||[Feb. 12th, 2004|12:00 am]
Sometimes I hate other people. Mostly when they inconvenience me by intruding into my life. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about pollution.
Dear Person Around Me:
Nobody wants your noise pollution: your loud subwoofers, your loud voices because you’ve blown your ears out at too many loud clubs and concerts; your loud motorcycle, your loud car, your screeching of wheels; your loud laughter and conversation that carries two blocks in a residential neighborhood at midnight on a Thursday night; your stereo left on repeat all day, even when you step out for a few hours, just so you can have loud music when you are home. Your not realizing that there’s a bedroom 20 feet from your stereo.
We don’t need to smell you, either: your body odor, your overwhelming perfume and cologne, your pungent lunch. We certainly don’t need to smell your smoke: that goes for people walking behind you on the sidewalk, and for people driving behind you. And above all, it goes for your own kids. Yes, bars are where vices are celebrated, but I can be a designated driver and not be affected by people drinking next to me — it’s harder to avoid smoke. You obviously think that your pleasure is more important than the comfort of dozens of people around you. And cigarette butts? They must make for great mulch, the way most smokers toss them on the ground.
Finally, I don’t want to be forced to look at you. Your huge-ass SUV, blocking my view in front of me, is annoying as well as unsafe. (Those soccer moms really need a Suburban with low-profile tires to get around, don’t they?) And don’t paint your car a bright, flashy color — it’s called “safety orange” for a reason. Learn how to aim your headlights, and how to drive without your high-beams on.
The Neighborhood Curmudgeon.