To Attorney, "Final Push To Summary Judgment."

.

I met with my attorney yesterday morning to cover the papers needed to file a Motion for Summary Judgment. The list is scary but I understand the reasons behind each filing because I have re-drafted most of them numerous times over the last several months, remaining productive while the defendants pretended to be  remained brain-dead. The BDGs have ignored, dismissed, and evaded responsive answers to propounded interrogatories, demands for production, and admissions, hiding behind that legal shibboleth*, "Discovery is continuing," and evaded good faith settlement efforts - the definition of bad faith. While their freebie Farmers Insurance Homeowner Policy lawyer (still operating under Reservation of Rights, are we?) cheered, "Settle, yeah, yeah, yeah!," the BDGs' head bitch  leader continually bitched, "f...u, f...u, f...u!"

Note: The expression, "Discovery is continuing," receives full expression in Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. His novel elaborates the true purpose of the legal profession. In the fictional case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, discovery continues until hell freezes over, the opposing parties give up, all litigants have forgotten the reason for the action, and the estate is sucked dry by solicitor fees.

The list of Dickensonian filings so far looks like this:

• Motion to Amend Initial Pleadings (add radio retaliation nuisance)
• Motion to Admit Documents (defendants refused to admit documents)
• Separate Statement of Undisputed Facts (in support of summary judgment)
• Memorandum of Points and Authorities (in support of summary judgment)
• Declaration of Richard Behling (in support of summary judgment)
• Affidavit of Benjamin Cantu (in support of summary judgment)
• Police/Crime Reports (in support of summary judgment)
• Notice of Motion and Motion for Summary Judgment
• Proofs of Service
• likely other papers, as well

Yes, it appears God is forcing me to exercise more patience  learn a tiny bit about the US/California legal abortion  tradition. One big take-away lesson is that men's governing systems are hopelessly screwed up, impossibly slow, and incapable of correctly deciding anything of importance. Dickens, the well-written social critic, was dead on --- in the 19th century and today!
.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
* shibboleth (n) 1. a manner of speaking that is distinctive of a particular group of people. 2. a favorite saying of a sect or political group. 3. A tired, old saying - signifying nothing. {4. A way for lawyers to delay actual litigation AND to cover their arses in front of a judge when their clients have absolutely no defense against the charges or their lawyers.}
.

TLC Catering's Longtime Political Protector

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"Politics: A strife of interests masquerading as a contest of principles. The conduct of public affairs for private advantage." - Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary
- - - - - - - - - - -

Willie W Weatherford and his wife, in May of 2001, sold the house located at 377 N Scenic Place, Manteca, CA, to co-owners Cornelia J Green and Lisa Gomes (County Recorder's doc #2001-078747, Assessor's Parcel Number 217-54-014.) In April of the following year, Cornelia deeded her interest in the property to Lisa, who then held it solely (County Recorder's doc #2002-064047.) Whatever happened between Cornelia and her co-owner, Lisa Gomes, precipitated two highly relevant facts - Cornelia wound up living with Lynda Allen and Theresa Brassey at 810 Fishback Street, and parked her travel trailer across the street at 785 Fishback for many years.

Cornelia J Green is - in Lynda Allen's words - "very well-known." She is the infamous "Corky," (here, here) who took an overt and active hand in the illegal operation of TLC Catering and Commissary on R-1 residential property since she took up residence with those two career scofflaws, Allen and Brassey. Corky was TLC's direct political lifeline to City Hall - direct to Willie W Weatherford, Police Chief, then Councilman, then Mayor; and also that (very large) spokesmouth, Rex Osborn, spinmeister extraordinaire.

Patronage? Cronyism? Influence peddling? Mr. Weatherford sat in judgment of my claim of TLC's illegal operation, pretended he had no clue who or what I was talking about, and skillfully directed the vote to deny the City reopen my case for review. Corky was in the council chambers with Lynda's and Theresa's entourage of other losers and hangers-on, while being "protected" by the O. Rex spewing old news. Such is the shameful, sorry state of dirty politics and politicians in Manteca, California. It is not a matter of following any laws; rather, it is a matter of who you know in city government who can quash any complaints. The less we have of Willie, the better off this city will be, regardless of who is elected from the current field of candidates - Anderson, Cantu, Moorhead, or Perry.

A Question of Color

.
A catechism (pronounced /ˈkætəkɪzəm/; Ancient Greek: κατηχισμός from kata = "down" + echein = "to sound", literally "to sound down" (into the ears), i.e. to indoctrinate) is a summary or exposition of doctrine. The form has, historically and typically, followed a dialogue or question-and-answer format. This format calls upon two parties to participate, a master and a student (traditionally termed a "scholar"), a parent and a child, or, as in the example below, a secular catechism between a dominant and submissive.

