I should be at the top of my class....

I have had yet another epiphany. Law school tries to instill the same values in you that an Irish family does.

I mean, think about it. Irish families tend to drink a bit more than other families, mine does, when we get together it's 5 o'clock immediately following breakfast, which is immediately following church. You would think it would go breakfast and then church to pregame on the communion wine but alas years of whiskey have destroyed this sort of logical thinking. The Irish weddings I have gone to seem to focus more on the Jamesons than the vows. One of the first things I learned in law school is that there is always some sort of event in the building where you can obtain free booze, and I mean BOOZE, not just beer, because those judges and attorney's need their scotch. Granted none of this starts before late afternoon but the premise is the same.

Irish families, at least real Irish families, don't really talk about any estrogen based "feelings", dreams or anything else that psychologists like to pick apart. I like to call this the Dennis Leary factor.



We do however love to share our anger, especially when our favorite sports team is losing or getting bad calls from the refs. But in general there isn't much talking on a non-superficial level. Law school is similar, it condemns you for speaking your mind. Instead it prefers that you speak in such a way that you tell people what you think, but you also have to make them feel like you agree with them now matter how much you actually disagree with them. So, essentially, you have to speak but it would be more truthful and insightful if you don't. Probably why no one ever understands what lawyers are talking about, they are trying to be as obtuse as possible to not rub anyone the right way, incidentally this may be why almost all politicians are lawyers. I challenge you to find out one thing they actually think about anything. At least the Irish just stay mute on certain topics so they don't have to lie to one another.

I feel it's much better/healthier for an individual to talk about the happy things and have a beer than to use alcohol to repress their urge to speak their mind. Eventually they are going to snap. Seeing as I tend to use my friends as my sounding board and say the most idiotic and sometimes very inappropriate things to balance out my law school oppression no one has to worry about me exploding on them for a quite a while.

I'm Going to Need a New Hobby

This post is going to be about sports (my apologies in advance). Mere seconds ago, my New York Yankees were eliminated from playoff contention for the first time in 13 years. In reality, "13 years" is a misnomer: it's been 15 years (since 1993) since the Yankees were excluded from the postseason. Nobody made the playoffs in 1994, the strike-shortened season, and the season that I started watching baseball.

The 1998 Yankees were, statistically speaking, the second- or third-best team in the history of the sport. They won 125 games on dominant pitching (3 of their 5 starters had at least 125 ERA+) and solid and patient hitting (8 of the 9 players in their lineup had 100+ OPS+, and Bernie Williams had a ridiculous 160 OPS+).

On the other hand, the 2000 Yankees were, statistically speaking, the weakest or second-weakest World Series champion in the modern (i.e., steroids) era. Their hitting and pitching were average, and they won a pedestrian 87 games in the regular season. Both the 1998 and 2000 teams won the World Series, even though teams that fell somewhere in between these two (e.g., 2001, 2003, 2004) fell short. But at least each of these teams made the playoffs.

What to make of this, especially in the context of this year's Yankees squad not making the playoffs? The best and worst about baseball is that the sport is a giant crapshoot. As easily as it lends itself to miracles, it can lend itself to heartache. Injuries can happen (to the Yankees this year, lots of them), players can underperform for no apparent reason (the same), and other teams in the division can mature in a heartbeat (ditto). Waiting until mathematical elimination for this year's Yankees team was like waiting for your own execution -- you know it's going to happen for a while, and by the time it's imminent, the only feeling left is frustration. Just get it over with already!

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

Needless to say, I've always penciled watching baseball into my schedule well into October, and it's going to take some getting used to this year. A good birthday for me involves good times, good food, and lots of fun -- a GREAT birthday also involves the Yankees still playing baseball. Although it's easy to speak gloom and doom under these circumstances, I'm not going to fret. No, instead I'm going to need some ways to divert myself. Here are some ideas:

First, I'm going to devote lots more time this October to my work. Grad school's been making me very busy lately (busy enough to shorten this post from 2,000 to 1,500 words), and I'd like to finish my second year thesis by the end of, ya know, my second year. Lately I've felt a lot like my senior year of college, which was the busiest time of my life. I took lots of classes, tutored some, and did an honors thesis. I worked like a dog, was rewarded handsomely for it, and experienced the happiest exhaustion a person could imagine. I want to feel that good again, and without baseball it could happen.

Second, I'm going to read more for leisure. Being a sports nut is stressful, especially during the postseason. On the other hand, I find quiet reading to be one of the most relaxing things I do. So, while lots of other people stress themselves into an early coronary this October, I'm going to relax and learn about something I've never bothered to study before. How Zen of me.

