Pseudo-Live Blog: My Second-Ever Business Trip

In the past, typically here at Damaged, Inc. we talk about things like sports, gambling, booze, politics, pop culture and women. Tonight, let's take a sharp left turn and talk about synergy.

Today I embarked upon my second-ever business trip, and I thought we could synergize together about how that went. If that doesn't work, of course, you can ping me or we could circle back on this next week.

After all this is just a brain dump, and all I'm really trying to do is increase your mindshare on how business trips actually work.

Without further ado and without me using any proper nouns at all in this blog post (N.B.: I'm assuming, although I've never been told explicitly, that there are non-disclosure agreements at stake), let's get started...

Monday, December 14, 12:50 PM, North Brunswick, NJ: I double-check my overnight bag, triple-check my laptop case, load up the trunk and leave. I am extremely paranoid and OCD about leaving things behind, and despite (because of?) this, I leave something important behind 50% of the time I travel.

This time, my belongings consist of a change of clothes (business casual), travel-sized toiletries, swim trunks (since the hotel I'm staying at tonight has a hot tub), my cell phone charger, GPS, iPod,... and almost a thousand dollars cash.

I should probably explain the last item.

You see, on this business trip I'm driving around the mid-Atlantic, interviewing business owners (all I can say) for a work client (all I can say). I'm being accompanied by a videographer, and the end result will be a film that will be shown to pretty high-ranking executives at the client company.

The thing is, we need to compensate the business owners for their time. And these business owners are being compensated, in cash, ridiculously well. My advice to those of you out there who are currently not participants in one or more market research panels -- become a participant in one or more market research panels. Find some online. Schlesinger Associates is a great place to start. You will make serious bank, I promise.

Anyway, this trip is supposed to be a lot of fun, and I assume it will be - my job normally consists of a lot of data crunching and report generation, which I really like, but desk stuff doesn't beat a bona fide road trip filming a real-life version of "The Office". Combined with better-than-average December weather, a couple of days on the open road is an unexpected treat.

1:05 PM, North Brunswick, NJ: I'm still uncomfortable paying for things with my corporate card. I feel like I'm cheating or committing insurance fraud or something -- the money I'm using to pay for this full tank of gas doesn't really exist.

Perhaps as a psychological manifestation of this, I fill my tank with cut-rate Raceway fuel. I never do this with my cars, but the gas station is there and I'm scared to death of being late for my first interview, which is at 2 PM.

1:50 PM, Hamilton, NJ: There is good news and there is bad news.

The good news is that there was no traffic on U.S. 1, and I arrived at the location of the first interview ten minutes early. The bad news is that, instead of being at the actual interview site, I'm currently using the women's facilities at a nearby, somewhat seedy Italian restaurant.

It goes without saying to the majority of my readership that I am a little high-strung (at times) and get a little nervous (at times). When I get nervous, I am sometimes overwhelmed by simultaneous dehydration and the need to... you know, pee. Because this unique feeling just hit me, I decided to find a nearby restaurant, where I bought and simultaneously chugged a Diet Snapple.

This became a very bad idea when I was told that the men's bathroom was out of order. Graciously, I was allowed to use the women's facilities while the owner of the restaurant literally guarded the door.

Women's bathrooms are a little weird, for reasons that are probably obvious to women and also not worth mentioning here. I'm just glad that things worked out OK. This could've been a disaster.

3:45 PM, somewhere near Lawnside, NJ: I catch 3 Journey songs in a row on a Philadelphia rock radio station. This immediately reminds me that Journey is awesome road trip music, so I fire up my iPod only to find... the iPod click of death.

My iPod isn't working, which kinda sucks. I was counting on a couple new playlists to get me through northeastern Maryland later tonight. Humming "Only the Young," I surf the FM dial and decide that it's almost time to purchase satellite radio.

5:00 PM, Woodbury Heights, NJ: I'm starting to come into my own as a documentary maker. The second interview of the day went much better than the first, due to lack of nerves on my part and better... synergy between myself, the videographer, and the interviewee.

I'm supposed to remain silent while the film is running - my role is to prompt the responses, but I'm not the actual story here - but at times I do things like provide a "thumbs-up" when the response is good or a "cut it" motion when a loud compressor or something goes off in the business.

At times, I even pull off the "thoughtful, hand on the chin" Mike Wallace pose successfully. If this whole marketing research thing doesn't work out, 60 Minutes, here I come. I'm only kidding.

5:20 PM, Wendy's, Woodbury, NJ: I hope I'm not alone when I say that eating junk food is the best part of a road trip (and the best part of a business trip). I almost never eat by myself these days - I usually have my girlfriend, at bare minimum, as a dining partner - so I pull into a Wendy's for a solitary meal. I find that this particular Wendy's is populated by (a) myself; (b) the Wendy's staff; and (c) a cluster of six mouth-breathing octogenarians wearing NASCAR caps and taking approximately 12 minutes to order.

I miss how, back in the 1980's, the tables inside Wendy's restaurants were linoleum with old-timey newspaper clippings underneath. This made nerdy five-year-old me love Wendy's restaurants. An undeniably classy move, and I have no clue why they decided to get rid of the old-timey newspaper clippings. I want my horse and carriage, dammit!

6:00 PM, near Carney's Point, NJ. A lot of people like to make fun of New Jersey. Those who do so forget how diverse the state is. For instance, I'm currently driving through a part of the state that is memorable only for two things:

(1) Close proximity to the Delaware Memorial Bridge;
(2) Closer proximity to a nuclear power plant, this fact of which I know only because I just drove past a road sign helpfully reminding me that I have entered an "Instant Death Zone."

I am extremely happy to be inside the Carney Point Instant Death Zone, and - in fact - if this particular nuclear power plant is going to erupt at any point in the next 80 years, I kind of hope it erupts right now. Obviously I don't have a death wish or anything, but I can't imagine any way of dying that's worse than through radiation poisoning. I'd rather just get it over with.

6:10 PM, somewhere between New Jersey and Delaware. My dad is scared to death of the Delaware Memorial Bridge, for reasons I've never been able to understand. These days the span is wide and on this particular day, there is no wind, so I have a pretty non-momentous trip
across the bridge into the First State.

6:17 PM, Delaware.

6:50 PM, Bodymore, Murdaland. HBO's "The Wire" has done lots of important things. As an element of popular culture, it transformed the way many people think about crime, poverty, education, mass media, politics, and the complex interactions between each aspect of American life. As allegory, it was powerful. As drama, it was captivating and award-winning. In 2008, the United States elected a President who not only loved the show but considered certain dramatic themes contained therein as logical alternatives to the status quo in dealing with certain domestic problems (e.g., the "War on Drugs", etc.).

At the precise moment, I'm driving through a tunnel, humming Tom Waits' "Down in the Hole" to myself and trying to figure out if I'll ever drive/fly/hover through Baltimore, MD for the rest of my life without thinking of "The Wire." Holy crap, I have relatives I miss less than I miss that show.

Since driving through inner cities is always a little harrowing, and since the undercurrent (if there is one) of this blog post involves dealing with nervousness, I thought I should regale you with the interesting tales of My First Ever Road Trip (2005) and My First Ever Business Trip (2006)... here goes...

My First Ever Road Trip (2005)

• My 2001 Santa Fe was almost fired upon in a drug-infested ghetto in Wilmington, DE. Lost while trying to find our hotel, and in the days before I owned a GPS, my dad and I were driving from Philadelphia to Jacksonville, Florida. I called a friend who lived in a nearby section of Delaware, but because my cell phone service was spotty I misheard him telling me "not to drive down Madison Avenue" without the crucial not to aspect. This was the one and only time I ran through stop signs to get out of a neighborhood. We were scared to death.
• Watched people smoke marijuana casually inside a McDonald's in North Carolina.
• Discussed drug use and sex with my father in a way I hope I never have to again.

My First Ever Business Trip (2006)

• Found out I was allergic to eating MSG through a terrifying P.F. Chang's experience.
• Learned that 22-year-olds have no place in the back room of a focus group facility.
• Had a panic attack in the back row, middle seat, of a small US Airways flight from Charlotte, NC to Newark, NJ because a lot of things went wrong:

1. The flight was delayed and stuck on the tarmac due to poor weather in Newark;
2. I was crammed between two large gentlemen in a very cramped seat with very little available oxygen;
3. The smells from the bathroom behind me were nauseating;
4. I was thirsty, blood-shot and exhausted from the preceding business trip, combined with MSG sickness;
5. At the time, I hated -- HATED -- flying in general.

• Thankfully, a US Airways flight attendant recognized the symptoms - after I calmed down, she told me that her daughter suffered from panic attacks - and moved me into first class, where I sipped warm ginger ale and remained for the entire flight.
• Realized that I wasn't quite ready for a businessman's career just yet.

