Shana Tovah, everybody! To celebrate, I went to the just-opened Panera across the street from my house and ordered a bagel with cream cheese. Then I went for seconds, because, honestly, that wasn't nearly enough. And I haggled. Bubbe would be proud.
I also plan on skipping class tomorrow because, well, if, after four years at Cornell, three at the Sun, and one and a half at law school, I'm not a member of the tribe, then nobody else is.
Now, to the Manischewitz!
L'Chaim!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Quote of the Day XVII
Republican vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin sought to silence those who have criticized her lack of foreign affairs experience Tuesday by announcing plans for a weeklong, 10-nation tour of Walt Disney World's Epcot. According to Palin, the trip—her first past Frontierland—will include speaking engagements at Norway's famous Viking ride, sausages at Germany's Kaufhaus, and, time permitting, a fact-finding mission to Future World.
--The Onion
Panic! at the Everywhere!
Imagine that there’s a little kid, with a bag of crap, trying to throw it and hit a huge fan. Problem is, the fan is way the heck up there and out of reach. Which is great because, honestly, even though you’re kind of intrigued to see what will happen, nobody wants to see that bag of crap hit the fan. But the kid keeps trying. He keeps lobbing that bag up there, wanting to hit the fan. He tries with all his might, but he still can’t hit the fan. When it looks like he’s actually going to hit the fan, up comes daddy with a tennis racquet to keep the bag of crap from hitting the fan.
And yet it seems that today, Monday, September 29, daddy missed and now the shit has finally hit the fan.
We don't need to panic. Yet. (Prods with toe). Oh man. (Keeps Prodding). Oh no. (Grabs stick. Actually Pokes). Crap, guys, I think the market is dead. I think we killed it.
What to do?
NOBODY PANIC. EVERYONE NEEDS TO KEEP THEIR COMPOSURE. WE CAN’T HAVE ANYBODY FREAK OUT RIGHT NOW. WE HAVE TO KEEP IT TOGETHER!
(Deep breath)
IT’S NOT WORKING! OHMYGOD THE MARKET IS DEAD, GUYS! WE KILLED THE MARKET! PANIC! EVERYBODY PANIC! SCREAM! THERE’S NO TIME TO SAVE YOUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN! EVERYONE GET OFF THE BOAT! GET OFF THE BOAT! AND WHY THE BLAZES IS THE BAND STILL PLAYING?
So the world as we know it is likely over. What does this mean?
We, as a society, will soon become lawless. Ironically, lawyers, who make their living mostly by figuring out ways to make the law not apply to their clients, will lose their relevancy when they get their wish and the laws finally apply to no one.
Rapidly obsolete, and with no actual life or survival skills, the future for us looks bleak. Society faces imminent collapse, and nobody knows where this will go. Perhaps we will revert to the barter system. In that case, we could trade for food. But what will we trade? Neckties? God knows you can’t eat Brooks Brothers. In this brave new world, all lawyers have is the “ability” to distinguish proximate cause from factual cause and a closet full of shiny nooses.
So I’m afraid there’s not much left but to resort to cannibalism. In that case, I suggest we eat the skinny ones first. The fat ones will last longer.
And yet it seems that today, Monday, September 29, daddy missed and now the shit has finally hit the fan.
We don't need to panic. Yet. (Prods with toe). Oh man. (Keeps Prodding). Oh no. (Grabs stick. Actually Pokes). Crap, guys, I think the market is dead. I think we killed it.
What to do?
NOBODY PANIC. EVERYONE NEEDS TO KEEP THEIR COMPOSURE. WE CAN’T HAVE ANYBODY FREAK OUT RIGHT NOW. WE HAVE TO KEEP IT TOGETHER!
(Deep breath)
IT’S NOT WORKING! OHMYGOD THE MARKET IS DEAD, GUYS! WE KILLED THE MARKET! PANIC! EVERYBODY PANIC! SCREAM! THERE’S NO TIME TO SAVE YOUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN! EVERYONE GET OFF THE BOAT! GET OFF THE BOAT! AND WHY THE BLAZES IS THE BAND STILL PLAYING?
So the world as we know it is likely over. What does this mean?
We, as a society, will soon become lawless. Ironically, lawyers, who make their living mostly by figuring out ways to make the law not apply to their clients, will lose their relevancy when they get their wish and the laws finally apply to no one.
Rapidly obsolete, and with no actual life or survival skills, the future for us looks bleak. Society faces imminent collapse, and nobody knows where this will go. Perhaps we will revert to the barter system. In that case, we could trade for food. But what will we trade? Neckties? God knows you can’t eat Brooks Brothers. In this brave new world, all lawyers have is the “ability” to distinguish proximate cause from factual cause and a closet full of shiny nooses.
So I’m afraid there’s not much left but to resort to cannibalism. In that case, I suggest we eat the skinny ones first. The fat ones will last longer.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Gambling with the Maverick
The NYT recently ran a story about McCain's ties to the gambling industry. As such, I feel obliged to share the account of the time I gambled with McCain in the gorgeous city of Las Vegas.
It was like any otherday night indeterminate part of the day in Las Vegas. I had just regained consciousness after a night of siphoning watered-down whiskey at the two dollar blackjack tables. After ascertaining that this was, indeed, my hotel room, I heard knocking on the door.
A knock on the door in Vegas is rarely good news, unless you have ordered room service or a skank. Being sure I had ordered neither, nor both, I immediately hid under the covers. Within minutes, the door was broken down and two secret service agents rushed into the room.
Not again. When I groaned and retreated into a fetus position, they informed me that my country needed me, and that McCain wanted to gamble. With me. Me? I asked. Yes, they said. Really? I asked. Yes, they repeated. Can I shower first? I asked. Please, they replied.
After emerging from the shower, I was immediately whisked away to meet with McCain. He seemed eager to gamble, if a bit impetuous. He kept repeating how we have to "drop the bomb on them." I reminded him (he had to be reminded of a lot of things) that there were cameras everywhere, that they'd see us coming, and that, if we dropped even one bomb, no matter where, every casino on the Strip would hate us. And nothing good can come of that. All he said in response was, "I'm the Maverick, bitches! Yee-haw!" and walked away laughing.
