With all respect due to the owners of the cars that I can hear coming from a number of blocks away – assuming, of course, that they’re due any respect – can we just get it on the record right now that:
- Yes, you are very cool;
- Yes, we admire you;
- Yes, we approve of your taste in music; and
- Yes, we wish that we, like you, had it “going on”, “together” or whatever we’re saying these days.
Do I sound crabby?
Hmmm. I should work on that.
Well, I don’t mean to sound crabby, but sometimes, when a low, seismic shaking has seized the house, when the windows rattle and I am compelled to run outside to see the armored tanks that I assume must rumbling down my street only to discover that it’s actually a car with a stereo system designed for something more in keeping with the vibrations required to reduce buildings to rubble, I get tired.
Oh, so tired.
It’s not the music itself. It’s not even, per se, the decibel level of the music.
It’s the implied assumption that we all want to hear what you’ve been listening to because, gosh darn it, we see you as a trendsetter and an example to be followed.
Or perhaps you’re completely unaware that there are others in the neighborhood who may not be interested in what you’re listening to? That’s what gets my goat. And yes, I’ve been known to try to hide my goat by repeating “Live and let live, live and let live” until the urge to throttle goes away; but when it’s in the middle of the night, I sometimes forget my commitment to the humanities and think soothing and vengeful thoughts of retribution.
I picture myself dressed in black, ninja-like, rappelling down the side of my house somewhere around 3:00 a.m., slipping, cat-paw-silent, amongst the alleys to Mr. Bass Speakers’ house, surreptitiously letting the air out of his tires, sprinkling a little Buck Scent into the seams around his hood, leaving a cryptic and slightly sarcastic note about his taste in music and how much the neighborhood enjoys knowing that he’s six blocks from the house, five blocks away the house, four blocks away…
It’s these little fantasies that keep me smiling.
My plans to track down and tattoo the words “I Know How To Write My Name” on the foreheads of the person and/or persons who believe that the side of the garage is for just such a statement.
Stay tuned, kids!