The following catechism took place yesterday morning at 07:15 hours, while everything was still and peaceful.

Lynda Allen: Kinda quiet out here, i'n't it? (The radio's not on yet? What'n hell ya been doin'?)
Theresa Brassey: Sure is. (Go ahead - turn it on yerself!)
Lynda Allen: They turned it on to soccer. (The foreign language speaking workers were listening to World Cup FIFA fútbol the day before.)
Theresa Brassey: {mutter...} I don't know. (Whatever...)

From the exchange's manifold purposes, these three are clearly drawn:

1. Daily affirmation of Lynda's dominance.
2. Daily submission of Theresa to Lynda.
3. Daily announcement to their hated neighbor that he is about to be forced to think of Lynda when she turns on her outdoor radio... and if he don't like it, he can go f*** himself.

And, of course, she turned the radio on moments later.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I am able to detect color in Brassey (the red of apoplexy, or the heatstroke of cooking chorizo and eggs over a catering truck stove for twenty-odd years) and in Greene (gray, with a little pink). But Allen...?

Hate and insanity appear to be colorless. Yup, every morning around 07:00 hrs, when Allen shuffles out of her house to turn on the yard radio, she appears devoid of color, zombie-like and lifeless - on the outside:

• deeply lined, unsmiling face (OMG! Can't allow another minute of silence!) 
• straight, stringy hair of indistinguisable hue
• nails-on-chalkboard voice and horror-show laugh
• frumpy bathrobe with fuzz-less slippers

and on the inside:

• slavish devotion to breaking the law (mobile home, business, noise, dogs, construction, etc.)
• insulting haughtiness in breaking the law (I gotta right! I'm legally grandfathered!)
• distrust of authority and paranoia about neighbors
• attempts at ingratiation of police turning to hostility
• knack for alienating people with her demands
• keeping "vicious" junkyard dogs (who crap all over and mirror their mistresses' personalities)

She simply cannot endure silence. So why does she deliberately turn on the radio outside and shuffles back inside the house for an hour? (I'm curious if there are any mirrors in there?) What drives her and keeps her going on this hopeless course of self-destruction? Is she getting everything she wants out of life? Is she, perhaps, reaping what she has so deceitfully sown for all these years "in the country" in the City of Manteca?

Not a colorful picture, this insanity of Allen's.

.

Then... a glimmer...

Today, she accosts a 90-year-old man, known by her to be an acquaintance of mine, and engages in the classic gossip game of "See What Route Your Bogus Story Takes Before Coming Back To You" (also known as, Who Told Who.) She pitches him a line about fixing up her house to rent it out and moving to Oregon.

The briefest flash of color...
.

Lynda is fond of saying and practicing, "We don't talk," so that leaves me free to speculate on what's really going on - which is OK because true insanity is to believe anything she says and virtually everything she does - as in (grandfathering) (icemaker) (compromise). Some possible scenarios are these:

(1) She is full of shit  lying - again - and isn't going anywhere. (Remember, it's just a gossip game of misinformation.) She is really playing a waiting game to see if I give up or lose the civil lawsuit.
(2) She is intending to rent out the place to one of her clone-of-Lynda friends (But where will she go? Oregon is far away. I'll miss her - about as much as I miss the ice machine!)
(3) She is not renting it out, merely trading houses temporarily with a clone-of-Lynda. (She would miss me too much to stay away long.)

.
The dusky, dirty hue brightens somewhat... and... wouldn't you know it? Lynda's color is YELLOW! Like a yellow-bellied lizard!

No matter what this "brilliant" tactician says or does (or doesn't), all options point to retension of the property. That's good because then there will be something with intrinsic value - not all that business junk - against which to file a judgment lien.
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Neurological Anosognosia 'Morphs to the Psychological Variant

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Orthogonal:

Think of it as tangents, only in perpendicular dimensions.

(Looks like 'Loser' to me... in three dimensions!)

(See Supreme Court Justices, law professor play with words - Washington Post, January 12, 2010)

- - - - - - - -              - - - - - - - -              - - - - - - - -

.

Now we're getting somewhere!

.
While laboring to decipher the labyrinthine psychological underpinnings of my neighbors, the BDGs, I followed a research thread I picked up from Jeff Gasmo (Gasmo - For the Defense blog), that led all the way back to the writings of Charles Darwin in 1871, wherein the evolutionary theorist stated that "ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge." (If there are people more ignorantly confident in their own abilities than my neighbors, I have not yet met them.)

