September 8, 2002
Neighbors Suck

I won't even pretend any more: I guess I am just going to keep writing these damn columns, whenever something makes my blood boil enough. Any doubt that I was a full-on columnist for this strange little web site was dashed when Jeff Somers informed me today that his web logs show that "Avril Lavigne Sucks" (the title of my last column) is now the number one keyword driving search engine traffic to innerswine.com. It's even beating out long-time champ "Dana Plato Nude" as the number one phrase typed into Google that brings people here. When you're in the zetgeist like that, you can't quit. You have to keep on bitching, because obviously people are bitching with you.

But Avril is no longer bugging me as much as she had been, because she shows every sign of slipping quietly into the

I imagine Jeff Somers, after steadily cheaper wine rots out his teeth in a few years, will become one of these Half-Supers.

night like so many others before her, from Martika to Tiffany. Here's my prediction for her: Two years from now she comes back with a whole new look and sound, claiming that she's grown up and that the new album represents the real her. And then she will sink without a trace, never to be heard from again. So, enough of Avril. I no longer hear the damn song on the radio daily, so let her drift.

What I'm wondering about today is, why does every neighborhood in the world have at least one insane person living there?

It's verifiable: there's always one. In my short life I've had

1. the old Italian man who used to laugh heartily as he cut up all the tennis balls we lost over his fence with a pocket knife while we watched in impotent horror 2. Mr. Clean, who spent his entire retirement scrubbing our neighborhood clean of dirt, muttering to himself and glaring, it seemed, directly at me 3. The fat lady upstairs from me who always wanted me to watch her dirty snotty kids so she could go get liquor from the store 4. The hillbilly-like clan who spent all day every day seated on lawn chairs out on their cement porch, watching the rest of us as if we were some sort of really, really reality show; 5. And now, the Super of my building.

The Super is actually one of those half-Superintendents, someone who gets a break in their rent in return for living in the crappiest apartment in the building and agreeing to handle a few of the basic services required: making sure garbage and recyclables are handled, package acceptance for the other tenants, and basic tending of the grounds. They aren't real Supers in the sense that they really aren't responsible for any repairs or anything, really, aside from what I've just outlined. It's a pretty good gig if you've got nothing better to do and need to cut expenses. Unfortunately, that sort of job description tends to attract people like my Half-Super: drunken weirdos. I imagine Jeff Somers, after steadily cheaper wine rots out his teeth in a few years, will become one of these Half-Supers.

My Half Super shuffles about and seems to discharge the light duties of their office well enough, but she likes to get her drink on and shout. A lot. About nothing anyone can comprehend. It's kind of disturbing, at first, and slowly becomes amusing. It would be worse, of course, if she were shouting death threats or plans to burn the building down, or things she could only know if she was reading your mail regularly. As a matter of fact, that might be what she's shouting–no one can make it out. As far as human science can tell, she's just wailing animalistically. I think I should consider myself lucky, this time. When I move I'll get a new edition of the sucky neighbor, and maybe they'll be worse.

This doesn't even scratch the surface of why neighbors suck. Stolen mail, bad parking jobs, loud talking right under your window–the world would be a better place if there weren't so many of us. And, of course, there are good neighbors, too. Writing about the good neighbors isn't as much fun, though, and would probably be censored from this web site. Most of my fellow human beings are really nice and wonderful people. It's just amazing how in any sampling of a one-block section of any city in the world, there will be one certifiable wacko waiting for you.

Oh well, I'm exhausted. I doubt this one will get as many hits as Avril Lavigne got me. If you came here and have something to say, feel free to send me an email.

Tim