Life is funny, and life is good. At 12:30 last night, D.C. police found my family's van on Morton Street NW, just off Georgia Avenue. (See map.) The ignition needs fixing and a headlight needs replacing, but no real damage seems to have occurred. This news comes from my parents, who brought the van home an hour later. They will take the van to be inspected this morning.

If you'll remember, it was stolen from in front of our house during the night of the 20th. Amazingly, more than a week later, all of the seats are still in place. The thieves also left a lifting belt in the van, which is sort of sad. Somewhere, those loveable lugs are stealing something heavy, and they're not getting the abdominal support they need.

I don't want to be friends with Todd. Not just any Todd, though. Some Todds are okay, but Todd621 is the Todd I don't want to ever be friends with. In grade school I was friends with three Matts — Matt Z., Matt W. and Matt H. — and that was cool.

But Todd621 is different. Todd thinks he can make friends by being mean. Like in preschool when that Sarah girl (see last paragraph — U of C makes sense) and that Peter guy (he used to be smaller) always ran around and knocked people over.

Looking back on those days, I should have responded calmly. Maybe said something along the lines of: "Hey, folks, that's not cool." That would have been impressive, coming from a four-year-old. Instead, I would finally like to acknowledge my role as the lead plotter in the Knock-Sarah-and-Peter-out-of-the-wagon Day Massacre.

Todd just doesn't understand any of this stuff. Out of the blue, he e-mails me to say, "Let's be friends." What makes you think it's so easy, Todd? We'll never be friends, you poor fool. I don't even know your last name or what you look like.

But I do know that you and some other people keep trying to give me the damn Klez computer virus.

[Deep breath]

Hey, folks, that's not cool.

[Tips Todd's wagon, runs away]

Amit and I placed an ad in last Tuesday's Daily Northwestern, touting the benefits of subletting our apartment (as well as touting the Noyes Boyz — Fred, Manny and Ben — and Al's Deli — John and Bob).

Good HAIRCUTS, good SANDWICHES. 2133 Ridge, near Noyes St. 2 big bdrms, 1 bath. Living/SUN room. Top floor; city's best breezes. On-site manager. Avail. after graduation. Price negotiable. Call Patrick, XXX-XXXX.

On Friday evening, we received our first call about the ad. We weren't here to answer; the answering machine said 8:05 p.m. With high hopes, we returned the call at 2:15 the next afternoon. "Oh yeah," the man said, speaking for "Edy" who had called, "we already took care of that. Sorry. Thanks, though."

They had found and taken another sublet in a period of 18 hours. Who does that? They never had a chance to experience good haircuts or, for that matter, good sandwiches. Amit and I were disappointed, but we wish them well in their new hovel. The city's best breezes will ease our pain.

Greetings from Evanston, Ill., will become Greetings from Atlanta, Ga., this July, courtesy of a three-month fellowship at CNN.com. I'll be working in its breaking news division, which sounds like a lot whole of fun. On the down side, I'll have to find a new postcard.

I've gotten a job. Kind of. More later.

So, Casey Newton has accused me of stealing his plots. In return, I'd like to accuse him of stealing my family's van. Lindsay first suggested this possibility to me today on the way to class, and I think it makes a lot of sense.

Why would Casey have stolen my family's van?

1) Casey has a known van stealing problem. It's more than a crime for him; it's an addiction. Being around those enablers at The Daily hasn't helped.

2) Where was Casey late Saturday night (4/20)? Unaccounted for. His Weblog is hazy that night. It mentions only that he "retired to the couches" and listened to "an amazing mix tape" with "Nick Drake and Charlie Mingus." If I were making up names for imaginary people, I think I could do better than F. Scott Fitzgerald's rejects.

3) The police told my parents that Caravan thieves often toss the seats and use the vans to haul stuff. What could Casey be hauling? Perhaps, now removed from the public eye, the bitter old man's dream has come true. That'd be great.

I'm sure the Chrons will arrive in their campus newsboxes on time Thursday night. But, Casey, give back the van.

If, for some reason, you decide to take my family's van for a ride around the country, don't come to Chicago.

Because if I see you in that Dodge Caravan, you're in trouble. I learned to drive in that car. I set the presets on that radio after each trip to the repair shop. And if you've still got the back seats in there, look over your right shoulder. That was my captain's chair, and on Saturday night you stole it.

But if fate sends you my way — hundreds of miles from the front of my family's house — simply stop the car. Then get out and give it back.

Because if I see you, I'll chase you down the street. If you step on the accelerator, I'll only run faster. If you floor it, I still won't stop. Because when you hit 80, the van will start to shake a bit and you'll flinch. And that's the moment I'll grab onto the bumper and dig in my heels.

When the van jerks to a halt on the pavement, open the door and run. Because I don't like it when my family gets robbed.

We've covered this topic a couple times already today: Don't swing your arms funny and don't talk loudly on your cell phone. But I have one more — one that is perhaps, because of its social implications, more important than the rest.

If one man passes another on the street, if the first should burst into laughter, and if never the twain have met, the second would become disconcerted. Fly? Zipped. Hair? Combed. Shoes? Worn. Socks? Matched.

We all get the post-joke giggles. An image or thought-process result trips a mental switch, and we laugh from a memory. But can't you hold it in a moment longer, friend? I'm just trying to walk here. Or just tell me what's so funny. Please.

I might not know your roommate/girlfriend/prof, but I sure can appreciate the way he/she/(s)he "got soooo trashed"/"got soooo lost at the zoo"/"puked." You supply the punch line, and I'll supply the laughs. It'll be a bit of validation for both of us.

That is indeed so horrible that you have to stretch the man's leg for him. It is so ridiculous that you have to stand there and hold his leg. But what's so wrong about them videotaping this?

I think you should go out with the random boy who talks too loudly on his cell phone. Just imagine the conversations you could have.

[Cue ringtone of "Theme from A Summer Place."]

As the sign changed to "walk," the girl took off across the street like bread out of the Lucy's toaster. She was determined to get somewhere, and to get there fast. Across the street in an instant, she tore down the opposing sidewalk.

Oddly out of pace with her stride, about a half-second off the movement, her arms swung like a pendulum in an antique clock. Arc up one way, arc back down the other. If only she had been on time, I thought as she passed. Then in my head I wouldn't have called her Clock Girl.