A major proof of Darwin's hypothesis came in the form of a 1999 study conducted by David Dunning and Justin Kruger, of Cornell University, and published in the Journal of Personality and and Social Psychology. The study was entitled, "Unskilled and Unaware of It: How Difficulties in Recognizing One’s Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-Assessments" (pdf). The documented behaviors became known as the "Dunning-Kruger Effect." Here is the authors' conclusion regarding those they term bottom-quartile participants (or, the incompetents):

"In sum, we present this article as an exploration into why people tend to hold overly optimistic and miscalibrated views about themselves. We propose that those with limited knowledge in a domain suffer a dual burden: Not only do they reach mistaken conclusions and make regrettable errors, but their incompetence robs them of the ability to realize it."

In other words, the incompetents grossly overestimated their abilities - because they didn't know what they didn't know - and apparently because they never could learn it on their own because they were unequipped "to spot competence when they saw it." Under a study heading called Incompetence and the Failure of Feedback the researchers noted:

One puzzling aspect of our results is how the incompetent fail, through life experience, to learn that they are unskilled. Sullivan, in 1953, marveled at "the failure of learning which has left their capacity for fantastic, self-centered delusions so utterly unaffected by a life-long history of educative events."

In the course of the studies, the researchers also noted that top-quartile participants (or, the competent ones) underestimated their performance for a different reason: The competent mistakenly assumed that their peers were smarter than they actually were:

"Top-quartile participants did not underestimate themselves because they were wrong about their own performances, but rather because they were wrong about the performances of their peers." 

Errol Morris, of the New York Times, wrote an Opinion piece on June 20, 2010, called The Anosognosic’s Dilemma: Something’s Wrong but You’ll Never Know What It Is (Part 1). He interviewed David Dunning, particularly about borrowing the term anosognosia from neurology, proposing a "psychological analogue," and conducting studies to explore this one of Darwin's many theories.

"In the neurosciences, practitioners and researchers occasionally come across the curious malady of anosognosia. Caused by certain types of damage to the right side of the brain, anosognosia leaves people paralyzed on the left side of their body. But more than that, when doctors place a cup in front of such patients and ask them to pick it up with their left hand, patients not only fail to comply but also fail to understand why. When asked to explain their failure, such patients might state that they are tired, that they did not hear the doctor's instructions, or that they did not feel like responding - but never that they are suffering from paralysis. In essence, anosognosia not only causes paralysis, but also the inability to realize that one is paralyzed (D'Amasio, 1994)." 

Lynda Allen, Theresa Brassey and Corky Greene (three birds of a feather flocking together) have somehow made it through (at least) the last twenty-three years of their lives with "their capacity for fantastic, self-centered delusions... utterly unaffected by a life-long history of educative events." Their psychological paralysis has locked them into incompetency - and prevented them from learning the basics of where to run a business so as not to shit all over themselves, their property and their neighbors. Their reptilian behaviors of intimidating swaggers, strident voices, and crafty lies has supported their miserable existence here for way too long. What a waste of space and oxygen!

The whole sad history of Allen, Brassey, Greene, TLC Catering and Commissary, and 810 Fishback Street can be summarized in the one line by Alexander Pope:

"For fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

.
We have tip-toed around these fools - these losers - long enough.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Credits

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

• Justin Kruger and David Dunning, Cornell University
• Errol Morris, New York Times
• Robert Barnes, Washington Post
• Improbable Research at improbable.com, website home of the Ig Nobel Awards. Dunning amd Kruger were judged co-winners of the Ig Nobel Award for Psychology in 2000.
• Jeff Gasmo, Gasmo - For the Defense blog
• Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism

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Tell Me How You Truly Feel, Gray...

Ophelia: ’Tis brief, my lord.
Hamlet: As woman’s love.

Hamlet, Act III, Scene II
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Departing at 06:30 hrs Saturday morning, I pulled forward and got out of my truck to close the driveway gate. Hello...? Next door, Corky's car is poised for flight a couple seconds ahead of me. On her way past my driveway, she gives me the stinky-finger salute - the commonly accepted gesture of contempt, derision and devaluation.

Flipping the Bird

I am a problem to her? Her thinking is backwards.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Hamlet: Madam, how like you this play?
Queen: The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

(ibid.)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This is not the first time Corky has opened her mind to showcase its theatrical nimbleness - and, unfortunately, it's not likely to be her last.

Granted, it has been - and still is - a very long, hard struggle for the BDGs to get their heads screwed on straight under my prodding, especially after they have screwed everyone and everything around them for twenty-three years. (Really, they just screwed themselves.) But, isn't it amazing how the guilty party insists it is *somehow* the other party's problem or fault?

