Thin Walls Return! Thin Walls Returns? Whatever, I'm back!!

Hello friends and neighbors,

First and foremost, my apologies. It has been far too long since my last entry. To quote one of my favorite philosophers, Dr. Ian Malcolm, “Life . . . uhh . . . . finds a way.” And in this case, life found a way to get in the way. Busy couple weeks, but sadly not a “gettin’ busy” couple weeks, at least not for me anyway. But this blog isn’t about that, at least not yet. (Fingers crossed . . . ?)

If you follow me on Twitter though, you know there was a return to form. To quote another of my favorite philosophers, myself, “While I was making cookies, she was making whoopy.” My heart was warmed with the feelings of nostalgia at the sounds of the headboard banging my bedroom wall. The shitty house music, the moans, the questions of enjoyment. It was like old times.

At one point, I tried to Shazam the happy couple in hopes it would reveal exactly what they were listening (read: banging) to. Repeatedly referring to it as “shitty house music,” even if that’s exactly what it is, is not the greatest example of my written acumen. I am a wordsmith, after all. Hopes dashed, it seems my walls are not quite thin enough and, unfortunate for those of us taking a break from cookie-ing to nap, as loud as the music was, she’s louder.

They have not gotten their groove on since then, ::sad face emoticon::. And that was nearly 2 weeks ago. I’m hoping for a return to form this Saturday. Is that weird/creepy? That I hope my neighbor has (loud, obnoxious, shitty-house-music-filled) sex so I have something to write about? Don’t answer that.

Alright, that’s it for me, for now. But worry not, dear readers, regardless of my young neighbor’s amorous activities (or lack thereof) this weekend, I will be here.

--RDT

MAKE WOW not war

Hello friends and neighbors,

Historically speaking, I am a person that drives, a lot. I've driven cross country, twice. I was an office PA (production assistant) for nearly a decade. That means the majority of my days were spent in my car, usually delivering or picking up things that can now be emailed (I'm not bitter.). And I currently have a commute of an hour+ to and from work each day. So to say I'm in my car a whole bunch is a bit of an understatement.

Given all that, and my own intolerance of the stupid, I am somewhat inclined to the occasional fit of road rage. This is the tale of one of those fits. The time? 2005. The place? The 101 freeway.


So, I'm driving back to work from a run yesterday. Clipping along at a decent pace south on the 101, I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A gray convertible VW bug comes tearing onto the freeway and completely cuts me off. Now I'm not talking the usual L.A. cutting off whereby they'll give a little look, see you there coming up on the left, and then just change lanes anyway. No, people, this was a hardcore, taking it from behind, spitting in my face and calling me naughty things, cutting off. I had to slam on my brakes and the guy still barely missed my front bumper by about an inch. As I'm concurrently flipping him off and pounding on my horn, the driver gives a little wave in the rear view and speeds off down the highway. All that's looking back at me is the personalized license plate "MAKE WOW" as the bug gets smaller in the distance.

Still frustrated, and feeling as though I did not quite get my message of "fuck off" across, I speed up, looking for this "MAKE WOW." What does that even mean? "MAKE WOW?" I don't get it. Is it some sex thing? Or a drug thing? Perhaps a gay thing? I mean, I'm not judging, I'm just asking the question.

Anyway, I haul ass down the freeway to catch up. I'm bobbing & weaving in and out of traffic. I'm a man on a mission. I'm like Tyson looking for an ear (editor: Wow, that was a dated reference even in 2005.). If it's the last thing I do, I will flip this guy off one last time. So I finally catch up. "MAKE WOW" is 2 lanes to my right. All I need is the car between us to speed up or slow down just a bit. So there I am, rage-filled, middle figure extended and at the ready, eying the road and waiting for my opportunity. Wait for it. Wait . . . for . . .  it. There! The car between us finally disappears from sight. Right arm fully extended, middle finger raised, left hand about to honk the horn, here we go. It's on. Bring it!

