3 days remain until my house goes up for sale at public auction.  I may or may not choose to check in with my lender today.  In truth I’m rooting for the other team at this point.  Foreclosure is imminent so let’s forget about a Hail Mary pass and get this over with so we can all go home—er… so everyone else can go home.  Mine will cease to exist as mine in a few days and will be empty shortly thereafter.  My stomach aches.  Perhaps I’m hungry so I rustle up some eggs and bacon.  It’s my Little Piggy version of cheap comfort food I hope will add a little meat to my bones in anticipation of lean times ahead.

Word to the wise:  finish your lunch or meal replacement bar and wait at least a half hour before swimming through the following:  Flies show up at death’s door to lay their eggs in rotting carcasses of once-breathing animals.  It proves to be an invaluable tool for forensic scientists during death investigations as the age of maggots on their way to becoming adult flies can help determine the time of death. 

Flies started showing up in my house last week.  They weren't invited.  The occurrence baffled me not because I’ve never had a fly problem in the house (and thus do not own a fly swatter) but because the house isn’t officially dead yet.  It’s as good as dead but the lender won't give official word for a few days.  The house won't take its last gasp in a public auction on October 28^th so what are these winged insects doing here now?  I’m confused until I remember reading somewhere that certain species of the blowfly can actually anticipate death and show up early for the party.  These Arthropods have some nerve and it’s left me pondering the bad mojo that engulfs not just my habitat but other houses on my block.  Two doors down from me is a house that has sat on the market unsold for several months.  It is comparable in size to my own, similarly pimped out and like my house it reeks of misfortune.  Not from the lack of interested buyers but from the untimely death of its owner on August 28^th, 2009.  To say I didn’t know the owner well is an understatement.  The sum of my impressions of him is comprised of a singular interaction a few years ago.

It’s about 2:30AM January 2006.  I stand over a radial arm saw off my back porch to cut a few extra pieces of trim for who knows what nook and cranny of my house.  (Reflecting upon the fanaticism of my remodel it was probably something crucial like a piece of baseboard for the back of the closet.)  The dim light from the moon and a faltering porch light are the only two things keeping me from losing some or all of my digits.  “Not the thumbs.  Please not the thumbs,” I think to myself as I sink the blade into the unfinished wood.  Opposable thumbs are one of the few remaining items separating me from primates.  When I rushed out and purchased a house at the height of the housing boom monkeys one upped me in intelligence as they sat back eating bananas, masturbating in public and enjoying free rent.  Bipedal locomotion is the other advantage I possess over these poo-slinging mammals and given my infrequent proclivity toward clumsiness I could easily lose a leg in this power tool parody.  The upright buffoon standing before a chop saw in the middle of the night is about to devolve if he’s not careful. 

Buzz!  Cut!  Cut power.  Running a radial arm saw at 2:30AM is an obvious no-no in any neighborhood so the cuts are made with deliberation, speed and heed.  Buzz!  Cut!  Cut power.  I ready another piece of wood trim and as my finger slides over the saw’s trigger the jingle jangle of a dog collar halts my movement while nearly causing me an unexpected bowel movement.  Standing before me is a small pug.  Pugs aren’t exactly the most intimidating of four-legged creatures but when they show up unexpectedly on your back porch at 2:30AM you better hope you packed a change of underwear.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about watch the original version of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and you’ll have a better idea.  I cannot fathom where this little mongrel came from.  Pugs are not exactly wild animals… yet.  With foreclosures in Southern California on the rise and homeowners abandoning their unneutered, domesticated rare breeds I expect an influx of once-purse-toted pooches to roam the streets of Los Angeles.  

I stand frozen at the saw.  The pug stares at me.  I stare at him.  Nobody says a word.  I hear footsteps approaching through the dark pathway from whence the dog came and find myself face to face with a scruffy-faced man.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” are the only words that travel from my brain to my mouth.  What a stupid, innocuous thing to say to an intruder.  Most people would channel their inner hick, fill ‘em with buckshot and ask questions later.  Me, I channel my inner sissy-conflict-resolution counselor instead.  “Can I help you?!  Good one, Dustin,” I admonish myself.  “I’ve got a radial arm saw and I know how to use it,” would have been better but afterthoughts offer no protection in these situations.  This is why characters like me meet their maker at the beginning of movies.  It’s tough to root for a milksop for more than fifteen minutes unless they’re super smart and as the uncut piece of decorative wood trim in my hand and the stupid-looking safety goggles suctioned to my face demonstrate, I’m no Stephen Hawking.  Safety goggles.  I forgot about the safety goggles.  Apparently they’re the geek handyman’s secret weapon because this stranger apppears as freaked out by a deranged misfit in safety goggles standing next to a chop saw at 2:30AM as I am of a lanky hipster following a pug to my back porch.  And then it all adds up.  This is one of my neighbors.  He’s just here to collect his demon pug.  Duh.  A sincerely profuse apology on his part ensues and he retreats into the darkness as swiftly as he emerged.  I steady my trembling hands and realize I’m the one who should have apologized.

