As the weeks progressed toward fall, the noise grew but my patience did not. I'll go ahead and call my 2nd floor neighbor 'David' (Guetta) since he seems to think he's a mainstream DJ. David's late afternoon club bumpin' exhibitions eventually went into hibernation; some say you 'can't stop the music' but sometimes you have to before before you're late to your kiosk job at the mall selling E-cigarettes. I actually have no idea what he does for a living but I'm favoring it's something that requires limited brain activity. I DO know his real name, as it's posted on his mailbox every month on a piece of paper threatening his eviction if he doesn't pay rent. Too bad you can't be kicked out for being a total fucking tool.
Before long, I began to be kidnapped almost nightly out of a deep sleep by good ole deejay Dave. Any weeknight, it would be begin between 12:30 - 3:30 AM and continue on for several agonizing hours. I like to call any of those time slots the witching, er...bitching hour because that's what I was driven to: waking up and complaining to my roomie about the Douche Rocket that has struck our walls. When you start waking up like clockwork a la Ryan Reynolds in 'The Amityville Horror', then I think we have an issue. Now, I think the adult way to handle problems is to go directly to the source, which in this case, involved several courtesy knocks and a polite request to 'turn your FUCKING music off!' Keep in mind there actually was major emphasis on the expletive. I wasn't shocked he didn't open the door, but a little disappointed because I was curious to see what his shit show of a place looks like.
As if the music wasn't enough, Dave is pretty active during these episodes - fervently stomping around like the Jolly Green Giant. Speaking of green, I guess he's just anxiously pacing back and forth while waiting for a weed delivery. I mean, this is Annapolis - might as well act like a pretentious asshole and have your drugs delivered straight to your doorstep. You may be wondering why I hadn't called the cops; truth is, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt - that maybe there's a tiny bit of common courtesy lurking around.
When the bass dropped last night around 12:15, we decided it was time to call the boys in blue. It must've been a slow night in Nap-town because maybe 7 minutes after the call was made, we heard the 'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'. I opened my door slightly to eavesdrop on the verbal ass whipping - all I heard in addition to walkie-talkie 5-0 static was Dave exclaiming 'I wasn't smoking anything!' I found that funny considering the complaint had absolutely nothing to do with that. He may have not been smoking, but his sub-woofer was.