Barking Dogs

So here's my story.
I found the house of my dreams, at the time, on a suburban street 29 miles from San Francisco. It had been owned only twice before, the original owner having sold the previous year to the current owner, who was selling to me. The little angels had to fly back up to heaven, or Portland, as the family was about to be re-blessed and there was not enough bedspace nor plumbing in the current home for a fifth child. So blessed, so young.

Soon thereafter, my realtor showed me a multi-family residential rental property which taught me the phrase "deferred maintenance" as a preferred alternative to total neglect, and I bought it at a very good price.

Upon taking possession of the multi-family property, I introduced myself to the tenants. I felt it important to be up-front with them, answer any questions, and update their leases. Some terms were going to change, and they needed proper notification.

There was a long-term tenant who was getting a rent reduction in exchange for her services as "Resident Property Manager." For the previous two years, she had been simultaneously receiving a salary and an apartment gratis at another complex across town, and was sub-letting to her daughter and roommates. The same woman had lived with her husband and small daughter at the end of the street where I live. She had fled an abusive relationship with a physically violent man to live in the multi-family property that I bought. There is another tenant in the property, who has lived at this address for many years. She moved in as a single mom with two teenage sons. She grew up on this street, in the house next door to that of the woman who fled the abusive husband. Oh, and the daughter of the Property Manager who as a small girl had fled an abusive home life at the end of this street had a roommate - a hunky young guy named "Yogi" - whose family lives in the next house down.

When the apartment occupied by the daughter and her friends, including Yogi, was flooded out that first winter of my management, when the gypsy roofer's hired hands stripped off the existing membrane too early on the Sunday January morning on which record rains fell to please the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, whose only crime was to blanch all of the metal fixtures with pure bleach. She once wept to me in the laundry room about having caught the husband in flagrante delicto. She had thrown him out and now was worried about how she would make ends meet. Perhaps she had been hoping I was wanting her, and would jump at the chance to take care of her rent, but when I only offered to waive the late fee she reconciled with the guy and I became the cunt of all time.

The gypsy roofer tore off the old roof early one Sunday morning in January and awakened the agoraphobic insomniac in the next apartment, who telephoned me. Her message was brought to me in a conference room at the hotel in which I ultimately housed the tenants displaced by the flooding. I was teaching the first and penultimate seminar produced as an independent training provider. I had initially offered them a motel room around the corner from the apartment, but the girl insisted on something nicer, so I put them up at their preferred lodging and they stiffed me on a fifty-dollar phone bill. I imagine the girl's teary two-hour bubble bath as she recounted her ordeal on the phone to her mother, who at the time was struggling through her own latest round of re-hab.
As for my immediate neighbors on the block, my neighbors on all four sides came with the house. The Western neighbor introduced herself and her family with the distinction that they had once lived in a "really nice neighborhood" before a physical disability had prevented her husband from continuing his work as an instructor at a Tractor Trailor Driving Academy. They were forced to economize, and sold the mansion to move into this dump.
The neighbor to the East is a delightful woman of a certain age who enjoys travel, gardening, good music, good food, and the company of good friends. She has told me stories of our street, as humorous anectdotes, such as the funny time the kid down the block who was a notorious stoner drove his car into her tree, and later died of a drug overdose...this was apparently one of the sons of the single mother who is still my tenant in the multi-family property.
The houses clustered at the end of the cul-de-sac, where this drama continues, are time-worn little sad shacks. Some attempts to dramatically alter the original intent of the tract design with synthetic horizontal siding, pastel hues, and exotic garden statuary offer bleak hope beside rotting husks and thistled greenery.

The Strange Loves of Varla Jean Merman

Varla Jean Merman Loves a Foreign Tongue! is filled with love and laughter, delivered at the tender hands of the superbly talented Jeffery Roberson as the eponomous Varla Jean Merman.
The surprises included an intimate dance number featuring conjoined twins exchanging deep-tongued kisses, the head of Joni Mitchell and a new installment of the ever popular, "Don't Eat Out, Varla Jean!" series. (the first episode featured Sal Minelli, a very raw chicken whose bacteria drove it to mean ends)
As she takes us on a trip around the world, Varla Jean reminds us that it is filled with wonder.
Hurry, while there's still time, to book tickets for Varla Jean Merman's upcoming engagement at a chic, upscale venue near you! (http://www.varlaonline.com/upcoming.html)

It's a triumph of a show that could only be overwhelmed by the closing of another cabaret icon.
The Plush Room survived prohibition, Charles Pierce, Lypsinka, and Lainie Kazan, but they were only talented bumps in the road of entertainment that lead, ultimately, to Jeffery Roberson and Jacques Lamarre's outrageously entertaining and engagingly integrated evening of multimedia cabaret performance.

The intimacy of the Plush Room complements the depth of Varla's turn of phrase, as the audience leans in to relish every somewhat sibilant syllable.

Our all-encompassing beneficent memory about this much-loved venue is crowned by Jeffery Roberson's Varla Jean giving us a feast of foreign flavors.

There were no programs handed out on opening night, but Varla Jean's website lists the credits. Mark Cortale, the silver-throated tenor who can fit in my pocket any time, treated us to a romantic duet with Miss Merman.

Fans of Varla Jean Merman will go wild for this new show. Newcomers who are lucky enough to have friends who are already fans and who bought them tickets in advance will be new fans. Those who only just heard about Varla Jean Merman, check for an upcoming performance at a chic transformational venue near you.

