
Thursday, December 17, 2009
What's Next for Tiger?

Thursday, December 10, 2009
Your New Favorite Employee

Unlike its “competitors,” GrooveShark has respect for his god-like new manager. And why wouldn’t he? You, the soon-to-be corporate leader, don’t take no for an answer, and you won’t stand for anything but studio quality from your employee(s). You also don’t actually want to do any plebian work like searching, scrolling, or any other –ing that involves thinking creatively on your own. No worries. Your best suck-up has you covered. Just type in the exact song or artist you’d like to help drown out your workday sorrows, GrooveShark finds your track or tracks, along with a host of other similar songs; you choose the song to start the playlist and GrooveShark (as a good worker should) does the rest.
With an option to turn the radio function on or off, you have free reign to decide how much or how little control your assistant can have over this acoustic challenge you’ve so graciously let him take on.
Oh, and did I mention there are no commercials or audio advertisements? Well, there aren’t. But then again, that would be rude of lower management to interrupt a more senior member of the team, wouldn’t it? I think so too.
Enjoy.
http://www.grooveshark.com/
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Going Blue

Recently I discovered what I guess isn’t such a recent discovery, but alas, one overlooked by the public eye. Blue Zones, or the marketing ploy of a guy, Dan Buettner, trying to sell books, are places in the world where people are 10% more likely to live to be 100 years old. 100 years old! And these people aren’t setting dates and times to jog in Central Park, nor are they going to an expensive and crowded gym. They’re simply living their lives as those before them had and as those after will. So what’s the secret?
Buettner lays it out in 5 loosely defined categories: diet, work, community, purpose, and environment. The right combination of a few of these factors and you’ve got yourself on the longest path possible towards eternity. The nature of these categories is what really intrigues me. Some, like diet and environment, are fairly scientific. With the right ingredients, for instance the herbal teas of Okinawa or the unbelievably anti-oxidant rich wine in Sardinia, you can keep your body clean and fit, and thus extend its usage period. This fits well into the American mindset, doesn’t it? No matter what, if you have these set things you will always achieve a certain outcome, given the correct mixture. 1 plus 1 ALWAYS equals 2. It’s as simple as that.
The other elements are somewhat more circumstantial. The kind of work people in these Blue Zones are doing is manual type labor. Most are farmers in mountainous regions, walking miles every day, performing low intensity exercises while maintaining a sense of purpose. All of these things come “naturally” to people in the region. There aren’t any crowded bus rides or polluted street cars. People use those things we in the Segway-era have forgotten about: legs. And in doing so, they decrease their chances of heart disease and high blood pressure.
With increased vitality comes an increased sense of purpose and activity within the community. People living in Blue Zones tend to be connected with the others living around them. Unlike here, where people are senior citizens by 65 and are done, worn out, too old to be of use, and shipped off to nursing homes, elderly people in Blue Zones remain vital to their communities’ culture. The bridge between young and old barely even exists.
Recently I read an article about a related story from which I’ve found new words to live by. In Australia there’s a competition unlike any other. A race that’s longer, more grueling, and frankly unfathomable for the normal human being. (Of course, right? I mean, it’s Australia. What else would you expect from the land down under?) It’s called the Westfield ultra-marathon and it’s a 543-mile trek from Sydney to Melbourne. Most of the 150 entrants are, as you might assume young adults in prime shape, geared up and ready to go; their bodies are the culminations of 20-some-odd years of intense training.

I think Buettner and the Blue Zone people would agree. It’s all about remaining active. Activity stimulates the body as well as the mind. When you’re active, you have purpose. When you have purpose, your attitude toward life is positive. When you stay positive, you stay healthy. And when you stay healthy, you live longer.
Whether or not I will live to be 100 remains a moot mystery. But what I can say now is that along with going green, (as I register for paperless statements from my Visa card…) I’m also dedicated to going blue. Anyone interested in coming with?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
He's Just Not That Into Them

