Mariachi Hell

I was just writing some poems to later hatch into little songs, when all of the sudden, an atrocious noise began to assault my ears. I do not have perfect pitch, or anything close to mediocre pitch, but when someone makes an audio weapon of mass deflation and labels it music, I ache both sentimentally as well as aurally. I could not, for the life of me, discern whether the very flat notes being passed off as Mariachi music were the product of inebriation or just the unfortunate product of enthusiastic tone-deafness. Thinking of the sour sound of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard is melodious contrasted to this horrid serenade. I never before understood fully the cartoons with the cat in heat yawing for a mate in some alley making the screeches that can only come from a completely desperate and hormonal feral animal. This was the sound seeping through the ceiling into my peaceful weekend.

I try to remain optimistic. "Perhaps that was the last verse or chorus. Maybe that was the last one. Okay, I suppose not." I attempted twice to record this monstrosity with my tape-recorder that I bought to record lectures for college, but apparently even my little gadget couldn't decipher the tones.