If you don't make a habit of reading topic titles before clicking on them, then you might be surprised -- I've written a blog! Yes, I've taken time out of my songwriting, my scriptwriting (working out swimmingly) and my current crush (Allison Mack from Smallville -- yeah, I like that show, and I ain't ashamed) to write a little bit about my current life.
Through sheer accident, I have definitively proven that, in fact, the world is insane. Or at least my house is. See, I live in a quadplex -- it's like a duplex, but it's a quadplex instead. There's my family, some antisocial Kurt Cobain bipolar motherfrumper, another antisocial jackass who often literally grunts at my father, and my personal favorite: a clinically insane psychopath who yells relentlessly at his wife, and today threatened to beat me and my mother up because she told him to "mind your own business, ****head". Also, we can't forget my mom, who's clinically insane for entirely different, more voices-in-my-head reasons. And it's not like I'm off the hook, I talk to myself all the time! I mean, I don't hear voices, and I'm really just voicing my thoughts, but it sure looks insane.
But I guess you need a little context, first. Here in Moncton, garbage day (cue Eric Freeman eyebrows) is Thursday. Well, my mom being as insane as she is, and my dad being as trusting and naive as he is, and me being as lazy, forgetful and selfish as I am, it didn't go out when it should have. So.
The next day, I reminded her that we needed to take it out back. See, there's a shed in the back which we used last time we forgot the garbage, to store for the week until next Thursday. The funny part is that last time, the garbage wasn't there by next week. To this day, we still don't know what happened to it. We figure some hobo rifled through it and ran off, shouting, "nobody can stop me and my BAG!" and proceeded to travel the world, and star in their own 80's sitcom.
Anyhow, me and my mom go out back. I have to help her because she also has a liver problem, and is almost immobile. Also, her stomach is puffed out like a Pizza Pop.
But when we get to the shed, there's a huge pile of snow in front of it. We talk for a moment about what we'll do. She suggests throwing it into the shed, I say she's an idiot and suggest she just climb over the snow. She and I carry on like this for a full minute before, from a suite that I didn't even know existed, at the back, on the top floor, up some very noisy stairs, comes Crazy Guy.Â
Crazy Guy has been a problem for a while, but I honestly never though he lived on the same property as us. I thought he was just a bum looking for cans, or that maybe he lived in the duplex/triplex/quadplex/suplex/Bowflex next door. It all made sense now. In the middle of the night (including last night), he would storm out his door, yelling obscenities at his wife with no regard for the three other families living in the same house or the countless other house who can all hear him. He shuts the door so hard, it literally shakes the house every time. I thought it was Enoby Darkness Dementia Way downstairs, but no, it was Crazy Guy.
One day I actually confronted Crazy Guy about it, and got a good look at him. To give you some idea, he looks a lot like William H. Macy, and he sounds like a cross between Donald Duck angry, and when Joe Pesci started grumbling incoherent gibberish in Home Alone -- at least, when he's yelling, which is virtually 100% of the time.
Back on topic. Crazy Guy rushes through his door and, of course, starts barking at us.
"DA GARBAGE DON'T GO IN DA ****IN' SHED, IT GO OUT ON T'URSDAYS."
So in an instant, as he went back into his hole, my mom yelled back:Â "We missed it, AND MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, ****HEAD!"
I couldn't exactly say I was surprised. I mean, I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what to think. But it all happened so fast, that only several hours later did I fully comprehend that she probably shouldn't have said that.
Within a second, Crazy Guy blasted through his door again, rushing down the stairs, shouting, "I'LL TEACH YOU TO MIND MY OWN BUSINESS!" ... whatever that meant. He came blazing down the loud steps, and my mom and I couldn't even believe it. Neither of us even knew he lived here, so it was already a major surprise, but we honestly didn't think that Donald Duck here would actually try to physically hurt people. You just can't trust people you nickname Crazy Guy, these days.
My mom and I just started to slowly walk away. What were we gonna do? He's a crazy motherfrumper (that word is trademark _I.M. Dude_ Industries) who probably carries his favorite switchblade, my mom is a physically and mentally ill WOMAN, and I'm a shrimpy nerd-type who's only upper-body exercise comes from masturbation and who only has one hand to begin with. Place your ****in' bets.
His wife comes out, now. I say to my mom "Way to go, nice job" as we head back to the front. Crazy Guy seems to be calmed a little, and he shouts, "I'll call the cops!" I'll help you dial, jackass. As we walk, I start quacking at him in his incoherent way, quite loudly, and this causes him to continue on the warpath. He comes running after us at ful speed, and we barely make it up the three stairs to our porch/patio/stoop and inside, without him getting us. We were still just a little shocked at all this, and we hadn't quite taken it all in yet. I still couldn't believe Crazy Guy would try something harmful!
I locked the door, and the guy started SLAMMING against it outside. He didn't end up getting in, but he stayed outside quacking for at least five minutes.
And later that night, he ended up fighting with his wife again, complete with house-shaking door slams, quacking loud enough to wake the neighborhood, and those loud stairs. I watched him as he walked off down the road the first time (he came back only to walk off again several times), and I quacked at him. He started yelling at me, saying, "I'M HAVIN' AN ARGUMENT WIT' MY WIFE!" and then throwing a rock at my window. He missed.
The worst part is that we're powerless to stop him. None of us can really fight him. My dad is probably the best match, but even his "Aikido blackbelt" can't realistically protect him from a psycho with a blade. We can't call the landlady, Annie, because technically we're wrong for trying to put our garbage in the shed. We can't call the cops, because eventually they would release him, and now he'd have a legitimate reason to go all Dexter on our asses. I would like to torment this freak, though. Maybe I'll put animal porn in his mailbox, or drop a deuce on his welcome mat. Yeah, Crazy Guy has a welcome mat. Irony!
--Â
Other than that, Nothing much else has really been happening. Our mailman won't deliver to us because we have snow on our steps. It's winter in Atlantic Canada; if he isn't delivering to people because there's too much snow in his way, he must have a pretty easy job.
I have some kind of weird skin thing on my neck. The skin is all tender and painful, and looks a little red, but my throat feels fine. That's just great, isn't it? I finally have a marketable script for a TV pilot, and I'm going to die of... I dunno, neck cancer. My life is one big Seinfeldian joke.
I'm on a real Porcupine Tree kick right now. I don't know why, I never really "loved" them in the past, but suddenly I find myself listening to In Absentia, Deadwing and FoaBP every day. Also, I've gotten back into Nirvana a bit. I used to love Nirvana, now I just listen to them once in a while. Good to hear some of their greatest hits again. Yeah, I'm one of those Nirvana fans: the ones who only like the greatest hits and are hated by the REAL Nirvana fans. I don't know -- I like Dumb. Was that a big hit?
A legitimate question: who decided Easter had anything to do with eggs? And, who decided we should make candy in the shape of eggs? And, who decided that we should make suggestively-shaped chocolate eggs with creamy liquid inside them? I'm sitting here popping MiniEggs Poppers (MiniEggs with a Pop Rocks sensation) and thinking, "what the hell do eggs have to do with Easter? And for that matter, what does candy have to do with Easter? And for that matter, what do eggs have to do with chocolate?" I mean, I'm all for the Cadbury Egg candies -- they're actually some of my favorite. But what crazy (or high) jackass thought, "y'know what would make this candy great? Eggs." Ever looked at the ingredients in a Creme Egg? Egg yolk is involved. Who thought of this? Maybe it was the same guy who imagined the Easter Bunny. Maybe it was Fred Fuchs.
And that's all I have to say. I have to get back to work on my script. I might post a new song next week, but I don't know yet.
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