But at that exact moment, it hits me, an asphalt epiphany of sorts. This guy, in his little "MAKE WOW" bug, well, when you get right down to it, he's just a guy like me trying to get somewhere. The only difference is that HE'S NOT LOOKING AT THE ROAD!!!!! The guy (Mr. Wow?) is staring up at the roof of his car. I'm not talking like "Oh hey, there's a roof there." and then eyes back on the road. No! I'm talking "Wow, that roof sure does look pretty. I wonder how they make that. If I put the top down now, will it fly off? What is that made of, some kind of nylon? Or denim? It kind of feels like denim. Man, these pants I'm wearing sure are comfy. I bet that guy I cut off back there was pissed. He sure seemed to be. Weeeeed!!!!!!!!!"

In the end, I opted to take the higher road, to be the better man, to not let my rage control me, but to let me control my rage. Also, I'm pretty sure that guy was gonna plow into someone, not in a good way, and I did not want to be that person. So, "MAKE WOW" wherever you are with your convertible bug, and your pants and your weed, I wish you the best sir. And I humbly request, let's keep just one eye on the road, shall we?

--RDT

I bang?

Hello friends and neighbors,

It seems my neighbor can no longer be depended upon to have loud sex every Saturday afternoon (selfish bitch). That, coupled with the fact that people are actually reading (and perhaps enjoying) this blog means I have to fill the empty space between the, now inconsistent but let's hope not non-existent, bangings. And while I would love to expand the purview of this blog to include the lascivious actions heard through the thin walls between my and my roommate's bedrooms, the truth of the matter is twofold. First, that would not be cool. But second, the reality is this; the worst (or loudest) noises I hear through that wall are a.) sci-fi audio plays (The boy is a fan of The Doctor) and b.) him yelling at his computer. Like really yelling. Like "HolyshitIthinkhe'sreallypissedoff" yelling. Let it never be said that my roommate does not know a four-letter word or two himself. Despite my age (34) and regular access to the internet (high speed even), the words I've heard come from that room have made even me, a four-letter wordsmith in my own right, blush.

Sadly, I share walls with no other inhabitants of my apartment building. And while there are numerous other apartment buildings in the area, I've yet hear or see any other amorous activities. Worry not though reader, I promise to (creepily) keep an ear and eye out, when I can. So, in the meantime, I have opted to tell a story of my own literal banging that said neighbors may have overheard late one night a few weeks ago.

It looks as though, without noticing, I have become an old man. My knees creak. My back aches. I regularly bitch about those younger than me and their (befuddling) music choices. And, at least once a night, I get up to pee.

It was during one of these nightly excursions recently that I came to be locked in my bedroom, at 3am, with my roommate in Long Beach. Did I mention I had to pee? 

Previous to this, my bedroom doorknob would occasionally stick. Throw a little effort into it, give it a little extra shoulder as it were and it would turn no problem. That night? Problem. Despite my strongest attempts, the door would not open. The knob would not turn. I was stuck. And did I mention I had to pee?

My doorknob, post "banging"

Mechanical genius that I am (not), I figured  I could just pop the doorknob off from my side. Then I would be able to take it apart, get the door open and deal with the repercu$$ions later. Not having any kind of tool kit in my bedroom and really having to pee (did I mention that?), I took a 5lb dumbbell and started swinging, "banging" if you will. Soon, through the power of my (pee-filled) rage, that knob popped right off and I started digging around. Pieces fell out and tears of joy and adulation streamed down my cheek.

I was out! I had to be! The doorknob was now in pieces in my bed. I threw down the dumbbell, grabbed what was left of the space where the knob was, still seeing parts from the other side, and pulled. And pulled. And pulled. Shit.

Look, all I know about doors and knobs comes from movies & tv. You always hear how easy it is to break out of a vault, right? "A vault is designed to keep people out, not in." So how different could a doorknob be? Fuck if I know. Hell, I may have made it worse. All I know is that the door was still closed, I was still stuck and I still had to pee.

