In Which I Employ The Asian Death Glare to Little Effect

When I was little, my mother disciplined me with a mixture of the silent treatment and what I have come to call The Asian Death Glare. The Asian Death Glare is also silent, but is of astonishing power. It conveys simultaneously and with ferocious intensity concepts such as: “You are dead to me right now except to say that you are dead would acknowledge that you once had existence. I do not acknowledge that, “and “The shame you should be experiencing is of such enormity that mere words cannot convey the scope of the vast wastes of shame through which your quivering spirit creeps.” Things like that.

Sometimes I try to employ the Asian Death Glare on the Trouble House in general. So far, it’s not very effective. I think that maybe my skills are only at comic book superhero sidekick levels. It would really take my mom to swoop in and level the place with her powers.

My lack of skill development in this area, I believe, explains why, during the world’s most ungracious apology for (minimally) hosting the party in which actual human blood was spattered on my car, I was unable to elicit genuine humility or chastened regret from the principle miscreant.

Although I did get a slightly damp $10.00 bill with which to pay for a car wash.

You know how in Batman Begins, a spiritually wounded Bruce Wayne has to retreat to the mountains to perfect his skills with the ninja Ra's al Ghul before he can come back to Gotham City to enforce justice? I’m pretty sure this is how it’s going to need to be with me and the Death Glare.

Only with my mom in the Ken Watanabe role.

--saifun

In Which I Learn That A Surprising Number of My Neighbors Wear Bathrobes

Early on Saturday morning, while I was standing on my back deck in peaceful contemplation of the awe-inspiring effects on the garden of rabbit poop compost (as one does), I noticed that the across the alley neighbor appeared to be taking pictures of my back fence, which at this time of year is covered in pink honeysuckle. How nice, I thought, he’s testing out a new camera and the honeysuckle looks nice enough to be his test subject.

A little later, I ventured into the alley myself, on a green recycling mission, to be met by across-the-alley neighbor #2, wearing her pajamas and Bathrobe Example #1 (grey flannel with dark red cuffs and collar). From her, I learned the unhappy truth: That she was in the alley to assess the damage to her fence and garage caused by bodies slamming around in a fight, an offshoot of a raucous party at The Trouble House.

My neighborhood is basically Beaver Cleaver land. Lots of retirees with front lawns like putting greens, and young families. And then there is The Trouble House, where there is always a pod of underemployed teenagers milling around, and the Head of the Family has an on-again, off-again relationship with a person with untreated bipolar disorder.

Good times.

Every few months, there is some kind of blow-up regarding various forms of unacceptable behavior emanating from The Trouble House.

While I’m talking to Grey Bathrobe, Bathrobe Examples Nos. 2 and 3 emerge – pale blue quilted cotton and greeny-grey chenille: The wifely half of the picture-taking neighbor, her baby (bathrobe-free) and her mom. Wifely Bathrobe points out to us that there is a *trail of blood* going out into the street, and, in fact there is blood spatter on my car, which is what her husband was photographing.

By the time the police officer arrives, we have been joined by Bathrobe Examples Nos. 4 and 5. Two ladies from down the street who have psychically divined that there is Something Interesting happening in the alley.

I really thought that getting out of bed and throwing on your bathrobe and then going outside your own house was something that only happened on TV. Like when Darren would go down the front walk on “Bewitched” to get the paper. I’m wondering how I can get more data.

Next time: “Hi, I’m sorry I got blood on your car.”

--Saifun