What a WASP

Really quick post tonight, because I'm getting up at 5 AM tomorrow to leave Florida and head back to NJ for just a day. Then it's back up to Boston, to begin 18th grade. The funniest thing I've heard down here was purely geographical (and, in reality, not all that funny). My dad was trying to explain to my uncle where a museum was in the town of St. Augustine, which is America's oldest incorporated town but this is not the point. Anyway, he described it as being "down the street from the Slave Market" ... and he really, unironically meant "Slave Market." Ladies and gentlemen, this is why the South should become its own sovereign nation.

My dad's twin brother - my youngest uncle - is one of the coolest relatives I have (NOTE: I have very few cool relatives). He drives fast cars, drinks Miller Lite, and once volunteered to sit in the passenger seat of my Santa Fe and listen to Jay-Z's "The Blueprint" with me. At dinner tonight, he explained to me that my ancestry could be traced back to the Mayflower, more specifically to William Bradford, the first governor of Plymouth Colony. This surprised the hell out of me, because I am 75% Italian by heritage and the rest of me is such a mess, I figured nobody would ever figure to check it out.

But in fact, a relative of mine from the great town of Millville, N.J. (What the fuck UP, South Jersey!) recently performed the genealogical survey, and it is true. I am a WASP, and, unsurprisingly, a Mass-hole. The coolest thing about being a Mayflower descendant is that I am cousins with the Baldwin brothers ("30 Rock" is a great TV show), Julia Child (nipping the cooking sherry is equally great), Christopher Reeve (who is dead), and the great actor, Clint Eastwood. The second-coolest thing about being a Mayflower descendant is that it greatly expands my possibilities when purchasing ties.

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Below is a link to an excellent Esquire article about one of the most intriguing "ghost cities" of America, Newark, N.J., and Cory Booker, the young mayor who's been trying to save it: Here. Just as interesting is Booker's "angry letter" reply to Esquire, to which they've posted a link on top of the main article.

If somebody on this blog wants to post about Newark, it's going be someone who lives there (e.g., PatentlyJersey). I have some opinions about the city, but this is neither my forum nor my time to state them. I'll just leave it at this -- I admire Mayor Booker and I think he's one of the few politicians who tries to behave true to their own causes. I'm just not sure that Newark can ever be saved.

But the article above is a must-read if you want to slack for an hour at work, or something. Stay classy out there.

Greetings from Jacksonville, Florida

I'm visiting my dad and stepmom in Florida this week, and it's definitely a little weird (in a metaphysical sense) that I can wake up in a comfy bed in New Jersey and fall asleep in a similarly comfy bed in a completely different state, nearly a thousand miles south.

One thing that I've managed to get through my impossibly thick skull is, I know a lot about New Jersey. I know that it has a lot of two-town combinations with nearly or exactly the same name (e.g., Belmar::Bellmawr; Morristown::Moorestown; Union::Union; Washington::Washington). I know that there's an invisible NYC/Philadelphia boundary somewhere in Mercer County that neatly divides people who root for the Giants or Jets and people who root for the Eggles. To this end, there are two New Jerseys -- the one that aligns with NYC, and the one that aligns with Philadelphia. So, it's OK that there is duplicity in how NJ towns are named. Further, I know that jughandles are an effacious method to control traffic, and I know that 85 degrees is fucking HOT.

Fundamentally, I think that New Jersey makes sense. I might not like how it makes sense, but I know that it does make sense. And all of this gets thrown on its side when I land, 90 minutes later, in Florida.

Florida is a place where everybody talks a little funny and moves a little too slow. There are 1,394 permutations of the Florida license plate. There are no jughandles in Florida, and 85 degrees is a chilly November day. Many people down here care a lot about values, but have no clue how to define them (e.g., when my girlfriend visits with me - which is not the case on this trip - we are forced to sleep in separate bedrooms. This is a paradox in so many ways, I care not to get into them).

Everybody in Florida is polite and starts conversations with strangers, which strikes me as a little odd because I have autism. A typical exchange between a Floridian and myself goes something like this:

Unnecessarily pleasant, 60-ish Florida woman with box-top haircut not unlike "Kid" from Kid 'n' Play: "Wow gee whiz, it surrrre is rainin' buckets out there."

