#114 – Having a Really Good-Looking Person In Front of You In Line

nyc_photo_blog_nat_ma-65You’re waiting in line for… well, anything. Waiting in and of itself is awful, you don’t need me to provide a specific location to make this scenario more dire, but I’m going to anyway.

Let’s say you’re on line at Target. You just had a nice experience buying crap you don’t need at prices you can’t possibly imagine were this low. Now, you’ve made the mistake you always make–you’ve picked the wrong line. It’s a Saturday, it’s busy, so of course the store only has lines 1, 3, 67 and 72 open. 1 and 3 are about a quarter mile down the road, so you picked 67 because the line appeared to be shortest.

Naturally, that was a short-sighted selection as every single person in front of you has a million items, coupons, out-of-date gift cards and basically every other form of delay known to mankind is taking place in front of you.

Then, a gift from the heavens arrives.

No, not the manager coming to your lane. That’s just a sign of further delay.

It’s the woman standing in front of you (or fella, whatever). She’s gorgeous, she’s not listening to music, she doesn’t have a ring, she’s not with anybody.

This isn’t a club, you’re not even necessarily looking to score in any way—be it a number or, you know.

But, now, at THE VERY LEAST, you have someone to make snide comments with.

Don’t pretend you’d rather share those with the dude in the Star Wars shirt behind you.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Thinking you’re in with this girl/guy, getting the courage up to ask for a number or even say, “You know, we should hang out some time!” and then getting flat out rejected or having the line suddenly move so fast you run out of time.

#161 – The Sound of the Ice Cream Truck

ice-cream-truckThis is a tough one to really visualize and enjoy at this exact second, seeing as how it’s absolutely, soul-crushingly cold and bleak out and will continue to be for the better part of the next two months, where in we only get a reprieve in the form of a slightly less-shitty few months before the three good weeks of weather this area of the world is granted per year.


OK, anyway. Point is, it’s cold. It’s not exactly what you’d call “ice-cream weather.”

But, you’re a goddamned liar if you’re telling me that, even in this cold, if you heard that familiar diddy (turns out, like most things from our country’s past, it has wildly racist origins) you wouldn’t turn on a dime to look for that fucking truck.


I’ve never even been a huge fan of ice cream (partial, of course, to sour candy), but I don’t think there’s a time or a place where that propaganda music won’t change my course. It’s like I’m sort of a Manchurian candidate and the only thing that will unlock me and begin my journey is that tune.

It reminds me of summer, of being a kid, of being thrilled with having three or four dollars in my pocket. It’s a great association to have with, ostensibly, a sweaty dude in a white truck.

The Polar Opposite of this Feeling: Finding out they don’t have the good soft-serve ice cream and/or are out of the Sonic the Hedgehog bar.