"You're about to experience the hard knocks of a free market, bitch. Get ready to feel it where it hurts." "Your dick!""No, not his dick. His--wallet.

Stuff be happening. Here are some reactions to that stuff:

It took four years and some change, but I finally made my triumphant return to the Brave New Workshop stage. Granted, as an understudy, and an understudy chosen in the same manner in which Harry T. Stone was appointed the judge of Night Court. ("I was home.") With four days notice, I jumped in for Fotis -- and the results were very well received indeed. Just look at this printed and spoken praise:

"[CARSON] absolutely killed. It was darned impressive. " - Joe Bozic

"Virtually seamless!" - Lauren Anderson

"Fuck off, Josh." - Mike Fotis*

Highlights included my impression of an overzealous pirate doing an impression of Jesse Ventura, performing fake wrestling all too realistically, and spending a good twenty minutes of the show hitting on a smoking hot girl that normally wouldn't give me the time of day.

All in all, it felt good to be onstage. Really good. Like I was finally back home.

And where I'm very much feeling not at home is my apartment.

Sure, the neighbors have stopped stealing my magazine since I labeled my mailbox, and their fights often contain better dialogue ("You barely respect me!" "I respect the shit out of you, retard!"), but I'm afraid 1986 Landlady has plummeted off the deep end of being a fucking nutbar.

It's the entire mail issue. As you may recall, she wants to me to call her, tell her what she's received in the mail, and she will tell me which mail she would me to send on to her current location.

I flat-out told her that I didn't feel comfortable, sorting through someone elses mail -- which is most definitely illegal even with her so-called permission -- and I inquired as to why, if she valued her mail so much, she didn't just forward it to her current location. You know. Like a human.

Well, forwarding your mail simply does not work.

Oh. Okay.

After several voice mails, one of them completely unrelated to the topic of her mail and in which she addressed me as Michael and spoke to me of issues I've never heard of because my voicemail that clearly told the caller you've reached Josh's number was not enough of a hint, she finally laid on the guilt trip about how she was expecting checks and such, and I was now interfering with finances and personal life.

So, I e-mailed her a list of the mail. She said, "Hmmmm, I may need you to open some of these letters so I can find out if they're important or not, and from there, we'll decide what you need to send to me." And she was very adamant about me getting all of this accomplished by Sept. 30th, when she leaves the country. Another place where mail can't reach her.

I told her I wasn't doing that, and I was just going to send her the mail, so I don't have to deal with it. So, Tuesday afternoon, I sent her her mail. I left her a message indicating that I did as such, and late last night, I received the following, word-for-word voicemail:

1986 LANDLADY. [LOUD WHISPER] What the fuck!? [NORMAL VOICE] Josh, I just got your e-mail. I'm stunned. I'm REALLY stunned. I'm leaving town on Tuesday, as you know, and we don't know for sure if it's even going to get here. And I think you sent it to the address I left you, but I just don't know for sure. It would be really nice to know! Sorry if I sound aggravated, but, by all means, I am just being driven crazy by this kind of thing. It's a minor request I made. I have asked you many times. I'm really sorry if you think this is too much. It is too much. I HAVE to know what you're doing. I need you to communicate with me. And this last e-mail is just too late, you know? And I'm not asking you to send me my mail regularly until NEXT January. So, please, LET ME KNOW via e-mail where you sent it, and there better be a tracking number. For all you know, there's six-hundred checks in there! And believe me, the post office is not reliable at all! I don't care what they've told you, they are NOT reliable! So, excuse me if I sound exasperated. I'm very tired. I have a lot of issues. People telling me they wanted a dog. They don't want a dog in my unit! ETC!"

And she goes on to further elaborate how to send an e-mail, and how every e-mail I receive from her, should be replied with another e-mail indicating that I received the initial e-mail, which I will now review and reply to.

....

1986 Landlady's name has officially changed to Crazytown. Because of this, and various other reasons:

A. I sleep in a sofa-bed.
B. With an air-mattress that just popped.
C. While my downstairs neighbors are no longer stealing my mail, they are looking at it, and placing it directing inside my door, I think at the behest of Crazytown.
D. When December rolls around, Crazytown wants to be admitted into the apartment regularly to work in her Forbidden Cave of Mystery.
E. The simple fact that I'm not house-sitting, and I'm paying rent

And rest assured, that's an F through Z as well.

When I signed the initial lease, I was given out in December. Apparently, she's had a history of tenants who suddenly want to be as far as away from the apartment as possible. Not knowing I'm color-blind due to this obvious red flag, I'm sure as hell going to act on it now, maybe sooner if I get the chance.

It's a shame, because I love the neighborhood, and everything would be great, if I was allowed to have a bed, and not deal with a mentally unbalanced AARP member.

So, if anybody knows of anything, drop me a line. Given my future Tony and Tina-ness, as well as my equal love of partying but only until I want to go to bed, I've-- I've-- I've been thinking about looking in St. Paul.

I feel shameful. And a little AARP-ish myself.

*That's an unrelated "Fuck off," but in this context it takes on a different meaning. That's marketing kids!