Hollywood Babel.

When I lived in the Burbank foothills, I used to stare from my writing desk through the windows to the mountains – sometimes a green bulk, sometimes shrouded in mist. Here the view from my desk is of a wall. I wonder if this lack of a tranquil vista blocks my creative feng shui. But far more detrimental to my creative progress is the noise of Hollywood.

The poodle upstairs yaps incessantly, as shrill as if he were in my own apartment. Add the bass woof of the boxer and the clicking thud of their paws as they run back and forth, back and forth overhead; the treble shrieks of the kids next door; the sharp voices of their parents: I’d never sleep in Hollywood if it weren’t for my ear plugs.

I recently came home early from work, sick and spent from a week of coughing, and dropped off from sheer exhaustion. Then, waking at the noise, I had to stuff my ears. It’s not the quiet Valley neighborhood I’m used to. The next-door neighbors fight, the upstairs neighbors argue, and when they’re not arguing, they laugh drunkenly till all hours. Helicopters throb overhead – I mean directly overhead, shining a spotlight on the friendly gangstas next door. Horns honk to the tune of “La Cucaracha” till I want to slit my wrists. Music blares at all-day, all-night shindigs. I had to call the cops to complain about a children’s birthday party – it was midnight and they’d been going strong for ten hours. I was tempted to run over and jump in the bouncy palace – I bet that would've scared those shrill little f**kers straight.