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Archive for March, 2011

I am not, nor have I ever been, a girly girl. The closest I ever came was a weird era in the late ’80s where I insisted on wearing skirts and dresses all the time while climbing trees. I’m not sure why I thought this was a good idea as it resulted in many ripped outfits or my ass hanging out half the time, but I guess as a five-year-old, I wasn’t that concerned about wardrobe destruction or panty-flashing.

Anyway, one of the few offerings I made to the altar of estrogen growing up was being a pretty avid fan of the Sweet Valley series. I’ve mentioned this before, but I followed those Wakefield twins through thick and thin. Grade School (Sweet Valley Kids), Middle School (Sweet Valley Twins), High School (Sweet Valley High) and Post-Secondary (Sweet Valley University), we went through many years together. Common sense and continuity be damned! The Wakefield girls were my girls . . . And man, were they ever mean girls sometimes! I’ve only realized this more as an adult, but what sanctimonious little pricks they were to some of their friends. I mean Lila was generally thought of as “the group bitch”, but she was the respectable kind of bitch. In that way, she was kind of like Sweet Valley‘s own James Spader. She didn’t hide the fact that she was an asshole under a bunch of bumbling and cutesy gestures ANDREW MCCARTHY– she owned it and you knew what you were getting with her.

Anyway, my lovely and much more girly sister-in-law reminded me of the series again this morning when she posted a link on my Facebook wall to an interview with Francine Pascal (the all-knowing creator god of the Sweet Valley Universe) who was talking about this . . .

*And the angelic choir sang the praises of the Wakefield clan*

I wasn’t that excited about it because this book is practically Sweet Valley folk lore at this point. There has been talk time and time again that there was going to be a book following the Wakefields & their plucky pals post-grad, but the reports were always riddled with errors and the release date of the book was never firm, so I was sceptical the thing would ever see the light of day.

Until, apparently, now because, unbeknowst to me, the book was released yesterday and my nearby bookstore has 43 copies of it! Hells ya!

So needless to say, I will be heading over to the bookstore at lunch because Sweet Valley, she is my lady crack**. I am so addicted to the ridiculous, manufactured drama of it that I need . . . nay, have to read what happens to those blonde bitches next! Woot! So excited! Trashy book, here I come!

(A reading and a detailed recap will be coming shortly.)

*And something that I didn’t mention in my Andrew McCarthy Sucks! post but that I should have was that, when Andie and Blaine (blech!) finally get back together and kiss and whatever, they’re in like an alley or a parking lot or whatever with none of his stupid jerk friends around so he’s still ashamed of her! Pretty easy to deliver big speeches about how much integrity you have when you don’t actually have to have any balls to back it up, eh Blaine? At least Danny Zuko who, don’t get me wrong, I also have problems with danced with Sandy in front of everyone at the carnival thingy! Bah! HATE!
**You know, I just realized that by calling a post “Lady Crack,” I am probably opening my blog up to a bunch of really unsavoury blog search terms but my brain is so clouded with happy ridiculous thoughts that I don’t care. Sorry, perverts!

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Bitch Guilt

I’m embedding The Dandy Warhols’ “We Used To Be Friends” into this post because it relates to the topic and is one of my favourite Dandy Warhol songs.

I got into a conversation with a couple of my girlfriends today and it really got me thinking . . .

So I have this Dude Friend who I’ve been friends with since my early 20s. He is a nice guy. Sort of.

Our history is a bit weird. Way back when we first started being friends, I developed a crush on him. He did not seem into me and so we were purely platonic. We’d hang out, have fun and then go our separate ways. There were approximately three times we could have hooked up, but at the end of the day, nothing romantic ever happened. I have never been able to maintain friendships with anyone I’ve had a romantic relationship with, and I wasn’t in a very relationship-y place at the time, so I considered this a good thing. I mean why mess up our awesome friendship over sex?

So six months after I get married to the ever fantastic Boy, I run into DF at a bar. He has been drinking for some time and is happy to see me. However, when it is time for me to go, he hugs me very low around the waist and then starts bringing up what I will for the sake of brevity refer to as “Possible Romantic Exploit #2”. I feel a bit uncomfortable, but I don’t want to make a scene, so I smile and leave. The next day, I go to talk to him about it, but before I can tackle to subject, he starts talking about how drunk he was and how last night was so crazy etc. So I drop it.

