Another landmark that’s surely indicative of something: last night, I made my very first noise complaint. Now, I’m usually not a big fan of noise complaints, really; having been on the complained-about end several times, I understand the seething frustration and blatant injustice so prevalent in such matters. Noise? The Smiths aren’t noise. I turn down This Charming Man for NO MAN, be he large or landlord or louder than me.

Seriously though, this one was merited. Honest. Cee and I were trying to read, but to no avail: it being after midnight and this being Brighton Beach, the sidewalk outside my house had been graced with the presence of half a dozen burly, enthusiastically inebriated fellows of the Loud And Russian persuasion. At first we peeked gleefully between the blinds and tried to guess definitions for the various Slavic expletives being hurled positively willy-nilly around the street.

“I think the short one owes one of them money?”
“No, that one hit on the other one’s girlfriend or something.”
“These men have girlfriends?”
“Well, there’s that chick sort of hiding behind a car over there.”
“I think she lives across the street.”

Eventually, though, it grew tiresome. Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re trying to absorb some contemporary short fiction up here, could you please keep it down? We listened irritably and involuntarily for perhaps another twenty minutes, but the battle showed no signs of impending abatement. Drastic measures were considered.

“I think you should go down and tell them to shut up.”
“You go down and tell them.”
“It’s your building.”
“Which means those are my neighbors. What if they recognize me later or something? You’ve got immunity!”
“I don’t think they’re the mob, they’re just drunk guys.”
“They could be the mob. How do you know they’re not the mob?”

Finally, Cee took charge of the situation. Pushing the blinds aside, she wrenched open the window and shrieked, “ARE YOU GOING TO EVER SHUT UP OR DO WE HAVE TO CALL THE POLICE OR WHATEVER?” Silence fell, briefly, but then the yelling resumed - directed, predictably, at Cee and her various sexual proclivities and/or ancestral history. Full of righteous indignation et cetera, we rang up the 61st Precinct and after much um-ing and uh-ing, I placed a timid but definite Complaint Regarding Excessive Noise. We resumed our gleeful peeking at the window, but got bored and went to play some GTA3. Eventually, we realized the noise had stopped - presumably our friends had settled the matter themselves or had indeed been subject to a little chat with some of New York’s Finest. Either way, really.

I suppose we’ve now officially joined The Man. First noise complaints, then navy blue blazers and nylons with sneakers and before you know it you’re in the Young Republicans club. What can you do, really.