The Neighbors Must Be Stopped

My neighbors are driving me nuts. I've tried to be proactive about things. I talked with them. I banged on the wall. I talked with the landlord. And after all of that, I even called the cops. The thing is, I hate being a snitch, but ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

Nothing has helped. They, two college boys who really need to get girlfriends, play video games at least 12 hours a day. I can somewhat handle the Guitar Hero since I have a secret adoration for hair bands, but the war video games must stop.

I am trying to work on a manuscript here and every three minutes the entire complex shakes and I'm ready to hit the floor. Those calm days of gazing outside to see the charming little creek/sewer are over. Instead of peering out my window to admire baby ducks I am expecting to see a chopper. Instead of comfy pug printed PJ's, I'm sporting camouflage.

And so the war begins.

I have stooped to their level and it feels good. This morning, while they were still asleep from their Friday night Halo 3 marathon, I rediscovered my love for Chicago drum-n-bass DJ Danny the Wildchild.

Tomorrow when I wake up at 7 am or so, I just may pull out the Irish tin whistle CD. And, I may just get my tin whistle out and play along.

You just don't mess with someone trying to finish an MFA.

What I'm thinking about at 2 am on a Saturday

Debby MacDonald is by far my favorite animal cop. She works for the Michigan Humane Society. She is tough, but passionately compassionate.

I don't watch television much, but when I do, Animal Cops seems to be where my remote control halts. The people who work as cruelty investigators are my heroes.

The only thing I don't quite get is the food aggression test. They feed a dog and then stick a plastic hand near the food to see if the dog is aggressive. The sad thing is that many times when a dog reacts aggressively, they must put it to sleep. I understand, yet I don't. If you put a plastic hand in my food, I'd definitely get aggressive.

I sure pray that my Telemachus never has to past a food aggression test. He would never bite the plastic hand, but he would growl, and the hair on his back would spike straight up. According to the specialists at the Michigan Humane Society, that is food aggression.

Check it out

New poems of mine published here. I'm pretty stoked to be published in a journal called "Innisfree." It warms my wannabe Irish heart.

And the celebrating begins...

The Real Obituary

Today marks exactly two years since Henry Balthis died.

Henry was a no nonsense kinda guy, retired from the Ironworkers Local 17. He only stood about 5”2 on a good day, but he was mean and he had fiery hair. His friends called him Red. When Red walked in the front door of a bar, his enemies snuck out the back.

Not only was Henry known for his boxing skills, he was also rumored to be quite the pistol whipper. Henry wasn’t afraid of anything. Once he chased a man who owned a leopard. The leopard ran too.

In his elder years, he had two passions: cats and fatherless children. He lived in a warehouse with his six cats: Bigfoot, Crybaby, Mister, Watermelon, Number Five, and Number Six (yes, he named two cats after numbers). When he wasn’t busy overfeeding his cats, he enjoyed visits from two of his many grandchildren, James and Jennifer.

Henry never asked for help. When he had heart attacks, he drove himself to the hospital. He did however ask James to bring him the occasional Whopper with cheese. Jennifer got off a little easier. Her chore, which was really an honor, was spending countless afternoons with Henry watching Animal Cops.

Henry owned at least eight vacuum cleaners. Even though his personal hygiene skills were at times questionable, the floor in his warehouse was always swept.

Henry Balthis did a good job dying.

He was surrounded by family members who cried and told stories from many many Christmases ago. One granddaughter even spoke of Henry’s warm, tender grandfather hugs. Jennifer and James smiled at each other from across the room. They had Henry stories from the previous Christmas and the one before that. They had Henry stories from the previous week. And they both knew that though Henry liked to give hugs, he was really bad at it.

A Henry hug was like being burped.

Happy Blizzard!

Dear Mom:

I need you to watch the dog while I go back to this place. I need one more summer.

Here is a sweet William Butler Yeats quote to further my request.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."