Around the house
I rearranged the LPs last week, taking the significant step of integrating the belter’s records with mine. I liked the results—Sleater Kinney is now sandwiched between Slayer and Slint, Janis Joplin mingles with Jethro Tull and Joy Division. It’s a healthy situation.
Last night I borrowed a drill and put up shelves, which we bought Sunday at Ikea with the help of the invaluable Tess. By the way, here’s a tip for you Ikea shoppers. If you’d like cheerful service, don’t walk up to one of the yellow-and-blue garbed floor staff and ask, “Do you work here?”
Anyway, I got the shelves up without drilling into any major wiring conduits, so I was pleased. They’re actually level, too. I’m like friggin’ Schneider.
I’ve always enjoyed a little black humour in the wake of a major tragedy, but I’m hesitant to joke about the Great White thing. I’ve been grossed out by it. I mean, you go to the local club to rock out to some has-been band, and suddenly you’re incinerated. That could have been me. And I think about what future awaits those club owners and old Jack Russell, and I get an anxiety attack. They’re just fucked. Occasionally I’m tempted to sign the Stoke guestbook and advise them to lay off the pyro, but that’s lame and in bad taste. I can’t laugh about any aspect of the situation.