The Return To Rosemont, Part Two

The old man has been sighted. He was rinsing off his truck. Clad in a denim shirt, denim jeans, and white high-tops. With his white hair on top, he almost resembled a q-tip. A denim-shafted q-tip. So, in the wake of his vacation, he's starting to come around like the rest of us do by getting back to what he does best. Good for him.

He's probably noticed by now that I've started a little project in my own yard, which is about 50 yards away, if he can see that far. After two weeks of some of the strangest people stopping by to look at the house in between the old man and me... I decided that it's time to step up the privacy. So, I bought a 6x8' fence panel and some arborvitae from Lowes, my former employer. Good for me that I know the plant specialist, so I got 50% off of these fuckers. Right. So, everything is in place. I've measured and contemplated exactly how I want to block future scumbags from seeing and hearing what I do in my yard and on my patio, and vice versa. See, the house is in (or is it "under") foreclosure now, so that means that just about any fucking asshole with some drug money income can move in next door and fuck up this whole good thing I have going on here. But I'm missing a very key tool at the moment. A post hole digger. I've asked around... texting friends, asking in text-speak if they have a "p-hole digger," which I immediately realized was pretty funny because I was talking about p-holes. So, just for fun, when each person has replied "no, sorry" I've replied, "well, what about just a p-hole?" Hardy fucking harrrr. Now, my dad has chimed in because he found out about this blog through his fiancee. Hi Lisa! And yesterday he started to grill me... "Why don't you just give it some time and you'll meet this old man and blah blah blah blah....." And of course, "I bet HE has a post hole digger." Of course he does. But I don't want to use his. I doubt he wants me using his.  Lisa, if you're reading, please reiterate to my old man that I DON'T WANT TO KNOW HIM NOW!! I have way more fun imagining who he is and writing about it! He's a fucking Q-tip for God's sake!!!!

So, pretty soon the p-hole digger will come along and my privacy scheme will be complete. Those future motherfucking neighbor assholes with their clandestine activity can keep it on their side of the god damn fence. And they can leave my cat alone too. I'm preparing for the worst. And as I do, I realize how quickly a neighborhood can change. And it's a reality that my old man neighbor counterpart knows too well ever since I moved in. As for now, I'll continue to be the motherfucking neighbor asshole with my clandestine activities. Cheers!

Until next time...

The Return To Rosemont, Part One

Being the awesome homeowner I am, I just tracked mud all over my off-white carpet in order to fetch my computer. Yes. These things happen when an idea arrives and common sense is suspended. Happens all the time. Anyway, I had two good ideas for writing about the old man, so I'm doing a part one and two, you know, just to be cool like that.

Part One of "The Return to Rosemont"

I was somewhat glad to see the Subaru Outback drive up to the carport. All decked out with a luggage carrier or ski carrier, whatever the hell that thing is. Although I doubt the old man's knees are able to handle even the bunniest of slopes. He returned from vacation. And I haven't seen him out much. If he's like me, then he's a little depressed when he gets home from a good vacation. Back to the reality of daily life. Back to his little compound-fortress of a house. Back to a hellion for a neighbor. Back to Rosemont. God Bless America.

So, the old man isn't out these days. He's probably spending this time riding the couch, watching History Channel. I saw a pretty decent documentary on History Channel myself called "The Story of Us" ... all about the history of the United States. I angrily stopped watching it though when I realized that I had sat through a 10 minute segment about how big of an influence Bank of America was on our early days as a country. As it turns out, they were the main sponsor, and consequently hired the same producers/directors/etc. to create an historical ad that seamlessly fit in with the program itself. Puke. I hate advertising. Albeit clever, I still hate it. So, the old man watched a lot of BOA ads with a little bit of American History on the side. Good for him. He needs to get off his ass and water his patch of grass that he started. I kept up with mine, and it's doing fine. You GOTTA water it!

Not to be unsympathetic, because I know how bad it sucks to come home from vacation. Who doesn't? So I've gotten to thinking of just WHAT his vacation was and where he went. This is the best I can do. Florida. First of all, I'm sure he has plenty of friends already living out there retirement there. Second, staying in a friend's beach house is cheaper than renting a home or getting a hotel room. Third, golf. He seems like an asshole golfer. That's probably what the racks on his Subaru are for. Fourth, old people are thick-as-thieves! Ever been to Denny's at 4 in the afternoon? No? Well, don't! Old people, in their wisdom, naturally associate with all other old people. They've all been in a war, are members of AARP, complain a lot, and share the reality that most of the people they've ever known are now dead. Did I mention they despise the youth of America? Even the near-thirtysomethings that live next door that didn't quite seem to grow up the same way that THEY used to?  Hahah, keep in mind that I do not know this man. This is my imagination doing imationationalistic-isms because I'm just that bored at the moment.

So, the old man's vacation must have surely been a hoot. And now it's over. But the good thing is that he seems to be in decent health, what with all of his shirtless yardwork and snow-blowing he does, so he'll probably live to enjoy another Floridian vacation next summer. And with my vacation still a month away, I hope he wonders the same about me and why I won't be out tending to my yard like usual. The same shared depression of that which is coming home, back to reality, back to the same-old, and knowing that this year's vacation is gone.

...Until next time (and Part Two!)

