Random dude at Cafe Vita: “You mind if I sneak in here and get a little plug-in action?”
An’ I thinks: “Yes I mind! Not on your life.”
Then I says [suddenly realizing he means the electrical outlet beside me]: “Uh… oh, no problem.”
Then random dude says: “…can you handle this three-prong?”
An’ I says: “…”
My great, great aunt Nell (or maybe it was my great, great aunt Bess) purchased a turquoise 1969 Chevrolet Malibu (4-door) under the dutiful guidance of my grandfather and his brother, “Pep”. All accounts paint Nell/Bess as a complete hazard of a driver–no roadside ditch went untreaded when she was behind the wheel. The nephews were more than a bit concerned that over-application of the car’s power brakes (a novelty in pre-1970s autos according to my dad), would send Nell/Bess through the windshield as seatbelts were not commonly worn.
Nell/Bess hardly ever drove the car, but in the interest of keeping it nice, she put on aftermarket seat covers. The one for the back seat fit too loosely. To keep it taut, she weighed it down with four twenty-pound cobbles positioned under the rear window, directly behind the heads of backseat passengers. So, in addition to all of the dangers that lay ahead when she would slam the power brakes, riders should have also worried about the skull-crushing projectiles that would come from behind.
Years past and the cobbles were discovered and removed–much to our family’s amusement. Pep inherited the ’69 Malibu, who then promptly smashed the front of it on a motorcyclist. In accordance with Eaton doctrine, the car was repaired as cheaply and shittily as possible.
More years past, the car resided in an airport hanger in Salinas. Every half decade or so, when it would actually start, it transported drilling crews between job sites and motels. As my sixteenth birthday approached, my dad, tired of transporting my whiny ass around, thought the old Malibu would be a satisfactory first car for me.
On the car’s retrieval, we noticed necrotic weather stripping no longer sealing out the coastal moisture. The interior reeked of mildew, the ceiling interior hung low, and to our surprise, we discovered a cornstalk sprouting out of the backseat foam-rubber.
“Oh, this isn’t all that bad; you’ll just have to fix it up a little.”
1) One must always blog The Truth (being that there is no absolute criterion of Truth, one must report his/her version of The Truth as accurately as he/she is able).
2) One must never blog drunk, as the state heavily distorts one’s portrayal of The Truth. Not to mention, inebriation can obfuscate one’s appraisal of The Aesthetic/Interesting.
In unabashed violation of rule two, I am presently drunk… and I’m blogging that way now. I just spent $15 in happy hour Martini-froofiness to achieve this state (plus another $10 in food to try to dilute the effect) and I’m not about to let it go to waste.
My apologies.
Being that it’s a rare/beautiful spring day here in Seattle, I find myself on Capital Hill, my focus frequently diverted onto nether-regions of attractive female Seattlites. And I am not disappointed.
I chose to celebrate tonight because I achieved something this afternoon. Though my achievement will likely never show up on anyone else’s radar, I can’t help but beam–it was a puzzle that I solved through sheer ingenuity and tenacity.
I am proud of myself.
SanDisk Cruzer Micro Flashdrive
This morning I learned that this device:
“Spandau” (…in no way related to ballet, or: “Hitler’s Zipper“)
“…
…”