We hit many of the casinos in town, with the exception of Mandalay Bay. What I remember most vividly, though, was this lady in McCain’s entourage. She seemed, to be polite, a little overwhelmed. At the craps table, I asked who she was, and they told me that she was supposed to step in, if, for some reason, McCain was unable to continue gambling. Really? I asked. They shrugged. I looked at her and she was watching the craps table with the same expression I imagine I’d have if someone was explaining non-Euclidean mathematics to me. Something like a hopeless smile being assaulted by an irresistible urge to scream. So I went and asked her why she’d be good at craps. Her syntax was iffy, and, if written down, the answer would not be in proper English, but she said something about how she had a game of Monopoly at home, and that involved throwing dice.
With that, our luck started to change. Suddenly, there was no money left. We were playing on casino credit for a while, but then it seems we overdrew, and I told McCain not to use Circus Circus credit, but he didn’t listen, and then Circus Circus collapsed because nobody goes to it, because, really, who goes to a casino called Circus Circus, so all of a sudden, we owed all this money to the Venetian, but our credit was useless, except, for a moment, it seemed like Caesar’s was going to buy our debt, but they reneged, and so we were all in the lurch, and well, being in Vegas without money is like Armageddon.
So I turned to McCain. He’s been around for hundreds of years. He’d know what to do. I asked him what the plan was. What he proposed flabbergasted me.
He wanted to suspend gambling! He wanted to step aside and sit a few plays out! In Vegas! When down! He wanted to stop gambling when he still owed the house money!
In Vegas, I explained to him, loudly and slowly, you’re supposed to try to win money. That’s why you’re here. If you’re starting to lose money, you try to make some more. You don’t suspend the gambling. When the chips are down, you keep going.
Fair enough, he said. Then he said he needed to go get his contacts out in his room, and he’d be right back. Of course, he never came back.
What happened, John? You used to be cool.
It was like any other
A knock on the door in Vegas is rarely good news, unless you have ordered room service or a skank. Being sure I had ordered neither, nor both, I immediately hid under the covers. Within minutes, the door was broken down and two secret service agents rushed into the room.
Not again. When I groaned and retreated into a fetus position, they informed me that my country needed me, and that McCain wanted to gamble. With me. Me? I asked. Yes, they said. Really? I asked. Yes, they repeated. Can I shower first? I asked. Please, they replied.
After emerging from the shower, I was immediately whisked away to meet with McCain. He seemed eager to gamble, if a bit impetuous. He kept repeating how we have to "drop the bomb on them." I reminded him (he had to be reminded of a lot of things) that there were cameras everywhere, that they'd see us coming, and that, if we dropped even one bomb, no matter where, every casino on the Strip would hate us. And nothing good can come of that. All he said in response was, "I'm the Maverick, bitches! Yee-haw!" and walked away laughing.
We hit many of the casinos in town, with the exception of Mandalay Bay. What I remember most vividly, though, was this lady in McCain’s entourage. She seemed, to be polite, a little overwhelmed. At the craps table, I asked who she was, and they told me that she was supposed to step in, if, for some reason, McCain was unable to continue gambling. Really? I asked. They shrugged. I looked at her and she was watching the craps table with the same expression I imagine I’d have if someone was explaining non-Euclidean mathematics to me. Something like a hopeless smile being assaulted by an irresistible urge to scream. So I went and asked her why she’d be good at craps. Her syntax was iffy, and, if written down, the answer would not be in proper English, but she said something about how she had a game of Monopoly at home, and that involved throwing dice.
With that, our luck started to change. Suddenly, there was no money left. We were playing on casino credit for a while, but then it seems we overdrew, and I told McCain not to use Circus Circus credit, but he didn’t listen, and then Circus Circus collapsed because nobody goes to it, because, really, who goes to a casino called Circus Circus, so all of a sudden, we owed all this money to the Venetian, but our credit was useless, except, for a moment, it seemed like Caesar’s was going to buy our debt, but they reneged, and so we were all in the lurch, and well, being in Vegas without money is like Armageddon.
So I turned to McCain. He’s been around for hundreds of years. He’d know what to do. I asked him what the plan was. What he proposed flabbergasted me.
He wanted to suspend gambling! He wanted to step aside and sit a few plays out! In Vegas! When down! He wanted to stop gambling when he still owed the house money!
In Vegas, I explained to him, loudly and slowly, you’re supposed to try to win money. That’s why you’re here. If you’re starting to lose money, you try to make some more. You don’t suspend the gambling. When the chips are down, you keep going.
Fair enough, he said. Then he said he needed to go get his contacts out in his room, and he’d be right back. Of course, he never came back.
What happened, John? You used to be cool.
Updike Hearts Ted Williams
If you like writing, or the sport of baseball, I beseech you, read this. It is an account of Ted Williams, and his last game at Fenway Park, penned by none other than John Updike. It'll take fifteen minutes, worth it because every other paragraph has a sentence like this:
[T]he second baseman turned every grounder into a juggling act, the shortstop did a breathtaking impersonation of an open window.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Why I Need a Wife
Quote of the Day XVI
I had a real "Who's on First" moment with the New Kids on the Block. My friend asked me, "Hey, have you seen the New Kids on the Block yet?" And I said, "No, when did they move in?"
-- Wernick
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Classholes Assemble!
This is something that has bothered me for a while.
Every law school in this country has students who pride themselves in being insufferable know-it-alls. Always ready to venture the wrong answer, they happily volunteer information, marching resolutely with hands raised high towards the collective hatred of everyone else.
In polite conversations, students at most law schools call them gunners. At the tower of terror, we call them classholes. And isn't that a much better term? Isn't it more descriptive, more evocative, more representative of them, that certain special class of assholes? Doesn't it just roll off the tongue? And it can be a chant! As soon as one raises his hand, across the room, ever growing:
Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole! Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole! Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole!
Unfortunately, a quick survey of people across other law schools confirmed that, not only did they use the term "gunner," they'd never even heard of classholes. And, as Manji said, gunner is time-tested and traditional. But gunner sounds to me like an expendable sidekick in a Clint Eastwood movie. Which would be completely awesome. And that's exactly why the term "gunner" is wrong, because it shouldn't have a connotation even remotely resembling the guy who helps Dirty Harry put bullet holes in people.
Manji, in his infinite wisdom, has taken to pronouncing it as "goon-air." Why? "Because it sounds French, so it makes it worse." I completely agree with this sentiment and applaud the effort. For those refusing to give up the term, it's certainly a viable course of action.
