A PSA About PEDs

In the wake of the stunning revelations that David Ortiz did steroids, I have two things to say:

1. I'm shocked! SHOCKED!

and

2. WHO CARES??

That is all. Thank you.

The Only Beer we Have to Fear

Today, Brobama, Skip Gates, and Sgt. Jim Crowley will sit at a picnic table and try to hash out Gatesgate over the most scrutinized, "why don't we all just sit down and have a beer" session since FDR, Churchill, and Stalin had Jager bombs at Yalta.

I must admit to be troubled by this whole arrangement. No, not the fairly ludicrous idea that an unfortunate set of escalating circumstances suddenly has to be mediated by the president in his backyard, like an angry grade-school principal resolving a dispute over the ownership of a pen that shows you a naked lady when you tilt it just so.

Although I have to say that I would have loved to sit with the President to resolve the disagreement I had with the Ithaca police over the meaning of "noise," it is rarely worth it, in my experience, to make a federal case out of it. Which is precisely what is happening now.

No, what really bothers me is the choice of beer for such an occasion. Now, I'm the last guy who wants to tell a fellow what to drink. If Gates likes Red Stripe and Crowley likes Blue Moon, that's fine. Good beers both, so God Bless.

But Obama wants Bud Light? Seriously? He knows he's not a baseball game on Fox and doesn't have to cotton to the sponsor, right? He can have whatever he wants?

He does? Bud Light? Really?

“He’s trying to send a message that he’s an average American and these are two other average Americans,” said Matt Mackowiak, a Republican strategist. “If you complicate that by making an exotic choice, or an import, or too expensive, you can be too cute by half.”

Oh, fuck that!

Bud Light is fine in the following circumstances: 1) The drinking game you're playing requires chugging. 2) You're too drunk lazy car-less to go to a more respectable beer purveyor than the 7/11 across the street. 3) It's less than $3.00 at the bar. 4) Nothing else is left.

Brobama, you're in your house. And you're the motherfracking president of America. You don't have to drink what I drink when it's two in the morning and all I can find are a couple of crumpled dollar bills in my pocket.

You are the most powerful man in the world! You command an army! Grown, rational men will take a bullet for you! And you're going to settle for Bud Light? When you can have kegs of Spaten? A tap of Chimay? Sam Adams Utopia brewed specifically for your evening meals? And you're going to have Bud fricking Light?

(Rage blackout)

(Composes himself)

Look. I get it. After the Dijon debacle and the sneers you got for liking arugula and those rumors that you hate beer because you only love its hoity-toity cousin, the wine bottle, you need to connect with the "average American."

But the "average American," given the choice, wouldn't choose Bud Light if they could choose any other beer in the world. People aren't thinking, "Cool, the president is drinking Bud Light." They're thinking, "Really? Why would the president drink Bud Light?"

Like I said, I don't presume to tell the President what to like, but if you see someone go for the meatloaf instead of the steak, you'd tell them, right?

Here's what I'm going to do. Mr. President, I'm going to steal a car (an offense which I hope you will pardon), and drive down to DC. On the way, I'll stop at a liquor store and buy 2 each of fifty different beers -- one for each state. Then I'll come to the White House and we'll sit and we'll drink and we won't stop until they're all gone and you and I appreciate all the wonders beer has to offer.

America, nothing is going to get done between here and, um, maybe Monday. You've been warned.

Happy Blogversary!

Today, this weblog becomes one year old.

Despite seemingly insurmountable odds – which include finals, the work week, and the author’s tendency to disappear on weekends to the land of mead and incapacity – the blog has managed to grow from a tiny speck to a slightly larger speck on the interwebs.

The statistics bear it out. The blog has been read in 56 different countries, as well as 48 of 50 of the United States. As soon as Montana and Alabama get their shit together, a full sweep of the electoral map will be mine.

Topics explored include Baseball (23 times), Cornell (38), Drinking (40), Insane People (25), Law School (77 times. FML), Mexicanity (17), Near Death Experiences (19) Poor Decisions (18), Rookie Mistakes (18), Poor Bastards (48), The Authorities (26), Staying in America (17 times, not tries) and Unnecessary Excesses (19 – including this list).

There have been growing pains, for sure. After writing thousand-word columns every week for four years, attaining the brevity inherent of a blog post is still a difficult task for me. My hope is people are bored enough at work or at school to slog through the whole thing. Well … hopefully you’re not bored at work or school, but if you are, then ideally this is a welcome diversion.

Overall, however, this experiment is working out quite nicely. Despite a tendency to overblog on some subjects (See Springsteen, Bruce; University, Cornell; and School, Law), for the most part I look to have a bit of randomness in here to serve average people like Joe the Reader. My only hope, as they say, is to entertain you. Why, my blog has even grown a twitter, which, in Bill Simmons’ words, can be considered the “deleted scenes to the blog’s DVD.”

Given that a month in blog time is like a year in normal time, I believe a year of blogging is an achievement somewhere along the scale of exercising for six months straight or reading five books in one month. It isn’t quite going to the moon, but it sure beats getting the high score in Frogger.

Next year will find our hero on his last year of law school, searching for a job/wife/green card, dreading his twenty-fifth birthday, and, most spectacular of all, growing a three-month Bar-pocalypse Beard. It should be epic indeed.

So now, before my pride pushes me into the falls, I’m going to buy my blog a birthday drink and pour it down the keyboard. Many happy returns.

Random Video of the Day LXVI

Last week, Vanity Fair published a transcription of Sarah Palin's resignation speech that had been slathered in the red ink of an editor's pen. This, of course, made me think of what I would have done with the piece had she been a writer for The Sun and I had been her editor. After a brief moment to consider asking the business department to purchase more red pens, preferably in bulk, I'd have just shaken my head, handed it back to her, and told her to go take this to The Review, who'd publish dreck like this. Maybe.

But then, today, I realized I was wrong. As Conan O'Brien pointed out, it wasn't a speech, but a poem. And who better to declaim than William Shatner himself?



Thank you, Shatner, for showing us that inside Sarah Palin's bear-wrestling exterior lies an e.e. cummings yearning to escape.

The Three Burials of the Taco Bell Chihuahua

After a week, my grief has finally subsided to the point where I can talk about the tragic, tragic loss of an icon. I’m sure people have expected me to address the loss before now, but I have been so paralyzed by sorrow, it is only today that I can summon the fortitude to make a brief statement about the tragedy.

Like many of you, I have spent the past week mourning the Taco Bell Chihuahua.

There are no Taco Bells in Boston, but if there were, I’m sure they would be surrounded by a throng of mourners holding vigil, rocking back and forth softly so as to not put out their candles, sobbing while singing “We Shall Overcome.”

As with past circus acts funerals, the company of strangers can be cathartic indeed, and sharing one’s grief has been proven an effective panacea for the pain that seems so unlikely to be conquered.

I myself have mourned more privately. This was, of course, the family dog, a rascal yapping around in the foreground of family pictures, barking happily in the background whenever I called home.

The Taco Bell Chihuahua was not just our dog. He was ...

(Breath hitches)

(Pause)

(Steps away from the lectern)

(Collects himself)

He was a member of the family.

It is a tough loss indeed. I’ve been in a glass case of emotion the likes of which would make Ron Burgundy’s mustache fall into his scotch.

First, I refused to believe that I would ever enjoy a cheesy Gordita without that scamp trembling with excitement at my feet. Preposterous! Absurd! This thought made me angry indeed, and I cursed God and His plan, shaking my fist at the heavens from my throne, which I always feel compelled to sit on after a Taco Bell visit. Soon, my cursing subsided, and I found myself trying to make a deal with God, begging him to take me instead of the dog, to visit His wrath upon me so that the world could still bask in the presence of the warm, liquid eyes of the dog. The thought that the world would never once again have the pleasure of its company saddened me to the core. The World had lost its chief stereotype, and nothing can ever bring him back.

Last week, God saw fit to pluck from this Earth a true luminary of the arts, a figure who inspired nations and whose departure leaves a singular chasm of sorrow so deep it is unfathomable.

But this last thought consoles me. We were lucky enough – indeed blessed – to have had the Taco Bell Chihuahua in our midst, gracing us with his sonorous voice and regal bearing. His beauty now graces that big Taco Bell in the Sky, and it brings me peace to think that, when God ends my days, that little Chihuahua will be waiting up there, probably trembling behind a chair somewhere.

Tiny in stature, indeed, but a giant walked amongst us.

May it rest in peace.

Portrait of a Cartoon as a Real Man

No wonder they call him a blockhead.

