Let me preface this by offering up a brief explanation of the business locations. My martial arts studio is in a "breezeway," which is a euphemism for "alley." There are only three units in this breezeway: an abandoned unit, my studio, and the blues club.

I should clarify. When I say "abandoned unit," I don't mean the sort of place that you look at and go "hmm. I wonder if anyone is renting that." I mean the sort of place that you look at and go "hmm. I wonder if anyone has ever rented that." We're talking about a plate glass window looking in on a desolate, dusty, completely barren shop. No one is ever going to come looking for either my martial arts studio or the blues club and wonder if maybe we're in the abandoned unit.

This is pertinent.

So. There's an abandoned unit. Then there's my studio, which has two -- count them (if you can), two -- signs above the door clearly identifying it as "Unequivocal's School of Whoop Ass Martial Arts."

That's a paraphrase.

Next to me is the blues club. There's no sign above the door there (though there is one at the entrance to the alley)... instead there are flyers taped to the door that say things like "extended happy hour on Fridays" and "Ladies Night Wednesday through Saturday!" When the club is open, the manager puts out a big sandwich board sign that reads "OPEN" in two foot high letters. It is what passes for a professionally lettered sign here in the glorious south; by that I mean that the word "open" is not misspelled.

The entrance to the blues club is approximately twelve feet from the entrance to my school.

Has the stage been adequately set? Have I conveyed the impression that most life forms on a higher order than slime-molds could identify which establishment caters to martial artists and which establishment caters to blues aficionados?

The clarity of the situation does not preclude the existence of a steady stream of distinctly grubby looking people who regularly open the door to my martial arts studio, stare about in fuzzy confusion at the lack of bouncers, pool tables and available alcohol, and then beat a hasty retreat, often forgetting to close the door behind them. That's okay. I've gotten used to it. It's actually kind of endearing, especially once you've given up hope and admitted to yourself that people are fundamentally morons.

As an illustration: last night, H. and I were standing directly outside the door to the school, chatting. The blues club was open, as evidenced by the "OPEN" sign approximately ten feet to my left, and the steady stream of pounding bass pouring forth from the door, which was slightly ajar.

As we were talking, a gentleman entered the alleyway, walked over to us, and interrupted our conversation, saying "hey, where's the blues club?" Note the absence of any semblance of politeness or civility. Compare and contrast to the much publicized and locally prized emphasis on culture and propriety here in the deep, dark south.

Take a moment to break into groups and discuss this matter if you are so inclined.

Biting back the words that initially sprang to mind ("The blues club? I fire-bombed it. They were attracting an undesirably stupid element to the area."), I pointed to the door to the club and said, "right over there."

The perceptive reader will remember that this door, some ten feet away, has a sandwich board directly in front of it that says "OPEN" in two foot high letters.

Tardmaster McStupid looks at the door, looks at me, and says "is it open?"

*****

There is a brief pause as I carefully assess the situation. I know from past experience that the cataclysmically stupid can, at times, be dangerous. I know I should tread carefully here. There is a chance that Tweedledoofus here is just functional enough to understand it if I vocalize the contempt that he so obviously deserves.

I opt to lower myself to his level. I look at him for a couple of long seconds. I look at H. with a puzzled expression. I look at the door, and then let my gaze linger on the sandwich board sign for a few more seconds. Long seconds. I move my lips silently, making an obvious effort to sound out the esoteric symbols and process them into something comprehensible.

Rain Man here waits patiently while I work out this puzzle on his behalf.

At length, a look of dawning understanding filters slowly across my features. I smile at Doctor My-Parents-Didn't-Have-Any-Children-That-Lived and say, "yeah! I reckon so!"

Uber-Genius smiles thankfully at me and enters the club.

I wonder what he would have done if H. and I hadn't been there. Presumably he would have had to stand in the breezeway until someone from the blues club brought him out an engraved invitation.

Stupidity is not, however, limited to besotted blues fans. Today, Astralounge and I were in the school, on the mats, preparing to pummel each other senseless, when we heard a frantic woman's voice saying "hey! Hey! Excuse me!" This was surprising, since the voice appeared to be coming from within the school.

As we glanced about in justifiable confusion, there was a loud splintering sound from the hallway, the interior door to the adjoining unit (the long-abandoned unit) came crashing open, and a short, frizzy haired, frumpy woman stepped into the school.

A quick note on said door: shortly after we first moved in, I took it upon myself to bolt this door shut from my side. At the time, the adjoining unit was tenanted, and the tenants (in addition to having wretched taste in music) didn't have very clear ideas of what constituted their unit and what constituted my unit. After realizing that the jackasses from next door were doing a little exploring on their own when I wasn't around, I jury-rigged a dead bolt on the door.

Now bear in mind that this wasn't intended so much as a security measure; it was more of an attempt to indicate that I really didn't want people playing around in my school when I wasn't there. The dead bolt was simply screwed into the hollow-core door... anyone attempting to open it from the other side would meet enough resistance to inform them that they weren't welcome on this side of the door, but when it came right down to it, if you put your shoulder into it and shoved, you could pop the dead bolt right out of the wood.

Which is exactly what this lady did. Because, you know, when you try to open a door and you realize it's latched from the other side, it only makes sense to break it down.

So. Agnes the Barbarian here breaks down my door and interrupts my class. One would expect that there is some sort of reasonable justification for this. Perhaps she was imprisoned in the adjacent unit by a roving band of zombie-pirates. Maybe she is one of the previous tenants who settled in for a lengthy nap last summer and only now awoke, frightened and confused. Perhaps she is actually some sort of guardian angel, here to warn Astralounge and I of impending terrorist attacks.

Whatever it is, I assure you that I just can't wait to hear about it.

I look expectantly at Ms. Locked-Doors-Are-No-Barrier-To-My-Urgent-Need-To-Meet-With-You. She offers me a sunny smile and says, "hi, I'm sorry to interrupt. I'm looking at the unit next door, and I was wondering if you could tell me anything about it."

Blink. Blink, blink. I bite back my initial response ("Yes. It's haunted. Haunted by the ghosts of the previous tenants, who died mysterious and violent deaths after entering my school uninvited.") and walk over to examine the door she just came through. "Well," I say, "I can tell you that you just ripped out my dead bolt on your way in."

She glances dismissively at the dead bolt. "Oh. I was wondering if you could tell me what the plumbing was like over there."

Note the absence of any semblance of politeness or civility. Compare and contrast to the much publicized and locally prized emphasis on culture and propriety here in the deep, dark south.

Take a moment to break into groups and discuss this matter if you are so inclined.

After regretfully informing Old Lady Frump-tard that no, I am not privy to the esoteric plumbing secrets of the neighboring shops (and listening to her semi-coherent explanation of why she needs to move into a new unit -- apparently the air conditioner in her current shop broke, which for some reason necessitated a $1000 a month rent increase), I showed her out, finished up class with Astralounge, and repaired my dead bolt (though I'm really not sure why I bothered. I imagine that if she does move in next door she'll take a circular saw to the door if she needs to ask me any questions about her phone bill, or the carpeting, or whatever other subject my proximity qualifies me as an expert in).

Really, I can't wait to have her as a neighbor.

Sadly, neither of these stories has a happy or conclusive ending. Presumably Illiterate-Man enjoyed his evening at the club before returning home to stand forlornly in front of the entrance to his apartment, wondering if it was open. As much as I'd like to believe that Dorothy Door-Breaker was there to help him, I think it's far more likely that she returned to her own home where she is even now pestering her neighbors with questions about her garbage disposal and toilet.