High-Decibel Drama (if only I were badass)

To the band that “jams” across the street from my apartment:

Hello, “musicians!” I put that word in quotes because I honestly can’t really tell how proficient you guys are at actually making songs and stuff. I do know that you are all VERY enthusiastic, and while I can appreciate your passion for your art, because art is good and not enough people appreciate the value of creative talents these days, I do have one teensy little problem.

You guys play really, really loudly. Your volume level could best be described with adjectives like unnecessary, ridiculous, or (my favorite) obnoxious.

This wouldn’t be so problematic if your band “jammed” at reasonable hours. Anytime between 10 a.m. and 10 p.m., actually, would be pretty much acceptable. Unfortunately, you guys like to play (enthusiastically! yay!) until like 2 in the morning. In case you didn’t know, this is a time when normal people are in bed.

I mean, I’m not in bed. I don’t really sleep at night, exactly. But at that time of night, I do REALLY enjoy watching stuff on Netflix or reading books or goofing around on the Internet or sometimes even doing productive things like laundry or cleaning my bathroom.

OK, I lied. I don’t do productive things. You caught me. But I’m pretty sure that if I DID to productive things, like polishing my floors or sleeping or scientific experiments that might someday cure cancer, your musical stylings would make it REALLY REALLY HARD.

See, it’s just a little difficult to focus on anything when the place where I live is trembling like a scared rabbit as your bass thingie goes THUMP-thump-THUMP-THUMP-thump-THUMP-THUMP except not so much THUMP-like as bass-like. To be honest, I have no idea how to translate bass sounds into writing. Then there’s the drums, which I’m pretty sure might rattle my windows out of their little window holder things. I live in an old building, so these things are fragile. It could happen. Sometimes, I can even hear the guitar! I don’t know if you’re any good, because all I can hear is the REALLY LOUD PARTS (which tends to be pretty much all of it), but you’re a professional at maximizing your volume. Occasionally, I think that someone might be slaying a very angry mountain lion (or maybe a sheep) nearby, because the singer SCREAMS INTO A MICROPHONE LIKE HE (or she, I don’t really know) IS BEING ATTACKED BY A PACK OF WILD VELOCIRAPTORS.

So, I was a really bad neighbor and called the cops on you because I’m too afraid to go across the street by myself to confront a bunch of potentially large and very tough band members who might or might not carry weapons, because I am pretty small and live by myself and prefer to handle conflict in writing rather than face-to-face. But the cops have been too busy for auditory assaults, apparently. They’re probably out dealing with actual assaults, with guns and knives and broken-off beer bottles and brass knuckles – whatever people predisposed for violence use in battle these days. But if I DID have the guts to act like a grown-up and ask you to TURN THAT SHIT DOWN, I would probably fail at being nice. I’m not usually very nice when people interrupt my 2 a.m. useless entertainment.