THE GREAT GADFLY:

Planet Houston Blues

So I was walking an old disposable camera full of mystery film over to the local Walgreen's last week, and as luck would have it, I managed to cross paths with my downstairs neighbors - they of the loud PlayStation, the Van Hagar music collection, and the mid-week all-nighter cigarette parties. Luckily, there was an extra shot left on the camera and I was able to sneak a snapshot for you, my Diaryland public.

So now you have faces to put with the ongoing downstairs neighbor saga. I wish I had pictures of the friends who hang out at their place all the time, because they're freakish beyond belief, but you'll just have to make do with my references to them as the "ape like one" and "the sinister bald one". Oh, and the Sinister Bald One's moll, Miss Tessbacher.

I realize the posting of this picture might be a violation of my neighbors' privacy, so let me show it again:

I wouldn't resort to such measures if they'd put a sock in it every once in a while. But they don't. And I loathe the idea of being that prissy neighbor who constantly knocks at their door with a snivelly "oh ah could you just turn it down a little, I can't hear my John Tesh whalesongs album over your mega-bass." No way. I'd much rather stomp around and perform techno clog dance routines to old Utah Saints albums when they act up than come off like some creepy bachelor-pad Shirley Feenee.

Yeah, I'm passive-aggressive like that. After all, there's something precious about waking up at 6:30 a.m., placing a retaliatory speaker against the floor, and treating my dear dozing neighbors to a delighful morning Motorhead seranade. Not that I'd do a thing like that. Naw.

I would like to think that my downstairs neighbors and I have a copacetic relationship. I go to sleep hating them, and they wake up hating me. And somewhere in the interim, we manage to force smiles at each other in the hallway. Or at least really heartfelt scowls. In a way, I'm really glad to have the downstairs neighbors in my life. Otherwise, I'd have to direct all my bile at some poor co-worker or family member.

The bastards.