A trip though the psyche of a self-appointed cultural warrior with a bone-to-pick with the well-adjusted minority. "Susan Says..." is for women of all ages, as well as the men who love us, fear us or try to avoid us. Welcome. We're glad you're here.
I think I've mentioned that I was a musical snotball when I was young.
In the 1970s when many of my peeps were disco-mad and wore the clothes to prove it, I had long hair parted in the middle and actually wore a green army jacket with a peace sign stenciled on the back to school.
I campaigned actively against disco music which, ironically, in my older age not only doesn't sound so bad but brings me right back to a carefree time when my worries were no more serious than which Bay Ridge diner we'd hit after the movie...and would I order cheesecake or breakfast.
I listened to Cat Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel, The Doors and sang Janis Joplin to my mirror when I was alone.
But breaking through this hippie-wannabee haze was always the strong voice and pulsing songs of Miss Donna Summer.
Today she passed away of lung cancer at the age of 66. She believes it may have been a result of inhaling the toxic air of 2001 New York City after 911....but who knows.
She will get a mention on the entertainment shows tonight and maybe a few more tomorrow. I doubt there will be public tears and huge crowds. Unlike Whitney, her passing -- not from self-abuse and a disregard for her own legacy and welfare -- will not be sensationalized and rehashed.
But Donna was, indeed, sensational....have a listen:
I may be the last person I know who watches "Glee."
Tremendously popular during it's first season three years ago, the show has lost viewers steadily as it scrambles to maintain a fresh approach to human nature via the assorted contingents of a middle-American high school.
I suspect it has kept its core audience--kids, plus a few TV addled middle-agers like me whose kids are grown and therefore do not feel as threatened by the show's encouragement of teen sex, celebratory drinking and extreme use of hair gel.
Glee has also driven at high speed through many barriers with a panoply of gay characters. In fact, based on the actors and their actual, as well as pretend proclivities, the show has become a veritable smorgasbord of open-minded sexuality.
The original kids are nearing thirty about now and, for the most part, look it. Thank goodness most of them are graduating. While I have no idea whether certain characters will be followed once they leave the slushie-spattered halls of McKinley High, I am far less interested in the group which appears to be the heirs-apparent of Finn, Puck, Santana, Kurt and Quinn.
Yes, I know their names. Let those who are without sin (and aren't similarly addicted to Family Guy), cast the first stone.
The good news is that they finally won Nationals yesterday. The bad news is that I cried.
How could I not? A group of middle-aged students and a team of dysfunctional teachers with whom I've been growing old and have been following through identity crises of every type imaginable, finally achieved their goal.
From my recliner I have endured occasional horrifying episodes so bad that I had to peek through my fingers to survive (this year's Christmas show), immigration isues, the homeless becoming strippers, cougars in bathing suits, dread-locked home schoolers, Brtiney Spears, student-teacher sex, self-discovering lesbians, the fake handi-capped, OCD, sexual repression among the teaching staff as well as the student body, tough Jews with mohawks, cheerleaders who wear their uniforms every minute of every day, subverted authority, loss of virginity, politics, middle-aged pregnancy, domestic abuse, tiger fathers, adoption and then some...
Whew.
How could I not get misty when the McKinley High Show Choir and their intense but sincere choir master won the coveted trophy? Fast forward to a scene in which it is made very clear, in slo-mo no less, that Mr. Schue is rewarded by finally getting laid and what's a viewer to do?
Not to mention my relief that Rachel finally made peace with classmates she'd been at odds with thanks to her single-minded, ego-driven ambition.
While the final episodes of the third season neatly salved over rivalries and resentments far more smoothly than it would ever realistically occur (Don't you feel just as crappy around miserable people from high school 40 year later?), it was nice to see conflict resolution by the lockers as well as the subsequent musical numbers.
And, yes, the show shamelessly whores around with the week's most popular I-tunes, enhances everyone's singing voices and advocates sexual exploration among the very young it also stood up for abused women (although Coach Beast could have wiped the floor with Cooter), illustrated (however superficially) the dangers of texting while driving, gave a prominent role to a lovely actress with Downs Syndrome (whose unspoken thoughts and fantasies were voiced by Helen Mirren) and gave a face to a youthful demographic that craves acceptance.
It also brought my attention to this song which I cannot seem to stop singing...
