Elevator Elevator Up and Down

Random observation: Why is it that some people can't seem to even remotely guess the relative speed of elevators?

Scene: You get on the elevator on the 15th floor. You press the "Lobby" button. Someone else gets on at 12 and also presses the "Lobby" button. Then the elevator stops at 11 -- and the guy from 12 absent-minded starts to make his way off the elevator before he suddenly realizes he's not at his floor yet.

Did he really think he descended twelve floors that quickly?

This is even funnier if the person in question actually lives or works in the building in question. One would think they'd get used to it eventually.

Unreal!

WaPo reports today that "President Bush . . . dismissed calls for U.S. troop withdrawals from Iraq as unrealistic."

Because, of course, charging into Iraq with no clear plan, mission, timetable or defined goals was realistic back in 2003. It's a very convenient time for you to venture into the "real" world, Mr. President.

It's a Date

I visited a friend's house recently (within the past two weeks). At some point as we were walking through the house, I noticed a calendar pinned to the wall. Absently, I noted, "Your calendar is still set to November, 2006."

He looked at me. "Today is...?"

I was so embarrassed.

My Thanksgiving Observations

It's late, but here, in narrative form, are some observations from my Thanksgiving.

===

I purchase a fruit tart from Whole Foods and make my way to the bus stop, where I am to catch a crosstown bus to a friend's house in the Capitol Hill area in Northeast DC. The bus is surprisingly -- no, shockingly -- on time, requiring me to run to catch it. It's nearly 4:00, and I've lazed most of the day away. Most of my friends have probably started their dinners by this time; some are on their second helping, others are at their second dinner. I'm just getting started, which is all for the better, because I have a terrible habit of stuffing myself silly when presented with massive quantities of delicious food.

I take a seat in the third forward-facing set of seats, selfishly taking both seats for myself. The bus isn't all that populated, and I would have been willing to move my tart if someone needed the seat. No one ever did.

Across the aisle and one seat behind me is a girl reading a book while her earbuds presumably entertained her. She never looks up for the entire time I'm on this bus. I start creating random stories in my mind about how she's a drifter, and she's just riding the bus for fun "to see the sights." That theory would work better were she actually looking out the window instead of casually ensconced in her reading material.

An older gentleman sits facing the front door of the bus in a raincoat and suit. His suit is rumpled, as if he's actually worked through the day in it. But it's Thanksgiving Day, I think, but I suppose there are people out there who work in this day. He's reading through the Washington City Paper with studied concentration. He either finished the feature article long ago or he generally isn't interested in that kind of stuff, because he's concentrating more on the tail end of the paper, including the personals. He seems to reading every last one of them.

A few stops later, a large older man with white hair and matching (short yet scraggly) beard climbs aboard. He looks homeless, though he lacks the smell usually associated with homeless people. He's carrying two large plastic garbage bags, filled close to bursting with what appears to be junk. One man's trash is another man's treasure. Or maybe he just didn't have "nice" looking bags to carry his stuff in; not all of us have the luxury of courting around Whole Foods bags. He sits facing City Paper man; his eyes appear to glaze over as he stares vacantly out the window.

At one intersection, the bus waits for an inordinately long time. The driver has seen something I was unable to from her superior view: a large black woman was apparently making her way to the bus with some difficulty. Perhaps she had tried to run, but one could only imagine that she wouldn't have been making terribly great time even if she had made the effort. She sports a large waist-length fur coat (whether it's real fur is up for debate), which seemed incongruous when paired with her short skirt which revealed her ample thighs. Her hair consisted of both a bad cut and a bad color job; the short platinum blond waves matted themselves to her scalp like limp lasagna noodles.

A woman who appeared North African boards at the next stop. The bus continues to pull forward as she stands there and fumbles through her purse in search of the right change. From near the back exit, a voice calls out, apparently to her, "Yo Jessica, is yo' Mac-Donalds open?"

