Coach of the Year

Like many others, I often dream of coaching in the big leagues. I mean, we all have to release our inner Bobby Knight somehow, right?

Personally, I just want to be able to say, “Take a knee,” and not get slapped.

This dream of tossing chairs at people, sadly, has died for some random guy in Massachusetts.

Deemed “too extreme” to coach first and second-grade girls’ soccer, the guy was forced to give up his dream of watching little girls kick balls half their size in the general direction of a net literally hundreds of miles away.

The offense? Sending out an email so chock-full of crazy pills even Mugatu crossed the street when he saw it coming.

I guess it’s phrases like this that scare the parents of Suburbia:

[Parents] in their LL Bean chairs sipping mocha-latte-half-caf-chinos while discussing reality TV and home decorating with other feeble-minded folks.

Or:

Don't animals eat what they kill (and yes, someone actually kills the meat we eat too – it isn't grown in plastic wrap)? And speaking of meat, I expect that the ladies be put on a diet of fish, undercooked red meat and lots of veggies. No junk food.

All I hope is that the game that they’re killing is not the mocha-latte-half-caf-chino drinking yuppies. I can’t imagine soy-eaters and vegans have much nutritional value.

Alas, the coach is now fired, just because of an email that he probably intended as funny and instead came off as sociopathic. We’ve all been there, but most of us have the fortune of not having ended up on Deadspin. Yet.

I still think the man’s a hero just because of this quote:

“My heckling of the refs is actually helping them develop as people.”

Hear, hear, bro. Because chanting “The ref beats his wife,” is a great way to expose domestic abuse.

Mexico: Still Open For Business

What I call Drug War II when referring to the conflict going on in Mexico has now reached the point where the NYT also feels compelled to name it. They call it by the completely uninspired name of "War Without Borders," but you can't fault them for that. Creativity is often the first sacrifice of journalistic training.

...

That sentence could not have been more pretentious if it tried.

In any case, the first piece by the NYT to kick off this new series in what is sure to be a graphic and long-running series of articles about how Drug War II is a doozy, and pretty much summarizes what the situation is and where it's going. It's a pretty good read, and as comprehensive a news article as I've seen in English.

Obviously, more in-depth and nuanced reporting can be found in Spanish. But since 95 percent of my readers speak only enough Spanish to name various brands of tequila, the best I can do is a translation of an op-ed by Mexico's version of Doris Kearns Goodwin explaining why we're not now, nor will be, a failed state.

So if you're at all interested in learning more about Drug War II: The Dopest War, I highly recommend those two pieces. And perhaps, like me, you'll find little nuggets of hope, probably unfounded but still nice to believe.

Like the assertion that the escalating medieval tactics used by the cartels -- throwing heads into a night club to intimidate the populace is exactly like putting heads on a pike at the entrance of a castle -- are simply the last gasp of the wounded and dying animals, vainly clinging to life.

The Bozo Project

In a series of events that would make Jim Halpert proud, two Manhattan offices that have windows facing each other have been embroiled in war.

Their soldiers? Those old bozo dolls. Remember those? You hit them and they come back up? You’d bet the dumb kid in your class five dollars that he couldn’t knock it down to stay and he’d take that bet and keep hitting and hitting until he was crying with equal parts frustration and exhaustion? Those bozos?

In any case, it’s a good ole’ fashioned bozo war. And if a dozen clowns staring at you from a window isn’t the stuff of nightmare fuel, I don’t know what is.

The Angry Beavers

Hell and damnation.

Cornell hockey just lost a chance to go to the Frozen Four by losing to something called the Bemidji State Beavers.

Yes, I don't know what that is either. We all gathered at the Sports Depot to watch the debacle, and spent a good part of the first period trying to figure out both where Bemidji was and how to pronounce it. Schnabel just gave up and suggested we called it Jumanji, which stuck. This was mostly based on getting to chant, "Jumaaaaanji!" "Sucks!" Jumaaaaaanji!" "Sucks!"

That was, unfortunately, the highlight of the game. Cornell got hammered and I, for one, propose that we move our Cornell-sports-on-national-TV gathering place to another venue. Too many bad memories there, plus the train passing right by the window every few minutes always scares the crap out of me.

Perhaps the most regrettable thing about the whole evening was Cornell's inability to score on a wrap-around shot from behind the Bemidji Beavers' goal. If they did that, I could have run my original title for this post:

"Backdoor Puck Frustrates Beavers."

Brackets to Ashes

And now, we regretfully lay to rest the Coulter, Maher, & Olbermann, LLC bracket. May it rest in pieces.

While it was born out of great optimism and hope, it quickly became apparent that the choices made by the bracket showed that it was simply too stupid to survive.

Encumbered by epic shortsightedness, the bracket died a swift yet incredible painful death.

Before this weekend, I was 40 for 48 and sat in first place. Three days later? All my final four teams lay defeated -- vital organs without which nothing can be done.

I hope whoever wins the bracket makes good use of my $10 and apportions that to booze and strippers. May your hats fly as high as your dreams.

Me? I will retire to a happy life and await the baseball season. It's springtime in Alaska, if not forty below.

And my sincere apologies for yet another post on my bracket. I know there is nothing more boring than to hear about someone else's bracket. In the future, I'll try not to have as boring days.

LOCKDOWN: The Rematches

Yes, I know. Now?

But take a look at our friend, Mr. Calendar. It's basically April right now.

