Author: Scott Adamson

In just a couple of weeks, I’ll be celebrating the one-year anniversary of moving back to the greater Birmingham metro area. Well, “celebrating” is probably too strong a word.

Most likely I’ll look at the calendar and say, “Hey Mary, did you know that today marks the one-year anniversary of moving back to the greater Birmingham metro area?”

“No,” she’ll say.

“Well, it is,” I’ll say.

“OK,” she’ll say.

We’ll then trade obligatory fist-bumps and go about our business.

To me the bigger headline, though, is that it’ll also be a year that I’ve lived in a condominium. Before resettling here, my only experience with condos has been renting one while at the beach, trying not to break anything while I’m there and then signing a guestbook when I leave. Honestly, it never crossed my mind to actually stay in one longer than a week.

But here we are, and now when anyone asks, “I wonder what it’s like to live in a condo?” I can answer with a certain degree of expertise.

In some ways, it’s like living in a small country with its own government. For our purposes, we’ll call it the Democratic Republic of Condo (or DRC for short). Over time, those who live here have compiled a set of rules and regulations and we who take up residence in DRC are compelled to follow them.

It is the way.

Among the rules is a certain amount of uniformity to the outside appearance of each unit. I mean, you don’t have to have identical wreaths on your doors or similar balcony décor, but there are basic standards.

For example, if I wanted to have a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice on the balcony (and I do), I’d have to run it by the DRC board. This hasn’t come up because I’ve yet to find a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice, but if and when I do you can bet your ass I’m calling for a vote.

But just as the condo community itself is like a government, the inside of each unit is akin to an embassy with its occupants serving as ambassadors. Thus, we can do pretty much whatever we like in terms of feng shui because it’s private space and not shared space and we are masters of our internal domain.

This is important for many reasons, not the least of which is if I do find a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice and the Board rules that it would violate DRC standards to place him on the balcony, I can just move him inside.

I’d probably place him in the den, sitting in a chair next to the area that features a replica of the 1966 Batmobile, Mechagodzilla statue and Puss in Boots figurine. It would be a bit ostentatious, but I see no need to apologize for my sense of style.

Now, even though each unit is an embassy, we still try to be respectful of those who occupy other embassies, especially adjoining ones. We have people beside us and someone below us, and we learned quickly that the walls are relatively thin here. It’s hard to hear every word of a conversation coming from another unit, but you can usually at least follow the plot.

Also, I tend to be heavy-footed when I trundle around the condo, so I worry that I might disturb the downstairs neighbor. Since we have hardwood floors and no carpet, I imagine the sound is magnified even more.

That being the case, I wear fuzzy slippers and try to walk slower and more softly when the neighbor is home. Only when they leave do I crank up AC/DC to 11 or break into my one-man “Riverdance” show, trading in fuzzy slippers for jazz shoes.

So, is living in a condo better than living in a house?

It all depends on your lifestyle.

I kinda miss cutting grass, but our old house had a small yard, so it wasn’t that much of a chore.

And of course, being able to turn on the stereo full blast and engage in traditional Irish music and dance is easier to do in an unattached structure.

But overall, condo life is like any kind of life; it’s what you make of it.

The inside of our unit is cozy, comfortable and appealing to the eyes; the balcony offers a beautiful view of the sunset; all our neighbors are warm and friendly; and we have restaurants, a movie theater and supermarket within easy walking distance.

Really, about the only thing missing right now is a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice.

If you happen to come across one, please let me know. After all, This is an election year and I need to start lining up votes.

Recently – while vegetating under the influence of pain medication following another nightmarish trip to the dentist – I decided to watch a movie. I figured it would be a nice distraction and get my mind off my tooth woes.

For no particular reason, I selected Jaws (although since my teeth are located within my jaws, perhaps there was subliminal messaging at play). I’ve seen the summer blockbuster more times than I can count, and always considered it one the great horror/adventure films ever made.

Here’s the thing, though – experiencing it while mellow and medicated is eye-opening. In fact, it made me realize that Jaws is a horror movie, but it’s the people who are horrible, not the shark.

I’ll explain.

See, at the beginning of the movie Bruce (Bruce is the name they gave the mechanical shark in the title role, so that’s what I’ll call him in this piece) was just doing his thing, which is to swim around the ocean and look for snacks. It was late, he had the munchies, and when he cruised Amity Island, he noticed Chrissie Watkins swimming.

So, he ate her.

Absolutely nothing wrong with that.

If I’m in my house and I see food, I have every right to consume that food.

The ocean is Bruce’s house, and he was hungry.

Of course, this is tragic for Ms. Watkins and her family, but look at it from Bruce’s standpoint. He didn’t break into her house and eat her; she broke into his house.

Now the politicians in Amity – chiefly Mayor Larry Vaughn – wanted to keep this eating incident quiet because it was tourist season. Police chief Martin Brody reluctantly agreed, and that set the stage for one big feast.

In a sweep through the ocean and estuary, Bruce ate Alex Kintner and a Boy Scout leader. (Well, you don’t see the Boy Scout leader eaten, but you do see his detached leg sinking, so I’m gonna assume Bruce gobbled the rest of him). A dog named Pippet also disappeared in the water but I don’t like seeing bad things happen to animals, so I’m pretending he just got tired of playing frisbee with that hipster and swam to freedom.

Was this “attack” a tragedy for the Kintners and the Boy Scouts of America?

Yes.

Was it a tragedy for Bruce?

No … it was lunch. If you watch the scene carefully, you can see that it’s late morning/early afternoon, so you had to figure Bruce was getting a bit peckish.

Later we found out he had also eaten part of Ben Gardner, so after four human deaths, Brody, ichthyologist Matt Hooper, and ship captain/shark hunter Quint (he had only one name, so I guess he was like Prince or Pink) decided they had to hunt him down and kill him.

Why?

No reason other than he was doing shark things.

Ultimately Bruce was killed in a ridiculous way by Brody, but not before he was able to eat Quint while in the process of destroying his boat.

Was this bad for Quint?

Indeed.

Was it worse for Bruce?

Of course … dude had already been poked, prodded, harpooned and shot, and he figured if he was going to die, he was going to die with a little something on his stomach.

So as the movie was ending – and Brody and Hooper were paddling their way back to shore – I found myself hoping Bruce’s relatives would come along and eat both of them. I mean, they deserved it, didn’t they? They came into Bruce’s territory with the sole purpose of killing him, and the only reason they wanted to kill him is because Bruce had the temerity to dine on the available foodstuff in his neighborhood.

Bruce was not the villain, folks.

Bruce was the victim … I can’t believe it took 47 years and a pain pill for me to finally figure that out.