7:15 PM, Annapolis Junction, MD. I am much readier (more ready?) to be a businessman now. I've made it to my hotel room, without major incident, and settled in. I've checked and fired off a few E-mails, and I'm ready to hit the hot tub.

**********************************

Some of the people who read this blog are people I met in graduate school. Graduate students are often indoctrinated with stories of how working in industry is horrible. As a result, I am convinced that many academics feel that 95% of working Americans are constrained to their mortgages, miserable, head-over-heels in debt, treated as expendable at work, and nearly-dehumanized by society as a whole.

There are probably some specific instances where these criteria are satisfied. But I'm not even close to being that miserable, and neither are the people I work with. I'm occasionally around some people who hate their jobs, but that's because their jobs kind of suck.

Systems don't have to malfunction, and any system can be managed by a person or people who are talented enough to manage it successfully. Contrary to some opinions, industry is not always horribly inefficient, dehumanizing, and stupid. There are instances where everything works out fine, and everyone is happy.

Speaking of happiness. My point, consistent with many of the things I've written since leaving Boston back in May, is that happiness isn't something that passively happens to a person due to circumstance. It's something that's created actively. It's the easiest way to explain why most of us are walking around miserable, and it also explains why some people are actually able to figure out how to make shit work.

I'm happy to be on this business trip.

"I'd Have Pink Lights In It": On The New Ford Ads and "Regular" People

In late October of 2009, a series of quick-hitting, Youtube-inspired, 15-second commercials for the Ford Motor Company received a meaningful amount of airtime. There were five commercials in total, each featuring a real Ford owner, (probably) under the age of 30, describing a (usually) kitschy aspect of their Ford car or SUV and why it appeals to their driving style, life style, or general sense of self.

There are many car commercials that air on TV, and almost all of them focus upon one of four well-established and "serious" aspects of automobile ownership: reliability, safety, resale value, and/or fuel efficiency. The logic behind creating these types of car commercials is obvious and based upon a relatively long-standing view of what people think of when they buy cars.

Fundamental in the process is the fact that cars are extremely expensive and it's assumed that people want to purchase something reliable, safe, and that is conservative with fuel. They also want some value for their purchase - when they trade their car in or sell it privately, their car should be worth something.

The dilemma faced by US automakers is that they're selling products with (mostly) inferior reliability, fuel efficiency, and resale value. This is not me speaking out of my ass - this is the actual data talking. If you are a US automaker, how, then, do you get people to buy your products?

Enter Kristen. Owner of a new Ford Escape, Kristen isn't an eye-blink older than 25, really likes the color pink and doesn't know (or seemingly care) when her car needs an oil change. Luckily, her new S.U.V. provides both the flexibility to change the color of its interior lighting (Pink for everybody! OMG, let's watch "So You Think You Can Dance" while sucking on lollipops!) and the ability to have real-time "Vehicle Health Reports" sent to her via text message or E-mail.

These commercials (which have been getting LOTS of airplay during NFL Sundays and also during the 2009 baseball playoffs) are obviously - and, perhaps, sickeningly - geared toward the "casual" car buyer. These ads are not for individuals who are going to pore over back issues of Consumer Reports before purchasing a car. Resale value and fuel efficiency cannot be extremely important to these types of car owners, because these types of car owners mostly long ago switched to Toyota or Honda.

*********************************

Because I was interested in what the general public thinks of these commercials, I decided to conduct some half-assed Internet research. Within 30 seconds of Googling "Ford stupid girl tv ads", I found a recent blog post on the aptly-titled Autoblog.com. Along with helpful embedded Youtube videos of each of the new Ford ads, I found a collection of smarter-than-average Internet comments.

Some of these comments were as follows (and I recommend reading all of them if you're like me interested in the machinations behind a daring and controversial ad campaign):

"Simple, product/feature-oriented, honest. No glitz, no hyperbole."

"They're simple, short, and sweet commercials. They focus on the merit of the product alone, and don't try to say something foolish like "HEY LOOK! We compare to the Accord! Please believe us!" This is the advertising focus that Ford has been missing, something that more subtly gives the consumer the idea that Ford has reached a level of superiority."

"I think Ford is on the right track with these real customer ads conveying the details of all the unique technology and features that Ford offers. Its a unique and different way to explain the benefits of owning a Ford and a logical extension of the "Drive One" campaign and social marketing... Plus, having all these 15 seconds ads on YouTube makes it real easy (cheap too) to spread the word around the web... smart!"

************************************

What did I think of these new Ford commercials? Oh, I hated them.

I'll admit the following, and you may hate me for this because it makes me sound elitist, but I am elitist and it's the truth: I strongly dislike just about every piece of advertising that pitches to "regular" people.

I put "regular" in quotes, but I think that you more or less know what I mean. I hate every advertisement for McDonald's, Walmart, Lee Jeans, Wrangler Jeans, Coors, Coors Light, Miller Lite, Bud Light, Taco Bell, Verizon Wireless, AT&T Wireless, Pizza Hut, Chrysler, Jeep, Dodge, and any TV commercial involving Brett Favre, John Mellencamp, or Howie Long.

I hate every commercial that tries to reaffirm to stupid, poor people that it is acceptable to be stupid and poor. I hate all commercials which appeal to the fuzzy and ill-defined spending proclivities of the lowest common denominator, and I hate every commercial that states "now more than ever," "every penny counts", "these days" or uses the word "value."

(*NOTE: I also can't stand those Lexus commercials that advocate giving a loved one a $45,000 car for Christmas, but because this opinion is unrelated to my larger point, I'm going to leave it at that.)

I realize why all of the commercials and products I've mentioned above exist - because entire markets exist in this country solely because there are stupid people out there with money to spend - but I still hate them. They're against my values and what I think every person should strive to be (or to become). However, I still love (and often eat) the Big Mac. I am nothing if not a hypocrite.

My point, long-winding as ever, is this: I am one of those people who finds something attractive in difficult puzzles to solve. I can break down the ethos and cultural meaning of these Ford commercials until the cows come home, but there is in reality very little for me to break down. These commercials are not a new episode of "Mad Men." They are very much like an episode of "So You Think You Can Dance?".

As stated in the Internet comment that I cited earlier, these ads are remarkable mostly in their simplicity. As a consequence, they appeal to those who would buy a car based on "gimmicks" rather than statistics. (My girlfriend would argue that, as a direct extension of this point, these new commercials are sexist. If she chooses to elaborate on this point in the comments, I'll let her.)

As for me, the latte-sipping elitist? I would never buy a Ford, unless the data suggested it were a good idea. I, my devoted readers, am a lame-O. A square. I do not care much for the color pink, I know when my car needs an oil change, and this is why I drive a Civic.

Stay classy out there.

Teh Interwebz Series, Part I: Enter the Modem

The year was 1983. There were only two events worthy of mention that year: I was born, and Nintendo released its first entertainment video game console. The proximity of these events was no coincidence. I've grown up around technology. My experience with computers began with the Commodore 64 and its BASIC programming (10 PRINT "YOU SMELL" / 20 GOTO 10). I remember playing games off a 5.25" floppy disk. I remember the joy at seeing graphical user interfaces for the first time. I remember the very long and detailed Chrono Trigger fanfic my brother and I wrote on a word processor in 1995, which is how I learned how to type. But no memory burns so sweet as the frightening screech of the "modulator - demodulator," a strange new device whose otherworldly sounds heralded a paradigm shift in human culture.

I was too young to really get in on the ground floor -- Usenet, IRC, and most bulletin-board systems were too complicated or vulgar. But I do remember America Online chat rooms. Specifically, I remember the fantasy role-playing chat rooms. As though it were a window into my own future, I spent the majority of my early internet days chatting with strangers pretending to be wizards and dragonslayers, creating elaborate personalities and back-stories, interacting with others in a make-believe land. We would play games, share stories, or just talk about our imaginary lives. Sometimes these lives, these expressions of ourselves in the meta-space of the Internet become so detailed and so invested with emotion that they feel like real parts of ourselves. At some point, even though you're telling a story, you feel like you're really telling people about yourself.

I don't know if this is psychologically sound, but I like to think that all of us have three distinct sets of personalities. The first is completely internal -- the things you think of to yourself, regardless of whether or not those things are socially or morally acceptable. This is where your demons and angels dwell, the thoughts and emotions that you have no control over. The second personality is what you choose to show to the outside world, the edited version of the first, including conscious and subconscious decisions about what to say or do at any given time. The third is what other people think of you -- the version of you that exists in the heads of other people. Technically, this third personality is really a multi-personality, since each person who knows you has a different idea of who you are.