I'm sitting here with the boys right now. In fact, one of them is within patting distance but despite all the hugs I've forced them to endure, I sit still and quiet right now.
I am taking shallow breaths, not moving except for the gentle tapping on my laptop because it's almost as if they are part of a sand painting that might be easily or carelessly destroyed--the colorful grains scattering if I exhale upon the design.
They came for an all-too brief visit and, as the moments tick down and backpacks, shoes and books start making their way into the car, I begin to quietly panic.
Wait, we didn't play that trivia game we used to love. Hold on, we didn't watch the movie we'd discussed. Slow down, I didn't kiss or hug you enough. Why must you go so soon?
The many colors of sand
I gaze about me. The house is a disaster.
There's a cereal box on it's side. Books cover all available surfaces, computers lie open, bright screens staring. There are shoes in the hall, t-shirts draped over the backs of chairs.
There's a cat here, a pair of socks there. Water bottles are forgotten, half full and Tom, not feeling well has left his Advil open next to an abandoned magazine.
I cooked a lot. The residue of stuffed peppers clings to dishes in the sink, glasses still hold an inch of juice, milk or my Diet Coke. There are crumbs of corn bread under the chair and the cat food has been tipped. Charlie's cat, Tito, who came along for the ride, is furtively crunching.
When they leave, I will clean it all up.
I will scrape pots and soak pans, scour the sink and wipe down the counters. I will be making their beds as they head south on the Turnpike and bury my face in their pillows before I punch them back into shape and lay them neatly on the quilts. I will run the vacuum and start a laundry. Then I will sit down and sulk. In fact, I can feel it coming on...like a hot balloon right behind my eyes.
Don't sneeze.
I am, of course, over the moon that they visited...especially for Mother's Day. We were a Hallmark card for a few minutes today as I opened gifts and received affection. It was all I dreamed off but why, if they like me enough to give me cards and presents do they leave soon after?
What would be the problem with moving back into their rooms where sports trophies from junior high and a second grade Halloween diorama collect dust on the shelves. They would get free meals and snacks, no rent would be expected and the outside world could be kept at bay. I could insulate and shape their worlds like I did when they were little...no suggestive sit-coms, haircuts after school, only whole grains and fresh veggies.
Oh.
The finished.....
I get it. That's over. Now it's girls and cars. Sex and rock 'n' roll. Nah, it's not that either....although there are girls, they drive cars and like music. They are grown-up.
At first, you might not think that mothers and trees are similar beings but, upon closer inspection, the similarities cannot be ignored.
Trees and mothers come in many different sizes, shapes and colors. So do sofas for that matter…. but sofas are not brave steadfast and proud…. trees, and mothers, are.
Trees put down roots so that their branches will grow strong and be nourished just like mothers do for their children. And, trees are appreciated, respected, enjoyed and also, occasionally, peed on, just like mothers.
They are also sometimes taken for granted as we lean against them for support not unlike how mothers are occasionally thought of, or not thought of, by their children. They are part of the landscape, dependably blending into the scene but when it’s raining we rush beneath their boughs for comfort and they become exactly what we need.
I look forward to encircling you in my arms as a mother as well as welcoming you to our family. I know we are going to be great friends.
But, first, I want you to know to whom you owe a great gift of gratitude. For it was she, at whose slender feet I learned what to do when we, someday, share a last name.
Her name was Louise but I called her Weezie. And, simply stated, she was the best mother-in-law in the world.
Louise, as a young mother
When I first met her, 30 years ago, in a sunny and beautiful apartment in the Park Slope section of my hometown of Brooklyn, she was wearing faded jeans with holes in the knees and a blue and white striped oxford shirt.
She welcomed me with a big smile and a delicious meal and any anxiety I had about meeting Seth’s mother fell away. I was at home in her company from the day we met and remained there until she left us--- growing to love her more as the years passed for so many different reasons.
From the minute I walked through her door, I became one of the family. If she may have felt a little put-out by the arrival of another woman in her son’s life, I never saw even the slightest trace of it.
The three of us spent an idyllic summer together in Brooklyn that year and I will never forget the laughter, the relaxed dinners, the political discussions or the sight of Louise standing on one leg, leaning against the doorframe with her head thrown back in laughter.
She was genuinely my friend and I cannot recall a single uncomfortable moment in her presence. How many can say that about an in-law?
