When Neighbors Go Bad

When walking Tan-Tan-Tan-Tan (sung to tune of the Thong Song) around the block, I can't help but get a little voyueristic about the insides of my neighbors' houses, people I see out and about, but with whom I rarely converse. Don't get me wrong, many of my neighbors seem like nice people -- they just aren't the chatty-chat sort. Actually, there is one chatty-chat sort, a woman whom Russ and I have nicknamed "Crazy J" because she tells us all sorts of things about her family that I think she should personally keep under wraps (in order to maintain her dignity). For instance, she once told us about her children playing in their own feces when they were, as the Catholic Church likes to put it, of the age of reason. A four year old smearing doo-doo-butter all over his two year old sister? Nasty.

Toonight, I happened to peek into the house that is in front of ours. Believe me, I did this with no malice aforethought -- I was just wondering what colors they painted the inside of their house because I've seen some paint cans out in the alley recently. But when I looked into their house, I was subjected to the entire crack - not just halfies, but WHOLE-sies - of the man of the house. He's a big, Eric-the-Red type Viking character. I never see him when he's not sort of grunty and/or pillaging the plants out of his yard. Once I caught his dog, a black Lab, from running away down the alley and when I handed her over by her collar, he was almost embarassed that we were within a two foot radius. He never looked at me once. And as of tonight, I don't know that I can ever look at him again -- at least not without envisioning miles of crack.