I live in the heart of downtown San Diego, the Gaslamp District. It's named that after a few streets that have a number of historical buildings on them. But the Gaslamp is rich in restaurants, clubs, shopping, and more. And on Friday night, high above the street in my little fifth-floor aerie, it's a veritable aural cornucopia. Sometimes this is annoying, but last night it was such a diverse group of sounds, it was actually enjoyable.
I wake up from a nap to the sound of bagpipes, about a block away. "Amazing Grace," and a couple of other short songs. The person playing is good, and while I admire the technique and the sheer learning curve of manipulating this instrument into creating actual music, I'm thankful he's at least a block away and goes elsewhere. A little bagpipe goes a long way....and it quickly sounds like a cat being strangled.
The Hare Krishna make their first of two usual passes through the Gaslamp, but tonight something is different. Normally they just have a drum to accompany their singing; tonight they have some kind of wind instrument. When they pass through again about 20 minutes later, they've added what sounds like some kind of string instrument. I have the feeling this added musical interlude is for one night only. It's probably not in the budget.
The soft yet resonant clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage cuts through the night air. It used to be a usual thing here in the Gaslamp, but now the carriage rides are pretty much confined to Seaport Village. Occasionally, one comes down my street. Tonight is one of those occasions.
I hear two men arguing outside. Well, one man, really. I rise to look out the window. There's a well-dressed, quiet man in dark shirt and pants by his totally hot car (it looks like a Jaguar to me, all black to match his outfit). He's about 25 feet away from a wool-capped, backpacked, homeless looking dude who is yelling and screaming at him about him being a bully and how he has to deal with his sick daughter and he knows the man in black is a murderer. The guy in black obviously realizes he's dealing with a lunatic and turns and walks away, but stops at the super-hot car, and opens the driver side door and out steps a super-hot blonde, short-skirted and long-legged, looking entirely like she came with the car. The crazy guy moves up the street, but turns and fires one more salvo: "You're dead, bitch!" followed quickly with "I'm calling the FBI on you!"
All night long, ending around 2:00am:
Drunks, car alarms, bad cover bands, shouting homeless, police, fire, and ambulance sirens and the stray bachlorette party (immediately indentifiable by the woman wearing a miniskirt, tottering on drunken heels, and wearing a white, flowing veil).
Just another Friday night in the Gaslamp.
Yep. Just another Friday night.