Her grandchildren called her “Granny” which is funny because one might be inclined to picture a granny as a bespectacled old lady wearing gray hair in a bun and knitting as she sits in a rocking chair. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Louise was glamorous, beautiful, full of life and energy and the envy of all my boy’s playmates. She would sit on the grass during baseball games and charm all my friends with her ready laugh and smile.
She loved her children and grandchildren passionately and protectively, worried about them, exulted in their accomplishments and was very, very proud of them. And, we—in turn—were very proud of her.
She was a fiercely protective mother, as well. I learned early on never to even hint that Seth might possibly be less than perfect. The look in her eye would change and the temperature in the room would drop a degree or two.
I also used to bow out, after the first few rounds, of the endless political discussions that she and Seth would enjoy for hours. Louise was incredibly well-informed both historically and politically, astute and deductive and I, simply, could not keep up with them.
She was a gracious hostess and a fantastic cook. She played the piano and loved it when we all stood around and sang and could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear when it came to setting and decorating my Thanksgiving table every year. Never being one for crystal or fine china, she would take what I had and put Martha Stewart to shame with the results.
A typical pose.
Louise taught me what it means to be an excellent mother-in-law. My cooking was always delicious, even when it wasn’t. My home always looked beautiful, even when it didn’t and she never, in all the years I knew her, said a disapproving or unpleasant word to me.
I fully intend to pay this gift forward to you, my future daughters-in-laws.
Unfortunately, you will not have the privilege of meeting the originator of this legacy but you will reap the benefits of Louise’s kindness, support and total acceptance.
She and my own mother were great friends. I hope they still get to hang out together although they are no longer seen at my kitchen table, chatting late into the night.
So, future daughters-in-law, while I cannot expect to totally live up to her and will never, ever possess her style, grace or dress size, I will try to live up to her legacy as a good mother-in-law and all that comes with it...and that includes free baby-sitting. You're welcome.
Have you heard the newest lurid lawsuit stories making the rounds of all things tabloid?
It's about John Travolta.
I just finished reading about it and even though I'm all alone, I'm feeling a little uncomfortable. Susan Says is no prude but there was enough talk about dangly bits to make a cat blush.
Not that you asked, but I feel this is a multi-dimensional issue.
John Travolta's sexual orientation has been murmured about for a long time now. Chances are that where there's smoke there's fire which brings me to my first point: It's a shame that, under any circumstances, one has to keep their sexuality (in essence, their true selves) under wraps.
In Hollywood, however, secrets have been kept since silent film stars were expected to be sexual paragons...straight sexual paragons, that is.
Rock Hudson, the iconic heartthrob of the 50's and 60's, famous for his brawny looks and way with the ladies on screen, was gay and everyone knew it except, at the time, the public.
I understand why gay actors who earn their reputation as romantic leads choose to keep silent and, no doubt, that will continue -- and that is their choice, just as their sexual orientation is -- but if the scandal-seeking media smells a story, God help you.
The cast of "Welcome Back,
Kotter."
John Travolta, first known as the adorably dopey Vinnie Barbarino on "Welcome Back Kotter," got most famous in the 1970s for being Tony Manero, the horny dancing phenom of disco-fied Brooklyn. While Tony Manero was certainly not gay, the man who portrayed him is an actor. The actor may, indeed, be gay. John Travolta is not Tony Manero.
However, if he is gay yet chooses to keep his sexuality under wraps, he should not be asking for peenie rubs from a masseur, either.
I told you this was complicated.
Now if things weren't controversial enough, let's toss religion (and, in this case, I use that term very lightly) into the pot. John Travolta is a Scientologist. Scientology believes that homosexuality can be cured (their words, not mine).
Most of what I know about Scientology is what I've learned from the true source of all things: South Park.
But since, we're friends, I will admit to being pretty sure that it's an insane cult that calls itself a religion...but hey, I can name a few traditional religions that have trouble maintaining their integrity thanks to some pretty awful stuff, too...so who am I to say anything (but I still think they're nuts).
So sexy as Danny Zuko
in "Grease"
The point is -- again, my opinion -- that you can't cure (eliminate, alter, modify, unlearn, alleviate and a thousand other words) homosexuality. It's biology. Boo-yah. Is it ever-so slightly meaningful that Travolta and his gay-rumored pal, Tom Cruise are Scientologists? Who knows?
And, finally, why is any of this law suit material?