However, I am asking people at other law schools to help spread the lore of the classhole. Try it out. Tell your friends. Spread the word, gentlemen. Tell them how to bring those sonsofbitches down.
Every law school in this country has students who pride themselves in being insufferable know-it-alls. Always ready to venture the wrong answer, they happily volunteer information, marching resolutely with hands raised high towards the collective hatred of everyone else.
In polite conversations, students at most law schools call them gunners. At the tower of terror, we call them classholes. And isn't that a much better term? Isn't it more descriptive, more evocative, more representative of them, that certain special class of assholes? Doesn't it just roll off the tongue? And it can be a chant! As soon as one raises his hand, across the room, ever growing:
Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole! Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole! Claaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasshole!
Unfortunately, a quick survey of people across other law schools confirmed that, not only did they use the term "gunner," they'd never even heard of classholes. And, as Manji said, gunner is time-tested and traditional. But gunner sounds to me like an expendable sidekick in a Clint Eastwood movie. Which would be completely awesome. And that's exactly why the term "gunner" is wrong, because it shouldn't have a connotation even remotely resembling the guy who helps Dirty Harry put bullet holes in people.
Manji, in his infinite wisdom, has taken to pronouncing it as "goon-air." Why? "Because it sounds French, so it makes it worse." I completely agree with this sentiment and applaud the effort. For those refusing to give up the term, it's certainly a viable course of action.
However, I am asking people at other law schools to help spread the lore of the classhole. Try it out. Tell your friends. Spread the word, gentlemen. Tell them how to bring those sonsofbitches down.
Quote of the Day XV
I really want to hear what you think. But we don't have time.
-- My M&A Professor
Monday, September 22, 2008
I'm Melting
While the rest of Boston suffers through an unseasonably early fall (No matter what that liar "the Calendar" says, I won't believe summer is dead until I see the body), the temperatures in the law tower are soaring, and there seems to be no end in sight. The mercury is at 125 degrees and rapidly climbing.
The humidity in here has caused my hair to Jewfro up at an alarming rate. This only happens in Cancun and saunas. And the schvitzing! The heavy, heavy schvitzing. It's not meatschvitzes heavy, but close enough that I'm slowly dehydrating to death.
They really have to fix this. I'd love to volunteer to throw classholes out the window, if only to create a breeze, but I'm not sure that will work. The windows, like the goggles, they do nothing. They sit there, open and useless, like the diversity arches of yore.
Oh my god. It is boiling. This has to stop. OK. I'm taking my shirt off. If y'all hear of a riot at the tower of terror, this was probably the cause.
The humidity in here has caused my hair to Jewfro up at an alarming rate. This only happens in Cancun and saunas. And the schvitzing! The heavy, heavy schvitzing. It's not meatschvitzes heavy, but close enough that I'm slowly dehydrating to death.
They really have to fix this. I'd love to volunteer to throw classholes out the window, if only to create a breeze, but I'm not sure that will work. The windows, like the goggles, they do nothing. They sit there, open and useless, like the diversity arches of yore.
Oh my god. It is boiling. This has to stop. OK. I'm taking my shirt off. If y'all hear of a riot at the tower of terror, this was probably the cause.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Quote of the Day XIV
Greenberg [of AIG], two years ago, his shares were worth eleven billion dollars. Now they're only worth nine hundred million. You have to feel sorry for the guy.
-- My M&A professor
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Quote of the Day XIII
For your citizenship party, can we have a theme party where we all dress Mexican, and you dress up like an American?
--Kristen
I Wish I Could Celebrate Today
Happy Citizenship Day, everybody! In the great tradition of all non-citizens, I will spend the day sighing and looking wistfully out the window. Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Worrying about Murders and Executions
Is it a good or bad sign that my Corporations professor has sat in on every one of my Mergers & Acquisitions classes with a confused look on his face?
I don't know if this is the product of the Corporations professor not understanding, or the result of the M&A professor being unclear. Either or, it does not inspire confidence. So isn't this like having your regular doctor sit in on your visits to a neurologist, and do nothing but sit there and look worried? Should I also be worried?
I don't know if this is the product of the Corporations professor not understanding, or the result of the M&A professor being unclear. Either or, it does not inspire confidence. So isn't this like having your regular doctor sit in on your visits to a neurologist, and do nothing but sit there and look worried? Should I also be worried?
Monday, September 15, 2008
Have the Mexicans Stopped Screaming?
I have just been reminded that tonight is Independence Day in Mexico, a fairly big deal. It is, in fact, a bigger deal than Cinco de Mayo.
This has always bothered me. Cinco de Mayo, despite being nowhere near as important as Independence Day, has always been more commercially successful in the United States.
Why is it more important? Independence Day marks the anniversary of the beginning of the struggle of independence from the Spanish overlords. (As a fun side note, in Mexico, the beginning of the fight is what people celebrate. In the United States, everyone celebrates the end of the fight. This small but significant detail may explain my affinity for doling out headlocks while drunk.) In any case, on the night of the 15th/morning of the 16th of 1810, a pissed-off priest ascended the stairs of the tallest Catholic church in Dolores Hidalgo and sounded "El Grito," or the call to arms via church bell. Every time you cry "Viva Villa!" "Viva la Revolucion!" or "Viva Tequila!" you are cribbing from this guy.
Tonight, in Mexico, every head of the executive will go out to the seat of his own jurisdiction and imitate this cry. This includes the President in the Main Square of Mexico City. Some crazy people do this too.*
Cinco de Mayo, on the other hand, is a mere commemoration of a victory against the French Army. Whoop-dee-freaking-doo. In Europe, they call it "Friday."
But I guess I shouldn't complain. Any excuse to start the night off with tequila is fine by me. When otherwise sane American women put on Mexican hats and scream CINCO DE DRINKO, well, that's what sharing one's heritage is all about.
So, if you hear random Mexicans yelling at you tonight, they are not trying to be inappropriate. Probably. So just smile, give them a little space and run for your lives.
*Addendum. I have been informed that most of my readership does not read Spanish. Lopez Obrador is the guy who lost the presidential election in 2006. He does not accept this, and, for the last 2 years, has been calling himself the "legitimate president" and roaming the country trying to institute a revolution. Imagine, if you will, Al Gore, in a fit of hubris, touring the Northeast, holding rallies, trying to organize grassroots movement, and letting loose a flood of propaganda aimed at the legitimization of his goals. Except he calls himself president.
