Sunday, April 12, 2009
World War 6E
I haven't been writing much lately because I've been finishing up my thesis (which will finally be fully done tomorrow) and trying to get everything in order for a cross country move and generally doing a bunch of boring stuff that nobody wants to hear about. In fact, the only notable thing I've been up to is waging a blood feud with my upstairs neighbor. Okay, well maybe it's not quite so bad that blood will be spilled over it, but it's a feud and there's a whole lot of fuming and stomping going on.
Several years ago, I noticed that there was a lot of pounding coming from my ceiling coincident with occasions when I'd bump some Southern ass rap or Kells. Loud jams echoing through my building, and in fact through my building from other nearby buildings, are a normal part of life in my neighborhood. Still, my suspicions about the nature and purpose of these pounding noises were quickly confirmed when my upstairs neighbor advised me that my music disturbed him. I initially tried to keep it low. However, when I would hear him practicing his piano, I figured he was awake and it was okay to chillax with a little Rick Ross at medium volume. Furthermore, I figured I wasn't the only one on his shit list, since he sometimes stomped when I was reading or sleeping and generally not making any noise at all. I figured he'd direct his ire to his other, louder neighbors.
Well, I was wrong. I am this asshole's whipping bitch for every noisy motherfucker in the vicinity. Apparently, because this douche fancies himself some kind of jazz piano composer, I need to to stay quiet as a fucking churchmouse (and, apparently, keep my neighbors quiet too) so he can fully focus on the bullshit "jazz music" he churns out. He plays that hippie sort of jazz that never really begins or ends. In other words, it's a fucking one-man jam session all day. It's like living downstairs from Bruce Hornsby. An even more annoying Bruce Hornsby who first asked me to keep it down, then whined that it interfered with his daily piano abuse, then threatened to call the landlord. Then he apparently did call the landlord, because I received an enlarged photocopy of the section of my lease detailing rules concerning noise in the mail from the management office. Rather than fight, I just kept my music extremely low. And this had, until recently, resulted in an uneasy truce between us.
I understand that he probably feels the same way about my music as I feel about his, but just because he writes terrible music from his rodent-infested slum doesn't mean that it's more important than my right to do what I want in my own apartment. The notion that his bullshit takes precedence over mine just because really pisses me off. And I must have subconsciously been listening to my music a little louder than normal, because a couple months ago the stomping began again in earnest. This time, however, instead of opting for peace, I decided that I was going to piss this obnoxious prick off just as much as he pisses me off.
One day he decided to cool down from a vigorous stomping session by loitering aimlessly outside the building front door. As I passed on my way out he bawled, "Your music's too loud." I mustered the most cunty expression in my repertoire of don't-fuck-with-me-son looks, and said in my most icy tone, "So is yours." And thus, it's on.
He has taken to stomping at the slightest provocation. Originally he took issue with just my rap and R&B collections, but now he's stomping with equal fervor to music as varied as Brahms piano sonatas, Heart, and David Bowie. Unfortunately, I don't have any bootlegged tracks from bands jamming live at Bonnaroo or whatever to test whether or not he'd stomp at something he'd presumably consider more palatable. I think at this point he would stomp regardless of his preferences, because we hate each other that much.
The other day we literally had a pounding contest, and not in a hot way. As a matter of fact, there's no way that sexual diplomacy can resolve this matter, because he is revolting. He looks like he has Marfan's syndrome, because he's built like Abe Lincoln: extremely skinny and tall, with freakishly long limbs. He also is almost bald, but the patchy, thinning Friar Tuck salt-and-pepper hair ringing his ashy-ass skull is long and obviously unfamilar with a brush. When he rocks his beret over the overcompensating, undergroomed mess that is his coiffure, he looks like a skeezy child molester in a Lawrence Ferlinghetti costume. Add to it that he's probably in his mid-40s and still living in a shithole like my building and can't afford a studio or practice space, which suggests to me that most consumers agree with my assessment of his art. There is unequivocally NO WAY even in the most extreme or ridiculous circumstances, I would ever consider standing two feet away from this man, much less fucking him. Our pound-off therefore consisted of me listening to Muse, him stomping, me changing the music to "Fireman" from Tha Carter II, him stomping louder, and me grabbing a broom and pounding on my ceiling in response while shouting "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" through my light fixtures.
Because this situation is rapidly escalating, I decided that it was time to quit fucking around and demand surrender. He spent today working on some major construction project and then had the audacity to stomp when I took a writing break to bounce around to The R. in R&B. So it's time to regain the psychological upper hand in this war, and break his fucking spirit. I took it upon myself to craft a letter full of real talk to be taped to his apartment door like it's the damn church at Wittenberg. Sun Tzu would approve.
