It was magic. A sweltering summer day in midtown Manhattan. Horns blaring, heat rising up off the pavement. But I barely noticed anything except you - walking towards me, smiling. Your business casual confidence took strides with the authority of a woman with a destination. Your hair was removed from your face by a ponytail, excepting one errant strand that danced across your cheek. Our eyes met, your smile grew bigger, and then you tripped and I burst out laughing.

What, you thought I wrote all that seriously?

I admit it - I like watching people trip. And so does everyone else - but some of you are just too afraid to say so.

I won't cause people to trip - I don't think that's right. Especially because half the humor is that when someone trips, it's their fault. The best is when someone trips because they're showing off, like a skateboarder. I'm laughing just thinking about it.

I have often sat in Union Square just watching the skateboarders fall. I'm sure it's very hard to be a skateboarder. But I'm also sure that it's fun watching people pretend they're skateboarders. Especially when they call for everyone's attention directly before they miss their board entirely.

It's not wrong to enjoy this, because I'm not laughing at someone else's pain. When someone trips and genuinely hurts themselves, that's not as funny. I mean, sure, it's still funny, but not AS funny. Really, I'm laughing at someone else's inconvenience, which is what they do right back to me when I trip. It's also what I do to me when I trip. I think someone tripping is so funny, I still laugh if it's me.

I have a passion for the Winter Olympics, but not for the same reasons most people do. I watch figure skating, just praying for someone to attempt a Triple Klutz. One of my favorite Saturday Night Lives sketches is when Chris Farley just keeps falling on the ice. I like watching skating miscues so much that when I played Winter Games on the Commodore 64, I made the skater keep falling. It turned out that there was a trick in the game where if you fall enough times, you get a perfect score. But only when the French judge was watching.

Even skating announcers enjoy it when the skater falls. Sure, they always say stuff like "oh, that's going to cost her a career," but you know they're high-fiving in the booth.

I watch skiing, and cycling, and ice dancing, and anything else where people are prone to tumble. In fact, my favorite restaurant in New York is the Rock Center Café. Most people like it because it's got great food in a nice setting for reasonable prices. I like it because it's on the skating rink at Rockefeller Center and has big picture windows.

I know that I may come off heartless for my enjoyment of a sudden detour in a person's quest to remain upright, but I am not as heartless as the people who directly comment on it. I don't point out the victim's uncoordination to them; while they are sitting on the pavement, I'm sure they're already well aware of it. Some other people, however, feel the need to heckle with phrases like "have a nice trip" and "see you next fall" and "man, I'm a loser for saying things like "˜have a nice trip' and "˜see you next fall.'"

When I'm there to witness the stumble first-hand, I try not to let the person see my reaction. Though I think it's less out of kindness and more out of my being afraid that while talking to the person, I may get distracted and trip.

So whoever you were on 59th Street between 3rd and Lexington this past Wednesday, with the business causal confidence and the errant strand of hair, if you're reading this, I'm sorry that I laughed out loud, and sorrier that I didn't stop to talk to you. Perhaps you can send me an email and we can get together over a cup of coffee.

I know this great place on the ice at Rockefeller Center.

Dear UPS man. Or woman. It's hard to tell with those brown shorts and button t-shirt.

I know that I live on the third floor of a walkup. I know that stairs can be very tricky. I know that you have had a long, tiring day, because wherever I live, it is always the last stop on your route. But I, unlike you, also know that two comes before three and one comes before two.

Allow me to explain. Actually, you have no choice. I've already written this letter, much like you've already written a note saying you'd attempted to leave my package three times. Really, you tried to leave it no times, which is three times less than you said. I use "less" rather than "fewer" because "fewer" is used in situations when there is an exact count. And I can't begin to count how many times UPS has screwed up my packages. Though I'm going to try. Let's start with the one last week.

You left a slip on the front door of my building telling me you'd tried to deliver my package for the third time, and I should pick it up in the warehouse. I found this note odd, since to be a third time, that time has to come after a first or second time, preferably both. Also, I was in my apartment when you left the note. I know that because I found it on my way out, meaning I had to have been in. So in reality, you did not try to deliver my package, ever. You did, however, try to leave a note telling me you tried to deliver my package. In that effort, you were quite successful.

