The Brady Bill

The internet often giveth. But sometimes, just to be fair, it also taketh away.

This was making the rounds this afternoon.

In case you did not click through, it takes you to a video of Tom Brady, who is "dancing" at the Carnaval in Rio while sporting a rather unfortunate ponytail.

I stared at this in the same way someone would when he comes upon a once proud oak that was just struck by lightning. And then I checked out for a few minutes while the demons inside my head had themselves a debate.

Jack Daniel: It's a ponytail. On a man.
Tom Collins: I see that.
JD: And it's not just any man. It's the most important man in Boston.
TC: That is true.
JD: A ponytail.
TC: It's not that bad.
JD: Are you kidding? It's terrible. Ponytails are for women and old hippies in Portland.
TC: Some men can pull off a ponytail.
JD: Maybe Willie Nelson. But let's be honest here. Brady kind of looks like Mia Hamm with muscles.
TC: Look. He's Tom Brady. He has won three Super Bowls, two MVPs, and gets to [censored] this every night. If the man wants to go with a rat tail, he's earned it.
JD: (Grumble) I guess.
TC: And give him a break. He's happy. He's dancing. He's trying to soak in a little of his wife's culture. We should be praising him, not making fun of his very unfortunate hair do.
JD: But it's a ponytail! Every instinct in my body is telling me to make fun of it.
TC: Tom Brady could beat the living crap out of you without breaking a sweat.
JD: But he looks like a soccer mom on a 6 am run to the grocery store who is hoping that she doesn't run into someone she knows.
TC: I'm warning you.
JD: He looks like Sally Draper!
TC: Ok, fine. I'm forced to draw the trump card.
JD: Yes?
TC: Again. This.
JD: Touche, sir. Very well played.

TC: And at least it's not pigtails.

JD: Indeed.

At the Mountains of Madness

In the interest of scientific observation, I spent the weekend at a ski resort somewhere in rural New Hampshire. All involved parties survived.

I took a great deal of cajoling and coercing to get me to go on this trip. Longtime readers of this blog will remember my unrelenting aversion to snow, particularly when found in concentrated amounts in rural areas. When that is coupled with activities that involve hurling yourself headlong into snowbanks and -- if you're unlucky -- trees, we get a very unappealing situation indeed.

However, those concerns were outweighed by two positive factors. One, the opportunity to hang out and drink with friends in a random house in the middle of nowhere. And two, what else was I going to do if all my friends were gone.

So I packed up my snow boots and unearthed my ski jacket and willingly set on the road, escaping the cold spell of Boston for the even colder spell of points north.

It was fun, which I expected, and educational, which I did not. The latter stems from the aforementioned scientific observations of the totally unnatural environment that is a ski lodge. In my eight years in America, I have never found myself feeling out of place, except in ski lodges. For this reason, I find these places fascinating, much in the same way an astronaut would regard a populated Mars.

For instance, you walk into the cafeteria at base camp and everyone is soaked, sore, and wearing suspenders underneath what seems to be more complex than an astronaut suit. Which makes you hope they don't have to go to the bathroom sometime in the next eight hours. And yet they're all happy, despite having to pay thirteen dollars for some chicken tenders and a baked potato the size of an apple. Maybe being thisclose to death turns on the crazy part of their brains.

And then everyone leaves their skis and snowboards outside, on a rack. Are they not afraid someone will steal them? Man, white people really trust each other.

Which they should, because this is isolation in the extreme. I had to drive 20 miles in order to find the nearest store that would sell whiskey. My phone rarely worked. My internet never did. There was no TV.

You know how they don't let anyone on the Jersey Shore use cell phones, watch TV and go on the internet? So all they do is drink and sleep, because there is nothing else to do?

Now I understand. I completely get why they're all insane. It's like they're all trapped in a ski lodge and there's no way out, so they develop the earthbound version of space dementia. The same started to happen to me after two days on a ski trip, so why wouldn't it happen to them after four months?

...

No, I'm not on edhardy.com. I ... uh .. accidentally clicked on a pop-up. ... Ooh, a discount on industrial-strength hair spray.

The Dying Buzz

I have called this press conference to announce that, as of three o'clock eastern standard time today, I will no longer be using Google Buzz.

(Stares at a room full of blank looks)

Oh, right. You forgot what that is.

Google Buzz was this thing that Google started in an effort to compete with Twitter and Facebook. Their engineers had a dream that, instead of posting status updates, photo albums, and links on those platforms, you would do so on Google Buzz.

