STF?

If you've never seen one before , and I was a member of that group for a long time, this is a Potty Squatty. Or, it may be called a Squatty Potty. I don't know. 

Without going into too much detail, they're intended to make the "Exit Interview with Mr. Brown" go smoother and faster. My daughters convinced me to buy a couple of these a few years ago. But since my daughters no longer live here at Chez Culver City, I can relegate these to the ever increasing storage bin(s) in my garage.

As I was consigning the Squatty Potty to Purgatory before its eventual destination in the Palmdale Eternal Landfill, I remembered a story my friend Paul had told me. He dropped by for a "wee dram of whiskey" the other night for some old man conviviality. OK, maybe it was more than one dram. And maybe there was some old man kvetching going on about kids, marriage, taxes, ex President Vonshitzenpants, etc.

As we drained the remainder of the Bulleit Rye (the green label) and opened up a bottle of some unknown bourbon given to me on my birthday, Paul started recounting the story of a recently vacated house in his tony Westside neighborhood. 

I don't remember all the details (I never do), but apparently the house has been hijacked by Squatters. Hence the long-winded introduction vie the Squatty Potty. And/or Potty Squatty.

"What do you mean, Squatters?", I asked naively.

Paul, being the diligent school teacher, explained, "A bunch of Meth-Heads moved in when they saw the house was unoccupied and now they won't leave." 

"What do you mean?", I posited again.

To ease up on the italics, Paul gave me a primer on archaic, misguided, leftist California Real Estate Law that favors people with sleeping bags, drug issues and an appetite for instant Ramen noodles over the rights of hardworking, tax paying individuals (you and me) who made the right life choices, labored laboriously and made the sacrifices ( "No Meth for me, thank you") to own a home in California.

At this point in my early morning rant, I'm going to switch from high octane coffee to some lightly roasted decaf, lest one of my arteries burst and leave indelible blood stains on my hardwood floors which have been sanded so many times in the past 50 years they need to be replaced. But fuck if I'm moving out of my house for that week long process.

I'm still scratching my very bald head about all this.

"Why can't the owners kick them out?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they just change the locks?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they move their stuff in and the squatters stuff out?"

"It's illegal."

I can think of no rational explanation for all this. None. And would have to file this, like my story last week about the pitiful state of our billion dollar Metros trains, in the "Why We Can't Have Nice Things" File.

Sadly, I can't also help to think of the vacant house behind me, the one that used to belong to late character actor M. Emmett Walsh. If that were to happen, the legal owners might be handcuffed in their pursuant actions, but I, as a quiet-seeking, short-tempered neighbor, would not!

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.