When we were deciding whether or not to rent this house, one of the very first things I asked the landlord was “There aren’t any bands that practice nearby, are there?” He pointed out each house and the names of the owners, and their careers and his guesses at their ages. No one was the house band type.
Which means that of course the grown-ass, professional career guy neighbor directly next door to us hosts a band practice in his basement at least once a week.
It is the drummer that really bothers me, the hour-after-hour repeat of the same beats and rolls. He got one of those wooden cowbell things not long ago, of all the heinous tragedies. We keep telling ourselves we are going to go over there to say something, but really, what can we say? Hi, my name is Sunday, we live next door to you? We borrowed your lawn mower the first week we moved in and you were really nice about it? Yeah, I want to shoot myself in the face with a heroin gun because I cannot fucking stand living next to other human beings, least of all your fusion jazz ear-pocalypse.
I would like to present to you the very real face I make in response to this bullshit:
Mike happened to – just at the very moment the neighbor started up at his drums – take a test photo while we set up for the Lloyd Dobler photoshoot from yesterday’s post. Captured at the up-cycle of the eye roll, no less. Excellent work, Mike.October 7th, 2012 | Drama!, Totally Unrelated, True Story