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.

Get Thee to a Hospital

So today I was trying to cross the street. And when I cross the street, I do it with the New York flavor. This means I don't stop at the curb, but instead wander three or four paces into the street itself, inching ahead enough so that I'm just short of being clipped in the sprouts by the rear-view mirror of a passing car.

I do this because I am impatient and want to be in the best position to spring forward the instant there is a break in traffic. Green lights, red lights, walk signals -- those are all suggestions, much like those "skillet-ready" frozen meals that claim to serve 2 people. Yeah, right.

So there I am, and I see a break, but I kind of have to hoof it, because I can see all these trucks just raring to go. In fact, I have to jog, which is terribly undignified, but to get hit by a truck would be even more undignified. That and I was wearing a nice suit, and if I get hit by a car, the paramedics are taking their scissors to my suit, and the thought of them cutting up into little shreds of cotton was too much to bear.

So I'm jogging and of course I'm going to make it, and just as I hop onto the opposite curb, I hear the screeching of tires and the honking of horns. And it bugs me. It really, truly does. I am an expert street crosser -- I can say that in 99 percent of occasions, I've always timed my crossing into traffic exactly right. So for some asshole driver to indulge his inner worry wart and honk at me because I got away with just inches to spare is infuriating.

So I turn around, taking my hand out of my coat pocket to flip this driver the bird -- in fact, I'm even considering giving him the two-hand salute on this one -- when I freeze, just stop dead in my tracks.

Because the man was not honking at me. No, he was honking at a gaggle of nuns, about six in total, all frail, all elderly, who had been at the other end of the crossing behind me and impetuously decided to follow me into traffic.

Normally, when a woman follows me across the street, I chalk it up to my rugged handsomeness and overwhelming charisma. But these were nuns, women of the cloth. Even I have my limits.

No, it seems they thought they could cross the street at a pace equal to mine, which seems to me a grievous miscalculation. We only had but a few seconds, and it took every ounce of grace and speed in my 200-pound bulk to make that crossing without incident. What hope do nuns have?

Perhaps I could have been a gentleman and helped them cross, or even merely herded them along. But I was crossing against a green light, and in order to have come to the nuns' aid, I would have had to wait for the walk signal. And I'm afraid I must confess that sacrificing those 30 extra seconds was just something I was not prepared to do.

This is not the first time this has happened. Anyone who has ever been at a crosswalk knows that the herding instinct is strong, and that many people won't cross until one daring, enterprising soul does so first. The "sheep" don't even look at the traffic -- they look at the person and go, if he can make it, I can make it.

Since I am usually that reckless person, I have found myself leading dozens of people into oncoming traffic. There has never been an incident, thank God. But this one with the nuns was too close to call. I mean, can you imagine the hell reserved for the asshole who led nuns to a horrible death by city bus? It must be even more boring and awkward than last night's Oscars.

So I hereby promise to try to wait for the green light. I imagine I will fail at this, so I will make the additional promise that, when I do cross, I will turn around and loudly but politely warn the assembled crowd behind me that what I am about to do should only be done by professionals. And I should probably collect waivers from those who do attempt the crossing, but I feel like my recklessness as a person should extend to recklessness as a lawyer.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cross the train tracks.

Off With Their Poofs

The internet really is like a rabbit hole sometimes, mostly because you can dive in and occasionally find something called Snooki in Wonderland. It is exactly what it sounds like.

It appears that someone has taken our favorite fictional characters and transported them to a place that is eve less bizarre than Seaside Heights.

As intriguing as Season 4 in Italy will be, I would personally prefer to see the gang in Wonderland, if only to see what Tweedledee and Tweedledee do when Snooki tries to smush them. Although we would have to find a way to mollify the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, who would certainly be justified in believing that Sitch and Pauly D would try to steal their insanity thunder.

And why stop in Wonderland? Imagine the crew in Springfield. Wouldn't you love to see a conversation between Lisa and Ronnie? Or if they all got accepted into Hogwarts, where they can introduce Grenade Dodging to the Defense Against the Dark Arts syllabus? Or if they got stranded on the Island from Lost? Five words: Snooks vs. The Smoke Monster.

Alas, we must content ourselves with the fact that the crew can only visit places that actually exist.

No word yet on whether Alice has offered Ronnie advice on what to do if you cry so much that you almost drown in your tears.

Random Video of the Day LXXXIV

I've often said that drunk people are like babies. Which is why I am 10,000 years away from being ready to have children. I mean, can you imagine having to take care of a drunk who will not sober up for 18 years?

I'll have a lot more on this subject at a later date. But for now, please enjoy visual evidence that there really is no difference between babies and drunks.

Say, Can I Get You Drunk

I'm never one to back off from a good challenge. Statements like "You can't jump that far," and "You cannot possibly finish that" awaken my inner Stinson and induce me to yell out, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED."

Why, even last week, after I mentioned how [great] Gwyneth looked in her Grammys catsuit, someone told me she was out of my league. So now I must have her. And it'd be going great if she'd only return my calls.

But even with my breathtaking recklessness, I recognize that there are impossible feats in this world. Challenges beyond our powers of achievement. Tests that cannot be bested.

And chief among them is trying to pick up a girl at a bar when you can't drink.

Others have given their two cents on the matter and have come to a similar conclusion. The reasons for this are manifold: it's tougher to break the ice, the gap between drunk people and sober people is at least as wide as the Grand Canyon, etc.

