Sunday Bloody Sunday

Today kind of really sucked, football-wise, didn't it? And the weekend started off so promising, what with Plaxico Burress shooting himself in the leg.

But today. I mean, Jesus. The Patriots lost, for one.

Then the BCS rankings screwed Texas. This sums it up for me:

The Sooners (11-1), who lost to Texas 45-35 in October, barely edged the Longhorns. Oklahoma has a .9351 BCS average. Texas' BCS average is .9223. Oklahoma will play Missouri for the Big 12 title. So the Longhorns will be watching two teams they beat play for the conference title.

The BCS can go and drown itself in a lake.

And, on a more personal level, my fantasy team was eliminated from playoff contention put out of its misery. This underwhelming crew was devastated by injuries to Nate Burleson and Reggie Bush. LaDanian Tomlinson did his best to emulate Shaun Alexander's career arc/spectacular decline. For someone with such (deceiving) great stats, Phil "Marmalard" Rivers' douchiness was almost matched by his inconsistency. And special thanks to Marvin "The Invisible Man" Harrison and Hines "My Team Won't Put the Ball in the Air" Ward.

I guess I should be at fault, for running a worst draft than the Jets. But hey. At least we're not the Lions.

We're Going Through the Quad and into the Gymnasium!

The machines in my gym have little TV screens with DVD slots. Which is nice, because laughing at Buster Bluth works well to distract one from the idea that one is operating much as a hamster on a wheel: An routine of running in place, repeating the same activities, doing the same thing every day, all in the vain hope of keeping those tires from rolling.

At the very least, the gym is an entertaining place to be, if only for the characters. There's a guy in my gym who comes in on occasion. He always walks in wearing a leather coat with fur lining its hood. This is odd, because the gym is in my apartment building. There is absolutely no need for one. This guy carefully takes off this coat, folds it, and goes straight to the free weights, picks out the smallest ones, and does maybe five minutes of curls before putting his coat back on, pulling his hood back up, and then leaving. He remains, however, thin, to which I credit anorexia and cocaine.

Then there is the opposite end of the spectrum: a big guy who kind of looks like Bill Belichik, and who, in my estimation, comes in at a deuce and a half, at least. This poor bastard spends at least an hour on the elliptical machine, producing enough saltwater to create a new home for Willy, should he no longer be Free, and, um, come back to life. Regardless, this man doesn't lose a pound, and his only accomplishment, sadly, is that he makes the gym smell like an open-air slaughterhouse, or perhaps a repository for drowned elephants. In any case, the smell is almost worth the glare that the Stepford Wives give him when he ascends that elliptical machine with lumbering gusto: It is the look one would imagine Dubya has reserved for Bin Laden.

This morning, as I was on the elliptical machine, a small Asian man walked in and got on the machine next to mine. Then he put a DVD in the machine, and it turned out to be, of all things, Notting Hill. Fifteen minutes later, perhaps frustrated by the romantic tension of Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts, he was done, and left the gym.

Notting Hill? Really? For the gym? I can't think of a movie less suited for that environment. Perhaps the Care Bear movie would rise to that level, but it's doubtful. Maybe The Joy Luck Club. Or Hostel.

At least it wasn't a porn.

Random Video of the Day XXXIII

Just to keep with the blasts from the past. Yesterday brought us A Man Called Flintstone. Today brings us another great movie, The Brave Little Toaster. I loved this movie when I was a kid, and it still holds up today, for the most part. The air conditioner's death scene is great. The toaster's worst nightmare is to be dropped in a tub. And, of course, the songs are terrific. That said, there is definitely something going on between the toaster and the blanket. It's not quite Peppermint Patty-Marcia, but it's certainly above the Chandler-Joey level. And why the purple lamp has a Cuban accent is beyond me.

Jailhouse Rock

Some of you may remember a certain night in the late April of '07 when a few shady people, myself included, went to an after-hours at my house and played Guitar Hero at a volume that was just a lit-tle bit too loud for 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning. This led to an unfortunate encounter with Ithaca's finest, and may or may not have resulted in a visit downtown.

In a positive note, however, I did learn that handcuffs are surprisingly uncomfortable. Who knew?

The crime? Having too much fun, I guess. Technically, it was a noise violation. Now, this ordinance may or may not be unconstitutional, depending on who you ask. But I didn't pay for a drink all week, the bail money covered the fine, and now I have a pretty good "never have I ever."

And I'm just thankful that this did not happen in Colorado. Apparently, the judge likes to punish those irksome creatures, the noise violators, by locking them in a room and forcing them to listen to Barry Manilow and Barney the Dinosaur for hours on end.

Personally, I think a worse punishment would be to make them listen to this on repeat. But this is just as bad. Barney the flipping dinosaur. Where, I ask you, is common decency? Where is the eight amendment? Where are the Geneva Conventions? I'd rather be waterboarded.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Turkey Day, everybody!

That expression has always struck me as a bit of a misnomer. I have yet to see a happy turkey on Thanksgiving. Mostly, they are melancholy, or angry and paranoid. And, really, can you blame them?



With the stupid joke out of the way, I can go on to list what I'm grateful for.

Friends and family, without whom the friends and family discount, so integral a part of the narcotics baron, would not exist.

Cows, who, because they are the tastiest of the animals, are my favorite of the animals. Without them, there would be no steaks, prime ribs, skirt steaks, flank steaks, strip steaks, T-Bones, Rib-eyes, filet mignons, roast beef, brisket, cheesesteaks, beef jerky, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, or any other of the vast array of hamburgers that are so plentiful in this land of, um, plenty.

Beers, Wines, and Spirits, all integral parts of the Hotel Administration major at Cornell, and all also integral parts of the clouding of one's judgment.

The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy and Will Ferrell movies, without which my conversations would be much, much more silent.

Sports, like baseball, football, and beer pong.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, three of most important meals of the day.

And now, I am off, to make myself some steak. I always have steak instead of turkey on Thanksgiving. Turkey, the blandest of the meats, is an acceptable food. However, if we are going to be grateful about food, it stands to reason that we should consume the best of the foods. Thus, steak, the background on my iPhone and the reason I become emotional, on occasion, at steakhouses.

Random Video of the Day XXXII

Anyone remember this movie? Talk about your blast from the past.

I Immediately Regret This Decision

If the scores of people waiting to crowd onto the T with bags roughly the size of a ten-year old didn't tip you off, this is Thanksgiving weekend, which means most people have four full days of freedom. For law students, of course, this means that we have a turkey break during LOCKDOWN.

Because I'll be spending a lot of time at home over the next few days, and should get up from the LOCKDOWN every once in a while or risk succumbing to chair sores, I figured this was the perfect opportunity to do something of myself and cook.

I know. You're cringing. I'm cringing too. Who can forget that time sophomore year when i tried to cook spaghetti and it came out black? I'm the kind of guy who can somehow set cereal on fire.

Just the other day, in fact, I tried to cook myself some chicken. And it was a little bit of a catastrophe.

See, the culinarily challenged should, if faced with the necessity of concocting a meal -- and I stress the word necessity -- should stick to the bare minimum. The less steps, the better. Avoid fire, if possible. Even the microwave should be used only if a fire extinguisher and a responsible adult are withing screaming distance.

