Seagulls in the City

Joy of joys. Today is that special holiday where all the little heathen children and their free-loading parents come banging on my door like beggars. Not only do they not wear costumes, for the most part, they don’t even say Trick or Treat anymore. So lazy. They just stick their bags out and stare. Where did the enthusiasm and excitement for Halloween go? When did Trick or Treating become a passive activity?

And the parents? Do you know how many times I’ve had adults knock on my door and ask for candy for their sick child who’s at home and not able to Trick or Treat? Rrrriiiight. Seems every Halloween in the city there’s always an epidemic of sick kids and parents who don’t want them to miss out on the fun. Part of me wants to kick it old school and give out pennies and boxes of raisins just to get some kind of reaction out of the kids and their parents. I ask you, could anything keep you from Trick or Treating as a little kid? I’m not so old that I forgot what Trick or Treating was like. My brother and I would be bouncing off the walls for days leading up to Halloween. When Halloween night finally arrived, we’d haul ass around the neighborhood once and then go home and do a costume change so we could go around a second time without getting recognized. Selfish? Yes. But at least were were ambitious and motivated and we always said Thank you to everyone. Twice.

Last Halloween I was living in a ground floor apartment on the east side. I knew I couldn’t deal with those little beggars bothering me all night, so I disabled the wiring for my doorbell, but I kept the wiring in place that makes the doorbell button light up. From the outside of my apartment, it looked like a working doorbell, but inside my apartment was the cone of silence. Trick or Treat? Sorry, kids. No treats here. But I’ve got a trick for you - All the pressing in the world isn’t gonna make that doorbell ring.

I live in a different neighborhood now and I have a pretty good idea about how tonight is going to go because there are a million kids around me. I’m fairly certain the kids and their parents are going to swoop down on my block like seagulls on a ripe parking lot dumpster. Unfortunately, I don’t have a doorbell I can disable or a good vantage point for watching the disappointed looks on their faces when no one answers my door. This Halloween I am going with a To Kill A Mockingbird theme. I’m dressing up as Boo Radley. The great thing about this costume and this character is that no one expects to see you.

I Hope This Happens

This is all so true. Props to The Examiner.

Every single day and night, I watch nice suburban-looking men, wearing khakis and wedding bands, solicit the services of busted junkie/hookers right in front of my house. It makes my blood boil and, believe me, that’s saying something because I’ve got a cold, black heart. Those men out there in their sensible sedans never ever get busted and it’s so infuriating because they have so much more to lose. The women have nothing to lose because I’m pretty sure shame and embarrassment fall by the wayside when you turn tricks for heroin.

It would give me so much pleasure seeing those LeggRoweMasonPrice broker boys get their cars impounded and then spend an evening at the Eager Street Day Spa, where they’ll certainly enjoy the Strip, Squat, and Cough treatment.

Can I get an Amen?

R.I.P.

The Runaways
l to r: Lita Ford, Joan Jett, Jackie Fox, Sandy West, Cherie Currie
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Punk rock drummer Sandy West, 47, dies of cancer
Wed Oct 25, 2006 2:54am ET

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Sandy West, drummer for 1970s female punk rock band the Runaways, has died after a long battle with lung cancer.

West, 47, died Saturday in a hospice in San Dimas, Calif., a spokesman said. A private funeral will be held Saturday.

The Runaways, perhaps best known for the tune “Cherry Bomb” from their self-titled 1976 debut, served as a launching pad for the solo careers of guitarists Joan Jett and Lita Ford.

West is survived by her mother, stepfather and six sisters.

The Runaways ‘School Days’

I Am Better Than Your Kids

Maybe you’ve seen this before. I have no idea where it originated, but it’s still hilarious.

UPDATE: It originated here. Dang, yous guys is sharp!
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If you work in an office with lots of people, chances are that you work with a person who hangs pictures up that their kids have drawn. The pictures are always of some stupid flower or a tree with wheels. These pictures suck; I could draw pictures much better. In fact, I can spell, do math, and run faster than your kids. So being that my skills are obviously superior to those of children, I’ve taken the liberty to judge artwork done by other kids on the internet. I’ll be assigning a grade A through F for each piece:

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Monday Inspiration

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I know I am not original in thinking that Aretha Franklin possesses one of the greatest voices ever recorded. She certainly possesses the greatest American voice ever recorded. Period. Across genres. Across decades. There are no close seconds.

Attempting to articulate what I think it is about her voice that makes her peerless would be ridiculous. I’m but a mere mortal, after all, and I’m quite in touch with my earthly limitations. It’s probably best to just let Lady Soul sing it instead.

Rats!

I’m sure most of you local people have already seen the cover story for this week’s City Paper, but I thought I’d link it for those who haven’t. I found this article as intriguing as I did repulsive and yet I came away with an odd sense of Baltimore pride. Do any of you remember the rat fishing tournaments? It still brings a tear to my eye when I think of the glory days.

Years ago when I lived in Hampden, I used to come home from work, drink beer on my rotting back porch, and shoot my CO2 pellet gun at the rats tunneling in my yard. It was exactly like Whac-A-Mole, but with potential for injury and catching the bubonic plague. What can I say? I couldn’t afford cable back then. I did have a serious rat problem though. They were literally eating their way into my house and at night you could hear them gnawing in the walls. Shooting at them just pissed them off. They pick up the pellets and throw them back at me, mocking me all the while. Um yeah. I broke that lease as fast as I could.

