Tuesday, May 12, 2015

And that's how ya let the beat build...

In the past 9 years of me intermittently living an apartment lifestyle, I've always been on the top floor.  This sitch is not ideal for moving furniture, carrying groceries, or surviving tornadoes.  In fact, I'm pretty sure the only perk is lack of noise.  At my previous residence, the only time I was startled awakened in the early mornin' hours was by the Pizza Bolis delivery guy; his fist was going to Poundtown on the door because 'some' drunk ordered pizza and fell asleep before it arrived - completely justifiable.

Fast forward to August of 2014 - ooh girl, can you picture it?  So, the roommate and I are all moved into our new place, which I need to mention is a 1st floor apartment - started from tha top, now we here.  We were enjoying an intense Netflix bender when it began - 'it' being an exhausting and seemingly endless struggle for the duration of our lease.  I don't know about you, but I am not a big fan of EDM.  I'm especially not a fan when it's blasting loud and proud from the apartment above, causing objects in my bedroom to vibrate.  I'm a pretty lax gal when it comes to tolerating loud music and rowdiness; hell, there were many-a-nights just a few short years ago when it was deemed more than acceptable to crank up my hoodrat playlist during a heavy pre-game sesh.

As the weeks progressed toward fall, the noise grew but my patience did not.  I'll go ahead and call my 2nd floor neighbor 'David' (Guetta) since he seems to think he's a mainstream DJ. David's late afternoon club bumpin' exhibitions eventually went into hibernation; some say you 'can't stop the music' but sometimes you have to before before you're late to your kiosk job at the mall selling E-cigarettes.  I actually have no idea what he does for a living but I'm favoring it's something that requires limited brain activity.  I DO know his real name, as it's posted on his mailbox every month on a piece of paper threatening his eviction if he doesn't pay rent.  Too bad you can't be kicked out for being a total fucking tool.

Before long, I began to be kidnapped almost nightly out of a deep sleep by good ole deejay Dave.  Any weeknight, it would be begin between 12:30 - 3:30 AM and continue on for several agonizing hours.  I like to call any of those time slots the witching, er...bitching hour because that's what I was driven to: waking up and complaining to my roomie about the Douche Rocket that has struck our walls.  When you start waking up like clockwork a la Ryan Reynolds in 'The Amityville Horror', then I think we have an issue.  Now, I think the adult way to handle problems is to go directly to the source, which in this case, involved  several courtesy knocks and a polite request to 'turn your FUCKING music off!'  Keep in mind there actually was major emphasis on the expletive.  I wasn't shocked he didn't open the door, but a little disappointed because I was curious to see what his shit show of a place looks like.

I imagined a hazy, burnout dorm room type place - with paraphernalia everywhere, a ripped up futon and let's just go ahead and throw a lava lamp in there.  There's also a high possibility that he charges $2.00 at the door and if you have a vagina, you get to drink for FREE - from a plastic BUSCH LIGHT cup!  Sadly, I have yet to see the elusive Bro Lair, though the privilege is granted only to the lucky lured ladies who are drunk - and I'm talking about David Hasselhoff lying on the floor eating Wendy's drunk.  If you've never seen the clip, shame on you and Google it.

As if the music wasn't enough, Dave is pretty active during these episodes - fervently stomping around like the Jolly Green Giant.  Speaking of green, I guess he's just anxiously pacing back and forth while waiting for a weed delivery.  I mean, this is Annapolis - might as well act like a pretentious asshole and have your drugs delivered straight to your doorstep. You may be wondering why I hadn't called the cops; truth is, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt - that maybe there's a tiny bit of common courtesy lurking around.

When the bass dropped last night around 12:15, we decided it was time to call the boys in blue.  It must've been a slow night in Nap-town because maybe 7 minutes after the call was made, we heard the 'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'.  I opened my door slightly to eavesdrop on the verbal ass whipping - all I heard in addition to walkie-talkie 5-0 static was Dave exclaiming 'I wasn't smoking anything!' I found that funny considering the complaint had absolutely nothing to do with that.  He may have not been smoking, but his sub-woofer was.