A Semi-Super Fly Weekend
Maybe the title's a bit grandiose. You'll have to excuse it. Sorry I didn't post anything yesterday; I was a bit tied up, and not in that nice amateur pornography way.
Friday night, prior to Galactica, I began the long task of sorting through old clothes in a search of things I can get rid of. There's about one drawer that still needs to be sorted, but for the most part, I'm good, and I've reduced my amount of excess clothes. Now, I just need to make two trips: one to one of the pawn shops, which sells used jeans, and one to Goodwill or something. Also, while I had that corner of my room cleared out, I got everything out from under my bed, and then put most of it back. Among other things, I found:
A brand new model kit, still in the original plastic, of an F4U Corsair
Six or seven old computer games, most of which I've not played in years
The October 1999 issue of Playboy, the last time that they had "Girls of the Pac 10"
A Snakelight, and an Energizer Flashlight
Eventually, since long-time TSTF commentator April was back in College City for the weekend, I sorted my stuff as best I could and hit the highway. It was pretty heinous on the road; I usually go about sixty-eight, but I think I mainly stuck between sixty and sixty-five, and I was slower on the way back on account of less light and more water. At any rate, I got to April's house, and then we went to pick up April's best friend, who I'll call Swill, and went to the happiest place on Earth: [Generic Massive Book Store] in Metropolis. I'd not been there in a couple of years; unfortunately, since I'm in a nominal low-spending mode, I'm not sure I was able to truly appreciate it. I wound up buying three books and two postcards, one of which I'll send to Doug the Embalmer; I spent less than twenty dollars in a store that I could easily drop a thousand dollars in. Being on a budget is a bit of a buzz kill, I guess; then again, it's probably a stabilizing force, so it's not all bad.
Before leaving [Generic Massive Book Store], we went across the street to a gelatto restaurant that probably wasn't there the last time I was in the area. Upon completion of that, we drove back to Swill's boyfriend's flat to drop her off, then back to April's parents' house to drop her off. I stuck around for a bit, talked to my favorite of her six brothers, and then went out to leave. Upon doing my customary walk-around of my car, which I do prior to most night driving in order to be aware of problems (and hopefully fix them) before the constabulary can pull me over for them, I noted that my front left bottom blinker was out. I hugged April goodbye, and drove to the nearest fueling depot.
I got myself parked, and the attendant came over; you must keep in mind, of course, that by this time it's roughly 00:30 on Sunday morning. However, I assumed that since this was an area that has big lorries passing through all the time, they probably had the expertise, capacity, and inventory to replace a simple running light. I was incorrect in that assumption. I told the attendant that I had a running light out and needed to replace it; he literally raised his hand as if he was still in elementary school and said "Can I ask you a question? What's a running light?" He was a somewhat rotund person in a reflective orange vest, and sporting a stylish labret piercing; you can imagine my surprise to learn that he was dumb as a post. At any rate, I got out of my car and showed him the light that was out, and he informed me that they had a limited bulb selection in the mini-mart among the flashlights, and that I'd have to change it myself. I asked him to confirm that, and he said that he couldn't do it, not because it wasn't within his responsibilities as a fuel depot attendant, but because he was barely qualified to check oil. I thanked him and got back on the road, figuring that if I were pulled over, I could explain that the metallic gentleman at the fuel depot had been dumb as a brick, and unable to help me.
Honestly. I realize that running a full service gas station half an hour after midnight on a Saturday night isn't exactly the fast track to a PhD, but shouldn't we expect some level of intelligence in these people? At my regular service station, there's a guy there who's dumb as a sack of hammers, forty years old, and has reached his peak as a pump monkey, and I guarantee you that he could change the light bulb in a blinker, albeit very slowly. Good grief.
At any rate, it's time for me to get ready for work. I'll do a news update, including my thoughts on the selection of Daniel Craig as the next James Bond, while I'm down there.
Friday night, prior to Galactica, I began the long task of sorting through old clothes in a search of things I can get rid of. There's about one drawer that still needs to be sorted, but for the most part, I'm good, and I've reduced my amount of excess clothes. Now, I just need to make two trips: one to one of the pawn shops, which sells used jeans, and one to Goodwill or something. Also, while I had that corner of my room cleared out, I got everything out from under my bed, and then put most of it back. Among other things, I found:
Eventually, since long-time TSTF commentator April was back in College City for the weekend, I sorted my stuff as best I could and hit the highway. It was pretty heinous on the road; I usually go about sixty-eight, but I think I mainly stuck between sixty and sixty-five, and I was slower on the way back on account of less light and more water. At any rate, I got to April's house, and then we went to pick up April's best friend, who I'll call Swill, and went to the happiest place on Earth: [Generic Massive Book Store] in Metropolis. I'd not been there in a couple of years; unfortunately, since I'm in a nominal low-spending mode, I'm not sure I was able to truly appreciate it. I wound up buying three books and two postcards, one of which I'll send to Doug the Embalmer; I spent less than twenty dollars in a store that I could easily drop a thousand dollars in. Being on a budget is a bit of a buzz kill, I guess; then again, it's probably a stabilizing force, so it's not all bad.
Before leaving [Generic Massive Book Store], we went across the street to a gelatto restaurant that probably wasn't there the last time I was in the area. Upon completion of that, we drove back to Swill's boyfriend's flat to drop her off, then back to April's parents' house to drop her off. I stuck around for a bit, talked to my favorite of her six brothers, and then went out to leave. Upon doing my customary walk-around of my car, which I do prior to most night driving in order to be aware of problems (and hopefully fix them) before the constabulary can pull me over for them, I noted that my front left bottom blinker was out. I hugged April goodbye, and drove to the nearest fueling depot.
I got myself parked, and the attendant came over; you must keep in mind, of course, that by this time it's roughly 00:30 on Sunday morning. However, I assumed that since this was an area that has big lorries passing through all the time, they probably had the expertise, capacity, and inventory to replace a simple running light. I was incorrect in that assumption. I told the attendant that I had a running light out and needed to replace it; he literally raised his hand as if he was still in elementary school and said "Can I ask you a question? What's a running light?" He was a somewhat rotund person in a reflective orange vest, and sporting a stylish labret piercing; you can imagine my surprise to learn that he was dumb as a post. At any rate, I got out of my car and showed him the light that was out, and he informed me that they had a limited bulb selection in the mini-mart among the flashlights, and that I'd have to change it myself. I asked him to confirm that, and he said that he couldn't do it, not because it wasn't within his responsibilities as a fuel depot attendant, but because he was barely qualified to check oil. I thanked him and got back on the road, figuring that if I were pulled over, I could explain that the metallic gentleman at the fuel depot had been dumb as a brick, and unable to help me.
Honestly. I realize that running a full service gas station half an hour after midnight on a Saturday night isn't exactly the fast track to a PhD, but shouldn't we expect some level of intelligence in these people? At my regular service station, there's a guy there who's dumb as a sack of hammers, forty years old, and has reached his peak as a pump monkey, and I guarantee you that he could change the light bulb in a blinker, albeit very slowly. Good grief.
At any rate, it's time for me to get ready for work. I'll do a news update, including my thoughts on the selection of Daniel Craig as the next James Bond, while I'm down there.
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