more from Potbelly

first, yes, i went back. since i was wary about my recent actions in the restaurant, i wore a Groucho Marx disguise. some guy behind me in the line thought i was a guy named Bradley from his job's business development office.

anyway, the oven got backed up today. i stepped up in the line to get fixings added to my sandwich and saw about 11 of them rolling off the rack at the same time. there was salami, cheese, and mashed rolls everywhere.

you should have seen that shit.

26 Birthday Monkeys!

the best driver's license picture ever

on saturday morning, i plan to take the best driver's license picture known to man. the idea struck me when i looked in the restroom mirror earlier this morning and realized that, for the first time, my beard appeared flawless. no glaring gaps. no patches. perfectly aligned and shaped up. my bald head was also at peace with the restroom overhead lighting, creating a harmonious Sugar Daddy-esque effect, envied by the man in the stall behind me, who grunted when i pivoted.

so, now that everything above my neck is in order, i need clothing suggestions. i considered wearing a suit, but thought it'd be too pretentious. (unless i pose as a 7th Day Adventist or something) right now, i'm giving serious thought to wearing one of my patented sweater vest and bow tie combinations. if all goes according to plan, i'm going to wink when the camera is snapped.

anyway, scores of readers, leave more suggestions, please.

i always get sad when i go to Potbelly

for my thousands of uninformed readers, Potbelly is a sandwich shop, specializing in toasted bread, extremely sweet cookies, and an overall good atmosphere.

anyway, Potbelly, for some reason, really drains my mood. usually, i pick up lunch from there on my way back to my office from the Borders Books on the corner of 18th & L. with a new book and/or CD in tow, i prance a block and make my way into the restaurant. immediately, however, my attitude begins its descent.

what i've discovered is that nearly all of Potbelly's patrons are present in groups. they're chuckling it up with co-workers about the ills of micromanagement, Sandy's new haircut, or the office fun day that no one wants to attend. there is also a sea of similarly grouped patrons seated at the tables, engaged in intense conversations and showing off spreadsheets on laptops. today, i seemed to have gotten lost in my envy, as i missed a Potbelly worker's reqquest to take my order. since the restaurant becomes gets very crowded during the lunch rush, someone usually has to take orders from outside the doors.

"What would you like?

. . . Sir?"

"Oh, I'll have an Italian."

"Wheat or regular?"

the guy wrote my order so fast that i thought he he was done talking. i politely said thank you and begin to move forward with the line.

"Wheat or regular, sir?"

"OH! Regular, please."

behind me, a bevy of fresh college graduates broke out into raucuous laughter. Sarah, who'd be skimming through pictures in her camera phone had come across one of her boyfriend, Matt, wearing a chicken costume. she ordered a chocolate shake, which caused the order-taker to shout her request right beside my ear.

"CHOC-lit-SHAAAAAAAAAKE!"

i moved forward with the line a little further and started noticing people straring at me. they sipped their beverages with judgmental lips and shot me looks that said, "What kind of guy comes to Potbelly alone?" having thought there was something on my sweater vest, however, i looked down and ended up bumping the guy in front of me. he was thick-necked military retiree named Ross, who was in the company of his boisterous cronies. they formed a semi-circle, grunting. i apologized and began to feel worse.

when it was time for me to get fixings added to my sandwich, i was feeling completely lonesome. the groups continued to arrive every few minutes, and i was standing in line alone, gently shaking my bag of potato chips. there was a guest musician playing in the restaurant and i looked at him solemnly, hoping he'd be able to identify with my solitude -- maybe even dedicate a song to me. no such luck. a few seconds after i looked in his direction, he was flanked by a group of middle-aged white women who bopped along to his guitar strums, stroked his face, and reached for his crotch. i bowed my head again.

"What sandwich did you have, sir?"

downtrodden, i lashed out against the dainty assistant manager who was reaching for my food with a limp wrist.

"THE ITALIAN," i screamed. "AND DON'T PUT A MOTHERFUCKING THING ON IT! NOT A MORSEL! FUCK YOU AND THIS SHIT SANDWICH FACTORY OF EXTRA MEAT FUCKS!"

the worker gasped and burned his hand on the oven's top rack. everyone else in the restaurant had fallen silent, too. an Indian man, frightened, offered me his uneaten cookie. i reached over the counter, took my sandwich and headed for the exit. on the way out, i snatched the musician's guitar and unsuccessfully played "Yah Mo Be There".

i guess i can't go back to that Potbelly anymore.

(by the way, when i got outside, i saw a guy skating down the block in rollerblades, sipping some Starbucks drink. i didn't understand that shit at all.)

