The Day That Music Cried

Things have been peaceful at my apartment complex. Infant Devil Baby has been hibernating in the cold weather. It has been quiet and relaxing. At the time, things were good, but much like the English Proverb says; "All good things must come to an end."

Last night I was eating my dinner and watching the Lakers game. Such a good game. As my eyes feasted on a close NBA game going into overtime, my ears were distracted by the sound of a man yelling. I figured my neighbors were having a domestic dispute and the guy was just letting off some steam. I continued to watch the game and eat my dinner. Focusing on the game, I didn't realize that the yelling didn't stop. The guy was still yelling.

The game was over so I turned off my TV. I sat there in silence and listened. Suddenly it was clear to me what was really going on. I couldn't believe it. There wasn't a domestic dispute. There wasn't even an argument or discussion going on. What was going on you ask? What was going on was whatever you get when you mix a tone deaf singer with Beatles Rockband.

They say the tragic night when Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper died in a plane crash is The Day That Music Died. Yesterday was The Day That Music Cried. My neighbor (not the the owners of IDB) seems to think that yelling and singing are one and the same. The domestic dispute I thought I was hearing was actually his rendition of Eight Days A Week. I couldn't hear the music from his TV, but I sure could hear him. I enjoy The Beatles' music and I'm all about having fun, but c'mon!


It was pretty damn funny for the first half-hour. By 10:30pm it became obnoxious. There's only so much bad singing a person can take. Though I couldn't help from laughing at someone screaming Here Comes The Sun. Ugh, George Harrison is turning in his grave.