The Petty Old Woman I've Always Been

Last night as I was smoking my goodnight cigarette a hail of paper came fluttering down from a window which was then promptly slammed back shut.

At first I thought someone had thrown a stack of pictures onto the street -- which I thought was a dramatic and beautiful gesture. But upon closer inspection I realized they weren't photos, but fliers. Fliers for house music. Fliers for a record release party for a house music DJ. That's right -- the same house music that rockets through two layers of brick with studied regularity on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. That pounding boring monotonous racket that does not stop. Not when the clock strikes midnight. Not when the clock strikes one. Not when I march next door at 1:30 in my pajamas and ring the bell repeatedly.

Editor's Note: I am not a puritan. I do not mind loud music. But I do work and I do get tired. I also am aware of the wonderful invention of the modern age -- headphones.

But there at my feet was just what I needed to make it all better: his name. Steve Porter. Steve Porter who is so boring and cliche that his album is called "Porterhouse". Get it -- he plays HOUSE music and his name is PORTER. And Porterhouse is a kind of meat. You see?

But that's not the satisfaction. The satisfaction was dialing 311 and reporting a sanitation violation. Hope that $50 fine keeps YOU up at night Stevie.