This has always bothered me. Cinco de Mayo, despite being nowhere near as important as Independence Day, has always been more commercially successful in the United States.
Why is it more important? Independence Day marks the anniversary of the beginning of the struggle of independence from the Spanish overlords. (As a fun side note, in Mexico, the beginning of the fight is what people celebrate. In the United States, everyone celebrates the end of the fight. This small but significant detail may explain my affinity for doling out headlocks while drunk.) In any case, on the night of the 15th/morning of the 16th of 1810, a pissed-off priest ascended the stairs of the tallest Catholic church in Dolores Hidalgo and sounded "El Grito," or the call to arms via church bell. Every time you cry "Viva Villa!" "Viva la Revolucion!" or "Viva Tequila!" you are cribbing from this guy.
Tonight, in Mexico, every head of the executive will go out to the seat of his own jurisdiction and imitate this cry. This includes the President in the Main Square of Mexico City. Some crazy people do this too.*
Cinco de Mayo, on the other hand, is a mere commemoration of a victory against the French Army. Whoop-dee-freaking-doo. In Europe, they call it "Friday."
But I guess I shouldn't complain. Any excuse to start the night off with tequila is fine by me. When otherwise sane American women put on Mexican hats and scream CINCO DE DRINKO, well, that's what sharing one's heritage is all about.
So, if you hear random Mexicans yelling at you tonight, they are not trying to be inappropriate. Probably. So just smile, give them a little space and run for your lives.
*Addendum. I have been informed that most of my readership does not read Spanish. Lopez Obrador is the guy who lost the presidential election in 2006. He does not accept this, and, for the last 2 years, has been calling himself the "legitimate president" and roaming the country trying to institute a revolution. Imagine, if you will, Al Gore, in a fit of hubris, touring the Northeast, holding rallies, trying to organize grassroots movement, and letting loose a flood of propaganda aimed at the legitimization of his goals. Except he calls himself president.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Quote of the Day XII
What is with the guy jumping overboard? If he had just waited and heard what I had to say, he would be motivated right now, and not all wet.
-- Michael Scott
Crusin' for a Boozin'
There are three reasons I consider the yearly law school booze cruise a success.
1. The boat did not sink. If you think that fights for elevator space in the Tower of Terror are nasty, imagine hordes of law students fighting for a spot in a life boat. I guarantee you that, if the Titanic had gone down today, lawyers for Leonardo DiCaprio's estate would have found a way to either press manslaughter charges on Rose or sue her for wrongful death.
2. No one was thrown off the boat. Several candidates made a case for walking the plank, but my attorneys advised me that this could be construed as attempted murder, in the case of those who can swim, and, well, plain old murder in the case of those who can't. And, although we also might have been close to international waters or, as Homer Simpson put it, "the land that law forgot," having every hand on deck was probably the correct decision. This is probably for the best, since yelling "Man overboard!" is a special occasion, best left to headline next year's booze cruise, which will also be the last. Also, not tossing someone in the drink helps assure that next year will have a booze cruise.
3. They did not turn the boat around. I hear rumors that there was a close call due to unspecified circumstances. Thankfully, the sky showed no sign of flares, and no distress signals were sounded. Sending the boat back would also surely be an overreaction, would it not? Isn't that what the brig is for? Let's say you're at a wedding, OK? And the bride managed not to cry, and nobody's boob fell out, and you made it through the ceremony without throwing up, and everything is going swimmingly, but then Uncle Jack gets up and his toast involves seven different curses you've never heard before, ever, and oh my god, is he trying to throw cake at the groom? What happens then? YOU DO NOT CANCEL THE WEDDING! You grab Uncle Jim and Uncle Charlie and you forcibly remove Uncle Jack from the floor and tie and gag him in the basement, making sure to check on him periodically to make sure Uncle Jack will be regretting his actions tomorrow. One minor incident doesn't mean things need to escalate quickly... excuse me one second ... Uncle Jack is what?
1. The boat did not sink. If you think that fights for elevator space in the Tower of Terror are nasty, imagine hordes of law students fighting for a spot in a life boat. I guarantee you that, if the Titanic had gone down today, lawyers for Leonardo DiCaprio's estate would have found a way to either press manslaughter charges on Rose or sue her for wrongful death.
2. No one was thrown off the boat. Several candidates made a case for walking the plank, but my attorneys advised me that this could be construed as attempted murder, in the case of those who can swim, and, well, plain old murder in the case of those who can't. And, although we also might have been close to international waters or, as Homer Simpson put it, "the land that law forgot," having every hand on deck was probably the correct decision. This is probably for the best, since yelling "Man overboard!" is a special occasion, best left to headline next year's booze cruise, which will also be the last. Also, not tossing someone in the drink helps assure that next year will have a booze cruise.
3. They did not turn the boat around. I hear rumors that there was a close call due to unspecified circumstances. Thankfully, the sky showed no sign of flares, and no distress signals were sounded. Sending the boat back would also surely be an overreaction, would it not? Isn't that what the brig is for? Let's say you're at a wedding, OK? And the bride managed not to cry, and nobody's boob fell out, and you made it through the ceremony without throwing up, and everything is going swimmingly, but then Uncle Jack gets up and his toast involves seven different curses you've never heard before, ever, and oh my god, is he trying to throw cake at the groom? What happens then? YOU DO NOT CANCEL THE WEDDING! You grab Uncle Jim and Uncle Charlie and you forcibly remove Uncle Jack from the floor and tie and gag him in the basement, making sure to check on him periodically to make sure Uncle Jack will be regretting his actions tomorrow. One minor incident doesn't mean things need to escalate quickly... excuse me one second ... Uncle Jack is what?
The Meatshakes
Some will remember a day in the late Spring of 07. The day began with a tailgate for a Cornell Lacrosse game, where I drank and ate pretty much non-stop for several hours in the May sun. That was followed by an end-of-the-year dinner at Maxie's, Ithaca's premier Cajun restaurant. I say this, of course, without a trace of irony.
