You had suggestions. So do I.
After my last posts, the comment sections delivered. People showed up with solutions. Passionate, committed, deeply creative solutions. By final count, I have been advised to relocate to three separate ecosystems, an entire geographic region, and an institution with a formal vow of silence. Someone suggested I become nocturnal. Another person suggested a monastery. A monastery. As though the correct response to my neighbor’s Bluetooth speaker is to renounce worldly possessions and take up contemplative prayer.
I considered it. Genuinely. That is how far this comment thread took me.
But here is the thing about all of those suggestions. Every single one of them was directed at me. The quiet person. The person sitting in their own home doing nothing. Not one of them was directed at the person making the noise. Not one person looked at the situation and thought, you know who might benefit from a lifestyle adjustment? The one causing the problem.
So I thought I’d take a turn.
What follows is a list of creative solutions for the noise makers. Offered in the same generous, solution-oriented spirit in which earplugs were offered to me.
Headphones.
I know. Groundbreaking. Wireless ones exist now. Bluetooth, even. I mention this specifically because you clearly already own a Bluetooth speaker, so the technology is not foreign to you. Your music sounds exactly the same to you. Your neighbors hear nothing. The only downside is that nobody on the block will know you listen to reggaeton at 11 AM on a Tuesday, and I understand that feels like a loss. Grief is a process. Take your time.
The Indoor Voice.
Taught in kindergarten. Still works in adulthood, Though I recognize the evidence is mixed. Conversations can happen at volumes that don’t require the entire street to participate. Your neighbors do not need to know what Rodrigo did. They do not want to know what Rodrigo did. Whatever Rodrigo did, the only people who need that information are the ones sitting a few feet away from you. Not your neighbor in their backyard fifty feet away, who is now also fully caught up on Rodrigo.
The Volume Knob.
Most audio equipment comes with one. It goes in two directions. I am interested in the left one. You don’t have to go all the way. Just enough so that your neighbor’s houseplants stop vibrating in rhythm with your playlist. That’s the bar. Stationary houseplants. Set it there and call it a day.
The Clock.
Available on your microwave, your phone, your cable box, your stove, and the wall of every room in your home. Useful for determining whether it is 2 PM or 2 AM. I want to be clear that neither of these is an appropriate time for bass-heavy music in a residential neighborhood. I bring up the clock only because some people seem to believe 2 AM is the problem and 2 PM is the solution. It is not. The clock is not the issue. The bass is the issue. The clock just keeps getting dragged into it.
The Consideration Test.
Before turning up the volume, ask yourself one question: can my neighbor identify your playlist from inside their own home? If yes, you are not enjoying music. You are performing. Nobody bought tickets. There is no encore.
Now scale it up. If they can hear you with their own television on, you have achieved something genuinely impressive, and I need you to stop immediately. This is not a competition. There is no trophy for loudest residential block. There are no prizes. There is only me, in my house, listening to your playlist, waiting for you to realize what you’ve done.
The Empathy Exercise.
Imagine your neighbor doing exactly what you are doing, at exactly the same volume, at exactly the same hour. Now imagine you are trying to sleep, work, have a conversation, or simply exist as a person on your own property. Still feel like cranking it to eleven? Good. Sit with that. This is useful information about you.
The Silent Party.
Wireless headphones for every guest. The music is as loud as you want inside those headphones. Outside them — silence. Your party continues. Your neighbors sit peacefully on their patios. Nobody calls BSO. Nobody files a complaint. Nobody writes a humor blog about it. Win-win. Which I distinguish from the current arrangement, where one person is winning and the other is writing about it on the internet.
The Vehicle Stereo Recalibration.
Your vehicle stereo has a maximum volume. That maximum was not designed as a goal. If people three cars behind you at a red light can identify the artist, you have failed the assignment. If they know the lyrics because they have been forced to memorize them against their will, congratulations. You are now a public nuisance with a soundtrack. And if your music reaches a resident’s living room forty-five seconds before your car reaches their driveway, you are not passing through a neighborhood. You are an event.
The Bass Reduction Protocol.
Bass travels. Through walls. Through floors. Through the earth itself, apparently, because I can feel it in my teeth. You do not need bass at a level that registers on the Richter scale. You need bass at a volume that stays inside your own property line. Adjust accordingly. My fillings thank you in advance.
The Forest.
I’m including this one because it keeps coming up. The forest. The magical place I keep being told to move to. Quiet. Peaceful. No HOA. No neighbors. No noise ordinance. The owls do not file complaints. The deer have no opinions about your bass levels.
I don’t want to move there. But you. You who have turned a residential neighborhood into a personal venue without a permit, a sound system, or any apparent awareness that other people exist within earshot. You might love it. No consequences. No one to call BSO. Just you, your Bluetooth speaker, and the full, uninterrupted freedom to be exactly as loud as you want for exactly as long as you want.
The forest awaits. I mention it here only to say: it is available. We will return to this.
The Monastery.
I’m including this one because it was suggested to me, and I believe in recycling.
Someone read a post about a Bluetooth speaker and decided the logical solution was for me to renounce worldly possessions and move into a building where silence is a religious requirement. Not the person with the speaker. Me. The quiet one. I want you to really sit with that chain of reasoning and tell me where it holds together, because I have read it several times and I cannot find the part where it makes sense.
I’m not going. I have a mortgage. I have a coffee maker. I have a very specific parking spot, and I am not leaving.
But you. You might genuinely thrive there. Communal meals. Structured days. A built-in audience for everything you do. The shared experience is silence, which I recognize is a significant lifestyle adjustment, but there are no noise ordinances to violate, no HOA fees, no BSO to not show up, and the other monks have taken a vow, so complaints are structurally off the table. That last part alone should appeal to you.
The monastery was suggested to me. I am redirecting it. Consider this a referral. The forest is also still available if organized religion feels like too much of a commitment. Same freedom, fewer bells, more owls, no one within earshot to bother. Either way, the opening is there.
I have a parking spot. I’m staying.
Every solution on this list asks one thing. A small, reasonable, completely non-catastrophic acknowledgment that other people exist and have ears. That’s it. Not a forest. Not a monastery, though the referral stands.
Just turn it down. It was always that simple.
Now it’s your turn. What would you add? You have been told to talk to your neighbor. You have been told to buy earplugs. Someone suggested a 55+ community, as though the solution to unreasonable noise is to relocate to a zip code with a different demographic. What creative, generous, solution-oriented advice would you like to offer the other side? The comment section is open. And unlike my neighbor’s speaker, I actually want to hear from you.
And if someone suggests earplugs, I will find you.
