I didn’t want to have to do this, but I feel I must review my neighbors. Not all of my neighbors, just the ones across the street from me. To be more specific would be pointless, because, on the one in a trillion chance (so yes, there’s a chance) that my neighbors ever read this page, much less even know who I am, well, everybody on my street will know exactly which neighbor I’m talking about.

Anyway.

I guess what I’ll do is just list the incidents, the stuff, the grist, that sort of thing.

First, the house. The neighbor, let’s call him, hm, George Webber. George built across the street from us, on the view side of the street (we couldn’t afford the view, so we’re stuck on the lame side of the street), so he has the walkout basement, the huge deck overlooking the valley, the hot tub on the deck, the works. George’s house is cool, lots of cool colors, cool paintings, cool lighting, all that. The problem is the color. Sort of. The base stucco is a nice earthy yellow color. But in a botched attempt to make the house look like an Italian villa, George had the stucco done with dark streaks, to simulate 500 years of sitting in a Mediterranean climate. That didn’t work out so well--it looked more like a child had taken black oil and splashed it on every wall. For a year we referred to it as “the haunted house.” Made it very easy to tell people where we lived—“oh, we are across the street from that gross haunted house.” Slam dunk.

After about a year, George went out with his kids and painted over the stucco using the base, earthy yellow color. Not professionally done, but still. Better than haunted.

Last year, George had the yard landscaped, but he burned through several landscape companies, because he kept changing his mind, en medias rex--they couldn't stand the flip flopping. He also spent some time shopping for a landscape company that wouldn’t balk at violating all of the HOA’s rules and regulations. Just when he got the yard about, but not quite, done, his last landscape company up and quit on him--They’d had enough.

Let’s do the family. I don’t really have much of an idea, after two years, what exactly the family make-up is. At first I thought I knew, I thought it was George, his kids from previous marriage who only came up to visit, and George’s girlfriend, hairdresser girl, and her kids from previous marriage, who seemed to live there during the week, but not on weekends. But this last winter, girlfriend disappeared, George came and went sparingly, no kids, and another crazy man seemed to live there, coming and going only during the oddest of hours. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that. Except the oddest of hours part. That can be a problem. More on that in a minute.

Oh, and recently, George seems to be back, with girlfriend hairdresser girl, but no kids. But now with an entourage.

Okay, how about some of the, er, activities. First, crazy winter guy. All during the winter, crazy winter guy would come out of the house at about 3am, and fire up the generator and the water compressor, and start power washing the driveway. Seriously. Like 3 times a week. I should mention that January was very cold, sub zero for many days at a time. So crazy winter guy would power wash the snow and ice from the driveway, and create large piles of ice at the bottom of the driveway, on the sidewalk, from all the power washing.

The power washing was particularly fun, because we would be fast asleep, and awakened by the generator, only to go to the window to see crazy winter guy in boxer shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt, power washing his driveway. In January (about 0 degrees). At three in the morning. Good times all around.

Speaking of three in the morning. George, in his infinite wisdom, spent well above $50,000 (you read that right, fifty thousand dollars. American.) on a house-wide custom sound system, with wall mounted flat screens, the works. Who wouldn’t want that? Especially with the hot tub overlooking the valley in the backyard.

Well, there is a downside. The axiom we live by is, the more expensive the sound system, the harder to figure out. Which isn’t a problem when it’s your neighbor’s sound system, unless he’s installed very large, very expensive speakers in the eaves of his front porch. Pointing roughly at my front door and bedroom window.

The first time Kim and I were awakened at 3am, it was to the strains of the Carmina Burana. And it was so loud our windows were shaking. I stomped across the street, banged on the door, rang the doorbell, and stomped around a good ten minutes until crazy winter guy finally saw me through the window. He sheepishly came to the door, dressed in his traditional sleeveless white t-shirt and boxer shorts. I mutely pointed up at the speakers. He held out his hands, helplessly, and said “dude.” Except he said it like it was a 20 letter word—“ddddduuuuuuuuuuude. It’s a $50,000 sound system. I don’t know how to turn it off.” Eventually we got it turned off. Only to have it turn on when I got back to bed. And then off again. And so on.

