Diary: Noise Pollution

11 May

Good morning.

Out in the park.  Naturally there is some kind of gas powered machine being used to loudly mow down brush. Every fucking day with this shit.  God fucking forbid they do it between the hours of nine and five on a weekday, when every productive member of society is somewhere else.  No, they MUST do it at 8AM, in my approximately 40 minutes of time to myself.

And if it’s not the city clearing brush that will force coyotes, rattlesnakes and scorpions into people’s yards to mangle their pets, it’s a guy working out of his home wood shop and running a whining, keening lathe that he hasn’t adequately lubed for his woodworking project, which, fine, good– it’s cool that he’s into woodworking.  That sounds like a fun rewarding hobby where you actually get tangible fruits for your labors, and must be a balm for the soul in this era of work for nothing.  Work to avoid getting yelled at.

But still. This guy is retired.  Between nine and five on a weekday he is jerking off and reading woodworking magazines, and then Saturday 8AM rolls around and it’s time to fire up rickety screechy lathes, routers, sanders and jigsaws.  It’s time to make a thousand foot radius around his garage sound like a pack of dinosaurs were undergoing sexual torture.

There are two castes of people in LA.  Those who gotta work, and those who don’t, and out here, in the land of actress/waitresses, trophy wives or non-trophy wives who nonetheless run a baby boutique that sells approximately three custom handmade gender neutral onesies per day, who run a jewelry shop where the earrings are clusters of polished spherical semiprecious stones as seen on the back page of Vanity Fair eight years ago, designed by the boutique owner’s girlfriend, also a useless piece of economic dead weight supported by her father or husband– I mean, I guess those people technically have to go to work.  But you know what I mean.  The people that gotta go work in an office during the day and thus must accomplish other life sustaining and leisure activities on Saturdays and Sundays and before nine AM and after seven PM, and those who can put up a “closed” sign and go get a mimosa at noon on a Tuesday.

And the latter fucking owe it to the former who pay their bills and taxes and generally suffer to keep society afloat to shut the fuck up and not jam up the streets in those off hours.  And if you or your drunken Mexican representative are going to clear brush or whack weeds or blow leaves or whateverthefuck other unnecessary and harmful destruction of nature you feel the need to spend money on– do that fucking shit when the rest of us, who are already miserable enough having to put on a suit and tie and go sit in a motherfucking office and get yelled at under buzzing florescent lights and irradiate our eyeballs with flickering monitors and generally get the humanity squashed out of us like the last niggardly smear of crusty toothpaste when you’ve forgotten to buy a new tube the last five trips to the grocery store in a row– do that shit when we’re fucking GONE.  There is NO FUCKING SHORTAGE of time when I am not sitting on my porch trying to enjoy the banter of songbirds and have some motherfucking THOUGHTS that are not about revenue generating ideas for a cruel lizard-eyed balding middle aged tyrant. I am trying to enjoy some pleasant memories of a more innocent time, maybe swimming with my cousins in the lake or something– and instead my senses are being lashed by the shrieking hornet drone of these god damn weedwhackers… just– fucking do it when I’m not around.  There is about fifteen minutes when I’m here, and you choose THIS fucking time…

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