My brakes went out yesterday. They started making this horrible noise while I was on my way to work, and I thought I had run over a piece of a shopping cart. Usually loud noises are the only thing that prompt me to actually fix something that's wrong with my car, but sometimes even that doesn't work. I have to slide my driver's side window up and down with my hand, and it gradually opens as I drive down the interstate, letting in just enough air to cause this high-pitched whistling sound. Sometimes my passengers ask me if a baby bird is trapped in the car.
Doorhandles that fly off and go sailing across the Publix parking lot when I pull on them, mismatched hubcaps, check engine and brake lights that flicker on and off like Christmas lights, and dents that I lovingly refer to as "battle scars" are the things that make my car unique.
I mentioned to my father that I was saving for a new car, but he reacted as if I said I was saving for a sex change. "It almost always makes more sense to maintain the car you have than to buy a new one," he cautioned. I understand his logic, but there comes a time in every young man's life when he gets tired of driving a green death-trap. If my Dad had his way, I'd probably be rolling around in the wood-paneled station wagon he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen.
People are always boasting about how Japanese cars last forever, but I'm not sure whether this is something we should celebrate. Honestly, how many cars with paint jobs that make them look like they came from the automotive equivalent of a leper colony do we need puttering around our city? I think we should euthanize them.
I guess I'll just watch as my Corolla deteriorates. I'd rather just take it out in the field and execute it like a tired old racehorse, or drive it somewhere that is prone to riots in hopes that an angry mob will flip it over. Unfortunately I still need to get places.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Dead Heads
I went to get my hair cut by a friend of a friend yesterday at Palm Beach Academy. I didn't like the idea of sitting in as a crash-test dummy for an aspiring hairstylist, but my friend assured me that the person cutting my hair wouldn't leave me looking like my 7 year old nephew mistook me for a piece of construction paper.
When I arrived, I sat down in the lobby. I looked to my left, where there was a row of six styrofoam heads, each sporting a trendy haircut. Their lifeless eyes stared at me, and I felt as though they were challenging me to be bolder with my hairstyle, maybe to try out a faux hawk or go a shade darker. I felt a little bit insecure as I reflected on my middle school days, when my grandmother would take small, calculated steps around me in her kitchen as she breathed on me and crafted my hair into a bowl cut, leaving me looking like the love-child of Toad from Mario Brothers and Carrot Top.
It was finally my turn, and I escaped the prying eyes of the mannequin heads to the safety of a barber's chair. When asked what kind of haircut I wanted, I just said "Oh, you know, just clean it up a little bit." I was perfectly satisfied with my hair as it was. If I could have frozen time yesterday, so that my hair stayed that length until the human race went extinct, I would have. That's not a good attitude to have when you're sitting in a barber shop, and asking someone I barely know to freeze time seems kind of unreasonable. I just decided to go short, right then and there. I tried to go "finger length," and discovered that what finger length actually looks like all depends on the size of your barber. The finger length haircut given by the large Italian ex-marine that usually cuts my hair with his giant, meaty fingers, is very different from the finger length of the dainty friend of a friend who shared a mirror with me yesterday.
I noticed a duffel bag on the floor, and asked what was inside.
"Those are my heads," she said. I thought that things could get ugly if you got pulled over and searched with that in your trunk.
"Is there real hair on those things?" I asked.
"Yes, it's dead people's hair. Nobody would donate that much hair," she said.
"Do you think this place is haunted?" I asked.
"No, they didn't die here," she said.
I was uneasy with the knowledge that all around me, people were grooming the hair of corpses. Suddenly, the brightly lit salon became eerie to me. I started to think about the people there more as morticians than anything else.
"Do they smell like embalming fluid when you get them?" I asked.
"No, they wash the hair before we get them," she said.
"Do you ever put their hair up in cornrows?" I asked.
"Yes, all the time," she said.
I thought about how my hair would look in cornrows, and decided that when I die, I'd rather not have my scalp donated to further the cause of beauty. In fact, I'd be more comfortable if nobody did. They should just shave horses instead.
When I arrived, I sat down in the lobby. I looked to my left, where there was a row of six styrofoam heads, each sporting a trendy haircut. Their lifeless eyes stared at me, and I felt as though they were challenging me to be bolder with my hairstyle, maybe to try out a faux hawk or go a shade darker. I felt a little bit insecure as I reflected on my middle school days, when my grandmother would take small, calculated steps around me in her kitchen as she breathed on me and crafted my hair into a bowl cut, leaving me looking like the love-child of Toad from Mario Brothers and Carrot Top.
It was finally my turn, and I escaped the prying eyes of the mannequin heads to the safety of a barber's chair. When asked what kind of haircut I wanted, I just said "Oh, you know, just clean it up a little bit." I was perfectly satisfied with my hair as it was. If I could have frozen time yesterday, so that my hair stayed that length until the human race went extinct, I would have. That's not a good attitude to have when you're sitting in a barber shop, and asking someone I barely know to freeze time seems kind of unreasonable. I just decided to go short, right then and there. I tried to go "finger length," and discovered that what finger length actually looks like all depends on the size of your barber. The finger length haircut given by the large Italian ex-marine that usually cuts my hair with his giant, meaty fingers, is very different from the finger length of the dainty friend of a friend who shared a mirror with me yesterday.
