Random Video of the Day LXX

The only way this re-dub of Where the Wild Things Are with Tony Soprano's lines would be better is if they had managed to find a way to turn the chicken-like thing into Paulie Walnuts.

J in my Pantalones

This is the true story of what happens when a Canadian teacher faces a bunch of Mexican middle schoolers who have seen this video. At least, I hope they've seen the video.

Also, Mom, please don't ask what this is or look it up. Just don't pay attention to it. Trust me. Keep walking. There's nothing to see here.

So Friday afternoon my grade eights are coming into the classroom, they sit down start talking, etc, and all of a sudden I hear a lovely little girl yell "HEY PACO! JIZZ IN MY PANTS!!!" oh yes... I kid you not... this is how the following ten minutes ensued.

Me: Excuse me Eugenia? What did you just say?

Eugenia: It's just a joke between us Miss, don't worry.

Me: Eugenia, that's not really something you want to be yelling to a boy.

Eugenia: But Miss, it's just a joke, and it's nothing bad

Me: Eugenia, do you know what that means?

Eugenia: No...not really. Isn't it when you pee in your pants?

Me: oh dear... no, no it's not.

Eugenia: Well what does it mean then?

Me: ummm.... I don't think I can tell you...

Meanwhile, other students are coming into the classroom...

Mariana: Miss, what's wrong? You look a little freaked out...

Me: Oh don't worry Mariana, I'm just a little shocked

Eugenia: Mariana, do you know what "jizz" means?

Mariana: Jizz in my pants!!!!

Me: oh no...please stop

Mariana: what does it mean?

Me: THIS IS NOT MY JOB!!!!

Mayerling: JIZZ!!

ALL BOYS: laughing HYSTERICALLY!!!!!

So now my entire class is in the room and in on the conversation...

Girls: MIIIISS!!! You HAVE to tell us!

Me: I can't....

Girls: Why Miss??

Me: I just can't.... I can't have you sitting at the dinner table with your family saying "guess what I learned in choir today!!!"

Girls: But Miss, we'll keep saying it if we don't know how bad it is.

Me: Trust me, it's bad. It's not something that you want to be yelling to a boy. Or anyone for that matter.

Boys: Insane laughter. They can't even control themselves anymore.

Mariana: I know!!! GOOGLE IMAGE IT!!!

Me: OH GOD! NO!!! DON'T!!!

Boys: YES!!! Google Image it!!

Me: NO!!! Trust me, don't do it! Ask your older siblings or something. Ask your mother. Don't google image it!

Girls: Why miss? It will teach us.

Me: NO!!! Trust me! You don't want to see it!

Boys: (now cannot even speak. rolling around on the floor laughing.)

Girls: Well have you ever google imaged it Miss?

Me: Of COURSE NOT!!!!

Girls: Well then how do you know what it looks like and that we don't want to see it?

Me: I...I....I just know. DON'T DO IT!

Girls: uh oh Miss....

Me: We are DONE! No more talk on this subject!!!

Girls: MIIIIISS!!! TELL US!!! OR ELSE WE WILL GOOGLE IMAGE IT IN FRONT OF OUR PARENTS!!!

Me: please don't... oh no....

Boys: Just tell them Miiss...

Girls: ya...or else we'll keep saying it. Jizz...jizz..jizz..

Boys: jizz, jizz, jizz...

Boys and Girls (getting increasingly lounder): Jizz, jizz, jizz, Jizz, JIZZ, JIZZ, JIZZ (etc...)

That was my Friday afternoon. Adventures in middle school....

My favorite part? The only thing the boys in the class do is laugh.

Class Struggle

And now the end is near. And so I face the final semester.

I will ignore, for at least the next few months, the fact that after the month of May, I will never be a student again. If I can, I will ignore this fact for the next few years.

Somehow incredibly, and mostly due to the clinic, I will spend very little time in a classroom this semester. I will only be in school from 2-6 on Tuesdays, 4-6 on Wednesdays, and 2-4 on Thursdays.

Of course, the four-day-weekend is not without its perils. When my poor liver heard about my schedule, it promptly screamed, waved a white flag in horror, and retreated into its cave.

That said, this schedule ensures that I will spend as little time in the tower of terror as is humanly possible. I expect my general happiness and sense of aesthetics will increase exponentially.

