I made friends with a fellow Apple user in LaGuardia airport last week. Our flight was delayed a total of four and a half hours, but instead of telling us that (which I’m certain they could have) right off the bat, the United Airlines representatives strung us along at half-hour increments, changing the estimated departure time ever so slightly just to keep us on our toes and waste our daytime minutes. Seriously, I think that’s what they were after. They probably derived sick pleasure from watching everyone at the gate lunge for their cell phones to update their friends and family with “the latest.”

Even I found it amusing, since I wasn’t using my phone at all, knowing that my dad would be obsessively checking my flight’s status himself. Ha! I calmly oversaw everything from my perch on the floor near an electrical outlet. Check out the plebes, I thought to myself. See them run. Watch them snack. Feel the desperation!

I seem to be one of the few people in the world who doesn’t particularly mind a delayed flight. As long as I have something to read or a gadget to play with, what do I care? If I arrived at my destination city on time, I certainly wouldn’t spend the next four hours reading a book. What am I, crazy? So the delay is almost a bonus for me. A much-needed shot of literacy, like something from the ‘’boosters'’ menu at Jamba Juice.

Not to mention, I love watching people, especially New Yorkers, freak the hell out. Their lives are so important. They can’t just be put on hold for four hours. And yet they must! Airline delays are so democratic. The gates turn into mini Communist blocs. Everyone gets inconvenienced, even though some fliers’ inconveniences affect a lot more people and/or cost a lot more money. As soon as a delay is announced, we are all the same. It’s absolutely delicious to watch some people try to deal with that.

I’m convinced that part of the reason I enjoy delays is because I always manage to feel superior with my calm, resigned, shrug-it-off behavior just after the announcement. I try extra hard to look perfectly composed in the midst of everyone else’s angst. It helps that I usually haven’t slept the night before — it adds a super-special sedated glaze you just can’t duplicate with makeup. My fellow fliers probably notice me in envy. What’s her secret? They want to be me. They want what I have.

What I have is a Pretzel Dog.

When I first walked by the Pretzel Time stand on my way to D10, I played it cool. I knew my flight was delayed, and that in a mere matter of moments, I’d be back. I gave a quick glance over the merch and suddenly the clearest thought of my morning popped into my head. I’m going to get one of those pretzel hot dogs, and it’s going to be the best thing I’ve eaten in a week. I was absolutely correct. As usual, at least in terms of things I tell myself about food.

Anyway, back to the Apple user. This really cute red-headed woman sat down next to me against the wall, all excited that she’d found an outlet to plug her Mac into. “I know!” I gushed. “It’s such a privilege, seriously.” I was serious. Of course I was.

Problem: her fidgety power adapter wouldn’t remain plugged in at that certain angle. I hate that, I told her. That’s why I got this new adapter with a three-pronged plug! Blah blah blah. She walked away, dejected, stood in line for awhile. I assumed it was the last I’d see of her.

But no. This incredible genius concocted a solution. “I came up with a plan,” she informed me as she plopped back down. “Watch this.”

I watched, as she proceeded to situate the fabulous display to your right. Then I gaped at her for at least 30 seconds. This girl was my all-time hero.

“I’m so amazed that you just did that. You’re like, my favorite person here.”

Awkward pause, which obviously meant I had to keep speaking.

“Which isn’t really a title of distinction, if you look around. But you know what I mean.”

She did. She gave me one of those wise little smirks that let me know this wasn’t the first time she’d pulled off something this wily.

I asked if she minded if I took a picture of the adapter on the water bottle. “Maybe I’ll put it on my BLOG,” I said, in a really sarcastic tone. I’m not sure why, because I had every intention of putting this picture on my blog, and if a day pass to the LGA wifi network wasn’t so inappropriately expensive, I’d have done it right that second. I guess it was a self-conscious thing. Like if I scoffed at the idea of having a blog, it might mean I didn’t really care about mine. That I wasn’t that obnoxious… yet. She could see right through it.