Third, my new roommate brought his Wii with him at the start of the lease, and... um, yeah, I'm going to get on that. Mario Kart, here I come!

Fourth, and finally, I am going to divert my attention from games of luck (which I cannot control) to games of skill (which I can). That's right, it's getting to be time for another Atlantic City excursion. This one will be the weekend after my birthday, and will involve at least two hotel rooms, at least one bottle of Silver Patron, and lots and lots of blackjack and debauchery. I'm already looking forward to it, a month ahead of time. Waaaa hooooo!!!

Stay classy out there.

Greetings from Fishkill, New York

I promise that this post will have nothing to do with gambling or sports. I'm writing from my cousin Nick's house in upstate New York, on a 40-degree summer (!!) evening, having eaten chicken parm and drank more than one amaretto on the rocks. I complain about grad school a fair bit, but I love that it affords me the freedom to (every so often) skip out of town on Thursday night and spend a long weekend with family and friends.

Speaking of family, visiting my cousin is like giving a State of the Family address. When I'm here, I'm the emissary from New Jersey, and I actually take notes in advance so that I'm prepared to answer the questions I'm asked fairly and honestly. I need to know how EVERYONE is doing, from my Mom's neighbors to Murphy, my dog. To be honest, I enjoy this a lot.

My mom's side of the family is of the typical, hyper-extended Italian-American type. I have more cousins than I could name, and I wouldn't be able to pick 95% of them out of a lineup if I had to. Yes, we eat a lot of cold cuts. When I visit my cousins, I accept that I'm going to hear names that I've never heard before, and they will be somehow related to me. Sometimes -- and this is the most awkward -- they'll remember me and I'll have no clue who they are.

This will happen at any sort of social gathering, where some relative comes scampering up to me, telling me that they remembered when I was a baby or something similar to this (NOTE: Always, vaguely, like it's deserving of some sort of praise... what do I say, congratulations on fulfilling an average human life span? I'm never sure how to handle this.) I admit this flatters me, because I can't imagine my babyhood being a memorable event for anyone, except maybe my parents. So yeah, that's pretty cool, feeling important, you know.

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

In my quarter century on this earth (25th birthday coming soon), I've come to the conclusion that the "typical American family life" -- Mom, Dad, two kids, a dog, and lots of white bread and peanut butter -- is pretty much horseshit. In any random group of people (and yes, families are random groups of people, with genetics playing only a faint supporting role), there are bound to be lots of fuck-ups, a few great individuals, but mostly just people who live their lives and make their livings. But even the fuck-ups make families fun, because who else better to make fun of? And what better thing to make fun of, in general, than your own family?

I haven't met too many families in my life that I'm in awe of. Even the Kennedys had a fucked-up sister who was lobotomized and thrown in an institution. And there are times that being in my family in particular pisses me off. But on nights like tonight, thick with laughter and good stories and jokes and smoke, everything is kinda OK.

All right, commence the making fun of me in the "Comments" section below. I'm looking forward to it, and in a sense I kinda deserve it. I'm such a little girl (except for when I'm writing about gambling or sports). Stay classy.

My Fantasy (Football) Life

I'm the proud commissioner of the Psych Department's fantasy football league, and by "proud" I actually mean "incompetent." I admit that I have absolutely no idea how to manage a fantasy football league. (For example, typically FFB leagues are set up "head-to-head", which means each week you play a different player's "team" in order to decide a winner. I mistakenly set up my league so that "points" determine who wins overall. This makes FFB 90% less fun, which is fitting because I am comfortably in 9th place out of ten teams in my league.) I took on the task only because nobody else wanted to do it, and I know it would never get done if I weren't doing it... so I did it.

I love it when friends ask each other for advice on their fantasy team. Nobody knows what they're doing when it comes to fantasy football -- so just pick the best players you can, from the best teams that you can. There are some stastical trends I've noticed, like the superiority of picking an OK player from a good team over a good player from a bad team. But besides that, it's a crapshoot. Who outside of Atlanta knew who Michael Turner was before he blew up for 304 yards in Week 1? I sure as hell didn't. I picked a fantasy team that would have been awesome in 2005.

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

I'm not going to debate politics on this blog, but I picked up the 2001 edition of David Halberstam's "The Best and Brightest" yesterday at the library, because I've never read anything about the Vietnam War and, you know, I deserve some light bedtime reading. Anyway, if you get the chance, you should pick up this book, both for its contents and also for the introduction by Sen. John McCain. It's amazing how the past 7 years - and the necessity to pander to the conservative right - have completely changed his views on war. You should read it before you decide who to vote for (if you haven't decided yet). I really liked the pre-2008 John McCain.

