It's a beautiful night in the neighborhood, oh, why are you my neighbor? To paraphrase. The People in the Yellow House spent their evening on their porch and their voices - his is girly-high, her's is flat and grating - rang out like they were in an auditorium. Her sister came to stay for a week last year, and the two of them would sit out, long nights on their deck, screaming to each other in their flat dead voices. I take solace in, at least this year, I can offer up my own annoyingness as I no doubt present as completely out of my mind as I converse with the chickens.
The house to the north of me is an Alzheimer's hospice. Which, I guess, is like living next to a madhouse. I think in some ways my irritation with the south overcompensates for my dearth of any regarding the north. There are two sounds that are sort of the bookends of my summer so far. One, is an old guy in the house who is the Pavarotti of all phlegmy throat clearers. The other is the Good Humor truck, which plays Turkey in the Straw, an infernal tune rendered even more so by it's tinny production values and
Chhhh! Chhhh! accents (in the 80s, I had a keyboard player who had a Wasp and that was like the coolest sound it made: Chhhh! Chhhh!). The two factors, the old man and the ice cream truck, sometimes gang up at once and I have to run inside.
It's a beautiful night in the neighborhood, oh, why are you my neighbor? To paraphrase. The People in the Yellow House spent their evening on their porch and their voices - his is girly-high, her's is flat and grating - rang out like they were in an auditorium. Her sister came to stay for a week last year, and the two of them would sit out, long nights on their deck, screaming to each other in their flat dead voices. I take solace in, at least this year, I can offer up my own annoyingness as I no doubt present as completely out of my mind as I converse with the chickens.
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