Twinkie’s Temper Tremors.

A Lesson in Anger and Envy.

Twinkie Terwilliger had all the charisma of a dirty wet dishrag.  He took offense at anything that didn’t cater to his inflated sense of self-worth.  The moment someone failed to shower him with praise, acknowledge his so-called brilliance, or metaphorically place a sparkly golden trophy in his hand for simply being present, the subsequent scene was inevitable.  He couldn’t stand other people holding the limelight or doing something better than he, and his envy got the better of him.  His fragile-as-glass ego shattered into a million pieces, and therein the theatrics began.

His eyes bulged as if they might pop from their sockets, his face flushed a shade of deep red.  His entire body tremblef uncontrollably, reminiscent of someone in the throes of psychogenic tremors.  To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a medical emergency, but those who knew him understood that it was just another of Twink’s infamous tantrums.

As his voice rose, so did the drama around him.  He just had to be always be right, no matter the subject.  Everyone else was wrong in his mind.  He jabbed a trembling finger toward his supposed offenders, the veins in his neck strained with every shouted word, his bald head turned a bright beet red.  “There you go again!” he bellowed, and his voice cracked as if rehearsing for a poorly performed stage play in the junior high thespian club.  The words echoed sharply and accusatory, and it left his targets unsure whether to laugh, apologize, or simply walk away.

At workplace meetings, his fellow meeting-goers were drawn in by the commotion.  Their expressions were a mix of disbelief and thinly veiled amusement, and many were unable to suppress a smirk or guffaw.  Yes, they had seen this performance before, yet it still left them to marvel at the sheer cheekiness of it all.  Moreover, there was a certain dark humor to watch a grown man who’s sixty years old throw a tantrum that rivaled any spoiled toddler in a toy aisle.  Not a meeting went by where he didn’t scream and shout at perceived insults to him.  He also invariably imagined that he was insulted at every turn, for he had a serious paranoia problem.

When he was back in the neighborhood throwing tantrums, he had a personal crusader.  His father, whom everyone called “Papó,” inevitably stepped forward to be Twink’s personal crusader.  He completed the absurd tableau.  Papó nodded solemnly and would then puff out his chest past his beer belly.  His face wore a forced mask of indignation on behalf of his son.  “He’s just passionate,” Papó explained to the gathering, as though this outburst were some misunderstood acts of controlled brilliance.  He, defending his sixty-year-old child as if he were still a little boy on the playground, being teased for wearing a pink elastic eyeglasses retainer on his head!

The crowd would disperse, with knowing glances exchanged and whispers passed among them.  Meanwhile, Twink stood tall once more and basked in his father’s validation, as if he’s won a moral victory that rivaled Napoleon.  The storm would subside, until the next perceived slight against him stirred it anew with his temper tremors.

 

 

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Books that Form Us – #2.

Second in a Series of My Book Reviews.

 Good books do more than entertain; they shape the soul in ways that are subtle yet profound.  Here are the extensive books I read in May and June 2026.

Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England transcribed by John W. Parker and Son (1857).

✒️ Each of these 108 ballads, poems, and songs in this collection were written in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and compiled into this 1857 transcription by John W. Parker and Son.  This became a lengthy reading foray for me, not only because of the number of works, but also due to the language style that I needed to adjust my understanding of the writing style especially.  This is a very good book if you enjoy this sort of language arts.

Silent Struggles by Ann S. Stephens (1865).

✒️ Wow . . . what a lengthy novel filled with sea adventure!  Admittedly, this took me a couple of weeks to read, and I am a fast reader.  I somewhat enjoyed it, mostly for the themes of bravery and fate.  Amid a violent Boston storm, a young man and an aging minister, strangers to one another bound by an uncanny sense of fate, wait on a hill for a troubled ship to reach the harbor.  Their connection deepens when they witness a desperate escape at sea: Barbara Stafford, a courageous young woman fleeing mortal danger.  As the storm intensifies, both men show remarkable resolve, and the youth ultimately plunges into the raging waters to save her.  Their collision of among these lives sets the stage for a story shaped by bravery, destiny, and the unexpected ties that form in moments of crisis.

