June 15, 2000
the Chickens

Part of the thrill of living in San Francisco is that the buildings are so close together, one often gets a perfect view of neighboring windows in next-door buildings. Case in point: our kitchen, my bedroom, and our closet-sized sitting room all look into the windows of a small apartment plastered next to our building. At any given moment there are clothes hanging out to dry on the windowsill. At present count, looking out my window as I type this, I see a black t-shirt, (inside out), an orange-yellow-white-green-blue-purple-aqua-brown speckled blouse that looks like the remains of a box of crayons, (hideous), seven bikini underpants in assorted pastel shades, (white, yellow, powder blue, pale green, pale green, powder blue-baby pink, lavender), and a massive pink bra that looks like it was used to smuggle nuclear warheads out of China.

Naturally, living with such intimacy with another family does a great deal to break down any natural reservations one might feel about idle speculation. Occasionally, when my roommate and I get tremendously bored, we entertain ourselves with trying to count the people who live in the other apartment, and wonder which piece of clothing goes with which person. Anywhere from four to nineteen people live in that apartment. Collectively they speak a Chinese dialect of some sort that involves a great deal of yelling, phlegm, and what sounds to my untutored ears to be homicidal fury. It was a language designed for working outdoors in farm fields. For yelling across crowded marketplaces. For testing the emergency broadcast system.

When I first moved into the apartment, I had a different roommate. By the end of the first week there, I'd dubbed our neighbors 'The Chicken Family.' At the time, my roommate worked days, whereas I, being a freelance musician, worked nights. I therefore got the full effect of The Chicken Family, and one bright summer morning, while I moped around in my room, I heard gobble-gobble sounds coming from The Chicken Family window. Cluck, cluck, squawk, gobble.

They were not, by any stretch of the imagination, human-generated sounds.

I was unaware, back then, that one can purchase live chickens in Chinatown. Apparently, it's one of those jealously-guarded privileges that managed to bash its way past ordinance rules regarding livestock within City limits. During the course of that morning, I listened to a live chicken clucking to itself, the chatter of the Chicken Family, and then -- around two in the afternoon -- a gradual crescendo of chicken noises, ("squawk, cluck, squawk, SQUAWK!"), followed by an ominous thud.

And then, no more squawking.

At that point, the nickname 'The Chicken Family' was absolutely inevitable. My new roommate laughed at me when I told her the explanation for the name, half a year later. Two weeks after she moved in, she met me at the door when I came back from Dominican, eyes wide. "I heard them kill a chicken," she told me. There were heavy, solid THUD, THUD sounds coming from The Chicken Family's kitchen.

"I told you so," I said, and went to hide under my desk.

The smells coming from The Chicken Family's kitchen at dinnertime are always mouth-watering. That worries me.

Nowadays I'm accustomed to The Chicken Family's ways. Every so often, the round-headed Chicken Children will press themselves up against the window and wave at us. We wave back, they beam, we beam, and then they go away to yell at their parents. At one point, some diabolically inspired sadist gave one of the Chicken Children a little toy record player that played well-loved nursery tunes. The one that the Chicken Children liked best was the tune for "This Old Man," which has apparently been corrupted by a certain purple dinosaur and retitled, "I Love You, You Love Me."

For twelve weeks in a row, every morning from seven until twelve, and every evening from six until nine, the Chicken Children would sing this song. They only knew the first six words, unfortunately. They only knew the first six notes. These were repeated without break, even for dinner, endlessly, over, and over, and over, and over again.

"I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me, I Love You, You Love Me...."

I have looked into the yawning gape of hell, ladies and gentlemen, and emerged pale and triumphant on the other side.

Now they're learning the alphabet.

"A B C D E F G...."