And, honestly, it's this last one that provides the Sisyphean task. For let's say you're not drinking but you're out at a bar and are chatting up this girl and all of a sudden you're at that point where you should offer to buy her a drink. So you do that and you order one drink for her but not one for yourself.

She'll ask you why you're not drinking. And what can you say? You can tell her you're sick and on medicine, but that'll turn her off. You can tell her you're not drinking tonight, but that's lame and will turn her off. Almost any excuse you give her will inevitably turn her off.

(By the way, never tell a girl you're trying to lose weight because this will invariably remind her that she is trying to lose weight, even when she clearly does not need to. Because of this, she will temper her drinking. This, of course, will not only re-raise her standards to their usual, unattainable levels, but it will also clear her mind and lead to prudent decisions and responsible choices. Nobody wants this.)

But I digress. Maybe, just maybe, you're clever enough to come up with some bogus but acceptable reason on the spot. Like, say, "I'd love to have a scotch, but I'm on painkillers because I threw out my back putting up house frames for Habitat for Humanity."

Oh high five? You think that was perfect? You probably think you just turned all of this around, don't you? Now she must want to take care of you, you wonderful, charitable, selfless bastard you.

But but but. There's still that elephant in the room. Because she's drinking and you're not.

So the whole dynamic changes. Maybe one drink is fine, but if you start buying her more, she might think you're trying to get her drunk. Or maybe she does get drunk and then you don't want to take advantage of a drunk girl. Or she becomes self-conscious because she's the only one here drinking and now it's all awkward up in here.

The point is, no matter how cool you try to play it, all these forces conspire against you. Drunks v. sober people is as testy a relationship as the parents v. non-parents, business travelers v. families, and everyone v. teenagers conflicts. It's not insurmountable, but good luck.

And yes, you never turn away from a challenge. But sometimes there's just too much lava coming down the aggro-crag.

Thou Shalt Not Pass

I will fully admit that, on occasion, I have a rage problem (In my defense, rage is really the best of the seven deadly sins, with apologies to lust and gluttony). Many people make my vision run red, including, but not limited to: hipsters, hippies, nerds, children, teenagers, old people, and basically everyone who is not a man or woman in his or her mid-to-late-twenties who lives in the Northeast.

But you know who really takes the aggravation cake?

Slow-walkers.

Collectively known as "the worst people in the world," slow-walkers are those bastards who seem to have forgotten that the cardinal rule of city living is "Don't be in the way."

So they dilly. They dally. They linger. They weave. They shuffle. They waddle. They hesitate. They stop abruptly. They look around dreamily, as if seeing foot traffic for the first time. Those without the ability to walk and talk at the same time try to walk and text at the same time.

And that's just the individuals.

See, slow-walkers like to travel in packs. They form these impassable clumps of obliviousness that take up the entire width of a sidewalk, walking three or four abreast so that no man shall get by them. They are the unaware bouncers of the road, an awful symphony of slowness.

I am glad to see that I am not alone amongst the rage-aholics in wanting to wring Tim and Trudy Tourist by the neck. Researchers have identified something called "Sidewalk Rage," which is exactly what it sounds like.

Ragers tend to have a strong sense of how other people should behave. Their code: Slower people keep to the right. Step aside to take a picture. And the left side of an escalator should be, of course, kept free for anyone wanting to walk up.

But those make sense, right? If you're in a car and just have to take a picture, you'd pull over, right? While I know that pedestrians are not commanding a 2,000 pound killing machine, it's the same principle, right?

Apparently not.

"A lot of us have 'shoulds' in our head," says Dr. Deffenbacher. Ragers tend to think people should do things their way, and get angry because the slow walkers are breaking the rules of civility. It's unclear exactly why some people harbor such beliefs, Dr. Deffenbacher says. Such ways of thinking are generally learned from family, friends or the media, he adds.

Oh, so we harbor those beliefs because we learned them from family, friends, and the media. And you know what we've also learned from those things? EVERYTHING ELSE.

Ragers' thoughts tend to be overly negative, over-generalized and blown out of proportion, leaving them fuming about how they can't stand the situation, how late they are going to be, and how this always comes up, Dr. Deffenbacher says.

Fine. That's fair. I don't need to start throwing shoulders in order to get past Wally the Waddler. In fact, I could probably use a deep breath. But what's the alternative?

In contrast, someone blissfully free of sidewalk rage may still be frustrated, but thinks more accepting thoughts such as, "this is the way life is sometimes" or, "I wish that slow person wasn't in front of me," he says.

"I wish that slow person wasn't in front of me?" Are you kidding? Do people actually react this way? They go, aw shucks, I wish this aggravating thing wasn't happening? What an Eeyore way to go through life. What is this, Canada?

(Grumbles)

Look. I fully understand that it's unwise to develop rage blackouts because of mundane things like tourists, packs of teenagers, or young families who seem to be schlepping every single one of the baby's possession as if they're looking to make a base camp around the stroller's 3,400 square foot gravitational field.

So next time I'm out there, trying to get from A to B, I'm going to suppress the part of my brain screaming at me to slap the slow-walker upside the head. I'm not going to let their plodding, torpid pace bother me. I'm going to smile and I'm going to give them a friendly clap on the shoulder and I'm going to ask, "Say, pard, can I help you today?"

And I'll swallow my rage and direct it inwards, where it belongs.

Of Nukes and Dates

A few months ago, I met a girl for drinks. And twenty minutes into the conversation, out of nowhere, she asks me the following question:

"What's your favorite type of cat?"

