We have to say that we found this post on the blog You’re Not in Kansas Anymore, amusing. Can’t say we’ve heard an air horn in the middle of the night recently, but you never know:

A Letter to My Neighbors *or* Really? An Air-horn?

To the neighbors on my otherwise quiet, family-centered, tree-lined Brooklyn block,

Wow. Really? An Air-horn?

You know, when I first moved in, I must say I was surprised by the late-night gatherings on your stoop when your chattering and cigarette smoke would waft upward, invading my third-floor bedroom. Every few days I would curse your arrogant youth, your forgiving parents, and my street-facing bedroom.

But after a few months, your horseplay seemed to get a bit predictable. It began to border on trite and stale. Really, how often could you gab, smoke, and race up and down the block on motorcycles? But then, a few weeks ago, you really shook things up with those fireworks. Man, that was a surprise–to be lying in bed, almost asleep and the BANG! BANGBANG! Fireworks! At midnight! On a Thursday!

You had set the bar pretty high for yourselves, but last night you topped it. You pulled out all the stops with that air-horn. 12:30 on a Sunday night just after I had fallen asleep–an air-horn was the last thing I was expecting. But there it was and there you were blaring it–waking up the neighborhood while you apparently didn’t have a care in your non-working world. And the way you would blare it, then wait a few minutes before the next outburst, startling us all over again? Genius.

At this point, I’m just wondering what excitment you have planned for the rest of the summer. A curb-side bonfire? A chorus of dogs? A jam session featuring tamborines, harmonicas, and cymbols?

Thanks, neighbors, for reminding me that just because I’ve left Manhattan, it doesn’t mean I’m not still living near insensitive assholes.

xoxo,
Jen

We now return to our regular programming.