Shirts

I was running through an alley and dove behind a parked car. I changed my clip and emerged, when I was shot *BAM* BAM* BAM* in the chest. I woke up in a panic. "I'm good," I thought. This was just another of many dreams I've had where I've been in the heat of a gunfight, and I always lose! Damnit. I always lose. So, I call it a dream because what young man doesn't want to have a simulated and seemingly-real gunfight and wake up completely healthy and bullet-hole-less? So I lost. No big deal. I always do in these dreams. But, like Neo, I rise up from the fatal shooting and continue...     Where is the old man in this? Well, in my dream, which is about as fantastic in the truest sense of the word (look up "fantastic," it's not just an interjection) as one could have, my chest was ripped! I'm talking about a "I just spent 40 hours a week in a gym with a personal trainer and doing P90x when I get home" kind of chest! Sadly, folks, I am not the owner of such a chest in real life. I look like a "stud" actor would have from one of those old ass movies from the 1940's. People were a lot more realistic in those days, weren't they? I bet the old man knows this. SO, I could really care less about looking "great," and therefore I have no problem working in my yard without a shirt. Hell, I'd do it in my underwear if the law would let me. But I've always done this. Mow the grass, but first, lose the shirt. Dig holes, but lose the shirt first. Water the grass, but first you gotta lose that shirt. You get the idea. I don't like to wear shirts. So, since the weather started to be accommodating to my likes, I've been in the yard almost every day pulling weeds, planting grass, mowing grass, playing guitar, drinking, and peeing. ALL without a shirt! C'est la vie!  So, about three weeks ago I noticed that the old man started going shirtless too! Of course I thought, "motherfucking copy-cat!"

Now, I don't know if you've ever heard of the "7 stages of loss" or whatever the hell it's called, but a similar version of this shit happened in my imagination. The first stage was anger. "Motherfucking copy-cat!!!" Which quickly turned into disgust. "He's got moobs! (man-boobs) Get him a manzier!" And then I remembered hearing that mimicry is the highest form of flattery. So I started to think, "Hey, that's awesome! He want's to be like me! You GO old man! You're only as old as you feel, so LOSE THAT FUCKING SHIRT!!!"  And then I started to get a little creative and maybe a little manipulative by thinking of other "young" things I could get this old guy to do just by modeling the behavior myself. Some of these things included (but not limited to): wearing a speedo, American flag Hammer-pants, knee-high striped tube socks, eyeball vodka shots, and lastly, jorts (jean shorts). However, it suddenly came to my attention that he already rocks the jorts on the regular. And so, in the last of these stages, I thought of this. I, Bonn, will copy one of his styles. I am cutting off a pair of jeans to make my own jorts. They're gonna be at least 2 inches above the knee. And this will be my belated Memorial Day salute to my old man neighbor that hates me (I assume he was in a war at some point). The next step will be to get some HD-vision sunglasses. Either way, he's in for some flattery. And the best part? We won't be wearing any stupid fucking shirts!!

Until next time...

M.I.A.

Wouldn't you know it? The days after my first post about the Old Man, and he's nowhere to be seen. Could it be the fact of life known as the ever-awaiting certainty of death? Nah, I think he's just on vacation. Good for him. I wish I were on vacation, but I'm still a month and a half away. So, there's not much current stuff to write about, so I thought I'd write a few of my observations from the past. One in particular. This past winter we had "Snowmageddon." Spellcheck tells me that "snowmageddon" is misspelled, and also "spellcheck," but that will change one day. So, we had two blizzards in one week. Blizzards are a lot of fun. They're one of my favorite natural phenomena to experience. But I'll be quite honest; two in one week was way too much fucking snow! Regardless, I prepared for the first one and had a bit of buyer's remorse when I got home to unload and realized how much food, booze, and cigarettes I'd bought. As usual, the luck of the Irish (? I have no idea if I'm Irish?) was with me and I was SET for two consecutive blizzards. So what does this have to do with the old man? Well, since I bought my house in November '09, I've accumulated a few things. A snow shovel, other shovels, a trowel, a garden hose, etc. Imagine a really old dude and the shit that he's probably got in his big shed. If you're thinking "snow-blower," you are correct! So, as the snow fell, I shoveled every hour or so, trying to keep my sidewalk clear in small increments as opposed to the back-breaking task of clearing a walkway covered in 3 feet of snow. Did I mention all of the booze I'd bought? Well, one can assume how long my "every hour clearing effort" went. I quit, and subsequently woke up sometime mid afternoon to a perfectly chiseled walkway. The culprit? My old man neighbor. I didn't know this at the time. I walked through the neighborhood later that day, screwdriver in hand (of the oj variety), looking for someone with a snowblower that I could thank. With no luck of the Irish this time, but who cared? My work had been done for me, leaving me lots of time to play hockey in my basement.

Days passed. The second blizzard hit. And it happened. I witnessed the old man clearing my sidewalk with his snowblower. This was a great opportunity to thank him and introduce myself. I walked out towards him and with a wave and a loud "hello!" he turned and headed back towards his house. I shouted at him. "THANK YOU!!!!" While shaking my fist at the heavens above.

The man saved me a lot of blood, sweat, and probably spinal column injury. And he was either being an asshole or Christ-like by doing something nice, and then not receiving the thank you he deserved. Either way, I had a good idea that day that this man has a good heart that, in times of natural disaster, outweigh his deep hatred for the bastardly new neighbor.

Until next time...