Jingle in the Jungle by Aldo Giunta (1957).

✒️  This is a short story that proves not every written tome had clean language back in the 1950s.  I dumped this story because of the taking of God’s name in vain.  I didn’t get past the second page.  This science fiction shortie was first published in “If Worlds of Science Fiction,” June 1957.

 

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Fritz-Udolph and the Silver Bolt.

Fritz-Udolph was awakened every night at 3 AM for two months by hard and rhythmic banging noises.  During those two months, he listened to that noise with wide-eyes and clenched fists while he lay in his bed.  He grew angrier by the night.  Finally fed up and disgusted with not knowing where the noise was coming from, he got out of his bed one thunderstormy night.  He slipped into his bright yellow chinoiserie silk robe printed with brown swallows and white magnolias.  He straightened his collar as he looked in the mirror and tied the belt into a sharp bow, slipped into his fur-lined leather slippers and started walking around his apartment.

He switched on the master bathroom light.

“Bang, bang, bang!”

He looked inside the sink cabinet and in the linen closet.  The noise wasn’t coming from anywhere in the master bathroom.  He stood in the bathtub, quietly listening for a long while.  He bit his lower lip and moved quietly to the guest room as his antique cuckoo clock chimed the quarter hour.  Of course, the banging continued.

“Bang, bang, bang!”

He slinked down the hall to the guest room.  The noise wasn’t coming from there, either.  He slid into the guest bathroom, stood in the shower stall and quietly listened.  He vaguely heard the banging but still couldn’t discern its origin.  He cleared his throat and rubbed his bearded chin.

Fritz-Udolph popped his hands into his robe’s pockets and tiptoed to the kitchen.  He flipped the light switch.  A couple of fruit flies from the bowl of ripening bananas flew past his face.  He grabbed a brown banana and ate it in three large bites.  Now the cuckoo clock chimed on the half hour, and there was more banging, this time a little louder and with a different tempo.

“B-bang, b-bang, b-b-bang, bang, bang!”

But the noise was too far away from the kitchen to come from there.  Feeling his face growing hot from anger, he tossed the banana peel into the garbage can and swatted five fruit flies as he closed the garbage can lid.  He marched into the living room.

“B-bang, b-bang, b-b-bang, bang, bang!”

The noise wasn’t coming from the living room, either.  “Strange,” Fritz-Udolph grumbled.  He stuck his head into the front hall closet and pushed aside his woolen capes and coats.

“B-bang, b-bang, b-b-bang!”

“Ah, ho!  There it is!” he exclaimed half-aloud.  “There it is coming from the next door!”  The cuckoo clock chimed on the three-quarter hour.  He rubbed his short grey beard, bit his upper lip and chewed on it for a long while.

“Bang, bang, bang!” the thuds echoed.  “Bang, bang, bang!”

Fritz-Udolph stood in the closet and listened.  “It is from the next door!” he thought.  “I will get the woman for this!”  By the time the cuckoo clock chimed four, the banging suddenly ceased.

“That’s it!” he grunted.  “I will show her, that infernal woman at the next door.  I will put an end to her discourtesy to me.”

The next morning, Fritz-Udolph called the management company and complained about his next-door neighbor.

“I tell you,” Fritz-Udolph shouted in his heavy German Swiss accent.  “You people must; I say MUST! put an end to my neighbor, Ramona, banging at three in the morning.  This has been going on for the two months.  I tell you, it is the hammer she is using.  I will not tolerate it.  I did an engineering study on this in my home country for a secondary school project, and I concluded no one could possibly bang all night long, ‘specially at three in the morning!  It is im-poss-ible!  It is the work of the succubus, that is what she is!  She will not seduce me, that Ramona, according to my proven engineering project!”

On the other end of the phone, the property manager smiled and half-giggled to herself.  She knew Fritz-Udolph didn’t make any sense, he never did, and that was par for the course.  She asked Fritz-Udolph if he had talked to his neighbor, Ramona, about the banging.  It was the better option, she explained, for opening the lines of communication between neighbors helps to foster goodwill.