I was reminded of that awful, mind-boggling moment when I came across this article that has been roaming around the internet for a few days. It's about the best questions to ask on a first date, but the premise is misleading. Instead of telling you which questions would open up your date and make her comfortable, it tells you which questions to ask if you want to find out if your date is up for getting it in that very same night without having to resort to the always awkward and usually futile strategy of flat out asking her.

So yes, if you look at it that way, those are the best questions to ask.

According to this thing, there is a strong correlation between people who like the taste of beer and people who are willing to dance the horizontal mambo on the first date. So what do you do? You ask her if she likes beer. If she says yes, SCORE! If she says no, well, you better change that drink order.

As the article says, "sadly, this is the only meaningful correlation for women." So no other questions we can ask them will imply that she might entertain the thought.

But what about men? Apparently, there are questions you can ask men that have an even stronger correlation with "willing to bone tonight" than "do you like the taste of beer?" And these are:

In a certain light, wouldn't nuclear war be exciting?

Assuming you were in the position to do so, would you launch nuclear weapons under any circumstances?

Could you imagine yourself killing someone?

There you have it, ladies! Nuclear war is the ultimate aphrodisiac, especially when we get to take the football and nuke the world three times over! Michelle Obama, you are one lucky lady.

But that's where this survey lost me. Because it implies that there are men out there who would say no to having sex on a first date. And that's the biggest load of horse manure since the Augean Stables.

OF COURSE we want to have sex on the first date. Why on earth wouldn't we? Yes, dates are good for getting to know someone and having a conversation and seeing if there might be something there and maybe starting that meaningful walk down Relationship Lane.

But let's tell truths here. When you take someone out, a big factor is that maybe, just maybe, she lets you see her naked. It's not the only factor -- we're way past the frat boy stage now. But it is what it is. Which, I guess, is what frat boys says. You know what I mean.

I'll admit there are times when a guy takes a girl out and he doesn't want to sleep with her. Maybe he's not attracted or maybe when he went back to her apartment she lived with five cats. These are perfectly legitimate reasons to pack up your balls and go home.

But if a guy tells you, "You know, not tonight. Maybe we should wait until the third date," there's something going on. Either he's lying or he's setting you up for something -- God knows what. My strategic foresight cannot fathom such a plan. But as your attorney, I would advise you to run.

On the other hand, that sounds like an entertaining long con. You forgo instant gratification for the possibility of better returns in the future. Interesting. And it would drive her crazy.

Hmmm.

(Stares out window and takes a sip of Scotch).

Random Video of the Day LXXXIII

It's been, what, two weeks since I've mentioned zombies?

Well, that streak is over. Don't act like you did not miss this.

I bring up zombies only as an introduction to this outstanding video game trailer. Yes, it's a trailer for a video game. Yes, I too was unaware these existed. I don't play video games.

But despite the fact that this is for a video game, this is one of the most harrowing, saddest, most awesome clips I've ever seen. Fair warning, there's a lot of blood and, um, dismemberment. And people being set on fire or mauled by other people. BUT. But if that doesn't bother you, then prepare to say, WOW.



Who said video games can't look like friggin' awesome films? Isn't the piano score just outstanding? If this was a movie, I'd totally be jumping up and down in my chair going, ohboyohboyohboy.

Crap. My chair just broke.

Cabs Are Here!

Congratulations, Boston! You have made the top of a list!

Of course, that list is the one titled, "Most Expensive Cabs in America," but still. Yay for winning!

Oddsmakers had favored New York City -- home of the $7.50 Bud Light bottle -- in the early going. Experience proved invaluable to debunk this, as the unforeseen occasional necessities to take cabs back into Manhattan early on Sunday morning from Whoknowswhere in Brooklyn or Wheretheballsarewe in New Jersey proved surprisingly reasonable indeed.

That said, this should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever had the pleasure of a Boston cab ride. Here, each mile traveled will cost the patron the borderline unconscionable sum of $2.80.

This wouldn't be horrible, considering that metro Boston is one of the smallest cities in America. However, the streets in Boston were designed 400 years ago by a blind drunk who just looooved walking in circles. As a result, city streets are a navigator's nightmare, looping endlessly, going southwest one moment and northeast the next, so there's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. So the danger must be growing and so forth.

Oh, and all the streets are one way.

The consequence of this is that, what should be a relatively simple trip turns into a months-long odyssey of missed turns, dead ends, and jaunts an astronaut could not weather. Sure, it may only be three miles from Harvard to Kenmore, but the meter says you owe the guy $17.80. Surprise!

And we haven't even gotten to the airport yet. A ten minute ride will somehow cost upwards of $30, owing mostly to the ridiculous per mile charge, but also to the completely unreasonable $8.00 surcharge for picking you up from the airport and paying tribute to its ruling tribes.

Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that this is not even the cabbies' fault. This report does a very good job of explaining how cabbies are getting even more screwed than we are, thanks to an oppressive medallion system that was instituted and capped back in 1931, when people still rode horses and airports were not really a thing yet.

So the cabbies are getting screwed by both the banks who hold title to the medallions and the municipalities who monopolize the street hailing trade. And we in turn get screwed by the cabbies.

And, as usual, there's no one for us to screw.

Oh. Wait a minute.

Cabs are here!

My Mind Is Going

Who knew Alex Trebek would be the one to preside over the robot apocalypse?