However, painting me as someone who only has 8 hours of work to do a week is misleading. We have, of course, the matter of homework, which I vow will try might consider doing.

Additionally, there is the small matter of the criminal clinic. Contrary to popular belief, this is not a rehabilitation program for those of us who like to break the law.

Rather, those of us in the clinic actually perform as lawyers. This semester, I will be working in the D.A.'s office down in bucolic Quincy. I am told that the purpose of our office is not to put people behind bars, but rather, to pursue the interests of justice. Bull crap. That's like learning karate so you never have to use it, as The Simpsons once pointed out. I fully intend to abuse my newfound powers working for the man to send as many people to hang from the neck as possible.

My second class this year is Sports Law. Unlike every other class at the law school, this concerns a subject area of general interest. Some have warned me that this is really an antitrust and labor law course disguised under a sheer facade of cases involving football teams. Regardless of this fact, I hereby pledge to lead the class in as many tangents as possible, so that we may learn the minimum amount possible and instead explore why the New York Yankees are the incorporation of pure evil. In fact, I already have participated twice in this class, kind of by accident. I know. I'm as surprised as you are.

And last and definitely least, is my Intellectual Property class. This class will feature the last final exam of my life, which is like that last safety who is the only bastard standing between me and the end zone. I have no doubt I will end up fumbling the ball.

Also, I have already explained how I was forced to sit in the front row of this class, a position I will have to assume twice a week for the rest of the year. As a result, my reputation is forever sullied. Everyone who walks into that class must expect me to be some sort of eager classhole. In fact, in between my raising my hand in Sports Law and impersonating Studious Sammy in I.P., I fear I am giving off the impression that I am a responsible student. God save us all.

Random Video of the Day LXIX

In case you can't spare to watch the last 110 hours of Lost before its premiere in a couple of week, here, for your viewing pleasure, is an Italian family recreating the whole story in their living room.



Bonus points to the grandpa who keeps screaming, "We are lost! We are lost!"

Martha Choke-ly

Imagine, if you will, that you are about to get married. And everything is all set, the cake has been chosen, the bridesmaids have been fitted, the priest has been chosen, the vows have been written, and so on. The ceremony is ready to go. Tomorrow, you are getting married. You go to bed, heave a contented sigh, and close your eyes.

And then you wake up in Reno. And you're wearing your pants, but missing your underwear. Half your hair is pink, the other half is gone. There seems to be a tattoo on your back but you can't really see it, but from what you can sort of tell, it seems to be somebody's face. Policemen are set outside in the motel's parking lot, all pointing their gun at your room's door, and when you turn on the TV, the President is giving a press conference and it's about you.

And all you can do is look around in wide-eyed horror and choke out:

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

That's what it feels like for Democrats in Massachusetts today. Somehow, incredibly, the seat that Teddy Kennedy just held for 46 was lost by the Democratic party. And it wasn't lost by a little. They got rolled like the Washington Generals. It wasn't even close.

At this point the outcome is not surprising. Last week, however, I told someone that if Scott Brown won, I'd eat my hat. Goddamnit. Now I have to eat my hat. I don't have a hat. I have to buy one now. If anyone out there has any experience eating hats, please let me know. I'm looking for an easily digestible one.

I don't really know what to say. I think Jon Stewart said it best.

Martha Coakley was one competent campaign away from being BU Law's most accomplished graduate. Now? She's Bill Buckner. Worse, perhaps.

I assume that, to the rest of the country, Massachusetts now looks like that guy who was bringing the keg to the party, but then accidentally broke the tap, and now there's nowhere to get a new tap, so I guess there won't be a party.

Um.

(Kicks at dirt).

Sorry?

The Ballad of a Mexican and his A-hole Coach

Every other Monday, Deadspin runs a feature called "A-hole Coach Digest." It is exactly what it sounds like. It is a collection of stories that readers send in, each hoping to one-up the other.

I humbly submitted a story about an A-hole Coach. Lo and behold, it was published in this week's installment, aptly headlined: Mexican Bicycle Chain Edition.

My own story is the fourth one, and bears the title, "Mexican Coaches: EXTRA SPICY!" (n.b. I did not pick this title). It is a charming story about a soccer team, a crazy coach, and being chased and hit with a bicycle chain. It is all 100 percent true. Even now I cannot see a bicycle without the fear settling in. Some nights, I still wake up screaming.

