Hot blooded
Look I'm of a certain age, and I don't know if I have somehow become more sensitive to noise or if I'm just becoming awful, but I am definitely becoming the "Hey you kids get off my lawn!" guy.
It started when I moved to LA a few months ago. In Oakland I lived in a luxurious and extremely soundproof condo. Living back in the middle of Hollywood, I feel like a monk in a frat house on Saturday night.
The apartment complex next to mine has a wall of balconies that looks directly down onto my duplex, and it's filled with drunk club kids who are doing so much coke and meth that their speaking voices at 4am sound like a conversation between two deaf jackhammer operators in a wind tunnel. I've literally been up at 5am shooting video of them like a crazy person, so that I can later attach it to my email complaint to the building manager.
The upstairs neighbors sleeping directly above me have such loud and intense sex complete with moaning and "oh my gods" that I feel like I need to wear a condom to bed.
The helicopter paparazzi that station themselves directly above my building at 2am to try and catch Lindsay Lohan stumbling out of a nearby club are so loud I literally cannot hear a conversation I'm having in my own home. There's rarely conversation in my home anyway because it's just me and my dog, but if he were ever to try and speak to me I would not be able to hear him. Maybe I've already missed his first attempts? A few weeks ago at 3AM I fired off emails to about five executives at the FAA demanding that new regulations for helicopters in LA be made into law. I had several voicemail messages the next day from various government officials which I chose to ignore because in the light of the morning I seem to remember blurting out "You're the fucking FAA for Christ sake!" in what may not have been the most reasonable set of emails.
And yesterday, I walked out into my backyard jaw agape to discover that the neighbor directly behind my bedroom window had suddenly decided to take up DRUMMING. He was banging out some rock anthem that was so off beat it could literally have been Helen Keller playing, and for a moment I thought I might be on Candid Camera. I wanted to go buy a megaphone just so I could blast back at him with "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME WITH THE DRUMS. NONE OF YOUR FRIENDS WANT TO HEAR YOUR SHITTY NEW BAND. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?" But I refrained, because I'm all about restraint.
So I hope I've painted a clear picture of the grumpy old man that's telling the story that happened to me tonight.
I was working in my room when the music started. It was muffled at first, but very loud, and I finally figured out some asshole was blasting Foreigner's "I wanna know what love is." I actually love Foreigner, but not if it's blasting off the balconies of those god damn club kids. So under the guise of taking out the garbage I walked out to my driveway to glare at them, but their balconies were dark. I came back inside and realized it must be that god damn drummer. Jesus Christ -- here comes Journey's "Open Arms." It's a great song, but not at this hour. I walked into the back yard, but the newbie drummer was sitting quietly on his couch, reading a book. The sound was echoing off both buildings that faced my house, and was apparently coming from a few doors down the street.
Next up: "Hot Blooded." Seriously? We're back to Foreigner? In 2011? This is giving ME a fever of a hundred and three.
Well if I'm going to call the police I needed to refer to an address for this raucous eighties party, so I went out to the sidewalk in my bare feet and began my grumpy old man walk down the street. I was probably clenching my fists and muttering to myself about "in my day." I was also pissed off that I forgot my iPhone so I couldn't take a video of the offending house for the police call, and I would have to remember the address. The more I walked towards the blaring sound, the more distant it seemed to get, and I actually had to cross the street and walk down a second block towards Hollywood Blvd. Could it be coming from one of the Hollywood clubs?
I couldn't tell. But the more I walked, the more it sounded like live music.... maybe it was a cover band?
Suddenly I stopped. Standing barefoot on the street in the middle of Hollywood with fists clenched and listening to a muffled "Don't stop believin" I had a bad feeling. I turned quietly around, walked back to my home, sat at my computer, and Googled "Journey Los Angeles."
And there it was. Journey with Foreigner at the Hollywood Bowl. Tuesday, Oct. 11, 7:00pm.
The asshole blasting Foreigner down the street was actually Foreigner.
Tickets were $286/each.
And unbelievably, my next thought was "OMG what an amazing concert!! How did I miss this? Journey with Arnel Pineda on lead vocals? Shut the fuck up!"
As I sighed and sat back in my chair, the anger about the noise having been replaced with the anger of having missed such a great concert, a different kind of noise began ringing out overhead. It sounded like pots and pans and gunfire.
Stupid joyful fireworks finale to the best concert ever. God dammit.
So OK, Universe -- you win. Maybe I haven't given Hollywood a chance. Maybe the steady clang of urban living is just an audible reminder that there IS a lot of living going on here. And maybe it's just the living I need to be doing.
So I've decided I'm too young to get this hot blooded over a little noise. Tomorrow, I'm giving Hollywood another chance.
I'm buying some earplugs, wearing a condom to bed, and giving it another chance.
