I’m talking about my neighbor. Every night he makes the worst racket while he’s sleeping. Usually about 2, sometimes 3 am, he starts screaming out somebody’s name, over and over. Yeah, he’s some piece of work.

If paranoia had a name it would be his. Like the other day when I ran into him at the mailbox. He noticed that my tickets for Motley Crue had arrived, and he launched into this wild-eyed rant about how the people who run the concert industry are aliens from outer space. What’s more, he claims that they have secret satellites orbiting the earth and beaming mind-control rays down upon us, causing us to buy tickets for Tori Amos, Wilco and Toby Keith. What did I tell you? The elevator definitely isn’t stopping on all of his floors.

But that isn’t half as bad as the day before yesterday when he asserted that all the clerks at Ticketmaster were androids bent on conquering the world, and that they were categorizing the human race by which tickets they bought. “If you buy tickets for Rascal Flatts and Lynyrd Skynyrd, they put you on the red list,” he said. “If you buy tickets for R.E.M., Gavin DeGraw and Reel Big Fish, then you’re on the blue list.”

“What about the people who buy tickets for The String Cheese Incident and Galactic,” I asked him. “Which list are they on?”

“That’s easy,” he replied. “They go on the Jam Band list. As to what happens to them, you don’t wanna know.”

And so it goes. Conspiracies, schemes and deception, that’s all he talks about. Like yesterday when he told me that all the promoters are secretly taking orders from some undersea alien mega-base, and that when you play Jimmy Buffett’s records backwards, you’re automatically brainwashed into buying massive amounts of tequila and triple sec. Or that the government is secretly implanting microchips into Ashlee Simpson fans to make them forget about Saturday Night Live. Then there was last night when he told me Canadian artists like Bryan Adams are in league with hockey teams that, in reality, are actually vampires, and that they plan on subjugating the masses via catchy lyrics, body checking and maple syrup. Oh, there is just no end to what he believes.

Then there’s that infernal yelling. Each and every night he’s at it, yelling out the same name, over and over and over. He’s definitely a few fries short of a Happy Meal, a few slices short of a loaf. However, despite all of his paranoid delusions, he wouldn’t be such a bad guy if he would just stop screaming out that name in the middle of the night. He must really have some issues with that person.

Yeah, he must really have a beef with somebody named “Scully.” Hmmm… Maybe I should just move.