Randomness

Another junkie talked to me randomly! This time at the coffee shop. This one was totally whacked out and had to be told to put a shirt on before coming in to the shop. He was laughing because I was reading a magazine and someone else was reading a book of poetry (yeah, I don't get it either). Am I some kind of junkie magnet? I'm starting to wonder. It could be a sign that my true calling is in drug rehabilitation. But that just can't be. I hate watching that show, Intervention. I don't care how much it might help others on the path to sobriety, I think that shit is personal and that your darkest moments should not be interspersed with ads for viagra and promos for Shark Week. I get really sad and anxious when I see Amy Winehouse these days. Drunks, however, are my people, and I can totally speak their language.

By the way, I forgot to mention this in my Denver post: if you get your boarding pass for a flight, check to see if there are 4 S's in the bottom corner, like this:

My friend Brande calls this the "Super Secret Special Search." Because that means you are getting the full on terrorist search at security. Yeah, fun times! Humorless security folk are going to take apart your stuff, open up our phone and laptop, and make you stand without your shoes for like, ever. Meanwhile, I had a whole bottle of Visine in my pocket that nobody confiscated or even noticed during the extended search. I don't really feel like much of a genius for fooling them with pants pockets. Nor do I feel any safer about air travel. The terrorists have already won, people. Random, but I thought you all might like the info!

Anyway, if you know me well, you know that I love Ikea furniture. One trip through my flickr site and you will know even if we've never met. I do. I can't apologize about it. I like the idea of beautiful modern arty furniture at affordable prices. I think it fits the philosophy of modern architects working in the 50s; the idea that everyone deserves a beautiful home, no matter their income level. As someone who can't afford vintage originals or fancy reproductions, Ikea is pretty much the next best thing. Plus, since it's fairly cheap, I can not worry about messing with it (check out the ikeahacker blog in my blog list to the right for ways people have altered Ikea furniture). This weekend, we are having a garage sale (if you are in the market for some gently used Ikea furniture, electronics, and kitchen stuff, come on by Saturday!). I am getting rid of the desks in the office, since we basically use our laptops in the living room only. Instead, our dining room is becoming a craft table in the office, which allowed me to make my most wanted Ikea purchase ever: the Docksta table.


A complete rip-off of the Saarinen tulip table from 1956, which would cost me close to a grand if I wanted the real deal. You see what I mean? I painted our original dining chairs white and added white chair pads. The whole dining area feels and looks bigger. Maybe we'll finally go back to eating in there.

Never Trust a Junkie

A friend of mine once argued that laundromats have revolutionary potential. If everyone had to do their laundry in a laundromat, the argument went, neighborhoods would have a better sense of community because people would interact with each other more. Well, I beg to differ. Mind you, he said this across the street from the laundromat, far from his clothes and the potential for "community." Nobody wants to hang out in a laundromat. There are good reasons. For instance, I give you today's laundromat experience:

I was reading my Geek magazine, all by myself waiting for my washer to finish up when what could only be called a dirty junkie came up to "talk" to me. He asked if he could use my cell phone. I told him it was broken and only accepted calls, but didn't allow calls out (more on this lie later). I said there was a pay phone a few blocks away. But, you see, this wasn't why he wanted to talk to me, because he kept right on talking. "Why did you get that star tattoo?" he asked. I replied while looking at my magazine, "No reason, just because I liked it." "Oh really, I like mine too." He shows me a small star on his elbow. "I didn't get mine because I wanted to, though, it wasn't really a choice, but I like it now." So what is this? Is he telling me he's been in prison? If so, why? I know I look haggard on laundry day, but do I look like someone who can commiserate on the annoyance of forced prison tattoos? Am I now supposed to ask how he was forced to get his elbow tattooed? Or is this a way to scare me into giving him my cell phone? If so, bad plan dude. It didn't exactly scare me that someone was a bottom in prison. It made me uncomfortable though, so I just looked at my magazine and said "hmm." Then he told me I should get stars "all over" my body. I responded with silence. He took the hint and left me alone.

I bring this up because it's weird, but also because of the way I responded to him, which I both love and hate. I made up a very believable and yet totally cowardly lie. I said it as if it were completely true and looked him in the eye. That statement could have passed a polygraph. I am proud of that in a twisted way. However, if I were a guy, I would have said "no." And I would have probably said it in a way that conveyed "you may leave now," thereby avoiding the ensuing tattoo conversation. I think it will be a nice little experiment for the next month if I start thinking "What would a guy do?"

Anyway, here's a picture of my lunch. Lovely, amazing, leftover Thai food from Thai Silk in Long Beach. I think their bbq pork fried rice has crack in it. It's that damn good. With a Coke, of course.