There was an old man who lived next door to my sister's house when I was a teenager. I don't remember his name - let me call him Sal, just for kicks. He was a nice man, and we were on friendly terms.

"You're a good kid," Sal said of me once, "when you're sleeping."

In our north Bronx neighborhood, we often blasted music from our stereos out the window so everyone could enjoy the sounds. Thriller was all the rage then. We had Beat Street and Jam On It, Ghostbusters and Purple Rain, Roxanne, Roxanne and The Fat Boys are Back.

I was the nerd of the bunch, of course, occasionally blasting Thompson Twins and Neil Diamond songs, but that's a whole other story.

Our neighbor couldn't stand it, but also couldn't do very much about it. His complaints were gentle and good-hearted, and they fell on ears plagued by the selective deafness of adolescence.

So long ago.

Today I live with two teenagers. I can't name the bands or the songs that blare out from their music systems. It's a lot of thumping, and I can barely make out the words. I often can't tell the high-pitched instruments from the shrieks of the performers playing them.

I hear these noises coming from the kids' bedrooms as bedtime approaches.

Hey, Sal, about that apology I owe you...