The Unofficial Rental Rule

When I arrived home I was told that we were to have an unprecedented neighbor meeting. This meeting ultimately involved a very redundant (and I would argue semi-pointless) discussion of noises, real and perceived, with the lower apartments being primarily victims and the upper apartments (primarily us) being the abusers. Apparently we should not simply walk, but float. Our neighbor (upper) has lately been reduced to tip-toeing around his own apartment, trying to sail from doorway to doorway w/o disturbing his downstairs neighbor. All of this in addition to my own sins leads me to believe that the apocalypse already happened. This is some sublevel of hell, wherein no one knows the unofficial but glaringly obvious rule about rentals: there will be no real privacy, let alone silence. Let's face it, when your bedroom is adjacent to the abode of another household, whether above, below, or to its side, you will not only be disturbed but will likely disturb someone else. It’s the ipso facto form of suffering that most rational people accept as part of being an apartment dweller as opposed to a home owner. You want silence? Try headphones. Try sleeping pills. Try a drive far, far away but do not expect to have such living at most twenty feet away and just a few measly wood joints apart from three other households.

I wooted, even though I cannot woot.

Hello, absentee followers and non-existent aficionados. I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. I've doffed my curmudgeonly resentment because the light of the Whedonverse has, once again, restored my faith in Hollywood's storytelling capacity.

Most of the movie-going planet has already seen the Avengers, bought a T-shirt, and returned to their respective sweaty-male-scented caverns. I saw it for the first time, admittedly with some reluctance, given that even the most devoted of geek-geniuses have succumbed to the withering aura of marketers and monetizing producers, and then betrayed yours truly.

But this time I found myself so enthralled, so stirred by the fantastic whoosh of it all, that I wooted. That is, woot, as in a shout, a yawp, a huzzah, etc. Of course, I had only the scarred and ragged vestiges of a throat so it sounded like the wheezing crack of pubescence, but yes, there was wootage.

At one point I even shouted (internally) my love for Joss Whedon. No other knows better how to make the funny moments funny, the supernal moments supernal, and the tragic moments as heart wrenching as they should be. Oh, and snappy dialogue. He does that.

Thank you, Mr. Whedon, for joining them without getting beaten. Keep 'em coming.