I’m going to the moon! Finally, someone is taking me seriously as an astronaut!
At least that’s what I thought. Imagine my disappointment when I learned that the intense rumbling and deafening sound weren’t my apartment’s thrusters igniting to take me where no slacker had gone before.
It was just the lawn guys next door.
I thought that 8am was a little early for a launch in LA. I mean, I hadn’t even been notified. And I could swear I hadn’t moved to Cape Canaveral.
Seriously though, you had to hear it. I’m really not exaggerating all that much. If fact, as I write this, they’re still at it. Trimming hedges, mowing grass, whacking “weeds” and blowing crap all over the neighborhood. It’s almost 9:30.
I tried to look up the city’s noise ordinance laws, but alas, it was taking too long. Not that I would ever call to complain. It’s pretty useless. I can’t expect the city that neglects to inform its inhabitants of a freaking triathlon that will close down a major artery, leaving it nigh impossible to get from one side of town to the other to give one good crap about the assjerks who are making it so that I can’t hear a word Dianne Sawyer says.
I tried yelling at them. They couldn’t hear me. They could see me. After all, my apartment sits practically on top of the lawn they were mutilating. But even if they could hear me, I doubt that they would glean the nuances of my complaint.
Don’t get me wrong, not all lawn care “professionals” are non-English speaking. Our new lawn guy speaks English. I know this because he sings to himself, very loudly. He’ll even have little conversations with the people that live in his brain. But perhaps the most disturbing are the cat-calls – to himself. No crap, this guy spent the afternoon singing, talking and cat-calling himself. Maybe he was practicing? You never know when a hot chick is going to stroll by and there’s nothing more embarrassing than a limp wolf-whistle.
But the guys next door have no quirky traits. My guy is weird and creepy and probably an escaped lunatic. But at least he’s somewhat endearing. Next door they’re just a public nuisance.
See, here in LA, there are a few things guaranteed to be going on at any given moment:
1) Someone is digging through my dumpster.
2) Some celebrity that you thought was “one of the good ones” is snorting coke.
3) Someone is mowing, leaf-blowing, whacking or trimming a lawn.
The leaf-blowers are the worst. Evidently, no one in southern California has ever heard of a rake. They’d rather blow leaves and grass into the street. And the NOISE!
But it is nice that they don’t all work on lawns at the same time. I’ll bet that if all the lawn people in LA decided to use their backpack leaf-blowers at the same time, the combined thrust could tilt the earth off its axis.
Look, I realize that lawn care is a top priority here in Los Angeles, but couldn’t these people find a more reasonable hour to make their $3.50? That’s all I’m asking.
Fun Fact: Tanya and I went to see Harold an Kumar go to White Castle last night. It’s actually a pretty funny movie. Even with all the pot smoking. Don’t do drugs kids.
But there is the obligatory “taking a wet crap” scene. What would dumb comedies be without diarrhea? Moliere could have used a lot more of it. Shakespeare too. I tell you, I’d pay to see Falstaff get the runs. That’s good stuff there.
But, the movie is still pretty funny. Dumb, sure. Funny, okay.