This is a pretty neat gallery of what cartoon characters would look like if they were real people. As we can see with the example to the left, some of it is nightmare fuel, and it is indeed easy to see why Charlie Brown is the most depressing kid in the world. If someone like that lived on my block, I'd probably have picked on him too, just as soon as I stopped screaming.

Some of these really are the ugliest things in the world -- particularly Popeye, who has a face that even Olive Oyl, the ugliest woman in history, wouldn't love.

But some of them are indeed interesting. At the very least, they will replace the whale in your nightmares.

A Smoltz by Any Other Name

Today, I will be going to a Cornell Club of Boston event at Fenway Park. All-you-can-eat and all-you-can-drink buffet before the game, decent seats, and a baseball game. Should be good, no?

And then I saw today's pitcher.

John Smoltz.

Oy vey.

This could be interesting. Now, Smoltzie has been quite the disappointment for the Red Sox, but still. It's Smoltz.

I imagine today will be like going to a bar with a bunch of my friends, and then seeing my ex appear randomly and hook up with the douchebag from down the hall.

This all-you-can-drink part of the deal has suddenly become an issue.

Update: After watching Smoltz give up six runs in five innings, I must revise my earlier analogy, and append a clause wherein the douchebag roofied Smoltz and had his way with him.

Three Jews and a Mexican: The End of the Road

The morning dawned heavy on a Jew and Mexican. Moldman had left the night before to go back home and prepare for his post-collegiate life. This left one Jew and one Mexican, locked in a struggle for survival the likes of which this world has never seen. Not with each other, of course – fights between a Jew and a Mexican tend to be one-sided affairs, with the victor largely depending on whether influence or sharp items are the weapons of choice.

No, our struggle was simply based on our state of being. Our bodies, pushed to the limit by four weeks of college living, had suffered the added burden of two weeks on the road. We’d come literally thousands of miles, from one coast clear to the other. We’d hiked through 110-plus degree weather, cheered a winning dog in a race in the deepest South, and stood three feet away from Gary Busey, events that might destroy lesser men but had only served to make us stronger.

We’d come from New Jersey to Las Vegas and now it was time to say farewell. Dustin was to drive to Los Angeles to make a new life for himself before being called back to Iowa to help stop HillDog’s inevitable victory. I was to remain in Vegas for another night and then meet my parents in San Diego, to spend a week driving up the Pacific Coast and into the northlands of San Francisco.

On the morning of Day 16, two friends stood to the side of the car that three Jews and a Mexican had called home for two weeks and said farewell. The Jew got back in his car and the Mexican walked into the Luxor hotel and that was that.

The road trip certainly gave us many memories, most of which we have recounted here, all of which we hope were, for the brief periods of time you spent reading these, entertaining. We still talk to each other about the road trip all the time, and it gives us an excuse to email each other at work or in school or wherever we may be about something we saw that reminded us of the trip – a GPS meltdown, a lady flashing her boobs, sketchy motels, Sanjay, you name it. “You have to specify the HBO,” “Touchy pants!” and “The kinky one in the green shirt” have all become inside jokes, which often leave those around us confused and frightened.


Perhaps someday we will have a sequel, and Three Jews and a Mexican will again hitch their covered wagon and travel north, or along the mid-western territories, or even through an alternate Southern route. Only time will tell. For now, however, we will content ourselves with making random calls to Sanjay and talking about those great two weeks touring America, while “Comfortably Numb” plays softly in the background.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 15

Because Las Vegas is the place where memories go to die, this entry is unlikely to have much substance. Vegas is so much fun that you rarely remember it. We were busy carousing and, when not carousing, praying for death to release us from the constant hangover that occurs any time you spend more than a few hours in Vegas. Therefore, there is nothing in our log book chronicling our visit to this fair city. All we have is a scattered collections of events that, when patched together, turn into a highly incoherent narrative.

I do remember that, when we arrived, the first thing we did was go to the Holy Shrine of West Coast Fast Food establishments: In-n-Out Burger. Long cherished by those on the left side of the map and long envied by those on the right flank of the continent, In-n-Out has terrific burgers, easily worth the 20 minute wait and preceding death fight through the throngs to get to the counter.

We stayed at the Tropicana, a hotel that has seen better days. Think of it as the Larry King of casinos. It really had its best days (if any) years ago, but remains accessible and relevant thanks to a sort of nostalgia that everyone has for things that owe most of their reputation to how well time has served their idealization. Confusing, tacky, and oblivious to its own shortcomings, the Tropicana nonetheless boasted cheap rooms and a convenient location. It would do.

Like I said, upon arriving in our room, I pretty much threw my suitcase in the bedroom, screamed, “See ya!” at Dustin and Moldman, and booked it for the casino floor. There, I threaded water for a while, while the Yids cleaned themselves up for the night.

I have no idea what happened the rest of the night, which I think was a lot of fun. I do remember though, that we came back to the Tropicana circa 4 a.m. and saw a $5 blackjack table. We shrugged and said “why not?” much in the same way one would grab a candy bar at the supermarket checkout line.

We sat down and started playing, mostly out of inertia. The table was riddled with cigarette holes and our dealer spoke some hybrid of Russian, English, and Drunk-speak. Our presence at that table was a sad sight to see at that hour of the morning.

Still, there were moments of excitement. But because this was the Tropicana, they were fraught with peril. At some point, Moldman got an ace and a king, for a profit of $7.50. Understandably overjoyed, he extended his fist across the table to give me a celebratory pound.

Then our dealer lost it. DO NOT BLOCK THE CAMERAS! He began pointing at Moldman and then pointed at the ceiling, screaming at him to STOP BLOCKING THE CAMERAS and PUTTING YOUR HAND ON THE TABLE BLOCKS THE CAMERAS and NEVER BLOCK THE CAMERAS and DO YOU UNDERSTAND ABOUT THE CAMERAS?

We nodded, politely took our winnings, and booked it away from there before he could stab us in full view of the cameras.

The next day was spent mostly exploring the Strip, drinking margaritas out of yard-long plastic containers, and generally doing that which people in Vegas do during the afternoon. The night, again, regrettably, is mostly lost in a blurry haze. I am happy to report that we did not lose anyone in the party, and we never did have a tiger in our hotel room.



The second night, however, the Tropicana almost came thisclose to being evacuated, thanks in large part to us and, more specifically, to Moldman.

When we were leaving the hotel to take Moldman to their airport, we were waiting for the elevator. Moldman, tired, no doubt, put his hand against the wall to lean against it and rest. The problem was that he put his hand directly on a fire alarm, and, when he realized where his hand was, pulled it back in a panic, narrowly and by the grace of God avoiding pulling the alarm. He came close, however, and to this day, Dustin and I regret that Moldman did not pull that fire alarm by accident, capping off what had been an all-star trip all around.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 14

Dawn is not a reasonable hour at which anybody should ever wake up. Waking up before dawn is even more egregious, requiring either insanity or a complete disregard for all that is good and just in the world. In other words, Homey don’t play that.

And yet there we were, rousing ourselves seemingly moments after we went to bed, strapping on sneakers and filling up canteens to embark on today’s project: A hike of the Grand Canyon.

We would not go through the whole thing, of course. We would take the baby trail, go out maybe a mile or two, take some pictures, and then go back. The reason for our unconscionably early start time was simple: People should begin hiking at dawn so they do it when the temperature is still a mild 95 degrees. ‘Cause as soon as the sun makes its way above the canyon walls and shines its molting smile on the few humans crazy enough to willingly put themselves in its path, the mercury can rise to 120 degrees, rendering all physical activity a minor miracle of God.

Five in the morning found two Jews and a Mexican standing in a groggy huddle with our hike group. We had all the looks of pale Northeasterners whose outdoor activities consist mostly of walking to the subway and occasionally grilling hamburgers. Already schvitzing from the baked rocks at our feet, we set out along the canyon, determined to avoid death.

The Grand Canyon is truly spectacular, and can scarcely be put into words. It is beyond enormous, and its scope is such that it cannot be completely captured by a camera. Pictures can’t do justice to its vastness, in a very objective sense. We just don’t have the technology to capture just how damned big it is. You can only really get a sense of it if you actually see it, and stand at the edge and are receptive with whatever faculties of perception humans have. And it’s still not enough. Its majesty defies description.


We walked in silence, for the most part, mostly because of the exertion, but also because, other than the Ninth Ward in New Orleans, scarce other places on our trip offered the opportunity for quiet contemplation. When we came to the rocky outcrop where our “hike” ended, we sat at the edge for a while and just, well, sat there. It was nice.