A word of caution. In this edition of A-hole Coach Digest, another writer appears with a story. That writer? The Mexican variation of my name. For a second, I feared that schizophrenia had set in and that the Mexican side of my identity had finally split from the other side. But then I realized it was just someone else. But seriously, what are the odds?

This, coupled with last week's appearance in Simmons's column, makes me 2 for 2 when it comes to writing to and being published by authors at major sports websites. So yes, I'm kind of a big deal.

I expected to be famous some day, but this is all really happening too fast.

Now where are the paparazzi?

The Howling of the Lawyers

Today, the New York Times unveiled an article that seemed to be one part plug for a new ABC show about lawyers, one part obituary for law school graduates. It is as horrifying as you would imagine. Let's explore.

The first-year corporate lawyers of “The Deep End,” a series that has its premiere on ABC this week, inhabit an alternative legal universe, where advancement on the partner track seems measured by their perfect grooming and ability to model designer suits and trade flirtatious banter.

While I've done my best to avoid promos of this show, it seems like the pitch was "Grey's Anatomy, but with lawyers. And Billy Zane." While it is nice to see that Billy Zane escaped the Titanic to become a lawyer who looks like an alien from the planet Botox, it seems that he unfortunately landed in a place where every character is someone we'd all love to set on fire.

In the sleek offices of the fictional firm Sterling Huddle Oppenheim & Craft, high above the Los Angeles smog canopy, life is a colorful, quip-filled adventure. “This is your lucky chance, your break in the clouds, your four-leaf clover,” a senior lawyer informs Dylan, a fresh Columbia Law School graduate, during his interview.

If I remember correctly, when the Joads set out for California to find new jobs, hope, and a colorful, quip-filled adventure, the Los Angeles smog canopy was the strongest selling point from their travel agent. And yes, since jobs are even more rare than four-leaf clovers, I would gladly shoot someone who came searchin' after me lucky charms.

Associates may grumble that the firm is a pit of back-stabbing, a machine that grinds young lawyers down. But they still find time for laughs over beers, games of basketball on a rooftop court and, of course, sex.

They put a basketball hoop on the roof? Aren't these people lawyers? Have they ever heard of the concept of liability? Good Lord. That's the problem with the legal profession today -- all these kids can think of is beer, basketball, and sex. And how you can disassociate beer and sex from the concept of a "machine that grinds young lawyers down" is beyond me.

Adventure? Laughter? Among law associates? This must be a period drama.

Or science fiction! OH SNAP!

In fact, “The Deep End” was conceived in 2007, that halcyon era of $160,000 starting salaries and full employment even for law grads who had scored in the 150s on their LSAT’s.

Of course! Why, you know what we call those who scored in the 150s on their LSATs at the Harvard Yard? No? "The help!" (Chuckles).

Those days are over. As the profession lurches through its worst slump in decades, with jobs and bonuses cut and internal pressures to perform rising, associates do not just feel as if they are diving into the deep end, but rather, drowning.

Ah, there's the rub! See how they transitioned here by using a clever metaphor to encapsulate the entire article in one pithy sentence while at the same time linking the lede about the show "The Deep End" with the meat of the article about the failing legal profession? Man, that's Journalism 101. Class, if the show had been called "The Brain Trust," what metaphor would the author have used instead? Anyone? Bueller? That's right! Heads are rolling! A's for everybody!

Lawyers who entered the field as recently as a few years ago could reasonably expect a life of comfort, security and social esteem. Many are now faced with a different landscape. Firms shed more than 4,600 lawyers last year, according to a blog that tracks the legal industry, Law Shucks.

Good Lord, you could at least warn us before you turn this into a horror story. Firms laid off 4,600 lawyers in the year? I assume that this number also doesn't include those laid off in the last quarter of 2008. Fun conversation with my grandfather a couple of months ago:

Me: Yes, so I'm having trouble finding a job.
Grandfather: Well, no shit. If people are getting fired everywhere, why would they turn around and hire some rookie who doesn't know anything?
Me: I ... uh ...
Grandfather: I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that too sound that harsh.
Me: That's OK.
Grandfather: But it's true.

Moving on.

For those just starting out, it’s easy to think that the rules have changed six minutes into the first period.