 (c) Lynne Taetzsch 

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets [her] hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
 
Macbeth, Act 5, scene 5
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Watch Who You're Calling [a] Dick, Red...

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Theresa thinks she is so funny, creative, clever, etc. You see, the BDGs had some window installation guys out this morning (Friday, 6/18/10) and "Wide Load Red" was standing in her front doorway with one of them. After lunch I walked across the street to check my mailbox and, as I walked back, she pasted a smile on her face, waved her arm at me, and hollered, "Hi, Dick!"

The obvious thoughts swirling through her puny, transparent mind were these:

1. I have a friendly witness; we know him - or, have been schmoozing him all morning.
2. To my witness, I am appearing friendly to my neighbor.
3. I am getting away with insulting my neighbor while appearing to be friendly.
4. My neighbor will not respond and will appear unfriendly.
5. Any non-response (or response) my neighbor makes can be used against him.
6. I am so clever.
7. Maybe Lynda will now see how smart I am and like me.

Driving past her place on my return to work, she flashed me a huge shit-eating grin and a look that said, "Xxxx xxx!"

When I moved into my house over three years ago, I used to get uptight about dog walkers letting their precious poochies shit by the bushes by my driveway - and leave the stinking piles there. But not any more. In a day or two, another dog will come along and eat it. Happens all the time. The dog leaves with a shit-eating grin.

It was the same grin Theresa wore. Just as I wrote last year, "Apparently her consanguinity with dogs runs deep."

Only two people in my lifetime have gotten away without correction for addressing me as Dick. One I loved and never even considered correcting him; the other I so thoroughly despised that I never bothered to correct him.

But these three putative* women...? They have mouthed off like this before. I guess this post proves the BDGs have not yet sunk to the level of despicableness necessary for total banishment. I'm still deciding - torn, actually - whether to respond next time by hailing them using the term xxxx** (although it likely does not apply to them.) Hmmm...

- - - - - - - - - - -
* putative (a)  purported; commonly believed, put forth, or accepted as true, but based on inconclusive grounds or supposition rather than as a result of proof; examples, "the foundling's putative father"; "these three putative women..."


** censored
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NFH Recidivism*

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(Image by Steve Cox)

Oh, yesss!... Mr. Cox has captured the essential, empty natures of the Barefoot Dirty Girls. The likenesses and relationships are nearly perfect. [Note: Requested minor changes before purchase: (1) The Alpha Female here is depicted larger than the others. Could you, perhaps, physically stunt the dirty blonde to 4½ - 5 feet? And more gnome-like?; (2) Is it possible to make the redhead "wider", without losing the look of gauntness?; (3) Turn the green hair grey and put a little "pooch" in the tummy; and, (4) Put the Alpha Female and green/grey/hair in sports bras!]

. . .

Small habits well pursued betimes

May reach the dignity of crimes.

Hannah More

. . .

As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.

Proverbs 26:11

. . .

Wouldn't you know it? The BDGs, who like dogs have pissed all over  "marked" their territory by playing a yard radio daily from 07:00 hrs to bedtime, and insistently maintain their folly, have decided they can again afford to ramp up their nuisance.

Since the weekend of May 15-16, the neighbors have been entertaining a foreign language-speaking, two-man construction crew, and accompanying their work with the strains of Mega 100.1 FM, KQOD, Stockton. The "happy" sounds of power saws, hammers, scraping shovels, and the cycling of (icemaker-sounding) air compressors for pneumatic stapling and nailing have overlaid the radio for over a month. The dilatory** construction schedule appears to be a combination of several factors: lack of permits, lack of drawings (buying lumber one piece at a time), lack of brains among all parties, among many other items. When the "overlooked" [Lynda's favorite word] porch rebuild permit was finally secured, the re-roof project was suspended and the dogs returned to their vomit, so to speak. The overriding objective, of course, is the neighbors' tenuously legal ability to stretch another noise nuisance over the longest possible period of time.

Tuesday of this week, however, the owners experimented with... {wait for it...} turning the radio volume up! So it was that at 16:42 hrs the decibel level jumped until bedtime. Of course, they are sending the crew away later and later as construction continues until dark, as a forthcoming chart clearly shows. Thank God the summer solstice is only days away - and the daylight get shorter and shorter.

Thursday, the radio was re-tuned at 11:38 hrs to a foreign language station and the volume cranked crazy high, enough to be heard over the power tools being employed, including the BDGs' leaf blower (or string trimmer, or whatever-the-hell other power equipment they use to maintain their gravel business yard.) How can one take a lunch time nap with all that racket? If you have ever thought how irritating the play-by-play announcer is at any sporting event, just try listening to one who doesn't speak the official language of this country and is broadcasting his monotonous tripe to a worldwide audience. At 13:50 hrs the station was reset to Mega 100.1 FM but the volume was not reduced.

