Howard was the crazy old man who lived upstairs from me. I was living in Bensalem, PA, in a “luxury” apartment complex called Korman Suites. I suppose they were luxury, compared to their competition, but my apartment never felt like that. The buildings were like 30 years old, and each apartment was powered by an electric heat pump, which, if you’ve ever had one, you know is incredibly inefficient. My main memory of the place, other than Howard, was desperately trying to keep it warm in the winter without incurring multi-hundred-dollar heating bills. This for an apartment that was probably 800 square feet. The air conditioning system was almost as bad, so I also had similar problems keeping it cool in the summer. Which brings me back to Howard.
Howard was like 70 years old. He got 10 pounds of mail every day. Really. You know the package of mail you might get after a month-long vacation, where they pack it tight and wrap it up in string and you cut it open and it spills all over the floor? Howard got a package of mail like that, every day. He was subscribed to every mailing list known to man. He vaguely spoke of a home business — he even once gave me a bad photocopy of some sort of literature that I think was intended to recruit me — but I think most of it was that he was a lonely old man who enjoyed getting mail, and junk mail is not that hard to get if that’s your thing.
Howard drank every day. Mostly vodka, judging by his breath. He drank and he gardened, and he read his mail. I’m not sure he read it, but every day I came home from work and found this ridiculous package of junk mail, neatly wrapped, at our door. We had what was called a “semi-private entrance”, which just meant that we shared a front door and then we each had a private door immediately inside that. Mine on the ground floor, his up a flight of stairs. I would push his mail out of the way on my way in, or if I was feeling nice, bring it in the main door and leave it on his stairs, and ring his doorbell to wake him up to let him know his daily junk mail had arrived.
Once, soon after I moved in, I was feeling particularly generous and spry and I carried Howard’s mail up to his door and knocked. He opened the door in pajamas and an undershirt and a visible hangover. I mean visible. Keep in mind this was about 6 o’clock in the evening. I guess he just sat around and drank all day, and waited for the mail. He let me in, and I got to see how he lived. Despite the fact that our floor plans were identical, his apartment was like stepping into a foreign country. There were plants everywhere, I mean everywhere. Imagine a greenhouse that’s having inventory management problems; they never sell anything but they keep getting new plants from their suppliers, and they’re literally overflowing with plants and completely running out of places to put them, so they’re just stuffed anywhere and everywhere. That was Howard’s apartment. I’ve never seen anything like it. Between the piles of saved junk mail, and the plants, there was just a small path through his apartment, from one side to the other, into the kitchen where he kept his vodka, down a narrow little hallway in which he somehow managed to maintain stacks of mail against both walls, and through to the bedroom with more plants than ten gardens.
After I’d live there a year or so, he knocked on my door, out of the blue, and asked me to drive him to the liquor store. He gave me a sob story about how his car had broken down on a trip to Connecticut and his brother had had to drive him all the way back here, or something. None of which made any sense at all, and besides, it was all a lie, because I knew what his car looked like and it was parked three spots down from mine in apartment complex parking lot. He was just drunk, that’s all. I could smell fresh vodka on his breath, apparently his last drop. Poor inventory management again. I drove him to my favorite liquor store, which was 10 minutes away and which, I was informed after the fact, was fine and all that and he was grateful for any assistance, but there was another one 3 minutes closer the other way, I should really check it out if I got the chance. Sometimes minutes matter. I believe it was after that favor that he gave me the badly photocopied work-at-home literature.
So Howard was a crazy old man who lived upstairs and drank a lot, but there was nothing dangerous about that, or theatening, or even terribly annoying. I have certainly had worse neighbors, who played loud reggae music for no apparent reason, or who sold narcotics from their apartment and therefore had, um, guests coming and going at all hours. Howard was, in the grand scale of neighbors, mostly harmless.
Until July 2.
Friday, July 2 was the day that Howard’s air conditioning stopped working. Or perhaps it was working inefficiently. Or it was blocked by a giant pile of mail, or an overgrown plant, or it was in perfect working order but he was simply too drunk to realize it. Who can truly say what runs through the mind of a man who volunteers to receive 10 pounds of mail a day? I remember the date because my mother had just come to visit, for the Independence Day holiday. And whatever the reason, that weekend Howard had decided to stop up his sink and run cold water. To cool off. No doubt he used to do this all the time in the good old days, back when he was young and spry and only received 5 pounds of mail a day.