“No,” he screamed.  “Why should I do that?  It is your job, fräulein!  Your job, not mine!”

The property manager rolled her eyes, took a puff from her joint, and promised she would contact his neighbor, which she did.  Through some investigation, the noisy problem was discovered.  It actually was a loose bolt from the fan that moved the air in the garbage room.  The garbage room was between Fritz-Udolph and Ramona’s apartments.

It turned out that Ramona never heard the noise because she was a heavy sleeper, and she slept wearing headphones.  She much preferred sleeping to the sounds of waterfalls than the noisy mechanics of the building.  Fritz-Udolph, on the other hand, was a light sleeper.  He could hear an ant crossing the grassy yard.

Fritz-Udolph was unfazed when he was told the noise was a fan bolt.  The building superintendent tightened it, and the noise was quelled.  Fritz-Udolph never apologized to Ramona for accusing her of something she didn’t do, nor did he feel remorse.  He was F.U., of course!

Fritz-Udolph’s complaint may have been addressed, but the way he handled it did little to cultivate even the thinnest thread of neighborly benevolence.  He passed Ramona in the hallway with theatrical grunts and mutters, while she, worn out by the whole affair, slipped past him with the quiet skill of someone avoiding a monster.

In the end, the whole episode left Fritz-Udolph with a lesson far quieter than the banging that had tormented him: life among neighbors requires patience that begins not in the hallway but in the heart.  What he mistook for another’s intentional rudeness had been shaped mostly by his own assumptions, his grand conceit, and his own certainty marching ahead of charity.  Yet, he never learned that peace within shared spaces depends on the intelligence to extend goodwill before judgment, to listen before accusing, and to soften the noise within before blaming the noise without.  He continued to accuse Ramona and other neighbors of deliberate peccadillos against him, and he continued to act with a haughtiness that only the most conceited of snobs could assemble.

 

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Rotting Fast and Faster.

A Lesson About the New World.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would buy a head of lettuce, a bunch of tomatoes, and a box of mushrooms, or other kinds of fresh food.  They would last for a week, maybe ten days before any initial spoiling would show its ugly face.  Nowadays, that head of lettuce, bunch of tomatoes, and box of mushrooms will start spoiling three or four days from when I brought them home.  It goes for much of the produce I buy now.  Sure, the “fresh by” date might still be two weeks in the future but spoil they must.

What a rotten new world we live in!

 

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A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

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A Hobby for Mister Money Pit.

A Lesson in Compliance and Conservation.

Once upon a time in a land far away from where I am now writing this essay, I lived in an association where all bets were off on rules and logic.  You see, living in a homeowners’ association is supposed to mean order, maintenance, and shared responsibility (to a point).  In my former community, however, it meant living under the shadow of one homeowner’s misguided “help.”  We all called him Mister Money Pit because everything he touched cost the association more money, more repairs, and more headaches than if he had simply kept his hands in his pockets.  Every homeowner’s association has a character or two, but that association had a catastrophe.  He tinkered, he “fixed,” and nearly everything he touched ended up worse than before.  And for as long as anyone could remember, he was allowed to do it all.

Every winter for years, he oversalted the icy spots near the lobby door, which ruined the concrete sidewalk.  He shoveled snow into piles blocking easy access to exterior doors.  He periodically threw the swimming pool chemistry into chaos by overdosing the chemicals.  He twisted the hinges on the lobby door and every pedestrian door causing them to be misaligned, including the locks being nearly impossible to use.  He broke light fixtures, broke the lens of several fluorescent lights, drilled holes where no holes belonged, and left tools scattered around the common areas like landmines.  His tools were everywhere, behind shrubs, in front of his storage room, and hidden in locked mechanical rooms.  He treated the property like his personal workshop, and the results showed it.