Which means that I have my first of three finals in less than a month. That and a 30-page paper. Remember that paper? The one I was going to write during Spring Break so that I didn't have an especially terrible LOCKDOWN?

Well, I'm bound to report that the folder containing the research materials remains as closed and unused as it was two months ago.

All that work and a job to find. I picked a hell of a time to immigrate to this country.

So yes, I'm afraid we face LOCKDOWN: The Rematch. As dozens of you undoubtedly remember, the regiment of LOCKDOWN is simple: The prisoners can go out only once a week -- maybe -- and then adhere to a strict three-beer maximum.

I'm sorry to sat that this weekend, with the fantasy baseball draft and the beer pong tournament, was the last of its kind for a while.

There will be occasional furloughs: the Sun reunions in Boston and NYC and the Springsteen concerts come immediately to mind.

But for now, the beast in me must retreat into hibernation.

Farewell, dear friends. Avenge me.

That's What She Said! VI

This kid is a hero. You ought to cut him loose.

Thanks to Aaron for the tip.

Slope Day Scooped

Aaaaaaaaand we have a Slope Day act.

Cornellians far and wide, I'm happy to inform that the lucky artist who gets to play a lullaby while you nap pass out peacefully on the Slope is ...

The Pussycat Dolls!

(Scattered applause and general bewilderment)

While some may question the wisdom of bringing a cabaret act to this, the happiest day of the year in Ithaca, I contend that it rarely matters who plays at Slope Day. Unless (and this will never happen) you have Pearl Jam, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, or Tom Jones play the gig, no Cornellian will still be sober and cognizant enough to even register who is playing when the band goes up at 3 in the afternoon.

In my four years in Ithaca, I remember none of the bands from Slope Day. After a couple of hours on the Slope, both the sun and the spins would defeat me, and I would find a nice patch of grass, kick aside the empty red cups, and make a nice little nest for myself. I would then pass out until a nice policeman would nudge me with his boot to make sure I was still alive and then order me back to Collegetown.

And, in my opinion, that's a much better afternoon than pretending to be interested in Snoop.

The Pussycat Dolls, however, seem to have potential. Particularly if they get caught up in the spirit of the day and join us in drinking the day through. And then, of course, find a nice college boy who will help them "reconnect" and "stay grounded" and "serve as proof that they haven't gone completely Hollywood."

I have to admit, though, that I know little of the Pussycat Dolls other than the fact that they are generally well proportioned and run a nice little ring of blackjack tables at Caesar's Palace.

I never play there, however, based on one of my cardinal rules of gambling, one that's right up there with "Never tell a buddy who is clearly up, "wow, you have it going on there, huh?"

And that rule is:

Never play at a table with a pretty girl.

Seriously. I love pretty girls more than most, but they're bad news bears.

It's not that they don't know how to play.

No, the thing is, every time a pretty girl sits down at a table full of guys, everyone has to be the funny one, myself included. And everybody stops paying attention to the cards. And everybody starts paying attention to the girl. And everybody tells her how to play, what to do, and where to go afterwards, and she sits and giggles and pulls at her cleavage and even the dealer is hitting on her now, oh my god this game has slowed to a crawl and finally the dealer has dealt and look, she got an 18, not bad -- waitaminute did she just go "hmmm"??? Gahhhh.

So that's why I don't sit at the Pussycat Dolls tables in Vegas. I'll come hit on you later, Bounci, when you're not dealing my cards and are done with work and your fourth martini and feel ready to make a poor decision.

So, yeah. Anyone up for Slope Day this year?

Where the Wild Things Are

The trailer for Where the Wild Things Are just came out and I just about J'd in my Pants.



This looks spectacular. The book was magnificent back when we were kids and the images here in the trailer more than do it justice. Dave Eggers co-wrote the screenplay. And whoever thought of using Arcade Fire' "Wake Up" as the score deserves a Nobel prize.

Here's a bigger, crisper, more epic version.

I am beyond excited.

Dumb and Dumber and Dumbest

What do the Jim Carrey, Sean Penn, and Benicio del Toro have in common?

Give up?

They're the new three stooges.

Yes, really.

While I cannot wait for Harvey Milk to poke Ace Ventura in the eyes while Che Guevara attacks himself with a hammer, why on earth would you ever remake that show?

You're never going to come anywhere near the brilliance of the Addams Family movies ("Are your girl scout cookies made out of real girl scouts?"), so why even try?

Screw it, Hollywood. Just cast Mila Kunis in the new I Love Lucy and get it done with.

That's What She Said! V

Demonstrating how to pat down a subject and finding a gun.

Professor: Before you take it out, why don’t you tell everyone how it felt?

Indecent Proposal

What should you think when the professor in your discussion seminar assigns a piece that was written by his wife?

With some guys – usually from New Jersey and on occasion from Long Island -- you can’t badmouth their wife or they’ll beat you up while wearing their high school rings.

Others – Mr. B. Clinton, for example – would probably high five you for agreeing that their wife is wrong.

So what is it? The lady or the tiger?

Subsidized Rent

They often make movies about books considered unfilmable. See Watchmen, Don Quixote.

However, this is the first time I've seen them try to make something out of something absolutely unreadable.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present:

Das Kapital: The Musical

That's not all! It's also going to be in Chinese! Because the original German was not difficult enough to approach!

