Ewok dog bared his tiny teeth as he lay in the middle of the Panamanian road. His age was evident only by his lethargy in the face of racing Toyota Avalanche taxis. But the cars accommodated him... repeatedly. SUVs, sedans and trucks alike pointed their headlights on the ewok dog, then decided to drive around him. The occasional taxi honked, but the ewok dog simply raised his brown and black mug and bared his teeth. A tourist dropped a piece of chicken in front of the mutt, but the response was merely a turn of its head to the left, then to the right. "It's right there!" said the tourist. Ewok dog smelled the chicken and looked nonplussed. Only after thirty seconds of chicken proximity did he labor to move his jaws and begin eating the meat. After consumption he rolled his upper body down on the ground and fell into rest.

Bambu the scuba instructor insisted that I check my body. I looked down at my gear and chest area, not knowing what part was in need of review. Soon I gathered that Panamanians swap their 'uh's for 'oh's, and it was my buddy who needed checking. The misunderstanding occurred a few more times in different contexts: "look for your body", "find your body" and "help your body".

I read in the Lonely Planet that over 30% of Costa Rican forests were cut down to feed low-quality beef that goes into American fast food hamburgers, TV dinners and pet food. Now Burger King, Church's Chicken, McDonald's and KFC line the streets of San Jose, feeding Ticos the very products that decimated their country's natural resources.

Gladys sat by the apartment community pool scraping dead skin off of her legs with a beige loofah in the raw. She wore a blue shower cap and merely glanced at my presence before returning to her task. Her neglect of my gaze allowed me to observe her long cheeks sway with each stroke. The skin on her legs was raw and turning red. I expected to see blood as the minutes past, but it never came, and the scraping continued. Throughout my swim I checked on Gladys' progress. She switched to her other leg, then went to her arms, then came back to her legs. Occasionally she struck the loofah on the concrete to knock off any accumulated skin particles. When I took a break from splashing or emerged from underwater, the sounds that remained were scraping and knocking.

How I learned of her name came from a neighbor who kindly greeted the old woman. She replied in a soft voice that she was fine. They spoke of the weather and the temperature of the water. A sweet old woman, Gladys scraped and knocked her dead skin to the ground unabashed in the presence of others.

A middle-aged man ordered coffee and a water. He deliberated the menu well after his drinks were delivered, then he asked me if we had eggs prepared in a way that would be cheap enough to order a waffle with them. I offered scrambled eggs, but he didn't like them being $7.95. "I'm trying to find a way I can get both eggs and a waffle." He was taking a long time. "Would you like another minute?" I ventured. "... Hmm," and a long pause he replied. "OK well, I gotta try the waffle." I left and momentarily felt neglectful of my other tables since he took so long. The man waited for the waffle impatiently and I attended to other duties. A while later, I spotted the waffle in the expo window and rushed to deliver it. "Do you have any syrup?" "It's very sweet as it is. There are sugar crystals inside it that melt when we toast it." He was unimpressed. "But if you'd still like something I can bring you honey or agave syrup. Try it; it's good." He was doubtful. A server's sixth sense is customer dissatisfaction. I felt this man's unhappiness like a toxic waste spill. Glancing at his table from afar, I saw the waffle half eaten and his fork was down. Uh-oh. He signaled for the check. On my way to deliver the bill, I noticed an unfolded napkin draped over the waffle. I reconciled the bill and the man abruptly departed, leaving the aborted waffle on the table like an unsuccessful surgery patient.

A table of six sat down in my section and I had dollar signs in my eyes: four women over forty, a grandma and a daughter. I promptly delivered the menus and presented polished silverware. I spoke of the soup of the day and made sure they were aware of the breakfast specials. The time for drinks came and there was only one water; things were looking good. Three omelets, one sandwich, one salad and a hard boiled egg. Only one request: no tomato on the Avocado & Tomato Omelet. I entered the order and went on to help other tables. Passing by the expo window, Durell the chef beckoned me, “You want no tomato on the Avocado & Tomato Omelet?” “That’s right, no tomato.” Now the Avocado & Tomato Omelet is made by frying blended eggs with diced tomatoes, pouring on tomato sauce and placing avocado slices on top. Asking for no tomato could mean one of three things: no diced tomatoes, no tomato sauce, or no goddamn tomatoes at all. This woman had asked for no tomato. I assumed Durell interpreted that as no tomato of any kind, but when the order was up, there was deep red tomato sauce on an otherwise pristine yellow omelet. He took it to mean no diced tomatoes. The facts are that omelets are time sensitive and I want a good tip. I figured this woman wanted no tomato of any kind, but I wasn’t sure if she would be OK with just tomato sauce. To request a remake would mean delaying the order (decreasing my tip earnings) and pissing off Durell. So I put on my ‘pretend everything’s fine face’ and delivered the food. I stopped by several minutes later to assess the situation. “Is everything fine?” Smiles spanned the table until my eyes met the no-tomato-over-forty-year-olds. ‘You gave me tomato’ her face scowled, but she didn’t have the guts to complain. I just hoped it wasn’t her that was paying. Pre-bussing the table I confirmed my prediction when I noticed scrapes of tomato sauce on the sides of her plate. Fortunately for me, the woman who settled the bill was not the no-tomato woman and I received a 20% tip.

