Let’s talk about Domino’s online ordering system, and how it’s both very flashy and fails to be in any way accurate or useful.

Full disclosure: I have an inordinately hard time ordering pizza for someone living in a major city.  The very first time I tried to have pizza delivered here, I had this conversation, verbatim:

Me:  Good afternoon; can I give you a delivery order, please?

Guy on Phone: No.

I switched to Papa John’s after that, who lets me order through their website.  This weekend, however, I placed my standard order and then got this followup phone call:

Guy on Phone: This is Ed from Papa John’s.  The location where you placed your order is closed, so I’m canceling your order and refunding your credit card.

And thus I turned to Domino’s for the day, whose online ordering system is all but legendary among my kind (i.e., the geeky and nerdy).

For the uninitiated, you place your order using a flashy interface that draws a picture of your pizza with the toppings you’ve selected (including which halves of the pizza get which toppings).  It comes with this disclaimer:

The Pizza Builder will always show a large pizza.  If you choose a different size, the topping amounts will vary.  The deliciousness, however, will not.

Then, you can follow the progress of your pizza as it’s prepared, baked, put in a box, and delivered — up to and including the name of the person performing each task.

I remain entirely underwhelmed.

First, a minor point: I can’t place a tip on the website; I have to sign a credit card slip at the door.  This delays the driver, who could be out earning his next tip if he weren’t waiting for me to write down mine.  (Papa John’s drivers hand me a box, thank me, and walk away.)  Plus, the driver doesn’t know until arriving if I’m going to tip well.  How old fashioned!

Second, and more importantly, the flashy pizza tracker reported my pizza “delivered” fully 20 minutes before it got to my door.  It even, rather tauntingly, “hopes I’m enjoying my meal.”  Nope.  I’m still hungry, Mr. Pizza Tracker, ’cause I still don’t have pizza.

The next time Papa John’s is inexplicably closed, I’ll just make a sandwich.

After checking into the Hilton Suites in Phoenix, my girlfriend and I immediately asked for a map of area restaurants, since neither of us had eaten all day.  Hilton offered this apparently detailed map of the area.

We decided to head to the Arizona Center for lunch and an early movie.  Someone completely unfamiliar with the city might estimate that to be about a one-block walk.  Fortunately, I’d glanced at Google Maps when planning the trip and knew the major streets were all several blocks apart.  Let’s approximate my sketchy memory with this non-interactive Google Map of a nearby area.

Even in the desert heat, that would be a tolerable walk.  We set out, leaving our bags, and unfortunately also leaving the map.

Unsure of exactly where we were headed, but knowing it to be south, we walked merrily on for many blocks before growing unsure of ourselves.  We passed nobody on foot and began to worry we’d already passed the shopping center, perhaps a few blocks to the east.

Turning in that direction, we ran into our first passerby, whom we immediately asked for directions.  “Well, I’m a tourist,” he said in a faint New Zealand accent.  Then, after a beat, “but because I’m a tourist, I have a map.”

We’d now walked all the way to McDowell Avenue, and our fellow tourist’s map confirmed that the Arizona Center should be just three blocks east. Already starving and now dehydrated in the middle of the Arizona desert, when we found no obvious sign of the Center at 3rd street, we gave up and walked wearily back to the hotel.

The total journey, counting some weaving between Central Ave and 3rd Street, was about five kilometers.

After numerous glasses of iced tea and a much-needed meal, plus some time to sit motionless on our couch and recuperate, we renewed the idea of watching a movie.  But this time we’d take the train, and we’d take the map.

The journey to McDowell on our second try took only minutes, and the walk to 3rd Street even less time.  We could see now that the Center should be only a short distance south on Filmore street.  We walked.  And walked.  And walked.

Growing again dehydrated and again exhausted, and now frustrated at having a useless map, we passed intersection after intersection.  We passed over the whole of Interstate 10.  We passed one apartment complex after the next.  By the time we encountered someone else to ask for help, she confirmed the Center would be “straight ahead” and (as people always add when giving directions) that we “can’t miss it.”

We didn’t miss it, but in all we ended up walking another two kilometers from where we got off the train.  We’d walked all the way to downtown Phoenix, passing six train stops, in sweltering desert heat, carrying now ater, and for most of the trip carrying no map.  Tellingly, we passed almost nobody on foot.

Surely no intelligent person would deliberately walk seven kilometers in the Arizona desert (even in the comparatively cool May weather), yet the very occasion of our visit was to celebrate my girlfriend’s new Master’s degree.  Two adults with graduate degrees should not end up in such a situation.

Of course, we’re entirely at fault for not bringing water, but we place the blame for everything else on shoddy map-making.  Although we would not normally have expected to walk anywhere in Phoenix, this map recommends “Alexi’s Grill,” which is ostensibly a “short 1/2 mile walk,” and which appears on the map to be the same distance as the Arizona Center.

The map does disclaim itself “not to scale,” but that’s rather an understatement, and removes none of the real blame.

I know the T too well for my own good.

Waiting for a train home from Copley today, the day before the marathon, I saw a single Type 8 car pass by bound for Government Center. For a moment I couldn’t imagine why they’d run a single-car train on any line today. Then, an instant later, I figured it out: they’re supplementing service to the underground stations independent of the branch lines. They must be looping at Government Center and reversing in the siding after Blandford Street.

As soon as I’d finished working through this line of reasoning, the T conveniently validated my entire theory; another individual Type 8 car passed on its return trip. Destination: “B – Kenmore.”

(On the other hand, I did choose to take the D Branch immediately after a Red Sox game got out this afternoon, so I guess I’m still a few credits away from a Master’s in Boston transportation. They taught that on day one. Literally. )

I visited my new doctor for a routine physical exam last week.  It’s a nice, modern office, with a computerized records system, complete with my lab appointments and lab results.  Glancing at the top of my own chart as my doctor reviewed my records, I noticed this field in bold lettering at the top:

Patient Status: Alive

Phew.  I was worried.