Snow Shovel Symphony.

Boston's North End has become an extremely trendy place to live over the past decade - so landlords have been scrambling to maximize every square inch of their buildings in an attempt to squeeze any potential nickel out of their properties. The result is a lot of henhouse and basement apartments. My apartment is a split-level, but my actual bedroom is in the basement at the front of the building facing the street. And I chose it because it's the biggest. Not because I had to mount my sex swing on the lowest possible support girder.

My bedroom windows are street level, and my view consists of feet, hunched over homeless going through my garbage and stray dogs. It's breathtaking. But in the winter, it gets a lot worse. It's not the drifts blocking my view, and it's not the chilly seasonal drafts. No - it's the 5:30 a.m. snowshovel symphony.

I work late most days. Our office hours are unconventional in that respect and as a result I don't have to wake up until 9 a.m. So if, like last night, I decide to catch up on Tivo'd episodes of Sanford and Son or bad movies until 2 a.m. - I can still get 7 solid hours of sleep. That is unless it snows, and the folks who shovel Cleveland Place arrive before dawn to clear a path for the morning commuters.

Try and imagine what a snow shovel sounds like at 5:30 in the morning. The dirty, rusty blade scrapes along the cement incessantly - with the edge shiny and sharp from extended use - literally a foot from my unconcious head. I awake with a start and then try to figure out why I'm not actually lying on a beach beside a topless Rachel Weisz (note to self, watch Runaway Jury right before going to sleep again tonight). I bury my head under 3 pillows, groan and pray for the din to cease. When it does, I try to salvage whatever sleepy-time I happen to have left.

And, if its continued to snow, the concerto starts all over again at 8.