Is There a Doctor in the House?

Help! My heart!

First, it warmed, and now, it's melting!

Coincidence?

One block from my apartment lies an inconspicuous, five-story, red brick building housing a popular Subway sandwich shop (from which emanates that enticing smell of fresh-baked bread all the livelong day).

Upon closer investigation, passersby might notice a sign advertising the business that lives above Subway: our friendly, local Scientology center, where a bevy of reading materials awaits the skeptic as well as those harboring a casual interest in just what the hell those freaks do.

Periodically, one of those freaks takes up residence on the corner outside the building's entrance. Armed with a clipboard (no doubt for recording the names of firstborn children for the sacrificial gala held each year on the anniversary of L. Ron's birth), some unstylishly unkempt, typically middle-aged man in a shit-colored newsboy cap stands on the corner, attempting to reel in as many new converts as possible. If he abducts signs up more than a dozen folks a day, I imagine he earns something really spectacular, like a coffee mug plastered with earth-shaking quotes from Dianetics.

Walking past the frumpy dude in my typically brisk manner, I politely shook my head "No" (my headphones prevented me from hearing his spiel) when he attempted to stop me by thrusting his clipboard, chest-level, directly into my path.

Not three seconds later, in my haste to escape the disheveled troll, I was nearly flattened by a speeding black SUV as I crossed the intersection. I am certain that L. Ron himself, hovering above in his invisible space capsule, had a hearty laugh at my expense.

The moral of the story? Don't underestimate the power of the Scientologist on a mission.

Good News for My Brain

I have not seen a single one of the 100 Worst-Reviewed Movies of All Time.* That is, not really. I did find myself inexplicably curious about the nauseatingly bad Gigli when I stumbled across it on cable late one night. But, after 10 minutes of torture (and, let's face it, some measure of glee at how bad it really was), I threw a brick at the TV screen and, thus, ended my misery.

Now, your turn. Be honest. How many have you seen?

Oh, and a quick memo to Ticketmaster:

When someone is eagerly awaiting tickets for a much-anticipated concert to arrive in the mail, it is generally unadvisable to send such tickets in an unmarked enveloped that looks suspiciously like all the other junk infesting her mailbox. It's a very lucky thing I looked past all the advertising and coupons and other crap in the envelope to--astoundingly--come across a pair of tickets. In the future, kindly refrain from causing the heart palpitations your customers will undoubtedly suffer when they realize how close they were to tossing much-desired and valuable tickets out with the orange peels and coffee grounds!

Lastly, to the guy who happened to be walking along behind me for a good chunk of my 20-minute walk to work this morning:

Thank you for whistling so loudly, block after block, that I could not hear the music in my headphones. What the fuck were you so happy about, anyway?

* I will admit that, like most people, I do have my own, cherished list of Horrible Movies I Happen to Love. I'll gladly share those with you at a later date.