Monumental

Well, after a quick check for comments on my blog, I have come to the conclusion once and for all that no one reads my stuff. In fact, my only two readers ( my wife and mother) to date have no become disenfranchised Adverbloggin readers simply because I forgot to let them know the site address has changed.

Funny how that works.

So, the question remains...should I continue this blog? Well, I don't know. What's the point, right? No one reads it, so why write? In all honesty, I feel a little left out of this whole blog thing, especially given the fact that my business card says "Writer" on it, right underneath the name of the agency and yet...I can't get anyone to read my stuff.

Kind of fits in with my work life, but I digress.

And now for a completely random rant.

On early Monday morning, September 27th to be exact, at 4:45am with wife and I were awoken by our newly-moved in (and quite inebriated) neighbors. Let me say that again. 4:45. As in the freaking morning!

Now, they weren't abusing cats or firing guns - nothing as simple as that. See, if they were, then we could have called the actual 911 instead of the ludicrous nonemergency line. But no. They were talking and laughing. I know that sounds nitpicky, but believe me; it's not. Especially when the sheetrock and (limited) insulation between our bedroom and our neighbors' living room is less than a foot and a half.

But that's the thing. They weren't just talking. They were laughing and yelling an being overly raucaus. I know, I know; I sound like some old man who berates teenage passerbys with insults and critisicms (constructive, of course). But I'm not, I promise. I'm 25 years old. It's just that I happen to have a job that actually requires me to be in the office in the morning. I know the swing shift at Taco Bell doesn't have such ridiculous expectations of their employees, but mine, unfortunately and no matter how much I try to convince them otherwise, does.

So, while my wonderfully courteous neighbors are laughing and drinking and waking many of the apartment occupents in a four building radius, I was thinking of various ways of killing these people. But seeing as how I'm not really a violent person (I'm a lover, not a fighter, see?) and am a pretty firm believer in karma, I decided to let it pass. After all, they'll get theirs, right?

That oulook lasted exactly ten minutes. At 4:55, my wife was on the phone with the police. In my semi-conscience state, I envisioned my neighbors, bong and crack pipes in hand, being tackled to the ground by ATF, FBI, CIA, and Army Rangers equipped with Kevlar vests and night-vision goggles. And automatic rifles, too.

But then Jaime sleepily climbs into bed and mutters, "I don't think they're gonna do anything."

"Why's that, sweetie?"

"He didn't ask how to spell the street name."

This, of course, is the scientific approach to quantifying many problems with our street address. Seriously, if we have a get-together (not at 4:45 in the effin morning, by the way) and we tell the person we live on Naegeli Ave and they don't ask how to spell it, we know they have no interest in coming. It's like some weird passive/aggressive thing...I don't know.

So that's what this cop who answered the non-emergency line said, pretty much ensuring our neighbors could continue hitting their bongs and cutting their rocks without being the least bit bothered by Special Forces. Hell, I'd even take rent-a-cops at this point.

But eventually, they shut up and we were able to sleep for another hour before having to wake up to a shrieking alarm.

So let this be a lesson to you: Always, ALWAYS call 911. It doesn't matter if you've seen a shooting or robbery or heard a word your church doesn't believe in. But when the operator questions whether or not this is an actual emergency, just say that you thought you saw a gun. Within five minutes, your neighbors will be face-down in the grass or, better yet, on the driveway, with a screaming SWAT team member.

Sweet dreams!