This is edutainment at its finest! Witness songs that would make Andrew Lloyd Webber look like Raffi. Songs like "The Phantom is a Hand," "The Sound of Soviets," "Miss Saigon," and "Marx-a Mia!"

This project will be followed soon by Mein Kampf: The Ballet.

Is There a Term Besides Mexican You Prefer?

Of course, when we come to the cases in crim pro where we see whether the police can stop a car full of people at the border “just because they look Mexican,” I am not on call.

What intrigues me, though, is that, even though he says that no, they can’t, Justice Brennan in his dissent can’t stop talking about the “suspicious physical and grooming characteristics” of people of Mexican ancestry.

Seriously. He mentions it a dozen times.

And I wonder what he means. Grooming characteristics that the police will take into account for stopping you.

What can they be? Shaving only twice a week? Exuberant chest hair? An aversion to manscaping?

...

OK, this is getting dangerous. Let’s talk about something else.

Oooh! Look! That squirrel has a bushy tail!

An Itch You Can Scratch

In the history of greatest things ever, this might be the greatest of those things in all of those evers.

Facebook now lets you eliminate people from the newsfeed.

That’s right, you just X them out and no longer have to hear from them, ever again.

So farewell, person with the constant medical updates! So long, person with the hourly progress report on which page of her thesis she’s on! Have a good one, person who is always complaining about her day!

Ah, freedom.

Because Everyone Cares

So far, 40 for 48 in the Coulter, Maher & Olbermann, LLC bracket. I have 13 of the 16 Sweet Sixteen Teams, and still have all 8 Elite Eight teams.

So, despite the near heart attacks Missouri and Louisville gave me today, I'm sitting pretty in second place right now, a mere four points behind the leader.

Again, I bring this information to you, dear readers, because everyone cares about my bracket just as much as I care about their brackets.

It's Exactly What It Sounds Like

There's a certain movie coming out soon. This is my idea for a trailer that will never be:

Camera opens on close-up shot of back of man's head. Theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey begins to play.

Man starts to walk away from the camera. As he walks into the light, we realize that his whole head is painted blue. As he keeps walking away, we realize that his neck, arms, torso, everything is painted blue.

Then, as the music crescendos, we finally see the full shot of the man. He is entirely nude and painted in blue, except for a pair of denim cut-offs.

Trailer narrator: "There are dozens of them. Dozens."

Coming soon.

Ol' Faithful

This is across the street from me, and visible from my window. There's no water in my apartment, so I haven't been able to use my shower. And I know I could go out and shower in the geyser, but bathing is something I prefer not to do in public.

Quote of the Day XLIX

The thing is, I think i thrive under lack of accountability.

-- Michael Scott

Hope Can Drive a Man Insane

Take it away, Leonidas:



...

Aww. He's so nervous he reversed the words. Just like John Roberts!

March Madness is here! There's something on TV all day! Yaaaaaay!

Like I often do on food, I may have overdone it with the brackets. I've spent two hours filling brackets, and now there's eight of them. A veritable litter of brackets. I feel like the Octomom, except without the distended [censored].

Obviously the biggest conflict is whether to choose Cornell or not. Three against a Fourteen seed, which has happened before. Also, we have God on our side. And Missouri may have given the world Brad Pitt but we gave the world Bill Nye. So not only do we have the Creator on our side, we also have the Science (Guy).

But this is a terrible match-up. Missouri is good. They're in your face the entire game, pressing like maniacs. Cornell lives and dies by the three-point shot, and those are going to be difficult to get off in the face of constant pressure. Cornell's going to have to be fast, and they're going to have to be hot. Epically hot. If they do that, maybe, just maybe they have a shot.

In the words of some guy:

"Pole dancing without the removal of clothes is like Ivy League basketball — all fundamentals, no dunks. Not that I wanted them to take off their clothes. Some were older than my mom."

So yeah, we have it about as tough as you can have it. But, you know what? Miracles do happen. Just like the virgin on prom night hopes that what hasn't happened to him for four years will happen tonight, Cornellians are packing their pockets full of rubbers. And they're all Magnums.

Go big or go home, baby.

Let's do this!

For the Record

In the money bracket, Coulter, Maher & Olbermann, LLC has made the following picks:

Louisville over Missouri and Syracuse over Duke.

Then Louisville over Syracuse.

Yes, no Cornell win, with the deepest regret. But I'll tell you one thing.

If I'm wrong, there will not be a happier person in the world.

Wait. People Make Fun of Cornell?

One of my favorite things about Cornell being in the basketball tournament is that we Cornellians, who otherwise live in a pleasant little bubble, are finally exposed to what the outside world thinks of us. Of, course, most of the jokes center around Andy Bernard.

However, every once in a while you run across stuff that goes beyond that. Like this Missouri blog that did some scouting.

Deadspin also does some of these. Here is last year's preview capsule. Believe it or not, this was the last time Cornell has been mentioned on the site.

Their recommendation for our motto: "Cornell Athletics are here to help grow muscles beyond enormous ass cheeks and thigh muscles people build while hiking up and down the damn hills every day in the snow, like the training scene from Rocky IV, if he was wearing Uggs and lived in Montauk during the summer. We also help minorities survive inhospitable living conditions like constant clouds and rain, during the few weeks it's not snowing."

And their deconstruction of our team logos is priceless.

My favorite, however, has to be this Bill Simmons piece from last year's game against Stanford.