Except that he forgot about it. Plum forgot. Left it running. Went to sleep. Passed out. Whatever. Forgot. Couldn’t hear it running. Did I mention he was mostly deaf? Probably didn’t hear it over the hum of the air conditioner. Whatever.
(Needless to say, this story goes downhill rapidly. Water runs downhill. Howard lived above me. What happened next was entirely predictable, but here goes.)
Howard’s sink overflowed. The water ran out of the sink, onto his kitchen floor. Which, after a 30-year-old level of plaster, was my kitchen ceiling. Water came down through the walls and bubbled behind the paint. It came down in the hallway and seeped below the carpeting and soaked the carpet padding. It came down in the bedroom closet adjacent to the kitchen and turned it into a swamp.
I came home to this. Knocking loudly did not rouse him. Calling him did not rouse him. Calling the apartment complex’s emergency answering service and getting a policeman to come over in the middle of the night… that roused him. But by then it was far too late. They turned off the faucets, but the damage was already done. The water continued to drip throughout the night. The water came down through the kitchen ceiling. It made the plaster so wet that the overhead flourescent light in the kitchen fell out of its socket and crashed down onto the floor. That was about 4 AM. And it kept coming, through the now-gaping hole in the ceiling, and dripped mercilessly onto the middle of the kitchen floor.
The apartment manager came first thing in the morning to assess the damage. Amazingly none of my stuff was permamently damaged. I politely asked to break my lease with no penalty. I didn’t want to move to another apartment, I just wanted out. I was unhappy there anyway, and this was an easy way out. She didn’t object. I wrote up a short letter detailing the events so they could use it along with the police report to evict Howard, and she ripped up my lease, and my mother helped me shop around for another apartment. Not exactly the visit she had in mind, but you get what you get when there’s a crazy old drunk upstairs. We miraculously found another apartment complex a few blocks away that had an opening, and we started packing up everything I had, and I moved out a week later.
I never saw Howard again, but for several months after moving, I had all sorts of evil fantasies about him. Like that he went to pick up his mail and snapped his back and just lay there for days inside the semi-private entrance. Or that he was on a stepladder, reaching to water his plants, and fell out his second-story window. Eventually I moved on and mostly forgave him — after all, the whole thing was just an accident, and he was just a lonely, pathetic old drunk who used junk mail as a substitute for companionship.
Here I was thinking you were coming to a happy ending… like maybe you saw him at the supermarket with his new 24-year-old wife because (all this time, unbeknownst to you) he’s actually a billionaire.
…or maybe you got a letter in the mail telling you he died and left all his worldly possessions to you, his only friend, the guy who brought him his mail and took him to the liquor store one time. Then you find out he was a billionaire.
Comment by Chris — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 1:45 am
Chris: Why demand billions when we can get… MILLIONS!
How did an old drunk get a ‘luxury’ appartment? Did his children or family support him?
Comment by Jesper — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 3:42 am
Great read, I wonder what did happen to ol’ Howard. Maybe you should track him down like they tracked down the star wars kid. And instead of raising 4000 bucks, everyone can sign him up for junk mail. hehe
Comment by Taylor — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 4:02 am
There goes another great story for the 100’s !
Now, let’s try to guess what picture Mark will use for this page ;)
Comment by Xavier — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 4:30 am
Damn it, Mark. You behaved like a fussy ol’ cat. The man had trouble, but had no evil intent in his bones. He could have been anybody’s father dealing with his ol’ age his own way.
If you are retired and have nothing interesting to do except watch TV and drink, so what? He forgets to turn the water off, messes you up, and probably got thrown out. So now you want him to die because he inconvenienced you?
Getting another place was probably a good idea and understandable, but wishing him bad mojo is fucked up. Mellow out, Man.
Comment by Don Park — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 5:27 am
I agree with Don - chill out. The guy seemed to have given you no trouble except for one incident. OK, that was a pretty big one, but accidents happen - we’re all humans, after all. You will be old one day, too.
Comment by Martin Little — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 8:23 am
Hope you live to be 70 man. Not all people are that lucky.
