Whoever lives in the 3rd-floor apartment across the street needs to get a telephone and a doorbell. Their friends sit and blow the horn for up to 5 minutes straight, waiting for them to come out. Last night was the worst. Every hour for about 20 minutes per hour a guy double parked in front of the building, stood on the sidewalk and yelled up to the building, "Hey Craig!" (pause about 25 seconds) "Hey Craig!" About the 3rd cycle of this we were getting really annoyed. First he went to the window and yelled, then I did, then the guy in the street, until it was a chorus of "Hey Craig! Hey Craig! Hey Craig!" We also suggested loudly that Craig might want to get a doorbell. Obviously Craig didn't want to talk to the bellowing idiot below, because he never replied. Finally after we had yelled about 20 times from our window the moron got in his car, muttering, and drove away.
How HARD is it to use the doorbell for pete's sake? Even if you didn't have fingers, you could use some other part/object to push the bell. -- The queen of Porkopolis.
In article <219vr4$...@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> d...@po.CWRU.Edu
(Dianne M. Angeloff) writes: >Whoever lives in the 3rd-floor apartment across the street needs to get >a telephone and a doorbell. Their friends sit and blow the horn for up >to 5 minutes straight, waiting for them to come out.
There's someone in my neighborhood (I haven't tracked them down yet, which is why they're still alive) who gets a ride to work every morning from somebody else. This other, non-transportationally-challenged person arrives promptly at seven o'clock; he or she is so consistent that I could set my watch by this daily arrival. The reason I'm aware of this admirable punctuality is that this person honks the car's horn. Every day. If the person waiting for the ride isn't already standing at the curb waiting -- which he *should* be -- then the driver should have the common sense to sit for a moment or three and *wait* for him. People who honk horns in residential areas, especially in fairly high-density residential areas like mine (a street with duplexes on one side and fourplexes on the other) deserve to have their skulls torn open and their frontal lobes singed with a rusty soldering iron.
Someone pulled a stunt like that in my driveway the other day. I couldn't believe the sheer cluelessness of this person, a lady who looked to be in her fifties and therefore should've known better. She pulled into my driveway to pick up the guy who lives in the other upstairs apartment, and honked her horn just as I was walking in front of her car on my way back upstairs with a load of laundry. I yelled, "HEY!" and glared daggers at her. She pointed to the other apartment and mouthed through her closed window that she needed to collect this other tenant. I continued to glare at her and slowly brought my finger to my lips in the universal sign for "Shut the fuck up before I tear your friggin' head off and feed it to the goddam wolverines!" This idiot came to see one person and thought nothing of disturbing the tenants of all the nearby apartments with her horn instead of parking her car, getting off her ass and knocking on the guy's door like a normal person. Jeezus!
: Whoever lives in the 3rd-floor apartment across the street needs to get : a telephone and a doorbell. Their friends sit and blow the horn for up : to 5 minutes straight, waiting for them to come out. Last night was the : worst. Every hour for about 20 minutes per hour a guy double parked in : front of the building, stood on the sidewalk and yelled up to the : building, "Hey Craig!" (pause about 25 seconds) "Hey Craig!" About the : 3rd cycle of this we were getting really annoyed. First he went to the : window and yelled, then I did, then the guy in the street, until it was : a chorus of "Hey Craig! Hey Craig! Hey Craig!" We also suggested loudly : that Craig might want to get a doorbell. Obviously Craig didn't want to : talk to the bellowing idiot below, because he never replied. Finally : after we had yelled about 20 times from our window the moron got in his : car, muttering, and drove away.
Sorry about that. The doorbell should be fixed soon, and I've talked to Bill - he'll knock on my door instead of yelling from now on. Again, I apologize.
I lived in a neighborhood for awhile where everyone liked to sit in their driveway and gun the engine in their cars for 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes and longer at a time. I finally asked my landlady what the deal was. Her reply "It makes the car run better." I wonder who started this rumor and spread it up and down the block. I imagine they probably ran a garage.
But nothing ever beats the time here when I woke up to an incredible din at 5:30 am and looked out the window to find a backhoe, a crane, and two cement trucks all going at once next door.
David "moving next to the airport where I know what I'm getting into" Farley
-- David Farley The University of Chicago Library 312 702-3426 1100 East 57th Street, JRL-210 d...@midway.uchicago.edu Chicago, Illinois 60637
In a previous article, d...@ellis.uchicago.edu (David Farley) says:
><peeves about horn honkers>
>I lived in a neighborhood for awhile where everyone liked to sit in >their driveway and gun the engine in their cars for 5, 10, 15, 20 >minutes and longer at a time. I finally asked my landlady what the >deal was. Her reply "It makes the car run better." I wonder who >started this rumor and spread it up and down the block. I imagine >they probably ran a garage.
>But nothing ever beats the time here when I woke up to an incredible >din at 5:30 am and looked out the window to find a backhoe, a crane, >and two cement trucks all going at once next door.
That's nice. Once I was visting a friend in Philadelphia at Christmas time. At 3 am my first night there, the gas company came and started jackhammering up the entire street. They laid off about 7:30, when we'd all given up and got breakfast started. It was a 1-way, however, so no one could drive down thge street the entire time I was there.
Now we're moving down to nice, quiet, safe Hyde Park. I can hardly wait. -- "We broke our fast with a large repast."--H.S. Ip
>In a previous article, d...@ellis.uchicago.edu (David Farley) says:
>><peeves about horn honkers>
>><peeves about throttle diddlers, construction equipment>
>That's nice.