What turned the mundane task of cooking some chicken into a misadventure was my hubris. See, I tried to be ambitious. I tried to overreach. And, just like Icarus, I flew a little too close to the sun.

Usually, when I cook chicken, I heat a little bit of oil, let it smoke, turn down the heat, put the chicken in the pan, and presto. Chicken.

This time, I wanted to be ambitious and marinated the chicken.

My first thought, I've made a huge mistake.

My second thought, what the bleep?

Within seconds of setting the chicken down on the pan, my kitchen looked like on of those airport smoking lounges where you can't see anything above the waist. There was so much smoke, I couldn't tell if there was a fire. The smoke detector, of course, went batshit insane, broadcasting for the whole world to know just how epic a fail I was as a cook. There are few things more undignified than a grown man standing on a chair, frantically waving a magazine under a smoke detector. Thank God the firefighters didn't come racing in. I can't think of anything more embarrassing than greeting the city's bravest with a shrug that sends a blackened chicken breast from my pan to the floor, where my "dinner" would crumble like ashes.

And yet, like a dog who won't stop jumping at an electric fence, this weekend I will attempt to cook meals beyond my usual staples of quesadillas and pasta. I have bought potatoes. Peppers. Onions. Other vegetables I barely recognize. Heck, I even bought another pan, and will attempt the unthinkable -- at least to me -- and try to cook two things at the same time.

When you come back from break, if you find a smoldering hole where my apartment used to be, it will be because my attempt at making a salad probably failed.

Pray for me and my neighbors.

Quote of the Day XXXIV

There are two things I hate: People who are intolerant of other people's cultures. And the Dutch.

-- Nigel Powers

Fun at the Financial Concern Forum

This is the email we just got from the higher ups at BU asking us not to lose our composure.

Dear Students,

In our October 29, e-mail message (http://www.bu.edu/dos/messages/financialneed2008.html) we acknowledged that some of you may be apprehensive about your family's financial circumstances, prospects for employment next year, or your ability to manage your expenses next semester. If you have questions or concerns about your current or future prospects for receiving financial aid, please call, e-mail, or visit the Office of Financial Assistance at 881 Commonwealth Avenue (finaid@bu.edu; 617-353-2965).

We are also offering another chance to raise your concerns with members of the University's staff at an open forum on Monday, December 1, 2008, from 5:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. in CAS 224. Whether you have questions about financial aid awards, the availability of student loans, looking for jobs in a tight market, or just want to know what help is available to you, please join us. If you're not able to attend the discussion on December 1, please feel free to call staff members in the offices listed below; they're ready to talk with you at any time.

Financial Assistance (http://www.bu.edu/finaid)

University Service Center (http://www.bu.edu/usc)

Dean of Students (http://www.bu.edu/dos)

Student Accounting Services (http://www.bu.edu/comp/saweb)

Student Employment Office (http://.bu.edu/seo)

Career Services (http://www.bu.edu/careers)

International Students and Scholars Office (http://www.bu.edu/isso)

If you have any concerns, we encourage you to join us on December 1, or contact one of the listed offices. We hope you have an enjoyable and relaxing Thanksgiving break, and safe travels!

Are things that bad? Look at all those links! The subject of the email was "Message Regarding Financial Concern Forum." There's a forum now? At least the email wasn't in all CAPS, so that's a good sign. Nevertheless, it's a little distressing. Between this and finals, I'm going to start wearing a hard hat when I'm walking by the tower.

Thanksgiving Dinner is Going to be a Lit-tle Awkward

Via Deadspin:

"Two visitors from Iowa engaged in public sexual activities Saturday during the last Gophers football game at the Metrodome... By the time officers entered the bathroom to break up the conspicuous couple, a crowd of 15 onlookers had gathered around the over-occupied stall 'cheering and laughing' ... The male, 26, was released to his girlfriend. The female, 38, was released to her husband. Neither of the offenders’ partners were engaged in the explicit act."

Gooaaaa ... oh no!

Hey, Cornellians, remember Ryan O'Byrne? He plays for the Montreal Canadiens now, which is terrific. But then yesterday he went and did this.

It's an interesting strategy, Cotton. Let's see if it works out for them.

LOCKDOWN

That's all, folks.

Finals season is nigh upon us. I, for one, have four finals, and regard them much as one would the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

This means, unfortunately, that we must enter LOCKDOWN.

LOCKDOWN involves a rather strict regimen, and, for the next month, I will be garrisoned on the third floor of the library. On occasion, the guards will allow me to go get a sandwich from the nearby mess hall. Twice a day, I'll get to see the outdoors. Once on my walk to the tower of terror, then once more on the return.

It's actually a lot like house arrest, if you think about it. There is zero to none chance that I will see downtown Boston until finals are over. Restaurant meals will be non-existent, unless that restaurant is Chipotle, and that meal is eaten on the elevator up to my apartment. Movies, books, television and the like will have to be sacrificed. Being a lawyer better be awesome.

And going out? No way. Absolutely not.

...

Maybe. Maybe once a week. Maybe I'll go out once a week. But things have to change. These can't be the usual drink-until-you-can't-see days of yore. There have to be standards. Limits. The three drink minimum has to turn into a three drink maximum.

I can't afford to spend full days in the fetal position, praying for death. Instead, I must pass my days in the sitting-hunched-over-a-book position, praying for death.

A small difference to some, perhaps. But to those of us staring at finals like bunnies stare at the cold, dark nozzle of a shotgun, that difference may be the difference between a misfire and a head-shot.

I'll still blog. Writing this inanity should be a helpful respite, if only for a few minutes, of trying to decipher the tax implications of reverse triangular mergers.

So farewell, dear friends. I'll be back soon.

All I ask is that, when you drink and make merry, I pray that, upon clinking your glasses, you will pause for a moment and consider the plight of your poor friends, captive at the law school, shackled to their laptops, eyes bleeding from the exertion of reading. And I hope that you will take a moment to recognize their distress, and perhaps even take a sip in their honor, for it is them that you will remember on that fated day when the police lead your bewildered behind to the slammer, and you need someone to tell you just what exactly involuntary manslaughter entails.

Random Video of the Day XXXI

'Cause I'm a Rock ... it, man.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Tejas

The NYT recently published a story about my hometown, in which townspeople speculate about what will happen to its old-town charm now that the American invasion is in full bloom, led by luminaries such as Stone Phillips and Antonio Banderas.

And I for one, welcome our new celebrity overlords, and would like to remind them that, as a trusted narcotics magnate, I could be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

The best part about this new rush to old Mexico is, of course, the infusion of dollars. As difficult as things are up here in America, the dollar is still king. Its incursion into San Miguel's economy would be welcome indeed, as it would go a long way towards introducing and establishing many goods and services that, in the dark days of yore, were tragically lacking.

I speak, of course, of strip clubs. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Story time.

A few years ago, my buddies and I, along with my little brother, who had just turned 18, were out and about, looking for something, and, eventually, someone to do. But it was still early in the evening, and we were bored.

So one of us, Yellow the Mellow Fellow, suggested we go to a strip club.

As the only local, I told him, "Yellow, there aren't any."

"Lies," he said. "Every town worth its salt has a strip club."

"Buddy, there's none," I said. "Trust me."

He refused to take no for an answer, and so went to ask people to recommend a good strip club.

The first guy he went to said that I was right, and that there were no strip clubs.