A woman with dirty blonde unruly hair also boards, carrying an oversized backpack. It's unclear whether she's one of those crunchy granola hippie types (perhaps she was backpacking across the country?), or whether she's just down on her luck and trying to keep it together. She sits two seats in front of me, her giant backpack sticking up at least two head lengths past hers.

Jessica doesn't even look up as she responds to her friend: "I don't know; I'm not there." She pays her fare and takes her seat next to Literary Girl; three rows behind her is her friend.

As we drive on, we pass the McDonald's. It is presumably the McDonald's to which Jessica's Friend referred, for she comments, "There it is... Dang, it is open!" For a brief moment, I contemplate how sad it must be to even consider having a Super-Size Value Meal as Thanksgiving dinner, but then I hear Jessica's Friend continue: "Oh wait, it ain't open."

"Hey, Jessica, you going to DC General?"

Not bothering to turn her head, Jessica responds: "Yes."

"Is it nice there?"

"It's not bad." The lack of eye contact makes me wonder whether Jessica and this woman are actually friends. No indication is given why they both happen to be heading to DC General. Where I had presumed that Jessica worked at McDonald's, perhaps she works at DC General. Or are they both friends of a long-term care patient? Or perhaps they struck up a friendship visiting their respective friends?

"I'll ride up with you," Jessica's Friend offers. "Want to come sit by me?"

Again without looking at her, Jessica takes her up on the offer ("Sure!") and moves to sit next to her.

At some point during this conversation, Fur-Laden Large Woman With Bad Hair disembarks. She is met by two well-dressed men on the street. Apparently they are all heading for the same place; the two men are each carrying what appears to be food products in boxes. I surmise that they are volunteering to serve Thanksgiving dinner to someone or another. In many past years here I have looked for the opportunity to do this and have somehow never succeeded in finding one.

A clearly angry black man boards. He's carrying two grocery-sized plastic bags. He too strikes me as homeless, and I wonder if he's even paid the fare. If the driver is demanding it of him, she isn't doing it loudly enough for me to hear, which takes some effort seeing as I'm less than ten feet from the front of the bus. He stands behind the driver, grasping at the poles for support after putting one of his plastic bags down on the seat. He mutters frequently, including inflections that, judging from the tone and vehemence of his exhalations, are likely curse words. (Perhaps he has Tourette's?). At one point, he clearly states "I'm not even gonna bother to take a seat," though he does sit down literally ten seconds after he says it. After approximately 8 stops he gets off, still cursing, including a few choice words at the driver. I still don't remember if he ever paid or not. If he was ejected for nonpayment of fare, it was the most drama-free ejection I've ever seen. Of course, given how long he was on the bus, he may very well have reached his final destination anyway.

City Paper Guy gets off a few stops later, abandoning his paper on the seat recently vacated by him. Before I -- empty handed except for my fruit tart -- can even think twice about it, Two-Trash-Bag Man lunges across the aisle and snatches it. He flips through a few pages for under a minute, then shoves the paper into one of his overfilled trash bags. This reinforces my initial thought that he appears to be some kind of pack rat.

As we approach Union Station, Jessica and Her Friend abruptly change plans. Jessica's Friend suggests they take in a movie; Jessica politely demurs. In the alternative, her friend suggests that they go looking for some food. Jessica quickly agrees, and they both hop off right outside the station, hoping that someplace or another will be open at this hour on Thanksgiving night. The nature of their relationship remains completely unclear to me, but it looks like they were willing to enjoy each other's company for Thanksgiving, and I am happy they both don't have to spend their nights alone.

As we continue to wind through Northeast Washington, I take in the views of the homes there -- well kept rowhouses, many of which probably have substantial amounts of history attached to them. The streets are strangely quiet; nary a pedestrian can be seen. I see one couple with a stroller leisurely making their way down the street, but that's all. I suppose they're all gathered around their dinner tables eating turkey, or around the television watching football. That'll be me soon enough.