In case you missed it, last night featured what essentially looked like the prologue of a movie about the end of the world. This is how all dystopian movies start: An innocuous presentation of an exciting and experimental new technology somehow goes awry. Before you know it, things escalate, HAL 9000 is a reality, and Terminators roam our streets unchecked.

In this case, the end begins with Watson, a supercomputer that has the wherewithal to actually "understand" and answer questions that have different layers of meaning, such as the ones presented on Jeopardy. This is an unprecedented level of computer technology, and although Watson can arguably claim the smartest computer in the world title, I have put "understand" in quotation marks because Watson is not an artificially intelligent machine that understands things the way humans do. Instead, it ... well, let's let someone who knows what he's talking about explain it.

When Watson is given the clue via electronic text, it is run through a series of complex algorithms which pick apart keywords, the relation of those keywords to each other, and the structure in which those words were used. From there it begins an association process where it generates and eliminates possible answers based on those keywords. It will also take into consideration previous clues and responses from the same category.

So, as I understand it, Watson is making educated guesses based on the probability that the inferences it makes about the key words is the right one. From my admittedly imperfect understanding, the nerds are completely warranted in being besides themselves at this display of computer "reasoning."

And of course the way to test this was to go on jeopardy, where the questions are, in the words of a 75 year-old English professor, "somewhat glib yet refreshingly playful." Plus, it gets to be condescended to by Alex Trebek.

Watson, as you might imagine, did very well. In fact, the first few minutes of the game were absolutely horrifying, as Watson methodically worked its way down through the board, outbuzzing the game's greatest champions with all the charm and wit of an electronic alarm clock. The calm, monotonous robotic voice was terrifying. Maybe the IBM engineers could have made it not sound like HAL 90000.

And then Watson began to falter, unable to answer those questions where words have more than two meanings. While these failings may be a source of consternation to scientists, I could hear the collective sigh of relief from humans worldwide as they realized that the machine was not invincible.

But not me. In fact, the terror only grew. For these weren't just "wrong" answers in the way a human's answer would be wrong. In other words, the source of these mistakes wasn't an ignorance of the facts or a misapprehension of the premises.

No, these answers were "wrong" in the way crazy answers are wrong, totally divorced from the context of the situation. These are the wrong answers that an insane person would provide, completely divorced from reality and subject only to the misfiring synapses of faulty wiring.

And the fact that this is an intrinsic feature of the world's smartest computer is, quite frankly, the scariest thing I have ever heard.

So forgive me. It seems the little panic monster inside my head has awakened from its slumber. It is now running in circles, screaming at the skies and tearing its hair in handfuls.

If you never hear from this blog again, it will be because the panic monster's manic ravings have finally overwhelmed my mind and compelled me to take my baseball bat destroy this laptop before its gleaming silver screen finally eats me.

May God help us all.

What a Game, Old Sport

Just when I thought I'd spend Valentine's Day sobbing without the embrace of true love, the internets go and bring us this:

The Great Gatsby: The Video Game.

Yes, really. Someone once made a video game for this for the old NES. And if awesomeness was currency, this game would be Warren Buffet.

My favorite things, in no particular order:

a. In the very first level, you, playing as Nick Carraway, must travel through Gatsby's West Egg mansion and kill ornery caterers and drunk party guests doing the mashed potato on the fountains. You accomplish this by throwing what I believe is your hat at them.

b. It gets better. In the second level, you find yourself on top of a LIRR train, fighting escaped convicts.

c. And it keeps going. The boss of that level is (wait for it) THE EYES OF DR T.J. ECKLEBURG! And they shoot lasers at you! I know!

d. To power-up, you must drink martinis. Also, every once in a while you find a golden hat, and when you grab that, you turn into a Gold Suit wearing pimp who oozes swag.

e. The random pixelated cut scenes where Gatsby stretches out his arm for the green light at the end of the pier and promptly is abducted by what I imagine are aliens. Also, you get to see Daisy weeping over the shirts, if you're into that kind of thing.

f. When you find Gatsby, he tells you, "Good job, Old Sport." And his teeth gleam.

g. At some point you have to fight Meyer Wolfsheim, who does not throw those cufflinks made out of teeth at you. No, instead he -- and this is the best thing ever -- brings out the entire roster of the 1919 Black Sox to kill you with their bats. (!) (!!!!!) (!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

h. Other enemies include sewer alligators, dancing hobos, crabs, and the ghosts of German soldiers. Perhaps shockingly, you never fight Tom Buchanan.

I suppose that, solely for the mob connections, making a video game out of The Great Gatsby is not so far-fetched. If anything, it's a safer play than, say, Lolita, or Waiting for Godot.

It's safe to say, though, that this is the best video game adapted from an F. Scott Fitzgerald book ever.

Random Video of the Day LXXXI

In honor of the now incomprehensible Bob Dylan performing at the Grammys, I'd like to share a clip that is funny because it's true.



I'll still take guys playing their instruments and just singing a song over translucent eggs and ninja drumlines any way of the week. Which is why Mumford and Avett: Brothers and Sons was awesome. Also, Arcade Fire winning Album of the Year is f#$%ing outstanding news and more than makes up for the awful Lady Antebellum song winning everything else.

Brownie Points

I have just returned from an expedition to Commonwealth Avenue and find myself compelled to warn you to stay indoors. My only hope is that this missive reaches you in time. Once you set foot outside, all is lost.

Perhaps you've heard the rumors. If so, I'm afraid I must confirm them.