"See?" I said.

"That guy's a bigger nerd than you are," Yellow answered. "I have to ask someone with a girlfriend."

So he went and asked someone with a girlfriend. He chalked up the negative response to the fact that his girlfriend was there, "and of course he would have nooooo idea about a strip club."

And then he saw a cop.

"Perfect," he said, and went to ask the cop.

To our astonishment, the cop smiled, nodded, and actually pulled out a map. He was like a cabbie in Vegas. The cop proceeded to animatedly gesture, slap Yellow on the shoulder, and sold it like entrepreneurs sell Adderall at law schools.

Bottom line, we were heading over to "La Cabana," a wonderful place 2 miles out of town, accessible only through the old royal road.

We took a cab out there and pulled into what looked like the Bada Bing, except without the neon and dead Italians. It was a nondescript, squat building with no windows and one door/escape route. The parking lot featured, alternately, pick-up trucks and tethered horses.

So we walked into this place, and, as is to be expected, it was dark, dingy, and had a bunch of men in cowboy hats seated in tables around a stage. So far so good.

And then we got stopped by the madame. God knows what you call them. She had to be at least fifty. Her hair was Marge Simpson blue. Her teeth were mostly there. Her legs looked like a map of major European rivers.

And, when she spoke, she did so in Harvey Fierstein's voice.

"Hello, boys. You new to these parts?"

(No, of course not). We nodded.

"You know how it works here, right?"

(No, of course not.) "No, of course not."

"Well, you boys all take a seat at one of those tables, maybe have a drink or two. Then, when you pick a girl who strikes your fancy, you take her up on stage, dance one song with her, settle the terms, and then the rooms are in the back."

Most would have figured out what was going on by now, but I'm a little slow. "Terms?" I asked.

"Yeah," the madame said. "Terms. Usually it's five dollars, but it can go up to maybe twice that, depending on how far outside the line you want to color."

By this point, even I understood what was going on. But, as the laws mandate it, I still had to ask another stupid question. "So this isn't a strip club?"

She looked at me as if I had said Africa was a country. "No. Not quite. I mean, they'll strip, but not out in public. Go on ahead and sit. Bucket of beers OK?"

We could only nod and be led to our seats. We were still in a state of shock. Somehow, we had managed to find ourselves, at a cop's recommendation, in a five dollar whorehouse.

I have neglected to mention that, although we were all Mexicans, we were suburban Mexicans. And, with the exception of my brother, I was the least Anglo-looking one in the bunch. Those who know what I look like can understand this implication. We looked like a bunch of Swedish tourists. I mean, there's a reason we called the instigator of this whole mess "Yellow." The man is completely yellow.

So not only are we out of our transactional element, we are out of our cultural element. Remember that scene in Road Trip, when they crash a frat house, claiming to be brothers there, and it turns out to be a national black fraternity, and then someone finds a KKK mask?

That's what this was like, except it's in backroads Mexico, the land that law forgot.

Every one of the beers in our beer bucket was flat. We kept getting stared down. Every time the huge cowboys behind us got up, they always "accidentally" elbowed and kneed us in the back. The entire time, we're sitting there, barely talking, praying it wouldn't turn out to be From Dusk til Dawn in there.

So we chugged our (flat) beers, left like a 50 percent tip/thanks-for-not-killing-us-toll, and high tailed it out of there like our asses were on fire. We waited maybe ten seconds for a cab, and then power walked the hell out of those two miles down an old abandoned road back to town.

From what I understand, those two miles are now developed, and La Cabana is probably no more. At the very least, it should be markedly more expensive. Hopefully.

Gentrification can't come soon enough.

Quote of the Day XXXIII

Everyone likes to watch a fire, even you. Avoid the temptation! After you've set a building alight, don't peek from around the corner so you can admire the conflagration . . . It's a common trap . . . most arsonists have been caught within meters of the scene of the crime and police are always on the lookout for shady characters standing around saying to bystanders, "Some fire, huh?"

-- Steve Toltz, A Fraction of the Whole

Droopy Drops in on BU

So I'm binding my own business, watching The Daily Show, and they're making fun of Joe Lieberman, and guess what come sup on screen:


The only place in Boston where you'd get that view of the city skyline is the Law Tower. Seriously. There's no other place that gets the Hancock Tower and the Prudential Center at that angle.

Obviously Joe Lieberman is in front of a green screen, because there is no effin way Senator Droopy Dog ever set foot inside the Tower of Terror, long rumored to house at its very top the Eye of Cheney.

It's even less likely that he was here given the complete inability of the tower to regulate the temperature inside the building. I mean, can Joey Liebs really afford to melt any more?

Bear Necessities

Me: Ashlee simpson's kid's name is Bronx Mowgli. Discuss.
Caitlin: from Jungle Book?
Me: yeah i guess
that's what they named the poor bastard
Caitlin: there was only one of them? she was freakin huge
Me: yeah his name is Bronx Mowgli
which i cant get over
Caitlin: sounds like an af.amer. DJ
Me: sounds like a pair of kindergartners playing house trying to name their dolls
Caitlin: or a pair of crackheads trying to name their crack pipes
Me: i kind of want to bring a hungry bear to their house and release it, screaming, "HERE'S BALOO!"

The Real Mondo Burger

At the BU grill, they have something called “The Big Dog.” It is a hamburger much in the same way that Godzilla is a lizard.

It involves two hamburger patties, sautéed onions, sautéed mushrooms, BBQ sauce, a fried egg, and three pieces of bread, all served on a bed of french fries.

This coronary concoction is served -- and I am not making this up -- in a plastic dog bowl, because when you’re eating this, you really need the extra help in looking like an animal.

That said, if anyone else wants to do it too, I’m in.

Quote of the Day XXXII

And if anything should ever happen to me, son, you and your brother are going to go to jail.

-- Tracy Jordan

Jurassic Park IV: Mammoth Mayhem

Did Jurassic Park teach us nothing? Have we not learned from the past? Jeff Goldblum almost died, people! Jeff Goldblum! Have we no respect?

If we are going to go ahead and clone non-dinosaurs, can't we go ahead and clone something cool? Like sabre-tooth tigers? Gogo dodos? The wild things that are where the wild things are?

They Call Me Mellow Gmail

What the hell?

I actually do some work for a minute, and then, when I check back on my email, Gmail looks like it went to college, found Marx, and turned into Wavy Gravy.

My first thought, of course, was the mushrooms are turning on me!

After the initial panic, I took a deep breath. There must be some explanation. You know how, when the lights go out, the first thing everyone does is go press their noses against the window in the hope that, gee, maybe I'm not the only poor bastard who lost his electricity?

Well, that applied here. I asked around, and reports of this phenomenon abound. Around the world, millions of Gmail accounts decided to go to Krusty the Klown Kollege and roll around in their face paint.

That, at least, is the only conceivable explanation as to why this formerly understated, elegant, white and blue interface suddenly listened to "Colors of the Wind," decided it would be a great mandate, and proceeded to disregard the mental safety and well-being of dozens of epileptics.

Perhaps I exaggerate. Some of these themes aren't so bad. Maybe you don't like "Blue." Maybe you like "New Blue." We all have our things.

But then, why on Earth would you choose a theme like "Terminal"? Look at this thing. Look!

