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.

Just a peep

I haven't posted in a while. But I'm not a slacker, I'm sparing you. Sparing you the ranting tirades in my head every day. You don't want to hear it. I wrote a whole post about this retarded fat black woman in Walmart (I should've just shortened it to "Walmart customer" but now I've lengthened it to absurdity instead) who was overheard saying, "There's no one at those self-checkout things, that means you can't go there." I deleted it, you're welcome.

Then there's a post that was aborted somewhere amongst a multitude of neuronal firing about someone I stuck my neck out for, who is being uncompromisingly, unrepentently stupid. And making me look terrible. Not because she sucks at life, because I suck at people.

Let's not forget the one about the...aw fuck it, I said I'd spare ya. You're welcome.

Another Year Older...

I recently had yet another birthday and I realized that it is not actually birthday, blowing out the candles or cutting my leg and counting the rings that makes me feel old. There are numerous other things that I have been noticing. For instance never before in my life have I looked for an engagement/wedding ring when I meet a woman. I was on the train one day looking at yet another engagement ring thinking “what a waste” when I consciously realized what I was doing and it actually kind of depressed me. I cannot remember when I started looking for a wedding ring but clearly getting old or becoming an adult happened sometime ago. Which I suppose is yet another sign of getting old, time to get that ginko biloba.

The next sign of becoming a grown up, in my eyes at least, was that I read the newspaper the other day, the reason being, I FINISHED THE ONLY BOOK I HAVE IN MY APT. Who is this mysterious new person and why is he reading for pleasure? I seriously may not have read books for pleasure since I outgrew Goosebumps. I know what you’re going to say, what do you mean you don’t read? My standard response is, oh I’m sorry you may not have heard they have an invention called the TV now and with my “library” of DVD’s I can rival any public library book collection. What’s the difference if I spend my time reading crime novels or watching the Wire… honestly?

Finally, it’s summer right? Why am I staying in on a Thursday night? Why did I take an exam on my birthday when it comes in the last week of July? Will I have a true summer vacation at the Jersey Shore like when I was younger ever again? Decidedly not. At least until I have kids that I can take to the shore on the weekends, but for that to happen I need to get more counseling from Scottery because I have yet to be happy with a girl for more than 2 months.

And now for a few things that still make me feel young. I was a very fussy eater when I was little, which every always jokes about because I am so big now… haha I guess that change haha… I mean I’m 6’4 and I weigh over 200 pounds. My doctor, who is about 5’5 and spherical tells me I need to lose weight, tell him I need to do some crunches and he needs to lay off of the … well everything. Honestly for a kid who has spent the last 6 years in a library I’m not in the worst shape. But I digress I am happy to announce I still do not like fish, shelfish, eggs, mayonnaise or coffee. I’ve come to eat, or at least try, everything else. I know you may think that I’m crazy because I’m in law school and I don’t drink coffee… the taste, I haven’t found that magic combination of cream and sugar to make it not taste disgusting… please don’t kill me scottery. The other thing that makes me think that I’m not so old is the fact that it is 1:30 in the morning and I am still up putzing around, counting the hours until the weekend, though I have no job and will be studying day or night, week or weekend until… well… forever.

Guide to Long-Term Relationships: How to Date Someone for Several Years Without Wanting to Tandem Skydive with a Faulty Parachute

My girlfriend -- yes, I have a girlfriend! -- recently impressed a group of teenage girls by relaying the fact that she and I have been dating for over seven years. This was impressive to them since most relationships in your teen years rarely last for seven days, much less years. It occurred to me that this was a strange coincidence: not only was I still dating the same girl for this long, but we actually still like each other. Then it occurred to me that this could SO GO IN MY BLOG!

Thus, I present you with a few simple words of advice from someone who has, in fact, won at relationships. I'm going to split this up into "Guys" and "Dolls" sections, since although I have not experienced the female side of the relationship (my stint in federal prison notwithstanding), I feel confident in giving advice to women on what can ruin the relationship. For that matter, I feel confident giving advice to anyone on any topic, but I digress. Three tips for each gender, incoming.

DOLLS:
First of all, you have the distinct advantage of being the rare resource. Men will compete for your attention, and they will respond and notice when you give it. In terms of relationships, this can be a bad thing. Boyfriends know that if they've locked you up, there are at least three other people trying to pick that lock, and they might feel the need to.... install an alarm system... okay, this metaphor is getting away from me. The point is, boyfriends can get jealous very easily. You know when you're flirting with other guys, and so does your boyfriend. If said boyfriend is the jealous type (hint: he is), know your limits and know when to put an end to the eye-batting and the ass-grabbing and the pants groping.

Second: Learn to cook. I don't care if you think it's sexist. Honestly, learn to cook. You will be even more revered than you already are.

And finally: do you need to be such a harpy all the damn time? Let your boyfriend be stupid sometimes. Let him do things you think are silly. Let him be himself. I'm not saying date an idiot, but if he wants to goof off or just sit and watch TV or whatever, you don't need to be nagging him every three seconds. Trust me, back off a little and he'll be much more receptive to your "polite suggestions" in the future. Nobody wants to date a banshee.

GUYS:
Remember before how I said that you would need to install an alarm system on your girlfriend? The first line of defense is you. I'll say this, and it stands for relationships and for everything else in your life: BE AWESOME. Don't wait for some schmuck to come along and start doing charming things in front of your lady, YOU NEED TO BE THAT SCHMUCK. Is it so much to ask to put in a little time, bring her some goddamn flowers every now and then? Buy a fucking stuffed doll or something, the point is that you're thinking about her and doing nice things on your own. Luckily for us, most women have such low standards that a single flower every month or so is enough to keep her happy. Don't give her a reason to find Guy #2 more flattering.

Second: Learn to cook. No, I'm serious. Learn to cook something, anything. Cook her dinner a few times. You have no idea how much mileage this will buy you. Cook with her if she is also into cooking, it will give you something to bond over and talk about and spend quality time and all that stuff. I am one of those people who has a cooking disability (I once messed up mac & cheese), so I do the next best thing: I wash everything. And I mean everything: counters, oven, stove, mop floor, sink, fridge, every goddamn surface that is dusty or grimy, you need to clean. And not just in the kitchen. See that bathroom? That's your job now. And the living room with all your shit in it? And the garbage bags? All you.

And third, and this is the big one: CUT OUT THE EMO SHIT. If your girlfriend wanted to date a girl, she'd be a lesbian (and instantly a million times cooler). Grow a pair of balls and don't get your panties in a twist every time she goes out with her girlfriends or she talks about another guy who's cute or mentions her ex-boyfriend or whatever. Guys who flip shit at the drop of a hat are a chore, and you don't want to be a chore. You want to be a bedrock of cool, a pillar of stability, a solid anchor in a sea of retards. If she's the kind of girl who would spread eagle for another guy because she thought he was cute, then dump her ass now.

And that leads me to the final word of advice for both guys and dolls: Know when to pull the trigger. Your relationship should be a source of joy. Sure, you'll fight. Sure, you'll probably think about breaking up. But you need to decide every day whether or not you want to see this person. You need to crave their conversation and their presence and their goddamn quirks at the end of every day. If you feel like your relationship is depressing or hard work or a pain in the balls then break the hell up and go your separate ways.

As for me, it was quite a few years ago when I decided that I was in for the long haul. And it really is a conscious decision you make. You can't make it lightly, and you don't have to rush, because "long haul" doesn't have an expiration date. There should be no ultimatums, no pressure, no forced decisions. You just very naturally come to the realization that you are going to be with this person for a long time, you stop considering the "What if we break up?" scenarios, and you don't plan for a life without this person in it. You don't need to stop and ask yourself if you love someone, you just do.

Life really isn't that hard. You just need to take it easy.

The "GCLE" and Sports vs. Music

First, I should disclaim that I am not 100% sober as I type this post. I recently returned from an evening of bar bingo ("Clamo", as it's called), and I downed a few Miller Lites while waiting for a rogue thunderstorm to pass such that I could hear what the person next to me was saying. However, I don't think that my ability to blog will be affected by this chain of events; oh no. Instead, I believe that my ability to write is facilitated by small-to-moderate amounts of alcohol consumption, and you, fine reader of this blog, will be the judge of whether or not this is the case.