For the rest of the delay, we happily lorded our iSnobbery over the other passengers, who were all totally jealous that we had outlets and they didn’t. At one point, I saw another guy daintily typing on his Powerbook across the concourse and realized that I thought this person, who looked exactly like myself at that moment, seemed like a huge tool. I was okay with that.

This is how much I love my computer.

I took this yesterday at the street fair in Park Slope:

Let’s be sure to address the four key points that make this a super shot.

1) Spongebob is gesturing to no one (maybe me?)

2) That little girl is overjoyed that she’s going to hug a strangely 6′3″ Elmo in under a second. Her brother’s like, “calm down, loser.”

3) Spongebob Squarepants and Elmo are playing a street fair in 90-degree heat, seemingly for no other reason than to delight the likes of me… and kids. They weren’t making tips… and even if they were, where would they put them? Elmo doesn’t have any pockets. Maybe Spongebob could stuff them in the g-string you know he wears under those slacks.

4) That woman on her cell phone HATES me right now. “Who do you think you are?” she’s wondering. Don’t worry, homegirl. I’m cool. I’m a blogger.

I’ve had an eternal fascination with the people who dress up as children’s characters. From shows like CSI and a made-for-TV movie whose name escapes me (Hickey Mouse, maybe?), I’ve been made to think they’re all pedophiles who use their furry, googly-eyed exteriors as their “in” to freely molest kids. There might be a small percantage of truth to that, but in general it’s not fair. Either way, it’s hilarious to consider the discrepancy between how the person looks in costume (100% fun and cute) and how he probably looks in person (~100% like someone you probably wouldn’t want rubbing your daughter’s back). I assume based on common sense that most parents wouldn’t let the non-costumed guy anywhere near their kids, so it’s amusing to think that all it takes is a somewhat convincing alterego.

But what if it’s not a well-known character? What if there’s just a guy dressed up in a banana suit or a massive walking sneaker, coffee mug, or bottle opener that claims to be a major cartoon character you’ve just never heard of? Are we supposed to act kindly towards characters just because they’re in costume? I’m serious. I think we’re more likely to smile and be polite to a person on the street dressed up as something than just a person on the street dressed as a human. If they’re putting forth the effort, for whatever reason, they deserve at least a lingering stare and slight smirk from me. It’s the least I can do.

Speaking of Spongebob, check out what TG and I found splattered on his Clinton Hill doorstep late Friday night:

Poor Patrick! He’s not even pink anymore. Not even a hint.

I eventually took a taxi home from the Hill to the Slope, and it took us 15 minutes of hanging out on Atlantic Avenue at 4:30 am to find a ride. But boy was it worth it! I took the greatest cab ride of my life that night. It was a minivan, which is always a plus because I can spread out and thereby infest a greater surface area than usual. The driver wore this rockin’, almost metallic-looking collared shirt, with a vest. And he was playing jazz at what most people would consider to be a deafening volume, but which I found perfect. He even had it blasting out of a pimped-out stereo system that definitely didn’t come with the car. It was one of those digital ones with purple and red neon lettering, and I could just barely make out the words “Track 03.” This guy had his own DRIVING MIX. I bet there were even multiple volumes!

I will never forget this ride. He also may never forget me, as I made a point of explaining to him the many reasons I was obsessed with his cab. I remember not wanting to get out until he was convinced just how much I loved his car! “No, I don’t think you really understand.” (Why the hell would he not undestand?) No matter, though. He was loving it. I cannot believe I didn’t have my camera.

Take a look at this. If you’re not into “reading” (which would be ironic), I’ll summarize: according to CNN, pregnant women across the nation decided to delay the births of their assumedly non-evil spawn because the date was 6/6/06. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life.

Here’s a sample for those too lazy to click:

A Chicago, Illinois, obstetrician, Dr. Scott Pierce, performed a C-section on Monday on a woman who didn’t want her son to be teased about his birthday and called names like Damien. Damien is the lead character in the movie “The Omen,” about a sinister boy who turns out to be the Antichrist.