Their hook was that, because it integrated your Google Contacts -- otherwise known as the people with whom you communicate the most -- and made them part of your network, you would use Buzz instead. It would be like Facebook, except you'd communicate with friends instead of "friends." They kind of really screwed it up at first, but they got a handle on it eventually and you could actually whittle the list down to the few people who you care to hear from. And who, you would hope, would want to hear from you.

In an ideal world, this would be great. It would basically be like Facebook, except without Farmville and the people you haven't seen since the third grade. Plus, Buzz was on the front page of Gmail, and 90 percent of the people I know are on Gmail 90 percent of the time. So what better way to share articles, let people know what you were up to and keep up with everyone?

Alas, this communist utopia was not to be. People were confused by Buzz in the beginning, then wary, and then it never really took off. Very, very few people use it at all anymore. It's much like a party where the guests quickly became underwhelmed and everyone left. Sure, there are still a couple of people still awkwardly hanging out by the bar, waiting for the fireworks that will never come.

Unfortunately, it is my opinion that they should just close up shop because nobody else is going to show up. Buzz is still there, languishing on your Gmail page, sadly sounding off once or twice a day like an automated whistle at a shuttered factory. Without the community, there's nothing there that you can't get on Facebook, Google Reader, or even Twitter.

And when I found out about Google Profiles (Google "[Your Name] + Google Profile" and prepare to freak out), which link to your Buzz, unless you turn them off. And that was it. The unrealizable potential of Buzz was not compelling enough to outweigh privacy concerns. So that was that.

So if you look for my stuff on Google Buzz, you will no longer find it. Although, since I'm now no longer on Buzz, you probably won't see this message.

Hmm.

Anyone with Buzz want to share this?

An Open Letter to Many Boston-Area Bars

Dear Bartender,

If you are receiving this letter, it means that two facts co-exist.

Fact Number One: I enjoy frequenting your bar. I find it an agreeable place to pass the time. I am proud to call myself a patron of your bar and do hereby pledge to return to you periodically.

Fact Number Two: A distressing flaw haunts your establishment.

Contrary to what you may think, Fact Number One and Fact Number Two can simultaneously be true. Fact Number Two is not fatal to Fact Number One, but the former adheres to the latter like a barnacle, weighing it down the way that an awful girlfriend sort of makes you want to stop calling what is otherwise a very affable friend.

In short, my enjoyment of all things mentioned in Fact Number One is diminished by the existence of Fact Number Two.

Luckily for us, this is something that can be fixed.

Fact Number Two refers to your bar's inexplicable failure to purchase rocks glasses, also known as low-ball glasses, and doing business as old fashioned glasses.

This is a rather vexing oversight, as it forces Scotch drinkers like myself to consume our beverage of choice out of either shot glasses (bad) or high ball glasses (worse).

As Scotch is a sipping drink, you can see why these instruments are inappropriate for the present task. High ball glasses are inadequate for sipping and also cumbersome. Think of it as wearing a baggy wool sweater on a hot summer day.

And, although less reprehensible, the remaining disjunct is also less than ideal. Yes, it is easier to sip from a shot glass. But then you are left sipping out of a shot glass, which is as undignified and offputting as it sounds. The sight of a 200 pound man sipping daintily out of a shot glass is, I confess, rather pathetic, and avoiding it is in the best interest of all involved parties.

If you look at the bar behind you, you will notice dozens of bottles of Scotch. Forgive me if I sound condescending, but you must know how important an adequate vessel is. Would you pour shots of tequila into a Martini glass? Serve Cosmos in a shot glass? Put Irish Car Bombs in a cereal bowl?

Of course you would not. If you are going to be selling certain drinks, then it is only logical that you would pair them with the appropriate glassware.

And while the potential for breakage certainly exists, that is true of everything in your possession, and such is the cost of doing business.

So please, stock up on rocks glasses. Nobody loses here. Your patrons will thank you. I will thank you. And, most importantly, God Himself will thank you.

Cordially,
A Concerned Customer

Oh my God, It Even has a Watermark

Contrary to popular belief, the many identities that I have assumed in my travels are not necessitated by my immigration status. Rather, they are the product of the bored mind of an English major who enjoys the craft of fiction and the audience of sophisticated yet gullible women.