Second, I am going to define a new, life-altering, self-named statistic that will change the way you concieve your drinking life. You see, I'm sick and tired of college-aged asscocks talking up their night of drinking by saying things like "Yo, BRAH, I had like 18 beers last night! And I got SO WASTED!" when I had 9 beers and essentially drank more than they did, but because they chose Coors Light and I wanted to drink something that actually has alcohol in it, they get to say something more important than I say.

Thus, I've created a term that I affectionally call the GCLE, or the [My Last Name] Coors Light Equivalent. This statistic weights the alcohol content of the beers you've consumed by comparing it to the standard alcohol by volume of a Coors Light (3.1% abv, in case you were curious). In equation form, GCLE = ([alcohol of the beer you've drank]/3.1) * number of beers consumed .

Ex. Juan has consumed 3 bottles of Flying Fish 90 Minute IPA (abv: 9.3%) and 4 bottles of Yuengling (abv: 4.4%). How many GCLE's has Juan consumed?

Answer: (9.3/3.1)*3 + (4.4/3.1)*3 = 9 + 4.25 = 13.25. If Juan were a loser, he could say that he had 7 beers and call it a night, likely sleeping on his side in a pool of his own vomitus. If he were a winner, he would say he had over 13 GCLE's, smack a ho, light a cigar, and eat a giant steak.

In case you were curious, I once had over 30 GCLE's in one night. In reality, I only had about 15 beers, but they were all quite strong. The beauty of this statistic is that, if you like strong, dark beer, you're not constrained by the inherent limitations of the standard beer-counting system. I believe that the GCLE is far superior to any other method of counting beers drunk, and I challenge the scientific community to think of an even better way to calculate this vital, ego-maniacal statistic.

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Third, I am going to ask you a simple question, which was posed to me on the ride home from Highlands, NJ (the iconic setting of the unforgettable Kevin Smith movie "Jersey Girl"). If you had the choice between being able to listen to music for the rest of your life without being able to watch sports, or if you could still be able to watch sports but music were no longer existent to you, which would you pick?

Here's my answer. First, I love sports. When Eli Manning found a wide-open Plaxico Burress in busted coverage to take a 17-14 lead with 1:00 remaining in Super Bowl XLII, I jumped up and down so hard I almost busted a hole in the floor of my girlfriend's living room. I turned 21 the week that the Yankees blew the 2004 ALCS, and because of this I have a raging drinking problem to this day. I think that sports are extremely important, useful as a vehicle for life's frustrations, as a meter upon which to weigh one's success in the world, and as an important way to kick back, relax, and forget one's problems.

However, I'd choose to keep music over sports, if one of the two had to go. I've had times in my life when I was too busy to watch sports; I survived, but only because I had my iPod when I was hard at work. More importantly, music serves to organize the content of my life. When I hear the piano coda to "Layla," for example, I immediately think of the scene from Goodfellas where they find Carbone in the meat truck and his body was frozen so stiff, they had to thaw him out for two days in order to perform an autopsy. And I smile, because I remember that Goodfellas is one of my favorite movies, and I remember the first time I ever watched it (the summer after 8th grade), and I remember about a dozen other things, and it has nothing to do with anything except "Layla." That's my "Layla," and somebody else's conceptualization of the song has to be different from mine, and that's absolutely fine, because we could sit and talk about the song and never need to know what that song does to us, uniquely and inside.

So yeah, sports would have to go. I could listen to "Dazed and Confused" by Led Zeppelin a dozen times, wonder where my sports went, and eventually figure something out that would make sense. But if the music were to die? I'd have to drive my Hyundai off the levy... or something.

Stay classy.

On running in the heat (and more...)

Summer is one of my favorite seasons. The sun is always up, there are butterflies fluttering through the air, and warm gingerbread men and pansies and... wait, what? Ahem, sorry about that. I like the summer most because it's warm out - no, not warm, hot. I love hot weather, because you don't have to spend five minutes getting ready to go outside. Seriously, spending the last winter in New England taught me that humans should never, ever have to endure winters in New England. It doesn't get above freezing for a month sometimes, you're walking on frozen fucking tundra that turns into ice, and you slip on it, like, all the time. It sucks everyone's balls, not only my own.

A fact that many people seem to know about me (after all, it's on my Wikipedia page) is that I like to run. Occasionally, I even run well (like, an 8 minute pace!). I've been running a lot this summer, because I'm preparing for a 5-mile race on the beach... in Florida... in August. As you might imagine, I'm going to be running in some serious heat. This race will be the closest thing to actual athletic running I've ever done in my life, and I hope that if I die, this blog will carry on in my absence.

The thing is, I can only train in New Jersey for this race, and New Jersey summers aren't quite like Florida summers. The best analogy I can think of is New England winter:New Jersey winter::Florida summer:New Jersey summer, where both New England winters and Florida summers take testicular fortitude to endure. (This analogy is evidence, btw, that anyone from NJ who ever complains about the weather, including me, is a whiny little girl. Q.E.D.)

I will now complain about the weather in NJ during the summer. It is constantly hot and sticky, and when I run, it hurts my legs and my lungs because I am in poor, poor, piss-poor physical shape right now. If you ever see me on the street, don't wave or honk at me because I am likely too delirious to notice. The only thing I can think of while I'm running in 85+ degree heat is whether or not my heart is still beating.

Last week, I went out for 4 miles and literally forgot how to walk. By this, I mean that I tripped over my own feet, fell ass-over-tea kettle and landed on my right elbow, turning the right sleeve of my shirt bloody. That was fun, believe me. I come home weighing 4-5 lbs. less than I did when I left, my head is pounding, and my arms are shaking. Having said this, I am absolutely confident that if I can keep this up, I'm gonna be in pretty good shape by the end of the summer. Or, alternatively, dead. Like I said, fellas, keep posting.

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Has anyone else noticed that virtually no one seems to be driving fast anymore? I'm actually really curious about this one; ever since gas prices became super expensive, I feel like the average highway speed has gone down by a good 10 m.p.h. However, I did a Google search on "people driving slower" and it seems that no one has been documenting this. Am I making this up, in my head? If I'm not, maybe highway douchebaggery depends upon gas hitting some crucial monetary threshold? I think I've hypothesized some crazy, Freakonomics-type shit right here. Somebody, rein me in (or run a discriminant analysis and prove me wrong). I've gone insane...

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I went to Atlantic City last Friday with Brainpan, and lost my shirt. (Not literally, but close.) When I gamble, I follow Sports Guy's advice and set a "worst-case scenario" number (for me, $300) which is the greatest amount of money I allow myself to lose. Let's just say I hugged that asymptote pretty closely, so closely that I earned a free dinner that provided absolutely no solace whatsoever.

For example, I was playing $1-$2/NL and was sucked down to my last $50 (I sat with $100, and was cold-decked). I was in middle position with Ah-Qh, and raise to $14. I'm re-raised to $32 by a caller in early position, leaving me with nothing left to do (reasonably, given my remaining stack) except go all-in. I go all-in and find that I'm up against As-Ks, not good. I turn my queen, which of course was the Qs, giving him the flush. I could talk more about this trip - particularly about all the times I had 11 vs. dealer 6 in blackjack, doubled down a 4 to 15 and watched the dealer reveal a 3 - but nobody wants to hear me whine anymore.

I will say this, however. I should be nominated for The Shiesty-Dude-from-College Memorial "Taking an STD Test" Dealing-with-Uncomfortability Award (or TSDFCMTSTDTDWUA, for short) for the 40 minutes of sleep I somehow managed on the drive home. Brainpan drove us in his Hyundai Tiburon, and with the back of my head leaning against the headrest, my forehead was pressed against the back windshield and my knees were almost against my stomach. I tried to lay sideways, but my clown feet forbade me from moving at all. However, even given this, thanks for driving, man. You got everyone home safely, which is what counts.

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The above is what I like to call "mood repair." Blogging in a cranky mood is never a good idea, but doesn't this make you feel better? Aww....lookatthatcutepuppy. OK, that's enough for today. Stay classy.

Special Blog: 7 Things That I Like

Despite my high level of acculturation and exquisite tastes, I am - at the very core - a simple man. There are days when I enjoy a 24 oz. Porterhouse and a delicious Cabernet. There are other days when a burger and fries will do. Some days, I drink fine whisky; others, Miller Lite. Some days, I travel the land, searching for experimental participants so that I can make the world a better place (and myself, wealthy) through scientific research. Others, I sit in my Mom's basement and type a blog*. (*NOTE: The above statement may or may not be presently true, as I write this blog post.)