This happened several times over the winter. We called the cops a few times, since it was way too cold to go stomping over each time. But the cops would show up, bang on the door, flash their flashlights in the window, and nobody would ever come to the door. But the music would turn off, and the cops would just shrug and leave. Nice. I've seriously considered going over with a hose, and spraying the speakers until they short out, or even just a broom handle, and punching out the woofers, but i figure anybody with a sound system like that also has closed circuit security cameras, and i don't fancy starring on America's Dumbest Criminals.

A month ago or so, we got into bed around 11pm, only to be jolted back awake by the soundtrack to the movie “300.” I knew it was that movie, because it was the scene where the Spartans push the Persians into the ocean. I stomped across the street, and a teenage girl answered. “How’s the movie?” I said. “WHAT?” she yelled. “I don’t live here!” “I don’t care! I just don’t want to watch the movie with you!”

She figured out how to turn it off.

I don’t want to go into each incident. But the most recent one was pretty good. Last week, again, around 11pm, we had just gone to bed, and the music started up. Each time this happens, we lay there in bed for a minute, waiting to see if they’ll realize the problem (they never do).

So I got up and started across the street. Lots of cars, lots of noise (the new thing, now that George is back with entourage, is hot tub parties). I got across the street, and was starting up the driveway, when a dwarf in a swimsuit came running around the side of the house, soaking wet, and ran right in front of me, then disappeared behind the other side of the house. Like I said, hot tub party. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Oh, and he may not have been an actual dwarf, but at first I sure thought he was. Turns out he was more like an 8 year old boy. Same diff.

Just as I started back up the driveway, a woman came around the side of the house, clearly in pursuit of the boy. She was also soaking wet, but unlike the boy, she had no swimsuit. Instead, she was stark naked, and in a full run. She saw me, and without breaking stride, she placed both her hand over her breasts, muttered “this is just too much,” (amen, sister) and continued her way around the house.

Normally that would have been enough to send me back home, but there was no way I wasn’t going to the front door now. I knocked for a minute or two, and when the door opened, I was greeted by a woman I had never seen before, dressed in just a towel, and not a big one. Oh, and Kid Rock’s hat. No kidding. Kid Rock’s black top-hat, except it was furry.

I said “Hi. Do you think you could keep the music on the inside of the house?”

She just smiled, said “sure,” and closed the door. No invitation to stay. I’m quite offended.

Funny thing is, now when I tell people about the neighbors, the women laugh, but the men invariably ask for the address.

--dug

When I was in high school, I wanted a Flock of Seagulls haircut more than anything, but I was a shy, awkward boy, and the Flock of Seagulls were waaayy too cool for me. Unfortunately, once I was married, some of my better judgment disappeared. I didn’t get fat, I didn’t stop doing the dishes, but I did start experimenting with my hair.

For example, Me, Elden, Bob, and Robert had a bet to see who could go without a haircut the longest. In a spectacularly obvious show of bad sportsmanship, Bob contracted Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, almost certainly only so that he wouldn’t care so much about his hair. He went about 3 years I think.

Anyway. On one of our many pilgrimages to Moab, in what I think was 1993 (maybe 1994), Brad snapped a picture of me in front of the water tank at the start of the Porcupine Rim trail. The picture is, in many respects, unremarkable. Unfortunately, in other ways, the picture is entirely TOO remarkable. My hair, for example, is remarkable.

I want to point out before we get started, that I am solidly into the heterosexual camp on the Kinsey scale, I’ve been married almost 17 years, and I have three kids. There, I said it.

Let’s begin.

The Necklace

I showed this picture to Kim after Brad alerted me that he had uploaded it to the Fat Cyclist Flickr page, and she wanted to know who the poser with the necklace was. When I told her that I was the poser with the necklace, she said “but you’ve never worn a necklace.” But, turns out, I have one on in the picture. It’s not a chain, but I’m pretty sure it’s a braided leather necklace with some kind of stone. I’m also pretty sure I took it out of Kim’s jewelry box to wear for this trip. I will now repeatedly smash my head on my desk until I pass out.