At Maxie's, I had Cajun shrimp, half a roll of cornbread, and a whole slab of ribs. Midway through this meal, I suffered through an almost fatal case of the meatsweats. I'm talking actual dripping, a five-napkin brow wipe and puddles in my shoes. At some point, Caitlin, who had the misfortune of being seated in front of me, grew concerned enough to suggest that I stop eating, presumably so there wouldn't be a medical emergency on the premises. Like all good advice, I ignored it, proceeded to (barely) finish the meal, and then fell into a five hournap state of unconsciousness.
I thought that such a deluge would never be topped. I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
A new BBQ restaurant opened in Boston last week, and, like Oliver Twist, there I was, plate in hand, asking for more more more. Craft beer, BBQ Ribs and Brisket. There is no such thing as too much of a good thing, right?
Well, a full rack, an ear of corn on the cob, a thing of cornbread, a share of wings and sweet potato fries, and two beers are terrific things, but far too much. Far more than is healthy. I went Hannibal Lecter on the food. Forget the meatsweats, this time I also had the meatshakes. My hands were shaking. I started to black out at some point. It took almost 30 minutes of sustained, silent eating, but I finished every last scrap of food on my plates. In my zeal, I had to be forcibly restrained from eating the bones.
That last one is a lie, but no person should eat like this. I was still in a quasi-daze the next day. It was very worth it, if only because I learned that everything has a limit, including eating. On the plus side, I did not have dessert, so at least I was being healthy that way.
OK. Time for a second dinner. Cheers.
At Maxie's, I had Cajun shrimp, half a roll of cornbread, and a whole slab of ribs. Midway through this meal, I suffered through an almost fatal case of the meatsweats. I'm talking actual dripping, a five-napkin brow wipe and puddles in my shoes. At some point, Caitlin, who had the misfortune of being seated in front of me, grew concerned enough to suggest that I stop eating, presumably so there wouldn't be a medical emergency on the premises. Like all good advice, I ignored it, proceeded to (barely) finish the meal, and then fell into a five hour
I thought that such a deluge would never be topped. I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
A new BBQ restaurant opened in Boston last week, and, like Oliver Twist, there I was, plate in hand, asking for more more more. Craft beer, BBQ Ribs and Brisket. There is no such thing as too much of a good thing, right?
Well, a full rack, an ear of corn on the cob, a thing of cornbread, a share of wings and sweet potato fries, and two beers are terrific things, but far too much. Far more than is healthy. I went Hannibal Lecter on the food. Forget the meatsweats, this time I also had the meatshakes. My hands were shaking. I started to black out at some point. It took almost 30 minutes of sustained, silent eating, but I finished every last scrap of food on my plates. In my zeal, I had to be forcibly restrained from eating the bones.
That last one is a lie, but no person should eat like this. I was still in a quasi-daze the next day. It was very worth it, if only because I learned that everything has a limit, including eating. On the plus side, I did not have dessert, so at least I was being healthy that way.
OK. Time for a second dinner. Cheers.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Quote of the Day XI
The only monster here is the gambling monster that has enslaved your mother! I call him Gamblor and it's time to snatch your mother from his neon claws!
-- Homer
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Random Video of the Day XII
BAJAJAJAJAJAJA
UPDATE: Here's a fun game. Count the Mexicans. And try not to lose count.
UPDATE: Here's a fun game. Count the Mexicans. And try not to lose count.
Why I Don't go to the Doctor
After yesterday's Hans Moleman imitation, I received good news today in that the mole was benign and no more dangerous than Dennis Kucinich in a fistfight. I am compeltely healthy* and now all I have to deal with is the hole in my forehead, which everyone seems to think came from a birthday bar fight. But the hole, unlike the tattoo of Snoopy I got on my [redacted], will go away eventually. So yay.
*Liver excluded
The reason I hate going to doctors is that they inevitably ask questions I don't want to answer.
Doctor: So do you smoke?
Charlie: Nope.
D: Do drugs?
C: No.
D: Drink?
C: Yes.
D: You drink?
C: Yes.
D: How much would you say you drink?
C: ... a lot.
D: How much is a lot?
C: Too much?
D: That's not an answer. Give me a number.
C: I honestly don't know.
D: Then count.
C: It really is a lot.
D: OK. Per week, what are we talking about here?
C: Um...
D: Five?
C: (Laughs)
D: Ten? ... Fifteen? ... Twenty?
C: Um...
D: More than twenty a week? Thirty?
C: ...
D: (Concerned) More?
C: (Shrugs)
D: (Kind of amazed and repulsed at the same time) Wow.
C: We play a lot of beer pong ...
D: Hold on, I have some brochures I need to give you.
*Liver excluded
The reason I hate going to doctors is that they inevitably ask questions I don't want to answer.
Doctor: So do you smoke?
Charlie: Nope.
D: Do drugs?
C: No.
D: Drink?
C: Yes.
D: You drink?
C: Yes.
D: How much would you say you drink?
C: ... a lot.
D: How much is a lot?
C: Too much?
D: That's not an answer. Give me a number.
C: I honestly don't know.
D: Then count.
C: It really is a lot.
D: OK. Per week, what are we talking about here?
C: Um...
D: Five?
C: (Laughs)
D: Ten? ... Fifteen? ... Twenty?
C: Um...
D: More than twenty a week? Thirty?
C: ...
D: (Concerned) More?
C: (Shrugs)
D: (Kind of amazed and repulsed at the same time) Wow.
C: We play a lot of beer pong ...
D: Hold on, I have some brochures I need to give you.
The Great Siege of Collegetown
One of the more terrible news items yesterday involved Cornell University. What in common parlance was referred to as The Bar had its liquor license suspended for ten days. In a stunning development, Rulloff's, incredibly, tragically, catastrophically, cannot serve alcohol for ten full days.
Granted, this is not permanent. An order permanently enjoining The Bar from dispensing life blood to hundreds of thirsty citizens would be nothing short of apocalyptic. Thankfully, this did not happen, and all we are left with is a ten day siege in which people have to find something else to do on any given night.
Rulloff's was a bar I went to every day. Literally, without exaggeration, every day of the week. And I was not alone. Everyone went there, and it was one of the great pleasures of college to know you could walk into Rulloff's on any given night and know who to expect, when to expect them, and how drunk they'd probably be. That and $2 Dos Equis. With the possible exceptions of the Sun office and perhaps Olin Cafe, I cannot think of a place I miss more from college. Which is why this news hit me so hard. And, for the record, I was not crying for six hours. It just rained. On my face. For six hours.