Ooooh, look! It's retro! Like a computer from the 1920s! So vintage!

Why do you think nobody used computers in the 20s? No, it was not the depression. It was because they looked like that. Nobody enjoys looking at that. It's like looking at Roseanne and Tom Arnold be intimate together. Those tiny screams you hear are the result the cones and rods in your eyes shutting down, as the workers within them take their own lives.

Meanwhile, all I want to do is keep refreshing my email to see if the deposed emperor of Senelawi has finally gotten around to sending me my compensation. Is that too much to ask?

Can I Have my Drawing Back Then, Please

Thanks to Caroline for forwarding what might be the greatest email exchange I have ever seen. If only we could pay our bills with drawings of gimpy spiders.

I Caved

FINE! I GIVE UP!

OK, Old Man Winter. You win. I'm turning the heat on. OK? OK?

Now chill the bleep out. It's not even Thanksgiving. Damn.

Plus 1, Mother Russia

Via Gawker:

With Russian tanks only 30 miles from Tbilisi on August 12, Mr Sarkozy told Mr Putin that the world would not accept the overthrow of Georgia’s Government. According to Mr Levitte, the Russian seemed unconcerned by international reaction. “I am going to hang Saakashvili by the balls,” Mr Putin declared.

Mr Sarkozy thought he had misheard. “Hang him?” — he asked. “Why not?” Mr Putin replied. “The Americans hanged Saddam Hussein.”

Mr Sarkozy, using the familiar tu, tried to reason with him: “Yes but do you want to end up like [President] Bush?”

Mr Putin was briefly lost for words, then said: “Ah — you have scored a point there."

Who says the commies don't have a sense of humor?

Random Video of the Day XXX

Man, acting school was really not worth it.

Dispense With the Dispenser

My dad often asks me why I make fun of the law tower so much. Honestly, it's difficult not to. Witness the latest stroke of genius:

Granted, this is not the clearest of pictures. It's pretty hard to take a picture with your iPhone inside a tiny, cramped bathroom while rushing it, because, really, nobody wants to be caught taking a picture of anything in a public bathroom.

But allow me to explain.

This is the men's bathroom in the basement of the law tower, right next to the lockers. Consequently, it is one of the most visited places in the building.

In the bathroom, there are two sinks. Attached to the wall directly over the sinks, as you can see, are two perfectly functional paper towel dispensers made out of metal. There is one over each sink although here you can only see one.

Now, the geniuses over at the BU Law School Feng Shui department seem to have decided that having just two towel dispensers for two sinks is entirely inadequate. Instead, you need three. Never mind that, when you buy shoes, you only buy two of them. Three is the only rational number.

I mean, imagine you're peeing. And, let's pretend you're ultra spastic. And you're getting jostled around. So what was supposed to be a dry run ends up leaving you with something of a mess on your hands.

Naturally, your first instinct is to clean up. So you run to the sink. And then, OH NO!

There's guy number one, at sink number one, using paper towel dispenser number one. And then, on his right, is guy number two, at sink number two, using paper towel dispenser number two.

In the past, one would panic, cry, and be forever branded by shame. But now, our friend, the spastic hand-pee-er (Let's call him M. Alou), finally has a home at the BU basement bathroom, designed specifically for him.

It sounds terrific in theory, right? Alas, like communism, the Time-Warner merger, and law school, practice turned out to be much different indeed.

Look at the picture again. Notice how the new towel dispenser, the black one, is enormous. Notice how much it juts out. Notice also (this is a little tougher), where it is located.

The small size of the bathroom made it so the only possible place for the new towel dispenser was next to the old one. This is also known as the place where you stand when you wash your hands.

The photograph doesn't convey much depth, but trust me on the size of the obstruction. You can't physically stand at that sink because the stupid, superfluous towel dispenser is RIGHT FRICKIN THERE. The only way they could have made it more obtrusive was to put it inside the sink itself.

Therefore, there is only one usable sink and three towel dispensers. To return to the shoe analogy, not only did BU buy a third, extra shoe, they also chopped off a foot while they were at it.

So now, if there's someone else in the bathroom, you can't wash your hands. It's impossible. The bathroom has become unusable. It's a shame.

And that, your honor, is why I was in the women's bathroom.

Tuesday's Gone

Because this is Boston and it's illegal to be happy for an hour, making Thirsty Tuesdays an impossibility, you know what always gets me through Tuesdays?

The fact that, at this point, we're the farthest away we'll be from Monday for an entire week.

Think about that.

Quote of the Day XXXI

Carlos's wedding drinking game: Every time someone says "wooo!" take a drink. Every time Carlos says "wooo!" finish your drink.

-- Tal

Random Video of the Day XXIX

This is Hurra Torpedo, a Swedish band, and this, their cover of Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," is the best cover version of any song by any singer ever.

Numbers Game

Apparently, on Saturday morning, as we were leaving a diner at dawn, we got into an argument with a table full of Asian girls about prime numbers.

If anybody out there knows these girls, or saw this happen (reports are that it was quite the scene), or has any information about how something like this ever came up, it would be greatly appreciated.

The Quintuple Negative

Look what I have created! The Mach Five razor of grammatical concepts. Behold, the Quintuple Negative:

"I didn't disbelieve that it wasn't inappropriate to not talk about it."

It make sense, I think, though if anybody out there can tell me what it actually means, I'd appreciate it.

I Don't Believe What I Just Saw

Today, on my way to school, I walked past a gas station. And there, in shocking bold numbers, the price of gas was at $1.99.

In the words of that guy in Cloverfield, when he sees the Cookie Monster punt the Statue of Liberty's head onto Broadway:

OHMYGOD! OH MY GAWD! OH MY GOD!

Update: Here it is, the photographic evidence. Just like the Bigfoot picture, it's blurry.

Avert Your Eyes, Children

Everyone always thinks I am exaggerating when I tell them that the BU Law Tower is the ugliest building I've ever seen. But I'm not kidding. It's like something that the set designer for Blade Runner nixed because it was too ugly and depressing.

The mainstream liberal elite media has decided to weigh in on this race for the bottom. An independent travel site has made a list of the ugliest buildings in the world, and has bestowed upon Boston's own City Hall the dubious honor of being the most unbecoming bridesmaid at the reception.

City Hall is considered Boston's shining example of the Brutalist school of architecture. When referring to it as the prime example of this particular architectural style, however, most negect to include in that list the uglier stepsister that is The Boston University School of Law. Forgetting to list the Tower of Terror in the list of Ugliest Buildings is like omitting either Jennifer Lopez or George W. Bush in the "Biggest Ass" category, depending on what magazine you publish.

I mean, look at it. It's like they gave a blind kid rusty Legos and asked him to put something together. Then, while he was struggling with the pieces, they put a bucket on his head and kept hitting it with a shovel. Then, when he was done, they took his confection and exploded some dynamite next to it using what scientists call the "Wile E. Coyote Principle of Explosives." That is, using a blast small enough to not cause substantial damage,but nevertheless strong enough to critically affect the facade.

