As I sat down to start work on yet another version of my resume and cover letter, the stereo turned on and bass kicked in. My next door neighbor's bass, so strong it rattled the windows. This is not at all an uncommon experience. When I first moved in here, I made Justin go ask him to turn it down, as we were having trouble holding a conversation over dinner. Justin reporded a nervous-looking man agreeably acquiescing through a half-closed door. A few days later, I stomped over there myself and banged on the door after I again couldn't hear myself think. Through the door (he didn't even open it) he thanked me for coming over to ask and then turned the music down.
A week later, when our living room ceiling began to leak, we found out that Dave the Maintenance Guy was, in fact, the boy who lived next door. Contrary to our expectations of our neighbor, Dave was, in fact, quite charismatic. I was lounging in my pjs when he came to scope the collosal damage to our ceiling, and he ended up staying, philosophising, and sharing his deepest feelings about his recent life epiphany. Quite touching and a bit odd, but overall serindipitous as his revelations corresponded somewhat closely to my own, almost a year ago.
Anyhoo, Dave the Maintenance Guy loves music. Go figure. After apologizing for the noise, he told me that he used to have a band and that they would practice at his place. That is, until he got one more than the three maximum noise violations and the apartment staff tolf him to cut it out because he was supposed to be setting an example for the other tenants. Dave still, however, has a tendency to play his music loud... even after apologizing for it.
( Continue... )
For the next week, he seemed to do it only in bursts. And, as I realized, after several days of loud-quiet intervals, he seemed to listen to the same song over and over again. Something that sounded Ozzy Osbourne-ish. Very rocking. I was amused, but not confused. I can understand fixating on that one song that gets you going.
Then, today, it went on longer than five minutes, and it wasn't *the* song, it was something different. OK, I figured, I'll give him ten. After twenty minutes, the pounding was starting to cut into my ability to write coherent masturbatory sentences describing my "skills set." I walked out the door in my socks, over to the next unit, and pounded on the door.
No answer.
I pounded again, still nothing. I stood there for a moment with dreaded understanding that he COULDN'T HEAR ME. Then I realized that I must have been mistaken about Ozzy, for what I was listening to wasn't the punkingest rocker... it was GOD MUSIC. Christian Rock. Turned WAY THE FUCK UP. "We are children of peaaaaace!!!!" Was blasting through the front door. I facepalmed and went back home. I guess I felt a little bad for trying to interrupt his worship session.
But wait, it doesn't end there. Ten minutes later, I'm still trying to work and failing. I tried headphones to no avail. Bass of course permeates ear plugs. So I resort to the undignifying act of stomping over there to knock again. This time, after the third knock, the music ceases in the middle of DC Talk's Jesus is Just Alright [sic] but no one comes to the door. I knock again and hear movement, so I wave weakly into the peep-hole.
"Hi," says Dave through the door. "Hi," say I, wondering why he doesn't open it. He does, halfway, just enough so that I can see he's not wearing a shirt, or probably pants, though the door is blocking his downstairs. "I was just wondering if you could keep the volume down... I'm working on the other side of the wall." "Oh," says Dave, "Well, I just turned it off so I could do some typing. Funny that you should come over now!" I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'd already been over once. Instead I walked home back to a quiet apartment mortified, wondering who rocks out to God... naked.
Posted on October 13, 2005 @ 9:17 PM | 4 comments
A week later, when our living room ceiling began to leak, we found out that Dave the Maintenance Guy was, in fact, the boy who lived next door. Contrary to our expectations of our neighbor, Dave was, in fact, quite charismatic. I was lounging in my pjs when he came to scope the collosal damage to our ceiling, and he ended up staying, philosophising, and sharing his deepest feelings about his recent life epiphany. Quite touching and a bit odd, but overall serindipitous as his revelations corresponded somewhat closely to my own, almost a year ago.
Anyhoo, Dave the Maintenance Guy loves music. Go figure. After apologizing for the noise, he told me that he used to have a band and that they would practice at his place. That is, until he got one more than the three maximum noise violations and the apartment staff tolf him to cut it out because he was supposed to be setting an example for the other tenants. Dave still, however, has a tendency to play his music loud... even after apologizing for it.
( Continue... )
For the next week, he seemed to do it only in bursts. And, as I realized, after several days of loud-quiet intervals, he seemed to listen to the same song over and over again. Something that sounded Ozzy Osbourne-ish. Very rocking. I was amused, but not confused. I can understand fixating on that one song that gets you going.
Then, today, it went on longer than five minutes, and it wasn't *the* song, it was something different. OK, I figured, I'll give him ten. After twenty minutes, the pounding was starting to cut into my ability to write coherent masturbatory sentences describing my "skills set." I walked out the door in my socks, over to the next unit, and pounded on the door.
No answer.
I pounded again, still nothing. I stood there for a moment with dreaded understanding that he COULDN'T HEAR ME. Then I realized that I must have been mistaken about Ozzy, for what I was listening to wasn't the punkingest rocker... it was GOD MUSIC. Christian Rock. Turned WAY THE FUCK UP. "We are children of peaaaaace!!!!" Was blasting through the front door. I facepalmed and went back home. I guess I felt a little bad for trying to interrupt his worship session.
But wait, it doesn't end there. Ten minutes later, I'm still trying to work and failing. I tried headphones to no avail. Bass of course permeates ear plugs. So I resort to the undignifying act of stomping over there to knock again. This time, after the third knock, the music ceases in the middle of DC Talk's Jesus is Just Alright [sic] but no one comes to the door. I knock again and hear movement, so I wave weakly into the peep-hole.
"Hi," says Dave through the door. "Hi," say I, wondering why he doesn't open it. He does, halfway, just enough so that I can see he's not wearing a shirt, or probably pants, though the door is blocking his downstairs. "I was just wondering if you could keep the volume down... I'm working on the other side of the wall." "Oh," says Dave, "Well, I just turned it off so I could do some typing. Funny that you should come over now!" I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'd already been over once. Instead I walked home back to a quiet apartment mortified, wondering who rocks out to God... naked.
Posted on October 13, 2005 @ 9:17 PM | 4 comments
Comments:
Maybe he was referring to the "one handed typing" people sometimes do at the computer?
By 
Cockblocker, at
9:10 AM, October 14, 2005
What, he was done with his Christ for the evening, so he moved on to spanking the Bishop?
By 
Kat, at
9:29 AM, October 14, 2005
I bet he has really loud masterbatory sex with himself to Christian Rock. That's my vote!
By Waterseek, at
4:34 PM, October 14, 2005
Slightly off topic (I think ;)
Happy Birthday, Kat!
By , at
5:58 PM, October 16, 2005
