Apartment Life Pt. 2
It gets better or at least more entertaining.
"Calling the Po-Po."
It's Friday night and the neighbors upstairs are blasting some kind of bastardization of Metallica and Devo at 11 pm even though the lease says no loud music after 10 pm on a weekday. No biggie, as long as we can't hear it from our bedrooms, right?
Until they start stomping around like a bunch of feral bulls on ecstasy.
Son of a . . . . . . I have to be up early for rehearsal at 9 am. I want to sleep! So up I go to get the roommate so we can meet and greet and ask our neighbors to please turn it down a notch or at the very least stop hopping around. In the kitchen is where we hear the cussing.
"I think there's a fight going on up there." is not a conclusion you want your roommate to make. Out comes the Tenant Union apartment manual and the number for the non-emergency police 'cause we are both nervous as frack. While we wait for the police to show up, we stand in the living room and realize that the neighbors are (drunkenly?) singing along to their freakish-hybridization of what sounds like "Master of Puppets" (Metallica) bred with Indie music. Three officers show up and forcefully rap on the door.
The music cuts off and the officers go in. After some talking, the officers leave and as they're leaving, we hear one say:
"What a bunch of weirdos."
Great, our neighbors, the weirdos. Imagine that.
"Romeo? Get Off My Balcony!"
Sunday night there was some commotion on the balcony of our weirdo neighbors followed by some noise on our first floor balcony. I went to the sliding door, pulled back the vertical blinds with both hands, and came face to face with a hipster hanging from our balcony railing.
What the. . . . .?
He looked at me, all shocked-like, jumped down and said to his friends "Oh shit. There's a girl in there!"
Yeah, we live here too, buddy. I stood there, hips cocked to one side and eyebrow raised waiting for someone else to attempt to climb down from the second floor balcony. A girl peered over the edge of our balcony from the ground and turned away, then another hipster guy (thick frames and all) peered in and awkwardly waved. I waved back and he disappeared with the rest of them.
Ten minutes later I was recounting this tale to my roommate along with: "Maybe one of these days I'll surprise him and he'll fall from the balcony to the pavement, cracking his head open and leaving a bloody mess." To this, she said, "No, Mr. Landlord, that's not blood, it's wine."
I was teasing of course . . .
To Be Continued. . . . .maybe?
"Calling the Po-Po."
It's Friday night and the neighbors upstairs are blasting some kind of bastardization of Metallica and Devo at 11 pm even though the lease says no loud music after 10 pm on a weekday. No biggie, as long as we can't hear it from our bedrooms, right?
Until they start stomping around like a bunch of feral bulls on ecstasy.
Son of a . . . . . . I have to be up early for rehearsal at 9 am. I want to sleep! So up I go to get the roommate so we can meet and greet and ask our neighbors to please turn it down a notch or at the very least stop hopping around. In the kitchen is where we hear the cussing.
"I think there's a fight going on up there." is not a conclusion you want your roommate to make. Out comes the Tenant Union apartment manual and the number for the non-emergency police 'cause we are both nervous as frack. While we wait for the police to show up, we stand in the living room and realize that the neighbors are (drunkenly?) singing along to their freakish-hybridization of what sounds like "Master of Puppets" (Metallica) bred with Indie music. Three officers show up and forcefully rap on the door.
The music cuts off and the officers go in. After some talking, the officers leave and as they're leaving, we hear one say:
"What a bunch of weirdos."
Great, our neighbors, the weirdos. Imagine that.
"Romeo? Get Off My Balcony!"
Sunday night there was some commotion on the balcony of our weirdo neighbors followed by some noise on our first floor balcony. I went to the sliding door, pulled back the vertical blinds with both hands, and came face to face with a hipster hanging from our balcony railing.
What the. . . . .?
He looked at me, all shocked-like, jumped down and said to his friends "Oh shit. There's a girl in there!"
Yeah, we live here too, buddy. I stood there, hips cocked to one side and eyebrow raised waiting for someone else to attempt to climb down from the second floor balcony. A girl peered over the edge of our balcony from the ground and turned away, then another hipster guy (thick frames and all) peered in and awkwardly waved. I waved back and he disappeared with the rest of them.
Ten minutes later I was recounting this tale to my roommate along with: "Maybe one of these days I'll surprise him and he'll fall from the balcony to the pavement, cracking his head open and leaving a bloody mess." To this, she said, "No, Mr. Landlord, that's not blood, it's wine."
I was teasing of course . . .
To Be Continued. . . . .maybe?
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