Our neighbor is beginning to remind me of Carl from ATHF if somehow, he’d coerced a woman and her daughter to live with him. He’s outside, blasting classic rock like it was still new and he’s clinging to a past he never had. I suspect there’s been some fist pumping while he does . . . some kind of whatever. I never bothered to stop with the lawnmower to look over the fence to find out.
It’s still better than laying around listening to a Quinceanera that is still blasting Aventura when it is supposed to be winding around at one in the morning.
Here’s to you neighbor-man! May you continue on your quest to be the old manchild you are desperately seeking.