I start to fret about whether I've remembered my stop correctly, and whether I should get off at 11th Street or 14th Street. I can see the street on which my friend lives, but alighting early could result in an unnecessarily long walk. Thankfully, I find that I did in fact remember my stop correctly, and I get off and walk about a block and a half to my friend's house.

It was a magical Thanksgiving even before I ever made it to dinner.

Still Here

I've been so delinquent in posting. I've just been tired and bored and uninspired. I'll be back soon. Hopefully this week.

I Don't Love You, You Don't Love Me

Insanely catchy, if laughably simplistic. Check out the "cool" handheld keyboard! I still have no idea what any of it means, but it's fun.

Lately, my life seems to be a lot closer to "I don't love you BECAUSE you don't love me" than just the random happenstance of mutual non-love. "I wish I could quit you!"

O Canada

Heading north for the weekend, just to check it out. Catch y'all on the flip side.

Why Now?

I'm not saying that Democrats should be hardasses about everything now that they've taken control of both houses of Congress.

All I'm saying is, it's really easy to call for bipartisanship when you're the party who has had one-party control of government yanked out from under you.

And it's particularly less-than-palatable when that call for bipartisanship comes from one of the guys at the very center of partisan power grabs for the better part of six years.

Yo, Dubya: I didn't see you asking for bipartisan cooperation when your Republican cronies were busy redistricting Texas to dilute out Democratic votes. I didn't see you clamor for compromise while you consistently nominated (and pushed through) ideologue after ideologue to the federal bench. I didn't see you ask your Republican friends to give any thought to their opposition concerns across the aisle when it came to -- well, any significant issue at all in the past six years that you've been in office.

For as long as you've occupied the White House, I cannot remember a single time when you've ever even noticed that this country has two political parties, one of which disagrees with yours on many issues. You consistently held fast to your party line, and you basically took the position that your party had the power, and your party therefore had the right to make the rules, however myopically they may choose to do so.

So -- again, not that I'm encouraging Democrats to retreat into a "we're in control now so everyone else shut up" shell -- but I find your plea for bipartisan cooperation now to be hollow and, frankly, more than a little desperate.

Happy Dance

Everyone seems pretty confident Democrats will be taking over the House as well as the Senate.



I've been giddily skipping around my office all day.

***

On a sadder note, gay marriage bans passed in three more jurisdictions. This saddens me because it says that even while Democrats were getting to the polls and casting their votes to defeat Republicans, these same Democrats are voting at their polling places against gay marriage. I tell ya, if we can't get Democrats' minds past the "icky" factor of gay marriage, then there's no way we're going to get Republicans to support the idea. And thus, gay men and women will forever be denied full and equal participation in this society.

***

Still, on balance, control of Congress makes me happy.

Some incredibly superficial thoughts on this Election Day (because I'm just too tired to rant on about the crap that's happening at polling places) about the front page pictures that show upon the WaPo website:

- The poor random voting woman must be mortified. She's kind of plus-size, and her eyes are bugging out as if from surprise for no apparent reason. It's not the most flattering picture of her.

- The shot of Adrian Fenty hugging one of his supporters makes him look a little standoffish. Though still, I'd like to be the one pressed up against his body.

- Jim Webb's wife is stunningly pretty.

- But the bearded smiling guy behind him is hot.

- What's up with Eskimo woman with George Allen? He's in a suit and tie and no special winter gear, and she's Nanook of the North.

Oh, right, because you actually expected substantive shit on this blog.

Just Do It.

If you're an American citizen reading this and haven't done so yet, GO VOTE!

Conversations I've Been Involved in Recently

<<1>>

Boss: "I'm back from lunch. Any calls?"
Me: "No, it's been really quiet."
Boss: "Hm. Why?"
Me: "Uh, because no one anywhere picked up the phone and dialed our particular 7- or 11-digit combination?"

