“It’s the thought that counts,” I thought as I first laid eyes on LoriLoo, almost two years ago. Bryan created the blog as a way for me to keep in touch with friends, a way to relate my adventures, as I lived my new life in Korea. The site really was ugly. You can still see the first iteration here. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. It was a gift, after all, and a very thoughtful one at that. How long had he spent choosing the colors, creating the fonts, making everything just so? I couldn’t change it. Over time I grew fond of the abominable orange, the way the corners didn’t meet just so. I grew to love LoriLoo.

It was only quite recently, over quite a few cocktails, that he asked me, “Why the hell haven’t you changed that ugly template I set up for your blog?”

I was stunned.

“I, well, I… well, I thought it was ugly too, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I thought you spent a lot of time creating it.”

He burst into laughter. “It was the first template I saw. I figured you’d have a lot of free time in Korea and you’d create something really cool.”

Finally having the creator’s blessing, I meant to create a really cool design. I really did. But just never got around to it. Until he sent me this email… “I’m ready.”

Ready to change the ugly template. Of which I had surprisingly grown so fond.

We spent a while reviewing the options, talking about what could be altered and what couldn’t. I like the new look. It’s calming. It’s simple. The only problem was that it didn’t have orange. The color which I’ve come to associate with LoriLoo.

He gave me a crash course on web colors. I saw it. #FF9900. LoriLoo Orange. “The titles have to be this color. Just for old time’s sake.”

I’ve moved over to www.loriloo.com

Come visit me!

“Hey, do you want a ride back to your side of town?”

We looked at the 2000 person deep line for Express Muni tickets. We imagined the crowded conditions on said buses. We glanced at each other and smiled. Jackpot!

His friend, Pam, picked us up only a few blocks away from the park. He sat in the front seat, the four other women smushed in the back. We were studying the lilac flyers detailing live concerts in the area we had received walking out of the park. After discussing the shows we truly did want to see, we began ridiculing the ones we didn’t. “Poison – now there’s a band I’ve been wanting to see.” “No, I know you really want to see REO Speedwagon. Go on, admit it.” “Hey, Al Green, August 2, let’s go!” he exclaimed. We weren’t sure if he was serious or not. The name sounded familiar.

“Seriously. He’s awesome. Who wants to go?”

He turned around from his front seat position to face us. We returned his enthusiastic gaze with blank stares. Someone else broke the silence. “Who’s Al Green?”

“You don’t know who Al Green is? C’mon!”

The five women exchanged glances. “What does he sing?” I asked. He continued to expound on Al Green’s greatness, not naming any songs. “Details, I need details. Sing one of his songs,” I beseeched him.

“I can’t sing.”

“Hum it,” Amber demanded.

“C’mon… You’ve got to know Al Green.”

Needing more info, I challenged, “Just say the words to one of his songs. You don’t even have to sing them.”

“I don’t know. He sings, well, everything. I bet if we turned the radio on to any, ANY, Motown station right now one of his songs would be playing.”

The women all laughed. Pam, the driver, turned to him, “It’s all yours. Knock yourself out.”

He turned the radio on and Amber shouted “98.1” from the back seat. He fiddled until the notes came across strong and clear. “Good or bad, happy or sad…”

“It’s him! It’s Al Green! This is him!” He jumped in his seat, proffered a classic white man’s overbite, and began singing along. As did we all. “Why, why some people break up

Then turn around and make up… Ooooooooo….”

There were many costumes that were spinoffs of “Weapons of Mass Destruction” during this year’s run, but my favorite was the music-thumping, camouflage-wearing, beer-imbibing hooligans, pulling a colossal alcohol filled missile – “Weapons of Mass Debauchery.” Yeah.

A close second, however, were the 30 or so Jeannies, from the beloved sitcom “I Dream of Jeannie.” Led by a fearless Major Nelson.

A moment after the pink mass of gauze and tulle passed us, so did five Wonder Woman(s) (Women?), exclaiming, “Hey, I heard there were I Dream of Jeannies ahead… Have you seen them?” From one beloved 70’s icon to another…

…she appeared to be talking on her cell phone. Which I thought was a little unusual, her graying hair pulled into a knot atop her head, her black gloves, with just a little hole in the left ring finger speaking from another era. But, good on her, keeping up with technology.

Except she wasn’t. She was talking to someone, but that someone wasn’t there for anyone else to see. During the 30 minute ride she changed seats three times. She discussed a pamphlet from the church, she berated this person for a decision he or she had made, she talked about the changes made on the BART line.

I tried not to stare. It was difficult. At one point she sat directly in front of me. I watched her dark eyes dance with fury. I followed her gaze, focused on someone not there. Or were they? Not there, that is. In her eyes, was that person there? Or was she reliving a conversation from a previous time? Was the person answering? It certainly seemed so, as she reacted much more vehemently to some silences than to others.

I thought about my conversations with people. And how at some point during the conversation I usually touch them. A brush on the hand, a pat on the shoulder. Maybe it’s my own way of making sure they aren’t merely a figment of my imagination, that I’m not the crazy lady on the BART train arguing with herself.

Exasperated, he turned to his little sister. “You only have to look for leaves with purple polka dots. THOSE are the ones that are poison ivy.”

