A visit to the car wash

Last night, returning from a rousing visit to Home Depot, where I returned the rug I bought for the second time, I went through the car wash. Now, as a veteran of at least 3 or 4 car washes in my life, I was somewhat prepared for the experience. After being informed that the prices listed were only with the purchase of fuel, and not wanting to shell out an extra two bucks, I bought roughly 60 litres of gas at 108.9, recieved my ticket number, and drove up to the window outside the car wash. I had pulled up about four feet too far away from the machine, and leant out the window for all I was worth.

Relieved at having got the number right, I eased the car into the mammoth "laser-guided" washer, and stopped at the exact right spot. With a mechanical squelch, the water jets turned on with a vengeance; I thought it would be a good idea to close my window, and luckily enough I got it shut before the water had completely soaked the dashboard. The sign which informed me, with aid of flashing lights, what step of the wash I was on was quickly obscured by the suds. The maelstrom outside the car continued for some minutes, as I thought "this is much better than a movie."

Finally, after what seemed like minutes, the "Thank you" sign lit up and I was out, flushed with success and squeaky clean. It had gone pretty well, I thought to myself as the gas tank lid fluttered, unscrewed, behind me.

How to prepare an 8-legged chicken

Tonight I made chicken and watermelon, and it was pretty great. Here's the recipe, so everyone can make it for their friends:

Fry up a couple pounds of bite-sized pieces of chicken, chop up and add a clove of garlic and an onion, stirring in a teaspoon of curry powder. Then grate a carrot and throw it in, along with a teaspoon of salt and half as much pepper. Finally lay on the sweet, sweet watermelon and put the lid on low for about 20 minutes. Sprinkle on some cinnamon and eat with rice or fried bananas.

I also found a recipe for 8-legged chicken, which is "Stitch six extra legs onto a normal chicken and cook."

Unconsciously, I painted that room in Gryffindor house colours. Gold and red just seemed like a logical choice at the time, I didn't make the connection until I was halfway done the red wall. Whatever, it'll be fine. I moved my bedroom to the attic, (one room higher) so I now have white and black checkerboard floor, and a sky-painted, hit you on the head sloped ceiling.

"Watching you" by 54-40 is a stalker song. SUCH a stalker song. I'm starting to rethink Amnesiac as my favourite Radiohead album. It's the kind of weird that scratches you too hard in a place that wasn't that itchy after all. 3 Chairs is great stuff; the 18 minute song with little things changing slowly is something I can really get into. I just found out I have "Get loose" by D4; I'd forgotten about that song, but it should (if it didn't) have an Ipod commercial. Just like I called that Rhinocerose song that should be an Ipod commercial, then it was. "Cubicle". That was it.

Dull

...is my sense of smell. Dull... I cannot smell things.

"Eeew, smell that?"
No.
"Mmm, muffins!"
If you say so.
"That is by far the most repulsive thing I have ever smelled. Just one whiff of it caused my head to explode off my shoulders and my nasal cavity to melt into jelly."
I think I just got something. What did you say it smelled like again?

I have no idea why or how this happened, but of all my various senses, I think it's best to lose the ability to smell. The anosima (abscense of...nose?) foundation disagrees:
"As a child without a sense of smell, it requires a considerable amount of thought to determine that something is missing. Blind children are told they can't see, but anosmic children have to find a way to work it out for themselves."
Yet another example of how people without a sense of smell are worse off than blind people. I suppose deaf and blind people aren't told they're deaf and blind. Shouldn't deaf and blind be enough? Isn't deaf, blind, and mute like adding wine to a coffee cup full of vodka? You can't hear yourself scream, or see other people's reactions, so why not shout your head off... unless maybe in that state you can smell sound?

Work, Music, and Hitler Toothpaste

Tearing off mouldings and mirrors : Buckcherry, Timebomb

Washing 4 walls and patching holes : Cat Power, You are free

First Coat of Primer : RHCP, Blood Sugar Sex Magik (it fit to the second, it was amazing)

Second Coat of Primer : Barenaked Ladies, Maroon + 1/2 Stunt

I love music, but what if Hitler sold toothpaste?

Yeah, it might be something like that.

Death, or how to avoid dentures

My Thursday was well occupied writing epitaphs for Stephen Young, not that I wish he were dead. They're fictional and independent of each other, with the kind of morbid humor I would expect to see trailside in frontier country.

Here lies Stephen, in clouds he’s wading
As he never got too wasted
But if for fire this life he’s trading
It's a good thing we had him basted

Stephen Young was out of luck
The day he got hit by a truck
A car, a bus, and we can only pray
He was dead by the time he was struck by that Segway®

Here the bones of Stephen lie
Poor boy he was, convinced he could fly
No grave was dug where he was laid
We just covered over the dent he made

Many years on a comfotable pension
Which Stephen earned for a brilliant invention
A great surprise to him was that
Everyone loved his "edible hat"

Here lies Stephen, 5 000 pound
The coffin special, was made round
On his virtue or work, none expound
Though none fail to comment on the size of the mound

Here lies Stephen and his wife
Who, when married, refused his name
He was Young for all his life
She was not; they died all the same

I think I have a legitamite career on my hands here. I just wonder how one breaks into the grave decorating buisness, and whether an edible hat would actually work.


P.S. My room, that is, in the new house, is pink. Pink brick patterns, matte pink finish, pale pink mouldings. With pink trim. (It was handpainted by a former teenage girl) The floor is the kind of hardwood that exists only in bed & breakfasts in Skagway, Alaska, where a former park ranger-turned-old-lady forces you to do chores for her, even though you're leaving really early the next morning. The are a triumvirate of track lights which accent the pinkness of the room like a quebecker who is speaking french. I will enjoy spending 10 minutes of my vertical day there.