He caused electrical shorts by plugging multiple industrial tools into a single outlet.  He shut off water valves without warning, leaving residents without water for hours.  He painted over rust instead of treating it.  He used the wrong screws, the wrong tools, the wrong materials just about every time.  He even tampered with the elevator machinery and fire alarms, because apparently nothing was off‑limits, and it kept him busy.  When confronted about hiring a professional?  Well, his signature line was “We can’t afford it!”  No, we couldn’t afford him.

He was hemorrhaging the community’s money, time, and ultimately, sanity.  His story is proof that a homeowner’s association must enforce boundaries, require professional work, and stop mistaking chaos for volunteerism.  Otherwise, one man’s hobby becomes everyone else’s disaster.  But for some reason, he was perpetually allowed to continue his operation.  Maybe nobody wanted to hurt his feelings.  Who knows?  No one said why.

He even routinely bypassed the board of directors, instead calling the management company directly to summon vendors for pumps, valves, and lights he had no authority to touch, even when he was told not to, and even more often after he had already made the situation worse.

In reality, Mister Money Pit wasn’t a volunteer.  He was a liability disguised as a helper.  His interference cost the community far more than professional maintenance ever would have.  His behavior was a reminder that good intentions don’t excuse bad outcomes, and that a homeowners association must enforce boundaries, compliance, and accountability, or risk letting one person’s hobby become everyone else’s financial burden.

If a community is to thrive, it must protect itself not only from neglect, but from the chaos created by those who refuse to recognize the limits of their own competence.

 

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Phony, Even Amongst Themselves.

I often wonder what makes certain people behave one way in public and quite another when they believe no one is watching.  It’s a small mystery of human nature, but every now and then, a particular encounter forces me to look at it more closely.

The Stankles were just such a family.

Individually, each member was curt at best and openly rude at worst.  When I passed them alone in the lobby, they wouldn’t greet me, wouldn’t hold a door, wouldn’t even muster the basic civility expected of neighbors.  Adonis Stankle once sneered outright at the ashes on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, as if the sign of repentance were a personal affront to him.  Which, maybe it was.  He left the Church because of some falling out with his own father and moved to a non-denominational Protestant sect.  That’s what he said.

But the moment another Stankle appeared beside them, the transformation was instantaneous.  Suddenly it was All Christian, All the Time: doors held open, cheerful greetings, syrupy small talk, and enough forced sunshine to blind a person.  As a group, they radiated a kind of performative wholesomeness.  Alone, each one reverted to something far less pleasant.

What made the contrast even stranger was that Adonis, the patriarch, fancied himself a weekend preacher.  Every Sunday he mounted his little stage of his community building of self-importance, reading from his community’s version of Scripture and occasionally dunking someone in the waters of baptism.  Meanwhile, his children vandalized parts of the building and stashed garbage in the common-area closets.  His wife, when encountered alone, was as prickly and uncommunicative as a person could be.

It was the oldest stereotype in the book: the preacher’s family who shines only when the lights are on.  The more I observed them, the more I wondered whether the righteousness they displayed in public was merely a costume; one they donned for applause and shed the moment the audience disappeared.

It sure seemed that way.

 

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The Sheriff of Decibels:  The Man Who Heard Too Much

A Lesson in Consideration.

I once wrote about the Sheriff of Decibels, a neighbor from a high‑rise condominium where keeping to oneself was the unofficial building policy.  Everyone did keep to themselves, and life was blissfully uneventful, until the night he, Mr. Wigg, called to inform me that my television was “too loud” and preventing him from sleeping.

Now, I had been living at that condominium for years; he was living there long before I showed up on the scene.  So, this was a surprise out of nowhere.

That phone call became the overture to a recurring performance, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self‑appointed enforcer of silence.  After a few of these episodes, I began to wonder whether sound was truly traveling through the walls or whether he simply enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a well‑timed complaint.  After all, the room with my television didn’t even share a wall with his bedroom; it butted up against his butler’s pantry.  And I hadn’t turned on that television for months by this time.