On our way back up the trail, Moldman noticed a squirrel sitting at the edge of the trail, eating a nut. Dustin and I froze, thinking that Moldman was going to giggle and begin chasing the squirrel along the narrow canyon walls. Thankfully, he refrained. Instead, he spent twenty minutes taking pictures of the squirrel. Yes, twenty minutes. Really. I know.

We went back up to the edge of the canyon and walked around a bit, eventually deciding to take a short bus tour of the canyon’s edge. This was kind of a fiasco, since it took two hours and just bused us to different places along the Canyon’s edge that all offered substantially the same view. A spectacular view, yes, but taking the bus for two hours to see the same view over and over again seemed a bit superfluous.

Soon, it was time to get back in the car and start driving South, with an eye towards the state of Nevada and the great city of Las Vegas.

My feelings about Las Vegas are perfectly clear, as long-time readers of this blog are sure to know. I love the city more than anything. Tragic, of course, because this means I can never live there. I didn’t stick my head out the window the whole way there like an excited dog, but it wasn’t out of the question.

Before Vegas, though, we had to go through a few hundred miles of bad roads. Congested roads, which was so frustrating. Imagine that you finally get to go to heaven and you get stuck in a DMV line. And the traffic was backed up far beyond the city limits, too. You know you still have a ways to go when you see random casinos trying to lure people with the promise of cheap slots and $3.99 all-you-can-eat-steak-and-

shrimp dinners.

One of the bonuses of the traffic was that we did get to see the Hoover Dam. This puzzled us. So many people, before we took the trip, advised us that we HAD to see the Hoover Dam. We HAD to see it, just HAD to. And it’s an impressive feat of engineering, to be sure. But when we finally saw it, we didn’t know we were seeing it. We saw a dam, and it was huge, kind of, but none of us thought this was the Hoover Dam that we HAD to see. I guess we just assumed it would be bigger (that’s what she said), but it took us a few minutes to accept that, hey, maybe this actually is the Hoover Dam.

Then, finally, Mecca. Las Vegas and its lights loomed in the distance, like a shining beacon of awesomeness. I was literally bouncing in my chair in excitement, to the point where the two Jews were debating whether letting me go out and run a few laps around the MGM Casino would calm me down.

Given the malleable and indistinct nature of time in Las Vegas, the chronicle of our visit there will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, I’ll just leave you with the image of me running into the room, throwing my luggage wherever it may land, and running back out the door in a frenzy of joy.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 13

Today we learned that “It’s a dry heat” is Arizona’s state motto. Or, at least, it seems to be. While it has not been recognized as the official motto by the powers that be, that phrase is repeated incessantly by the locals with the kind of brainwashed cheer common to cult members and the religious right.

Arizona is hot. Constantly hot, mind-numbingly hot, so much so that the awnings that ring the sidewalks emit a constant spray of water, effortlessly confusing pedestrians as to whether those stains on their shirt are sweat or tap water.

Sedona is a very interesting town. Beautiful, certainly, ringed by awesome stone formations of various shapes and sizes, creating a haven for those who like to climb large rocks. The air is blue and still, and the almost complete and utter lack of humidity gives the atmosphere a clean, crisp quality. Basically, it’s like an alien planet for those of us visiting from the Northeast.

And, just like any alien planet, it has its local lifeforms. These are mostly found in the form of hippies in their New Age-y incarnation. There seemed to be a psychic on every corner, and countless storefronts advertised healing balms for your aura, massages for your chakras, and loosening of your wallets. Hippies wandered the streets in a somnolent daze, attributed in part to the heat and in part to their communion with nature.

Most of these hippies were middle-aged or older. We imagine that they were hippies in olden times (when hippies used to mean something, man!) who later became yuppies or a close approximation thereof, making money and earning a decent living, until they had accrued enough wealth to stop working for the man and reunite with their inner spirit. They happily reunited in Sedona, purchasing countless beads to prove their fealty to the tribe, which, in their eyes, was only temporarily separated, but never dissolved.

Consequently, everything in Sedona was expensive as hell. I’m not sure they had their own version of Disney Dollars, like Ithaca does, but Sedona really seems to be Disneyland for your crazy hippy aunt.

After we had our fill of Sedona and ate breakfast at a restaurant that seemed to be staffed by the entirety of a WNBA team – the waitresses were without exception six and a half feet tall – we met up with Maddie, an incredibly nice native who had gone to Cornell and was ready to show us the behind-the-scenes of the Arizona rocklands.

The day was spent amidst nature. Maddie led, and we tried to avoid rattlesnakes. She took us to the red rocks and past canyon walls. Why, she even took us the The Canyon, a place that the locals keep secrets and is thus unfrequented by tourists. This is pretty much what it sounds like: a vast canyon with a river running through it, perfect for wading and accidentally falling in the water. We all wiped out on the wet rocks, except for Dustin, and sprawled into the water. Somehow, I managed to save the camera from an watery end, by contorting and holding it aloft like a digital Olympic Torch, sacrificing body so its flame would not be extinguished.


We visited some wineries, which were mediocre. It has to be near impossible to grow adequate grapes in temperatures more suited to Mercury than to viticulture. The fact that they even exist deserves kudos – or a WTF are you thinking award. We visited a militia town, where we temporarily became Two (lapsed) Jews and an Ohioan. As Maddie explained, this was a town that was revived because of mining and prostitution. My two favorite things.

We said farewell to Maddie and her mother, great people who generously fitted us with supplies for the rest of the trip and thus have our undying gratitude, with an eye towards making it to the Grand Canyon before sunset. We had heard this was the best time of day to see it, and were determined to get there in time.

So we booked it across Arizona and its 108 degree heat and somehow managed to make it to the Grand Canyon’s edge with, literally, about three minutes to spare. The Grand Canyon is, to understate it, spectacular, and the sunset was amazing.

Dustin, upon reaching the room, promptly passed out from heat exhaustion. Moldman and I shrugged, turned him on his side, and went to the lodge to find food. After a rather terrible dinner, we retired early to our “cabin.” The next day, we were supposed to get up at 5 in the morning to go hiking – both a first and last occurrence in my lifetime.

Pretzel Day

Today, the powers that be who manage the building in which my office is located have "Tenant Appreciation Day." This means free ice cream in the lobby. This is awesome, and reminds me of Stanley's priceless quote from Dunder Mifflin's "Pretzel Day":

"I wake up every morning in a bed that’s too small, drive my daughter to a school that’s too expensive and then I go to work to a job for which I get paid too little. But on Pretzel Day? Well, I like Pretzel Day…"

Now if we can only get that drink cart to go around on Thursdays.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 12

We awoke on Day 12 with a certain glumness. After almost two weeks on the road, we were shedding a Jew, since Alan had to return home. The fact that the four of us had made it mostly intact from New Jersey to New Mexico via a bowl-shaped route was tremendous indeed. Unfortunately, Alan had to return home, and so we made off for Albuquerque to drop him off at the airport.

Before he left, however, we had some time to kill. Therefore, we visited another winery, the umpteenth on the trip, and perhaps the best one. New Mexican wine is vastly underrated, if evaluated solely by the two wineries we visited in the state. As a bonus, we got free wine because the receptionist misquoted us the tasting fee. Due to the misunderstanding, management (i.e. the owner’s wife) graciously waived the not unreasonable “cover charge.”

Then it was time to say good-bye. We bid farewell to Alan at the Albuquerque airport – which the locals insist on calling “Sunport.” Unfortunately, Three Jews and a Mexican became Two Jews and a Mexican for the next couple of days. We immediately began missing Alan’s affability and pleasantly agreeable demeanor. The upshot was that we were much less likely now to be flashed by creepy older ladies.

Onward. We descended upon Santa Fe. Dustin, to have an in-person interview to join the staff of a certain “physically friendly” former-Mexican governor during the democratic primaries, while Moldman and Charlie would attempt to not get lost. All reports indicate that Dustin’s interview went well (he got the job), although it did force him to become a resident of the state of Iowa for a few months.

It was here when we finally suffered our first automobile accident. To this point, we had successfully avoided any unpleasantness despite our New Jersey license plates, Dustin’s penchant for changing four lanes in the space of 100 feet, and the generally indulgent southern speed limits. Unfortunately, our clean streak was at an end. As he was leaving his interview, a woman in a Lexus backed into Dustin’s car door. Nobody was hurt, and Dustin lost a golden chance to fake an injury and get a settlement. In his defense, he hadn’t started law school yet.