But all of those astounding things paled in comparison to the Cornell cheerleaders, a group that apparently was assembled hastily within 48 hours of the tournament. During the first half, they tried to do one of those pseudo-pyramids in which two groups of three girls lifted two other girls in the air, only one of the girls lost her balance and nearly tumbled face-first to her death before the other girls somehow caught her. Unfortunately, they had to finish their routines for the rest of the game, leading to a terrifying moment where they attempted the pseudo-pyramid again in the second half, only the girl who almost fell the first time had the same petrified look on her face as the babysitter in the last 30 minutes of the "When a Stranger Calls" remake. I don't think I've ever been so scared for someone in my entire life. Somehow they pulled off the pseudo-pyramid, although it was marred a little when the poor girl lost control of her bowels on the three girls holding her up. Just kidding. Again, you have to love March Madness.

It's not the Cornell cheerleaders' fault that they look like a gaggle of fourteen-year olds.

I will link to the new Deadspin preview capsule as soon as it becomes available.

There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom

Today I'm in a whole new floor of the tower. And I walk into the bathroom. And I see a dispenser. And I think, "Cool! A new condom dispenser!" And then I see a sticker on the dispenser. And the sticker says, "Free." And I think, "Hmm, free condoms." And then I realize that's weird. And I really look at the dispenser. And it's not a condom dispenser.

It's a tampon dispenser.

Never has someone run so fast from some place.

Random Video of the Day LVIII

Forget the Name of the Year Bracket (Go Taco Vandervelde!). This is the greatest bracket ever:

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

Everyone knows productivity crashes faster than the stock market on the first Thursday and Friday of March Madness. In my opinion, however, this should be extended to Wednesday as well. Today, after all, is what is commonly known as fill-your-brackets-day.

Like many things in life, the best way to think about this is to not think about it at all. I’ve been in enough pools where the person who wins is the one person who hasn’t seen a basketball game since Jordan retired for the second time.

But then you get something funny. The people coming in right behind the winner are all those people who actually know what they’re doing. And then, brining up the rear in an almost embarrassing fashion, are all the other people who are just like the winner, except they’re not lucky.

Because yes, even though thinking is discouraged, you still have to do a little bit of it. I’d love to pick Cornell to go to the sweet sixteen, but, honestly, Missouri is really good. Really good. And having to choose between both is difficult. It’s choosing between your heart and your brain.

It’s like choosing between the girl-next-door and the super-effing-hot supermodel. Except this is a beauty contest. So maybe you choose Cornell in your non-money bracket, just for kicks and school spirit. But can you really afford not to pick Missouri in a money bracket?

Such are the questions that have been debated for centuries, since before Socrates himself even conceived of poison. Such are the thoughts that haunt everyone today, as soon as they stop caring about informal adjudicative rulemaking in admin law.

Such are the questions of life. Happy bracketing, everybody.

The Green, Green Grass of Home

I actually am wearing green today.

I could only achieve this, however, by wearing a Mexican soccer team t-shirt and hiding the logo under a button-down.

Yes, I know this kind of cheating and it’s like going to a Jewish wedding and squashing down a turban until it kind of looks like a yarmulke.

Because Cooper is right. I don’t even own a green tie, mostly because I’m not the mascot for a children’s cereal that contains 3,000 percent of their daily allotment of sugar. This Mexico shirt is the only green thing I have. Plus, I'm not wearing the usual sombrero.

So I'm good. Now, the only way my ass gets pinched is if it’s by a pretty girl with an American passport.

So no one say anything. Please?

Kegs and Eggs!

I'd like to wish all the evil leprechauns out there a drunken St. Patty's Day.

I've run out of kegs and have but a single egg, but come six o'clock, Charlie O'Hio will be out looking for a Guinness to chug and an Irishman to fight.

But for now, let's join our brothers in song.



As Marge Simpson once said, "This was such a pleasant St. Patrick's Day until the Irish people showed up."

The Money Bracket

If your only factor for picking out a bracket is the average salary of alums five to fifteen years into their careers, Cornell is set to play the championship game.

There, we will lose a heartbreaking squeaker to Duke, probably because of an egregiously bad call.


I already bet Marc a toe if we beat Cal. Cooper, in the unlikely event that we play you assholes in the championship game, I say we bet a thumb.

Quote of the Day XLVIII

Why did I sign with the Nationals? When you go to a club at 4 in the morning, and you're just waiting, waiting, a 600-pounder looks like J-Lo. And to me this is Jennifer Lopez right here. It's 4 in the morning. Too much to drink. So, Nationals: Jennifer Lopez to me.

-- Julian Tavarez

An Inappropriate On-Call

OK. So my crim pro professor has two girls debating on whether you can feel comfortable walking away from a cop when all he does is ask you, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

One says yes, you can walk away, and the other, no.

And the professor, astonishingly, turns to the one who says you can walk away and says the following:

“Why? Why does she not feel comfortable walking away and you do? Is it because you’re a little tougher? Is it because you’re bigger than her?”

(!)

I did not know you could do that.

Rocky Racoon

My favorite part of seeing people come back from Spring Break is checking out the sunglass tans. You can tell just how big they like them.

...

The sunglasses, Michael Scott.

Jeez.

Nothing, though, will beat this exchange we had in Nashville during the Three Jews and a Mexican road trip two years ago.

Josh: (pointing) Yo, what’s that?
Me: Um...
Josh: On that guy’s forehead.
Justin: I think that’s a bandana tan.