Fred, already unsure how to proceed: "Yeah... yeah, it's definitely raining heavily out there."

Woman: "Why, you remind me of someone. Are you a student over at Flagler University?"

Fred's brain: "No, I went/go to places with actual academic standards, in parts of the country where residents have brains."
Fred verbally: "No, I can't say that I did, sorry."

Woman: "Why, I must say, God must be pourin' buckets on us this evenin'!"

Fred's brain: "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ISN'T SILENCE BETTER THAN THIS?! You're just saying the same thing, over and over, but subtlely different, just to make small talk!"
Fred verbally: "It's amazing, but I guess we just need the rain."

And so on, and so forth.

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You see, the thing is, I like being treated like I don't exist in public situations. It's easier that way - it spares me the trouble of pretending to like people that I don't like. I'm completely, 100% comfortable with pretending that the people around me don't exist in public situations, and I'd be hard-pressed to name people I know who actually enjoy random small-talk. It's pointless, it really is, and I think it makes sense that we don't start talking to lots of people when we're in a large group.

You want to know why? Because it's fucking annoying when someone tries to talk to everybody in a large group. People who do this are attention whores who should have been loved more by their parents as children. They're making up for the fact that Grandpa used to touch them funny, and it pisses me off.

After being alive for 25 goddamned years, I think this is where New Jersey finally gets it right. It's not that people from NJ are fundamentally douchebags, it's just that we have our own way of dealing with being around too many people at once. This isn't a method that other people can understand, and they henceforth interpret our behavior as douchebaggery.

In reality, what NJ people are doing is perfectly sensible. When surrounded by a giant crowd of sometimes smelly, sometimes loud, often annoying people all the time, it can be a little disconcerting (to say the least) to recognize the completeness of the situation. When you're surrounded by too many people, it makes sense to be a little autistic... and this is why people think that people from NJ are douchebags.

But anyway, fuck them. What, like they're any better? Stay classy.

I am a Morbid Sumbitch

I hate to say this, I really do. But I find wakes very interesting. No, I'm not talking about the kind of wake that a boat makes. You know what I'm talking about - the death ceremony where funeral homes dress corpses up like mummified Barbie dolls and give people the opportunity to pray and talk in front of them.

Yes, I find those things very interesting.

If you're still reading, one, I'm surprised. Two, let me explain what I mean. It seems that over the past few decades, families only seem to come together (1) when someone gets married, and (2) when someone dies. I'm convinced that people enjoy themselves more during option (2), especially when the deceased wasn't especially close to them. And I think it makes sense; recognizing one's mortality really (and temporarily) changes people, for the better. I'm generally very stoic, but I can actually crack a joke or three at a wake. Then there's the alcohol. Irish wakes are particularly fun for this, and I've been to a few of them. I really enjoy sipping whisky out of a flask and singing songs where the only acceptable words are made up on the spot. I want one of those things when I croak.

Are people naturally kind? I don't know (and I don't think so). But I do know that when someone dies, you learn the truth about them. I've straight-up been to services where close relatives said of the deceased, "He/she was a real motherfucker." When my grandmother - who was a colossal pain in the ass - died, my family and I talked at great length about how annoying and mean she could be (to be fair, we also talked about how she was the best Italian cook, ever). Death ends a life, to be sure, but in its wake (Ha ha) it brings about this post-modern objectivity that I think is really damned accurate.

Death should terrify people. Sometimes, it terrifies me. I have these moments, right before bed, when I listen to my heart beat and think to myself, "Without fail, within the next eighty or so years, this modified bio-organic pump is going to stop beating and I am going to die. The interconnected neural network representing the thoughts, feelings, and goals that I've collected throughout my life is going to stop firing. It's all going to just go away."

But this is not what people think about at wakes, I think. Wakes inevitably (unless, you know, your family sucks) turn into a celebration of those who remain alive. Distant relatives reconnect and re-network. Memories are shared. And that, ultimately, is pretty damned cool.