So I called my roommate, Tim, who was in Long Beach with his lady friend (I wonder if any of her neighbors have a similar blog. Zing!). I explain the situation and that I need to get a hold of Roger, the building manager.

After sitting on my bed for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out a way for Tim to get me the number, I realize I'm in my bedroom and I own both pens and paper. Hey, when I'm tired (and I have to pee), I'm not the brightest.

Finally, I hang up with Tim and call Roger. Apparently Roger isn't the brightest at that time of night either. I explain that I'm Ryan in apartment #11 (Roger lives in #12, across the hall) and that my bedroom door won't open. He says he'll be right over. So, I wait.

Ten minutes later, no Roger. Thinking he might have to go . . . . somewhere to get . . . some tools,  I give it another few minutes.

Twenty minutes from the original call, still no Roger. So I call him back. Below is a near spot on transcript of said conversation.

"Yeah?" he inquires, answering the phone. 

"Roger?" I inquire back.

"Yeah," he replied.

"It's Ryan, in apartment #11."

"Ok."

"Are you coming to get me out?"

"What?!?!"

At this point, Roger is audibly confused. My thoughts are that he fell asleep and I am re-waking him up. So I remind him of the situation.

"I'm stuck in my bedroom. I can't get out."

"You're stuck?"

"Yes," frustration building.

"Again????"

"Huh?" frustration swiftly replaced by confusion.

"You're stuck again?!?!?" Roger asks, now seemingly frustrated with me.

Still confused, I inform Roger that "No, in fact I am not 'stuck again,' but that I am 'still stuck."

"But I just let you out."

At this point, yeah, I have no clue how to respond. All I can do is re-reiterate the situation.

"This is Ryan, in apartment #11, across the hall from you. I tried to get up to go to the bathroom and my bedroom door would not open. So, no, Roger, I can assure you, you did not 'just let me out.'"

"Ryan?"

"Yes."

"In apartment 11?"

"Yes."

"Not Brian in apartment 19?"

"No. Not Brian in apartment 19."

"Ok, I be right over."

At this point, two thoughts are running through my head. The first, maniacal laughter. Seriously, I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, I wasn't in danger. Thankfully there was no fire. The worst that could happen in that moment was that I would either pee in my garbage can or out the window (both of which I considered long before calling Roger the 2nd time). My other thought though was when Roger got to "Brian's" and "Brian" was not stuck in his bedroom, why did he not call me back? As I pondered that, I heard Roger enter downstairs.

Still stuck

Apologies offered, he went to work on the doorknob from the other side. He actually gets the doorknob off but the bolt mechanism (this is the part that keeps your door closed. Keeping up with the overall theme of the blog, it, ahem, goes in the hole, so to speak.) is stuck. So even with the doorknob in pieces, the door will not open. By now, I stop taking pictures and offer to help. 

"Maybe we should pop it off the hinges?" I suggest.

Agreeing, Roger passes me a screwdriver through the hole (Zing . . . ?). I take a look at the hinges and realize they've been painted over and the pegs are stuck. ("Stuck" being the word of the day. Aaaahhhh!!!!) No other option presents itself, so I start scraping and banging. Eventually, I get the pegs out and the door still will not open! (Quality paint! I must find the manufacturer!)

Free at last!

Finally, Roger tells me to "hold the door from the side." I have no idea what he means by that, but before I can ask for clarification, Roger has crashed into the door. Still stuck. Taking a few steps back, he gets as much of a running start as he can and tries again. Still stuck. Finally, after 3 attempts, the door pops off! Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, [I am] free at last! We then take the bolt mechanism out of the now destroyed door frame, put the door back on the hinges and commiserate briefly on the whole experience. 

I finally thank Roger (who can be a bit of a talker, even at 3am), send him on his way and head back to bed. Five minutes later I realize why I got up in the first place and go pee.

