The apartment next door is home to at least five skinny undergraduate guys who look like they are still fourteen, fond of loud parties on Tuesday nights, stupid girls who share way too much information about their vaginal activities on their cell phones in the hallway (forgetting, of course, that just because they've left one apartment doesn't mean the rest can't hear them), smoking up the hallway, turning on their music loudly and then going out, leaving it on all night while I try to sleep, and of course, my personal favorite, somehow screwing up their amp so that the bass gets crossed into the melody and becomes the most repetitive sound in the world.
Dun-dun-duuuun. Dun-dun-duuuun. Dun-dun-duuuuun. Etc.
Eric and I have become mostly acclimated to this sound, and in fact I tend to live my life to daily repetitive rhythms. It's like a heartbeat, right? Though sometimes it truly sounds like they have a drum machine running.
(Okay and so maybe I'd hoped they'd move out for the summer and go live off their parents somewhere else.)
Today was a wondrous occasion, though, because as I was ironing my shirt getting ready for my class, I heard the usual waking-up sounds coming from next door (something dropped, barely-past-teenage male cursing and pathetic attempts at white guy toughness, etc). Then the music begins, and instead of the more typical gangsta rap or hardcore repetitive beats, I hear... the Beatles? Really? They've discovered the Beatles?
All five of them (at least) begin a sing-along to "Life Goes On" - they were really going to town with it despite the bass distortion warbling the ob-la-di's into something vaguely Satanic. Seriously, it was kind of endearing, and I felt proud as their little squawky voices cracked with joy. Maybe there is hope for those kids after all...
But evidently they were listening to a CD, and it started skipping. Badly. For five or six minutes at least. After a lot of banging (they do not know about forward or reverse buttons evidently), I heard the sound of a
CD being thrown against the wall we share, a bunch of angry cursing and what can only be puffed-chest posturing ("I oughta throw that piece of crap out the window man"), we were right back to the dun-dun-duuuuun I've come to loathe so well. As if to prove they were serious, they turned it up and roared along with it, still oblivious both to how thin the walls are and how definitely NOT badass they are.
At least, though, for one moment, there was a glimmer.
If I can ever muster it, I'm going to have to hook my computer up to the amp and blast them out with something loud, peppy and definitively girly -- I can't wait to hear their falsettos.
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