Comment by A. B. Wisser — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 8:25 am
a key phrase: “dark musty corners of my conscience that I seldom talk about and never visit”
Comment by jacob — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 9:43 am
I actually thought that the piece was a kind of self-recrimination/confession; I got the impression that Mark would agree with Don, and that it *is* fucked up of him to wish him bad mojo. That he’s trying to reconcile his view of him as a “lonely, pathetic old drunk” to that of the destroyer of furniture, and that he’s less that thrilled that some part of him wishes Howard any ill will.
But hey, that’s just my read. And I haven’t finished my coffee.
Comment by Ethan — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 9:52 am
I also see this as an isolated experience that Mark had and find it lauughable that Don (here and on his weblog) would blow this into a general disrespect for the elderly. Let’s keep this in context.
Comment by Ryan — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:00 am
There is a saying;
“A good neighbour is better than a far friend”
Comment by Anonymous — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:02 am
Your story leaves mean wanting to know more. What is Howard’s story? Who is he? How did his life lead him to that place? What was it like to be so harshly judged by his neighbor? What was his world - for him?
I want to get mad at you Mark for telling this story in such a mean way. I cannot though. I have had my ‘crazy upstairs neighbors’ too, I was no more interested in them then you were about Howard. It’s not old age or vodka that steals our life, it’s our indifferences.
Comment by Paul Philp — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:03 am
Are you sure Howard was a man, and that this happened in Pennsylvania? Howard sounds like my aunt–the plants, the junk mail, the vodka, . . .
When I was a kid and my mom wanted to really chastise me for not cleaning my room, she’d say, “You’re going to be just like your Aunt Charlotte!” I still think of her whenever my recycling bags get out of hand.
Comment by India — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:10 am
Ug, what a harsh ending. Yea that sucked, but I was expecting you to be concerned that he was thrown out, and you’d see him passed out on the street and he died the next winter. When I wish pain upon apartment mates, it’s because of a constant, small, annoyance where they actively ignore the interests of others…
Comment by Joseph — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:46 am
It seem in fact you are very uncomfortable with old drunk, vodka breath, without you knowing it. It’s subconscious hate that lead you to the later evil fantasies, and the dark corner of conscience.
A brave confess..
Comment by yowkee — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:53 am
Ok you guys, I’m on Marks side. Howard sounds like he could have done with a little help, from social services and I guess this is note Mark’s chosen proff.
Comment by TC — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 12:08 pm
Oddly enough, I was just in Bensalem yesterday, and passed by Korman Suites, on my way to pick up a box spring from the Ethan Allen distributor in Bristol. I know exactly what those apartments are like, too. They are far from “luxury”, indeed. That part of your story I agree with.
The ending, on the other hand…I have to agree with Don.
Comment by Mike — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 12:09 pm
Addiction is wondering when someone will please notice that I’m a fuckup and come take away my apartment, my plants, and my stacks of comforting junkmail…………
Comment by jw — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 12:37 pm
Reminds me of a 1940’s style high-rise I used to live in during college that housed young students and older, retirees. T
he blue hairs had moved there in their prime, but stayed for the balance. Due to dementia and other maladies, a few of them almost burned down the place (leaving burners on, etc.).
It was an interesting mix but was livable, relatively cheap and mostly safe, if not restrictive - the way your grandmother restricts multiple visits to the cookie jar when you were five.
They were always aware and watching but feared our youth.
Comment by K — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 1:11 pm
I have worked with “The Elderly”, and have older family members and for the most part I’ve noticed that old people who are alone and self-abusive haven’t been the nicest people during their “youth”.
My grandfather died December 31st, and was 95. We were all there with him his whole life, always visiting and caring and being with him. Why? He was a good person, a nice man. He respected and cared for us, and we respected and cared for him. His family and friends (friends his own age! and younger!) were with him right up until he died. In his room. With him.
Another relative has done everything in her power to ostracize and alienate the family, yelling, screaming, accusing, throwing guilt around like it’s free money. And so now she sits alone in a hospital (through her own actions, nonetheless — her attempts to force her children to move in with her (instead of moving in with them, as offered) have left her unable to walk, though not for any medical reason, only because she refused to walk for so long), no one willing to visit her to endure the abuse. If this was a recent personality change, we’d all be there trying to find out what’s happening, but sadly she’s been like this as long as I’ve been alive, and longer. We try, fools that we are, and are rebuffed continually.