Stop the Madness

I ask that we observe a moment of silence to respectfully mourn the passing of WOO SPRING BREAK '09.

I had little opportunity to show my boobs to strangers because I remained in Boston for the duration of break.

Readers will be happy to know, however, that I had an epically unproductive break, and now face death in the coming weeks.

In fact, the slow march towards oblivion began today. As drunks of all ages know, the Sunday before St. Patrick's Day is the Day of the Parade in Southie. Along with Slope Day, the end of finals, and various random Saturdays during the summer, today is a day when it is not only not socially unacceptable to drink in the morning, it is more or less expected.

I mean, if the mayor is doing it, then why can't we?

Although the Globe -- like the inspector in Casablanca -- is doing a terrific job of turning a blind eye to the drinking, we all know that the kegs far outnumber the eggs in Boston today.

And where was I?

Sitting in the library, plodding through admin, gazing wistfully out the window, cursing myself for not working over break, taking solace in the fact that, if one good thing can come of this, it's that at least I now have the added argument of "I skipped the St. Patty's Parade" when I'm trying to convince folks at my next intervention that they're overreacting.

I'll ignore the fact, of course, that this was essentially done under duress.

But all was not lost today. Cornell hockey is on to the semis where they will hopefully answer a lonely nation's prayers and defeat those assholes from Princeton.

And, of course, Selection Sunday. We'll be facing Missouri, the Big 12 champ, on Friday. Thank God the game is at three in the afternoon or I'd have had to miss our horse-themed prom.

14-seeds have beat 3-seeds before. I know little about Missouri other than they gave the world Kenneth Lay and Sheryl Crow. In any case, they are now my mortal enemies. Let's go hunt some tigers.

Sunday "Morning" Reading

Scott Boras' secret underground lair features all kinds of evil, but no sharks with laser beams on their forehead. In the story, he convinces Hemingway to order the $750 tofu because it's better than a prime rib, presenting an 800-page book "proving" that tofu is what they eat in heaven, and pointing at a table that seems to be empty, but is, according to Boras, full of people who will scoop up that last plate of tofu. An enraged Hemingway shoots and kills Boras. None of this happened, but it's nice to imagine. Just like this.

Tom Wolfe chronicles the fascinating excesses of the now-close-to-extinct Wall Street Money-Mongers, and the term "Merry Pranksters," takes on a whole new, unfathomably evil meaning.

This collection of hallucinations from Iditarod racers would make for a really awesome, really trippy Robert Frost poem.

There was a model stampede yesterday in NYC. Yes, really. Imagine dozens of models running in slow motion, tackling each other, grabbing and pushing at each other, crawling over ... (gazes wistfully into distance). I'm sorry, what?

I could sit and "listen" to Paul Rudd and Jason Segel talk to each other all day.

Frank Miller's Peanuts

Man, I remember Charlie Brown was depressing, but I didn't remember it being quite so damn bleak.

I'm Afraid I Just Blue Myself

Tonight, some friends and I will go watch Watchmen. And if it's anything like the great Saturday morning cartoon of our youth, I'll be as happy as Rorschach.



My favorite part is the accounts of people walking out of theaters.

The couple behind me argued for 45 minutes about who was who and what was happening and why is that man blue and was this scene happening now or did these events happen in the past and, holy crap, why are we now on Mars.

Yeah, it's probably too much for those who haven't read the book.

Me? I'm just psyched I get to dress "up" as Dr. Manhattan. Expect riots.

The New LSAT! Now With More Accuracy!

Damnation!

Apparently, there's a movement afoot to modify law school admission standards by minimizing the importance of the LSAT and instead having a new test, which would test "26 characteristics, or 'effectiveness factors,' like the ability to write, manage stress, listen, research the law and solve problems."

Because nothing predicts good lawyering like figuring out if the green bicycle can go into the third locker, but only if the red hat is on the second peg.

I feel like the kid who drowned in the well right before they covered it.

That's What She Said! IV

Kid at Supermarket: Mo-om, why can't I get a purple chubby??
Internal Monologue: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!

What Happens in Mexico ...

... Apparently becomes news everywhere.

I know things are bad in Mexico. In the drug towns, it's medieval times all over the place. In a redefinition of irony, the special ops trained specifically to fight the drug cartels now work for them. In some towns, the cartels threatened to kill a police officer every 24 hours until the police chief resigned. That city's mayor is now in exile in the U.S.

So yeah, things are bad.

Naturally, as the resident expert on Mexico, dozens of concerned gringos have to come to me for guidance. With great worry in their eyes, they all ask the same question.

"Yo, this doesn't affect my spring break, does it?"

Despite colleges all over the U.S. parroting the State Department's alert -- not warning, mind you -- that the Northern border with Mexico is not the safest block on the street, tourists will always be OK.

Let me emphasize.

Tourists will be OK.

The fighting is at the border, in the drug towns. The cartels are fighting each other for control, and the Mexican army for survival. They're clearly winning.

Cabo, Puerto Vallarta, Cancun, all the fun wooooo! places are fine and sunny and abounding with girls with low self esteem.

In fact, 95 percent of Mexico, I would say, is safe. You can go to Mexico and have your usual terrific time.

Even if you go to Tijuana ("The happiest place on Earth," as Krusty called it), the border towns should still be OK for tourists. Yes, there's a danger of collateral damage, but even if you're standing next to the drug dealers you should be OK.

