ahream

I am fairly certain that the walls of my apartment are made of three or four layers of tissue paper, which means I have heard an awful lot of strangers having sex. This gets less amusing over time. Especially with one particular female neighbor who – well, let’s just say that if the guy believes that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell him.

But that’s not really the worst of it. The worst of it is that our new neighbors have a piano. A PIANO. IN AN APARTMENT. They might as well have bought one of those air-compressor doo-hickeys they remove lug nuts with at the tire shop. It would’ve been less annoying. Because on top of everything else, they’re just now learning how to play.

Every night at or around six o’clock, the very loud and distinct tones of “Chopsticks” played at one-quarter speed comes wafting through the tissue paper and into my bedroom-slash-office.

Six o’clock is also the time of day when, after many hours in front of my computer, I’ve begun bleeding out my eyeballs while trying to finish a chapter. So you can imagine how much I really, really love “Chopsticks” at that moment.

Somebody hand me the real estate section.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (3) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2008-06-12 3:01 PM “Why God Me?” or “Reason number 247 why I will someday own a house” I am fairly certain that the walls of my apartment are made of three or four layers of tissue paper, which means I have heard an awful lot of strangers having sex. This gets less amusing over time. Especially with one particular female neighbor who – well, let’s just say that if the guy believes that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell him. But that’s not really the worst of it. The worst of it is that our new neighbors have a piano. A PIANO. IN AN APARTMENT. They might as well have bought one of those air-compressor doo-hickeys they remove lug nuts with at the tire shop. It would’ve been less annoying. Because on top of everything else, they’re just now learning how to play. Every night at or around six o’clock, the very loud and distinct tones of “Chopsticks” played at one-quarter speed comes wafting through the tissue paper and into my bedroom-slash-office. Six o’clock is also the time of day when, after many hours in front of my computer, I’ve begun bleeding out my eyeballs while trying to finish a chapter. So you can imagine how much I really, really love “Chopsticks” at that moment. Somebody hand me the real estate section. Read/Post Comments (3) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top