Perhaps I exaggerate. But then, again, the photograph doesn't really do it justice. Much like you have to stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon to truly comprehend its grandeur, you have to see the Law Tower to fully understand the scope of its horrors. The windowless 1L dungeons of the 5th and 6th floor, the exposed pipes, the rusty steel outcroppings (seriously, does a can of paint cost that much?), the hopeless, desperate wanderings of its inmates students, who know that besides final exams, looking for a job in this terrific economy, and the never-ending stress, they now also have to contend with the fact that the law tower's most salient feature -- its soul-crushing hideousness -- is not even officially recognized. I demand a recount.

There Goes the Neighborhood

This weekend, the new Chipotle finally opened in my new building.

Therefore, I would like to be the first to say, welcome to the neighborhood, grandma.

On Thursday, they had a cold open, and celebrated by giving out free burritos all day. Despite my tacit insider status, I was unable to get one of these burritos, given that the line stretched literally around the block. You would have thought they were giving out green cards instead of burritos.

Not to be confused with my Aunt Anna, Chipotle is here and, unlike me, here to stay. I guess what my buddy Per said when I moved into the building is true: Once you let one in, pretty soon you'll also have the whole banda over for dinner.

Santa Claus Exists

I will gladly put up with the gaggle of douchebags if it leads to stuff like this.

Oh, What a Tangled Knot we Weave!

I’ve heard many rumblings that, just like Kennedy brought the two-button suit into the forefront of American fashion, Obama is about to make not wearing a tie OK for formal wear.

I just want to join the thousands of devastated tie-makers across this great country and in the Italian peninsula, and politely ask President-elect Obama: “Just what the fudge are you thinking??!?”

I’m of the firm belief that, more than intelligence, character or shoes, the only way you can adequately judge someone is by how they tie their tie.

If it’s too long, it’s a problem. I’ve seen people walk around with their tie hanging all the way to the middle of their zipper. I always want to go to them and ask whether, when they pee, do they pee on their tie.

But they’re better than those who short it. You’ve seen them, sauntering around with a tie that comes midway down the shirt. They always look like babies wearing a bib, and why's that? Because short ties make you look fat. Look at the guy. He looks like he really likes cake. Afterwards, he probably wipes his mouth with his tie, likely because he confuses it with his bib.

And then, of course, is the knot. Here's a handy guide on how to tie them. Sloppy knots are easily preventable. And they're like an unzipped zipper, or open garage door, if you will. You see some guys with a knot that looks like, well, like they used the same knot you use to tie a shoelace. It's like not knowing how to parallel park. Or unsnap a bra with one hand. There's really no excuse.

So, in the interest of maintaining a simple and effective way of separating the men from the boys, I urge you, President-elect Obama, to not take us down the tie-less road. I mean, God forbid we actually judge a man by the content of their character.

I am Going to Miss Stuff Like This

Someone please email Bush the link to Urban Dictionary's definition of The Shocker. Please.

Hunting for Cougars

I have always wanted to be a star. This, however, has proven difficult.

To this end, I have attempted to be on many television shows, including but not limited to, Survivor, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, The Littlest Groom, Who Wants to Marry a Non-Citizen, and, of course, that Flavor Flab (sp?) show.

Perhaps the closest I ever came was when MTV approached The Sun with the intention of making a show about what happened at a daily college newspaper. They wanted to bring their cameras into our vaunted offices at 139 W. Street and tell our story, about what happens when we stopped being polite, and started being, you know, real.

This could have been terrific. Working at the paper was great. The three hour flip cup marathons at the Palms. Intentionally pushing Schroeder into a nervous breakdown. The hammer fights. These would have all made for compelling television. And, with that cast of characters, surely we would become the greatest ensemble in Television since Springfield was founded.

Alas, it was not to be. Our boss, in what was probably the correct decision, turned down the MTV producers (who then went for this) and shattered my dream of meeting future-soulmate Trishelle at the next [whatever that show on MTV is called where the reality TV "stars" compete with each other].

This summer, I was approached in a bar and asked to try out for "Bromance."

"That... sounds kind of weird," I replied.

Then they said that it wasn't what it sounded like, and that, basically, I'd join other bros in a mansion in LA, where we would have "bro competitions."

"And what does the winning bro get?" I asked.

"The winning bro gets to be Brody Jenner's new BFF, and be a part of his entourage."

"Who?"

"Brody Jenner? From The Hills?"

(Blank Stare).

"OK, thank you for your time."

As good a bro as I might have been, I'm kind of glad I had no frickin idea what that guy was talking about. Why? Because it freed me up my schedule and I can now try out for this!

That's right, I get to go hunt cougars. Or maybe the cougars hunt me. I don't know. Maybe it's some sort of mutual hunt, where both parties are the hunter and the hunted. You know, like that old Looney Tunes bit where they're in an opera and Elmer Fudd is hunting the wabbit, and he has a speaw and magic hew-met, but the wabbit dresses up as an blonde Norse lady and chases after him too, and they fall in love, but then Elmer Fudd's lightning powers go berserk, and the whole thing becomes a Greek tragedy and there's nothing more disturbing than Elmer Fudd sobbing over a dead Bugs Bunny and ... never mind. I really hope this show is nothing like that at all.

The point is, this cougar hunt is perfect for me. Aside from the obvious utilitarian advantages (Cougars in their forties are desperate to marry anyone who is semi-literate. As someone who can write but not read, all I can say is, Hellooooo, Green Card!), I can finally put aside this lawyering thing and pursue my dream of ultimate TV stardom.

Picture it. A dashing young man and an attractive older woman in a restaurant, talking about Flaubert while smashing tequila shots. The title card underneath: Charlie, Ohio, Refugee. And then the man leans in, grins, and asks, "So... Kitty got claws?"

And. Scene. Tell me, shouldn't that man be a star?

Quote of the Day XXX

What's Spanish for, "I know you speak English"?

-- Lucille Bluth

The Greatest Oralist

Yesterday was a great day at BU Law. It was truly a momentous occasion, as Daniel Webster was reincarnated there, in the halls of the tower of terror. No black magic was involved in this, but there certainly was something in the air.

In retrospect, you could call it magic. My moot court argument took place yesterday, much to everyone's delight. The fifteen minutes of oratorical skill on display were transcendent, in the matter of whether the consent-once-removed doctrine was a constitutionally permissible extension of the consent exception to the warrant rule of the Fourth Amendment, and whether that particular doctrine should be extended beyond undercover agents to apply to confidential informants as well.

The cheering audience was left astonished by the dazzling display of verbal dexterity and wit, to the point where the defendant, one Avon Barksdial, was heard to remark that his twelve years in jail were totally worth it, just because he had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of this incredible performance.

My plan was simple. The fifteen minutes allotted to a participant are, in the case of mortals, mostly consumed by a Q&A session, where the judges break into your argument every fifth word to try to fool you with their trickery. But I knew I was a better speaker than that. The judges, captivated by my artful wordplay, would no doubt be rendered mute and left speechless, unable to formulate any questions.

That's why I penned an entire fifteen minute speech. In it, of course, I allowed pauses for gasps, laughter, and applause, including a full minute break in the middle for the standing ovation that my dissection of the 10th Circuit's erroneous decision in Callahan was sure to elicit. These were fifteen minutes to rival the greatest speeches in history, from the Gettsyburg address to MLK's dream to President Whitmore's call to arms. It was glorious.

I was dressed to the nines, with a sharp two-button suit that would make Jack Kennedy jealous, a crisp white Brooks Brothers oxford shirt, and a power tie knotted with a tight and symmetrical full-Windsor buffeted by a perfect rakish dimple.

