Okay, my queer neighbors play this lousy, perfectly lousy music all night long, partying et al, and finally when they knock off (literally) around 4am, the grunting noises are unbearable. I have told them to keep it down before. Last years I had to tell the big guy who is the size of a colorless blimp, middle-aged, but lives on his mother's money to stop trying to teach his pal the organ. Yes, playing the organ, (literally and literally) into the wee hours of morning. They won't answer the door, and the new cholo is different from the last one because he loves tropical music. Now they won't ever answer the door and rather than complain I was sleeping in the closet. So this past weekend, I pounded on their door and told them to turn it down. My mistake was I added f-gg-ts. Next business days, three or four of my oh so friendly and supportive neighbors had reported on ME. Nice people. I hadn't wasted 15 seconds of public airtime, but they tag me for using the correct, if politically uncorrect descriptor. What a world we live in. Guys with pee-sized nuts squealing on their neighbors; of course, it so happens I am not the same color as them, but they won't admit that's part of their motivation. These johnny type guys who live in the same apt building, why are they always sort of short, bald, insecure, pasty, distemperate, and if not ultra-conformist, a bunch of shameless squealers. Okay, next time I'll give the colored security guy a ring, but I would have earlier if he wasn't another complicating sort. I sure look forward to having him in my apartment listening through the walls. And this is billed as a luxury on a budget.