Thump Thump Mmmmmm Bump Bump

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Every day, the entire front facade of Chez Bubbleboy vibrates from a mess of ultra-low frequency, subwoofer-born musical miscalculations.

Doooooom thump. Doooooom bump.

It's the almost only negative aspect of living on a well-traveled city road, and near an intersection with a traffic light. With popular ethnic eateries nearby and plenty of patio bars to impress, veritable convoys of slow-moving cruisers snake their way down this thoroughfare on a daily basis. Most of these vehicles are perfectly harmless, merely carrying passengers from A to B. If I wasn't looking out of the window when these particularly harmless vehicles drove past, I'd have no idea they were even in the neighborhood.

The same cannot be said of the small percentage of vehicles that make their presence blatently well known from blocks away.

Thump thump mmmmmmmmmm. Bump-bump-bump doooooooooooooom.

These idiots (I really tried to wordsmith a more eloquent description, but "idiot" is just too perfect to pass up in this case) and their do-it-yourself, trunk-mounted bass thumpers, disrupt the tranquility of my bubble, sporadically, each and every day. At certain times, the parade of noise pollution foolishness is quite pervasive. This is especially true when the traffic flow has to linger at the stop light.

Doooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump doooooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

The sound waves permeate every insulating wood, steel and glass comfort and sanity barrier between me and the street below. I hear and feel every last amplified decible of low frequency rumble, but don't really hear any actual music.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

And there's the rub. I like music. I can appreciate many forms of musical expression. I can do without most rap, country or excessively metal or Top-40 crap, but in controlled moderation, I can honestly endure most musical genres for at least a short time without feeling as though my head is going to explode, or that the enamel is going to shake from my teeth.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump. Bump-bump-bump-bump.

But when I've retired to the bubble---to my sanctuary of convoluted and carefully contrived comfort---I do not desire to, nor should I have to, endure what I have not, myself, initiated. And I especially do not want to experience sensory distractions from the very activities that I have decided to embark upon. With windows and doors closed, and living behind a curtain of heavy, 100 year-old wood timbers, modern fiberglass insulation, brick and mortar, I should be able to recline in a comfortable chair and write, read, watch something on the tube at a reasonable volume, or just glow at the prospect of doing any one of these well-earned paths of self-fulfillment in the near future.

Thump thump. Mmmmmmmmm. Thump thump.

At certain times of the day it is impossible for me to do any of these things without first acknowledging the existence of the idiots and their vibrating everythings. I don't want to think about them. This is ME time, dammit. But no. It's impossible to ignore the vibrating everythings. I assume it is music they are playing. I can sort of detect a rhythmic beat of some kind. There's definitely a pattern, anyway.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Based on what I can hear, and assuming it is indeed music at the root of these low-pitched drones and thumps, it is safe to say the following:
I HATE THIS FUCKING MUSIC!

Seriously. Why do these idiots think that creating such a negative experience for innocent bubbleboy bystanders is a wise path to choose in life? Don't they know that if I didn't detest physical violence in all forms, I would probably pop a lead cap in their ass? Maybe that's what drive-by shootings are really all about. And who the hell is looking at their four-wheeled fortresses of frequency-mottled bassdom and proclaiming, "My goodness. Now THERE is a person who is truly giving back to society in a meaningful way. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU'VE DONE, MISTER BASS-THUMPING MAN! We appreciate you!"

Okay. Maybe some folks say that, but I'm going to guess its a small minority.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

I'm not going to delve into how these loud disruptions may even impact the safety of police and emergency responders who rely on the ability of other drivers to actually HEAR the sirens and move their rolling buckets of thumping metal out of the street or intersection to prevent collisions. If my entire wall vibrates from a hundred feet away, there is no way the idiot driving the car with the sound system that's producing these vibrations can hear anything besides doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Or maybe they can.

Maybe I'm just more of a mutant than I already think I am. Maybe I'm just incapable of experiencing their music as anything but a wall of sonic frustration. Maybe I should flag one of these folks down and hitch a ride around the block so I could experience the fruits of their electronically-amplified labor first hand. Maybe I've got it all wrong.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Nope. I don't have it wrong. I also don't have an easy solution to my problem that doesn't involve a heavy duty, futuristic laser beam mounted on my bubbleporch (which, for anyone who knows where I actually live, would be a slightly inappropriate visual---especially during a shindig) that would automatically neutralize every trunk-mounted, vibration-causing sub-woofer rolling by with one zap.

The only solution I have found, thus far, is to add this little "mentally cleansing" diatribe to the blog here, and force myself to STOP bolting to the window each time an idiot drives by. Sure it momentarily feels good to get a visual lock on the would-be target, but without the porch-mounted laser beam, I'm just another kook yelling obscenities from his second-floor window.

At least I don't wear pants hiked up above my navel, have excessive amounts of ear hair, or smell like farina.

I'm far too entrenched in my manicuring rituals to fully embrace that cliché.