The Internet has given our culture a number of things, but one of the most interesting is that it has granted us a fourth personality type: the version of ourselves that exists in the meta-space of computers. Beginning when people started putting up "personal web pages" on GeoCities or Tripod or Angelfire, we have been able to project ourselves into the aether in a unique way, carefully and meticulously assembling a personality for ourselves that exists within the bounds of a browser window or a chat log. Each photo or image or font that we choose is a conscious decision that reflects us in some way, something that we hope will set us apart from the crowd, and that someone else will see and take notice of.

This phenomenon had, until recently, been confined to the world of the computer-literate -- which itself had been confined to social back woods. Having a screen name was a mark of shame, and if you knew how to make a web page you certainly kept that to yourself. But something changed -- I don't remember when it happened, exactly. It might have been Napster that started the trend, but somewhere along the line knowing how to use computers became "cool." The popular kids were getting screen names, girls were asking the nerds for help with their internet, and celebrities were endorsing video games. Suddenly, almost within a year or two, it was hip to be computer-literate.

And, like so many areas of our lives, once the cool kids got involved things really took off.

Double Your Fun...

That’s right kids, this post is all about double standards and how much I can’t stand them. I think that some of our moral/social standards are a bit absurd in these modern times. For instance, when two people go on a date, traditionally the man is supposed to pay for the evening, every time. I have no problem paying for movies, dinner etc., however for me to be required to pay every single time that I am out with a woman is a bit ridiculous. I understand if, perhaps I was making substantially more, or we were making the same and she had a child to support or there was some other factor making us not equal, then it would make logical sense for me to pay all the time. But if we are both similarly situated there is no reason why the woman can’t pay every so often, more so than just when it is the man’s birthday. Women are no longer confined to the home, with no income. Nowadays women are highly paid executives, attorneys and doctors with, in many aspects, equal potential to men. I’m sure that there may still be some boys club mentality left in business, but I cannot imagine that a company would hire some dumb frat boy, present company excluded (see engineering degree and imminent law degree), and a highly educated and motivated woman. So even if it isn’t a 50/50 split in paying for going out, it would be nice to not be publicly shunned for not paying once in a while.

Dateline ABC did a report on this some time ago. Only it pertained to a website where very rich men met very beautiful women that expected. The male participants expected to date very beautiful women and at some point sleep with them. The women expected to be wined and dined in a very extravagant manner. Dateline compared this website to prostitution. I have news for you Dateline… that IS dating. These guys just have bigger bankrolls than most men. But I have to say that I find no fault in this website. The men on the site know that they are going to pay for everything, and in exchange they will be dating very beautiful women. This is what is known as consideration in the legal field. Thus this doesn’t contribute to the double standard, it’s a contract, a fairly negotiated contract.

Some people argue that men have to pay because we want so desperately to have sex, which is true to some extent, but women like sex too. So why is it that both genders can have sex, which doesn’t necessarily cost anything, outside of contraceptives, but it is the men that always have to pay? Props to gay couples because this isn’t an issue. Also, just because a woman likes sex and might be casually dating two or more guys doesn’t make her a whore. If a man did the same thing he is regarded as “the man” so for this I am siding with the ladies. There are reasons to call a woman who isn’t a prostitute a whore, but this isn’t one of them.

Next on the chopping block is the time honored tradition of asking a girl for her number, and the requisite 3 day waiting period. Women, if you like a guy, ask for his number, or offer yours up, because most of the time we don’t have a clue if you’re into us. I know I have been in this situation many, many times. I might have spent the whole night talking to a girl at a bar but cannot tell if she is there because I bought her a drink or because she is waiting for a friend or what, a little help is all we are asking for. Don’t be afraid to be the aggressors, that traditional social etiquette is almost completely out the door now anyway. Men if you get a number from a girl and actually like her, don’t be stupid and wait 3 days to call her, just call her before someone else snatches her up. Same goes for the ladies.


Penultimately, the issue of cleavage and why men aren’t allowed to look at it. Seriously, why can’t we? I mean it’s not like looking at the sun, we won’t go blind, there might be drooling involved in lesser evolved male specimens but not all of us. Women like to wear low cut shirts, and when they catch us looking, not necessarily staring, just catching a glimpse, they start with the “hey… my eyes are up here” line followed by the “I should be able to wear whatever I want and not be ogled.” Newsflash, you can wear what you want, for the reasons you want to wear it. Frequently, women say they wear low cut shirts because they make them feel good about themselves. But why does this particular shirt make you feel good about yourself? Because it attracts men, and you wish to be desirable to men and when we find you attractive we look at you and this makes you feel good about yourself. You like to show off what you have just like some dude that is really jacked and wears a tank top to show off the guns. You don’t see him telling women to not look at his arms when they are on display. You’re proud of your attributes so it makes you feel good to put them on display. So just relax when guys look and realize that some endorphins have just been released into your brain. I’m not saying put up with staring cause then nothing will get done.

My final attack on double standards has nothing to do with gender, it has to do with smokers. I have noticed in my stints in the employed world that smokers seem to take an inordinate amount of breaks during the day to go outside and smoke. This means they are not working the full amount expected outside of the denoted lunch break and yet salaries are the same even though I am stuck at my desk during this time. And smokers have the same amount deducted from their checks for health insurance even though they are much higher risk, so in a sense they are saving money that they would not be entitled to if they had independent health insurance. BAH I say, BAH!

Shipping up to Worcester: A Pseudo-Live Pseudo-Road Trip Blog

I spent most of this weekend visiting grad school friends in Worcester, Massachusetts. The details of the visit are only secondary with regard to this blog post; it was great seeing my friends and I definitely killed a few thousand brain cells in the process. I ate a bunch of junk food and had some great conversations. It made me kind of miss being a grad student... kind of.

When I lived in Boston, my girlfriend lived in central New Jersey. Approximately twice a month while school was in session, I would make the eight-hour round trip to visit her for the weekend. I always enjoyed the drive (in both directions, although the drive to NJ was better than the drive to Boston), because it gave me lots of opportunities to work through shit in my head.

Depending on how you do it, the drive from New Jersey to Boston can consist of near-constant car rock, lots of scenic views, and the company of lots and lots of other cars. Everyone around you is going somewhere, and that makes long-distance driving lots of fun. My creative streak runs amok on these drives, and lately I thought to myself that it might be interesting (if incredibly narcissistic and self-serving) to blog some of these creative thoughts.

Below is such an attempt. All dates, times, and locations are approximate.

10:55 AM, Saturday, New Brunswick, NJ. Having picked up a bottle of "Sopranos" Pinot Noir (a taste of New Jersey for $12.99 that easily could have been sold for $3.99), as well as three Rocky Patel Robusto cigars for the weekend's festivities, I am off to the races.

It is about 85 degrees and rainy out, and I dread the idiots who will be driving on the Interstate highways of the Northeastern U.S. this weekend. We shall see. On Radio 101.9, "Backwater" by the Meat Puppets is on.

11:10 AM, Saturday, Bloomfield, NJ. Fast highway driving is like playing the stock market in the sense that there are two types of talented highway drivers/stock investors. There are the rare ones who know enough to "get it right" and then there are ones who are (a) aware that they're not the first kind of genius but (b) able to spot them and imitate their every move. I am this second type of talented highway driver.

The Garden State Parkway today is a mess; weekend drivers are retarded in general, because they don't drive often. Additionally, there are lots of weekend drivers on the road and it's raining. We're stop-and-go, and I would be content to chill out in the fast lane (aka low-cost index fund investing) but instead I notice a late-model Toyota Camry that really seems to "get it". I pull behind this car and do really well for about 10 miles, until they exit the highway.

I worry about the day that I pull this move and get myself shot by a paranoid meth addict, but so far, it hasn't happened yet.

11:20 AM, Saturday, Mahwah, NJ. The disc jockey on 101.9 just pre-empted a Silversun Pickups song by referring to how "heavy" it was with respect to most of the radio station's playlist. Two songs later, the same DJ played Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song." With a sigh and a shake of the head, I turn over to 104.3.

11:30 AM, Saturday, West Nyack, NY. I feel bad that I really dislike "Freebird". It just goes on and on and on and on. If "Freebird" were five instead of eight minutes long, I would probably like it all right, but I can't tell you the last time I caught it on the radio and haven't turned the dial. I switch back to 101.9 FM, easily my favorite radio station at this moment, and catch MGMT's "Kids", easily one of my favorite new alternative rock songs at this moment.

Meanwhile, I'm going 47 mph in the left lane of the Tappan Zee bridge and I'm getting absolutely dominated by Buicks, Penske rental trucks, and drivers from Maine in the right lanes. There is someone ahead of me in the left lane whom I would quickly murder, if given the chance. They need to give out special licenses for the fast lane.