I mean, what the hell would I do if I was in Ithaca right now and could not go to Rulloff's for ten days? I mean, I could go anyway, but without beer, the place would hardly be the same. It'd be like Nachos without cheese. Law students without anxiety. Drinking without crying. This is change we can't believe in.
Admittedly, I could have just refrained from going and used ten days to detox and do homework. This would have not only helped my GPA, but would also have helped forestall the four day quasi-coma I suffered through the week after graduation. But let's face it. Senior year I wasn't doing anything anyway and college is so short you can't really afford to take a night off.
So I guess I could have just gone to another bar, but God. Isn't that like cheating on your wife just because she has mono? This would be betrayal of Farve-ian proportions.
Plus, I keep getting these visions. Going to the Palms at 10 and kind of just sitting there, wondering where the hell everyone is and what that smell could mean, all while paying egregious prices that escalate by the hour. We could go to Johnny O's, but, um, no. Dino's would be an option, if the sketchy owner wasn't dating a high school girl and thus obliged to let in girls who are not only underage, but also illegal. Dunbar's is nice, but not let's go there 10 nights in a row nice. And Chapter House, well, do you really want to walk up that hill at 1 a.m.?
The thought of no Rulloff's for almost two weeks is almost too unbearable to, um, bear. Tomorrow, I will pour one out for the temporary loss of so eminent an establishment. And praying. Oh my God, I'll be praying so hard, even Jesus will be uncomfortable. But, after a couple of $5 pitchers, the big guy will probably understand why.
Granted, this is not permanent. An order permanently enjoining The Bar from dispensing life blood to hundreds of thirsty citizens would be nothing short of apocalyptic. Thankfully, this did not happen, and all we are left with is a ten day siege in which people have to find something else to do on any given night.
Rulloff's was a bar I went to every day. Literally, without exaggeration, every day of the week. And I was not alone. Everyone went there, and it was one of the great pleasures of college to know you could walk into Rulloff's on any given night and know who to expect, when to expect them, and how drunk they'd probably be. That and $2 Dos Equis. With the possible exceptions of the Sun office and perhaps Olin Cafe, I cannot think of a place I miss more from college. Which is why this news hit me so hard. And, for the record, I was not crying for six hours. It just rained. On my face. For six hours.
I mean, what the hell would I do if I was in Ithaca right now and could not go to Rulloff's for ten days? I mean, I could go anyway, but without beer, the place would hardly be the same. It'd be like Nachos without cheese. Law students without anxiety. Drinking without crying. This is change we can't believe in.
Admittedly, I could have just refrained from going and used ten days to detox and do homework. This would have not only helped my GPA, but would also have helped forestall the four day quasi-coma I suffered through the week after graduation. But let's face it. Senior year I wasn't doing anything anyway and college is so short you can't really afford to take a night off.
So I guess I could have just gone to another bar, but God. Isn't that like cheating on your wife just because she has mono? This would be betrayal of Farve-ian proportions.
Plus, I keep getting these visions. Going to the Palms at 10 and kind of just sitting there, wondering where the hell everyone is and what that smell could mean, all while paying egregious prices that escalate by the hour. We could go to Johnny O's, but, um, no. Dino's would be an option, if the sketchy owner wasn't dating a high school girl and thus obliged to let in girls who are not only underage, but also illegal. Dunbar's is nice, but not let's go there 10 nights in a row nice. And Chapter House, well, do you really want to walk up that hill at 1 a.m.?
The thought of no Rulloff's for almost two weeks is almost too unbearable to, um, bear. Tomorrow, I will pour one out for the temporary loss of so eminent an establishment. And praying. Oh my God, I'll be praying so hard, even Jesus will be uncomfortable. But, after a couple of $5 pitchers, the big guy will probably understand why.
Quote of the Day X
I'll have a vanilla... one of those vanilla bullshit things. You know, whatever you want, some vanilla bullshit latte cappa thing. Whatever you got.
-- Larry David
Monday, September 8, 2008
Fine, Call it Guacamole
So, over the weekend, I noticed that the mole in my forehead had swelled up. One night it was nice and flat and toned, the next it looked like a governor's baby's belly. Being that this is a mole, and, like a model, it really shouldn't change in shape, size or tone, I had it checked out.
And I'm happy to report that the mole is not there anymore. If I was once Cindy Crawford, I am now Heidi Klum. The mole has been removed, excised and herewith banished. The doctor went INS on its ass and, after a stopover in a lab, it is likely to go back from whence it came.
The problem is, now I have a huge hole on my forehead. It looks like I was shot in the head. Given the terrible news today, I just want to go on the record to state that I did not attempt to commit suicide over either this or this. The hole is intentional, it is occasioned by medicine, and should disappear in the next couple of weeks.
I have to say, though, that this scar, coupled with the gashes in my hand I obtained earlier this summer because of an unfortunatecooking accident bear attack, means chicks will henceforth dig me. Now if only I knew any.
And I'm happy to report that the mole is not there anymore. If I was once Cindy Crawford, I am now Heidi Klum. The mole has been removed, excised and herewith banished. The doctor went INS on its ass and, after a stopover in a lab, it is likely to go back from whence it came.
The problem is, now I have a huge hole on my forehead. It looks like I was shot in the head. Given the terrible news today, I just want to go on the record to state that I did not attempt to commit suicide over either this or this. The hole is intentional, it is occasioned by medicine, and should disappear in the next couple of weeks.
I have to say, though, that this scar, coupled with the gashes in my hand I obtained earlier this summer because of an unfortunate
Sunday, September 7, 2008
A Couple Dozen Years Old
I apologize for neglecting to post over the last couple of days, but it was my birthday weekend, and I spent much of it in no condition to type anything. Combine that with an impromptu trip to NYC, the start of the football season, and time spent praying for Tom Brady (uselessly, it seems), and, well, it's been quite the eventful weekend.
I somehow turned 24 on Friday, which is just about double my mental age. I'm just one year away from the dreaded quarter-century mark, but I'm OK with that. Reports that I have descended into a quarter-life crisis are, of course, completely erroneous. Yes, I bought a bicycle, and yes, I'm dating someone almost half my age, but exercise is good for the heart and 14 is the new 24, plus those laws don't apply inMexico Ohio anyway.
