The hungry Ektorp delivery man.

I hate when you're given a ridiculous window of time when waiting for a delivery or some sort of service. In my case I had to be home today from noon to 4pm to wait for my Ektorp couch from Ikea.

So I came home from work early and waited. I started some laundry and made some lunch. Then I threw Batman Begins in my DVD player so I could watch it for like the fifth time. Finally around 2pm my doorbell rang to herald the arrival of my 3-piece sofa.

I opened the door and told the guy this was the place -- he was sort of the big Biz Markie type. So i shuffled some of my existing furniture out of the way and waited for the couch to come up the stairs. After a little while I noticed that the delivery guy was by himself -- what the hell was that? What company sends its furniture delivery guys out by themselves? So there's my new 7-foot long couch wrapped in plastic teetering precariously on a hand-truck -- the couch was stood up so that it towered over the lone delivery guy.

After some fancy hand-truck work, the couch was finally in my apartment. I knew the etiquitte was to offer the delivery guy a drink, but before I could even do that he asked, "...are you baking some tasty treats?"

Wha?

That really caught me off guard. I took a whiff of the air and confusingly said, "...umm...no, I just had some leftover chili for lunch. Do you want a bottled water?"

After he left I figured out he was probably smelling the snickerdoodle candle I had lit earlier.

Old ladies in cars hate me.

I was driving home one night and looking for parking on my street. After driving around for about ten minutes I was starting to get frustrated. Seriously, I could settle and park two or three blocks away - the walk isn't bad - but I'm totally spoiled because it's usually very easy to find a spot within 50 yards from my apartment.

There's a long strip of sidewalk in front of an apartment complex across from my place, five cars can easily fit along that curb. I noticed a mini-van pulling in to the end of the line, I groaned that I missed my chance at the spot, BUT WAIT! There's actually TWO SPOTS AVAILABLE! I pulled up a little behind, but alongside, the van to wait for the old lady inside to finish her parallel parking, but all of a sudden I see her stepping out of her car! SHE PARKED RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TWO EMPTY SPACES!!! WHAT THE HELL!

I rolled down my window and asked her if she could move her car forward a couple of feet so I can fit in behind her, but she looked at me and said, "I'm not leaving..." and nodded her head.

"No, I mean you're taking up two spots, if you move ahead a little I can park" I said back.

"You want to park? I'm not leaving!"

"That's not what I'm saying -- PLEASE move your car ahead a little!"

And then a woman who was sitting out on her second floor balcony joined in to try and help me, "Ma'am," she said, "you can move ahead a little and then he can park right behind you! You're in two spots!"

The old lady was either not getting it or just being a dumb bitch, "I can't--I have an appointment," she scowled and then stormed off.

"LAZY ASS!" I yelled. The lady on the balcony laughed at that comment and then shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

Wow. I forgot I had this.

That's not true at all. But I do admit I have been negligent. Maybe I could just pull a Billy Joel and list a bunch of stuff that's happened to me lately and let you decipher what's going on. Umm, just don't try singing - -this is free form.

Freelancing. Hash browns at Ruth's Chris. Morning coffee runs -- large with 3 splenda and non-fat, and a medium iced with a shot of bittersweet. Absolute Watchmen. Wine and dinner with Big Cherry. Macworld dreams. A tub of Vietnamese fried rice and a phone number. QT with the nephew. Trick or treating in the rich neighborhood --full-size candy bars, bitches. Pecan pancakes. The desert island game and defending my choices of who I'd want to be stranded with.

Hittin' the Piedmont trail.

I've started taking long walks around my neighborhood to keep myself in fighting trim (what I'm fighting for is debateable, but it's the walking that's important). And these aren't casual walks, mind you. These are brisk walks. And when I say "brisk," I don't mean super-gay jog-walking, I mean a good, normal, fast walk.

But it's not even that easy. While I'm admiring the scenery of million dollar homes I'll never afford, I'm also navigating the rough, uneven sidewalks of Piedmont. Y'see, the area may have it's richie-rich parts, but it's been around a while so the sidewalks and streets can be a little rough. And did I mention the 75-degree incline hills? I'm just glad I don't have to push boulders up these neighborhood mountains.

I saw a lady pushing a baby carriage up one of the hills today and all I could think of was hoping that her baby wasn't too heavy and that she doesn't lose control or I'd have to chase a carriage down a hill in slow motion -- like that staircase scene in The Untouchables, only without bullets flying everywhere and Andy Garcia sliding in with the last minute save.

That's about right.

I made a call the other day to a girl I'd dated a couple of times.

"Hey, Cute Betty, did you want to maybe catch Corpse Bride sometime next week?"

"...um. That would be cool, but I live in Philadelphia now."

"--you didn't answer the question."

I really need to stay on top of these things.

Worlds collide.

I saw a weird thing the other day while driving home on 40th the other night. There were some kids at a bus stop waving toy lightsabers at each other. But these weren't your run of the mill lightsabers mind you, the handles were made up to look like Spider-man's head.