Style Score—Rad

Gay Score—Fair to Middlin

The No Shirt Look

This is embarrassing. I would NEVER do this today, I would rather die. But for some reason, when first got into biking, in the late 80s, early 90s, lots of people would ride with no shirt. That’s what I keep telling myself. Of course, lots of people did lots of cocaine in those days too, and I never did that, so I dunno. At least I was 20 lbs lighter in those days, and nothing hung over the lycra. I get the feeling we should treat this like history—our job is not to judge, but to understand. Please?

Style Score—HOT!

Gay Score—Off the Hook

The Crotchet Short Finger Bike Gloves

Sure, fashion comes and goes, I get that. But I haven’t used anything but full fingered gloves for road or dirt for about 8 years. What was the deal with those ridiculous little home-spun knit gloves?

You know what? Bob still uses them. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if I saw Bob all the time, but he only comes out every year for Fall Moab. Which makes it kind of like when you see your nieces and nephews every year or two—they’re HUGE now. When I see Bob with those gloves, it’s like he’s so GAY now. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends are gay. Literally.

Style Score—Ridiculous

Gay Score—Actually, I know a couple guys who might be interested

The Goofy High White Socks and Baby Blue and Gray Shoes

There was a time, I rode Slickrock in cut-offs (not the 80s cutoffs with the front pockets sticking out under the shorts, though, yes, I wore those in their day), Teva sandals, and cotton t-shirts. This picture makes those days seem downright halcyon. Nowadays, some people, and yes, I include me in this group, like to bike in tall black socks, just to be weird and bother bike snobs. I can claim no such noble purpose for the socks and shoes in this picture. I will now gargle broken glass.

Style Score—Nerdy

Gay Score—I’m pretty sure no gay person would be caught dead wearing this

The Pose

I’m not sure about this, but I like to think that I’m the kind of guy who DOESN’T pose, but this picture does seem to undermine my position. On the other hand, Brad took the picture about 15 years ago. Maybe I was a poser then. But seriously—what am I looking at so intently off in the distance? And am I flexing? This picture alone is enough reason to ban cameras on guy trips. Do I think I’m posing for the cover of a romance novel? Passion Blooms in the Desert.

Style Score—No, not under any circumstances

Gay Score—a Gay person would be having waaaay more fun with this than I am—I look like I’m trying to pass a coconut

The Hair

The coup de grace, the piece de resistance, the hair is, is, is . . . well, seriously, what the hell is it? It’s not Flock of Seagulls, it’s not Tears for Fears, it’s not anything. Well, anything but off-the-charts stupid. I can’t have done that on purpose. Can’t. Kim would never let me out of the house with that hair, she would shake me off like Nuke Laloosh shakes off Crash Davis. Leif Garret, Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, move over, there’s a new retard in town.

Oh the humanity. I will now boil my own head.

Style Score—sure, if you’re in the Partridge Family

Gay Score—well, maybe. I’ve seen gayer. But not much.

--dug

Note from the Editor: See, I told you Dug wouldn't let Bob have the final word. That's not his way. Here's what brought us to this point (for your convenience, each item below is a hypertext link. Random Reviewer is the Nordstrom of reviewer journals):

Dug shall now illustrate his ability to shrilly fly off the handle. You can almost hear the screech in his words, almost feel the spittle on your face as Dug becomes increasingly animated, leaning in closer and occasionally thumping you on the chest.

Review of Bob's Review of Dug's Review of Bob's Review of Jeremy's Poem
Bob, you over-educated, under-brained, under-sexed moron.

The only reason you might have for connecting the literary term "Bitch" with an actual woman is your own desolate, uxorious existence. Any reasonable exegete taking more than a passing glance at Smith's sturdy and socially real account of the great dialectic has to conclude that The Man (or woman) is on Smith's back. Why do you miss this? I mean apart from your own vacuous ignorance? Because you are obviously in cahoots with The Man. You are the man's bitch. You are his buttery cornhole.

