MEMOS TO MY NEIGHBORS PART 2
A series from 2005
In 2005 I lived in a rent-stabilized apartment in the heart of Queens. The following is a series of true stories I wrote then, written in the format of fictional memos written for (but never sent to) my real neighbors.
These are the final two in a series of three memos.
MEMO #2 TO: The Neighbor Whose Wifi Signal I’ve Been Stealing – I Mean, “Sharing”
RE: Constant Service Outages
Hey “Linksys Underscore AP Underscore 77.” What’s going on here? As a comedian and writer who works from his apartment, the bulk of my day is spent e-mailing people who could potentially hire me, then checking my Fantasy Baseball team, then my MySpace page to see if any young attractive musicians want me to come to their show at Union Pool, and then my blog’s statcounter to see who’s been Googling me.
Between that and all the music I liberate from their rightful owners through the Pirate Bay, your Internet connection is one of the most important tools of my trade. Perhaps in your selfishness you can’t understand this, but when you aren’t responsible enough to pay your bill in a timely manner, that affects everybody within a hundred foot radius of your wireless router.
As an adult I’ve learned to accept responsibility, and I’m here to tell you that it’s time that you do the same. If you don’t have the money for your high-speed Internet bill, perhaps you should get a second job. Or do what I do – call my parents and ask if you can borrow it. Don’t worry; experience shows that my parents are very lenient lenders, and won’t expect you to pay them back any time soon if ever.
Thanks for reading this memo; I was going to e-mail you, but I don’t know your address, and even if I did, well, our Internet’s down.
MEMO #3 TO: The Guy in The Apartment Whose Window Faces Mine
RE: Your Strict Daily Regimen of Blasting The Same Five Metallica Songs Over and Over and Singing Along at the Top of Your Lungs, Interspersed With The Most Disturbing Deep-Throated Hacking Cough Heard Outside of a 1920s TB Ward
Hey buddy, I understand that you need a job. I know, it’s hard finding work that matches your unique skill-set. After all, I’ve been on more than one interview in my life, and the question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” is rarely followed with, “Now, can you do an impression of Lars Ulrich as if he were about to lose a lung?”
Luckily, aside from my work solving The Thrilling Adventure of Liam McEneaney and the Case of the Missing Doormat, I seem to be blessed with not a little spare time. So I thought I’d do the neighborly thing and help you come up with some career options.
At first I thought, “Join The Army.” But sadly, that thought was followed by the realization that America tends to send her best and brightest into battle against her foes, and let’s be honest with each other – the only opposing army that might be intimidated by an aging, phlegmatic metalhead would be the KISS Army.
Then it hit me - you could be a Wedding DJ! You’ve got the experience; by throwing your windows wide and sharing your love of mainstream speed metal, you’re already acting as a DJ for the entire neighborhood.
On the other hand, there’s only so many times that the happy couple will be able to listen to Enter Sandman before requesting that you play something a little more danceable, like Hey Ya! or The Beer-Barrel Polka. And when they do, you’re going to have to look them in the eye and say slowly and steadily, so they know that you’re completely serious:
“The first time ever I heard The Black Album, I knew I was put here on this planet for one purpose and one purpose only; to share the beauty of this music with the world, whether it wants me to or not. And by the Demon God of Rock n’ Roll Himself, if I don’t play these same five Metallica songs over and over., truly my soul will be Unforgiven.”
Then the groom will regroup, take a breath, and say, and say in the same gentle, patient tone of voice he would use were he placating a small child holding a loaded gun, that he completely understands where you’re coming from, but perhaps at the very least you would be so kind as to not scream along with the song like you were trying to awaken the departed souls of all the brain cells you killed smoking weed as a teenager.
And then if you could take just a few of the dollars you earn that night, and if you find it in your heart, in return for my advice, and my compassion and my care, and my taking the time to help a stranger in need, perhaps you would be so kind as to buy me a new doormat.
Memo to the reader: If you enjoyed this, please consider supporting (for free!) by subscribing for posts delivered (for free!) to your mailbox every Monday and Thursday (did I mention you don’t have to pay?)
Need to drop a neighbor a passive-aggressive hint? Share this post!