Pine Nuts: Airbnb welcomes Animal House to the neighborhood
Lake Tahoe has always been a magnet for Fourth of July revelry, but the arrival of Airbnb now brings Genghis Khan and his hordes to our once tranquil shores.
Personally, I don’t mind, as I like to meander from party to party and make some new friends while depleting their supply of champagne. But I feel sorry for the few unfortunates older than me, who might require four hours of sleep a night.
These poor old souls are forced to fire up gigantic fans, the equivalency of DC-8 jet engines, stuff cotton wads into their ears, and pull stuffed pillows over their heads in a vain attempt to get some sleep.
And even if they do fall asleep, they are tortured by dreams of being at the University of Oregon in the 1960s at a toga party, drinking Harvey Wallbangers, and waking up with a hangover that would make Chernobyl look inviting.
When Airbnb arrived in our neighborhood, the lovely couple two doors down, who were always watching reruns of Bonanza in bed at 9 p.m., suddenly left for their family’s home in Spanish Springs for the Fourth of July weekend, while renting their Tahoe home out to Lil Wayne’s Wannabe Rolling Hip-Hop Festival, which when amped-up after midnight made me think I was in the middle of a revolution, and on the losing side.
In an attempt to understand and appreciate hip-hop, I have studied the lyrics, hoping to translate the language, break its code, and enjoy it. But it’s been uphill sledding, as the saying goes. Here’s what this Curmudgeon of Clemens Cove has ciphered so far.
Hooptie: Old car in really bad shape.
Baller: Professional basketball player, “Wish I was a bit taller, wish I was a baller.”
Catch the vapors: To be caught up in someone else’s popularity.
Red rum: Murder spelled backwards.
SWASS: Short for “Some wild-*** silly- **** “.
1555: The year the first slave ships arrived in America.
Well, that’s as far as I got before I gave it up. Hip-hop remains a mystery to me, though I do enjoy the syncopation prior to the midnight hour.
Then there are the children that Airbnb brings to the neighborhood. These kids are equipped with scooters, skateboards and bikes that circumvent the manor every 30 seconds, which would be perfectly fine, did their parents not also supply them with whistles to blow constantly so they can be heard by octogenarians pulling out of their drives in Sacramento.
Let it be known that while these whistling children are raising the dead, we living adults are confined to talking on our fingers entirely until dinner is served and the whistles abate, except in our ears, where they ring on for the remainder of the week.
I don’t know what the answer is, but I’m considering joining family in Spanish Springs next year for the Fourth of July, and renting my place out through Airbnb. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
Learn more about McAvoy Layne at http://www.ghostoftwain.com.
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