I handed in my take-home exam today, 20 pages written in what charitably could be called English and featuring shoddy reasoning and leaps in logic so absurd that Ralph Wiggum won't be seen with me.
But the paper is done. And then, I immediately commenced studying for the next exam, tomorrow morning, in education law.
There is, of course, no hornbook or study aid for such an obscure branch of the law. Therefore, all I have to rely on is my notes. These include informative sentence fragments, such as "The state must prove a compelling interest in order to " and "The feds cannot impose "
Hopefully my exam tomorrow contains subjects, verbs, and predicates. Perhaps it is ironic that my education law exam might suffer due to my poor note taking skills and my inability to structure a coherent sentence.
I blame this on the fact that, for the last ten years, I've only ever been asked to recite the ABCs backwards.
Pray for me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Brobama's Facebook
I always thought Obama's Facebook news feed would be an adequate way to summarize this Country's past 100 days.
Props to whoever nailed Joe the Biden filling out one of those 25 random things ... things. But drops on whoever failed to include the story: "America has joined the group "Hypochondriacs."
Props to whoever nailed Joe the Biden filling out one of those 25 random things ... things. But drops on whoever failed to include the story: "America has joined the group "Hypochondriacs."
Children Destroy World With Mexican Pig Flu
In today's superplague news, several advancements have been made.
Patient Zero has been identified. I'd like to thank global news services for correctly identifying the one human responsible for killing us all. There's nothing quite like going on a manhunt, particularly when the target is not yet old enough to go to school. This should be an easy chase given that he is sick and frightened kid who probably has short legs. I still encourage everyone out there to join me. In mobs, like orgies, the more the merrier.
Science has long proved that every set of twins contains an evil twin and a good twin. A set of twins in Lowell has brought the superplague to Massachusetts. Whether this is the result of the good twin valiantly trying to poison the evil twin to get rid of him for good, or the evil twin tragically poisoning the good twin in the path to world domination, we will never know. What we do know is it all backfired, both twins are sick, we are all doomed, and it's always the children's fault.
And, lastly, there is a name other than Mexican we prefer. Something less offensive, perhaps. Showing commendable focus in choosing the correct priority, experts all over the world bicker over what we should this plague that threatens every form of life on the planet. Because Jews can't eat bacon, the "swine flu" moniker is offensive to them, and they prefer that we call it the "Mexican flu." This novel form of logic exists thanks to the assumption that, if you use "swine" as an adjective, Orthodox Jews will be deeply offended, whereas using "Mexican" as an adjective offends no one, save perhaps those who if not dead yet will be shortly.
Patient Zero has been identified. I'd like to thank global news services for correctly identifying the one human responsible for killing us all. There's nothing quite like going on a manhunt, particularly when the target is not yet old enough to go to school. This should be an easy chase given that he is sick and frightened kid who probably has short legs. I still encourage everyone out there to join me. In mobs, like orgies, the more the merrier.
Science has long proved that every set of twins contains an evil twin and a good twin. A set of twins in Lowell has brought the superplague to Massachusetts. Whether this is the result of the good twin valiantly trying to poison the evil twin to get rid of him for good, or the evil twin tragically poisoning the good twin in the path to world domination, we will never know. What we do know is it all backfired, both twins are sick, we are all doomed, and it's always the children's fault.
And, lastly, there is a name other than Mexican we prefer. Something less offensive, perhaps. Showing commendable focus in choosing the correct priority, experts all over the world bicker over what we should this plague that threatens every form of life on the planet. Because Jews can't eat bacon, the "swine flu" moniker is offensive to them, and they prefer that we call it the "Mexican flu." This novel form of logic exists thanks to the assumption that, if you use "swine" as an adjective, Orthodox Jews will be deeply offended, whereas using "Mexican" as an adjective offends no one, save perhaps those who if not dead yet will be shortly.
That Bun Shouldn't Be Ready Yet
It's very upsetting when you're checking Facebook right before you go to bed, and you come across a new photo album. And in this photo album are these girls you used to know from high school. And they were in the grade above you, so they're what? 25? 26? In any case, you're clicking along, thinking how you used to hit on them, and then you come across this one picture. And it's a group picture. And in the picture, two of the girls are standing in the middle of the frame. And then the rest of the girls look thrilled, and they are all standing around the two girls, and they all have their hands on the two very obvious, very pregnant bellies in the middle.
People my age, please, please, please stop getting pregnant.
Christ.
I'm going to bed.
People my age, please, please, please stop getting pregnant.
Christ.
I'm going to bed.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Burn the Tower
We just received the following email from the Dean's office:
If, however, someone out there was deliberately trying to set the tower on fire right before exams, come on. You can do better than that. Please.
Hello,Two things. If these were unintentional fires, as the emails assume, I find no other alternative than to immediately blame the LLMs. I hereby request that, in light of their negligence, they be immediately sent to another building to study. This will not only free our lungs of smoke, but will also free our stairwells from inconsiderate people blocking them constantly.
Just an update—
Cigarettes that have not been fully extinguished have been causing small brush fires. Because these brush fires have been located near the intake vents for the school, they have filled the building with smoke. We are aware of the issue and are trying to fix the situation, but we need your help. If you smoke, please make sure you extinguish your cigarette fully and properly dispose of the waste.
Thank you.
Dean’s Office Staff
If, however, someone out there was deliberately trying to set the tower on fire right before exams, come on. You can do better than that. Please.
Babe the Pestilent Pig
For the record, you three trillion people who made the same joke today, I do not have the swine flu. Contrary to popular belief, Mexicans everywhere are not a roving disease on two legs, come here to take both your jobs and your health.
But you should not refuse to hug me because of the swine flu. You should just refuse to hug me for the usual reasons.
I know things are bad. It's bad enough that Wolverine doesn't trust his healing factor to get him out of this one. Everyone in Mexico looks like the worst nightmare of someone who is deathly afraid of surgery. Even the Earth itself is quaking in its little space boots.
But you know what? This has happened before, and it played like a Kurt Vonnegut short story. Click that link and try not to wonder at the fact that the knee-jerk reaction to the panic ended up costing dozens of lives and upwards of two and a half billion dollars in claims. So chill.
And if we can't chill? Then I propose we find a healthy outlet for our fear and anger and find the person responsible for the end of the world.
That's right, you little asshole. It's angry mob time and we're pointing the pitchfork at your inexplicably thinning hair. May God have mercy on your soul.
But you should not refuse to hug me because of the swine flu. You should just refuse to hug me for the usual reasons.
I know things are bad. It's bad enough that Wolverine doesn't trust his healing factor to get him out of this one. Everyone in Mexico looks like the worst nightmare of someone who is deathly afraid of surgery. Even the Earth itself is quaking in its little space boots.
But you know what? This has happened before, and it played like a Kurt Vonnegut short story. Click that link and try not to wonder at the fact that the knee-jerk reaction to the panic ended up costing dozens of lives and upwards of two and a half billion dollars in claims. So chill.
And if we can't chill? Then I propose we find a healthy outlet for our fear and anger and find the person responsible for the end of the world.
That's right, you little asshole. It's angry mob time and we're pointing the pitchfork at your inexplicably thinning hair. May God have mercy on your soul.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Many Uses of Graduate Students
This NYT article on graduate students reminded me of a priceless Simpsons clip:
Of course they made terrible life choices, as Bart points out. Right now (and it doesn't matter when you read this sentence -- it will always be true) some poor schmuck is locked in a library, breathing the dust of old books that haven't been opened in decades, researching some obscure thing that nobody cares about in order to write a two-hundred page paper that nobody will ever read.
Look I'm all for academia and the pursuit of the higher intellect. But have you ever been to the place in the college library where they store theses and dissertations? It's like going to the section of the cemetery that nobody ever visits.
Perhaps it's intolerant and short-sighted of me, but I find that spending years of your life looking up phallic references in sonnets written by women in the late Elizabethan period will fail to contribute a positive benefit to society.
I'm not asking that they stop studying, just that they apply these findings to today's problems, as the op-ed suggests. The purpose should be to somehow harness the inherent power of medieval studies graduate students and use it to till the waters of modern innovation, as it were. Not to fill 120 pages with jargon about how Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the symbolic representation of Hamlet's ego, where they will sit unread and forgotten in a university basement until that fateful day when someone tries to prove the opposite.
Every year academics spend more and more time learning about less and less, until, as the article says, they will know everything there is to know about nothing.
Of course they made terrible life choices, as Bart points out. Right now (and it doesn't matter when you read this sentence -- it will always be true) some poor schmuck is locked in a library, breathing the dust of old books that haven't been opened in decades, researching some obscure thing that nobody cares about in order to write a two-hundred page paper that nobody will ever read.
Look I'm all for academia and the pursuit of the higher intellect. But have you ever been to the place in the college library where they store theses and dissertations? It's like going to the section of the cemetery that nobody ever visits.
Perhaps it's intolerant and short-sighted of me, but I find that spending years of your life looking up phallic references in sonnets written by women in the late Elizabethan period will fail to contribute a positive benefit to society.
I'm not asking that they stop studying, just that they apply these findings to today's problems, as the op-ed suggests. The purpose should be to somehow harness the inherent power of medieval studies graduate students and use it to till the waters of modern innovation, as it were. Not to fill 120 pages with jargon about how Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the symbolic representation of Hamlet's ego, where they will sit unread and forgotten in a university basement until that fateful day when someone tries to prove the opposite.
Every year academics spend more and more time learning about less and less, until, as the article says, they will know everything there is to know about nothing.
Quote of the Day LI
Weitz: The swine flu now? What is it with you people?
Me: If you get it, is that kosher?
Weitz: Nope, if I get it, no Jews can eat me.
Me: If you get it, is that kosher?
Weitz: Nope, if I get it, no Jews can eat me.
The First Strong Wind
Like that one shot you take that suddenly makes you realize that you've been drinking for hours and now you can barely speak and ohcrap where's your credit card and, more importantly, where the balls are you, finals are suddenly, impossibly upon us again.
Last semester, my exams were the four PANICs. This year, there's no sense of panic, not really. They're more like hurdles strewn about haphazardly, and must be bested as I run gamely towards freedom.
They could be devastating hurdles, that's for sure. But they shouldn't be too bad. I see these finals like gusts of wind coming at my ship, and all I have to do is not turn my ship right into them and sink myself. I could be OK. Or it could be The Perfect Storm and there I went, Charlie from Ohio, lost at sea. In ten days, this will all be over, provided the winds (and swine flu) aren't fatal.
In a matter of minutes, I will be picking up a take-home exam for Constitutional Interpretation. I will attempt to show that I learned something -- anything -- from this class. Given that it was more boring than church, this will be a difficult task.
I am actually interested to see how this plays out. I haven't written a paper in over two years. Two and a half really, since my second semester senior year consisted of wines, creative writing, and introduction to rock 'n' roll, a senioritis schedule if you ever saw one.
Writing columns and a blog, of course, is not substitute for the kind of in-depth research, trenchant analysis, and insightful and original conclusions that I'm expected to provide when analyzing Scalia's Michael H. decision.
This is like asking someone who occasionally makes sandwiches and doesn't know how to turn on his oven to suddenly cater a meal for Thomas Keller and his sous chef. I'll probably end up poisoning Mr. Keller, but will incur only manslaughter charges on account of it being painfully obvious to the judge and jury that I had no frickin' clue what I was doing.
OK, blank page. Just you and me now. 48 hours. 20 pages. No survivors.
Last semester, my exams were the four PANICs. This year, there's no sense of panic, not really. They're more like hurdles strewn about haphazardly, and must be bested as I run gamely towards freedom.
They could be devastating hurdles, that's for sure. But they shouldn't be too bad. I see these finals like gusts of wind coming at my ship, and all I have to do is not turn my ship right into them and sink myself. I could be OK. Or it could be The Perfect Storm and there I went, Charlie from Ohio, lost at sea. In ten days, this will all be over, provided the winds (and swine flu) aren't fatal.
In a matter of minutes, I will be picking up a take-home exam for Constitutional Interpretation. I will attempt to show that I learned something -- anything -- from this class. Given that it was more boring than church, this will be a difficult task.
I am actually interested to see how this plays out. I haven't written a paper in over two years. Two and a half really, since my second semester senior year consisted of wines, creative writing, and introduction to rock 'n' roll, a senioritis schedule if you ever saw one.
Writing columns and a blog, of course, is not substitute for the kind of in-depth research, trenchant analysis, and insightful and original conclusions that I'm expected to provide when analyzing Scalia's Michael H. decision.
This is like asking someone who occasionally makes sandwiches and doesn't know how to turn on his oven to suddenly cater a meal for Thomas Keller and his sous chef. I'll probably end up poisoning Mr. Keller, but will incur only manslaughter charges on account of it being painfully obvious to the judge and jury that I had no frickin' clue what I was doing.