But for the reason of the BDGs' stinkin' thinkin' outlined above (and documented long ago), I can handle reasonable construction sounds. On the other hand, lest the BDGs think I will allow them to broadcast to the neighborhood the Fédération Internationale de Football Association (FIFA) World Cup Fútbol games from now through July 21st, it's only fair to warn them that I consider ANYTHING coming from the yard radio a disturbance of my peace and will be dealt with according to California's Penal Code, Section 415 (2).

. . .

But it is happened unto them according to the true proverb,

The dog is turned to his own vomit again;

and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.

2 Peter 2:22

. . .

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
* recidivism (n)  gen.  a tendency to relapse into a previous condition or mode of behavior ; spec.  a negatively connoted repeated relapsing into unhealthy, criminal, nuisance, or delinquent behavior.
(v) a tendency to recidivate.
(adj) re·cidi·vistic, re·cidi·vous
[Recidivism is a common term used when speaking of the revolving door of a "Corrections" facility. From recidivist, one who recidivates, from French récidiviste, from récidiver, to relapse, from Medieval Latin recidvre, from Latin recidvus, falling back, from recidere, to fall back : re-, re- + cadere, to fall; see kad- in Indo-European roots.]

** dilatory (adj) 1 : tending or intended to cause delay 2 : characterized by procrastination : tardy Intentionally delaying (someone or something); slow or tardy; intended to cause delay, gain time, or defer decision
[15th century, Middle English, from Anglo-French dilatorie, Late Latin dilatorius, from Latin differre (past participle dilatus) to postpone, differ]
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Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend

Every so often I still get that feeling like I'm slipping into the Twilight Zone, or an alternate parallel universe, where BDGs rule the world and government agencies serve as mere footstools for their convenience and comfort.

Such was the initial shock when I opened the response from the State Board of Equalization. Note closely the Close-out date of this Seller's Permit - 6/30/95.

This conjures up a couple of investigative theories:

The most obvious scenario - Has TLC Catering been operating for the last fifteen years without a Seller's Permit for the sales of any taxable {s***} off their truck(s) or the nontaxable purchases of consumable supplies using business accounts set up with vendors, such as Costco, etc. Allen's & Brassey's long history of noncompliance argues vigorously for this option; such as, letting the permit lapse but still rely on their one-and-only 1989 Fictitious Business Name filing to set up business accounts and lie and cheat their way out of paying sales and use tax.

Another plausible scenario - Did Allen & Brassey "sell" their company to a silent partner/investor, closed out the referenced Seller's Permit, and have been operating under another permit for the last fifteen years? The complete absence of other names, entities, numbers, etc. discovered so far means that they (or rather, their advisors) are very, very good at playing the corporate shell game to hide their actions. This would explain their absolute nonresponse to lawsuit interrogatories, demands for production, requests for admissions, and admissions of documents.

Well, because I have nothing else to do besides write letters and go to city council meetings...

Allen (to Mayor): I only have a couple years left in my business... if I make it. We don't talk. It's not that we need a mediator. He has nothing else to do or he would not have written those two big books.

Mayor: I don't think we want to get into the personal issues here.


Allen: Well, I try not to do that, but I'm just saying that somebody has a little extra time on their hands. (audience laughs)

With some of my extra time (and because I want a usable answer), I wrote back to the State Board of Equalization.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Board of Equalization
Disclosure Officer, MIC: 82
P.O. Box 942879
Sacramento, CA 94279


June 14, 2010


Re: Cancellation of Seller’s Permit and
Case # 39-2009-00212085-CU-OR-STK


Dear Mr. DaPrato,


In reference to the Close-out date of 6/30/95 on the attached page, are you informing me that TLC Catering has been operating from that date to February 12, 2010 (fifteen years!) without a Seller’s Permit?

On May 19, 2009, I filed a civil suit for private nuisance (noise and business use of residential property) against Lynda Allen, Theresa Brassey, and TLC Catering. Included in the complaint was the charge that they had a long history of missing certain necessary permits dating back to 1987. In my previous letter of May 26th, I was asking for the mere corroboration of a business discontinuance date – expecting something somewhere in the ballpark of early 2010. However, the information you provided appears to fast track the matter of Lynda Allen, et al, and their TLC Catering and Commissary business operation to the level of a serious tax evasion investigation.

