Spence stopped the van when He saw me collecting ditris from the front of the house. It's crushed stone, not a lawn. I park there. Passing people think it is a continuation of public space. They drop their trash where ever they are. I've found strange cars parked on my lawn when neighbors have a big party. I could not get into my own place to park. Any one ever hear of manners? Anyways, Spence got out and We were talking, when a motorcycle came by. The exhaust noise was so loud, We had to stop talking. Oh yes. It is vacation season on Melba Street. It is time to enjoy the sound of waves and seagulls, the scent of salt water and beach roses...and the roar of motorcycles drag racing up and down our street.
In my imagination, I sat on the deck of my house with a rifle. As the motorcycles roared by, I shoot out the tires and watch them skitter in circles. Such fun. Can you gather that I am not a fan of motor cycles? My youngest daughter used to call them murdercycles. Hmmmmm.
I used to sit on my deck and watch the bikers come and go from the bar. I was laughing to myself as I looked at the drivers. I was looking at cases of arrested development. None of them looked like the Fonze. They were gray haired, or going bald. What hair they had, was held in a ponytail. Decades of drinking beer resulted in a beer belly. They thought they were so cool, driving a bike. I thought they looked ridiculous. They should have given up bike riding a long time ago, in my opinion.
I know that there are families dedicated to their biker group who drive responsibly. They raise money for charity. They save money on gas by driving a bike. They wear a helmet and don't have straight pipes. Those good bikers do not hang out two doors from my house. I got the other kind.
A sign appeared appeared on the front of the bar. It was a graphic love scene . Neighbors objected. Zoning made them take it down. At least We won that battle.
My family moved here about thirty years ago. My husband was very sick at the time. He didn't get a decent night's sleep at all, the last year of his life. It's because of the Beachcomber Bar.
Nightlife at a bikers bar is loud and crude. They don't give a rat's ass if anyone in the neighborhood has to get up to go to work the next morning. There were two empty lots between our house and the bar. In the summer, We could hear everything that came from the bar. It was hot. Our windows were open.
We heard Elvis impersonators singing off key and off meter . The amplifier attached to their guitar was turned up high. We called the Police. The bar had a police scanner. They heard that the Police were on their way. They turned down the amplifier. Police arrived. All is quiet. Police leave. Doors are flung open and amplifier is turned up again. Another complaint to the Police. Pattern repeats...all summer long.
We heard things in the parking lot. People throwing up. Someone died there. (Drug overdose?) The women had a big cat fight in the lot with pulling hair and screaming. It would have been better than WWW, only We had to go to work the next day. I heard conversations like,"Look out! You'll run over him!" We heard a lot of crash crash tinkle tinkle. Some drunk driver backed into the back end of another car.
We were desperate for sleep. I dreamt the bar was burnt to the ground. It was still there when I woke up. Darn.
Someone backed into the parking lot and unloaded a load of junk. Hey! You can't do that. I got the license number and called the Police. Some time later, the same truck came back and picked up all the junk. I wonder where they dumped it next.
Neighbors told us not to complain too loud, as the owner was "connected". Some other neighbor did complain. That neighbor was fire bombed.
Then the good news: The bar owner was arrested for extortion. He went away for some time. I think He sold the bar to a relative. It was somewhat of an improvement, but hardly peaceful on Melba Street. While the original owner was in jail, a builder bought the lot between us and the bar. A house went up on the lot.
Between the house acting like a sound buffer...and some sincere efforts by the new owner, I finally got a good night's sleep. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
In my imagination, I sat on the deck of my house with a rifle. As the motorcycles roared by, I shoot out the tires and watch them skitter in circles. Such fun. Can you gather that I am not a fan of motor cycles? My youngest daughter used to call them murdercycles. Hmmmmm.
I used to sit on my deck and watch the bikers come and go from the bar. I was laughing to myself as I looked at the drivers. I was looking at cases of arrested development. None of them looked like the Fonze. They were gray haired, or going bald. What hair they had, was held in a ponytail. Decades of drinking beer resulted in a beer belly. They thought they were so cool, driving a bike. I thought they looked ridiculous. They should have given up bike riding a long time ago, in my opinion.
I know that there are families dedicated to their biker group who drive responsibly. They raise money for charity. They save money on gas by driving a bike. They wear a helmet and don't have straight pipes. Those good bikers do not hang out two doors from my house. I got the other kind.
A sign appeared appeared on the front of the bar. It was a graphic love scene . Neighbors objected. Zoning made them take it down. At least We won that battle.
My family moved here about thirty years ago. My husband was very sick at the time. He didn't get a decent night's sleep at all, the last year of his life. It's because of the Beachcomber Bar.
Nightlife at a bikers bar is loud and crude. They don't give a rat's ass if anyone in the neighborhood has to get up to go to work the next morning. There were two empty lots between our house and the bar. In the summer, We could hear everything that came from the bar. It was hot. Our windows were open.
We heard Elvis impersonators singing off key and off meter . The amplifier attached to their guitar was turned up high. We called the Police. The bar had a police scanner. They heard that the Police were on their way. They turned down the amplifier. Police arrived. All is quiet. Police leave. Doors are flung open and amplifier is turned up again. Another complaint to the Police. Pattern repeats...all summer long.
We heard things in the parking lot. People throwing up. Someone died there. (Drug overdose?) The women had a big cat fight in the lot with pulling hair and screaming. It would have been better than WWW, only We had to go to work the next day. I heard conversations like,"Look out! You'll run over him!" We heard a lot of crash crash tinkle tinkle. Some drunk driver backed into the back end of another car.
We were desperate for sleep. I dreamt the bar was burnt to the ground. It was still there when I woke up. Darn.
Someone backed into the parking lot and unloaded a load of junk. Hey! You can't do that. I got the license number and called the Police. Some time later, the same truck came back and picked up all the junk. I wonder where they dumped it next.
Neighbors told us not to complain too loud, as the owner was "connected". Some other neighbor did complain. That neighbor was fire bombed.
Then the good news: The bar owner was arrested for extortion. He went away for some time. I think He sold the bar to a relative. It was somewhat of an improvement, but hardly peaceful on Melba Street. While the original owner was in jail, a builder bought the lot between us and the bar. A house went up on the lot.
Between the house acting like a sound buffer...and some sincere efforts by the new owner, I finally got a good night's sleep. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Labels: The Beachcomber
posted by gardenbug at Saturday, June 02, 2007
2 Comments:
We have an old fashioned country pub (with rooms to let on the second floor) and it's rare that there's an incident. I think, in the last six months, there have been two. It's sad that people are so disrespectful of the residents there. I remember that The Beachcomber was a problem from Day One.
It sure was. I am getting an unspoken message that it is time that I sell the house and move away. I don't fit in. I am not a party girl. I am also not in my 30s. I had hoped to peacefully enjoy my house in my retirement. The man who attacked my dog, glares at me when He sees me. Not very welcoming.
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