So, there I am, standing in line at Trader Joe’s, when I turn around to make sure I didn’t forget anything. As my eyes are scanning the aisles, they catch the face of the guy standing behind me. He looks familiar. But I can’t place him. He has the same inquisitive look on his face, only he isn’t as shy.

“Don’t you work here?” he asks.

“Uh, no,” I reply.

“I know you from somewhere.”

I should’ve turned around at that point and not given him anymore clues.

“I know!” he says excitedly. “Whole Foods! You used to work at Whole Foods!”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He was right. I did used to work at Whole Foods. Many, many years ago. When freelance work was scarce, I made my living as a cashier. It’s a part of my past I’d like to erase.

“Uh, yeah.” I begrudgingly answer. But I still can’t believe this guy remembers me from six or seven years ago. “Beverly Hills?” I ask.

“Yeah!” He replies.

Fuck. Ten years from now, when I’m a world famous author, I’ll be at a book signing and someone will come up to me, book in hand, and ask, “Didn’t you used to work at Whole Foods?”

Living alone does have its drawbacks. I mean, the peace and quiet is nice. And the being able to do whatever you want is cool too. Oh, and not having anyone nagging you, that’s great. . . Huh? Oh, right, the drawbacks. Sorry.

Sometimes it’s nice to have an extra person around the house. Especially when you’re trying to build something. Take yesterday. I ordered a sideboard display cabinet from Plummers. When it came in, my friend was nice enough to help me go pick it up in his Volvo station wagon (no, it wasn’t sx70). But that’s the only help I asked for. So after we lugged the three boxes up the stairs and into my place, I gave him a bottle of water and sent him on his way.

Then it was time to get down to business. I carefully tore open the largest box and discovered to my delight that most of the cabinet was already assembled. All I had to do was lay the sideboard on its back, screw on the legs and slide in the shelves. Easy peasy. Or so I thought.

I tilted the cabinet back very carefully and screwed on the legs. Then it came time to tilt it back up right. I got behind it and attempted to do a quick power lift. No luck. I ended up almost tearing off my fingernail. The problem? The legs are located just inside the frame and are too long to use for leverage. It seemed there was only one way to get that sideboard back on its feet: I needed someone else to help me lift it from the other side. But who?

Well, I don’t have a lot of friends. My fault, I know. But that didn’t make my situation any better. Neighbors? Are you kidding? I hardly see them. No, I was stuck. So for the rest of that night, I just sat and watched TV, occasionally glancing over at that sideboard lying on its back on the cold cement floor. I went to bed that night disappointed and depressed.

But as I was waking up the next morning, I started to think: Why did I need someone to come over and help me? The answer: So we could lift up the cabinet and set it down on its legs from a higher angle. Well, if that’s the case, what if I just stuck something underneath it? A cardboard box maybe? Then I would have more leverage to tilt the cabinet upright.

It seemed to make sense. So I got out of bed and I did just that. I lifted up the cabinet from one side and shoved a long, shallow-but-sturdy cardboard box underneath it. I got behind the cabinet from the other side and I gave it a lift. And you know what? It actually worked.

I know, I can hardly believe it myself. But the sideboard cabinet is all assembled now and nicely positioned against my wall. It really looks great. All I have to do now is figure out what the hell I’m gonna put in it. In hindsight, I suppose I should have thought of that before I bought the damn thing.

Somehow this myth got started that people who wear glasses are fucking geniuses. Well, I hate to break the news to ya, but it’s a load of crap.

I’ve worn glasses most of my life, and I barely made it through high school. Really. I had to go to junior college just to build up my grades. Then I transferred to an unimpressive local university to obtain my B.A.

And what did I major in? Journalism. Not because I wanted to be the next Woodward or Bernstein. I did it because it was a fucking easy major that didn’t require any math.

So please, don’t involve me in your intellectual conversations. I may look like I could have something interesting to add to the discussion. But I don’t. Actually, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Outside, I may be nodding and saying “uh huh.” But inside, I’m just thinking, “huh?”

I’ve never read Chaucer and I have no intention of starting now. Hell, I had a hard enough time getting through Anthony Burgess’s “A Clockwork Orange.” And that was after I saw the damn movie. I like books by Steve Martin and Chuck Palahniuk. Books that don’t make me reach for my pocket dictionary every two minutes. I don’t need any more reminders of how stupid I am.

