Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of electronic music,

I've had just about enough of your squeaks and squeals, your grinding bass, your thumping and testicle shattering bass, all of it. Give it a goddamn rest. I know, I know, you're really clever with that laptop of yours and you look badass in a pair of headphones, but I don't give a rusty fuck. I'm trying to get some reading done here.

There is a time and place for that kind of "music"; namely cavernous warehouses or hangars on the outskirts of town. So baffling is the experience of this artform, drug use is basically mandatory. Who could listen to dubstep sober? Why would you?

But now I endure this cacophony even as I sit down to the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle (I do that shit with pen, fuckers) in the comfort of my own home. It so happens that my neighbours are people with devastatingly, heart-achingly, terrible taste in music. I shall carbon copy them on this note, and remit a third carbon copy to God (In the remote hope that he empathizes and makes all your heads explode in a messy fell swoop. He might recall that he owes me).

Signed an old fogey,


Harvey