So you've got Spider-man's head with a laser sword extending and pulsating out the top of it. What kind of boot-legging GENIUS came up with this concept? And what kind of backstory would explain the need for Spider-man lightsabers?

In the future is there some mystical order of knights who's teachings are based on the lesson that "with great power comes great responsibility" - is that it? That actually makes perfect sense.

My mind is blown.

Butt-ugly German DJs.

The art director at the magazine I work at was on leave because his wife just had a baby. So I had to pick up the art director duties in his absence. This was kind of exciting because I got to design my very first cover.

Unfortunately, the cover artist was fugly.

The photo shoot took place on some island off the coast of Spain, so I'm sure there was plenty of partying to be had. When the photos came in, they were all ...how should I put it? ...NOT cover-worthy.

For some reason the shoot was at some old run-down mission and everything looked all rocky and craggy. And that was just the DJ's face. The landscape was pretty rough-looking to match.

The DJ himself wasn't even dressed for a cover shoot. That is, unless Germans think being on the cover of an American magazine means you have to look like a redneck with your hair in a mullet, a sleeveless muscle-T, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. I'm sure he just wanted to pose against a few rocks for an hour and then go back to chasin' rave tail.

Race to the finish.

I needed to get a haircut today. For some reason, every few months I go through a phase where I think I want to grow my hair out -- my hair is usually cut close on the sides and back, and then short and spiky up top -- but whenever I hit three or four weeks of growth the hair hits a sort of awkward stage where I can't just spike it up with gel, but I can't quite just comb it down either. It's almost like hair puberty.

I have no idea what that means.

So I drove over to the Great Clips in the strip mall a couple of miles from my place, and had to park in a spot a fair walk away. As I got out of my car and started walking, a guy popped out between a couple of cars and cut me off without even an "excuse me". What a dick. I guess he had been doing that thing where you cut across a lot by walking between parked cars. Anyway, it looked like he was making a bee line towards Great Clips.

I thought, "F***, if he gets there before me, I'll end up waiting forever," so I picked up my pace and did my best to catch up. I didn't want to run, or it'd look obvious I was trying to beat this guy to the shop. And in case I was wrong and he was going somewhere else, I didn't want to look like an idiot rushing to get my $14 haircut.

I watched the guy trying to gauge his intent. As he walked he kept looking around, which confused me even more. Then I stared at the back of his head trying to figure out if his hair was long enough that he would want it cut. I couldn't believe all this drama was going through my mind just because I didn't want to be stuck waiting in a chair reading old magazines for 20 minutes.

And then the greatest thing happened. He stopped to pull out a piece of gum from his pocket and then throw away the wrapper! Victory was mine! Why did he stop for the gum? Did he want to have fresh breath for the Vietnamese lady that was going to cut his hair? No matter, I got through the door first! Unbelievable! Go me!

He walked in two seconds after me, but ended up waiting about ten minutes before someone could take him. That had to suck.

Champion of the Day: Jealous Canasta Boyfriend

The other night the cafe filled up with stranded train passengers. They came over from the Amtrak station because there was a 4-hour delay before their train arrived to take them all to Seattle. I can think of a lot of things to do in 4 hours, but playing canasta doesn't even register at the bottom of my list. No insult to canasta players, but I just wouldn't think to whip out the cards and get a game going.

The only other time I heard of canasta was an old Warner Brothers cartoon where a little mouse, playing head games with a cat, wrote a letter to the cat asking him to come over and play canasta. Only it was signed, "the dog." Thinking the dog was ready to put aside their differences and be friends, the cat strolled out to the doghouse with a table, a deck of cards, and some lemonade. --the dog beat the shit out of him.

So it was kind of weird when I saw a young college-aged couple playing canasta at the tall table in the center of our cafe. At one point Canasta Girl came over to order drinks, she was the friendly type and kept asking about different drinks and making small talk. Occasionally, I'd glance up to see Canasta Boy staring intently in my direction -- it took me a little bit to realize this, but that sumbitch was giving the evil eye!

We've all seen this before. The insecure boyfriend who quickly clings to his girlfriend in public as soon as he realizes there are other men in the room. But C'MON, when your keepin' your pimp hand strong by displaying your canasta skills, that evil eye is about as threatening as a weak 3-card meld. (wha?)

...the swing of things.

So I'm back at the cafe after about a month and a half's abscence. Practically the entire crew is different and they've added a new blended drink. A lot of customers don't realize this, but cafe workers HATE making the cold drinks. Whether it's a shake or one of the ice-blended dealios, anything that involves the blender sucks ass.

Why you ask? Next time you're in line waiting to get just a cup of coffee, see how it feels when the group in front of you orders three blended drinks. You think that wait bites? Try being the guy or gal having to make those three drinks while watching the orders pile up and the line get longer and longer.

It's a vicious cycle. It's like the sound of the blender draws more customers into line for more blended drinks, but it creates longer and longer waits. Then customers either avoid getting in line, or just leave the line altogether. When it finally slows down, someone orders a blended drink, and it starts all over.