11:35 AM, Saturday, somewhere between Rockland and Westchester Counties, NY. I may have ranted about this before, and if so, I apologize for my duplicity. However, it's absolutely ridiculous that the Tappan Zee bridge has signs reading "A Life is Worth Saving, Suicide Help Line Ahead."

Let's assume you're the average, severely suicidal person who has already managed to walk halfway up the East Coast's highest bridge, because you're intent upon killing yourself. You see this sign, imploring you to continue walking up the bridge in order to reach a pay phone which may or may not be working.

They're suicidal! How about working to get them off the fucking bridge, where the value proposition of killing yourself isn't so obvious! If I were in charge of writing these signs, I would make them say "Attention Suicidal Person, Suicide Help Line 500 Feet Behind You (on Dry Land)."

I am now in bumper-to-bumper traffic because the people in front of me should have killed themselves years ago but, unfortunately, did not.

11:55 AM, Saturday, Brewster, NY. The pavement on Interstate I-684 in New York is in horrible shape, which is strange because approximately 99% of this year's federal stimulus money has been used on re-paving projects. I know that very meaningful road in New Jersey is either getting widened, repaved, or both right now, which is very annoying when you're sitting in traffic but I guess it makes sense... somehow.

I am now officially leaving the New York City radio market and entering the Greater Connecticut radio market. I listen to rock radio for the most part, which (these days) is like saying "I study 13th-century Norse philosophy." Since January of this year, I've lost my two favorite rock stations in New Jersey (106.3 and 92.3), and I recently heard that WBCN in Boston turned into a Top 40 station, as well.

The one remaining rock station in New York broke the news about WBCN by stating, in essence, "Rock radio is in a panic state, everyone's losing their jobs, and I'm lucky that I get to work right now." Only a decade ago, rock radio stations were institutions; they hosted concerts, had long-running promotions, and you felt like you had a relationship with that particular number on the dial. Now, you're lucky if you have a radio station that plays music that you like.

The issue here is perhaps three-fold. One, smart people have more money than dumb people. Two, smart people listen to rock music, while dumb people listen to Top 40 music. Three, as a consequence, smart people have moved en masse to satellite radio, where they don't have to listen to annoying commercials and retarded disc jockeys who think the Silversun Pickups are heavier than Led Zeppelin.

Because of these three factors, you are now faced with two choices when you're sitting in your car and want to listen to music: (1) buy satellite radio, or (2) be prepared to listen to shitloads of Lady Gaga.

Although I was scared when the first song I heard was from No Doubt, Connecticut's alternative rock station (Radio 104.1) still exists. It will be my musical accompaniment most of the way through CT.

1:00 PM, Saturday, Tolland, CT. Exit 68 off of I-84 in Connecticut is AMAZING. There is a Dunkin' Donuts, a Subway, two gas stations, and a strip club -- basically, everything a dude traveling alone could possibly ever want, all in one stop.

I am currently waiting in line inside the aforementioned Subway, while an entire boys' soccer team (and both their coaches) order subs, one at a time. Whatever is in the water in Tolland, CT, it seems to promote healthy appetites. Each of these children, although they can't be any older than ten, is ordering a foot-long sub with double meat.

Oh, and did I mention that no one on this team (players or coaches) spoke English? They all only spoke Spanish, and no one was available to translate. As you might suspect, this was a complete and utter disaster. Kids ran away without paying, the orders got mixed up, some of the kids didn't have the money to pay.

Because of the language barrier, it was difficult to resolve this issue. The young couple in front of me left a $10 bill on the counter and walked away; I thought about doing the same thing, but I'm way too nice for that. After about ten minutes in line, I am finally munching my toasted 6" Subway Club on Golden Italian.

1:15 PM, Saturday, Union, CT. If I were to name the most desolate place on my drive from NJ to Massachusetts, it would be Union, CT. There is an exit here, but besides a boarded-up Christian book store, there seems to be no signs of life. Maybe there's a town back there somewhere, but I bet it's haunted like Silent Hill.

It's not surprising that in August 2009, the CT Dept. of Transportation has decided to repave this entire section of I-84. As I sit and wait in traffic (the traffic would keep up until the Mass Pike, 7 miles up the road), I think about the most surreal traffic jam I ever experienced.

It was 11:00 PM on a Thursday in August 2008, and I was heading in the opposite direction on I-84 (but at about this same point). Highway crews were (surprise!) re-paving the highway, and three lanes were going to be cut into one, so naturally there was lots of traffic.

It was a warm evening, the ground was very misty, and I had a cigar prepared for this very situation. As I sat in my SUV and slowly smoked the cigar, inching forward on the highway extremely slowly, I started to think about my life.

On one hand, I'd just finished my first year of graduate school with great grades and excellent research. On the other hand, I was miserable and craving something that felt real. Because I needed some, I played the "Clarity" CD by Jimmy Eat World. Between the smoking and listening to emo music, I started to think and feel like I used to when I was nineteen, and this was no good.

For a split-second that night, I could almost touch the past. It didn't feel like a dream, but I didn't feel like I was sitting in traffic, either. I felt like I was anticipating something, even though I had nothing to anticipate at that time. As it were, everything turned out OK, of course. I made it home and eventually left graduate school.

I haven't smoked while driving since. Back in August 2009, I'm playing one of my favorite albums of the 90's -- Guster's "Goldfly" -- because there's no radio reception in Union, CT.

2:30 PM, Saturday, Worcester, MA. It's hard to describe exactly why it's tricky driving on city streets in Massachusetts. It's some combination of the roads being poorly signed, the number of lanes being poorly indicated, intersections being at odd angles, and other drivers constantly pressuring you to drive faster than you want to.

Twice so far, I've been instructed to be in the right lane even though I was about to make left turns. This is not normal.* (*NOTE: Says the kid from New Jersey, where there are jughandles that lead people to do the exact same thing.) Then again, very little is standard about driving around here - you just have to fly by the seat of your pants, and be creative.

You know, kind of like how this blog post was creative. Stay classy out there.

"Mad Men" and the Meaning of Life

I'll admit it: I was originally hesitant about "Mad Men", and it wasn't until my third attempt to watch Season 1 that I made it through. The first two times, I stopped watching because I felt the same kind of uneasiness that makes "Office Space" something less than one of my favorite movies. I felt it was just too realistic a portrayal of white-collar work - it hit too close to home. I don't like it when pop culture makes me feel that my life is meaningless, and I was worried that "Mad Men" was going to make me think that my life was meaningless.

Like always, my initial impression was wrong. To me, what makes "Mad Men" awesome is that it makes me realize that everyone's life is meaningless, regardless of their levels of wealth, beauty, and outward-looking happiness. And also the following, other things:

1) Making smoking look cool again. Because all the Surgeon General's warning shit hadn't happened yet in 1960, everybody on "Mad Men" smokes. (*ASIDE: Because of stupid Hollywood rules, the actors are only allowed to smoke herbal cigarettes on the show. This is ridiculous because it's not the fact that it's a Marlboro that makes smoking dangerous; it's the fact that smoke inhaled into the lungs causes a bunch of health problems. It doesn't matter if it's tobacco, herbs, cloves, hookah, bong, or whatever toots your noodle -- it's bad for you.) This reminds us all that, despite the obvious health hazards, smoking makes everyone look cooler.

I quit smoking cigarettes years ago, and haven't lapsed once since. Recently at a company event, my girlfriend, who ordinarily doesn't smoke, smoked a few cigarettes. When she told me this, it pissed me off -- not because I care that she smoked a few cigarettes (I suspect she won't get hooked), but because I'm incredibly jealous that I could never stop at just one cigarette. I would have 10 Marlboro Lights down within an hour, because they're delicious, they make me look cooler than I am, and because smokers have better random conversations with people. I also kind of blame "Mad Men" for this.

2) The 1960's are an invisible character on the show. A temporal context shouldn't feel like a character, but in "Mad Men" it does. The 1960's were a time of incredible change and turmoil, and you get the sense after watching a few episodes of the show that the world was a cultural powderkeg at that precise moment. Everything was about to change, and everyone seemed to sense this in a very vague sense. The old guard was about to become irrelevant, replaced by a younger generation with radically different ideas about stuff. Somewhere in the middle (both in age and in ideology) is Don Draper, who is fighting always to maintain his own identity. I have no clue where he'll end up, but I'm sure it won't be pretty.

3) Who is Don Draper? No, seriously, who is he? I'm only less than halfway through Season 2, and I can't figure it out yet. As far as I know, no successful TV show has managed to base an ensemble drama around a main character who has no past. Artsy movies like "Memento" have pulled this off (kinda), but on TV? No frickin' way, man. There's a lot of stupid TV out there, but "Mad Men" is the kind of show you can feel smart about watching.

