This column, like many of my columns and days of my week, takes place at an airport. It is true that art imitates life.

I had just gotten to Philadelphia. As it turns out, it is not the city of brotherly love. Rather the city of frighteningly persistent shoeshine men. "Phil," taken from a possible name of the shoeshine guy, and "adelphia" taken from the latin for "cable network."

I, like all good airline passengers who have checked bags do, went to the baggage claim area. Right away, a man approached me with an offer to shine my shoes. I politely declined, laughing to myself about how the shoes I was wearing, like most things purchased at Target, were unshinable. The only footwear less shinable than what I was wearing would have been flip flops.

The man, like his sales motivation tapes must have instructed him, did not take "no thank you" for an answer. Well, he took it, but ignored it.

"Only three dollars," he explained.

"Oh," he expected me to say. "Only three dollars? Well then shine my unshinable shoes, I'm steppin' out!"

Three dollars was practically the price for the shoes. I again politely declined, this time saying, "That's a good deal, but no thank you." I didn't want a shine, nor would I pay three dollars for one done while I was standing up, but there was no reason to discourage him from bothering other people.

"I'll do a really good job," he further explained.

"Oh," he expected me to say. "A good job? I assumed at such a bargain price, this would be an amateur shine. But now that I know your shoe shine skills, shine me up! I'm steppin' out!"

I don't know why he kept expecting me to say that I'm stepping out, but he did.

I again politely declined, this time saying, "I just shined them." If he didn't know they couldn't be shined, how would he know I hadn't already shined them? Perhaps, while purchasing a hearty libation, I ran into his rival shoe-shiner JP Wigginsbottom, who charged me just $2.75. Wigginsbottom, you crafty scallawag.

"Please?" he pathetically asked.

I wanted to be polite. I also wanted to tell him that my job doesn't require me to own shoes, let shine them. But I needed to put my unshiny foot down.

"No," I said. "I do not want a shoeshine."

"Only three dollars," he said again, restarting the only sales pitch he was trained to give.

It was pathetic, and I thought about giving him the three dollars to help him and so he'd go away. My heart was bleeding, but my head was getting more than annoyed.

"No," I said even more sternly and focused on finding my bags so that I could fix the handles I'm sure the baggage handlers broke. See? I had better ways to spend that three dollars.

My bags came a few minutes later, just about the time my phone rang. So with bags in each hand and over each shoulder, and with my phone resting between my ear and one of my bags, I felt a tap on my arm.

"I'll do a good job," said a voice behind me.

And that's when I lost it and killed everyone in the airport. Okay, so I just rejected the man for the sixth time and walked away. Slowly, so I wouldn't drop my phone as I muttered "six times!" in disbelief.

I am torn about the situation. Everyone has a right to make a living, but this guy was being impossibly frustrating. Why should his living interfere with my day? Perhaps some people enjoy the option of getting a standup shoeshine at the airport, which is why he was tolerated by security. But if security wants him there, the airport should build him a booth. Nothing fancy - you've got to keep your overhead low if you only charge $3 for a shine.

I didn't tell any of the guards how pushy the man was to get him tossed, as I easily could have. I figured that while I was annoyed by him, I'd rectify my torn-ness by letting him stick around to annoy other people. Besides, I was in the city of brotherly love, right?

And I, like any humor columnist would, thought it was funny to watch him approach someone else.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I was very tired this morning. I woke up after three hours of sleep for a flight that left much earlier than it would have had the scheduling people consulted with me first. But I still managed to avoid being an idiot.

People constantly don't think ahead. I don't mean a month ahead or a day ahead or an hour ahead. People don't think a minute ahead. For example, some of you don't even realize how funny this column is going to get just six paragraphs down.

A car cut me of while I was on my way to the airport, only to get caught behind someone making a left turn. I breezed by in the now vacant right lane. It was fun to watch the car in my rear view mirror. It was even more fun when it happened to another car within a block. That's right - even glancing behind me, I was still able to think ahead.

I don't understand people who leave windows open when they leave the house and wonder why it's cold when they get back. I don't understand people who don't close the potato chip bag and wonder why they all the chips are stale. I don't understand people who watch Dr. Phil and wonder why they got bogus weight loss advice from a phony doctor that's a real fat guy. That's right - I said it.

