Feeds:that evening
Reading Timequake, I think it's the most pleasant Vonnegut I've come across. Most of his novels come strike me as... well, it's like when the prettiest, smartest girl at the party is the one in the ugliest dress, a not-uncommon ocurrance in our current society. An exuberance, a thrill, a joy, and yet something so distasteful as well. Not so (so far) with Timequake. This book makes me want to be Kurt Vonnegut for a living.
I'm just not sure I have the stones to pull it off, though.
Before I left for work this evening, Lauren and I decided to have a little DIY night, where I'd teach her how to use a sewing machine and she'd show me how to lubricate my chain. When I got back, we started things out with a DIY whiskey-coke, and I made a balaclava for Lauren, and then she made ten more for some poor balaclavaless shmucks. While she did that, I cleaned my new bookcase, and then built it into my existing shelving apparatus in a way that is fairly unlikely to kill me in my sleep. Then we tackled the bikes; Lauren on Joe's bike, and me on Terrence, after she showed me what to do. And swore a lot. There was a lot of swearing when she was looking at my bike, the kind of swearing people do when they're kind of scared, when they're nervous. She apparently also thinks I should have working brakes. "I guess this could be pretty OK if you never change gears," she said more than once. But I scrubbed the rust off with a toothbrush and so forth and adjusted the derailleurs and now the Terrence is better than ever. Hoo-ray! Unwilling to stop there, I then broke the sewing machine back out to patch some jeans; after that, I finally used the whetstone I bought five years ago so I could sharpen my pocketknife to sharpen my pocketknife. It was our most productive night since the day she made noodles and chicken noodle soup.
Which means, of course, that the apartment is a disaster of a mess.
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