4) It reminds you that being at the right place at the right time is extremely important. Don Draper, like a dinosaur at the dawn of the Ice Age, is going to become culturally irrelevant at some point during "Mad Men" -- it hasn't happened yet, but it will at some point. Mark my words; Don Draper is not going to go gently into that good night. This is a shame, because his personality would have been a perfect fit for the generation just before his own. Other characters on the show, such as Salvatore and Peggy Olson, have personalities that would be perfect fits for the generation just after their own. These people will not be as successful as they would have been, had they been born just 20 years sooner or 20 years later.

I get the sense that this is the case for lots of people. For instance, I am convinced that, had I been born in 1973 instead of in 1983, and had every other aspect of my childhood been exactly the same as it was, I would be a 35-year-old, insanely successful Silicon Valley entrepreneur instead of a 25-year-old, moderately successful Project Director. My life right now is happy, but I've always had the sense that I was born at the wrong time.

5) The overall portrayal of work juxtaposed with "What Life is Supposed to Mean." I mentioned at the beginning of this post that "Mad Men" reminded me too much of "Office Space", which I said is probably why it took so long for me to get hooked on the show. Now it's one of my favorite aspects of the show. Every single character on the show is both vaguely miserable and morally compromised. Marital fidelity is the exception, not the rule. Account managers at Sterling Cooper would sell their own mothers down the river for the next big deal.

Everyone -- even the Mad Men whose job it is to construct artificial realities for people -- are striving to obtain an artificially-constructed reality, which must include a smiling wife, two kids and a dog. What "happiness" is is never mentioned, because no one on the show can even come close to understanding it.

6) Misogyny and the overall objectification of women. Don't get me wrong; I feel like women are (at the very least) the equal of men. In fact, I think women make better bosses than men do, for a bunch of reasons that aren't worth elaborating here. This doesn't mean that I can't find the fact that it wasn't always like this hilarious.

In "Mad Men", a show with a writing staff comprised mostly of women, women are almost always the secretaries. In addition, they will always be the secretaries, and their careers have one of two possible endings. They will end up either as head secretaries, or as housewives. They will fetch coffee for their bosses and hang up their (expensive, stylish, and awesome) overcoats. They will type and take correspondence, and they will conceal their bosses' inevitable affairs. They will answer to things like "Sweetheart" and even "Sweetcheeks." Men will crack hilarious jokes at their expense, which leads me to the next (and final) item...

7) Extremely high levels of quotability. In addition to dozens of snide lines directed at women (watch the focus group scene from Season 1 -- each line is better than the one that precedes it), Don Draper's often asks his wife and his bosses, "What do you want me to say?" The quintessential middle manager, his job is to please. There's significance here, but I'll leave it up to you to watch the show and figure out what it is.

He also uttered my favorite line of the show, "I have a life, and it only moves in one direction: forward." (I realize that if you haven't seen the show, these lines may lack some context. You'll help yourself greatly by watching the first two seasons on DVD, preferably before Sunday night, when Season 3 begins on AMC.)

***************************************

My dad, having obtained a reasonable level of professional success and financial flexibility, decided to retire a few years ago at age 58.

Since then, he's gotten to know the guy who delivers the mail and he goes for walks on the beach every day. He serves on a couple of directorial boards and travels a few times a year, but basically he lives the life of a Floridian retiree --he has a very nice lawn, since he's now obsessed with mowing it approximately every two days.

On a visit last year, I was struggling with not really liking being a graduate student. I never felt comfortable with the Kabuki dance of academia, the idea of a lifetime spent struggling like academics struggle, and numerous other aspects of my career at that time. However, because I was a good student and a good researcher, I felt I could make it through until the Ph.D. (at that point).

I think I was trying to convince myself that sticking around to get the Ph.D. was a good idea when I started to think out loud, listing all the benefits of obtaining the degree to my Dad. When I ended with "...and at the end, I'll finally get some kind of peace of mind," my Dad responded with, "I don't think you'll ever find peace of mind."

But hey, at least my life has only direction, and that's moving forward.

An Ode to the Jersey Diner

Tired of eating Chinese food and pizza, my girlfriend and I just visited the local diner. Tonight I did something I don't often do; I ordered off the dinner specials menu. Typically when I go to a diner (and now that I've moved back to Jersey, I eat at a diner every couple of weeks), I'll order a burger and fries, or a buffalo chicken wrap or something. Tonight, because one of my favorite all-time meals (chicken francese) was on the menu, I went for it. I went whole-hog.

For $11.95, in addition to the chicken francese (which was really nicely sauteed and had a white-wine butter sauce that scored at least an 8 on the 1 to 10 scale of deliciousness), I had matzo ball soup, a salad, and three scoops of chocolate ice cream for desert. With my girlfriend's help, I successfully consumed about 50% of the food that was placed in front of me. I wrapped up the rest of the main course, which will be my lunch at work Monday.

There are two aspects of this diner experience which were awesome, and worth writing about. The money aspect of this meal is one thing, the existentialism is quite another. I'll discuss the money first, and the artsy-fartsy bullshit later in this blog post.

People may have varying opinions about what it means to eat a four-course meal for under $12. There are probably other parts of the country (Vegas comes to mind) where a similar meal can be had for even less. Other people may think that such a cheap meal must be low in quality, and I must be a cheapskate or not really appreciate food in order to enjoy a $12 meal.

I've had low quality food before in my life. McDonald's, for instance, is still low quality food. Very little has changed in their food preparation over the past decade -- it's just that through creative marketing, they've positioned themselves as a quality food brand. It's brilliant in its simplicity. Just throw a few pictures of fresh tomatoes and a few punchy catch-phrases on the side of a 1,100-calorie Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and all of a sudden people think they're eating health food. The Quarter Pounder with Cheese itself has not changed -- it's still a mediocre hamburger (you'd be better off going to a Jersey diner). McDonald's food is low quality, and diner food is not (at a good diner, at least).

Money also interacts with geography. New Jersey is not a cheap place to live; some time in the near future, I will put a down payment on a "starter home", and this home will in all likelihood cost nearly half a million dollars. There is nothing strange about this; in fact, it is par for the course. There is a great deal of money around here, and the standard of living is (as a consquence) quite high. We simply deal with it, and somehow the diner cost structure still thrives.

It probably does cost a lot of money to run a diner, but smart proprietors realize that crazy-high markups are going to drive people away from eating at an otherwise-solid establishment. With food costs and labor and overhead combined, it probably cost less than $5 to prepare my meal - so why charge $20?

Some people think that good food needs to be expensive. This is an incorrect assumption, even though quality and cost are positively correlated. (I would rather eat at Peter Luger's than Taco Bell, and I think you agree with me on this point.) To be honest, I definitely sat there and internally debated for a while whether or not I should purchase a "nice" item at the diner tonight... but then I did. The next time you're at a diner, you should, too.

**********************************************

"My" diner growing up was the Middletown Diner, and it had all the important Jersey diner characteristics. What are the important Jersey diner characteristics? Let us list them, one at a time. Taking the sum of the parts, we shall establish what is the Jersey diner experience.

1) Proximity. A good diner shall be no less than 2 miles from one's place of primary residence. This makes travelling to said diner easy enough under any set of circumstances which may arise: freak snowstorm; a late-night drinking binge (also see point #2, below); becoming exasperated because dinner was just destroyed by evil magical elves; and etc.

2) Flexible hours. A good diner shall have the most flexible hours of operation possible. No excuses; a good diner must be open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. There is absolutely no wiggle room for this characteristic. A number of times, even in New Jersey, I've been surprised to see a "diner" closed at a ridiculously early hour. I'm embarrassed to admit that there's a "diner" on LBI (named after me!) that closes after lunch, even during the summer! This is simply unacceptable. A "diner" that closes, ever, is not a diner -- it's a restaurant. There's a difference.

3) Price. Lately I've noticed a new breed of diner popping up in New Jersey; this type of diner attempts to be ironic and/or cool. You can tell when you've mistakenly arrived at such a diner because the waiter will hand you a martini list, and you will hear a cover band playing in another room. A good diner should not even hold a liquor license - diners are where you go after you get drunk somewhere else. You know, like a bar. Additionally, a good diner shall not have an average menu item price higher than $8.00. A "diner" that charges $16.95 for a dinner special or $8.95 for a burger is not a diner -- it's a restaurant. Again, there's a difference.

