Thursday, August 28, 2008

I forgot to take my medication...

and I'm sorry.... I had one of those moments last week and I just left a handwritten note card for someone that basically says, "Hi. I was a raving lunatic last week. Please accept my apologies."

Have you ever had one those melt down moments? Once you calm your ass down, you find yourself scratching your head thinking, "Damn. I was a real asswipe, huh?"

I'm the type of person that says all the things that others in a group are too afraid to say. You know what I mean, right? If there's an issue; a pink elephant standing in the middle of room and everyone is wondering about it, but no one wants to step up and ask the host or hostess the one simple question: "Hey, why the fuck is there a pink animal in the middle of your living room?" Well, I'm the person that speaks up. I ask the questions. I want to know. I've tried to be tactful in my Spanish Inquisition approach, but hell, I'm just asking what everyone else is thinking, but too bashful to utter the words.

My neighbors that live a couple houses down from me are delusional. How is that, you ask? Well, first of all they think they're practicing their heavy, metal, amplified to the highest platform possible rock music in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio: Sound proofed, expensive to rent, etc. Secondly, they think they're good enough to be practicing in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio. It's important to say that they feel the need to practice a lot. Clearly, I'm no record label executive scouting the midwest for the next rising rock stars, but these guys...well, the line forms in the back, dudes.

I came home last Sunday and I wanted to sit outside on my patio with my laptop, glass of wine and enjoy the evening. I was looking forward to a peaceful evening of porn writing. The wanna be rock stars were doing their thing on the second floor of their two story house that they rent. Oh gee, lucky for the neighborhood, they had all the windows open too.

Their band consists of an amplified, electric guitar, bass, full drum set and a lead singer, that I'm sorry to say isn't the next James Hetfield, the lead vocalist from the 1980's metal sensation band Metallica. Needless to say, my window and walls, like everyone else in the neighborhood, and in Pittsburgh, PA were reverberating. I WANTED TO KILL THEM. Tomorrow's front page newspaper would read: "Woman loses mind and kills wanna be rock musicians in her neighborhood....details on page B4."

I blew a gasket. I marched over to their house in my flip-flop meaning business ways and banged on their front door; frantically hoping and praying that God would send an electrical storm down from the sky above and cut the power off from their house. Or they'd tire and need to take a break from practicing their "music" and hear me pounding on their door to a different beat. Nope. God was not parting the skies for me on that day. These guys were relentless. They were like whales that never needed to come up for air. The fucking band played on.

I did however find their landlord. He lives across the street. He's someone I know well. He built my house and I have the utmost respect for him, except when it comes to his tenants. Let's just say, he received the lashing of a lifetime from Neve. It wasn't the good kind of lashing either. It was a verbal lashing and I said some not so nice things. The music stopped though and I haven't heard a peep from those delusional musicians. Thank you God.

That was nearly a week ago and I feel badly about what I said, thus the handwritten note I secretly set inside his mail box today. A little token, acknowledging my bad bahvior; a peace offering. Along with my apology, I also offered to pay for a couple round of beers the next he and are bellying up at the same neighborhood bar. That should work. :-)



p.s. The note cards above can be purchased via Etsy here.


Kirsten Monroe said...

I say go Neve! I love loud Metallica, but I wouldn't love loud "back of the line dudes" wannabe cover songs while I'm getting groovy with my wine and porn writing. I mean really!

Neve Black said...

Yeah, I know, I know...the nerve.

The older I get the more I realize no one really wants to listen to my music, expect me. I think that applies to everyone too, unless of course we've all paid good money to see a performance.

Have a great looong weekend.

Craig Sorensen said...

Hey Neve,

One of my passions is playing drums, and one of my challenges is managing to be able to practice without invading on other's space. With guitars you can turn it down. Drums (the acoustic ones) don't have a volume knob, but one can learn to play with touch. But I don't imagine your delusional neighbors have much of an idea about touch.

I see it from both sides, as one of my neighbors formed a band a couple of years back, and the way they tortured those instruments should be punishable by law. Thankfully, after a few months, they quit.

Bottom line, I'm glad you got it sorted out, and can get your erotica groove on.

Neve Black said...

Hi Craig,
Easy solution: Can you play your drums in the basement? And yes, you can turn the amp volume down on electric guitars; way down.

These kids today, boy! :-)

Have a wonderful weekend.

Craig Sorensen said...

Hi Neve,

Actually, I do play in the basement, but the sound still bleeds out. My neighbors live pretty close.

So I practice pretty light, and at times that I hope people won't be sleeping etc.

I think the key is to try to be considerate, which your neighbors obviously weren't!

Neve Black said...

I choose to live in the hood. Urban life is humbling. There's so much that I love about my neighborhood, but it butts up against the edgy, get on your last nerve too.

I really shouldn't be surprised when my neighbors practice playing their loud music, or the Hillbillies that live right next door drink beer and smoking pot all day; in the middle of the week...

I wouldn't know what to do if I lived in the burbs though. I'd probably be the one that everyone would be complaining about. :-)