Biking has become a tear inducing activity thanks to trees waking up to the weather. Despite wearing sunglasses, I'm forced to rub out eye corners full of pollen on my daily ride to work. At work the signs still remain: people sneeze incessantly, cheeks are swollen due to allergies. Perhaps the worst is the tree outside my house that grows green-yellow banana shaped buds. One windy day I glanced out the window to see the tree's branches shake and release puffs of pollen into the unsuspecting air. The buds exploded like flak in the sky.

My favorite part of the bus ride down P street is watching a hobo who likes to shoot foul shots. He's a regular at the courts, playing alone in shoddy clothes which sag below the waistline. He makes his way to the foul line without dribbling, stares at the hoop and lines up a shot. The ball releases from his right hand and lands in the net. The bum walks slowly to retrieve the ball, bends over to pick it up and reveals nearly half of his ass in the process. He then returns to the foul line and takes the same one-handed shot. He always makes it.

I sat down in a Caribou Coffee and watched coffee goers bring their steaming cups of java over to the fixing station, equipped with sugar, creamer and wooden stir sticks (to protect the environment). They uncapped their caffeinated containers and poured ounces of steaming liquid into the garbage can hole. I hope they double bag. I Imagined melted black plastic and the janitor responsible for emptying the can each day. Steam rose from the garbage each time a customer made room for his creamer.

Outside the USDA Graduate School sat a cigarette butt disposal can that looked like a zucchini. It was bell-shaped with a few small holes at the top, from which an uncanny amount of smoke was emerging. I thought it was designed to put out lit cigarettes? Perhaps several still smoking cherries coalesced with a breeze that came in through the squash holes and voila! a potbelly stove was born. What an ironic fire hazard.

As a kid my dessert was ice cream and soda. When my homework was finished and the good TV shows were about to come on, I’d fix myself a nice bowl of whatever the flavor of the week was, pour a tall glass of soda, park myself in front of the screen and gorge. I was told it was impolite to drink out of a 2-liter bottle, but when the bottle ran low enough to fill a glass, I did it anyway. I figured that there was no worry of transferring germs since the bottle would be recycled after I finished it. The same applied for a carton of ice cream: if I was going to eat the remaining contents, I didn’t bother with a bowl. Every now and then these events would overlap and I’d be drinking from a 2-liter soda bottle while eating from an ice cream carton. On one such occasion, my mother entered the room while I was watching Family Matters. She looked at me with a carton of Breyers Vanilla Bean on my lap and a bottle of Schweppes Ginger Ale in my hand and said “You’re disgusting”. My response, with a mouth full of ice cream, was, “What?”

Moldy was a small rubber dinosaur toy that was shaped like a bowling pin. He had an orange and green head, a bulbous white belly, and colored spikes down his back. There was a hole at the base of Moldy so one could use him as a finger puppet. Somehow water got its way into Moldy and made his insides slightly moldy, thus giving him his name. Moldy was an object of innocent flirtation between myself and a childhood friend. We’d throw him at each other screaming “Moldy!” and feign disgust when it landed on us. We’d hide him between sofa cushions and place him on chairs, with hopes of eliciting a response from each other. One day we murdered Moldy by cutting off his moldy part, which included everything below his neck.

On a trip upstate, my brother and I shared stories and drank cans of soda. I had injured my knee the previous week and was treating it with a zip lock bag full of ice. Preferring the numbing effect of not using a towel, I pressed the bag directly on my skin for twenty minutes at a time. The side effect was that the ice melted quickly and the bag became increasingly full of water. To alleviate this problem, I asked my brother if he was done with his soda. He was, and into the soda can my knee water went. An hour later the instinct to drink made Brett reach for the can and shake it to see if there was anything left. There was, and he took a swig. With his jaw extended and a pool of water resting below his tongue he uttered “…rut da fuck?” I replied, “Did you just drink that water?” Brett lowered the window and spat with all his might. “Was that your fuckin knee water!?”

Don Taylor’s eighth grade English class caught me in a wave of adolescent angst. I wanted to impress the girls in my class but lacked the self-confidence to do it maturely. So I made off comments with hopes that someone would recognize how funny I was. Taylor’s leading questions were prime opportunities. While teaching us how to write a bibliography he asked, “What are the two words students usually say once they finish writing an essay?” “I forgot to spell check.” I rang out. No one laughed and I felt goose bumps. “I’m done” was the correct answer. On another occasion, he was illustrating a point and said, “…it’s like when you hear the equation 2+2= ___?” “Five,” I muttered. Once the word left my mouth I cringed. No one laughed. Taylor heard me and said, “I know you’re still having trouble with that one Mike.” Crushing embarrassment ensued. My attempt at a joke backfired and I was singled out. After class I consulted with Billy Freedman seeking advice to improve my humor. Billy was the funniest kid in our entire grade. “Three would have been funnier.” He said. “But why?” I questioned. “It just is.” He replied.