I don’t think people of any age should be revered (or feared) for their age alone. Some old people are alone not because they are old, but because they are asses. Have always been, and age hasn’t mellowed them in the least.
Of course compassion is vital, and wishing death on anyone isn’t particularly desirable (though it seems in this story that this was a regrettable truth, not a point of pride), but let’s not put people up on pedestals simply because they have managed not to die yet.
Comment by Suzanne — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 1:34 pm
Mark Pilgrim: “I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be drunk.”
http://diveintomark.org/archives/2002/05/21/first_step.html
Adds an interesting twist to the story above.
Not offering any conclusions, or judgement. As I said today on Scripting News, when I was Mark’s age, I had the same fears about growing old. Today, I’m about half-way betw Mark and Howard, I have different fears, as you might expect.
http://scriptingnews.userland.com/2003/06/05#When:5:02:16AM
Comment by Dave Winer — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 1:40 pm
It is somewhat interesting to me that the reactions to this post have all been about Howard’s age, and not about his state of mind.
Comment by Bryant — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 2:35 pm
I won’t impose psychoanalyse or judgement. It’s a well written story, a slice o’life with an interesting flavour. Thanks.
Comment by Frank Marion — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 3:01 pm
Save this story to read in forty or fifty years, Mark.
Comment by Arthur — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 4:08 pm
This story left me deeply saddened.
And I think it’s “seeped”, not “seaped.”
Comment by Gina — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 4:42 pm
Eh, I’ve been known to bitch about people, but I try to save real anger for those who have done real damage — the kind that can’t be repaired by some new plaster and carpeting.
Like my ex-wife. Or my wife’s ex.
There was this odd guy living in our neighborhood though, must’ve been about 80. It was obvious he’d suffered multiple strokes and was becoming senile, head and hands trembling and eyes glaring at everything. Every morning I’d almost run over this guy on my way to work. He would be walking down the street wearing two pairs of jogging pants, a t-shirt, a button-up shirt, a sweater, and a batman parka zipped all the way up — in the 100 degree / 100% humidity Alabama summer.
One day he started walking with a walker out of the blue, which was weird because he didn’t need it at all. This went on for a few weeks, then he switched to rolling himself down the street in a wheelchair. Then one morning I turn the corner off our small street onto the four-lane highway to go to work, and he hops off the grassy knoll outside the daycare center, pushing his wheelchair with his walker riding in it, right into the middle of the highway in rush-hour! Cars were swerving and screeching, horns were blasting, and he was completely oblivious as he glared at everyone (who were we to intrude on his space?) and strolled across to the other side.
One day I noticed he just didn’t walk down the streets anymore. I guess the old guy finally died, or maybe his family decided to put him into a nursing home. It’s really sad in a way, because the neighborhood just doesn’t feel the same anymore without me having to dodge old crazy every morning and evening.
Comment by Dave — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 5:13 pm
Ah Mark, more Bukowski than ever. Good stuff. Well Bukowski also used a Mac, so there it goes…
Comment by manuel — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 5:26 pm
First of all, I like Mark. Much of what he does and how he does it is agreeable to me. He has a streak of commonsense that cuts through many complex problems. This is why I got upset. I wouldn’t blink an eye if some stranger I don’t care about behaved badly.
Second, we all have our dark thoughts at times, particularly when someone cuts you off on a freeway. But making these dark thoughts public carelessly is irresponsible. If weblogs give voice to the people, that voice comes with some responsibilities. Dark thoughts should stay in the dark and not be flaunted openedly. Otherwise, we’ll soon have rednecks talking openly in a bar about 101 ways to kill chinks, spicks, and niggers.
Mark aired his dark thoughts and no one complained. Read the comments and you’ll see snickers in agreement with Mark. This is what pushed my button. We are responsible for what we say and what we say affects those who hear us.
Lastly, I want to say this to Mark. Think of this incident like a little swirve while driving. Straighten out the wheel and look forward to where you are going. Cheer up, Mark.