That entire paragraph was inane, but let’s focus on this: kids never remember or even know their friends’ birthdays. It’s like a rule. I still don’t know a bunch of mine — which probably just means I’m a bad friend, but hear me out. Who cares when someone’s birthday is?

Not to mention, school’s out by June anyway, so the bullies who could potentially tease your afflicted progeny about his birthday probably enjoy his general company little enough to steer clear of him during the entire summer vacation. Think about it.

And besides, by the time your Devil baby’s birthday is “recognized” by his friends, he’ll probably be an able-minded teenager (assuming those exist — I certainly never qualified) and not care anymore. For shits and giggles, let’s call him “Damien.”

Damien is a sinister boy living in the year 2022. He’s sinister because pop culture continued its trend of flushing itself down the toilet ever since his birth and he can’t stand it anymore. His classmates’ boobs are already fake, he still has to pretend he’s into rap, and Jessica Simpson CONTINUES to infest the national radar with her complete and utter foolitude, only instead of slightly impersonating a duck, like she enjoyed toying with in 2006 with her big fat lips and wig-like ‘do, she is now an actual human-size duck — and the most profitable attraction the San Diego Zoo has seen in decades. People love it with that quacker!

Now I’m terrified, and it has nothing to do with the numbers.

“When I tell people my birthday, the ones who are really brave give me the look and say, `That’s scary!’ ” said [newly over-the-hill Jill] Haub, a practicing Christian. “And I say, ‘Actually, I have an extra 6 — born on 6-6-66 — so that’s four sixes. I’m good, not evil.’”

Wrong, Jill. You are evil for making such a moronic statement. I’ll see you in hell, where you are unquestionably headed due to your unfortunate birthday.

Just kidding, of course. I think having a 6-6-6 birthday would be cool! Our massive wheat-colored sectioinal sofa arrived this morning, and for the last two weeks we’ve been nothing but psyched about its delivery date. “Yes! Evil couch!” or something more creative was likely uttered. I don’t remember because I was eating. Yes. For the entire two weeks.

Oh look: Ladytron has a message for babies born yesterday:

This is happening
For your pleasure
At your leisure
Use your evil
When you want.

[Click for rad video.]

Just realized elementary school never gets out by 6/6. Oops. Or does it?

From Straight Talk, the 1992 Dolly Parton “vehicle.”

Dolly: Why are they holding a cocktail party at the aquarium? [emphasis added to “Why” because she said it like “Wahhh” and this made it seem more dramatic. Oh, Southerners.]

Alan: Because rich people like to dress up and be seen in strange places.

That sounds like something you’d say to a child — a throwaway explanation just to make her shut up and quit asking you such silly questions. But it’s actually true! I love it.

I’ve been avoiding my first post from Brooklyn for awhile now. What if I was changed? What if this site became much worse…. OR BETTER? The thought was more than I could bear.

No, I’m just lazy.

So here I am! This neighborhood is called Park Slope and I love it. Like OMG it is so cool and original of me to move to Park Slope! I am a Slopester. Watch me blog about it!

But first: last photos of the Village.

Here I am in the Pink Palace, just moments after the three movers lugged out all of my crap from it… and just before I got stuck in a 90-minute traffic jam in a cab because I was too shy and rejection-fearing to bum a ride in the moving van. (The woman on the phone said it was illegal for them to drive me… I’m not sure why I listened to her. I think it was so that I’d have a good excuse to not ask for a ride, even though it was all I wanted/needed in my life at that point. So basically, the prospect of saving up to $95 (the extra hour on the move + $20 for a cab) was not worth the effort of a few lines of awkward conversation between me and strangers. I need to develop some new priorities. Hence, the move to Brooklyn.)