OK, blank page. Just you and me now. 48 hours. 20 pages. No survivors.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
El Outbreak
"Mexican officials are asking citizens to avoid large crowds, refrain from kissing as a greeting and maintain a distance of at least 1.8 meters (six feet) from each other amid growing concern in the country and elsewhere over new cases of suspected and confirmed swine flu infection."
And so the plague has come to Mexico, and it has spread to the U.S., and maybe those crackpots saying that everything will end by December of 2012 are not to be so quickly dismissed.
If you go to the front page of the main Mexican newspaper, you are greeted by a collection of headlines that seem more appropriate for the opening scenes of a Will Smith movie.
The health department has been given emergency powers to run the country. They've shut down concerts, malls, and restaurants. Every public gathering has been canceled. There will be no school for a week anywhere. Today, on Sunday, people are looking around the house, wondering what the heck to do with themselves. The two things Mexicans do on Sunday -- go to church and/or soccer games -- cannot be done today.
Not only that, but the fact that you can access those articles is alarming in and of itself. In Mexico, the newspapers aren't in as much trouble as they are here in the U.S., simply because, when the interwebs started, the powers that be decided that their content wouldn't be free online. If you want to read the newspaper on your computer, you have to pay.
Today, they have taken those restrictions off in the interest of disseminating information.
Authorities seem to me like the little dutch boy with his finger stoppering up the dam. They are instructing people in the art of sneezing and handing out surgical masks to residents. This strikes me as Wile. E. Coyote opening an umbrella when he sees the anvil rushing down to meet him.
If you see people sneezing today, it's either the product of cocaine or of the new plague. So it's
probably safe to blame us. Sorry.
I was exploring the possibility of going home for a couple of weeks after finals are done, but it seems that I'd only go back to find my family turned into vampire cannibals who are trying to eat Will Smith.
Rest assured that I'm doing everything in my power to get them to go after Carrot Top instead.
And so the plague has come to Mexico, and it has spread to the U.S., and maybe those crackpots saying that everything will end by December of 2012 are not to be so quickly dismissed.
If you go to the front page of the main Mexican newspaper, you are greeted by a collection of headlines that seem more appropriate for the opening scenes of a Will Smith movie.
The health department has been given emergency powers to run the country. They've shut down concerts, malls, and restaurants. Every public gathering has been canceled. There will be no school for a week anywhere. Today, on Sunday, people are looking around the house, wondering what the heck to do with themselves. The two things Mexicans do on Sunday -- go to church and/or soccer games -- cannot be done today.
Not only that, but the fact that you can access those articles is alarming in and of itself. In Mexico, the newspapers aren't in as much trouble as they are here in the U.S., simply because, when the interwebs started, the powers that be decided that their content wouldn't be free online. If you want to read the newspaper on your computer, you have to pay.
Today, they have taken those restrictions off in the interest of disseminating information.
Authorities seem to me like the little dutch boy with his finger stoppering up the dam. They are instructing people in the art of sneezing and handing out surgical masks to residents. This strikes me as Wile. E. Coyote opening an umbrella when he sees the anvil rushing down to meet him.
If you see people sneezing today, it's either the product of cocaine or of the new plague. So it's
probably safe to blame us. Sorry.
I was exploring the possibility of going home for a couple of weeks after finals are done, but it seems that I'd only go back to find my family turned into vampire cannibals who are trying to eat Will Smith.
Rest assured that I'm doing everything in my power to get them to go after Carrot Top instead.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Mr. Congeniality
Caitlin's friend's little brother is entering some sort of high school pageant. Because of my ample experience participating in beauty pageants, she asked me to help. Unfortunately, since I'm in Boston and he's in Chicago, I am sadly unable to show him how to wear a suit and how to fluff out enough chest hair so that it's like a welcome mat saying, "Come on in."
What I can do, and have done, is written down answers for the questions he will be asked, mostly so he doesn't end up as this. Below, I have the questions he sent me and the answers he sent him. You'll notice I left the questions themselves unedited. Apparently, this is how high schoolers write now. May God have mercy on us all.
Please name three words girls describe u as?
"The white Obama." (Beam)
Alternate: Girlfriend-tested, Mother-approved, Can’t-Count.
Alternate: Delicious and Nutritious
Alternate: Awesome, Playful, Pecs
If you could travel back into any time period, which one and y?
I’d travel to the 30s, a time when baseball was pure and the only stimulants were coffee and skirts.
If you could be a famous person, who would it be and why?
Myself. In the future. Think about that.
If you were fighting darth vadar what would your last words be?
Later, Vader.
If simon cowell told u that u were the disgrace of the american music industry, what would ur rebuttle be?
I got a fever! And the only prescription is less Cowell!
You are on americas next top dance crew and it is ur time to shine. what move do u break out to show ur skills. Demonstrate
(Macarena into striptease)
If you could be a disney caharacter, who would it be and y?
I’d love to say Aladdin, because he’s in charge of a genie who could grant all of my girlfriend’s wishes. (Pause for awww) And give her a bigger rack. (Grin)
Which food best represents who you are ?
The hot tamale.
if you could be any mythical creature which one would u be and y?
I’d be Icarus, because when I asked Heidi Klum to go steady with me, it was like flying a little too close to the sun.
if you could step into any movie as ur real life which one would it be and y?
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off so I could save that poor car before Cameron destroys it.
(Formal wear questions)
ur girlfriend want to take ballroom dance lessons but its on "guys night" what do u do?
Release a pack of wild hamsters into the ballroom dance classroom right before the lesson. It’s less dangerous and criminal than setting the place on fire, but still effective. Girls won’t want to walk in there. Nobody, really, until the poor janitor does his job. Sorry, janitor.
ur girlfrined picks u up for a suprise date. little did u kno it is ur anniversary? what do u do when she gives u a gift and you have nothing.
Take off my shirt, tie it around my neck like a bow, and go, “Surprise!”
its ur girlfriends parents aniversary and there is a cake sitting on the counter, thinking its ur u decided to eat it and get caught. what do u do?
I tell them I didn’t get to be this size and shape without eating cake. Therefore, I have carried out God's will and only He can judge me. If this doesn’t fly and pops brings out the shotgun, say I’m just kidding, the cake was terrible anyway, and I took the initiative to order a bigger, better cake that more fully represents the deliciousness of their love. Then pray your girlfriend takes the hint and calls either 911 or the emergency cake store.
ur watching the lion king wiht ur gf when she catches u crying, how do u explain?
“I’m sorry, I just think it’s sad that Pumba is going to die of obesity if he doesn’t start taking better care of himself!”
u have borrowed ur girlfrineds "emergencey only" credit card to buy a few things but u max it out buying world of war craft video games. explain!
This is a terrible question. If I knew how to max out a credit card buying Warcraft video games, I wouldn’t have a girlfriend. Therefore, this wouldn’t be a problem.
u and ur gf are cleaning ur room, when she uncovers several old photos of u wiht ur ex. please tell her why u still have them.
Because I paid money for them and it seemed a waste to throw five dollars away. By the way, I would never let my girlfriend clean my room. What is this, the 50s?
Ur gf gave u a verrry exspensive watch for ur bday and said it was so u could think of her every hour of the day. but u dindt like it and returned it. call ur gf and explain y u arent wearing it explain.
Before I call her, I run into a wall, probably accidentally. Then I call her and tell her I got mugged. And that cake and snuggling would really help with the pain.
u show up to dinner with ur gf and her parents in a hawaiian shirt and shorts not realizing it was a formal event. the parents already hate u, what do u say to them?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was an actual dinner. I thought we were just saying goodbye before we go to Hawaii.” Then I grab my girlfriend by the hand, say Goodbye, and actually take her to Hawaii, using the credit card I did not max out buying video games.
ur watching ur gfs dog and the dog runs away. u bought a new dog that looked identical to her old one. a week later with her "new" dog the old dog comes back. explain urself.
Obviously the dog has a twin, and, since her dog is such a “good dog,” this new dog has to be the evil twin. So, um, run.
What I can do, and have done, is written down answers for the questions he will be asked, mostly so he doesn't end up as this. Below, I have the questions he sent me and the answers he sent him. You'll notice I left the questions themselves unedited. Apparently, this is how high schoolers write now. May God have mercy on us all.
Please name three words girls describe u as?
"The white Obama." (Beam)
Alternate: Girlfriend-tested, Mother-approved, Can’t-Count.
Alternate: Delicious and Nutritious
Alternate: Awesome, Playful, Pecs
If you could travel back into any time period, which one and y?
I’d travel to the 30s, a time when baseball was pure and the only stimulants were coffee and skirts.
If you could be a famous person, who would it be and why?
Myself. In the future. Think about that.
If you were fighting darth vadar what would your last words be?
Later, Vader.
If simon cowell told u that u were the disgrace of the american music industry, what would ur rebuttle be?
I got a fever! And the only prescription is less Cowell!
You are on americas next top dance crew and it is ur time to shine. what move do u break out to show ur skills. Demonstrate
(Macarena into striptease)
If you could be a disney caharacter, who would it be and y?
I’d love to say Aladdin, because he’s in charge of a genie who could grant all of my girlfriend’s wishes. (Pause for awww) And give her a bigger rack. (Grin)
Which food best represents who you are ?
The hot tamale.
if you could be any mythical creature which one would u be and y?
I’d be Icarus, because when I asked Heidi Klum to go steady with me, it was like flying a little too close to the sun.
if you could step into any movie as ur real life which one would it be and y?
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off so I could save that poor car before Cameron destroys it.
(Formal wear questions)
ur girlfriend want to take ballroom dance lessons but its on "guys night" what do u do?
Release a pack of wild hamsters into the ballroom dance classroom right before the lesson. It’s less dangerous and criminal than setting the place on fire, but still effective. Girls won’t want to walk in there. Nobody, really, until the poor janitor does his job. Sorry, janitor.
ur girlfrined picks u up for a suprise date. little did u kno it is ur anniversary? what do u do when she gives u a gift and you have nothing.
Take off my shirt, tie it around my neck like a bow, and go, “Surprise!”
its ur girlfriends parents aniversary and there is a cake sitting on the counter, thinking its ur u decided to eat it and get caught. what do u do?
I tell them I didn’t get to be this size and shape without eating cake. Therefore, I have carried out God's will and only He can judge me. If this doesn’t fly and pops brings out the shotgun, say I’m just kidding, the cake was terrible anyway, and I took the initiative to order a bigger, better cake that more fully represents the deliciousness of their love. Then pray your girlfriend takes the hint and calls either 911 or the emergency cake store.
ur watching the lion king wiht ur gf when she catches u crying, how do u explain?
“I’m sorry, I just think it’s sad that Pumba is going to die of obesity if he doesn’t start taking better care of himself!”
u have borrowed ur girlfrineds "emergencey only" credit card to buy a few things but u max it out buying world of war craft video games. explain!
This is a terrible question. If I knew how to max out a credit card buying Warcraft video games, I wouldn’t have a girlfriend. Therefore, this wouldn’t be a problem.
u and ur gf are cleaning ur room, when she uncovers several old photos of u wiht ur ex. please tell her why u still have them.
Because I paid money for them and it seemed a waste to throw five dollars away. By the way, I would never let my girlfriend clean my room. What is this, the 50s?
Ur gf gave u a verrry exspensive watch for ur bday and said it was so u could think of her every hour of the day. but u dindt like it and returned it. call ur gf and explain y u arent wearing it explain.
Before I call her, I run into a wall, probably accidentally. Then I call her and tell her I got mugged. And that cake and snuggling would really help with the pain.
u show up to dinner with ur gf and her parents in a hawaiian shirt and shorts not realizing it was a formal event. the parents already hate u, what do u say to them?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was an actual dinner. I thought we were just saying goodbye before we go to Hawaii.” Then I grab my girlfriend by the hand, say Goodbye, and actually take her to Hawaii, using the credit card I did not max out buying video games.
ur watching ur gfs dog and the dog runs away. u bought a new dog that looked identical to her old one. a week later with her "new" dog the old dog comes back. explain urself.
Obviously the dog has a twin, and, since her dog is such a “good dog,” this new dog has to be the evil twin. So, um, run.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Killer Rankings
Score!
We can say we're a Top 20 school and not lie about it anymore!
Technically, we're one of the best twenty schools in the country. More accurately, we're one of the three twentieth-bests.
There's nothing like sliding in just underneath the tag. "Basically Top 20" doesn't quite have the same ring to it. "Top 20" on the other hand, says you're a pretty good school, according to the rankings, even if you are, according to the rankings, just barely one of the pretty good schools.
I'm just glad the whole SGA thing didn't end up dropping us in the rankings. The last time such a violent transfer of power occurred in Mexico, the country dropped from 1 to 12 in the "Countries Where You Spring Break" rankings, a catastrophe from which we're yet to recover.
I mean, there are non-quantifiable (and therefore non-rank-able, in theory) aspects to consider. For instance, the Craigslist Killer. He's a BU med student. But just because he's a med student doesn't mean the university as a whole is taint-free. While I know that med students and law students don't mix -- mostly because they regards us as that asshole shark who will try to kill them every time they try to save a life -- people are going around saying, "ooh, the killer went to BU med."
To some this is a detriment. To others, it's a great story to tell at a bar. "Ooh, I used to know a guy who killed somebody ... Somehow I always knew ... Sure you can touch me."
I guess this has nothing to do for the rankings, and it was a pretty piss-poor transition. In any case, the portion of the BU brochure that says "Meet Interesting People!" just took on a whole new meaning.
We can say we're a Top 20 school and not lie about it anymore!
Technically, we're one of the best twenty schools in the country. More accurately, we're one of the three twentieth-bests.
There's nothing like sliding in just underneath the tag. "Basically Top 20" doesn't quite have the same ring to it. "Top 20" on the other hand, says you're a pretty good school, according to the rankings, even if you are, according to the rankings, just barely one of the pretty good schools.
I'm just glad the whole SGA thing didn't end up dropping us in the rankings. The last time such a violent transfer of power occurred in Mexico, the country dropped from 1 to 12 in the "Countries Where You Spring Break" rankings, a catastrophe from which we're yet to recover.
I mean, there are non-quantifiable (and therefore non-rank-able, in theory) aspects to consider. For instance, the Craigslist Killer. He's a BU med student. But just because he's a med student doesn't mean the university as a whole is taint-free. While I know that med students and law students don't mix -- mostly because they regards us as that asshole shark who will try to kill them every time they try to save a life -- people are going around saying, "ooh, the killer went to BU med."
To some this is a detriment. To others, it's a great story to tell at a bar. "Ooh, I used to know a guy who killed somebody ... Somehow I always knew ... Sure you can touch me."
I guess this has nothing to do for the rankings, and it was a pretty piss-poor transition. In any case, the portion of the BU brochure that says "Meet Interesting People!" just took on a whole new meaning.
It Ain't Over Til the Fat Guy Frolics
I suspended LOCKDOWN for a night to see my third Springsteen concert in 18 months yesterday. As expected, he did not disappoint.
Couple of notes. As you can see from the pre-show setlist, he was set to play "Jungleland," the best song in the history of songs. Instead, he called an audible and played "Radio Nowhere," a pretty good song that is still a woefully inadequate replacement.
But that's my only quibble. "Outlaw Pete," as I foresaw, is phenomenal as a live song. It builds and builds and builds and has enough pauses in just the right places to fire up the crowd. Bruce even brings out a prop and wears a cowboy hat on stage. I can't wait for "Queen of the Supermarket" so he can bring out a supermarket cart on-stage.
They have Max Weinberg's son, Jay, playing drums on a couple of songs as practice for when the band tours Europe and Max is helping Conan O'Brien launch the new Tonight Show. Kid is 19 and plays drums better than his old man. And he plays them hard. I mean, he was killing those drums.
"Rosalita" was amazing, as always. The depression trilogy mid-show of "Seeds," "Johnny 99," and "The Ghost of Tom Joad" is spectacular, including Nils on "Tom Joad" who just shreds the guitar like no one you've ever seen.
The highlight of the night, though, has to be this one guy down on the floor. He's maybe 280 pounds, just this huge fat guy. And, when the band starts playing "Rosalita," he goes crazy. Goes insane. Starts cheering, jumping up and down. He takes off his track jacket and starts waving it over his head. Then he starts running in circles. Then he starts jumping and skipping and hopping and dancing. I've never seen someone frolic, but that's what this huge dude is doing. Just pure joy. Someone that size should really refrain from doing such physical activity, but, if he goes, at least he goes happy.
Rock on, fat guy. Rock on.
Update: Of course Marc took a picture of the fat guy. It's fairly blurry, because he used an iPhone and the wizards who live inside it don't zoom. But the fat guy is the one in the middle in the blue shirt who looks like he could eat everyone around him and then ask for seconds. And then dance all night.
Couple of notes. As you can see from the pre-show setlist, he was set to play "Jungleland," the best song in the history of songs. Instead, he called an audible and played "Radio Nowhere," a pretty good song that is still a woefully inadequate replacement.
But that's my only quibble. "Outlaw Pete," as I foresaw, is phenomenal as a live song. It builds and builds and builds and has enough pauses in just the right places to fire up the crowd. Bruce even brings out a prop and wears a cowboy hat on stage. I can't wait for "Queen of the Supermarket" so he can bring out a supermarket cart on-stage.
They have Max Weinberg's son, Jay, playing drums on a couple of songs as practice for when the band tours Europe and Max is helping Conan O'Brien launch the new Tonight Show. Kid is 19 and plays drums better than his old man. And he plays them hard. I mean, he was killing those drums.
"Rosalita" was amazing, as always. The depression trilogy mid-show of "Seeds," "Johnny 99," and "The Ghost of Tom Joad" is spectacular, including Nils on "Tom Joad" who just shreds the guitar like no one you've ever seen.
The highlight of the night, though, has to be this one guy down on the floor. He's maybe 280 pounds, just this huge fat guy. And, when the band starts playing "Rosalita," he goes crazy. Goes insane. Starts cheering, jumping up and down. He takes off his track jacket and starts waving it over his head. Then he starts running in circles. Then he starts jumping and skipping and hopping and dancing. I've never seen someone frolic, but that's what this huge dude is doing. Just pure joy. Someone that size should really refrain from doing such physical activity, but, if he goes, at least he goes happy.
Rock on, fat guy. Rock on.
Update: Of course Marc took a picture of the fat guy. It's fairly blurry, because he used an iPhone and the wizards who live inside it don't zoom. But the fat guy is the one in the middle in the blue shirt who looks like he could eat everyone around him and then ask for seconds. And then dance all night.
That's What She Said! VIII
On the T, talking about transferring to another line.
Marc: I mean, you have to get off before you can get back on.
Marc: I mean, you have to get off before you can get back on.
Quote of the Day L
In my experience when I was 8 or 10 or 12 years old, you know, we did take our clothes off once a day. We changed for gym, O.K.? And in my experience, too, people did sometimes stick things in my underwear.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
It was the Best of Times...
This morning I actually had an interview. Before the interview, however, I came across this on the interwebs.
It's one of those bubble maps that shows you some how factor increases or decreases for any given region. This map represents jobs lost or won in every county in the U.S.
What starts as a small blood-letting in March of '08 looks like a goddamned massacre by October. And then the last five months, well, are pretty much Armageddon.
Saddest of all is Detroit and the surrounding area, which is always red, and goes from a slight pink tinge to the color of a fire engine in flames, while demons try to put it out with blood.
Not my best metaphor, but yeesh. That was great to think about on my way to the interview. It's like learning your parents are getting a divorce while at your own rehearsal dinner for the wedding tomorrow.
The more I look at it the worse it gets. Jesus flippin' Christ.
Pray for Mojo.
It's one of those bubble maps that shows you some how factor increases or decreases for any given region. This map represents jobs lost or won in every county in the U.S.
What starts as a small blood-letting in March of '08 looks like a goddamned massacre by October. And then the last five months, well, are pretty much Armageddon.
Saddest of all is Detroit and the surrounding area, which is always red, and goes from a slight pink tinge to the color of a fire engine in flames, while demons try to put it out with blood.
Not my best metaphor, but yeesh. That was great to think about on my way to the interview. It's like learning your parents are getting a divorce while at your own rehearsal dinner for the wedding tomorrow.
The more I look at it the worse it gets. Jesus flippin' Christ.
Pray for Mojo.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Cruel Trilemma
Happy Fake Holiday everyone!
Boston is not the only state to participate in Patriots' day -- it is also observed in Maine, and, as you might expect, Wisconsin.
Like all charades, however, this is a good one. Patriots' Day is essentially a city-wide Slope Day, where everyone takes the day off and engages in marathon drinking, interrupted solely by visits to Beacon street to see white people chase black people -- a rarity in Boston.
Alas, I must stay in and outline crim pro. Walking from my apartment to the tower, however, necessitates the crossing of Beacon Street. This is, for me, an almost biblical parade of temptation. Shiny, happy people grilling, drinking before noon.
I actually ran into Schnabel and friends. "Hey!" he said, attempting to hand me a "water" bottle. "Are you grilling with us?" I could only hold up my admin book as both a shield to temptation and a mask to hide my grief.
Being a lawyer better be awesome.
Boston is not the only state to participate in Patriots' day -- it is also observed in Maine, and, as you might expect, Wisconsin.
Like all charades, however, this is a good one. Patriots' Day is essentially a city-wide Slope Day, where everyone takes the day off and engages in marathon drinking, interrupted solely by visits to Beacon street to see white people chase black people -- a rarity in Boston.
Alas, I must stay in and outline crim pro. Walking from my apartment to the tower, however, necessitates the crossing of Beacon Street. This is, for me, an almost biblical parade of temptation. Shiny, happy people grilling, drinking before noon.
I actually ran into Schnabel and friends. "Hey!" he said, attempting to hand me a "water" bottle. "Are you grilling with us?" I could only hold up my admin book as both a shield to temptation and a mask to hide my grief.
Being a lawyer better be awesome.
Don't Be Alarmed
Last night I was rudely woken up by the fire alarm in my building at the wonderful hour of 1 a.m., right after I'd gone to bed and managed to fall asleep.
It was a wonderful experience, walking down the stairs and out into the cold to wait with other equally-grumpy neighbors for the fire department to come pour water on some guy's burnt popcorn. It was so nice that, as we all shuffled back into the building, I remarked that we should do it again soon.
Done and done.
At 5 a.m., the fire alarm blared its wake-up call. Again.
Twice in one night!
Gar.
Screw you, people who try to cook in the middle of the night.
Here's a warning. Next time you wander home at 3 a.m., and then decide to make some pizza bagels, and you leave them in the oven and they go up in smoke and we have to leave the building, don't think I'm going to be evacuated quietly with the rest of the people.
If I have to get out of bed to leave the building, I'm done taking the extra second to put some pants on.
That's right. If evacuated, I'm coming out in the altogether.
Think of it as a warning. Do you really need to burn your food that badly? If you think so, then risk seeing what no one should see outside of the darkness of my own room.
...
Um, someone tell Mrs. Pedroia to stop trying to set that roll of paper towels on fire.
It was a wonderful experience, walking down the stairs and out into the cold to wait with other equally-grumpy neighbors for the fire department to come pour water on some guy's burnt popcorn. It was so nice that, as we all shuffled back into the building, I remarked that we should do it again soon.
Done and done.
At 5 a.m., the fire alarm blared its wake-up call. Again.
Twice in one night!
Gar.
Screw you, people who try to cook in the middle of the night.
Here's a warning. Next time you wander home at 3 a.m., and then decide to make some pizza bagels, and you leave them in the oven and they go up in smoke and we have to leave the building, don't think I'm going to be evacuated quietly with the rest of the people.
If I have to get out of bed to leave the building, I'm done taking the extra second to put some pants on.
That's right. If evacuated, I'm coming out in the altogether.
Think of it as a warning. Do you really need to burn your food that badly? If you think so, then risk seeing what no one should see outside of the darkness of my own room.
...
Um, someone tell Mrs. Pedroia to stop trying to set that roll of paper towels on fire.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Someone Fire the Note-taker
I will fail admin. Why? Because in my notes, you can find conclusions like these:
"Agencies, if they have rulemaking authority, they can make rules, even if they are going to make those rules by rulemaking."
Upon review, this actually seems to be what Wyman-Gordon might have held. In any case, Sarah Palin would be proud.
"Agencies, if they have rulemaking authority, they can make rules, even if they are going to make those rules by rulemaking."
Upon review, this actually seems to be what Wyman-Gordon might have held. In any case, Sarah Palin would be proud.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Live! From B.U.! It's ...
In this world, few things are sadder than the library on a Saturday night.
Tonight, however, I actually found one of those things.
I left the library circa 8 p.m. for a short break in the cafeteria where I would get what BU charitably and misleadingly calls dinner.
And, in the cafeteria, dozens of kids were participating in some kind of “Dungeons and Dragons” tournament. At least, I think it was Dungeons and Dragons. I thought nerds stopped playing that years ago in favor of more modern things like Halo and Warcraft.
In any case, I looked at them, rolling twelve-sided dice and advancing their mages, with a mixture of equal parts pity and sadness.
And then I stopped abruptly. Because I realized that they were giving me back the exact same look.
And, you know what? They probably would have given me the same look if I had stumbled in drunk with a little bit of someone else’s puke on my shoe.
There might be a great, cosmic point to all this, but maybe I’m just delirious from teaching myself all day about legislative vetoes and statutory preclusion of judicial review for agency decisions.
In any case, I’m a little grateful for the experience. This damned library suddenly doesn’t look so alien anymore. Even with all the LLMs.
Tonight, however, I actually found one of those things.
I left the library circa 8 p.m. for a short break in the cafeteria where I would get what BU charitably and misleadingly calls dinner.
And, in the cafeteria, dozens of kids were participating in some kind of “Dungeons and Dragons” tournament. At least, I think it was Dungeons and Dragons. I thought nerds stopped playing that years ago in favor of more modern things like Halo and Warcraft.
In any case, I looked at them, rolling twelve-sided dice and advancing their mages, with a mixture of equal parts pity and sadness.
And then I stopped abruptly. Because I realized that they were giving me back the exact same look.
And, you know what? They probably would have given me the same look if I had stumbled in drunk with a little bit of someone else’s puke on my shoe.
There might be a great, cosmic point to all this, but maybe I’m just delirious from teaching myself all day about legislative vetoes and statutory preclusion of judicial review for agency decisions.
In any case, I’m a little grateful for the experience. This damned library suddenly doesn’t look so alien anymore. Even with all the LLMs.
Tod Durch Stromschlag
Those looking to procrastinate by perusing old German pictures of how to electrocute yourself are in luck. My favorite is the one where the baby seems to be enjoying the taste of an electric plug. Although, apparently, you should never milk a cow under a lamp, especially because it will be drawn as something more sinister. Interestingly, they fail to show an instance of Ol' Sparky doing its job.These are not quite the nightmare fuel of Der Struwwelpeter, who had his thumbs cut off with scissors by a guy who looks like an evil Willy Wonka. But, as Cartman said, what the eff is wrong with German people?
N.B.- The title of this post means "Death by Electrocution." As always, the beauty and sing-song quality of the German language is readily apparent.
Pret-ty Pret-ty Pret-ty Good News
I do quite a bit of cardio in the mornings, in order to keep the tires from rolling. Cardio is, however, an exercise in tedium. It is exactly akin to a hamster running on a wheel, going nowhere, just trying to achieve improving results.
One of the ways to fight the tedium is to watch TV. If the TVs in the gym had ESPN or CNN, things would be great. Unfortunately, they only carry the networks and the religious channels. And while the Today show can occasionally be entertaining, they lose me somewhere around the umpteenth mention of yoga and how to get the most nutritional value out of a cantaloupe-and-melon diet.
So I bring DVDs. Right now, I'm working my way through Curb Your Enthusiasm. And it's a terrific show, don't get me wrong. But it has a million scenes like this. And there is ample scienctific evidence that one is at thier most suggestible in the early hours of the morn, right before your brain wakes up.
So, for the rest of the day, my inner Larry David makes more and more frequent appearances. I find myself a victim of circumstance. I pick fights for no reason. I say incredibly offensive things without thinking. I don't know when to stop. Every little thing annoys me. Basically, I turn into a schmuck. I do schmucky things.
I could stop watching the show in the morning. But I'm halfway through it, and my OCD compels me to finish it. I must see it through.
Hope, however, is on the horizon. This summer, Hulu comes to the iPhone.
This might be the best news I've gotten all month. Now I can catch up on Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert in the morning. Granted, I'll become inordinately afraid of bears -- a development which might hinder my work on the Snakes on a Plane sequel, Bears on a Boat -- but at least I'll be entertained.
Plus, this will never happen to me:
One of the ways to fight the tedium is to watch TV. If the TVs in the gym had ESPN or CNN, things would be great. Unfortunately, they only carry the networks and the religious channels. And while the Today show can occasionally be entertaining, they lose me somewhere around the umpteenth mention of yoga and how to get the most nutritional value out of a cantaloupe-and-melon diet.
So I bring DVDs. Right now, I'm working my way through Curb Your Enthusiasm. And it's a terrific show, don't get me wrong. But it has a million scenes like this. And there is ample scienctific evidence that one is at thier most suggestible in the early hours of the morn, right before your brain wakes up.
So, for the rest of the day, my inner Larry David makes more and more frequent appearances. I find myself a victim of circumstance. I pick fights for no reason. I say incredibly offensive things without thinking. I don't know when to stop. Every little thing annoys me. Basically, I turn into a schmuck. I do schmucky things.
I could stop watching the show in the morning. But I'm halfway through it, and my OCD compels me to finish it. I must see it through.
Hope, however, is on the horizon. This summer, Hulu comes to the iPhone.
This might be the best news I've gotten all month. Now I can catch up on Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert in the morning. Granted, I'll become inordinately afraid of bears -- a development which might hinder my work on the Snakes on a Plane sequel, Bears on a Boat -- but at least I'll be entertained.
Plus, this will never happen to me:
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Spread of the Hipsters
Everybody hates hipsters, right? Everyone here who hates hipsters raise their hand.
(Everyone raises their hand. Some raise both hands).
Right.
As goths are to teenagers, hipsters are to 20-somethings. Not in terms of style, of course, but in terms of general toolishness.
In any case, here's a brand new tumblr providing a fascinating insight into the appearance and behavior of the hipsters. Most look like they're going to a costume party, but they're not.
I assume most of these pictures were taken in Williamsburg. Our only hope is to contain them.
(Everyone raises their hand. Some raise both hands).
Right.
As goths are to teenagers, hipsters are to 20-somethings. Not in terms of style, of course, but in terms of general toolishness.
In any case, here's a brand new tumblr providing a fascinating insight into the appearance and behavior of the hipsters. Most look like they're going to a costume party, but they're not.
I assume most of these pictures were taken in Williamsburg. Our only hope is to contain them.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Things a Man Should Know
Yesterday, I was talking with a couple of people about how every man should be able to do certain things, like know how to grill. This includes, of course, knowing how to start a grill, be it of the coal or gas persuasion.
In a stunning coincidence -- and yes, I swear it is a coincidence -- the GQ style guy posted last night on the exact same matter. Some enterprising soul has published a book called What a Man Should Know. It is exactly what it sounds like
While some of his list and my list overlap, I humbly present just a few of the things every man should know:
How to grill.
How to tie a tie. There are three common ways to do this. Yes, three.
How to open a bottle of wine. And champagne.
How to drive a stick.
How to parallel park.
How to jump a car.
How to change a tire.
How to unsnap a bra. This must be done with one hand and without peeking. Bonus point if her shirt is not off yet. Extra bonus points if you do it while both of you are walking down the street.
How to bribe a maitre'd by doing the handshake where you slip them a folded up bill during a quick handshake.
How to sweet-talk a secretary.
How to start a bonfire. And how to put it out without using the drunk annoying guy who keeps trying to get everyone to jump over it.
How to clean and gut a fish. Bonus points for catching the fish with your bare hands.
How to throw a spiral.
How to get the bartender's attention at a crowded bar within two minutes.
How to serve beer from a pitcher without spilling.
How to mix a martini.
How to keep driving in a straight line while getting a [censored]. Must retain ability to use the turn signals and make prudent use of the horn. One involuntary honk is OK.
How to keep it classy and stop before he goes too far.
In a stunning coincidence -- and yes, I swear it is a coincidence -- the GQ style guy posted last night on the exact same matter. Some enterprising soul has published a book called What a Man Should Know. It is exactly what it sounds like
While some of his list and my list overlap, I humbly present just a few of the things every man should know:
How to grill.
How to tie a tie. There are three common ways to do this. Yes, three.
How to open a bottle of wine. And champagne.
How to drive a stick.
How to parallel park.
How to jump a car.
How to change a tire.
How to unsnap a bra. This must be done with one hand and without peeking. Bonus point if her shirt is not off yet. Extra bonus points if you do it while both of you are walking down the street.
How to bribe a maitre'd by doing the handshake where you slip them a folded up bill during a quick handshake.
How to sweet-talk a secretary.
How to start a bonfire. And how to put it out without using the drunk annoying guy who keeps trying to get everyone to jump over it.
How to clean and gut a fish. Bonus points for catching the fish with your bare hands.
How to throw a spiral.
How to get the bartender's attention at a crowded bar within two minutes.
How to serve beer from a pitcher without spilling.
How to mix a martini.
How to keep driving in a straight line while getting a [censored]. Must retain ability to use the turn signals and make prudent use of the horn. One involuntary honk is OK.
How to keep it classy and stop before he goes too far.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Scarves on my Pillow
You have to forgive me. I'm a little slow.
I know this is old news, but remember Sandy Weill and how the jet he was flying on was so incredibly ostentatious, it had pillows made from Hermes scarves?
Does that strike anyone else as weird? Why would you ever make a pillow from a scarf? Why not just make a pillow? Here, they're making a scarf -- probably several scarves, actually -- and then making a pillow out of said scarves?
It just strikes me as an unnecessary extra step.
Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to make some banana bread, which I will then grind up and use for banana pudding.
I know this is old news, but remember Sandy Weill and how the jet he was flying on was so incredibly ostentatious, it had pillows made from Hermes scarves?
Does that strike anyone else as weird? Why would you ever make a pillow from a scarf? Why not just make a pillow? Here, they're making a scarf -- probably several scarves, actually -- and then making a pillow out of said scarves?
It just strikes me as an unnecessary extra step.
Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to make some banana bread, which I will then grind up and use for banana pudding.
The Sandlot: Neighborhood Gang Terrorizes Blind Man's Dog
I ran across this brilliant and hilarious post, titled, "Uncomfortable Plot Summaries." It's exactly what it sounds like. The Titanic one is especially apt. A sampling:
Batman: Wealthy man assaults the mentally ill.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Deranged pedophile big-business industrialist tortures and mutilates young children.
Ghostbusters: Unemployed college professors destroy hotel with nuclear weapons.
The Nightmare Before Christmas: Dangerous insurgent invades neighboring country.
The Passion of the Christ: Mel Gibson fulfills fantasy of showing a Jew beaten to a bloody pulp and killed on-screen.
And, if I may add my own two cents:
Calvin and Hobbes: Paranoid schizophrenic child experiences vivid and dangerous hallucinations.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas: Depressed monster projects own depression on clinically oblivious town by breaking and entering into their homes with the purpose of committing grand larceny and animal abuse.
Batman: Wealthy man assaults the mentally ill.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Deranged pedophile big-business industrialist tortures and mutilates young children.
Ghostbusters: Unemployed college professors destroy hotel with nuclear weapons.
The Nightmare Before Christmas: Dangerous insurgent invades neighboring country.
The Passion of the Christ: Mel Gibson fulfills fantasy of showing a Jew beaten to a bloody pulp and killed on-screen.
And, if I may add my own two cents:
Calvin and Hobbes: Paranoid schizophrenic child experiences vivid and dangerous hallucinations.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas: Depressed monster projects own depression on clinically oblivious town by breaking and entering into their homes with the purpose of committing grand larceny and animal abuse.
The Mushrooms are Turning on Me!
In what is nothing less than a catastrophic loss for the Cornell community, scientists at the University's labs have agreed to return 1,700 species of mushrooms to China, "including 57 considered irreplaceable."The article gives a nice cover story about how we're returning the mushrooms as a gesture of goodwill and how the guy who gave those mushrooms to Cornell did so because he was afraid that they would be destroyed during World War II and then he was prosecuted during the Cultural Revolution in China and a lot of other stuff that is awesome and tragic and kind of a rah-rah banner of academia in some incredibly random way.
But if you ask me, we're just returning the mushrooms because they are dangerous, dangerous things.
Just look at the guys in charge of the 'shroom department at Cornell. Like Tony Montana, they've clearly been dabbling in the merchandise. And they want you to try some!
Go ahead, join us down the rabbit hole. Do it and let's go watch some Cirque du Soleil.
(Tries to eat own fist).
This is too many chairs for one room.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Firebird Shed
What upsets me about an article in the paper today is that The Sun missed the mother of all opportunities to use the lede: “The roof. The roof. The roof is on fire!”
Well, not the roof. The shed. But there was a fire. In the shed.
Also buried in this article are the very unsubtle implications that there is a war at Cornell wherein the fraternities try to set each other on fire via the ritualistic burning of the sheds.
Please refrain from making the usual fraternities = tool sheds comments.
Well, not the roof. The shed. But there was a fire. In the shed.
Also buried in this article are the very unsubtle implications that there is a war at Cornell wherein the fraternities try to set each other on fire via the ritualistic burning of the sheds.
Please refrain from making the usual fraternities = tool sheds comments.
Let the Good Time Roll
You know how at the end of the night, there’s always some asshole who orders that extra pitcher that’s a really bad idea and nobody needs anymore? And you have to drink it, since it can’t go to waste. But you can barely drink anymore, so the going is slower than a glacier, and you just kind of sit there, not talking, staring at the beer that doesn’t seem to dwindle like it’s your own worst enemy?
We have three hours of admin today, two hours of admin on Wednesday, and another hour – just ‘cause you can never have enough of a good thing – on Friday.
There’s a connection between the last two paragraphs, but I’m so chock-full of admin right now I can’t figure it out.
Avenge me.
We have three hours of admin today, two hours of admin on Wednesday, and another hour – just ‘cause you can never have enough of a good thing – on Friday.
There’s a connection between the last two paragraphs, but I’m so chock-full of admin right now I can’t figure it out.
Avenge me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Paying the Piper
There are three main ways to become an American citizen, each one worse than the next: a job, the army, a wife.
And you have to keep at these for a certain number of years in order to be able to apply. In other words, you have to spend five years working, two years shooting people, or three years "happily" married before you can apply.
I've been here in the Northern latitudes for almost six years now. But, because I am here on a student visa, no clocks have started to run. Despite being here for that long legally, including about 116 of the last 120 weeks, it's like I haven't even been here for immigration purposes. All this time counts for nothing, really.
Except I just finished doing my taxes.
And I just learned that, in the United States, tax status is completely independent of immigration status.
As I was filing my taxes, I realized that I no longer qualified for non-resident status. Because I have been in the United States for more than five "tax years," I am now a resident of the United States for tax purposes only.
Which means that I now have to pay for stuff like Medicare and Social Security, even though, assuming I was old enough to use it, I would have no claim because of my immigration status.
So if I'm talking to the INS, I am just here to study and must return immediately to my country of origin as soon as I get my diploma.
But if I'm talking to the IRS, I am supposed to do my civic duty and pay for something that I would not be able to get.
In other words, it's as if America was this really cool club that will let you drink for free from 1 to 2 a.m. if you pay a cover charge. But, because I'm arriving between 11 and midnight, I have to pay that cover charge anyway to the really big and scary bouncer. And when I go to the bar, they tell me I can't drink for free because I don't have the bracelet everyone else has.
"But I paid for it," I say.
"Sorry."
"Can I at least get a drink? I'll pay you right now for a drink."
"Nope. Sorry. In fact," they glance at their watch, "You need to leave now."
"But I don't want to leave. Look. My friends are right there. Nobody really wants me to leave. Plus, I'm pretty fun at a party. I can contribute a lot to this party."
"Rules are rules." They say as they politely but firmly escort me out. "Tell you what, though. If you want, you can look through the window. You can't stay, but you can look through the window at everybody having fun inside."
"And if I try to come in anyway?"
"We're allowed to shoot you."
OK then.
Update: Thanks to Weitz for forwarding this NYT article, which details the experience of a guy who wants to stay and would be useful to the American economy but can't.
Also, please don't burst our (enormous) bubble.
And you have to keep at these for a certain number of years in order to be able to apply. In other words, you have to spend five years working, two years shooting people, or three years "happily" married before you can apply.
I've been here in the Northern latitudes for almost six years now. But, because I am here on a student visa, no clocks have started to run. Despite being here for that long legally, including about 116 of the last 120 weeks, it's like I haven't even been here for immigration purposes. All this time counts for nothing, really.
Except I just finished doing my taxes.
And I just learned that, in the United States, tax status is completely independent of immigration status.
As I was filing my taxes, I realized that I no longer qualified for non-resident status. Because I have been in the United States for more than five "tax years," I am now a resident of the United States for tax purposes only.
Which means that I now have to pay for stuff like Medicare and Social Security, even though, assuming I was old enough to use it, I would have no claim because of my immigration status.
So if I'm talking to the INS, I am just here to study and must return immediately to my country of origin as soon as I get my diploma.
But if I'm talking to the IRS, I am supposed to do my civic duty and pay for something that I would not be able to get.
In other words, it's as if America was this really cool club that will let you drink for free from 1 to 2 a.m. if you pay a cover charge. But, because I'm arriving between 11 and midnight, I have to pay that cover charge anyway to the really big and scary bouncer. And when I go to the bar, they tell me I can't drink for free because I don't have the bracelet everyone else has.
"But I paid for it," I say.
"Sorry."
"Can I at least get a drink? I'll pay you right now for a drink."
"Nope. Sorry. In fact," they glance at their watch, "You need to leave now."
"But I don't want to leave. Look. My friends are right there. Nobody really wants me to leave. Plus, I'm pretty fun at a party. I can contribute a lot to this party."
"Rules are rules." They say as they politely but firmly escort me out. "Tell you what, though. If you want, you can look through the window. You can't stay, but you can look through the window at everybody having fun inside."
"And if I try to come in anyway?"
"We're allowed to shoot you."
OK then.
Update: Thanks to Weitz for forwarding this NYT article, which details the experience of a guy who wants to stay and would be useful to the American economy but can't.
Also, please don't burst our (enormous) bubble.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
To Beard or Not To Beard
It is with deep regret and sadness that I inform the readership of this weblog that, this semester, I will not be growing a finals beard.
(Collective gasp)
I know, I know. I am as disappointed as you are. I am blessed with the ability to grow hair on my face, and this is a privilege I do not take lightly. I am fully aware that choosing not to exercise it seems like the waste of a God-given gift. And it is.
However, this is a necessary evil. In this economy, we are all asked to make sacrifices. Because I do not yet have a job and will probably spend the foreseeable future begging for one, I must sacrifice the finals beard.
Simply put, I do not need to give people another reason for not hiring me. What to me looks awesome to others looks like a lost hiker. What to me signifies manliness to others signifies destitution and dereliction. What to me separates the men from the boys to others separates the homeful from the homeless.
Alas.
(Single tear).
There is yet one final measure of hope. The minute I become gainfully employed, I will immediately cast aside my razor and commence to not shave. I hereby pledge to grow a beard so luxurious and full, God himself will grow to envy it. I will let the hairs on my face ripen until they become a great, big, hairy flower of awesome.
With hope, courage, and no small amount of prayer, we can all get through these difficult times together. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless America.
(Collective gasp)
I know, I know. I am as disappointed as you are. I am blessed with the ability to grow hair on my face, and this is a privilege I do not take lightly. I am fully aware that choosing not to exercise it seems like the waste of a God-given gift. And it is.
However, this is a necessary evil. In this economy, we are all asked to make sacrifices. Because I do not yet have a job and will probably spend the foreseeable future begging for one, I must sacrifice the finals beard.
Simply put, I do not need to give people another reason for not hiring me. What to me looks awesome to others looks like a lost hiker. What to me signifies manliness to others signifies destitution and dereliction. What to me separates the men from the boys to others separates the homeful from the homeless.
Alas.
(Single tear).
There is yet one final measure of hope. The minute I become gainfully employed, I will immediately cast aside my razor and commence to not shave. I hereby pledge to grow a beard so luxurious and full, God himself will grow to envy it. I will let the hairs on my face ripen until they become a great, big, hairy flower of awesome.
With hope, courage, and no small amount of prayer, we can all get through these difficult times together. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless America.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Let My People Go Get Some Cake
I want to wish all of my tribal friends out there a happy and delicious Passover.
Remember when we used to work at the paper? And half the staff would go out to Shortstop and get these artery-clogging, ginormous, delicious and nutritious pulled pork sandwiches? And the other half would watch as we came back and we tore into them, and pull those little matzoh cracker thingies out of the box? And they would nibble at them and have the exact same expression that Cheney had at Obama's inauguration? Fun times.
I honestly don't know how you guys do it. I feel terrible for people like Cooper, who had the misfortune of being born during the Passover period.
Even Saddam Hussein had it better. I can think of no worse fate than not being able to have cake on your birthday. Seriously. When I'm doing my Pat Robertson thing and am trying to "fix" the Jews, I use the "no matzoh cake on your birthday" line, and it works better than "Jesus loves you, yes he do." Probably because it's grammatically correct, but I'll take it.
And no, matzoh cake is not the same. How would you like to have tofurkey for Thanksgiving?
Exactly.
Remember when we used to work at the paper? And half the staff would go out to Shortstop and get these artery-clogging, ginormous, delicious and nutritious pulled pork sandwiches? And the other half would watch as we came back and we tore into them, and pull those little matzoh cracker thingies out of the box? And they would nibble at them and have the exact same expression that Cheney had at Obama's inauguration? Fun times.
I honestly don't know how you guys do it. I feel terrible for people like Cooper, who had the misfortune of being born during the Passover period.
Even Saddam Hussein had it better. I can think of no worse fate than not being able to have cake on your birthday. Seriously. When I'm doing my Pat Robertson thing and am trying to "fix" the Jews, I use the "no matzoh cake on your birthday" line, and it works better than "Jesus loves you, yes he do." Probably because it's grammatically correct, but I'll take it.
And no, matzoh cake is not the same. How would you like to have tofurkey for Thanksgiving?
Exactly.
The Best Hotels in Vegas
No matter where I am, be it Ithaca or Boston, I’m usually the resident expert on Mexico. I chalk this up to the rules of default.
Recently, however, I’ve also been sought out as a guru for all things Vegas. I’d like to think that this is also by default, but it probably speaks to larger issues. In any case, it’s nice to be versatile.
Now, because not one but two people have asked me for hotel recommendations in Vegas, comes this incredibly lengthy post. I’ve stayed at nine different hotels in Vegas and have loitered and/or gambled at almost every other hotel. I could draw you a map of the Strip just from memory. So I know a little bit about what I’m taking about, for once.
So here they are. My top 5 hotels in Vegas for a student or recent-student in his mid-20s, with a budget that is limited but not on the cheap, who is a recreational gambler and avid drinker, looking to sleep as little as possible.
1. Caesar’s Palace. Simply the best. Location-wise, it’s right in the middle of the Strip. Yes, it’s grand and opulent but manages to avoid being crass and loud. A bit gimmicky but, as far as themes go, Roman emperor is better than say, pirates or the circus. Not the cheapest hotel on the Strip, but quite reasonable, especially because it’s kind of classy and the rooms are great. Great pool. Great bars. HUGE casino floor, although the waitresses are in the bottom tier. There’s a little section of blackjack tables manned by Pussycat Dolls, which can be good or bad, depending on your disposition towards distractions whilst gambling. Pete Rose works at the amazing Forum Shops. It's rumored to be Vince Vaughn’s favorite casino, and that's good enough for me.
2. Monte Carlo. A dark-horse at runner-up but hear me out. Extremely cheap – In this economy, a room can be had for under a hundred bucks a night on the weekend. You can fit three people in those rooms. So, if you subscribe to the idea that a hotel room in Vegas is only the place where you pass out for a couple of hours every morning, the Monte Carlo is a great place to store your bags. It also features a great location. Downside is there’s not much to do in there. As far as bars and restaurants inside it go, it’s a zero. Casino floor is moderate, although it gets bonus points for always having low-end tables where you can happily while the hours away. Also gets props for angering an entire nation by usurping the www.montecarlo.com web domain.
3. Mandalay Bay. It’s only downside is the location. Located at the Southern tip of the Strip, it is the shortest ride from the airport, but also the longest ride to anywhere else, requiring a cab ride for anything south of the Bellagio. On the other hand, it’s very reasonably priced and the rooms are gorgeous and huge, particularly at THEHotel next door. Their pool is the best in Vegas. Their European (topless for the literals among us) pool is one of two in Vegas. Plus gambling facilities, and a great sports book. While the bar scene is a little lacking, their restaurants are awesome. They have Aureole, which has the four-story wine tower, where you can watch “wine angels” (scantily clad women on zip lines) swarm up and down retrieving your Riesling. They have local Boston boy Todd English’s terrific steakhouse, which also has the hottest hostess I have ever seen. And the world’s best and first frozen bar. Google it.
4. Bellagio. You get to pretend you’re in Ocean’s 11, and it shows. The place is swarming with cougars and they'll settle for someone who is pretending to be either George Clooney or Brad Pitt. The Bellagio has some of the best bars on the Strip, mostly as an offshoot of people wandering there after quickly getting tired of its trendy clubs and Gestapo-trained bouncers. The casino is terrific, and cheap tables can be found. Terrific restaurants, although they trend quite a bit up-scale. Rooms are enormous and gorgeous. Which brings us to the huge drawback. Quite expensive. But the fountain show up front might be worth the expense.
5. Wynn. The nicest, classiest hotel on the Strip. Also the most expensive. The mitigating factor is, in this economy, it’s getting better. Two years ago the cheapest table was $50. Two months ago? $10. Great casino floor, without the oppressive sounds that characterize most casinos. Gorgeous waitresses. Terrific restaurants and awesome (but hard to get into) clubs. On site luxury car (Porsche, Rolls Royce) dealerships, which are nice to look at, like strippers. European pool with outdoor blackjack (!). Never seen a room, but first-hand accounts are fawning in a way that is almost embarrassing. Best hotel on the strip IF money is no obstacle.
Notable omissions include the Hard Rock and the Palms, both of which have a great scene and are terrific for young people, but are also located off-strip, requiring you to wait in toxic taxi lines for literally dozens of minutes, pay twenty dollars every time you want to go somewhere, and be exposed to the constant strip club promotion of every cabbie in the city. Planet Hollywood also makes the omission list, because it’s brand new, it’s far too early to tell. And the Venetian, which just missed the cut.
And, as a bonus, the please-God-let’s-never-stay-there-again hotels. I asked my buddy who works in Vegas which one of these was the worst casino. And he had to think about it for a while.
Ladies and gentlemen, the worst hotels in Vegas!
1. Circus Circus. So far away, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s really difficult to gamble when you have trapeze artists whizzing over your head. Charges 10 bucks a room (not really, but close) and can’t give them away. Has clowns.
2. Excalibur. In theory, medieval times could be an acceptable casino gimmick (see abundance of wenches). In practice, they did it wrong. Oh so wrong. They made it look like the magic kingdom. Cheap. Waaaay too cheap. No bars, clubs, or restaurants that stand out in any way. Populated by families and people who know how to play Dungeons & Dragons. Would not be caught dead there.
So there you have it. The longest post in the history of posts. But it is, I believe, a valuable public service. Vegas, baby! Vegas!
Recently, however, I’ve also been sought out as a guru for all things Vegas. I’d like to think that this is also by default, but it probably speaks to larger issues. In any case, it’s nice to be versatile.
Now, because not one but two people have asked me for hotel recommendations in Vegas, comes this incredibly lengthy post. I’ve stayed at nine different hotels in Vegas and have loitered and/or gambled at almost every other hotel. I could draw you a map of the Strip just from memory. So I know a little bit about what I’m taking about, for once.
So here they are. My top 5 hotels in Vegas for a student or recent-student in his mid-20s, with a budget that is limited but not on the cheap, who is a recreational gambler and avid drinker, looking to sleep as little as possible.
1. Caesar’s Palace. Simply the best. Location-wise, it’s right in the middle of the Strip. Yes, it’s grand and opulent but manages to avoid being crass and loud. A bit gimmicky but, as far as themes go, Roman emperor is better than say, pirates or the circus. Not the cheapest hotel on the Strip, but quite reasonable, especially because it’s kind of classy and the rooms are great. Great pool. Great bars. HUGE casino floor, although the waitresses are in the bottom tier. There’s a little section of blackjack tables manned by Pussycat Dolls, which can be good or bad, depending on your disposition towards distractions whilst gambling. Pete Rose works at the amazing Forum Shops. It's rumored to be Vince Vaughn’s favorite casino, and that's good enough for me.
2. Monte Carlo. A dark-horse at runner-up but hear me out. Extremely cheap – In this economy, a room can be had for under a hundred bucks a night on the weekend. You can fit three people in those rooms. So, if you subscribe to the idea that a hotel room in Vegas is only the place where you pass out for a couple of hours every morning, the Monte Carlo is a great place to store your bags. It also features a great location. Downside is there’s not much to do in there. As far as bars and restaurants inside it go, it’s a zero. Casino floor is moderate, although it gets bonus points for always having low-end tables where you can happily while the hours away. Also gets props for angering an entire nation by usurping the www.montecarlo.com web domain.
3. Mandalay Bay. It’s only downside is the location. Located at the Southern tip of the Strip, it is the shortest ride from the airport, but also the longest ride to anywhere else, requiring a cab ride for anything south of the Bellagio. On the other hand, it’s very reasonably priced and the rooms are gorgeous and huge, particularly at THEHotel next door. Their pool is the best in Vegas. Their European (topless for the literals among us) pool is one of two in Vegas. Plus gambling facilities, and a great sports book. While the bar scene is a little lacking, their restaurants are awesome. They have Aureole, which has the four-story wine tower, where you can watch “wine angels” (scantily clad women on zip lines) swarm up and down retrieving your Riesling. They have local Boston boy Todd English’s terrific steakhouse, which also has the hottest hostess I have ever seen. And the world’s best and first frozen bar. Google it.
4. Bellagio. You get to pretend you’re in Ocean’s 11, and it shows. The place is swarming with cougars and they'll settle for someone who is pretending to be either George Clooney or Brad Pitt. The Bellagio has some of the best bars on the Strip, mostly as an offshoot of people wandering there after quickly getting tired of its trendy clubs and Gestapo-trained bouncers. The casino is terrific, and cheap tables can be found. Terrific restaurants, although they trend quite a bit up-scale. Rooms are enormous and gorgeous. Which brings us to the huge drawback. Quite expensive. But the fountain show up front might be worth the expense.
5. Wynn. The nicest, classiest hotel on the Strip. Also the most expensive. The mitigating factor is, in this economy, it’s getting better. Two years ago the cheapest table was $50. Two months ago? $10. Great casino floor, without the oppressive sounds that characterize most casinos. Gorgeous waitresses. Terrific restaurants and awesome (but hard to get into) clubs. On site luxury car (Porsche, Rolls Royce) dealerships, which are nice to look at, like strippers. European pool with outdoor blackjack (!). Never seen a room, but first-hand accounts are fawning in a way that is almost embarrassing. Best hotel on the strip IF money is no obstacle.
Notable omissions include the Hard Rock and the Palms, both of which have a great scene and are terrific for young people, but are also located off-strip, requiring you to wait in toxic taxi lines for literally dozens of minutes, pay twenty dollars every time you want to go somewhere, and be exposed to the constant strip club promotion of every cabbie in the city. Planet Hollywood also makes the omission list, because it’s brand new, it’s far too early to tell. And the Venetian, which just missed the cut.
And, as a bonus, the please-God-let’s-never-stay-there-again hotels. I asked my buddy who works in Vegas which one of these was the worst casino. And he had to think about it for a while.
Ladies and gentlemen, the worst hotels in Vegas!
1. Circus Circus. So far away, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s really difficult to gamble when you have trapeze artists whizzing over your head. Charges 10 bucks a room (not really, but close) and can’t give them away. Has clowns.
2. Excalibur. In theory, medieval times could be an acceptable casino gimmick (see abundance of wenches). In practice, they did it wrong. Oh so wrong. They made it look like the magic kingdom. Cheap. Waaaay too cheap. No bars, clubs, or restaurants that stand out in any way. Populated by families and people who know how to play Dungeons & Dragons. Would not be caught dead there.
So there you have it. The longest post in the history of posts. But it is, I believe, a valuable public service. Vegas, baby! Vegas!
You're Running Towards the Twister!
Despite the fact that the mainstream media is dying, applications to Journalism schools are way, way, waay up.
Sadly, this might be the only case in recorded history where the rats are fleeing to a sinking ship.
Sadly, this might be the only case in recorded history where the rats are fleeing to a sinking ship.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Mr. President, Bring Up These Walls!
Has anyone noticed that the bathroom stalls at the law tower have very short walls? Short enough you can look over them?
This is a problem because, when someone of a similar height comes in, you usually have to acknowledge them. Especially if there's eye contact.
I wish you didn't need to, though. Maybe it's just me, but no man should have to say hello to another person while his pants are bunched up around his ankles.
This is a problem because, when someone of a similar height comes in, you usually have to acknowledge them. Especially if there's eye contact.
I wish you didn't need to, though. Maybe it's just me, but no man should have to say hello to another person while his pants are bunched up around his ankles.
The Worst Thing to Come Out of Cornell
On behalf of Cornell nation, I'd like to apologize to the nation.
It is with great shame and sadness that I acknowledge the fact that, although he dropped out, the creator of Twitter went to Cornell.
I learned this grievous fact this morning and have been wandering around in shock. I imagine this is how Princeton feels, since it housed the creator of the Atomic Bomb, a device which, like Twitter, will ultimately destroy us all. Except of course, they have the mitigating factor of that guy also being the smartest guy in the world. Ever.
I say this without a trace of hyperbole: This must be how it is when a German schoolboy learns that Hitler was from there.
I am beyond devastated. If there are any reparations we Cornell alums can provide, do not hesitate to inform me.
I will now retreat to my bed, where I will alternate between weeping and staring at the ceiling.
Good grief.
It is with great shame and sadness that I acknowledge the fact that, although he dropped out, the creator of Twitter went to Cornell.
I learned this grievous fact this morning and have been wandering around in shock. I imagine this is how Princeton feels, since it housed the creator of the Atomic Bomb, a device which, like Twitter, will ultimately destroy us all. Except of course, they have the mitigating factor of that guy also being the smartest guy in the world. Ever.
I say this without a trace of hyperbole: This must be how it is when a German schoolboy learns that Hitler was from there.
I am beyond devastated. If there are any reparations we Cornell alums can provide, do not hesitate to inform me.
I will now retreat to my bed, where I will alternate between weeping and staring at the ceiling.
Good grief.
The Jungle Juice Book
This is the rather pointless but perhaps amusing story of a guy who is trying way too hard. There's no real point to it other than to record my observations of some rando. That's it.
So I'm at a bar (Grendel's Den) in Harvard Square on Friday night, around 10:30 or so, and it's pretty crowded. Nowhere to sit at the tables, nowhere to sit at the bar.
Because it's crowded like a Jonas Brothers concert, and almost as rowdy, I chug half my beer so I don't spill any on myself, while eying the surroundings looking to see if maybe somebody will be nice enough to leave.
And there, sitting alone at a four-top, is a guy in full-on Harvard nerd/douchebag uniform: the argyle sweater, the "trendy" glasses, the skinny distressed jeans that cost more than a new iPod.
And what's this guy doing at a bar at 10:30 on a Friday night?
He's reading a book.
And not just any book. This is some huge could-be-a-blunt-instrument kind of book. This is a book three inches thick. This is a Look-at-me-and-how-smart-I-am-book. This is a book that's not just a book, no. This book is a statement.
I'd love to know the guy's -- let's call him Sheldon, because that's probably his name -- thought process:
And of course such a creature does not exist. And then, an hour and maybe three pages later, when he finally senses enough glares, Sheldon quietly finishes the only beer he ordered, makes a face, closes the book without bothering to mark his place, and walks from the table so quickly, you kind of want to stop him to tell him that the T still runs for another hour so no rush.
But you don't, because, if you stop him, you might punch him. In the mouth.
Don't look at me like that. Who brings a book to a bar, of all places, on a Friday night? It's not quite trying to write a paper while attending a rave, but it's close.
OK. I'll stop making fun of the nerd now.
And you know what? Give the guy a little credit.
At least it wasn't a casebook.
So I'm at a bar (Grendel's Den) in Harvard Square on Friday night, around 10:30 or so, and it's pretty crowded. Nowhere to sit at the tables, nowhere to sit at the bar.
Because it's crowded like a Jonas Brothers concert, and almost as rowdy, I chug half my beer so I don't spill any on myself, while eying the surroundings looking to see if maybe somebody will be nice enough to leave.
And there, sitting alone at a four-top, is a guy in full-on Harvard nerd/douchebag uniform: the argyle sweater, the "trendy" glasses, the skinny distressed jeans that cost more than a new iPod.
And what's this guy doing at a bar at 10:30 on a Friday night?
He's reading a book.
And not just any book. This is some huge could-be-a-blunt-instrument kind of book. This is a book three inches thick. This is a Look-at-me-and-how-smart-I-am-book. This is a book that's not just a book, no. This book is a statement.
I'd love to know the guy's -- let's call him Sheldon, because that's probably his name -- thought process:
Hmm. What to do tonight? Let's see. Which outfit goes with these glasses? Probably this one. Nice, I look like a castmember from Rent.And I'm looking at Sheldon, the smug bastard, who keeps darting his eyes at the crowd, no doubt waiting for the girl who will finally understand him to materialize.
So which book should I choose? Infinite Jest? Nah, too trendy right now. The Brothers Karamazov? Too foreign. The Annotated Canterbury Tales? Bingo.
Now I'm going to go to a crowded bar and find a table. I'll nurse my wheat beer, and I'll pretend to be really serious about reading this book. But I have to make sure it looks like I'm reading for pleasure. Because, although I've been a graduate student for twelve years and am getting yet another doctorate in a language that is not dying but already dead, I don't do homework. In public.
And I'll sit at a table, crossing my leg at the knee, and I'll push out the chair in front of me just a little bit, just so, in fact, so that maybe some lonely girl will notice me reading here, an oasis of calm and intellect amidst the rolling seas of obnoxious frat boys and vapid girls with low self esteem.
And she'll ask me to save her. Not in those words but in the look in her eyes.
Although I hope nobody notices that I'm really hating this beer. Why can't more places serve Chardonnay?
And of course such a creature does not exist. And then, an hour and maybe three pages later, when he finally senses enough glares, Sheldon quietly finishes the only beer he ordered, makes a face, closes the book without bothering to mark his place, and walks from the table so quickly, you kind of want to stop him to tell him that the T still runs for another hour so no rush.
But you don't, because, if you stop him, you might punch him. In the mouth.
Don't look at me like that. Who brings a book to a bar, of all places, on a Friday night? It's not quite trying to write a paper while attending a rave, but it's close.
OK. I'll stop making fun of the nerd now.
And you know what? Give the guy a little credit.
At least it wasn't a casebook.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Sign of the Times
First we lost Dr. Evil’s secret underground lair. Now, we lose the only cool landmark Collegetown had going for it (The CTB patio and that gate thing behind Cascadilla don’t really count). Johnny’s Big Red Grill sign is gone. So Collegetown is now bereft of icons. Sadly, I don’t think the Palms sign counts.
Cornell’s really falling apart. I mean, if the sign was that unstable, then maybe it was worth it taking it down before it fell on a kid. On the other hand, it was a really cool sign, and it really depends on the kid.
I’d gladly trade a member of the S.A. for the chance that the sign won’t fall. I think everybody would.
Note the Price
A couple of professors were kind enough to write recommendation letters for me, so courtesy and common sense stipulate that I should write them a thank-you note, correct?
Because I don't feel like going to the CVS to find out if they even have small greeting cards, I figure, oooh, maybe I'll check out the Cornell store.
So I do, and I find a pack of greeting cards. It's $10 a pack and, for that price, I figure maybe I get 20, 24 cards, right?
I should have read more carefully.
I get the packet two days later and inside it are six cards. Six. For ten bucks. Plus shipping and handling.
To paraphrase Troy McLure, "this is the biggest rip-off since The Neverending Story hit theaters."
Because I don't feel like going to the CVS to find out if they even have small greeting cards, I figure, oooh, maybe I'll check out the Cornell store.
So I do, and I find a pack of greeting cards. It's $10 a pack and, for that price, I figure maybe I get 20, 24 cards, right?
I should have read more carefully.
I get the packet two days later and inside it are six cards. Six. For ten bucks. Plus shipping and handling.
To paraphrase Troy McLure, "this is the biggest rip-off since The Neverending Story hit theaters."
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Play Ball
It's the most wonderful time of the year.
Baseball's back, the trees are coming back from the dead, summer ale is back in stores, and, once the forthcoming month of LOCKDOWN is over, things will be coming up aces again.
Opening Day is tonight!
This year, just like last, the Braves are once again playing Opening Night, and I get to watch baseball that counts again.
Even the unholy trinity of Miller, Morgan and Steve Phillips as commentators won't ruin this for me. I'm amazed that we are able to "walk through" city renderings on our iPhones, yet we can't figure out a way to sync up the radio feeds with the TV signal so we can enjoy the hometown crew instead of Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest.
But I'm pumped. The Braves had what I like to call the high-school-drama offseason. This analogy involves casting players as hot girls in high school, so forgive me for that. But if you can get over that conceit (and the length of the post), this works -- trust me.
In the beginning, we looked like a sure bet to land the hottest girl in school -- Jake Peavy. She was dissatisfied with her current guy, an underachieving poor bastard living in the enormous eclipse-like shadow of Tony Gwynn. The recession had hit them especially hard, and now Peavy was looking for a better suitor.
And we almost had them. We offered a fairly attractive girl and a boatload of girls with potential. They, however, wanted Tommy Hanson -- who might only be in middle school but is already wearing terrific sweaters and we just know she's going to make Peavy look like a bad Cancun spring break some day. Can't do. So this fell apart.
Then we went for the moody one -- AJ Burnett -- who can be spectacular when she's not refusing to go out because of some issue or another. She, however, chose to join the harem of the asshole in the pinstripe suit who promises equal parts riches and unhappiness. So no go.
And then the unkindest cut of all. Smoltz, the dependable, blazing hot stalwart of years past, felt disregarded enough to bolt and hook up with the Red Sox, who now are what the asshole in pinstripes tries to be. So yeah, it makes sense. Go with the one who is probably going to be homecoming king for that final shot at glory.
But it still hurt. So we went to the bar and got really drunk and started making eyes at this one -- Derek Lowe -- who is a little plain yet can look really good in certain light, especially when you're ten whiskeys deep and are wondering if it's worth it to even keep trying. But then we woke up in Reno, and were hungover, committed, and broke. For better or worse.
So that's the story of the Braves rotation this offseason, if the Braves were a polygamous southern gentleman and the free agent pitchers were girls vying for a date to prom. The Braves also picked up Javier "Big Inning" Vazquez and Kenshin "Poor Man's Dice-K" Kawakami.
Not the prettiest rotation, but now we have depth. Tommy Hanson, of the 96 mph darting fastball, 12-6 curve and devastating diagonal 86 mph slider, is waiting for the first injury. The bullpen is a beast. Francouer cannot possibly be worse than last year, and the lineup, though lacking a clean-up hitter, has eight guys who can hit at least 15 home runs and bat .270, so we might be able to dink and dunk enough runs to support the best pitching staff in the National League. And the Jordan Schafer era begins today and it's going to be a good one.
So yes, I'm optimistic. The Mets are woefully thin in pitching depth. The Phillies can't afford to lose any of their stars to injury-- not Hamels, not Myers, Utley, or the fatter, older Prince Fielder clone in first. So with a little luck, the Braves might have a shot at the division title.
Time again for choppers to Chipper. Baseball's back.
Baseball's back, the trees are coming back from the dead, summer ale is back in stores, and, once the forthcoming month of LOCKDOWN is over, things will be coming up aces again.
Opening Day is tonight!
This year, just like last, the Braves are once again playing Opening Night, and I get to watch baseball that counts again.
Even the unholy trinity of Miller, Morgan and Steve Phillips as commentators won't ruin this for me. I'm amazed that we are able to "walk through" city renderings on our iPhones, yet we can't figure out a way to sync up the radio feeds with the TV signal so we can enjoy the hometown crew instead of Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest.
But I'm pumped. The Braves had what I like to call the high-school-drama offseason. This analogy involves casting players as hot girls in high school, so forgive me for that. But if you can get over that conceit (and the length of the post), this works -- trust me.
In the beginning, we looked like a sure bet to land the hottest girl in school -- Jake Peavy. She was dissatisfied with her current guy, an underachieving poor bastard living in the enormous eclipse-like shadow of Tony Gwynn. The recession had hit them especially hard, and now Peavy was looking for a better suitor.
And we almost had them. We offered a fairly attractive girl and a boatload of girls with potential. They, however, wanted Tommy Hanson -- who might only be in middle school but is already wearing terrific sweaters and we just know she's going to make Peavy look like a bad Cancun spring break some day. Can't do. So this fell apart.
Then we went for the moody one -- AJ Burnett -- who can be spectacular when she's not refusing to go out because of some issue or another. She, however, chose to join the harem of the asshole in the pinstripe suit who promises equal parts riches and unhappiness. So no go.
And then the unkindest cut of all. Smoltz, the dependable, blazing hot stalwart of years past, felt disregarded enough to bolt and hook up with the Red Sox, who now are what the asshole in pinstripes tries to be. So yeah, it makes sense. Go with the one who is probably going to be homecoming king for that final shot at glory.
But it still hurt. So we went to the bar and got really drunk and started making eyes at this one -- Derek Lowe -- who is a little plain yet can look really good in certain light, especially when you're ten whiskeys deep and are wondering if it's worth it to even keep trying. But then we woke up in Reno, and were hungover, committed, and broke. For better or worse.
So that's the story of the Braves rotation this offseason, if the Braves were a polygamous southern gentleman and the free agent pitchers were girls vying for a date to prom. The Braves also picked up Javier "Big Inning" Vazquez and Kenshin "Poor Man's Dice-K" Kawakami.
Not the prettiest rotation, but now we have depth. Tommy Hanson, of the 96 mph darting fastball, 12-6 curve and devastating diagonal 86 mph slider, is waiting for the first injury. The bullpen is a beast. Francouer cannot possibly be worse than last year, and the lineup, though lacking a clean-up hitter, has eight guys who can hit at least 15 home runs and bat .270, so we might be able to dink and dunk enough runs to support the best pitching staff in the National League. And the Jordan Schafer era begins today and it's going to be a good one.
So yes, I'm optimistic. The Mets are woefully thin in pitching depth. The Phillies can't afford to lose any of their stars to injury-- not Hamels, not Myers, Utley, or the fatter, older Prince Fielder clone in first. So with a little luck, the Braves might have a shot at the division title.
Time again for choppers to Chipper. Baseball's back.
Yet Another BU Bathroom Picture
And this one is even more baffling than the original.
So I'm at the PIP auction on Thursday night. And, because there's free beer, I needed to go to the bathroom.
On one of my trips, I walked past a couple of urinals and then saw something in the corner, nestled next to all the stalls.
Does anyone know what in tarnation that is? Why on Earth is it next to a dozen bathroom stalls? Are you supposed to wash your feet there? Why would anyone need to wash their feet at the Student Union? And would you wash your feet there if you were planning on using them again at some point? Dear God.
So I'm at the PIP auction on Thursday night. And, because there's free beer, I needed to go to the bathroom.
On one of my trips, I walked past a couple of urinals and then saw something in the corner, nestled next to all the stalls.
Does anyone know what in tarnation that is? Why on Earth is it next to a dozen bathroom stalls? Are you supposed to wash your feet there? Why would anyone need to wash their feet at the Student Union? And would you wash your feet there if you were planning on using them again at some point? Dear God.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
This Is Why We're Effed
At the Cornell Sun Annual Boston Reunion, I planned to beg for a job by wearing a name-tag that said "PLEASEFORTHELOVEOFCHRISTHIREMEEVENFORFREE THANKYOU '07." Those who know me know I detest name tags like fat kids detest carrot sticks.
Anyhow, unfortunately only one lawyer showed up -- a trusts and estates lawyer.
Even though I dropped more hints than a drunk bridesmaid, she never offered even a business card. Oh well. What she did offer, however, was many tales about the men she'd known, dated, and divorced, and her opinion on why dating someone from B.U. was better than dating someone from Cornell.
Did I mention she was in her 50s or 60s? So yes, this was very inappropriate, at least to my modest and prurient self.
And then she dropped the bomb.
"While at Cornell, I actually dated a guy from Dartmouth."
"Oh yeah?" I said, looking for the waitress.
"Yes, his name was Henry Paulson."
WHAT? Full attention now. "Henry Paulson?"
"Yes, Henry Paulson."
"The Henry Paulson?"
"Yes, the Henry Paulson."
"No kidding."
"He was at Dartmouth, he was on the football team, he was tall and he was a perfect gentleman."
"Really now."
"He was also an English major."
And that, my friends, explains everything.
Anyhow, unfortunately only one lawyer showed up -- a trusts and estates lawyer.
Even though I dropped more hints than a drunk bridesmaid, she never offered even a business card. Oh well. What she did offer, however, was many tales about the men she'd known, dated, and divorced, and her opinion on why dating someone from B.U. was better than dating someone from Cornell.
Did I mention she was in her 50s or 60s? So yes, this was very inappropriate, at least to my modest and prurient self.
And then she dropped the bomb.
"While at Cornell, I actually dated a guy from Dartmouth."
"Oh yeah?" I said, looking for the waitress.
"Yes, his name was Henry Paulson."
WHAT? Full attention now. "Henry Paulson?"
"Yes, Henry Paulson."
"The Henry Paulson?"
"Yes, the Henry Paulson."
"No kidding."
"He was at Dartmouth, he was on the football team, he was tall and he was a perfect gentleman."
"Really now."
"He was also an English major."
And that, my friends, explains everything.
Beer in its Summer Clothes
There are very few events I look forward to in a year that are not sports-related (i.e. Opening Day, Football Season, Fantasy Draft Day, etc.).
One such thing is the yearly reappearance of Sam Summer Ale right around this time of year.
Seriously. When I walk into a bar and I see the summer ale tap standing proudly among its fellow taps, I get so happy I do a jig. Just pure unadulterated joy, child-like almost, of the sort experienced when you saw the school bully trip and fall, or when you saw a girl flash her boobs for the first time.
And yet this year summer ale made its annual appearance, and the joy just wasn't there.
Why?
Not because I turned into a teetotaler. God forbid. I'd rather die a drunk than live as a bore.
No, this year, I knew when summer ale was coming out. I'd always had a general idea of when it came out, which was somewhere around now. But I didn't know the specific date.
This year, two well-meaning friends found out the date when it came out -- always on the first week of April -- and essentially ruined Christmas for me.
They meant well. They knew I loved it and they wanted to let me know when I could have summer ale again.
However, part of the joy was in the surprise, of being able to walk into a bar and seeing it and having your night turn just that much better.
But now, because I knew when I walked into the bar that it would be there, it just wasn't the same.
It's like a surprise party. It kind of got ruined. And yes, I know that "first week of April" is vague enough that I don't know if it's Monday, or Tuesday, or Friday.
But imagine that I tell you, "Yo, we're having a surprise party for you sometime this week." Not the same right?
In any case, to continue the the Christmas analogy, I know now that Santa Claus isn't real.
But you know what? The presents are still there. Summer Ale is flowing again. God bless America.
One such thing is the yearly reappearance of Sam Summer Ale right around this time of year.
Seriously. When I walk into a bar and I see the summer ale tap standing proudly among its fellow taps, I get so happy I do a jig. Just pure unadulterated joy, child-like almost, of the sort experienced when you saw the school bully trip and fall, or when you saw a girl flash her boobs for the first time.
And yet this year summer ale made its annual appearance, and the joy just wasn't there.
Why?
Not because I turned into a teetotaler. God forbid. I'd rather die a drunk than live as a bore.
No, this year, I knew when summer ale was coming out. I'd always had a general idea of when it came out, which was somewhere around now. But I didn't know the specific date.
This year, two well-meaning friends found out the date when it came out -- always on the first week of April -- and essentially ruined Christmas for me.
They meant well. They knew I loved it and they wanted to let me know when I could have summer ale again.
However, part of the joy was in the surprise, of being able to walk into a bar and seeing it and having your night turn just that much better.
But now, because I knew when I walked into the bar that it would be there, it just wasn't the same.
It's like a surprise party. It kind of got ruined. And yes, I know that "first week of April" is vague enough that I don't know if it's Monday, or Tuesday, or Friday.
But imagine that I tell you, "Yo, we're having a surprise party for you sometime this week." Not the same right?
In any case, to continue the the Christmas analogy, I know now that Santa Claus isn't real.
But you know what? The presents are still there. Summer Ale is flowing again. God bless America.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
When Women in Spandex Aren't Enough
When I went to the gym this morning, I tried to put in a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" DVD into the little TV/DVD player in front of the elliptical. And it wouldn't go in.
Then I realized it's because there was a DVD already in there.
So I pressed eject.
The DVD someone forgot at the gym?
9 1/2 Weeks.
Needless to say, I immediately switched to another machine.
Then I realized it's because there was a DVD already in there.
So I pressed eject.
The DVD someone forgot at the gym?
9 1/2 Weeks.
Needless to say, I immediately switched to another machine.
Won't Get Fooled Again
Despite the predictions of some haters *coughMr.Coopercough,* a handful of people actually did fall for yesterday's "Who Wants to Marry an Immigrant" post.
Unfortunately, most did not.
And that's understandable, not just because it's a pretty unbelievable and -- even though I swear I had never seen this before -- not strikingly original lie.
The problem is, I think, that April Fool's Day is overdone. Everyone knows it's coming, so nobody is ever fooled. Everyone is expected to do it, so we just go through the motions. Gawker calls us all unfunny clowns, essentially, and they surprisingly have a point.
They are, however, part of the problem. Because, through tweets, blogs, Facebook, or whathaveyou, everyone has an outlet now through which they try to half-heartedly prank someone.
And yes, I do mean half-heartedly. If I hadn't procrastinated so much, I would have set up a fake website for my show yesterday. Now, it probably wouldn't have fooled anyone, but maybe it would have given people pause. At the very least, I could have tried harder.
My point is simple. Go look at Facebook right now. Count how many people changed their relationship status. Dozens, right? Check how many people are suddenly "pregnant" or "have decided to drop out of school" or are "moving!!!! ZOMG!!!"
If everyone is in on the joke, there is no joke. Given the media and information blitz we get every waking second of every day, it's impossible not to be aware of it, and incredibly easy to participate in the charade.
Sadly, April Fool's has turned into the sort of thing where everyone goes through the motions for no reason. When even the Boston Globe gets into the act, publishing an almost offensively unfunny list of "pranks" as unoriginal as they are festooned with unnecessary exclamation points ("Put a cup of water on top of a door! Glue a quarter to the floor! Hilarious!!!"), the party is pretty much over.
So here's my proposal.
Stop having April Fool's on April 1st, and, instead, rotate months. This year it's April 1st, next year, May 1st, and so on. This way we avoid the regularity that has inured us and put us in a rut while also still being structured enough that you won't get arrested when you ask the guy at Home Depot if these garbage bags can fit a person about, oh, her size (points at woman).
It's still regular yet harder to keep track of. Yes, we'd need a new name (How about dumbass day?), but at least we would laugh again.
Because remember. You can't spell slaughter without laughter!
Unfortunately, most did not.
And that's understandable, not just because it's a pretty unbelievable and -- even though I swear I had never seen this before -- not strikingly original lie.
The problem is, I think, that April Fool's Day is overdone. Everyone knows it's coming, so nobody is ever fooled. Everyone is expected to do it, so we just go through the motions. Gawker calls us all unfunny clowns, essentially, and they surprisingly have a point.
They are, however, part of the problem. Because, through tweets, blogs, Facebook, or whathaveyou, everyone has an outlet now through which they try to half-heartedly prank someone.
And yes, I do mean half-heartedly. If I hadn't procrastinated so much, I would have set up a fake website for my show yesterday. Now, it probably wouldn't have fooled anyone, but maybe it would have given people pause. At the very least, I could have tried harder.
My point is simple. Go look at Facebook right now. Count how many people changed their relationship status. Dozens, right? Check how many people are suddenly "pregnant" or "have decided to drop out of school" or are "moving!!!! ZOMG!!!"
If everyone is in on the joke, there is no joke. Given the media and information blitz we get every waking second of every day, it's impossible not to be aware of it, and incredibly easy to participate in the charade.
Sadly, April Fool's has turned into the sort of thing where everyone goes through the motions for no reason. When even the Boston Globe gets into the act, publishing an almost offensively unfunny list of "pranks" as unoriginal as they are festooned with unnecessary exclamation points ("Put a cup of water on top of a door! Glue a quarter to the floor! Hilarious!!!"), the party is pretty much over.
So here's my proposal.
Stop having April Fool's on April 1st, and, instead, rotate months. This year it's April 1st, next year, May 1st, and so on. This way we avoid the regularity that has inured us and put us in a rut while also still being structured enough that you won't get arrested when you ask the guy at Home Depot if these garbage bags can fit a person about, oh, her size (points at woman).
It's still regular yet harder to keep track of. Yes, we'd need a new name (How about dumbass day?), but at least we would laugh again.
Because remember. You can't spell slaughter without laughter!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Emu-tionally Yours
Apparently he didn't write it himself, but this purported letter from the Dean at UTexas Law School announcing his retirement is terrific.
To be clear, he will "retire to the Texas Hill country, where I will pursue my first love: raising Emus. Not as a source of food, mind you, but as a means of human locomotion."
I myself am anxiously awaiting Dean O'Rourke's own letter of resignation, so she can devote her full attention to her original endeavor -- extracting medicine from spoiled cabbages.
To be clear, he will "retire to the Texas Hill country, where I will pursue my first love: raising Emus. Not as a source of food, mind you, but as a means of human locomotion."
I myself am anxiously awaiting Dean O'Rourke's own letter of resignation, so she can devote her full attention to her original endeavor -- extracting medicine from spoiled cabbages.
Random Video of the Day LIX
This is either the drunkest, dumbest woman I've ever seen, or the mastermind behind a brilliant prank.
Such persistence and determination are a thing of beauty. I say we replace the picture on the motivational poster of the cat hanging from the branch with a photo of this woman.
Such persistence and determination are a thing of beauty. I say we replace the picture on the motivational poster of the cat hanging from the branch with a photo of this woman.
Putting Money in a Blender
In the mail today, I got a subscription renewal form for Blender magazine.
Blender magazine died last week.
Great. Not only do I have to deal with finals, but now I'm being haunted by the ghosts of defunct magazines. And they're asking for money.
Of course, if I was haunted by this particular cover of Rolling Stone, which makes me so happy to be a man, those ghosts can come calling at midnight any time.
Blender magazine died last week.
Great. Not only do I have to deal with finals, but now I'm being haunted by the ghosts of defunct magazines. And they're asking for money.
Of course, if I was haunted by this particular cover of Rolling Stone, which makes me so happy to be a man, those ghosts can come calling at midnight any time.
Hey, Ma, I'm on TV!
So I have kind of big news.
Those who know me know I have two dreams in life. One, to be a citizen. And two, to be on reality television.
I am happy to say that come this fall the twain shall meet.
I have a good friend who works at Fox, and have been lobbying the network through her for some months now.
Essentially, I've been pitching a show for some time now, and so far it hasn't worked because of one reason or another. But now, the timing is right, the gaps in the schedule are there, and we have a green light.
So I'm proud to announce that, this summer, I'll be starring in a new show, "Who Wants to Marry an Immigrant," set to debut on Fox this fall.
There have been similar premises in the past, but nothing on this scale. Essentially, the show will be like The Bachelor, except the Bachelor will be foreign. Also, the bachelor will be me.
Legally, this works because it is not technically considered a sham marriage. It'd be a sham marriage if I married the girl on the first day. I will, however, attempt to restrain myself, and stretch this out over a two-month shooting schedule that should render 14 episodes. Because a two-month period is a plausible amount of time for two people to fall in love, legal tells us this should work.
Televisionally, this works because it's a new spin on the tired old dating thing. There's the added pizzazz and romance of a cross-border relationship. There's the whole "clash of cultures" thing that viewers will eat up. (For the record, this isn't going to be a Joe Millionaire kind of thing where I at the end of the show I reveal the deep dark secret of the location of my birth). The producers are salivating over the "The ladies visit Mexico" episodes. And they love the fact that the last Bachelor ended as it did, because, unlike that d-bag, I cannot afford to waffle and my decision must be final.
Yes, it's kind of selling out. I know. The producers have referred me to a voice coach to try to get a little bit of my accent back. I've seen a couple of the promos and they were, well, a little offensive and need some tweaking. Particularly the music in the background. But hey. It's Fox. What did we expect?
Apologies if I haven't told you. I strongly believe in jinxes and didn't want to end up like the guy who tells everyone he's getting married and then she declines the proposal. But now that it's official (the website should be up soon), I can finally terminate radio silence on this.
I'm actually really excited about this. I get to be on TV, and, more importantly, I get to be an American citizen. I'll be filming this summer mostly in New York City, L.A., and various locations in Mexico. The show should air this coming fall. Hopefully y'all will watch and enjoy it.
Oh. And the most important thing. We're looking for bachelorettes. Interested parties can apply directly to casting at whowantstomarryanimmigrant@gmail.com. They will give you further instructions and details, and tell me it involves a questionnaire and a short video for the initial inquiry.
And if anyone can think of good "The Tribe has spoken"-type catchphrases, we're open for suggestions.
Those who know me know I have two dreams in life. One, to be a citizen. And two, to be on reality television.
I am happy to say that come this fall the twain shall meet.
I have a good friend who works at Fox, and have been lobbying the network through her for some months now.
Essentially, I've been pitching a show for some time now, and so far it hasn't worked because of one reason or another. But now, the timing is right, the gaps in the schedule are there, and we have a green light.
So I'm proud to announce that, this summer, I'll be starring in a new show, "Who Wants to Marry an Immigrant," set to debut on Fox this fall.
There have been similar premises in the past, but nothing on this scale. Essentially, the show will be like The Bachelor, except the Bachelor will be foreign. Also, the bachelor will be me.
Legally, this works because it is not technically considered a sham marriage. It'd be a sham marriage if I married the girl on the first day. I will, however, attempt to restrain myself, and stretch this out over a two-month shooting schedule that should render 14 episodes. Because a two-month period is a plausible amount of time for two people to fall in love, legal tells us this should work.
Televisionally, this works because it's a new spin on the tired old dating thing. There's the added pizzazz and romance of a cross-border relationship. There's the whole "clash of cultures" thing that viewers will eat up. (For the record, this isn't going to be a Joe Millionaire kind of thing where I at the end of the show I reveal the deep dark secret of the location of my birth). The producers are salivating over the "The ladies visit Mexico" episodes. And they love the fact that the last Bachelor ended as it did, because, unlike that d-bag, I cannot afford to waffle and my decision must be final.
Yes, it's kind of selling out. I know. The producers have referred me to a voice coach to try to get a little bit of my accent back. I've seen a couple of the promos and they were, well, a little offensive and need some tweaking. Particularly the music in the background. But hey. It's Fox. What did we expect?
Apologies if I haven't told you. I strongly believe in jinxes and didn't want to end up like the guy who tells everyone he's getting married and then she declines the proposal. But now that it's official (the website should be up soon), I can finally terminate radio silence on this.
I'm actually really excited about this. I get to be on TV, and, more importantly, I get to be an American citizen. I'll be filming this summer mostly in New York City, L.A., and various locations in Mexico. The show should air this coming fall. Hopefully y'all will watch and enjoy it.
Oh. And the most important thing. We're looking for bachelorettes. Interested parties can apply directly to casting at whowantstomarryanimmigrant@gmail.com. They will give you further instructions and details, and tell me it involves a questionnaire and a short video for the initial inquiry.
And if anyone can think of good "The Tribe has spoken"-type catchphrases, we're open for suggestions.
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