Ikea/Suburban Brain Hemorrhage
Yesterday afternoon I climbed into my Zipcar (Matrix Morelia) and took the scenic route to the Brand New Ikea in Stoughton, Mass. The scenic route through Watertown and Newton and the Mass Pike - which, for those unfamiliar with the experience of driving in folded Calabi-Yao shaped Boston space-time, is totally not the way from my house to Ikea.
We haven't had an Ikea here in Massachusetts before - the closest one was in Connecticut, which compounded insult upon injury - so the natives were really excited to gorge on cheap home furnishings holiday weekend style. After the getting lost for an hour on scary fast roads with lots of left-hand exit lanes and finding Stoughton (no signs) it then took another forty minutes to get from the off-ramp to the parking lot. The radio was cutting out by then, being so far out in the 'burbs, but I found a mix CD in the glove compartment that contained pretty much what music you'd expect to find in the glove compartment of a Zipcar from Cambridgeport. (That song from 'Garden State', some Coldplay, a little Norah Jones, 'Living on a Prayer', etc.)
Needless to say, Ikea was mobbed. I put my iPod on and wended my way slowly through the upstairs showroom, past Living Rooms and Kitchens, through Work Spaces and Bedrooms. I realized at some point that what I was in search of, essentially, was Stuff To Put Stuff In. Shelves for the effective piling of stuff; a dresser for the compartmentalization and containment of stuff; boxes for the storing of stuff; racks for the hanging of stuff . . . even a chair is just something to stuff my self in to keep my tush off the floor.
Slight tangent - a useful (or at least fun) way of thinking about a eukaryotic cell is of a room with lots and lots of shelving (folded membranes) that compartmentalizes reactions and maximizes internal storage space.
It made me a little sick to my stomach to consider the sheer volume of stuff that I had which made necessary the acquisition of yet more stuff in order to pack it all into my tiny apartment. As this realization was percolating through my consciousness I noticed a trickle of viscous, glistening ooze dripping down the earphone cord onto my right shoulder. This was my brain hemorrhaging and leaking out of my ear.
Finally, having negotiated my wonky cart through the eighty foot tall shelves of flat-packed boxes, I made it to the checkout line. There was a little boy next to me having a meltdown. "Me too, dude," I said to him. If there had been anyone else with me I would definitely have been having a similar overstimulated, glucose-bereft weeping fit. But I still had to pilot Matrix Morelia home in the dark via routes 24 and 93 and the new Big Dig tunnels, an experience similar to playing Mario Cart when stoned. Swearing ensued. Triceratops sized SUVs doing ninety passed me on the right before ducking into indistinguishable shopping centers. Orange cones marked out slalom courses that merged and split lanes seemingly at random. Poorly lit signs with letters in 12 point font suggested that driving through large clumps of trees would be the best way to get to Brighton.
"I fucking hate the suburbs!" I screamed. As the brightly lit skyscrapers of the Boston skyline loomed into view through the darkness I felt a flush of immense relief - back to the city where things are solid, made of real dirt, real metal, real concrete. In the suburbs I feel asphyxiated. The city's granular grit and the country's earthy mulch are divided by these mushy, oxygen-starved, aesthetic travesties of stucco facades, uncrossable highways, big box stores whose flickering fluorescence could swallow whole hamlets, alien sprawling parking lots and pathetic stands of shrubbery - a nightmare of cars and kitsch, these squashy middle zones.
Whew. When I finally unloaded the car, after another stop at the Economy Hardware, I parked it and went to my local lovely pub for a beer and cheeseburger. Dim light, organic cheese, scruffy patrons, and Bass on tap. It was heavenly.
I do like my new Poang chair, though, I have to say.
We haven't had an Ikea here in Massachusetts before - the closest one was in Connecticut, which compounded insult upon injury - so the natives were really excited to gorge on cheap home furnishings holiday weekend style. After the getting lost for an hour on scary fast roads with lots of left-hand exit lanes and finding Stoughton (no signs) it then took another forty minutes to get from the off-ramp to the parking lot. The radio was cutting out by then, being so far out in the 'burbs, but I found a mix CD in the glove compartment that contained pretty much what music you'd expect to find in the glove compartment of a Zipcar from Cambridgeport. (That song from 'Garden State', some Coldplay, a little Norah Jones, 'Living on a Prayer', etc.)
Needless to say, Ikea was mobbed. I put my iPod on and wended my way slowly through the upstairs showroom, past Living Rooms and Kitchens, through Work Spaces and Bedrooms. I realized at some point that what I was in search of, essentially, was Stuff To Put Stuff In. Shelves for the effective piling of stuff; a dresser for the compartmentalization and containment of stuff; boxes for the storing of stuff; racks for the hanging of stuff . . . even a chair is just something to stuff my self in to keep my tush off the floor.
Slight tangent - a useful (or at least fun) way of thinking about a eukaryotic cell is of a room with lots and lots of shelving (folded membranes) that compartmentalizes reactions and maximizes internal storage space.
It made me a little sick to my stomach to consider the sheer volume of stuff that I had which made necessary the acquisition of yet more stuff in order to pack it all into my tiny apartment. As this realization was percolating through my consciousness I noticed a trickle of viscous, glistening ooze dripping down the earphone cord onto my right shoulder. This was my brain hemorrhaging and leaking out of my ear.
Finally, having negotiated my wonky cart through the eighty foot tall shelves of flat-packed boxes, I made it to the checkout line. There was a little boy next to me having a meltdown. "Me too, dude," I said to him. If there had been anyone else with me I would definitely have been having a similar overstimulated, glucose-bereft weeping fit. But I still had to pilot Matrix Morelia home in the dark via routes 24 and 93 and the new Big Dig tunnels, an experience similar to playing Mario Cart when stoned. Swearing ensued. Triceratops sized SUVs doing ninety passed me on the right before ducking into indistinguishable shopping centers. Orange cones marked out slalom courses that merged and split lanes seemingly at random. Poorly lit signs with letters in 12 point font suggested that driving through large clumps of trees would be the best way to get to Brighton.
"I fucking hate the suburbs!" I screamed. As the brightly lit skyscrapers of the Boston skyline loomed into view through the darkness I felt a flush of immense relief - back to the city where things are solid, made of real dirt, real metal, real concrete. In the suburbs I feel asphyxiated. The city's granular grit and the country's earthy mulch are divided by these mushy, oxygen-starved, aesthetic travesties of stucco facades, uncrossable highways, big box stores whose flickering fluorescence could swallow whole hamlets, alien sprawling parking lots and pathetic stands of shrubbery - a nightmare of cars and kitsch, these squashy middle zones.
Whew. When I finally unloaded the car, after another stop at the Economy Hardware, I parked it and went to my local lovely pub for a beer and cheeseburger. Dim light, organic cheese, scruffy patrons, and Bass on tap. It was heavenly.
I do like my new Poang chair, though, I have to say.
posted by Joolya at
10:52 AM
1 Comments:
Hi, just stumbled onto your blog from god-knows-where but I read this excerpt and it actually made me laugh out loud. Keep up the good work and I'll check in from time to time. My name is Sherman, BTW.
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