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OK, who needs another picture of a cute puppy? That's right... YOU do.


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Stay classy. My next post will be from a different state... OF MIND!

"That's Poker"

Anyone who plays poker has heard the phrase I chose to title this entry one time too many. Anyone obsessed with poker has heard it hundreds of times too many. Its usually uttered after some cretin goes completely against the odds and wins a hand, oftentimes to knock the other player out of a tournament. Which means if you're both a)obsessed with poker and b)play online, you've probably heard it thousands of times too many.

But, while I could think of a multitude of reasons why this phrase should be banned, one would be that its plain WRONG. Those instances where someone beats the odds are not poker. They happen in poker, but they are not the essence of the game. Even though at times it may seem that way.

So I think I figured out what poker is, in the most basic example possible. This is a question posed by donkeytest.com, so I'd like to credit them with the inspiration for this post. But really, I think I did most of the legwork.

Let's say you flip a coin 10 times, and each time it comes up heads. What are the odds the next flip will be tails? Instinct says "really high," reality says 50% because the previous 10 flips have no influence over the current odds. This is the gambler's fallacy. Donkeytest asks this question to see if you understand this. But I think this situation illustrates poker in this way:

What do you do in this situation if you can place a bet on the next flip?

Choice A is that you can place a bet on either side to come, and win 50% of the time, breaking even in the long-run. This is more or less blackjack, if you're playing correctly (I know, I know, the house technically has a 2% edge in blackjack, even if you play perfectly).

Choice B is that you find out if the guy you're betting with is under the influence of the gambler's fallacy. You say, essentially, "Man, I know that next flip's going to be tails, but if you give me 2:1 odds on it I'll take heads." To re-iterate a phrase, 'That's poker.'

Are you guaranteeing yourself victory on the next flip? Absolutely not. In fact, you haven't increased your chances of victory in any way. But you've increased the rewards for victory, and that's what matters in the long-run. Is this a perfect definition of poker? No, but its close. If your opponent is not influenced by the fallacy, you run your 50:50 odds with him, break even, and move on to the next guy. If no one is influenced by the gambler's fallacy, you have to talk some more game, like maybe point out flaws in the coin which might make it more likely to come out tails(see also: bluff). If you want to win big in this scenario, though, you need to find that guy, even if its only one, who believes that next flip just has to be tails and has deep pockets.(see also: plays like crap and is willing to rebuy).

There are three types of people in this world:
1)Those who say "If I'm not increasing my odds, I'm not wasting my money." The good ones here are cheap, the bad ones are cheats.
2)Those who say "Isn't that hustling the guy who doesn't get it?" The good ones here are charitable, the bad ones are liberals.
3)Poker players, who say "I get it, when can I start?" The good ones here are rich, the bad ones move to choice 1 or 2.

You see, poker players tell each other 'good luck,' but only the bad ones are talking about having cards fall their way. The good ones know that 'good luck' means finding that guy with a nasty gambler's fallacy and deep pockets.

That's poker, kids, and if you still want to play I'll see you at the tables.

I <3 The Olympics

Sup y'all. If there's a timestamp on this post, it'll read "Not extremely early in the morning but still way earlier than Scottery usually gets to work," because I'm turning over A New Leaf by going to bed at a reasonable, human time (midnight) instead of my comfortable usual (4 in the morning). Thus, I am here several hours before usual, and it turns out that my daily schedule was not far off from my coworkers', since I'm the only one here.

I'm going to make this post about the Olympics. However, unlike most normal people, I will not post about the Olympics in general -- the pagentry, the nationalism, the struggle and triumph and defeat -- but about three separate, semi-unrelated things that I have seen since the start of the games that I found interesting. Since I don't watch the Olympics, these events will probably be old news to anyone with even a passing interest in the games. Nonetheless...

First up: The Lance Armstrong of Swimming, Michael Phelps. The man has won (at last count) 11 medals in his career, more than any other human in history. He has to take drug tests between almost every event, but I think it would be more accurate to take gene sequencing data to make sure that he is not, in fact, a dolphin. However, all of his acts -- his unexpected rise to fame at the last Olympics, his subsequent DUI, this year's continuation of that fame, his ability to keep his swimsuit in the no-man's land between "appropriate for NBC television" and "gay porn" -- pale in comparison to what happened during the 400m freestyle relay. I have never felt as patriotic and as willing-to-bash-the-French as I was after watching this event. To set the stage: The French were smack-talking America, saying they would crush us in the event. Let me repeat that: The French said they would crush America. So what happened? The last swimmer of the 4-man relay, Jason Lezak, who began the last stretch of the race almost a full body length behind the French swimmer Alain Bernard, pulled ahead to out-touch him at the wall. He won by a distance of what Olympic scholars refer to as "a pube." Oh and by the way, they ran the race in 3 minutes, 8.24 seconds, erasing by almost 4 seconds (which is like, a year in swimming-time) the world record of 3 minutes, 12.23 seconds, set the night before by the American B-team. Sore Loser Amaury Leveaux, one of the French swimmers, said, "A fingertip did the victory... It is nothing." Fuck you. America took away your hopes and dreams with a fingertip. In the space of a finger, we (once again) crushed your hopes at greatness. Now go cry into your wine and shut the fuck up while Willie Nelson plays in the background about how awesome we are.

Second up: George Bush. Now, people like to hate on everything he does. And I admit, I like to hate on a lot of what he does, because a lot of what he does is retarded. However, it turns out that when he's not acting as president and is on vacation, well... he might be a lot of fun. Case in point: The majority of the pictures I've seen of our illustrious leader have been in one of two situations: 1. Looking bored and 2. Posing with hot chicks. I've only dug up pictures for the latter, because seriously who cares about him looking bored?


Look at him there. That's the women's softball team. Check out that chick he's hugging, and the one behind him who playfully slapped him on the back and put that white mark on him. That girl is cute as all hell. Pretty pimp if you ask me.



Speaking of pimp, this picture is pretty boss. For one, the Americans wore some pretty classy threads to the opening ceremonies, making everyone else in their "native garb" look ridiculous (THAT'S RIGHT I SAID IT, TAKE A BURN NATIVE CULTURES!!!). Even those countries that didn't show up in traditional dress seemed retarded, what with their fuschia-and-salmon-colored-ties-and-blazers. But besides that, I imagine the run-up to this picture went something like this: "You there. Yes, you, Women's Track and Field team. Come crowd around me and take a picture. I know you probably all hate me and my policies because you're all Godless liberal tree-hugging bisexuals (hopefully), but you're going to take this picture and love it, because I'm President of the Motherfucking World and you'll tell your grandkids of the day you got close enough to cop a feel from the Buttocks of Freedom."


Believe it or not, Bush is in this picture. Look up, and to the left. THERE he is. He's asking to be picked for their team or something, but looking goofy as all hell -- which I interpret as "exceedingly normal behavior for a man in the presence of the hotness that is the Women's Volleyball team." It's kind of disarming and amusing and, well, what regular people act like in that situation.

Which brings me to item 3 of this discussion. Did you know that the volleyball tournament has cheerleaders? I challenge you to find a sport that is less in need of cheerleaders than volleyball. I mean, glance again at that picture up there (in case you weren't already). That is an athlete in the sport. Why would a sport with players as hot as women volleyballers (hee) need cheerleaders? I imagine a smoky board room somewhere at Olympics Headquarters where a fat suit says, "This volleyball thing is good. It's got mass-market appeal. But it's missing something." A yes-man to his right says, "You're absolutely right. Something's missing." Fat suit: "Is there some way we can get hot women in bikinis to dance around?" About-to-be-fired guy in the corner: "Um, well, the players themselves are hot women in bikinis..." Fat suit: "You're arguing against an idea that increases the number of hot women in bikinis. You're fired. The players don't dance. We need cheerleaders." Yes-man: "Brilliant!"


Well, that's about the full extent of my knowledge of the Olympics this year. I'll probably find out some more stuff in the days to come. For the time being though, adios.