I walked into that courtroom ready to become a legend and Youtube sensation. When it came time to present my argument, I rose to the excited buzzing of the crowd, strode with great determination to the podium, opened my mouth, and promptly blacked out.

When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by a sea of anxious faces. Foremost among them was my friend and co-counsel, Kyle.

"What happened, Kyle?" I asked. "Did we win?"

Kyle shook his head. "No, you asshole, you passed out."

"Oh," I said. "Because the crowd rushed the stage?"

"What crowd?"

"There was no crowd?" I asked, incredulous.

"What the heck are you talking about? Why would there be a crowd?"

"I guess that makes sense," I nodded sagely. "The authorities probably wanted to avoid a riot."

Silence. "Maybe we need to reduce your dosage," Kyle said. "I'll call a nurse."

"Good idea," I said before I passed out and the men with the white coats and butterfly nets came. "She probably wants to hear the speech too."

No on Library PDA

This couple sitting in front of me in the library really needs to stop making out.

Random Video of the Day XXVIII

Get the latest news satire and funny videos at 236.com.

Bringing Down the House

This is terrific. Right now, Obama is meeting with Bush to start planning for a transition and to get a tour of the White House. Presumably, Obama will learn today what toilets need a bit of a jiggle to flush adequately, where you can secretly store Twinkies, and what to do to cover that stain in the Oval Office where Dubya keeps the kegerator.

Isn't Bush right now like a college kid going through terminal senioritis? I imagine Obama like the newly appointed frat president, being given a tour of this wreck of a house by this bumbling, stumbling hungover kid who can't wait to be out of college and that state's jurisdiction.

And what's happening today is that Bush is letting Obama know that the frat is on probation, the alumni base is incensed and threatening to withhold donations because of stories leaked to the campus paper, and that no sorority will have a mixer with them because everyone in the house is too damned sleazy.

I imagine the meeting will end abruptly, when Bluto walks in, shouts, "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?" and leads a charge that consists solely of himself out the door.

Good luck, Mr. President.

Hi Yo Silver Line!

So, yesterday, at the end of our wine tour walking-tour-of-wine-stores-so-we-could-mooch-off-the-free-tastings, we were so far out in the South End that we were able to catch a glimpse of something that, up until now, was merely the stuff of legend.

There, in all its glory, was the fabled Silver Line.

We all thought it was an old wives' tale, like Bigfoot, the WMDs, or Michael Jackson. But no. There it was, gleaming in its actuality: a Silver Line Bus, courtesy of the MBTA.

Figuring that this was the best way to get back to downtown Boston, we went to a T-stop to wait for the next bus going inbound. Walking was out of the question -- at the bar after the "wine tour," I ordered and summarily dispatched a 16 oz. double ground Sirloin burger. Later, I was informed that 16 oz. is, in fact, one pound. So walking was as out of the question as a long and healthy life.

But then, when we got to the T-stop, we all saw something that, in all our years in Boston, we'd never thought we'd see, something even rarer than the Silver Line. In fact, if I didn't have this photographic evidence, I would scarcely believe it today. But here it is:


COMPUTER SCREENS THAT TELL YOU WHEN THE NEXT T IS COMING. And, wouldn't you know it, the next shuttle came exactly three minutes after that picture was taken. The prophecy was fulfilled! TECHNOLOGY HAS COME TO TSAVO!

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why they don't have this everywhere. This is one of the reasons I fell madly in love with the D.C. Metro. Outside each station they have screens, telling you when the next train is due. You always know whether you have seven minutes, so you can go ahead and buy that impulse donut, or whether you have one minute, so you better start throwing elbows and taking the steps five at a time to make the damn train.

And, in the city of Boston, nothing. Except this, a new ray of hope. Also, keep in mind that the Silver Line is nothing more than a bus, subject to stop lights and the whims of traffic. So if they can keep the buses running on time, why can't they do this with the trains? Wouldn't it be much simpler? Can we hope for miracles?

So I presented my proposal to our driver on the Silver Line, and she agreed that extending the countdown screens to the trains was a good idea. She told me to go to the T offices and tell them what my idea was and they would listen. Then I asked her how I would get them to listen to me. She said, "Be sure to tell them Large Marge sent ya." And then this happened.

Or maybe that was just the one-pound burger talking.

El Mole-o

Does anyone else appreciate the irony that only U.S. citizens can work for the Immigration Court? Although this does seem appropriate. It would be like a drug mule seeking employment with the D.E.A. You can't help but think there is a latent possibility of sabotage ...

What's a British nanny sound like?

From my International law book, this is part of a communication sent by the British, ever so polite, to the Albanians regarding innocent passage of vessels through a strait:

"Establishment of diplomatic relations with Albania is again under consideration by His Majesty's Government who wish to know whether the Albanian government have learnt to behave themselves."

The Amazing Greyhound Race

One of Tuesday's election results that has been overlooked because of other, slightly more important matters still deserves some attention. In Massachusetts, amongst the preservation of the income tax and the decriminalization of marijuana, dog racing in the state was banned.

So allow me to share a story with y'all. Last year, three buddies and I embarked on a road trip along a great part of America. The trip, which we dubbed "Three Jews and a Mexican," was memorable, to say the least. In part because we abused the power of the press, but that's a story for another time.

In this instance, we started the morning in Memphis, Tennessee. When we realized we were very close to West Memphis, Arkansas, we figured, wow, we can add another state to our tally. Plus, it's frickin' Arkansas. We had to go.

After a regrettable breakfast in a Perkin's restaurant (which would, later on, send one of our number to a bathroom at Graceland for a good twenty minutes, actually eliciting concern from the media relations guy), we were wondering what to do in West Memphis. I even texted my buddy Michael, who is from Memphis, for advice, but all I got in reply was, "Don't make eye contact."

Then, suddenly, we see a Downs.

Done.

So there we were, three Jews and Mexican, at a dog track in the majestic state of Arkansas.


After taking a picture with a nice man by the name of Dennis Scott, of Clearwater, Mississippi, we went into the Downs.

Like good investors, we immediately descended on the literature, trying to find a good greyhound on which to wager. Our first dog, on whom we placed an extravagant five dollars, lost terribly.

Undaunted, we scoured the pages to find our great champion. And there it was, with a name to match its potential.

DrinkininPhoenix.

Showing prudence and caution, we only bet two dollars on DrinkininPhoenix. He was a longshot, paying at 11/1 odds. With a name like that, however, we were certain we could not lose.

But then they brought the Greyhounds out to show, before they raced. As they paraded them in front of us, we searched for DrinkininPhoenix, to no avail.

Then, we spotted him. Lagging in the back of the pack, in the terminal stages of what seemed to be the mange, and, worst of all, faintly limping.

We resigned ourselves to the loss of two dollars.

But fate would not be so unkind. DrinkininPhoenix turned out to be the reincarnation of Secretariat. DrinkininPhoenix won the race by at least ten lengths, all while we stood on our chairs and yelled for the dog to run, [female dog], run! Good times were had by all.

We collected $25 in winnings at the cage, feeling mighty proud. Of course, we promptly lost those $25 by putting it all on Big Red at a riverboat casino in Mississippi, but that's a story for another day.

