What they conveniently omit in the driver’s manual is that traffic here draws liberally from two staples: first, an Autobahn mentality where the goal, weather permitting, is to hit a cool 55 in a school zone to get to das Hardee’s des größer Charlotte-Metro area in a timely fashion. Couple this with the year-round custom of turning onto major roads as slowly as possible and, really, whenever you damn well please, and you’ll begin to understand the horrors of holiday traffic.
The mall, best as I can tell, apparently houses some kind of unbelievably awesome artifact, the likes of which will melt into the void in seven days. I imagine there’s a plasma television that flips channels on its own accord, possibly a Tickle You Elmo, or perhaps a Fabergé egg containing the secrets of why you’d want a Fabergé egg.
It would’ve taken a good half hour to get some gas today, such was the traffic, and fortunately I wised up and made a u-turn. Gas. You’ve heard of it? It’s the must-have holiday item of ’06, and it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m beginning to think the mall really doesn’t have the present to end all presents. Maybe some people don’t even care about the gifts. The true meaning of Christmas? It’s the rush and the gridlock.
Here is a rare instance of media whose modest footprint is matched only by its decidedly immodest amount of fun, and this goes doubly for those who enjoy the English language.
I played the game in two different scenarios with varied results: once in my normal state and once after returning home slightly inebriated. In my lucid frame of mind, I crowned myself the Vocab King, coaxing gems like “motility” from the grid and, in one deliciously ironic moment, vanquishing the everloving shit out of a foul she-beast by spelling “palliate.” There was a slow-mo close-up and everything.
When I fired up the game later that evening, this time with a pleasant buzz, wordsmithery became much easier, though the results were also simpler. “Motility” was replaced with “laminated,” which I guess was okay, and the ironic gave way to the iconic when I slew Medusa with the word “weaponry.” The jury’s still out on which scenario was better, so further testing may be necessary.
Barbers in general love small talk, which I suppose is the more enjoyable alternative to snipping in silence, but seldom do you find a stylist so keenly aware of the conventions of small talk. Oh, you’ll run into ones who prattle endlessly about the weather or, heaven forbid, sport stats, and I remember one woman back in Chicago who was given to lying compulsively. We’re talking claims about siphoning whiskey and crack cocaine into her children, penning a bestseller–fictional, incidentally, in more ways than one–and other malarkey.
Kenny, a big, jovial fellow, started plainly enough.
“What do you got planned this weekend?” he asked.
“Probably just relaxing,” I replied, “maybe going to a party.”
“Sounds fun,” he nodded.
“How about you?” I said, mindful of the reciprocal nature of small talk.
“Cutting hair,” he quipped.
I had found my go-to barber, and not only did he proffer a good haircut, but marketing insight as well. I mean, we talked about saturation and negative branding. The verdict on the Geico lizard wasn’t pretty, let me tell you.
Also, the temptation draws nigh. If it’s anything like the second one, the game itself will be monotonous. This eye candy, though, engrosses with sheer motion.