I woke up a couple of days ago and saw a guy outside my window. I live on a sixth floor. Needless to say, I was startled.
Naturally, my first thought was "Vampires!" Then the stupid part of my brain retreated (for a second) and I realized that it was just a window wiper.
I can't help it if I'm spooked by the season. I've long suspected that my apartment is haunted, and I'm not the only one. In my apartment there are certain occurrences that manifest themselves every once in a while, mostly on the weekend.
I'll wake up Saturday, or Sunday, and my kitchen will be a disaster. Grated cheese everywhere, chips drowning in pools of salsa, half-eaten quesadillas and pizza bagels strewn about. The TV will be on.
Other than a poltergeist, I simply cannot think of any other explanation for these activities. In fact, I'll be shocked if it doesn't happen tonight.
Tonight is the second Halloween party of the weekend. Yesterday was the yearly BU Law Halloween Party Disaster, and it lived up to its billing.
My costume? I wrestled with this one for a while. Originally, I was to dress up as the stock market. And then I'd fall down a lot. It was a very practical costume. As the night wore on, I'd fall down more and more. Also, given my propensity to wrestle, I could also tackle people and justify it by saying, "Hey, it's the stock market. It's bringing everyone down."
But that was not so much a costume as it was an act. So I kept thinking.
And then it came to me. What scares me more than anything in the world?
The INS!
Presto. Thus was born Charlie from Ohio, your friendly neighborhood INS agent.
Now it's time to trick or treat. Is it kosher to trick or treat in an apartment building? I mean, it's mighty convenient. Just walk the halls. In a world that rewards efficiency, it makes so much sense.
And for those of you who say, "Charlie, you're 24, too old for this," I say bah! I like candy as much as the next guy, probably more. So what if I'm twice the age when trick or treating is borderline acceptable? I want my candy, dagnabbit! Just don't you dare give me a rock.
Friday, October 31, 2008
A Night With the Jersey Devil
Man, Bruce Springsteen really likes Halloween. Go to his website now (it expires in a couple of days, from what I hear), where you can download a new song he wrote. It's a bluesy number called "A Night with the Jersey Devil," about, well, the Jersey Devil, and it is SO cool. Seriously. Best Halloween song ever. I've appended the video below, but check it out in high quality on his site.
My Blood Runs Big Red
If you played our Office Drinking Game during last night's show, and stuck to the rule where every mention of Cornell requires you to drink a shot, you're probably dead now.
Most of the writers (and actors) on The Office went to Harvard. So, of course, they have the biggest buffoon in the office (not named Dwight) as the asshole who went to Cornell.
Which is why the episode bothered me a little bit. Andy, when he learns that Dwight wants to go to Cornell, freaks out and does everything in his power to prevent this.
This is strange behavior. As a Cornell grad myself, I champion their cause incessantly. If someone told me they wanted to go to Cornell, I'd tackle them, tie them up and then drive them to Ithaca, where I'd handcuff us to the pipes in President Skorton's office until they let that person in. Why? The more Cornellians the better.
In fact, I am already freaking out about my own kid, fifteen years from now, not getting into Cornell. I can't think of anything more devastating. Except, I guess, having my kid tell me he doesn't want to go to Cornell, in which case he'd be disowned, but whatever. That will never happen. My poor son is going to be so indoctrinated, he's going to make Bush look open-minded.
I'll do anything in my power to make sure my kid gets into Cornell. I'll Forrest Gump's mom it, I'll build a new building, I'll exterminate their enemies, you name it. If it's legal, I'll do it. If it's illegal, I'll find a way around the illegality and do it. Like Creed said when he auctioned himself off, this is "all inclusive." Your move, Cornell.
Most of the writers (and actors) on The Office went to Harvard. So, of course, they have the biggest buffoon in the office (not named Dwight) as the asshole who went to Cornell.
Which is why the episode bothered me a little bit. Andy, when he learns that Dwight wants to go to Cornell, freaks out and does everything in his power to prevent this.
This is strange behavior. As a Cornell grad myself, I champion their cause incessantly. If someone told me they wanted to go to Cornell, I'd tackle them, tie them up and then drive them to Ithaca, where I'd handcuff us to the pipes in President Skorton's office until they let that person in. Why? The more Cornellians the better.
In fact, I am already freaking out about my own kid, fifteen years from now, not getting into Cornell. I can't think of anything more devastating. Except, I guess, having my kid tell me he doesn't want to go to Cornell, in which case he'd be disowned, but whatever. That will never happen. My poor son is going to be so indoctrinated, he's going to make Bush look open-minded.
I'll do anything in my power to make sure my kid gets into Cornell. I'll Forrest Gump's mom it, I'll build a new building, I'll exterminate their enemies, you name it. If it's legal, I'll do it. If it's illegal, I'll find a way around the illegality and do it. Like Creed said when he auctioned himself off, this is "all inclusive." Your move, Cornell.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Nothing is Unpossible
I begrudingly wish to congratulate Phillie fans everywhere. Except the Phanatic. In any case, Mazel Tov, Philadelphia. Well played.
One good thing did come of this, however, and that is the introduction of "Why Can't Us?" into the lexicon. This is brilliant much in the same way Ralph Wiggum is brilliant. Me fail English? That's Unpossible!
One good thing did come of this, however, and that is the introduction of "Why Can't Us?" into the lexicon. This is brilliant much in the same way Ralph Wiggum is brilliant. Me fail English? That's Unpossible!
Great Depression II Claims Another Victim: The Halloween Party
The Great Depression II: The Greatest Depression claimed another victim today, in the form of the BU Halloween Party. Reporters on the ground have confirmed that there is a shortage of tickets to the annual extravaganza, and that more than half the school will be unable to attend the bonanza.
Unofficial polls show that more than half the 2L class was unable to acquire tickets, and that no more will be produced or distributed. Clinging to masks and fake mustaches, hundreds lined the Tower of Terror, hat in hand, in the hope that more tickets would be available.
"I went to this last year," a 2L, who wishes to remain anonymous, remarked. "And it was the most drinking I did during the last half of the second half of October. And now they tell me there's not enough tickets, and that I can't go."
Party-less, students have resorted to desperate measures, such as robbery, counterfeiting, and scalping. So far the scalping has proved successful, despite the efforts of local Jew Marc Shapiro, who failed to live up to his heritage when he sold something at cost.
Many have started to pack up, based on rumors of available tickets to Halloween Parties elsewhere. "We're headed West alright," said a local woman, as she loaded her worldly possessions into her buggy. "Harvard wouldn't accept us two years ago, but I heard that there's always booze left over at their parties. So we're heading west, see if things are better out there."
In what many call a preventable tragedy, many students have clearly gone insane, and are contemplating whether to stay in on Halloween night. Authorities wish to make it clear that such dire actions are unwarranted, and advise those who contemplate such a course of action to seek professional help immediately.
Unofficial polls show that more than half the 2L class was unable to acquire tickets, and that no more will be produced or distributed. Clinging to masks and fake mustaches, hundreds lined the Tower of Terror, hat in hand, in the hope that more tickets would be available.
"I went to this last year," a 2L, who wishes to remain anonymous, remarked. "And it was the most drinking I did during the last half of the second half of October. And now they tell me there's not enough tickets, and that I can't go."
Party-less, students have resorted to desperate measures, such as robbery, counterfeiting, and scalping. So far the scalping has proved successful, despite the efforts of local Jew Marc Shapiro, who failed to live up to his heritage when he sold something at cost.
Many have started to pack up, based on rumors of available tickets to Halloween Parties elsewhere. "We're headed West alright," said a local woman, as she loaded her worldly possessions into her buggy. "Harvard wouldn't accept us two years ago, but I heard that there's always booze left over at their parties. So we're heading west, see if things are better out there."
In what many call a preventable tragedy, many students have clearly gone insane, and are contemplating whether to stay in on Halloween night. Authorities wish to make it clear that such dire actions are unwarranted, and advise those who contemplate such a course of action to seek professional help immediately.
