The Many Indignities of New York City

I have discovered that as the days draw nearer to our departure from New York, the less I am able to tolerate the thousands of indignities that New Yorkers are constantly subjected to. For eight years, which happens to be all of my post-college adult life, I have sung the praises of New York; it truly has become my home and I am, of course, scared and reluctant to leave. It is at times both horrific and majestic, filled with mystery and misery. To be concise, I am a city-boy at heart, even though I hail from the suburbs and in general loathe other people.

But that does not mean that I do not have the right to be treated with respect. And who is capable of hurling insult after injury upon New Yorkers better than the MTA?

This weekend, as many other weekends in the past, the F train was running on the V in the Queens-bound direction. When that happens, a straphanger can do one of two things to get to Roosevelt Island: either take the F all the way into Jackson Heights and transfer to a Manhattan-bound train, or get off at 53rd and Lexington and walk to the Tram. For able-bodied persons, the latter is the better option.

Unless you listen to the announcements. At every stop starting at 14th St. the conductor informed us that, to get to Roosevelt Island, one should get off at Queens Plaza and take the shuttle bus the MTA has graciously provided for affected passengers. Oh glory days! A shuttle bus! That wasn't sarcasm; to me, above ground is always preferable to below. So we stayed on the train.

And the shuttle bus would have been a great option. If there had been a shuttle bus. See, when we got off the train and asked the attendant to give us a shuttle bus ticket, he informed us that there wasn't one and he had no idea why we thought there would be one and that we would have to get back onto the train, which had now departed, and take it to Jackson Heights and switch trains.

I understand service interruption; it is a necessary evil when it comes to public transportation. I begrudgingly accept poorly worded signs alerting me of such changes. What I do not accept is being lied to. And the worst part is, no one cares. The conductors don't care; the attendants don't care; the MTA certainly doesn't care. And you can't complain to anyone. Well, I mean you can certainly complain to people (I suggest your co-workers and/or loved-ones) but you aren't going to get any retribution.

That's why you should focus your energy on complaining about things that can have satisfactory outcomes. Like when a taxi waits until the last minute, after the lanes have split, to get into the exit lane on the BQE, rather than wait in the long line of cars like a respectable human beings do, and you have a cell phone and his easy-to-remember 4 digit license plate, you can file a reckless driving claim on his ass with the TLC. That, my friends, is satisfying.

I am, of course, terrified that my general rage at people who do things that piss me off is going to be turned into road-rage that will get me injured. But I am counting on the general passivity and cordiality of Southerners to keep me sane in the Carolinas; but a more likely scenario is that their general lackadaisical congeniality will, um, piss me off.

Sad Tableau

This morning I was riding the 6 train and as I descended into the subway, I saw something that truly saddened me. An old man, probably in his sixties but with a hunched over stance and white hair and moustache that made him look much older, was scrubbing graffiti off the wall. Of course, the first thing that popped into my head was that episode of South Park where someone drops a deuce in the urinal and it leads to Kyle being blamed for September 11th.

Although graffiti can be considered a valid art form, this was just straight up vandalism. And this poor man, who has probably labored a great deal in his life, was forced to clean up after some horrible thug who has no respect for his neighbors. Heartbreaking. It's as bad as taking someone's newspaper in his own home. And that's seriously bad. It's almost enough to make my middle-class white guilt overcome by liberally-educated homosexual sense of entitlement.

Illiterate Ph.D.s

Yesterday, somebody in my building took my copy of the Wall Street Journal. I know someone took it because it was in the hallway waiting for me when I left for the gym, but when I returned it was no longer there. So I used my tightly honed powers of deductive reasoning to conclude that someone took it.

Now, it's possible they were confused. Apparently the guy who delivers the paper to us can't walk thirty feet down the hallway, perhaps because of some affliction to his lower appendages (although were that the case he perhaps would have chosen a less mobile profession), and instead merely tosses the paper out of the elevator and doesn't care where it lands. Sometimes it lands in front of someone else's door. Sometimes it barely makes it out of the elevator. It has never made it in front of my door. So maybe that's why someone took it.