Wouldn't it be great if this was actually a game? I often have the following fantasy: If this were a football game, and we were only six minutes in, I'd immediately throw in a challenge flag. What's your challenge? Ref, I'm challenging my decision to go to law school. OK, let's review. (I pace around like a man waiting for an STD result). After review, incontrovertible video evidence shows that the call on the field was erroneous. The play is overturned and we will erase law school and kick off again. OH THANK GOD. And the crowd. Goes. Wild.

The main reason for the squeeze is the Great Recession, which has cut deeply into the kinds of companies — in financial services, real estate, high tech — that are the wellsprings of fees for corporate lawyers. The client companies that survived are doing fewer deals, and driving harder bargains with their lawyers: many negotiate a flat fee for the job, meaning firms can no longer bill by the hour for every legal eagle on the case.

Wait, you mean that people are demanding to know the cost of a service up front? Hahaha. Those poor, deluded bastards. What do they think this is, the health care system?

...

What?

...

Oh.

Never mind.

Even associates who find plenty to do worry that outstanding performance is no longer enough to protect them, said Daniel Lukasik, a Buffalo lawyer who runs an information and outreach Web site called Lawyers With Depression, adding that his traffic is up 25 percent since June, to about 25,000 visitors a month.

Lawyers already belong to the profession with the largest incidence of alcoholism, and law school students lead the nation in mental illnesses. The only surprise here is that a site called "Lawyers with Depression" does not boast a larger internet presence than Google.

A recent survey by the New York City bar association found that 50 percent of lawyers seeking counseling from its lawyer-outreach program list mental health as their primary concern, up from 40 percent in 2005.

As a positive, only 15 percent of attorneys list "everyone hates us" as the thing they most worry about, while only 12 percent mention "the certain damnation of my everlasting soul" as their chief concern.

It is more than dips in income that are reshaping the law firm culture. The prestige and self-identity of being a lawyer are in play. Pre-shakeout, lawyers could tell themselves that they were, if not exactly Masters of the Universe like investment bankers, perhaps Major-Domos of a Mid-Size Galaxy.

Major-Domos of a Mid-Size Galaxy? Really? That's what you went with? I'd love to see which phrase lost to "Major-Domos of a Mid-Size Galaxy." Chieftain of a Crab-shaped Nebula? Potentate of an Asteroid Belt? And why in the hell didn't they go Commander of a Black Hole? It would seem much more appropriate.

The life of a law associate may always have been a grind, in which associates got used to exchanging familiar nods with the late-night cleaning crew. But it was not an existential crisis, as many say it is today. People complained — but they did not howl.

In fact, if you listen really hard, you can hear that awful, ghastly noise coming from downtown -- the sound of lawyers howling in pain and anger, regret and fear. Howling like captives forced to keep rowing until their ship smashes against the rocks, hoping against hope that this is some sort of mistake, or a nightmare, perhaps -- that they will wake up soon and be rid of this curse, this burden, this monolith weighing down on their neck like some amulet forged in Hell.

Plenty of recent law school graduates are not finding work at all, said Eileen C. Travis, the director of the New York City bar association’s lawyer assistance program. “There is pretty much a freeze on hiring,” she said.

HOWWWWWWWWWL.

The Night They Drove Old Cooper Down

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome a very special friend to the dark side:

Mr. Cooper is now a twit! Irony knows no bounds.

While he claims that it does not count because he hasn't tweeted yet, that would be like saying the newborn son of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Edelsteinbaum is not yet a Jew because the mohel has not yet made his visit.

You ain't kidding anyone, Cooper. I predict copious tweeting before the fortnight.

As most of you might remember, Cooper was against Twitter before he voted in favor of it. Kerry would be proud.

Random Video of the Day LXVIII

Yes, it's a musical number, but it's about how awesome it is to wear a suit.

...

OK, fine. I'm going to go knock down a tree. On a bear. And then I'll build a log cabin and use the bear as a rug.

Sittin' on the Front of the Class

You know those awful classrooms we have on the 8th floor, the ones that look kind of like a box, with five long, narrow rows cascading down towards the front, and then on each side of the classroom are three rows, all perfectly perpendicular to the ones in the middle, looming above like some kind of balcony?

Well, today I got to the first class early, because I had nothing to do, in order to secure one of the balcony seats. Why? Because you have an easy exit, you’re far away from the professor, and you can people-watch. All of these are necessary factors when surviving law school classes.

