Moonlight Serenade
We have a troublesome neighbor. I call him a neighbor because he lives on our street, although he's across the street and down the block a bit (closer to St. Charles). He's a troublesome neighbor because once a week (usually) he gets tanked up and plays his stereo. Loud. With the doors open. At 1:30AM or later.
I first became aware of him when I was awakened by Dolly Parton at 3AM one Thursday night. Last night's playlist started with Dean Martin's "Volare", segued to some Billy Joel, the ever popular "Moulin Rouge", and with a slight Pavarotti interlude, several selections by Louis Armstrong. The final performance was at 6AM.
I guess D and I are light sleepers because we're the only ones who ever call Garden District Security and the NOPD about this guy. We had both sets of officers visit this fellow twice last night. And I can truly say he is lucky to be alive, if not free, tonight. Because he did something you do not do in New Orleans and expect to survive - he mouthed off to the NOPD officers and escaped unscathed. He called one officer a heifer, alleged that both are lesbians, and sympathized that their economic status required that they both work at night.
All of which is easy to do when you're standing behind a gated fence and brick walls. And nervy when you weigh 300 pounds.
I wasn't aware of this rule, but according to him when you pay more property taxes than anyone else in the block, you're allowed to play your stereo as loud as you want whenever you want. He didn't say what you're allowed to do with your other toys. I don't know if he compared his tax bill with that of the seventeen bedroom mansion behind us, but who am I to call him ignorant?
He did make two strategic errors last night, though: D swears that he is that guy's worst nightmare; and he's got two pissed-off NOPD officers who are gunning (so to speak) for his fat, white, drunk ass.
New Orleans: every night's a party.
We have a troublesome neighbor. I call him a neighbor because he lives on our street, although he's across the street and down the block a bit (closer to St. Charles). He's a troublesome neighbor because once a week (usually) he gets tanked up and plays his stereo. Loud. With the doors open. At 1:30AM or later.
I first became aware of him when I was awakened by Dolly Parton at 3AM one Thursday night. Last night's playlist started with Dean Martin's "Volare", segued to some Billy Joel, the ever popular "Moulin Rouge", and with a slight Pavarotti interlude, several selections by Louis Armstrong. The final performance was at 6AM.
I guess D and I are light sleepers because we're the only ones who ever call Garden District Security and the NOPD about this guy. We had both sets of officers visit this fellow twice last night. And I can truly say he is lucky to be alive, if not free, tonight. Because he did something you do not do in New Orleans and expect to survive - he mouthed off to the NOPD officers and escaped unscathed. He called one officer a heifer, alleged that both are lesbians, and sympathized that their economic status required that they both work at night.
All of which is easy to do when you're standing behind a gated fence and brick walls. And nervy when you weigh 300 pounds.
I wasn't aware of this rule, but according to him when you pay more property taxes than anyone else in the block, you're allowed to play your stereo as loud as you want whenever you want. He didn't say what you're allowed to do with your other toys. I don't know if he compared his tax bill with that of the seventeen bedroom mansion behind us, but who am I to call him ignorant?
He did make two strategic errors last night, though: D swears that he is that guy's worst nightmare; and he's got two pissed-off NOPD officers who are gunning (so to speak) for his fat, white, drunk ass.
New Orleans: every night's a party.