Maybe someone saw the paper on the floor and said to themselves, "Hmmm, isn't it nice of the building to leave this copy of the Wall Street Journal just lying here for anyone to take. Hey, I like to read! Maybe I'll read this paper!" Or maybe they said to themselves, "Hey, perhaps in a drunken stupor I accidentally ordered the Wall Street Journal to be delivered to my hallway, and even though I can't remember doing it, I'm going to pick it up and read it anyway!"

Except the problem with my little hypotheticals, which might seem reasonable to the casual observer, is that they neglect a very salient fact: the person who picked up my paper mistakenly cannot possibly know how to read. How do I know this very important and what might be considered highly improbable piece of information?

I know this because if they could read, they would have seen the big fat address label that does not have their name on it.

The kicker, of course, is that every single apartment on my floor has at least one Ph.D. living in it. It baffles the mind that, in an entire floor of Ph.D.'s, there lives someone who is not capable of reading an address label.

Either that, or one of my neighbors is a gigantic douche.

15 Seconds of Fame

As some of you may know, Emerson and I, along with my friend Jennifer, tried out for the second season of VH1's The World Series of Pop Culture, hosted by none other than our local news idol, Pat Kiernan of NY1. Needless to say, we did not succeed. Even though we studied for months. We didn't even pass the test. Although we are forbidden under the fullest penalty of the law to say what went on in that room, I will say that it required more knowledge of the WB than even I was capable of cramming into my brain. It's a shame. Stupid Gilmore Girls!

We had chosen what, in our opinion, was the kick-ass-est team name ever: "There Is No Dana". We even showed up to the auditions dressed as nerdy paranormal investigators. And I thought for sure that no one would get to see us. But I was wrong. In the intro to the first episode, where they showcase scenes from the written test, there we are in all our test-taking glory! Emerson even got a close-up!

Of course, I am still bitter about not getting on but I am tickled pink that last year's winners, El Chupacabra, got knocked out in the first round. I always thought those hacks got lucky!

Fun Summer

The boy and I had a very pleasant Sunday in the sun a few days ago. We began by getting up at the ass-crack of dawn and schlepping down the street to our newly acquired car that has its own newly aquired parking space at the Motorgate Parking Garage above the Gristede's on Roosevelt Island (which is where we live, of course). Then we drove to Target because we realized in our hasty planning that in order to properly enjoy the beach to which we were headed we were going to need to purchase beach chairs. This, a day after we made a special trip out to Target for other necessary sundries.

And of course, because we can't do anything ordinary, we didn't go to a popular, common beach like Jones Beach or Coney Island. No, we had to find the quiettest beach in the five burroughs; a beach that no one in their right mind would want to go to because it is impossible to reach by public transportation and nearly as impossible to reach by car and doubly impossible to park once you get there because you need a fishing license to do so. Oh, and it also had to be the former home of supersonic air defens missiles. I give you: Fort Tilden. Let me just say that New York Magazine didn't mention the $50 fee for a parking permit!

Regardless, we found a beautiful spot on the beach which wasn't nearly as vacant as I was led to believe but was still far quieter than any other beach in the metropolitan area. It was also probably windier. The wind, in fact, prohibited me from properly applying my spray-on sunscreen. To wit, I have horrible streaky bright red sunburns all over my legs, in very uncomfortable locations.

That didn't deter us, however, from having a pleasant work out at the gym and then having dinner in Long Island City at a delicious Thai place, Tuk Tuk. I had the pinapple coconut duck curry. It was exquisite. Then we had a scotch at our new favorite outside bar, LIC, on Vernon Blvd., where we were serenaded by a local band that specialized in surf music. I kid you not.

As it was, I enjoyed my weekend immensely. It fit well into our theme for the summer which is: "Fun Summer". Not original, I know, but then again it wasn't me who came up with it. Next Fun Summer weekend? Blueberry picking and Harry Potter reading....

Triumphant Return!

After about a year, I have decided to return to blogging. I'm not entirely sure what prompted it but I'm certain that it has something to do with ego and self-esteem issues. And maybe akrasia.

