Halloween is Friday. Which means the Christmas season starts Saturday. I was initially excited for the holidays to commence but I’ve since subdued my unbridled joy. I’m on the fence: either I’ll make it Instagram beautiful or maybe just use what I have. I was fairly committed to the ‘Ralph Lauren Christmas’ 2025 decor trend. I bought a tartan-trimmed tablecloth and a couple dozen faux red roses that I plan to pack tightly into antique urns. But then news broke of the White House east wing being bulldozed into oblivion plus the government shutdown leading to zero SNAP benefits in November—and I was all like, dude—fuck THIS Christmas. No one cares.

I believe the reason ‘Ralph Lauren Christmas’ is trending this year is because it is essentially old-school, traditional Christmas of yesteryear when folks used the good china, brought out the crystal, and polished the silver…all surrounded by rich reds, greens, and golds. The appeal—at baseline—is just a yearning for some tried and true tradition amidst this current world chaos.

I’ll probably continue with my vision for holiday decor here once I pack away the Halloween doodads and snap out of this current shit spiral funk. Le sigh.

My new next door neighbor plays electric guitar. Why can’t I have those bookish-types living next to me? Recall the young girl next door two years ago who must—by my vivid imagination—have been part of some university medical study titled “how much weed can I smoke before my tits fall off”. But here’s the thing: sure I can call the front office and bitch but I’m choosing to forgo playing my assigned senior curmudgeon role to, well—just roll with it. Fifty years ago my East Indian neighbors used to call my landlady about my loud disco music. “Boogie oogie oogie” wasn’t their vibe much like their simmering pots of curry wasn’t mine. But I digress.

When I’m sad and lonely I choose the comfortable familiarity of emotional scab picking: I Google my ghoster boyfriend to keep tabs on him.

Today I discovered he’s moved—yet again—without a trace. And when I searched under his name an alias now populates the search info field. I guess he’s continuing to run from something versus running into my arms. Yes, I know—I dodged that proverbial bullet smarter folks offer up to us betrayed lovelorn. The thing that keeps me stuck—and up late pondering his whereabouts—is a simple truth: while I have no way of ever tracking him down—he, on the other hand—knows exactly how and where to find me.

That never sinks in.

One of the gifts that comes into play as one ages is a heightened ability to sense agendas, angles, and—in general, bullshit.

Earlier this week I joined two other male occupants in the building’s elevator and noted that my floor number was already lit.

Last weekend I did hear some minor commotion in the outer hallway but it was short-lived; the voices and activity lasted under an hour. It was my new neighbor moving in. I didn’t even know my old neighbor—young female professional—had even moved out until I saw her door cracked open with fresh paint wafting in the hall.

Naturally I’ve been concerned about getting a new neighbor because I’m in my curmudgeon era and don’t need:

• loud TV

• loud computer games with sound effects

• smelly cooking; stir-fry that emit hot oil odors

• loud parties that don’t align with holidays

• door slamming

• obnoxious floral candle scents

• vile berry-flavored incense

• excessive weed smoking

• loud sexual activity

• overly bro, bruh, or dude sensibilities

• loud snoring

• loud music

• general rudeness; i.e. not replying to my ‘good morning’ or ‘how’s it going’

Essentially if one is a Minecraft playing, stir-fry wok whiz that lives with a bong on slow burn we cannot be on friendly terms.

Basically my ideal neighbor is a mute nun who excels at sandwich making and silent needlepoint. But I digress.

So the late twenty-early thirties male veered right stepping off the elevator just as I did. I extended my hand and said “you must be my new neighbor…nice to meet you.”

He didn’t skip a beat and said “yeah, hey—I moved in Saturday.”

But I had already passed him by headed to my unit when he said “Is this a good floor?”

I mean—the views aren’t like the ones on the 30th and above floors but the neighbors are all good and I said as much.

He said “If I’m too loud let me know…”

I’m paraphrasing that because I had backtracked my steps since he was continuing the conversation.

“I haven’t heard a thing. All good…”

That was met with “Where you at?”

“I’m in the unit at the end of the hall” as my mind began hearing Chris Isaak’s “They did a bad, bad thing…”

“Just you in there?” as he put his key in the knob.

“Just me” as I entered my apartment.

I mean—is it a bit odd, to inquire about who I’m living with—or not living with? My spidey sense kicked in from the get go.

First, he seemed too nice. And by that I mean just this: this is the big city. Folks don’t want to know their neighbors beyond head nods in the hallways. Secondly, young people aren’t interested in chatting up old men fucks. So there’s that. Three—and this comes from a prior experience—he has those steely blue gray eyes that appear to see right through one. Years ago I worked with a psycho nut case and he had those same blue gray eyes. They’re on you—and in you, when one’s gaze locks.

So. First impressions left me needing a bit more information. Maybe I’ve just lost my ability to trust anyone. Not like I need to trust the new neighbor but something has set my arm hair on end. Those eyes, though—sheesh.

Today is a federal holiday.

I know this because two weeks ago notices were posted in my building’s elevators that the management office on-site would be closed for ‘Indigenous Peoples’ Day’.

I did sort of do a double take but not because of the Indigenous Peoples part but because it prompted a reminder that I used to get the day off.

My company emailed their new 2025 holiday schedule in late Q4 last year. They removed Presidents’ Day and Indigenous Peoples’ Day as official paid holidays and framed that directive as giving us two paid time off (PTO) days of our own discretion.