<<2>>

Girl: "Did he tell you his gym story?"
Me: "You mean his story about a guy named Jim or about his workout?"
Girl: "Huh?"
Me: "Gym story, like J-I-M?"
Girl: "Oh, no, like "J-Y-M."
Me, and everyone else listening: [burst out laughing]

<<3>>

Friend: "So what are you doing right now?"
Me: "I'm in the middle of a Charlie's Angels marathon."
Friend: "Wow. You truly are a loser."

<<4>>

[Friends having some conversation about oxycodone and other pain meds.]
Me: "No, what you need to do is dissolve some of that in some water, load it up in a syringe, and shoot it up your asshole. The effect is just that much faster."
Everyone: [...]
Me: "Okay, why I picked that particular moment to inject myself into that conversation I don't know. I'm just going to go quietly back to my beer now."

<<5>>

Random guy in gay bar: "Who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?"
Almost everyone else in earshot at the bar: "Me."
Me: "Not me, I just drink here."

<<6>>

Friend, upon noticing that the phone in his rear pocket was beeping: "Oh, that IS me. I thought I was just hearing some random beeping noise."
Me: "Do you often hear random beeping noises coming out of your ass, or is that only when you back up?"

Keep On Movin'

Dear Metro Riders:

I'm addressing this to all Metro riders because I'm fairly certain not all of these actions can be attributed only to tourists. I know we Washingtonians love to hate tourists, and we blame them for a lot of the stupid stuff that happens in this city, but trust me, there are a lot of really stupid people in this city.

Why do you insist on using the "new" farecard machines for paper card transactions? Many years ago, Metro introduced SmarTrip cards to use as fare payment, but did not eliminate paper farecards at the time. Because these SmarTrip cards are plastic and reuseable, they had to install new farecard machines to accommodate them. These new machines have reader devices for the plastic cards and also accept credit cards. The "old" machines still deal only in paper farecards and hard cash.

My question, then, is this: Why do you insist on using the newer machines for cash transactions involving paper farecards? Along a bank of six farecard machines, some new and some old, I invariably have to stand in line behind you while you pop in a few singles for the purpose popping out a paper farecard. While the older machines remain idle and could have easily served your purpose, you pick one of the new machines, while I (a SmarTrip card holder) have no choice but to use the new machines, thus forcing to wait behind you. We could have both conducted our transactions at the same time -- you at an "old" machine, me at a "new" one.

You, my dear, are a moron.

Why do you insist on using the handicap turnstile? Just a gripe of mine, but why do you, a fully able-bodied person, tend to gravitate towards the extra-wide turnstile, even when all of the other turnstiles are not being used? Are you really so grossly obese in your mind's eye that you think you can't fit through the "normal" sized turnstile? Then what makes me laugh is when you try to go through those handicap turnstiles but don't realize that the paper card slot works differently than the others: so you stand there like an idiot for a second, wondering why your card has just been kicked back out of the slot you put it in while the turnstile bars have opened.

You, my dear, are an idiot.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? Lots have already been written about this, but really, make some room, people. If you force me to, I will shove past you to get out those damn doors before the train starts making its way to the next stop. I find it particularly annoying when you stand there and glare at the people who have to get past you as if you're the one being inconvenienced. Buddy, you chose to stand right near the door, and the door's not just for decoration you know.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? When you're on the platform, you ought to know that there's no prize for being the first to board the train when it pulls up at the station. Hence, standing right at the door where the train pulls up is retarded. When people are trying to get off, they (and I presume you, when you reach your eventual destination) don't particularly like being made to walk the gauntlet. This isn't Tailhook '91. Get out of the frigging way and let us off.

Really, is it just so hard?