At Least Give me Some Credit
As of yesterday, the Ultimate Power in the Universe (the U-PU) is in my hands.
Fresh from Omaha, Nebraska, an American Express green card arrived in my mail yesterday. It has my name on it, an expiration date, and proudly boasts that I have been a member since 08. And I could not be more thrilled. Me? A cardholder? A member of American Express?
It’s quite the honor, but my ambition does not stop there. This is my first step towards what has long been my life goal, the one thing I have always strived for. The American Express Black Card. I want one. Bad. I will not die happy without one. In fact, I will not die, period.
If ever there comes a time when I’m lying in a hospital bed, brain dead, unresponsive, catatonic, with nothing keeping me alive but a series of oxygen tubes and an IV line, DO NOT UNPLUG ME! Rather, have an Amex guy come in and offer me the Black Card. I guarantee you that I’ll be up and on my way to buy something shiny before the doctor knows what hit him.
But I am getting ahead of myself here. I am on the first step, the green card, with many more hurdles to overcome. One, I must not lose my card. Two, I must pay my card. Three, if I can’t pay my card, I must lose my card.
See? It’s simple. Even I can’t screw this up.
Now the question becomes, what should my first purchase be? What good or commodity gets to deflower my card?
This is an important question. It sets the tone for the whole relationship. A good first impression is always of paramount importance. It’s like meeting someone for the first time. I want to show up with a crisp tie and dry hands, not a half-empty bottle of Miller High Life and a too-long hug.
The people at American Express, who are monitoring my purchases, need to see that I am a man of taste and class. They need to know I’m a prime candidate for an upgrade to a Gold Card.
If, for example, I buy Twinkies, I’m done. Shot. My credibility would vanish faster than if I confessed that I enjoy the commentary of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Or that Barry Manilow is my favorite artist. Or that Urkel was funny.
OK. I've narrowed it down. My first purchase will be this, this, this, or one of these. Personally, I'm leaning towards a cannon, but I'm sure there's a good case to be made for the bear-skin rug.
Fresh from Omaha, Nebraska, an American Express green card arrived in my mail yesterday. It has my name on it, an expiration date, and proudly boasts that I have been a member since 08. And I could not be more thrilled. Me? A cardholder? A member of American Express?
It’s quite the honor, but my ambition does not stop there. This is my first step towards what has long been my life goal, the one thing I have always strived for. The American Express Black Card. I want one. Bad. I will not die happy without one. In fact, I will not die, period.
If ever there comes a time when I’m lying in a hospital bed, brain dead, unresponsive, catatonic, with nothing keeping me alive but a series of oxygen tubes and an IV line, DO NOT UNPLUG ME! Rather, have an Amex guy come in and offer me the Black Card. I guarantee you that I’ll be up and on my way to buy something shiny before the doctor knows what hit him.
But I am getting ahead of myself here. I am on the first step, the green card, with many more hurdles to overcome. One, I must not lose my card. Two, I must pay my card. Three, if I can’t pay my card, I must lose my card.
See? It’s simple. Even I can’t screw this up.
Now the question becomes, what should my first purchase be? What good or commodity gets to deflower my card?
This is an important question. It sets the tone for the whole relationship. A good first impression is always of paramount importance. It’s like meeting someone for the first time. I want to show up with a crisp tie and dry hands, not a half-empty bottle of Miller High Life and a too-long hug.
The people at American Express, who are monitoring my purchases, need to see that I am a man of taste and class. They need to know I’m a prime candidate for an upgrade to a Gold Card.
If, for example, I buy Twinkies, I’m done. Shot. My credibility would vanish faster than if I confessed that I enjoy the commentary of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Or that Barry Manilow is my favorite artist. Or that Urkel was funny.
OK. I've narrowed it down. My first purchase will be this, this, this, or one of these. Personally, I'm leaning towards a cannon, but I'm sure there's a good case to be made for the bear-skin rug.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Teaching Ade
Is it weird that my M&A professor is drinking, of all things, Gatorade? And on a Tuesday morning, no less. I half expect him to turn down the lights and just have us watch a movie.
Monday, October 27, 2008
It's Always Sunny in Las Vegas
Last night, I sent the following email to a motley crew of barbarians who (mostly) used to sully the good name of journalism at Cornell. Currently, 6 of the 10 invitees have confirmed, with that number expected to rise. Needless to say, I am beyond excited.
However, that is all mitigated by the certainty that, despite everything else, this will turn out to be something we'll never forget because it is a rite of passage every man should experience-- something, in the end, that will bring all of us (literally and figuratively) just a bit closer to heaven.
Gentlemen,I like to see this trip as a heightened version of the fried Twinkie. There's fear before it happens, yes, and the latent possibility of death or worse things. Ultimately, your body, your friends and your family will be the ones to pay. Objectively, this might be the worst idea ever.
I hope this finds you happy and well, engaging in both the intentional and unintentional destruction of property in whatever state has the misfortune of harboring you as a resident.
I know I haven't talked to some of you in a while. Some I haven't even had the fortune to meet. Yet, if the legends are true, [redacted], you and I will get along very well.
Most of you have heard about this, but, for those who haven't, this coming summer will bear witness to the irascible Mr. [redacted]'s entry into the hallowed institution of matrimony. As such, it is my belief that he deserves a rousing send-off.
And what better way to do that than to have this esteemed group descend upon the magical city of Las Vegas for a weekend?
So I send this as a save the date, so you can write into your calendar "Sun in Vegas" and begin to set things in motion to lead up to this event. You know, start saving, planning for time off, saying goodbye to loved ones, and drafting a last will and testament. This will also give everyone a chance to get a good criminal lawyer on retainer, just in case someone manages to kill a hooker (looks directly at [redacted]).
We are looking at the weekend of February 20-22nd.
Flights there are relatively cheap right now .... [money stuff] ... Then, of course, incidentals such as food, booze and women should be factored in, according, of course, to one's excesses and tolerance.
I would suggest picking one hotel and sticking to it. Once we decide on a hotel, I can call the hotel and try to block off 4 or 5 rooms, to serve as our headquarters and to ensure that medical attention and friends with shovels are never more than a connecting door away.
And that should be it. Once we have a hotel settled, everyone makes their own arrangements to get there, arriving sometime during Friday the 20th and planning to depart on Sunday the 22nd. I'll make more arrangements as time goes on, but let's start there.
Cheers,
Signed
However, that is all mitigated by the certainty that, despite everything else, this will turn out to be something we'll never forget because it is a rite of passage every man should experience-- something, in the end, that will bring all of us (literally and figuratively) just a bit closer to heaven.
Quote of the Day XXVI
I used to be with 'it.' Then they changed what 'it' was and what I was with wasn't 'it' anymore and what was 'it' confused and frightened me. And it will happen to you too!
-- Grandpa Simpson
Sunday, October 26, 2008
How I Broke Up With My Fake Girlfriend
The bad news is I'm still looking for a job. The good news is I'm not going to be in Hartford, Connecticut this coming summer.
The better news?
I can stop living a lie.
When I originally interviewed with this firm, I thought they were hiring for their Boston office. And the interview was going terrific, and I'd managed to avoid copious sweating, and I'm thinking that ohmygod this might actually go somewhere.
Imagine if this was a car ride, and I'm in my convertible, cruising down the highway, driving gloves on, scarf trailing in the breeze behind me, doing 90 miles an hour down a dead end street.
Then she drops the bomb.
"Well, considering that we're not currently hiring for our Boston office," she asks me, "what is it that draws you to our Hartford office?"
If we were to continue with the driving metaphor, it was as if a blind kid in a wheelchair with an armful of puppies suddenly darted onto the road in front of me. You know, the Houston, we have a problem part of the show. This could be devastating. No Boston? Only Hartford?
So a million things start running through my head. Hartford, Connecticut? I'm not even sure where that is. Hartford is not Boston. It's not even NYC.
But Hartford is on the east coast. And Hartford, ultimately, is in America. And that, my friends, is good enough for me.
