red line maneuvering

We had all waited the better part of an eternity for a train to show up, so by the time the doors opened, everyone crushed inside. But in a precise and practiced order: As always, the quick-steppers are first. Usually iPod-listening men in their 20s or 30s, they come from somewhere in the back in the pack, far enough away that they get a running start. With speed and a steely determination, they blow right past the ledge-waiters. Often short, older women or anyone who came without reading material, ledge-waiters claim their territory with a wide stance and cold stare. They plant themselves close enough to the edge of the platform that no one dares step in front of them. No one except the quick-steppers, who do so with a screw-you-all purpose. The ledge-waiters, once passed by like a wilted kale garnish on the fried-seafood platter of life, scowl and mutter and try to muscle their way through the doorway, as though terrified that they won't get on. Or just steamed that their first-in-lineness was so blatantly scorned.

And yet, despite the pushing and shoving, everyone fits in. We all do. Almost all of the time, people. Or is that not the point?

how public radio drove me to cable tv

Time was, I didn't have a tv at all. And you know when you dump a no-good lout of a boyfriend, then after a good cry and a few pints of ice cream you feel much better--so much so that you wonder why you ever liked the guy in the first place? In exactly that way, I didn't miss tv. I had just moved to Boston from DC, where I worked at NPR, so I was fully indoctrinated into the cult of public radio. I shunned Friends and ER in favor of This American Life, which was then in its early years.

Then I got a job that required a lot of movie watching (and it was The Worst Job Ever! true story!), which is how the insidious creature got into the house. As soon as the thing was plugged in and the VCR set up, Burton and I turned into the Augustus Gloop of television-watching. (Did I lose you there? Follow along: Piggy that he was, Augustus fell into Willy Wonka's chocolate river and was sucked up the tube to the fudge factory. B and I are Augustus, the boob-tube is our chocolate river, and the fudge factory is utterly irrelevant, but who doesn't like to say "fudge factory" and glance around the room to see who else is giggling? Oh, just me? Really?)

Anyway, we watched the worst of it, from America's Next Top Model to the whole of the Law and Order empire (though I never could stomach Friends). Too cheap to subscribe to cable, we bought whatever slop the networks were selling.

And now this happens. This American Life. On cable tv. I am so there. A ball of putty in Showtime's hands, my friends. Show me where to sign my name, and I shall.

for immediate release

April 24, 2006

A tan bath mat, missing since early February, when it disappeared en route to the laundry room, was discovered on Saturday, April 22, safe and unharmed, but discolored and smelling of gutter run-off. The two-by-three-foot piece of terry, used to dry feet as they exit the watery environment of the shower, turned up outside the house, wedged between the foundation and some shrubbery.

Resident JennyMcFlint made the discovery while conducting some light weekend yard work. "My rake hit something back there," she told reporters gathered on the scene, "and it didn't feel like no pile of leaves!" When McFlint pushed aside an ugly yew that has never been liked, she found the bath mat amongst a pile of rotting leaves and brush. "I couldn't believe my eyes," she gushed. "After all these months, it was just under my nose, practically begging to be let back into the house."

As soon as its identity was confirmed, the Egyptian cotton mat was rushed to the nearest facilities and bathed "in the hottest damn water possible," according to McFlint. After a fluff cycle, the victim appeared "good as new."

There was no evidence indicating how the victim lost its way, nor how it survived on its own for months through an unforgiving New England winter. McFlint told authorities on the scene that she would not be requesting an investigation or to eventually press charges.

"We're just so happy to have a warm, dry place to step when we get out of the shower," McFlint told the gathering crowds. "My family would like to thank everyone for their loving support during these difficult times. Now please excuse me--we have to make up for a lot of lost time," she told the crowd of onlookers as she headed inside, clutching her Downy-fresh bath mat and adjusting her Hello Kitty shower cap.

let me introduce you to...

Walking down Newbury Street, I pass a teenage girl wearing a t-shirt (it's as snug as a bug that's been power-sprayed on a rug, by the way) that says, "I heart Army guys." Just behind her, walking with a different band of brothers, is a guy who looks as Army as Willem Dafoe in Platoon. His shirt says, "I like boobies."

If only she'd turn around, they could really hit it off. And have a good story for their grandchildren, too.

getting to ikea: a retrospective

Would never have imagined it could be so difficult to find a giant box store--a blue and yellow one, no less, roughly the girth of the Roman Colosseum and the Jacob Javitz Center combined, and as popular as Wal-Mart on black Friday. And yet.

Our fist mistake (of many): trusting Google Maps. When the directions eventually failed, we stopped at the first opportunity: a Quick Mart somewhere in the wilds of west Stoughton. As soon as Leah and I opened the door, the cashier sized us up and announced, "You got lost looking for Ikea, right?" Huh. "Go back out the way you came, go straight through five lights, about five miles, and it'll be on your left." Apparently we were but one of many in a long wagon train of urban pioneers, searching the suburbs for cheap home furnishings and trusting our fate to Google Maps.

Off we went. The fifth light put us somewhere in the wilds of east Stoughton. In every direction, all we could see were trees. Where was the pavement? The parking spaces? The shopping carts? The bargains? Clearly still lost, we stopped at a gas station with a falling-down sign and nary a customer in sight. I push open the door, and find an attendant sitting in a dank, dusty office, looking like he hasn't seen the outdoors since gas cost $1 a gallon. But we'd been driving for the better part of an hour by this point, so I get right down to business: Where is this magical land of Swedish imports?

"Go up to the light here," he says, pointing to whence we came, "and take a right."

"Do you mean this light?" I ask, pointing to the number five in view, where the only reasonable option is to turn left, unless you're the off-roading adventurous sort.

"Yeah."

"So I should turn left there, shouldn't I?"

"Nope, turn right," he insists, much to the chagrin, I'm sure, of the individuals who live in the house though which you would pass if you were to follow his directions.

We volley a few more left-right arguments before I give up. "Ok, so I turn right. Then what?" Three lights, turn right at the Exxon, and it's right there on your right.

Wouldn't you know it. The best directions of the day came from someone who couldn't tell left from right. Take that, Google Maps.

the only thing missing is the chicken dance, and then not really

The farmers' market in San Diego is like a wedding reception, with live music, bundles of fresh flowers everywhere you look, and the sort of passed apps that don't leave you hungry for lunch. Seriously, I could live there. Happily ever after.

life as it should be

At San Diego's dog beach, the creatures are off-leash, the waves are perfect for frisbee-catching, and the scrappers, like this one, are free to scare up trouble. And they do.