Albuquerque is a great city for killing two hours of time. There are about 3 blocks of stuff and then that’s it – the rest seems to be one large expanse of adobe houses. Frustrated with the fact that we had been in New Mexico for quite some time now and had found nothing of interest save for good wine and suicidal bats, we saw a sign for “El Pueblo Native Center,” advertised as a sort of Native American museum and gathering place, and resolved to, at the very least, at least get some culture from this state.

As expected, it did in fact disappoint. The facility resembled less a museum than it did a Club Med that had seen better days 20 years ago. I even hesitate to call it a museum, since literally every “exhibit” was for sale.

The one highlight there was this:


It was a chair covered entirely with fried bread. Dustin bravely offered to sit in it, and was rewarded for his efforts with a great picture, yes, but also with sticky pants that would no longer be kosher to wear on the Jewish high holidays.

Resolved to quit New Mexico, we took Route 66 and drove on towards Arizona. We even stopped at a casino (another one of our rules), and wasted 15 minutes playing $2 blackjack. While not as pointless an exercise as Supreme Court confirmation hearings, there was not much more to this than that. Although we did think that, for a second, we saw a certain high-ranking member of Cornell’s administration happily playing dollar craps. In retrospect, there is no way that could have been him.

Route 66’s defining feature was the prevalence of signs that read: “Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers. Prisons Nearby.” Of course, much like No Trespassing signs, we took these as invitations rather than warnings. Unfortunately, and despite our best efforts, we did not see any escaped convicts. We would have to make do with the one former criminal in the car.

Presently we arrived in Flagstaff, the Ithaca of the West. It was a rather charming town, and it is a pity we didn’t stay longer. We had dinner there at the Beaver Street Brewery, thanks to the recommendation of an old man.

Us: I’m sorry, is there anywhere here you would recommend eating?
Old guy: Hmmm. Nothing comes to mind, sorry.
Old guy’s wife: What about the burger and pizza place up on Beaver Street.
Old guy: (yelling) OH YEAAAAH!!!!

Thanks to that rather enthusiastic endorsement, we had one of our best meals of the trip, served at the restaurant with the best name on the trip.

We drove on to Sedona, where we would spend the night. We splurged on this one, getting a really nice quasi-suite at the Radisson. Unfortunately for him, Moldman drew air mattress duty, largely thanks to his refusal to give up his bed the night before to an exhausted-from-driving Dustin. Moldman and I flipped a coin and I got the bed, which was awesome. These were the most comfortable beds I have ever slept on. Nestled in their cloud-like goodness, we were asleep within seconds.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 11

Today, I woke up in prison.

It was a Medium Security Prison near Fort Stockton, Texas. A lovely facility, in fact, if one doesn't mind the fact that it is, indeed, a jail. I wasn't too afraid. After all, The Shawshank Redemption is my favorite movie, and I was sure I could find a good friend who knows how to get things. That and I've been to Zihuatanejo.

To get back to reality now, I actually did wake up at the Fort Stockton Medium Security Prison, but not for the reasons you might imagine. I had dozed off soon after leaving Ozona that morning, and next thing I know, Dustin was saying, "Charlieeee, we're heeeeere."

I woke up, rubbed my eyes, and there it was, in all its institutionalized glory. It seems that we had gown bored with the hundreds of miles of barren wasteland that is West Texas. Bored and looking for something to do, Alan and Dustin saw a sign that said "Prison," shrugged, and followed it. At the very least it could have been educational.

So we parked in the visitor's lot and sauntered to the gates like it was the most common thing to do -- Three Jews and a Mexican walk into a prison. We were let into the foyer and gave them our journalist spiel, requesting not an overnight visit as part of the Scared Straight program (Moldman spending a night in prison would have been hysterical, I maintain), but merely a tour of the facilities.

Alas, they were unable to comply, due to prison regulations. It seems this prison incarcerated only sex offenders and sexual deviants, and letting us in would have been "disruptive" to the prisoners. Our shorts, apparently, showed enough leg that they just didn't want to parade us in front of the prison population. Maybe this was a real excuse, maybe they just didn't want to deal with us. I've never thought of my legs as sexy -- in fact, sometimes I seriously consider getting calf implants -- but that was that. We took a picture with Tiny, the happy guard, and set off on the road again.


Presently, we left Texas and crossed into New Mexico. My feelings about the state have been documented, so I was none too happy about this, but trooped on. We took a small detour to go see Carlsbad Caverns, and there was nothing on the road -- literally nothing, no cars, people or houses -- except for cows. So we all got off and walked around a little on the deserted highway -- Moldman and myself a little longer, since Alan and Dustin thought it would be "funny" to "leave us there."

After getting back in the car, we went to the caverns and once again used the press story on the park rangers in charge of the Cavern. One of them, who looked like the Platonic ideal of a park ranger, did not really believe us but let us in anyway. Although he was the first person to disbelieve our story, our streak of "not paying for anything" was still unbroken.

Carlsbad Caverns are cool, to say the least. Stalactites, stalagmites and everything else abounded, as did natural dripping points, bottomless pits, enormous chambers, and tourists with their flash cameras.

Well into New Mexico now, we kept driving. Presently, we came to Roswell, home of Demi Moore and host of a yearly cavalcade of UFO weirdos come to their Mecca. The town, of course, milks these idiots for all they're worth, and Space Diners, UFO Cafes, and Alien Whorehouses lined the streets of this little town.

Because we were on a road trip, and contractually obligated to stop at all landmarks, we decided to visit the official UFO Museum. This was, without a doubt, the worst museum ever. It was only a huge room with a long bulletin board running across the walls, filled with old news clippings. These clippings were mostly interviews with locals who had "seen something." Besides the bulletin board, there were a few aluminum models of what "scientists" imagine the UFO that crashed in Roswell looked like before the crash, as well as mock-ups of the alien bodies held captive in Area 51. I don't know what we were expecting, but Elvis' jumpsuits were far more alien that anything in the UFO museum.

Roswell was not a complete loss -- we did have a great steak dinner there. We set out towards Santa Fe with an eye to getting there by nightfall. On the road, a bat went kamikaze on our car going 80 mph and nose bombed into our front windshield. It kind of disintegrated. Yes, it was pretty cool.

I believe I have alluded to this, but have not really mentioned it explicitly. Because we all took wines at Cornell and fancy ourselves oenophiles, we had a rule on this trip that stated: "If we see a winery, we stop." Sometimes this backfired on us -- we had wine in Tennessee with the consistency of sludge and a taste that blended the twin characteristics of turpentine and diesel fuel to create a spectacularly awful concoction.

Sometimes, however, we were pleasantly surprised. New Mexico, with its hot days and cool nights, has terrific temperatures conducive to grape growing. The winery we visited was terrific, and we bought ourselves some bottles of wine to enjoy later, perhaps in Vegas, perhaps before. The proprietors were very friendly, and trotted out cheese samplers, prompting this priceless exchange:

Moldman: I'm sorry, is this cheese spicy?
Wine lady: Yes, a little.
Moldman: I'm sorry, do you have any non-spicy cheese? I don't really do spicy.
Wine lady: Sure, I'll bring you the sissy cheese.

Boom. Roasted.

Santa Fe was a nice enough town, if you're 70 years old and crave the sweet peace of uneventfulness. There were two bars in the whole town, one which was terrible, the other one which had a 20 dollar cover. Supply-and-demand, I guess. Instead of drinking, we decided to drive around instead.

NavMan really shit the bed here, and promptly had us lost on backwoods "roads" so full of holes, even wranglers would not have dared walk their horses through there. We took two years off the life of the car there, unfortunately, but did get us lost enough to see the New Mexico night sky unencumbered by any sort of light or civilization. After realizing that four guys staring at stars on a deserted road was a little iffy, we used the potential presence of scorpions and rattlesnakes as a good excuse to get back in the car and go back to the hotel.

The Write Stuff

Yesterday, Tom Wolfe wrote a pretty awesome -- if rather sad -- column about how the space program was nothing but a pissing contest with the Russians. The crowning achievement of the actual moon landing, it seems, also spelled the death of the American space program.

The whole column is obviously worth a read, particularly for passages like this one about Von Braun:

It’s been a long time, but I remember him saying something like this: Here on Earth we live on a planet that is in orbit around the Sun. The Sun itself is a star that is on fire and will someday burn up, leaving our solar system uninhabitable. Therefore we must build a bridge to the stars, because as far as we know, we are the only sentient creatures in the entire universe. When do we start building that bridge to the stars? We begin as soon as we are able, and this is that time. We must not fail in this obligation we have to keep alive the only meaningful life we know of.