I still needed a reason to go to Hartford. A legitimate reason. "I, well, I've got nothing else," would not be an acceptable answer. Other than the fact that I see Connecticut roll past the window when I'm traveling to and from NYC, I have no connection to the state. I needed an answer, fast.
So I lied.
"Why do I want to go to Hartford? Well, I live in Boston right now," I replied. "But see, I have this girlfriend, and she lives in NYC, so I don't really get to see her as much as I would like to. I don't really want to live in New York, and she wants to move closer to her family in Norwalk, so Hartford is really ideal."
That was like, seven lies in one sentence. But I sold it. I even managed to blush after the "I don't see her as much as I'd like to," part.
So now I had a fake girlfriend in New York City, who I didn't get to see much, who was originally from Connecticut, and with whom I was contemplating a future in Hartford.
Yay!
And then I got a callback. And the lie escalated. Apparently, the fake girlfriend and I met sophomore year. At a charity event. We'd been to Europe the previous summer. Our parents had actually met each other. I even hinted that I was close to proposing.
I know. I'm an awful person. But don't judge me. I really need a job. And at least I didn't say we had a baby on the way. Somehow I imagine that'd be hard to fake.
Alas, the job did not materialize. As such, I regret to inform everyone that my fake girlfriend in NYC and I are finished. It was a beautiful 5 year courtship, but it just wasn't meant to be. I guess reality got in the way.
The better news?
I can stop living a lie.
When I originally interviewed with this firm, I thought they were hiring for their Boston office. And the interview was going terrific, and I'd managed to avoid copious sweating, and I'm thinking that ohmygod this might actually go somewhere.
Imagine if this was a car ride, and I'm in my convertible, cruising down the highway, driving gloves on, scarf trailing in the breeze behind me, doing 90 miles an hour down a dead end street.
Then she drops the bomb.
"Well, considering that we're not currently hiring for our Boston office," she asks me, "what is it that draws you to our Hartford office?"
If we were to continue with the driving metaphor, it was as if a blind kid in a wheelchair with an armful of puppies suddenly darted onto the road in front of me. You know, the Houston, we have a problem part of the show. This could be devastating. No Boston? Only Hartford?
So a million things start running through my head. Hartford, Connecticut? I'm not even sure where that is. Hartford is not Boston. It's not even NYC.
But Hartford is on the east coast. And Hartford, ultimately, is in America. And that, my friends, is good enough for me.
I still needed a reason to go to Hartford. A legitimate reason. "I, well, I've got nothing else," would not be an acceptable answer. Other than the fact that I see Connecticut roll past the window when I'm traveling to and from NYC, I have no connection to the state. I needed an answer, fast.
So I lied.
"Why do I want to go to Hartford? Well, I live in Boston right now," I replied. "But see, I have this girlfriend, and she lives in NYC, so I don't really get to see her as much as I would like to. I don't really want to live in New York, and she wants to move closer to her family in Norwalk, so Hartford is really ideal."
That was like, seven lies in one sentence. But I sold it. I even managed to blush after the "I don't see her as much as I'd like to," part.
So now I had a fake girlfriend in New York City, who I didn't get to see much, who was originally from Connecticut, and with whom I was contemplating a future in Hartford.
Yay!
And then I got a callback. And the lie escalated. Apparently, the fake girlfriend and I met sophomore year. At a charity event. We'd been to Europe the previous summer. Our parents had actually met each other. I even hinted that I was close to proposing.
I know. I'm an awful person. But don't judge me. I really need a job. And at least I didn't say we had a baby on the way. Somehow I imagine that'd be hard to fake.
Alas, the job did not materialize. As such, I regret to inform everyone that my fake girlfriend in NYC and I are finished. It was a beautiful 5 year courtship, but it just wasn't meant to be. I guess reality got in the way.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Best "That's What She Said" Ever
All I can say is, in yesterday's Office, "It squeaks when you bang it," was the most perfect set-up for a "That's what she said," ever.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
This T is Just Crackers
With times the way they are, we all need a little hope sometimes. Today I came across this, a guy who has compiled every T expansion proposal ever made and "updated" the T Map to reflect such changes. And, well, look!
My favorite part, of course, is the new yellow line, which will connect Kenmore with Harvard. For those of you unfortunate enough not to live in Boston, Cambridge and Boston proper are separated only by the Charles River, a narrow stretch of water that shouldn't be unassailable. Yet sometimes it seems like it's more difficult to cross than the Rio Grande. I never see people who live in Cambridge.
Going to Cambridge means hopping on a green line (awful in and of itself), taking a 20 minute trolley inbound to government center, transferring to the red line, and then coming back out to Cambridge. There are no buses, at least not in Kenmore, that do this, so, unless you want to take a $10 cab, your buzz will be gone by the time you get to Harvard. Or vice versa.
So this, this wonderful idea, of creating a train that goes across the river, gives me hope that someday, there will be an effective way to get to Cambridge without being put in fear of death.
My only complaint with the proposed map is that, if you look closely enough, it still retains the roughly 2,347 stops on the B line that goes to Boston College. There is no reason for a subway to stop every block. None. This is as unnecessary as Greyhound buses coming back from NYC taking a "quick break" when they reach Framigham. WHYAREYOUSTOPPING? WE ARE THIRTY MINUTES AWAY! LET'S JUST GET THERE. GAH.
Otherwise, the proposed map looks terrific. Let's start building this. Where do I dig?
My favorite part, of course, is the new yellow line, which will connect Kenmore with Harvard. For those of you unfortunate enough not to live in Boston, Cambridge and Boston proper are separated only by the Charles River, a narrow stretch of water that shouldn't be unassailable. Yet sometimes it seems like it's more difficult to cross than the Rio Grande. I never see people who live in Cambridge.
Going to Cambridge means hopping on a green line (awful in and of itself), taking a 20 minute trolley inbound to government center, transferring to the red line, and then coming back out to Cambridge. There are no buses, at least not in Kenmore, that do this, so, unless you want to take a $10 cab, your buzz will be gone by the time you get to Harvard. Or vice versa.
So this, this wonderful idea, of creating a train that goes across the river, gives me hope that someday, there will be an effective way to get to Cambridge without being put in fear of death.
My only complaint with the proposed map is that, if you look closely enough, it still retains the roughly 2,347 stops on the B line that goes to Boston College. There is no reason for a subway to stop every block. None. This is as unnecessary as Greyhound buses coming back from NYC taking a "quick break" when they reach Framigham. WHYAREYOUSTOPPING? WE ARE THIRTY MINUTES AWAY! LET'S JUST GET THERE. GAH.
Otherwise, the proposed map looks terrific. Let's start building this. Where do I dig?
Rookie Mistake VII
If you are at a buffet for lunch and have class in an hour, avoid participating in an eating contest. Especially if it involves Italian food. Just trust me on this one. The professor keeps talking about prescriptive jurisdiction and all I can think of is how I’m going to spontaneously explode. I feel like I'm pregnant and my baby won't stop kicking. I'm going to go ahead and die now. Cheers.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A Bet I Don't Want to Win
"Life insurance is a euphemism for death insurance. The principal purpose of life insurance is to shift the financial risk of dying young to an insurance company. By buying into a pool with other people worried about the same risk, those who die older in effect pay for those who die younger. Accordingly, by dying young, the insured wins his bet with the insurance company -- a small consolation, perhaps."
--From my Wills, Trusts and Estates book.
--From my Wills, Trusts and Estates book.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Property at BU
BU Law is famous!
When someone told me that BU Law had made Above The Law today, I immediately thought of this weekend's events, which may or may not lead to Michael Cera's indictment for breaking and entering.
Happily, it's not. The Post is about the C Section's property professor last year, who, by all accounts, was like last year's teaser trailer for Sarah Palin. I can't count how many times I ran into a friend from Section C who was fuming about her, whether it be her class, her emails, or the fact that she said her practice exam was wrong and they all studied the wrong way an hour before the exam.
So yes, it's a legit post.
Those of us in Section B had Ryckman, the institution, who, in strict Socratic fashion, would call on only one unluckyvictim person per class, and subject that unfortunate student to an hour of thorough grilling.