It's Girl Scout Cookie season.

As we speak, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of girl scouts are roaming the streets of our city, hawing their wares to a captive public. Once they lock upon a victim -- they like to call them "customers" -- there is no escape. You must buy those cookies.

It is one of life's greatest truths -- perhaps only behind "The only three people a man can trust are his barber, his tailor, and his bookie -- that if a girl scout wants to sell you cookies, you are compelled to buy them. They are unrefusable.

They are easily recognizable by their war cry. In a high, melodic tone, the girl scouts will say, "Hi, Mister!" before they approach. As we know, no man alive can resist a child when they call him "Mister." Much like the Smoke Monster's clicking, once you hear it, you're a goner.

And then, of course, you must buy their cookies. For what other alternative is there? You either buy their cookies or you become that heartless crank who stared into the eyes of total innocence only to refuse it. No? What do you mean "no?" Would you also refuse to pet a dog?

So there they sit, two boxes, smiling smugly at me on top of my kitchen counter. These are especially dangerous for someone who lives alone. With no one else to assist me in consuming them, the chore falls entirely to me. Yes, they're delicious. But for those of us straining to stay in their weight class, they're utter danger -- the nuclear option of cookie choices.

So I pray that you receive this in time. It's too late for me, but perhaps you can save yourself.

(Knocking on door)

Now who could that be?

Bless Me, iPhone, For I Have Sinned

As an occasionally religious person who periodically dabbles in vices that the church frowns upon, I often cast my eyes skyward, scanning the clouds for a glimpse of the thunderbolt for which I'm sure I'm fated.

Not because I think I can outrun it, but because I want my last words to be something awesome like "I regret nothing" or "Avenge me."

And this hubris, of course, is part of the problem. And perhaps I would be a little more repentant about my failings if I got yelled at by a terrified priest.

(Cut to Anthony Hopkins screaming, "I cast you out!" as he chases me with a crucifix).

The problem is, I haven't been to confession in 26 years. Which, if you're keeping count, is almost when I was born. I was a very naughty baby.

But now, thank God, there is finally an app for that.

The Catholic Church has officially sanctioned and endorsed an iPhone app that will walk you through the ten commandments and help you figure out which ones you've broken. Then, presumably, you take the list to shocked priest, who will then refer you to a superior who tells you gravely that for some people, there is just no hope.

Perfect, right? So I was going to download this app, but then I saw that it cost $1.99. Since I am unaware that there is a toll on the road to heaven, I had not been planning for this.

Briefly, I contemplated my options. If I am going to pay for an app, I better get some use out of it. So I decided to kill someone and steal their iPhone in order to use this app for free. That would give me two whole commandments to play with, and they're the big ones. I'll be damned -- quite literally -- if I pay for an app and am stuck on the pretty unexciting "Don't take the Lord's Name in vain" level.

Ultimately, I decided against getting the app at all. Refusing to know which sins I've committed, I figured, would be much like refusing to go to the doctor. Frankly, there are some things I'd rather not know. To be blissfully ignorant is to be truly content.

Plus, I know I'd just start playing Angry Birds somewhere around the second "Hail Mary."

...

Does it smell a little like sulfur or is it just me?

Trolo-lol

In a dispatch via Twitter today, Jimmy Kimmel implies that people who "LOL" usually are not actually laughing out loud, as they are saying, and instead are lying. To correct this misapprehension, he proposes that we change LOL to LQ, or "Laughing Quietly."

At first blush, it seems a reasonable proposal.

Go back and look at your chat transcripts. Then, if you're a stalker, look at someone else's chat transcripts. Notice anything?

You're right, there's a lot of LOLing going around. And, quite frankly, nobody is that funny. As much as it pains me to say it, not even me.

In fact, if you act out these transcripts and laugh out loud every time you happen across a LOL, the jokes and laughter will start to feel forced, almost like a first date between two thirty-somethings who haven't gotten laid in over a year.

The reason for this phenomenon is simple. People online are simply having a conversation and use LOL as polite shorthand to indicate that what the other person says is amusing. They may not actually be chuckling, but they're being entertained. And when they say LOL, it's almost like a smile and a nod. It signals to the other person that their conversational efforts are appreciated, and that they should, by all means, keep going so that both parties may continue to enjoy themselves.

Why do I know this? Because I, and every other person with whom I've had an online conversation, do occasionally laugh out loud. But when we do that, we don't just write down a meager "LOL." That would be insufficient. Instead, we write something like "I'm actually laughing out loud" or "literally laughing out loud" or some other such construct that tacitly acknowledges that when you merely "Laugh Out Loud," you're not really laughing at all.

So it's imperative that we get on the same page here. Not everybody subscribes to this philosophy and we are left with horrible misunderstandings and occasionally fights.

For example, I remember when I still did work in the library and I was sitting across from this girl. And I was chatting with her and she said something and I wrote down "haha." Which would have been fine, except she could see my face. And I was not laughing. Maybe I was smiling. And she called me out on it. And, in retrospect, she was obviously flirting, but since I'm an idiot, I went and gave her a complete explanation of how people laugh online, not unlike what I just outlined above. And then I wonder why I'm single.

So, in order to help out oblivious idiots like myself, I have devised a fairly simple shorthand for my humorous reactions. I should warn you that I don't LOL, because internet abbreviations are not manly and I have better things to do, like felling trees. Instead, I use variations of "haha" (Or "jaja," when chatting with folks back home) because, essentially, it's the same thing. To wit:

Haha = LOL. Again, not actually laughing, but indicating pleasant amusement and general enjoyment of the conversation.