And since we’re on the subject of rodents, I thought I’d revisit my Rat Trilogy. These stories are ribbed, for your pleasure:

Part I - A Problem in My Crack

Part II - A Problem in My Crack Continues

Part III - Concrete: A Love Story

Even PETA can’t stomp on our fun with their hemp shoes.

Baltimore really is the Greatest City in America.

Shhh. It’s the shy and rarely heard semi-auto handgun!

Just getting ready for bed and heard four semi-automatic handgun shots on the block behind mine.

*BOOM*BOOM*BOOM….*BOOM*

That was 30 minutes ago and still no police response, which is about right actually. I feel safe, don’t you? Well, I actually do feel safe because I can shoot back if I need to. Ain’t nobody gonna be coming up in my Pigtown Palace without no goddamn invitation. I’ve got 500 rounds reasons to make you change your mind. Oh and I can be persuasive too. Just try me, gangsta.

Lies. All Lies.

Don’t believe everything you encounter on the internets, people. I am here. I am a tax-paying U.S. Citizen. I am blogging from the diseased heart of Pigtown, which is located in Baltimore, Murdaland, USA.

And Charissa thinks she’s special. Heh. She thinks my name doesn’t show up because they probably don’t include American Indian names.

For the record, my American Indian name is Dances With Hangover.
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There are 0 people in the U.S. with the first name Anger.
This name is not found in our database, this means the name is relatively uncommon.

There are 0 people in the U.S. with the last name Hangover.
This name is not found in our database, this means the name is relatively uncommon.

There are 0 people in the U.S. named Anger Hangover.
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HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

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Crunchy. In a Good Way.

I’ve started one of my physical therapy regimens for the mess that is my sacro-ilial joint dysfunction. It’s going to be a pretty long road undoing the eight years of unintentional damage I’ve done to myself, but I’m okay with that because I know I’m going in the right direction.

The first part of this process is bringing down the chronic inflammation in my lumbar sacral area and loosening up the overly tight muscles and ligaments on my left side in order to unlock my left hip and re-gain range of motion. This process involves direct myofascial release, mainly on my ass and my iliotibial band. It’s not meant to be a painful treatment, but it is right now. It should lessen in intensity with each treatment though.

Both my D.O. and my physical therapist have done this thing where they have me lie flat on the floor, then pull my right leg up, with my foot flat on the floor, and keep my left leg straight out in front of me. Then they wrap both hands around my left ankle, lift my leg, and gently twist my leg side to side until it becomes heavy and relaxed. I then have to brace myself with my right foot, focus on my breathing, and then they do a quick and hard *YANK*YANK* on my left leg. Nothing happened during the first couple of visits, but something happened yesterday during P/T. I can’t really describe the grossness of the deep *crunch* that I heard and felt in my hip, but I’m told crunching is good because it means things are loosening up.

Crunchy in a good way? I suppose. But it’s still gross.

I Done Heard a Rumor, Hon

So the rumor swirling around my few-block radius is that I’m a PO-lice Ossifer, but that I’m prolly (probably) more than a reglerr (regular) Bawldimore City PO-lice Ossifer. I’m not exactly sure how folks around the way came to that conclusion, but whatever works.

Recently Lady Friend and I have been approached separately on the screet (street) while walking our dogs. LF had one of the junkie/hookers apologize to her for all the noise and trash in tha owlwee (alley). She told LF, “I know yous is law enforcement, ma’am, and I toad (told) R****** to shut up ’cause there’s cops libmmm (living) in that house upbare (up there).”

Tonight I was approached by a woman on a different block who felt compelled to introduce herself to me, complement my dog, and tell me, “Yer da PO-lice Ossifer dat lives over oowin (on) tha ****-hunnert (hundred) block of ***** street. I done seen yous before walkin’ yer dawg up an down tha owlwee (alley). I’m movin’ in oowin (on) to yer block oowin the twenny-sebmmff err twenny-ayfff (27th or 28th). Anyways, it wuz nice to meet yous, ma’am. I’ll be seein’ yous real soon.”

LF and I discussed the potential reasons why everyone has decided I’m tha PO-lice:

1) I’m polite and “well-spoken.”
2) My house is clean and understated on the outside.
3) My dog looks just like a PO-lice dog.
4) I actually walk my dog.
5) I get packages from UPS and DHL.
6) I am always fully clothed when I go outside. This includes shoes.
7) I have never stood on my stoop and threatened to beat anyone’s goddamn ass. My car is non-descript. No slogans. No decals. No bumper sticker politics.
9) I wear sunglasses.
10) I have a full set of teeth - all my own.
11) I bought my house privately. It was never on the market.
12) I occasionally come and go with my S & W accoutrement.*

It’s interesting to me how, all of the sudden, people who’ve never really said much to me before are now calling me “ma’am.” Even the mini-crew of pimps and drug dealers have moved a block over and down from mine. All of this without me having said a word to anyone about anything. They just formed their own opinions about what I do for a living and went with it. I’m thinking the rumor is probably going along just like the Telephone Game and by this time next week I’ll probably have graduated from a PO-lice Ossifer to a DEA Agent/Government Assassin. Who knows. What I do know is that it has gotten much quieter at night, so I’ll let them think what they want.

* I believe carrying this gear to/from the trunk of my car was the deciding factor that I’m a cop. Whatever works.