Comment by Don Park — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 6:23 pm
Drunks are drunks. Evading their bullshit behind a veneer of respect for the elderly is sheer nonsense Don. If more people castigated the drunks among us for being so disruptive perhaps they’d hit bottom a bit earlier and save some of their victims the trouble.
Comment by filchyboy — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 7:29 pm
I agree with Don when he says, “… making … dark thoughts public carelessly is irresponsible,” but only to a point. The trouble, of course, is where to draw that line, as different readers have different sensitivities, and I think that (inferred) authorial intent is important when making these judgments. I read Mark’s post, as Ethan did, as “a kind of self-recrimination/confession,” not as an endorsement of hateful thinking.
Comment by jacob — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 7:46 pm
I see this story as a missed opportunity to reach out and connect with another human being. A shallow attempt was made, but no follow through. (Something that we are all guity of in our busy, little worlds.) Maybe an honest attempt to connect with this individual could have brighten his day and improved his quality of life just tiny bit. Maybe not. You never know. But isn’t a human being worth at least the effort? I see people treat stray animals better than they treat other people.
It is easy to love a neighbor that is more like you. It is difficult to love a neighbor that is different (or floods your apartment).
On a different note, the story is well written. It draws you in and you feel sympathic with both characters. Thank you Mark for an honest ending.
Comment by MW — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 8:18 pm
Also, “permamently” should be “permanently.”
Perhaps PySpellChecker is in order. ;)
Comment by Gina — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:34 pm
an interesting reaction to a well-told story.
i agree with Suzanne’s statement that just because someone is old does not automatically mean they must be respected. respect is earned, no matter what the person’s age.
meanwhile Don argues that we should keep our dark thoughts to ourselves. really? all the time? are we so afraid of ourselves we should internalise everything? besides that; you think rednecks don’t already talk about such things?
it seems to me that Mark mentioned his dark thought specifically as an exploration of his discomfort about it.
Comment by heretic — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 10:39 pm
This reminds me of not wanting to be ’small town’:
http://bitworking.org/Aug2002.html#X631663085819797136
A lot of bitterness comes up for me the few times I think about it. That mostly comes up as a general loathing of the residents. It wasn’t a good place for me and once I left, I never wanted to look back.
On a lighter note, Mark’s story isn’t so bad, he only dis’d one guy, I dis’d a whole town :)
Comment by Joe — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 11:42 pm
If anything, I’d argue that the dark little thoughts are the ones we should be more willing to air. When I say air, I do not by any means mean that we should glorify these dark thoughts, as you seem scared of happening, Don, but how can we deal with those parts of ourselves without being able to confront them?
The first step to recovery is to admit …
I certainly don’t want the little dark thoughts that I occasionally get to lurk deep inside me. I’d prefer to confront them and be able to move on. Besides, that redneck hiding his feelings isn’t going to stop him thinking these things, and if he’s airing them openly then at least people know he feels that way. How do you deal with a racist when you don’t even know he is one?
Comment by Lach — Thursday, June 5, 2003 @ 11:55 pm
Sometimes it may be better to stick with junk mail than companions. A good friend of mine lost his mother last year to old age. When he went to collect her belongings and deal with the estate, he discovered that one of her “friends” was an Avon lady who had, over the course of a few years, convinced his mother to buy more and more Avon crap that she didn’t needed. The poor woman died in debt buying Avon products because she couldn’t say no to a “friend”. At least junk mail and bottles of vodka can be used as furniture or fuel in an emergency, but what can you do with multi-level marketers?
Comment by Jason — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 12:54 am
Wow, you’re _that_ Mark. I remember you. Yeah, I got evicted. I had to live at the shelter for a few months, but I went to AA, managed to stay sober most of the time.
I got a job working as a janitor at a dotcom start-up. They were a groovy, liberal bunch, and gave me options for a 1000 shares. I managed to cash-out just in time. I felt sorry for the dot-communists who didn’t. So I started a new business with my money and hired a couple of them to help out. They have been teaching me about the web and I’ve been reading Dive into Mark for months now.
Take a look at my site: http://www.bnatural.com/
I threw everything into that site that I’ve learned. I’m sure you’ll love it.
Getting evicted was the best thing that ever happened to me.
God bless you, Mark.