Hahaha = Chuckling. Actually laughing. Emitting real sounds of mirth. May include shaking of shoulders.

Hahahaha+ = Chortling. Guffaws. Loud laughter, probably necessitating covering mouth with hand. Back in school, this meant hiding your face so the professor wouldn't think you were laughing at the details of testamentary witnesses.

Hahahahahahahaha (enter) hahahahahahah (enter) hahahahahahahaha = What you just said was freaking priceless and deserves to be memorialized forever either as a status update on Facebook or as an away message on this chat program. Maybe even a tweet.

ROFL = Used when something is so not funny that it becomes the opposite of funny. Because nobody actually Rolls On the Floor Laughing, using this would break a sarcasm detector.

I say with no small degree of hyperbole that standardizing our online laughter is of the utmost importance and should take precedence over most legislative goals. So I call on you, Senator and avid Twitterer John McCain, to help me co-sponsor this bill.

What? Not even a LOL?

Super Sunday

I'd like to extend a belated congratulations to the Green Bay Packers for winning the Super Bowl and finally, perhaps, getting that enormous, insufferable monkey called Brett Favre off their backs.

Most rational Packer fans realized long, long ago how much better off they were with Aaron Rodgers, who yesterday firmly chiseled his face in the Mt. Rushmore of current QBs you would want in a Super Bowl, next to Brees, Brady, and Manning.

But every now and then you find the screaming lunatics who just can't let go of Captain No-Pants. They're like those family members who keep asking you, year after year, about how you should get back with the insane and preening drama queen you finally managed to dump long ago, even though you've been with a solid 9 for the past few years who 28 of your 31 friends would kill to trade up for.

Hopefully, crazy people, you have now quietly returned to your caves. May we never hear from you again.

In other news, last night's event also featured what has charitably been called "The Worst Half Time Show Ever." Prudence would dictate that I refrain from giving an opinion on the matter, since I refused to watch it and instead retired to the kitchen in an effort to preserve my tenuous fate in humanity.

But I could still occasionally listen to snippets of the Black Eyed Peas, and I can say with no trace of hyperbole that listening to mating hyenas on 11 would be more appealing. And I've caught glimpses of the space combat suits they wore for the spectacle and some things just cannnot be unseen.

So normally I'd call out the criminals who green lit this debacle and wish a highly elaborate death involving acid, sharks, and thousands of shards of red-hot bamboo on them. But I imagine that they saw the show, which is a worse fate than the most awful, blood-thirsty, inhuman punishment that Dr. Mengele could come up with if he had ever paired up with the Spanish Inquisition. Even God may not have mercy on their souls.

As for the commercials, I was afraid for a couple of hours there that all American Corporations got into a massive war and only Doritos, Bud Light and Pepsi Max were left standing. But then, eventually, commercials for other commodities made their appearance. And it was worth it. Big props to the outstanding Tiny Darth Vader ad, the effectively stirring Chrysler commercial, and --although I may be biased, the Bridgestone reply all commercial. After all, who hasn't accidentally sent off one of those and then wanted to run screaming from the room to destroy all email-receiving technology in the tri-state area.

Big props for the "Do Not Attempt" disclaimer.

Random Video of the Day LXXIX

I would totally watch a McBain movie. "Bye, Book."

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Attack of the Deranged Fun Killer Monster Snow Goons

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a gun fight.

...

I'm sorry, that's not what happened. I'm getting word that it was not a gun fight.

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a knife fight.

...

It was not a knife fight?

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a rock fight.

...

I'm being told that it was also not a rock fight, and being yelled at for not waiting for my producer to finish his sentence before I blurt out speculative misinformation.

...

Wait, say that again?

...

Snowballs?

...

It was a snowball fight?

...

They brought in the police force to break up a goddamned snowball fight?

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a snowball fight.

According to reports, "[t]he Cornell University Police Department shut down the second annual 'Epic Snowball Fight on the Arts Quad' Wednesday, apprehending a student, confiscating tin shields and knocking over a six-foot snow penis."

I, for one, would like to commend the authorities in Ithaca from shifting their focus from arresting those who throw awesome parties to breaking up snowball fights.

Overreaction does not even begin to cover this. These are people throwing frozen precipitation at each other.

But, as expected, the fun police would have none of it. According to the CUPD, they received a complaint (presumably from Mr. Wilson or some other such miserable grouch) and decided to intervene, as the fight was “putting both people and property at the potential for injury and damage,” including maybe breaking the windows at Olin.

We have yet to hear from ballistics experts as to the destructive capacity of the weapons involved in the fracas, but a source close to the investigation tells us that, "it looks like they're pretty much just water."

And look. If a kid had bad enough aim to break a window, he's probably getting clobbered by everyone else. Is that not a sufficient punishment?

No word yet on what preparations the police are undertaking for next May's yearly water balloon fight.

No More Snow, No Mo'

If you are reading this, congratulations! You have survived Snowpocalypse III: Return of the Snowmaggedon.

While I fully accept that I complain about the snow more than most, I have grown rather tired of seeing the following Facebook message template:

[Expression of surprise at existence of snow in February]. [Lamentation and general whining]. [Insincere promise to migrate to warmer climates]. [Emoticon denoting grief].

But honestly, this last superstorm has too much meat to ignore.

