Thursday, January 19, 2006

On Being A Noisy Neighbor...

Whoa. The guy who lives in the apartment next to me's currently performing some sort of mystic-sounding mantra to Jebus knows what, which I am able to hear quite clearly through the thin film of a wall that separates our respective abodes. Holy man, is this guy nuts. And I don't even really know him. What I do know is that I don't like him because he's a Wall Pounder. He is a Pounder of Walls, if you will. Any time I turn on my stereo, I can count on him banging our poor shared wall with clenched fists in a manner that indicates to me that he is both unsound of mind and clearly wants me dead. One: I play nothing but the sweetest of music ever written (and yes, that includes my Meat Loaf albums goddamn it), and two: I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm always very conscious of how loud my "tune's're rockin'," as it were, because I'm aware of how poorly insulated the wall is. But, come on. Am I being unreasonable? I don't think so, but then again, I'm stubborn.
I can only imagine who or what this loon is attempting to conjure up in there. The way I see it, it could be anything from some demonic fairy-being-thing sent to destroy me and/or my entire CD collection, or perhaps it's the spirit of one of the lead singers of one of the ultra-lame emo bands I hear him listening to, come to torture me for eternity with weepy ballads about stubbing your toe or spilling some milk. Either way, I suppose I can rest easy knowing that I at least don't "hum-uh-nuh-hum-uh-nuh" to myself in some monk-like tone.
"What an idiot show I live in," as old Cosmo would say. Between the bad emo and the chanting in Apt. 301 and the continuing domestic disturbances in 305, I'm just not sure what to do. Lock myself in, and pray I don't die, I guess... This building did yield something positivly in my favor, however, because I finally talked Lindsay from downstairs into coming up for a beer the other night. She's Russian. Hubba.
The People That You Meet Each Day:
Meet Jonathan R. He's a classic case of that guy that got the shit kicked out of him a whole bunch in high school turned rich asshole. Dressed to the nines in a nice suit and trendy glasses (which were unable to distract from the cowlick on the back of his head that's probably been there since the mid-eighties), this one time small fry has much to prove, which means very little general courtesey. And don't even think about a tip. Hey Jonathan, we'll talk once you finally get laid, buddy. Face!
Quote of the Day:
"I just need some fucking space!" -- woman next door, heard through the wall and mid-verbal brawl with her boyfriend, on the irony of making such requests while living in an efficiency


Blogger Nea said...

Isn't condo living just wonderful....I used to live in one in Los Angeles, and the guy next door started coughing up a lung about 2am everynight and didn't stop until dawn. I suppose he either died or finally went to a Dr.

11:26 PM  

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