The duck simply represents goods and services, toil and labor, blood sweat and tears. Poor Chuck is irrelevant. A sham. A straw Man. Jeremy is virile, extraordinarily gifted (endowed even), and has no shortage of skills. What's lacking is the opportunity to use these attributes. And why is his personal power gone, why the emasculation, the evisceration, the enervation? You are the culprit. Robin Williams should hold you in his arms, pummel you with his beak, and repeat over and over: "Bob you ignorant slut, it's all your fault. All of it."

Your appeal to Elden simply underscores your own complete incompetence, your total lack of understanding of this opus. Dunderhead. Loser. Blowhard. You suck.

-dug

Tomorrow: Elden weighs in for the final installment of this series, bringing it to an end, though not necessarily to a climax.

Who doesn’t love clichés? Nobody, that’s who. Some curmudgeons might claim to hate them, some school teachers, or wannabe novelists will take their hacks, excoriating the lackluster language skills that lead to a cliché getting the green light. But even the cliché haters are secretly cliché lovers. Hating clichés is so yesterday, like people that only like obscure classical music. Hey posers. Beethoven rocks. And Samuel Barber is sweet as pie.

A review of clichés is a daunting endeavor. There are movie clichés (the buddy cop movie, the fish out of water movie, the coming of age movie, the T&A movie), plus all the clichés IN the movies (all cars blow up when they go off cliffs, fat men get beautiful wives, and there are only 12 people in Los Angeles). There are literary clichés, everyday clichés, even a lifestyle can be cliché. And why are they clichés? Because of Jung and his stupid archetypes, duh. But this isn’t about Jung, it’s about his legacy.

So forget it. Don’t think of this as a review of clichés, think of it as musings on life. Or, if that’s not your thing, go ahead and think of it as a review of clichés. You know, really, I don’t even know you, so what do I care?

Always Look On the Bright Side of Life

Truth is, I don’t like people telling me what to do, so a cliché that tells me what to do gets an automatic demerit, and faces an uphill battle right out of the gate. However, this little gem gets a free pass, not only because, of course, everybody should look on the bright side of life or just go die already, but because of the song from The Life of Brian. And if you don’t know what song I’m talking about, I don’t know how you found this blog, but you should probably go away and read something else.

11 out of 11

Carpe Diem

Usually translated as “Seize the Day,” though almost always intended as “Seize the Woman” (and really, who can't get behind that?), this little Latin phrase beguiled me during my college years, and then was ruined forever by Robin Williams. How could someone take a phrase immortalized by Horace, Herrick, and Marvel (the big three Carpe Diem folks, until Mork comes along and vomits all over it), and ruin by saying “If you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you.” I’ll tell you what, if you listen real close, you can hear me whispering for you to kiss my ass.

5 out of 10. For the kids.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

People say clichés got to be clichés because of the truth and wisdom they contain. Maybe. I’m as happy as the next guy. I worry less than most. But when Bobby Mcferin came along, everything changed. You go ahead and be happy, don’t worry. As for me and my house, we’re pissed off. Who is this Bobby Mcferin, with his little song he wrote, asking me to sing a note? Bite me.

1 out of 9. Cuz even clichés should have some cache.

Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman

Um. Not gonna touch this one. Kim, I love you babe. The Bard, he was just crazy. Don’t pay any attention.

n/a

It Could Be Worse

I love this one, and not just because of Young Frankenstein. Of course it could be raining. But even then, it could be worse, right? It’s endless, it’s circular, it’s magical. Like in King Lear, “So long as we can say ‘this is the worst,’ it’s not the worst.” Or something like that. And no, my life has never really been very hard. So I get a demerit for being glib. This is still my second favorite cliché.

9 out of 10.

Tomorrow Is Another Day

Ask anybody, I’m a cheery guy. Friendly as a missionary, helpful as a Leatherman. And you know what? Scarlett had it right—Tomorrow IS another day. Along with “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again,” Scarlett has given us two of the bon mots of the English language. I’m getting choked up just thinking about it. But that’s okay, because, yup, Tomorrow Is Another Day!