Quote of the Day XXIX

Do you know who I am?! Seriously! Please tell me who I am!

-- Tracy Jordan

Random Video of the Day XXVII

Remember when I said they'd count it down?

When Holograms Attack

Remember CNN's hologram? Apparently, it is not working out as planned. If you were praying for Stuart Smalley, pray also for Will.I.am, wherever he is.

Quote of the Day XXVIII

Ah, international waters. The land that law forgot! Look at those poor saps back on land with their laws and ethics! They'll never know the simple joys of a monkey knife fight.

-- Homer Simpson

The Newspaper Strikes Back

Yesterday felt almost like V-E day, with (nearly) everyone at school and on the streets looking happy, tired, hungover. People are right; when was the last time you saw people dancing in the streets? Look at Colin Powell. He looks like his grandson was just born.

I think CNN did it best, when, right after Obama's speech, they started doing quick cuts to scenes across the nation and beyond, showing city after city celebrating. That really brought the enormity of the moment to the forefront.

But perhaps my favorite part of the whole thing was that newspapers sold out. Lines at newsstands, people planning on framing the front page, copies of the rags going for $200 on eBay. You think it wouldn't be that difficult, what with every paper in the world having the election on the front page, but there it is. Newspapers were the most coveted commodity in America.

My favorite front page? I don't speak Portuguese, but this one is pretty easy to understand.

The Lost Word

Michael Crichton died yesterday at the age of 66. Like others, I remember him fondly. I believe the first "grown-up" book I ever read was Jurassic Park. And I, an impressionable young lad of 10, loved it. Oh My God!, I thought. Swear words! Dinosaurs! Dinosaurs eating people! Wow, reading is fun!

So thank you, Michael Crichton, for being a terrific First Excursion into the world of literature made for grown-ups. We'll miss you.

Toles Sums It Up

Yes We Could!

Election Coverage Quick Hits

Random thoughts and things I liked about tonight's coverage:

1. The whole process is tremendous. I love love love watching election night coverage. It's like watching 50 football games at once. And they all count.

2. The future is NOW! The CNN hologram is tremendous. They're "beaming" reporters into the studio so they can talk to them. Just like Star Wars. Anyone catch Will.I.am. wandering around the studio? What a wonderfully useless piece of technology. I look forward to the next election, when they'll do it Matrix-style and have people with plugs in the back of their heads so they can channel reporters from all over the world.

3. I love it when a trillion states close their polls at the top of the hour. Like, for example, 15 states closed at 8 p.m. You get the overly dramatic music. You get Wolf Blitzer looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. And then, all of a sudden, Obama goes from 3 to 88. All you can do is sit there, dazed, and think, wow, things escalated quickly. I mean, they really got out of hand in a hurry.

4. Campbell Brown.

5. Why on Earth do the CNN folks insist on comparing Obama to Kerry's results in 2004? I understand the significance of claiming new blue states from those that ran red four years ago. But Kerry and Obama could not be more different. It's like comparing Miles Davis and Michael Bolton.

6. I love the release and the elation when a battleground state goes your way. It's like scoring a touchdown. Right now, the Green Man just went long in Pennsylvania. Actually, to be more precise, it was like the Green Man, playing defense, just knocked down McCain's Hail Mary pass.

7. Dana Bash, who was covering the McCain get-together at the Biltmore in Phoenix, looks like she's covering a funeral. Heck, when they called Ohio, the McCain people turned off the TV. All of a sudden, they turned into that little kid who puts his fingers in his ears and goes Lalalalala.

8. The networks are really rubbing it in by refusing to call places like Texas and even frickin' Arizona for McCain. All the while I'm wondering, while worrying about a jinx, if the networks are being overtly cautious because they know it's a landslide, and they know it's way too early in the evening, and that they still have ads to run. But at what point will they just face reality and switch from the "maybe McCain can pull out a miracle" storyline to the "how big will this win be" storyline? Just say it, people. Stop pussy-footing around. You're dropping more hints than a drunk prom date. Just drop your pants already.

9. That last metaphor was going great until the end.

10. Ten points to Anderson Cooper for asking the Republican pundits: "Do you still have any hope, like, do you think you can maybe pick up one seat in Louisiana? Is that what's keeping you from drinking right now?" This was at 9:05.

11. Seeing Giuliani reminded me of this video we just saw in class. It features Giuliani circa 1989, with his toupee in all its awful, horrifying glory. I wish I could find a picture of it. It looks like one of the seagulls victimized by the Exxon Valdez came back to life and then flew all the way to New York just to die on Rudy Giuliani's head. It's glorious.

12. Fox (!) called Ohio for Obama. At this point, you have to call the whole enchilada for Obama. Giving Obama California, Washington, and Oregon, McCain would have to carry every other state. I'm calling it, doctor. McCain campaign's Time of Death? 9:19.

13. The slow realization that this is becoming exactly like the clinching game in last year's NBA playoffs. Remember? Boston led L.A. 24-20 after the first quarter. After the second, 58-35. After the third? 89-60. Final Score? 131-92. And everywhere in Boston, people knew. They weren't saying it, but they knew. The entire second half was one huge celebration, people jumping up and down, hugging, high-fiving. I'd be surprised if people tonight, like they counted down to the buzzer, don't count down the seconds until the polls close in California and the networks can officially call it for Obama.

14. And Boom goes the dynamite. Just like I predicted, it barely hits eleven when they called it for your next President, Barack Obama. Wake up the kids, people. History is afoot tonight. Now let's go flip some cars.

Christmas in November

I voted today.

Rather, I tried to vote. I stood in line for hours. Then, when I finally got to the front, they told me I couldn't vote. Apparently, because I'm not a citizen, I'm not allowed to.

Guess I should have checked up on that.

I'll admit I was excited today when, on my way to school, I saw really long lines snaking around corners. My first thought was, of course, sweet! A new bar! And it looks like it's a happening place!

No, what was happening at the front of the line was slightly more important than even -- dare I say it? -- the first batch of Summer Ale of the year. People were out to vote. Coming from where I come from, where we've only really been doing it -- when it counts, anyway -- for eight years, it's nice to see people waiting for hours to try and punch the right hole in the butterfly ballot.

My favorite part, I guess, is seeing everyone's outfits for the day. It's like college gameday out there, what with the shirts, face paint, and general taunting of the other side.

I mean, it's an exciting time. How do you think the pundits slept last night? I imagine Keith Olbermann counted down every damn tick of his clock yesterday. Today, I guarantee you he is running around the NBC studio like a child on Christmas Eve. "Can we call it now?" "No." "How about now?" "No." "Come on, it's right there, this is agony, oh my God please let me call it nowwwwww." I'll be surprised if his reaction tonight isn't like this.

On the other hand, how do you think O'Reilly and them slept last night? I imagine it was the sleep of a college kid on LSAT eve. That is, sweaty, restless, and knowing it's going to be so much worse in the morning. True, there's a chance luck will shine her fickle smile, and everyone will be ever so happy, but come on. You can't comprehend the readings, the logic games have kicked your ass all year, and can you imagine Palin trying to parse the sentences in the identify the argument part?

