The neighbor in back of me was probably a very nice man; I can't recall ever talking to him beyond a word or two, but he seemed likeable enough. So it was unfortunate that my need for additional Liebesraum (room to live, literally) meant that he had to die a horrible death.
For that, I am truly sorry. I probably owe everyone in town an apology, but I had little choice. Local zoning is very clear that there has to be 25 feet between "any structure whatsoever," (in this case, the edge of my patio) and the property line.
Stephen Kling is a grizzled veteran of the advertising wars...
read moreSince I had my heart set on a new 12-foot stainless-steel barbecue, with Benihana-style ventilation system, separate gas-fired pu-pu grill, a side-by-side "pool-size" stainless Sub Zero refrigerator-cradles for 3 beer kegs-and wet bar with 3 frozen margarita stations-territorial invasion was the only option.
I blame my lovely wife N., of course. I couldn't bring myself to say "no." I also blame lawyers, just on principle.
I considered ignoring the zoning regulations. But as soon as the first backhoe arrived, a mousy Zoning Enforcement Officer showed up, and, in spite of the twenty dollar bills I tried tucking into his belt loops, he was pretty unreasonable.
So I assembled an army of mercenaries. I armed them with whatever I had lying around the garage: pitchforks, rakes, axe handles, Katyusha rockets, small arms from Iraq. My son (I'll call him Football, since he's so easily mortified every time I mention him), is very handy on the Internet, and found several Kuwait War-era tanks and amphibious assault vehicles, some HumVees and a small air wing. You can find anything on eBay.
Soon "Delta Force SubZero" was ready. We all had arm patches made with inscriptions like THE GRIM REAPER embroidered on them, and the equipment was spread all over the lawn, leaving very little room to walk. The mercenaries were gobbling down chicken nuggets and fries, and generally making a mess of the kitchen, when I gave the order to move out.
The battle was over rather quickly, after only token resistance. We were sifting through the charred wreckage of what was once a fine older home, and had just finished selling the orphaned children into indentured servitude with the Cicarellis down the block, when the Zoning Enforcement Officer showed up again.
"You file a permit for this Hell on Earth activity?" he asked.
I admitted that I had not. He scratched a few notes in his memo pad.
"I see you've gutted the main house, and left an open foundation. That's a hazard. I'm going to have to cite you for that," he said, gesturing to the smoking ruin.
"Is it still considered an ‘open' foundation if it's filled with the bones of the vanquished?" I asked, trying to find a way out of what I thought would be at least a $100 fine.
"There's no exception for ‘bone-filled' in the code. And I'm going to have to cite you for violating the Saturday noise regulations. Tanks, air attack and especially artillery fire would fall under the new Leaf Blower regulations." More scratching in his pad. This was going to run into money.
"Are the agonized screams of the dead and dying okay?" I questioned.
"As long as they're not mechanical or gas-powered, they're okay," he sighed. He had obviously answered the same silly questions many times before.
"Sorry," I said.
"No problem. Just pay the fine before the date on the back. Oh, one more thing...the tanks are tearing up the curb line over by the charred corpse at the end of the driveway. I'm not gonna cite you for that one, but try to repair it before it rains." He tucked his pad into his jacket pocket and left.
A couple of weeks later we had the patio pavers laid. The Sub Zero fridge and 12-foot barbecue went in a few days after that, and within a week the frozen margarita stations were pumping strawberry and mango-flavored drinks to all our friends and surviving neighbors. We even had the mercenaries back over for burgers and beers.
As I lay back in my chaise lounge, overlooking the grunge-chic of the twisted metal and ashes of what had been our neighbor's yard, I sipped my margarita and thought to myself, Y'know, life isn't so bad, after all.
Care for a pu-pu?...read more blogs
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