I am a little worried. I turned to the MTV Video Music Awards during the Colts-Bears halftime, and am troubled that I recognize no one. I knew I was the only person in America who did not know what a Hannah Montana was (I thought it was a teen girl version of Indiana Jones), but that's not even the start of it. There's a Li'l Wayne, Li'l Jon and Li'l Bow Wow. There's T.I., T-Pain, and T-ampax. Hanson seems to have been reconfigured into the Jonas Brothers. And who the heck is Russell Brand?
So yeah, I realize I'm old, and my tastes in music are not only old and dated, but something that kids today, watching the VMAs, probably do not recognize. Is it too much to ask for a performer who is over the age of 25? At this point, I'll even take Coldplay.
I somehow turned 24 on Friday, which is just about double my mental age. I'm just one year away from the dreaded quarter-century mark, but I'm OK with that. Reports that I have descended into a quarter-life crisis are, of course, completely erroneous. Yes, I bought a bicycle, and yes, I'm dating someone almost half my age, but exercise is good for the heart and 14 is the new 24, plus those laws don't apply in
I am a little worried. I turned to the MTV Video Music Awards during the Colts-Bears halftime, and am troubled that I recognize no one. I knew I was the only person in America who did not know what a Hannah Montana was (I thought it was a teen girl version of Indiana Jones), but that's not even the start of it. There's a Li'l Wayne, Li'l Jon and Li'l Bow Wow. There's T.I., T-Pain, and T-ampax. Hanson seems to have been reconfigured into the Jonas Brothers. And who the heck is Russell Brand?
So yeah, I realize I'm old, and my tastes in music are not only old and dated, but something that kids today, watching the VMAs, probably do not recognize. Is it too much to ask for a performer who is over the age of 25? At this point, I'll even take Coldplay.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Schokoladd, Kayke & Chreem
So I'm sitting in class today, trying to decipher the business-speak used in Mergers & Acquisitions (I used to think a stock was what they tend to put me in. Now I know it goes beyond that! Thanks, Wikipedia!). And I'm just typing away when my phone rings. So I pick it up and I notice it's a Boston land line. My thoughts?
OHMYGOD AN ACTUALLCALLBACK OHMYGODOHMYGODAYDIOSMIOYEEEEEEEEEEEH
When I regained my composure, I took a deep breath, looked at the number, and Googled it to see who it was. You know, so I can post it on my Facebook status so everyone knows what callbacks I have 'cause that's exactly what douchebags don't do, right?
So I google the number, and it's a bakery. And it looks like they've delivered a cake to my apartment.
Apparently, my parents got me a birthday cake (Thank you, Mom and Dad!).
So, no callback, but cake. On balance, a good day, right? I get to go home to cake, which is terrific, and I hope it's chocolate, although it won't be until 8 because of the immigration problem.
So I'm really, really, really hoping it's not ice cream cake.
OHMYGOD AN ACTUALLCALLBACK OHMYGODOHMYGODAYDIOSMIOYEEEEEEEEEEEH
When I regained my composure, I took a deep breath, looked at the number, and Googled it to see who it was. You know, so I can post it on my Facebook status so everyone knows what callbacks I have 'cause that's exactly what douchebags don't do, right?
So I google the number, and it's a bakery. And it looks like they've delivered a cake to my apartment.
Apparently, my parents got me a birthday cake (Thank you, Mom and Dad!).
So, no callback, but cake. On balance, a good day, right? I get to go home to cake, which is terrific, and I hope it's chocolate, although it won't be until 8 because of the immigration problem.
So I'm really, really, really hoping it's not ice cream cake.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The Immigration Problem
So I find myself at a quandary. I am to choose one of two classes, either immigration law or international law. I can only take one.
International Law is at a decent hour, with a professor who is a known quantity, and I know a lot of people in the class. Enough, at least, to be able to copy off someone's exam someday.
BUT. Immigration Law. If someone should take that class, it's me. Charlie. From Ohio.
I mean, I look at the syllabus and it looks so useful. "Immigrant Quotas." "Marriage Fraud." "Exclusion Grounds." "Deportability Grounds." This last one is scheduled for two weeks. It's like it was tailor-made for me. And the class ends with "Acquiring Citizenship." This seems exactly like a crash course on everything I've been working towards. It should be called, "Charlie, here's how you become a citizen, and we'll even tell you how to not screw it up."
BUT. The class is on Tuesdays and Thursday nights. From 6.30 to 8. We had our first class today, and, halfway through the class, all I could think was how much I wanted to leave (the class, not the country), because I'd already been in the Tower of Terror for 12 hours. And I can't imagine on Thursday, at the end of the work-week, when everyone else has begun their weekend, how I'll even pretend to pay attention.
Plus, there is also the fear that what I will learn in that class will be bleak and depressing and the cause of much anxiety. Apparently, they can revoke your citizenship. Whoa. When did that start? God Forbid I find out that I've already screwed up my chances to stay. God Forbid I find out that marriage, that most drastic of steps, is not even a guarantee.
Then where will I be? Lost, desperate and on the run. Which is why I came to America in the first place. I don't want to flee another country. And I refuse to go to Canada, just on principle.
Fact is, I might not take the class because, maybe, I'd rather not know. Then, when the INS finally shows up and says, "Chaaaaarlie... vaaaaamonos," I can just smile, shake my head and ask "Que?" as I lace up some running shoes. And then life as a fugitive will begin, but hey, at least the mail works, and I get to keep enjoying the beautiful smell of freedom.
International Law is at a decent hour, with a professor who is a known quantity, and I know a lot of people in the class. Enough, at least, to be able to copy off someone's exam someday.
BUT. Immigration Law. If someone should take that class, it's me. Charlie. From Ohio.
I mean, I look at the syllabus and it looks so useful. "Immigrant Quotas." "Marriage Fraud." "Exclusion Grounds." "Deportability Grounds." This last one is scheduled for two weeks. It's like it was tailor-made for me. And the class ends with "Acquiring Citizenship." This seems exactly like a crash course on everything I've been working towards. It should be called, "Charlie, here's how you become a citizen, and we'll even tell you how to not screw it up."
BUT. The class is on Tuesdays and Thursday nights. From 6.30 to 8. We had our first class today, and, halfway through the class, all I could think was how much I wanted to leave (the class, not the country), because I'd already been in the Tower of Terror for 12 hours. And I can't imagine on Thursday, at the end of the work-week, when everyone else has begun their weekend, how I'll even pretend to pay attention.
