Pyramidally stacked fruit is probably cost effective despite its overwhelming bourgeoisie stench. Pyramidally stacked fruit being that fruit which is stacked into pyramid shapes by freckled faced youths employed by ridiculously quaint grocery stores with organic or homegrown sounding names. The other day as I gingerly removed an apple from atop one of these stacks and inwardly cursed myself for admiring its frivolous beauty I realized that the shape itself was hindering my consumer options; the precarious arrangement of fruit prevented me from closely examining any more than five or six fruits. The shape of the stacked fruit hindered the excercise of my choosiness rights. It stops one from fingering the tender produce, testing them for ripeness, turning them around to look for strange "brown spots" and other slight discolorations. In short, the stacked fruit obstructs the process of making an informed and educated purchasing decision. It also keeps the fruit from becoming unncessarily bruised. Which in turn saves the store from having to throw out the damaged goods, increasing their profits and thereby allowing them to pay the salaries of all those pyramidal fruit stackers. In summation: the pyramid shape of the stacked fruits preserves them for posterity. Kind of like Cheops. Only smaller. And with fruit.

Moving my car in the morning is much easier before 8 am than it is afterwards and I've finally come up with a theory for this. (Truthfully, I can't believe it took me this long to formulate a theory but I have a theory about that too: I'm not exactly my tack-sharp, theory generating self during the bleary-eyed morning parking hunt.) Just like grade school, it all comes back to popularity. The popular social creatures who drive their cars to dinner engagements and the like free up spots just as lonely workaholics are returning home. The lonely workaholics, having the pick of the popular people's popular spots take up the best spots first so that the social creatures arriving back home later are left with the mediocre spots dooming their party animal cousins to late night battles over the few, remaining bad spots. At 7 am while the social creatures are hitting the snooze buttons and the party animals are calling in sick, the workaholics are zipping off to the office, freeing up the prime parking turf for those of us clever enough to realize that unless you're blocking a fire hydrant or a wheelchair divot you're probably not going to get a ticket between 1 and 7am. Later on as the social creatures and the party animals finally roll out the door, they jockey their cars into the remaining good and mediocre spots most of which they'll inevitably need to vacate when the entire cycle starts over again.