I bought Bon Ton tortilla chips, a hot dog, and a 20oz. bottle of Coca-Cola off of a street vendor. The weather was brisk but tolerable, so I sat on a bench and began to eat. Soon arrived several sparrows, enticed by my presence with edibles. The tiny birds twitched glances at my face and the chips entering my mouth. They looked with one eye, tilted their heads to get a better view, then glanced with the other eye to confirm: Yes, he is eating. Normally the presence of habituated animals makes me shy away from giving handouts because animals relying on humans for sustenance is not sustainable. But these birds were fearless. I gave a half-hearted kick with my right foot towards the brown beggars but they hardly flinched. Let's see how brave they are. I broke off a beak-size piece of chip and held it between my thumb and pointer finger. With elbows on knees, I turned my wrist outward and held the food above those flickering eyes. The sparrows glanced more rapidly and I sensed a call to action. In only four seconds, a brave one fluttered up and snatched the chip from my fingers. It flew a few yards away to consume the prize. Some birds chased after the winner hoping he or she would drop the chip or at least a crumb. The larger flock remained and was joined by more sparrows, three grackles and two pigeons. My audience enlarged as well. Passerbys smiled and coffee shop goers stared through glass windows. Another bench sitter joined me on my left. I broke only small pieces; the birds bit only the chip. I ate then they ate. My hands were near numb from the chill in the air, but I stayed until the bag was empty. In rapture, I wondered what wasn't sustainable about feeding birds from a bench. So what if birds are dependent on us for food? The birds adapted to our streets and sidewalks; bench feeders and crumbs will exist as long as humans will. And if we disappeared tomorrow, birds already have the genetic makeup to search for food on their own. It wouldn't take long for them to re-adapt to a more primitive state.

At the crest of the escalator, where the steps fed into the platform, spun a lone Crayola crayon. It looked like Magenta. The rolling wax wonder couldn’t overcome the slight lip of the platform, so it rolled eternally, or for as long as the escalator intended.

As a teenager I recorded episodes of The Simpsons on VHS tapes. With every new tape I purchased came a small sticker sheet for labeling purposes. The stickers mainly consisted of numbers and letters, but TDK had a special sticker that read "Premium Quality". To see them put to use I began placing them on random objects. For example, I placed one on my 24" Zenith television set and its remote control. The stickers were placed in such a way that fooled my brother into thinking that they were supposed to be there. I continue to stick stickers on my material possessions to remind me of Premium Quality, but also to give meaning to inert objects. By placing Aqua Teen's Er on my phone, or Emirates 'Do not disturb' signs on my computer speakers, I have the satisfaction of seeing my possessions as something other than Motorolla or Sony.

My keen attention to detail spotted a typo in the 48 page US Foreign Service Officer Test guide. Imagining the multitudes of Administrative Assistants pouring over the production of the document, I re-read the paragraph to make sure it wasn't an illusion. A federal document with exponential amounts of eyes glued to it for guidance, and not one pair spotted the 'd' that was supposed to be an 's'. I'm comforted by the fact that even the meticulous editors of the US government are not infallible. More so, it reflects on sheer human error. Even with our fastidious strides towards perfection, the 's' key remains right next to 'd'.

As a 2nd grade student I engaged myself with filling the toilet water entirely with pee bubbles whenever I frequented a restroom. It was an ambitious endeavor wherein pinpoint accuracy and a steady stream had to be applied until the bowl area reached its capacity for bubbles. A quick and light release was then required in order to prevent any large gaps from being created. If performed properly, the pee bubbles would coalesce as the stream retreated, and the small gaps would disappear. The challenge was formidable; my success rate was roughly 1 bubble filled bowl for every 20 urinations.

New age toilet bowls now offer what may be the most incredulous invention since the umbrella: slam-proof seats and lids. My first time using one, I gave the seat a start then smiled in awe as it slowly descended upon its porcelain pedestal. I then reflected on the implications of revolutionary toilet seats: my kids could grow up not knowing that toilet seats used to slam.
 

Myspace playlists stop playing to make way for AT&T pop-up advertisements that appear just off to the right side of the browser's window, so you can't X out of them without scrolling horizontally.

"Free" clips and full episodes are available online for shows like South Park, Futurama and The Daily Show. Each South Park episode is plugged with three Need For Speed advertisements, played at twice the volume level as the show. MasterCard commercials air at the beginning of each Futurama clip, then stream seamlessly into the next clip with its own precursor commercial. Any attempt to seek past these ads is restricted by the website. YAHOO! "A little bit of purple" advertisements air at the start of every episode of The Daily Show and again every time you fast forward.

On the red line from Chinatown to New York Ave. there is a Nestle Quick advertisement illuminated on the tunnel walls of the subway as the train is moving. It animates in flip-book fashion to create a motion picture of the Quick bunny dancing around chocolate milk mix and smiling.

Now and again when hungry or tired I form a gaping yawn that allows an escape of air in the process. It happens when my mouth is fully open and most likely not courteously covered by my hand. Hearing the burp I recoil my mouth shut and place a hand over my mouth in embarrassment. I first noticed the instinct while taking the SAT test for the first time one early Saturday morning. The desks were close enough and the room silent enough for the girl in front of me to turn around with a smile.