Since anybody, at any time, could be that person, the afternoons before class were spent feverishly reading, re-reading and re-re-reading the cases, hoping vainly to understand just what in the world the Rule in Shelley's case was.
And you've never seen more tension that the time period between when Ryckman walked in and made his selection. Everybody in the room, I remember, looked like they were sitting at the AIDS clinic, having been called down to retrieve the results of your test in person.
One by one the victims fell, and the pool of remaining sitting ducks diminished. This, of course, meant the tension increased. It would almost have been a relief to be called on, to get it over with, and to stop feeling like you were on death row, waiting for that inevitable walk down the green mile.
For a year I wallowed in anxiety, forsaking* Thursday nights, my favorite night of the week, in the interest of attempting to at least be able to speak when I was on call. I must have aged fifteen years last year, and now await an even more imminent death.
AND I WAS NEVER CALLED ON. The year came and went and I was one of about a dozen who were spared. All the anxiety, all the hours spent preparing, they were all for naught. Sure, I learned my property, but my God. I felt gypped. I felt bamboozled. I felt like I got cheated out of the opportunity to make a stammering ass of myself in front of the entire class.
That last statement is only mildly facetious. I feel like being Ryckmaned is a rite of passage here at BU, and I was unfortunate enough not to be a part of that. It's like being the one guy at boot camp who doesn't get yelled at, at the frat house who doesn't get hazed, or at the shady group who does not get initiated. I'm not asking to be kicked just for, um, kicks. But there's a reason groups do these activities, to create a bond, a common experience from which everyone can draw on to remember what makes them a group in the first place.
*this may be a gross overstatement of terms
When someone told me that BU Law had made Above The Law today, I immediately thought of this weekend's events, which may or may not lead to Michael Cera's indictment for breaking and entering.
Happily, it's not. The Post is about the C Section's property professor last year, who, by all accounts, was like last year's teaser trailer for Sarah Palin. I can't count how many times I ran into a friend from Section C who was fuming about her, whether it be her class, her emails, or the fact that she said her practice exam was wrong and they all studied the wrong way an hour before the exam.
So yes, it's a legit post.
Those of us in Section B had Ryckman, the institution, who, in strict Socratic fashion, would call on only one unlucky
Since anybody, at any time, could be that person, the afternoons before class were spent feverishly reading, re-reading and re-re-reading the cases, hoping vainly to understand just what in the world the Rule in Shelley's case was.
And you've never seen more tension that the time period between when Ryckman walked in and made his selection. Everybody in the room, I remember, looked like they were sitting at the AIDS clinic, having been called down to retrieve the results of your test in person.
One by one the victims fell, and the pool of remaining sitting ducks diminished. This, of course, meant the tension increased. It would almost have been a relief to be called on, to get it over with, and to stop feeling like you were on death row, waiting for that inevitable walk down the green mile.
For a year I wallowed in anxiety, forsaking* Thursday nights, my favorite night of the week, in the interest of attempting to at least be able to speak when I was on call. I must have aged fifteen years last year, and now await an even more imminent death.
AND I WAS NEVER CALLED ON. The year came and went and I was one of about a dozen who were spared. All the anxiety, all the hours spent preparing, they were all for naught. Sure, I learned my property, but my God. I felt gypped. I felt bamboozled. I felt like I got cheated out of the opportunity to make a stammering ass of myself in front of the entire class.
That last statement is only mildly facetious. I feel like being Ryckmaned is a rite of passage here at BU, and I was unfortunate enough not to be a part of that. It's like being the one guy at boot camp who doesn't get yelled at, at the frat house who doesn't get hazed, or at the shady group who does not get initiated. I'm not asking to be kicked just for, um, kicks. But there's a reason groups do these activities, to create a bond, a common experience from which everyone can draw on to remember what makes them a group in the first place.
*this may be a gross overstatement of terms
Quote of the Day XXIV
So Europe is bad. But Asia is worse. No offense to my Asian students here, but, at the end of the day, all you want is a frickin cheeseburger.
-- My M&A Professor
Sorry, you've got the Wrong Email Address
They’re really rubbing it in today, aren’t they. Today I received an email from something called Register Now with the subject: Last Chance for US Citizens to Make Plans to Vote.
Thank you, fellas. One, why is this even directed to me? You don’t see me sending “Registrese para votar hoy!” emails to my friends in Ohio. Besides the lack of elections in Latin America, this isn’t really your target audience.
Two, isn’t it redundant to say that only citizens can vote? It’s like saying only cops can arrest you. Sure, there’s citizens arrest, but if you’ve ever tried to do one, you know this is a task better left for actual professionals.
Three, I'd really like to vote. Particularly in Ohio. Alas, I have not yet been married for three years and cannot do so.
What I can do, however, is persuade. So if any of you out there, particularly in the battleground states, know someone who needs their mind changed? I'm up for the task. I'll even give you a "friends and family" discount. Heck, I'll even do two for the price of one.
Thank you, fellas. One, why is this even directed to me? You don’t see me sending “Registrese para votar hoy!” emails to my friends in Ohio. Besides the lack of elections in Latin America, this isn’t really your target audience.
Two, isn’t it redundant to say that only citizens can vote? It’s like saying only cops can arrest you. Sure, there’s citizens arrest, but if you’ve ever tried to do one, you know this is a task better left for actual professionals.
Three, I'd really like to vote. Particularly in Ohio. Alas, I have not yet been married for three years and cannot do so.
What I can do, however, is persuade. So if any of you out there, particularly in the battleground states, know someone who needs their mind changed? I'm up for the task. I'll even give you a "friends and family" discount. Heck, I'll even do two for the price of one.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Quote of the Day XXIII
We’re number one! We’re number one! In your face, space coyote!
-- Homer Simpson
Sunday, October 19, 2008
I Demand a Recount!
Apparently, when the judges of the Permanent Court of International Justice were deadlocked on a vote, the President of the Court broke the tie by voting twice.
You can do that? Really?
Can you imagine if that happened in the Supreme Court if one of the justices recuses himself and the remaining 8 justices vote? I imagine it goes like this:
Chief Justice Roberts: OK, let's do a straw poll. In favor?
(Ginsburg, Breyer, Souter, Kennedy raise their hand)
OK, that's four. Opposed?
(Scalia, Thomas, Alito, Roberts raise their hand)
OK. That's four to four. But wait a minute, we have another vote.
(Roberts raises his other hand. Grins)
You can't adjudicate that way. What do they call this process, Mexican Democracy? No wonder no one takes international law seriously.
You can do that? Really?
Can you imagine if that happened in the Supreme Court if one of the justices recuses himself and the remaining 8 justices vote? I imagine it goes like this:
Chief Justice Roberts: OK, let's do a straw poll. In favor?
(Ginsburg, Breyer, Souter, Kennedy raise their hand)
OK, that's four. Opposed?
(Scalia, Thomas, Alito, Roberts raise their hand)
OK. That's four to four. But wait a minute, we have another vote.
(Roberts raises his other hand. Grins)
You can't adjudicate that way. What do they call this process, Mexican Democracy? No wonder no one takes international law seriously.
The Future Ain't What it Used to Be
This conversation happened last night, and is yet another sign we are getting old.
Schnabel: Yo, so, your friend Alice, what's her deal?
Michele: What do you mean her deal?
Schnabel: Yeah, her deal. Like, does she have a boyfriend?
Michele: Oh no, she's divorced.
Schnabel: Yo, so, your friend Alice, what's her deal?
Michele: What do you mean her deal?
Schnabel: Yeah, her deal. Like, does she have a boyfriend?
Michele: Oh no, she's divorced.
Rookie Mistake VI
If you are a pizza guy, and you are stepping into the elevator with a guy named Charlie at 3 a.m. after he's been playing more than his fair share of flip cup, you will probably be assaulted.
In related news, I am wanted for assault. I also wish to apologize to the pizza guy. Sorry, pizza guy.
In related news, I am wanted for assault. I also wish to apologize to the pizza guy. Sorry, pizza guy.
Friday, October 17, 2008
BU and Cornell, Together at Last!