Unfortunately, NASA couldn’t present as its spokesman and great philosopher a former high-ranking member of the Nazi Wehrmacht with a heavy German accent.

Wehrner Von Braun, who invented the Saturn V Rocket, is to the space program as Jesus was to Christianity, according to an excellent GQ article about NASA's perhaps unwarranted optimism.

In the end, however, it is important to remember what is a rather spectacular achievement. As usual, The Onion describes it best:

'Twixt These Tweets

Yes, this happened.

Yes, I know.

No, I wasn't drunk.

Yes, I feel like a bit of a hypocrite.

I am a twit and have now twatted.

No good can come of this.

Apologies in advance.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 10

Today, we bid farewell to the relative civility of Austin and set out to the vast expanses common to the territories of western Texas. This was unforgiving country. Frequented by Mexicans, true, but scarcely seen by Yiddish eyes, this was perhaps the most unlikely place in the country to find Three Jews and a Mexican, with the possible exceptions of Alabama and Boston's own Southie.

We said good-bye to my little brother and his girlfriend and commenced driving West. After a bit, we came to New Braunfels -- perhaps the worst city ever, according to our notes. Inexplicably, it was also home to a winery, which, even more inexplicably, charged visitors seven dollars to taste a couple of ounces of Central Texas wine.

We also saw another shooting range. Thinking this place had to be cheaper than anything found in Austin, we again renewed our commitment to indiscriminately use semi-automatic weapons to shoot at random targets. Unfortunately, the place was closed and deserted, with the exception of a creepy shirtless man strolling around the shooting spaces. When we asked him what he was doing there, he muttered, "I just like to walk around and see what people are shooting these days." Riiiiight. We slowly backed away into the car, and got back on the highway, but not before spying the following sign:


Presently, we came to the worst golf course ever: a ten dollar fee nine-holer with barely more grass on it than Death Valley. Moldman immediately befriended a very nice little girl and her dog, Thor, as Alan and Dustin took turns losing the ball amidst the rocks that littered the course. After checking for ticks, we got back into the car and drive off.

At this point, it was time to redeem our coupons for free Chick-Fil-A sandwiches. Dustin, who'd heard wonderful legends about these sandwiches, was particularly excited. Well all got free sandwiches and the three Jews got themselves radioactive-looking mint milkshakes. The grand total? 32 cents. The Jews were in heaven.

We drove to a Jiffy Lube to have the car serviced and enjoy our sandwiches. As we settled down to eat, Dustin tragically pulled a Moldman and dropped his entire sandwich. Understandably distraught, Dustin proceeded to pitch a hissy, kicking, cursing and, as an ultimate move, ripping the sunglasses from his head and hurling them across the room. The sunglasses narrowly missed some poor woman, who probably still remembers that day with something approaching fear.

After a short time-out, we set out on the road again and came to the last outpost of civilization before New Mexico, several hundred miles away. San Antonio is a nice little town, small and somewhat charming, but ultimately not of much consequence. Think of it as the South's answer to Providence, Rhode Island.

We did not forget to visit the Alamo, and, of course asked the question on everyone's mind: where is the basement here at the Alamo? "Why right down those stairs," replied the tour guide, obviously pleased at seeing our obnoxious expectation turn to disappointing shock. It seems that there actually is a basement at the Alamo, and that PeeWee Herman has miseducated all of us. Damn you, PeeWee. Damn you.

(Later research has revealed that the basement was constructed after the movie came out. This is a bewildering fact -- it would seem the impetus was to stop smart-asses (such as ourselves) from asking obnoxious questions. This seems like a very silly reason to alter a national monument, which means it's probably not the actual reason. Regardless, there is a basement at the Alamo).

After a quick early dinner at the Riverwalk, we set on the road again, but not before stopping at an awful Wal-Mart so that Dustin could return the sunglasses he had mangled horribly during his earlier outburst. Thanks to Wal-Mart's liberal return policy -- to this day we are not sure whether those sunglasses were actually purchased at a Wal-Mart -- Dustin had brand new shades he could wreck the next time he dropped a sandwich.

Then we started on what would be a 732-mile drive from San Antonio to Santa Fe. There was not much on the road here, unless you count charming little towns like Welfare and Junction. The latter did have a terrific BBQ joint. The best thing about it, though? This:


A STUFFED BEAVER!

(Giggles for ten minutes)

Apologies. After hitting 98 mph on a mostly-deserted highway, we finally decided to cash in for the night and find a hotel somewhere. Thus we came to Ozona, Texas, a random town in the middle of nowhere. Seeing the sketchiness of the town, we decided to spring for the most expensive hotel available, since logic dictates that more expensive equals less sketchy. The lucky winner? An America's Best Value Inn, which featured rooms at the extravagant price of $50.99 a night.

Even the parking lot was sketchy. You know how in horror movies, the soon-to-be-slaughtered teenagers pull into a motel and as they drive through the parking lot, they see that most doors in the motel are open, and truckers who, if you're lucky, have a wife-beater on, are just drinking warm 40s and kind of just stare at you? This happened to us, thankfully without the part where we get stabbed or killed on the side of the road. After making sure that the door to our room was securely locked, we all prayed to our respective Gods and turned in for the evening.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 9

Ah Austin. What can be said of probably the only city in Texas where anyone in the East Cost would ever consider living? It's a lovely place, if hot as balls. Visiting in June was probably a good idea. God knows what would happen to three Jews and a Mexican if they ever encountered 113 degree weather. Presumably they'd melt.

Dustin and Moldman got up at the ass-crack of dawn to go visit the LBJ library, which I'm sure was lovely. The rest of us caught up on sleep and finally roused ourselves around lunchtime. We met the little bro at this place called The Salt Lick, a BYOB establishment with long, picnic-style tables, a central smoker, and the best damn brisket you could ask for. The place is organized as an all-you-can-eat, where they keep bringing you plates of ribs, pulled pork and brisket until your body cries out, STOP. The ribs were second only to the ones in Memphis, but that brisket will be in our hearts forever -- both figuratively and literally, in the guise of arterial blockage.

After a quick jaunt to a Texas winery (really), we drove past a gun-range that advertised M-16 rentals. This being Texas, and us being utterly unfamiliar with guns, we decided whythehellnot and decided to go in. It sounds like the start of a joke. Three Jews and a Mexican walk into a Texas shooting range ... . Unfortunately, rentals were incredibly expensive, and the ammo even more so. Perhaps they marked-up the prices because we clearly had no idea what we were doing and they'd rather not give us assault weapons.

That is, none of us knew what we were doing, except for Moldman.

Moldman: You know, I'm a pretty good marksman.
Charlie: They teach you that at space camp?

Yes, Moldman went to space camp. I know.

We drove around Austin then, looking at the sights. We took in the Texas Capitol building, a pretty impressive monument. The effigies outside it are worth mentioning, especially the ten commandments slab outside. Yep, the same one that was featured in that pretty famous Supreme Court case whose name escapes me at the moment. I have learned, through the years, that law students love to pose with it more than they love to pose with any other landmark in America. Seriously, go through your friends' Facebook pictures. All law students who've gone to Texas have posed with the ten commandments. No people who have gone to Texas who aren't law students have gotten their picture taken with it. Yay, LSAT!


My little brother then gave us a tour of the University of Texas campus, and then we chilled in the pool in his apartment complex. And the hot tub. Because why not.

It was then time to hit the infamous Austin, Texas nightlife, courtesy of Sixth street. In no particular order, the following events happened:

Spy Gary Busey, an actor/crazy person who would later come back to haunt us, at the Driskill hotel, drinking with his buddies in between the transparent piano and the cowhide couches. Consider asking him for his saltshaker. Refrain. Stop at Treasure Island bar, where chicks dance on the bar. Nearly set the record for the erotic photo hunt at Buffalo Billiards. Don't ask. Go to The Chugging Monkey and have ice-offs where Alan wins by keeping his hand in the ice-container the longest. See a drunk fat guy throw his hat across the room and hit Alan with it. Drunk fat guy kisses Alan on the cheek to apologize. Charlie and Moldman leave for the night, and cab driver rails against Cesar Chavez Way and the practice of naming streets after socialists, bemoaning the lack of streets named industrial capitalists. "Why don't we have a Rockefeller Avenue?" Dustin and Alan later walk home, and Dustin refuses to pay 3 dollars for a pizza slice. They instead go to a Wendy's, but only the drive-thru is open. Try to walk through it, acting like a car, but are refused service. Good samaritan buys chicken nuggets for them anyway. On walk home, deliberate peeing on the Capitol but decide against it, largely because of the police presence. Duck into bar to use their bathroom. Turns out to be a gay bar with naked guys dancing everywhere. [Redacted]. Dustin and Alan get home much later. Charlie and Moldman don't believe them when they said nothing happened. Sleep.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 8

The Mexican was very excited on Day 8 because he was introducing the Three Jews to church. On this bright sunny morning, Three Jews and a Mexican would walk into a Christian church, where it would be drilled into their heads that Jesus was not only a terrific yid, but also much, much more.

