How fun you are, karma.

The other day my newlywed friends were telling me how they'd been awoken by some unpleasant sonic disturbance. Quickly assessing the matter at hand, they called the authorities that be in an attempt to shut down a Black Eyed Peas concert down the street that had gone on too darn long. I ribbed them, good-naturedly, for about, oh, two weeks about this. Haha, old people. Noise violations. Kids keep me up. La la la. I jammed as many "old married couple" jokes as I could into our conversations and meet ups, and patted myself on the back for staying so young and flexible.

Then the New Guy moved in upstairs. Right upstairs. Not upstairs, one apartment over. Upstairs, matching floorplan. The past few weeks have led me to wonder, ponder, philosophize about what raging parties he is POSSIBLY throwing in the kitchen. And why he just moved here but has more friends than I do (when up at night, consider counting voices). Things I know: New Guy has wood floors. New Guy has speakers placed on these wood floors. New Guy likes to have his friends over, so they can drink and hang over the balcony SCREAMING at some guy passing by that he is going to "fuuuuuuuck you UP!" and then have his friends pretend to hold him back from coming down to street level and starting a brawl in these gentrified parts of San Diego. Oh brother. New Guy likes his trendy hip-hop. He's a night owl. He spent yesterday polishing the wood floors with some heavy machinery. And right now he is, well, moving furniture. Lately this is New Guy's preferred nocturnal activity. This is odd because he's also watching the Dodgers game. With friends.

I've thought about sending The Note. I've only had to send one Note in this building so far, and it was to apologize for my dog's barking. The time may have come to send another Note, this time to Mr. New Guy.

Draft of Note to New Guy:

Dear New Guy,

You made me do it. You made me complain. I said I would've enjoyed a loud and free Black Eyed Peas concert on a weekend night, but the truth is that I do not. I do *not* enjoy hip hop lite emanating from your balcony into my open windows. There, I said it.

While we're at it, I do *not* enjoy your cheesy girlfriends giggling at 1 am about how manly you are, and holding you back from brawls, either (I don't know much, but I know from last week's balcony escapades that you are white and that you've never *really* had your ass kicked or you wouldn't talk like that). I've wondered if you're good looking, but I'm going to put my money on it that you're actually just young and well-off and that has compensated. Because I'm nearly sure that your balcony female chorus is blonde and largely busted. Just a hunch. I know you're new to the neighborhood, because you didn't realize we live in the gay part of town and that the only thing that gets blasted in these parts is KYXY. I'll bet you're the one I read about in our building "Memo" who throws lit cigarettes off your balcony so they land on the 4th floor patio to the point that one rolled into apartment, onto the carpet, burning a hole until some toddler picked up her prize and walks into her house with it. And I'm going to laugh when you get your 'citation' from the 'Committee', the amorphous totalitarian regime that runs our living space. Because I hate them, but I hate you more.

All this said and done, I doubt I'll have the nerve to put this on your door. But frankly, I feel a hell of a lot better.