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

Hey Brainpan, what do you think of the new Metallica CD? I haven't heard it yet...

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

Finally, consistent readers know that I like working on a college campus because, although I get a year older each September, the freshmen stay the same age. (NOTE: Giggity. Also, kind of annoying, because freshmen are really immature and behave like total retards most of the time.) But I now think that the provocative clothing by females has gone too far. Seriously, when did it become acceptable to wear only a towel around campus? I'm not complaining about thisper se, but if that were my 18-year-old daughter, she'd be chained to a radiator and fed gruel twice a week. In my modest opinion, ridiculously provocative clothing worn by females should be kept to either (a) the beach, or (b) situations where the immediate result is getting laid (e.g., a bar, a party, filming an adult video). College campuses aren't appropriate for this. Just saying.

Fantasy??? More like a second job...

So it’s been a while but I finally have something substantial to say. FOOTBALL! More specifically fantasy football. Like Gollem I love and hate the game. It consumes my entire life during the fall semester and during law school that is a very dangerous. Seriously I spend so much time checking my fantasy page that if it continues into my career someone’s constitutional rights may be at stake.

The first such obsession was the draft was when I saw Tom Brady available after all the popular running backs were taken. Of course I drafted the guy. Then of course, Murphy, that rat bastard, and his stupid law had to interfere. 5 minutes into the first game he goes and gets a season ending injury. GOOD FREAKING JOB. So now I’m last in my league, because I got 3 points from Brady instead of 33, and frantically changing my teams, instead of learning about federal income taxation exemptions.

In short, to the man that invented fantasy football die a terrible terrible death, and you should have a monument dedicated to your glory. But if I get sued for malpractice because some guy ended up in prison I’m citing you as the reason why.

The One-Track Sense of Humor

Greetings from the coffee table in my living room in Watertown, MA. It's been 9 days since the semester started, and already I've crunched 2 data sets, attended 2 classes, bought 2 high-def TV's (one was too small, and was returned), and had 2 too many heart-to-heart discussions that leave me wondering who I am and what I get wrong all the time. But that's not the point of this blog post, so let's move on.

Today was "Welcome-Back Reception" day in the Psychology department. This year's reception was nicer than last year's. The food was better (it was catered!), there was sparkling water and cheesecake, and every graduate student received a free poster case for all the conferences we're supposed to attend. (BTW, one of the things I really miss about having a real job is all the free stuff. Seriously, my girlfriend averages $100 per week in freebies at her job, and that's on top of an actual, you know, salary. But I digress.)

Later in the meeting, we all went around the meeting room and introduced ourselves to the entire department. Now, most of things I have to do in my daily life (e.g., shower, brush my teeth, drink anything except coffee and beer, not smoke cigarettes) are a giant pain in the ass. But you know what's a GIANT pain in the ass? Standing up in front of 60 people, clearing your throat, introducing yourself and explaining your research interests... every week.

A lot of things have gotten easier for me since I moved up here, 13 months ago. It's easier for me to handle being apart from my family and friends, et al. It's easier for me to tolerate the cold. But it's never gotten any easier for me to speak in public. I speed through talks at a breakneck speed, and I stammer when I have to say even the most rudimentary thing in front of a strange group. It's something I have to work on, and it reminds me -- as grad school does so well -- that I have a lot to learn.

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

But, that's not the point of this blog post, either. My point is that, if you were to attend this reception, you'd think you were watching the late George Carlin or some other brilliant stand-up comic. Literally every other thing that people said led to uproarious laughter, even though very few of the things people were saying were actually funny. And this brings me to my point: I'm starting to get sick and tired with how funny people think awkwardness is.

Of course, I blame TV for our infatuation with uncomfortable comedy. Specifically, I blame "The Office", the award-winning TV sitcom that epitomizes the phenomenon by making it so accessible that tens of millions of people think they can pull it off (but they can't). "The Office" is a very good show. It employs a staff of brilliant writers to create its episodes; one of the head writers is a Harvard grad who also moonlights as the chief blogger of Fire Joe Morgan, which was one of my favorite baseball blogs before the humor became too annoying for me to read it anymore.