But then you figure it out. It’s the last “feeler” question in your arsenal. Just after, “So, where are you from?”
“Oh, San Diego? That’s awesome. Great weather I hear. What’s the deal with LT though? He has been streaky at best, don’t you think?”
That’s when you get it. The blank stare like a confused 2nd grader looking intently at the math problem, 3 x 4 = ?. That’s when you realize, this guy doesn’t watch sports! I know it seems impossible, but I’m sure some of you out there have come across this guy and know he’s real. It’s a phenomenon of the straight masculine race I had yet to figure out until I met the guy who sits two cubicles down from me. We’ll call him by an androgynous name: Sam.
Sam is your typical guy. Drinks beer. Jokes around. His tie hangs sluggishly from his collar most days, the remnants of a lackluster attempt at dressing that morning. He flirts with the younger girls in the office, as any good, middle management co-worker should. He’s a great guy to work with. But he doesn’t watch sports.
I found this out about three months after I started working near Sam, which is longer than it normally takes. Our thing was, we were close enough to make small talk, but never worked on the same projects or went out socially where we would be forced to have the aforementioned conversation. Just recently we went out after work for a few cocktails with the parting interns. That’s when I learned of this mind-boggling fact. How is it possible?
Once I got past the initial flabbergasting I became very excited. Sam can be my test dummy, I thought. Finally I’ll be able to crack the mystery that is the heterosexual anti-sports male. I can ask him all the right questions to get to the bottom of this case. Elementary, my dear Watson (or Butros, a buddy of mine whom I know is deeply concerned with this issue). Piece of cake.
Much to my chagrin, the answers were unyielding.
“Not a sports guy?” I say to him.
“Nah, not really.”
“Well then I have a question for you, and it comes in two parts…so really, I have two questions.”
1. What do you talk about with your friends besides girls?
2. What do you watch on TV?
The answers were, music and fighting, and “I don’t watch TV, but if I do, porn or HBO.” Ok, so I guess there are other things on TV besides sports. Hell, LOST is one of my favorite shows of all time, and God knows I love the Discovery Channel. But still, music and fighting? Can that really solidify a male friendship?
Everyone has different, if only slightly, music tastes and talking about/learning new music can be awesome. But at least throw some video gaming in there, or maybe, some extreme sports (I guess that wouldn’t be allowed either, so never mind). I don’t know. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but there’s got to be something more to a conversation with a friend than music and fighting! I’ve only been in one fight in my whole life and that was in 5th grade, what could we possibly talk about?
Sports, that’s what. So to Sam and all the others of his kind I say this: learn to love them my would-be-friends. Sports account for roughly 87% of all male-to-male conversation (statistic yet to be confirmed) and are the glue that binds us to one another in a completely non-suggestive manner. Let them into your life and you will find yourself on the road to…well you might find yourself at very least with a few more friends. Just a thought.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
It's Not a Myth

