By Kent Oswald
Every morning, beginning always a few minutes before sunrise and lasting just over half an hour, the oldie in the apartment above stomps about, boomering out pre- and post-ambles about his “old lady” walking out on him to some guy half her age. Then off key, off kilter, maybe off his rocker, comes “Heart Like a Wheel” in a sad, parkinsonian Linda Rondstadt, and “Willin’” in a coked-up Lowell Georgian version. Shelley never wakes up, but I wonder if I will ever sleep peacefully again as I’m the “frickin’ mud flap of a douche” his old lady walked in on.
“(I write because) some days there are short films I have to get out of my head.” – the writer