On the surface, it makes sense that awkward humor is successful humor. It doesn't offend anyone per se, because it's harmless to the people who don't get it. It's sufficiently post-modern and meta, because the people who do get it can roll around in laughter and self-importance. (It just now dawned on me that nearly everyone who loves "The Office" is white -- this makes sense, because white people love thinking about the things they know that other people don't.)

My main problem with awkward humor is that it doesn't take risks -- in not being directly offensive, vulgar, or disgusting, it's so safe and predictable that it actually becomes not-quite-funny. In the game of humor craps, awkward humor is the "Pass" line.

Now, I realize that network TV and academic meetings are both constrained by the laws of common decency -- if someone were to try to do justice to the "Aristocrats" joke, for instance, in either situation, they'd be immediately fired. I also admit to liking shows like "The Office," where the awkward humor is particularly well done. But most people need to realize that (a) they're not funny, and (b) half the people who laugh at the stupid things they say are just trying to be polite. I don't even try to be polite -- I'll sit there stone-faced if I don't think something's funny. You have to earn my laughter, goddamnit.

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

Some of us on the Damaged, Inc. team went camping in the Adirondacks last month. We ate cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; we drank Labatt Blue and then went boating; and we smoked delicious cigars. We decided we'd chip in together and buy a house up there one day. (NOTE: Dudes, it's totally possible. I did a Google search for "Adirondacks real estate", and we can buy a really nice log cabin for about $100,000. We only need 10 percent for a down payment. Let's make this happen.) But because we "camped" in high style, we had cable TV and spent one 45-degree August night inside watching the Bob Saget roast on Comedy Central.

Gilbert Gottfried -- who, by the way, does a fantastic "Aristocrats" joke (N-even close to being-SFW) -- had a excellent and elegant joke, which simply consisted of him making references to Bob Saget not raping and murdering a teenager in 1990. Part of it was the delivery, part of it was that Gilbert Gottfried is just plain ridiculous. But essentially, it was good humor. Like having a taste for good Scotch, good cigars, or good women, it's an acquired taste, and you pretty much have to have the taste in order to understand it.

In short, most people do not have good taste, and are therefore losers who suck at life. (*NOTE: Yes, I am arguing that people who laugh at (good) jokes about raping and murdering teenagers have good taste. I am absolutely, 100% convinced this is the case. People who don't laugh at any good joke - regardless of content - need to get the stick out of their ass.) If these losers were more like the people who blog here, the world would be a much better place. Stay classy.

Giddy as a Schoolgirl

Excerpts from the table of contents to The Handbook of Zombie Emotions:
Chapter 1: Mm Braaaaaaaiiinnnsss
Chapter 2: Are you going to finish those brains?
Chapter 3: Dealing with feelings of remorse when eating family members

And so on. For the watchful blog reader, you may have noticed that I am a different blogger than the usual crew, and also female (not that it's unreasonable for any of these fine gentlemen to be giddy as a schoolgirl at any given time). I am extremely honored to be contributing as a guest, and can vouch for the Damaged, Inc. team as being one fine group of smart, quirky men who are utterly tolerable in many social situations. I am slightly partial to Freducate, being his girlfriend, but don't let that color your opinion.

I thought I would take this opportunity to share something that I recently imparted upon my current class of trainees. I am employed as a corporate sales trainer for a software reseller you've never heard of, and I take my duties quite seriously. Hehehe..."duty". Anyway, following a rant that I gave on the importance of taking lunch breaks, I proceeded to go on about why they should be grateful for the jobs they have. On an aside, for those people who "forget" to take lunch--I don't get those people. There are only about three good reasons I can think of for skipping lunch, including arson or plague, but being too busy is not one of them. So, back to the job pep talk, I thought I would share here a short list of reasons why your job, whatever it may be, probably doesn't suck nearly as much as you suspect.

1. Unless you work in some kind of landscaping or animal herding capacity, chances are you come in each day to a relatively climate-controlled, air-conditioned office. It may seem unnatural to be surrounded by flourescent lighting and small, strange walls serving to distinguish your area of desk, family photos, and useless chotchkes from the next guy's, but at the very least you are comfortable.

2. Think about the last time you complained about your job. Was it because your scroogish boss wouldn't let you leave for Christmas, or the felt in the hats you work with is making you insane, or that pesky King George just won't leave you honest-working colonists alone? No, it was probably something along the lines of "they don't pay me or appreciate me enough, and I'm not fulfilled in a spiritual way". Just the mere fact that we can complain about not being "fulfilled" is a privelege. It is indeed a luxury to not have to worry about putting food on the table, or a roof over our heads, or an XBox in every house and a reasonably priced sub-compact in our garages. So think about that the next time you sip coffee and allow yourself to stare wistfully out the window of the break room, dreaming of the day that you can finally take the time to write your novel/album/porno script. Heck, this is America--every red-blooded male, female, or other is entitled to that dream, but should remember that even having a dream is a luxury.

