floorpie

She lightly bit her lower lip, a pensive expression on her face, “A lot of people are mad at me right now;” she said quietly, looking up at them doe-eyed.

“Don’t worry, we’re only a little mad at you,” he quipped. No reaction. His date gave him a sidelong glance and said out of the side of her mouth, “why are you here all alone?” those words hung in the air and drew the girl’s gaze back behind the couple where the line to the reception desk jogged slightly to the left and then around the corner, presumably forever. The faces on those behind the couple in front of her did not reflect patience, kindness, or understanding.

“because They can’t afford to pay anyone else to work here with me…no way!” a sarcastic “hmphh” escaped her pursed lips as she continued, leaning in to the couple with a conspiratory tone she whispered, “We’re bank-owned, you know…”

“ohhHHhhhh” the couple said in unison.

“Yeah. I guess the owner had too much other stuff going on and couldn’t keep up. Too bad, too. This place coulda been cool. Oh well, enjoy your stay! Next customer please…”

Bendy straws are either the height of human ingenuity and engineering accomplishment…or a sign of the ultimate degradation of society into purely decadent excess.

I haven’t decided which.

I imagine, though, that one of Sally Struther’s adoptees, upon seeing me slurping my second coke that I didn’t really want at lunch through a rakishly positioned bendy straw would exclaim (had he the linguistic ability), “SERIOUSLY bro?!”

Height of ingenuity, I just decided.

When I was little I had this record. Well, I had a lot of records but I remember this one in particular. For one thing, contrary to the rest of my assorted Disney 45’s and old cartoon anthems, this was a grownup’s record. Full-sized 33 with it’s own dust-jacket and everything. I couldn’t even play it on my little Fisher-Price record player, I had to use my parents’ turntable and stereo system. And I did. A lot.

I don’t remember what the album was called, but in retrospect it was something with a Christian connotation. The cover was this large cartoon snail in dark muted colors that I liked to trace the contours of with my fingers. I don’t remember how many songs it might have had, or even if it had more than the one I remember; but to this day I find myself singing under my breath:

“Have patience, have patience, don’t be in such a hurry. When you don’t, have patience, you only start to worry. Remember. Remember. That god has patience, too. So think of all the time’s when others had to wait for YOU!”

Generally speaking, I think of myself as a greater than average patient person.

At the same time, I have no time for idiots.

Also, there can be certain things that shut me down completely and fast. My jaw will clench, my answers will become terse, and my eyes will flare. Traffic is not one of these things. I’m not entirely certain what the triggers even are as they seem to be completely situational…stubbing my toe, for instance, is not guaranteed to get me there and instead usually elicits a laugh. But sometimes…

In the past, I was quick to anger, but I’ve not decided if this was due to my being a teenager or more because of an actually bad attitude. I lean towards the former; though the holes I punched in walls, chairs, and windshields back then suggest the latter.

It’s been at least a decade and a half since I’ve punched anything in anger…but Justin Bieber, you’re on my last nerve.

Update
found it!
The snail was on the inside cover or the back, I think…I remember distinctly being fascinated by the whatsamajig machinery on the front now that I see it.

I don’t get my apartment complex. Actually, it’s less of a complex and more of a collective. Four 2-bedroom apartments in a row facing another row of four apartments with a courtyard in the middle.

I’m on one end and there’s the unmarried 40-something couple next to me, a single 30-something girl next to her, a scary dude who never talks and works on various Mercedes in the alley all day, the shut-in older mom across from me, the trumpet-playing playwright next to her, the shut-ins grossly overweight daughters next to him, and then some college kids or something next to the daughters.

Fairly eclectic, but it is SoCal after all.

The part I don’t get is that no one seems to do any actual work around here. Or, to put it another way, I seem to be the only one with an actual day job….and how can this be? Every time I end up staying home for one reason or another, all of these people are also here. Do we all just happen to coincidentally be on the same schedule? I doubt it. My rent is not what would typically be called cheap, and many of these people arrived years after I did, so there’s can’t be either. How are they affording to stay home all the time? What are they doing that I obviously should be so that I can stay home all the time, too?

Also, I had my first near-confirmation in 7 years that the shut-in across the courtyard may have actually left the 20 foot radius outside her front door that I had previously only ever seen her in. This morning she walked by my window with her daughter from the direction of the alley and unlocked her front door. Which, to me, says that she must have been coming from somewhere. 7 years and this is the closest I’ve ever come to evidence that she’s left our courtyard, or for that matter, gone anywhere other than the little 4’x15′ plot of land in front of her apartment.

She actually locked her door! You don’t lock your door unless you’re going somewhere! She may have been up to and including an entire mile away! I wonder what she thought of all the new-fangled “automobiles” as they kids call them these days?

Of course, it’s within the realm of possibility that she was just standing a few feet away from her yard, just out of eyesight, having locked her door just for practice…but I’ll take what I can get.

Look, I like to think of myself as a reasonably connected guy. I’ve had a website that no one reads for just about 10 years, I have multiple computers and phones, I’ve got your facebook, I’ve got your myspace, I’ve got your twitter, and I even think I have an old friendster account somewhere. I’ve already seen every meme you’re just now talking about, I saw that youtube video last week, and yes I know that there’s totally a new droid phone coming out that looks pretty cool.

Given all that, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why the hell I should care about FourSquare?!

I’ve had it for something like 6 months now, dutifully checking in to places, becoming mayor, losing mayorships, etc, etc…but WHY? The discounts for being mayor don’t usually offset the sheer number of times that you’d really have to go somewhere to become one. I’d need to go to the same bar twice a day, every day, for weeks to take over.

OK, that one I can probably do, but to become the mayor of my favorite sushi joint? I’d die of mercury poisoning before that happened. So what am I getting out of it? Nothing as far as I can tell… My experiment with you, FourSquare, is coming to an embarrassing end.

So, here I go again. It’s been a few months since Blogger decided that all of their hosted blogs had to be on their site…which had meant that the venerable floorpie.net would have become blogspot.floorpie.thissucks.seriously?.com, or, the somewhat easier to remember floorpie.net/bloggerwhathappened/

Neither of which I was too keen on.

So, here I am on WordPress and I’ll be damned if I ain’t real happy to be here. I still obviously have a lot to figure out… like whether or not to include the last 10 YEARS of posts from my Blogger days, and how to make the site look like it’s s’posed to; but, at least I have a place to write to my legions of fans again.