– Howard
Comment by Howard — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 6:31 am
[snip]
Second, we all have our dark thoughts at times, particularly when someone cuts you off on a freeway. But making these dark thoughts public carelessly is irresponsible. If weblogs give voice to the people, that voice comes with some responsibilities. Dark thoughts should stay in the dark and not be flaunted openedly.
[/snip]
I don’t know if I’d agree with this, Don–my thinking’s more in line with what Lach said. Hell, getting the bad stuff out in the open allows us to exert a little control over it. If you can write it down on paper or post it on a blog, you’ve limited it, contained it somehow. Yeah, there’s something cathartic about it…which is why we’ve got the elegiac tradition, lover’s laments, and every crappy rock ballad by Meatloaf.
And I think it’s this spirit that fundamentally separates Mark’s posts from the “redneck” you mention; the latter guy’s being bigoted for the sake of bigotry, whereas (I think) the former’s trying to find some sort of inner reconciliation with an event in his past.
Dunno. Gonna go stare at the Matchmaker (http://diveintomark.org/archives/2003/05/07/matchmaker.html) some more, instead of pretending that I know what I’m talking about.
Comment by Ethan — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 9:36 am
Mark:
A great read. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Your ability to truly spin the yarn inside a readers head is very good. I look forward to more stories like this, thoughts from your head that have to make it out.
I try not to read too much into this story (elder-hater or not?) since it’s more of a description of your translated thoughts, and not a commentary.
Thanks,
Steve Kirks
Comment by Steve Kirks — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 12:13 pm
What an asshole! Why don’t you grow a little humility andat least pity the poor man - even if he’s a drunk, annoying, etc. He’s still a human being.Comment by James — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 3:40 pm
Somebody didn’t read the rules…
Comment by Mark — Friday, June 6, 2003 @ 3:54 pm
We all have dark thoughts that we shouldn’t have.
There’s this guy I’ve quite deliberately never met, who I used to regularly fantazise about breaking every bone in his body. He certainly doesn’t deserve it: his only real crime was my ex-girlfriend liking him far more than she liked me.
Even carrying out the mildest of those thoughts wouldn’t have made me feel any better. They’d have just made me feel guilty, dirty and weak. I know I’m better than that.
But the thought.. the thought persists.
Comment by Charles Miller — Saturday, June 7, 2003 @ 12:54 am
To clarify my earlier remark, I agree with Don’s sentiments in my own way, but I think his argument is a bit of a slippery slope. A confessional about “dark thoughts” that you possibly regret has value, for reasons already mentioned by others. A racist polemic would have no redeeming value. There’s a qualitative difference between the two; one does not imply the other.
The valuable aspect of Don’s perspective is this: Yes, you have the right to say anything you want (and countless high school newspaper editorials have been written with this in mind), but you also have the responsibility to use discretion. In this case, however, I simply don’t think that Mark stepped over any reasonable boundary of good taste. This is all entirely subjective in any case — obviously — which makes the Don rule difficult to apply successfully and consistently. It’s nevertheless a good notion to consider if you write for any sort of audience.
If you completely disagree, I suspect that you’ve never browsed Slashdot with no comment filters.
Comment by jacob — Saturday, June 7, 2003 @ 2:04 am
Incidentally, I used to write regularly about how I wanted to murder my boss, which shows you how much discretion I have.
Comment by jacob — Saturday, June 7, 2003 @ 2:06 am
It’s unrealistic to expect Mark to kiss and make up with the old coon. Some things are simply *too late* or irreversible. That fact has no bearing on the regret one might carry.
Comment by Joe Clark — Saturday, June 7, 2003 @ 2:32 pm
Joe Clark: “..make up with the old coon.”
I think you must mean old coot, not coon.
http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=coot
http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=coon
Coon is a bad word for an African-American, we don’t know that Howard was one, and if he was, it wouldn’t be cool to call him a coon.
Interesting that political correctness hasn’t extended to age yet, while it does, to some extent, cover race.
Comment by Dave Winer — Saturday, June 7, 2003 @ 8:51 pm
Hey Mark, please ignore all the crazy negative feedback and keep posting the great stories!
thanks,
James
Comment by James — Sunday, June 8, 2003 @ 2:32 am