It's ten o'clock p.m and I'm finally cozying down after a productive day of finishing up the majority of the painting, laying the stair runner, and doing a little holiday decorating.
And now I'm listening to my rock star neighbor.
By rock star, I'm referring to the throbbing synthetic beat that comes pulsing through our house every evening as he practices on whatever type of drum set that he recently acquired. He has yet to entertain scantily clad groupies or pass out on his front lawn after baying at the moon until 2 a.m, but if that starts to happen, I'm going to investigate. The music might be horrible but hey, perhaps a few proffered beers could keep me from calling the cops?
I feel like I'm in a gay club on Fire Island in the 80's...
And the ambiance of our neighborhood is certainly down with a rockin' club with an ever so white 30-something skinny boy laying down the beats. I know he appreciates the fact that I do my best in getting funky; why just a half an hour ago I walked the dogs half way around the block before I realized I had my pajamas on.
Perhaps I'll gather a posse of women in black suits with ear pieces and Matrix sunglasses and we'll put up a velvet rope in front of his house.
If you're on the list? You're golden!
And if you're out walking your dog with your pajamas on? Keep moving baby...