Why?

Rule number one of business.

Never kill your customers.

UPDATE: Man, even the CIA is terrified. But again, this would be like the folks behind Hostess Cupcakes wasting the attendants of a comic book convention. Everyone chill.

Spring Break Boo!

As we grapple with the fact that Barbie is a cougar, it's snowing outside, and my agenda for the day includes figuring out my taxes, reorganizing my sock drawer, and contemplating a 30-page paper, I ask that we take a minute of sadness to acknowledge what today is.

WOOOOO SPRING BREAK!

Yup, right now it's spring break at BU Law, which means some people are ignoring state department warnings and traipsing down to Mejico.

Dozens of us, however, instead of going to class, are doing research on how Scalia reads the constitution and why he's wrong.

Yay!

Perhaps I overreact. Perhaps it's better this way. Perhaps it is time to grow up and leave the decadence of spring break trips to Vegas and Puerto Vallarta behind us.

After all, I turn 25 this year. I'm becoming a grown-up. I'm afraid that, at this point, the only acceptable way to get a woman to get her top off is to give her dollar bills instead of plastic beads.

(Big sigh)

You know what?

I'll be damned if I'm going to let age and responsibility destroy my youth and carefree spirit!

I might not be in Cabo, and it may be Ithacating outside. But no matter.

In observance of this national holiday, I do hereby pledge to go shirtless all week, no matter what.

You're welcome.

Random Video of the Day LVII

It's funny because it's true.

The Big Red Bitch

Over most of last week, Keith "Kind of a Dick" Olbermann '79 and Ann "Skeletor" Coulter '84 have been getting into a somewhat really stupid fight over their time spent at Cornell University.

In one of her many epically unfunny columns, Coulter calls out fellow Cornell graduate Olbermann for going to a fake Ivy. Her reasoning? Olbermann majored in communications at the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences within Cornell.

Coulter, unfortunately, attended Cornell, a fact that everyone regrets. She was in DG, a house whose members, for the most part, would only talk to football players. Or lacrosse players, if the football team was under .500.

Per usual, she deliberately obfuscates the facts. Cornell, like literally billions of other Universities across the country, is subdivided internally into many different colleges, like the College of Engineering, or the College of Arts and Sciences. While it is true that each college has its own admissions standards -- and most of those standards are indistinguishable between the colleges -- everyone can, and is encouraged, to take classes in the other colleges.

There are differences, sure. The bulk of your classes are taken in your college. If you're a New Yorker, you will pay less than an out-of-stater in four of the seven colleges, due to Cornell's land grant status. And if you were in the hotel school, you're making more money than everyone else.

But that's pretty much where the differences end.

In his response, Olbermann says that Cornellians never rag on the other colleges.

That's the biggest lie I've ever heard. We rag on the other colleges all the time. But it's a good natured ribbing.

In fact, the hotel school takes the brunt of the ragging. This is, however, largely wrong-headed.

The more time you spent at Cornell, the more you realized that the Hotel School had awesome classes. Half the senior class takes Intro to Wines, which is by far -- and I am not kidding -- the most useful single class I took at Cornell. Then they had cooking labs with the best chefs in the world. Another class was casino operations. Why I never took that was beyond me.

And last but not least was the slaughterhouse class. In that one, they taught you how to butcher a cow, how to skin it, how to bleed it, and how to prepare it. The test consisted of the teacher asking you to cut him a flank steak, and a skirt steak, and a t-bone, and so on. And the grilling after the test was done, I'm told, was awesome.

Yes, you think it's gross now, but when society falls apart due to the Greatest Depression in the next few months, these are the people who will know how to still have prime rib.

I, meanwhile, will starve while trying to figure out how to open a can.

But I digress.

Coulter is an idiot. This is a truism. But Olbermann's response is more than a little childish. He boasts that he graduated in seven semesters and then pulls out his diploma and points at it repeatedly, much like a 16-year old points to a hickey to show his mates that he and Sally did, in fact, spend seven minutes in heaven.

But the man has a point. Cornell does not have seven colleges, some of which are in the Ivy League and some of which belong to special ed. Ann Coulter would have you believe that the Arts Quad is shrouded in Ivy, and transitioning from there to the Ag Quad is like walking into the dank and depressing darkness of the projects (That would be the low-rises on North).

ALL of Cornell is in the Ivy League. Some of the most accomplished people I know are communications grads from the Ag School. The vast majority of Cornellians are damn proud to have gone to Cornell, and, unless you're a hotelie -- where the school's reputation earns you the right to make that extra distinction -- nobody who ever graduates from Cornell will, at a cocktail party, go through the trouble of specifying their college at Cornell.

Except maybe Andy Bernard.

I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor

For the second year in a row, Cornell basketball is going to the NCAA Tournament. And IT'S MADNESS AT NEWMAN!

How crazy is it?

Cornell won [yesterday's] game 83-58 -- or so everyone thought.

A Cornell spokesman said Saturday there were several changes from the final minute that weren't noted until hours later because the courtside scorekeepers' computer was demolished by several thousand stampeding fans.

The final score should have been 83-59.

Despite the destruction of personal property, Cornell basketball will once again be on national television. Hopefully we don't go through anything like last year's fiasco against Stanford.