So I get an excellent spot, right next to the door, and happily wait for class to start. And the classroom fills up, and I’m sitting there, on the balcony, like a lord of all creation.

And then the professor comes in, takes one look at the balconies, and says, you know what, I don’t want anyone sitting in the wings. Why don’t you come on down and sit in the middle rows?

BLAST.

Fine. I’ll move to the middle rows. I grab my stuff, and start looking for a new seat.

All seats are taken, except for one in the middle in the front row.

DOUBLE BLAST.

OK. It’s the first day. There’s no way these seats are final. Nobody passes out a seating chart on the first day.

“OK,” says the professor. “Here’s the seating chart. You’ll be expected to keep this seat for the whole semester.”

BLAST THIS ALL TO HELL.

So here I am, the schmuck sitting front row, center. The professor is five feet away from me. There is no escape. I might actually have to pay attention.

Avenge me.

Flying the Grope-ly Skies

I guess I have neglected my duty. It seems that, in light of the new and improved security measures following a lunatic trying to set his own underpants on fire, everyone who has been fortunate to fly into the United States in the last couple of weeks has to tell everyone about the new security procedures. This behavior is compulsory, much like those visiting Italy must take a picture of themselves pushing the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

In any case, I'm happy to report that when I flew back into the U.S. a few days ago, I only went 1 for 2 in "times inappropriately groped by security personnel." This happened in the airport in Mexico. I've never had my ass grabbed in public at 8 in the morning, so thank you, Mexican TSA, for giving me a new, if lame, never have I ever.

Of course, I'll question the wisdom of setting up two "rummage through your suitcase" stations ten feet apart from each other. Sure, I feel safer, but that plane you see taxiing onto the runway was mine. Like Homer said when debating the wisdom of lowering the speed limit, "Sure, lives will be saved, but millions will be late!"

I am convinced that, eventually, we'll all willingly strap ourselves into straitjackets before we get on a plane.

Yup, That Is My Email

So I'm sitting here, reading Bill Simmons's latest column, and guess what I see:


I frickin' made the Sports Guy's column! Woo-hoo!

While he got the preposition wrong, there I am, right in the middle of his Pats-Ravens preview, as the author of the "relevant e-mail."

While most people would beg to differ, this is concrete evidence, as validated by Bill Simmons himself, that my emails are indeed relevant.

Now that my internet career is set to go through the roof and I become amazingly famous, I'm only going to wear sunglasses and night and will immediately adopt a chihuahua -- this, of course, after I get rid of the chihuahua I have already because I'm Mexican.

I'm totally using this email as a pick-up line at the bars tonight. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to do a happy dance.

Two Gentlemen of Lebowski

When Shakespeare covers the Coen brothers' The Big Lebowski, it turns:

He died--he died as so many of his generation, before his time. In your wisdom you took him, Lord. As you took so many bright flowering young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc and Hill 364. These young men gave their lives. And Donny too. Donny who. . . who loved bowling. And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well. Goodnight, sweet prince.

into:

He died as did so many of his generation, ere his time. In Thy wisdom, Lord, Thou didst take him, as Thou took so many bright flowering young men, i’ the jungles of the Orient. These young men gave their lives, and Donald too; Donald who loved to play at ninepins. And so, Sir Donald, in fairest accordance With what your wishes last well might have been, We make commitment of your last remains To the deep bosom of the ocean buried, A peaceful progress to the ocean, which You loved so well. Now cracks a bowler’s heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Look, there are worse ways to waste an hour.

Upset at the Lack of Upset

Clearly it wasn't over until Andy Bernard sang, but Cornell was leading the Number One team in the country at the Phog Allen Fieldhouse in Larry, Kansas with less than a minute to go.

Even then, we should be proud that the "scrappy Big Red" -- which means "small white kids" in ESPNese -- took it to the wire and almost, but not quite, ended Kansas's 50-game home winning streak.

A 5-point loss to the #1 team in their own court is pretty good, I think.

I followed the match on gamecast, since the game was only available on ESPN360 and the U.S. closes its interwebs to computers located in Mexico, presumably because it fears Mexican computers taking jobs away from American computers, even if they do the things that American computers don't want to do, like browsing on Internet Explorer or running Windows Vista.

But I digress. Like I said, I was forced to "watch" the game on Gamecast, which is like sexting instead of having actual sex.