Perhaps I exaggerate the impetus behind this. I, a Christian, had been to many churches in the past, usually under duress, and waking up ass early on a Sunday to revisit them sounded vaguely unappealing. Dustin, however, could not have been more excited to go to church and find out what it was about Jesus that we all found so special.

And so we went to the Superchurch, to hear Joel Osteen, Superchristian. The Superchurch (not its official name) was the old Houston Rockets Arena, which had been converted into a state of the art facility for Christian worship. They’d filled the floor with pews and cut into the stands behind the basket to erect a stage. And not just any stage, but a freaking STAGE, featuring a working waterfall with strategically carved niches that allowed for the placement of both fog machines and a 25-man band. Kiss would have found it too be too much.

Look. I’m a Christian and like to worship in my own heathen way. But this, the whole Joel Osteen production, screamed SUPERCHRISTIAN ™ ®. Everything was bright and neat and shiny – especially the too-wide smiles of every attendee, features stretched creepily into huge grins, welcoming you with a hail-fellow-well-met and a hearty handshake and saying God Bless like their lives depended on it. This, of course, was an effort to marshal an unstoppable army of Superchristians. In between the manic Christians, the bright lights, the smoke machines, Christian rock, and Joel Osteen’s Supersmile, God almost was an afterthought, like an actor doing a cameo in an ill-advised remake of his show because he probably needs the money.

After the Superchurch, we went to the Astros game. Here is where we thought our press pass story would collapse like the flimsy deck of business cards it actually was. I mean, this was a major league baseball team, with professional PR people who are at the top of their games and have in all likelihood seen every Tom, Dick, and Harry try to weasel their way into the action.


Well, wouldn’t you know it. Seated happily in the Astros pressbox, our press passes worn proudly on our chests, we noshed on a terrific buffet and tried not to cheer. Moldman failed at this last one. It was a great game at what had formerly been Enron Field, becoming all the more memorable for our sighting of the GameDay guy – that wonderful person in every stadium responsible for entering the game info as it happens into the computer so all of us without television access at work or at school can unproductively while away happy hours following baseball on our computers.

Houston didn’t seem like that fun a city, so, after some conversation, we decided to get out of town and drive to Austin so we could have an extra night there. It was a good plan, although it was almost hindered by NavMan, our GPS system, which seemed to want to keep us in Houston or have us all die trying. Here is a short account about the NavMan from Dustin:

"If NavMan had been a person, Houston is where I would have shot it in the stomach and let it bleed to death. It kept sending us down one-way streets the wrong way, saying "Turn Left" when you could only "Turn Right." This prompted general havoc, confusion, honking, and last-minute turns. Not to mention the several close calls that almost turned into head-on collisions -- events that certainly would have put a damper on the day."

On our drive to Austin, we saw, and I’m not kidding, something called an “Oil City.” This was beautiful Luling, Texas, which was, as we imagine, clearly the inspiration for King of the Hill. Why, we even saw a propane store. Yup.

Austin is awesome, and we’ll have a full account of it tomorrow. We met with my little brother, currently studying at UT, who was nice enough to let us stay in his apartment even though we would not be appreciated by his cat. Yes, my little brother went through a brief period when he owned a cat. I know.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 7

Somehow, incredibly, we’d been on the road for a week at this point. In that time, we’d managed to get from one expanse of water to another. In the course of making it from the Northern Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico, we’d sustained no casualties, which should be regarded as a major accomplishment. Why, we’d even gotten a plant – Rodney the Cactus, sitting happily unwatered in one of the car’s cup holders.

It was finally time to wander over to the great state of Texas. We were set for one last breakfast in the great city of New Orleans. This was our farewell to the town, and we had to do it right.

So naturally, we found the first restaurant with easily available parking. Its name? Daisy Duke’s.

Our waitress was Olga, who spoke only basic English. This English, unfortunately, did not extend to breakfast-speak, and she lacked the ability to comprehend words like “juice” and “eggs.” Alas. That said, she was a really nice girl, who had (very) recently moved to New Orleans from Russia to learn English. This led to the priceless conversation:

Dustin: So where in Russia are you from?
Olga: I’m sorry?
Dustin; What town in Russia are you from? What’s the name of your town?
Olga: Oh! I come from small town of Ghsnncvnvkemcxdwmn.

Seriously. That’s how she said it. She sounded like she was having a stroke, or, at the very least, had a huge hairball lodged in her throat. I was unaware that humans could emit such guttural sounds. It is also entirely possible that this was actually the name of the town.

Moldman, understandably frightened by the sound, then proceeded to knock over and spill the largest glass of water anyone has ever seen. I’m not exaggerating. It was ENORMOUS. It was like a small bucket. You could have drowned a cat in there. And Moldman, like a sailor is called to the sea, spilled all of it.

After getting free t-shirts from Daisy Dukes as an apology for Moldman's clumsiness, we bid adieu to New Orleans and began driving West with a destination of Houston, Texas. We stopped to refuel for gas somewhere in Louisiana and Moldman informed us that he had to go to the bathroom. Ok, we said, while we refueled. We finished. Moldman was still not back. We waited. Five minutes. Waited. Ten minutes. Where the balls is Moldman? Fifteen minutes. No, seriously, where is Moldman? Go check. I did. And? He’s not in the bathroom. What? Yeah, Moldman’s lost. Of course. He just went to the bathroom. I know. And got lost? Sure. Twenty minutes. Screw it. Let’s just go. Fine.

We were not really going to leave Moldman at a random gas station in the middle of Louisiana. I think. Just as we were getting back in the car, he reappeared. What on Earth happened? “I went to the bathroom over there, (points at wrong bathroom) and waited in line for ten minutes before I realized it was empty.” But you got lost for twenty minutes." Well, then I thought it was locked." So you just stood there and waited for someone to open it? (Shrugs).

To this day, I still don’t know if he actually went to the bathroom.

We kept driving, and promptly came to a traffic jam. The reason? A CAR WAS ON FIRE RIGHT THERE ON THE HIGHWAY. It was awesome! Everyone was slowing down to take a good look at this car that was completely engulfed in flames. We took fleeting pictures of it; it’s not every day you see a car on fire. I looked around vainly for Bruce Willis or Kiefer Sutherland, but to no avail.


Later on, we saw a sign for something called an “Alligator Farm.” Those of us who went to the Ag School immediately went apeshit. After driving through what may have been the nicest suburb in Louisiana, we came to this man-made swamp staffed solely by a fourteen-year old girl. Which was weird, but, you know, there’s something to be said when parents can tell their little girl that she’s in charge of the alligators.

The rub? We couldn’t see any alligators because a licensed adult had to be present when letting civilians caper around in the vicinity of lethal animals. I really wanted to pet one and tried to explain to the fourteen year old girl that we had three future lawyers in the crew and were willing to waive any and all liabilities and claims. Unfortunately, she was smart and demurred. Probably wisely. She'll probably get better grades in law school than any of us will.

After a meal in a Beaumont, Texas restaurant – which featured the worst food, the best rolls, and the only posted firearm warning of any restaurants we visited on the trip – we drove into the outskirts of Houston before deciding to call it a night. Beat from a week on the road that included two days in New Orleans, we went to a movie theater to watch Ocean’s 13 as Vegas research before retiring for the night. We immediately regretted the decision.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 6

Three Jews and a Mexican all woke up at noon. None of us were fatally hungover, thankfully, but our stomachs demanded food. Having made a pledge at the beginning of the trip that, in cities, we’d always eat at a local restaurant, we asked a couple of New Orleansans to point us to a good breakfast place.

And did they ever. By this point it was lunchtime, so we were directed to “Coop’s Café,” a hole in the wall located not too far from the French Quarter. I am going to go out on a limb and nominate this as the best meal we had on the trip, even better than that Hooters in South Carolina. This was, without a doubt, the best fried chicken I’ve ever had the opportunity to enjoy – crisp and spicy and tender and juicy. Because I didn’t get to be this size and shape without eating, I also ordered duck quesadillas, which were spectacular. Duck may be terrible for you, but its taste perfectly complemented the cheese and salsa. We ate at many places, but this restaurant alone was worth the trip.

