Overheard on an Amtrak train in southern California:
“What stop are we getting off at?”
“Tijuana.”
“Tijuana? No way! That’s in Japan!”
I guess she doesn’t know about Amtrak’s new fleet of flying trains.
The east coast is three hours ahead of the west coast which means that everything on the east coast comes out three hours ahead of everything that comes out on the west coast. I think an easy way to get rich would be to get up really early on the east coast, buy a bunch of newspapers, and then sell them to people on the west coast at a jacked up price. Why would people on the west coast pay more? Because it’s news from the future, that’s why.
After landing in Los Angeles and then catching a connecting flight to San Luis Obispo, I am finally here in the land of no mobile phone and Blackberry access: Cambria, CA. Thank you and good night.
Now I’m waiting in the terminal at the Chicago airport for my connecting flight to L.A. Stay tuned for more scintillating developments.
Since my last foray into the world of live blogging was so awesome, I’ve decided to give it another go. I’m at La Guardia airport right now sitting on a plane that will theoretically take me to Chicago. Stay tuned for more exciting updates.
I dreamt that I was in bed and called the taxi dispatcher to have a taxi come pick me up at my apartment. I got out of bed to find a guy with his hot dog cart parked in my kitchen.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” I asked.
“You asked for taxi pickup,” he said, “so I figured if people are going to wait for taxis here they might get hungry.”
“I don’t want everyone to wait for taxis here. When I called for a pickup, I just meant for me.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“So,” I said, “are you going to get out of my apartment or what?”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
But he didn’t leave. And then I woke up. Stupid hot dog cart guy.
There’s a Peruvian restaurant in my neighborhood with a sign in the window written in Spanish that says “Se necesita lavaplatos urgente.” Translated to English, it says “We urgently need a dish washer.”
The problem with this sign is that it’s been up for over three months. I can’t even begin to imagine how tall the stack of dirty dishes has gotten. I bet it’s really grande.
How do they get stickers on pieces of fruit? Did someone have to design a machine specifically for the task of slapping stickers on individual pieces of fruit? Have scientists managed to genetically engineer fruit-producing plants to grow labels on their skin? Or is there some poor guy stuck at the fruit factory with the awful job title of “Fruit Label Adherer”?