9.5 out of 10

I Used To Think I Had It Bad Because I Had No Shoes, Then I Met a Man Who Had No Feet

This is just pretentious nonsense. Whoever came up with this ditty really needs a good ass-kicking (not from me though, I'm not really the ass-kicking type). This reminds me of that story sunday school teachers tell, of the footprints in the sand. When there was only one set of footprints, yada yada yada. Except this is way worse. I think we can all accept the fact that, yes, somewhere in the world, maybe even in our own country (yeah, unstained by human tears), maybe even in our own neighborhoods, someone has it worse than we do. I got that.

2 out of 15 plus a demerit for being so condescendingly pretentious

You Can’t Have It All

I’m trying to be fair and impartial, but jeez, this is another one of those clichés where The Man has his foot on my back, holding me down. I’ll let you in on a little secret: you CAN have it all (well, except children in most of the Third World, you’re prospects for having it all aren’t good), you just have to want it bad enough. Which I don’t. Plus, just having to Want It Bad Enough isn’t as powerful a cliché as “You Can’t Have It All,” so I’m not sure it totally counterbalances. Either way, I’m just not comfortable with The Man telling me I can’t have it all.

5 out of 12 because even though I don’t like it, you can’t deny the power at work here

Beauty is Only Skin Deep

This one is so obviously true, and also so totally irrelevant, that it's more irritating than anything else. You know what else is skin deep? Entrails. Try taking the skin off anybody and see how you like them.

What’s that? It’s a metaphor? Oh, never mind then.

1 out of 5

Avoid Cliches Like the Plague

That’s sound advice. I’d like to echo it. Unless, of course, you find just the right moment and just the right cliché. Then fire away. On all cylinders. Full steam ahead. Damn the torpedoes. We few, we lucky few. And stuff.

--dug

Well not me. I LOVE showering. What is better than standing under a stream of hot water for like, an hour? I mean, besides the obvious things. And yes, the usual obvious things. Biking. Skiing. And that one thing. But those things just make the post-activity shower even better.

So when we decided two years ago to move from Pleasant Grove, UT, to Suncrest, in Draper, UT, and we decided to build our house (well, not ourselves, cuz, well, I, um, I’m not really what you’d call “handy,” but to tell the builder how to do it for us), the most exciting part for me? Not a big theater room (don’t care, I’m happy with my crappy 25 inch TV I the family room and the really, really crappy little 15 inch in my bedroom. Seriously. Don’t care.). Not a hot tub on the deck (though, yes, that would be very nice, taking notes here). Not the three car garage (wait, that is waaay nice, mostly because I don’t have three cars, and now I have much room for much stuff, but no, that’s not what got me the most excited).

No. I was most excited that I got to get two shower heads and some body sprays in my new master bedroom shower. Heaven. So my shower in my new house is next to the big-ass tub which is a bit raised and looks out at Lone Peak, Box Elder, and Mt. Timpanogos. The shower is tiled with nice earth-toned 10 inch tiles, and a glass front (this should be international law, all showers should have glass fronts, everybody should be able to watch their spouse shower and soap up).

I’ve been in my new house for just over a year, which seems like plenty of time to have let the majesty soak in, and for me to have identified all the things I love about my new shower palace. And here’s the thing: I’m not happy. Not only am I not happy, but I’m disappointed. Not just disappointed, but disappointed like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, when he opens the safe, and it’s empty. That kind of disappointed.

Oh sure, my shower has two heads and body sprays. You might be thinking, hey dipweed, all I have is a barrel and a bucket. Well I don’t care. I’m 40 years old, and my time has come. I NEED a rockin’ shower. And I thought this was the one. But it’s not. It’s not the one.

How has my shower disappointed me? Let me count the ways.