I’m sure that directive works to their advantage in some fashion as most corporate mandates generally benefit the business. Like, I haven’t even thought about taking two days off but I guess I should.

Anyway. The shit hit the proverbial fan about “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” as an email was sent from some muckity-muck higher up from the building’s management company relaying apologies —and that no intent was taken—to discredit ‘Columbus Day’ and that the building celebrates and acknowledges the diversity of its residents and their cultures.

I’m paraphrasing but they were falling all over themselves to apologize for using the Indigenous Peoples’ language. The new notice in the elevators over this past weekend stated that the management office would be closed today for “the federal holiday”.

I’ve been trying to figure out what person or batch of residents bitched about ditching the Columbus Day language. We have a fairly large senior community in the building. A few have been found dead in their apartments the last couple of years. I figure if I were to die in my sleep or fall and crack my head open I’m wagering it will take about two to three days for a wellness check to occur. But I digress.

Frankly I’d like to propose a new federal holiday once our felon-in-chief passes. I’m proposing ‘Incredulous Peoples’ Day’ wherein the nation recognizes the sheer morbid stupidity that 70-million of their fellow citizens voted for a parasite grifter. Again.

I’m still sketching out the details. We could possibly crown a ‘Dunce Queen’ during the tiki torch book burning parade. Children will be welcome to try their luck at busting open colorful glittery Piñatas made from shredded copies of the Constitution. Prizes will include random separation from their parents on a day and time not of their choice and Kremlin phone cards. I see it as an entire day set aside to celebrate jolly idiocy and human suffering. Costumes could be fun.

I returned to my park coffee stroll this morning. I stopped getting coffee and walking the park about two weeks ago. Last night I caught my side profile in the darkened store windows of my local supermarket and gasped at how paunchy fat my midsection is.

So back to a walk. I do my best thinking while mindlessly walking. The parks are filled with like-minded morning-type people who sometimes give a nod or soft smile. The older folks do—not so much the young folk.

I’ve been of a “fuck them” mindset but frankly all that really does is amplify my own advancing years. God only knows what they’re managing. Job hunting is akin to climbing Everest nowadays; a starter home isn’t in the cards till late 30s. And forget about starting a family. More than likely they’ll never see a dime of social security.

I can’t say I envy their youth nowadays. They’ll have to roll with our authoritarian government a hell of a lot longer than this aging boomer.

They don’t seem to care too much. Or maybe—myself included, they are waiting for some broader, far-reaching national horror to jump start a solidarity resistance.

I saw a dog poop in the park. When you think about it a dog’s life is fairly simple: eat, play, poop. The dog owner dutifully bent down and swiftly scooped up the dog doo with little fanfare or notice by the surrounding folks.

But what if I—say, walked over to a good-sized oak tree—squatted, and took a massive dump? People would yell; some would video the folks yelling at me not to shit in the park. Some would probably move along fearing I must be on something—or not on something—as in forgetting to take my crazy meds. People would point and cluck about how very awful it is—crazy people shitting in the park. Because it is simply not acceptable.

Earlier this week Black Hawk helicopters buzzed a South Shore high-rise while border patrol agents systematically broke down every door and rounded up all tenants. Their belongings were trashed; they were held for hours while their criminal backgrounds were verified—or lack of a criminal background. US citizens were placed in vans—with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. You can Google this story for yourself. No warrants—no due process for an after midnight attack in a relatively poor neighborhood.

Toddlers were separated from their mothers—some naked—as there was no time allowed to clothe them. Babies with their hands zip-tied to other toddlers.

Our government is shitting on our constitution and it’s becoming acceptable. It’s happening—and at a brisk pace. For this administration it’s like a walk in the park while we heavy sigh and compartmentalize the unprecedented change. Who’s going to pick up the poop?

The flag officers served silence. I tuned in to that Quantico speech just because my ‘need to know’ was on red alert. I thought maybe we were going to war with China or Russia perhaps. But that would be a “no” as we now understand we’re going to war with the American people. I could only watch 30-40 minutes before I bailed; my stomach acids were churning. Thankfully I missed the former FOX weekend show host’s bit about war ethos.

I’m pleased that it was televised as the world stage witnessed our true military strength by the disciplined character on display. Had the gathering not been televised we would have no doubt been fed alternate facts about “grown men—people are saying some of the toughest men—with tears in their eyes…thanking me for my leadership”.

But their collective silence ruled the day. But for how long?

I said I wouldn’t turn this space into political opinion but sometimes yelling into my pillow isn’t enough. But I digress.

October is here; warm days and cooler nights are in order. For you Christmas crafters nows the time to buy that yarn or the fabric; personally I need a new glue gun for some holiday decor I’m thinking about.

I’d like to drag some fallen tree branches in from the park to sort of anchor at the four corners of my foyer ceiling—have them all meet in the middle to form a canopy thing but all bare branches dabbed with white paint and glitter. Then I want to add some twinkling fairy lights—the ones with a remote—and then hot glue some old plastic dripping icicles here and there to create a frosty wintery wonderland.

I mean, like—I can totally see this in my head. It just takes time and finding the right branches.

One needs a distraction from the real world nowadays, right? It’s good to make plans in my head even when those plans probably distill to just buying a $6.99 ‘compare at’ evergreen scented candle.