Of course, you did not fill out the part of the note that tells me who sent the package, so I have no idea what you didn't give me. Nevertheless, I want it. I want it enough to have called your hotline only to wait on hold for a half hour. I didn't mind the wait so much. When I saw the note about the package you didn't try to give me, I was on my way to the airport. And while waiting for a flight to San Antonio, there's not much else to do but call the UPS hotline.

The woman I finally spoke to said that the package was available for pickup in the New York warehouse. I told her I was on my way to Texas for a week so today would not be an option. She replied, "then you could come pick it up tomorrow if you like." "Miss," I said, "I don't think you understand the exact location of Texas."

She finally agreed to resend the package to me the following Monday. Sure enough, I left my apartment Tuesday morning and saw a note telling me that you tried to redeliver the package three more times, and it was going back to the warehouse again. I was impressed with your uncanny ability to not deliver the package three times in one day.

I called again, and they gave me a different number to call. I called that one and they also gave me a different number to call. I called that one, and it turned out to be the first one I called and then they got mad at me for calling back so soon. Finally, a woman asked me why I never put a trace on the package. I wasn't sure why I hadn't, but probably because I don't work for UPS and I don't know what the hell a trace is or when to use it. So she put a trace on it for me, and found out that the package was again in a warehouse - in Virginia.

I explained that I needed the package more than Virginia did, although I still didn't know what was in it. Whatever it was, it was mine. After I said this, the woman wanted to know if I could call the shipper and have them resend the package. "Miss," I said, "I don't think you understand the exact location of Texas." Okay, so I didn't say that. But I did tell her that it'd be hard to call the shipper when I didn't know who the shipper was. But she probably didn't know the location of Texas. After all, she thought a package sent to New York should go to Virginia.

UPS man, or woman (it's hard to tell with those brown shorts, button t-shirt, and asexual baseball cap), I understand your life is difficult. Your truck has no doors, which must get frustrating when it rains. But someone paid you to give me a box, and all you've given me is a larger phone bill and two notes that pretend to be six. You owe me a box. And four notes.

The woman on the phone said the only thing she was authorized to do was to put a complaint in about you. While I did want to punish you for your laziness, I didn't think it was fair to write you a complaint for this. So I asked her if instead, she could write up three.

At least you know where they're coming from.

By now, most people have heard all the blackout jokes. Especially those of you involved in the blackout, since you had nothing better to do for a day and a half other than sit around in the dark and tell blackout jokes.

Despite my New York residence, I wasn't part of the blackout. I was in San Antonio for a show when it all happened. I did, however, feel a special bond with all the blackout survivors since the elevator doors in my hotel took a half-second longer to open than usual.

Actually, I was pretty concerned. I was watching the news when it happened, and--okay I was flipping through channels trying to find Sportscenter when it happened. But I passed by the news. Seeing footage of thousands of New Yorkers wandering in the streets of midtown, I immediately thought the worst: Barney's annual sale. When I remembered that the August sale is actually in LA, then I started getting scared. Okay, I only know that because I looked it up, but go with it.

I really was pretty frightened. Having lived through September 11th, hearing reports of a massive blackout with an unknown cause rattled me. After the 11th, I had said that I wouldn't run away from New York. If someone blew up the city, I'd lose most of the people who were important to me and I may as well go with them. So my thoughts had me wondering if that's exactly what had happened. Turns out that while I was concerned for the welfare of my friends and family, they were having the best damn time of their lives.

I've only spoken to a few people since I got back in town this morning, and most of them can't stop talking about how much fun it was. One of my struggling actor friends ended up stranded with a big-time Hollywood producer, and another met someone he's been dating since. Some got drunk for under $5, while others just partied in the streets. Of course there was no looting - everyone was too busy hooking up.

Well, there were three New York stores that were broken into during the darkness, which is several fewer than a regular day. One of those stores was a used furniture store. Now that's a poor decision - if you're going to risk prison for a trundle bed, at least make sure it doesn't have a grape juice stain. Ottawa, however, reported a lot of looting, which confuses me. As far as I know, there's nothing to take.

