I bumped in to my neighbor the other day as she was battling the incessant onslaught of takeout menus that get attached to the building door. This neighbor happens to live two floors down from me in the same apartment unit. In between us is the meat of a very shitty apartment sandwich on the fourth floor of the building.
I mentioned to her that it seems to be rather quiet lately as our middle neighbor was born without the benefit of understanding the terms “other” and “fucking human beings”. She told me that he had moved out and a nice gay couple had moved in (like, hello gentrification, bitches!) It was at that point where the two of us “old timers” realized that in seven years we’ve had… wait for it… three drummers live between us. As the run has ended, I think it’s time to pay tribute to the three head bangers I’ve shared space with:
I hardly knew you, but you were weird. That time I caught you in the elevator taking your plant out for what I assume must have been a walk disturbed me for awhile. Your choice drum was the bongo. I had trouble respecting you for that because you loved to play it out on the fire escape and you couldn’t keep time to save your life. I assume that when you moved out you joined the horde at the east end of Golden Gate Park, drumming badly by day and sleeping in the park by night. Peace be with your and your large bongos.
We got to know each other a lot better since you invited me down shortly after you move in to check out your “totally awesome” 20 pot plants you were growing in your closet. I respected the business initiative. I did not respect it being below me though as the grow lights kept my place pretty hot. That and the fact that I don’t smoke weed, when your chronic was drying, the stank up through my bathroom window was wicked harsh.
Your choice drum was typically an electric kit. I liked how sometimes you just said, “fuck it” and beat it up on your live Ludwig kit. That was solid, especially at 3AM when you had your friends over. You also loved the fire escape, hanging out, strumming a little acoustic guitar, and smoking weed through the night. It would have been a peaceful seen the likes of Little House on the Prairie if I didn’t live above you.
I have to admit that when I called your place at 4AM on Wednesday during one of your parties and told you to call it a night, your totally fubar, “I am so, so out of control.” make me laugh then and I still laugh about it now. I would almost apologize about my ex-girlfriend calling the landlord to bust your pot growing operation, but she wasn’t down with it and well, in the end you were a dick.
I almost feel like I’ve had an intimate, touching relationship with you. This is probably due to hearing you and your girlfriend banging the bed in to the wall when you were screwing. On the bright side, this lasted only 2-3 minutes at most and was maybe twice a week. You were a stallion.
That the fire escape beckoned to you like a flame to a moth came as no surprise. Your weed was cheap though (most likely because you weren’t growing it) and the stank that filled up my bedroom wasn’t too awesome. I know that you came in to drumming purely by chance and probably because of the vibe in that apartment. I don’t really know what you played, but it seemed to be electronic and uncontrollable by you which makes me think you were trying to play it with your impotent junk. You will probably be least missed as you had all the charm and character of a rock that kept rolling over my foot for no good reason.
And those are my fourth floor drummers, all seven years of them. It makes me wonder if the new couple downstairs, when not busy raising property values in the neighborhood, will eventually pick up drumming as well? I leave you with the following video: