Open Letter to Dean, my Next Door Neighbor

By Bryan

Dean,

You're pretty new around here, and I know we've only exchanged casual “hellos” in the hallway on the way to the washing machine, and I know I only know your name because I heard you introducing yourself to Dave, but seriously: stop with the fucking Radiohead.




Honestly, do you listen to anything else? You've lived here two weeks and aside from you talking to your girlfriend on the phone (by the way, I'm totally on your side with the whole pet horse thing. I mean, seriously? A pet horse? Who the fuck does she think she is, the Duchess of Cornwall?) all that's ever come from your side of the wall has been vague moaning and whining against the harmonic background of some kind of Krautrock rip-off. And all I'm saying is there are some days where I'd rather not hear that.

Take, for example, Thursday. You don't know this, but I work for a large multinational company (the kind you hear about in many of your favorite Radiohead songs!) with a lower-level management position. Because of this, my life is full of monotony and gentle soul-crushing on a daily basis. Thursday was particularly awful: see, those of us who have real jobs (how exactly does that record store stay open when its hours are 12-7, Tuesday through Thursday, 1-5 on Sunday? And the one time I went in there there was a section for Italian House, a section for proto-punk, even a section for something called screamo, but then there was something like three records in your jazz section and one of those was some used Steely Dan album) have to deal with things like fax machines, and florescent lighting, and corporate passwords, and keycards, and basically mountains of bullshit just to get from point A to point B in a corporate metaphysical sense. I won't bore you with details, but on Thursday one of those pieces in the chain fell apart, creating a lot more work for me, and a pretty miserable day all around. (Have you ever had to use a keycard just to take a shit, Dean? Do you know the indignity of realizing, as your keycard fails, that your natural bodily functions are restricted by a piece of plastic on a belt clip? I don’t wish that upon you, no matter what droning echos from your bedroom.)

So when I got home, all I wanted to do was have a bite to eat, watch some TV, and go to bed. But, when I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, guess what I heard? Well, you know, because you were listening, too: Thom Yorke yodeling into my ear about how miserable my life is. Guess what Dean? I already know! I knew when I got home and didn't need to be reminded again! I mean, Christ, can't you at least play some earlier stuff? Before the Bush White House when they at least weren't making me want to slit my wrists all of the time? Do you know what I'd kill to hear "Creep" blast out from my east wall some day?

But no. You play an endless shuffle of Kid A, Amnesiac, and Hail to the Thief. Oh, and by the way, your MP3 of "I Might Be Wrong" is corrupted. Are you fucking deaf or something? The audio goes out every three seconds. I've figured out the only thing worse than hearing Radiohead every second: hearing Radiohead every other second. So, what is it, Dean? Are you too good for OK Computer? Do you have something against The Bends? Do they not set the right mood for you? And what mood are you trying to set, exactly, every single night? Are you trying to muster up the courage to finally do it? I don't know if you can Baker Act someone over something like this, but I'm willing to try. I'd rather think it was a cry for help than something you actually enjoy doing every night.

So, Dean, in closing, cut this shit out. And don't forget that wall goes both ways. For some reason, I have several Yoko Ono records lying around, and a copy of Metal Machine Music. Don’t push me.