Make Mine Mike

Don’t you hate when people come back from a blogging hiatus, put up one post announcing their triumphant return, only to go incommunicado again?

And then when they do write something else, they just apologize for their absence with “busy” excuses like how they’ve gone back to work, are preparing to move, or are fighting a plague of pestilence, locusts and the overwhelming task of trying to catch up on what they’ve been up to?

What’s worse is when they falsely assume that others are even wondering where they’ve been, considering their readership is abysmal whether they post practically every day (like in February) or not at all (March). So why don’t they just shut up, stop staring at their Sitemeter and say something of substance already?

Like about the second yard sale to get rid of stuff. My girlfriend and I found it wasn’t as lucrative as the first one. Maybe it was the fickle weather (before Spring really sprang) or the fiscal timing (before tax day attacks). Maybe no one wanted my trusty telescope, rusty chin-up bar or dusty Botero paintings, or Adelphia’s shabby chic sheets or chicly shabby desk or shifty shaky chifferobe.

Shit.

Still, you can always count on the crazies to come out. For example, the wacky mom who told us about her two baby daddies, one of whom plays professional squash, the other plays professional youtube. I couldn’t tell if that meant they were deadbeat dads or stinkin’ rich sugardaddies. Whatever that family’s income bracket, she only spent four bucks on my old Slinky and Adelphia’s Magic 8-Ball.

Was it worth it all for the freak factor? Signs point to yes.

The most memorable passerby didn’t even patronize our sale. A young anorexic-looking woman wearing hip evening clothes, but appearing pretty haggard at 6:30AM. We were just starting to set up for the day. There was no way this gaunt girl was walking down Hollywood Boulevard at dawn to browse through my baseball cards.

She said to us, “Do you know the number of a cab company?”

I actually remembered Beverly Hills Taxi ‘cause it’s one digit off from a major literary talent agency. Besides phone numbers, what else do those companies have in common? Both send out hacks. (Ba-dum-Crash!)

The girl muttered a thanks and left, groggily dialing on her cellphone.

As soon as she was out of range, Adelphia and I looked at each other and said in unison: “Walk of shame.”

The girl must’ve partied at one of the Hollywood hangouts, hooked up with some guy and lost her ride home with her girlfriends. I wondered to myself if maybe she had had a good time, and the term “walk of shame” was a misnomer. Then again, why was she out at this hour? We were there to beat the early birds who swoop in on yard sales. What was Party Girl’s excuse? I wouldn’t be surprised if she felt she couldn’t even call the cab from the himbo’s crib, had to get out of there the second the roofies wore off.

Or maybe, as usual, I was over-thinking it. I looked at Adelphia, who seemed pensive, too. She was watching Party Girl, but probably contemplating our upcoming move and new apartment.

“Y’know,” Adelphia said, “I’m really not gonna miss this neighborhood.”