So I’m sorry if my glasses are misleading. I don’t wear them to look smart. I wear them because I’m too damn afraid to put contacts in my eyes. I mean it. Having anything in my eye freaks me out: an eyelash, a spec of dust, a knitting needle. But is that really a bad reaction? I mean, should I really want to have something in my eye? Seems like a bad idea to me.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I should throw caution to the wind and get myself a nice pair of contacts. I hear they’re more comfortable now. And even if my eyes do get red and irritated, I could at least stop pretending I understand what the hell a stem cell is. Bleh.

It seems like every time I mention to a girl that I’d be a horrible father, they always disagree with me. Well, I thought it would be best to illustrate my point with the following hypothetical scenario:

So there I am, sitting in my big chair, reading the morning paper (because that’s what fathers do), when my five-year-old son comes up to me and tugs on my shirt.

“Daddy?”

I cringe. “Yes, Mortimer?” (The name was her idea.)

“I’m gonna be a astronaut!”

I lower my paper and look down at the kid. He’s the spitting image of his father. What a shame. “An astronaut? Are you sure?”

He nods in that childlike way. “Uh huh. And I’m gonna be the bestest astronaut in the whole world!”

“Best. The word is best. Not bestest. Do you have any idea what it takes to be an astronaut?”

He just looks at me and turns his head from side to side.

“Well, neither do I. But it isn’t easy. I mean, first you have all that training you have to endure. They stick you in this little capsule and spin you around until you skin stretches out and you look like Jabba The Hut.”

“Jabba da hud?”

“Uh, remind me to rent the Star Wars trilogy for you. In any case, you’d be up there in space with nobody around. And you’d have to drink your own urine.”

“Urine?”

“Pee pee.”

“Ewww”

“Right. I mean, people go insane up there. Not to say that you shouldn’t have dreams. But maybe you should stick to more realistic ones, like a teacher or a short-order cook.”

He looks up at me with sad eyes.

“Look, I just don’t want you to set your heart on being in space only to be disappointed later. Then again, I don’t want to discourage you from pursuing your dreams. Crap. Where’s your mother?”

I rest my case.

It’s not easy to find a good dry cleaner these days. Most of them are just bogus storefronts trying to pose as actual laundering facilities. In reality, all the actual cleaning is done miles away in giant warehouses, where immigrant workers are beaten into submission with recycled wire hangers.

That’s why before I trust anyone with even a soiled sock, I go in the back and inspect all the equipment. Are the washing machines free of lint and loose pennies? Does the pants-pressing contraption reach the required temperature for optimum results? And what about that on-site tailor? Does he really know what he’s doing with that 90-year-old sewing machine? He sure as fuck better.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m in the process of investigating a new dry cleaner. Since this particular one passed the initial inspection, I decided to start them out with something easy: a few shirts that I wouldn’t miss.

I’m pleased to say the shirts came back virtually spotless. And more importantly, they included plenty of packaging. That’s a sign of a good dry cleaner: a lot of extra packaging. As a rule, you should have to remove at least four things from a garment before you’re able to wear it.

The plastic bag is a given. But there should also be a paper cover to protect the shirt from the plastic bag. And a plastic clip on the top button to ensure the collar doesn’t crease during the rough ride home. Inside, the garment should be stuffed with no less than eight long sheets of tissue paper. And if the dry cleaner is truly professional, they’ll also attach a paper tag to the bottom button hole with a staple.

Since my shirts came back in such excellent condition, I felt it was time to entrust this dry cleaner with something much more precious: my grey jacket.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I sort of get into a rut with my outerwear. If I find a jacket I like, I’ll wear it every day until it falls apart. For the past two years, that jacket has been my grey jacket. Fortunately, I’ve managed to keep it fairly clean. The only problem is, about three months ago, I broke the pull tab off during an unusually aggressive zippering incident.

As much as I hated parting with my grey jacket, it had to be fixed. But could it really be repaired? The dry cleaner wasn’t sure. He told me I’d have to leave it with him so the tailor could look at it in the morning.

That day I spent without my grey jacket was the longest I’ve endured in quite some time. I had no choice but to resort to wearing my black jacket. Granted, it’s a nice jacket. But it’s a little heavier than necessary. And more importantly, it’s not my grey jacket.