And so I find myself at bars, creating different personas for myself. I have been an astronaut, the owner of several Argentinian wineries, a producer looking to cast local unknowns in the TV version of The Town, the Spanish Ambassador's son, the pilot for the Boston Red Sox charter plane, deputy mayor, and an escapist a la Houdini. This last one is quickly becoming my favorite because the path from there to handcuffs is a short and easy one.

Oh, don't look at me that way. Yes, they are lies. Yes, I'm misleading impressionable women. Yes, maybe I'm not a very good person.

But come on. It's fun.

No, but really. Look. When you go to crowded bars, a lot of people are looking to just have fun that night. These are not places to find soulmates. Most people understand this transaction.

So I ask you, is it that bad to spice things up a bit?

What you call "lies" I like to call "short stories." Let's use an example. I'm going to tell you two stories and you tell me which one you'd rather listen to.

Story 1: I am a lawyer. Right now I'm not working, so I spend most days at home. But when I do work, I'll get to look for inconsistencies in 400-page contracts. What? Do we ever go to trial? Oh, you make me laugh.

or

Story 2: Oh, I'm not actually from here. I'm from down in Georgia. Yeah, my family owns a ranch there and I help run it. We breed racehorses there. Yes, to compete in races and everything. We're actually really excited. We just had a new foal and he's magnificent. He was born and he was already 17 hands tall. Stride is seven and a half feet. He's a beast. With the right feeding and training, we really might have a shot at a future Derby contender. And you know the best part? Our ranch's conceit is that we name our horses after literary characters. Like "Moby Dick," or "Othello," or "Boo Radley." But we've been saving one name for our best horse, for the one we think really has a shot at being a champion. And we gave it to this one. We're that sure he's going to be the best. Oh, what name? It's awesome. The best. Are you ready for this? (Pause) "The Great Gatsby."

BOOM.

Isn't Story 2 just a million times better? When you're out at a bar, wouldn't you much rather listen to that than to the sad, boring truth?

So I'm providing a public service here. And, despite what you might think, most women tend to believe me. My theory is that yes, everyone tells one or two lies when they're courting. But those are easy to catch.

The difference here is that these personas are a complete fiction. They are entire backstories -- lives in brief. And since only psychos would create an alternate identity, nobody is on their guard. A little self-assuredness and enough details, and there's no reason for them not to believe you.

And yet you occasionally frequently get the girl who doesn't believe that the douchebag in a suit standing in front of her is actually an astronaut angling to be on the first mission to Mars. So what do we do about them? How do we convince them?

You know how, if it's on paper, it must be true?

Ta-da!

Thank you, AlterEgo. Thank you very, very much.

Habemus Sheen

The world waits with bated breath for Charlie Sheen's first tweet, much in the way, as a commentator pointed out, that we await that first hint of white smoke that announces the consecration of a new Pope.

I mean, Holy Smokes. We haven't seen this particular brand of willing self-immolation in years. This isn't a Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan meltdown, to which we were privy only because hordes of paparazzi make their living from following them.

No, this is a whole new flavor, mostly because Charlie Sheen, in an effort to show he's not completely insane, has paraded from morning show to talk show to interview show peddling his complete insanity.

Imagine that your friend is drunk. And he wants to drive. He insists he is fit to drive, even though you just saw him fall into the pool, get out, and walk straight into a closed sliding door. And nobody stops him. So of course he hits the back wall when he tries to back up, then drives across the lawn, cuts across the street, and crashes into a lamp post at 10 mph. And he's still trying to put the car into reverse when the cops show up.

That's Charlie Sheen right now. His publicist has quit, no doubt exhausted from the futile proposition of trying to beat some sense into someone whose quotes are easily confused with Ron Burgundy's.

And you can't blame the publicist. When your client starts sounding off about "Tiger Blood," "fire-breathing fists," and "Vatican assassin warlocks," you might as well pack up your balls and leave. What else can you do? If you were a contractor and your client kept burning down the house every two hours, you'd quit too.

If anything good comes of this, it would be that we might near the end of the hammy, unoriginal, lowest-common-denominator, deeply unfunny Two and a Half Men. Normally, I have no problem with awful shows -- I simply don't watch them. Live and let live.

But the fact that this piece of garbage is consistently touted as the most popular sitcom in the land is depressing in about a million different ways. And if we can wipe that awful blight from the American picture, we would all be much better off.

So maybe, just maybe, Charlie Sheen knows this. And he's our man on the inside, working to destroy the beast from within. I wonder how this will go.



Crap.