So I hope to keep this up. You can expect me to blog about the usual stuff. Pop culture. My goings-on about New York. Probably a little intelligent design creationism thrown in amongst some other sciency stuff. Gay marriage. Maybe my gay marriage, if we ever get around to setting a date. I might even talk about some politics, like how the vice president's quasi-QM metaphysical musings about his state of existence rival the existential poetry of the former Secretary of Defense. Or how much, no matter how hard I honestly try, I still can't like Hillary Clinton. And if I'm really lucky, I'll get to turn this into a Mike for Prez blog.

But more likely than not I'll just complain about things that piss me off. Like the smug sense of entitlement every person in this city seems to have. Or how people never exit at the back of the bus. Or how livery cabs merge in front of you on the BQE at the very last second even though they, of all people, should certain know better.

Oh, and I'll probably extol the virtues of plaid on a regular basis.

Alternate Side Parking Rules

New Yorkers have this funny little ritual that they go through several times a week if they own cars and it goes by Alternate Side Parking Rules, whereby for about an hour and a half two or three times a week, one of the sides of the street gets cleaned and must be cleared of traffic. Which means if, oh say, you've borrowed your sisters car for the week while she's studying in Italy so you can go to Costco and run other errands and drive out of the city on the weekend and generally just get a respite from public transportation, you can't just leave it on the street until you need it. No, you have to move it between the hours of 9:00 and 10:30 so that the Department of Sanitation can clean the street, which in my seven years in this city I may have seen happen once.

Anyway, I used to think this little annoyance was amusing and I got a cynical bout of schadenfreude every time I saw people double parked across the street waiting for the magical time when they can move their cars to the other side and leave them there for upwards of three whole days!

That is, I was amused until it happened to me. When I arrived on Sunday night I was determined to park on a side of the stree where I didn't have to move the car until at least Tuesday. This meant either parking on the other side of 96th St. (the horrors!) or trying to fit my sister's little Elantra in a small space between an Infiniti and a Pathfinder. SUVs are, of course, the bain of my existence but this one took the cake. I asked the boy to get out and see if I could fit. He said yes, which would have been the correct answer if the Pathfinder didn't have a spare tire the size of Minnesota sticking out the back. Bumper to bumper I was fine. But bumper to tire? Nope. The Elantra's hood was just two inches too high for that. I managed to wedge myself in, but by the time I realized I couldn't get the car closer than a foot and half to the curb, there was no going back.

I did manage to find a space this morning, however, after only 45 minutes. By the end of the week I'll be a pro. Just in time to return the car to Connecticut and go another seven years without ever having to pray for inclimate weather so I can hear those blessed words on the morning news: "Alternate side parking has been suspended city wide...."

The Light at the End of the Tunnel...

... is October, baby! A little later than I wanted it to be but whatever. My committee meeting went swimmingly. And in just four short months I am going to insist that you all start referring to me as "Dr."! Apparently my work on the modification of bilayer mechanical properities by poly-unsaturated fatty acids, specifically the interplay between changes in elasticity and curvature, was a hit with the biochemists!

I'm on tonight and my hips don't lie....

Mmm Tastes Like Chicken

This weekend the boy and I went to the Darwin exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History. I highly recommend it, and not just because they take a nicely produced swing at Intelligent Design Creationism. In a serious of video discussions Ken Miller, Eugenie Scott and Francis Collins, among others, neatly lay out the definition of a theory and discuss why ID isn't one.

But that is not the focus of the exhibit; the focus is Darwin's journey from simple observations to his detailed, revolutionary idea. The whole exhibit has a very Victorian feel and you get a true sense of how pathologically curious the man was, as evidenced by the fact that he ate every species he came across to see what it tasted like. Seriously. Apparently those endangered Galapagos iguanas taste like chicken.

And while the IMAX movie of the Galapagos islands enhanced the experience, it really isn't all that necessary; it's too short to actually give you any scientific detail, although widescreen IMAX movies of nature are always pretty cool.

Big Boys Don't Get Do-Overs

As you probably know, I am not a big fan of unions. Especially greedy ones. The TWU is no exception. Perhaps you all remember that strike back around Christmas? That illegal strike? Remember it was about how the MTA wasn't given the workers what they wanted? Remember how, when they didn't reach an agreement, the MTA wanted to go to binding arbitration? Kind of like how every other union/management dispute is settled. Because arbitration and mediation is how adults who cannot come to an agreement settle their differences.