The 7 Basic Rules for Playing Blackjack

(Most of) the men of Damaged, Inc. enjoy playing the game of blackjack while visiting a casino. I would say that, out of all of us, PatentlyJersey likes it the best; he can often be found on Facebook.com, playing their blackjack application when he should instead be focusing on learning the law. I probably come in second, because I could spend all night playing the game if my luck were solid and if the drinks were strong enough. Brainpan is a not-so-distant third, if only because he spends most of his time at the casino playing poker; despite this, he's a solid blackjack player with the odd quality of attracting the advances of elderly Asian men while sitting at the table. (No, seriously: elderly Asian men love Brainpan at the blackjack table. One night last summer, at about 5 AM at Resorts in Atlantic City, he played two-handed with the elderly Asian man to his left calling each of his moves. Did he make money? Arguably, no. But that's not the point -- the point is that elderly Asian men love Brainpan.) And Scottery has, in the past, stood behind the rest of us while we played blackjack, because Scottery doesn't gamble.

Anyway, blackjack is a very fun game, but it's not one to be taken lightly. There's a strong social contract between players, and between players and the dealer. Because of this, I think it's important that we lay some ground rules down, so that if you ever see one of us at the casino, we won't have to yell at you or get up from the table. So below, I humbly present the 7 Basic Rules of Playing Blackjack:

Rule #1: When hot, tip the dealer. It's not hard to do; simply ask to have a five-dollar chip broken into ones, and then put a one-dollar chip alongside (behind) your bet. I do this systematically after winning four consecutive hands, and it's near-guaranteed to help you win the fifth*. (*Note: I do not personally endorse the statistical validity of this, or any other claim that I make.) A happy dealer makes the table karma much more positive, and they'll appreciate the effort even if you lose the hand.

Rule #2: As much as it hurts, physically pains you to do so, ALWAYS hit on 16 when the dealer shows 7 or better. You're giving yourself the better of two chances - slim or slimmer - to win the hand. 4/13 cards in the deck can help you, which is better than the 0% chance you'll have of winning once the dealer shows his face card (and the dealer WILL have a face card under there).

Rule #3: Never hit on 12 or better when the dealer shows a 6. The "6" is the dealer's way of screaming, "I AM ABOUT TO BREAK!!!!" (Note: To "break" means to bust.) The only proper move in this situation is to stand. One time, PatentlyJersey made the mistake of hitting on something like a 12 or 13 (I forget which) with the dealer showing 6; he got his 20 and ended up winning the hand, where everyone else at the table lost. Had he not hit, however, the next hand would have played out completely differently and a high-roller in final position wouldn't have lost 200 bucks, which leads me to Rule #4...

Rule #4: Understand that people who play blackjack are fundamentally irrational. I personally can't stand it when players get pissed off at a stupid move, and then complain that "I should've had that card!" Dickwad, the only statistic that really matters in blackjack is the following: 51% vs. 49%. In the long run, the house has a 2% advantage that no amount of luck can circumvent. When you sit down to play the game, you do so under the implicit understanding that other people can do whatever the hell they want (e.g., split face cards, hit on 19, whatever) and that your luck evens out (against you, of course) over an infinite number of cards. I play blackjack expecting to lose (a little bit of) money. Get over it.

Rule #5: If you tip your cocktail waitress (not even handsomely, just tip something), she'll keep coming back. No one in a casino has a worse job than the cocktail waitress, particularly if you're gambling in the cheap seats. I mean, look at them. Their faces and voices are just destroyed, and you know they have a tough job and a really tough life. Throw them a dollar, even if your drink is supposed to be free. It's not a lot, and it goes a long way.

Rule #6: When cold, don't go above minimum bet, and when really cold, consider walking away. The worst feeling in the world is when you hit your "I'm not going to lose any more money than this" number about two hours into a casino excursion, and you get to sit around and watch everyone around you gamble all night and actually have fun. There's no shame in walking away and consoling the rest of your money by actually holding onto it. But also, a dealer has to almost break even in the long run, so when they get really hot there's some value to riding out the streak and waiting for your time to come. I generally get through this by never going above the minimum bet. Again, when things get really bad, I still walk away, but I save this as a last-ditch strategy.

