And now, a very carefully constructed poem...

Ode to our Upstairs Neighbors

You play beginner sax all night- notes loud and long and flat.
Your screaming sexcapades wake Mike, Me, Andrew and the cat.
Sure, I'm a fan of sex and art, but this really is abuse.
There must be some way to silence you and your partner/Muse.

Other, more violent lines considered for the ending:
And if you do not cut it out, we'll shoot your partner/Muse.
Keep it up- we may snap and kill you and partner/Muse.

You can be as loud as the hell you want (if you live in a soundproof room)

You know what I'm very tired of?

My upstairs neighbors and their crazy sex life.

I'm not anti-sex or anything (even when other people are having it and I'm not). But these two are LOUD. Especially the girl. She's a screamer.

Even this could conceivably be acceptable. Have happy, loud sex. Whatever. Except they're being loud while I am trying to sleep. Very often they have loud sex in the morning. I sleep later than the average person, being a lazy student and all, so I stick the pillow over my head and try to be forgiving and go back to sleep.

Last night, they had loud sex at 2AM. They woke me up. I'm sick. I wake myself up coughing all the time. I don't need to be woken up by screams of "Oh my god! Oh my god!"

AND they'd just had a really loud quickie at seven that evening, while I was lying on my bed reading Victorian literature. So it wasn't like they were ending a drought or anything.

I don't know what to do about this situation. Is there a solution? I considered banging on the ceiling with a broom, but I don't know how effective that would be. Could they hear me over the screams and moans? Also thought about writing a note and sliding it under the door:

Dear Neighbors,
Please stop having loud sex while I am asleep.
Thank you.

It's funny. It's a funny story. For the rest of my life, I'll be able to laugh about it over drinks: "Remember when I lived in that apartment in Queens with the really loud sexcapades upstairs?"

But it's NOT funny at 2 in the morning.

I like my drinks with a splash of literature...

Last night, I ventured out of the Village to explore some nightlife on the other side of the city.

I know. I'm having trouble believing it, too.

I took a cab ride from the bar named after Darcy (Fat, Black Pussycat) to 81st and Amsterdam (best $18 I've ever spent...the subway system a little before midnight on a Saturday? No, thankyou). We started at a place called McAleer's and then went on to this great bar called The Dead Poet.

To say we 'went on' doesn't quite cover it. I mean, as English Lit geeks, we were drawn to this bar. We were compelled.

And the bar was worthy of the name. They had literary quotes on the wall, old books shoved into crevices, and drinks named after- what else?- dead poets. Poe, Wilde, Keats...I tried the Yeats (how could I resist).

The Yeats was like an alcoholic's midori sour. It was good, but the poet himself wouldn't have been caught dead drinking it. The man who wrote 'The Second Coming' did not enjoy the taste of sour melon. A drink named after Yeats should, we decided, taste like Irish whiskey and bitterness.

But don't think that just because we discuss the literary merits of cocktails that we don't have good, normal times at bars. My friend got in a fight with the bouncer and he took her martini away. There were shots and flirtations and now forgotten conversations about absolute drivel. English geeks are just like normal people...except we have to get up the next morning and read long nineteenth century novels. And then we blog to avoid the reading.

In other news...

The people who live upstairs have loud morning sex. Very loud. Once, one of the guys who lives upstairs came down and complained about our music volume. Can you lodge a noise complaint about sex?