Jim Morrison's Dead.

So, yesterday, the LA and I went out for dinner because after a night of insomnia, I was far too zonked to cook. We wound up at a local family Chinese restaurant, and were the only two customers until an older woman and a young man came in. We decided it was almost certainly an Easter filial visit... and that it was pretty clearly something the young man dreaded, because the woman easily qualified for a spot at St. Jimbob's Home for the Bewildered. He had to explain twice that it was Van Morrison he was going to see perform, not Jim Morrison, because Jim Morrison is dead (and has been since before he was born). The lady also spent a long time talking about sandwiches and how she doesn't have a cellphone. The LA and I were somewhat reeling by the time we left.

And this morning, I received a somewhat panicky call from the LA - she'd forgotten her wallet, and so I had to take the bus to rescue her. I wound up at her office, we had lunch, and then I asked if there were any errands she needed me to run, since I was at a loose end and the car was right there. As it turned out, we were low on fuel and she needed soda for the office, so I headed over to get the car. This was yet another first - my first time driving around a multi-storey car park solo. Pretty easy, really. Filling the tank was nothing new, I've done it before (and really appreciate the locking triggers on American pumps; one's glass does get rather dirty, and being able to clean it while the tank fills using the free-to-use squeegees saves ever so much time), and supermarket parking is old hat, but the ramps and tight turns of the parking structure are new to me.

We also got to see the ugliest vehicle I have ever seen. It was a Hummer H2, truck version (the least useful pickup truck ever), lifted (just to make it even more pointless and dumb). The paint job was mostly gloss black, but the upper parts of the doors, the lowest side skirts and parts of the transmission were lime green. It had clearly never been further off road than the dealer's lot, and seemed to be a cry to the world of "Look at me, I have micropenis!" It was even blasting out the wonderful n-Chi music you hear from the car next to you at traffic lights.

And finally, a message from Sheba.
l;.