There were several dozen events going on at Jillian's last night. Every group ever, it seems, decided to hold a thing there last night.
Among those in attendance at the hallowed drinking establishment were people going to the Red Sox game, a Young Alumni reunion for a Cleveland high school, two BU Law journals, and the Zinck's crowd from Cornell.
These latter two, of course, provided an excellent opportunity for me. See, I've always wanted to do the bit where you go on two dates at the same time, and then spend the entire evening making up excuses to get up, all so you can alternately attend to both special and unique ladies. Because I can't find one date, let alone two, doing this has proved impossible.
But last night would have been perfect. "Hey, you're here for the Cornell reunion!" "Yeah, awesome, remember Happy Dave? Hold on I need to go to the bathroom." Then I saunter over to the journals. "Hey, isn't tech check a bitch?" "Not as much as the note will be. Hold on, I need to make phone call."* And repeat until I Mrs. Doubtfire myself into the fraud I really am.
Then I realized it would fail completely. There's no way anyone would believe I'm in a journal, mostly because I can neither read nor write. So there that went. I did, however, proceed to skim off their free beer, so thank you, Banking Journal, for that.
* Since I am not on a journal, I have no idea what either of these are. But, from the screams I periodically hear from the library, I assume they're bad news bears.
Among those in attendance at the hallowed drinking establishment were people going to the Red Sox game, a Young Alumni reunion for a Cleveland high school, two BU Law journals, and the Zinck's crowd from Cornell.
These latter two, of course, provided an excellent opportunity for me. See, I've always wanted to do the bit where you go on two dates at the same time, and then spend the entire evening making up excuses to get up, all so you can alternately attend to both special and unique ladies. Because I can't find one date, let alone two, doing this has proved impossible.
But last night would have been perfect. "Hey, you're here for the Cornell reunion!" "Yeah, awesome, remember Happy Dave? Hold on I need to go to the bathroom." Then I saunter over to the journals. "Hey, isn't tech check a bitch?" "Not as much as the note will be. Hold on, I need to make phone call."* And repeat until I Mrs. Doubtfire myself into the fraud I really am.
Then I realized it would fail completely. There's no way anyone would believe I'm in a journal, mostly because I can neither read nor write. So there that went. I did, however, proceed to skim off their free beer, so thank you, Banking Journal, for that.
* Since I am not on a journal, I have no idea what either of these are. But, from the screams I periodically hear from the library, I assume they're bad news bears.
Quote of the Day XXII
Isn't it weird that chairs even exist when you're not sitting on them?
-Ben Stone, in Knocked Up
Gas Who?
The gas station outside my apartment is currently peddling its wares for the insanely low price of $2.79 a gallon. Just this summer, when prices were skyrocketing every day, peaking here at $4.39, Schnabel and I were wondering whether gas prices would be at $5.00 by year's end. We even made a bet on it, and, of course, I bet him that they would be. Now, I owe him a drink.
Lesson to take away from all of this? If I ever propose a bet to you, take it.
ps. Isn't it weird to think that, in general, we were probably better off when gas cost you two arms and a newborn?
Lesson to take away from all of this? If I ever propose a bet to you, take it.
ps. Isn't it weird to think that, in general, we were probably better off when gas cost you two arms and a newborn?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Joe Six Pack Goes Back to Work
I think we can safely say that Presidential Debate III was The Battle for Joe the Plumber. Both candidates fought vigorously for his soul, and its up to the voters to determine whose pipes Joe the Plumber will have the honor of fixing.
All I know is, now that he's the most famous man in America, Joe the Plumber is sooooo getting laid tonight.
UPDATE: It seems Joe the Plumber is neither Joe nor a plumber. Does this mean Joe SixPack is really Harold Chardonnay? I don't know what to think!
All I know is, now that he's the most famous man in America, Joe the Plumber is sooooo getting laid tonight.
UPDATE: It seems Joe the Plumber is neither Joe nor a plumber. Does this mean Joe SixPack is really Harold Chardonnay? I don't know what to think!
It's a Simple Matter of Logic
Since, on Monday, we celebrated the greatest wrong turn in recorded history, we did not have class. BU has an inexplicable policy where, because we can’t bear to lose a Monday schedule, some other poor day gets sacrificed and we replace that poor day’s schedule with a Monday schedule. This year, that honor fell on poor Tuesday, so, yesterday, which was a Tuesday, became a Monday. Thus, although yesterday was technically Tuesday, Tuesday never happened. Today, normalcy resumes and we are on a Wednesday. Therefore, because Wednesday followed Monday, those of us whose Monday and Wednesday schedules are identical have two days in a row, a la Groundhog Day, that are exactly the same in every way, shape, and form.
Bottom Line? I have no idea what today is, no clue what tomorrow will bring, and, given the déjà vu, no assurance that the weekend will ever come. All I know is, I really need a drink.
Bottom Line? I have no idea what today is, no clue what tomorrow will bring, and, given the déjà vu, no assurance that the weekend will ever come. All I know is, I really need a drink.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Chief Justice Shakespeare
Ladies and Gentlemen, via ATL, your Chief Justice of the Supreme Court:
There once was a man from Belfoom
who sold illegal DVDs from his room.
He let in an informant
Now the Fourth Amendment is dormant
so to jail where he'll meet his doom.
I expect my Pulitzer for Literature any day now.
North Philly, May 4, 2001. Officer Sean Devlin, Narcotics Strike Force, was working the morning shift. Undercover surveillance. The neighborhood? Tough as a three dollar steak. Devlin knew. Five years on the beat, nine months with the Strike Force. He’d made fifteen, twenty drug busts in the neighborhood.If Chief Justice Roberts can pass off a Raymond Chandler novel as a dissenting opinion, then why can't my moot court brief be a limerick? Look:
Devlin spotted him: a lone man on the corner. Another approached. Quick exchange of words. Cash handed over; small objects handed back. Each man then quickly on his own way. Devlin knew the guy wasn’t buying bus tokens. He radioed a description and Officer Stein picked up the buyer. Sure enough: three bags of crack in the guy’s pocket. Head downtown and book him. Just another day at the office.
There once was a man from Belfoom
who sold illegal DVDs from his room.
He let in an informant
Now the Fourth Amendment is dormant
so to jail where he'll meet his doom.
I expect my Pulitzer for Literature any day now.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Random Video of the Day XIX
What you probably don't know is I was the best man, and this is all a part of my plan to ruin weddings and engagements so that the reservoir of unmarried American women does not dry up.
A Day at The Museum
If you would have happened to chance on me Friday afternoon in NYC, you would have assumed I was lost. Not because of my vacant expression, or the random wanderings, since those are, you know, characteristics du jour. No, you would have thought I was lost because you would have found me at a museum.
Right? WTF? Charlie? At a museum? You? Really?
Really. I was there, as a visitor, of my own volition, not attempting to steal anything, just, you know, trying to become cultured.
Why was I there? Caitlin, visiting the east coast from the far nether reaches of the Midwest, wanted to go, so, well, why not?
I hadn't been to a museum in maybe a dozen years and this would be a good experience. I might go through the whole experience without embarrassing myself, or getting kicked out. Heck, I might even learn something for a change.
So there we were, walking down the halls of the Museum of Modern Art, looking at paintings, and I was trying hard not to be so damned overwhelmed and look like I belonged. As a visitor, I mean. Not as an exhibit.
I felt a little bad for Caitlin, who had to put up with question after question like, "Does that look like a cheese-grater to you?" "Where are all the dinosaurs?" and, although it wasn't a question, "I don't get it." That last one was repeated several dozen times. I wouldn't have blamed her one bit if she had insisted I walk 20 feet behind her and refrained from addressing her directly.
But she played it like a pro, patiently pointing out the details of the Picasso so I could see what I was supposed to see and, more importantly, so I would stop squinting at the paintings in confusion like a drunk guy deciphering a menu at a Chinese restaurant.
