To That One Neighbor.

Nobody is happier than you that you’ve found your Amy Winehouse CD. I mean that. Because, see, nobody is happy but you that you found your Amy Winehouse CD.

Last summer, when I heard “Rehab” on eleven blasting from — (what is that, your porch? your super-speakered ipod? where do you get such volume?) — from your lair for hours straight, day after day, I thought you were either close, personal friends with Miss Winehouse, or trying to send a very direct message to your wife.

But today, when you were blasting it again after a several month hiatus — sometimes one extra track before you loop back to “Rehab” yet again so I know you have the entire album at your fingertips, but you choose to torture your community by the ear-splitting, mind-slamming repetition of a single (outdated) song — I had to wonder if this was your way of celebrating some milestone in your life, or if you were celebrating Amy Winehouse’s new Grammy collection.

Chances are the only thing you were celebrating was the fact that you found your Amy Winehouse CD, which your wife must’ve hidden from you sometime back in September.

Once you play the song five times in a row, by the way? I hear it in my head another nine. I am furious with you right now. Furious! Continue reading

I wanted to publicly remind

I wanted to publicly remind myself that one of the great things about leaving this house is that I’ll never have to listen to the continuing education of Little Drummer Boy. Today he’s working on solos. Long, rambling, cymbal-filled solos. He and his friends have recently discovered how much they love Bob Marley, and they play Legend for hours in their backyard, just under this window where I work.