What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. What happens in my alley, is noticed and dictated by me.
It is très enlightening living on the first floor of an apartment when only a headboard and cracked window separate my ears from the nonsense that happens outside. One of the featured pedestrians traveling through is nicknamed “Drunk Mike” but could be described as “Coked Mike,” “Trippin’ Mike,” or “Angrily Sober Mike.” He’s actually just as fun as a barrel of monkeys. No more, no less.
I initially used earplugs when I moved here. Living with my fraternity taught me that such implements are invaluable. Once I lost my last pair, I realized I had robbed myself of the thinly-shielded traveling circus right outside. Sure, anyone who lives near constant foot traffic (and within vicinity of several bars) will find plenty of nonsense at night.
Of course, most of this happens during the day. Even “Drunk Mike.”
As a heads-up, I’ve seen none of this. All of this evidence is auditory. The main downside of this first-floor living is the constant need to keep the blinds drawn. Don’t ask, maybe tell.
- My cat is a dedicated percussion teacher.
Oh, did that seem like a non sequitur? Lemme elaborate.
There is a child who has apparently scheduled drum lessons with my feline roommate. At least once a week at the approximate time of 5 PM, there comes a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my side window. Except “gently” isn’t the descriptor I’d use. “Spastic,” maybe. As my cat mews while on the window sill, this child does his best spastic Neil Peart impression against a material not meant for constant pounding. Insert your favorite sexual joke here. Heh. “Insert.”
Only more like this:
Except constant and accompanied by a squealing child whose only word ever learned was “KITTY!!!” Y’know, like Boo from Monsters, Inc., sans any level of cuteness.
Also, I have no idea what “slaping” is.
- Drunk Mike doesn’t intend to catch my attention through spontaneous drum solos.
No, he usually unintentionally does it via profanity, phone sex, and a laugh that no adult man (or possibly ANY human) should have. Like so:
Not even zombie George Carlin telling his best stuff could elicit such giggles from me. And I’m a man who inadvertently lets loose a titter every now and then. Not proud of it, but I’m humble enough to admit that I may be part girl.
- Recently, this exchange woke me abruptly:
This kept building and building as the two curious men walked closer to my bedroom window. To this day, I can only wonder what their question was about. Were they philosophers, trying to break new boundaries on the art? Did they intend to repeat the word until it lost all meaning? Perhaps they were trying to jog their brains on the following lyrics of the hit song “What What (In Your Butt)” as they concluded their eve?
Personally, I believe the rest of the question should’ve been “are we doing shouting nonsense at the top of our lungs at 4 in the morning?!”
Coming up: summing up!
Entertainment Value: B. The daytime quirks can be enjoyed. At night, I prefer my dreams. Keep up with the matinees, and I’ll keep tuning in.
Musical Talent: 2/10. Though our little drummer boy has enthusiasm, I worry his talent is merely a lack of Ritalin. Our two philosophers have chemistry that likely permeates in the band, but their vocal style would fit in bands you never want to listen to.
Drunk Mike: Magnificent. His laughter endears. His substance abuse evokes tears. His phone sex creates fears. A wonderful creature.
There’s a reason I cancelled my cable. And it is definitely…well, not this. It’s because it was not worth the bill.
HINT: Playing both the Neil Peart and giggle videos simultaneously is pretty fun. Is this how Girl Talk figures things out?