If tax evasion is not the case because Ms. Allen used another - legal - Seller’s Permit number, I still make the request to know if or when such permit was surrendered.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dealing with government agencies and public servants gives me this dark and dirty feeling. Am I merely pestering the Lords of the Universe, who want only to swat me into nonexistence? That's what I get for reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

I'm trying to fit this newest puzzle piece into TLC Catering's illegal business expansion timeline. The June 1995 expiration of the Seller's Permit was one year after Allen & Brassey received their Health Department clearance to operate a private commissary (see chart) - from an illegal mobile home on their residential property. But they still needed business accounts to receive deliveries and services  from Crystal Dairy, Oroweat, Hostess Cakes, Darling Int'l, Costco, and whatever other commercial vendors utilized over the years... hmmm...
.

She and Her Old John Deere...

Yep, these {women} could have a lucrative career making cover art for country music albums. Just dress up these 50++ {cough} seductresses {cough} in light pink sports bras (?), khaki shorts, white socks and gray boots, and pose them draped over the hood of a vintage John Deere riding mower.

(Wow! That sports bra proves the old, amended, sayin' that "Some [imaginary] things are best left to the imagination"... and that mid-drift is no longer mid-... it done drifted eastward, westward and southward!)

Nevertheless - Voila! - Compelling illustrative art for Vince Gill's song, "One More Last Chance."

…
Well, she might’ve took my car keys
But she forgot about my old John Deere.


Give me just'a one more last chance
Before you say, “We’re through.”
I know I drive you crazy, baby;
It’s the best that I can do.


We’re just some good ol’ boys, a-makin’ noise...
…

Boy, howdy! Such was the sight and sounds at 7:20 this morning. Nothing stirs the blood (or boils it!) and awakens the soul to the endless, unattainable, possibilities of the day like the vision of Corky piloting a John Deere mower the size and sound of an alfalfa cutter around their postage-stamp front lawn. (And, if she lets her naturally grey Marge Simpson (c) hair grow a little - and overhauls her wardrobe - she could look just like Pink on that tractor. The resemblance is so unnerving it's scary!) I'm also positive that two dozen passes barely guarantee that every single blade of grass - or weed - comes under the swath of the giant cutter - twice or thrice.

Incidentally, this green and yellow internal combustion machine with a huge vacuum system was likely the instrument of compassion used in the BDGs' capacity as Florence Nightingale when "I [Lynda] took care of the... the owners of that house we took care of 'til they passed away. And then the daughter come in, and somehow they..." {and she trails off, as usual}

Today promised to be a hot 'un, so the chore just HAD to be done as early as possible. Of course, there MAY have been another reason to fire up the machine so early... given that the "hot day" argument did not compel the massive mowing of the teeny-tiny patch of grass in the business yard out back until an hour later, at 8:20. Perhaps breakfast intervened... or they were waiting for verification that I was awake.

Maybe they should start the next bi-diem* or semi-weekly** or weekly*** grass cutting at 6:00 a.m. so as not to conflict with the 7:00 a.m. yard radio startup**** - or with breakfast.

(Hello, MPD? She's riding her old John Deere around again in tight little circles... Yeah, I know... "You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the...")

- - - - - - - - - -
* bi-deim - occuring every two days.
** semi-weekly - occuring twice a week.
*** weekly - occuring once a week.
**** never - occurrence of thought by a BDG.
.

Now THAT Is (Tragically) Funny!

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Just where, exactly, does one start to describe the hopelessly foolish actions of T, L & C ??

In the BDGs' suddenly frantic effort to pour money into their house (as opposed to removing the catering business vehicles, structures and equipment in the yard behind the house), they have now strapped on crowbars, hammers, nail guns and paint brushes, and plowed full-throttle into the demolition and reconstruction business. Felix helps, too.

The only trouble is... they did not get permits to (1) expand or (2) re-roof their little house BEFORE they started. (The only reason they have a (3) vinyl siding permit is because they purchased it "installed" and Sears pulled the permit for them.) When the inspector visited them and halted the porch reconstruction project, they immediately pulled the re-roof permit and hammered away ever since.

All that is the tragic (ROTFLMAO*) comedy.

The really funny part is when the inspector told them to turn the radio down because he couldn't hear what they were saying. The context is even funnier because he doesn't realize that any of the three can out-screech freight train brakes when yelping at their dogs or at each other across their yard (or, maybe he does by now.)

Speaking of the radio...

On Saturday, the BDGs turned off their noise pollution when they left for a couple hours. It was a real treat to become reacquainted with natural sounds instead of their filthy, finger-flying trash noise.