And in the end, I did get it. I think. I may not know Monet from Manet from Mamet, but I can appreciate a great painting when I see one. The last exhibit was Van Gogh, and I spent several minutes looking at his Starry Night Over the Rhone. Mostly it was because the exhibit room was too packed to move. But, the more I stared at it, the more I came to understand why its representations hang in so many places and, why, with its luminous tones staring at me from over the beer pong table, I, inspired, sunk so many shots under its light.
Right? WTF? Charlie? At a museum? You? Really?
Really. I was there, as a visitor, of my own volition, not attempting to steal anything, just, you know, trying to become cultured.
Why was I there? Caitlin, visiting the east coast from the far nether reaches of the Midwest, wanted to go, so, well, why not?
I hadn't been to a museum in maybe a dozen years and this would be a good experience. I might go through the whole experience without embarrassing myself, or getting kicked out. Heck, I might even learn something for a change.
So there we were, walking down the halls of the Museum of Modern Art, looking at paintings, and I was trying hard not to be so damned overwhelmed and look like I belonged. As a visitor, I mean. Not as an exhibit.
I felt a little bad for Caitlin, who had to put up with question after question like, "Does that look like a cheese-grater to you?" "Where are all the dinosaurs?" and, although it wasn't a question, "I don't get it." That last one was repeated several dozen times. I wouldn't have blamed her one bit if she had insisted I walk 20 feet behind her and refrained from addressing her directly.
But she played it like a pro, patiently pointing out the details of the Picasso so I could see what I was supposed to see and, more importantly, so I would stop squinting at the paintings in confusion like a drunk guy deciphering a menu at a Chinese restaurant.
And in the end, I did get it. I think. I may not know Monet from Manet from Mamet, but I can appreciate a great painting when I see one. The last exhibit was Van Gogh, and I spent several minutes looking at his Starry Night Over the Rhone. Mostly it was because the exhibit room was too packed to move. But, the more I stared at it, the more I came to understand why its representations hang in so many places and, why, with its luminous tones staring at me from over the beer pong table, I, inspired, sunk so many shots under its light.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Office Drinking Game
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to present to you, for your enjoyment, the greatest TV show drinking game known to man. Originated by the fine folks at 216 Delaware, the Office Drinking Game, or ODG for short, is a true testament to the continuous drinking that rational people regard with two parts envy to five parts apprehension.
Ideally, this game is played with a 40, the object being to finish it during the show. Those not finished have to chug at the end, so no sissy sips, please.
When do you drink? When do you not? Below, the rules.
Unless otherwise noted, drink every time:
Michael:
does something inappropriate
references his troubled childhood
expresses contempt for Dwight
makes a bad metaphor
compares the office to a family
says 'that's what she said'
Dwight:
says 'question' or 'fact'
sucks up to Michael
mentions Schrute Farm/beets/cousin Mose/some distant relative
exaggerates his own abilities
references his Nazi heritage
mentions being a volunteer deputy sheriff
references missing Angela
Jim:
says something sarcastic
plays a prank
looks at the camera
walks up to the reception desk
Pam:
has to cover for Michael
colludes in a prank
references her design skills
Ryan:
looks at the camera
gets hit on by Michael
is referred to as "fire(d) guy"
Stanley:
is the subject of racism
rolls his eyes
does the crossword
Kevin:
does something perverted
mentions his band Scrantonicity
talks about cooking the books
is considered mentally challenged
Angela:
does something judgmental
talks about her cats
freezes out Andy
hooks up with Dwight
Meredith:
drinks, or someone mentions her alcoholism
flashes someone
Phyllis:
mentions Bob Vance
is made fun of for her weight
reminds Michael he is her age
Oscar:
is made fun of for being gay
Kelly:
acts ditsy
talks about loving/missing Ryan
tries to win him back
Creed:
does something weird/creepy/homeless/criminal
Jan:
talks to employee besides Michael
acts insane
reference to her boob job
Andy:
sings a cappella
calls Jim 'big tuna'
clashes with Dwight
represses anger
hits on a co-worker
Toby:
clashes with or is belittled by Michael
tries to hit on Pam
has a "Charlie Brown" moment
Darryl:
makes fun of or intimidates Michael
hits on Kelly
Other Rules:
Todd Packer appears (drink continuously)
Mention of another Stamford branch
Mention of the party planning committee
Someone plays a prank on Dwight
Jim and Pam have an awkward moment
Michael and Jan have an awkward moment
Michael and Holly have an awkward moment
Kelly and Ryan have an awkward moment
Dwight and Angela have an awkward moment
Meeting in the conference room (2 drinks)
Bob Vance makes an appearance/makes a plug for Vance Refrigeration (2 drinks)
Reference to Dunder Mifflin tanking/downsizing/losing market share to Staples and Office Depot (2 drinks)
Scrantonicity plays - SHOT
Character quits or somehow leaves the show - SHOT
Character who was gone (Roy, Karen, Toby) returns - SHOT
Cornell is mentioned - SHOT
And, of course, there's a catch-all provision. Every time something happens that deserves a drink, drink. It's a Thursday night, after all. And that 40 is not going to drink itself.
Happy ODG viewing.
Ideally, this game is played with a 40, the object being to finish it during the show. Those not finished have to chug at the end, so no sissy sips, please.
When do you drink? When do you not? Below, the rules.
Unless otherwise noted, drink every time:
Michael:
does something inappropriate
references his troubled childhood
expresses contempt for Dwight
makes a bad metaphor
compares the office to a family
says 'that's what she said'
Dwight:
says 'question' or 'fact'
sucks up to Michael
mentions Schrute Farm/beets/cousin Mose/some distant relative
exaggerates his own abilities
references his Nazi heritage
mentions being a volunteer deputy sheriff
references missing Angela
Jim:
says something sarcastic
plays a prank
looks at the camera
walks up to the reception desk
Pam:
has to cover for Michael
colludes in a prank
references her design skills
Ryan:
looks at the camera
gets hit on by Michael
is referred to as "fire(d) guy"
Stanley:
is the subject of racism
rolls his eyes
does the crossword
Kevin:
does something perverted
mentions his band Scrantonicity
talks about cooking the books
Angela:
does something judgmental
talks about her cats
freezes out Andy
hooks up with Dwight
Meredith:
drinks, or someone mentions her alcoholism
flashes someone
Phyllis:
mentions Bob Vance
is made fun of for her weight
reminds Michael he is her age
Oscar:
is made fun of for being gay
Kelly:
acts ditsy
talks about loving/missing Ryan
tries to win him back
Creed:
does something weird/creepy/homeless/criminal
Jan:
talks to employee besides Michael
acts insane
reference to her boob job
Andy:
sings a cappella
calls Jim 'big tuna'
clashes with Dwight
represses anger
hits on a co-worker
Toby:
clashes with or is belittled by Michael
tries to hit on Pam
has a "Charlie Brown" moment
Darryl:
makes fun of or intimidates Michael
hits on Kelly
Other Rules:
Todd Packer appears (drink continuously)
Mention of another Stamford branch
Mention of the party planning committee
Someone plays a prank on Dwight
Jim and Pam have an awkward moment
Michael and Jan have an awkward moment
Michael and Holly have an awkward moment
Kelly and Ryan have an awkward moment
Dwight and Angela have an awkward moment
Meeting in the conference room (2 drinks)
Bob Vance makes an appearance/makes a plug for Vance Refrigeration (2 drinks)
Reference to Dunder Mifflin tanking/downsizing/losing market share to Staples and Office Depot (2 drinks)
Scrantonicity plays - SHOT
Character quits or somehow leaves the show - SHOT
Character who was gone (Roy, Karen, Toby) returns - SHOT
Cornell is mentioned - SHOT
And, of course, there's a catch-all provision. Every time something happens that deserves a drink, drink. It's a Thursday night, after all. And that 40 is not going to drink itself.
Happy ODG viewing.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Quote of the Day XX
Do Stupid People vote? That's hard to say. Certainly, some will forget to. Others will remember to vote, but not how to get out of their own homes. Of those who make it out of their homes during voting hours, many will make simple mistakes. Eat their ballots. Enter the voting booth only to urinate and leave. And some will build a nest in the booth and stay through the winter.