4) Superior quality and inferior price of deluxe cheeseburger. This is sort of an extension of item #3, above. The deluxe cheeseburger (which, for the uninitiated, is a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, and onions, with a heaping of steak fries, cole slaw, and pickle on the side) shall have the following characteristics:

• It shall cost no more than $6.50;
• It shall contain at least 6 oz of beef;
• It shall be cooked to order, even if the order is "extremely rare". (Making the purchaser sign a waiver before eating the burger is acceptable, as long as the waiter agrees that doing so "is ridiculous".)
  
• It shall contain at least twice as many french fries as a large McDonald's order, and each individual fry must be twice as wide and twice as thick as a McDonald's french fry;
• Each and every bite shall taste delicious.

5) Gruff service. You will be served by a "diner waitress", whose overall attitude and level of professionalism will be questionable. You may not get everything you ask for, and you may not be smiled at even once. Why is this a good thing, you ask? Because it adds ambience to the experience. The whole point of going to a diner is that it's no-frills. You're sitting there drinking Diet Coke (with free refills, assuming you ever get the free refill) and eating greasy food - do you really need to be treated like Akeem, Prince of Zamunda? I think not. If you want a thumb up your ass while you eat, you shouldn't go to a diner -- you should go to a restaurant.

*****************************************

There you have it, devoted blog readers -- the Jersey Diner. Everyone should have the experience, at least once. I've been to a hundred diners a hundred times, and I still consider myself someone who likes fine things. Liking fine things (like Johnnie Walker Blue Label) and liking good things (like a delicious, greasy, six-dollar cheeseburger) need not be independent of each other. To be someone who is awesome, I think you need to be both types of person at once.

Stay classy out there.

Imitation of Life: On A Devotion to Subjective Science

My name is Freducate, and I crave subjectivity. I went to graduate school in Psychology, a field which arguably may or may not exist in twenty-five years (what with neuroscience and all). I work in market research, a field which is flawed by the very nature of the data it collects - there's this thing called "response bias", and have you ever listened to the kind of people who will pick up the phone and complete a 15-minute survey on their recent auto insurance claim -- without monetary reward? Yeah, these people are not normal per se, and by extension the data we collect as market researchers is not normal, either.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes I crave objectivity. During most of the time I was an undergraduate in college, I dealt almost entirely in objectivity. I studied Biology and took courses in Chemistry, Physics, and Calculus. I did really well in almost all of these subjects, grade-wise. Now typically, people who do really well at these subjects in college subsequently focus every ounce of their ambition toward a highly-objective, fact-based, financially lucrative career. Think medicine or engineering.

For some set of reasons I still don't completely understand, I decided at some point that I didn't want to deal in objectivity anymore. (*ASIDE: Objective-science people look down at subjective-science people, for reasons I delve into later in this blog post. For now, just realize that they're right to look down at subjective-science people, but they're using the wrong metric. Anyway, whenever I tell people my "objective-science statistics" -- the grades, the courses, and the test scores I accumulated in college -- and about how I'm no longer an objective-science person, I'm always asked Why. This is the Why, or my best approximation of the Why.)

***********************************

What is a good person? What is a bad person? What is the difference?

Like almost everyone, I like to think that I am a good person. We all do this because it helps us sleep at night. To be fair, I have certainly done some bad things in my life, and -- like some of you -- I've done one or two things in my life that (a) I'm lucky I never got caught doing and (b) will require a long time to pay off my karmic debt to society. But in general, I am a good person. I pay my taxes and my bills, I don't speed obsessively, I'm good to my friends and I try to be as generous as possible.

But clearly there are people out there who are bad people. Charles Manson, who was referenced in a recent Damaged, Inc., blog post, was unquestionably a bad person. Michael Jackson, in a very ambiguous way, was also (probably) a very bad person. We agree on these things based on a social consensus, and we can argue about who to lump into which category, and - in general - the person who does the best job of arguing their point of view "wins" in the sense that other sensible individuals are convinced to agree with them.

The third question I posed - What's the difference? - used to fascinate me, and questions like these are what draw people to subjective-science disciplines. I'm going to digress here for a paragraph or four and talk about what (I think) is the difference between objective-science people and subjective-science people, and why O-S people think S-S people are stupid.

Objective-science people like to solve problems. Given a set of tools, equations, or facts, the goal is always to go from Point A to Point B. The world needs this kind of person, and I'm glad that they exist. But goal-directed, deductive reasoning is not the way to solve a subjective-science type problem. An independent point that I'd like to bring in at this point is that it's very easy to assume that very smart people are good deductive reasoners and vice versa by tautology. I do it all the time -- you can't do math? Fucking moron. See? It's easy. Because of these two facts, it's easy to assume that subjective-science people are stupid.

Subjective-science people are not stupid. (*ASIDE: Except for sociologists, who are stupid.)

Strangely enough, subjective-science people have developed a series of tests designed to deduce a person's ability. You know a few of them because you've taken them: the IQ test, the SAT, the GRE, LSAT, MCAT, and GMAT. In taking these tests, a nervous person walks into a room, is asked hundreds of abstract questions with little external validity, a score is computed and is later used to assess that person's general/applied intellectual prowess compared to a group of peers.

By many of these metrics, objective-science people are smarter than subjective-science people. (Math Ph.D. students score 300 pts. higher on the GRE, for instance, than Psychology Ph.D. students.) But what if the metric is measuring something completely unrelated to the type of problem-solving involved in determining who's a good person and who's a bad person?

***************************

Questions like the above are what drew me into subjective science. I was very good at memorizing nucleophilic substitution reactions (both SN1 and SN2), and I could work my way through a partial derivative reasonably well. But I needed something more -- I needed to make sense out of difficult things. Things that required context to understand.

I was 21 then, and at the risk of sounding like one of those 25-year-olds who think that Four Years Makes a Huge Fucking Difference ... well, Four Years Makes a Huge Fucking Difference. I don't care about the difference between a good person and a bad person any more. I miss objectivity.

**************************

When Michael Jackson died, I was surprised at the overwhelmingly positive nature of the coverage. It was clear to me that he engaged in relationships with young boys that were, at the very least, strongly discouraged by 20th-century American society. (*ASIDE: Whether or not they were sexual is anybody's guess. They were certainly weird relationships, but then again, the man seemed incapable of having sex with anything - even his wives.)

Regardless, most people forgot about the bad things that Jackson almost certainly did and instead focused on the incredible impact he made on popular music. Was this a good thing? Was this a bad thing?

I don't care. It was what it was, and it was certainly consistent with human nature. We want to believe that we are good; we want to believe that others are good. In reality, good and bad do not exist. They are subjective constructions, created by society. You know, the kind of thing moron sociologists like to study.

Stay classy out there.

Greetings from Long Beach Island, NJ

In my world and at present, there are few more beautiful sights in the world than crossing the Route 72 Causeway onto beautiful, sunny Long Beach Island for a week's vacation. (*ASIDE: Only in New Jersey would the terms "Route 72 Causeway" and "beautiful x2" be used in the same sentence.)

Simply put, I'm a very big fan of the beach. I like relaxing; I enjoy sunbathing while reading a good book (or two) and listening to my iPod; and it's a lot of fun to spend money. Long Beach Island accomodates all of these things, and more.

I've never seen another place like this before, and it's hard to believe that it's in America (let alone New Jersey). It's an anachronistic place - because there's only one major road on the island, cars stop for pedestrians at stopwalks. Everyone here is polite, even though everyone here is from NJ, NY, or Massachusetts. There are family-owned department stores, grocery stores, drug stores, and restaurants. Besides a few national banks and an ACME grocery store, commercially-speaking it's very easy to place yourself in a completely different, earlier era. I am tempted to wear a bowler hat and a suit, and address random women as "Ma'am."

I'm down here with my girlfriend and a small, mixed group of her friends. I've spent time on LBI with many of these people for four summers now - all things considered, I've visited LBI for five straight summers now. The week, like the more microscopic act of getting ready to go to the beach, is very ritualistic. There are nearly-daily trips to the aforementioned beach, dining out at restaurants approximately half the time (which is very nice, but also very expensive), going out to bars at night sometimes, and visiting the very phallic Barnegat lighthouse at least once.

We stay generally in the vicinity of Beach Haven. For those of you who are unaware, LBI is a thirteen-mile long, very narrow barrier island. Beach Haven is on the south end of this island, and is the most middle-class destination on LBI -- the average home price here, due to the current recession, has tumbled to just under $800,000. (*ASIDE: When I visited in 2007, it was comfortably over $1M.) The north side of the island is even nicer, and is too expensive for eight young professionals in their twenties to even rent for a week.

*************************

Taking a summer week and spending it at LBI is a very rich-white-kid thing to do. As such, I somewhat loathe how much I enjoy it.