So, in the below post, I temporarily ignore my Heathen side, just a little, as I explore the Epicurean delights that are: 7 Things That I Like (in no particular order).

1) 1/2 Lb. Cheeseburger, Grilled, made from day-old ground beef, medium-rare
As frequent readers of the blog already know, PatentlyJersey had us over his place on July 4, once he arrived home from his "Study A Broad (or Three)" in Europe. While Scottery lamented into his Sam Adams, PJ hooked me and himself up with some not-quite-fresh burgers, grilled with care and smothered in mozzarella cheese. To some people, the phrase "day-old ground beef" may elicit a stomach churn. Let me tell you, it's much better than fresh beef, and it tastes like butter. There are restaurants in NYC that age their ground beef for a month before serving the meat, even rare, to consumers. I'm not (yet) a doctor, and I'll never be a medical doctor (per se), but allow me to assure you that it's safe and delicious. Anyway, this meal is one of summer's greatest treats.

2) Wegman's
The best grocery store EVER. Free samples galore, about a dozen fresh food bars, any kind of food you might want. Incredibly fast customer service; I've never waited more than 3 minutes on line. Definitive proof that the world makes sense. If you don't like Wegman's, or have never heard of it, I hate you.

3) Getting onto an expressway just past a major accident that blocks traffic, giving you an entirely empty highway to drive on
If I were a good person, I would actually feel bad about this. But I'm not, so I don't. Having a five-lane highway to myself is an incredibly big treat, and I make the most of it. Should I drive in the left lane? How about the second-to-left lane? How about both lanes?! Yes! One time this happened to me when I was kind of tired from a long drive, so I decided to play Slalom with the lane markers. I decided that every fifth lane marker line was a slalom post, and I had to swerve the Santa Fe in between them in order to score points. This was fun, until I almost destroyed a slow-moving car in front of me. Oh well.

4) The Cal Ripken, Jr., 1982 Donruss Rookie Card
I was messing through some old boxes in the garage over the weekend, and there I saw my favorite misplaced baseball card, ever. Allow me to explain. It was the spring of 1994, and I was the worst player on my Little League team. I could barely catch the ball, and in order to bribe me into continuing playing my mom would take me to the baseball card store after every game, win or lose. One day, after I finally caught a pop-up (I was that bad), my mom let me buy a pack of the most expensive (and oldest) cards they had - the 1982 Donruss collection. When we paid for it, the guy behind the counter said, "Look out for the Cal Ripken, Jr. card," and when I opened the pack, hot shit!, there it was. I immediately placed it in hard plastic and, despite spending the last several years in my garage, it's still in mint condition. It goes for $60-$75 at card shows, but I'm gonna hold onto it for sentimental reasons.

5) (Most) Stephen King novels
I know he's campy and over-prolific, and I know he sometimes insults intelligent people's intelligences. But his characters are very complex and interesting, and when he gets it right -- like in The Stand, the creepiest novel I've ever read -- he produces some extremely scary stuff. I feel like he's best when he's being apocalyptic and science-fictiony. For example, the short story "The End of the World" in Nightmares & Dreamscapes, as well as the novella "The Langoliers" in Four Past Midnight, are two of my favorite pieces of the King canon. If we can forgive George Lucas for his shoddy dialogue and occasional leaps of faith in his scripts, I think we can forgive the King of Horror for his mistakes. Other recommendations: It, Carrie, The Shining (better in print than in movie).

6) Deadspin.com
Not for the faint of heart, and definitely not for people who can't appreciate sarcasm. (Why are you reading this blog, by the way?) My favorite sports blog, because it captures the very essence of what sports means to sports fans - just because sports are supposed to be enjoyed, doesn't mean that sports are supposed to be cherished. Most professional athletes are dipshits, but some are actually pretty cool people and should be honored for that. Most sportswriters are incompetent, douchebags, or both, but some are actually all right and should be respected. Plus, the comments on the blog are funnier than the actual content.


7) Warm summer mornings
Come on, this has got to be the best time of the year! People actually go outside and do things, hot women wear less clothes than in the winter, there's lots of barbeques and beach outings, summer-y beverages (e.g., the margarita, which would be #8 if there were a #8), people are less asshole-y than when it's cold out, and there's always football season to look forward to. But summer mornings are the best -- it's not quite warm and humid, but the sun is warm, and the air feels like it has more oxygen in it than usual. Everything looks new on a warm summer morning. So my closing note to you frigging slackers is, get up early enough to enjoy it once or twice. You won't be disappointed.

Stay classy.

THIS IS SO GOING IN MY BLOG!!!!

So I'm sitting in Mo's house, very drunk, after the second day of Scotti Gras. I've been forced (at gunpoint) to make a blog post before going to bed, so come Hell or high water I'm going to write whatever I think about as I sit here.

As a side note, BrainPan is not here, but the other 2 of my blogging cohorts are present and drinking with me. Therefore, he is to be mocked incessantly until the next time we hang out and consume "Too Much" alcohol.

Scotti Gras is the weeklong celebration of my birthday, conceived as a way for me to draw attention to myself for more than one day of the year. This is the second year of Scotti Gras, the last one having been a rousing success involving the consumption of a similar amount of liquor and the purchase of an Xbox 360. While there has not (yet) been an impulse purchase on my part, I've made up for it by drinking twice as much.

Which leads me to sort of the point of this rambling post. We spend a lot of time reminiscing about college and "the good old days," since may of us have moved on to graduate school or real grownup jobs. The days of living in a dorm room with nothing but homework and a work-study job to worry about are long gone. Now we have responsibilities that permeate through our holidays and weekends, and as a result we can never really relax. We can't be caught doing things of questionable legality, for fear of our superiors finding out. And, perhaps most importantly (and the point that will get me in the most amount of trouble, no doubt) is the fact that many of us have significant others who will look down upon our shenanigans.

Now, I typically have a dim view of younger people, especially people who act as crazy and irresponsible and immature as I did when I first entered college. However a lot of that view is motivated by jealousy: I know that I will never again be in the type of situations I was in back then, where you were in a stranger's house drinking their beer and seeing two girls make out for attention. I'm forced to remember, rather than look forward to, the crazy scenarios and poor decision-making that made those years so much fun. As more and more of my friends turn out the lights before midnight, I need to come to terms with the fact that the days of partying until the sun comes up are long gone. It's hard to let go of those times. It's hard to accept when a part of your life ends, especially when the next part of your life seems so bland by comparison.

I don't want the people who read this to get the idea that I'm disappointed with my life or the people who are in it, I just wish there were nights that involve places and activities that are unplanned. I wish there were still opportunities to make new stories instead of retell old ones. Fred once relayed a quote to me along the lines of "The weakest form of conversation starts with the phrase 'Remember when...'" meaning that you should spend your time experiencing life rather than remembering it. I dunno, maybe I'm romanticizing the life I led four years ago, maybe I'm misremembering the things that happened and how much fun it was. Maybe in four more years I'll look back and realize that this, right now, was the best of times and the stuff that happened before was just silly nonsense.

Still, that doesn't help the fact that sometimes I'd like a bit of the silly nonsense.

Wakin' up With Robin Meade & Headline News' "Morning Express"

In my view, there are three types of beautiful women in the world: those whom only women find beautiful, those whom only men find beautiful, and those whom pretty much everyone agrees are beautiful. It tends to be only women who find art-house-type women attractive, for example.* (*NOTE: This might be for a very good reason.) Further, it tends to be only men who find female adult film stars (or, additionally, the "FOX NFL Sunday" weather-woman Jillian Barberie) attractive. Then, there's that third group. What makes them so special that nobody finds their beauty appalling and/or disgusting?

I'm going to use the woman from the Mercury TV commercials as an example of this omni-likable, third type of beautiful. I do so because she's universally considered to be the most beautiful woman in the world, and there's nothing wrong with her at all. She's Harvard-educated and went to medical school. In her spare time, she works on developing enzymes to strengthen chemotherapy drugs, she grows enough corn on her farm to power 1,948 ethanol-based vehicles per year, and often performs minor surgeries on children in the Philippines. She's also definitely not slutty-looking, which is key. See, dumbass psychologists like to talk about "magic ratios" and "symmetry" in relation to what we think is hot. This is bullcrap -- what we want is to not feel threatened by somebody's attractiveness. If you gave the Mercury TV adwoman fake breasts and kept her face the same, few women would still find her attractive. (Men, of course, still would. This is both why we're awesome and why we're horrible, but mostly why we're awesome.)