Rule #7: Don't go on tilt. "Going on tilt" means that you're emotionally out of control, making stupid and risky decisions with money that don't make sense. Just don't do this. It makes more sense to scream, "I'm counting cards!" than it does to throw all your money in on one hand. (Believe me, I've done the latter.)

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Any other rules you can think of? That's what the comments section is for. Stay classy out there.

Couples Who Hold Hands or Otherwise Act Affectionately in Grocery Stores Must Be Executed On Sight

Seriously, people, come on. This is not a romantic, candlelit dinner. This is not a moon-lit stroll in the park. It is the "Candy/Gum," "Coffee," "Peanut Butter," and "Mayonnaise" aisle at the neighborhood Stop 'n' Shop, and it isn't a pretty place, and there's no reason to act all schmoopy while looking for Marshmallow Fluff. Plus, your affection is blocking the damned aisle. No, seriously, I cannot get past you. All I want is my goddamned Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and you're in my way, damnit. I hope you forget your wallet at home and have to put everything you tried to purchase back.

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As I write this, I'm watching the Hall of Fame Preseason NFL Special on NBC. Excepting the Baseball All-Star game, this particular football game is the weirdest sporting event on the calendar. It's the first preseason game on the schedule, played by two teams selected randomly (this year's game is between the Washington Redskins and the Indianapolis Colts, two teams that are not inextricably linked in the annals of football lore). Now, all NFL preseason games are meaningless exhibitions, with no official stats being kept (and full ticket prices charged on top of season tickets as a perverse luxury tax). But this game is especially meaningless.

How meaningless is it? The starters* played for one offensive series, which takes up less than the first quarter of the game. (*Note: One important starter, Colts quarterback Peyton Manning, isn't playing at all, as he recovers from minor knee surgery.) After the starters leave, all the scrubs, rookies, and career has-beens enter for the rest of the game, and even the announcers realize how silly the game gets at this point. For example, in the fourth quarter of an ostensibly tied, 16-16 game, I learn that Colts fourth-string QB Jared Lorenzen weighed a massive 13 lbs. at birth. (If you've ever seen Lorenzen, you may be asking yourself: only 13 lbs.? This guy is the football equivalent of that giant 44 lb. cat they found in South Jersey two weeks ago.)

But this is the extent of the gravitational pull that professional football exerts on the lives of its fans. Between the desires to get ahead in fantasy football, to recognize one of so many almost-unrecognizable faces (e.g., former Rutgers DT Eric Foster, signed by the Colts as an undrafted free agent), or just to see people hit each other in a simulated game of war* (*Note: Not the card game), pro football is king amongst sports these days, a marketing behemoth, and there's no way I'm turning off the TV for the remainder of the game. Even if nobody on the field will ever see action in a meaningful NFL game.

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I'm back in Boston for the next week or so, before I go away on three (count 'em, three) vacations to round out my summer. I haven't seen my apartment in five weeks, so when I walked in earlier today, it was kinda eerie. A lot has changed. Channels 26-82 were mysteriously missing from my cable TV listings, and I had to call the cable company to find out that those channels are now anywhere from 101 (BET) to 384 (G4). It'll only take me another six months to memorize this new channel lineup. Great.

Also, my roommate (who is leaving at the end of the month) apparently took half the furniture in the living room home with him. So now I'm looking at my checking account and thinking of the things I'll need to buy in the next month. The list looks like this:

New TV (preferably HD)
New video game system (preferably Xbox 360)
New cookware, chefware, sous-chefware, utensils, cutlery, and awesome wine bottle opener
New reclining chair (or acceptable, used alternative)
About a dozen of those little things that every comfortable living room has (you know, like vases and plants and stuff)
Approx. 50-60 DVDs to compensate for the ones my roommate is taking with him
Lifesize New York Giants helmet fathead.com poster

So I'm counting this up in my head and, you know what, I'm about to go into debt. Oh, well. Donations from loyal blog readers are always welcome; stay classy out there.