For those of you playing a drinking game today, I would like to strongly discourage the use of a rule where you take a shot every time a state is awarded to a candidate. If you're not dead after they call the entire Northeast for Obama, you'll surely be dead after they call pretty much the entire South for McCain. In the interest of allowing the EMTs to watch the election returns without having to pump your stomach, we ask that you also refrain from drinking every time the words landslide (on MSNBC), upset (on FoxNews), perception analyzer (on CNN), swing state, battleground state, bellwether state, state of panic, every time a red seat or senator or state turns blue, turnout (shot), huge turnout (double shot), overwhelming turnout (body shot), historic, hysterics, etc..

Then, at the end of the night we will have one of two choices. If your candidate wins, it's time to start chugging the champagne. If he should have the misfortune to lose, the everclear.

Tonight, I am proud to say, I am firmly an Obama man. A bro for Obama. A Brobama, if you will.

Why? Others can put it in better, more thoughtful, and more articulate words, particularly here and here.

What it all boils down to is, I believe in the man.

If and when Barack Obama steps out on that stage, awash in a sea of confetti, to the delighted cheers of a majority of the country that believes in him, in this change, in this idea of a new, re-emerging America eager to reclaim its place as the greatest accomplishment of our civilized history, then it might get a little dusty in here.

Someday I'll be able to vote, and it does disappoint me a little that, today, I wasn't able to cast a ballot in Obama's name. That does not mean, however, that I can't participate in this, enjoy the history tonight will write, and revel in the resurgence of hope.

Quote of the Day XXVII

Why should you go to prison for something someone else noticed?

-- Bob Loblaw

Flip my Car

Marc alerted me to this website, which is pretty bloody brilliant. A guy whose car was flipped is asking people to donate a few bucks each. Presumably, there are enough people out there who tipped the car over/enjoyed the spectacle with a guilt hangover to give this poor car flippee a few bucks.

The idea seems to be working. As of press time, enough people have donated that the guy has $2,750 raised towards the purchase of a new car. In fact, the brilliance of this scheme seems to counterbalance the idiocy of leaving a car parked out on Broad Street during a Philadelphia (of all cities!) World Series celebration.

This may inspire me to create comparable website, such as buymeaflatscreen.blogger.com, fundmybartab.wordpress.com and sponsormygreencard.blogspot.com.

If When my team won the World Series, I'll be too busy being a sobbing mess of joy turning cartwheels down the street -- a feat which, in my case, seems an absolute physical impossibilty -- to even think of upending cars.

That said, let's imagine that, during a World Series clincher, I see that people are running towards my car and have begun the process of flipping it. Then I rush over, scream, "STOP! DON'T FLIP THAT CAR!" and then point to another poor schmuck's car, "FLIP THAT ONE INSTEAD!"

Am I liable? Is the necessity defense available to me?

I smell a note topic.

Fenway Triangle Trilogy of Anaheim Presented by Isuzu

Remember when you were a kid, and you set off for camp, and, all the time, you had this absurd fear that your parents would just up and move without telling you? That you’d come home and find an empty house, your parents long gone, while dirty hippie squatters played idly with the toys your folks did not even bother to pack.

Today, apparently, I moved an nobody told me. Where yesterday I lived in the Trilogy building, today I live in the Fenway Triangle Trilogy building.

This is the email from my landlord:

Dear Resident(s):

Trilogy is now officially Fenway Triangle Trilogy! As part of the continued revitalization of the Fenway neighborhood, development plans were announced in The Boston Globe on September 19th about the continued commitment to “transform the gritty triangle between Park Drive and Yawkey Way - where residents and neighborhood planners have long sought to create an urban village in the shadows of the ballpark.” Our new name reflects Trilogy’s significant role in this transformation and importance in the future of the neighborhood. You will notice all of our building signage and communication materials transferred to this new name in early November.

If you have any questions, please feel free to speak with the management or leasing teams. Thank You!

This is the article in the Globe, and it proposes some nifty ideas, such as building a new high-rise. More happily, the various body shops will be replaced by stores and high-end boutiques. And it's true. I'd much rather have a Banana Republic than a Goodyear Tire dealership. If we can replace those warehouses that look like they're straight off the Hostel set with a rip-off of Newbury Street, so be it.

True, this will probably drive up prices and rent. Given the state of the economy, I'll probably have to turn to a life of crime. That said, when I do steal from the new J. Crew store on Van Ness, the upshot is my hiding place will be literally across the street. Such convenience, of course, is priceless.

To Nap or Not To Nap

So, if we're watching a movie in class, clearly it's OK to fall asleep. This might, however, prove embarrassing should the movie last less then fifteen minutes. Because, if the lights come on, and there you are snoozing with drool on your shirt, I guarantee your ass will be on call.

On the other hand, if I struggle to stay awake, and the movie lasts for an hour, I'll feel pretty stupid for not taking advantage of this mid-afternoon siesta.

So my question is, is it kosher to ask the professor how long the movie is, or would that be patently transparent?

Random Video of the Day XXVI

Keith Olbermann may be an arrogant prick, because but he went to Cornell. So I guess he's OK.

The Kingdom of the Sugar Skull

Happy Day of the Dead to everyone out there, whether you are living or, um, not. Like the parrot.



When I was a kid, we used to love this day, mostly because we got to gorge on sugar skulls, which are exactly what they sound like. They're little skulls, about the size of a baseball, that are wholly confectioned from sugar.

Remember when we were kids, and those sugar cubes they gave out at coffee places were the best thing ever? Well, these were sugar cubes on steroids. Imagine, if you will, a heroin addict, who, one day a year, gets to go from one 8-ball to, I guess, eight 8-balls. It's sugar skull season! Whee!

I mean, there was just so much goodness in these things. For one, they're, again, the size of a baseball. When you can eat, essentially, a baseball's worth of packed sugar, you're going to be riding that high for weeks. Literally run around the house five dozen times until you crash into a wall high. It was all my poor mother could do to peel my twitching brother and me from the ceiling.

The second part, of course, is slightly more macabre. Think of the kid who eats his animal crackers head first. See where I'm going with this? There's no greater thrill for a ten year old than to imagine, OHMYFRICKINGOD I'M EATING SOMEONE'S HEAD! BWHAHAHA. Who does that? All we were missing was Piggy and a conch shell, but it was Lord of the Flies out there. Except with pseudo-cannibalism.

My other favorite part of the holiday are the calaveritas, a tradition that, in retrospect, seems a bit, well, off. They involved writing short fictional poems about living people-- usually authority figures-- and how they would meet their untimely demise.

So, for instance, each kid in the class wrote a different poem about Ms. Margaret, and how she would die. Some would simply drop her off a cliff. Others would use a bear, a zombie or some other such agent. Falling pianos were popular, as were falling stars. Then Ms. Margaret would read all these accounts of her death, pick the best one (usually the most elaborate and gruesome death, like one where a zombie bear shoved Ms. Margaret of a cliff and then dropped the Statue of Liberty on her), and award that brilliant pupil-- what else? -- a sugar skull.

We, of course, took to writing these death limericks with gusto, and spent hours dreaming up ways to off our teachers. It was like killing Kenny, except with real people. We would write gleefully about the death of the principal, the expiration of our classmates, even the passing of the president.

Despite brilliant approximations, in America, a creative lawyer could probably characterize these calaveritas as death threats. But these were done in good faith. It's not like we really wanted the principal to be fed to a shark by clown midgets. We just, you know, could not get enough of those sugar skulls.