Charming. Just...fucking charming...

Why is it that the neighborhood crazies, you know the ones I mean, only spew their insanity at deafening volume when we can get the least enjoyment out of it? Five-thirty PM, after a long, monotonous day of work, I can handle a little bit of screeching and dementia coming at me from a safe distance on the other side of the back fence. Better than TV, and more visceral than books. Nothing like a Guinness or a nice voddy on the back porch, listening to the Fairfield Street Batshit Crazy Hour.

But: Five-fucking-thirty-fucking-A-fucking-M. This is right out. Snoozing soundly, those last couple of hours before the alarm goes off, the most restful time of sleepy rejuvenation, the birds are beginning their cheerful chorus, the rosy-fingered dawn is creeping quietly forward...and out of nowhere comes the shrill, strident, whisky-voiced call of "MAX!!!!!!!! MAX!!!!!!!!!!! Wheya the fuck ahhhh you? MAAAAAAAX!!!!" followed by incoherent blather about social security, missing keys, and any number of things I can't fully comprehend in the early morning haze.

Whoever you are on the other side of that fence, please adjust your schedule.