August 27th, 2011
I had polenta in the microwave while I was watching Gosford Park on TV. The food alarm let me know the polenta was cooked, but I was busy playing and replaying a complicated scene, studying this wonderful piece of art as it so fully deserves. A minute later, the alarm beeped again, but I couldn’t be bothered. Then it beeped a third time, I wheeled into the kitchen, muttering aloud, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just hold your fucking horses.” Earlier, I’d banged my elbow on the corner of my office table, and said to it, “Goddam. Too sharp. Bastard!”
That was all yesterday. This morning I knocked over my glass of water and blamed the glass, “Fucker.” It was a vat of a glass, wide and heavy, but it was at fault all the same. The tablecloth was soaked, so I grabbed a plastic water container and stuck it between the table and the tablecloth so it could dry out. I came back home tonight and the tablecloth was dry. I pulled the container out from under, held it up, admired it. “Good job,” I said.
Why is it some objects are such a pain in the ass, and others behave so nicely?