For a while after that, we have a variety of encounters in group situations where he doesn’t really talk to me all that much. Things are awkward, but okay – sometimes we do stupid things in front of other people and we feel silly for it. It is not the end of the world.

Then, a few months pass and it’s Boy’s birthday. About 15 minutes after I post something on Facebook wishing my spouse a happy birthday, I get an update that this dude has sent me a message. When I check Facebook, there is no message there, but in my e-mail account, I find an e-mail containing a message from him that is mildly derogatory towards me. It’s not the most awful thing anyone has ever said to me by far, but it just seems a bit weird and not really within the spirit of our friendship. I don’t really know what to do, so I forward the e-mail update back to him to let him know that, even if he thought better of it later and deleted it, I still got his message. I also make a little joke about the message, like “haha, very funny!” to show that it doesn’t really bother me and that it’s not a big deal.

A little while after that, I hear we’re headed to the same concert. We cross paths and I mention that it’ll be fun to hang out if he’s at the same show. He responds enthusiastically and I think that maybe we’ll be able to talk or something and get on the same page. Except when I see him, all I get from him is a freeze out. He’ll talk to me if I talk to him, but otherwise, nothing.

So here’s the thing: this dude hasn’t been acting like much of a friend for a while now and I have yet to really, properly call him on it. You want to know why? Bitch Guilt. As much as there’s history and feelings and mutual friends and all sorts of other pedantic bull$h!t, the thing that secretly worries me the most is him thinking I’m a bitch and then telling other people what a bitch I am.

I know. I am like the worst feminist ever, but I can’t help it. It bothers me. It bothers me that people could think less of me and, even worse than that, it bothers me that it bothers me that people could think less of me. Like, why do I care what other people think of me? And if they think bad things after hearing that, it would be on the basis of what? Some dude I didn’t sleep with feeling spurned because we’re “just friends”? And I mean, are we really even friends at this point? Do friends mess with friends that are in relationships? Do friends slag other friends? Do friends freeze friends out? Do friends make friends cry because of how miserable and alienated they feel after hanging out? No they don’t . . . or at least they shouldn’t because that is MESSED UP.

And Bitch Guilt is messed up. That stupid word, “bitch,” holds so much power sometimes. If men stand up for themselves, they get to be called things like “brave” and “assertive” but if you’re a woman doing the same thing, the word “bitch” is rolling off people’s tongues before you can even catch your breath. So, to keep from being called a “bitch,” we women do all sorts of things. We pretend that things don’t bother us. We make stupid jokes. We swallow down derogatory words from others. All because we don’t want to seem like we’re “emotional.” Like we’re “humourless.” Like we’re “BITCHy.” And the kicker of it is, the people who are going to say those things about us, who want to say those things about us, are going to say them anyway. Because that’s what they do. Because nothing is ever their fault. Because they’re surrounded by “bitches”.

I have no idea what is going to happen in our relationship. I know he can be a decent guy, so maybe we’ll work things out eventually and become friends again . . . or maybe we’re just destined to emplode in some sort of messy show of histrionics and hormones. At this point, I don’t know and with every day that passes, I’m inching closer and closer to thinking it would just be better to excise him from my life all together. Out of all of this, the only thing I do know is that, just like no one can make you feel inferior without your permission, I’ve got to teach myself that no one can make you feel like a bitch without your permission and get the hell over this Bitch Guilt.

Has anyone else out there in the interwebs experienced “Bitch Guilt”? What was the situation and how did you deal with it?

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I haven’t done one of these in a while, but after watching a very special movie last week, I was inspired to return to movie recapping.

So without further ado, may I present to you: The Edge (1997) a.k.a. Jack Donaghy and Hannibal Lecter fight a bear!

I love the blurred texture of this poster, as though they're going at some supersonic action movie speed. Amazing.

I know, I know. It’s not a conventional choice. My other picks were really actiony or campy and perhaps lent themselves to an easier skewering, but the thing about this movie is, while it is actually not poorly written (by David Mamet) and it is reasonably interesting to watch, there are parts of it that make me question its logic so hard, I thought it might be an interesting thing to dissect.

