(no subject)
I have the absolute coolest ride ever, and you know it's absolutely true. Months later, as it'd seem, the wide scope of the project undertaken by my father has finally narrowed to a point, the single shining surface of which results in me myself and I cavorting around these wide city streets with a finely tuned Swedish machine. It's undercover, I say. The paint job's faded, yeah, patches of gray on the darker gunsteel color, but the inside is how we say, muy bueno, bella, bravissimo, heck, I don't speak those languages, but I have a damn fine automobile.
The sweet and purest sign of my father's love could perhaps be best expressed in the fact that when my old cd player toasted itself and a few fuses, my dad replaced it with this sleek beast of a system he'd been holding back for a transportation project of his own. It gleams silver and glows red, and the speakers are attached in this new wondrous fashion I hear referred to as "stereo". As in, the sound comes from all over, and songs split themselves among the interior. It's incredible, and I highly recommend it. I've never felt the urge to listen to classical music while driving quite so intensely before. In the past, I relied on forms of musical expression that prided themselves on finding definition through copious amounts of feedback. Low fidelity. Distortion. No more! Now, each tenuous bow drawn tight on quivering strings hums true. It's a thing of great beauty. I could drive around all day, which does fuck-all for the environment but feels so good as an experience. I'm going to strive for some kind of balance. Balance, yes.
We spent hours today on final touches. Hoses, sleeves, dark greasy bits that needed to be tightened or loosened or cleaned. Seatbelts loosened, unscrewed, switched. Wide plastic pieces of housing wedged off and snapped back on. The worst thing was, for every piece we replaced, we took the old piece and fastened it onto the old car. Mechanic vultures hovering over the poor carcass of my last Volvo, stripping it of metal entrails.
Here's what I'll say. There was an obscene amount of work done on this car since we purchased it, and it's the first automobile where I've been worried about someone hitting it. Every other car I just shrugged it off and was like, hey! More insurance for me! This one, though. It'd just make me sick, because that man spent so much of his recent waking hours in tinkering and adjusting and replacing. Probably the only way that he says he cares that I can actually understand.
Oh, and as of now, my parents are both staunch stern resistors to the very concept of their precious bundle of daughter-flesh traveling to Africa. Ireland was suggested as an alternative. Africa is a big scary place full of diseases and violence, and, and, well, they, my mom so far the most verbal although my dad obviously deadset against as well, can't get behind the matter.
The sweet and purest sign of my father's love could perhaps be best expressed in the fact that when my old cd player toasted itself and a few fuses, my dad replaced it with this sleek beast of a system he'd been holding back for a transportation project of his own. It gleams silver and glows red, and the speakers are attached in this new wondrous fashion I hear referred to as "stereo". As in, the sound comes from all over, and songs split themselves among the interior. It's incredible, and I highly recommend it. I've never felt the urge to listen to classical music while driving quite so intensely before. In the past, I relied on forms of musical expression that prided themselves on finding definition through copious amounts of feedback. Low fidelity. Distortion. No more! Now, each tenuous bow drawn tight on quivering strings hums true. It's a thing of great beauty. I could drive around all day, which does fuck-all for the environment but feels so good as an experience. I'm going to strive for some kind of balance. Balance, yes.
We spent hours today on final touches. Hoses, sleeves, dark greasy bits that needed to be tightened or loosened or cleaned. Seatbelts loosened, unscrewed, switched. Wide plastic pieces of housing wedged off and snapped back on. The worst thing was, for every piece we replaced, we took the old piece and fastened it onto the old car. Mechanic vultures hovering over the poor carcass of my last Volvo, stripping it of metal entrails.
Here's what I'll say. There was an obscene amount of work done on this car since we purchased it, and it's the first automobile where I've been worried about someone hitting it. Every other car I just shrugged it off and was like, hey! More insurance for me! This one, though. It'd just make me sick, because that man spent so much of his recent waking hours in tinkering and adjusting and replacing. Probably the only way that he says he cares that I can actually understand.
Oh, and as of now, my parents are both staunch stern resistors to the very concept of their precious bundle of daughter-flesh traveling to Africa. Ireland was suggested as an alternative. Africa is a big scary place full of diseases and violence, and, and, well, they, my mom so far the most verbal although my dad obviously deadset against as well, can't get behind the matter.