You see, unlike many mere mortals, I am blessed with the great gift of introspection. This means that I am capable of determining really quickly whether I am being an asshole, which further means that I have stronger social graces than many people -- arguably. It also means I am completely fucking insane, but for the moment we'll ignore this unfortunate side-effect and focus instead on what it means to enjoy rich-white-kid things.

LBI is a very family-friendly place, and there are lots of teenagers running around. When I see these teenagers, I often think to myself, "These are the modern incarnation of the kids in high school I couldn't stand." Bolstered perhaps by a more stable (financially and emotionally) upbringing than my parents could afford, these teenagers look "cool" -- and it pisses me off. They look like the type of kid who drank liquor before the senior prom and definitely made out afterwards.

Now I generally dislike every human being between the ages of 2 and 20 (and if you don't, you're either a teacher, a parent, or a liar), so it may just be that I am a curmudgeon. But my suspicion is that it's more than that.

I am pretty lucky to have the life that I have. I have my health, my awesome girlfriend, a good job and a promising career. I can afford to spend the week at LBI and gamble at casinos many times a year. But I'm still pissed off about high school, because I was pretty lame and I had no clue how to deal with that. I still don't.

*************************************

My girlfriend's ten-year high school reunion is this month. I'm happy to be her date, and I'm happy to attend. But there's no way I'll reciprocate when my turn comes around in 2012. People will have changed - I have definitely changed - and I don't really care to find out how. Hopefully by then I will own a house on this damned island, even though I doubt I'll be able to.

Stay classy out there.

A Cautionary Tale

Let me tell you a story about a guy who led children away from their homes. He created an elaborate wonderland for them to escape to, in part in their minds and in part in reality. He took them away from their families and then slowly started to warp their fragile young minds. He did all this without a lot of media attention at first, but then the public started to catch on. Not long after the public caught on he did something major to disfigure his face and most people who saw it found it very disturbing, indeed. To this day he denies that he has done anything wrong, although it is well documented that he slept with at least some of them.

Michael Jackson? No. Charles Manson. Do you care if HE wrote a couple hit records before he did any of those things? I sure don't.

Before you get all heated about comparing the two, consider this: at least Manson's victims were mostly old enough to make their own decisions! Other than that, the similarities are quite striking other than the record contract.

So why does the public care so much about the death of Michael Jackson? We haven't lost the music, only the horrible pedophile that created it.

Worse yet people are going to start labeling him "mentally ill." Well, yes, probably, but so what? You could likely call 90% of criminals "mentally ill" if your definition is simply that their brains do not function in a manner that allows them to fit comfortably within the confines of our society. Does that mean they have any less control over their actions than someone not "mentally ill"? Absolutely not. So they are equally liable for their actions. And just in case you want to argue the converse - that they have less control over their actions - consider this: doesn't that make them more important to remove for society? After all, if they have less control, they are less able to be rehabilitated. And, finally, to quiet the drug dealers: in giving them back lost control aren't you giving them just enough control to go off drugs and lose it again?

Seriously, America, get your damn priorities straight. Years ago we were given great music and we still have that music. Yesterday a harmful pedophile died. Play his records if you want but stop mourning his death. His victims aren't (unless they have Stockholm Syndrome. I'm looking at you, Macaualy Culkin).

One more for the road...

Observe, to my left, 1970's singer-songwriter Boz Scaggs. What does ol' Boz here have in common with left socks and car keys? Scroll down to the bottom of this post to find out.

***************************************

When people ask me where I'm from, I have difficulty answering. I was born in Jacksonville, Florida, but grew up at the Jersey Shore. Since the beginning of college, I've lived in a half-dozen other places in New Jersey and I also lived in Massachusetts for two years.

So is where I'm from where I'm "from" (like the "Born:" line on a baseball card)? Or is it "home" (like the place I have listed on my driver's license)? As a result of this strange, almost-paradoxical problem I have, people will ask me perhaps one of the simplest questions in the world to answer ... and I will exhibit the kind of difficulty in answering it one might expect from a developmentally-challenged first grader.

The things I am good at do not make me smart - they make me barely function at adult life. I'd be better off having talent at knitting.

***************************************

Without sounding too romantic (which I know isn't manly, and I have to be manly in the OTHER parts of a blog post where I'm executing a Boz Scaggs running gag) - I love the Jersey Shore, and I've completely forgotten what it's like spending the summer within spitting distance of it.

Wait, you may argue, have you been to the Jersey Shore at all yet this summer? (Yes, I would reply, two times.) But hasn't the weather sucked all year? (Yes, except for three days since the end of the month of April. I spent both of these days at the Jersey Shore. So there!)

Even though the government is using its Evil Weather Machine to control our emotions and keep us in line, when the weather gets nicer - and it will - I plan on spending lots of time down the Shore this summer. People give the Jersey Shore a bad rap, and I suppose it makes sense. There are a lot of douchebags down there, but if you pick your spots correctly you can avoid most of them.

For instance, Long Beach Island is way tamer than Belmar. I'm 25 and now a little old and a little lame, so I definitely prefer bars/clubs on LBI to other places at the Jersey Shore. In addition to there being less douchebags (the higher cover charge and the fact that it's LBI deters them), LBI beach bars are legitimately on the beach and often have looser restrictions about what can be done on said beach. All in all, these are very good things.

(*ASIDE: It's a running theme between some of us on the Damaged, Inc. team that we're going to focus our resources and write a book about a summer at the Jersey Shore where we would presumably spend a lot of money in order to get drunk at a lot of different places. This book would basically consist of a lot of jotting down strange things that happened on a notepad, interviewing popped-collar douchebags and douche-baggy cover bands, and drinking all of the ingredients for vomit. Because this book may never happen, I'm making the concept public and if anyone wants to run with it, you just need to thank me in the acknowledgements.)

(*ASIDE: There was an article in the New York Times today about how Jersey Shore bars were starting to become classy. Fuck you, New York Times, and your faux-journalistic pretention! For instance, check out this quote:

“A lot of people don’t realize there’s Jersey after Atlantic City,” said [name redacted, for reasons to be made clear shortly], 32, of Manalapan Township, N.J., as she sipped a martini at Elements in Sea Bright, a restaurant with a lounge (including D.J.’s and bottle service) that opened in 2003.

[redacted], who goes to Elements three or four times a month, is a sales representative for a liquor distributor, and works with bars all over the state. “I wanted that Manhattan atmosphere at the Jersey Shore, to get dressed up and get a $10 or $12 martini,” she said.

Yeah, I want you to contract AIDS and die in a fire, lady. Take your $12 martini and shove it up your ass lengthwise. If I'm paying more than half that for a drink - any drink - I'm going to be super pissed. People who want to spend recklessly in order to pretend to be cool have a place to live, and that place is Brooklyn. I suggest you move there.

And what's with that Atlantic City quote? Surely you doth not speak geographically? Because Atlantic City is not the first thing anyone (except for maybe 15,000 degenerate gamblers living in Chinatown) thinks of when they think of New Jersey. Fuck the heck are you talking about? /Rant.)

***************************************

To answer the Boz Scaggs randomness from earlier in this post: like left socks and car keys, people often completely forget Boz Scaggs' music.

There is a deja vu-type feeling that happens a lot to me and the rest of the Damaged, Inc. crew. We'll be at some bar somewhere, and we'll hear a random better-than-average song from the 1970's (e.g., America's "Sister Golden Hair"). Someone will immediately recognize that it's a good song and that its etymology should be recognized. Of course, we'll have no idea who performed the song.

Because we're precocious by nature, we ask someone (usually Brainpan, who has firsthand experience with the decade). At this point, we will be informed that the song is, in fact, "Sister Golden Hair" by America. We will then return to our cold beverages and all will be well.

(*ASIDE: In my opinion, this situation occurs way more frequently than it should. I think this is made worse because the New York City metropolitan area does not possess an unironic classic rock FM radio station. There is Q104.3, of course, but they care so much about trying to be hip that they only play the top 500 classic rock songs of all time. They're practically Z100 for old people, and there are already 4 Z100's in NYC, and that's enough. To be frank - and yes, I know I'm Fred - if it weren't for the part of my daily commute where I get to listen to Philadelphia rock radio, I would switch to satellite in a heartbeat.)

Anyway... getting back to Boz Scaggs. Boz had a couple of hits in 1976, one of which was a song called "Lido Shuffle". (Go ahead, click on the link. Put the song on and come right back here. It's a good song, right?) "Lido Shuffle" was my aural nemesis for the better part of a year. It was the Vader to my Skywalker. The Rommel to my Patton, if you will.

Over the past year, I heard this song in a number of different contexts - in a Wegman's grocery store in New Jersey; at Roggie's Bar and Grill in Brighton, Mass.; at a bar in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Every place I went, "Lido Shuffle" followed me. The only problem was, I had no idea what "Lido Shuffle" was called.