[don'cha love that tone?]
><peeves about jackhammers>
As long as this has _already_ acquired a distinct flavor of penis^H^H^Heve-waving contest, I might as well point out that I grew up pretty close to the little town of Antelope, California, one of the main features of which is the Southern Pacific (railroad) line through, and the Roseville switching yards right at the edge of town.
One morning, a Saturday, I believe it was, I woke up thinking "what the *hell* are they doing at McClellan Air Force Base this morning?" But it wasn't anything there that woke me up.
Nope, it seems that a little fire broke out on a train bound for Port Chicago.
A train filled to capacity with (now pay attention, Drieux) United States Air Force seven hundred and fifty pound general purpose BOMBS. A fairly long train, and several _thousand_ bombs as I recall. It seems one of the boxcars had a wheel bushing overheat, which is reasonably predictable with fully-loaded cars. The fire crews available insisted on knowing just what was in that burning boxcar, and when told, intelligently replied not merely "no way" but "no _fucking_ way."
What woke me up was the bombs themselves, cooking off in ones, twos, and threes. All morning, all afternoon, and into the evening, since the fire spread relatively unopposed throughout the train, except for the few cars that the crew dared keep hitched to the engines as they got *them* clear. (Dedicated _ENGINEERS_)
The next day, Antelope was mostly memory, but it was eventually rebuilt.
So, though being awakened by honking horns, backhoes, and jackhammers are peeves to some, such peeves are the merest of whimpers to me. If any peever has lived through carpet-bombing taking place a mere three miles away, you'll have my respect if you want to peeve about it waking you up.
!Peeve: Tritonal, lots of it. Many of the bombs were shattered by the others before exploding, and little chips of tritonal were all over the county. Loads of fun if you grant it the proper respect.
!Peeve: Quite a few BDIs managed to injure themsleves playing with it due to lack of proper respect.
!Peeve: Slight alterations soon made to a sign, near the SP yards, that for some months had read: "Site of future expansion of the Roseville switching yards" ^^ lo
>>In a previous article, d...@ellis.uchicago.edu (David Farley) says:
>>><peeves about horn honkers>
>>><peeves about throttle diddlers, construction equipment>
>>That's nice.
>[don'cha love that tone?]
>><peeves about jackhammers>
>As long as this has _already_ acquired a distinct flavor of >penis^H^H^Heve-waving contest...
<burning freight train full of bombs disturbed his sleep.>
OK - here - I have another one to wave.
I once had a temporary job working in a construction office of a hotel that was going up in mid-town Manhattan. Because of some naughtiness on the part of the developer, they also had to rehab a theater that sat next door to their new hotel. The theater was four stories high. The hotel was 40 stories high. When I started working there they were pouring the concrete for the top stories of the hotel. One day, I was sitting at my desk, with all the other people in the temporary office, thinking about lunch, while, unbeknownst to us, the crew was pouring the concrete for the 40th floor. The crew had not been very careful putting in the forms for the concrete for the 40th floor, and, as soon as the concrete was poured they broke on the side of the building that faced the theater. It was pretty cool, since we didn't know what was going on, only that suddenly everything in room flew about six inches straight up in the air and came back down again. The amazing thing was that it was so fast and neat that not much was really disturbed. The scary part came when I looked out the window and saw everybody in the street gaping in horror at something that was obviously going on directly over our heads. What was the result? A bunch of HVAC equipment on the roof of the theater was smashed up. And because there were no injuries, and the developer owned both buildings, no embarrassing reports needed to be filed.
Ob!Peeve: The University of Chicago Building Services finally put a decent washer in our basement.
Peeve: They didn't bother to hook it up to a drain, so when it drains, the suds go out all over the floor.
Peeve: This is in line with the time they boarded up all the windows for security reasons, and neatly boarded up the dryer vent, too. Mmm - Hot soaking steamy clothes, fresh out of the dryer.
-- David Farley The University of Chicago Library 312 702-3426 1100 East 57th Street, JRL-210 d...@midway.uchicago.edu Chicago, Illinois 60637
>>I once had a temporary job working in a construction office of a hotel
>[stuff falls onto roof from 30-some stories up]
>So, did these people _know_ you slept at work?
It was a wonderful productivity booster. Something I neglected to mention was that there was an elderly woman who had an apartment on the top floor of the theater who refused to move out during the rehab. Let's call her Mrs. Finklestein. The first thing out of the construction manager's mouth (other than "SHIIIIIIIT!") after the concrete fell was "Well - I'd better go see Mrs. Finklestein."
-- David Farley The University of Chicago Library 312 702-3426 1100 East 57th Street, JRL-210 d...@midway.uchicago.edu Chicago, Illinois 60637
d...@midway.uchicago.edu writes: > obr...@netcom.com (No parking EXCEPT FOR BOB) writes: >> d...@midway.uchicago.edu writes:
>>>I once had a temporary job working in a construction office of a hotel
>>[stuff falls onto roof from 30-some stories up]
>>So, did these people _know_ you slept at work?
>It was a wonderful productivity booster. Something I neglected to >mention was that there was an elderly woman who had an apartment on >the top floor of the theater who refused to move out during the rehab. >Let's call her Mrs. Finklestein. The first thing out of the >construction manager's mouth (other than "SHIIIIIIIT!") after the >concrete fell was "Well - I'd better go see Mrs. Finklestein."
Which, of course, begs the question of exactly how he pronounced that (admittedly hypothetical) name on that particular occasion.
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