The SRO next to my apartment is trying to keep up with the times. Thus whenever a unit is vacated, the owner goes in, renovates the space and rents it out to a Millennial to make sure they are part of the great Los Angeles Gentrification of the 21st Century ’10’s.
A few days ago as the Mexican Polka blared at exactly 6:09am a guitar player in a unit not far from the one occupied by my Nortenõ loving neighbor started to play an uneasy, out of tune version of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Dancing Days Are Here Again’ complete with slide guitar so woozy the Mascara Snake was envious.
The competing tunes formed a White Noise experiment somewhere between LaMont Young and Charles Ives. I might have even attempted to record the horrible noise and release it on iTunes had it not been 6:17 in the fucking morning and it’s enough trouble to try and sleep with the endless LAPD Blackhawk sorties but this is almost too much to bear.
After three days of this No Wave one upsmanship, I grabbed a 12 pack of the cheapest Mexican Beer I could find at the local Korean and a bottle of Cuervo Gold, I walked over to the SRO’s stoop to engage the services of the OD.
The OD (Original Drinker) who never offers me the same name twice, has lived in the SRO for 35 years. Any drinking activity that is done in the SRO must be cleared through him. read: give him and his two running buddies Toothless Tommy and Smiling Sammy a beer and whatever is wrong shall be righted at the SRO.
He was sitting on the stoop listening to some sort of music dressed in his usual 1982 Army Fatigue jacket as he shaved his head bald when I approached.
“This has got to stop,” I said.
“What the Mexican music? I thought we made you brown,” he said.
“No the scumbag with the guitar.”
“Yeah the 23 year old kid with the beard and tattoos, he sucks,” he said.
“Tell him to knock it off. Outside of the fact he can’t fucking play I can’t stand Led fucking Zeppelin,” I said.
“Relax,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” I handed him the booze and managed to enjoy the next three days of only Mexican polka for exactly 33 minutes every morning.
Day Four.
The Mexican polka ends at exactly 6:42am. Three minutes later the slide guitar breaks in, out of tune and woozy attempting to play the lead parts to ‘Free Bird.’
Suddenly I wonder if I’m somehow Doc reincarnated.
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