After the meal, we took a short walk around the French Quarter. We (or rather, the three Yids) braved a twenty minute line in order to enjoy some coffee at the renowned Café du Monde. I am told it was worth it. We walked around Jackson Square for a bit and took in the sights. These sights did not include the cleavage of a woman who, having spied us while we were standing on a pedestrian footbridge maybe 50 yards away, made a whole show of pointedly adjusting her tank top.

New Orleans is a really cool place. Its style is wholly unlike anything else in the United States. I know very little of architecture and won’t pretend to make stuff up. But the overall style, with its courtyards, grated windows a general loveliness is, I’m sure, representative of something. The streets of New Orleans, and in particular the French Quarter, are definitely worth a look.

We took our time looking around, and, by the time we returned to the car, Dustin, as he is wont to do, got a parking ticket. Without the parking ticket in Louisiana, it is doubtful the trip would have been complete. After posing for a picture with that which seems to always follow him around, Dustin sighed and got back in the car.

On a trip marked mostly by goofing off, screwing around, and generally having a lot of fun, we did have one solemn interlude. That was driving through the lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans. At that point, it had been two years since Katrina, and, for all respects and purposes, the lower Ninth Ward was a ghost town. Once you figured out what the X’s painted on the houses with their attendant numbers meant, it really started to underscore just how awful the human toll was. That, coupled with the fact that, two years out, houses were still ripped off their foundations – some moored on the middle of the road like vagrant abandoned ships, making some streets actually impassable – does point to a level of neglect that we should be ashamed that we ever let this happen in America. As Dustin said, while not a highlight, this was certainly one of the most deeply affecting parts of the trip.

After some contemplation, we decided to explore some more of New Orleans. The Garden District was certainly worth a visit. At least, what we think was the Garden District. We got lost there several times. “According to the map, I think we’re somewhere on the I.”

Then we spotted a place called “Bayou Bagels” and, of course, the three Jews all went nuts, sort of like what happens when an American sees a McDonald's in China. We actually took a ten minute detour to go get some bagels in New Orleans. Unfortunately, the bagel place was closed, and seemed to have been shuttered for some time. Oy.

Later in the afternoon, we used the press passes to once, again, finagle our way into a minor league baseball game. At the New Orleans Zephyrs’ park, we saw little of a largely uninteresting game, although we did wonder why on earth the Mets’ minor league affiliate was located so far away from Queens. We used our passes to mosey down the left field line in an attempt to talk to the guys in the bullpen. The relief pitchers were very unfriendly, probably because they knew that their promotion, if they got one, would be to the New York Mets. We did manage to confuse them, and us, about what happens when a ball is fair, rolls foul, and then rolls back fair again (It’s a fair ball, for the record).

We had dinner at a Cajun restaurant in the French Quarter, and it was, again terrific. The food in New Orleans was, like I’ve said, the best on the trip, although its waitresses were not quite up to par. More on this tomorrow. But tonight, the waitress must have set the record for “Most Glasses Spilled.” She dumped, if I remember correctly, two glasses of water, a glass of wine, and a soda. And that was just at our table.



After dinner, we went to the legendary Preservation Hall to take in some jazz. To a (functionally) white kid from the suburbs, the music was outstanding, particularly, “When the Saints Come Marching In.” After the music, we had a slightly more tempered night on Bourbon Street, where we were constantly assaulted by test tube waitresses and girls with penis earrings. After once again breaking the rules (“No drunk, tired, miserable gambling.”), we turned in, looking to drive to Texas the next day.

Crossing Out Words

As much as we writers and editors for the paper would hate to admit it, the crossword and Sudoku were pretty much the most popular part of the paper. More than anything else -- the columns, comics, interviews, or news stories -- people loved them some crossword.

In fact, the page where the crossword and Sudoku were located was the most popular page on the paper. If the newspaper was New York State, the crossword page was Westchester county. This prime piece of real estate was rabidly fought over by the columnists (myself included). We knew that if we grabbed that parcel of land next to the crossword, our readership would have the possibility of spiking once someone became confounded by 17 down and let their eyes wander a little. People doing the Sudoku would maybe read two of our paragraphs before returning and trying to figure out why there were two 9s in the same box.

Now, some papers are cutting their crosswords, and, of course, the sky is falling. The NYT's Style section soberly details the rending of garments and general uproar that this editorial decision has caused, and, for once, the styles editors may not be exaggerating.

I cannot begin to imagine the riots that would have ensued if we had ever pulled the crossword or Sudoku. We, the editors, used to joke about this. If we sabotaged either puzzle and made it impossible to solve, what would happen? How many activities would grind to a halt while people tried to sort it out? When would people finally give up on their impossible puzzle and realize that the class in which they had not been paying attention had already ended, and a new one in which they were not enrolled had already begun?

Again, this is not an exaggeration. Once we accidentally ran repeat crossword puzzles. That is, we ran the same Crossword puzzle on Tuesday that had run on Monday. I awoke to an overflowing inbox and several text messages, all wondering what the heck had happened and how could we be so incompetent. All day, people kept coming up to me and asking me what the deal was, where their crossword was, what they were supposed to do, and why did The Sun hate America. In the cafeteria, the library, class, the sidewalks, even the bars, people kept confronting me. We had inadvertently altered the daily routine of thousands, and we sure as heck heard about it.

The 'Crossword Incident,' as it was known, did not cause produce the largest number of complaints we got at the paper over a single day. People wisely (?) reserved their invective for more odious affronts, such as what a twenty-year old history major thought about the Gaza Strip.

Nevertheless, that day it became clear to us just how much people loved their crossword puzzle, and how much they were dependent on it. Some people seem downright addicted to it -- see the lady's quote in the NYT about how solving every clue is "like having multiple orgasms."

...

OK. I personally never confused the sex column with the Sudoku, but to each their own. Current Sunnies, please never neglect your crossword duties, lest you be attacked by an army of pencil-wielding crazies with their erasers worn thin.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am "Three letters. 'Not In.'"

Now Use the '87 Mets

Anyone expecting anything interesting or novel to come from Sotomayor's nomination hearings is probably still waiting for Godot.

Therefore, we must turn to our imagination, and so I must absolutely share this piece for McSweeney's written by BU Law's very own Professor Wexler. It imagines the confirmation hearings as if they had been held in front of the 1977 KC Royals, not the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Perhaps the best moment is when George Brett asks if it would be appropriate to waterboard umpire Tim McClelland. But I'm going to go ahead and award the MVP to Hal McRae for his seething rage and violent outbursts.

Well played.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 5

Today’s goal was to get from Memphis, TN, to New Orleans, LA, by way of Mississippi. We set out on the road early, with the idea that there would be plenty to do along the way. After considering picking up a hitchhiker for no other reason than to make Moldman ride bitch, we entered Mississippi and hit the road in earnest.

And it worked. Presently, we saw a sign for what promised to be the “World’s Largest Cactus Plantation.” Why not. The road forced us to drive through backwoods country for a good couple of miles, which reminded us of horror movies, and not in a good way.

Soon enough we arrived at the “World’s Largest Cactus Plantation.” It was largely disappointing. I don’t know what we were expecting, but this turned out to be only a sizable greenhouse festooned with tiny cacti in pots and a barn full of old junk.

Nevertheless, Moldman was determined to get a souvenir, and purchased a small cactus. He affectionately named it Rodney, after our menacing and disinterested waiter at Perkin’s the day before, who Moldman absolutely insisted on calling by his first name. Given Moldman’s proclivity to forget things, notably where he is or who he’s with at the moment, we all looked at the small cactus in pity, and made bets on when such a highly resilient plant would finally give up and die. This was June, so we pegged its death day in August. And wouldn’t you know it? We all lost. Moldman surprised all of us – most of all himself – by having Rodney survive until October.

After a quick visit to Vicksburg National Park – where we encountered actual hostility to our press blog story for the first time, necessitating a quick call to their PR guy – we kept driving through a mostly uneventful Mississippi. Until we got to the casino.

You may remember the Ameristar as the riverboat casino that gets robbed in the underrated remake of The Ladykillers, starring Tom Hanks. Riverboat gambling has always been a dream of mine. My excitement was exceeded, however, by a very drunk and very happy Chinese man who was leaving the casino and actually bouncing for joy. The man was two seconds away from a cartwheel.

Encouraged by his exuberance, we entered the casino, bet the $24.80 that DrinkinPhoenix netted us back at the dog track on black, and promptly lost it. That’s why, now, I always bet on red. Fifty percent of the time it works all the time!