So back to The Edge. Anthony Hopkins plays a silver-haired billionaire named Charles Morse, but for the purposes of this recap, we’re calling him Hannibal. Hannibal is married to Elle Macpherson who, playing against type, is a model. Her character’s called Mickey, I guess to conjure up an image of youthful spunkiness, but since we don’t really see her do much of anything, it doesn’t really matter. The main thing we learn about their relationship is that Hannibal is old and Elle Mickeypherson is young and hot. That is it. I was always kind of hoping that we’d get a little more insight into how they got together or even worked together as a couple, but it never happens. They have no relationship chemistry at all and instead, Elle Mickeypherson treats him like her favourite grandpa . . . which is why Alec Baldwin is kind of a problem.

Alec Baldwin plays a character named Bob Green, but we’re calling him Jack. Now, please keep in mind that this movie was filmed long, long ago in the 1990s, back when “Being A Baldwin” still meant something. Granted, this movie was shot in the later ’90s, so by this point Baldwin’s appearance was kind of halfway between his young skinnypants Beetlejuice self and his latter day elder statesman of Thursday night television self (suck on that, Chevy Chase!), but he was still rocking the slicked hair and the steely gaze, so he’s a formidable opponent to Hannibal’s old codger.

1990s Alec Baldwin - Not as dumb as Stephen, not as dumpy as Daniel.

You see, “Jack” is a famous fashion photographer who is traveling with Mickeypherson, Hannibal and a bunch of stock artsy characters up to Alaska to shoot Mickeypherson against an Alaskan backdrop for some reason. What the photo shoot is for is never really made clear, but it is a grandiose show of Culture Misappropriation with Mickeypherson dressing up like a sexy Indian and posing on a dock in front of a lake. While they are shooting, Jack gets frustrated with the quality of his pictures and so he talks to the Wizened Old Scarface Innkeeper who shows him a picture of a real Indian who lives nearby. Jack is suddenly inspired by this and wants to make a jaunt out to whatever remote part of the Alaskan forest the Indian dude lives in to take pictures of him instead of Mickeypherson. Again, this brings up the question of what magazine this shoot is actually for? I think if FHM or Stuff magazine sent you on an expensive trip out into the wilderness to take pictures of a bikini babe and then you came back with pictures of a hard living old Indian dude, you’d have some explaining to do.

Pampered rich white ladies pretending to be ethnic is SO in right now.

In any case, Jack somehow convinces Hannibal to come along with him and a small crew to find the real Indian dude. All the while, Hannibal has been reading an Outdoor Adventuring book given to him by his assistant, so I suppose, feeling the need for some adventure, he joins Jack and his assistant (played by Harold Perrineau a.k.a. Mercutio) on a rinky-dink plane to go find Jack’s weathered old muse. Jack makes a point of assuring everyone that they will be right back which is how you know they are totally screwed. Have you ever watched a movie where a character saying “I’ll be right back” hasn’t led to their certain doom? Me neither.

Anyway, when they get to the guy’s rustic little cabin, there is a note pinned to the door saying he’s “Gone Fishin’” (or “Huntin’” as it were), so the team re-boards their plane and takes to the skies once more.

However, while they are in the air and chatting away, Jack makes a poorly timed joke about how he thinks Hannibal’s wife is cute. As Hannibal was already feeling a bit spiky/suspicious about Jack’s relationship with Mickeypherson, this leads him to respond with “So, how do you plan to kill me?” And pretty much immediately, the plane is downed by a flock of birds.

Stupid The Edge pilot! Captain Chesley "Sully" Sullenberg would NEVER have let this happen!

Again, I have questions:

1)      Are birds not visible to pilots unless they are being sucked up into their Cessna engines?
2)      Would that line of dialogue actually be said by a real human being who wasn’t:
a) a huge drama queen? Or b) in an action movie? Because it doesn’t even seem real.
3)      Have none of these people ever heard of the word “divorce”? Because chances are, you’d still get money and things could be a lot less murdery. Just an idea!

So, temped by fate, the plane has crashed and is rapidly sinking into the Alaskan lake. Jack swims to safety while Hannibal uses his trusty hunting knife to cut Mercutio free of his seatbelt and rescue him. The pilot sadly receives no such help as he was done in by the duck that came crashing through his windshield. Poor, poor expendable pilot.

