TO CLARIFY, MY NEW NEIGHBORS ARE THE COOLEST OCCUPANTS of the adjacent three-bedroom unit since our ex-Crip ex-landlord Fuji, and a quintillion miles cooler than the flinty lesbians that just moved outta there. Beer and pizza has been consumed in the name of neighborly love, and they threw a housewarming party that sounded like a rager from my bathroom floor, where I spent Friday night thanks to Bamboo's sugary drinks, in case any of you were(n't) wondering how I managed to transform into a black man named Sum for last week's Saints & Sinners set. You're not a Westwood Block resident until you've been shatten on at The Palms Weekend, so if you guys are reading this, take this as a sign that you're part of the gang now. And you'd better be reading this, because I only mentioned my blog like three times to you guys in three conversations. Then again, the more times people ask me to check their work out, the more determined I become to never even acknowledge its existence. So hopefully you're nothing like me.

You guys aren't half as bad as the Mexican kid who plays on his father's car horn all day. Or the fat lady across the driveway who hacks like she inhaled a tennis shoe. Or LeafBlowerMan, who's so small and old that I sometimes entertain wrestling the leaf blower from him and blowing him away and keeping the leaves. I understand you guys are from Chicago, which is to sport what Afghanistan is to terrorism. Pudge got stabbed last year, and never once looked a sliver as angry as your brother did the other week after that Dutch soccer player flubbed that kick in the Finals. And the non-stop clapping and yelping can be almost invigorating at times; makes me want to rip my shirt off my chest with one hand and peel off an Alp-shaking yodel. That, or I'm trying to look on the bright side so I don't get jumped by a bunch of sports fans. So yeah, keep up the noise, and Go, Team. Throw the cylindrical object with vigor. Beat the opponent soundly.

PS: an extra special thank you to Peter for the acting tips. This time next year I'll be in the background of all kinds of doomed sitcoms. If I'm lucky.

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