Unlike others, we already missed our chance to put money on the Big Red a couple of weeks ago in Vegas. The line stood at 7 for a game we ultimately won by about 25 points, but we didn't get to profit from that because we screwed up the time difference between Vegas and the East Coast and got to the Sports Book at Mandalay too late.

But hey, we're going dancing again. So break out the hoodies, start filling those brackets, and call Andy Bernard. After we watch last year's awesome video of Cornellians storming the court, we'll give the Nard-Dog the last word.

"Just listen, I forgot to tell you the plan for this Saturday. You, me, bars, beers, buzzed. Wings. Shots. Drunk. Waitresses, hot. Basketball - Cornell/Hofstra. Slaughter. Then a quick nap at my place and we'll hit the tiz-own."

The Clown Car Uterus

Remember the overrated movie The Ring, where everyone who watched a certain video ended up dying several days later?

Well, we finally found out what was in the video.

Knocked Up is a great movie. But there's on scene where they actually show you the birthing process. And everyone screams and it kind of ruins the movie, much in the same way that learning that your girlfriend has webbed feet would probably ruin your girlfriend.

And if watching a woman give birth eight times in a row is as horrifying as I imagine it to be, then I have just one last question, to which there cannot possibly be a good answer.

Just how long is that video? Too short and it's like watching someone die in a hail of gunfire. Too long and it's just slo-mo torture. Gah.

This will replace the whale in my nightmares.

The Casino DJ Can Suck It

It is in exceedingly poor taste for the casino to play "Another One Bites the Dust."

Quote of the Day XLVII

Jack: Now let me hear you say the seven most important words in the American Judicial system.
Frank: "My client has no memory of that."
Jack: I also would have accepted, "You can't prove that's the governor's semen."

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I don't understand the bubble model that appears in the middle. But the models that bookend this computer simulation of air traffic patterns across the United States on any given day are awesome.

Random Video of the Day LVI

They don't show the part where Uncle Sam tries to drop kick Iraq and falls flat on his ass.

The Uncler w/ Uncle Sam and Alyssa Milano from Alyssa Milano

Family Drama

I have a proposal for a new show.

It will be called “On My Deathbed.”

In it, a patriarch will be on his deathbed. He will die shortly. (His death will be a television EVENT, but let’s focus on this first).

His clan will then compete in challenges in order to try to become the sole heir. Challenges include, “Fundraisers Attended vs. Solicitations Declined,” “Brothers stabbed in the back,” and “Sarcastic Clapping.”

Every episode, someone will be voted off. “You are ... not the heir.” And the crest on their blazer will be summarily ripped off.

I can’t wait until I can see a daddy’s little girl falling to her knees in a Vera Wang gown, screaming, “Why, Daddy??? Whyyyy?”

The Perfect Crim Pro Crime

Our crim pro professor, at the beginning of the year, gave us all these little POS remote controls. Everyone gets one, and, with them, we’re supposed to answer these “polls” that he throws up in class every once in a while.

There’s a slight chance he’s tracking attendance with these things. Otherwise, they’re just a substitute for us raising their hands.

Given my general apathy about whether the “presumption of innocence” is a presumption or merely a warning to the jury, I would not really raise my hand. I am equally indifferent, if not more so, of digging through my backpack so I can click my choice.

So there’s really no good reason for me to have this remote control thingy. It’s as useless as a condom.

The thing is, it’s a mighty expensive useless thing. Those who fail to return it and the end of the semester must pay $50 to BU Law in restitution.

Fifty. Dollars.

Now, I keep this in my book bag, so I probably won’t lose it.

That said, because the thingy is essentially useless, it’s as if the professor gave me a fifty dollar bill – one I can never spend – and told me to hang onto it for the semester.

Now, professor, I really want to give this back to you and not incur the fee. That said, I don’t trust myself. Because it behooves me to have a replacement or two just in case I lose my own ... well, you can probably fill in the blank.

Don’t blame me, professor. You created this problem. And that, Dean, is why I was rifling through that guy’s stuff.

A Wallet That Really Eats Your Money

Somewhere in this fabled land, one of two people are looking for a wallet.

Either this was lost by a really creepy dentist, or by the tooth fairy.

Any alternatives are waaaay too grisly to consider.

I Hung the Picture of the Man Being Hanged

I have a question.

When you put your clothes up on a line to dry, you “hung” some clothes.

When you string up the guy who robbed the bank and general store, you “hanged” him.

So, my question is, is hanging the only word whose regularity is based on whether or not you’re ending someone’s life?

After some thought and positing that "hung" is the word used when you hang something continuously, Jordan overachieved and, unlike me, actually did some research:

Some reference books say hung isn't wrong, just less customary, when referring to past executions, and the Random House Unabridged Dictionary says that hung is becoming more common—but the majority of books agree that the standard English word is hanged when you are talking about killing people by dangling them from a rope.

It seemed a little curious to me that there would be two past-tense forms of the word hang that differ depending on their meaning, so I did a little research and found out that in Old English there were two different words for hang (hon and hangen), and the entanglement of these words (plus an Old Norse word hengjan) is responsible for there being two past-tense forms of the word hang today (1). 1. Burchfield, R. W., ed. The New Fowler's Modern English Usage. Third edition. New York: Oxford, 1996, p. 349.

Thank you, Jordan! Class, let's also thank Jordan for the title of the post.

(Thaaaaaank youuuuu, Joooooordan.)

So I guess I was right.

The correct usage of the past tense of "hang" depends entirely upon whether you're hanging a guy or his underwear.

