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Saturday, Feb. 08, 2003 / 4:32 p.m. ~Name That Tune~ It was a long week. Most of it involved me sitting in a cubicle, in front of a video display terminal, wearing a headset, saying these words, repeatedly: "Blah, blah, blah Employee Service Center, this is Blah, blah, blah, how may I help you?� (listen)� Okay, may I have your social please? Your name and date of birth? Your date of hire at Blah, blah, blah? Okay, just the month and year. You really have no recollection of when you were hired at blah, blah, blah?" Insert top-secret company name, and my name, at the Blah, blah, blahs, and that was it, over and over, and I, trying to clear my throat, I, losing my voice, I, losing my temper, I, looking for purpose and reason, wondering what I did that I have been left to rot at this job, how it is I no longer look for alternate employment, what has happened to me, when will I die, will I die alone, don't we all die alone?, and telling people they will have their year end tax reporting statements in seven to ten business days, yes, that's right, no, we cannot next day air it to you. I did intend to see a movie, to go OUT, but then I started thinking about the moviegoing experience, the movie theatre experience, the people who invariably sit behind me, or in front of me, or one row over, and talk throughout the film. How it distracts, how I find myself remembering the gay couple who sat in front of me at "Lord of the Rings", not the film itself. And at "Far From Heaven" the old man who talked to his daughter the entire time. And at "The Fast Runner" (wasn't that the title of the Inuit film Mark and I saw?) the woman across the aisle who would not shut up, and how I fantasized about making her shut up. Considering I pay almost $70 a month for my digital cable service, and the memories of recent moviegoing experiences, I checked the onscreen cable schedule, still dressed, shoes still at the door, coat still thrown over the back of the sofa, still ready to leave, and saw that "Donnie Darko" was coming on, I still hadn't seen it, and I wanted to, and I decided to order food and stay in. The cutest pizza delivery man ever brought me a fantastic large pizza with everything on it, and a salad with everything in it, and it took all I had not to grab him, pull him inside, or at least ask him to come back after work, and it was probably that indistinguishable Eastern European accent he and all the delivery people from this one pizza restaurant have that got to me, but I didn't, and every time I am attracted to someone in his 20s I feel old and pitiful. I am obsessed by my age. "Donnie Darko" was engaging, not quite what I expected, and the end was slightly confusing. Did he really travel back in time, and was his only fault that he went back too far? But the memory I'll always have now of watching "Donnie Darko" is of one of my neighbors playing their music at Volume 5 million (which is to say REALLY LOUD!), with their door open!!!!! Oh yeah. I heard it on my way in, directly after work. Oh, gee, it is Friday night after all, it's time to crank the stereo, let loose, feel good, okay, I get it. Then, it was, Hey, isn't that the same song? Wait a second, I HATE that style of singing, who is that guy?, I know that song, I hate that song, no, I HATE that song, how long is that song anyway?, wait a sec, that same song is on repeat, on a loop, it's the same song playing over and over and over. Then loud stomping up the stairs, the door closing, loud stomping down the stairs. Whew. Over. Then, no, wait, same song, there it is again (all whilst watching this movie, you see), I opened my door, saw their door open about two feet, stood for a sec, slammed my door as hard as I could. Trying to make a little point, not too effectively, but just the same. End of movie I think I knew the song by heart. And I hated it even more. I went into the walkway, I went to their door, I knocked on the open door. The lights inside were dimmed, there was no one in the living room, the kitchen, the sun room, no one visible at all. My heart was pounding. I shut the door. I came back inside and was shaking. I could still hear the song, through our closed doors, the empty walkway, the cold outside. I pictured the inhabitants of that apartment lying dead. Shot, left for dead in their bedroom, the same haunting horrible song stuck on repeat in the CD player, a sort of calling card left by the killer. The crew from CSI would be by soon, dusting for prints, knocking on my door, asking questions. Today I slept late, sort of all day late, not