Dear Fake Bruce Hornsby,For some time now, I have been enduring your presumptuous stomping on my ceiling whenever you perceive a stray bit of noise coming from the direction of my apartment. I am constantly amazed by the acuity of your hearing, as you have on occasion woken me up with your imperative, obnoxious floor-pounding. I can only assume that in such situations, your exquisitely sensitive audio detection skills have made it possible for my restful breathing to annoy you. Either that, or you for some reason expect me to act as your emissary to any of my neighbors who might have the audacity to listen to music, watch television, open and close the doors in their apartments, and generally make the noise that occurs in the course of living. Once a couple years ago you complained to me about one of my neighbors slamming a door too loudly for your taste, and still seemed to think that was somehow my responsibility despite my informing you that the door slammer was not myself.I am certainly not suggesting that I don't make any noise. I listen to my stereo at a reasonable volume during daytime hours (never late at night), and have never had any complaints from any of my other neighbors. In fact, if my other neighbors did ask me to turn it down (which again, they never have), I would gladly comply. When you first asked me to turn it down, I did so. I even accommodated your podiatric demands for lower volume when you have stomped so frequently and with such ardor that my light fixture rattled and it sounded as though a rehearsal for Riverdance was occurring in your apartment.Sometimes I listen to the stereo more often than I normally would, as I need it to drown out the incessant cacophony of jam-session jazz that pours down from your apartment on a regular basis. As long as I'm being forced to suffer through your meandering, uninspired compositions whenever you get a hankering to practice, I figure I can at least block it out with something I enjoy. I've heard you say numerous times that you are a "musician," as if this somehow means that you can commit noise pollution as a matter of professional necessity and everyone else has to not only tolerate it, but provide you with a quiet atmosphere in which to craft your ghastly generic jazz-flavored non-masterpieces.Granted, given the fact that you live in this dilapidated tenement and the fact that you apparently don't have a studio to practice in, your music career hasn't exactly been successful. I feel slightly sorry for your pathetic attempts to parcel together what scraps of a career you can at any and all hours of the night. However, since your tired, desperate grasps for relevance involve me being forced to aurally consume a largely rejected product such as your entire piano repertoire, I am completely justified in instead choosing to listen to something that the market apparently finds much more palatable, including such multi-platinum-selling artists as Lil' Wayne, T.I., T-Pain, and R. Kelly. And Morrissey. And Lionel Richie. And Metallica. You even got stomping mad about Chopin Nocturnes, and I really honestly can't think of anything quieter and less intrusive than those.Therefore, please believe that from now on, when you start composing your next dissonant snorefest of elementary jazz chord progressions, I will turn on my stereo JUST LOUD ENOUGH to drown you out so that I can exist in peace in my apartment. I will not respond to any future stomping, except by possibly adjusting the volume accordingly. And if you like, you can call the landlord, because I'm more than happy to explain that I'm not the only one who likes music around here. However, good luck getting building management to care, since I'm moving in three weeks. I am sure after that, you will enjoy the dulcet tones of ten loud construction workers gutting and converting the apartment into an illegal one-bedroom so that the landlord can fleece some poor college student WHO ALSO LIKES RAP AND/OR ROCK MUSIC AND/OR ANYTHING BESIDES ORDINARY, SOPORIFIC, INTERMINABLE HIPPIE JAZZ PIANO PIECES.In short, sir, I demand that you cease stomping immediately.Regards,The Bitch Directly Downstairs From You
After writing this, I decided that it might be a little longer than necessary. At the very least, it might be so awesomely crushing that he wouldn't glean the larger "QUIT STOMPING" message from it. I wasn't trying to challenge his feeble mind with a comprehensive account of our ongoing hostilities. So I just wrote:
6E,From now on, whenever you rudely stomp on your floor/my ceiling in response to my music, I will turn said music up. If I have to tolerate your music, you can tolerate mine in return. Feel free to complain about it, because I'm moving in three weeks anyway.Regards,5E
I think it gets the point across. I win again and as usual.
Labels: assholes, Harlem world, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The deadliest night out
I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her. I told her it was not a good time. I'm handing in my thesis this week.
"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet. And YOU HAVE TO COME. I would tell you to skip your wedding for this. You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."
That was enough to pique my interest. "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling. But you are going to LOSE IT. I can't wait to see your face. You don't have a choice. You are coming out for drinks."
"Okay, fine, I'm coming. But seriously, who is it? Is it R. Kelly? I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells. Is it Lil' Kim? Is it Lil' Wayne?!" Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.
"Not telling. I'm going back to work. Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."
"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?" JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.
"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate! It's not a Yankee. But I'm not telling. See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."
So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter. All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo. I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers. I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I. Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function. And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars." So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.
I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early. I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza. I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl. Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame." JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew. See you in 5."
So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar. Nobody was there. "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"
"Razzy, SHUT UP. I'm not telling you. You'll see in a minute."
Then the special guests arrived. Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face. It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!" And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan. I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares? I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day. He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it. He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.
I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people. I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs. I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people. Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold." Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful. We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself. "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me. I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job. And of course I took pictures. This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.
At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar. I thought that was a capital idea. He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey. He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name. Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea. So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person. The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight. Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him. If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.
And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.
P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE! MAJOR FRIEND POINTS! *MAJOR!*
Labels: celebrities, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC, Razzification, TV
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