Bedridden

An Open Letter to Phyllis:

Dear Phyllis:

Thank you so much for your help on Sunday night. You were funny and friendly, even despite my having to ask for clarification about the sex questions. (Have I noticed a decrease in sexual performance lately? Well, that would require a baseline that consists of actual sexual activity. My hand seldom disappoints, if that matters any to you....)

As Cincy Diva guessed with astounding accuracy (Steve was quite close too), I went in for a sleep study at Georgetown on Sunday night. Gay sleep disorder, be damned!


Oh, but that this were me....

I wanted to thank you, Phyllis, for being so nice and friendly during my ordeal. Okay, so "ordeal" is probably an overly strong word, but you have to admit, undergoing a sleep study isn't as fun as it may sound. I didn't expect a night at the Ritz, but I must say sleeping with all those damned wires protruding from all over my face, head and neck was kind of difficult. (That made it particularly funny when you piped up on the intercom that I should feel free to roll over onto my side if I wanted to. This would not have been particularly easy.)

You even woke me up in the middle of the night. Usually this would piss me off, seeing as I have a hard enough time getting a decent night's sleep anyway, but you did so because some of those gazillion sensors detected that I was having some trouble lapsing into restorative sleep and/or I was snoring. You slapped a CPAP machine over my face (again, not the epitome of comfort), but I dealt with it.

I actually felt pretty good for the rest of the day after you awoke me at the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. (By the way, uh, yanking those sensors you taped to my legs within minutes after I woke up, uh, well, that kinda hurt. I kinda like my moderately hairy legs. Now there's a bald patch on them.) I didn't fall asleep at work at all the next day (and I fully expected I would, because I usually do). Even though I was not machine-assisted last night and hit the snooze button excessively today too, I am still doing okay today.

But the big news is that I made an appointment with my doctor. I've timed it so that it should fall around the same time he gets your report, so he can go ahead and tell me what he thinks and whether he should write me a prescription for the CPAP. Personally, if I can't get a man into my bed now, I can't imagine I'll be all that much sexier sleeping with a X-wing missile guidance system strapped to my face ("Use the Force, Luke!" -- "Luke, you've disengaged your guidance system, is everything okay?"), but screw it if it means a good, long night's sleep!


If only this were my bedpartner who isn't repulsed by a gas mask on my face as I sleep....

Anyway, here's to better nights of sleep to come.

Thanks again, Phyllis. You made an unpleasant evening that much more endurable.

Dennis!

A Different Bed in Every City... But Not Quite.

So, tonight I'm not spending the night in my own bed. But I am not in a different city (in fact, I will be less than 10 miles from my own bed), nor am I having any sex whatsoever tonight.

Any guesses?

I'll post about it later, I'm sure.

My First Halloween

As we approach Halloween, I thought I'd share this audio conversation with y'all. You won't understand a word of this audioblog post unless you speak Cantonese. Okay, well, you might pick up the following words: "Halloween," "ding dong" (doorbell chime), and "Supreme Court judge." The sound quality is poor, but if you just want to get a sense of my family and me having a good time during my first trip to Los Angeles last February, go ahead and listen to the gibberish:

(In case you're wondering, my Uncle Randy decided to use his video camera to record this conversation. He gave me a copy on CD.)

The woman whose voice dominates this audiopost is my mother. My dad pipes up a little bit toward the beginning, but it's mostly my mother. The other woman who chimes in from time to time is apparently a family friend whom I don't know well, and the male voice in the middle and end of the recording is my Uncle Tim, whose house we were staying in. And the hyena laughing? That's me.

I'm tempted to just end this post here, but I suppose some more explanation will be in order. In the process, I will embarrass myself terribly, but what's the point of a semi-anonymous blog if you can't make an ass of yourself on it?

Here is the story my mom is recounting in the recording. It is the story of my first Halloween.

I was somewhere between two and three years old, and my family had just moved to the States from Asia. They downplay Halloween where I was born.