The Mercury TV adwoman also knows what she's talking about. She confidently tells you to "put Mercury on your list", and of course, you do.* (*NOTE: Actually, you don't. Mercury cars have sold horribly over the past few years, to the point where Ford decided to ax the ad campaign late last year. But, you get the point.) Both men and women are inspired by confident, strong-minded women, and this woman is one.

Which brings me to someone else, who isn't the Mercury TV ad-woman but is close: CNN Headline News morning anchorwoman Robin Meade. For the past year or so, since around the time that I moved to Boston, I've spent many mornings sipping coffee and eating Honey Nut Cheerios watching her "Morning Express" show, because I'm interested in the news and I like to be entertained. And man, is this show entertaining. For starters, Robin is supermodel gorgeous. Look at this picture. Can you guess how old she is?* (*NOTE: Scroll to the end of this post to find the answer.)

Further, she is horrible -- absolutely horrible -- at reading a teleprompter. She consistently stumbles over her words, accents the wrong parts of sentences (e.g. "And what, of course, happened TO her?"), and sometimes I think she makes up the endings of stories that she couldn't read fast enough on the screen to interpret for us (e.g. "And then she died." Me: "Wait, what? Nancy Reagan died?"). There's some serious Ron Burgundy potential here; if someone broke into CNN worldwide headquarters in Atlanta and threw "Go fuck yourself, America!" on the teleprompter, she'd probably say it. She also works with a supporting cast of dudes who look like they hang out at Bar Anticipation, and women who look like they bite their tongues and then say really catty things about her behind her back. The unintentional comedy is prescient and awesome.

Finally, Headline News takes a non-Northeast-biased approach to the news. From watching "Morning Express" for a year, I've learned that although everything important happens in the Northeast, nothing interesting happens in the Northeast. For example, did you know that a factory worker in Bumblefuck, Kentucky went apeshit overnight and killed five of his coworkers? Or how about the fundamentalist minister in Whogivesafuck, Arkansas, who allegedly killed his wife in a fit of rage? Did you know that We Care About Our Troops? I had no idea, until I watched the daily "Morning Express" segment with that exact title. I've got news for you, Amurrica: Fox News Channel is the new, liberal outpost in news media. "Morning Express" is where real Amurricans go for their "news"*. (*And, by "news," I of course mean "soul-less sleaze.")

Anyway, I digress. In a 2006 survey, Robin was voted "Sexiest Newscaster" by Playboy.com by a landslide, with a whopping 40% of the vote (with, like, ten candidates! Although admittedly, one of them was Connie Chung). But somehow, I think she is more than that. I think she's one of America's most important newscasters. I believe that -- despite her incompetencies -- she represents exactly what people want to accomplish by watching TV in the morning. And in a backwards way, I think she represents the face of news in the 21st century. You see, a lot of bad shit goes on in the world each day, and I think if we took an objective, deep view about all of it we'd go insane. Maybe it's better (in a psychological, not a moral, sense) that we just kinda waltz through 5-second news clips about 15 different disasters reported by a former Miss Ohio beauty contest winner who can't talk good. (Or, alternatively, maybe not. But I'll leave that to someone else who writes here.)

In Canada, there used to be an Internet newscast called "Naked News", where the actual news was presented by attractive women who would striptease as the news was presented. This was a big hit - typically with men - and the fact that the news was serious is worth focusing on here. There's a huge argument in this country (and it's a very good one) that people - and young people in particular - don't care what's going on in the world. I bet I could speak to the 10 brightest friends I have about the current political strife in Zimbabwe, for instance, and I think only half of them would know what was going on. This actually really pisses me off, by the way. But, what if we could somehow combine nakedness and news here, in this country, with the fundamentalist Christians shutting the fuck up about it? Wouldn't this be a wonderful, beautiful thing? At the very least, wouldn't a few million young adults who never cared about the news before at least start to listen?

This is why you should vote for me for President. Stay classy.

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Answer from before: Robin Meade was born in 1969, and is 39 years old (!) . She's like the Roger Clemens of attractive women, but with no steroid scandal and no alleged affairs with 15-year-olds.

"Viva La Vida" Is a Pretty Good CD.

::dusting off my music critic horn-rimmed glasses::

OK, so it's been awhile. But Coldplay just released a damn good CD (album? effort? collection of songs released at one time? I have no clue what to call a music compilation anymore. I'm just going to call it a "CD"), and I feel compelled to write something about it. You see, around the turn of the decade whining in music was pretty popular. It was important for musically-inclined males to show a sensitive side, and to sing in falsetto as much as possible in order to woo female listeners (or, alternatively, hummingbirds). This led to the estrogen-izing of America, the weak dollar, and the first Stone Sour CD. Contemporaneously, Coldplay became a chart-topper based on music which consisted mainly of whining and falsetto singing in Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head. Now I still like both of these CD's. But I've never really tried to be cool, and I love whining. So, I guess this makes sense.

Then came 2005's X & Y, a CD that I've never been able to listen to completely (although it has a couple of singles that I like). There are some people (specifically, some people who write on Damaged, Inc.) who love X & Y, so I'm not going to bash it too much. It just kind of bores me, that's all. After such a middling effort, I had to think twice before shelling out $9.99 on iTunes -- because buying music legally is COOL! -- for Viva la Vida or Death And All His Friends (VVDAAHF, for short). Since Tuesday, I've listened to it 4 times. Once in my office in New Jersey, once in my Massachusetts office, once in my car (driving from NJ to MA), and finally on a long run on the beach in NJ. I don't know about other people, but I need to listen to a CD in a number of different places, doing a number of different things, before I decide that I like it. I also never like a CD the first time that I listen to it. Liking music is hard work, but it pays off.

The coolest thing about VVDAAHF is how restrained it remains while still being musically inventive. Perhaps the band was as bored with X & Y as I was, because they elicited a number of different types of music -- there's bluegrass infused throughout "Yes" and "Strawberry Swing", hip-hop on many songs but most notably at the beginning of "Lost!", gospel in "Death and All his Friends," and undertones of 80's dance music in "Viva La Vida" -- in the context of an album that is (as a whole) very reliably hard rock.

Reportedly Timbaland assisted in the production of the album, which by itself is a huge deviation from the art-rock influences (Jeff Buckley, anyone?) that motivated much of their earlier work. For those of you who hold negative attitudes toward art-rock, I must assure you that VVDAAHF is not art-rock. The lead guitar is consistently solid and meaningful, with moments of searing up-tempo bliss, as in the pounding crescendos of "Death and All His Friends" and the halting middle of "Life in Technicolor." I did wish that the powerful, driving music lasted longer, and that I didn't have to wallow through as much slow and melodic stuff in order to get there. This was a problem for me in songs such as "Lovers in Japan," which was one of my least-favorite songs on the CD. (This is a problem with Coldplay, and with pretentious bands in general. They definitely feel that listeners need to earn their way to the best parts of the best songs, and damn us for complaining!).

As a whole, however, I really enjoy VVDAAHF and I encourage you to listen to it (via legally downloading it, or otherwise, depending on your morals and ethics). It's very fun, good music to listen to at work, and the few places where you feel like you're being forced to eat your vegetables are well-rewarded with a delicious, musical dessert.

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Today is Thursday, June 19, and I am embarking on a "Spend No Money Today Campaign." Why, you ask? Because, between gas and going out drinking, I spent $75 yesterday and I'm going to spend another $75 (on the same two objects) tomorrow. Having $150 drained from my checking account over 3 days is far easier to tolerate than some higher number, so as a consequence I'm typing this post from my office, with a can of Chunky soup I've had in my office since last November heating up in the microwave. For the rest of day, I'll eat whatever is in my refrigerator -- I had a peanut butter sandwich and O.J. for breakfast (because I don't currently have much in my fridge), and I will have mac and cheese for dinner. Why would any man ever NOT want to live as a bachelor?

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Below is a random playlist I created and can't stop listening to in my car:

1) Tom Cochrane - "Life is a Highway" (One of the all-time, underrated awf-some songs of all time.)