-- John Oliver
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Drop it Like It's a Tot
This seems to be the big rage nowadays. Pictures of Barack Obama holding babies.
Am I the only one who thinks that holding babies is an inherently dangerous activity for both parties? Literally, millions of things can go wrong.
Let's say you are the holder. You have to worry about things like spit-up, liquid burps, soilings, wettings, screaming, grabbing, kicking, gouging, crying, bawling, and dodging whatever the baby will throw at you. And ohmygod what if you drop the baby? I can think of nothing worse than that inevitable moment when it slips, and, in dramatic slow motion, the baby proves that Isaac Newton was right.
Let's say you are the holdee. You are either plucked out of your mother's embrace by a complete stranger, or, worse, willingly handed over to a man who might or might not know how to handle you. It doesn't matter that he's running for president. I wouldn't trust Gerald Ford with a full glass of water. The subsequent presidential track record does nothing to assuage these fears. Allow me to present exhibits A and B. And just imagine, for a second, that you're a baby. And, all of a sudden, you're grabbed out of nowhere by this giant, a dozen times your size, who lifts you and points you to the cameras and suspends you in midair, with ten body lengths worth of gravity itching to speed you to the floor.There are so many forces conspiring against you, and all you can do is cry.
Moreover, what if the guy doesn't know how to hold a baby? Have you ever been handed a baby by an overzealous parent? I hate it when someone tells me to hold a baby. All of a sudden, I have this bundle of arms and legs handed to me, and I know I sometimes drop stuff for no reason, and I'm trying desperately not to grab it by the head, and I'm trying to figure out the best grip, and there's something so wrong with that because babies really shouldn't have a grip -- they're not tennis rackets, for God's sake -- and what if I drop it because, again, I drop things for no reason, accidentally, without meaning to do it, and what if the baby's OK, but later in life develops a stutter, or doesn't get into Harvard, and there's no way of knowing it would have gone but for my dropping it, and we'll never be able to know, at least, not for sure, and, meanwhile, the baby is sensing my fear and is becoming more and more scared, and then the fear assaults us both and in the sudden panic, it's all I can do to shove the poor thing back in its mother's arms and retreat for a second, maybe have a seat and breathe, just to wait for the shaking to subside.
Bottom line? NEVER hand me a baby. Not even my own. Especially not my own.
Am I the only one who thinks that holding babies is an inherently dangerous activity for both parties? Literally, millions of things can go wrong.
Let's say you are the holder. You have to worry about things like spit-up, liquid burps, soilings, wettings, screaming, grabbing, kicking, gouging, crying, bawling, and dodging whatever the baby will throw at you. And ohmygod what if you drop the baby? I can think of nothing worse than that inevitable moment when it slips, and, in dramatic slow motion, the baby proves that Isaac Newton was right.
Let's say you are the holdee. You are either plucked out of your mother's embrace by a complete stranger, or, worse, willingly handed over to a man who might or might not know how to handle you. It doesn't matter that he's running for president. I wouldn't trust Gerald Ford with a full glass of water. The subsequent presidential track record does nothing to assuage these fears. Allow me to present exhibits A and B. And just imagine, for a second, that you're a baby. And, all of a sudden, you're grabbed out of nowhere by this giant, a dozen times your size, who lifts you and points you to the cameras and suspends you in midair, with ten body lengths worth of gravity itching to speed you to the floor.There are so many forces conspiring against you, and all you can do is cry.
Moreover, what if the guy doesn't know how to hold a baby? Have you ever been handed a baby by an overzealous parent? I hate it when someone tells me to hold a baby. All of a sudden, I have this bundle of arms and legs handed to me, and I know I sometimes drop stuff for no reason, and I'm trying desperately not to grab it by the head, and I'm trying to figure out the best grip, and there's something so wrong with that because babies really shouldn't have a grip -- they're not tennis rackets, for God's sake -- and what if I drop it because, again, I drop things for no reason, accidentally, without meaning to do it, and what if the baby's OK, but later in life develops a stutter, or doesn't get into Harvard, and there's no way of knowing it would have gone but for my dropping it, and we'll never be able to know, at least, not for sure, and, meanwhile, the baby is sensing my fear and is becoming more and more scared, and then the fear assaults us both and in the sudden panic, it's all I can do to shove the poor thing back in its mother's arms and retreat for a second, maybe have a seat and breathe, just to wait for the shaking to subside.
Bottom line? NEVER hand me a baby. Not even my own. Especially not my own.
Quote of the Day XIX
That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!
-- Homer
Why my Moot Court Brief is Catastrophically Behind Schedule
Instead of writing my brief, I am IMing friends. In my schedule, I was supposed to have finished it last weekend, and yet here I am, just now reading the case. And yet here I am, procrastinating. I guess that's what mavericks do, you know.
So, when Kristen said her class was boring, I gallantly offered to save her by calling her "from the hospital," thus giving her an excuse to escape.
Why would I be in the hospital, she asked.
This is the story I came up with:
So I tried to steal honey. From a beehive. And got attacked. By the bees, not by PETA people. So I got attacked. And ran into a bear. Who beat me up. For stealing his honey. I was hurt. So I broke into a pharmacy. To get band-aids. But I got caught. So I was arrested. And I went to jail. Again. So, in jail, I tried to escape. But I tunneled the wrong way. When I came up, I hit my head. Because I came up in the warden's office. Under his desk. So he got spooked. And kicked me in the teeth. So I bit him in the leg. Then I took him hostage. So I escaped. In my excitement, I ran into a wall. This knocked myself out. So here I am. In the hospital.
And, all while I pen this Pulitzer Prize winner, time ticks away.
Update: After 6 hours in the library, I have actually managed to do some "work." Now all that remains of my brief is finding the cases, reading the cases, figuring out my argument, outlining my argument, writing my argument, re-reading the cases to find law that supports my argument, incorporating the law into my argument, and re-writing my argument. Oh, and formatting. Yay sleep!
So, when Kristen said her class was boring, I gallantly offered to save her by calling her "from the hospital," thus giving her an excuse to escape.
Why would I be in the hospital, she asked.
This is the story I came up with:
So I tried to steal honey. From a beehive. And got attacked. By the bees, not by PETA people. So I got attacked. And ran into a bear. Who beat me up. For stealing his honey. I was hurt. So I broke into a pharmacy. To get band-aids. But I got caught. So I was arrested. And I went to jail. Again. So, in jail, I tried to escape. But I tunneled the wrong way. When I came up, I hit my head. Because I came up in the warden's office. Under his desk. So he got spooked. And kicked me in the teeth. So I bit him in the leg. Then I took him hostage. So I escaped. In my excitement, I ran into a wall. This knocked myself out. So here I am. In the hospital.
And, all while I pen this Pulitzer Prize winner, time ticks away.
Update: After 6 hours in the library, I have actually managed to do some "work." Now all that remains of my brief is finding the cases, reading the cases, figuring out my argument, outlining my argument, writing my argument, re-reading the cases to find law that supports my argument, incorporating the law into my argument, and re-writing my argument. Oh, and formatting. Yay sleep!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Mail Goggles
Today, for those of us who enjoy our weekends, Gmail released a sure-fire prophylactic to those inevitable 3 a.m. on a Saturday HHHHEY, WAHT AREE YOU DONIG??//? wANT TO WATHC A MVIE?// instant messages.
Right. This is about as useful as a restraining order. They really think making me do simple math is going to keep me from proposing via IM to unfortunate girls who are still up at that hour/live in another continent?
Right. This is about as useful as a restraining order. They really think making me do simple math is going to keep me from proposing via IM to unfortunate girls who are still up at that hour/live in another continent?
Sunday, October 5, 2008
What if He Shot Me in the Face?
Because wearing a Kevlar vest can really prove fatal to one's style, today's NYT has a terrific article about Miguel Caballero, a fashion line that specializes in bulletproof clothes.
These are polos, dress shirts and coats that can stop bullets, and they are becoming the civilian's uniform in the burgeoning Drug War. Only a few of them have a Superman logo across the chest, although the most popular style, by far, is the one incorporating the Target logo.
