El masturbation es malo. (originally posted January 11, 2007)

My new Brooklyn apartment is home to many things. Obviously, it's home to me. It's my place of refuge, blue bedroom walls and all. If I'm not clambering about the city or the neighborhood, I'm probably napping or reading in my room. It might be small, but it's got character.

When I moved into my new place, I painted my bedroom walls blue, with the exception of the brick wall. The color reminded me of a tapestry I saw in a house in Hempstead Heath outside of London, something that involved ornate flowers. It also reminded me of some kick ass eye shadow I bought in the ninth grade, and this is probably what actually compelled me to buy. Tapestries are for pussies. At this point, the walls have been decorated with an antique map of the London underground and two framed record albums: A limited edition Madonna Japanese import album and a Blondie record. There are also some various photos that have been framed, along with one of my diplomas. The journalism diploma is shoved somewhere amongst my book collection, still in the envelope the university registrar mailed it in. How appropriate.

The lighting in my room is perfect. It makes anyone look like have clear skin, which is something that I appreciate. It's as if the light fixture was installed just for me. Thanks unintentional mood lighting!

However, the best part of the room is the sound effects. Mind you, they aren't coming from inside my room, but instead filtering in from the apartments around me. Every Saturday and Sunday, I can hear one neighbor practicing his songwriting and guitar playing skills, and I have to say, he's quite good. He also has good taste in music, as he too has identified the one good Del Amitri song ever recorded.

The other neighbor starts every morning off by blaring various Mexican radio stations. I think it may be a radio alarm clock, as I can hear him slamming down on something and then the music/chatter suddenly stops. Also, this event occurs every day at the same time: 7:40 a.m.

The upstairs neighbor is, by far, the most entertaining/disturbing. An elderly man, he's most likely been smoking since the 19330s when he was born. His hacking is the most outrageous thing I've ever heard, both in pitch and length. It's actually quite amazing.

Today, however, the cough was not what I heard. Instead, I was awoke with the following:
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!

AAAAAAAAAHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAHHHHHHhhhhhh....

Yes my friends, the elderly Mexican man was spanking it. Jerking off. Mas-tur-ba-ting. Due to the fact that it woke me up, my reaction was slow. At first I thought, "What radio station is that?" Then "I hope he isn't dying." And then finally "Whoa, maybe he just saw Jesus...OHMYGODHEWASWHACKINGIT!"

Have you ever experienced a moment when you couldn't move? Your body was completely frozen in time. I imagine this happens to victims of crime, or witnesses to an accident. But I too have borne witness. And the auditory hell I was forced to endure of an elderly Mexican man waxing his pole is enough to put one into a comatose like state. I feel like for a short time, I knew what it felt like to be Terri Schiavo...minus the real coma and the bloodthirsty husband.

My roommate shared that the previous occupant of my room had heard the same thing. She too, had been disgusted, as I believe anyone would be. But to be fair, if he can keep up this sort of schedule, it would be nice to have a back up alarm clock in the mornings...