No Sex in the Shower

You would think, two heads, body sprays, door that locks, iPod Hi-Fi, the sex would just be crazy. Sorry to tell you, but no. I failed to plan for this properly. I have a tile shelf by one of the heads, the Main Head, if you will, for shampoo and other shower accoutrements, but somehow, Somehow, I failed to put either a bench or set of handles in the shower. And as neither of us is either a gymnast or particularly strong, there you go, case closed. I will now swallow shattered glass.

No View from the Shower

You may have stopped reading already, seeing as who wants to read the ramblings of a stupid lunatic who can’t even put a bench or handles in his new custom shower, but in case you’re still here, this may put you over the edge: I have to open both the door to my bathroom and the curtains on the far south side of my bedroom to see the view I paid all that money for from my shower. And that view I bragged about from my slightly raised tub? Fantastic views from the tub. Unfortunately I only glassed the doors of the shower, and not the wall that separates the shower from the tub. So not only can I not watch my wife soap up in the tub while I’m in the shower, but I can’t see Lone Peak from the shower. I can only see the Main Head and some beautiful earth-toned 10 inch tiles. I have a college degree, and run a business. Please don’t tell my boss.

I Don’t Care About the Body Sprays

During construction of my new house, when we would visit the house and everything was just framed, or just drywalled, or whatever, I would sometimes stand in my shower, and pretend to bathe in the orgasmic pleasure that was to be my new standing paradise. I had body sprays and two heads. The only thing I worried about? That once we took occupancy of the new house, I would incur a $1,000 per month water bill, suffer skin lesions, and never sleep in my own bed.

The reality? Body sprays are no big deal. Oh, sure, for a month or two, I would come home from skiing or a bike ride, and sprint upstairs, barely removing my clothes before I was in the shower and living the high life. But any more? Yawwnnnn. I never even turn them on anymore. In fact, my 8 year old has even lost interest in the body sprays, which used to be the only way we could lure him into cleaning himself, thus keeping him from being expelled from his elementary school for looking and smelling like “Pigpen,” the least hygienic of Charlie Brown’s friends. But not now. Now, the body sprays lie dormant, like an old World’s Fair fixture, and the only time the double heads get used is if we’re in a hurry and Kim and I need to shower at the same time. And even then, remember, we’re in a hurry. Which is the only reason we’ve found ourselves in there together in the first place. And yes, I realize I have failed men everywhere.

The Tiles Are Uneven

I don’t know if this is like the wicked bugs I used to find in the software at Novell back in the day, when I’d go to the programmer triumphantly and point out that I didn’t think the form fill function was really supposed to cause sterility, only to have him try it out and say No, WAD. (Working As Designed.) Are my earth-toned 10 inch tiles supposed to be uneven? Because I’ve got a beef with it. I’ve showered in lots of places. In fact, I could make a list of some pretty interesting places I’ve showered. Moscow. Budapest. London. France (although, you can’t really call that showering, since it’s really more of a tub with a flexible spigot). Chile. Mexico. Cleveland.

Once, I was showering in a mountain hut high in the Austrian Alps, and as I got out, I stubbed the ball of my foot (yes, I know, most people stub toes, I stubbed the whole damned ball of my foot!) on the lip of the shower basin. Hurt to walk for like a week.

Well, you would expect that kind of thing from those places. But would you expect to regularly injure yourself in your own brand new wicked awesome shower? Almost every week, I get a bruise from shuffling my feet in my shower, and catching the lip of one of the tiles. Now don’t go telling me I’m some kind of clumsy spaz. What, you think I don’t know this? I know this. But this is my own shower in my own bedroom in my own home. This was supposed to be the crown jewel. And NO! I will NOT calm down! You calm down!

So What Now?

I had made a deal with Kim that we could live in this house forever, that I never had to move again. I’m not the moving type, I like where I live, I want to stay here. Forever. But this? This might just be it, might be the trigger that gets me to go, sets us on the road to that wandering gypsy life.

Or, I could, you know, just redesign the shower.

My shower, sadly, despite my hopes for some kind of Greg Louganis or Nadia Comanici type of score, gets a paltry 3 out of 11. Not since the American soccer team in the 2006 World Cup have expectations been so high and the performance so pathetic. I'm disappointed.

- dug