I gotta tell you, dear readers, I was making a lot of noise that night. Yelling, banging, punching things. And not once, not a single time, did my neighbor bang on the wall. Man, I really wish I was as deep a sleeper as apparently she is, especially on Saturday afternoons.

Until next time . . . .

--RDT

Doomed to repeat it . . . .

Hey there friends & neighbors,

It started nearly a month ago with a status update that went something like this:

So my neighbor had a really good afternoon. Like really good. Also, apparently she enjoys being spanked.

Later that day:

Wait . . . ssshhh . . . everybody be quiet a second . . . again???? F this. I'm going back downstairs. (Also, "sir currently banging my neighbor," 1. good for you and 2. stop asking if she's enjoying it. Trust me. She is.)

How could I be so sure my neighbor was enjoying herself? Because, friends, I have thin walls (see what I did there?), she has large lungs and I think her bed is up against the wall we share. I mean, it has to be. Because if it's not then let me say, sir banging my neighbor, good for you! You must work out.

So said neighbor has "hit it," as the kids say, every Saturday afternoon since then, consistently between the hours of 1pm and 5pm.

Now, before we get to our live tweeting event this weekend, (will it be a 5th week in a row???), I figured I'd take you through the (albeit brief) history first. Truthfully, I know very little about my aforementioned amorous neighbor. Before all this sexy time started, I think I saw her (or her roommate) maybe 2-3 times total since they moved in a few months ago. And since we're being truthful, I gotta tell you, I really have no idea which roommate it is getting her groove on every Saturday afternoon. Hell, it could be both of them. (Hot.) Well, both of them and some dude. (Hmmm . . . still hot . . . ?)

I have a theory (it could be bunnies) as to why the naughty only happens on Saturday afternoons though. Wait, correction, the loud naughty. Because I gotta believe girlfriend isn't getting it thrown in her just once a week. It is my thought that the roommate works on Saturday afternoons. So, not realizing (or maybe not caring) that we share a wall and I am napping (or attempting to nap), that gives my naughty neighbor (I have to give her a nickname. Oh! Maybe you all can help with that?) the perceived opportunity to let her loud freak flag fly. And good for her, I say, sincerely. I am never one to begrudge (or judge) the sexual activities and proclivities of a young lady and gentleman.

You want to get your freak on, then get it on. But can't you a.) move your bed about 5 feet away from the wall and (AND, not OR) b.)crank the tunes just a bit? Because I would much rather listen your shitty electronica/hip hop fusion bullshit with the completely unnecessary bass beat than your dude's also unnecessary questioning of your enjoyment or not while he awkwardly plows himself into you as you repeatedly assure and reassure him loudly (perhaps too loudly?) that he's doing a great job. Way to go sport!

Until that day happens, I have this blog (and Twitter feed). And, again, follow me Saturday as I live tweet from my bedroom! Will it be a 5th Saturday in a row??? Only time, loud grunting and a banging headboard will tell. 


--RDT

Like Batman, it begins . . . .

Hello friends & neighbors,

After much thought, consideration and, quite frankly, a hell of a lot of ranting, I've decided to finally start this blog. The purpose? First and foremost, to bitch about my neighbor's regular Saturday afternoon activities (read: loud banging and by "loud banging" I don't mean "This Old House-style home improvements") while I'm trying to nap.

Now, dictionary.com defines the word neighbor as:

 –noun

1. a person who lives near another.

2. a person or thing that is near another.

3. one's fellow human being

Realizing this definition covers more than just the . . . . amorous young lady next door, I look to this as not only a place for me to rant about her, but all my worldly neighbors as well. There is no limit!

I've also set up a twitter feed. Perhaps I'll live tweet from my bedroom this Saturday afternoon . . . . And who knows? Maybe I'll get a tv show out of it!


And if you have stories of your own, please, by all means, submit them! Commiserate with me!

--RDT