Evil Dogs

We have an idiot neighbor with an assortment of vicious small dogs. She has lived here for several years, at least as long as we have. She lacks basic dog-handling ability, and indeed social skills. Every day, twice a day, I hear her out walking her little darlings, the relative quiet destroyed by their barky shrieks--no doubt brought on by an elderly resident shuffling by to pick up his mail. I remember the first time I had the misfortune of passing this ditz-bag and her devil creatures; the aggressiveness of the barking was as violently startling as its earsplitting volume. I looked at their owner, a slim middle-aged lady with a gray helmetlike bowl cut, who gave me a pathetic look that was more "What can I do?" than "Sorry about these little terrors, I'll try to get it under control." I said, "Those dogs are going to give someone a heart attack." She shrugged.

I don't know how many dogs she has. Three? Five? Ten? I can't bring myself to look at them because the urge to grab one and chuck it over the wall, as a warning to the others, would be too great. I just keep hoping they'll go the way of Fifi (see Driverz n the Hood), making their escape at the exact moment that Nathan Barley and his spray-on-tan goddess zip by in their snooty red spaceship. That would take care of several problems simultaneously.

Driverz n the Hood

A few weeks ago, I was out for a jog around the swanky 'hood near our penthouse condo. I'm still at the point where jogging is an exhausting, painful ordeal, but it's the only way I have a chance of getting rid of this baby belly blubber because eliminating beer and cheese from my diet is not an option. I was minding my own business, huffing and puffing, when an ultrafancy sparkly red sports car screeched to a desperate halt just ahead of me. The car was so fancy, in fact, that I didn't recognize its make. It looked like the offspring of a Corvette, a Porsche, and a Ferrari, but with a spacecraft quality to it. I'm pretty good with car identification, so perhaps it was one-of-a kind.

I've been taught that you really shouldn't stop a jogger unless it's very important. Because I'm not exactly a speedy runner, it's possible the driver thought I was just out for a leisurely stroll. I felt obligated to stop, figuring he wanted directions. Maybe he was attending a worthy fundraiser and was the keynote speaker?

"Have you seen a small dog?" he asked in an annoyed tone, as if I'd asked him to repeat himself three times. He was a young guy in a tight plaid short-sleeved shirt, the kind popular with today's frat boys, and looked a lot like Nathan Barley. His question was accompanied by some manic gesticulating. I think he was trying to indicate the dog's rough size, but he looked like a methed-up mime repeatedly constructing an invisible box.

"Why, no, I haven't," I said. Before I could say, "Do you live around here? How might I find you if I come upon the small dog?" he turned toward his passenger, a skinny chick with giant sunglasses, tossed up his hands in disgust, and sped off. Not even a thank you. Moments later, he flew by again, going at least 50 in a 25 mph residential zone. I couldn't help but think that little Fifi would make her appearance at that moment and end up flattened. What a colossal asshole.

Focus: It's Overrated

When I originally conceived of this work of genius, I had a grand plan: I'd visit various oddball places* in the Phoenix area on a regular basis, from a fabulous bakery run by a toothless wack job, to a small museum devoted to the history of printer cartridges, and write pithy descriptions of my outings, complete with my own photos. My intention was to soften the blow of being stuck here, after we'd fantasized for a good three years about moving somewhere with water, green vegetation, proximity to the sea, and a somewhat civically engaged population. When circumstances conspired to keep us here for a while yet, authoring a local blog seemed like an effective sanity-retaining tool. Somehow, the number of followers would creep upward, and I'd get good press. I'd add unobtrusive advertisements and eventually earn a few bucks, or at least free beer and donuts. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet discovered that I'm just a lazy-ass. So, to make things easier on myself, I'm changing gears just a bit: I will update the blog more often, but it won't center entirely on Phoenix-area outings and experiences. Rather, I'll take a more free-form approach and see how that shakes out. To my seven followers, I thank you for your support! When I'm a rich and famous blogger, I'll host an IPA-and-cheddar party at the Phoenician, and you're all invited!

*I realize that most people wouldn't consider the Cardinals' stadium an oddball place, although it certainly is, especially at tailgating time. And God only knows what happens in the men's room, what with urinals and everything.