Life is cause and effect. The longer you live, the more causes you should learn to produce your desired effects. My first flight touched down, and there was a full ten minutes between arriving at the gate and the row in front of mine deplaning. But a woman in front of me waited until no one else was in front of her to get her bag down. I know I was only delayed by thirty seconds. But those are thirty seconds I could have used to take cheap shots at television personalities.

Why would she not get her bag while she was waiting for that ten minutes? You have two jobs when you deplane from a plane you have previously planed: gather your belongings and leave. Since she was unable to levitate (I'm assuming), she couldn't leave while there were dozens of people in front of her. So the logical thing to do would be beginning work on her other job.

I tried to imagine a scenario in her head where not getting her bag would be the right choice.

"There are several people behind me who look like they're in a hurry. My bag is within arms reach. There is room for my bag to sit next to me once I retrieve it. I have several minutes before I can start moving forward, and there is nothing to keep me otherwise occupied. I do not know how to levitate. Therefore, I should"¦oooh, shiny."�

That's the best I could come up with.

While driving last week, I noticed a bright orange car on the interstate. And not just because redheads gravitate to all things orange. It was an orange Dodge Neon with a spoiler - the very same kind of car I'd rented a few weeks earlier. I have a philosophy that while renting a car, I get the kind of car I would never own myself. Like when I rented a Kia Rio. I'd never buy one on my own because I like cars with engines.

But this orange car was also noticeable because the driver made it do crazy things. Like go 90 in a 55. And get stuck behind two trucks. And go 90 again. And get stuck again. And speed into a line of cars at a toll booth. Without realizing that though the truck line seems longer, it contains fewer vehicles.

I know all of this because the entire time, I was on cruise control at 63 miles per hour while passing and being passed by a Neon-drathal alternating between 90 and 45. Until we came to the toll plaza twenty minutes after I first noticed the car, I didn't hit my breaks once. I drove through the toll ahead of the Orange-utan (was that stretching?) and watched as he faded in my rear view mirror, stuck behind a dozen drivers not forward thinking enough to fish for change before they got to the booth.

Of course, I'm not perfect. If I truly had foresight, I'd have booked a later flight this morning.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

If you ever get the chance to sit in a Chinese restaurant next to an internet couple on their first date, I highly recommend it.

Last week I had the good fortune cookie of wandering in to a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan, hungry and looking for a good place to check my email. I was thinking that if I could get a good bowl of soup and a wireless connection, my day would be made. Little did I know that match.com had other plans for me. Thankfully, they did not include someone with a profile picture taken "before the farming accident."

The soup was marginal. The wireless connection kept bouncing me offline. But when I heard the woman next to me say "that's why I liked your profile," I realized I'd at least get a column out of this.

The two had not only met online, but they were terrible at dating. The only thing they discussed were the things that led up to the date. With thirty second pauses between them.

"That's why I liked your profile, too."

Hold. Hold. Hold.

"Yeah, I thought you had a good headline."

Hold. Hold. Hold.

"Me too."

Hold...

Before you fault me for eavesdropping, understand that I had no choice. I was sitting less than three feet from their table. And it was REALLY entertaining.

The thing that surprised me most is that I thought I was witnessing a train wreck, but both parties kept really trying to impress each other. In classic first date style, they repeatedly contradicted themselves in an effort to be likeable.

"I hate when people put up too many different pictures in their profile," she said.

"But I have a lot of pictures," he responded.

"Well, no, that's not what I mean," she said, and proceeded to explain it's only a problem when people who are not him do exactly what he did.

"I agree," he said.

Hold...

I left before they did, while they continually gazed into each other's eyes, desperately grappling for something to say to make the other fumblingly agree. Ahh, love.

I do not criticize them for online dating - I have done that myself. Most people who have been single and owned a computer in the last few years will all admit to online dating. The others have tried it, but will lie and say they didn't.

"Yeah, I just put that profile up as a joke. No, I don't know why I have 212 sent messages."