My favorite blackout moments are the press conferences by New York mayor Michael Bloomberg. Bloomberg was concerned that once power came back on, everyone would rush to put on lights and air conditioners and cause a similar surge. To prevent it, he told people to have patience once the power was restored. He told them this on TV. If you can't see why that's funny, you're probably a Bloomberg speechwriter.

My concern subsided as I learned that the blackout was caused less by terrorism and more by incompetence. Turns out that more than three hours before the whole mess happened, a plant in Ohio experienced highly unusual voltage fluctuations but didn't do much about it. The worker on watch was probably ensconced in an epic battle with a Jelly donut, and couldn't be bothered. For all you Simpsons fans, we've finally discovered where Springfield is. It's located squarely in Ohio, and Homer Simpson works the power plant.

Overall, everyone seems to have enjoyed the blackout, and I have to admit I'm jealous. My friends all have these cool blackout stories, and then they ask where I was and I have to say Texas. And everything is bigger in Texas. Except the power outages.

I find myself a bit jealous of those who lived through the blackout. Except the people stuck in the subways. Ick. But I wish I were a part of it - so much so that I ran around my apartment turning on all my appliances at once. Let me tell you - when your fuse is the only one that blows, well, it blows.

So I urge you, for my sake, please turn on all your lights and air conditioners and toasters at once. Sure, it will bring massive cities to a screeching halt, but won't it be fun?

Besides, I need something good to write about next week.

By nature, we are always wondering what else is out there. We always think that there's something better - that our lives can be fuller, our smiles wider, our girlfriends hotter. It is that logic that leads us to be single, frowning, and watching wrestling on a Saturday night.

"Steve," you may say (which is appropriate since that's coincidentally my name), "wrestling isn't on on Saturday nights."

Of course, the only people who know this are the single frowning people I'm talking about, and they DO watch wrestling on Saturdays. They taped it. When wrestling aired earlier that week, they couldn't watch because they were very busy alone in the dark, crying.

But that logic doesn't just lead us to be single, frowning wrestling fans. It also leads us to explore downtown Detroit on a Thursday night instead of just going to a hotel bar like the smart people.

If you've never been to Detroit, well, that's probably why you're still alive today. Let me explain something about the city. Detroit is so cultured that the name comes from the French for "of the roads" which is basically pronounced "de twa." Leave it to the citizens of this fine town to pronounce that "deetroyt." Detroit is known for the famous Wooward Avenue, the nation's first freeway. Woodward Avenue is a smart road, because it leads the heck out of Detroit.

I'd finished a show in the Detroit Renaissance Hotel for a fraternity convention, and a bunch of the guys asked if I wanted to come with them across the border to Windsor. They said Windsor was great - everyone parties, everyone has a good time. I told them that though it sounded good, I'd rather just go out locally. I was in the mood to stumble home and crash at the end of the night - not go through customs.

Luckily one of the guys agreed, and he (from this point forward he will be known as "Evan," which is appropriate since that's coincidentally his name) and I set out towards that famous deetroyt action. Our first stop was the hotel bar where we tried to round up a few guys. They said they were having am okay time there, and there was no need to go out. No need to go out? What, were they nuts? If you could have an okay time in a hotel bar, imagine how much fun it would be to go OUT!

A $5 cab ride later, Evan and I ended up at a local bar. That was an accomplishment because the concierge had trouble naming a good bar. We figured this was because the concierge wasn't a bar-goer, since he was tired from all that concierge-ing. It was actually because there were none to be named.

The first bar had four people, and one was playing Irish folk music. One of the other three was behind the bar, and the last two were making out. The next bar had even fewer people. The next bar had even fewer. The fourth bar actually owed itself people. And the fifth bar, well, we're pretty convinced it was a monastery with a tap.

We walked quickly from bar to bar, less because we wanted to find a good scene and more because we were terrified of downtown deetroyt. Finally, we heard voices. Two rather large men talking about going to a strip club. Or as they put it "let's see some boobies!" We assumed they meant the neighboring strip club because the only other boobies to be seen were their own.

