I sit right next to a window on my new project, which normally would be considered a good seat. I am at the end of a row, far from any law firm attorneys. Perfect.
Except for the dirt-fuck, rat-prick, no-talent homeless fuck (and if he's not homeless, he should be evicted) who plays saxophone outside the window for most of the day.
I am not automatically opposed to saxophone players. Unfortunately, street players, like this one, usually bring a boom box and play along with songs they know as the songs play on the boom box. Most of them, like this one, play far too many notes, so that you often are far into the song before you can recognize it because the dude is just blasting totally extraneous "music." It took awhile our first day, but I recognized "My Cherie Amor" and "The Girl From Ipanema." Both of these songs are highly recognizable, certainly to someone of my age, but it took a long time. This guy has diarrhea of the fingers when it comes to extra notes.
On Thursday -- our first day -- a guy in the kitchen told us that his project was in our room when it started, and that we should look out for Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." I thought that meant we would hear it. Boy, was I wrong.
Almost since the moment the temp in the kitchen warned me about the Journey song, this jackhole has played nothing else. It's all "Don't Stop Believing," all the time. I thought about taking up a collection to pay the fucker to move to a different Metro stop. Today, the firm attorney --who never says anything unrelated to the gig -- suggested with pass the hat to see if we could pay the dude to play another song. At this point, I am willing to kill the fucker for free.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope this is a short project.