The Bocelli Incident

A prospective buyer of my neighbors house recently asked me how many times on average the cops are called a year on my street. As he asked he was nodding his head and raising his eyebrows in the direction of another house on the street that has a sort of “keg on tap – come on in” look about it. I laughed and told him the only incident in recent history was when the cops were called was on me. It was a few years back and a dear friend had spent the day holed up at my house wearing a fancy peanut-butter peel mask that had been applied at a spa nearby. She did not want her husband to see her wearing said mask that had to remain on her face for 12 hours. So, of course we took to drinking the chardonnay. Well, one bottle lead to another and that naturally led to the ballet slippers and the Andre Bocelli records. I believe there was some food delivered – of course it would have been Italian – but memory does not serve. Anyhoo – what is it about alcohol that deems music be played at a deafening volume? I don’t like this in bars and clubs but one feels a certain obligation to crank up the volume when there is alcohol involved – even when listening to the blind tenor from Lajatico. More wine, more volume and we took to the yard leaping and howling singing along. We never would have heard the doorbell ring were it not for sweet Pablo who barked uncontrollably at its timbre. I have a fabulous old door with a small metal grill that opens like the one Marty Feldman peers through in Young Frankenstein. I don’t know who I was expecting but it certainly wasn’t the cops. I opened and shut the grill quickly announcing to my friend “It’s the cops!” “Who called you?” I asked the two young patrolman now noticing they had their hands on their holsters like I was hosting a crank-fueled rave. When my friend shouted out “it’s about time the strippers showed up!” They relaxed and started to crack up realizing it was just Mary and Rhoda on a Bocelli Bender. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to turn the opera down or we’re going to issue you a citation.” The young Latino officer said clearly flexing his biceps. Hmm.. a rookie I thought, suddenly channeling Mrs. Wormer. So I opened the door to give them an eyeful of my skimpy outfit and offered them a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints from the freezer for their troubles. They declined but were clearly enjoying our repartee. “Now you girls behave in there and don’t make us come back.” They said descending the stairs. “How about some peanut butter tagalongs?” My friend said peeking around the door jam, having forgotten about her mask. “Looks like you’ve had enough already.” The cops laughed – Oh how I love a man in blue.


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