Remember how the TWU didn't want to go to binding arbitration because they didn't want to lose a say in their contract? And remember how the MTA backed down to virtually all the union's demands and how the union president, Roger Toussaint, agreed it was a fair contract? And remember how the union got to take a vote on it and get their say? And remember how they rejected it and how the MTA said, "fine, we'll go to binding arbitration, like adults."

Well, now the union wants another chance to vote. See, they didn't understand what they were voting on. It's not like they had weeks to read the contract. It's not like every news program and newspaper in the city reported what was in the deal ad nauseum. No, they weren't properly informed. They want to try again.

I'm sorry. Adults don't get do-overs. You had your choice. You struck for three days, illegally, when you didn't get your way. Then you were handed a nice, sweet deal, when the MTA had every legal and rational reason to push for binding arbitration. And you said no. And now, when it looks like you're going to be forced into binding arbitration against what you originally wanted, you want another vote?

"We believe that the MTA should be held to the terms that they agreed to in December, and that the MTA should not get into the business of dictating to the union when and how we ratify a contract," says Mr. Toussaint. Oh really? Dictating? Kind of like how you dictated the MTA when and how you were going to go to work? Are you so egotistical as to think that the workers are the only entity that matters? Earth to Roger: socialism lost. You have management to deal with, the ones who have to sign off on your contract. And don't forget about those pesky little subway and bus riders. We're just a bunch of irritating gnats.

You had your chance to sign the MTA's contract offer and you blew it. Adults go to a mediator. Children pitch a fit when they don't get their way and then demand everyone let them try again. And when you act like children, you deserve to be treated by children.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Last night I had the pleasure of attending a dinner party in my honor thrown by what I would like to call my rich Jewess benefactor, the lovely woman who endowed the fellowship that makes my PUFA research possible. Now, I've know some wealthy people; I have been to parties of wealthy people; I have some wealthy people in my family; heck, my cousin went to one of those pre-schools that cost more than Dartmouth did.

But I have never been to a home where you could stand at the toilet in the guest bathroom and relieve yourself while staring at a Picasso. An actual Picasso. In the guest bathroom.

And the clincher is that this apartment, in all its glory (and it was fantastic), was on the not-so-impressive middle floor of a not-so-impressive building on Park Ave. And still the only place they could find for the Picasso was the guest bathroom.

I need to invent something. Pronto.

Unmitigated Gall

I am having a bad morning, and it's not because I only had toast and jam for breakfast. No, I am having a bad morning because I am wet. I am primarily wet because of the rain; I realize, so is pretty much everyone in New York today. However, I could be less wet because I do own an umbrella; an umbrella that I'm very careful to keep with me at all times because you never know when the sky is going to open up and pour down on you and make you wet. And God knows there's little I hate more than being wet all day. Which is why I carry an umbrella with me at all times.

So why am I wet today? Because some asshole (and I only use that word because it's the nicest thing I can think of) stole my umbrella from the hallway outside my door where it had been drying overnight. Oh, that's right. Some un-neighborly fuck-twat took my umbrella from me on a soggy, rainy, cold morning two days before Thanksgiving! This godless asswipe of a thief took my ratty, ugly pop-up umbrella on a day when the owner (me) probably (definitely) really needed it. I would have bought another one but I didn't have enough cash on me to buy an umbrella because, oh gee, because I hadn't planned on needing to buy an umbrella this morning. Because I own one.

But I'm really angry at myself. I'm angry because I never leave my umbrella outside of my apartment. I never leave my umbrella outside of my apartment because I am a paranoid person who thinks very little of other people and I always had this irrational thought that if I left a cheap umbrella outside my door someone would probably steal it. And I always knew, deep down, that it was an irrational thought. Who would steal an umbrella? People cannot really be that thoughtless and cruel to their neighbors. That's what I thought to myself last night as I returned to my apartment with a soaking umbrella and left it outside to dry.