Once Jack, Hannibal and Mercutio make it to shore, they all take a moment to freak out about what just happened. I have to say, they recover from the trauma of just surviving a plane crash pretty well as they all seem to be pretty together within about 5 minutes. If it were me, I would be chanting “Holy $h!t” and rocking in the fetal position for the next two years. But, I guess you’ve got to focus on the task at hand, which for these guys is not freezing their asses off in the Alaskan wilderness since they are all wet and only wearing light polar fleece jackets for warmth. Jack has matches but they don’t work, so he instead opts to start a fire with one of their conveniently saved-from-the-plane rescue flares. So, one problem solved!

The next day, Hannibal take a paperclip off a bundle of papers he’d been keeping in his pocket, magnetizes it on his silk shirt and makes a makeshift compass with it in a tree stump. The men resolve to start walking back in the direction they came from when they encounter . . . *dun dun dun* a giant Kodiak bear! You see Wizened Old Scarface Innkeeper had previously warned them about bears, but none of them could have imagined his warning was actually an important piece of exposition.

I know, right?!

It is at this stage of the review that I would like to point out that THE EVIL BEAR was played by famous bear actor Bart the Bear who basically played “The Bear” in every movie that needed a bear from 1977 until his death in 2000 from cancer. Watching this movie in particular reminded me of how typecast poor Bart was. I mean who wants to constantly play “The Bear” in everything? I’ll bet he was just yearning to play a goldfish or Jean Val Jean or something. He could have become a famous Academy Award winner! . . . and then followed up his big screen tour de force with a movie in which he wore a fat suit. *sigh* Bears can dream, can’t they?

In any case, getting back on track after that detour into animal acting, THE EVIL BEAR, having locked onto their scent then starts chasing them through the forest. To get away, the men push over a tree and create a single log bridge across a rushing stream to supposedly make a quicker getaway, but truth be told, they seem to kind of be taking their time considering there is a two tonne man destroyer on their tail. For some reason, Mercutio hasn’t caught onto the fact that he is merely a Red Shirt in this whole wilderness adventure so he crosses the bridge with Jack and Hannibal is left trailing behind them. I guess this is done for dramatic effect, but when it comes to celebrity hierarchy, everyone knows that Anthony Hopkins trumps a dude from LOST any day of the week.

Instead of crotch scooching across the log like a sane person, Hannibal decides to tightrope walk across the log bridge, only to have THE EVIL BEAR jump up and down on the end of the log, making him drop the bag of flares and nearly drown in the rushing water below. Smooth moves, Hannibal! Thankfully, just in the nick of time, Jack grabs his hand and pulls him to shore, saving him from a watery grave. Isn’t that swell of him? You should let him sleep with your wife, Hannibal . . . if he hasn’t already (SPOILER ALERT!)

Scary bears, are watching you, watching your every move!

Once they are free of THE EVIL BEAR – because in this version of reality, bears don’t like water – Mercutio, like any normal person, starts spiraling into a state of panic again. It’s not exactly a Bill Paxton in Aliens kind of spazfest, but he’s pretty scared, so Hannibal decided to distract him with busy work and gives him a knife and a stick to make a spear. Unfortunately, instead of making a spear, Mercutio promptly stabs himself in the leg and starts bleeding all over the place. Hannibal uses some cloth to make a bandage/tourniquet like the elderly boy scout he is and then hands some of the blood soaked strips to Jack, telling him to bury or burn them so as not to attract the attention of THE EVIL BEAR. However, Jack instead takes this instruction to mean “hang the soiled bandages on the branches of trees downwind of our fire so that THE EVIL BEAR can smell Mercutio’s flamebroiled goodness” like a goddang twat. You know, Alec Baldwin, it’s a good thing you were pretty because you sure are dumb. So, since this movie barely lets five minutes elapse between dramatic foreshadowing statement and sudden doom, no sooner has Hannibal discovered the bandages in the trees does poor Mercutio get his ass mauled to death by THE EVIL BEAR. Alas, poor Mercutio, we hardly knew yea!

Oh Harold Perrineau, will you ever not die?