Almost four years later he again retreated swiftly into darkness never to return.  An overdose of cocaine, oxycodone, hydrocodone, Ativan, Klonopin, Xanax, Benadryl and Levamisole took Adam Goldstein’s life in his New York apartment.  I cannot claim to know DJ AM on even the remotest level.  Partly because this wasn’t the only place he lived but mostly because I was plain old embarrassed over the incident.  It wasn’t the safety goggles either.  I was embarrassed to be caught working on my own home.  People in my neighborhood hire other people to do their work.  That’s what success looks like and I was caught red-handed standing at a radial arm saw at 2:30AM exposing my lack thereof.

At first it was an honor to have his ex-girlfriend Nicole Ritchie’s gas-guzzling Mercedes SUV blocking my unusable driveway.  It made me feel as though I’d arrived.  Arrived where exactly I have no clue.  As I settled into the house that winter I began to notice parking on my street was a nightmare on Wednesday nights.  It was a real pain in my ass.  Eventually a neighbor informed me the parking problem was due to weekly AA meetings held at Adam Goldstein’s house.  Suddenly this parking situation that was a pain in my ass became a pain in my heart.  Addiction sucks – that’s all I can say.  Sure, foreclosure brings its share of humiliation but substance abuse is a giant magnet for judgment from others.  When my ex-wife received the proud honors of a DUI, I remember thinking the only silver lining in the situation was that there was a weekly AA meeting just two doors down.  I would be spared chauffer duty… if only she would attend.

I don’t know if DJ AM’s death in his New York apartment on August 28th is proof positive my neighborhood as a whole is cursed but one thing is certain: plane crashes are not good luck.  Surviving one could be but Mr. Goldstein was no plane crash survivor.  Prescription pain medication for this former addict’s burn injuries lulled him into complacency and eventually into an untimely death.  In my book that’s bad luck.  So is jail.  Which is where two of my other neighbors currently reside.

It’s April 4^th, 2009.  A man who lives across the street and three doors up is arrested on suspicion of sexual assault.  He’s a professional dancer and choreographer featured on the television show "So You Think You Can Dance."  I’m in no mood to rumor monger the circumstances so you can read about the arrest here if you like.  He was released a week later after the L.A. District Attorney’s office mysteriously dropped the charges citing lack of conclusive evidence.  All I can say is I didn’t care for the guy and he gave me the creeps.

It’s August 18^th 2009.  Alex Da Silva is arrested once more on various charges of sexual assault.  The $6.2 million bail tells me the D.A.’s office gathered some conclusive evidence this time.  Discussing the salaciousness of the circumstances of the arrest is not my style so I’ll simply pass along the link to the news story.  Again, the whole thing just gives me the willies and is further proof the world in and within close proximity to my house is possibly cursed.

It’s October 3^rd, 2009.  The guy who lives in the basement of the house across the street and two doors down is about to hear Bob Barker call out, “Come on down!  You’re the next contestant on The Price is JAIL!” in the form of federal agents dressed in black surrounding the house for an early morning raid.  Apparently he was not aware of an obscure law prohibiting the buying, selling and using of illegal narcotics.  That’s not bad luck, that’s stupidity.  I live in a house made of stupid so I best not hurl boulders of intellect at his.

It’s February, 2007.  Just as I finish licking my wounds from a recent divorce my neighbor drops another morsel of unpleasant news onto my plate.  (This is the same neighbor who clued me into the Heaven’s Gate cult members who at one time called my house their home.  You can read about it here.)  According to her testimony a few years prior a fine young gentleman went crazy while living in my house.  “And by crazy I mean hauled away by the authorities,” she says.  I quiz her for more details and the outcome of the conversation reveals the following:  A man in his mid thirties who enjoyed stable employment and a stable relationship with his girlfriend one day found himself with neither.  The stresses of his life grinded away at his senses until he became sense-less and partook in bizarre acts like tapping the phone lines of his ex-girlfriend and his ex-employer.  Eventually his oddball behavior became significant enough to garner the attention of certain authorities who promptly hauled him out of this house and straight to the loony bin.  Yikes!  This sounds strangely familiar.  I watched my marriage dissolve in this house and while I refer to myself as self-employed I’m mostly unemployed.

What is wrong with this house?  The answer lies somewhere between the bad juju brought on by members of the Heaven’s Gate cult who used to live here and this foreclosure.  Don’t get me started on the death of one of my beloved cats, drowned rats in the swimming pool, 5 failed automatic cat litter boxes (that’s 4 Littermaids & 1 ScoopFree), 3 failed Rhoomba vacuum cleaners, 8 failed computer hard drives, one failed marriage, one dead iPhone, and a dishwasher that makes a screeching noise.  I’m spooked out enough as it is.  The flies are gathering.  I have no desire to be their lord.  After October 28^th it’s my lender’s turn to be Landlord of the Flies.  It’s high time Piggy don his thick glasses (or safety goggles), tuck a conch shell under his arm and head to Castle Rock before Roger does him in.