See, this is what you are supposed to ask someone when they have the hiccups. Then they magically disappear. The hiccups, that is, not the person. I taught this to my co-workers and they are amazed that, for whatever strange reason, it works.

Jenifer is 6 months pregnant. The stage when it’s starting to get uncomfortable to sit for too long. The stage when the baby starts kicking and pushing and making its presence known.

This morning, she laughed as I walked past her cube. I stopped, curious. “I tried your trick last night.”

I was perplexed. Trick? What trick? What trick had I taught her about pregnancy and/or babies?

“See, we were watching tv. And the baby started kicking. At least it felt like a kick at first, but then I realized the little thing must have had the hiccups. Every couple of seconds, a small shudder. So I grabbed my belly and said to the little one, ‘When is the last time you saw a white rabbit?’ There was a momentary pause, then the shudders stopped. It even works in utero.”

“But Emily, you’re always complaining we only go to bars. Here’s our chance to go to an art gallery, for a good cause, hear some good beats, and meet new people. It’s exactly what you’ve asked for. You’re always saying we should go to 111 Minna – let’s go.”

“Lori, I’m wearing a scruffy work outfit, no makeup, I’m tired…”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. What are you wearing? I’ll wear something similar. I just washed my face, so I have no makeup on. It’s even. Even, I tell you. It will be fun.”

“Okay. Get in a cab and meet me there.”

I couldn’t believe it. I had convinced her to go! I immediately changed out of my pajamas, ran a brush through my newly short hair, and ran down the stairs.

Ten minutes later, I sidled up to her at 111 Minna, a trendy art gallery/bar/dance club. “I love you! I’m so glad I can convince you to come out at the last minute on a school night!”

We sat down and began talking. Soon a gentleman walked over to us. He came behind me with the words, “You so gorgeous; I must sit and talk to you.”

Emily and I exchanged knowing smiles. He sat down. “Hi, I’m Emily,” she began, “this is Lori.” “Hi, I’m Richard.” That was about the only part of the conversation that made sense.

“So, how do you know Keyatta (the host of the party)?” Emily asked.

“Well, I’ve never been there, but I’ve lived in Chicago.”

Emily and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. What did he think we said?

“No, Kenyatta. How do you know Keyatta?” she tried again.

“I’ve been here 4 years, you?” Then, to Emily, he said, “You have such baby face!”

We gave up trying to establish a mutual connection. Emily laughed and said, “Hmm. No one’s ever told me that before. Baby face. Thank you, I think. I’ve lived here 4 years.”

I began, “Well, I’ve lived here off and on for about twelve years.”

“Twelve years? You moved here as little girl?” he countered.

How had this man, who didn’t speak English as his native language, learn such cheesy pick-up lines?

This wasn’t boding well for getting Emily to come out again on a whim.

Emily graciously asked him what he did.

“For one year, I live above bar. I drunk for one year. Every night. Drink. Drink. Drink. Too much drink.”

Emily continued trying, “No, for work. What do you do for work?”

“I drive. Truck.”

We looked at each other, hoping that he wasn’t driving the truck while intoxicated for a year.

“Oh, that’s interesting. For who?” we asked.

“Warehouse. Big warehouse.”

“Really? What kind of warehouse?” We were thinking furniture, import/export, technology equipment…

“Frozen meat. Big pieces meat.”

There was no way this conversation was going to get any better.

“We’re going to go now. It was nice to meet you,” we said in unison.

He followed us to the door, perhaps making sure we were really leaving.

As we walked to the car, I looked at Emily, shaking my head. “You know, I’m just not sure what to think. How come the only guy that took marked interest in us was a toothless, drunk for a year, truck driving, cheesy pick up line specimen of a male?” We both burst into laughter.

Okay, maybe not kill him. But quiet him. Silence him.

Bill’s my upstairs neighbor. Quite a friendly guy. Quite a large guy. Large. Very large. I’m guessing 280 pounds large. Walking on hardwood floors, no carpets (because he likes the look of the wood) large.

Which wouldn’t be that bad. Not really. Except that he manages a night club. A night club that causes him to return to his hardwood floors, no carpets, I just happen to be wearing cowboy boots and will drop them above your bed, apartment at 4:30 am each and every morning of the week. And invite his friends to do likewise.

It’s gotten to the point to where even if he’s not working, I still wake up at 4:30 am. Look at the clock. Look at the ceiling. Mumble curses, turn over, and try to re-enter REM state.

It’s a difficult situation. See, I’m a heavy sleeper. So when I am awakened, I’m quite incoherent. Incoherent to the point that I don’t have my wits about me to bang on the ceiling with my broom. Incoherent to the point that I don’t have my wits to call my building manager in the middle of the night so that it becomes an important issue to her. I do talk to Bill the next day. He is extremely apologetic. And usually sends me bottles of wine. With sweet notes. “I’m terribly sorry about the noise. Please accept this with my sincerest apologies.” Which I do.

But right now I would rather have a solid night’s sleep. Shhhh.

It was hard. Due to the six “nondisclosure, you will be arrested and never seen again if you reveal or discuss any of the information on this test” statements that I signed, I can’t say much more.