With Mercutio dispatched, that just leaves Hannibal and Jack, our two intrepid adventurers left to go. The pair decide to stay on the move and make a trap to capture a squirrel for some good eatin’. They rig up a variation of the old “baited box on a string” trap and are deliriously happy when they catch a cute piece of fluffy-tailed prey. Sadly, their jubilation is cut short when they realize THE EVIL BEAR has caught their scent again and is stalking them through the woods once more. That was really fast. I would have thought good ol’ Mercutio would have provided him with at least two days worth of eats, but maybe THE EVIL BEAR was more in the mood for some supple Baldwin beef . . . just like Hannibal’s wife (SPOILER ALERT AGAIN! Damn, I’m really bad at this today!)

In a feeble attempt to ward off the bear, Hannibal and Jack take sticks from the fire and “randomly” throw them around their camp spot to form a perfectly symmetrical circle barrier that THE EVIL BEAR cannot hope to penetrate (unlike Hannibal’s wife who . . . yes, I’m sorry, I’ll stop now). Hannibal decides the only way that they are going to survive this journey is to dispatch THE EVIL BEAR because at least that way, they can get on with their journey back to civilization uninterrupted by pesky bear attacks. Hannibal bates THE EVIL BEAR with his own blood and the two join forces to lure it into a battle to the death. At one point, THE EVIL BEAR slashes Jack across the chest, but apparently, it’s the gentlest bear mauling ever, because he survives, as does Hannibal who manages to get THE EVIL BEAR to impale himself through the heart on a giant spike. You know, it was at this moment, I actually kind of felt bad for THE EVIL BEAR. I mean maybe he just wanted to talk to Anthony Hopkins about his work in Amistad or something. He could have had purer motivations than we realized!

Stabbed through the heart! And you're to blame! Baby, you give bears a bad name!

Anyway, as THE EVIL BEAR is now THE DEAD BEAR, the two men eat his meat and manage to skin the corpse to create some weather appropriate winter wear . . . because I think it’s winter? I don’t know. The only things I do know are:

1)      It’s started to snow,
2)      Hannibal’s little utility knife was strong enough to skin an entire bear,
3)      They must have had a sewing kit or something tucked away or there was a chapter in Hannibal’s Outdoor Adventure Book about making outfits out of bear carcass because coats and such they make look pretty expertly done.

Tragically, they’re not out of the woods, figuratively and literally yet because they have yet to be rescued. Really, at this point, with THE EVIL BEAR gone, we’re just killing time, but it does lead to one of the more ridiculous parts of the recap, so I’m continuing.

The men, dressed in their bear garb, come upon a cabin where they find some supplies. Hannibal reaches into his pocket to grab something and he pulls out the wad of paper that was originally clipped together by the paperclip they used for a compass earlier. It is the warranty for the birthday pocket watch Mickeypherson gave him, and attached to it is a slip of paper detailing what she wanted engraved on his watch . . . as well as what she wanted engraved on the watch she bought for her lover . . . Jack!

I wonder sometimes if Alec and William Baldwin (of "Fair Game" fame) ever compared notes about what it was like to be in movies with models. "Elle wouldn't shut up about being tall and from Australia! It was SO annoying!"

This is where I have some major logic issues with the movie. I know Mickeypherson is a model and perhaps not all that bright but:
1)      If you’re conducting an illicit affair with someone you work with, why didn’t you take more care to not hide the evidence in your husband’s birthday gift?
2)      If you’re buying presents for both your lover and husband, could you maybe have made TWO shopping trips?
3)      If you insist on being a moron and buying all sex partner gifts at the same store, do you really have to include names on all the engravings? I mean, if you’re discovered, wouldn’t you maybe want to maintain some shred of plausible deniability? The engraving she put on Jack’s watch read “Dear (Jack), Thanks for all the nights. Love (Mickeypherson)” which is just as good as saying “Dear (Jack), Thanks for boning me when my husband wasn’t around! Love, your ridiculously stupid secret lover (Mickeypherson).”

I don’t mean this as a tutorial for how to cheat on your spouse, but for crying out loud, get a bit of a brain, woman! Not to mention, it’s kind of bad form to buy both men similar gifts – makes a tacky thing even tackier!