Well apparently my irrational fears were perfectly rational. The world is apparently filled with heinous, uncaring, unloving, selfish fuckholes. There are only seven other apartments in my building. And I swear to God I will find the fucker who stole my umbrella and I will not hesitate to rip his thieving arm from his socket and beat him to death with the bloody stump.

When Politicians Promote Peace, Everybody Loses

Last week, as many of you know, the UN was celebrating its 60th anniversary. At the same time, the fashion world was celebrating Fashion Week for like the 16th time this calendar year. With all the self-congratulatory mental masturbation going on you'd think it was the Third of the Month. But no. See, the Third of the Month, while all about loving yourself, doesn't involve pissing me off.

So, I needed to walk to the subway last week to get a new Metrocard, so I decided to take the 6 down to Hunter College. Being the lazy git that I am, I decided that, rather than walk the 4 blocks in the muggy heat, I'd take the M66. After all, I could see the bus down the street, between Park and Lex. So I waited. And waited. And waited. I got through Donna Summer's "I Got Your Love" and Madonna's "Holiday" before the bus managed to cross Lexington. And why? Because apparently all of Midtown was rerouted to the Upper East Side because a few diplomats need to be able to not be assassinated.

But that's not it. I had to watch three very able-bodied young women walk all the way from the back of the bus to get out the front, instead of the back, prohibiting the woman in the walker from exiting in a timely fashion and further delaying our embarkment just long enough for another train to arrive and forty more people try to pile on to go the four blocks that I was too lazy to walk. Fortunately I had Maroon 5 and Electric Six to keep me company (God bless my iPod).

It would have been ok, except that when the bus finally got to 1st Ave, this other woman (herinto refered to as "the ho") suddenly realized, after about four thousand people exitted, that she wanted to get off. This ho managed to yell "back door!" without dropping either her cell phone (presumably it was her conversation that had kept her too distracted to see the entire bus had vacated) or her nail polish, quite a feat. A feat that managed to allow just enough cars in front of the bus that it got held up through THREE LIGHTS before it got to York and was able to let the rest of the people off.

It took me twenty minutes, TWENTY MINTUES, to travel four blocks. And I was neither given a free ticket to Fashion Week nor compensated for putting up with the traffic, save for the pleasure of getting to hear a diplomat's punk-ass kid double park his SUV outside of my apartment, crappy-ass ghetto music loud enough to shake my couch, so he could get a kebap. Well, I can forgive him that because we got some damn good kebaps in our building....

Pride (In The Name Of Love)

I normally avoid everything to do with gay pride, not because I'm not proud of my "family" but because like all family reunions, the big ones tend to bring out the embarrassing crazies. In our case, the drunk Aunt Ritas include, but are not limited to, "chicks with dicks", men who think formal wear can include tight sleeveless "cocksucker" shirts, and "Democrats".

So when you score an invite to the mayor's party at Gracie Mansion on one of the most beautiful nights of the year, you don't say no. And so I didn't; although I probably would have done well to say no to that last glass of sauvignon blanc. For those of you who've never gotten to have your picture taken with a politician, I recommend shoes with good ankle support, because if you linger just a split second too long that mofo's gonna move you along. Forcefully. For a man of modest stature, our mayor has one hell of a grip.

There were blessedly only two gay jokes, one about Abe Lincoln and the other about a dancing queen. And then we had to hear the mayor's version of what kind of music the queers like to listen to, which includes, but is not limited to, ABBA, Donna Summer, Madonna, and Outkast. It was so offensively accurate that I found myself unable to pass judgement in good conscience. And nothing makes me more unhappy than being unable to pass judgement. But then a waiter flittered over with a tray of rainbow striped star cookies and everything was OK again.

It's Been Awhile...

... and I've been busy. But much has happened to me since in the past month; let's see...

Went to San Diego.
Got lost in Mexico.
Got overheard.
Saw Cher.
Believed.
Pissed off the Jersey trash behind me for dancing.
Was strong enough to take them in a battle of wills.
Left happy.
Saw some stand-up.
Laughed.
Saw more stand-up.
Laughed more.
Got accosted by a drunk vet from Korea.
He was a strong kid.
Got very depressed.
Wrote a talk.
Went to Double Happiness.
Got two happinesses.
Wrote blog entry.

