(no subject)
Right after I pulled into the Toyota service center I heard what sounded suspiciously like the Good Eats theme, albeit tinkly and tinny. When I turned around I saw a catering truck going by, plain white with just CATERING printed in black letters on the side, the source of the music.
Inside the waiting room, while the guys were rotating the tires and changing the oil and fixing the window switch panel, I sat on a faux-leather black couch with a number of other bored zombies. A lady dragged in two enormous Rubbermaid containers, and when she opened one piles of chip bags and candy bars were revealed. Finally one woman asked timorously, "What are those for?" The snack lady had apparently learned a lesson from the airlines and was out to make a buck or several by selling junk food to a captive audience. I estimate about half the room took her up on it, including the couple next to me who had brought their two young girls who cried until they got candy. When one refused to say thank you, however, Daddy took it and ate it himself. Luckily my PSP earphones blocked most of the tantrum.
Meanwhile, the flat screen TV had an interminable morning show on; I generally think they're bad enough when pushing diet books or housewares, but today, they were selling a plastic surgeon. A woman came on, crying about how she hates looking in the mirror now that she's forty, that she always sees something she wants changed. The miracle doctor with his new scarless techniques has made her a whole new woman! Attractive! Successful! Perfect! Applause!
I looked around the room then, and thought, this is it. The height of our culture. Sitting in a sterile room at a car dealership, with one woman selling buckets of junk food, and a flatscreen TV selling a twisted version of beauty to mind-numbed people who can't look away. How pathetic. And me, with my PSP and DS at hand, and bottled water to wash down a purseful of pills, little better.
After they called my name and I collected my papers, the Good Eats catering truck rolled by again, still playing the same song two hours later.
I was so glad to get home.
Inside the waiting room, while the guys were rotating the tires and changing the oil and fixing the window switch panel, I sat on a faux-leather black couch with a number of other bored zombies. A lady dragged in two enormous Rubbermaid containers, and when she opened one piles of chip bags and candy bars were revealed. Finally one woman asked timorously, "What are those for?" The snack lady had apparently learned a lesson from the airlines and was out to make a buck or several by selling junk food to a captive audience. I estimate about half the room took her up on it, including the couple next to me who had brought their two young girls who cried until they got candy. When one refused to say thank you, however, Daddy took it and ate it himself. Luckily my PSP earphones blocked most of the tantrum.
Meanwhile, the flat screen TV had an interminable morning show on; I generally think they're bad enough when pushing diet books or housewares, but today, they were selling a plastic surgeon. A woman came on, crying about how she hates looking in the mirror now that she's forty, that she always sees something she wants changed. The miracle doctor with his new scarless techniques has made her a whole new woman! Attractive! Successful! Perfect! Applause!
I looked around the room then, and thought, this is it. The height of our culture. Sitting in a sterile room at a car dealership, with one woman selling buckets of junk food, and a flatscreen TV selling a twisted version of beauty to mind-numbed people who can't look away. How pathetic. And me, with my PSP and DS at hand, and bottled water to wash down a purseful of pills, little better.
After they called my name and I collected my papers, the Good Eats catering truck rolled by again, still playing the same song two hours later.
I was so glad to get home.