The leaf blower and I have long been at odds. Ever since my very first hangover, it’s an inevitable aural torture clawing at my ears just under my window early in the morning at all the wrong times. These days I don’t party like an inept teenager. I’m a professional lush with a careful grasp of how to minimize damage. So, for me, the new issue is the frequent 24 hour days I pull and the lack of sleep I get trying to shove entire lifetimes into every week. Just like being hungover, extreme exhaustion is painful and the bone jarring sound of a leaf blower is enough to induce murderous intent.
In recent weeks I have begun working very late into Saturday morning, which is essentially still my Friday. I get to bed between 6 am and 8 am. At 9 am, for some reason I have yet to fathom, the groundskeeper for my complex cranks up his leaf blower and does his thing for an hour – thirty minutes of which tends to be right beneath my window as if he has some special radar for degenerates who don’t keep normal schedules.
I am starting to give a great deal of thought to Mister Reed’s suggestion that the contraptions should be banned. At very least, there should be some rules about when they are used. What genius thought that Saturday morning would be a great time to use such an invasive piece of equipment?! It’s L.A. We work hard. We play hard. Many of us are crashed out on Saturday morning or otherwise reduced to a twitching pile of flesh. We’d like some peace, or what passes for it living in a city.
I guess if you see a news story about a woman out in North Hollywood involving a leaf blower, you’ll know I finally couldn’t take it any longer.