Staunton's Peak

over the weekend, i was treated to a professional spa massage. the service was slated to last an hour and to get the full experience, i opted for a full body treatment. the masseuse, Mary Beth, spoke in tones just above a hush as she politely instructed me to remove all my clothing as she went to wash her hands. not since my first sexual experience had i gotten undressed more quickly. i lay face down on the table, bare ass in the air, and planted my face in the head cushion.

i heard a gentle rap at the door.

"Jamal?"

"Yes," I replied. "Come on in."

as Mary Beth entered the room, i tried to alarm her that the head cushion was positioned too low. however, i couldn't manage to project my voice through the padding, which caused the sentence to sound like i called her a Russian hoe.

"Excuse me?" she said.

lifting my head, i was able to speak clearly.

"Low. The cushion is too low."

Mary Beth cued a sounds of nature CD and began massaging my back. she worked in wide oval patterns, kneading my muscles into a fine paste. aside from my right hand, which was gripping helplessly to the side of the table, i was in heaven. Mary Beth worked her way to my neck and back down my spine. my hand dropped and snagged the corner of her left pants leg.

thirty minutes later, i was commanded to turn over so that Mary Beth could begin massaging my chest and thighs. to prevent awkwardness, i kept my eyes shut, peeking only when i thought she was circumambulating the table. at one point, i lifted one eye lid and noticed that the room's light had been dimmed and the ceiling fan had been cranked up two notches. was she trying to tell me that i wasn't easy on the eyes? did i stink? who knew? what i did know, however, was that Mary Beth's breasts had been brushing against my exposed flesh the entire time. had i not regarded her as such an experienced professional, i'd have thought it was deliberate.

when the massage was drawing to a close, Mary Beth pulled out a maneuver i didn't know existed. as i lay on my back, she planted her hands on my upper back and in a swooping motion, dragged them along my neck, making a peak at the back of my skull. it was invigorating! so much so, in fact, that after three such movements, my body fell limp and i began to get extremely weak. she performed the movement one final time, brushing her breasts against my forehead, and slowly allowed my head to drop to the cushion. the hour was over.

"Thank You, Jamal. Take your time getting off the table."

i thanked her; however, when i tried to get off the table, i found myself unable to move. i could speak, sure, but nary a motion would come from my limbs. i tried calling out to Mary Beth, but the sounds of running water and waiting room chatter drowned out my voice.

after nearly ten minutes, i called out for Mary Beth a final time and she walked back into the room.

"Is everything okay, Jamal?"

"No," i replied. "I--I can't move."

Mary Beth grabbed both of my hands and tried to pull me to a sitting position, but my 205 lb. frame was too much for her to lift. i fell back to the table with a thud. a few spa employees came into the room, but rather than try to collectively lift me from the table, they decided to call the paramedics.

by this time, i'm sweating in embarrassment. not only was i concerned about the nerve damage that Mary Beth may have done, but i had begun thinking about how i'd appear being taken out of the spa on a stretcher. excitedly, i had stripped naked for the massage and, man, did i wish i hadn't. my underwear, as well as the rest of my clothing, were sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, laughing at me.

the paramedics arrived 25 mins. after the spa placed the call. customers formed a crowd outside the massage room as i lay on the table, looking like an intensive care patient. Mary Beth, having been on the job for only three months, started weeping, believing she'd be fired. i consoled her by offering kind words and she wept even more. then, in a exaggerated display of emotion, Mary Beth leaned over me and kissed my forehead. her breasts, once again, came down upon me, but this time, they came to a complete rest on my eyelids. my mouth went agape and my penis instantly became erect.

that's when the paramedics showed up.

the Metro car on which i was riding this morning was experiencing some mechanical difficulties. i knew something was wrong when i stepped on and a wave of heat smacked me in the face. outside, it was blustery 60 degrees, but the inside of the train was warmer than a fresh loaf of bread. it reminded me of the times i used to purposely sit inside train cars with no A/C just to observe passengers' reactions. they'd get on and exclaim, "Oh my God", but would always be too slow to get off and make it to the next car. and i'd be chuckling from afar -- my brow beaded with sweat.

anyway, not only was the car's temperature making people uncomfortable, but it seemed to be experiencing another problem. each time we'd stop at a station, the entire car would fall completely silent before the doors opened. the silence was so eerie, in fact, that all the passengers would, too, become completely quiet and begin looking at each other. when the passengers had boarded and it was time to move to the next station, the silent train car would make creaking sound, seemingly struggling to move. it felt like i was inside a covered wagon heading West on the Oregon Trail.

man, this entry sucked.

M.L.L.A.O.A.M.