When I returned the next evening to pick up my cherished jacket, I saw something I wasn’t quite prepared for: The tailor had attached a black pull tab and slider to the zipper without my consent. Not that I have anything against black pull tabs. But this particular jacket used to have a slim, silver tab dangling from its zipper. Now, with this black pull tab, it looked so. . . ordinary. But the damage was done. What could I do? I paid for the repair and took my updated (read “destroyed”) grey jacket home.

The next day, I slipped on my grey jacket and went out to run some errands. It felt good to have the old jacket on again. It felt right. But that feeling quickly subsided the moment I slid my left hand into my jacket pocket. Something was in there that shouldn’t have been. Something small. Something square. Something I couldn’t quite place. Was it a pill of some sort? Maybe an antacid I had forgotten about?

I pulled my hand out and couldn’t believe what I saw. It was a piece of Nicorette gum. See, the funny this is, I don’t smoke. I’ve never smoked. And I don’t have any friends who smoke or are trying to quit smoking. There was only one explanation: Somebody else had been wearing my jacket.

But who? Obviously, it had to be someone at the dry cleaner — most likely the tailor — which at first seemed rather creepy. Then I got to thinking. You know how after mechanics repair a vehicle, they’ll drive it around the block to make sure everything is working right? Well, maybe this tailor really gets into his work. Maybe he took my jacket for a walk around the marina to see that everything was in working order. You know, button the buttons on the sleeves, work the zipper up and down, listen for any squeaks or rattles, that sort of thing. Of course, he didn’t want to smoke while he was out and risk damaging the jacket, so he took a couple pieces of Nicorette gum with him, just to tide him over until he could have a real cigarette. He was just being thoughtful, that’s all.

Then again, maybe the creep was just cold and grabbed the first coat he could find. I feel so violated. Like I said, finding a new dry cleaner is a bitch.

Before I bought my condo, I had to sign a document. It was a warning that the property I was interested in is very close to the airport. Duh. I’ve lived in this area before. I knew about the airplane noise. Frankly, it doesn’t bother me that much. Besides, our building is supposed to get double-pane glass installed very soon. I can live with it till then.

What I can’t live with, however, are the noises coming out of this dying cat somewhere in the building. From the crack of dawn and on through the night, this fucking feline makes the most annoying moaning sounds I’ve ever heard: “Oww Oww Oww Oww Oww.” That’s the only thing that comes out of its mouth. There’s no “Mee” preceding the “Oww,” as you might expect. It’s just the “Oww” part. That’s why I think it was injured. Maybe someone cut off its “Mee.”

Then again, maybe “dying” is the wrong word. “Dying” implies weak. And let me tell you, this motherfucker is LOUD. Loud enough to crack through the jet engines flying overhead. In fact, considering the decibel range this cat is capable of, I imagine it to be about the size of a walrus. An overweight walrus.

And why “Oww”? What kind of fucking cat sound is that? A tabby being gang banged by a pack of wolves would make a more comforting sound.

I swear something has got to be wrong with that cat. Perhaps it’s the result of some dastardly cloning experiment gone awry. Yeah, that’s it. Right now, it’s rolling around on the balcony with only one leg and half an eye. Patches of fur on its body. Five teeth poking out of its ass.

Or maybe its owner died and left this crazed kitten out there to die. No, if that were the case, it would be dead by now, and I wouldn’t have to sleep with my head sandwiched between two pillows (I kid you not).

Whatever the reason is for this auditory abuse, it’s got to stop. Otherwise, I’m gonna climb the side of the building, pinpoint that annoying animal and take care of business. They say there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I can attest to that. I’ve started making a list.

About a week ago, I decide that rather than purchase my usual herbal lip balm, I’d go old school and pick up a tube of ChapStick.

We’re talking the original ChapStick: black tube, white type. A man’s lip balm, if there ever was one.

It even applies in a manly way. It’s not smooth and silky like some lip balms. It’s tough and waxy. That’s right, drag this bad boy across your dry, cracked lips and you’ll be leaving a trail of blood. A waxy trail of blood.

And let’s not forget that manly scent. You won’t find any mint essence or tea tree oil bullshit in here. Nah, it smells like petroleum and alcohol, just like it should.