These aren't just heavy coats. These things will stop a shot from a submachine gun. Someone can shoot you with an MP5 and you can brush it off and keep on walking with nothing more than a gunpowder stain on your chest and the vindication that can only come from knowing that you just proved something to those assholes who said nobody would ever shoot you while wearing one of these things. Plus, you have heck of a bar story to one-up that guy who always brags about having been stabbed. Once. In the arm.
That said, there are a few caveats to the clothes. The store recommends that you avoid being shot at. Should this prove an impossibility, the owner does admit that these armored sweaters do have some limitations:
shoot be shot at by your boss.
My favorite part of the whole thing, however, has to be the loyalty club for clients:
I wonder what the initiation ritual is like. My experience in such matters is that, when initiating a new member, you want to give them a jolt, to unnerve them as much as possible. But these guys just got shot at. That's their resume. After that, rituals like Crossing the Desert, The Unblinking Eye, and The Paddling of the Swollen Ass... with Paddles must seem pedestrian by comparison.
OK. I'm going to go ahead an order one of these shirts. I'll then figure out a contest of some sort (perhaps likely involving tequila) so that one lucky reader will get a chance to do what most people only dream of and shoot me. Just, please, not in the face.
These are polos, dress shirts and coats that can stop bullets, and they are becoming the civilian's uniform in the burgeoning Drug War. Only a few of them have a Superman logo across the chest, although the most popular style, by far, is the one incorporating the Target logo.
These aren't just heavy coats. These things will stop a shot from a submachine gun. Someone can shoot you with an MP5 and you can brush it off and keep on walking with nothing more than a gunpowder stain on your chest and the vindication that can only come from knowing that you just proved something to those assholes who said nobody would ever shoot you while wearing one of these things. Plus, you have heck of a bar story to one-up that guy who always brags about having been stabbed. Once. In the arm.
That said, there are a few caveats to the clothes. The store recommends that you avoid being shot at. Should this prove an impossibility, the owner does admit that these armored sweaters do have some limitations:
He points out that the clothing is not designed for the kind of warfare that is breaking out in some parts of Mexico, where drug assassins have used rocket launchers and grenades to wipe out rivals.So I won't ask my brother to shoot me with a rocket launcher to test this out. How do they know that these clothes do stop bullets? Unfortunately, laboratory testing in Mexico is not quite up to United States standards:
Every member of the sales staff has had to take a turn being shot while wearing one of the products, which range from a few hundred dollars to as much as $7,000, so they can attest to the efficacy of the secret fabric.Of course, it is every American's dream, you know, to
My favorite part of the whole thing, however, has to be the loyalty club for clients:
Called the Survivor’s Club, it is open to anyone whose life was saved by wearing one of his protective garments. Its rolls, he said in a telephone interview from Bogotá, are on the rise.Next to the Finer Things Club, the Survivor's Club is the most exclusive club in this office. Naturally, it's where I need to be. The Party-Planning Committee is my back-up, and Kevin's band is my safety.
I wonder what the initiation ritual is like. My experience in such matters is that, when initiating a new member, you want to give them a jolt, to unnerve them as much as possible. But these guys just got shot at. That's their resume. After that, rituals like Crossing the Desert, The Unblinking Eye, and The Paddling of the Swollen Ass... with Paddles must seem pedestrian by comparison.
OK. I'm going to go ahead an order one of these shirts. I'll then figure out a contest of some sort (
Quote of the Day XVIII
I believe marriage is meant to be a sacred institution between two unwilling teenagers.
-- Tina Fey as Sarah Palin
Friday, October 3, 2008
"And I May Not Answer the Questions that Either the Moderator or you Want to Hear"
The VP debate drinking game, of course, turned out to be tremendously fruitful. If you, like us, drank every time they said Main Street, maverick, referred to the fundamentals of something, or called each other by their first name, then you're probably suffering in the fetal position right now, under your desk at work. If you, like us, also drank every time Palin said gotcha, gonna, betcha, heckuva, folks, gosh, golly, or any other assorted folkisms, you probably ran out of alcohol within the first half hours. A welcome and added benefit to the drinking game was that, even as her words made less and less sense, by the end of the debate I really wanted to buy her a drink.
Because she wasn't reduced to a blubbering mess of tears, people are calling her performance a complete victory. Anyone expecting the moderator to say something like the following Billy Madison quote was in for a disappointment:
"Miss Palin, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul."
That said, she does, as others have pointed out, talk like a fifth grade teacher. She sounded less like a person who might lead the free world someday, and more like a substitute teacher trying to convince a 3rd grade class that a field trip to the cracker factory would be worthwhile, you betcha.
She would, however, be a terrible fifth grade teacher in that she doesn't speak in complete sentences. Some are missing verbs, some are missing a subject, some an object, but most of all, most of them miss the point. A sampling:
One thing that Americans do at this time, also, though, is let's commit ourselves just every day American people, Joe Six Pack, hockey moms across the nation, I think we need to band together and say never again.Or:
But I also want to clarify, if there's any kind of suggestion at all from my answer that I would be anything but tolerant of adults in America choosing their partners, choosing relationships that they deem best for themselves, you know, I am tolerant and I have a very diverse family and group of friends and even within that group you would see some who may not agree with me on this issue, some very dear friends who don't agree with me on this issue.Or:
Say it ain't so, Joe, there you go again pointing backwards again. You preferenced your whole comment with the Bush administration. Now doggone it, let's look ahead and tell Americans what we have to plan to do for them in the future. You mentioned education and I'm glad you did. I know education you are passionate about with your wife being a teacher for 30 years, and god bless her. Her reward is in heaven, right?Incredibly, she manages to out-Bush Bush. It's a remarkable feat, and she even managed to ape his pronunciation of "nuclear." It's not "nucular," for the love of Pete. How do they not know this? How have people not told them they're wrong? I will give a thousand dollars to the person who can convince her that, every time she says "nucular," God smites a puppy.
Hey, if she doesn't believe in dinosaurs, maybe she'll believe that.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Like a Lamb to the Slaughter
I'm not sure why I'm looking forward to tonight's VP debate. I don't really think anything substantive will come of it, to be honest. Biden will no doubt make a reference to that phone call Lincoln took the morning Texas seceded from Mexico, overarticulate rehashed talking points and be painted as overbearing, while Palin will stumble through banal generalities in her bewildering Minnesota accent. The most salient feature, of course, will be her frozen smile, the one she's been wearing all through the train wrecks that are her interviews.
That smile reminds me of the time my buddy, a long time ago, bragged and trash talked so much that he suddenly found himself with no recourse but to jump between two roofs three stories up and fifteen feet apart on a dare. He had no idea how things escalated so quickly, but he climbed the fire escape with that same smile, imagining that somehow, with a headwind, prayer, and whole lot of luck, he could maybe clear the distance and land in a heap, bruised and beaten, on the other roof. Mostly, however, he was just hoping not to end up a broken mess on the ground.
And I guess that's why I'm watching. To see if she actually lands on the other roof, or if I I'll have an awesome story about that time Paul fell off the roof.
And can we stop saying she's "a heartbeat away from the presidency"? Technically, she's a failed heartbeat away from the presidency.
That smile reminds me of the time my buddy, a long time ago, bragged and trash talked so much that he suddenly found himself with no recourse but to jump between two roofs three stories up and fifteen feet apart on a dare. He had no idea how things escalated so quickly, but he climbed the fire escape with that same smile, imagining that somehow, with a headwind, prayer, and whole lot of luck, he could maybe clear the distance and land in a heap, bruised and beaten, on the other roof. Mostly, however, he was just hoping not to end up a broken mess on the ground.
And I guess that's why I'm watching. To see if she actually lands on the other roof, or if I I'll have an awesome story about that time Paul fell off the roof.
And can we stop saying she's "a heartbeat away from the presidency"? Technically, she's a failed heartbeat away from the presidency.
Deep Thought
I just realized that half the people you'll meet are, by definition, of less than average intelligence.
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