So as Hannibal’s great fear that his hot wife is hooking up with someone else is realized, stupid Jack decides that he really IS going to try to kill Hannibal after all. Really, movie? They get through a plane crash and a bear attack and now he’s going to try and take him out by shooting him? He could have just let the bear get him or he could have just let him drown in that tree bridge crossing incident from earlier. Little to no effort on Jack’s part. What is the point of showing them bonding and making “Best Friends Forever” necklaces out of bear claws if you’re just going to turn one of them into a megadouche? That sucks!

1990s Alec Baldwin is plotting your doom!

Thankfully the sucking doesn’t last too much longer since, when Jack Donaghy goes to shoot Hannibal Lecter, he falls into a massive pit full of spikes and his leg gets impaled on a very large wooden stake. In spite of Jack’s being a backstabbing asshole, Hannibal manages to get him out of the pit and into a boat which he rows to safety. This doesn’t stop Jack from dying just as they are about to get rescued but it shows us that in spite of his old codgery-ness, Hannibal is actually an okay guy.

Once the bush plane lands back in civilization, Hannibal hands Mickeypherson back the sex watch he stole from Jack’s body as a subtle way of telling her he knows about the affair. Hannibal also tells all of the reporters gathered for a press conference that both of the men that accompanied him on the trip (the pilot gets no love!) died but that they really “saved (his) life.” Ummm, did I miss the part where Mercutio was useful in any way? Or the part where Jack Donaghy didn’t try to kill you, Hannibal? Because while I know it’s meant as some serious depth of character statement, it almost makes you seem kind of dumb that you’re glossing over the fact both of those chumps almost got your billionaire ass killed.

This is Anthony Hopkins' "I might have won an Academy Award, but I can't work miracles on killer bear movies!" face.

So that was The Edge. I hope you learned as much about bear attacks, illicit love affairs and survival in the wilderness as I did! Join me next time for the “I Watched It So You Didn’t Have To” Series when we examine the ins and outs of working as a bouncer . . .

Other entries in the “I Watched It So You Didn’t Have To” series:
Predator 2
Conan The Barbarian
Showgirls

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I'll bet Mister Rogers never had to put up with this crap.

Those who know me know I have the tendancy to attract unusual neighbours.

Back when I lived in Parkdale, my notable next door neighbour was a gentleman Boy and I referred to as “Porny McWackerson.” Porny was a rather scrawny nebbish looking gentleman (think a very down on his luck Bob Balaban) who had a fairly impressive collection of “adult movies”. We made this discovery about a week before we moved in when we popped by the new place to paint the kitchen/living room. During one of our breaks, a friend who was over helping us scurried over to the kitchen alcove and when she looked down slightly into his solarium like bedroom, caught a glimpse of some rather explicit action on Porny’s television.

“Look!” she exclaimed, casting her pointer finger down at the scene below, “He’s watching a porno!”

To this day, I am not sure whether or not he heard us, but if he did, he was certainly not embarassed by it since the following week, he had stacked another tv on top of his original and was showing X-rated fare on both of them.

By the time we moved out, his corner bedroom window was filled with a Tetris style L of televisions. Once in a while one of the televisions would play something inane like the news or a cooking show, but for the most part, any time we looked out the window, we were met with a wall of pornography, usually of the hardcore transexual variety.

We took solace in that fact that, for the most part, good ol’ Porny had the sense to keep the blinds on the “money shot” window closed, so the pornography was merely wallpaper to our everyday lives. However once in a while, Boy or I would make the mistake of looking up at an inopportune time and get a healthy eyeful of . . . um . . . mature content.

Once we moved away from the mecca of Parkdale filled with its drug dealers, prostitution rings and hipsters, we moved to what we thought was a much nice area. And indeed it has been for the most part. We’ve enjoyed our apartment, we like the neighbourhood and our building is pretty good – for the most part. I’m throwing a bit of a caveat on this because of our long time neighbours, who we lovingly refer to as “The Bitchersons”. I have off-handedly mentioned The Bitchersons before but truth be told, they are the most colourful of our neighbours. Sure, “Drunky Mcsteroids,” the oversized frat boy who would hulk out in his apartment and smash things was interesting, and “Weirdy Olderstein,” the little old lady who lurks in our lobby with a notebook counting the number of  “darkies” that enter the building has her place in our lives, but The Bitchersons have a long and storied history with us, starting soon after we moved into the building.