Speaking of awkward, I certainly played my part in making the scene between me and the movers as uncomfortable as possible. It took them maybe 30 minutes to haul everything out of the place, but I still kind of had to be in there to answer questions and generally get in the way. So I pretended to busy myself with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Tilex Shower Fresh cleanser. When they’d leave the room, I’d relax and put both items down; when they returned, I’d be furiously scrubbing the oven top for the fifth time. I also did a number on the closet and bathroom floors. None of this was necessary. All I really wanted to do was clean behind the bed, where I knew would be an assortment of sugary cereals, hair things, and broken glass. Finally the bed was gone, and I was right. The broken glass was more like a broken goblet. It was this huge beer chalice from Munich, and I loved it. I almost didn’t want the guys to move the bed so I wouldn’t have to bear the sight of its pieces. (Keep in mind the glass broke over a year ago and I just never bothered to pick it up. I’m cool.)

The most awkward few minutes occurred after I realized there were still some popsicles in my freezer, and decided to start gnawing on one while the movers were still in the thick of things. It was an Edy’s Whole Fruit strawberry bar and it was absolutely heavenly. So good, in fact, that I started feeling extremely guilty about eating the treat in front of the mover men. Here they were hustling and sweating their asses off, and there I was gingerly sinking my teeth into each bite so as not to incur brain freeze.

A few bites in, the scene became too traumatic to handle, so I started rushing and developed brain freeze anyway. The whole time, I wondered if it would be appropriate to ask the guys if they wanted one. It would have been so weird. We were barely speaking, but they had to notice how delighted I was by the popsicle. I’m positive I was swaying around in a deep swoon, trying to catch my balance on the countertop. I was pissed I never got to enjoy the other bars in the package. I ended up leaving them for new tenant Kate, but first I had a fleeting notion of asking the guys if they wanted one. I wonder how I would have phrased it, because their English wasn’t so hot.

“Want a popsicle?”

“Would you like a delicious popsicle in a strawberry flavor?”

“Here.” [shoves it]

Either way, it would have been weird. Think about it. I’m paying them to carry crap downstairs at 10 in the morning and suddenly I’d be like “No, stop and have dessert with me.” I’m positive they’d have said no, so I never asked, Plus, I knew I’d be offended if they declined. When people say no to things I suggest, I get really mad. Not because I want to win, but because I really want others to enjoy what I’m obsessing over at that moment. It makes me feel less insane and selfish. So seriously. Humor me.

My my, check out how much more pink and loserish the Palace looks when it’s empty! It also seems smaller, if that’s possible. Did I really live in that thing for two years? (A: Yes, and you adored it, so stop that right now, young lady. I mean it!)

I expected to be teary-eyed and blubbery during these moments; instead I was thrilled (see above photo, in which I swear I wasn’t trying to look that excited on purpose). I think the most appropriate term is “giddy.” I like that one because when I say it, I seem to feel the need to add an extra syllable, a sort of “ehn” sound before the g. It comes out like “nnngiddy.” People have mocked this. They’re like, “Say giddy again.” But I don’t. I’m not their clown.

Last Wednesday, at the Washington Mutual ATM on Bleecker:

Really, ATM? Was it completely wild?

My response to the ATM’s predicament also happens to be the next command I selected: “Sure.” I said it out loud in a sarcastic tone, for dramatic effect and to make the ATM feel self-conscious. Next time someone tried to take out cash, it probably said “(Some bitch was just mean to me!)”

Though I appreciate the ATM’s candor, I don’t buy that its day has been crazier than any human’s. What’s the worst that could have happened to an ATM? Someone got over-enthusiastic with the poking? Cry me a river. A river of twenties.

Given the ATM’s apparent penchant for opening up to customers, we should prepare for other potential parenthetical quips. Such as:

(This dude just hacked phlegm all over me!)

(I’m totally PMSing right now. NO DEAL!)

(My breath reeks — Please slide a stick of gum into my slot!)

(You’re famous! I’m tattling on you to Gawker Stalker!)

(I’m so wasted!)