The words "sexual battery" have been used. That terminology refers to an act of violence yet I have not read of anything other than some exceptionally smarmy verbal aggression and highly icky but otherwise non-violent behavior.
The two masseurs bringing the lawsuit should have walked out of the room...or punched him. Leave the lawyers out of it.
Let's say this is all true. Would they be satisfied with an apology and a nice bundt cake? I doubt it...they want two million bucks apiece.
Supposedly there is proof that Travolta wasn't even in the state when all this supposedly occurred. Plus, he's planning on suing his accusers for besmirching his character because, whatever his sexuality, his reported behavior was definitely creepy. Unfortunately once you're accused of something, you are forever identified with it so a vigorous counter-suit might look good.
Maybe, since his reputation is no secret, his accusers smelled money. If it's total horse hockey (and I bet it isn't) and that can be proven, they deserve a good beating.
In a perfect world, we could all openly and publicly be exactly what and who we are. Since it's still kind of a tricky concept in certain circles, let's all just be honest and well-behaved.
Well, hello.
I will end with the words of my favorite gay man, Mr. Ricky Martin, before he came out abut his own homosexuality, "Fantasize about me any way you want."
Some of you already know that I really should never be left alone for more than one or two days at a time.
When left to my own devices, things can fall apart pretty quickly.
Seth, due home this afternoon, was recently away for nearly five days and, as I sit amidst the laundry and dishes I was planning on doing the minute he left, I am left to wonder why I am incapable of sticking to a productive plan.
For me, and most people, the longer I have to complete a task, the less likely it is to get completed. Is it not possible, however, that the to-do list I substituted for mundane tasks such as dishes, laundry and the organization of closets was just as compelling?
I actually consider it to have been a very constructive five days. Here's how I spent it...
1. Conducting a socio-feline experiment, complete with note-taking and placebo cat treats, by calling Buzzy the Cat, "Bugsy" to see if he noticed. He did not.
2. Unsuccessfully trying to coax "Bugsy" off my newspaper so I could both read it and do the crossword. Suffice to say that I have no idea what's happening in the world and my word skills are significantly diminished.
3. Watching the Food Channel and becoming irrationally angry at my cookware. Why do they all get such gorgeous pots when I have such old crap? Might it be that they are network stars and I am not? Note to self: ponder this..
4. Deciding that if I come across one more article about tricked-out yuppies whining about how stressful it was to travel to exotic locales with their toddler, I am going to take hostages. Those damn toddlers can list Machu Picchu on their travel dossiers. I have been to Elizabeth, New Jersey. Once.
5. Concluding that if I ever see Montel Williams weeping during another television interview, I plan on shooting out the TV screen just like Elvis used to do. Note to self: apply for gun permit because you and I both know it will happen again.
And we know how this worked out.
6. Thinking about Chinese food
7. Drunk dialing Tom and Charlie.
8. Thinking about Mexican food.
9. Watching endless cat videos on Youtube.
10. Trying to film cat videos for Youtube.
11. And last but not least, deciding what I would name my rock band if I had one. Here are the finalists:
Fat Chance
Touch Me and I End You
Varicosity
Get Out of MY Lane NOW
The Electric Hormones
Crampy Pancakes (my favorite)
I also spent an undetermined amount of time engaging in my hands-down, all-time favorite activity when alone--sitting and staring.
Alone but not lonely
Occasionally punctuated by sobbing, during these sessions it may appear as if I am idle but I am actively creating problems, analyzing past mistakes, rehashing troubling events, second-guessing myself and wallowing in regrets. This is neither productive nor beneficial in any way which is exactly why it's so satisfying.
Last time I was left to my own devices, there was lots of eating, too. I am trying very hard to not over indulge and regretfully acknowledge that self-control is not nearly as entertaining as desperate excess. For this, I sincerely apologize.
If it's any consolation, I did crochet a small vest for Bugsy and attempt to put it on him. I wanted him to wear it for the video but it didn't work out.
As the weekend approaches, many bloggers sum up their week in a sort of catch-all post.
I haven't done that until today but I've received many queries as to the health of Nifi the Cat (aka the Mad Pooper) and would like to update you on that and a few other items, as well...
Nifi stayed at the vets for an overnight last week to ensure he was peeing properly after an X-ray revealed that, like a child at an amusement park who doesn't want to take time to hit the bathroom, his bladder was enormously full and he was resisting the litter box.
