The warm weather is here and it is the weekend. The young man next door has decided to invite some friends over for a party.
Now I’ve been here long enough to endure neighborhood parties. The guy on the corner has a few but they are mainly kids now. The folks behind me used to have super bowl parties where the guys stayed out in the yard with the beer and the grill and watched the game through the glass doors. There were some folks who had memorable parties with loud music but I liked their taste in music. The party got rather rowdy one night. I believe it was the forth of July because in the distance there were fireworks but that wasn’t good enough for this lot. The usual firecrackers that most can tolerate exploded. A few sparklers came out with shouts of enthusiasm. So the master of ceremonies decided to start firing off a flare gun. I feared for the greenery so I called the authorities. They asked if there was drinking? I said yes and they came a running. One car went down the alley to view the festivities and I guess their spotlight irritated someone. A bottle was thrown, more sirens filled the air, and a lawn was caught on fire. Good times.
I’m not a puritan and have participated in a few of these somewhat out-of-hand occasions. I even had “ONE” party in my house that got out-of-hand and expected to get arrested, but this neighborhood is very tolerant of questionable behavior.
For about a decade there have been quiet weekend. One neighbor only came home and then left and never went outside. One couple that moved in didn’t like me being Jesus so they moved out. The other side was an old lady who died and the rotating single people came and went with little noise or bother.
Now there seems to be a couple of guys in their 20’s who like to be guys in their 20’s and party on weekends.
Last weekend was a party at the house next to him and they sort of wandered back and forth. There was a DJ and organized games but then the rain came and they all scurried inside. Quiet.
Today started about noon. Fueled by beer the youngsters gathered and played whatever games the youngsters play nowadays. They didn’t interfere with my chores but I am reluctant to work in the yard separated by a wooden curtain. The yard critters were a bit hyper by the hustle and bustle.
I turned up my music and did a few things then retired to the studio while the sounds merged in my head.
It seems the ladies must yell. Everything they say to each other is in an amped up volume. The guys are fairly quiet in muffled tones until they play games and have to shout during a score. Do they do this during sex?
I am an old fogey and will admit that but I wonder at some of the language I hear. Even with my limited vocabulary it seems that the communication of this generation has to be expressed in ‘potty mouth’.
These charming princesses lubricated with a bit of the hops sound like sailors. The language their grandmothers would spank them for is flowing beyond just an expletive but a statement. It is a uniform language said by all for whatever meaning needed.
Not a prude, I learned the 7-forbidden words but dropped them in middle school when I called some big guy a name and he threw away my basketball. Words have consequences.
Whether used as an adjective, adverb, verb, noun or dangling participle I found other words could be used without offending someone else or myself.
So today the air was filled with the “F-word” and the “S-word” and some “GD-words” but it was flowing so free and easy.
I had just finished a book about Keith Richards and he has a potty mouth. Maybe I just picked up on the language or maybe I stay so alone that I don’t hear these things?
Television and radio ‘bleep’ those words even though you know what is being said. The people who serve me at a dining establish or the tummy temple certainly would not speak these words for fear of losing their employment.
I’ve grown accustomed to the critter’s chirping and yips and squawks which maybe worst than anything we say but I doubt it for I think we have covered all the bodily functions and then some.
Even when I hit my hand with a hammer, since those words are not in my Rolodex, I yell something like “Oh-My-Mother’s-Lawyers” or “Zappa-dappa-dingy-dong-what’cha-gonna-do”.
So this might be an interesting summer listening to low class trash exchange by people who will hopefully grow out of it or not teach their children.
Damn, where did I put my fricking headphones?