Now we know.

That's What She Said! III

Natalie and I were convincing another person to go to this thing.

Natalie: OK, I’ll work on her now.
Me: OK, me too.
Natalie: I love it when we double-team her.
Me: THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

Day Before Day Before Day Before Yesterday's Paper

Congratulations to the new board of editors at The Sun. You poor bastards.

I was struck by a couple of things when I looked at the new masthead. First off, has it been that long? I don't recognize all but three of this kids. Didn't I just graduate? Is turnover that quick?

Damn. We old.

Also, what in the blue eff is a "Science Editor"? Way back in '06 we didn't have one. Is science some brand new thing that needs editing? Also, as Rob said, this likely means we need a corresponding "Humanities Editor."

There are also seven more editorships now than there were way back when. I am intrigued by the position of Assistant Managing Editor. It's as if we went back and Mike was there, except he had a tiny clone at a smaller desk next to him, sort of like a Mini-Me, except with a Southern accent.

For years I clamored for an Associate Associate Editor. As I envisioned it, that job would consist of fetching me beer, and perhaps finding one of those thingies that opens beer, so that we didn't have to slam the bottle-caps against table edges like common savages. Additional duties would have probably entailed apologetic conversations with authority figures, of both the local and federal variety. Compensation would come in the form of free candy from Ms. Bishop's desk, leftover pizza, and whatever we didn't manage to drink. The latter might be a pittance, but, in this economy, what can you do.

Oh well. Maybe next year is the year.

And always remember. What Would the 124th Do?

Random Video of the Day LV

Hamlet as performed by Canadians: "Good night sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, buddy!"

Snow Way There's School Today

It's a snowpocalypse out there, but I guess sometimes there are good things to be said about snow.

SNOW DAY.

Seriously, other than "not guilty," the two best words in the English language are "classes cancelled."

I'd rather miss school under the It's-too-nice-out-to-go-to-class-today doctrine, but, hey, I'll take it.

Back to bed.

Quote of the Day XLVI

I'm really hungry... Maybe it's because for the past few days I've just drank my meals ... Limes and olives the only solid foods I've come near.

-- Caitlin

The Great Walk Way

Perhaps it's the pot calling the kettle black. But hear me out.

Every time I go to New York, I try like hell to avoid the tourist death-trap that is Midtown and the Times Square area. When my efforts prove unsuccessful, I usually get stuck trudging along at velocity-at-which-a-baby-crawls speed behind a family of smiling tourists who seem hell-bent on taking individual pictures of every billboard in the tri-state area.

And I'm always -- always -- muttering, "Goddamned tourists." And then I go into Kill Mode.

I know. I don't live in New York. The rules of reason and logic would put me, a guy who lives in Boston and periodically goes to New York to drink, under the rubric of "Tourist."

But you know what? We have double-standards for a reason. And I'm sticking to my hypocrisy.

Which is why today, when I saw that Bloomberg Co. plans to turn Times and Herald Squares into redundantly-named pedestrian walkways, I was happy.

Now I don't have to walk on the street anymore, weaving between cars because, unlike the tourists, some of us are cursed with having something to do. Now I don't have to run over old ladies or leap over baby carriages. Now I don't have to throw elbows in the hope of attracting a fight that will hopefully clear the sidewalk. Now I don't have to rip cameras from hands and enter into a RAGE BLACKOUT.

Now we can just walk. Thank God.

That's Not My Coat

Always ahead of the curve in hard-hitting news stories, the NYT has an extraordinary expose about people misers who "forget" to tip the coat check people.

There is really no excuse for this. Living in the Northeast, you're unfortunately going to be using a coat for roughly nine out of the twelve months of the year.

With that being the case, wouldn't you gladly pay a dollar to not have to deal with your coat all night?

Science has proved that, at one point or another, everyone who has gone to college has had at least one coat stolen. Usually, it is your nice, expensive winter coat with which some asshole has absconded. There are few things sadder than the hope fading away, like that of a Mets fan in September, as you rummage through a pile of coats and realize that yours is gone forever.

You are left with one of two options. One, you do the noble thing and grit your teeth and try not to cry as you trudge home at three in the morning in twenty degree weather and wish for a not-so-painful-but-still-with-a-little-bite death for the thief.

Or you take someone else's coat. Which I don't recommend, but not for moral or altruistic reasons. In most cases, the coat will probably not fit, be of an undesirable color, or smell vaguely like its last owner. If you, like I, go to bars that law students frequent, the coat will smell of depression, Valium, and higlighter fluid.

After the mugging, of course, you turn more paranoid than a whore in church. Every time you go out, and put your coat down somewhere, even for a minute, half your time at the bar is spent hovering over your coat like a mama bear over its cub, going back to check on it, glancing at it every five seconds or so, until that pretty girl at the bar finally quits on trying to make eye contact with you and leaves with some waterpolo player, leaving you with only the tepid embrace of your North Face for the night.

Or else you don't let go of your coat and you cling to it with a death grip more sad than desperate, drawing stares of consternation from everyone around you.

So yes, I'd gladly pay a dollar not to have to deal with that, and have both hands free to double-fist be able to hold one drink and greet people with the other.

And please, also tip your waitress.

The Death of the Rocky Mountain News

You want to spend a depressing twenty minutes? This might be the saddest damn thing I've seen all year.


Final Edition from Matthew Roberts on Vimeo.