Needs More Pugs

How I Love my Roofer

Liam is one of the most handsome men I have ever met.
His are deep blue eyes, dark hair, and clear skin bronzed from working in the sun. He’s so impeccably attractive that just a flash of that brilliant smile is enough to convince you that you never, ever, would willingly forget the impression you had had from just that congenial shared moment. You want this man to live a long and healthy life, bringing forth generations of beautiful, healthy people with a lovely, sensitive wife with whom he shares a special and everlasting bond.
Liam installed a “Dur-O-Last” roof on my home. The roofing material is sheet goods consisting of two layers of polyvinyl chloride overlaying a fiberglass mesh. Liam spec’ed the roof and ordered pre-sized sheets from the factory, which he and his crew assembled and seamed using a heat gun to melt the edges of PVC sheeting together.
Liam has twice been hospitalized for treatment of a cerebral tumor. He is newly wed to a beautiful young gal with whom he has one child, who is perfect in every way except she will grow up without her father.

Pug Pillows

My Lulu squirmed her way onto the couch, into the cushions, reveling in the warmth. Before we could snuggle, however, a horse appeared on the tv and she flew away.

Isabella is very good company on a chilly night. She is always ready for a good warming cuddle. She is a wonderful, loving presence in my lap.

As I was pondering Heather's loss and the experiences she and Ruby must be having with the new girl in town, and remembering that Heather and I agree that it is important for dogs to "say" (or sniff?) goodbye to a fallen packmate, I wondered whether Heather had kept Lulu, or buried her, or burned her body.

Cremation seems so wasteful, don't you think? Such a beautiful creature who lived her life in love and luxury would make an incredible plush toy! We could sew one of those cans that low like a cow, so that she could grumble with realism whenever Heather gives her little body a good rocking.

My favorite plush toy was a stuffed koala bear. Its fur was so soft, and snuggly, I would feel safe in my bed at night only I clutched my teddy bear tightly.

Doesn't it make sense that, instead of ditching the livestock just as it's ready to start paying off, we make a few adjustments to raise the value?

All pugs will eventually slip into uncomfortable old age, and no matter how dearly we care for them they will, one day, die. Just when we come to believe that we would find life unbearable without them, they are gone.

Or...are they?

Why stress out yourself, your relationship, your home, by introducing a new animal? Your pug hadn't peed the carpet since you'd last had the floors done over...why chance it? You had to move all the furniture, and the dust was everywhere, and there was no place to sit down for weeks.

Oh, Susan.

We could sew an optional heating pad under the skin. (Oh, you do know how to sew, don't you?) and conceal the plug, well, it should be obvious.

Or, heck, in a few more years if Heather saves all of the skins, she'll have a uniquely marvelous coat or bead throw.

MMMMmmmm.

I wish I had a nice Francesca and Bessie Boo blanket to cuddle under right now.

I'd settle for a nice pair of boxer gloves.

Sucking Oxygen

Tonight's program was focused on an all-live, all-drag re-enactment of two classic "Golden Girls" episodes, complete with period-specific advertisements to which we all knew all of the words, and sang along together happily, in the dark.

Then...Dorothy snapped.

"Would you please stop talking?" she commanded across the footlights.

There were some cute guys jostling each other and enjoying the show, perhaps a bit too boisterously, who were shushed by the sound/light guy (bearded, with a silver ring through his nose) only moments before Dorothy's big break.

I was sitting in the very back of the room, so there was nobody behind me to worry about. I had a terrific vantage point to see everything on stage. The lighting was adequate (we could use a special wash dr3 when the boyfriend sticks his head in the door) and the setting conveyed the reliable feeling of the living room, kitchen, and soup kitchen where the sitcom characters sat.

Jordan's "Rose" was vapid and succulent. Where the traditional Rose is unfailingly blind to any sort of innuendo in her phraseology, Jordan's gal has always got the engine idling, just beneath the surface.

Matthew Martin as the mother of the bride - the bride being her beloved baby brother who has finally come out and decided to bring his boyfriend home to meet the family - stole my heart. Every moment of Matthew's performance is as nuanced and delicate as the original, and it would take you more moments than you have remaining in a lifetime to watch all of the originals, so here you have him. He's an original! I guarantee he will be original to you!

Oh, so who did I forget to mention? Only Mike Finn, who has been "in" the show business since he was a small child. The only opportunity I had previously to watch Finn perform was an early audience at "TROG!" Well, I will now say for the record that I am a fan of Mike's work. He absolutely pays attention to what his character is experiencing throughout a scene, and so he works through the character's interaction with the other characters and surroundings to keep each moment fresh and rewarding in its discovery.

While I'm in context, I should feel safe in agreeing that Mike Finn is a lovely guy, and much, MUCH deeper than he lets on, both because I believe these things to be true about Mike Finn but also because Connie says such horrible, hateful things about Mike.

I passed a delivery truck. On the side of the truck was painted "Popkoff's Frozen Foods" and a portrait of a smiling chef, with a broad face and a slim moustache, proffering a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Could it be...Blanche?

Anyway, back to the oxygen being sucked out of the room...

The sound/light guy shushed the cute guys in the middle, and then moments later Heklina turned and made her request of a sweet young couple who, I then realized, must have been commenting to each other back and forth during the performance although from a distance of ten feet directly behind them I hadn't noticed they had been talking until Hek drew my attention to it by asking them to stop talking.

Ouch.

What is it about that corn?

I thought you should know.