We'd had it and decided to get a cab. The quickest way was to cut through the nearby "casino." I like casinos, and have been to several of them. This, however, was not a casino. This was five slot machines and a homeless guy. And by the looks of desolation on the faces of those at the slot machines, I'd guess the homeless guy had the most coins in there.

A $5 cab ride later, we returned to the hotel bar, laughing about how the best thing to do while you're in Detroit is to go to Canada. We met up with the same guys we saw there before our odyssey, who were still having the same okay time they were having before we'd left. And over the next few hours, we had an okay time, too. Sure, we were all still single - but none of us were frowning. Perhaps because the bar TVs were not showing wrestling.

Oooh, I hope someone taped it.

I got 758 lines on Tetris this week. I don't have anything funny to say about that - I'm just telling everyone.

I admit that it was palm pilot Tetris, which is easier than old school Nintendo Tetris because it only has nine levels instead of nineteen. If I'd gotten 758 lines on old school Nintendo Tetris, you'd have heard about it on the news by now.

"This just in: a young man in New York City has no life. Back to you, Skip."

I didn't set out to score that high. I didn't even think I'd finish my game. I just wanted to pass the time on the subway. I was going from 59th street to Astor Place - about a fifteen or twenty minute ride. I'd played Tetris on my palm pilot just once before, and my high of 242 lines had been recorded on the old school Nintendo Tetris (which is harder than palm pilot Tetris).

That I even remember my high score says one of two things about me. I keep track of my personal bests so that I can either
a) constantly improve on them
or
b) brag about them to anyone willing to listen.

Since I'm writing 800 words on my high score, which do you think it is? Actually, it's a combination of the two - I keep track of my personal bests so I can constantly improve on them for the express purpose of bragging about them to anyone willing to listen.

I know my rushing record on Madden 93. I can tell you how quickly I've beaten each level of Minesweeper. And I even know how far I've gone on Sprint PCS's Crab Catch. But that last one is only because my phone records the records. If everyone had Crab Catch on their cell phones, I'd also memorize my high score in case anyone mentioned theirs.

"Oh yeah? My right thumb is WAY more talented than yours."

The time on the subway passed quickly while playing Tetris, and I arrived at Astor Place at around 150 lines. The real benefit of palm pilot Tetris (no offense, Nintendo Tetris) is that you can just shut your palm off and resume play during your next period of boredom. I had a meeting to get to, so I put it away and figured I'd finish my game on the ride home.

My problem was that the address of my destination was stuck in my palm pilot, buried under 150 lines of bragging rights. If I looked it up, I'd lose the game. And 150 lines is not something you throw away on a simple business meeting.

Luckily, I recognized a friend on the street and did not have to miss my meeting. Um, I mean I didn't have to reset the game. Yeah, cause that's the choice I'd have made, I swear.

I passed 242 lines on the ride home. By the time I was pulling back into 59th street, I had eclipsed 300. I seriously considered staying on the train a few more stops. I could take it to the end of the line and back downtown, couldn't I? I realized the idea was ridiculous. But only because I'd have to get off and then get back on while the train turned around. I decided to pause it and walk home before resuming. If I couldn't pause it, who knows what I would have done. It's a good thing I wasn't playing Crab Catch.

When I got back, I had a LOT to do. I had 62 unanswered e-mails, a show later that night, and an empty bag despite my trip the next day. But I sat down, turned my palm pilot on, and went for it. I felt that if I could get 500 lines, I could do anything. Except maybe interact with someone in a social setting.

Despite coming back from the dead a number of times, a few unlucky pieces finally did me in. Though I also blame my roommate for coming home and interrupting my concentration. I came close to pulling it out - my much-needed straight piece was one square away from resurrecting me. I guess it's good that I finally lost - it'd be pretty pathetic if I were still playing. Though simultaneously very impressive.

I didn't use my palm pilot the rest of that day, hoping I could run into someone and show them my score. I finally realized how ridiculous I was being. So I just took a picture of it and moved on.

Besides, I'd have to reset it if I want to try to beat that score.