Quick: How many bookstores can you name? Okay, now subtract Borders, Barnes & Noble, and Half Price books. How many are left?

How many are left?

Big Hat Books in Broad Ripple is one you should check out. Walk through their oft-commented on Dutch door and you'll find yourself in a store not much bigger than your parents' bedroom. Liz Barden, the owner, will probably be shuffling around--shelving books, filling out orders, or chatting up another customer.

I think she's got that perfect amount of "crazy book lady" in her, meaning she's read most of the books on her shelves, her zeal for reading is plastered on her face, and she will talk to you about any book in the joint. If you want her to. A nice quality when "Can I help you find anything?" has become the one sentence we all hope to avoid more often than not. Let us browse, for chrissakes!

The warehouse-style megastores have perfected the science of retail consumption. Not a new story, I know. And it's not that I haven't been to these places, though, or even enjoyed their enormous selection. Or their practically illegal low prices. Cuff me now.

But what these big box stores lack is some touch of humanity, and this is what a small little shop in Broad Ripple has by the shelf-ful.

I drove through the rain yesterday to IU hospital and picked up my mom for lunch. After hearing her nurse coworker?s suggestion of Friday?s, I realized what a favor I was doing by taking her to City Caf?.

Tucked away in a little room on Pennsylvania, just south of Michigan St., City Caf? is the best lunch spot with the least amount of signage. Rare is the Hoosier outside the mile square who?s heard of it; even my mom who works downtown had no clue. The room is basically a hallway with small bits of art sprinkled here and there. Booths line each wall and are always full: clearly the people in lunchtime know.

The menu is brief, but I?ve yet to order anything that wasn?t delicious. Indecisive?a trait my mother and I share?we decided to split a BBQ sandwich and the day?s special: Chicken curry. Thinking this was risky for a sandwich place, I was more than satisfied with what our affable waitress brought to our table. The addition of ginger chutney raised the heat on the moist bed of rice and lentils. As for the sandwich, the BBQ flavor of the pulled beef wasn?t overpowering, nor did it turn the bun into sludge. Chunks of onion added some crunch.

We left with three of their homemade cookies, including a rare find, a ginger snap, and made our escape. Like Lot, I had to glance back, making sure this treasure stayed put.

Many of you workaday slobs are envious of teachers like me, what with our sports cars, snazzy clothes, and the swanky, celeb-filled condo parties we throw. But one thing I am jealous of when it comes to you 9 to 5ers is your lunch hour. Let?s look at that word ?hour?. That?s 60 minutes. More than plenty of time to stroll over to Acapulco Joe?s or the City Market for a leisurely lunch with the VP of marketing or Mayor Peterson. In my imagination, business lunches include talk of new developments downtown, the best detour for the Super 70 project, or which Pacer you?d let baby-sit. For me, my lunch lasts anywhere from 21 minutes to 13 minutes, depending on how quickly we get in from recess. Between bites of IPS lunch, I may have to open cartons of milk for students, write out passes to use the bathroom, or blow the whistle to begin clean-up.

Now that summer is here, my lunch schedule has opened up quite a bit. Homemade lunches at home with the dog are fine, but I have to enjoy these summer vacation lunch opportunities before they get away from me. It being baseball season I thought there could be no better place to try out than Indy?s own King David Dogs. Their website filled me in on their history and local roots: The Hene meat company used to sell these tubular meats in grocery stores around the city from the 1940s through the early 90s. The founder?s grandson, Brent Joseph, decided that Indy needed a decent spot to get your hotdog fix, so he opened this small storefront on Pennsylvania Ave, just north of Washington St.

The place was jammed, usually a good sign, and particularly impressive considering how briefly this place has been open. There is a large selection of toppings for your ? pound King David, ranging from the everyday relish, chili, or sauerkraut to the more exotic white chicken chili, giardiniera pepper relish, and baked beans. I couldn?t resist ordering a chili dog, complete with cheddar cheese, chopped onions, and brown mustard, all nested in a fresh baked Gonella poppy seed bun. Google tells me that Gonnella?s is a Chicago based bread company that has been in operation for over 120 years, so they must be doing something right. To go with my dog and lemonade, I had the unusual, but welcome, side of tater tots. I was able to wedge myself into the last available stool at the window and enjoy my first lunch out of the week.

The dogs are much bigger than what you're used to at home, so one will more than fill even the largest Hoosier belly. It really tasted beefy, which sounds obvious, until you consider the wide assortment of meats you might find in a typical hot dog from the grocery store. The bun was also delicious, having spent some time in a steamer--no, it was not soggy-- before meeting up with its partner. The crisp tater tots were crunchy and not greasy.

Definitely check out this new Indy institution .

It's not often I get to take my clothes off in a public space, particularly one crawling with police officers. But, here I was, at the Indianapolis City-
County building, in broad daylight, unbuckling, and sliding off my belt.