Meeting your significant other online is nothing to be embarrassed about it. It's often more embarrassing to meet someone out partying.

"Your father first noticed me while I was dancing on the bar. After my third long island iced tea, it was like no one else was even at Dollar Natty Night. And when he held back my hair while I puked to the rhythm of a Steely Dan song, I knew I'd marry this man."

But when you do go out on that first e-Date, there are a few rules.

First, you have to make an attempt to get to know each other beyond the stuff you can read on the web.

"You're on an online dating site? Me too! Wait, that's how we met, isn't it?" Hold...

Second, you have to be honest - the whole point of online dating is finding someone you can get along with. Or at least that's what the old guy from eHarmony says. He must know everything, he's on TV.

Third (and most important), NEVER have your first date within earshot of a humor columnist bored during his marginal soup. Half an hour later, he might be hungry for material.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

Decorating shows have become very popular. Trading Spaces and Extreme Makeover Home Edition, and, um, well, like ten others that I can't name because I don't watch that stuff. But I will say this: there is no reason to ever have a drawer that doesn't open.

I don't know who started the trend of drawer decoys under the kitchen sink that you constantly try to open forgetting that they're not real drawers. Sometimes you think they're stuck. So you end up pulling slightly harder until you remember, "That's not a drawer at all. That just looks like a drawer for no good reason." I HATE that. I know hate is a strong word, but not strong enough to open a fake drawer.

The only possible explanation, since there's no function involved, is form. Designers must believe the place under the sink must look exactly like everything near it. They must believe that simple wood paneling would be too unpretentious for a two-bedroom apartment.

The reason I write this column is because I spent last week in a two-bedroom apartment and tried to open the fake drawers several times. The apartment is maintained by the comedy club I was working, and is a pretty nice place. It's on the second floor of a gorgeous townhouse in Louisville, and outfitted with central air, huge windows, and a deck in the back. There's a nice porch on the first floor, comfortable couches, high ceilings - it's just generally a pleasant place to spend a week. Except for the damn fake drawers.

It took me a few days to figure out where everything belonged. That the silverware was in the top right, the cooking utensils were just below, and the garbage bags were in the drawer across the way. And while discovering all of this, I went for the phonies several times. After the first time, I got a little annoyed. After the second time, I got very annoyed. After the third time I tried to open a drawer that doesn't actually exist, I tried to find the drawer with the knives so I could cut the damn thing open. Or threaten the designer.

"Of course I need to carve two holes into each of your cheeks. Your nose is right next to them and has two holes! Think of how silly you look without everything matching exactly! What's that? Things don't NEED to match exactly? Thank you. You may go now."

I realized I wasn't having trouble because I was in an unfamiliar place. It was because the drawers existed. I just moved out of a two-bedroom apartment after a year of living there. And every now and then, I'd still try to open the sink. I tried it the first day in my new place, too.

There's nothing behind the fake drawers but pipes. And I've even seen some with handles. That's how important it is to a kitchen designer to have everything look exactly alike. Well, everything but the rest of the kitchen. If the sink can look like a sink instead of a counter, why does the area below the sink have to look like the area below the counter? I'm sure they covered that on an episode of Extreme Makeover, but I was too busy trying to cut open a fake drawer.

If I was ever on Trading Spaces, I would have the carpenter redesign a kitchen with no fake drawers. And my neighbors would come back and I would be a hero. They'd hoist me on their shoulders and say, "Finally! No more wasting time trying to open something that can not be opened!" And then I'd get back to my place to see a blue and red checked velvet sofa and wallpaper made out of laminated paper towels.

Okay, so I've seen the show a few times.

I actually met Paige Davis at a party once. For those of you who do not know who that is (like me, before that party), she hosts the show. She's a very nice woman, and she's married to a very cool Broadway actor. I only tell you this because his name is Patrick Page, making her Paige Page. Or "Page Two."

I haven't spoken to the Pages in a while, but maybe I should. I can ask her if anyone on the show has ever complained about the drawerless drawers. Or maybe someone else reading this is an interior designer and can explain the history behind a pointless no-drawer.

And they'll have time to do it at length while I'm searching for the knives.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.