We had finished dinner and were just sitting around, when the doorbell chimed its familiar "ding dong." Me being young and excitable and energetic, I ran to the door to be the first to open it. (I apparently often did that. It was a time of youthful innocence. Two year olds could rush to open to the door without fear that some evil person dressed in a black trenchcoat would snatch you out of the open doorway and remove you to his waiting car. I also used to race to be the one to answer the phone.)

Opening the door was my big mistake.

There in the door were a group of extremely tall (probably as tall as four feet!) scary people, including people with green skin, blood on their faces, unkempt hair, and scary bug eyes. (I don't remember, but I can only imagine.) My reaction, of course, is predictable: I had my living daylights scared out of me.

I let out a scream that only a two-year-old fag-in-traning can. Unable to decide whether it was safer to run forward or backward, I was was literally immobilized with fear for a split second (though, of course, it probably felt like a century). I was caught midway between trying to run and absolute mind-numbing terror. I can only imagine that I looked like Fred Flintstone gearing up for a sprint -- you know how he hovers an inch above the ground, legs working, but going nowhere, before he takes off?* Yeah, that was me.

Eventually, my legs took action and, still screaming, I turn tail and ran... straight into a doorframe. So terrified was I that I missed the door opening and ran into the doorframe instead.

On the recording, it's at around this time that everyone around the table is laughing hysterically. That word "kuung" you hear, is Chinese onomotopoeia for the sound of me crashing into a two-by-four. Oh, and "Supreme Court judge"? That's my uncle saying that this is the type of story that could really embarrass a guy after he's been nominated to the Supreme Court. (My entire family is extremely proud of the whole lawyer thing.)

A huge lump developed on my forehead, of course. Apparently, this was par for the course with me; I hit my head a lot as a kid, and the lumps on my forehead (immortalized in numerous photographs) proved it. (Actually, "you used to hit your head a lot" is what the adults tell me now about my childhood.** A not-terribly-nice variation on this theme is the notion that my head was so disproportionately large for my body when I was young that I had a hard time keeping my head up, and I had even been known to fall face first off the can for this reason.)

Okay, it's not as funny now that I've written it up, but hot damn, that was a funny story. But more importantly, it was was fantastic sharing that kind of a hearty laugh with my family. We don't do that often enough.

Happy Halloween!

* I just realized I've used this analogy before, and for this lack of originality, I apologize.

** I still harbor a sneaking suspicion that my parents actually dropped me on the head on multiple occasions. It would explain a lot.

Turning Japanese, I Think I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

This is a nifty site, so I thought I'd share. This puzzle is a photo I took from the Japanese garden in the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.

Have fun.

I Love You, Mike Greiner

Mike Greiner is my new hero.

(Okay, longtime readers of this blog know I have issues with the word "hero", but I really think this time it's kind of deserved.)

Who is Mike Greiner? He's a teacher at Westfield High School in Chantilly, Virginia. And he, unlike many, many, many other English teachers in this country, actually takes at least a little bit of time to teach his students proper grammar.

I, for one, am appalled at some of the basic grammar rules which people today can't pin down to save their lives. There are people whose professional lives require a mastery of the English language -- or, at least, a basic grasp of it. And some of them still can't get simple grammar rules to save their lives.

I learned to diagram sentences in the seventh grade -- a little late, I know, but the public school system in Hawai'i just isn't all that. Although I never did get the whole thing down (check out the above link -- I would NEVER have been able to do that), I learned to appreciate the simple things like subject-verb agreement ("A network of arteries connects all the major organs of the body.").

Recently, through a horrible confluence of events, we had two large projects (each taking on lives of their own) due at the courthouse at once. I took on one project while my boss took on the other. I type my own work, and I'm the kind of anal guy who edits my work along the way. When I type the words "there is no precedent for this argument," I make sure the correct spelling of the word "there" is used.

