cur·mud·geon

Pronunciation: (")k&r-'m&-j&n
Function: noun
Etymology: origin unknown
1 archaic: MISER
2: a crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old man
3: an indication of what i'll become when older

I was confronted with this more hostile side of my personality on Saturday. The scene: my window wide open. The clock ticking to 10:07pm. Mother and I sitting over a cup of tea and madelienes, a gentle breeze, the warm night air. SHATTERED, When a horrific noise wrenched our ears- the sound of a very loud, vibratiing base, rattling our windows- with a dj playing the latest dance,r/b and rap hits. The whirling red lights of hell piercing our eyes. A flock of birds gave cry and flew into the air away from this hellmouths sound. The earth shook. We looked at each other and knew what we had to do.

Call the police. Mom has the police station dispatch on speeddial, and knowing their response time would be in one hour we called without hesitation. We thought, dear God the colony's parents must be out of town- to license such debauchery. I looked over the fence to see the merry spawns of satan arrive one by one, the amps stacked high for no reason- all outside. I thought, I know we're in the ghetto. I know we're on the north side of the tracks. But why for the love of God and all that's holy does this party have to erupt out of nowhere and ruin our still, quiet evening. Why do people think that having a party outside at that decmial level in a sub-urban-area would be acceptable, besides the occassional rapid fire weapon? What made these demonic forces assemble and move in next door to wage their unholy war upon our gentle persons?

At 11, after a growing sense of foreboding I heard the sweet relief of the volume being notched down and breathed a momentary sigh of peace as I donned my bedcap and pulled the bedsheets about me. I thought, why God?, do they not think this an acceptable level- a sort of level that doesn't make your ears bleed or your teeth chatter. But then as I heard the dj say something about the 'cops' and not stopping I reached with my feebled hand toward the phone and dialed the police. As I hung up, knowing there would be no rest for another hour I began to curse Omar and his fucking birthday. Fucking Omar and his fucking Birthday. I began to dream of Molotov cocktails being hurtled into their backyard like flashing beacons of the resistance, of learning how to cut the power in peoples houses... to, to, to... and then the police came again- now stretching into the midnight hours, and then the dj said something about no-one being allowed to come or go- so do not call your friends, he said. And my eyes flashed in delirium as i tossed and turned stacking pillow upon pillow, wondering how to barracade the window and stop the sound- and my hand again reached for the phone. This time I yanked the covers from me and went to take some Benedryl and have a bite of hawaiin BBQ. The dispatch could hear the music from my kitchen, I bemoaned- they will-not-stop!And lo at 12:45 the police again came and people began to flee the party, hopping into my yard to avoid the police, and the girls screeching out into the street... they dispersed into the night and a peaceful sleep reigned at 1:30am. And I, champion of the neigborhood, to let not this place go into the ghetto gentle goodnight- but that we should rage, rage against the dying of the light.