Here’s a cultural constant: Asian grocery stores are certifiably gross. You could build a house–or, more appropriately, a pagoda–upon this enduring truth, from Queens to Chicago to North Carolina, but there you have it. I’m sorry if this sets Asian Awareness back a few inches. Okay, marginally sorry. A few weekends ago, I walked into one such store and, sure as the floating lotus floats, was reminded of another constant: the leavin’ feeling situated so closely to the entrance.
In an attempt to be big people, so they say, I reasoned there will come a time when my culture will embrace me as a prodigal son, welcoming me into a province flush with lavish delights: delicious food, spellbinding music, and literature steeped in the lore of ancients unperturbed by daily facial growth. This was not that time. Initial thoughts turned to the health rating of the food court, cleverly hidden from the populace, and moved onto the throng itself, the noise, the stench of seafood, the crush so noticeably absent from a Harris Teeter.
A lot of it is the insulation, I think, and the conviction that almost all the products on the shelves come from places where the FDA is but a mythical beast, a quaint concoction of those white devils. But that’s the free marketplace for you, where, just as the proprietors can choose to stock their shelves with what they please, so too can I choose to shop or not shop there. Besides, why worry, right? We’re not talking about pet food here because, y’know, that supply chain turned out so well.
In what may qualify as a small apocalypse in the dining landscape of Charlotte, the mothership will land naught but 15 minutes from work soon, bringing with it one of the few things I miss about Chicago. Once they open shop, barring any disastrous changes in menu or preparation, it’s over. They had better install a cot and a trough for yours truly.
Online marketing is something toward which I’ve become largely immune, due in no small part to being immersed in it daily. What this means, though, is my resolve crumbles before the iron fist of offline marketing in a heartbeat, transforming me into a raving consumer who must have it–along with the shiny, crinkly packaging encasing it–as quickly as possible, especially if it’s some fabricated limited release. “It” can be anything deemed necessary by the market at the time: ice cream, a rare strain of Doritos, toothpaste, or tires.
Yes, tires. I don’t know why we’re discussing cars for a consecutive evening, because I’m really not an enthusiast. See, that one time I popped the hood, I found a goddamn wrench left by a mechanic, covered in grime and incompetence. And I speed, sure, but more often than not the love of motion is counterbalanced by the desire to roll my chariot down the hill as quickly as possible to the office.
A few months ago, while the local Firestone was patching a flat, I decided to ballpark some replacements.
“What would be comparable to the ones I’ve got?” I asked.
“Wow,” he said, clacking away at the computer, “you don’t really see these pop up that often.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed, limited edition radar blaring.
“Firehawks. These are a step up from your Pirellis. They’re racing tires.”
Eventually good sense kicked in, fortunately, and further questioning revealed the defining feature of Firehawks to be expense. Darn. Here I was, thinking the rubber was somehow unique, molded in a limited edition factory out of limited edition contents from a vat marked “SPECIAL” in small, red caps.
Running out of gas is one of those hypotheticals that should remain exactly as such–an auto experience locked away for occasional rumination, never to roll off the lot and into the wild. It’s something on the list that should stay on the list and, wouldn’t you know it, I decided to cross it off my list recently, after a weekend of moving.
I have no excuses. Whatever moments of concern brought on by the fuel light were quickly vetoed by the knowledge that my tank harbored a secret reserve filled with enough gas to propel the vehicle another 10-15 miles, always another 10-15 miles, until modern engineering would prove otherwise. And prove it did. The dashboard went dark, power steering died, and I rolled into a Bank of America drive-through, simultaneously going and going nowhere.
Optimistically speaking, however, I learned a lot, such as when not to cross the street to get to the gas station, if you can help it. (Rush hour.) I also learned how to assemble a gas can. (Unscrew the cap, then hand to the attendant.) And the secret to filling the can, so it was revealed, is to avoid spraying gas all over your shoes. Most important of all, I’m storing the can where it has the most utility. (In my garage.)