My neighbor joem18b invited me to sit down here and write a guest post on his blog. He’s gone down to the 7-11 to buy us some juice to drink the times I come over from next door to visit like this, so I’ve got about ten minutes to finish this composition. He probably expects me to say something nice about him, but he told me to just say whatever was on my mind and I will. But I don’t want him hanging over my shoulder while I’m at it, so when he comes back, I’m done, whatever.
First of all, joem18b? Who has a name like that? I see him in the front yard, I have to go Hello, joem18b. It seems odd. He wants to be a good neighbor, I’ll give him that. But he’s a strange bird.
Second of all, I’ve read this blog of his on the computer down at the library. (I don’t have a computer yet. I’m waiting till they settle down.) From his blog, you’d think he was a regular guy. He told me the other day that he stole 95% of what you read here, from other blogs. He said he couldn’t write a good sentence if his life depended on it. He said he’d never get caught because there are so many blogs and nobody would think to check, if anybody read his stuff in the first place. He just wants to make some friends. I asked him if he had made any. He said most of the people who read his blog, if they even did really read it, he didn’t know who they were or where they lived or what they did or anything. I asked him why he didn’t just go downtown and meet some folks. At a bar or the bingo hall or the whorehouse. He stared at me like I was nuts.
There’s nobody living in this house but him. There is a dress dummy in the living room, wearing a tuxedo. At night I hear dance music and see shadows moving on the shade.
The blog contains stuff about sex, but he told me that he lost his privates at the age of two in an accident with an electric toy steamshovel.
He spends an awful lot of time in the kitchen and out in the yard with his flowers. Can you be a fag if your dick was cut off?
I don’t like his religion. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t see him in my congregation on Sunday mornings, so it can’t be good.
He’s not from around here. He could be from a foreign country with that name of his. When he moved in, before he changed them, he had license plates from Wisconsin or Minnesota or someplace like that, someplace with a lot of Swedes or Germans or Canadians or whatever. His eyes might be a little slanty. His skin might be a little dark. His hair might have some curl in it. Kinky curl, I mean.
I’ve never liked the paint job on his house. Mrs. Jacobs, who lived there before him, wouldn’t change it. When she finally passed, I breathed a sigh of relief. joem18b said that he’d paint it a new color. I asked him what color. He asked what color I would like. I said I’d like a brown color. The next day he told me he had researched the subject on his computer and how would I feel about French Roast. I asked what was that. He said the color of coffee. I said I didn’t want anything to do with the damned French. Cowards. He asked about Portobello. I asked what was that. He said a mushroom. Jesus Christ, joem18b! What’s wrong with you? He asked how I would feel about Dark Chocolate. OK, I told him, paint this eyesore the color of dark chocolate and you’ll finally have a friend in town, namely, me.