Eye on the Roundhouse Parking Lot: Having waited through the recent rainy stretch, the magical fluffkin tree has released mounds of fluffy floating seeds into the air. Little white puffs are flying all over the place. As I was waiting for my Cha Cha Cha lunch order I watched them float into the restaurant through the propped-open doorway. It is good.

I moved a carload of stuff into my new apartment yesterday. I think I saw my downstairs neighbor. I had thought it was a twenty-something woman who liked kind of funky old-lady things, but it turns out she's an actual funky old lady. She didn't speak to me or seem to want to engage with me in any way so I didn't introduce myself. I hope she'll be a good neighbor. There's no way she could be as bad as former neighbor Helen, a half-crazy Polish lady living alone with her middle-aged Down's Syndrome daughter. She rented out the top floor of her house on South Street for very, very cheap. She called us frequently, in a classic, loud, old-lady drone, for offenses such as shutting the faucet off too fast (which made the pipes make a "shunt!" sound that she said would make the pipes burst and give her a heart attack). She would almost have a nervous breakdown if a fuse needed to be replaced. Also, during a "How's the weather? Sure is hot!" conversation, she flashed me her bare, pendulous, low-swinging breasts multiple times, laughing that she usually went nude to keep cool. At the time I thought, "you go, girl!" but that was early on in our relationship. If anything ever broke, or was wrong somehow, she'd sigh and wail and bemoan her fate as a poor helpless woman on this earth, buried in a mountain of bad luck and bedevilry. And then you'd be stuck in the position of calming her down and fixing the problem yourself. Ah, those were the days.