Those who know me know I have the tendancy to attract unusual neighbours.
Back when I lived in Parkdale, my notable next door neighbour was a gentleman Boy and I referred to as “Porny McWackerson.” Porny was a rather scrawny nebbish looking gentleman (think a very down on his luck Bob Balaban) who had a fairly impressive collection of “adult movies”. We made this discovery about a week before we moved in when we popped by the new place to paint the kitchen/living room. During one of our breaks, a friend who was over helping us scurried over to the kitchen alcove and when she looked down slightly into his solarium like bedroom, caught a glimpse of some rather explicit action on Porny’s television.
“Look!” she exclaimed, casting her pointer finger down at the scene below, “He’s watching a porno!”
To this day, I am not sure whether or not he heard us, but if he did, he was certainly not embarassed by it since the following week, he had stacked another tv on top of his original and was showing X-rated fare on both of them.
By the time we moved out, his corner bedroom window was filled with a Tetris style L of televisions. Once in a while one of the televisions would play something inane like the news or a cooking show, but for the most part, any time we looked out the window, we were met with a wall of pornography, usually of the hardcore transexual variety.
We took solace in that fact that, for the most part, good ol’ Porny had the sense to keep the blinds on the “money shot” window closed, so the pornography was merely wallpaper to our everyday lives. However once in a while, Boy or I would make the mistake of looking up at an inopportune time and get a healthy eyeful of . . . um . . . mature content.
Once we moved away from the mecca of Parkdale filled with its drug dealers, prostitution rings and hipsters, we moved to what we thought was a much nice area. And indeed it has been for the most part. We’ve enjoyed our apartment, we like the neighbourhood and our building is pretty good – for the most part. I’m throwing a bit of a caveat on this because of our long time neighbours, who we lovingly refer to as “The Bitchersons”. I have off-handedly mentioned The Bitchersons before but truth be told, they are the most colourful of our neighbours. Sure, “Drunky Mcsteroids,” the oversized frat boy who would hulk out in his apartment and smash things was interesting, and “Weirdy Olderstein,” the little old lady who lurks in our lobby with a notebook counting the number of “darkies” that enter the building has her place in our lives, but The Bitchersons have a long and storied history with us, starting soon after we moved into the building.
One night a few months after we moved into the building, we heard fighting coming from next door. It sounded like a man and a woman having an argument, so we thought nothing of it. After all, we have raised our voices while arguing with each other, so we thought to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they were having a bad day. However, we soon discovered our assumptions were wrong in that:
1) It was not a man and a woman, but a man and another man with a surprisingly effeminate voice.
2) Every day is a bad day in The Bitcherson household.
In fact, one summer, things got so bad, you could almost set your watch to their fighting. On Friday nights, we would come home from work to the sound of a gay club anthem blaring on their stereo*. An hour or so later, they would start drinking/doing drugs. Approximately 2 hours after that, everything would go to hell. There would be screaming and smashing and crying and door slamming the likes of which we had never heard before.
It was epic.
And truth be told, at first, we were kind of amused. I mean it was like our own Friday night reality tv show right next door – like Melrose Place, but if everyone were gay and doing speed. But these days . . . we are both officially over it and have realized that in spite of the multiple warnings by our tenant’s association, they continue to ignore the fact that they share a living space with other people and just generally act like drama queen dickbags.
So this morning, I composed a little letter to them that I am posting below:
“March 2, 2011
To “the actors” of the second floor,
Having long been a patron of this building’s “Pissy Gay Couple Theatre,” I had some notes about last night’s show.
While I genuinely appreciate the artistry that goes into your impromptu late night performances of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I have to wonder if your hearts are really in it anymore. I mean sure, there’s still screaming and stomping and door-slamming, but I have to say, I miss the dramatic revelations from days of yore. I mean learning that**:
1) One of you is no longer in possession of his own teeth,
2) One of you is addicted to drugs,
3) One of you is into “twinks,”
4) One of you is small “down there,”
5) One of you is the proud owner of a criminal record,
6) One of you is the victim of prison rape,
really added something amazingly dramatic to the proceedings. Now, I know that you’re trying to mix it up. Putting larger gaps between performances to stay fresh and occasionally getting a spirited assist from supporting characters like Scared Old Lady Walking Her Poodle or Angry Downwind Neighbour #1 probably does add a certain spice for you. However, as an outside observer, at the end of the day, it all just feels a bit flat and soap opera-like, you know?
So I have a suggestion that I think will help – take the show on the road! Not only would the change of scenery help you both stretch your acting muscles but then perhaps the rest of us will finally be able to get some freaking sleep.
Your captive audience-who are currently paying way too much in “ticket fees” for this shit
(a.k.a. the rest of the second-and possibly part of the third-floor)”
I’ve already reported them to the tenat’s association again for waking me up at 3:30 this morning with their bellowing***, and I haven’t actually done anything more with this letter than enjoy it in a secret cathartic way, but part of me really wants to stuff it through their mail slot or hang it by the elevator since I know I am not the only one who is sick to death of them. However, I wonder if that might be a little too passive aggressive? After all, just because they are poorly behaved doesn’t mean I have to be, right?
What do you think, blog readers? What would you do faced with a situation like this and what have you done in the past when faced with lousy neighbours?
* I know this sounds like I am exaggerating and making fun of the fact that they are gay by pretending like they are walking cliche homosexuals, but I swear that I am not. These boys seriously have a major hard-on for Cher and Donna Summer.
** I would also like to point out that these things were not learned through actively eavesdropping but because they were both yelling them at each other for anyone to hear.
*** I heard back from the tenant’s association this morning and they told me that should The Bitchersons act out any time in the next 5-7 days, we should report it and they will hold a meeting to work out how to evict them as they are already facing multiple complaints from other tenants on our floor. However, if they get through the week without fighting, they will be given a 6 month reprieve for good behaviour. I don’t really understand how their taking a week off from being childish morons means that everyone else on our floor has to pay for it for half a year, but I guess that’s renting for you. While I feel annoyed on our behalf, I actually feel worse for the young couple that live across the hall from them since they have a fairly young baby. Can you imagine being that sleep deprived and having to deal with assholes like that on top of it? Bah!