It is assault, I tell you!
I have this neighbor. Well, ok, I have a lot of neighbors, but there is one in particular…
Who, let’s be frank, has no taste.
How do I know this?
Well, the neighbor *loves* to crank up their stereo. Yup. They crank up their tinny sounding piece of eeeelectronic equipment loud enough so the whole neighborhood can take part in their musical selections.
A sociologist postulated that when male humans crank their stereos super loud, they are essentially marking their territory. They are forcing people to look at them and forcing all around to succumb to their musical selection.
If so, then my neighbor is a marking fool. He may as well pee on a mile radius.
This fellow (I assume it’s a guy, I’m not sure, actually) likes to boot up his sound gear at about 8:00am on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Just in time to wake me up from a nice weekend doze.
So, what sort of music does this fellow play? Do you have guesses?
Gangsta rap? Screetching metal? Blazing punk?
Sixties oldies? Big Band? Yanni?
No, but getting closer.
The music this fellow cranks out across my air space is smooth jazz. Not the good jazz, say Theonius Monk, Charlie Parker or Miles Davis.
Nope. The smooth kind. Plinky plunky. Music that reminds you of sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office.
Cranked up loud. Bouncing off the hills and homes in our fair town.
This has been going on for a while now. And the gent has recently taken to cranking his crazy beats around 5:30 in the evening, so that all coming home from work can enjoy his pee-tinged music.
Today, I cracked. Today, I lost it.
Today, he was playing the theme from “Moonlighting” by Al Jarreau at full volume.
Now look, I like Al. He has some fine songs. I don’t resent anyone enjoying the mellow ways of Mr. Jarreau. However…I don’t need this blared out into my world, uninvited.
The acoustics in my neighborhood are funny, but The Good Man and I are pretty sure it’s the landlord of the triplex one lot over, but we can’t be sure.
When I DO find the offender, I am going to deliver a collection of BB King recordings with a note that says, “GET SOME SOUL, mother eff word!”