I Cannot Sit On My Heels

This morning on the bus, I was sitting behind a woman of Asian descent who was apparently studying English. The piece of paper she was reading had two columns, the first with a sentence in English, the second with a sentence in what appeared to be Chinese or Japanese. This is not all that unusual. What was unusual, however, were the sentences she was learning how to say. The first four on the list were:

That is so humiliating!
This law violates the First Amendment.
Her back was turned when she was shot.
I cannot sit on my heels.

Say what? I cannot sit on my heels? What does that even mean? And why would this woman need to learn how to say it? She might as just run around saying "I can eat glass."

A Night With The Boys

So the ball-n-chain is away for the weekend, so last night, being Friday and all, I decided to have a night out with the boys. You know, engage in despicable debauchery and wake up the next morning in shame and disgust. This was after an afternoon of trying to find my house from space, so I felt that I deserved some sort of unencumbered fun. Of course, as luck would have it I was miserably hungover from the night before so I remained sleepy the whole evening.

Suffice it to say, the evening in question began by meeting up with Stan and Mick (their names have been changed to protect them from possible Internet scandal) at a wine shop in Gramercy to taste Chianti Classicos, so right off the bat our evening is shaping up to be, um, semi-debaucherous? We did give the snooty sommelier a nasty look when he was being petulant.

We then traveled a few blocks downtown to go to Ye Olde Bar or something like that, one of the oldest bars in the city, where we had burgers and beer and talked about the Pope. We were also the youngest people there. After my meal, I just felt sleepier. So we went to the Flatiron Lounge and drank fruity, overpriced, turn-of-the-century cocktails in a classic 20s New York atmosphere. I spent the entire time ogling one of the waiters without my partners in crime noticing (I think) while we talked about how fruity our drinks were and what a pussy Stan was for not finishing his because it was too strong.

We then cabbed it down to the Lower East side to just miss a band playing at Arlene's Grocery. I felt a little hipper, even though I was wearing a fuchsia gingham shirt. I guess it's OK, because Stan was dressed like a bank teller and Mick looked like he'd been run over by a Kenneth Cole outlet store truck (sorry, dude, I just never liked that sweater; I think it's the collar). We talked about sex while listening to the current band make up for lack of talent and profundity with sound level and guitar rape.

It was then that it began to rain. Physically and metaphorically. That was when Stan decided we needed to go to a strip club. I'm always up for a little whoring with my drinking, but I wasn't about to pay $40 to get into Scores so I could be snubbed by a bunch of strippers I couldn't give a shit about looking at anyway. But I hadn't seen a breast since San Antonio so, of course, I was game. We decided to tourist out and go to where Seventh Avenue meets Broadway.

We told the cabby to take us to "Times Square". Around 43rd St. we told him that was fine. He politely explained to us that Times Square went from 42nd St. up to 47th. "We know," I said indignantly, "we live here."

So the three of us wandered around Times Square for a bit, trying to find the right place to go, while making up our personalities. We were from Dayton, Ohio, in for work. Stan was a QA manager, Mick was a marketing associate (I think) and I was a project manager. I was the married one looking for a good time.

Not sure of where to go, we chose a small gentleman's lounge right off Broadway. (If by "gentleman's lounge you mean "bordello", then yes). It cost us ten bucks apiece to get in. When Mick ordered a whiskey, we were told they only had light beer, juice and soda. Uh-huh. We were three of five men in this place, to about a dozen women. All of whom where aggressive saleswomen as well as aggressive pole dancers, which was amazing because the music was vaguely minimalistic hip-hop and not very danceable. Although I guess straddling a pole and swinging around it with your panties halfway towards your ankles doesn't really require that much rhythm.

I would have gladly taken a lap dance, if only for old times sake (oh Crazy Horse II, how I miss thee!) except they didn't do that. They did, however, give private shows. $100 for 20 minutes. 40% tip to the girl. Unless you wanted full service. Mick told me the word "happy ending" was used when he was being given the gritty details. Well, I don't know about that but I do know that I felt dirty. Very very very dirty. And I've done some dirty things. Hell, a good chunk of the country thinks I do dirty things every day. But this, oh this was new levels of dirty. I didn't even do anything and I felt dirty. And slightly nauseous. When we fled, Stan tried to cover for us saying that I was getting nervous about my wife. Like the hook-- I mean strippers -- cared. Oh Stan. So lovable with his perfect synergy of shame and shamelessness.

