I don’t mind it. It’s really no different then the chats I’d have with people over arms anyway. The moss crew are a group of great people the last time I was there. Of corse it had to be after the old man passed.
It's problematic for me. As has been noted in the past, I'm a high-functioning autist/'sperg. For me, part of that manifests as a total lack of anything like patience for small-talk/long-winded blabbing without getting to the point - assuming there's a point to be got to in the first place.
In the immortal words of Tuco at the end of the bathtub scene: "If you have to shoot, shoot, don't talk!"
Running one's mouth for the sake of hearing one's own voice may very well be the quickest way to convince me that one has nothing to say. When talk is required, I want it to be minimal, I want it to be quick, I want it to be over with, and I want to be on to actually ACCOMPLISHING something, rather than standing around waiting for someone to finish gabbing about it.
Don't give me a 30 minute sermon about how the dump truck is going to pull in, make a 27 point turn ('cause there's so little room between those two trees over there, and the side of the house is too close to the edge for him to get around) then back into the area where we want the gravel dumped ('cause he can't just drive into position 'cause of those trees and the house, and he can't go around the block and come in the back way 'cause the alley is too narrow to fit the truck through, so there's no other way to do it, so we have to put up with him doing the 27 point turn, then we can guide him back to where we need it dumped, and everything will be fine 'cause then we can load it into wheelbarrows and move it to where it's actually needed without mashing Mrs. McGillicuddy's daffodils (Y'know she won a prize for those last spring? - got her a bundle of lottery tickets, so we gotta be careful not to run them over) blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah and by now, I've zoned out completely since I couldn't give a shit about her daffodils other than not squashing them)
Instead, tell me the gravel truck is coming, what time he's expected to be here, anything special that needs doing to prep for it, and I JUST PLAIN DON'T CARE how the driver gets the load dumped, that's what HE gets paid the big bucks for, so it's his problem, not mine. The only thing I care about is that the gravel arrives so we can get on with the project!
Unfortunately, Eric (especially) seems to think that every time someone hands him a limerick to read, he has a moral obligation to turn it into a 600 page novel.
It's made even worse by the fact that I find Eric's speaking voice abrasive as hell. Great guy or not, trying to listen to him long enough to figure out what his point is tends to send me trying to crawl up a wall and escape.