The industrial revolution hasn't hit my block yet.
Without question, my diggs ain't the Taj Mahajhal. We are, if not dumpster divers, then my man and I must fall into the the decidedly less romantic classification referred to -- usually in middle school and with some degree of pointing and laughing -- as "trash diggers." My couches -- one found curbed, one inherited from when my i mean A coke dealer went crazy and gave all his stuff away -- are black. An off-white, discount ikea throw perfectly hides the cigarette burns and the growing 3 ft gash Cousin Corey made when he slept on it for week with a wallet chain. Together with the roadside rug and the plaster-meets-spray-paint lamp the ensemble screams "i just moved out of my parent's house." I'm one cinder-block-and-two-by-four shelf away from....well, what ever fate they reserve for people who use cable spools as coffee tables..
Let me tell you about my pillows. They're a motley crew of mottled, matted heaps that look as if they quite possibly may have, at one time, been made of something that might have resembled fabric or at least an organic compound of some sort, but now look like the unsanitary resting place for "do not remove under the penatily of law" tags. My bed is where polyfill goes to die. So one day i thought to myself "I'm an adult, for christssake!" and I set out to buy myself some nice, sensible adult pillows. Turns out I'm allergic to down. Who knew.
At least I finally retired "Old Scratchy." Old Scratchy was just the disemboweled innards of a pillow, in all its polyester-hunk glory, stuffed into a case. I wanted to take a picture of it before I threw it out, to show all of ya'll, but elowsky said, "Please don't tell strangers how we live."
Anyhow, I digress....
The true purpose of this post is to tell you about my various electronics. As I sit here, I am stareing at my computer speaker that, at any given time, is jabbed with thoughtfully placed household items in a half-assed attempt to fix an electrical short. Its a paperclip right now, but we've covered the gambit: pens, pins, a screwdriver weighted down with the kind of decorative brick-a-brack one finds in one's grampa's study (provided one's grampa has a study, as opposed to a "Radio Shack" franchise like mine did) , an open pair of scissors, etc, etc.
Jurry Rig is my middle name. Erratum "Jurry Rig" Hernandez or Martinez or whatever....
No one can work my can opener but me. even with detailed, hand-illustrated instructions.
Running my washer is like playing wheel of fortune: it involves a great deal of dial spinning, there's usually a speed round, and time is of the essence. Ok, that was really the best metaphor I could come up with, but it really IS complicated. There are no less than eight additional steps needed in order to run a simple load of laundry, including a portion that involves a 10 second window in which you have to drop anything you're doing and dash to the washer or else it will blow a circut and shut off. The fun part about this is, if you miss this step, you don't know when, if ever, you will be able to turn on the washer again. Could be 2 minutes. Could be 2 hours! Who knows!
And the Gordian knot nature of my washer is due in part because it is a "Montgomery Ward's" brand, who i think have been out of business for, like, ten years and it, itself, looks like its at least 30. and partly because.....well, let me just advise you, gentle reader: Never get drunk and stand on your washer for any reason. They're just not really equipped for it.
But the Grand Dame of my personal world of craptacular appliances, The Queen Mother of all was my television set. Given to me in 1998 after my cat broke my first ever television set, this idot box was the electronic equlivant of those "one-legged, blind dog answeres to the name 'Lucky'" posters. The power button had long sinced imploded and so you actually had to insert you finger inside to the set to turn it on. I've had people come over to my house and flat out refuse to touch it for fear of electrocution. And once you actually powered up the monster, I swear to Edward R. Murrow, that I could eat an entire bowl of oatmeal before the picture came in. And, of course, by picture, I mean fuzzy, rabbit-ear shadows. Because I don't have cable (and while you would think the lack of quality programing might hinder me in some way, let me assure you: I don't watch any less TV, I just watch really bad TV.)
The "channel down" button hadn't worked for some time. You miss your channel, you're in it for a whole 'nother round. The remote hung in there for a good while, of course, after the first incarnation had been eaten by a dog. Its eventual death came slow and agonizingly. I just didn't want to give up the ghost. (READ: get the fuck up to actually change the channel.) And so after contorting to all manner yogaic poises and applying all manner of makeshift remote control poking devices, it was quietly laid to rest in a somber ceremony at dawn. Only the cat and I were in attendance.
And at this point, I would like you to extend to me a hand into the, well, the late 20th century, for I gots me a $10 telly off the craigslist and one of them fancy pants digital converter boxes.