Nifi's doctor with a patient
Unlike the kid who, inevitably will pish himself up on the Tilt-A-Whirl, Nifi hung on for nearly 12 hours before tinkling, returning home with an advisory for me to keep a watchful eye.
After another week of lethargy and odd behavior (He began hanging out in the laundry room. Seth claims it was a signal since he doesn't usually venture in there but I still think he just wanted to do laundry), back to the vet he went where antibiotics are being administered for a fever he was running. He should be coming home today.
Unfortunately, I have terrible news about Sylvia the Bird.
It's taken me two days to be able to talk about it but, on a routine Sylvia-check, to my total horror, I found that her nest had fallen from under the deck and lay on the ground, ruined and empty.
The consensus is that a predator (as in racoon) somehow dislodged the nest from above and the babies became a tasty meal.
Sylvia was in the yard flying in agitated zigs and zags but I am told she will rebuild and have another nestful soon.This is little comfort to me and I miss her solid and reliable presence. I hope she builds in a safer location next time.
No longer cute...
Between all this and the news that the late Elizabeth Edwards threw herself to the ground in a parking lot upon learning that her snake/bastard of a husband was still involved with his rodent of a mistress, I seem to feeling a bit ferklempt.
Never was cute.
Since it seemed apropos, I warned Seth that if I discovered he has a mistress (rodent or otherwise), I will not emulate Elizabeth Edwards. Partly because once I fall, it's difficult to get up and partly because I would prefer to smash my Fran Drescher coffee mug to smithereens over his head and put him out in the backyard where he can build a nest next to Sylvia's.
In other news, we had thunder so loud this morning that I think my eyelids rolled up into my head because I can't seem to be able to close my eyes and the cats are either hiding under the bed or on their way to the Port Authority to catch a bus out of here.
On that note, I wish you all a great weekend. Thanks for reading and commenting. See you on Monday!
If you read yesterday's post, you now have an idea of what a parking spot means to someone who lives in New York City.
The amount of time devoted to the daily procurement of a place to leave one's wheels is excessive whether you use your car on a daily basis or, as many New Yorkers do, only use their cars once or twice a week (usually to go to the Costco in Jersey that sells wine).
You must also remember that these were the pre-Giuliani years, an era that helped clean up the streets in more ways than one through that administration's refusal to tolerate nuisance crimes. This policy, as intended, worked it's way up through the hierarchy of criminal offenses until New York City became a much improved place to live. Only now, under the extended watch of Mayor Bloomberg, is it beginning to slip again.
My hero.
Translation: lots of cars were getting stolen when we lived there. For us, the number was three.
Once our 12 year old Chevy Caprice died a natural death, we replaced it with another older model. We didn't even have a chance to fall in love with the car before it was stolen. Based on tire marks, we believe it was towed, taken, most likely, for parts.
The club in action.
Our next car was atypical: a spiffy little black number which, while used, looked kind of nice. Just like in the recently stolen Caprice, we had installed a kill switch and used both a club (immobilizing the brake pedal by locking it to the steering wheel) and a crazy collar that went over the steering wheel, itself.
Needless to say, it took a lot of time to lock the car down before walking away from it.
This did not stop the thief who took our black car.
Insurance paid for a rental which Seth needed to get to and from work while we figured out our next move. Before we could decide, the rental was stolen.
Thus began the new era of a deranged husband lurking by the window with a baseball bat and flared nostrils.
I also must mention that a man who lived several blocks away had attempted to stop a thief in the process of trying to hot wire his car. The thief, seriously miffed by the interruption, shot the man to death in front of his house. This made for lots of basket cases in my neighborhood--those determined to protect their property and others, like me, determined to prevent another murder.
A frequent sight
inthe mornings.
Fast forward a few months to the night when Seth saw someone breaking into the station wagon we'd recently bought. He'd left his bat in the other room and while he ran to get it, I began flashing the porch light and waving to the guy breaking into our car to make him just go away...as opposed to killing Seth, God forbid, on the sidewalk.
It worked. The guy turned and strolled away, hands in pockets, as my six year old son Tommy (what can I say... you grow up quick in the Naked City) and I attempted to physically restrain my husband from following him. All we managed to do was slow him down by a minute or two but by that time, the man was gone.
Enough was now enough.
