When one lives in the pseudo ghetto (or rather, on the edge of the pseudo ghetto), one must put up with many things. Like waiting for the dozen cars departing en masse from the drug dealer house, before one can continue through the stop sign. Or running sans headphones, so one can listen for the sound of the footsteps of the neighborhood rapist come to stalk one. Or hearing pops in the night, and not being able to tell oneself – oh, it was just a car backfiring! At 3am!
All of these things are well and good, and part of the myriad and interesting patterns in the tapestry of life, and I enjoy them heartily. However, if I was Queen of the World (or even Queen of the Pseudo Ghetto), I would outlaw the doodj doodj music.
Picture this. You have a newborn who has kept you up for four days straight. In the wee hours of the morning on day 5, he finally manages to sleep for more than half an hour, and you yourself have nestled down and closed your eyes and started to drift off to the blessed Land of Nod. And then –
Doodj doodj doodj doodj
It echoes through your brain. It rattles in your chest. It wakes you, but more pressingly, it wakes the baby. It is 2 in the morning, and somebody wants you to know that he has an AWESOME bass in his rattletrap car.
So. In the land of G Love, when such a thing happens, it would be perfectly legal for you to trot out to your gun rack, pull down a rifle, and shoot out the offending driver’s tires. Or better yet, his sound system. The ghetto is used to the sound of gunshots. Nobody would bat an eye.