The other night at work it's busy, and I don't actually have time to talk with customers. While walking past a couple at the end of the bar I hear the guy telling a joke, but only catch the last two lines:

"So then the guy in the water says, 'Help! I'm sinking!' and the German in the boat says, 'Vhat are you sinking about?'"

Really, the punchline is the only part of the joke that you need to hear.

Yesterday I was going through a bunch of old notebooks that I had used when I was younger.

I came across this story, entitled "Earl the Klutz", which I had written at age 10 (all spelling and punctuation is as it originally was).

One night, in a town far, far away, there lived a plumer. The plumer's name was Earl. Oh, Earl was a wise, wise man...ok, he was a big klutz, I mean he fixed toilets and drains all day, ya don't get wisdom from that. THE END.

Yes, I was a jaded writer from the beginning.

The other day Micah hands me a roll of Chewy Spree, the candy. "I can't eat these anymore," he says. "Why not?" I ask.

Micah rotates the roll in my hand so that the main title and slogan are facing me. "What does that say?" he asks. I slowly read the slogan out loud: "It's a kick in the mouth!"

I stare at Micah for a second. "That's absolutely awful!" Micah nods in agreement.

Later we pick up Bernadette, and as she gets into the car we hand her the roll of Chewy Spree. "Ooh, Chewy Spree!" Bern says excitedly. "Read the slogan," we tell her. After a long pause, "It's a kick in the mouth?"

I understand what they're going for, but it just gives you the impression that after eating Chewy Spree you're going to need facial recontructive surgery. And nobody likes that. Except plastic surgeons. Because they charge a lot.

Yesterday was my birthday. I don't like to advertise it, so sue me. But I received an e-mail and picture from my dad.

"Thanks for the being kind to me in your blog," he wrote. "And in regards to next-day installation, look at this cute kid coming home."

I was a sample brought to their home!

The other day I go out to the suburbs to visit my mom.

"Are you growing a beard?" she asks when she sees me. I rub my face and chin absentmindedly. "Oh, um, no. I guess I just didn't shave," I tell her. She smiles at me. "You know J, I really appreciate the amount of thought you put into your appearance when you come to see me."

I love you too, mom. I love you too.

Last night I had a dream that I was on some school fieldtrip and Byron was traveling with me (Yes, without the preface of 'dream' that sentence makes no sense).

We were sitting on a shuttle to the airport when Byron took out his luggage to get something, and it turned out that he had the exact same luggage as me.

"You just know that's going to be confusing," I tell him.
"You mean like at baggage pick-up?" Byron asks, giggling. "Getting them mixed up?"
I nod. "You'll take mine, and I'll take yours. And then you'll end up with a suitcase full of Harvard Law Reviews, and I'll end up with a suitcase full of gay sex toys."

I woke up from the dream right after this happened, and I have to admit: I don't know why my subconscious associates heterosexual luggage with the Harvard Law Review, and homosexual luggage with gay sex toys, but I think it's a question my therapist would suggest we get started on right away.

This afternoon I walk out into my hallway, only to see my neighbor, Paul. He's laying on the floor, reclining on his elbows, reading a book.

"Oh, um, hi Paul," I say, a bit confused.
Paul is Asian, but he has a British accent. It always throws me. " 'Ello," he says.
"Um...what's going on?" I ask, looking around to see if I can figure it out on my own.
Paul laughs. "Oh, don't mind me. I just got locked out of my apartment, but someone's on their way with the keys."
"Gotcha." I nod. "Do you need to use my bathroom, or do you want something to drink?"
"No, no," he says politely, looking up at me from the floor. "I'm fine."

And then I leave Paul. Laying in the hallway.

Ah, neighbors.

I regularly get stopped on the sidewalk by those people who wear bright windbreakers, and hold a clipboard. They ask if I have a second for the environment/the homeless/an important world issue. And usually I say, "Sorry, I don't. But have a good day," and that tides them over. Well not today. I blame the crosswalk sign that kept me from going anywhere.

Guy in Red Windbreaker: That's a nice iPod.
Me: Um, thanks.
GIRW: You know, for the price of that iPod you could feed a child for a year.
Me: Yeah, well...
GIRW: It's not that much.
Me: It's enough.
GIRW: Well, do you smoke?
Me: No.
GIRW: Do you drink coffee?
Me: (figuring a few cups a week doesn't count) No.
GIRW: How about ice cream? Do you like ice cream?
Me: (I eye the crosswalk sign anxiously) Nope.
GIRW: Well there's got to me some little extras you spend money on.
Me: There are. And that's why I can't afford to give to the starving children.
GIRW: Ah! You "can't" or you "won't"?
Me: (the crosswalk sign changes and I start walking) I won't.
GIRW: (following me across the street) Well that's the difference.
Me: (shrugging) I guess.
GIRW: Just tell me you'll think about it.
Me: (hoping he'll stop following me) I'll think about it.

So I'm going to hell because I don't give to the starving children. So sue me. ...Needless to say I walked home a different way.

The other day while Kami and I are driving down Belmont we notice the National Rubber Stamp Co.

"I wonder if we can just get our own stamps made up," I think out loud.
Kami says, "I bet we could."

I quickly pull out my cell phone and call the number on their sign.

