Everybody needs a real neighbor. Someone with a 20-foot ladder and gas for your mower. He’ll always have a 3/8-inch socket wrench handy because you can never find yours. He has simple, “anybody can do this” solutions to your leaky sink, though if you listen you’ll be without water for a week. His spouse (good neighborsmust, by definition, have a spouse)will call you at work to tell you your dogs got out of the back yard. They’ve lived in the neighborhood forever, so they know everyone. Driveway chats concerning delinquent kids, lost animals, the weather, old boats trashing the street, and Westlake politics I don’t want to know about are weekly occurrences. I know what makes a good neighbor. I saw it all on TV.
As a child of the Fifties, the television landscape provided me with a plethora of role models. Lucy‘s Fred and Ethel Mertz, of course, but they were urban neighbors. The perfect suburban neighbor was Ozzie Nelson’s buddy Joe Randolph on The Ozzie and Harriet Show (the personification of Pleasantville). With a disposition as sunny as a tube of Ipana toothpaste, Joe was always just outside the kitchen door whenever Old Oz (that’s what Joe called him) or the boys needed help.
I’m not that great of a neighbor myself: I have lots of tools, but never the right one. My extension cord’s around somewhere, but I don’t know where. I always throw out any special notices the city sends me, so I never know, for instance, when bulk pickup days are. I’m a homeowner dependent on the kindness of a good neighbor. And George and Karen were pretty much perfect. With a garage more cluttered with stuff than the Goodwill Store, there’s nothing they didn’t have. If a holiday fell ongarbage pickup day, I just watched George. When he put his garbage out — he read those notices — I knew with complete certainty to put mine out too. George mowed his lawn all the time, forcing me to mow mine. He even yelled at me once for tossing weeds out in the street. He taught me to be a suburbanite.
Two weeks ago, people started piling junk out on the street. First one house. Then a few more. It was clear someone thought some kind of pickup was imminent. I wandered from house to house asking for details. But nobody was too clear on the all-important particulars. “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wood, dragging an old mattress out to the curb, “some time this week, I think.” This was unacceptable. Unfortunately, it would have to do. I started hauling stuff out to the street, where it sat for days. The guy who would know had moved away, never considering the rudderless bunch he was leaving behind.
George was not, however, much of a sports fan. In fact, he knew less about sports than your average bumblebee. He wouldn’t have understood how awful late July and early August are to the sports fan� particularly if you have to write about it. These are the Dog Days. I’d have been incredulous if you told me I’d miss Cowboy training camp, but since I now view sporting events strictly on the basis of whether or not I can milk a column from it, I do. It used to be good for two columns. I’d have been even more stunned if you told me one day I’d look forward to the start of UT football practice, but I do. One August column there.
Some random pro football thoughts as the Dog Days ease: �The Bears got rid of Dave Wannstedt because he seldom made the right decision about anything. So, the “new Bears” came to camp with four QBs. Three “veterans” I guarantee you’ve never heard of, and a rookie. Prepared to show the fans this year would indeed be different, the new Bears straight off fired Erik Kramer, a competent, good-guy type QB who could’ve handled the team until UCLA’s Cade McNown learned a couple ofplays. The thinking being, if Cade’sa bit overwhelmed they can always rely on Moses Moreno? Maybe Dave wasn’t so bad after all …
� Let’s think this through. Houston has: a stadium. It’s funded. A city that cares. Many heat-sick folks dying for an excuse to lay on the couch, drink beer, and watch the team on television. L.A. has: no stadium (It never will). No way to pay for it anyway. A fan base of seven. A city of 10 million people, all from someplace other than L.A., with football loyalties in Miami or Cleveland. Faced with these facts, the NFL spits in Houston’s face, desperate to find an excuse — any excuse — to give L.A. the team …
� I’m a hopelessly cynical fellow. I’ll believe Barry Sanders has retired when he’s not there on opening day. Even then I’m skeptical …
� The Cowboys have become so pedestrian I can’t even think up anything ugly to say about them. Still, media types suffering from birthday boy syndrome (blow out the candles and make a big wish) always overrate teams like Arizona and Washington. On the leftover talent of the aging triplets, Dallas should still win the division. � Many experts are pretending Denver’s still a great team. I guessthey missed the news about a guy who retired and wore No.7. Or someone’s decided the QB position really isn’t such a big deal after all.
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This article appears in August 13 • 1999 and August 13 • 1999 (Cover).