We couldn't go home after being that dirty; we had to clean off, physically and metaphorically. So we went to Tonic on Times Square, the saddest bar in the world. It could very well have been smack in the middle of Dayton, OH, thinking it was a trendy New York City bar. We drank watery G&Ts and watched clueless tourists taking pictures of each other wearing last year's guido shirts with disposable cameras. Let me put it this way, the second floor was closed for a private party for the auto show.

I was in bed by 2. After a very hot, very anti-bacterial soapy shower. I haven't had a proper confession in over 5 years but I think it's time to do some penance. Lots and lots of penance.

Bad Store Layouts

It's a well-known grocery store trick-o-da-trade to design your aisle layouts to maximize sales. The tricks are many and varied. For example, items that you want the shopper to focus on are usually on a shelf that's about 5'2" from the floor, because that is the average eye-level of a middle-aged woman which is your average supermarket shopper.

Apparently the shelf-stockers at Rite Aid didn't get the memo. This weekend I injured my back (or re-injured as it's a recurring injury from my more youthful, collegiate days) and so I hobbled to the drug store to look for some nifty product marketed especially for and yet not necessarily designed especially for back pain, like Doan's or something. And maybe some sort of insto-heating pad or other nifty contraption to make me feel better. And they had a plethora of back pain specific products, since this is America and we must be given 534,297 choices for everything.

And the were all on the bottom shelf. The shelf I couldn't reach because I couldn't bend over due to the back pain I was trying to alleviate by purchasing a back pain specific products that Rite Aid had convenient put on the bottom shelf.

I ended up purchasing plain old generic ibuprofen because a) it was cheaper and b) I could reach it.

Thoughts On My Commute and Stuff

There are a few things that are nice about not living two blocks from where you work. First, I get to ride the bus. Now many people probably think that that is a horrible thing, but I take it shortly after rush hour now so it's pretty empty. And I get to see new faces. The same new faces. I have bus buddies. And my own special seat. And I now know which buses are the good ones and which buses are the bad ones. I'd never stopped to think before about how relatively few buses were on one single line.

But maybe one of the best things about commuting is the advancements I've made towards entering the 21st century, technology-wise. First, I thought it was cool that I was the first kid on my block with DVR. TV watching becomes a whole new experience with it. But better than that, now I have an iPod. And all of a sudden I see the world through different eyes. The world has a soundtrack now. And I notice more and more people with those white earphones in their ears. It's like an Apple cult. See, there are bus buddies and there are iPod bus buddies.

And to even one-up myself, yesterday Amazon delivered my iTrip, so I can play my iPod through my receiver which is attached to my kick-ass surround sound system. Just think, less than two years ago I was stuck watching network television in real time and only able to listen to a Sublime compilation CD which was stuck in the broken CD drive of my five-year-old iMac in my apartment with only one floor.

I'm Just Mad About Saffron

Like most environmental art, The Gates must be viewed from afar, because if you get up too close, you realize that they are made from cheap, industrial plastics and are proportionally off. However, if you don't look to closely and just amble through the park beneath the billowing fabric, it's quite breath-taking, even though Christo and Jeanne-Claude fail to convince us that Home Depot orange is really "saffron".

It did, however, lead to an amusing exchange between me and the boy. I, of course, began to immediately sing "I'm just mad about saffron / Saffron's mad about me". Of course, it was badly off-tune. A short while later, we were looking for baked goods at Two Little Red Hens and they had orange fabric in the window with a sign that said "We're Just Mad About Saffron". The boy was quiet for a while and then asked, in sheepish bewilderment, why the bakery had a sign up with the same words as my stupid, ficticious song. He apparenlty didn't remember the ubiquitous Gap commercials of 1999. Or Donovan. Or bananadine.

I wonder what life would have been like if he'd continued to think I made that warped song up. Apparently he didn't have hippy parents.... E-lec-trical banana!!