The telephone is ringing I say, “Hi, it’s me. Who is it there on the line?”
A voice says, “Hi, hello, how are you. Well, I guess I’m doin’ fine”
He says, “It's three a.m., there's too much noise. Don't you people ever wanna go to bed? Just 'cause you feel so good, do you have To drive me out of my head?” — The Rolling Stones, “Get Off of My Cloud.”
Be forewarned: I write angry when I’m tired, and I’m writing this at a most ungodly hour when damn near everyone else, save convenient store clerks and speed freaks, is fast asleep under the covers, dreaming about Russell Crowe … and yeah, I mean the guys too! (The Crowe thing reminds me of something I learned once from a Kentucky woman drinking something called a sloe gin fizz: There are two final stages to a sexual relationship, the part where you wish/imagine your partner is somebody much better looking and glamorous than they are, and the final-final part where you wish/imagine YOU are somebody much better looking and glamorous.) So I should be asleep, but I’m wide awake. Partly because I still put stock in such old-fashioned journalistic principles as meeting deadlines, and partly because I’m trying to finish the latest draft of the “Fun Things To Do With Mud” script to give to the dry cleaner-cum-producer known as Fong (see last week’s column, but try to keep up — I can’t carry this relationship on my own).
But mostly I’m wide awake due to the strident late-night vocal stylings of my new neighbor, who henceforth will spitefully be referred to as The Screamer, and performs with a percussion accompaniment best described as headboard bongos. Just as I write this, she hit a note higher than any I’ve heard since my friend Dennis had that bicycle seat incident on Moab’s Slick Rock trail. That was followed by a scream that sounded for all the world like the remixed screech of a misadjusted fanbelt combined with that sound a modem makes when it hits connection pay dirt.
To make things worse, I’ve seen The Screamer — bumped into her in the hall the other night when she got home from work. So I wound up welcoming The Screamer to the neighborhood and giving her a quick-rundown of the amenities — as if occasionally being able to find street parking within five blocks of the building qualifies as an amenity — and I may have made a joke or two about the steep penalty for being late with the rent … geez, I gotta get some new material.
Truth is, I don’t know what in the world I actually said to the gal because the entire time we were talking what I was really listening to was the little voice in my head — the one I call Cyrano de Brainiac, who feeds smooth lines to my subconscious … carefully crafted lines that damn near always net me a game of mattress hockey. I think some of the words asked if her necklace was handmade, because it sure looked much like some tribal crafts I’d seen in Bora Bora that time Sting hosted the mountain climbing party … stuff like that.
But alas, not even Cyrano could put that puck in play. And this has everything to do with what was said at The End of my conversation with The Screamer. The End part I remember quite well. It went like this: Me: “So, maybe after you get settled in and all, I could officially welcome you to the neighborhood by buying you a drink. There’s a great little place up the street called The Some Young Moon Saloon. You can’t beat the Anchor Steam on tap.”
Her: “That sounds great …” … she lied. At least, I think she was lying. She had to be, ‘cuz chicks don’t drink Anchor Steam. Too heavy for them. Still, I like to throw that out like a test reel — see if they bite regardless. If they do, I’m “in” like a Moby record at a gay bar (not the best analogy, but again, I’m writing tired and angry). But you get the point — chick says yes to an Anchor Steam at a place named after a dead Chinese dictator, and she’s digging the FunHog something proper. Unless, or course … Her: “do you mind if my boyfriend comes along?”
You’re absolutely right I do! What do I look like, the damn Welcome Wagon?
Me: Boyfriend? No … I mean, sure, bring him along … but I’ve gotta get going now … something’s … wrong … with … the … parking. I’ll, um, call you about that beer sometime.
Than I ran back into the apartment, a lonely, defeated man. But I got over it. Until that night, that is.
That night I discovered that not only is The Screamer’s boyfriend inconveniently (at least as far as I was concerned) still alive, he’s apparently packing more package than a U.S. Marine squadron in Kabul. Either that, or he’s doing things most men haven’t even considered yet. It’s the only explanation for the sound he makes her make. Now, by the way, it’s suddenly silent after a three-minute refrain that sounded like maybe 300 cats fighting in a giant sack.
So maybe it’s worth rethinking, especially with the JCPA status. I’ll just befriend Marine Boy and after all, I live next door. Before I’m through, he’ll think that TV show “Fifth Wheel” is Dating Game, 2002.
Failing that, I’ll just hook maybe six or seven digital mikes to my wall, download these sounds to my laptop and lay down a few rap lyrics. Nothing like a great soundtrack for a movie about having fun with mud.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 3, 2002. Read the original PDF.