Witness, if you will, the following map of the United States. That's an actual, science-given map. And hey, you know what kind of looks exactly like that? The mock-up used in the awful Day After Tomorrow movie! Half the continent has been canceled using nature's White-Out. Good thing people don't live anywhere near there, right?

Oh.

Yesterday, I was making fun of Caitlin because people in Chicago were permanently misplacing their composure over the threat of a mere two feet of snow, whereas here in Boston we were facing our 3,429th two-foot storm of the season and reacting with a tepid shrug.

Now, I take it all back. While two feet of snow may be a "been there, done that" amount, it sure is amplified when all of it comes down in the span of six or seven hours. Imagine the difference between sipping a 40 or having the whole contents of one dumped into a funnel. While the former is frankly inconvenient and best to be avoided, I guarantee you that the latter will bring the wrath of Uncle Ralph all over your now-ruined snowboots.

I mean, look at Brick Tamland, formerly known as a stead 25-year veteran of meteorology, completely spaz out on camera like a five year old who just saw Barney hug a Teletubby:

Loud Noises, indeed.

Or this other video. I don't know what's worse, the authorities looking for survivors amongst cars abandoned on Chicago's main road, or the random coyotes roaming around looking for carrion.

That's right. Coyotes descending on our nation's third biggest city like it's some abandoned outpost in some forgotten wild west ghost town.

So I apologize to you, Caitlin, and to all other residents of the Chicagoland area for underestimating your snowstorm. In the distant future, when the snow melts and brave explorers come upon all of you frozen in blocks of ice, I promise not to make too many Encino Man jokes.

In the meantime, I would like to be the first to welcome our new snowy overlords. You may have taken the White Stripes, and that is an extremely hard sacrifice to make. But perhaps now you will leave us alone.

(Looks at Saturday forecast)

Son of a bitch.

Hill-J-ell Date

We've all been to alumni events where the coordinators in charge of asking for gifts try to appeal to our generous spirit. They use many tricks strategies to get at our wallets. And these strategies are on a sliding scale of effectiveness, from its topmost setting of free top shelf drinks down to free beer down to free swag down to everything else.

But why nobody ever thought of handing out free dates is beyond me.

This year, the geniuses at Cornell Hillel have come up with a bold new project. You donate some money, and they'll hook you up.

Quite literally. They'll set you up with a fellow member of Hillel. Or, in their own words, "imagine the possibilities as you wait to be paired on a date." Although the lawyer part of me insists that all they promise you is a waiting period wherein you can fantasize about a potential future date, I'm sure they'll actually find someone to awkwardly introduce to you.

So fear not, affluent Jews from the tri-state area! If you have failed to find a match while you were at Cornell, or when you went to visit your friends at Penn, or even now that you have moved to Murray Hill, Hillel is here to find your better half for you.

It's a bold strategy. On the one hand, getting a date is probably better than getting yet another key chain. Or one of those (sic) "Lynah Fateful" pins. Maybe not better than a beer coozy -- those are useful indeed -- but it is nice to see an organization step up its swag.

On the other hand, putting the horrifying word "blind" together with the terrifying "date" creates a molecular globule of pure and utter petrifying ghastliness to make the blood run as cold as our current Worst Winter Ever.

I'm not saying a Blind Date is the worst thing in the world. But if Open and Bar are the two greatest words in the English language, then Blind and Date are the complete opposite of that.

That said, I have nothing to do this Thursday, an extra ten dollars, and JDate won't have me. Something about not being among The Chosen.

But not everyone knows this.

Hmm.

Master of Karate and Posters for Everyone

The Department of Awesomeness really came through today. Witness, if you will, the full set of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia minimalists posters.

You'll remember that someone did a similar thing with Lost, where they conjured up a poster with an iconic image from each and every episode.

And if you want iconic, ridiculous images from TV shows, Sunny is the Bluebeard's Treasure Trove of the medium. Couple those images with the stark awesomeness of the episode titles themselves and you get fantastic posters like "Charlie Got Molested." Or "Mac and Dennis: Manhunters." Or "Frank Sets Sweet Dee on Fire." Or "Mac is a Serial Killer." Or "The Gang Dances Their Asses Off." Or, of course, the epic "Who Pooped the Bed?" I could honestly go on forever.

Sometimes I really wonder what the hell we did before the internet. Oh, and I should warn you. The "Paddy's Pub: Home of the Original Kitten Mittons" involves a certain towel, and it is Absolutely Not Safe For Work.

The Lost Carlton of Z

The fact that Lost is no longer on television and will never again return to grace our screens makes me sad all day. Often I shake. I become slathered in cold sweats. I get chills. I'll find that I have been quietly weeping for hours without noticing.

Perhaps I exaggerate the symptoms of my withdrawal. But as much as I miss the show, I daresay that Carlton Cuse, one of its producers, misses it more.

It's a nice, droll little piece about how you are completely, totally, up-to-your-neck immersed in a project for a long time, and then suddenly it's gone from your grasp in one fell swoop. And you find yourself either quietly going crazy as you sit in your chair at home or loudly going crazy as you look for something else to do.

I'll follow these guys to whatever their next project ends up being. As the essay mentions, this sadly won't be an adaptation of Under the Dome, Stephen King's latest novel. When I read it, I couldn't help but notice that its characters were basically stand-ins for most of the Lost characters. Which, of course, would have been perfect for Cuse and Damon. Alas, this particular sideways world is not to be.