It’s a scent that reminds me of my younger years, relaxing by the pool, feeling the sun slowly warming my skin, drifting off to sleep and waking up two hours later looking like the devil himself.

Somehow I’d manage to peel myself off the vinyl lounge chair and make my way into the house, desperately in need of cool relief: Solarcaine, the first-aid spray for fuck-ups.

I wasn’t as bright as my sister. She took the kitchen timer out with her while she was roasting her body. After about fifteen minutes, she’d turn over and cook the other side. But not before basting herself with cocoa butter, of course.

Back then, we didn’t know any better. Sure, I feared getting a sunburn. But not because it could lead to cancer. No, I knew that if my sister ever saw me walking with my arms out to avoid any friction and my face red with raccoon eyes, it wouldn’t be long before she’d chase me down and SMACK me on the back, creating so much pain that I was momentarily paralyzed.

Yeah, this ChapStick sure does bring back memories. I’m throwing it away tomorrow.

Those of you who read my blog religiously are quite aware of my hatred for the city I currently reside in. You also need to get a life. Because while my blog may be amusing at times, it certainly is not material worth building a religion on. I’ll leave that to Mr. L. Ron Hubbard.

In any case, a not-so-funny thing happened to me tonight. I needed a quick dinner, so I thought I’d call the local Baja Fresh and order something to pick up. It’s all very routine for me. I call in the order, take my special shortcut to the parking garage where I can park free for one hour with validation, pick up my order, hand the ticket to the parking attendant, and I’m back home in about ten to fifteen minutes. Well, that’s the way it’s supposed to work, at least.

Everything went according to plan. I parked in the parking garage, picked up my order, got my ticket validated, then drove up to hand the guy my ticket in the garage. Only instead of looking at the ticket and saying “thank you” and opening the gate for me to leave, he just stared at the ticket. And I waited patiently. Until he informed me that I owed him two dollars.

“Two dollars? I have a validation.”

“But you’ve been here for over an hour. The ticket says 18, it’s now 19.”

“I just got here. I’ve been here maybe five minutes!”

“The ticket says you’ve been here for over an hour.”

“I don’t care what the ticket says! I just got here. Trust me, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you!”

In any case, the line of cars started getting longer behind me, and I realized how it must have looked to the drivers that followed me: Some asshole disputing a couple dollars. But I didn’t owe those fucking dollars. I didn’t owe him shit. But I paid him anyway, because it was obvious he was an idiot and he wasn’t going to budge.

Fuck you, too, Hollywood. Motherfuckers.

Here are a few words of advice: If you drive one of those cars with the fancy remotes built into the key, don’t lose your key. I usually have my key in the change pocket of my jeans. Well, somehow it fell out in my apartment complex. And knowing the type of people who live here, I’m fearful of someone taking my car out for a joyride, or possibly taking it out and never returning it. So I called the dealership this morning and asked if they could reprogram my keycode. No. They have to replace the entire onboard computer and order a new set of keys. The cost? $760. The moral of this story: Don’t lose your key.

I spent my afternoon in Seal Beach celebrating my friend’s daughter’s birthday. Mind you, it’s not a short drive from Seal Beach to Hollywood, especially when there’s traffic. And, yes, there was traffic. Tons of fucking traffic. I was dying in the traffic. My ass was starting to get sore from lack of circulation. I couldn’t wait until I got home.

But when I got home, I had a surprise waiting for me: Someone was parked in my parking space. They just backed their car in there as if they paid the rent. Only they didn’t pay the rent. I pay the rent. Because it’s my fucking space!

That just meant I had to park in the guest parking. But, of course, the guest parking was full. Which meant I had to park on the street somewhere.

Have I mentioned before how fucking popular my street is? Every goddamn person from Eagle Rock to Culver City drives up here to walk their fucking dogs. In other words, it’s impossible to find a parking space. Impossible. I drove around for a good twenty minutes trying to find a place to park. I ended up parking six blocks away. Six blocks!

If you haven’t guessed by now, I was pretty irate at that point. I vowed revenge. I wouldn’t damage their car, but I would make sure that it got towed the fuck out of my space.

But, of course, when I finally got home and went downstairs to write down the information on the vehicle, it was gone. Gone! FUCKING GONE! AGGGGRHHHHHHH!!! If I was ever going to have an aneurism in my life, I would have had one then. So there’s your fucking silver lining.