2) The Proclaimers - "500 Miles" (Another awf-some song; song which attempts to qualify love by saying: "Hey, when I go out, get drunk, and throw up, you're the one I want to throw up WITH, baby!")

3) Rusted Root - "Send Me On My Way" (The hippie-est song that I like.)

4) Gerry Rafferty - "Baker Street" (There's this situation with some of my friends: we're out somewhere, and a song which is incredibly embarrassing comes on. Next, each of us immediately lights up and we realize that we all like the same, embarrassing song. Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street" is one of these songs, although I actually think it's kind of a cool song b/c Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters crew covered it about ten years ago.)

5) Eric Clapton - "Layla", Live, MTV Unplugged, 1992 (No substitutions allowed. One of the greatest live performances ever, when I was 9 years old I realized how great this version of "Layla" was and forced my mom to play the cassette over and over again. That's right, cassette.)

6) BB King - "Don't Answer the Door (Parts I and II)" (Perhaps the most misogynistic song ever. Great blues riff.)

7) Bell Biv Devoe - "Poison" (Perhaps the second-most misogynistic song ever, hilarious music video, great haircuts, love the nerd glasses on the dude sitting on the basketball hoop toward the end.)

8) Boyz II Men -- "Motownphilly" (B-B-Boyz II Men! That's right, 'cuz the East Coast fam never skipped a beat, I won't, either.)

9) Sam Cooke -- "Twistin' The Night Away" (The soundtrack to one of the best scenes in one of the best comedy movies ever -- "Animal House" -- an undeniably smooth and soulful song by one of the coolest cats to have ever purred.)

10) Huey Lewis & The News -- "Power of Love" (Don't lie and say you don't bang your head a little to this song. It's a good song, no question.)

11) Def Leppard -- "Hysteria" (I must be in love.)

12) Bruce Springsteen -- "Spirit In The Night" (The most opaquely drug-riddled song of the 1970's, and because The Boss is so damned wholesome and nice, nobody ever calls him out on this. I will be honest. This song is about getting housed -- no, no, worse than that, obliterated -- on just about every drug imaginable, and then doing ridiculous things thereafter. Throughout the song, he mentions people as if they went on some physical trip with him. These are people who don't exist; they're just different kinds of drugs that he took. This fact doesn't make me like Bruce any less (or any more), it just kind of is what it is. He may be an evangelical Rock God, but I believe in fair and balanced music criticism, and this is what you get. If you really want to be critical of Bruce, look at the lyrics to "Backstreets." Eh? Eh?)

13) The Clash -- "London Calling" (Because every self-respecting mix CD should end with a punky song. The best mix CD I ever created ended with Green Day's "J.A.R.", a song that doesn't get played nearly as much as it should on the radio and that, when played, inspires me 100% of the time to play that scratched, semi-warped mix CD I created years ago. Yeah, every mix CD deserves a punk rock song. No question about it.)

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OK, that's enough for me. Stay classy.

Surviving the European Union

So I suppose I should introduce myself as the late arriving member to this blog. I, like my colleagues, yes I said colleagues even though we are all still in school, am an intellectual, of sorts. This can usually be translated to nerd, science geek, etc., and I’m also quite mad, angry not insane, or so I am told.

Following suit with everyone else I’ll discuss the current events of my life, which consist of the last few weeks in Europe and what I expect from the next half. I’m aware that there is a time difference and if you find that you can’t keep up with my line of thought; please feel free to wait 5 hours for it all to sink in.

So far on my trip I have gone to a wedding in Ireland, spent a week in Amsterdam and Belgium, a few days in Luxembourg and I am now in Ireland. I went to Amsterdam not because I am into all the extracurricular activities that are available there and illegal in the States but because it is pretty much the Graceland for people my age. That coupled with my never having had a vacation before made my decision to go, while I was over here for school anyway, an easy one.

Anyway, each country has been better than the last one, until Luxembourg but I’ll discuss that later. Belgium is by far my favorite despite my having to go to class and visit several key European Union institutions such as the European Parliament, Commission and the Court of Justice. No these aren’t random boring destinations, for in fact I am a law student and that made them obvious but boring destinations while in Europe and politics has never been one of my favorite topics. I suppose that is why I picked a major devoid of it, engineering. I learned the basic structure of the EU and a few other interesting tidbits which may all prove a waste of my time because Ireland failed to ratify a new treaty, which required a unanimous passing in all the EU member states. The New York Times has already proclaimed that the failure of this treaty would cause further turmoil in the EU and I have yet to see a single uprising, anti-Irish march or anything along those lines.

The best part of my week in Belgium is that I got to go to the Stella Artois Brewery for a tour. If you have not heard of Stella Artois or don’t like it I hate you. Going back to the EU, while I was in Parliament, the building itself being a testament to man’s need to overcompensate architecturally, the one thing I wanted to know about was the one thing none of our tour guides could answer, the EU’s approach to intellectual property, IP is a collective term referring to patents, trademarks and copyrights. After some investigation I found that the EU apparently is still developing its IP law and it’s not going to develop any faster now that Ireland rejected the Lisbon treaty.

Now for the other parts of my trip. I recommend everyone go to an Irish wedding, it was awesome, I think it could have been one of the most fun times of my life had I known anyone there. Amsterdam, the boat tours are awesome, mine conveniently dropped me off in front of the Amsterdam Hard Rock Café, which even more conveniently was located next to a Casino. I do so love my blackjack. What’s more is that I could sit at the table and light up a Cuban cigar, which is completely legal in Amsterdam, though smoking will be banned from the casinos in a little over a month. I’m not sure if it is true of all casinos in Europe, certainly different from all the casinos in AC, but I feel that black jack favored the players more than the casino. In place of a shoe there is a machine that is constantly shuffling the cards, which will eliminate most of the basic methods of counting and there are only 6 decks instead of 8. The other major difference is that even though you are not seated at the table, you can still gamble. I feel like the best comparison is going to the track and betting on the horse or dog of your choosing. Before I got a seat at the table I stood and watched the players to see who knew what they were doing and who had the largest stack of chips in front of them and proceeded to put my chips down in the smaller circles behind his/her betting circle. Needless to say, I have made up what I lost in the dollar to euro exchange rate.

Lastly, Luxembourg, what a miserable existence those people must live. Everyone speaks French but the majority of the writing I have seen is in German, I think, at any rate it is definitely not French. Everyone here is very trendy with their clothing and get offended if you can’t speak French, more so if you try and you speak and fail. Basically it’s like Paris only they don’t have any of the tourist attractions so they can all just bite the fattest part of my American ass. Because no one on this trip is fluent in French I have had to learn a bit, which I swore I would never do and for making me violate that dictum I hate the French even more. I’M GLAD YOUR TEAM HAS BEEN ELIMINATED FROM THE TOURNAMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The tournament I speak of is the European Championship and with the exception of Ireland voting last Thursday I think every European has been glued to the tv watching it. Oh and I almost forgot to thank Thierry Henry for deflecting the ball away from the goalie into the net and putting the last nail in his team's coffin. I have to say I am beginning to once again enjoy a game that I used to love to play, VIVA ITALIA.

Thank goodness I’m in Ireland now, where I understand the people… somewhat… more on that next time.

In Search of Roommate...

So my current roommate is graduating with his Ph.D. this fall, and moving to Europe soon thereafter. This means that I am faced with the daunting task of replacing him in the master bedroom of the third-floor walkup we've split in lovely Watertown, Mass., since last August. There are a number of different ways one can find a new roommate. One way is to ask around at work. When work consists of a very tiny Psychology program, however, this doesn't work. Another way is to find a friend who needs a room. Unfortunately, I have few friends north of Westchester County, New York, so this option is out as well. Finally, there is Craig's List, the fall-back option of shame.

In case you've been hiding under a rock for the past half-decade, Craig's List is an online bulletin board where one can find anything from a new keyboard to a discreet foot-lover, from a room for rent to a kidney donor. In a sense, it epitomizes both the very best (extremely cheap commerce, transactions occurring seemingly at the speed of light) and the very worst (very shady, very decrepit-looking, extremely prone to Spam) of the Internet. To find a replacement roommate, I hoped that the pros of the Craig's List would far exceed the cons.

