I’m tempted to write the following and leave it on my neighbor’s across-the-hall door:

Dear Neighbors,

Shut the dog up or I’m calling [Landlord Corp.].

-Your (Very Annoyed) Neighbor

See, dogs aren’t allowed in this complex.

If you’re curious, you’re looking at five complete loads of laundry, now paid for.

Generally, it’s a bad sign when the customer opens the door and says “All I’ve got is change.” It gets better when the change is in neatly stacked quarters, particularly when the stacks add up to a $5 tip. It would’ve been better if they’d been rolled, or in a bag, (meanwhile, the sister, who answered the door, is screaming for her brother, “Bring a bag! Bring a bag!”) instead, I swept the money off the table into my hat and took it that way (”You’re too fucking late!” sister screamed at brother in the background as she closed the door). I never complain about getting paid in quarters — laundry money, don’t you know, and it saves me the trip to the bank, handing over a $10 bill for a roll.

I’ve been blogging a lot about [EGBT] lately, and there’s something else I and at least a few readers of this blog owe them: a love for Neal Stephenson, an author who I would not have discovered without several [EGBT] members saying, “Hey, bitch, read his books!”

Snow Crash is, of course, great. So are most of Stephenson’s other works, but lately, I find myself more and more enamored with what seems to be one of his most overlooked books: Zodiac.

I happened to come across a blog called “So Quoted”, and an entry on this book today, and that inspired me to write this post, particularly as the author of that blog is much better at expressing what I feel about this novel.

One, it gets off to the typical Neal Stephenson quick start. He throws a lot of stuff out there and expects you to hang on while he fills in the blanks. Two, he quickly sets up the main character and his personality. Three, great first sentence. Four, it is just filled with Stephensonisms–the bon mots you either love or hate. Such as:

* Tess emerged from the part of the house where women lived and bathrooms were clean

* Sangamon’s Principle,” I said. “The simpler the molecule, the better the drug. So the best drug is oxygen. Only two atoms. The second-best, nitrous oxide-a mere three atoms. The third-best, ethanol-nine. Past that, you’re talking lots of atoms.

* GEE International. They employ me as a professional asshole, an innate talent I’ve enjoyed ever since second grade, when I learned how to give my teacher migraine headaches with a penlight. I could cite other examples, give you a tour down the gallery of the broken and infuriated authority figures who have tried to teach, steer, counsel, reform, or suppress me over the years, but that would sound like boasting. I’m not that proud of being a congenital pain in the ass. But I will take money for it.

* I’ve lost two girlfriends and a job by reading an ingredients label out loud, with annotations, at the wrong time.

Good … nay, great … stuff.

And not as in, “Ritz” cracker, mind you?

So there’s this house, on this hill, on the western end of the Franchise’s delivery area. It’s a hill I often take to get to and from work, connecting two moderately busy thoroughfares running from Cockeysville to Jacksonville. Whichever way you come from, you drive up the hill, crest, then go back down the hill. The road is steep and winds between and around other hills and slopes and trees. If you’re heading north, just after you crest the hill, there’s a house. I might be laughingly describing it that way, so I’ll just describe it farther: the most white trash house you could imagine. Broken down RV along the road, black “MIA” flag waving, mold-stained yellow paint … you can picture it.

Shortly before Christmas, I was driving in to work at the Franchise on a Monday morning. A FedEx truck was parked on the side of the road just past the house. The FedEx driver, a black man, was standing on the road with a package in hand, trying to get one of the occupants of the white trash house to sign for it, I presume. The occupant of the house in question looks to be in his mid-forties, with a beer gut that would make the fattest fat man look slim and slender. Of course, the occupant was shirtless, and the FedEx guy — did I mention he was black? — had this expression on his face that seemed to indicate that he was wondering when he’d left Maryland and entered the back woods of banjo-playing West Virginia.

Years ago, I was working at the Indy when a delivery came in to this address. I was heading out to Falls Road — the other direction — and Fingerless Noah was going to be taking it. He asked me where it was, and I told him the best directions I could. I also added, “It’s the house that looks like people are going to be saying ‘The pizza guy is an Asian’ when you get there.” Apparently, not only were my directions good, my prediction was spot on: “Yep,” Noah told me later, “I got there and a woman from inside screamed ‘there’s a Chinese boy at the door!’”

So imagine my lovely surprise when the last delivery of the night turned out to be to this house. The thought through my mind? Fuck me, and I’m only ten minutes from getting out of here … Well, nothing to do about it, and of course I’ll get mileage for it if nothing else. Missed the place on the first time past (not much parking, didn’t want to stop on the side of the road if I can help it), turned around at the cemetary, came back. White trash dude — never seen him before, younger guy — had seen me pass and was waiting outside for me. I stopped on the road, blinkers on, handed over the pie and got a — wait for it — five-buck tip.

Shocking!

I guess he thought that since I look like such a cracker, I must have a Camaro up on cinderblocks in front of my home, too.

An awful news story in MSNBC:

Adopt a gargoyle. Sponsor a spire.

It could help save the 800-year-old Holy Trinity Church, where William Shakespeare was baptized and where he lies buried with his wife, Anne Hathaway.

Church officials hope fans of the Bard around the world will help raise $6.3 million needed to repair a cracked spire, broken windows and eroding bricks — and address damage from years of dry rot and death watch beetle.

“It’s absolutely desperate,” said Josephine Walker of the Friends of Shakespeare’s Church, which is in charge of fund raising. “It’s raining, and as we speak, rain is pouring in through the clerestory windows.”

Catherine Penn, one of the trustees of the Friends, said urgent work had been done to repair the crumbling parapet, but donations from tourists have dropped for other repairs at the church, located in Stratford-upon-Avon, 120 miles northwest of London.

She urged supporters to “sponsor a gargoyle” to help the fund.

This is awful! And when I say ‘awful’, I mean ‘awful good timing.’ Can you say “time to brown nose the professor?” (And if you can’t, why not? Do you not know how to read and speak? Sorry to the non-English readers, mutes, and blind people who read my blog).

HT: Geisha.

I’d like to apologize to any lurkers who may have tried to comment on yesterday’s post of the same title. You may have gathered that the comments were turned off deliberarely — indeed, they were (because it was funny).

I don’t get the concept of “delurking.” I mean, what is a lurker? A lurker is someone who reads a blog on a presumeably regular basis but does not, for whatever the reason, comment. I’m not going to guess at reasons why lurkers are, indeed, lurkers, and yet, that is what they are, more power to them, and I think the concept of a “delurking week” is rather, um, stupid.

Lurkers: thank you for reading. Sure, I’m curious about who you are and why you come, but I don’t want to pressure you. I hope you enjoy what I write, and I hope you’ll continue to come back and read.

Unfamiliar charge on a credit card statement? Uh-oh, especially since the card hasn’t been used in months and months. Next step: get a copy of my credit report. The charge was from a “books or periodicals” company, but the number listed went to a voice-mail box which was filled. Great. Called the credit-card number, and challenged the charge. Let’s hope this was just some sort of strange fluke and not stage one of my identity being stolen …