By ANY DAY IN LA BY HEIDI MANTEUFFEL
I left Calabasas knowing I’d never hear the tunes of deafening rap music pummeled through my apartment ceiling again. However, I quickly learned that I traded this for a myriad of other noises, occurring at erratic times throughout Santa Monica at all times of the day.
Some of them I feel are warranted, and don’t jar me too badly when I catch them outside my window. Hairdryers, cars backing in and out of alleyways, vacuum cleaners and the like are permissible. You know they’re supposed to be there, so you allow them a page somewhere in your Lillian-Vernon noise catalog.
However I don’t remember ordering the 30-minute CD of waste and recycling disposal cranked to a nine on the amps every other day of the week.
I quickly noticed in Santa Monica that there’s always some “music” to leave work to and go to bed listening to. Whether it’s incessant drilling, a couple yelling for their cats that try to escape them (I would too if I were them), or neighbors watching “Showboat” at an unprecedented volume — there’s always some feast for the unwilling ears.
If you don’t believe me, imagine waking up to dissonant chanting music on a regular basis. Thankfully it’s really loud chanting music. If you’re lucky, you can hear a “hmmm…” accompanied by “shut-the-heck-up” for 40 minutes at a time.
And just because there’s no back yard where I live doesn’t stop the kids that decided the alley was their playground. Because who doesn’t like hearing a three-hour kickball game while simultaneously having large rubber balls propelled at your car as children scream at twilight?
I think my all-time favorite, though, was the construction company that decided to renovate an apartment at 9 p.m. At first I thought it was some obnoxious person cleaning with a gas station vacuum while the working world tried to sleep.
But when the vacuuming didn’t end an hour later, I stomped off in my velour pajama pants to uncover where the jerk lived. I walked through the alleyway to search for the source of the noise, only to find a sand blaster left running while workers painted the side of the building.
Though weak, there is thankfully some sort of noise ordinance in effect in Santa Monica. So I’m able to call in cases such as these, as well as easy-listening FM being projected at decibels greater than the sound barrier. But you can’t cry wolf too many times or eventually you’ll be stuck listening to 95 FM.
So what deems a “shut-the-heck-up” phone call in Santa Monica? What noise is permissible, and what isn’t? Or, the question should be, what noise is livable?
As I see it, livable noises are sounds you don’t want to hear but aren’t worth calling the cops over. You don’t think it’s fair, or appropriate, but you know you make noise on a daily basis that no one wants to hear either. You don’t necessarily like it, but you aren’t going to do anything about it besides complain.
An example of this was the drums played outside my apartment recently. I looked out my window to see who had the nerve to start a jam session in the middle of the neighborhood. It turned out to be a homeless man and his friend playing a set of bongos in the mid-afternoon sun.
My anger turned slightly to guilt as I listened to the livable noise so many of us find ourselves allowing. It wasn’t fair that someone who didn’t even live in the neighborhood was making noise I had to tolerate. But then I wondered, when you don’t live anywhere, where are you supposed to make noise?
So this morning as I hear the whirring of a shopping cart and a man sorting through glass like nails on a chalkboard, I remind myself it’s livable noise, and unfortunately or not, for now I just prefer to bear it. (Heidi Manteuffel is a resident of Santa Monica, a freelace writer, an advertising fool and a lover of pug dogs. Ask anybody. To reach her, e-mail to).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 14, 2004. Read the original PDF.