I started by posting a relatively detailed, coherent and kind rationale for why an employed, pleasant, non-pedophile human being would enjoy living at my apartment with me. I mentioned the perks of the apartment - reasonable rent and utilities, two balconies, and a spacious master bedroom - as well as its deficits - no central A/C, third-floor walk-ups promote cardiovascular health (to say the least), and let's just say those two balconies are somewhat likely to collapse in the near future (hopefully while I'm not sunbathing on mine). I was just as candid about myself. I emphasized twice that I like living in a neat apartment, because it's very important to me that my apartment remain neat. I also explained that I have a long-distance girlfriend and that I love the 26-time World Champion New York Yankees, because I don't want people to be surprised with these things down the road.

And then I waited for the replies to come to my specially-set up Google mail account. When they arrive, man are they interesting.

First of all, there is a lot of Spam mail. Here is an example of one letter I received:

I'm MR Mike Hill OF MAYLOLSTORE INC in United Kingdom.I came across your AD on Craigslist for your place to be rented out.I am interested in renting your place for my niece who will be coming to the US for some months vacation in the US. she will be staying in the place for the duration instead of an hotel due to the exhorbitant price.Please answer my following questions below:
1) I will like to know if your room will be available for 3 months starting from Match
2) I will like to have the description of the room, size, and the equipments in there to know what she will bring along when coming.
3) I will like to know the rent fee per month plus the utilities and if you require deposit.I will like to know if you accept paying the rent monthly
4) I want to know if you accept US postal money order/US Cashier's Check as a mode of payment so I can make an advance payment before her arrival that will stand as commitment.
5) Lastly, I will like to know more about you.
I will be very glad to have all this questions answered
Hope to hear from you soon
Best Regards

WTF is this? How come the extra "h" in "exorbitant" is so funny? I can't answer the second question but I'll try for the first. Apparently the scam hits after you reply to Mr. Douglass McGonigal from Devonshire-Upon-Avon. He'll next require just a small advance from you in order to get his niece to travel here from England. I would estimate that 75% of the E-mails I get are very similar to the previous one. By this, I mean that they are Spam letters written as if diction was taken from a customer service agent in India. Why can't any Internet scam artist use proper grammar, damn it? If I EVER receive an Internet scam E-mail that is written to my objective, journalistic standards, I will purposefully fall prey to it. This scam artist would deserve my money.

Some of the other E-mails I've received are funny, too. For example, Victor B. of Chris Hansen's kitchen writes: "Hi, I'm 24 years old male. Working in a consulting company. When can i come over and see the place?" My response: "Due to some problems you've been having lately with Megan's law, you are never seeing my apartment, Victor B."

Uladsislau Z. of the Island Mypos writes: "My name is Vlad, and I'am a graduate student at [name deleted] College. Do not have pets, non-smoker, have good references. Looking for a room in Watertown, area. Please let me know if the room is still available." Kind of a halting E-mail, no? Almost feels like I'm getting yelled at. Check out my response: "MUST WRITE MESSAGE STRONGLY!!!! ROOM NOT AVAILABLE, EAT BORSCHT!!!!!! Best, Fred." However, I concede that it could be kind of, sort of, maybe a little awesome to have a roommate named Vlad. Wouldn't I just have to eventually start calling the guy "The Impaler"?

Jackie D. of West Baltimore, MD, (maybe) writes (E-mail follows, in its entirety): "I am extremely interested.Please get back to be ASAP." I never reply back to Jackie D., because I know that Marlo Stanfield of "The Wire" moved on to killing people who exhibit terrible E-mail etiquette after quitting the drug game, and has already stashed her dead body in a vacant row house.

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That my posting on Craig's List resulted in a torrent of slimy, shady conversations with people shouldn't surprise you. The fact remains that I did receive a number of E-mails (that I won't post, because they're boring) that were kind, decent, and... well, "normal." In the midst of all this shit, what makes any communication normal? My girlfriend and I were talking about this on the phone last night. We decided that there is some kind of "meta"-sense that people who aren't creepy have, because in order to rise above the creepiness of Craig's List, one has to first understand how creepy it is. For example, the "normal" E-mails I received were consistently quirky and self-deprecating. They had attempts at humor (often at my expense), some of which were successful. They often mentioned explicitly how weird it is to meet with some random person, under the pretense of possibly living with them for 12 months.

Creepy people don't seem to have this sense. They just want to get laid, and/or kill me. I'm reminded of "Dexter", the Showtime TV series where the protagonist is a well-disguised serial killer. In the show, Dexter (the killer) is portrayed extremely sympathetically - oftentimes, I catch myself actually rooting for him to kill somebody. He is smart, successful, and sometimes charming, the kind of serial killer that never seems to get caught - but still, he is (very subtly) creepy. In advance, I realize that it can be a stretch to relate any TV show to real life in any meaningful way. However, I think that there is one aspect of "Dexter" which is presented so organically and clearly that it's worth mentioning. It is that, no matter how you try to cover it up, no matter how elaborate the ways you've devised to hide yourself are, you kinda are who you are. If you're the kind of person who needs to kill people, you're gonna kill people. If you need to do hard drugs, you're gonna do hard drugs. And if you feel the need to tell a prospective roommate on the phone that you're currently being evicted for not paying rent... you're never going to become my roommate.

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Finally, an awesome picture (thanks for the heads-up, Scott) from xkcd, the official web comic of Damaged, Inc. Check out the bald head, emo glasses, and goatee on the psychology dude. I know so many psychologists who look just like that:

The probability of God

I once said to my mother, "Show me a person who believes in God and I'll show you a person who doesn't understand probability." She didn't like that very much. I'm a scientist, she's not, and we don't always see eye-to-eye on these issues. But I'm also a teacher, so I decided to come up with a way to explain myself in more than one line.

Most belief in God or gods or some higher power comes from events that people consider to be unexplainable by simple mundane reasoning. Burning bushes, walking on water, immaculate conceptions and the like are usually the beginnings of such thinking, but the problem with all of these is that we have no hard, concrete evidence for them. So I'm going to put them on the back burner and focus on more common "miracles."

To understand what a miracle really is, we need to look at what the word's become and work backwards from there. People say surviving a terrible car crash is "a miracle." A pregnancy that occurs after doctors say people are unable to conceive is "a miracle." Lately everything seems to be "miraculous" though, everything from finding the right doctor to finding a bathing suit that fits. And that's how I came to the conclusion: a miracle is nothing more than something unlikely.

Now, I understand that technically a miracle is the hand of God, some act of the divine. But for me to recognize the hand of God, it would have to violate the laws of physics because anything else could have happened without God's hand. Since I'm fairly sure we do not yet even know all the laws of physics, I cannot see the hand of God. So without the ability to recognize a defiance of the laws of physics, it seems most people have taken to altering the definition to 'something extremely unlikely by known laws of physics.'

Because of this, people see things that are very unlikely occur and decide to attribute them to a divine power. This is completely understandable and has a huge history. In fact, I'd make the claim that religion arises from a lack of understanding. Don't know why the sun's moving in the sky? A god on a golden chariot is driving it. Don't know why the crops are failing? God's angry with you. Even, as a child, don't know why that loud thunder noise is coming from the sky? God's bowling. You can even trace the death of polytheistic religion to the gaining of knowledge of the universe. You simply need fewer gods to fill in fewer holes. That's probably a post of its own though.

So, without further ado, the point: probability is deceptive. People see two people together that compliment each other perfectly, one fills in the other's gaps and together they can accomplish more than either could fathom alone. They feel that this combination is so highly unlikely that the two must be "meant for each other." In other words, this did not occur in accordance with any universe following the laws of probability, there is some divine plan. Their relationship is a miracle.

But is it? Yes, the odds of those two getting together are probably very very small. That's probably not nearly enough "very"s, in fact. Our couple is improbable, but is it unlikely? After all, there have been trillions of couples since the beginning of time. What are the odds that one of those couples would be this couple? They're actually very good. They're likely 100%.

Most people can't get their head around this, so I'll explain:

Let's start with something everyone can understand: a coin toss. I toss a coin, you decide whether its heads or tails. You guess heads, I uncover heads, you win. I uncover tails, you lose. Now let's expand this idea: An enormous coin toss tournament. The contest has 100 rounds, and is set up in bracket form. So to win this tournament, you have to win 100 consecutive coin tosses.

