We were in Vancouver last week, enjoying the extremely fresh donuts of Granville Island, adorable fashions of Kitsilano, and fine company of Doppelganger, Rusty Iron, and their menagerie of pets and biological offspring.
We did not enjoy the hippies.
At one point, on Sunday night, we were quietly trying to watch a movie chez Doppelganger when some of said local hippies struck up an impromptu concert in the alley. We were told that this happened sometimes, and Rusty closed a window and didn’t seem especially bothered. I was stunned, because — as I had mentioned recently, on Doppelganger’s site — we’ve been having problems with the jagoffs renting the house next door. They’re in their twenties and, I’m guessing, marginally employed, based on the loud parties they always seem to be having. We haven’t been introduced to them, so I’ve started calling them, collectively, “Party House.” It helps if you say it in the same tone of voice Dean Vernon uses to curse “Rooooooooooooobot House!” on Futurama. Also, to shake your fist. I also call them that even when they’re not having a party. For instance: “Way to put out your recycling on garbage week, Party House!” Or, the night after the loud party, when a couple of them were congregating at the foot of their yard having a quiet conversation and conspicuously stopped talking when we pulled up beside them, into our driveway: “Oh, now you know how to shut the fuck up, Party House?”
So, tonight: there was a Party at Party House. Another birthday party, based on the loud singing of said traditional number a few hours ago. But they must have heard us thanking God, earlier, that at least they didn’t throw actual concerts at their parties, because around 9:45, an actual concert began. At first, it was fairly innocuous — just a couple of bongos. Then, they plugged in the amps. And then Delaware Avenue’s answer to Phish proceeded to kick out the jams for the next hour and a half. And at 11:15, I called the cops.
Look, the cops don’t need to know I wasn’t trying to sleep — that, in fact, I kind of mismanaged my time today, between an extra-long, guilty gym session; disastrous post-workout leg-shaving massacre; emergency bang trim; and three shoe store stops in my ongoing search for sturdy black sandals suitable for walking that have a back ankle strap for extra stability but that don’t look either too mom-ish or too…um, comfortable? In a somewhat lesbian sense? Sorry, gals, but you know what I mean. (I finally gave up today and just decided to get black Crocs instead. I HEAR YOU, UNIVERSE.) Anyway: the cops didn’t need to know that the only reason I even knew they were rocking the yard Bonnaroo-style is that I was (and obviously am) still in my office working at this late-ass hour. Because it’s the principle. It’s a goddamn weeknight! Shut up!
So I hope you can appreciate how annoyed I was when they decided to strike the stage before the police could get here, and I had to call the local division back and tell them not to come after all. When I was all ready to spy on the scolding out my window and everything! My own live soap opera! Sigh.
You win this round, Party House.
But this isn’t over.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Oh, Party House, the memories you’ve brought back! The couple downstairs who, when not fighting at 2am (seriously — we’re talking fisticuffs!), would crank up the karaoke and sing (off key), H O R R I B L E dance-club, thumping bass-line tunes. Good times for the local police and I. . .
Best moment — 1:30am when I thumped the floor in an attempt to say, “Hello! Neighbor trying to sleep here” and the wanna-be singer came upstairs to let me know that I had just embarrassed him in front of his guests.
Gee, don’t miss them AT ALL!
Man do I feel ya. I DO go to bed early so I have no guilt about calling in the marines when the party goes past 11. The people upstairs finally moved out after a year of almost nightly partying so that nightmare is over, now all I have to deal with is the two gay guys next door who seem to be having relationship issues every day, and wish to discuss them at screech level. Bitch please!
Ohgodohgodohgod, do I feel you. I lived next door to Party House, separated by about 10 feet, on the water (so sound carried). My first night in my new place, Party House had the first of many loud, drunken, New England redneck (it’s own breed) parties. It consisted of two couples getting drunk starting at about 5 in the evening and proceeding to its culmination at about midnight with one of the couples fighting; the female half of which waded out into the low-tide mud of the bay we lived on, shouting for the entire neighborhood to hear “I FUCKING HATE YOU! I’D RATHAH FUCKING DIE THAN BE WITH YOU!” over and over and over, in a lovely south-shore of Boston accent.
The best one was the absolute blow-out, cars parked all over the street, a hundred or so burnt-out 80s-style punks (in the 90s, so with beer bellies and receding hairlines) hanging out on the bow-of-a-boat shaped cement deck, screaming over loud music, and occasionally pissing “over the side” into the ocean. Good times, good times.
Sorry, took me back. Sorry about your Party House.
Oh, I know the pain. Last year it was the house next door. I live on the ground floor, they live on the second, and they have a patio that’s about seven feet away from my living room window. I will never forget the night that I paced around my apartment, in absolute agony thanks to my kidney infection, and had to listen to them chasing their ‘doobies’ and having random, horrible singalongs all.night.long. Or the time I was watching tv around one in the morning. It being the middle of summer, I had all the windows open, which is why I heard in full, brilliant audio, the assface who peed over the side of the patio, aimed at my house. I only wish I had called the cops, at least once.
In my first apartment, I had downstairs neighbors that were loud and up all hours of the night, but I was happy when they were loud. When they were quiet, a chemical smell would come up through the heating ducts and kill all of my mining canaries. I’m pretty sure it was a meth lab, but I never called the cops. In that neighborhood, it wasn’t really a good idea to be known as “cop-calling guy”. I moved as soon as my lease was up.
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