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My New York Apartment Is Just Like Seinfeld, in That My Roommate Won’t Stop Playing Slap Bass

I’ve only been in the Big Apple for two weeks but I already feel like I’m living in a TV show. One specific TV show, that is. Seinfeld! So what about New York is making me feel like I’m living in the most New York of New York sitcoms? It’s not the witty banter I’m having with everyone I encounter. It’s not the zany schemes my crazy neighbor is always roping me into. It’s not even the fact that no one around here will give me any goddamn soup. No, what makes my new apartment in New York, New York feel so much like a never ending episode Seinfeld is that my damn roommate won’t stop playing slap bass!

Just slappin’ and poppin’ in there, all day and all night. My door’s closed, but I hear him in there. I can hear him right now!  Accentuating everything I say, funny or not, with a little riff or a lick. It might be maddening if it weren’t so goddamn funky. There’s no way this will ever get old.

You might be asking yourself right now, “What’s the deal with the slap bass?” Easy, big fella, I’m the one living in Seinfeld, capiche? Plus, how should I know? Maybe this is just a thing in New York. You could also be asking yourself, “Don’t his fingers get tired and blistered, from incessantly playing slap bass at all hours of the day?” (I know I have). But again, I really don’t know. I’m just the guy’s roommate, and this is a rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan, so we both just have to deal with it, OK?

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If anything, the constant, repetitive, unimaginative bass soloing that has become my reality inspires me to make my life more interesting. Gotta keep up with sound of that slap bass. A sick bass sting is a great capper to a spirited discussion about opening up our own kooky condiments-only food truck, or mustache salon, or hey here’s one: a bakery that only sells muffin tops! Pop the top! See, can’t you almost hear those groovy bass pops and smacks in your head now? I can hear them, I always hear them.

But it could be worse. A lot worse. My roommate could be in there playing the xylophone or something. I can’t imagine how zany I’d need to keep my day to day life if I had a roommate who played the xylophone all the time. And hey, d’ja ever notice, WHAT’S the DEAL with xylophones? No? Yeah, me neither really … see? It’d never work. That damn slap bass it is then …

Anyway, I’d better be going. If I don’t get out of this fucking apartment soon I’m going to FUCKING LOSE IT! TONY, SHUT THE HELL UP!

 

Article by Joe Rumrill @2tonbug

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