Like I said, the drive seemed uneventful, but, as Dustin said, “we got to see cacti, confederates, and casinos. What more do you want?”

Finally we arrived in New Orleans, which came in a close second for best city on the trip. In between the food, the nightlife, the sights, and general awesomeness, this city will be detailed in its entirety tomorrow. For now, however, a quick recap of the evening is in order.

Our hotel was located on something called Tchoupitoulas Street. We had no idea how to pronounce it either.

“Tshoo-pee-too-lass?”
“No.”
“T-cho-peh-tlass?”
“No.”
“To-chee-peet-lah?”
“No.”
“Touchy Pants?”
(General Giggling)

And henceforth, the street we were on became Touchy Pants, words we were happy to yell out randomly at inappropriate occasions when things got too quiet.

The night in New Orleans, as you would expect, was something of a blur. Among the highlights:

Enjoying Grandma’s $1.25 beers while walking on Bourbon Street. Moldman attempting to buy a gyro and failing to do so after a 20-minute wait. Hitting on a party of girls and thinking it was actually going pretty well, until they all turned out to be engaged. Alan sitting next to a random married couple to converse, and being asked to leave. Trying to find a worthwhile night clubs. Spying Mexicans coming out of a night club, Charlie sees a perfect opportunity to reacquaint himself with his roots, and asks them in Spanish whether the action inside was worth it. Charlie forgetting his Spanish and failing miserably. Nonetheless, the Mexicans’ enthusiastic recommendation is too much to ignore in any language, and we go in. Night club -- predictably, perhaps -- is worst night club ever. Going to a bar with a mechanical bull and seeing 100-pound sorority girls easily conquer it. Moldman declaring, “That looks easy!” and lining up to get on it, unaware that Dustin and Alan were bribing the guy in charge to put the mechanical bull on its most extreme setting. Moldman lasting maybe two seconds, trying again, lasting only one second, and then coming back to us, distressed. “They made it look so easy!” Dustin dancing with a 70-year old woman, who moves her head away when he, ever the gentleman, tries to kiss her on the cheek after the dance. Almost getting into a fight due to our inappropriate yelling of “Touchy Pants!” with drunk sorority girl screaming at Alan, “No, I will not touch yo’ pants!” Drunk, tired, miserable gambling at Harrah’s. Passing out.


Touchy Pants!

Put Some Hair on Your Chest

At the risk of divulging too much information, I have to say that this recent trend where manscaping has become the norm concerns me greatly.

It's not that I don't manscape, to a degree. My beard, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, grows abundantly if left unchecked, in a vast expanse that overruns my neck and spills into the jungle of my chest hair.

I have already detailed my problems with shaving, but they go beyond the frequency with which I must take a blade to my face.

Essentially, my beard and my chest hair are like the people along the Mexican and American border. One likes to run into the other. Thus, I must have my razor act like the Minutemen, and keep a clear swatch of desert that effectively, hygenically, and appealingly delineates where one region ends and the other begins. Because of this, I am forced to shave my neck even beyond the beard, and into the chest region. Unfortunately, I must trim the Northern borders of my chest hair to ensure that there are no connectors to my face.

And that's about as far as I go. While the overlords at work have given me permission to dispense with a tie, I cannot do so. If I wear a tie, with my collar buttoned up, I have manscaped enough that no chest hair shows -- an acceptable arrangement that makes me look vaguely professional, if one ignores my work product.

However, if I choose not to wear a tie -- and remembering that, without a tie, no one should ever button the top button of a shirt lest they look like a dingbat -- the opening of a one-button-opened collar is enough to allow plenty of chest hair to come out and say hello. We're not talking Austin Powers here, but a display of chest hair like that is unnecessary in the office.

I could, of course, shave more of my chest hair. I could shave my chest hair below my collarbone, therefore ensuring that, even when rocking the open collar look, I'd look like a twelve year old.

But I won't. Why? Because I'd look like a twelve year old.

I will never understand this sudden obsession with ridding yourself of the second-most-salient physical characteristic of manliness. Yes, nobody likes a hairy back, and that should be taken care of.

But a hairy chest? Come on. Back home it is a symbol of pride -- a sign that your manhood has arrived, that you are no longer a boy and can build log cabins with your bare hands and wrestle a bear if necessary.

Men wear their chest hair openly and proudly. We think of it as a welcome mat for the ladies -- one that says, "Welcome. Come on in. Make yourself at home."

Yes, sometimes I show too much chest hair. But screw it. I'm not apologizing. Men have chest hair and I'm not going to get rid of it because some Abercrombie models somehow believe it to be a source of shame. If it's good enough for Burt Reynolds and David Hasselhoff, it's good enough for me.

Oh, and you're welcome/I'm sorry for not taking this manscaping conversation south of the border. This is a family blog, people. Behave.

Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 4

Much to Dustin's chagrin, today was the first day we did not have to drive anywhere. That is, today we stayed in Memphis, with no destination in mind. All we had to do was explore the city and all it had to offer. Tomorrow we would drive on to New Orleans. Today, we chilled.

Kind of. First we had to find breakfast. We were looking for an authentic Southern breakfast and got more than we bargained for. Promptly, we became lost and wandered into West Memphis, in the wonderful state of Arkansas. It was much like you would imagine. A text to my good friend Mike, who hails from Memphis, confirmed it. When I asked him what to do in West Memphis, he texted back: "Do not make eye contact. Ever." Noted.

Still, we were hungry, and fear of death never stops a hungry man. We drove past a gas station which offered "fried chicken." We slowed down and decided not to stop, but not before a local saw us and muttered, "what the f-ck?" We kept driving, and finding nothing, drive back to the gas station. Again, the local greeted us with yet another, "what the f-ck?" After looking at the fried chicken and realizing it consisted mostly of fried gizzards, we decided to bite the bullet and eat at a Perkins. The food was bad. Really awful. The three Jews took sick, while the Mexican was fine. Milk was a bad choice, I suppose.

Across the highway from the Perkin's we saw an establishment called Southland Park Gaming and Racing, advertising its world famous dog track. With opportunities for betting on greyhounds in the great state of Arkansas being few and far between, we decided to capitalize on this and went in. We have chronicled this more comprehensively elsewhere. Shout out to Dennis Scott of Coldwater, Mississippi.

Suffice it to say, our two dollar bet on a mangy dog named "DrinkininPhoenix" netted us a cool $24.80. We collected from our 300 lb. bookie, a truly terrifying man six-and-a-half feet in height who had somehow convinced himself we were minor league baseball players in town to play the Redbirds come here to rob him. Flush with success, we headed back to Memphis.

The next stop was Graceland. Given the surprisingly expensive $30 admission tickets -- it is, after all, just a house -- our blogging for the newspaper story served us well. The PR guy was a little dubious, but became distracted when Moldman, still suffering the Perkins food, spent 20 minutes in his office bathroom. Concerned about our friend, he stopped questioning us and gave us our press passes and in we went.

Graceland is a very weird home, apropos, I guess, of its very weird owner. It's not as weird as I imagine Neverland is, but still. Every room has a different them, from the underground TV room that looks like an underwater lair/60s submarine to the jungle room and its three-inch tall green shag carpet. If you asked a kid -- and a really weird one, at that -- to design a house, this would be what it looked like.



After quick visits to Sun Records and the Civil Rights Museum, we went back downtown for dinner. The restaurant was the Rendezvous, and its dry-rub ribs remain, to this day, the best damn ribs ever eaten by man. Seriously, they were spectacular, like what God must have when he's eating ribs with Harry Caray.

While we waited for a table, we went to the bar, and witnessed the most confounding sight ever seen at a bar. Instead of a melee where people fought each other to get the bartender's attention, everyone had formed a nice, orderly line and were served one-by-one. Sounds nice, but we were all confused and frightened, and it still seemed to take more time than by the time-tested elbow-your-neighbors strategy.

We wandered around downtown for the rest of the evening, and decided ultimately to go for a swim. Our hotel didn't have a pool, however, so we found another one and just walked in like we knew what we were doing, just like we do with most things. We took a quick dip. Moldman somehow managed to get pushed in the pool three times.

After Alan injured himself swimming, we though that was enough and went out drinking. At the historic Peabody Hotel, Moldman somehow managed to get himself stuck on the roof. We have no idea how he got himself in that position, but after letting him sweat it out for about ten minutes, we finally let him back in.

We finished the night at a piano bar, where dueling piano players drunkenly traded the verses off Johnny Cash songs, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia, and "Don't Stop Believin'," a song sure to follow every Cornellian for eternity, no matter how far away from home they actually are.