April 28, 2009; Mr. Léo's Neighbourhood

Surveying my world

The upshot of what I last described in this blog was that I was sick for a couple of days and then everything pretty much settled back to normal. 

This last weekend, though, it was hot as hell and because of this the Mooks and I spent a lot of time on the balcony. Across the alley is an apartment block and a lot of the people over there, too, seemed to be spending time on their balconies or at least with their doors and windows open and so I got to know them and—stick a dick up my ass and call me a corn-dog!—this is one great load of wack-jobs. They say this is a cool, middle-class neighbourhood. Not from where I was sitting, let me tell you.

The most normal one I saw was a guy who sat in the same chair for the whole weekend playing a video game. His chair was in front of the balcony door and it was all I saw but it must have been connected to a catheter bag because he didn't even move to pee. He had that look on his face, too, that Mook A gets when he plays World of Warcraft; like there is no real world—just a world of night elves and orcs...and just how fuckin' sad is that?

Right across from us, at eye level, is a straight couple. At least I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt 'cause they have two cats and everyone knows guys with cats are sissies, faggots or whipped. Cats are for girls and ladies who need to get laid (why the fuck do you think they're called pussies?...chew on that). Anyway, assuming, again, the guy's straight, he doesn't like that he's living across from the Mooks who obviously are not. He even thinks the Mooks have the hots for him 'cause once in a while when one or the other is on our balcony he gets pissed and comes out and stares them down like the Mooks have been eyeing him. The fact is, the guy across the way is one of those who walks around without a shirt all the time and really shouldn't. (As Mook A always says during out walks: "Léo, why is it that that men in short-shorts and muscle-shirts are never the men you want to see in them?" He talks to me like I would fucking answer him even if I could.) 

While that tard is worried about the Mooks being voyeurs, he seems to be oblivious to the old degenerate living directly above him. This guy has a severe smoking problem (I know this 'cause he wakes me every morning as he heaves up a lung.) Once in a while he comes onto the balcony—just at the open door of it—wearing a long t-shirt. It took me a bit to figure out that was all he was wearing and a bit more to figure out that the cocktail weiner in his hand was his cocktail weiner. He stands there looking down at the Mooks (who never look back), beating that sad little piece of meat like it had committed a crime against humanity. The tragedy is that this piece of gray, over-cooked pasta in his hand never gets vaguely close to al dente, if you know what I mean (and I think you do). More tragic yet, is that if the Mooks aren't looking at him, does that mean he's whipping it out for me?

I get shivers.