Regardless, I'll count this as a moral victory. In the realm of small triumphs, Cornell even emerged for a few minutes as a trending topic on Twitter, and it certainly is thrilling to stand there in between the Iranian Revolution and Tila Tequila.

In the realm of bigger victories, Cornell b-ball is certainly on the college hoops map. A small blip, perhaps, but it shines Big Red.

Steroid to Heaven

As many of you no doubt remember, and as I am trying with all my might to forget, a couple of months ago I suffered through a three-week period of temperance, in order to eradicate any and all stomach troubles that have cropped up due to my indiscriminate consumption of meat and mead.

I am happy to report that such troubles were nothing serious and that whatever disease assailed my stomach is on the verge of being vanquished.

And in order to rid the earth of this scourge once and for all, my doctor has prescribed something that will undoubtedly be of great value in this war.

My new medication?

Steroids!

That's right! Friends and enemies, I have been prescribed 'roids. I recommend you go into hiding.

My doctor has ordered me to take some kind of steroid for six weeks. The goal? I imagine that he wants my white blood cells to be at their maximum muscularity so that they may beat the living crap out of any invading pathogens, viruses, and other illegal aliens that choose to invade my stomach.

I don't anticipate many side effects, but I'm sure there will be a few. For starters, I feel compelled to break some sort of hallowed record -- perhaps I can set a world record for tacos eaten in one sitting. If it comes with some sort of asterisk, so be it. I might throw a broken bat at someone from Harvard. Hell, I might even commission someone to paint portraits of me as a centaur.

Even as I become a ripped bulk of three hundred pounds of twisted steel, I promise will try to keep my roid rage in check. I promise to start at least one, but no more than three, fights a night. I promise to lift for periods of no more than four hours a day. I promise to wear sleeveless t-shirts every day, especially in the dead of winter. In the summer, of course, I will wear no shirt. You're welcome, in advance.

Most importantly, I promise this: Taking steroids probably means that the Yankees will fall all over themselves to sign me for trillions of dollars. It will be hard to say no, but if I do take the money, I hereby swear to tank in the postseason, if only to return the world to normalcy and regain the balance between good and evil.

So farewell, my former incarnation as a two-hundred pound weakling. I will remember you fondly.

To the gym!

....

Oh God, what's happening to my balls?

Duff Beer For Me, Duff Beer For You

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have now had the privilege to drink the finest beer that Springfield has to offer:


Yes, it's true. That's a real Duff Beer.

No, I have neither found the state where Springfield actually is, nor have I finally met Duffman.

The actual truth, unfortunately, is much more mundane. Some genius realized that Duff was not a registered trademark in Mexico and so it was that actual Duff Beer was born, available in selected bars.

As for its taste, it's pretty much what you'd expect. I imagine it was much better ten years ago.

The Revolucion Will Not be Televised

I am often asked what I miss most about Mexico, as if the answer could be anything other than eating tacos at 70 degree weather in the middle of what Mexicans charmingly call "Winter."

But of course there is a flip side to all this. While I do tend to spend 50 out of 52 weeks in the good ol' U.S. of A., I do spend a few days in Mexico every year.

And even then I am rarely asked what I miss the most in the U.S.A.

The answer is manifold, as you might expect. I miss, of course, the sweet smell of freedom, which to my nose is like fresh cut grass. I miss the fact that the mailman comes every day, despite flooding my mailbox with only bills and catalogs. I miss the fact that movie theaters carry pictures other than dubbed incarnations of the Twilight and Alvin and the Chipmunks movies. Most of all, I guess I miss good old fashioned actual blondes, both for their obvious physical appeal and for the true stories unfair jokes at their expense.

But you know what surprised me in how much I miss it?

Hulu.com.

Lawyers, in their mad quest to ruin everything that's fun, have made it impossible for anyone outside the U.S. to access Hulu.com. Whenever I try to watch anything on Hulu from here in Mexico -- from old episodes to new ones to even promos for God's sake, I get the following message:

"We're sorry, currently our video library can only be streamed within the United States. For more information on Hulu's international availability, please click here."

And why, you damned lawyers, can't I enjoy Hulu in the comfort of my Mexican porch?

