On the Infernal Buzzing

Summer in Los Angeles has two sides to it. There are the days when the heat beats down on you like a big kid at recess. The temperature leaps into the triple digits and the sun assaults every one of your senses like that time you went on vacation but forgot to empty the trash can and when you came home and opened the lid, Satan himself slithered out in odorous form. Then, there are the days when it’s 82 degrees with a beautiful blue sky. The parks are full, the world feels alive, and the widows are thrown open to welcome in the luxurious breeze. Unfortunately, with that glorious zephyr wafting into my humble abode, something more sinister has been hitching a ride.

One of the things that first made us fall in love with our current apartment was the view. We have this gorgeous expansive view west. We can see the Hollywood Hills, the Hollywood sign, and some amazing sunsets over Beverly Hills. Sure, the afternoon sun hits our apartment like an artillery shell of pure heat but, for the most part, it’s totally worth it.

The march of gentrification doesn’t stop, however. Over the last year and a half, what once was a slew of small, old houses, has been slowly transforming into what I can only imagine will be stupidly expensive apartments. At first, as the structure got taller and taller, I started to worry that it would eventually block our beautiful view. Thankfully, it stopped before it became an obstruction. Once the framework was done, though, the real torture began.

It started out fairly innocuously. Some hammering here, some drilling there, nothing too annoying. Then, they busted out the nightmare noise maker. I’m still not sure what it is, maybe some type of sander? Perhaps a vacuum of some sort? Whatever it is, it sounds like there’s a drone hovering right outside our apartment window for approximately 8 hours per day.

There are times when the droning is loud. In those moments, it’s undeniable. Of course, it sucks, of course, it’s annoying, but it’s clearly there. What’s worse are the times when the droning is barely audible. It IS there, however, existing just at the fringes of your senses, boring into your psyche and rolling around in there driving you crazy.

I’m convinced that when Edgar Allen Poe started writing “The Tell-Tale Heart” and dove into the mind of an insane murderer, he was spurred on by some local construction that ate away at the writer’s sanity hour after hour, day after day. Now that we’re in month who-knows-how-many of the construction project, I find myself succumbing to the same madness of Poe’s unnamed narrator, “It grew louder - louder – louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! – no, no! They heard! – they suspected! – they knew! – they were making a mockery of my horror! – this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony!”

So what incessant ruckus have you been dealing with so long it makes you feel insane?!