And on Sunday, it got even better. At 8:27 a.m., nearing the end of their two hours of banging, bashing, bawling, crunching, yelping and kiss-kiss** preparations for departure, Corky exclaimed in her OMG! voice, "Is it 8 o'clock?" and a little lower, "What about the radio?" Theresa acted as the repeater, again hollering the question , "What about the radio?" to Generalissimo Lynda out front. The order from HQ must have been negative because the radio NEVER came on - the whole day! - when they left or after they returned. No noise, no neighbors; such a day is a treasure.

But the radio was on again early this morning, even though Felix & Co. is not banging around on the roof, even though his red van with silver striping is parked in the yard next door. (All the vehicles and crap on their property kinda reminds me of the [pre-cell phones] quest to see how many college students could be crammed into a phone booth.) Who knows, maybe Felix will show up with another truck pretty soon?!

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* Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off

** A Freudian insight into the women's relationships and why they keep so many dogs around. Kiss-kiss refers to their ritual, several times a day, of using their baby talk voices to order one dog or another, "C'mon little man, go pee-pee."
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Santa Claus' Radio Room at the Top of the Rainbow

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As we wait... and wait... for the court to get around to docketing the misdemanor charge, it is time to recap the pervasive and invasive nature of Three Beaches (five) dogged determination to perpetuate the "feeling" of a business establishment on BOTH of our residential properties. (Of course, their property retains the "business look" with all of the vehicles, structures, equipment, appliances, and fixtures still illegally residing where they have for twenty-three years.)

The BDGs began their Great White Noise Cover-Up in June 2009 by installing the outdoor radio speaker. But, because of the continuous icemaker noise, the 3:00 a.m. hour-long Ice Bucket Brigade, the 4:30 roach coach departure, and the diesel-powered vendor delivery trucks, the afternoon radio usage was the least of the noise pollution.

With the January 2010 icemaker shutdown and the February 2010 discontinuance of the catering truck runs, the radio nuisance came into its own - finally assuming the true malicious reason for its existence. As the chart below shows, its scheduled use also elongated from their former afternoon return time of approx. 13:15 hrs to its present daily startup of 07:00 hrs.

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  The blue line shows the BDGs consistent (and illegal) start time at 07:00 hrs over three months. The once a week dips to 08:00 hrs is the "bone" they toss me on Sunday mornings before turning on gospel rock. How "Christian" of them... 
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  The pink line shows how the BDGs average bedtime has slipped as the Spring days got longer and stayed lighter - until they got TV. 
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  The yellow line and data points are the difference between the daily start time and the daily stop time. It shows how many hours each day the radio speaker is broadcasting into my house and yard. 
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  Linear trendline analysis shows that daily radio nuisance increased from just over 12 hours to just under 13 hours daily (average 12.27 hours.)

My best guess is that Mega 100.1 FM, KQOD Stockton was the station the Barefoot Dirty Girls treated themselves to (and to their poor customers) while plying their ancient trade on the streets of Tracy, California - as referred to last Christmas morning.

Oh, what was that noise? My ears took the hit!

'Twas the loud strains of soft rock that accompany the shit

Served up from the roach coach they defensively guard

Within the bleak compound of their half-acre yard.

The serenades, football games, news breaks with smokes,

Station identifications, the advertising blokes -

It goes on all day and well into the night.

Just their way of saying, "Yep, we're here to spite!"

 
Noise is so hard-wired into their reptilian neuro-circuitry that they appear unable to function in its absence - they HAVE TO create noise to prove their existence, an external manifestation of their self-loathing, refusing to live quietly inside their own heads, allowing nothing but self-chosen stimulus to block out the world around them. This radio, a po'-mouth perversion of Muzak (c), is supported by all three residents, who take nuisance promulgation assignments from the Supreme Generalissimo.
 
I was surprised (more like, ecstatically tickled) yesterday morning when the radio did not come on at 07:00. The BDGs were distracted, much too high, (gone all a-fluttery?), by the imminent arrival of a crew of roofers to do some stripping. It was a full 22 minutes later that one BDG stated the half-question to Lynda, "We forgot our music." Of course, that environmental deficiency was immediately remediated. (We are compelled to let our @$$-hole neighbor how we feel about him!)
 
Of course, I pay zero attention to whatever is programmed by the radio station. I only hear ONE tune (retaliatory nuisance noise) and only ONE repeating lyric - exemplified by my neighbors - a two-word vulgar expression that starts with the letter "F" and ends with the letter "U".
 
Truly a BDG gift that never stops giving... the finger.
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I'll Hammer in the Morning, I'll Hammer in the Evening... (sing-a-long)

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As I said before, living next to the BDGs is an endless delight...

First, a reputable contractor pulls a permit to install vinyl siding.