The irony was rich: I could hear his television, too, but only when I passed his front door.  Talk shows, game shows, the full audio spectrum.  Yet it never occurred to me to call him and issue a noise citation.  I assumed he was just living his life, the way people do when they choose communal living over a cabin in the woods.

Then one afternoon, as I walked down the common hallway, his door cracked open an inch.  “Pssst!  I can hear sounds from your condo,” he whispered, as if delivering classified intelligence.

I turned to look through the sliver of darkness.  Only Mr. Wigg’s lips were visible, and the darkness behind him was black and infinite.  I told him flatly that nothing was playing and kept walking.  For a moment, I wondered if he stood in his butler’s pantry with a cup pressed to the wall, listening for enemy war plans.  The image made me laugh.

There’s a particular fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being lectured on etiquette by someone chewing with their mouth open.  You could point it out, but it would never land.

I concluded that the issue lay not with me but with his imagination, or his hearing aids, or him pressing his ear against our common wall.  Who knows?  I kept living my life at a normal volume, unbothered.

Then one day, everything came to light.  When my best friend was walking down the hallway coming back from the garbage room, he bumped into Mr. Wigg.  The spoke awhile, and the true of this “noise” matter was discovered.  It appeared that we and Mr. Wigg have the same brand and model of television.  Through the wonders of modern technology, the sounds from our television come through his speakers.  We have heard his television sound come through our speakers, too.  And what about our television turning off by itself?  Well, it also is apparent that his remote and our remote affect the other’s sets.

Therefore, isn’t it better to find the source of a problem before claiming someone of malfeasance?  It could all be an innocent technology glitch.  Mr. Wigg wouldn’t have been aggravated, and I wouldn’t think of the situation as silly.

 

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Ciao, Baby.

The family of one of our more pungently aromatic residents has officially left the building.  The U‑Haul is sealed and locked, the cars are idling, and with them, their smells are preparing to embark on a cross‑country tour.  I imagine the exhaust fumes themselves are already begging for mercy.

Yes, one of the most infamous contributors to our high‑rise’s atmospheric instability has departed: Adonis and his clan, whom I privately (and accurately) referred to as The Stankles.  They are now barreling down the highway toward Pennsylvania, where they will no doubt introduce the Poconos to a whole new category of air quality alerts.  Adonis will be taking a new position onstage every Sunday and Wednesday, and Mrs. Stankle will continue her lifelong mission of single‑handedly keeping Bath & Body Works in business.  The kids will probably continue their behind-the-scenes vandalism and hijinx, because that’s what they do.  Their daughter is someone I would like to know where her life will go, since at the now-tender age of 12, she also walked the hallways every summer nearly naked in her bikini.  I suppose her father, Adonis, doesn’t preach modesty on stage every Sunday and Wednesday.  sigh

As you may recall, if scent could take physical form, this family would have traveled through life inside a permanent soft green fog, something between a cartoon stink cloud and a Department of War desert field experiment.  Each member of the household believed cologne was not something one applied, but something one soaked in and marinated.  Not spritz.  Not dab.  Full immersion, and ideally overnight.

I will not miss the unmistakable aroma of Adonis returning from the neighborhood gym, sweat cascading off him in rivulets that perfumed the hallways with a scent best described as “ancient locker unearthed from a peat bog.”  It was bad enough watching him attempt to walk normally.  Around the building and along the sidewalks, we neighbors would see his bare torso and biceps so inflated he could no longer lower his arms straight down.  He moved like a man permanently prepared to carry two large Thanksgiving tom turkeys.

Whenever that throat‑tightening, eye‑watering haze slapped me across the face, I knew exactly what it meant: the Stankles had either departed for work and school or had triumphantly returned.  They lived on the opposite end of the hallway from me, which made the reach of their fumes all the more impressive.  For the stench to drift all the way to my wing, it must have clung to them like a second skin and through all seven layers.  Frankly, I suspect the fumes had their own lease agreement.

And now they are off to their new life, ready to add a fresh bouquet to the Poconos Mountains.  I wish the region and their new neighborhood luck.  They’ll need it.

Ciao!

 

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