My boss, on the other hand, being of a certain age and not as proficient on the keyboard, tends to dictate his work for someone else to type up. This typist, much to my dismay, doesn't type as carefully as I'd like. I end up insisting on reviewing my boss's work product before it goes out just for that purpose: I need to make sure embarrassing grammatical errors don't make it into the final draft of a document. As I edited this last round of paperwork for this major project, I could myself adding and removing apostrophes with alarming frequency. This happens often when we have a lawsuit with multiple defendants: our typist can't seem to make an effective and disciplined difference between the "defendants" and "defendants'". I find the following in drafts handed to me:

- Defendants argument ignores controlling Supreme Court precedent.
- Defendants' cannot escape liability for their actions.

I swear, I edited apostophes so much it got to the point where I seriously thought that my typist was deliberately using it incorrectly just to rile me.

I know I've blogged about this before, but there really should be more English teachers out there like Mike Greiner. God bless you, Mike Greiner.

Sharin' the Olivia Love, Perhaps.

(Seems like Olivia doesn't have all that many well-known songs that would be appropriate as a title for this post.)

I have tickets to see the love of my life, Olivia Newton-John, again in a few weeks. On November 4, 2006,I will be once again in Atlantic City watching my favorite performer of all time perform. I will, undoubtedly, be sobbing uncontrollably through most of it. I have yet to decide whether to head up on Friday night or Saturday morning, and I have yet to decide whether to spend a night in Atlantic City at all.

Now here's the thing: I have an extra ticket. The one reliable pal I would have gone with is passing on this excursion. So, here's a plan:

If you love Olivia anywhere near as much as I love Olivia, I'm happy to share the love with you. If you're in DC, we can share a ride up to the city. As I said, I'm flexible if you want to spend an extra night there as well. If you're not in DC, but can make your way up to Atlantic City, I'd also be happy to sell the extra ticket to you.

If you're interested, please either drop me a comment or an email.

I realize this is a long shot, but hey, I'd love company for the show, and this way I might get to meet another random blogger.


Previous Olivia posts here and here and here.

Attention Costco Shoppers

Dear Costco Shoppers:

You. Yeah, you know I'm talking to you. Thing is, I don't think you care.

We're in a warehouse store. The shopping carts are pretty wide, but then so are most of the aisles -- you know, to make up for the fact that everything is huge there. Kind of makes sense that way.

I'm quite aware that they also hand out free samples of food. Free food is generally good. To be honest, a lot of the food they offer is remarkably good, for a wholesale club.

But for the love of Pete, can you please think for just a microsecond before the lure of free food -- or the sight of the 128-oz. bag of potato chips -- irresistably tempts you to stop in the middle of the freaking aisle?

In theory, at least three oversized shopping carts can fit into any given aisle: one cart on either side of the aisle, and one moving down the center of it. I'm pretty sure they planned it that way. What they didn't plan for was the notion that people like you would actually turn your cart to the most inconvenient position possible as you examine the jumbo size jars of Jif peanut butter, causing others to have to move way the hell around you. Somehow, you manage to either turn the cart perpendicular to the item you want (huh?), or you manage to line youself up with the other carts in the aisle, creating the perfect blockade point. Never mind that there's empty space before and after the point where you're standing, you have to stop exactly where you are, which happens to be exactly where other carts and people create a logjam.

It gets worse in the produce area in the back of the store. The aisles are narrower there. Can we please act accordingly? Let's all please learn to recognize that there are people behind us most of the time, and that any abrupt stopping will greatly disrupt the flow of people moving around the area. Stopping dead in your tracks to get a free sample of king crab corn chowder -- and actally standing there to eat it -- stops things up. Even worse is when you stop dead in your tracks waiting for the free samples to become available. That's a little pathetic, as well as the cause of flowus interruptus.

Of course, this isn't limited to Costco shoppers. It happens pretty much at any grocery store I've ever been to. Serious, folks, does it take that much work to actually think about how your actions affect the others around you?

Thanks for the consideration.

XOXO,
Dennis!