When I see the Flinstones Google doodle I think
: about Lotus Notes. Why? Because that program is the computer equivalent of a Flinstones car. It’s slow, it doesn’t make any sense, and it runs on your blood, sweat, and tears.
: about the neighbors who live across the hall from us in New York, who my mom has nicknamed, “The Flinstones.” They’re all tall and beefy, like Fred. First there are the grandparents, your typical ornery old people, shuffling to the grocery store and back every day with one of those little rolley carts, wearing shoes that look like house slippers. They spend a lot of time yelling at their 46-year-old daughter, who is single and has never lived anywhere else because they won’t “let” her go out at night (you may feel a pang of pity here, and I feel it too, but when you get to the tender age of 46, not going out is your choice). Her brother, a 50-year-old former drug dealer, also lives in the apartment and spends most of his time acting shifty and wearing short-sleeved button down linen shirts. Lastly, they have this random 10-year-old girl child who also lives there, and clearly comes from the same Flinstone factory. I think she might be the brother’s daughter.
The Flinstones spend most of their days and evenings yelling at each other and slamming doors. Usually, it is impossible to tell what they are yelling about; all I hear is “Yabba dabba dooo!” They occasionally take their fights out into the hallway for our listening and viewing pleasure. When I was younger my parents and I would take turns looking through the peephole on these red-letter occasions, lined up Brady Bunch staircase style, laughing noiselessly at how crazy they were.
