Give ‘Em What They Want…
Posted by: ryno in Humour, art, crazy people, exclusive brethren, fundamentalism, humor, people stuff, religion(Title thanks to Natalie Merchant.)
It isn’t easy to coax a ‘Nosseros out into the open. Too bloody often it occurs to me, a fraction too late, that there is a very good reason to be reclusive.
Before the advent of Herself, Miss Kitty and I shared the house. There was more room, but less joy.
After the departure of The Annoying Idiot Boy from next door1 and the sale of the place, I was looking forward to something a little less annoying when a family started moving in.
The dismantling of the TV antenna mast on the first day should have been a clue. They looked fairly ordinary, if exceptionally clean-cut, what with the long trousers on even the littlest boy, and the head-scarves on Mum and the girls. Kept to themselves fairly well, which was okay by me.
A couple of weeks after the family moved in, the husband was walking in the yard. I observed that he had a reasonably severe sight impediment, and had to sway his head considerably to see where he was going.
Not wanting to startle him, I said G’day, and casually mentioned that I was about to mow my lawn, and that his would be no problem to do at the same time. (Our yards are fairly long and steep, and if his walking was anything to go by, he would have some difficulty.)
The reply was short, sharp, and shitty. He called me “Sir”, with that particular haughty inflection that leaves no doubt that what is intended is “You subhuman piece of rubbish”, pronounced “Sir”, and told me my help would not be necessary.
Okay, I thought, I’ve done the bad thing. I mentally kicked myself for patronising the afflicted, or whatever, not thinking there was a more sinister sort of separatism underneath.
A week or so later, I happened to be hanging my laundry at about the same time as Mrs Headscarf. Being polite without being too pushy, I introduced myself and told her she was welcome to any of my beans, tomatoes or peppers that hung through our mutual fence. She answered politely and I met a couple of the kids.
About ten minutes later, I heard a very angry male voice inside the house: I had unwittingly spoken to an Exclusive Brethren, and all sorts of holy protocols had been breached. Through no fault of her own, Mrs Headscarf was copping a bollocking.
Did I say quiet family? Well, nope. Apart from Daddy laying down the law left right and centre, Teen Daughter was apparently in the throes of whatever passes for the musical dilettante stage in Brethren-Land. Now a euphonium ain’t an electric guitar, but it has one thing in common with that implement of destruction: when played by an enthusiastic novice at 6:45 in the morning about ten yards from where I’m sleeping, it means WAR.
I have an innate skill with noisemaking devices2. Thanks to a broad listening education which includes Jon Hassell, I can do a little in the brass line myself, including a poor imitation of Jon’s mouthpiece-no-trumpet playing. Did I grab three feet of rubber hose from the laundry tub, plug a kitchen funnel into one end and play the sort of “In The Mood” that guarantees a steady 3600 RPM out of Glenn Miller in his watery grave? Well, yes. I was furious, and the sight of me at the door, all angry, manifesting my customary abnormal body language, wasn’t going to solve anything. There was no more Playing Of Reveille, so it was a success of sorts.
The patriarch of that clan cannot have been a picnic to live with. After a while the family moved out, and Daddy Brethren came to the house on weekdays, to do Secret Things and Loudly Play Piano, with a modicum of skill and a guarantee of just one bum note per eight bars. It doesn’t matter a hoot whether the music is doof-doof or Chopin, loud is loud.
By this time I had Herself to share the house with, too. The master bedroom is on the side nearest the house of Mister Secretive Sectarian, and damned if his piano wasn’t as near to our wall as it could get. We endured for a few months: he didn’t normally start up before 8:00, and Herself’s health issues weren’t his concern.
Then came the matter of the fence…. Under local law, a dividing fence is paid for by both parties, up to the value of whatever is accepted as the minimum serviceable fence for the area. I needed to replace the falling-down fence between us, so we could responsibly keep in the dog we wanted to get. Rather than futz around trying to get even a civil answer out of our piano-bashing nabe, I opted to pay for the fence. As a courtesy, I knocked on his door and told him I was paying to replace the fence, and that workers would be coming later in the week to erect a chain-wire 4-foot fence.
Says he: “I would have preferred something more private.” (Offer to pay? Nope. God’s own entitlement bitch? Yup!)
That did it. No more Mister Indifferent Guy. I was clos to the point where Things Would Be Done.
Then he has one of the boy-children visit and indiscriminately thrash a drum-kit about.
Bad piano music requires more, badder piano music. The added benefit of Exclusive Bro’s not being allowed radio or recorded music was too much to resist. I made a little mix CD of a nice piano song you might remember:
.
After some tweaks in the Ryno Studio, I had two weapons-grade versions ready for consumption:
Bad Alley Cat: 3.07Mb
Worse Alley Cat: 3.24Mb
If he got too annoying, the CD would go on the player in the front room, on random repeat and slightly loud, and we’d go out for a while.After a few years of occasional use or being empty, it seems the Faithful were ready to sell.
I think it pays to advertise, so this little chap went up in the window.
(Image of Oni licensed under Creative Commons.
The sound files are NOT licensed, and you are advised to listen, then discard them.)
TFF™0
0 Those Fulminatory Footnotes™.
1 I wrote it up in my (now-deceased) LJ. Basically a tale of creepy bully picks on me once too often, and discovers the joy of habanero juice on almost everything he touches.
2 Bugger-all theory, unfortunately.
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