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.

Bank pain.

I hate standing in line at the bank. I especially hate standing in line with old people at the bank. I have this theory that older you get, the less aware you are of other people's "personal space."

You're all familiar with the concept of "personal space," right? That sort of invisible zone of intimacy that you allow only a select few to cross. Normally when I feel the heat of someone's breath on the back of my neck, I'll have hoped she (it better be a "she") had at least bought me a drink first.

Back to the bank... I needed to ask for a new card because the magnetic strip on mine wearing out. So I'm standing in line with no one behind me, and I can see myself in the TV monitor.

At my bank, when you get to the front of the line you end up facing a TV showing the feed of some security cam filming whoever's next to see a teller. I really don't see the purpose of this other than to give the tellers some form of entertainment as they watch customers either trying to figure out where the camera is OR pretend not to be looking at themselves. I fall into the latter category, stealing sideways glances at myself to make sure I haven't got a giant hot sauce stain on my shirt or something.

Anyway, in the monitor I noticed that someone was getting in line behind me. As he approached closer, I thought, "...he's not stopping. Oh crap. Old person." So there he was - a whole THREE INCHES behind me. I shook my head as I looked into the TV monitor to see the sight of two idiots doing their best "packed elevator" imitation in an empty line.

Champion of the Day: Not-Paying-Attention Bike Guy

So are you a vehicle or a pedestrian? When all the cars stopped to let me cross the street, little did I know you’d ignore the stopped traffic and come blazing past them headed in my direction. Apparently the rules of neither man nor machine applied to whatever metallic/biological douche bag you’d become. Luckily, I was cognizant enough to freeze in my tracks to let you whizz past me, thus avoiding a collision I’m sure you would have ended up on the better side of. Still, why even ride down a busy street like Piedmont Ave. when any of the sidestreets would have proven easier to navigate?

Freefall Jones, the friendly jerk.

One of the things that really gives me a slow burn is unprepared people at the post office. These are the people who get up to the window and never have any idea what they're doing. They never know what forms they need filled out. They're mailing a shitload of packages, but don't know any of the zip codes. The list of ingorance goes on and on.

This morning I got caught behind three of these idiots. Dumbass #1 had a pile of about 10 small packages he needed to insure, but waited to find out how much it cost to mail the packages before he added the insurance -- so he got stuck standing at the window filling out one form for each package.

Dumbass #2 had some unwrapped items she had no idea how she wanted to send. She asked to see her shipping options, and after choosing Priority shipping, she asked the cashier to go ahead and wrap those up! What the F? You could feel the whole line of waiting customers burning a hole that lady's back with our imaginary heat vision. The cashier pointed her to the forms table where she could stuff the items in the FREE PRIORITY ENVELOPES that were available. The girl gave an embarrassed "oh" and then made the walk of shame past the line to the table -- but of course they let her cut straight back to the front of the line after she finished getting her shit together.

As for Dumbass #3 -- I had no idea what was going on there. It was some lady standing there filling out some form while the casher just sat there waiting. The dumbass was there when I got there, and she was there when I left.

By the time I worked my way up to the front, I was lucky to have a new cashier come out to open up another window. She smiled and asked how I was doing. I said I was great and that I just wanted to mail my package Priority with Delivery Confirmation. She said, "That's easy enough," with a big smile.

I could kind of feel what she was getting at, so I said, "Yeah I try to be prepared when I come here so things go smoothly."

Then she said, "We love that kind of customer," and she didn't stop rubbing it in, "...sometimes people come up here and just hand us their stuff expecting us to do everything for them," but she said it very friendly with a big grin. That was hilarious. The cashiers must have had a to deal with a bunch of idiots that morning for her to vent like that.

When I left, the three other Dumbasses were still stuck at their windows, and it felt good helping to make them look like idiots.