It just occured to me that this is slightly long-winded, so I'm going to cut it short. I'm sure I have other reasons for jobs not sucking to share, as well as plenty of reasons why it probably is awful and soul-draining, but those will have to wait for another day.

A heartfelt thanks to the Damanged, Inc. boys for letting me say my piece, and I hope everyone has a good weekend!

Love and ranting,
ARoll

On Grad School Life

I post about a lot of random stuff, and I realize that I almost never post about the thing that I spend the most of my time doing: being a grad student. I'm in my thirteenth month of graduate school now (NOTE: although, to be fair, I spent one month on a series of white-kid vacations), and I feel like I've learned enough about my work to run my electronic mouth a little bit. While you read what I have to say, I suggest that you listen to the new Metallica song "Cyanide," available streaming on their website here. Seriously, it's awesome, click on it.

The first thing I've learned is that graduate school brings together a bunch of large personalities belonging to very intelligent people. The second thing - closely related to the first - is that it's mostly impossible for large groups of intelligent people to get along with each other. Intelligent people are just too damned weird, and they care way too much about the quality of how they think. You know what happens when you start believing that you think the truth? You become a zealot, an evangelist, and an asshole. I think of my brain as a sensitive, but mostly stupid, instrument. When I get something right, I'm genuinely surprised. (*NOTE: Some of you might be thinking that I'm refuting my own argument by trying to get you to agree that the way I think is right. Doesn't that make me a zealot? Nope - I actually think what I just typed is wrong, and you shouldn't agree with me. So, there.)

The third thing I've learned is that I'm amazed at how little expertise really exists out there. I've worked with a group of really smart people over the past year, and it seems (to my uncultured mind) that what separates the most brilliant from the merely intelligent is not their speed of finding answers, but instead how quickly they shuffle through questions, seeming to have separated the bullshit from the real point in milliseconds. I cannot do this (yet), and it remains a sight to see. My undergraduate adviser once referred to academia as "intellectual sport," and if that is true, I am a poor man's Wilson Betemit.

The fourth thing is that I expected grad school to help me illuminate where I stand with respect to the rest of the (non-academic) world, but this hasn't really happened yet. If anything, I feel like I've fallen behind my actual money-making compadres in the "real world." Graduate school really makes me think about graduate school is about, and I'm not sure I have the answer yet. I think that it helps that grad school is a highly-controlled environment; I can make a lot of mistakes here that would get me fired from a real job. I think that it shows the world that I'm willing to put off reward in order to obtain a goal. But I'm not certain yet why it's necessary. I'm not sure why it's sufficient.

A week before flying to Albuquerque, New Mexico, this February for my first major academic conference, my adviser sat with me and we discussed what I would expect at the conference. She told me that if I noticed anyone "whose work I admired," I should ask her first if she knew them and get the OK, before I went up to them and... I imagine I would get down on my knees and "idolize" them? I don't know what I would do, and this is a very important aspect of who I am, I think. It's not that I don't admire certain people's work -- in fact, I do. And it's not that I have a problem with approaching people. I may not be the type to walk up to the hottest girl in the bar (which is OK, because I presently date the hottest girl in the bar), but in professional situations I can be very personable.

It's the interaction between the two that gets me. It's that I could never see myself going up to a strange researcher and talking shop for 30-45 minutes. What would be the point? As I mentioned earlier in this post, most academics are absolutely no fun to talk to. They're awkward, self-possessed, and incredibly elitist (one mistakenly thought I was a waiter and asked me to pour him a glass of champagne at a cocktail party). And as I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm terrible at small talk, and I do think that talking about research is "small talk." If a person can't figure out 99.9% of what they need to know from reading a researcher's journal articles, either the researcher sucks at writing or the reader sucks at reading.

And this, my friends, is why I would make a terrible academic.

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

If reactions are positive, I'll write more posts in the months to come about how grad school life goes. I do think it's an interesting chapter of my life, even if my average day consists of driving to an office, sitting at a computer, eating a Lean Cuisine, reading Deadspin and chatting on Facebook in between running analyses in SPSS and reading for class. Stay classy out there.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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


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

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.)

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

*********************************************************8

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.

*******************************************************8

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...

*******************************************************8

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.

*******************************************************8


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.