Lots of different people had guesses. Most often, people guessed Chicago or Van Morrison (Van the Man was an especially good guess; if you listen carefully to the song, it's difficult to tell the voices apart). Unfortunately, all these guesses were wrong, and I remained flummoxed until May 14, 2009 (my last night in Boston).

Boston (like Sheboygan, Wisconsin, one would assume) has a better FM radio repertory than New York City. As an example, Boston has a radio station called Mike-FM (if you're from the NYC area and you remember Jack-FM, it's the same concept). Mike-FM is designed to be a mostly random, iTunes playlist of music. That last night in Boston, I heard "Lido Shuffle" on Mike-FM driving back to my apartment and was FINALLY able to online-search my way to the answer. I immediately downloaded the song on my iTunes and haven't gotten enough of it for the past month.

So, Boz Scaggs, you magnificent bastard, I've defeated you. Enjoy your royalties.

Stay classy.

On Fresh Starts, Growing Up, and Changing Expectations

1999's "Office Space" is either my favorite movie to loathe or my least favorite movie to love. It is maybe one of the five funniest movies I have ever watched (along with "Supertroopers," "Caddyshack," "Animal House," and "Amistad") and is painstakingly accurate in how it depicts the very worst aspect of very many of our lives -- that is, work.

(*ASIDE: 1999 was, by any set of standards, a fantastic year for cinema. Using Wikipedia as a guide, below is a partial and alphabetical list of good-to-great movies that debuted in 1999: "American Beauty," "Being John Malkovich," "The Boondock Saints," "The Cider House Rules," "Dogma," "Girl, Interrupted," "Liberty Heights," which is the most underrated movie on the list and perhaps the second-best piece of drama ever set in Baltimore, "Man on the Moon," "The Matrix," the aforementioned "Office Space," "The Sixth Sense," "South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut," and "The Virgin Suicides". You may not agree that every movie on this list qualifies as good-to-great, but I've just listed 13 movies and if we can even agree on ten of them, that's fucking amazing. I can't think of ten movies I've seen over the past three years that I've liked as much as I enjoyed the above 13. That's how amazing of a year 1999 was for cinema.)

Anyway, getting back to "Office Space." I can only watch this movie during times of my life when I am not actively a member of the American workforce. Why, you ask? Because it's just too damned accurate, I respond. Between the literal references to things that suck in the workplace (e.g., printers that don't work, commutes that don't work) and the more metaphysical references to things that suck in the workplace (e.g., that vague feeling that time is just slipping by and we're just getting older and there's not much that can be changed about the situation), "Office Space" just plain gets it right.

Here's the kicker, though. I think I really, really like my new job. I have an office the size of which I realistically shouldn't deserve for another 10-15 years. I have real responsibility and occasionally assist on "client calls," where I'm expected to exert actual expertise and answer statistical queries with precision and aplomb. Even my commute is not that bad. But I guarantee you that if "Office Space" showed up on the TV (or if my girlfriend, with whom I now officially reside, were to pop her copy into the DVD player), I would have to turn away.

Because "Office Space" is too real, and reality is something that we all have to turn away from on occasion.

*********************************************

(*ASIDE: For the first time in the history of this blog, I was just disrupted by my live-in girlfriend; she walked into the spare bedroom, where the Internet is presently stored until we obtain a router, to pick out some clothes. Having to roll my chair out of the way, I did my best Jack Nicholson impression and faux-screamed 'I'm writing!'. She immediately knew what I was talking about ("The Shining," of course). I heart my girlfriend.)

Getting back to this whole reality thing, however. I am a pretty firm believer that reality is something that we actively construct. Our opinions about things, our attitudes, our feelings; all of these things are interactions between our brains and the immediate environment. The reality of my present moment is that one month ago, I was a graduate student of Psychology, living in Massachusetts. Right now, I am a Project Director for a marketing research firm, living in New Jersey and learning how to act like an adult, essentially from the ground-up.

For instance, I didn't know that I still had to cuddle. It's not that I don't like cuddling, as it were. It's just that, for the most part in my life, laying in bed and cuddling was something that I did because there was no space to stretch out and watch the NBA Finals on ABC. But no, my girlfriend still expects me to cuddle, pretty much all the time.

Also, living with your girlfriend is more or less like having a roommate (except much better, for obvious reasons). There will still be dishes in the sink and garbage to be taken out. I've learned that I can be the garbage taker-outer, and my girlfriend can take care of different, other chores! Isn't this lovely!

********************************

My point is this: Because we construct our own respective realities, we have enormous power over deciding what we love and what we don't love. Some things are stable; for instance, I've loved my girlfriend for a number of years and I don't think this will change any time soon. Other things aren't; in five weeks, I may strongly loathe my job, for instance.

Since January, when I decided to leave graduate school, I started to love the *idea* of my life as it's presently constituted. As an immediate consequence, I began to dislike the life I was living at the time. Looking back, I have no clue how I made it through two years of graduate school, removed for the most part from the people in New Jersey I care for so much. (*NOTE: I think a big thing that helped was knowing people in Massachusetts who cared for me a great deal.)

But ideas are not the same as reality. Ideas are projections, and they are prone to being inaccurate. I consciously understood that my *ideas* were attached to long commutes, printers that don't work, and bosses like Lumbergh who may want me to come in on Saturdays. But life is good at the moment, reality is what I make of it, and right now I am completely digging reality.

Stay classy out there.

'Tis The Season to Spend Money...

...and I'm not talking about Christmas.

Greetings, lovely readers of the Damaged, Inc. blogatorium. My name is Freducate, and I haven't posted around here in, like, forever. Happy Memorial Day weekend, and - as with every three-day weekend - I hope that everyone has taken the time to relax, eat a cheeseburger or three, and take a long summer's nap (perhaps on the nearest beach).

I've personally tried to accomplish all of this. However, because:
(a) I just moved back from Massachusetts last weekend;
(b) I'm moving *again* to another apartment, with my girlfriend (the occasional Damaged, Inc. contributor ARoll), next weekend;
(c) I'm starting my new job on Tuesday, which gave me nine days to put all of my affairs in order between moving out of Massachusetts and starting my new job;
(d) In the meanwhile, I had family visiting from Florida this week because of mine and my little sister's graduations;
(e) I still have manuscripts and projects from my grad school days to wrap up and send out; and because
(f) all of items (a)-(e) take a LOT of work, I've spent most of the weekend buying bedroom furniture, packing boxes and thinking about proper paragraph transitions.

If you've never bought a bedroom, if you're going to do it right it is EXPENSIVE. Between the bedroom set, the ultra-soft, 372-coil mattress, the 600-thread count sheets, etc., it's a lot of money. I'm not going to say how expensive per se, because this isn't a blog about financial issues. Let's just say however much it was, it was completely justified. This is why. If you're going to work hard, you might as well have a bitchin' bedroom to come home to. If there's one important thing to splurge on in a new home, it's the bedroom.

And, of course, a huge HDTV for the living room, and a knife set, and all the other little things that start to add up over time.

*******************************************

I was once in credit-card debt, and I think it's worth telling the story because I'm probably about to be in credit-card debt again. At the time, I was a senior in college and I just started dating my girlfriend. She had a real job, with a real salary, and I was making $2,200 a semester as a Biology TA. Now, I wanted to impress her because she was (and is) beautiful, smart, and awesome in just about every way imaginable.

To do this, even though we'd only been dating for three months, I decided to go all-out on a Christmas present for her. I had already bought two tickets to see "The Producers" on Broadway, and in retrospect this was probably enough of a present to make everyone happy. I should have stopped here, but I didn't. You see, I also - and here's where I shat the bed - decided to make this venture a "night out in New York City."


Specifically, I purchased a hotel room at a 3 1/2 star hotel in Manhattan, and also took her out to a relatively expensive dinner. If my memory serves me right, I insisted to pay for everything. It cost so much money. I was such a tool. This, combined with an overall pattern of reckless financial behavior which culminated in an awesome but account-draining trip to Las Vegas, put me into credit card debt. Which sucked.

Just to sum up, the morals of the story are as follows:
(1) In a relationship it is perfectly acceptable to share expenses for things, proportional to the salaries of the people therein.
(2) I used to be really stupid with money.
(3) In all probability, I remain really stupid with money (and in general).

************************************

One quick note, and then I'm done with this post. Now that I'm back in New Jersey, there's going to be lots of good times and drinking libations this summer in New Jersey. I will be a part of this, and you should, too (even if you're just visiting New Jersey). The official Damaged, Inc. housewarming party awaits!

Stay classy out there.