Plus, there is also the fear that what I will learn in that class will be bleak and depressing and the cause of much anxiety. Apparently, they can revoke your citizenship. Whoa. When did that start? God Forbid I find out that I've already screwed up my chances to stay. God Forbid I find out that marriage, that most drastic of steps, is not even a guarantee.
Then where will I be? Lost, desperate and on the run. Which is why I came to America in the first place. I don't want to flee another country. And I refuse to go to Canada, just on principle.
Fact is, I might not take the class because, maybe, I'd rather not know. Then, when the INS finally shows up and says, "Chaaaaarlie... vaaaaamonos," I can just smile, shake my head and ask "Que?" as I lace up some running shoes. And then life as a fugitive will begin, but hey, at least the mail works, and I get to keep enjoying the beautiful smell of freedom.
Rookie Mistake V
In an interview, when they ask you what classes you're taking, do not, under any circumstances, refer to Mergers & Acquisitions as Murders & Executions.
Where to Find Foreigners
I wonder how many people in my immigration law class will be international students.
Monday, September 1, 2008
What a Grill Wants
Marc is right. It's like a war out there, and the U-Haul trucks keep rolling like the Germans into Warsaw. Word just came in of the Great Staples Massacre of '08, and my wallet, after the Battle at the Bookstore, has sustained heavy casualties.
But at least there's a BBQ today. And this, time, unlike Memorial Day, we're prepared.
See, way back when on Memorial Day, we had no idea that, in Massachusetts, it is illegal to sell liquor on holidays. A lot of stuff that has to do with drinking is illegal here, incredibly, despite the population of Italians and Irish.
So there we were, hands in pockets, bewildered, with a BBQ starting in an hour and the door to our local beer dispensary locked.
We had three options. Break in. Drive to New Hampshire to buy beer. Or make us of what we had in our collection.
Breaking in, as many lawyers will tell you, is against the law. More importantly, it would get us banned from the liquor store. So that's out.
Driving to New Hampshire, well, that was just really far away.
And so it came to be, that on Memorial Day, we were grilling whilst drinking Vodka and Wine. It wasn't bad, but a little strange. Unfortunately, we lost many a sausage to our impaired senses. Fingers, it seems, don't respond as well to commands given from a liquor-addled brain instead of the marginally more useful beer-addled brain. But at least we did not suffer the indignity of grilling while sober, which would have been unAmerican.
Now, we bought the beer yesterday. This preemptive strike should serve well, although I do have to do homework later, given that, well, it's a school night. Alas.
But at least there's a BBQ today. And this, time, unlike Memorial Day, we're prepared.
See, way back when on Memorial Day, we had no idea that, in Massachusetts, it is illegal to sell liquor on holidays. A lot of stuff that has to do with drinking is illegal here, incredibly, despite the population of Italians and Irish.
So there we were, hands in pockets, bewildered, with a BBQ starting in an hour and the door to our local beer dispensary locked.
We had three options. Break in. Drive to New Hampshire to buy beer. Or make us of what we had in our collection.
Breaking in, as many lawyers will tell you, is against the law. More importantly, it would get us banned from the liquor store. So that's out.
Driving to New Hampshire, well, that was just really far away.
And so it came to be, that on Memorial Day, we were grilling whilst drinking Vodka and Wine. It wasn't bad, but a little strange. Unfortunately, we lost many a sausage to our impaired senses. Fingers, it seems, don't respond as well to commands given from a liquor-addled brain instead of the marginally more useful beer-addled brain. But at least we did not suffer the indignity of grilling while sober, which would have been unAmerican.
Now, we bought the beer yesterday. This preemptive strike should serve well, although I do have to do homework later, given that, well, it's a school night. Alas.
Happy Labor Day
When I was but a young Mexican, I thought Labor Day was the day we celebrated mothers and their valiant struggle to repopulate the Earth. I have now been informed that I was wrong, and that I am also an idiot.
Happy Labor Day to everybody. Let's see how people are spending it.
Cornellians are in class right now. What everybody else calls labor day, Cornell kids call "The Monday when we're in class, but everybody else has off, including the custodial staff, which means that garbage cans aren't being cleaned out, so they're full and there's no way to put your trash in there, but at least we get to be creative about garbage stacking."
Those here at BU are spending the day moving in and out of apartments because today is not only Labor Day, but Let's Start a New Lease Day! Places to avoid today include the bookstore, Comm. Ave., and Bed Bath and Beyond, where even Frank the Tank would get his ass kicked by the crazy mothers trying to find one more desk fan for their freshman daughters. This being Boston, those fans will be obsolete within the week.
Those lucky enough not to be moving today won't have a free day, however. Some people, who shall remain nameless, have to finish a project for Professor Scariest Man in the World, and also do their homework for class tomorrow, which they have neglected to even look at. Those people still don't have books, so they have to braves through the incoming hordes to go to Comm. Ave and the bookstore, in an effort to locate books probably already sold out, all while hoping that the bill for the books comes out at under a thousand freaking dollars. Those people also haven't showered, it's already noon, and, by God, they better get cracking.
Happy Labor Day to everybody. Let's see how people are spending it.
Cornellians are in class right now. What everybody else calls labor day, Cornell kids call "The Monday when we're in class, but everybody else has off, including the custodial staff, which means that garbage cans aren't being cleaned out, so they're full and there's no way to put your trash in there, but at least we get to be creative about garbage stacking."
Those here at BU are spending the day moving in and out of apartments because today is not only Labor Day, but Let's Start a New Lease Day! Places to avoid today include the bookstore, Comm. Ave., and Bed Bath and Beyond, where even Frank the Tank would get his ass kicked by the crazy mothers trying to find one more desk fan for their freshman daughters. This being Boston, those fans will be obsolete within the week.
Those lucky enough not to be moving today won't have a free day, however. Some people, who shall remain nameless, have to finish a project for Professor Scariest Man in the World, and also do their homework for class tomorrow, which they have neglected to even look at. Those people still don't have books, so they have to braves through the incoming hordes to go to Comm. Ave and the bookstore, in an effort to locate books probably already sold out, all while hoping that the bill for the books comes out at under a thousand freaking dollars. Those people also haven't showered, it's already noon, and, by God, they better get cracking.
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