What a WASP

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

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

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

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

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

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

Greetings from Jacksonville, Florida

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so on, and so forth.

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

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

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

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

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

I am a Morbid Sumbitch

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

Yes, I find those things very interesting.

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

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

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

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

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


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

"That's Poker"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I <3 The Olympics

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

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

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

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


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



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


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

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


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

The 7 Basic Rules for Playing Blackjack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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: