Last year, during the world-famous "Three Jews and a Mexican" road trip, we attended several ballgames for free, posing as respectable journalists committed to chronicling all the wonderful things the South had to offer.
In Memphis, we took in a Redbirds game at the local minor league stadium. After pretending to take notes in the press box and getting our fill of their free buffet, we marched ourselves down to the best seats in the house, right behind the Memphis dugout.
Around the seventh inning or so, the mascot began interacting with the fans -- a procedure he (it?) calls entertainment but some call harassment.
Unfortunately, the redbird found the one fan who was a littler drunker than most, and started annoying him.
The guy, enraged, flips out and shoves the redbird, who gets pushed into some empty seats and is flipped over them. He goes ass over head and looks to be actually hurt. Meanwhile, the guy, who by this point I guess we can call "the asshole," looks like a guy who was roughhousing with his friends but got a little too enthusiastic and knocked out someone's tooth.
By now, everybody in the stadium is booing the crap out of this guy. Security is coming in to escort him out. People are whisking peanuts at him.
To us Cornellians, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to bring in a little Lynah flavor to the South.
So, naturally, we start a chant.
"That guy sucks! That guy sucks! That guy sucks!"
Within seconds, the entire stadium has turned on us.
"You can't say that!"
"You can't bring that kind of language in here!"
"Shhhhhhh!"
"There's women and children around!"
It actually took us a couple of seconds to realize they were shushing us, and became thoroughly confused.
"You can't say sucks?" I asked a guy, bewildered.
"Of course not," the guy said, as if I asked him whether it was OK to fart during Thanksgiving dinner.
Apparently, "sucks" is a pretty bad swear in the South. Maybe if we said, "That Guy Stinks!" we would have been OK. "That Guy Blows,' probably would not have been OK.
What prompted this story? Last week, a woman -- and, I guess, fellow sucker -- tried to wear a "Yankees Suck" t-shirt to a game in Texas. Despite its factual accuracy, such a shirt is of course prohibited in public.
So the authorities made her take it off, turn it inside out, and put it back on.
Because it is less offensive for children to read the word "Sucks" on a t-shirt than it is for them to see a stranger's boobs.
Boy, can you imagine what would have happened if she had worn a "Jeter Swallows" t-shirt instead?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Phished Out
Walking home this afternoon, I noticed that every other person on the street needed a haircut. And that there was an inordinately heavy police presence. And then, as I walked past Fenway, that there were literally thousands of hippies and they all looked excited -- as if they thought they saw Seth Rogen.
And then I realized that Phish was playing Fenway Park tonight. And I understood.
Yesterday, Dave Matthews played Fenway, turning my neighborhood into the best place in America for sickos to pick up 14 year-old girls.
Today, with Phish playing, my neighborhood is the best place in America the best place for cops to pick up potheads.
Unfortunately, possession of marijuana is no longer that criminal in Massachusetts. It is ironic, of course, and is as if NAMBLA had rolled into town a couple of months after statutory rape laws were repealed. Today, what should have been a smorgasbord for the cops is going to be like going to a Pasta Bar while on Atkins.
I never understood the appeal of Phish, but God bless them and the hippies who groove on them. At the very least, a stray thunderstorm passed over right during the middle of the show. This is, of course, the first shower half the audience has experienced in at least a week.
And then I realized that Phish was playing Fenway Park tonight. And I understood.
Yesterday, Dave Matthews played Fenway, turning my neighborhood into the best place in America for sickos to pick up 14 year-old girls.
Today, with Phish playing, my neighborhood is the best place in America the best place for cops to pick up potheads.
Unfortunately, possession of marijuana is no longer that criminal in Massachusetts. It is ironic, of course, and is as if NAMBLA had rolled into town a couple of months after statutory rape laws were repealed. Today, what should have been a smorgasbord for the cops is going to be like going to a Pasta Bar while on Atkins.
I never understood the appeal of Phish, but God bless them and the hippies who groove on them. At the very least, a stray thunderstorm passed over right during the middle of the show. This is, of course, the first shower half the audience has experienced in at least a week.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Boston Charlie
I am going to get a wicked Boston accent this summer. Remember when Detroit-native Madonna spent some time in London and now speaks as though she was from Yorkshire?
The same thing is going to happen to me. In the office, everybody's accents range from a moderate and subtle Bob-is-now-a-one-and-a-half syllable word accent to the Kevin Costner-inspired "Jack, if we don't staht now, those smaht-ass pricks up at Hah-vahd will have no-wheah to pahk the-ah cahs," flavor.
I think I might land somewhere in the middle there, and will only get worse when I'm in my cups. The amount I drink, however, will in all probability be inversely proportional to the amount of R's I use.
It could be worse, though. It could be a Southern accent. And then how would you like 'dem apples... um.. y'all?
The same thing is going to happen to me. In the office, everybody's accents range from a moderate and subtle Bob-is-now-a-one-and-a-half syllable word accent to the Kevin Costner-inspired "Jack, if we don't staht now, those smaht-ass pricks up at Hah-vahd will have no-wheah to pahk the-ah cahs," flavor.
I think I might land somewhere in the middle there, and will only get worse when I'm in my cups. The amount I drink, however, will in all probability be inversely proportional to the amount of R's I use.
It could be worse, though. It could be a Southern accent. And then how would you like 'dem apples... um.. y'all?
Meet the New Boss
The new Yankee Stadium is kind of like a strip club, cobbled together to showcase the hottest broads baseball has to offer. Despite the bright lights and expensive lather seats, Mystique and Aura nevertheless perform with the same enthusiasm and joy as any old broads from a ratty upstate New York joint who dance while trying to remember what was that third thing they had to get at the supermarket after work.
I got a chance to go to a game at the new Yankee Stadium last week and it is beautiful, if you are a fan of the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace. Which I am, but not when going to a baseball game.
Whereas the old Yankee Stadium had the charm of an old but reliable bar that should have been demolished ten years ago yet still soldiers on despite numerous health violations, the new Yankee stadium is like that new flashy "lounge" that pays Lindsay Lohan $100K to stand amidst techno music nobody enjoys and text her coke dealer, while the douchebag bouncers force you to wait in line for half an hour even though nobody is actually inside.
I sound like I'm bitching, even though the trip to the Stadium was a lot of fun, it was awesome to sit there with my grandpa, and baseball is great. What I'm bitching about is the new stadium seems to me kind of unnecessary. Yes, the bathrooms in the old stadium were portals to hell, but, good God, Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth and all those players who, even as a Yankee hater, I'll begrudgingly admit were all-time greats played there. It wasn't as dilapidated as you might think, and I'll serve Fenway Park as an example of what a little renovation can do to your historic ballpark.
In the new Yankee stadium, the $1,500 seats (marked down from $2,500 or so -- plus a $65 convenience charge each -- since this is a recession) are separated from the $400 seats by an honest-to-God moat, and feature more security guards than Saddam Hussein's palaces. At 4 p.m., they wouldn't let my grandfather -- an 82 year-old life long Yankee fan who is now maybe 5-5 and always wears wool suits and wears his baseball cap with a flat brim because he has never put one on and doesn't know that's not how 82 year-olds wear them -- even lean against the rail to take a picture.
There are only three sit-down restaurants. One is available only to the fine folks who paid for the $1,500 seats. It is always empty. The other is the Mohegan Sun's Bar, open only to those who are members of the fine casino in Connecticut. And the other is the Hard Rock Cafe. So if you want to get a good sit-down meal at the stadium, you can't.
What you can do is order $16 sandwiches from industrious waitresses who run between the seats. That's right. No characters hawking peanuts and tossing them at you behind their back like in every other baseball stadium. While the waitresses are certainly convenient, come on. Few things are as entertaining as watching a fat guy who is clearly loaded trying to balance a full beer in one hand and three dripping hot dogs in the other while he squeezes himself in through the seats -- ass out to the field, of course -- in front of a terrified family wearing matching white shirts.
I'm going to miss the old Yankee Stadium. It was a fine place to watch a ballgame and a living museum of what is admittedly a great tradition. The new one is nice in the same way those $5 in-flight meals are nice. It's a marginally better meal, but, really? Five dollars for what I used to get for free?
The long and short of it? If the old Yankee Stadium was Heather Locklear -- who probably looks awful in the mornings but can still get it done, plus it's Heather frickin' Locklear -- then the new Yankee Stadium is Madonna. Not because of A-Rod (although it helps), but because she's high maintenance and demanding even though there is a lot of make-up, a lot of things that weren't there before, and her fans follow her blindly even though she hasn't really done anything worthwhile in years.
I got a chance to go to a game at the new Yankee Stadium last week and it is beautiful, if you are a fan of the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace. Which I am, but not when going to a baseball game.
Whereas the old Yankee Stadium had the charm of an old but reliable bar that should have been demolished ten years ago yet still soldiers on despite numerous health violations, the new Yankee stadium is like that new flashy "lounge" that pays Lindsay Lohan $100K to stand amidst techno music nobody enjoys and text her coke dealer, while the douchebag bouncers force you to wait in line for half an hour even though nobody is actually inside.
I sound like I'm bitching, even though the trip to the Stadium was a lot of fun, it was awesome to sit there with my grandpa, and baseball is great. What I'm bitching about is the new stadium seems to me kind of unnecessary. Yes, the bathrooms in the old stadium were portals to hell, but, good God, Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth and all those players who, even as a Yankee hater, I'll begrudgingly admit were all-time greats played there. It wasn't as dilapidated as you might think, and I'll serve Fenway Park as an example of what a little renovation can do to your historic ballpark.
In the new Yankee stadium, the $1,500 seats (marked down from $2,500 or so -- plus a $65 convenience charge each -- since this is a recession) are separated from the $400 seats by an honest-to-God moat, and feature more security guards than Saddam Hussein's palaces. At 4 p.m., they wouldn't let my grandfather -- an 82 year-old life long Yankee fan who is now maybe 5-5 and always wears wool suits and wears his baseball cap with a flat brim because he has never put one on and doesn't know that's not how 82 year-olds wear them -- even lean against the rail to take a picture.
There are only three sit-down restaurants. One is available only to the fine folks who paid for the $1,500 seats. It is always empty. The other is the Mohegan Sun's Bar, open only to those who are members of the fine casino in Connecticut. And the other is the Hard Rock Cafe. So if you want to get a good sit-down meal at the stadium, you can't.
What you can do is order $16 sandwiches from industrious waitresses who run between the seats. That's right. No characters hawking peanuts and tossing them at you behind their back like in every other baseball stadium. While the waitresses are certainly convenient, come on. Few things are as entertaining as watching a fat guy who is clearly loaded trying to balance a full beer in one hand and three dripping hot dogs in the other while he squeezes himself in through the seats -- ass out to the field, of course -- in front of a terrified family wearing matching white shirts.
I'm going to miss the old Yankee Stadium. It was a fine place to watch a ballgame and a living museum of what is admittedly a great tradition. The new one is nice in the same way those $5 in-flight meals are nice. It's a marginally better meal, but, really? Five dollars for what I used to get for free?
The long and short of it? If the old Yankee Stadium was Heather Locklear -- who probably looks awful in the mornings but can still get it done, plus it's Heather frickin' Locklear -- then the new Yankee Stadium is Madonna. Not because of A-Rod (although it helps), but because she's high maintenance and demanding even though there is a lot of make-up, a lot of things that weren't there before, and her fans follow her blindly even though she hasn't really done anything worthwhile in years.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
When Johnson Met Bush
In How I Met Your Mother, after unveiling a pie chart of his favorite bars and a bar graph of his favorite pies, Marshall ranked the presidents by how dirty their names sound:
1. Johnson
2. Bush
3. Harding
4. Polk
5. Filmore
6. Pierce
7. LBJ
8. Hoover
9. Bush
10. Clinton
I am convinced that Dick Armey would be number one on this list if he had ever been President.
1. Johnson
2. Bush
3. Harding
4. Polk
5. Filmore
6. Pierce
7. LBJ
8. Hoover
9. Bush
10. Clinton
I am convinced that Dick Armey would be number one on this list if he had ever been President.
The Wit and Wisdom of Tracy Jordan
Tracy Jordan of 30 Rock is like a cocktail made of equal parts Dr. Wordsmith, Yogi Berra, and Shakespeare, with an twist of urban.
Somewhere out there, an American hero has compiled a list of everything that has come out of Tracy Jordan's mouth, minus the puke.
A sampling:
Somewhere out there, an American hero has compiled a list of everything that has come out of Tracy Jordan's mouth, minus the puke.
A sampling:
“I’m saying the Disneyfication of New York is over, everyone. At the stroke of midnight, your Lexus is going to turn back into a hot pile of rats fighting over a human finger.”“That’s not me, that’s the Tracy Jordan Japanese sex doll. You can tell us apart because it's not suffering from a vitamin deficiency.”
"Fat neck girl let me count your neck rings."
“Liz Lemon, I might hug people too hard and get lost in malls. But I’m not an idiot.”“I feel like you’re not telling me something, Jack. Let me guess. You bought a sidecar for your motorcycle and your dog won’t stay in it.”
“I want you bastards to meet my bastard.”
Reading these is hilarious, yet strange and disorienting, like eating burgers made from a cow that OD'd on laughing gas.
The Choice No One Should Make
In what is the worst decision since Hitler tried to take Russia in the winter, Archie is going to settle down and get married and will finally be choosing between Betty and Veronica.
Ahem.
(Controls rage).
Archie, what the balls are you doing? You've had these two very hot girls eating out of your hand for sixty years. Sixty comic-book years, so they're still good to look at. And they compete for you, inexplicably. You -- a non-threatening redheaded schmuck with no job and a car older than dust. Perhaps the freckles hypnotize them. But when you get tired of one making you cookies so you go lounge in the other's pool. When her butler pisses you off, you go back to the other. And so on.
WHY STOP NOW.
You're going to throw all of that away so you can buy one of them an expensive ring and try to figure out a way to avoid a prenup (whichever one you choose, you'll want to do this), and lock yourself into a cage without a key that was created by the jewelry and expensive restaurant conglomerates. And you're there forever.
Seriously. Why have one when you can have both? It's the reason Surf 'n' Turf, reversible belts, and Boilermakers exist. This is America -- land of excess, goddamnit. Order the Ribs and the brisket and thank God this isn't Russia.
You're ruining a beautiful thing, Archie. Make the right move and keep stringing these two girls along forever. Live the dream, not the nightmare.
Ahem.
(Controls rage).
Archie, what the balls are you doing? You've had these two very hot girls eating out of your hand for sixty years. Sixty comic-book years, so they're still good to look at. And they compete for you, inexplicably. You -- a non-threatening redheaded schmuck with no job and a car older than dust. Perhaps the freckles hypnotize them. But when you get tired of one making you cookies so you go lounge in the other's pool. When her butler pisses you off, you go back to the other. And so on.
WHY STOP NOW.
You're going to throw all of that away so you can buy one of them an expensive ring and try to figure out a way to avoid a prenup (whichever one you choose, you'll want to do this), and lock yourself into a cage without a key that was created by the jewelry and expensive restaurant conglomerates. And you're there forever.
Seriously. Why have one when you can have both? It's the reason Surf 'n' Turf, reversible belts, and Boilermakers exist. This is America -- land of excess, goddamnit. Order the Ribs and the brisket and thank God this isn't Russia.
You're ruining a beautiful thing, Archie. Make the right move and keep stringing these two girls along forever. Live the dream, not the nightmare.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Welcome to America
Today I woke up before seven, went to the gym, ate a quick breakfast, showered, made myself a sensible lunch, put on a suit, grabbed my bag, crammed onto the T, went to work for 8 hours, crammed onto the T again, took off my shoes and tie, made myself a sensible dinner, and then sat on the couch and watched TV while I ate my grilled chicken with rice.
Tomorrow, I will do this again. Little will change beyond the fact that I will be one day closer to the weekend. After a weekend that is always too short (the concept of a two-day weekend boggles my mind), I will rinse and repeat.
In other words, I have become a suit.
Yay...
Don't get me wrong. I love suits. But right now I feel like an alien. (Pauses for immigrant joke). No, assholes. A space alien, come to this strange, tedious planet that is the workplace to observe and report. And I have a million questions and concerns.
Can I swear? Can I fart? Can I drink? Where do they keep the booze? When's lunch? Is it just me or is that guy exactly like Creed? When can I flirt with the only girl who seems like she's my age? Where are the paper clips? What did my boss just say? Oh shit, what did my boss just say when I was wondering what she just said before that? Is it too late to tell that guy my name is not Chester? Where does one "do it" in this office? Is this it? Is this real life?
I have no idea when or if I can check my personal email. Millions of blog posts and news stories remain unread, starved for attention. I didn't know about Sotomayor until 2 p.m.. I'm even terrified of blogging, afraid my boss will march up behind me like some imp from the Gestapo (he's actually a pretty cool guy, but bear with me) and start barking.
At this point I am no longer looking to revolutionize the workplace and turn it into College 3.0. At this point, I am only praying that the other shoe doesn't drop and the federales storm the law offices like it was a restaurant kitchen.
And with that wonderful image in my mind -- handcuffed while I pray the guy does not tear my suit while dozens of deeds and invitations to bid flutter around me like the confetti to a Minuteman parade -- I go to bed before midnight for the first time in several years.
Avenge me.
Tomorrow, I will do this again. Little will change beyond the fact that I will be one day closer to the weekend. After a weekend that is always too short (the concept of a two-day weekend boggles my mind), I will rinse and repeat.
In other words, I have become a suit.
Yay...
Don't get me wrong. I love suits. But right now I feel like an alien. (Pauses for immigrant joke). No, assholes. A space alien, come to this strange, tedious planet that is the workplace to observe and report. And I have a million questions and concerns.
Can I swear? Can I fart? Can I drink? Where do they keep the booze? When's lunch? Is it just me or is that guy exactly like Creed? When can I flirt with the only girl who seems like she's my age? Where are the paper clips? What did my boss just say? Oh shit, what did my boss just say when I was wondering what she just said before that? Is it too late to tell that guy my name is not Chester? Where does one "do it" in this office? Is this it? Is this real life?
I have no idea when or if I can check my personal email. Millions of blog posts and news stories remain unread, starved for attention. I didn't know about Sotomayor until 2 p.m.. I'm even terrified of blogging, afraid my boss will march up behind me like some imp from the Gestapo (he's actually a pretty cool guy, but bear with me) and start barking.
At this point I am no longer looking to revolutionize the workplace and turn it into College 3.0. At this point, I am only praying that the other shoe doesn't drop and the federales storm the law offices like it was a restaurant kitchen.
And with that wonderful image in my mind -- handcuffed while I pray the guy does not tear my suit while dozens of deeds and invitations to bid flutter around me like the confetti to a Minuteman parade -- I go to bed before midnight for the first time in several years.
Avenge me.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Not-So-Dead Letters
Thanks to Shane for forwarding this very interesting article about people who write back to their college newspapers in an effort to get their old, sometimes compromising, articles pulled from the internet archives.
The gist of it is that, back in their college days, people would write columns for their school newspapers. And these old columns would have content that is, at best, slightly embarrassing. At worst, it could actually be detrimental to one's career.
Because of the spread of the interwebs, this content is now easily accessible to employers, potential mates, and other such authority figures. And, in an effort to prevent their sex column from coming into the hands of the hiring director at the conservative think tank, alumni have called, begged, and pleaded their old newspaper to pull those columns from the web.
Some newspapers acquiesce. Most do not.
I am in a peculiar position. In my former life, I wrote a weekly column for The Sun. Contrary to popular belief, it was not a religious column. In the long, storied, and critically acclaimed history of"Tequila Sunrise," I advocated for longer bar hours, ran for president, begged for a sham marriage, explained how to go to the bathroom, called for a revolution, chronicled a weekend in Vegas in which I impersonated a Baldwin, and created a cult.
Most of these columns contain several and repeated references to the drinking, carousing, and rowdiness that exists unfettered in college campuses. Most of those references are personal stories. All of them sacrificed the author's dignity in one way or another.
And now, I'm looking for a permanent job, which is kind of important. I know that, if I am googled by the hiring committee, sentences like, "I also shower daily, speak Spanish and have no criminal record in this country. So far," or "I was, in fact, the long-lost Baldwin brother who was birthed in Mexico and remained as yet unrecognized by the Baldwin patriarch — even though I could drink him and any of his assorted children under the table," might come up.
And you know what? That's fine. I shouldn't have to apologize for what I wrote and did back in college. And I sure as hell should not have to hide it, or ask anyone else -- especially a newspaper -- to do it for me.
I'm not stupid. I've left an easily accessible paper trail. I know I have to explain what I wrote.
And I have. When the question of what I wrote in college comes up, I simply tell the truth. I tell them I wrote a humor column for the newspaper. And when they asked what it dealt with, I tell them student life. And if they ever ask me why it makes so many references to drinking and partying, I'll tell them that that's what student life is like, and they're kidding themselves if they think any different.
And if they seem concerned that this might be indicative of future conduct, I reassure them that I got all my yayas out in college. And that it's absurd to hold a 22 year-old college student to the same standards as a 25 year-old law student. And then I pray that they buy this.
My point is, I wrote what I wrote and make no apologies for this. If my future boss cannot discern between an alter ego (no matter how accurate) in a humor college for a student newspaper and the future prospects for an applicant, I don't think we'll be on the same page anyway. You have to look at the contexts here. There is something profoundly different between trying to make someone laugh in a student publication and negotiating a reverse triangular merger. Expecting a commensurate level of seriousness in both endeavors is laughable.
The internet is not a surprise to anyone. When I wrote those columns, I knew they would exist and follow me from now until forever. And every other columnist knew the same thing. You can't freak out and demand that a newspaper trim its archives and digital record because someone might google you. You did not write this stuff on a note to a girl you had a crush on in the third grade. You wrote it for a widely-available publication, ostensibly for the purpose of reaching a mass audience. You knew this when you wrote it. To ask that it be "erased" today is hypocritical and disingenuous.
You had a reason for writing that piece. Someone will ask you for that reason. Because it was for a college newspaper, pretty much any explanation should suffice. Anything from "I was young" to "I was bored" to "I did it for the free CDs" should be acceptable. It's a student column, not a Supreme Court opinion.
In time, I might have to worry. I'm thinking in particular of the day when I run my campaign to be the second foreign-born president of the United States (the first being Arnold). These might be dug up then. But at that point, I'll wager, my columns in college will be the smallest skeleton in my closet. It'll be like a clown car, if the clowns were dead and the car was a walk-in closet.
But for now? I'm proud of those columns and stand by them. I wrote them because I enjoyed writing, I was looking to get a laugh, and that's what we as college students did at the time. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Now, about that criminal record.
The gist of it is that, back in their college days, people would write columns for their school newspapers. And these old columns would have content that is, at best, slightly embarrassing. At worst, it could actually be detrimental to one's career.
Because of the spread of the interwebs, this content is now easily accessible to employers, potential mates, and other such authority figures. And, in an effort to prevent their sex column from coming into the hands of the hiring director at the conservative think tank, alumni have called, begged, and pleaded their old newspaper to pull those columns from the web.
Some newspapers acquiesce. Most do not.
I am in a peculiar position. In my former life, I wrote a weekly column for The Sun. Contrary to popular belief, it was not a religious column. In the long, storied, and critically acclaimed history of"Tequila Sunrise," I advocated for longer bar hours, ran for president, begged for a sham marriage, explained how to go to the bathroom, called for a revolution, chronicled a weekend in Vegas in which I impersonated a Baldwin, and created a cult.
Most of these columns contain several and repeated references to the drinking, carousing, and rowdiness that exists unfettered in college campuses. Most of those references are personal stories. All of them sacrificed the author's dignity in one way or another.
And now, I'm looking for a permanent job, which is kind of important. I know that, if I am googled by the hiring committee, sentences like, "I also shower daily, speak Spanish and have no criminal record in this country. So far," or "I was, in fact, the long-lost Baldwin brother who was birthed in Mexico and remained as yet unrecognized by the Baldwin patriarch — even though I could drink him and any of his assorted children under the table," might come up.
And you know what? That's fine. I shouldn't have to apologize for what I wrote and did back in college. And I sure as hell should not have to hide it, or ask anyone else -- especially a newspaper -- to do it for me.
I'm not stupid. I've left an easily accessible paper trail. I know I have to explain what I wrote.
And I have. When the question of what I wrote in college comes up, I simply tell the truth. I tell them I wrote a humor column for the newspaper. And when they asked what it dealt with, I tell them student life. And if they ever ask me why it makes so many references to drinking and partying, I'll tell them that that's what student life is like, and they're kidding themselves if they think any different.
And if they seem concerned that this might be indicative of future conduct, I reassure them that I got all my yayas out in college. And that it's absurd to hold a 22 year-old college student to the same standards as a 25 year-old law student. And then I pray that they buy this.
My point is, I wrote what I wrote and make no apologies for this. If my future boss cannot discern between an alter ego (no matter how accurate) in a humor college for a student newspaper and the future prospects for an applicant, I don't think we'll be on the same page anyway. You have to look at the contexts here. There is something profoundly different between trying to make someone laugh in a student publication and negotiating a reverse triangular merger. Expecting a commensurate level of seriousness in both endeavors is laughable.
The internet is not a surprise to anyone. When I wrote those columns, I knew they would exist and follow me from now until forever. And every other columnist knew the same thing. You can't freak out and demand that a newspaper trim its archives and digital record because someone might google you. You did not write this stuff on a note to a girl you had a crush on in the third grade. You wrote it for a widely-available publication, ostensibly for the purpose of reaching a mass audience. You knew this when you wrote it. To ask that it be "erased" today is hypocritical and disingenuous.
You had a reason for writing that piece. Someone will ask you for that reason. Because it was for a college newspaper, pretty much any explanation should suffice. Anything from "I was young" to "I was bored" to "I did it for the free CDs" should be acceptable. It's a student column, not a Supreme Court opinion.
In time, I might have to worry. I'm thinking in particular of the day when I run my campaign to be the second foreign-born president of the United States (the first being Arnold). These might be dug up then. But at that point, I'll wager, my columns in college will be the smallest skeleton in my closet. It'll be like a clown car, if the clowns were dead and the car was a walk-in closet.
But for now? I'm proud of those columns and stand by them. I wrote them because I enjoyed writing, I was looking to get a laugh, and that's what we as college students did at the time. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Now, about that criminal record.
Monday, May 18, 2009
My Advice? Don't Graduate
It is high time for graduations all over the country, where poor bastards across the nation are forced to leave the brief, magical bubble of awesomeness that is college and get dragged kicking and screaming into the harsh and unyielding real world.
Some of us are fortunate enough to delay the death sentence by signing onto graduate programs, but this is only a dilatory tactic. In the end, doom comes gunning for us all.
It is in that spirit that I present perhaps the most honest graduation advice I have come across, courtesy of a genius who calls himself Big Daddy Drew. It's not David Foster Wallace, but it speaks the truth. An excerpt:
Some of us are fortunate enough to delay the death sentence by signing onto graduate programs, but this is only a dilatory tactic. In the end, doom comes gunning for us all.
It is in that spirit that I present perhaps the most honest graduation advice I have come across, courtesy of a genius who calls himself Big Daddy Drew. It's not David Foster Wallace, but it speaks the truth. An excerpt:
I had to wake up early every day. Then, my body got used to waking up early every day, so it just woke the fuck right up at the same time on weekends, too. "But Body," I said to my big fat body, "There's nothing to fucking do, and I wanna sleep more." But my body wouldn't have it. Then I got married. Then I had kids. And holy shit, do kids wake up early. Not only does my kid come storming into the room at 6AM, but she screams WAKE UP at the top of her lungs every damn time. Having a kid is just like having a really mean spinning instructor. They give no fucking quarter. They're like tiny little Hitlers.So yes, the future looks more bleak than a Springsteen song. But at least now you know. And knowing is half the battle.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Dave the Zamboni King
Noooooooooo.Not Zamboni Dave. Damn you, recession. Damn youuuuu all to hell.
It appears Zamboni Dave has accepted Cornell's voluntary retirement/buy-out/please-retire-so-we-don't-have-to-fire plan. And Zamboni Dave, master of disguise, proprietor of many hats, and the guy who usually got the loudest ovation at Lynah Rink, took it. He took it, with his foot, and he's retiring
As it stands, however, we lose another character of almost equal renown. I certainly miss hitting the plexiglass in greeting whenever Zamboni Dave
It is rumored that if you shot "Zamboni Dave!" in a bar crowded with Cornellians, someone will buy you a drink. He frequented Cornell bars. A group of friends and I were out at Dunbar's once, and there he was, wearing a funny hat. We resolved to invite him over to our table for a drink, since we were the only ones there and he was awesome. But when we looked up again he was gone.
I wish we could have had a drink with him then. I have this image in my head of Zamboni Dave getting done with the ice and leaving through the doors on the west side of Lynah, like he always does. Except this time, he keeps going, and drives that Zamboni out west and into the sunset.
God knows who is going to drive the Zamboni now, but he's got some big hats to fill. Here's to Zamboni Dave.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Mattingly, Get Rid of Those Sideburns
"Okay, let's go over the ground rules. You can't leave first until you chug a beer. Any man scoring has to chug a beer. You have to chug a beer at the top of all odd-numbered innings. Oh, and the fourth inning is the beer inning."
Today, the Cornell Summer Softball Team--Boston Chapter Edition begins practice in preparation for league play in the Ivy Leaguers who Live in Boston Group. I for one cannot wait to beat the living crap out of those assholes from Princeton.
I have no idea what the rules constitute. Therefore, I will follow the above rules, as quoted on The Simpsons. I like them. If I can adhere to them, trim my sideburns, avoid Giantism, play a different position than Darryl Strawberry, and catch the occasional ball that makes it out of the infield, I'll be a happy man indeed.
By the way, that episode of The Simpsons shows that, with the addition of Canseco and Clemens, not even summer league softball is immune from steroids. Therefore, I will begin juicing. If I can avoid 'roid rage, good may very well come out of all of this.
Anyone know a good pusher?
Today, the Cornell Summer Softball Team--Boston Chapter Edition begins practice in preparation for league play in the Ivy Leaguers who Live in Boston Group. I for one cannot wait to beat the living crap out of those assholes from Princeton.
I have no idea what the rules constitute. Therefore, I will follow the above rules, as quoted on The Simpsons. I like them. If I can adhere to them, trim my sideburns, avoid Giantism, play a different position than Darryl Strawberry, and catch the occasional ball that makes it out of the infield, I'll be a happy man indeed.
By the way, that episode of The Simpsons shows that, with the addition of Canseco and Clemens, not even summer league softball is immune from steroids. Therefore, I will begin juicing. If I can avoid 'roid rage, good may very well come out of all of this.
Anyone know a good pusher?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Big Baby Asked to Apologize to Bigger Baby
And this month's Buzz Killington award goes to this guy.
Some clown is pissed off because Big Baby Davis -- a "raging animal with no regard for fans' personal safety" -- celebrated his buzzer beater by grabbing the guy's son and throwing him back to Orlando, much in the same way Ben Stiller hurled the little kid in Tropic Thunder.
Granted, Big Baby Davis is 300 pounds and sometimes loses his mind. Any 12 year old who sees him coming would probably be terrified. And true, all the guy wants is an apology. He hasn't sued yet.
But what do you think is going to happen if you're courtside? Besides tripping Shaq and ruining the Laker season. Plus, if you watch the video, nothing happened. Big Baby softly pushed the kid out of the way, and all that happened to the kid was his hat fell off. Plus, let the man celebrate. Please. Or he will eat you.
My favorite part is this quote by Buzz Killington: "The NBA makes it clear [that players are not to] cross the sideline. If I cross that line, the NBA will take away my tickets. It's a double standard." This isn't Artest going to the stands to kick everyone's ass in the room. This is Big Baby stepping out of bounds. Just like, you know, when he or any other player goes to the bench.
I really hope Big Baby declines to apologize and just says to the guy, "Stop being a big baby."
Boom. Roasted.
Some clown is pissed off because Big Baby Davis -- a "raging animal with no regard for fans' personal safety" -- celebrated his buzzer beater by grabbing the guy's son and throwing him back to Orlando, much in the same way Ben Stiller hurled the little kid in Tropic Thunder.
Granted, Big Baby Davis is 300 pounds and sometimes loses his mind. Any 12 year old who sees him coming would probably be terrified. And true, all the guy wants is an apology. He hasn't sued yet.
But what do you think is going to happen if you're courtside? Besides tripping Shaq and ruining the Laker season. Plus, if you watch the video, nothing happened. Big Baby softly pushed the kid out of the way, and all that happened to the kid was his hat fell off. Plus, let the man celebrate. Please. Or he will eat you.
My favorite part is this quote by Buzz Killington: "The NBA makes it clear [that players are not to] cross the sideline. If I cross that line, the NBA will take away my tickets. It's a double standard." This isn't Artest going to the stands to kick everyone's ass in the room. This is Big Baby stepping out of bounds. Just like, you know, when he or any other player goes to the bench.
I really hope Big Baby declines to apologize and just says to the guy, "Stop being a big baby."
Boom. Roasted.
Party Hard, Law School
The interwebs have spoken. Of the 102 ABA-Accredited law schools, our own BU Law is only Number 75 in the list of Party Law Schools. In other words, we're only the 75th most partiest law school, out-partied by such party law school luminaries like IU-Bloomingdale, Catholic University, and those cool cats from Harvard. And George Mason.
Hey, at least we party more than BYU. Which somehow outparties thirteen schools, including Chicago and Penn. And also has the most dateable student body.
These rankings, of course, are not official in any way. The methodology is illuminating, if concerning:
This, of course, makes who answers the emails from some random website that probably go to one's SPAM folder hugely relevant. I never got such an email. Or perhaps when I got the email I was out partying and forgot to respond. Or perhaps I was hungover. I'm sure I was the only one this happened to.
In any case, I'm devastated by the fact that BU has 74 schools that party more, party better, and party harder. After an initial moment of weakness where I was about to forswear drinking forever, in accordance with our ranking, Caitlin snapped me out of it.
Like her, I will step up my drinking to try to boost our ranking. Together we can pledge to single-handedly (A conceptual impossibility, I know. Shut up) pull our poor lame law schools from the depths of unforgiving sobriety.
...
Damnit. I'm out of beer.
Hey, at least we party more than BYU. Which somehow outparties thirteen schools, including Chicago and Penn. And also has the most dateable student body.
These rankings, of course, are not official in any way. The methodology is illuminating, if concerning:
"We spammed current law students with a “Please take our survey” email. We considered using the amount of responses per school as a factor in the rankings, as students with enough free time to answer such a frivolous email probably deserve recognition, but we were concerned about punishing schools for spam detection."This, of course, requires that a significant number of students respond to the email. And, because the survey includes questions such as "How much do you drink?" and "How much do you go out?" this might be skewed. Although they do ask how much you go out and how much others go out, they do acknowledge that "Most respondents believed they went out more than their peers."
This, of course, makes who answers the emails from some random website that probably go to one's SPAM folder hugely relevant. I never got such an email. Or perhaps when I got the email I was out partying and forgot to respond. Or perhaps I was hungover. I'm sure I was the only one this happened to.
In any case, I'm devastated by the fact that BU has 74 schools that party more, party better, and party harder. After an initial moment of weakness where I was about to forswear drinking forever, in accordance with our ranking, Caitlin snapped me out of it.
Like her, I will step up my drinking to try to boost our ranking. Together we can pledge to single-handedly (A conceptual impossibility, I know. Shut up) pull our poor lame law schools from the depths of unforgiving sobriety.
...
Damnit. I'm out of beer.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Bender Like Murtaugh
I am alive. Barely. Thank you to all who have written in with concern.
At this point, my body is composed roughly of 50 percent beer, 30 percent whiskey, and 20 percent bacon cheeseburgers. And 100 percent pain.
In a recent episode of How I Met Your Mother, we were presented with something called "The Murtaugh List." Murtaugh, from the Lethal Weapon movies, was known for saying, "I'm too old for this sh*t." The Murtaugh list is a collection of activities (i.e. going to a rave, eating an entire pizza in one sitting, beer bongs) that, in our advanced age, we are too old to do.
What qualifies? Basically anything that, once done, leaves you no recourse but to slump on your couch, wish for death, and whisper in a cracked voice, "I'm too old for this sh*t."
I think we can safely add the multi-day bender to the list. Good Lord.
I will resume regular blogging shortly, as soon as everything stops hurting. I will now call my mother, wish her a Happy Mother's Day, and try to explain to her why my voice sounds like Lindsay Lohan after a week in Cancun.
At this point, my body is composed roughly of 50 percent beer, 30 percent whiskey, and 20 percent bacon cheeseburgers. And 100 percent pain.
In a recent episode of How I Met Your Mother, we were presented with something called "The Murtaugh List." Murtaugh, from the Lethal Weapon movies, was known for saying, "I'm too old for this sh*t." The Murtaugh list is a collection of activities (i.e. going to a rave, eating an entire pizza in one sitting, beer bongs) that, in our advanced age, we are too old to do.
What qualifies? Basically anything that, once done, leaves you no recourse but to slump on your couch, wish for death, and whisper in a cracked voice, "I'm too old for this sh*t."
I think we can safely add the multi-day bender to the list. Good Lord.
I will resume regular blogging shortly, as soon as everything stops hurting. I will now call my mother, wish her a Happy Mother's Day, and try to explain to her why my voice sounds like Lindsay Lohan after a week in Cancun.
Quote of the Day LII
Dick Cheney was supposed to be here, but he was working on his memoirs. How To Shoot Friends and Interrogate People.
-- Barack Obama
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Fourth Strong Wind
And now, the end is near.
Later this morning, I'll submit my last final of 2L year. Somehow, incredibly, I'm 2/3 of the way to becoming an actual lawyer. This is like Moe from The Simpsons becoming an AA sponsor.
Of course, the last final is criminal procedure -- or, as I like to call it, the class that validates paranoia. As I've mentioned, I'm basically studying the adversary's rulebook. Because of this, I have no choice but to conclude that the superlative I won in college -- "Most likely to represent himself in court" -- is more a prophecy than a joke.
Perhaps saddest of all is that, despite a semester of studying how and when arrests are made, I still have no clue what on Earth happened to me the night of the Guitar Hero incident. I've had a full semester to figure this out yet still don't know what to answer on applications and background checks.
This, of course, bodes poorly for my performance. Per usual, I ask that you pray for me.
More importantly, because tomorrow is the beginning of a twenty-day stretch where I have absolutely nothing to do, I ask that you pray for my safety and that of my internal organs. If there is a heaven, my liver is certainly going there. And probably soon.
I will resume blogging when I am able to tell the difference between the M and the N on my keyboard.
Later this morning, I'll submit my last final of 2L year. Somehow, incredibly, I'm 2/3 of the way to becoming an actual lawyer. This is like Moe from The Simpsons becoming an AA sponsor.
Of course, the last final is criminal procedure -- or, as I like to call it, the class that validates paranoia. As I've mentioned, I'm basically studying the adversary's rulebook. Because of this, I have no choice but to conclude that the superlative I won in college -- "Most likely to represent himself in court" -- is more a prophecy than a joke.
Perhaps saddest of all is that, despite a semester of studying how and when arrests are made, I still have no clue what on Earth happened to me the night of the Guitar Hero incident. I've had a full semester to figure this out yet still don't know what to answer on applications and background checks.
This, of course, bodes poorly for my performance. Per usual, I ask that you pray for me.
More importantly, because tomorrow is the beginning of a twenty-day stretch where I have absolutely nothing to do, I ask that you pray for my safety and that of my internal organs. If there is a heaven, my liver is certainly going there. And probably soon.
I will resume blogging when I am able to tell the difference between the M and the N on my keyboard.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Cinco de No-Drinko
Yes, it's true. Because I have a final tomorrow, I am unable to participate in this highest of holidays: Cinco de Mayo.
I was thinking of filing a claim against BU, for forcing me to both take a final and study for tomorrow's final on the holiest of holy days for Mexicans.
I honestly feel like I am not being allowed to exercise my religious beliefs. Today, I am not performing my God-given duties as a Mexican. I am not celebrating my heritage. I am not running down the street clad in only a sombrero with a Mexican flag as a cape. I am not drinking myself stupid and forcing tequila on impressionable co-eds. I am sitting in a library studying for an exam that tells me how cops should behave. Because of this, I am genuinely afraid of going to hell.
And this isn't just hell. This is Mexican hell. The salsa is all Tostitos "Salsa" - mild. The music lacks accordions. The pinatas are all empty and every time you take a nap the phone rings and it's your boss.
And there's a river at the edge of this hell. And no matter how much you swim, you can never get to the other side.
If anyone in this library has tequila (normally this would be me but I ran out), I would appreciate it if you could spare enough so I can sprinkle a little on my forehead like holy water.
And if you are done and not in the library, mazel tov. Find yourself tequila and be baptized. Happy Cinco de Drinko, everybody.
I was thinking of filing a claim against BU, for forcing me to both take a final and study for tomorrow's final on the holiest of holy days for Mexicans.
I honestly feel like I am not being allowed to exercise my religious beliefs. Today, I am not performing my God-given duties as a Mexican. I am not celebrating my heritage. I am not running down the street clad in only a sombrero with a Mexican flag as a cape. I am not drinking myself stupid and forcing tequila on impressionable co-eds. I am sitting in a library studying for an exam that tells me how cops should behave. Because of this, I am genuinely afraid of going to hell.
And this isn't just hell. This is Mexican hell. The salsa is all Tostitos "Salsa" - mild. The music lacks accordions. The pinatas are all empty and every time you take a nap the phone rings and it's your boss.
And there's a river at the edge of this hell. And no matter how much you swim, you can never get to the other side.
If anyone in this library has tequila (normally this would be me but I ran out), I would appreciate it if you could spare enough so I can sprinkle a little on my forehead like holy water.
And if you are done and not in the library, mazel tov. Find yourself tequila and be baptized. Happy Cinco de Drinko, everybody.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Third Strong Wind
If this next exam was a wind, it would be a twister. Or hurricane. Or both. A hurrister, if you will. Or twistacane. Or something that doesn't sound like an adult novelty.
Admin is the next thing to be bested and this could really sink my already-leaking-ship. Apparently, the exam is two issue spotters, where he gives us an incomprehensible statute and then ten pages of facts on benzene and octane standards and then asks whether we should overturn the board that overturned the ALJ or if that is even a question to consider and if not then what. In other words, I only understood about half the words in that sentence. I might understand three words on the actual exam.
In fact, I've given up hope. I know there's no way I'll do anything remotely acceptable. So, in order not to fail, I am going to resort to a new strategy. I'm not terribly proud of it, but if you don't eat the bear, the bear eats you.
What I'm going to do is simple. I'm going to walk into the exam room. And then I'm going to sneeze. And then I'm going to sneeze again. And again. Then I'll cough. I'll look sweaty and disheveled. I'll keep coughing. Five minutes before the exam starts, I'll pretend to take a call from back home and speak in Spanish. Then I'll sneeze again.
With luck, people will put two and two together and, like everyone else did, completely freak out. If people become rattled enough by the swine flu panic, it'll overwhelm their ability to actually answer the exam. This gives me the competitive advantage that will allow me to, if not succeed, at least level the playing field.
Hey, others did it. And yes, they got red-carded and are kind of douchebags. But the proctor will be too busy making a surgical mask out of the exam instructions. And even though I may be lynched, at least I will not fail.
Probably. Hopefully.
Avenge me.
Admin is the next thing to be bested and this could really sink my already-leaking-ship. Apparently, the exam is two issue spotters, where he gives us an incomprehensible statute and then ten pages of facts on benzene and octane standards and then asks whether we should overturn the board that overturned the ALJ or if that is even a question to consider and if not then what. In other words, I only understood about half the words in that sentence. I might understand three words on the actual exam.
In fact, I've given up hope. I know there's no way I'll do anything remotely acceptable. So, in order not to fail, I am going to resort to a new strategy. I'm not terribly proud of it, but if you don't eat the bear, the bear eats you.
What I'm going to do is simple. I'm going to walk into the exam room. And then I'm going to sneeze. And then I'm going to sneeze again. And again. Then I'll cough. I'll look sweaty and disheveled. I'll keep coughing. Five minutes before the exam starts, I'll pretend to take a call from back home and speak in Spanish. Then I'll sneeze again.
With luck, people will put two and two together and, like everyone else did, completely freak out. If people become rattled enough by the swine flu panic, it'll overwhelm their ability to actually answer the exam. This gives me the competitive advantage that will allow me to, if not succeed, at least level the playing field.
Hey, others did it. And yes, they got red-carded and are kind of douchebags. But the proctor will be too busy making a surgical mask out of the exam instructions. And even though I may be lynched, at least I will not fail.
Probably. Hopefully.
Avenge me.
Nowhere to Hide
This reminds me of the scene in The Simpsons Movie where, when the apocalypse hits, the drunks run out of the bar and into a church and the parishioners run out of the church and into the bar.
Charlie From Oyez
As we all know, Stephen Breyer Sandra Day O'Connor David Souter is hanging up his cleats and going home, to a house that looks like the setting of the sequel to The Haunting in Connecticut: The Haunting in New Hampshire.
A dependable if unspectacular justice, Souter's career is much like Luis Gonzalez's. Always solid, rarely great. Reading a Souter opinion is like slogging through rhetorical mud. He helped co-author the 100-plus page Casey, which, if it was a movie, would be a David Lynch movie. True, he usually reached a consistent and moderate opinion, but the man was about as exciting as waiting for your toaster to do its thing.
In fact, Souter will be remembered mostly for having been a huge mistake. At least, from the right wing perspective.
Let's look at it from Bush the Elder's point of view. Souter is his first nominee to the Court -- his first-born, if you will. Bush the Elder is beaming, happy, proud as punch. And then Souter upholds abortion rights. Bush the Elder goes, uh-oh. And then Souter votes consistently with the left. And Bush the Elder now has that same look on his face that he got when Bush Jr. told him he had made the cheerleading squad at Andover.
And then, to top it off, Souter votes against Bush the Elder's actual son in Bush v. Gore.
It's brilliant and it's beautiful. It would have been Biblical if Souter had been part of a majority in Bush v. Gore, but this ain't Hollywood. But it's still good to know that Bush the Elder's figurative son was as big a disappointment to him as his actual son.
Well, let's not go that far.
I myself am of course throwing my hat into the ring of possible successors. I know everyone and their mother think a woman should get the post, but what the hell. It's worth a shot. Plus, if I don't get it now, I'll get it next year, when Stevens retires, or the year after that, when Ginsburg does the same.
Why me? Why not. For one, I'd be the perfect stealth candidate. Yes, my judicial philosophy of "well, it makes sense" is a tad unsophisticated. But, well, it makes sense. And while there's a strong probability I'll be GChatting on the bench, that can't be any different from whatever it is that Thomas does. After all, all I have to do is ask one question and I won't be the least participative member of the proceedings.
Even if that question is, "What page are we on?"
A dependable if unspectacular justice, Souter's career is much like Luis Gonzalez's. Always solid, rarely great. Reading a Souter opinion is like slogging through rhetorical mud. He helped co-author the 100-plus page Casey, which, if it was a movie, would be a David Lynch movie. True, he usually reached a consistent and moderate opinion, but the man was about as exciting as waiting for your toaster to do its thing.
In fact, Souter will be remembered mostly for having been a huge mistake. At least, from the right wing perspective.
Let's look at it from Bush the Elder's point of view. Souter is his first nominee to the Court -- his first-born, if you will. Bush the Elder is beaming, happy, proud as punch. And then Souter upholds abortion rights. Bush the Elder goes, uh-oh. And then Souter votes consistently with the left. And Bush the Elder now has that same look on his face that he got when Bush Jr. told him he had made the cheerleading squad at Andover.
And then, to top it off, Souter votes against Bush the Elder's actual son in Bush v. Gore.
It's brilliant and it's beautiful. It would have been Biblical if Souter had been part of a majority in Bush v. Gore, but this ain't Hollywood. But it's still good to know that Bush the Elder's figurative son was as big a disappointment to him as his actual son.
Well, let's not go that far.
I myself am of course throwing my hat into the ring of possible successors. I know everyone and their mother think a woman should get the post, but what the hell. It's worth a shot. Plus, if I don't get it now, I'll get it next year, when Stevens retires, or the year after that, when Ginsburg does the same.
Why me? Why not. For one, I'd be the perfect stealth candidate. Yes, my judicial philosophy of "well, it makes sense" is a tad unsophisticated. But, well, it makes sense. And while there's a strong probability I'll be GChatting on the bench, that can't be any different from whatever it is that Thomas does. After all, all I have to do is ask one question and I won't be the least participative member of the proceedings.
Even if that question is, "What page are we on?"
Sunday, May 3, 2009
No Joy in Mudville
I’ve been neglectful in posting for the following reason:
My looming back-to-back admin and criminal procedure exams. Reading cases in the former is like trying to decipher a 14 year-old’s text messages. There’s only so much you can do after the third “c u l8r” in the first paragraph before your eyes glaze over because of incomprehension so concentrated it sends you into a state of shock.
And the latter is like the second pitcher in a double-header. You’d like to prepare and glance at his scouting report every once in a while, but he’s currently eclipsed by the looming 1999 Pedro Martinez facing you in the first game. Nevertheless, I'm fully expecting the second pitcher to strike me out looking, while I trudge back to the dugout (ha!) muttering in genuine shock, "he has a curveball??"
Like Homer said, “OK, brain. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But let’s get through this so I can go back to killing you with beer."
My looming back-to-back admin and criminal procedure exams. Reading cases in the former is like trying to decipher a 14 year-old’s text messages. There’s only so much you can do after the third “c u l8r” in the first paragraph before your eyes glaze over because of incomprehension so concentrated it sends you into a state of shock.
And the latter is like the second pitcher in a double-header. You’d like to prepare and glance at his scouting report every once in a while, but he’s currently eclipsed by the looming 1999 Pedro Martinez facing you in the first game. Nevertheless, I'm fully expecting the second pitcher to strike me out looking, while I trudge back to the dugout (ha!) muttering in genuine shock, "he has a curveball??"
Like Homer said, “OK, brain. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But let’s get through this so I can go back to killing you with beer."
Friday, May 1, 2009
Flu Zombies in the Dugout
Now that we have scientific and religious confirmation that the Killer Boogers set loose by the Mexicans will kill us all, it is time to start making preparations. The BBC reports that zombies are an issue again, so I urge everyone to hoard guns and ammo. It is only a matter of time before we're forced to shoot what once used to be our loved ones, except now they want our brains.
These are pretty cool shots, though, of what Wrigley Field will look like within the year when us humans are gone and it can go wild. They shouldn't surprise anyone, though, considering this is how the stadium looks like in late October every year anyway.
These are pretty cool shots, though, of what Wrigley Field will look like within the year when us humans are gone and it can go wild. They shouldn't surprise anyone, though, considering this is how the stadium looks like in late October every year anyway.
Slope Day Beset by Killer Boogers
I have neglected to do this all day, so I'd like to take this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy Slope Day.
For those who do not know what Slope Day is, the tags at the end of this post serve as a dictionary definition.
Ah, the good old days when the end of classes meant a party big enough for Snoop and his green shoes to be invited. Whereas in college we celebrated the last day of classes by waking up at 8 and drinking tequila mixed with orange juice, now we celebrate by thanking our luck stars we no longer have to waste time in class and can outline all day.
(Sigh)
In any case, I hope those lucky enough to be able to enjoy passing out on the Slope had a terrific day and are emerging from a mid-afternoon nap in order to have at round two this evening.
I hope they did this even though the entire Cornell community, even alums, got an email yesterday with the subject "Urgent: Slope Day" subject. For the second, I thought the powers that be had done the unimaginable and canceled it. But no, it was merely a buzzkill email, asking attendees to be wary of the Mexipig flu, thunderstorms, alcohol poisoning, and to "do all you can to avoid contact with others' mouth and nose secretions."
So, Cornellians, try not to hook up and/or inhale each other's nose secretions. Do it for the children.
For those who do not know what Slope Day is, the tags at the end of this post serve as a dictionary definition.
Ah, the good old days when the end of classes meant a party big enough for Snoop and his green shoes to be invited. Whereas in college we celebrated the last day of classes by waking up at 8 and drinking tequila mixed with orange juice, now we celebrate by thanking our luck stars we no longer have to waste time in class and can outline all day.
(Sigh)
In any case, I hope those lucky enough to be able to enjoy passing out on the Slope had a terrific day and are emerging from a mid-afternoon nap in order to have at round two this evening.
I hope they did this even though the entire Cornell community, even alums, got an email yesterday with the subject "Urgent: Slope Day" subject. For the second, I thought the powers that be had done the unimaginable and canceled it. But no, it was merely a buzzkill email, asking attendees to be wary of the Mexipig flu, thunderstorms, alcohol poisoning, and to "do all you can to avoid contact with others' mouth and nose secretions."
So, Cornellians, try not to hook up and/or inhale each other's nose secretions. Do it for the children.
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