I noticed a duffel bag on the floor, and asked what was inside.
"Those are my heads," she said. I thought that things could get ugly if you got pulled over and searched with that in your trunk.
"Is there real hair on those things?" I asked.
"Yes, it's dead people's hair. Nobody would donate that much hair," she said.
"Do you think this place is haunted?" I asked.
"No, they didn't die here," she said.
I was uneasy with the knowledge that all around me, people were grooming the hair of corpses. Suddenly, the brightly lit salon became eerie to me. I started to think about the people there more as morticians than anything else.
"Do they smell like embalming fluid when you get them?" I asked.
"No, they wash the hair before we get them," she said.
"Do you ever put their hair up in cornrows?" I asked.
"Yes, all the time," she said.
I thought about how my hair would look in cornrows, and decided that when I die, I'd rather not have my scalp donated to further the cause of beauty. In fact, I'd be more comfortable if nobody did. They should just shave horses instead.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Clogger.com
There are certain products that are challenging to purchase while at the same time maintaining your dignity.
The other day, I arrived home from work, and to my dismay, my toilet would not flush. It's not like me to clog toilets, I swear. I recognize the need to preserve our forests, and I go easy on the toilet paper compared to some people I know, who construct nests large enough to house an entire flock of condors on top of the toilet seat before using the bathroom.
After several failed attempts, I realized that my toilet was definitely not going to drain by itself. I searched my condo for a plunger, hoping to find one hiding in the corner of one of the closets I usually neglect. Once I realized I was not going to find one, I was hit with a wave of anxiety. I thought about ways to cover up what was really going on: I could buy a soap dispenser, a couple of throw rugs and a set of towels, that way it would look like I had just moved in, and buying a plunger would be no big deal. It would look like I was preparing for a "just in case" scenario, and I wouldn't have to encounter anyone while holding a prop that said "Hi, my name is Evan, I take huge shits that clog my toilet, nice to meet you."
The problem with buying an entire bathroom set is that I didn't need one, and I didn't feel like driving to Target twice in one day to return it. I started thinking of ways to explain myself to the cashier. I could say that my wife is on this high-fiber diet that's really causing problems.
Upon entering Target, I decided to call a friend, because nobody should have to shoulder that kind of burden alone. I casually walked to the back of the store as if I were there to purchase something as innocent as a frying pan, and grabbed the plunger once I had arrived in the appropriate section. From here it was a race to make it to the front of the store while being spotted by as few Target patrons as possible. I saw a beautiful girl several yards away, and made a beeline for the boys clothing section, where I ducked below a rack of t-shirts. I weaved my way through a maze of products, and finally made it to the register. I was still on the phone with my friend, who was offering me moral support, as the acne-speckled teen scanned my plunger and put it in a shopping bag, which hardly acted as a disguise.
I arrived back at my condo victorious, relieved that I will never have to make that purchase again as long as I live. God help me if I ever become incontinent.
The other day, I arrived home from work, and to my dismay, my toilet would not flush. It's not like me to clog toilets, I swear. I recognize the need to preserve our forests, and I go easy on the toilet paper compared to some people I know, who construct nests large enough to house an entire flock of condors on top of the toilet seat before using the bathroom.
After several failed attempts, I realized that my toilet was definitely not going to drain by itself. I searched my condo for a plunger, hoping to find one hiding in the corner of one of the closets I usually neglect. Once I realized I was not going to find one, I was hit with a wave of anxiety. I thought about ways to cover up what was really going on: I could buy a soap dispenser, a couple of throw rugs and a set of towels, that way it would look like I had just moved in, and buying a plunger would be no big deal. It would look like I was preparing for a "just in case" scenario, and I wouldn't have to encounter anyone while holding a prop that said "Hi, my name is Evan, I take huge shits that clog my toilet, nice to meet you."
The problem with buying an entire bathroom set is that I didn't need one, and I didn't feel like driving to Target twice in one day to return it. I started thinking of ways to explain myself to the cashier. I could say that my wife is on this high-fiber diet that's really causing problems.
Upon entering Target, I decided to call a friend, because nobody should have to shoulder that kind of burden alone. I casually walked to the back of the store as if I were there to purchase something as innocent as a frying pan, and grabbed the plunger once I had arrived in the appropriate section. From here it was a race to make it to the front of the store while being spotted by as few Target patrons as possible. I saw a beautiful girl several yards away, and made a beeline for the boys clothing section, where I ducked below a rack of t-shirts. I weaved my way through a maze of products, and finally made it to the register. I was still on the phone with my friend, who was offering me moral support, as the acne-speckled teen scanned my plunger and put it in a shopping bag, which hardly acted as a disguise.
I arrived back at my condo victorious, relieved that I will never have to make that purchase again as long as I live. God help me if I ever become incontinent.
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