One night a few months after we moved into the building, we heard fighting coming from next door. It sounded like a man and a woman having an argument, so we thought nothing of it. After all, we have raised our voices while arguing with each other, so we thought to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they were having a bad day. However, we soon discovered our assumptions were wrong in that:

1) It was not a man and a woman, but a man and another man with a surprisingly effeminate voice.
2) Every day is a bad day in The Bitcherson household.

In fact, one summer, things got so bad, you could almost set your watch to their fighting. On Friday nights, we would come home from work to the sound of a gay club anthem blaring on their stereo*. An hour or so later, they would start drinking/doing drugs. Approximately 2 hours after that, everything would go to hell. There would be screaming and smashing and crying and door slamming the likes of which we had never heard before.

It was epic.

And truth be told, at first, we were kind of amused. I mean it was like our own Friday night reality tv show right next door – like Melrose Place, but if everyone were gay and doing speed. But these days . . . we are both officially over it and have realized that in spite of the multiple warnings by our tenant’s association, they continue to ignore the fact that they share a living space with other people and just generally act like drama queen dickbags.

So this morning, I composed a little letter to them that I am posting below:

“March 2, 2011

 To “the actors” of the second floor,

Having long been a patron of this building’s “Pissy Gay Couple Theatre,” I had some notes about last night’s show.

While I genuinely appreciate the artistry that goes into your impromptu late night performances of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I have to wonder if your hearts are really in it anymore. I mean sure, there’s still screaming and stomping and door-slamming, but I have to say, I miss the dramatic revelations from days of yore. I mean learning that**:

1)      One of you is no longer in possession of his own teeth,

2)      One of you is addicted to drugs,

3)      One of you is into “twinks,”

4)      One of you is small “down there,”

5)      One of you is the proud owner of a criminal record,

6)      One of you is the victim of prison rape,

really added something amazingly dramatic to the proceedings. Now, I know that you’re trying to mix it up. Putting larger gaps between performances to stay fresh and occasionally getting a spirited assist from supporting characters like Scared Old Lady Walking Her Poodle or Angry Downwind Neighbour #1 probably does add a certain spice for you. However, as an outside observer, at the end of the day, it all just feels a bit flat and soap opera-like, you know?

So I have a suggestion that I think will help – take the show on the road! Not only would the change of scenery help you both stretch your acting muscles but then perhaps the rest of us will finally be able to get some freaking sleep.

Love,

Your captive audience-who are currently paying way too much in “ticket fees” for this shit

(a.k.a. the rest of the second-and possibly part of the third-floor)”

I’ve already reported them to the tenat’s association again for waking me up at 3:30 this morning with their bellowing***, and I haven’t actually done anything more with this letter than enjoy it in a secret cathartic way, but part of me really wants to stuff it through their mail slot or hang it by the elevator since I know I am not the only one who is sick to death of them. However, I wonder if that might be a little too passive aggressive? After all, just because they are poorly behaved doesn’t mean I have to be, right?

What do you think, blog readers? What would you do faced with a situation like this and what have you done in the past when faced with lousy neighbours?

* I know this sounds like I am exaggerating and making fun of the fact that they are gay by pretending like they are walking cliche homosexuals, but I swear that I am not. These boys seriously have a major hard-on for Cher and Donna Summer.
** I would also like to point out that these things were not learned through actively eavesdropping but because they were both yelling them at each other for anyone to hear.
*** I heard back from the tenant’s association this morning and they told me that should The Bitchersons act out any time in the next 5-7 days, we should report it and they will hold a meeting to work out how to evict them as they are already facing multiple complaints from other tenants on our floor. However, if they get through the week without fighting, they will be given a 6 month reprieve for good behaviour. I don’t really understand how their taking a week off from being childish morons means that everyone else on our floor has to pay for it for half a year, but I guess that’s renting for you. While I feel annoyed on our behalf, I actually feel worse for the young couple that live across the hall from them since they have a fairly young baby. Can you imagine being that sleep deprived and having to deal with assholes like that on top of it? Bah!

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