The noise was unbearable. The Puerto Rican parade just ended, and the convoy of 50 flag-covered cars were all honking simultaneously outside of my apartment building. Some person had the bright idea to throw a party on the roof of my building on that Sunday night. Drunken idiots were loudly going up and down the stairs all night long, making it impossible to watch Tom Waits on Storytellers. And worst of all, my awful neighbor was home. This was not fun anymore.

When I moved into my apartment, it was a sketchy area. There was not one legitimate business on my street. Sure, drugs were rampant, but my neighbors were friendly and, except for the occasional crack whore screaming at the top of her lungs, the nights were fairly quiet. Bars eventually replaced the bodegas, and the three bars on my block became a haven for tanned blondes from the upper East Side, as well as the unbathed rockers who somehow found money to drink. And although my little fan did wonders to quash the screams of crack whores, it did nothing when my next-door neighbor moved in.

Only a few nights after I saw him move boxes in, I awoke to a thumpthumpthump noise. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was 3 am. Thumpthumpthumpthump. It permeated every cell of my being and it was coming from every wall. It was techno music or whatever the p.c. word for it these days is. It came from next door. The fucker had to die.

I knocked on his door and asked him a little too politely to lower the volume. He did, but I could still hear the bass. I took into consideration that my building was an old tenement, that the walls were probably too thin and that maybe the music wasn't as loud as I thought. I had trouble getting back to sleep, and I was a mess at work the next day. As the days passed, even months, he continued playing his music at top volume almost every night. And each time, I knocked on his door, asking him to lower the volume. I should have been much more psychotic, but for some reason I was always nice. He never got the hint; he never thought to himself that I was in bed and trying to sleep, that maybe I wasn't a club kid, waitress or bartender.

After awhile, instead of knocking on his door, I would wait for the few precious seconds between the fifteen minute "songs" and scream from my bed. I would scream, "Fuck you! Lower your fucking music! Asshole!" as I pounded on the wall with my fists. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, and I always had sore fists. The bass was so loud and fast and annoying, and the songs were so repetitive and interchangeable that it sounded like a jackhammer. I was amazed that in all this time I've NEVER heard anything except electronic music coming through the walls. Ever. He's a well rounded guy, my neighbor.

I've seen him a few times, leaving his apartment late at night, with expensive looking record holders. I already figured he was a deejay, so this came as no surprise. He wore clothes that scream "I love to dance!" every time I saw him. He wasn't gay, but took on that ambiguous look that stupid girls tend to like. He wore pink shoes and too much plaid. His clothes were carefully mismatched. I've heard him clapping along to the thumpthumpthump many times, like he's a meringue dancer or something.

I've tried earplugs. I've tried putting on some music, but even Rosemary Clooney can't outsing that bass. I dug out my thickest high-heeled shoes and put a hand in each and banged on the walls until I made huge dents and holes. I've knocked on his door crying at 1 p.m. on a Monday asking him to stop playing music. He barely opens the door and nods, and then plays music loud again the next night. I

can't even take a nap because he plays music all day long as well. I've become so tense and nervous as bedtime approaches. I cry if I hear any noise coming from his apartment at all. I've lost my mind a few times during those loud, lonely nights, I've tried to put curses on him. I understand how people go temporarily insane and kill their neighbors. I really, really do.

I've lost the fight without really trying. I'm moving out, away from the all-nighters, the clubgoers, the partiers, the drug takers. I don't want to be around it, I don't want to live in a building that houses four deejays, one of whom throws fucking parties on my roof. I don't want to listen to bands in bars while I lay in bed because the bars on my street have live music until 4 a.m. I don't want to be around anything hip ever again.

I am going to live in the squarest neighborhood I can find. Forget Williamsburg. Forget Park Slope. Hell, forget Brooklyn. I want families as neighbors, families that watch Touched By An Angel then fall asleep. I want to live next door to a seventy-five year old man who tells me stories of World Wars. I don't want to look at another cowboy hat, or piercings, or tattooes or fucking toe rings. I would rather much see big hair, white sneakers and by God, listen to fucking Lynyrd Skynyrd any day. Goodbye Manhattan! I'm moving to Queens! And I hope some 300 pound rock guy moves into my apartment and is less of a pushover than me when he knocks on that door to complain.