August 24, 1995 (#4) (and before ...)

Summertime lifts me so. My shifts billowing in the hot desert breeze during the day and then searching through my closet for the appropriate wrap for those cool evenings. I just can't think of when I have been happier. Mostly.

The home sweet home is possibly on the verge of collapse. My new best friend, Amy, the new handsome woman from a few trailers over, has been over constantly to comfort me and to check on that leak from the shower. She is very handy to have around this Amy, I really don't know what I could do without her presence. I have so few FRIENDS! [Yes this is directed at you, Aquanetta di Seraglio, Lady Constance de Massengill AND Lady Creme Brulee (without accent because I am so angry), calling cards yes, but my lovely royalties, you simply must "me rendre visite" or at least tasty news)

But I am getting ahead of myself, so like me. My lovely little palazzo park is, of late, under the scourge of my un-named neighbors, Jack and Mary. They seem to be having a domestic problem which has become quite public. While they would have you think it is some grand affair, it really seems quite tawdry. AND, horror of horros, my new sweet protectorate, Amy, has been rudely drawn into the whole canataloupe.

My dear jarring journal, I must not forget to mention that despite the small terse notes left by those mentioned hitherto above, I have received lovely thoughtful and sincere outpouring of souls from the usual, though never banal, crowd.

The old dried up oversexed man who tries to claim my heart with enticements from back east, Mr. Jewel, writes again of his dramatic adventures, although a bit dated. He saw Mr. Nathan Lane in "Love! Valour! Compassion!" and writes as this was new news? Monsieur Lane has been replaced! Of this many were aware, but it is so good to hear the old tales told by my Jewel.

That child who bewitches me to my toe rings with her verse has penned a hommage to Chelsea. Sage, continues to twist my perception of life into a kaleidescope of being and love. While at first I had my reservations about this unsolicited poetry thing, so East Village, and I, my tiny cheremoyas, have left that all behind, for now. But Sage, Sage, Sage, you have captured the girl in me and that is remarkable, for many reasons none of which are anyone's business.

And Joey Palermo stood up by a woman, unfeeling little tramp. They were just friends, but how could she do that to him. Joe, you are simply too trusting and nice. You must remove her from coterie immediately. When will you learn, women can be utter scamps when it comes to platonic relationships. What am I saying, I can be an utter scamp when it comes to relationships. Joe what I am trying to say is, be careful but take risks. For the sake of the humans everywhere.

Well, my small breadfruits, my vulnerable little Joe in a rash manner of complete avoidance writes to me of volleyball. After this heartless thing trivializes his loyalty for some connection with her boyriend or what-not, he drowns his sorrows in other men's sweat. My little Joey, growing up so fast.

Zach. He has gone completely mad. Utterly and stark raving. Yet, in his insanity, one can see the light of culinary genius, if only the health department doesn't catch up. It was the mushrooms, my dear, check your genus! By the way, dear, have you met Sage?

Well with all of these letters and other daily tasks to occupy myself, you would think that I would be impervious to the petty ramblings of my don't-they-wish-they-been-somebody- even-though-they-think-they-are neighbors.

The story goes, as well as I can remember it after having told it maybe a scant 500 times, is that one night Jack was out walking their sweet little overgrown tick that has a small dog attached to it, and Mary went out for a breath on her own. I had been over earlier, charity visit of course, and as nearly as I can remember someone got out a twister game with a pitcher of Harvey Wallbangers (that's a drink with alcohol in it, my sweet vapid XXX generation). At some point, I think left foot red, I left in order to keep what was left of my dignity intact, along with my girdle.

So, when the remaining ruffians cleared out, Jack was off with the "piddler" and Mary, feeling "wallbanged", opened the aluminum screen door (an extra option on their model) and was off in another direction.

Now, no one knows whether she purpose went to Amy's or whether her heel broke off in front of Amy's and she required assistance at that moment. Any-who, up she goes to the trailer door (heart beating? or simply limping?) and because of her condition, forgets to knock and simply lets herself in. Now, Jack and Mary and Amy have been quite a threesome up to this point. In fact, their closeness caused me a mere nod of concern, so to practically burst in was simply not unusual.

The sauce thickens.

At the same time, Amy was just emerging from the salon and looked up to see Mary, somewhat disheveled entering the side door. Upon seeing her stalwart friend, Mary burst into tears, about this and that and I really don't have time for her ramblings. Then, from the bedroom came a migraine-inducing yap from the horrible little "tick" and Mary spied the creature's leash on the counter.

She ran from the trailer, I passed out again, and when I came too the whole park was involved in the extremely loud discussion from next door. Jack and Mary don't seem to be speaking. Amy is very confused by the whole thing. Poor dear, she can't understand how the thing and its restraint entered her domicile. Mary has assumed the worst, and Jack won't speak to anyone. Worst of all, Amy is burdened with the care and feeding of that matted hairball.

However, Amy, Jack, Mary and I still manage to eke out a civilized cocktail hour around 5:30 every evening. I am hoping to negotiate a settlement where Amy is allowed to return the "incident" to its deserving progenitors. Lancelot has other ideas.

I'm sure that peace will soon return to Jack and Mary's trailer,
along with the piddler
Trudy.