As usual, I was up on my rooftop tonight, and have a report.
Was talking with one of my neighbors who had been over to the Echelon at the Ballpark apartments lately, and commented that it was a younger crowd. “We need to mix it up a little bit,” he said. “No. 10 has more of a middle-aged crowd, where the Echelon’s crowd is younger. It would be good if we could arrange a draft.” It reminded me of the WWE’s recent draft lottery, where five Raw superstars were drafted to Smackdown and vice versa. Not a bad idea. I’m already drafting my list of neighbors I’d send to the Echelon.
One of my neighbors left yesterday, by the way. Not as a result of a draft lottery. My favorite neighbor, a very precocious 5-year-old who could carry on a better conversation than most people six times her age. She went to visit her grandparents and will be back next month. There will be a little less sunshine on the roof until she gets back.
Later in the evening, I was talking to several of my neighbors, including the one who doesn’t understand the difference between a halter top and a tube top. I won’t mention her by name but check the archives. Anyway, at one point she was stretching and she put her ankle behind her head. I’ve gained new respect for this neighbor. If she’s reading: Hey baby. How YOU doin’? What other moves you got? She’s a dancer. Not the kind of dancer I usually go for (i.e. she doesn’t work in a purple building on Mt. Moriah), but, again, what other moves you got?
And that brings another in the series of stupid journal entries to a close. 25 1/2 hours until July.