Then come item #2, where the city has to be called out to tell them they need a permit to pour foundation concrete and construct whatever-the-hell room or porch they're building out back. Removing a couple rows of shingles to tie in the new roofline is one thing, but now...

Now the question becomes, Did this cotiere* of construction connoisseurs happen to mention to code enforcement that they were doing more than merely tying item #2 into the roof joists out back? This morning's festivities included stripping the entire roof of composite shingles...

... and removing large sections of sheathing, front and back.

Last time I checked, re-roofing as a single operation required its own separate permit. A complete remodeling permit, to include re-roofing, may be necessary in this circumstance.


Hmmm... WWJD?

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* cotiere (n) French, from Middle French, tenants, from Old French cotier cotter, of Germanic origin; akin to Old English cot hut. 1738 : an intimate and often exclusive group of persons with a unifying common interest or purpose.

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The Affidavit Has Been Drafted!

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As mentioned earlier, an affidavit of facts and a professional opinion rendered on public source documents was requested from the writer of the ill-fated 1993 determination letter. It's ready to be signed and notarized before being filed, along with other items, with the court. My neighbors' bad faith, seventeen year, dark cover is about to blown sky-high.

After reviewing original sources, it is a no-brainer to see that the letter from the City of Manteca was obtained by deceit (or complete idiocy) on the part of the defendants, which is why the BDGs are recalcitrant* and nonresponsive. Their so-called defense attorney has supported them in using their vast no-brain capacity to ignore, stall, misdirect, and screw off during a full year of discovery, producing exactly... nothing. There have been NO affirmative defenses mounted substantiating their grandfather claim because there are none - no permits, no documents, no evidence whatsoever proving that what Lynda (it's always Lynda) says is true.

Or, to state the case in Lynda's own public words:

Ms. Allen: Just one last thing? I'm not here [at city council meeting] to cause any problems with him. I just thought... it obviously didn't... I didn't think anything was gonna come to this because I just kept overlooking him... uh, just thinking it would go away, because I don't cause any problems, I don't give any problems.

(Please pardon me while I careen off the Angry wall - bounce off the Fall-Down-Laughing wall - and trip headfirst into the big, stinking She's-Full-Of-Shit pile.)

A month later I filed suit. So, in fulfillment of their jokes-passed-off-as-lives, another month later Lynda mounted the radio speaker aimed at my house. She thinks that adding radio noise on top of business noise is going to make me go away?

She "didn't think anything was gonna come to this..."? She "don't cause any problems"? (that's really bad grammar; in Pinole-speak it's, "... don't cause no problems.") Will she also claim to have "overlook[ed] him" (again? still?) and the fact that I live mere feet from where she mounted the radio speaker in the unused corner of her yard? So I recently charged her with a misdmeanor action.


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p.s. By the way, "TLC" stands for Theresa, Lynda, and Corky, or, Three Lying Cuxxnxxxxs (and, yes, the C-word is ten letters long!) Their perversion of the acronym is the absolute opposite of any images engendered by Tender or Loving or Care - or flags, moms, and apple pies - or law-abiding citizens - or (name anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report). I'll never again think of "TLC" the same way I used to.

p.p.s. No, the affidavit does not go public yet; the court gets first crack at it.
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* recalcitrant (adj) marked by a stubborn unwillingness to obey figures of authority; hard to deal with.
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NFH Syndrome and Other Excerpts

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NFH Syndrome - The odious* and corrosive effects that offensive, anti-social, or even psychopathic neighbors can have in a person's life. Wicked neighbors are powerful stressors and the "experiences" they provide are such that very few people can escape unscathed. Much that is good has to be jettisoned merely to stay afloat, treading water, drowning a distinct possibility - and the anger builds as the valuable has to be sacrificed to the ugly and hellish. The syndrome is treated in this excerpt from Chapter 6 of the recently released book named for these parasites ** (see this Neighbors From Hell post).

More excerpts from the book can be found on the Neighbors From Hell website...

Or, better yet, buy the whole terrific book!

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* odi·ous (adj) 14th century, Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin odiosus, from odium : arousing or deserving hatred or repugnance : hateful

** parasite (n) 1. biology. An organism that grows, feeds, and is sheltered on or in a different organism while contributing nothing to the survival of its host; 2. a. One who habitually takes advantage of the generosity of others without making any useful return, b.One who lives off and flatters the rich; a sycophant; 3. A professional dinner guest, especially in ancient Greece. [Latin parasītus, a person who lives by amusing the rich, from Greek parasītos, person who eats at someone else's table, parasite : para-, beside; see para-1 + sītos, grain, food.]