4/4/08

Script Frenzy started April 1. I am giving up pretending to write a screenplay, because I am busy pretending to write other stuff. This series title, for example, is a memoir of life in the three-story condo that I am currently not writing. On the top floor lives my brother Scott, surrounded by his movies, comic books and music. In the middle lives my Dad with his new leather powered double recliner and his Hi Def TV. I live in the basement with the art I love and the art I create. The dog lives on two floors, preferring the floor that momentarily houses the person with food. The dog is not allowed in The Dungeon, because he yaps at will and scares the hell out of me. I am too finely tuned for yapping dogs. Some may call it high strung, but that's their story. For meals, communal gatherings, legal or healthcare meetings, we share a floor. On any given day, we share a brain. These three floors are squashed between other condos: stage left lives Marilyn; stage right, the Florida snowbirds who all smoke. We can smell when they've arrived for the summer. Marilyn and I share metaphysical beliefs, and a passion for reading and homemade cookies. Marilyn is teaching me meditation, which will be handy when the snowbird smokers arrive next door, because they are also loud. They bang. We don't know on what, but it involves them having to shout over the banging. So when they bang and shout, I will meditate. Hopefully I can learn it by Memorial Weekend, when the big shiny black Mercedes pulls into the lot. Smoking.

4/10/09

Curb Feelers

Even cars have proximity sensors now. Maybe just Mercedes, like the big shiny black Florida-plated one next door. Cells have these, although genetic scientists call them contact inhibitors. Mutant cells lose contact inhibition which is why a carcinoma stacks up like Sunday morning pancakes. Most people have sensors, and a pardon me usually follows contact. My father and my brother are missing proximity sensors. There is no my space/your space. I've no idea if all men, people of a certain age, Midwesterners are missing this. I'm not sure if they used to know how close they were to another person, and maybe lost that sense. I do know most dogs don't care if your feet are under theirs. The dog likes his nose right on my pajama leg. I learned recently that Alzheimer's disease can affect a person's ability to know where the body is, so my little brother, when he bangs into me, gets a hug. Dad has always had the willies about affection and hugging stuff. That's why he calls me Creep. It's his affectionate term for me. When I was little, and said, I love you, Daddy, he'd fidget and then, when I waited for an answer, say, I love you, too. Creep. I sicced the granddaughters on him as they came along. Michelle was Hot Dog; Rachel, Snickelfritz; and Bianca, Skiddlymooch. Dad gave hugging and close proximity a wide berth. Now I get my heels run over with the electric cart at WalMart, and I'm still working on getting all of them out of the 7x7 kitchen when I'm making dinner. Scott's got the refrigerator open into my back to get the milk. Dad's looking in the pot so closely, I have to change stirring hands. The dog's got his nose pressed to my pant leg. I need to outflank the invasion. Completely surrounded at the stove, listing over the sauteing onions, I pointed and yelled OUT at the dog. Everyone left. I have hope. Meanwhile, shopping for the new leather double recliner for Dad, I just shut my eyes when the salesman came jogging past me after Dad in the electric cart.

Sir, SIR, you're going to have to back that STRAIGHT out!