La-a-a-a-a-dy and the Swamp
Apr. 1st, 2004 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonSo I've got this neighbor—no, not the one in 207 who has screaming-thumping sex. They've been Talked To and have lapsed into Embarrassed Silence. No, this neighbor is another in an ongoing series of eccentrics (which I suppose has to include me). Two floors up from me, in 307, is a neighbor who likes karaoke. Mr. Karaoke has his own personal karaoke machine which he's set up in his own personal livingroom which is just off the central atrium of the building. This atrium is rather like an echo chamber, which means that any noise blaring out of an open apartment window reverberates through the whole structure. And Mr. Karaoke likes to turn his machine way the hell loud. He has a penchant for yodeling Lionel Ritchie-type love melodies. Even two floors down from him it's so loud it drowns out my TV (yes, another TV-related tragedy). I have to retreat from the livingroom to my bedroom where the noise is muffled enough so that I can turn that TV up loud enough to drown out his voice yet not disturb the other tenants with my noise. That way I can read in peace. He used to do this several nights a week, and I thought he might be rehearsing for a audition on the next American Idol, but perhaps he got Talked To himself because it's only once or twice a month now.
Not that he has a bad voice, per se. It's certainly deep and approaches warm tones. Maybe it wanders off key now and again, like maybe every line or so, and maybe he's got this warbling quality that really, I mean really, defies description. Has to be heard to be believed, frankly, although I might compare it to a three hundred pound cat in heat. All that aside, I suppose it is a reasonable facsimile of a decent voice—after a hard night of carousing. But even that wouldn't be so bad if he didn't engage in such unique vocal stylings.
For instance, one night he was doing a rendition of the aforementioned Mr. Ritchie's "Lady." I never knew before that the song was an hour long, never seemed to be on the radio. But Mr. Karaoke milked every note so hard the cow was screaming and kicking the bucket over. And if he really liked a part, he'd do it several times in a row—maybe thirty or forty. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But when he stalked the Big Finish of the song he drew out the hunt interminably. "'Cause, my love, there's something I want you to know/You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady..." And then for the really big finish, "You're the love of my life, you're my la-a-a-a-a-DY..." The last syllable rocketed up into a stinging, near-falsetto that I'd swear sent the dishes rattling in my cupboard. But at least the song was over.
He moved on next to "Copacabana."
Some crazy rhythms, I can tell you.
Anyway, Monday night when all this was going on I consoled myself with thinking that it might make a good journal entry. I thought over what I might say when I got a chance to write it up Tuesday morning. But Tuesday morning had other plans, alas.
While I was making breakfast I heard the most dreadful glug gurgle gup-gup-gup kapow! from the bathroom. I've been down this road before, folks. I knew what that hideous sound meant. I rushed into the bathroom--and the sink was exploding. Some greenish bubbly water laden with crud barfed out and over the side and onto the rug. (And who was the genius who thought carpeting was a good thing in a bathroom?)
I guess the Karaoke gods were angry with me for mocking their devoted acolyte. The sink did sound somewhat like my neighbor.
I dunno—I may be crazy—but methinks my building got mucho bad mojo. Maybe that's why the rent's so cheap (for Westside L.A.).
Not that he has a bad voice, per se. It's certainly deep and approaches warm tones. Maybe it wanders off key now and again, like maybe every line or so, and maybe he's got this warbling quality that really, I mean really, defies description. Has to be heard to be believed, frankly, although I might compare it to a three hundred pound cat in heat. All that aside, I suppose it is a reasonable facsimile of a decent voice—after a hard night of carousing. But even that wouldn't be so bad if he didn't engage in such unique vocal stylings.
For instance, one night he was doing a rendition of the aforementioned Mr. Ritchie's "Lady." I never knew before that the song was an hour long, never seemed to be on the radio. But Mr. Karaoke milked every note so hard the cow was screaming and kicking the bucket over. And if he really liked a part, he'd do it several times in a row—maybe thirty or forty. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But when he stalked the Big Finish of the song he drew out the hunt interminably. "'Cause, my love, there's something I want you to know/You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady...You're the love of my life, you're my lady..." And then for the really big finish, "You're the love of my life, you're my la-a-a-a-a-DY..." The last syllable rocketed up into a stinging, near-falsetto that I'd swear sent the dishes rattling in my cupboard. But at least the song was over.
He moved on next to "Copacabana."
Some crazy rhythms, I can tell you.
Anyway, Monday night when all this was going on I consoled myself with thinking that it might make a good journal entry. I thought over what I might say when I got a chance to write it up Tuesday morning. But Tuesday morning had other plans, alas.
While I was making breakfast I heard the most dreadful glug gurgle gup-gup-gup kapow! from the bathroom. I've been down this road before, folks. I knew what that hideous sound meant. I rushed into the bathroom--and the sink was exploding. Some greenish bubbly water laden with crud barfed out and over the side and onto the rug. (And who was the genius who thought carpeting was a good thing in a bathroom?)
I guess the Karaoke gods were angry with me for mocking their devoted acolyte. The sink did sound somewhat like my neighbor.
I dunno—I may be crazy—but methinks my building got mucho bad mojo. Maybe that's why the rent's so cheap (for Westside L.A.).
no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 07:20 am (UTC)And, not to start out the day being all contradictory, but isn't 'Lady' a Kenny Rodgers song?
no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 09:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-02 09:42 am (UTC)This isn't unlike the time I found out that Neil Diamond wrote the Monkees song "I'm a Believer" (still one of my all-time faves).