Its fucking brilliant. Instead of wavy lines, everything is broken into pixels. (i thought there really were 2 simultaneous Bart Simpsons, suggesting something perhaps about the duality of man. Turns out, the Simpsons were not really deep, my reception is really poor.) Plus I get, like, 30 PBS-es. Every morning Sebastian and i watch Signing Time. and then I watch the channel that shows all the telecourses. Abnormal psychology and childhood development before nap time and then, the language of photography after lunch. Its rad. And also frightening, to any one that's aware there's a "wedding TV' station.
Let me tell you about my pillows. They're a motley crew of mottled, matted heaps that look as if they quite possibly may have, at one time, been made of something that might have resembled fabric or at least an organic compound of some sort, but now look like the unsanitary resting place for "do not remove under the penatily of law" tags. My bed is where polyfill goes to die. So one day i thought to myself "I'm an adult, for christssake!" and I set out to buy myself some nice, sensible adult pillows. Turns out I'm allergic to down. Who knew.
At least I finally retired "Old Scratchy." Old Scratchy was just the disemboweled innards of a pillow, in all its polyester-hunk glory, stuffed into a case. I wanted to take a picture of it before I threw it out, to show all of ya'll, but elowsky said, "Please don't tell strangers how we live."
Anyhow, I digress....
The true purpose of this post is to tell you about my various electronics. As I sit here, I am stareing at my computer speaker that, at any given time, is jabbed with thoughtfully placed household items in a half-assed attempt to fix an electrical short. Its a paperclip right now, but we've covered the gambit: pens, pins, a screwdriver weighted down with the kind of decorative brick-a-brack one finds in one's grampa's study (provided one's grampa has a study, as opposed to a "Radio Shack" franchise like mine did) , an open pair of scissors, etc, etc.
Jurry Rig is my middle name. Erratum "Jurry Rig" Hernandez or Martinez or whatever....
No one can work my can opener but me. even with detailed, hand-illustrated instructions.
Running my washer is like playing wheel of fortune: it involves a great deal of dial spinning, there's usually a speed round, and time is of the essence. Ok, that was really the best metaphor I could come up with, but it really IS complicated. There are no less than eight additional steps needed in order to run a simple load of laundry, including a portion that involves a 10 second window in which you have to drop anything you're doing and dash to the washer or else it will blow a circut and shut off. The fun part about this is, if you miss this step, you don't know when, if ever, you will be able to turn on the washer again. Could be 2 minutes. Could be 2 hours! Who knows!
And the Gordian knot nature of my washer is due in part because it is a "Montgomery Ward's" brand, who i think have been out of business for, like, ten years and it, itself, looks like its at least 30. and partly because.....well, let me just advise you, gentle reader: Never get drunk and stand on your washer for any reason. They're just not really equipped for it.
But the Grand Dame of my personal world of craptacular appliances, The Queen Mother of all was my television set. Given to me in 1998 after my cat broke my first ever television set, this idot box was the electronic equlivant of those "one-legged, blind dog answeres to the name 'Lucky'" posters. The power button had long sinced imploded and so you actually had to insert you finger inside to the set to turn it on. I've had people come over to my house and flat out refuse to touch it for fear of electrocution. And once you actually powered up the monster, I swear to Edward R. Murrow, that I could eat an entire bowl of oatmeal before the picture came in. And, of course, by picture, I mean fuzzy, rabbit-ear shadows. Because I don't have cable (and while you would think the lack of quality programing might hinder me in some way, let me assure you: I don't watch any less TV, I just watch really bad TV.)
The "channel down" button hadn't worked for some time. You miss your channel, you're in it for a whole 'nother round. The remote hung in there for a good while, of course, after the first incarnation had been eaten by a dog. Its eventual death came slow and agonizingly. I just didn't want to give up the ghost. (READ: get the fuck up to actually change the channel.) And so after contorting to all manner yogaic poises and applying all manner of makeshift remote control poking devices, it was quietly laid to rest in a somber ceremony at dawn. Only the cat and I were in attendance.
And at this point, I would like you to extend to me a hand into the, well, the late 20th century, for I gots me a $10 telly off the craigslist and one of them fancy pants digital converter boxes.
Its fucking brilliant. Instead of wavy lines, everything is broken into pixels. (i thought there really were 2 simultaneous Bart Simpsons, suggesting something perhaps about the duality of man. Turns out, the Simpsons were not really deep, my reception is really poor.) Plus I get, like, 30 PBS-es. Every morning Sebastian and i watch Signing Time. and then I watch the channel that shows all the telecourses. Abnormal psychology and childhood development before nap time and then, the language of photography after lunch. Its rad. And also frightening, to any one that's aware there's a "wedding TV' station.