What are the odds of someone winning 100 consecutive coin tosses, you ask? 7.9 x 10^-31. I'd say anything with that sort of minute probability qualifies as a "miracle," wouldn't you? No? OK, make it 1,000 rounds. I don't feel like looking up the probability of that, but keep going until you're happy. Make a day of it. (NOTE: I got bored and calculated it on excel. At exactly 1,023 rounds the probability becomes zero, according to Microsoft. Maybe we should set that as our "miracle" threshold.)

So we can agree that the probability of this event occurring is prohibitively small. But what is the likelihood? 100%! Someone will win this contest, and thus win 100 consecutive coin tosses. If I ever come across thousands of really bored people, I'll prove it.

So, show me a person who believes in miracles and I'll show you a person who doesn't understand probability. Maybe God's going a little far. After all, someone had to organize the contest right? Stay tuned...

The Eric Clapton Experience

Without further ado, a recap (as I remember) of an amazing concert experience:

4:00 PM -- I decide to leave my apartment now, extremely early. This is a risky move; I may get there way too early, and I may get stuck in two hours of rush-hour traffic no matter what I choose. My only other option is to leave after the evening rush, around 7 PM, which I decide against because I don't want to miss a minute of Clapton's set (I would have, if I'd done this; score one for the Fred-ster and solid decision-making).

4:50 PM -- I'm on Interstate 95, driving south toward the Comcast (nee Tweeter) Center, tonight's venue. Oddly, I know of two concert halls that were once named Tweeter Center. First was the Tweeter Center in Camden, NJ, which dropped the title early this decade (the name probably switched to the Mass. venue). When I moved to MA last fall and heard radio ads for concerts at the Tweet, I thought it was odd that New England-uhs were being shipped so far away. Silly me -- and silly name, I imagine, because no concert hall seems to want to keep it.

I stop at Walpole, Mass. (home of 90's alt-rock one hit wonder band Harvey Danger) and grab some nondescript pepperoni pizza from a Papa Gino's at the Walpole Mall. In case you've never heard of it, Papa Gino's is a pizza chain that's everywhere in New England. They're like Papa John's, but with garlic and positive attitudes toward wife-beating. Their pitchman is New England Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi, who had a stroke a few years back caused by using steroids. Anyway, I knock back two slices and a medium Mountain Dew, because I'm tired and need caffeine. Then, I get back on the road.

5:45 PM -- I arrive, and I'm the first one here it seems. The doors don't open till 6:30, and I don't have my ticket anyway. No alcohol is served outdoors, which is a shame. I find a dark, cool, mossy rock and sit on it, thinking about mushrooms, "Super Mario Bros. 3," and how my jeans are going to get wet. I wait for Ken (Brainpan) to arrive.

6:15 PM -- Ken arrives, and he doesn't have the tickets either. We expect the rest of our party (who has the tix) to arrive some time before 8 PM, so we stand and wait. Did I mention that it was 55 degrees and rainy outside? Oh, and the Tweet is an outdoor venue, and we have lawn seats. Under ordinary circumstances, this would really grind my gears. But, the anticipation of an exquisite rock show is keeping these thoughts out of my mind. We grab sausage, peppers, and onion sandwiches.

7:10 PM -- People from New England are weird. Almost everyone who walks past us is wearing some garment announcing their allegiance to the Red Sox, Celtics, or Patriots. Of course you like these teams, you're in New England! If you're in some different place, where people from lots of different, diverse backgrounds coexist (e.g., New York City), then it makes some sense to announce who you root for. Here, you're being redundant and provincial and plain stupid. Who are you proving yourselves to, the 4 people wearing Yankees caps out of 19,000?

Ken and I discuss how the concert would proceed if the Patriots were in charge -- Ken decides that everything would go fine until Clapton is about to begin his set, and then the lights and sound would go out. Zing!

8:15 PM -- Our cohorts (Ken's friends from Rutgers, awesome folks, BTW) arrive, tickets in hand. This is good, because my gullet requires cold beer. We go inside and wait in the customary beer line. I hand the attendant my ID and he hands it back, telling me I'm too young to be served. This strikes me as odd, because I was born in 1983 and have been drinking legally since... that's right, 2004, when I turned 21. As it turns out, people under 25 with out-of-state ID's cannot be served at the Tweeter (HA! See! I called you Tweeter!) Center, and people under 30 can't be served unless they have a secondary form of ID. We all agree this is fascism, and I have Ken buy me a Harpoon I.P.A. because he is 39 years old. Clapton is about to begin.

9:00 PM -- Clapton's nickname is Slowhand, and this makes perfect sense as he winds his way through an eight-minute rendition of "Little Wing" that absolutely blows my mind. Sir Eric is doing things with a guitar I've never seen/heard done before, and he makes it look easy. Later in the set, I mention that he seems to converse with his guitar. Nothing seems rushed, and he's always in rhythm. His rock is never hard, because it never needs to be. I once referred to Yes as the Don Mattingly of rock acts; Clapton is Greg Maddux.

9:25 PM -- Clapton is playing with his blues accompaniment, and he's playing a lot of stuff that is out of the mainstream. I'm a little lost, but the music sounds great. Clapton's age comes up in conversation; I guess he's 60, although he looks (and plays) much younger than that. The two main things everyone seems to know about Clapton are extremely macabre. They are: (1) That he once absent-mindedly left his toddler son on a high-rise windowsill, and hilarity did not ensue after the boy hurtled to his death, and (2) that "Layla," his opus, was a love song penned about his best friend's wife. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote a biography of Clapton for music class. I wish this report existed somewhere, because I want to see it. I wonder if I was Goth enough to mention either of those two things in it.

10:00 PM -- I dislike "eating sandwiches"* (*This is a "How I Met Your Mother" reference), because it hurts my pipes and I'm not terribly interesting when I eat them. HOWEVER, when attending a concert, I absolutely love it when people around me decide to eat sandwiches. There's something about the act that makes sense; it makes me calm and makes live music sound better. Once, after attending an indoor 4-hour George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic concert, my friend Morgan and I ate a half-dozen cheese dogs, just because everyone around us decided they wanted to eat sandwiches at the earlier concert. I mention this only because, while walking to the Port-a-Potties, I come across a lot of sandwich eating, which puts me in a different frame of mind. Unintentionally.

10:15 PM -- Clapton closes his set (I'm hoping I remember this correctly) with "Wonderful Tonight," "Layla," and "Cocaine." The crowd is going insane; lighters are everywhere. (People still do this?) The air is wet and damp and smells like summer is finally here. I feel great. Damn sandwiches...

10:18 PM -- I'm at the concert with 4 other Yankees fans, and we get kinda pissed when drunk Massholes chant "Yankees Suck" on the way out. Why do these people care about the Yankees so much, when the Yankees are in last place in the AL East? Sounds like an inferiority complex to me. So, we yell back "Let's Go Yankees," which doesn't go over well. You know, because we're in Southeastern Massachusetts. When the Massholes get snippy with us, we remind them that their Patriots went 18-1 last season, good enough for second best. They're now quiet.

11:00 PM -- Sitting in my car, listening to music, and waiting for any sign of movement in the gridlock in front of me.

11:15 PM -- Same.
11:30 PM -- Same. Ever wonder what happens if someone has a heart attack and dies in the middle of this traffic? It's gotta be worse than a pilot dying in mid-air, because in this situation NOBODY moves. I'm rooting for the overall cardiovascular health of each of the 19,000 of us at this concert -- at least for the next few hours.
11:45 PM -- Same. Now I'm starting to get pissed off.
12:03 AM -- Finally moving, if I get lucky I can be home by 1 AM.

12:45 AM -- WBOS-FM 92.9 just played the following songs in sequence: "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe, "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, "When Doves Cry" by Prince, and "Flagpole Sitta" by Walpole, Mass.' own Harvey Danger. It might be because I'm exhausted, or it might be because I'm a huge loser. But I loved, absolutely loved, that four-song set. I sang along to every song. Also, my fuel gauge is critically close to "E" -- I might push the Santa Fe home tonight. Let's hope not.

1:03 AM -- I'm home. Hey, after I brush my teeth and such, I should write a blog about how cool tonight was! You narcissist...

