I have a lovely sunporch off the back of my house, with big screened windows all around and an aluminum roof that goes pok pok pok in the rain. We have a table and a couple relatively comfortable chairs out here, a minifridge stocked with beer and lemonade, and we'll usually move the couch out here for the summer. Now that I work from home, this is my office too. This right here is what summer is about.

I live in a section of town where the houses and yards are very small. I do not see this as a problem. I have neighbors who I think secretly or publicly hate me, but oddly enough I don't see this as a problem either. One of my passive aggressive neighbors has a stinky orange cat who likes to kill rabbits and pick fights, and while I do see this as a problem with teeth and claws, it is also a problem small enough that it is easily tossed over the nearest fence.

Here is my problem: Central air conditioning. Both of my next door neighbors and my back yard neighbor have central air conditioning for their homes, which are just as tiny as mine. It is 75 degrees outside and all three air conditioners are running. [Energy crisis what?] It's the kind of loud where you don't really realize how loud it is until that rare thirty seconds where all three thermostats are synced up and all three homes are exactly the right temperature AND WHEN THE LAST ONE SHUTS OFF YOU CAN FINALLY HEAR THE CRICKETS OH SORRY I DIDN'T... I didn't realize I was yelling. That's what it feels like, anyway.

- Z

I just got an IM from (e:dragonlady7) at home - we just had the health inspector drop by for tea and biscuits!

I guess he stopped in, had a look at the Compost Pile of Plague and Pestilence, said 'Yeah, this is cool. Maybe put it up on bricks. I'll give you a week; if you need more time, just give me a call and I'll give you another week. Nice yard, by the way.'

Ooooh. I'm just so irked. But- this means that, bricks aside, we now have legal authority to compost with impunity, and thus shall the End Times begin! Behold my terrible power!

- Z

but I swear I use my powers for good and not for evil. So my miserable old cuntbag of a neighbor, who is most famous for uprooting my garden , started ringing on my doorbell this lovely Sunday afternoon. The first ring, I thought maybe I had a package. The second ring a second later, I thought maybe somebody was visiting me. The third ring I thought a friend was visiting, but by the fourth ring in as many seconds I knew exactly who it was.

'Mrs. Bob,' I said, never having been properly introduced, 'is the doorbell broken?' Which apparently caught her off-guard, because she stammered a bit before laying into me about the compost heap. I leaned in the doorway and kind of half-squinted and half-smiled and just basically thought about baseball. And when she started winding down and expected me to say something, I just kind of kept squinting and smiling like I was waiting for her to get to the point, so she started right up again, and I just kind of stood there. The cycle repeated itself about five times before she finally realized:

'Are you listening to me?'

OK, I admit it - I'm a terrible liar. When somebody calls me out like that I gotta fess up. 'No, not really.'

'Well are you going to take it out?'

'Take what out?' And then it started again. She went through another three cycles of complaints wherein a compost heap would cause rats, a pox on the first-born, and Armageddon. 'So are you going to take it out?'

I didn't really have any inclination to do anything with it except make compost for our vegetable garden, so all I said was: 'no.'

Wo boy, and then she got really mad. Her face split; the skin and hair split and came off of her face so that there was nothing except the skull. An orange light came out of her hair, and it lit all around. Fire shot from her eye sockets and began to burn my stomach.* She left spurting invective and cursing to gods long dead and also, coincidentally, threatening to call the Health Department. I just stood in the doorway and waited until she left. She started complaining to her husband ['Mr. Bob,' who did properly introduce himself], who was then mowing the lawn and who I cannot say I ever thought would ever stand up to her, say 'Stop. I'm trying to mow the lawn. OK?' [Baby steps, Mr. Bob. Baby steps.]

So maybe En-Con will be by tomorrow and we can sit around and work through an Ad Council coloring book about proper composting technique. Wouldn't that be fun? Oh-- and this compost heap which will inevitably usher in the End Times? It's about a foot and a half square by about a foot high.

- Z

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• Bill Cosby, 'Chocolate Cake for Breakfast' gather:0732920001146437417