But like I said, they accumulated enough capital and goodwill with Lost -- there really isn't another show anything like it, not even on DVD -- that whatever their next project is deserves a long, sustained look. Even if it is, as he describes, "a show about a hot dolphin trainer and her dolphins who work at an aquarium by day but perform secret missions for the government by night."

Perhaps fortunately, that is not his next project. But I'd still watch it.

Slim Gym

Today, the NYT laments the state of today's gym. Specifically, they curse today's slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am culture and pine for the days when people at the gym would work out in groups and hit on each other.

I've never quite understood the idea of gyms as pick-up spots. Sure, I'd love to hit on the certain blonde Red Sox reporter who occasionally frequents my gym. But I firmly believe in the canonic advice of Do's and Dont's of Approaching women. Specifically, Rule #76, otherwise known as the Please Don't Approach Me While I'm Disgusting and Sweaty command.

Look, if you're having a conversation with a woman when she's sweaty and out of breath, you should either a) congratulate yourself on a mission well accomplished or b) stop chasing her. As your attorney, I would advise you to comply with the latter suggestion immediately.

The industrial gymnasium complex connects the decline in sales to a decline in socializing, blaming "the gym’s now-ubiquitous flat-screen TVs and the fact that iPods are de rigueur."

But I ask these people to understand that if I unplug myself from my iPod, I'm forced to listen to Staci from Long Island's telephone conversations about which woman on The Bachelor has degraded herself the most before she seamlessly segues into the details of her application video for the show's next iteration. Somehow, I think my workout experience is much more pleasant and efficient if I listen to MGMT instead.

The article also paints those who just pop into the gym, work out quietly, and then leave as some sort of puppy killers. Somehow, the ones who put their head down, mind their own business and move on are the biggest problem that gyms face. You can almost hear the guy sobbing when he says, “It’s merely four walls to come in, work out and leave.”

Well. Yes. That's exactly what a gym is. That's the service it provides. It's like being angry with a sandwich because it's just ham and cheese between two slices of bread.

Or saying a movie theater is doing it wrong because it's only four walls to come in, watch a movie, and leave.

Look, the bells and whistles are nice, and may keep the ADD Generation coming back. But all I'm trying to at the gym do is temper the beer belly, beat up on my muscular system, and give my upper dorsamus the love and attention it deserves.

Running Down a Dream

Occasionally, I'll be out for a walk and I'll see some jogger nearly get flattened by a speeding bus. Normally, I don't care. But sometimes, the jogger is a cute girl and then I spend the remainder of my walk cursing myself for not being quick enough to grab her by the ponytail, yank her back, save her life, and have her fall over herself in gratitude for my actions.

And now it seems I'll never have the chance to be a hero.

Lawmakers in NY and other states are conspiring to put an end to people using earphones on the street, claiming that the symphony in their ears distracts them from the symphony of car horns and screeching tires that came so close to meeting them head-first.

Under the new laws, you'd draw fines for attempting to cross the street with your earphones on. The NYT begins succintly:

Many joggers don earbuds and listen to music to distract themselves from the rigors of running. But might the Black Eyed Peas or Rihanna distract them so much that they jog into traffic?

This lede is misleading. If someone gets hit by a car while they're listening to the Black Eyed Peas, my first thought is not that they got hit because they were distracted, but rather that they sadly hurled themselves into oncoming traffic to achieve sweet, silent oblivion.

But I digress. These laws, as Ron Swanson would say, are just another example of legislators attempting to save people from themselves. It belongs in the same category of other ordinances, like forcing bicyclists to wear helmets, drivers to secure their seatbelts, and couples to use condoms.

(Wait ... what? ... it's not actually a law ... really? ... OH SCORE)

Still, if laws like this staunch the flood of idiots into both hospital emergency rooms and the pages of the Darwin Awards, then why not forge ahead. When people won't do the smart thing willingly, threatening them with fines is an effective alternative to get your point across.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to lobby my Congressman to pass a law against stopping abruptly while on the sidewalk.

Crunch-Lies Supreme

In my ongoing war against Taco Bell, the powers that be have granted me a weapon of untold power.

Taco Bell is reportedly being sued for claiming that its meat is Beef, even though it is only actually 35 percent beef and 65 percent other stuff.

I have never heard a more preposterous argument in my life. One look at this slop should be enough to communicate to any rational being that nowhere in this miasma of barely edible substances is there anything that even remotely resembles beef.

I might be bending the Assumption of Risk doctrine a little bit here, but shouldn't you get what's coming to you if you choose to poison yourself with the abominations served at Taco Bell? People surprised that it is not in fact beef are the same people who hit on a woman with large hands and an adam's apple and feel tricked when they later find the surprise.

So I have to admit the lawsuit will go nowhere (I'd actually sue them for impersonating an outstanding cuisine and attempting to kill it). However -- and here is where the weapon comes in -- the existence of this frivolous lawsuit did force the company to reveal to the mainstream media the ingredients it uses in what it optimistically calls "meat."

Even though Taco Bell had apparently already listed this information on its website before this lawsuit, the current rash of stories about the pending litigation has put this list out there, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Why? Because now every time somebody tried to convince others to go to a Taco Bell, I can be the guy who goes, "Actually, 65 percent of the food there consists of 'water, wheat oats, soy lecithin, maltodrextrin, anti-dusting agent and modified corn starch.'"

Yeah, I know. If I said that to my friends, I'd want to punch myself in the face too.

But at least that's better than eating Taco F$%@ing Bell.