Third Time's The Charm

I've said before that the hardest thing for a writer to overcome is a blank page. The task is even more difficult when you're not a writer, and practically impossible when you're as unimaginative as I am. At this point, I have written two long posts -- one concerning the inner workings of my twisted mind and another about pornographic video games -- and have deemed them "utter crap." I suppose that says something about me as a person, that when offered to write a blog about anything at all, the first two subjects I consider are psychology and pornography. In any case, both of my compatriots have written blog posts, and now to save face I must scramble. (Also, I'm running an experiment right now which means I have about 10 minutes to kill.)

I really thought it would be pretty easy to just sit down and write. I like to talk, and I have a lot of opinions about a lot of subjects. But it's kind of like when you're talking to a girl and she just says, "Let's talk." No subject, no direction. She just expects you to start up a conversation out of nothing, from scratch, instantly, but it has to be on a topic that you BOTH are interested in (alright, let's be honest: she just wants it to be something SHE's interested in. AM I RIGHT FELLAS?!). If you're anything like me, this is paralyzing, because at any moment of the day my thoughts are pretty evenly split between (1) zombies, (2) robots, (3) monkeys, and (4) boobies. Do you know a girl who is interested in having an actual conversation along those lines? Do you know how quickly girls are turned off when you ask: "Could a robot make the distinction between a human and a zombie, and if so, would Asimov's 3 Laws of Robotics still apply?" Because I do. Here's a little hint: very quickly. [Side note: I think I know what my next blog post will be about.]

As an example: I can already tell that this little thing I'm writing will be a disaster, because I know how weak it is to write a blog post about writing a blog post. Once I finish, I will stare at the "Publish Post" button for a little bit, highlight the whole thing, consider deleting it, actually delete it, then hit "Undo" to get it back, and waste more time considering what to do.

Wait... hang on a sec...

OH MY GOD. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. I'd like to dedicate the remainder of this post to Digg, for pointing me to this article. It's like the Internet knew what I was writing and gave me a link to satisfy me.

Now, for those of you who didn't read the article, crazy scientists at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine taught monkeys to control robots with their little freaking monkey brains, with the excuse that is used to justify any type of brain research, no matter how outlandish: "It could lead to a cure for Alzheimer's! Somehow!" Basically they stuck electrodes into the monkeys' brains, restrained their arms, and gave over total control of a robotic appendage. Eventually our cousins learned to feed themselves and flip off the researchers with their shiny new arms.

Combine that information with this one, about a monkey trying to kill fish with a spear, and you have set up a terrifying scenario. See, originally we were able to control a monkey outbreak because we were bigger and smarte... actually, on second thought, most of us are just bigger than they are. You'll notice that they weren't teaching "gorillas" to control the robots; the last thing we taught gorillas to do was sign, and seriously, when was the last time a deaf person was a threat to humankind?

But monkeys were always relatively harmless. Most were tiny, and all were furry and sufficiently humanlike to be almost lovable. But having been prodded their entire lives, castrated, vivisected, and ground up into a fine powder and snorted by mad scientists, I can imagine that they'd harbor more than a little ill will towards their human overlords. Now imagine them suddenly having access to technology that is aeons ahead of their evolutionary age. Specifically, robots. And they've watched us long enough to figure out how to hunt like ancient cavemen did. We've suddenly lost our edge, the same way the woolly mammoth did when we learned to throw things.

Let me put it another way. Imagine if gigantic aliens came down to Earth, enslaved us for a thousand years to perform experiments on us, and then thought it would be a hoot to teach us to use their apocalyptic "SunFucker" death ray. What do you think would happen?

Given the choice between a robot revolution and a monkeys-armed-with-robotic-exoskeletons revolution, I'll take my chances with the robots. Mechanical death engines are bad, but at least they aren't mechanical death engines driven by vengeful little animals.

So thank you, University of Pittsburgh. You've given me another reason to be terrified at the zoo.

We Got Fun and Games

Please allow me to preface the following by letting you know I am not a movie critic nor have I ever claimed to be. I don't even have good taste, apparently. Case in point: I love Jar Jar Binks. I think he absolutely saved what would have been a terribly boring movie and I wish he was in New Hope as well, so that wouldn't be the only movie I've watched more than ten times and only stayed awake through once.

That said, I'll review Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Let's start this review with the start of the movie: the gopher, or prairie dog, or whatever varmint it was. I still don't know why it was there unless it wanted me to get my "wait, what the fuck?" face on early in the movie so I could just hold it there for later.

A lot has been made about the crazy stuff that happens in this movie, and I want to just touch on that briefly before this moves further. If you have a problem with the level of "realism" in the movie, go find a shot gun and shoot yourself in the face. Or just watch the other three movies and realize what a complete douche you are. See? He's survived much crazier things than atomic bombs with much less than a refrigerator. Now go get the shotgun and have at it.

Now we move on to what IS new in this installment, Shia LeBeouf as Mutt, Indy's son. If that's a spoiler for you, then I'm sorry, I'm working on a cure for stupid, I'm just not done yet and you're gonna have to wait longer. Until then continue to try to bite your own ear. Anyway, the name Shia LeBeouf is a bit hard to spell, so I propose an alternative: Terrible Casting Call. Better yet, let's just stop calling him altogether.

George Lucas, however, seems to think he's the next Harrison Ford. After casting him in Transformers last summer, he put him back in action again this year. Last year, though, he was supposed to be an awkward kid and sometimes bumbling idiot, something he slides quite naturally into. This time he was supposed to be a greaser with a good brain in his head, something he does about as well as an elephant trying to play a mouse. But chew on this a second, people: Lucas repeatedly casts him, makes him Indy's son, AND gives him a character eerily similar to Harrison Ford's in the movie Lucas used to give him a career, American Graffiti. Coincidence that he tried to give him Indy's hat at the end of the movie? I think not. I'd like to think Ford ad-libbed taking it back.

The larger problem with the casting call here, though, is that I racked my brain throughout the movie to think of who'd play a more convincing greaser and came up empty. For reasons definitely worthy of their own blog entry, there is absolutely NO ONE who could have filled that role properly, at least not in the right age range. Young men these days are a bunch of womanized pansies and Hollywood is on the forefront of the movement. If you shave anything but your face, you pee sitting down in the ladies room, end of story, you can put your balls outside by the curb for the neighbor kids to play with.

On the other hand, and I'm injecting this in here because I actually really liked the movie as a summer blockbuster even if not an Indiana Jones movie, I really like how they portrayed the Russians. The Nazi's in the first three movies were caricaturized versions of what we imagined Nazi's might be in our worst nightmare's and I'm glad they stuck with this for the Russians. The Russians are caricatures straight out of Cold War propaganda and kudos to Lucas for not going PC.

So let's cut to the chase here, though, because there's one part of this movie that everyone has issues, save for my dad who would have been more than happy if "Rosebud" meant a flying saucer navigated by an army of T-Rexes. Aliens. Let me show both side of the saucer here.

Coming at it from an Indiana Jones perspective, there are two reasons we should have no problem at all with aliens in the movie. First, they were worshiped by a group of ancient people and what we see is a place where ancient ceremonies took place. In this way, its nearly identical to Temple of Doom, where ancient ceremonies were once again revived by the return of ancient stones (just sub in crystal skulls for those weird easter egg rocks). Second, the Indy movies have ALWAYS dealt with religion, in Raiders and Crusade it was Judeo-Christianity, in Temple it was some weird tribal cult, but it was always religion. Many people have called belief in aliens the new religion, and I'd credit George Carlin as getting there first. They're largely invisible, enormously powerful creatures that come out of the sky and can both help and harm us in countless and unstoppable ways. They are gods for some of us. So why NOT have aliens in an Indiana Jones movie?

I'll tell you why. Aliens are modern. Scratch that, they're beyond modern, to a time point in our technological progression we may never reach. Indiana Jones has always been historic. It was set in the past and the characters delved deeper into the past, beyond the pasts of our grandfathers and great great grandfathers. Yes, the culture that worshiped the aliens was ancient but the beings were not. The Templar Knight in Crusade was ancient. The ghoulish witch doctor in Temple was current, but had the appearance of something transported from the past, not the future. Or some other dimension. God that was terrible. Anyway, the problem here is that they did a very good job of setting the time period and then completely destroyed it with a flying saucer. Yes I can hypothetically come up with a multitude of reasons why it should have been OK, but it wasn't.

So, in summary, I thought this was a tremendous summer blockbuster popcorn movie, as were all the previous Indiana Jones movies. But it wasn't Indy. And Frenchy LeBeauf needs to disappear.