We had friends who were renting garages in the neighborhood, so we started asking around. We got wind of a car-less elderly couple with an empty garage four blocks away.
The only way to
do business.
After negotiating a price, giving them references and sitting in their ornate living room enjoying very strong coffee and delicious baklava, it was ours. For 125.00 a month, the days of struggle were over.
My only worry now was whether Seth would get mugged late at night on the walk from the garage to the house. We also developed a lovely relationship with the couple who fed us more baklava over the course of the four years we rented the space.
Eventually we left New York City but despite our many years spent as expatriates in this strange, green land, we still get a thrill every time we pull into our driveway that leads to a parking spot of our very own.
We only lurk by the window with a baseball bat for old times' sake these days.
In order to fully understand today's post you have to know two things.
First, what led up to it. Second, just what a parking spot means in New York City.
Unless you have experienced the aggravation, rage, fear and desperation of trying to park your car in New York first hand, it will be difficult to comprehend...
There is a bitter saying, often repeated from the confines of a rubber room or holding cell that "There are a million cars in New York City and only one parking space." Of course this is a gross exaggeration. There are far, far more than a million cars in New York City and only one parking place.
We really wouldn't have needed our car had Seth not worked in a section of Brooklyn that, literally, was four buses away. By car, we were a fifteen minute commute. By public transportation, it was endless.
Regardless of what neighborhood we called home, parking was impossible. A nightmare. A competitive odyssey that took longer than your actual drive, required guile and tenacity and often ended in tears, threats or yelling.
Sometimes it was downright scary.
You'd start to feel the tension as you approached your block which you then drive down because miracles do happen (the Mets winning two World Series, for example). There could be, despite the odds, a spot on your street or maybe even in front of your house.
If that happened, it was a subject of conversation for years.... the kind of thing you'd relate in a eulogy ("Gramps accomplished many things in his life but nothing compared to the day in 1977 when he found a parking spot in front of the house.") or to your great-grandchildren as they crowded around your wheelchair at the home. It's an event so rare, they'd never tire of hearing the tale.
But it never happened.
You'd sigh and start the process of "driving around" in wider and wider concentric circles until you'd spy someone with keys in hand. Then, slowing down you'd either creep after them and, if they actually were pulling out of a space, you'd get as close as possible, blinker on, so no one else could slip in.
Or, you'd forgo the subtleties and drive over to them to ask directly, "Ya gettin' out?"
If the answer was yes, untold joy would ensue. If the answer was no -- they were just retrieving something from their car or worse, just holding their keys as they walked -- you'd feel pure animal hatred for this charlatan, this poser who'd raised your hopes for nothing.
Eventually you'd find a spot.
It would be, more than likely, several blocks from the house. You'd grab all your possessions and carry them home since anything left in the car could tempt a vandal. Many a car window was smashed for the 43 cents visible in the ash tray.
Many people would remove their radios, too. I'll bet those of you outside of New York don't even believe that but it's true.
We were pretty confident that no one would molest our car because we owned old, uninteresting vehicles. For years, it was an ancient Chevy Caprice that we drove until, to open and close the front windows, one had to grab the glass and pull or push it up or down into the doors.
With false bravado we'd say "If they want it, they can have it!" But we didn't mean it. We loved that car and installed a "kill switch" in the arm rest to tilt the odds in our favor.
Another obstacle to parking in New York City is the diabolical plot known as alternate side of the street parking. Designed to allow curb-sweeping street cleaners to do their work, city dwellers must leave alternating sides of the street empty of cars from two to four times a week for no less than two hours.
If you were parked on the wrong side for one split-second over the allocated hour, you would receive a hefty ticket from the scores of meter men and maids who waited, nostrils flaring like race horses at the gate, to fake-saunter (if they saw you heading to your car to move it, they'd break into a run) down the block, ticket book in hand.
Car owners were forced to lurk by their windows, lights off, often running out late at night in pajamas to grab a spot, often beaten to it by pajama clad neighbors who were quicker on their feet.
Those who couldn't find spots would double park, often hemming in those needing to leave causing enough honking and yelling to wake the dead and really, really annoy the living.
Violence was never far from the equation and every once in a while, we'd read about someone who'd gotten shot in a dispute over a parking spot.
So, now you have an idea of the importance of a parking spot. Tune in next time for part two. It's all about getting your car stolen...three times.