Woman: Thank you for calling the National Rubber Stamp Company, how can I help you?
Me: Yeah, if I wanted to get a stamp made up with just...whatever I wanted on it, would that be possible?
Woman: I couldn't get it to you today, but I could get it for you by Monday.
Me: Oh. No rush or anything. I was just curious.
Woman: Yes. No problem.
Me: And about how much would that cost?
Woman: Well what kind of stamp do you want?
Me: (head swimming) What kind?
Woman: Regular of self-inking? And how big?
Me: Um...what about just a regular stamp. 1" x 3".
Woman: That'd be about $13.

I get off the phone, excited for my new stamp.

"What's your stamp going to say?" Kami asks me.
I tell her, "Inspected by Josh."

It's Monday. Laundry Day.

Noticing I'm out of change, I stop by the bank after picking up my morning coffee and get a roll of quarters.

I drop the $10 roll into my pocket and look down, noticing how true the old saying really is. While walking down the steps to the laundry room I practice saying, "Actually, that is a roll of quarters, baby."

I regularly see the same guy walking around my neighborhood. He wears black jeans and a leather jacket, and from the neck up he kinda looks like Elvis Costello (a good example would be the cover of his 2004 classical album, Il Sogno). Needless to say, he's kinda cool and tough.

Then yesterday I saw him walking down the street holding onto the hand of three-year-old. Was Leather Costello a dad? I starting thinking to myself what kind of kid Leather Costello would raise, and then I imagined what I would have turned out like, had my dad been Leather Costello. As is, growing up my dad always reminded me of a certain next-day carpet delivery spokesman. He was nice, and he carried the promise of bringing same-day samples to my home, but he lacked the edge Leather Costello's jacket and two-day stubble gave him.

Then again, Leather Costello seems like the kind of dad who refuses to sign permission slips, since it would be admitting that his son is being taught by The Man. And no matter how super-cool your dad is, no little kid wants to miss the zoo.

Maybe growing up with the comfort of next-day installation wasn't so bad after all.

The elevator in my building can be difficult sometimes. It will take a while before it moves. Sometimes it'll stop at a floor you didn't request. I like to call it Hal.

Well today Hal is getting replaced. He is getting taken apart piece by piece and a new elevator is getting put in. I would be jumping for joy about this, except for the fact that I live on the 8th floor. Which means that pretty soon I'll have really great thigh muscles. Or a heart attack.

When I ran into my neighbor from across the hall (an old British woman), she told me it was no big deal. "American's are too lazy anyway!" she trumpeted when we ran into each other in the stairwell. "Take an elevator! Take a cab! Give me a break!"

I just shrugged and told her how I thought our lives were going to start to resemble the Neil Simon play, Barefoot in the Park.

Tonight I noticed a bulletin up in my lobby, informing me when the next condo board meeting would be: Tuesday, February 14th. 7:00 pm.

A condo board meeting at 7:00 pm on Valentines Day?! Do I live in a building of loveless losers, or what?

Boing Boing let me in on this website that has a trailer for Fight Club, done as if it were a romantic comedy. It's crazy, and yet...I'd watch that movie.

Lately I've been hooked on Lisa Loeb's new show. Yes, Lisa Loeb has a show. Yes, it's on E! Yes, I'm that much closer to shuffling around my apartment in a bathrobe as a career.

The show is called #1 Single and it's kind of like Sex in the City, but "real" and starring Lisa Loeb. Loeb dates. Loeb dishes. Loeb lives the fabulous New York City life.

Her first date was with some weirdo who didn't eat vegetables (ever!) and proceeded to sing her song "You Say" to her on a karaoke machine. Very poorly. Her second date turned out to be Allen Salkin, author of Festivus: The Holiday for the Rest of Us (with an introduction by Mr. Costanza himself, Jerry Stiller). Salkin called his one date a "relationship", leaked it to the Post, and got a lot of publicity for his book signing. Needless to say, Loeb was over him too.

Which only leaves one possible suitor left: Me. That's right. I'm openly confessing my love for Lisa Loeb on my blog. That voice. Those cat-eyed glasses. The fact that she cooks kugel with her mom. She's the perfect Jewish girl to take home to mom.

After the show was over I immediately started re-reading Ethan Hawke's book, The Hottest State, which is supposedly semi-based on his relationship with Loeb. And when you've got it as bad as me, semi-based is good enough.

Yesterday I was watching Ellen and Jane Kaczmarek, the mom from Malcom in the Middle was on. She started raving about how she'd discovered Target. That's right, she'd discovered the nationwide store that makes over $50 billion in revenues each year.

This wouldn't be so odd if I hadn't seen an episode of Late Night a few years ago where Sarah Jessica Parker told Conan she was thrilled to discover Target as well.

What is it about celebrities that they've never been to a Target store? Though I suppose if I had millions of dollars Target wouldn't be my store of choice either.

And it's not as if their commercials alone would make you want to go there (or really give you any idea what Target is) if you hadn't already been to one. Sure, they're cool commercials and all, but really, if you've never been to Target I imagine it'd be confusing. A dog sitting on a red sofa next to a bar of chocolate, and then a bunch of pretty people in capri pants dancing around with laundry detergent. It sounds like something on crazy Japanese TV that makes us Americans go "what the-"

So I guess I could cut the celebrities some slack. They haven't been to Target, and I haven't been to Prada. We're even.