sex filled existences) and remembering the band the way they were at the height of careers. When they were sexy as hell, totally fashionably current and had all their hair. Band reunions or bands that just won’t go away are a recipe for disappointment. I am dumping on your pleasure for your own good.

Yoshi (presently named The Ungrateful Shit) has totally abandoned The Snoozen Housen. All of a sudden she will sleep ANYWHERE but there. Anywhere being the hard wood dining room chairs, awkward high traffic carpeted areas, where I like to sit and my lap any time I am still for more than 10 seconds. I have heard parents say that there is some sort of divine karmic irony where their children have the same annoying characteristics that they had themselves as kids causing them bitter regret but providing much glee to the grandparents. So I wonder if this is some sort of cosmic cat reckoning for my childhood behaviors and idiosyncrasies. Apparently being childless does not let me off the hook.