Friday, October 12, 2007

project 365 #284: kyle and susan square off

I am now the proud owner of an air hockey table and people, I am PSYCHED. My friend K moved into a house that already had an air hockey table in it (talk about your basic amazing luck) but then, after a few months of having it in her living room, she decided she’d had enough. Hee, no accounting for taste. So it came, thus, to me, and I drove out to Candler to K’s cool house to pick it up yesterday. One of the legs broke as we were loading it but no matter; my friend S came over last night with a power drill and we got all macho on the table’s metaphorical ass and put it back together again. Which made us go “HWAH!” and jump up and down and high five each other very macholy. Power tools have that effect.

Unfortunately, I forgot to pick up the paddles from K’s house. I had already gotten pucks from the sporting goods store (super cool pucks in different shapes, with super funky mylar designs on them) but there we were, with a working air hockey table, our other friend K expected at any moment for the first of what one hopes will be many air hockey tournaments, and no paddles. Or handles, or whatever they’re called in pro air hockey. I haven’t looked pro air hockey up on the internet but you know it just has to be out there. So S and I retired to the porch to smoke cigarettes and grouse. “Stop this,” I said, “We are women of infinite resource and sagacity and we can totally make our own damn paddles.” It turns out that upside down plastic containers of the kind used to hold small portions of hot and sour soup from your local friendly Asian takeout work admirably as air hockey paddles. Except when you slam into your opponents paddle, at which point you jam your fingers and yell OW loudly and realize why air hockey paddles have handles. Then while your opponent is feeling guilty you can totally get around her and score another goal.

The air hockey table looks perfect in the garage. We drank a couple of beers and played air hockey and generally channeled our 16 year old selves, because for American teenagers, there is always and has always been and will always be, global warming and catastrophe aside, someone you don’t know all that well, whose house boasts an air hockey table in the garage or the basement, where you go with a group of other teenagers to smoke pot and play air hockey and records. “What time does your mom get home?” asked S and slammed a puck into the goal.

Given the chair and the air hockey table, I’m starting to feel like my oh-so-seventies ranch house is calling things home and I’m wondering what will be next. I’ve found myself actually looking for orange macramé plant hangers and thinking seriously that maybe, just maybe a shag rug would be cool. There’s already a green light up EXIT sign and a lava lamp in the den – right next to the record player. We were thinking that some large speakers in the garage would be pretty cool and then we could put on Aerosmith and Fleetwood Mac and get DOWN.

In a freaky twist of fate or something, my friend E actually found my house on Flickr – it was the childhood home of someone who lives in Florida now. I wonder if they had an air hockey table but I’m kind of afraid to ask.

1 comment:

Lee H. said...

Oh, I love air hockey!! I never knew anybody with a table, though- we played it at the skating rink.