Before you get all hot and bothered, it's not what you think. Like shoes at the airport security line, our belts have now joined the list of suspicious items, including laptops, liquids, and the always popular bowling ball with fuse.

I'm not sure what you could put in a belt. Maybe they think you'll channel Indiana Jones and whip someone with it. As weird as I find it, I'm going to give security the benefit of the doubt. They want to see my belt--How novel, I even get it back!--fine; but some of the other oddities in the security line have also left me baffled recently.

Instance One:
I'm on a field trip with a group of middle school students to learn about careers, specifically with the GIS. (Their website is actually pretty sweet, with all sorts of aerial maps of the city. You want a picture of what the downtown area looked like in 1950? Check. A plane's eye view of your block? They've got that too.)

This being a field trip, I had my trusty digital camera along. After emptying my keys and wallet into the burger basket they give you in the security line, I was told I couldn't bring in a camera. I could either take it out to my car or they'd confiscate it, sending it down the shoot of the Big Brown Container. This looks identical to a streetside mailbox, but in Sheriff brown? Is it bomb proof? Can officers scavenge through at the end of the day? I need these answers.

They don't want armchair spies snapping away at vital Indianapolis secrets. Understood, but I could bring in my phone. Officer Friendly must have heard of the camera phone by now?

Instance Two
During the aforementioned trip to get my city criminal history check, I had to go through the metal detector, as you do whenever you come to the City-County building(Strangely, the state government center offers no such luxury). I put my backpack on the conveyor, manned capably by three whole security officers.

Scanning...

"You got an Ipod in here?"
"Yeah. I think I do."
"Can't bring it in. Gotta take it back out to your car if you want to keep it."

I tried to think of what fiendish crime I could commit with this thing. Did they know I had a Jessica Simpson tune on it? Embarrassing, but not a crime. Was it our city's stand on music piracy? Maybe the mayor's a big vinyl fan?

"Um--if you don't mind me asking--why can't you bring one of these in?

I assumed he would at least have some inane answer in his pocket about why these devices couldn't be brought in. I know he stares at an X-Ray TV all day, but some brain cells have had to survive the radiation onslaught. Not so.

"I have no idea," he replied.

Brilliant.

Wednesday May 16, 3:17 pm
School duty finished, I haul ass out of the parking lot. This is attempt numero dos to get my Criminal History Check (CHC) for my summer job working for IPS. On my first try a week ago, I rode my bike to the Government Center North building at 4:15, only to find out that despite what appeared to be people actually engaged in work, they stop processing CHC's at four o'clock. Sharp. I promise I won't be foiled again as I zoom south on Central.

3:32pm
There are metered parking spaces all over downtown, and I usually hawk one a few blocks from where I'm headed. Today, open spots dot the streetscape, but they are merely mirages. Each one taunting me with its sign, "No parking 3-6pm" . Are there that many people commuting at 3pm? The Government Center Parking Garage beckons.

3:37pm
Why are there so many people commuting at 3pm?! For downtown, there's a lot of traffic today, but apparently none of the herds of cars clogging Maryland St. have chosen to park at the Government Center Garage. Of course, that garage is full. "Yes, we had one spot until the blue Passat snuck in in front of you," I imagine the attendant mocking. "We now have zero spots. Have a nice day."

3:41
I'm very worried that the Communists at the Government Center are packing up already. "Hey Comrade, we close 19 minutes early today, nyet?"

3:45
Had to pull into the underground parking garage at the feet of the Westin and Simon Properties' new headquarters. Holy?... Four bucks for twenty minutes of parking?! For spite, I park in one of the "Reserved" spots. Why are these always empty in parking garages?

3:48
I'm running. I'm a grown man in a backpack and I'm running. Running, so that for probably the fifth time in as many years I can pay the state to push a button on a machine that will spit out a piece of paper telling me something I already know: Number of felonies committed this year--zero. (Side note: One of the charming signs I've seen on previous visits to this hell hole states, "No bills larger than $10". They have services that cost more than ten dollars, though? I won't even go down the road of why they haven't entered the 90's and actually take Visa. Fine, you don't want to deal with cash? No problem, insist that everyone use money orders. But if you're going to accept cash, be a sport and accept the most common bill, the ONLY bill, conincidentally, your building's ATM will dispense.)

3:51
Elevator doors won't close. They keep shutting about half way, then "Poong", they seem to hit something imaginary and slide back. "They haven't been workin' lately", my griseled elevator-mate says. On the doors' next attempt at closing she grips one of the doors and forces it closed.

Actually, that's kind of cool.

3:54
Third floor. Not only did I make it in time, but a minor miracle lays before me: no line! I head up to the window, pull out my wallet and another slip of paper, this one giving the state permission to send my report along to the good folks at IPS. A kind employee comes forward to take my materials. An angel, come to end my ordeal. I even manage a smile.
"Sir. You need to go to the City-County building for this. See, it says right here on your paper." I look down at the address line she's pointing at. "They want a City Criminal History Check, not State."