For now, Hulu is a U.S. service only. That said, our intention is to make Hulu's growing content lineup available worldwide. This requires clearing the rights for each show or film in each specific geography and will take time. We're encouraged by how many content providers have already been working along these lines so that their programs can be available over the Internet to a much larger, global audience. The Hulu team is committed to making great programming available across the globe.

WELL, THAT'S JUST GARBAGE. All I want to do is watch Saturday Night Live the way normal people do: at my convenience while I recover from hangovers on a Sunday afternoon. And you can't give me that? Because I'm on vacation in Mexico? GO DROWN YOURSELVES IN ACID.

I've even tried to cut the middleman and get my shows directly from the networks' own sites. But nbc.com, abc.com, fox.com and cbs.com all come back at me with similar hurdles. Playback is not supported in my region. I am outside the viewing area. My network is outside the parameters. You can't watch -- neener neener neener.

This means I have to watch things live, and who does that anymore? I feel like my own grandpa. At least every show is in re-runs right now, so I'm not missing anything.

But you goddamned lawyers ruined my plan to catch up on other shows. And precisely in the only three weeks a year when I have absolutely nothing to do but turn myself over every once in a while so I sunburn evenly. For this you will pay, you hear me? You will pay!

How, I have no idea. But now I won't feel bad about our less than legal satellite hook-up.

Learning to Count

Let's settle this, once and for all.

Pundits on both sides of the spectrum continue to scream at each other, each secure in the knowledge that their conception of when the decade stops and starts is correct.

Does the decade go from 2000-2009 or 2001-2010?

Both sides make good points.

If you operate under the assumption that normal people start counting at 1, we find ourselves in a situation where all these "Best of the Decade" lists are about a year too early. By conveniently ignoring the fact that 10 is the last year in a decade, everyone has gone crazy trying to both name the decade and summarize it (nine years in) by reducing over 3,285 days worth of events to a pithy list of 10 things that sum up a decade by dispensing with most of it.

On the other hand, in the context of a decade, it is convenient to to count ten years from 0 to 9, as in accepting that the 60s were from 60 to 69. One, because most things are better when they end in a 69. And two, as I have said, it is very convenient to stop at 9, and also because it seems weird to say that the 60s were from 1961 to 1970, which is exactly what those few naysayers are, um, saying when they argue that the decade ends in 2010.

I prefer to accept the latter way of thinking. That is, the decade runs from 2000 to 2009. Of course, I am a creature of convenience, and will often watch whatever is on if I can't find the remote, with the possible exception of The Jay Leno Show.

And also, saying that 1970 is a part of the 60s sounds absurd. Perhaps it isn't, and there is a perfectly logical explanation involving mathematics that explains why. However, I am an English major, and it was my understanding that there would be no math.

Therefore, in the interest of avoiding a headache from too much thinking and because, really, who cares, I hereby accept the proposition that the 00s ranged from 2000 to 2009.

The Last Ten Years

If you are reading this, then our computers have not died and the Y2K virus was nothing but a --

What?

Oh, that was last decade?

Apologies. Much like an odometer, it seems to me that everything that ends in 9 and turns back to 0 should be accompanied by some sort of defining event. Is it too much to ask for some sort of explosion?

Perhaps it is. Unfortunately, the Mayans chose not to conform and instead will come back to end the world on the very non-round-numberish year 2012.

Whether we like it or not, those lucky enough to be around my age have to say that, for better or worse, the preceding decade was when we came of age. I will not hazard a guess as to the implications of this -- none of us will know just how much growing up in this particular decade has affected us until the time comes when we are put in charge of this whole affair.

What we can do, however, is describe the environment that surrounded us. If coming of age in the 20s was like growing up in a musical orphanage with a sugar daddy looking out for us, and coming of age in the 50s was like growing up in a nice suburban home with a nuclear family where people did actually ring their neighbor's door for a cup of sugar, then surely we can characterize the 00s in a similar manner.

Therefore, I humbly propose that coming of age in the 00s was like growing up in an insane asylum where everyone was frightened all the time despite not paying attention to anything for more than two minutes at a stretch. Perhaps that would explain the constant screaming. And the fires.

In fact, if this decade had been a verse in Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire," good old Billy would be crying before he got to the chorus, terrified and in the fetal position.

But look at it this way: we have nowhere to go but up, right?

So here's hoping that 2010 and the decade beyond treat everyone well. With some luck, we might still avoid the zombie apocalypse.