The King of Pop is gracing my ears with his crotch-grabbingly high male vocal sounds. I really need more PSB Image 2B speakers, and a circuit that knows which way I'm facing so that I will hear the right stereo sounds even when I'm typing on the computer instead of playing the synthesizer.
Or I could just wear headphones. But there is a nice feeling when the whole room is enjoying the same vibes as I am. Books are vibrating slighly. They're in the groove too, yo? Page 284 quite likes this beat. It's an island of sound, the walls of my room acting as the shore, beyond which my power amplifier is just part of a light-house of sound, stating my contentment and the fact that there is an intelligent and soulful being inside. Ships chart their course based on propagating triplets and flams. The joules that so inefficiently (although I try to ignore this terrible fact) go from big currents in matched pairs of transistors into adequately loud compressions and rarefactions of air drift away from here at 330 metres per second, obeying the laws of the inverse square law all the way. Some of my grooves meet some air particles that are jiving to the sound of a car passing. They decide that my sounds are much more interesting, and so they join in. They tell their neighbours about Michael Jackson, and pretty soon it's not just my booty shaking. Those air particles are so supple and fast. My hips have too much mass to go at much more than maybe a few hertz. But damn, those air particles eat up the tiny wavelengths of my tweeters and act like they could change direction even faster if need be.
But that's not really what this piece is about. It is, in fact as the name suggests, about eating cheese. My city has many wonders, and one of these is Global Cheese. This place makes me realize how crazy humans are. There is really nothing particularly good for you at Global Cheese, but it is always packed with customers. People peer over the mountains of cheese from behind the counters to help you. There is a constant flow of thin shavings of free samples flowing from the hand of a generous employee, and the smell. It's not really gross, but if it were any stronger I think your nose would wretch in a confused state of not knowing which scent to concentrate on. They call numbers based on where you were standing at the counter, for efficient payment, which needs to be with cash. We got what we needed and headed home.
With fresh pasta, homemade only minutes ago in our own kitchen, and a lovely pesto concoction, sans pine nuts because of a lack of that sort of thing, we dig in. Oh, did I mention the wine? It was good, considering I bought it because of the design on the bottle. If you ever operate a winery, do me a favour and never put shitty wine in funky bottles. I will certainly be deceived! As a wonderful garnish to this already wonderful meal, we load our cheese grinder with a block of parmasean and add the delicate shavings to our plate. Damn, that cheese was so good! As we ate the top layers of our pasta, we would add more cheese to make it seem like a brand new plate once more.
But a funny thing happened. Once the pasta was all gone, we kept adding cheese to our plates. We were honestly on the first glass of wine, I swear! That cheese was so tasty. It was kind of like desert, but not really. It was just so yummy that Jonathan and I kept on eating that damn cheese! Picking up shavings with our fingers or forks. Jonathan thought he would try eating like an animal, using his tongue, which I told him he might like to please not do. It was too late, and he was enjoying his cheese so very thoroughly that nothing I could say would change his gluttonous and ravenous desire for the cheese. But eventually we realized that if we ate anymore we would be verging on the edges of things that normal people would not do.
But things got even better when we decided to use a bottle of rum that I brought back from Cuba. In attempts to simulate sweet drinks from climates that are not enjoying -8C weather right now, we started to try crushing some ice. Let me just give you a quick overview:
So with feelings of defeat Dan and I went back to the computer room where Linda was playing internet hearts. Jonathan was convinced that it could be done though. Some banging around and finally a familiar noise of a small, overloaded electric motor. The hand blender?! He was determined to crush ice with the Dremel of kitchen tools?!
The sound persisted for a bit. A few minutes later Jonathan enters with a watery-looking drink. "We can't make crushed ice drinks."
Perhaps we should just go back to eating more cheese.