wanting to get up, still angry about last night, still thinking I need to go sign my new lease, but can I stay here? I didn't win the lottery last night, there is no way out, where would I go? How could I afford it? Can I stand my neighbors enough to stay? What choice? My downstairs neighbor is fine. Except when she burns "food". Or when she relaxes her hair. The smells creep up and remain. She is loud when she yells, at whomever, but I tolerate her, and I am quiet up here, I don't wear shoes inside, I seldom play my stereo, just on Saturday afternoons, and I turn the bass down really low. I think we like being each other's neighbor. I think it works, for us. Those people at the end of the walkway will be gone one day. Everyone who's lived in that apartment has been evicted, or only stayed 6 months. It can't last, right? Lying in bed after sleeping all day, thinking how I'd never make it to a cheap showing of a movie, how I'd miss all the matinees, how I'd look too awful from too much sleep to face the public, hating the world, hating my life, hating the cats pressed against my feet on both sides, pushing them off the bed, except Gladys hanging on and deciding to stay, I heard the song again! Their door was open again, I could hear it all the way back in my bedroom! This is far from their door, really far, it's a long apartment. The same song!!! I wanted to ask them, "What's the fascination with this song? It sucks!" I fantasized about stepping into their apartment next time, turning off the CD player, ejecting the CD, taking it, throwing it in the dumpster, running with it. But I'd need gloves so as not to leave prints. Or taking my little boombox, playing something really obnoxious outside their door. What would they hate? Maybe some Nine Inch Nails, maybe "Head Like a Hole", loud, standing outside their open door. This reminds me of my mother. When we lived in our house in the quiet suburbs of the big city, we had neighbors close by, right next door in a house built too close for comfort. On weekends they were out and about in their carport, just outside my mom's bedroom window, and they invariably woke her. She would slam shut her windows, but still she could hear them. It was horrible, so intrusive, so inconsiderate. She devised a plan. She would stick a stereo speaker in her window, play something deemed very obnoxious, loud, out the window, directed right at them, solely to irritate. She asked me what to play. Mmmmm�. Frank Zappa, something off "Weasels Ripped My Flesh", they'll hate that. So will you, Mom. Frank Zappa it was. Loud. Screeching. Rocking, obnoxious and beautiful. I don't remember if it worked, but I remember the neighbors thought we were crazy. And I thought their oldest son, the one with the long, long hair, was really cute. I was thinking it was Craig David, the song that played last night. I'm not sure why, but I thought it was that UK two-step I've read about. I hate R&B, with a passion, so I'm not sure. I tried to Google it (they used the expression "Googling" in "ER" Thursday night!!!) to no avail. Let me say this, the melody is one line, sort of "a b c, a b c d, a b c d e", and it repeats. Over and over and over and over and over. It's a hook, it's catchy, it's stuck in my head, but the vocals are horrible. Sort of warbly, that R&B style that is horribly overstyled, just trilly, warbly, hard to describe in words. But I hate it. Give me Jeff Buckley any day. HE could sing. I've given up trying to find the song. I can only vaguely remember the lyrics at this point, something about a season, and you and me, and a reason, and warble, warble, warble. I've done some searches in Google, read some Craig David lyrics, and I'm no longer sure it's him. Since I only know R&B artists by name, I'd never guess who it might be, but if I hear it again, ugh, I'll know it. Moving along, and signing off soon, I just saw this headline: "N. Korea Warns U.S. on Strike, Says Entitled to Pre-Emptive Attack on U.S.", and you know what? It's perfect! Why the hell not? We have weapons of mass destruction, we've threatened to use them, in fact, we're threatening Iraq and North Korea right now. If we can plan a pre-emptive strike, why can't someone else? Against us? I love it, it's like some poetic justice. Yesterday, after one particularly idiotic phone call ended, I turned to 'the new boy' and said, "We need a good war! Let's use our nukes, let's just blow up the whole world, we've clearly come to the end of civilization anyway.", and in that moment I was entirely serious. Cost of the War in Iraq
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