Getting there, however, can be prickly.
FRIDAY:
My particular trip started at LaGuardia Airport when I boarded a plane for Alabama to see the Crimson Tide take on the Tigers of LSU. There are only two flights that leave New York bound for the Yellowhammer State, one in the morning and one at night. I opted for the morning, of course, as an excuse to miss work on Friday. Missing work was great, but the guy sitting next to me, well, he was not- at least that’s what I thought at first.
As I stuffed my Mets bag into the storage compartment overhead, I looked down to see a cynical face staring back at me. The balding, overweight Rico Suave look-a-like ran his hands through his greasy hair and blurted out his first words. “You sitting here?” I nodded. “Good, you’re not a fatass.” “Okay,” I said as I slid my not-so fat ass past his fire truck red flannel shirt and skin-tight white jeans. Labor Day was a long time ago, pal, I thought to myself. I sat and waited patiently for take-off, hoping that was the end of our conversation. Too paranoid to put on my headphones which (allegedly) interrupts the pilot’s radio signal, I was forced to listen to Rico and his two goons in the seats behind us.
“Let’s get this bird in the air,” he yelled out. His buddies started laughing. “Hey, remember last year,” he turns to me, “we took my plane…we were rolling joints on the way, banging girls in the bathroom. This sucks!” The conversations went on and on along those lines, and from what I could deduce these three were all in their 30’s, all married, all currently cheating on their wives, and all obsessed with money. I put my ‘Bama hat over my eyes to tried and avoid further engagement. But I could feel Rico’s eyes staring at me. His breath smelled like burnt coffee. I didn’t want to open my eyes but his buddy reached from the seats behind us and tapped me on the shoulder. He asked what year I graduated, assuming I had gone to the University of Alabama. “My friend Greg was president of ATO there. Did you know him?” “No I didn’t go to Alabama,” “Oh neither did we, we just go down for this game every year.” Great, I was thinking, as I moved back into sleep positing. Again, that didn’t stop them.
The questions kept rolling in. Where did you go to school? Were you in a fraternity? Villanova. Yes. SAE. All of a sudden I found myself in a 20 minute conversation with these assholes, until finally Rico next to me started laughing, his coffee breath stinking up all of row 9 as he looked to his friend and says, “He,” meaning me, “doesn’t know who he’s sitting next to.” I pause and look at him. “I’m a worldwide influential person,” says Rico with the coffee stained tongue. My jaw dropped, and with the little air I could consciously gasp into my lungs I said, “Cool man,” and rolled over to nap until we landed. Rico had just stunned me to the point where I couldn’t tell if I hated him or loved him.
I woke up to the wheels screeching along the runway. I had made it! I took my headphones off (I guess they really don’t interrupt anything at all) and found the Three Stooges seemingly still amidst the same conversation they had been yelling an hour ago somewhere over North Carolina. More coke and stripper stories (some kind of funny, others too unbelievable to hold comedic value, but Rico was still creeping onto my sweet list). The guy from row 10 got on his cell. “Yea dad, just landed. I’m with a few of my buddies.” Rico chimes in, “Tell him you’re with the ‘King of the Business.’” I bit my lip and shuffled off the plane.
It was 10 a.m. in Birmingham when we landed, an hour earlier than we were scheduled to be there. Luckily my friend, the ‘Bama local and reason for the trip, was awake and able to come to the airport and get us. What’s there to do in Birmingham, Alabama, you might ask? Well, when the sun is up, you can get BBQ, and when the sun is down, you can drink bourbon. The rule of B’s, as I’ve come to know it. 10 a.m., sun was up, BBQ it was.
Much to my delight, Birmingham was awesome. It’s a quaint little city, with only a few small high-rises about ¾ the size of the New York Times building on 8th Avenue. Most of the streets are little bars and restaurants, or shops filled with UA and UAB gear, others lined with more traditional southern threads. We went into a popular place at the “5 points” area of town called Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q and got a table. The three of us ordered food and few beers and settled into the booth with some laughs. I think we were about midway through our meal when we were interrupted by a loud and smelly voice.
“Strongman!” Rico belted out, lending an outstretched fist to give me a pound. We exploded with laughter. I thought for a second, maybe I don’t hate this guy so much after all. He had just pounded a complete stranger in public while screaming out the (unbeknownst to me) nickname “strongman” in the middle of a crowded southern restaurant. His partner in crime (adultery) came over as well and introduced himself. Paul was his name. Rico never disclosed his true identity to us, but I guess that kind of info is top secret when you have worldwide influence. After I explained the whole story to my Alabama native friend, we finished our beers and I hit the urinal. My love for Rico was sealed when I over heard this final conversation between him and Paul:
Rico: “You see the blonde out there?”
Paul: “Yea, hot man, real hot. Much hotter than Myra (Paul's wife). She’s like a 6 or 7, easy.”
Rico: “Yea…That’s like a 2 for me.”
Thank you Rico, that was phenomenal. And we left the bar.
SATURDAY:
With the remaining time of sunlight on Friday we bought some University of Alabama merchandise (aka “merch”) from a store called “Bama Pride.” Then we lounged on the couch, and caught up on this season of Californication. You might think this would be a waste of time, but it wasn’t. It was just the quiet before the storm. We went out in Birmingham Friday night, yes, but we didn’t go out hard for a reason.
Saturday morning we all woke up at 7 a.m., which really shouldn’t be hard to do when your body is still on Eastern Standard Time and you’re in a Central Time Zone state, but for some reason 7 a.m. and I can’t seem to get along no matter what. So after a few minutes, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. It was game day, and I was excited.
Tuscaloosa and the University of Alabama are about a 45-minute drive from my buddy’s house in Birmingham, the perfect amount of time to eat some Chick-Filet for breakfast and down a cup of Joseph. (That’s coffee for any of you wondering). In the spirit of the situation we blasted Alabama's "Song of the South" and sung along in our best southern twangs. We were on our way. No longer would the snow white A on our Alabama hats be mistaken for Atlanta Braves paraphernalia. We were here, the place where A meant “rammer jammer,” the land of cotton, where crimson and white meant you roll with the tide, hate the tigers (of LSU and of Auburn, equally), and if you were heading south on interstate 59 that sunny Saturday morning, you were heading to the game.
We pulled onto campus around 9:30 a.m. thinking we were going to be catching the early crowd of tailgaters heading to the parking lot. We arrogant northerners refused to listen to our southern friend when he said, “We really need to hit the road no later than 8.” He was right. By 9:30 the party was in full swing. Streets were crowded beyond belief. Flags were flying and banners that read “Give ‘Em Hell Alabama” hung proudly from the second floor balconies of rundown student houses. Luckily for us, my friend’s cousin lived in one of such houses and had a bed and a parking spot ready for us. Then the bourbon came out, and though it wasn’t our first shot of the trip, it held a special place in my heart.
9:30 turned into 2:30 (game time) pretty damn quickly as it tends to when you basically brush your teeth with whiskey. We walked over to the stadium and entered. We were a small speck of dust floating along a crimson sea 92,000 bodies strong, rushing into Bryant-Denny Stadium. The atmosphere was electric.
I’ve never cheered so hard in my life. The game was a thriller and when Julio Jones ran a small out pass 73 yards for the go ahead touchdown, my voice flew off in the swirling Alabama winds that whipped across the faces in the upper deck. When the final whistle blew, here is what ensued:

Needless to say our waitress loved us. We didn’t get much eating done, but we did get a head start on the bars. Which is exactly where we headed when we parted ways with our little country helper.
From here things got a little hazy. There were definitely a few bars hit before we found ourselves at our final destination, a place called “1831” aptly named for the year the University was founded. It was a long and narrow place with a fantastic southern-style porch out front and a DJ in the back.
Only one memory sticks out clear as day. The DJ put on a catchy beat with a southern sound to it. You know how it goes, something like “a-one-TWO-three; a-one-TWO-three.” Everybody started to dance to the beat, abandoning their drinks at the bar or on the floor and bobbing around as if there were no other choice. The beat, tractor beam, lured us in. Then the DJ started singing chants to the song. First I remember him saying, “a-F**k Tebow, a-F**k Tebow” bashing the hated Florida quarterback and rallying the crowed behind an enemy. Then slander turned into celebration as the chant morphed into “a-roll tide roll, a-roll tide roll!” At this point the place was shaking. More shots were ordered and bourbon, music, and laughter are the only things I remember from then on. Simply perfect.
SUNDAY:
A quick nap at my buddy’s cousin’s house and we were on the road, headed back to Birmingham to ensure we made our 12 p.m. flights to New York. I was still filled to the brim with whiskey when we got in the car. Needless to say we had to pull over. Here I am on the side of route 59…making sure all of the grass was planted properly:
The Tide fans honked as they passed, cheering on a fallen soldier and friend. I was proud to be like them, leaving everything out on the field like a true southern gentleman.
Despite my two and half hour delay on my flight back to New York, the trip was absolutely amazing. Anything I said in this post indicating that I was unimpressed with the south after recapping a wedding in Virgina, should be thrown in the trash with yesterday’s news. I have seen the promised land. I have been to the Mecca for all fun loving people. I’ve been to a place where you need not worry about pick up lines because the beautiful girls come up to you just to chat. It’s out there my friends. I’m talking about a little place called Alabama. Go, see for yourselves. I promise you’ll come back singing the same tune (Song of the South!).
ROLL TIDE ROLL!
p.s. to any followers reading, one of my traveling partners and I are looking to find a good Alabama bar in the city to watch the games on Saturdays. I know Brother Jimmy's is technically a Bama bar but if there are any other suggestions, let us know. Thanks.
One last thing...
Here's a link to a book supporting parts of my story. Enjoy: Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Brush with Greatness

“Told you you should come.”
“Yes you did. And goddamn you were right.”
Monday, November 2, 2009
It's Only A Matter of Time

I took off the remains of a costume that lost its luster after drink number 11, tossed on some normal street clothes and hit the road. City driving while hung over, half asleep, and in pain can be challenging, especially when the FDR is blocked off by police barricades and you continually find yourself redirected deeper and deeper into Harlem. Nonetheless, I put on some Phoenix as loud as possible to stay awake, sang as many broken phrases of the lyrics I could muster, and made my way across the bridge. I pulled into my drive way half an hour later, 9:30 a.m., now feeling like it's almost 11 but tired enough to pass out on the kitchen floor. I elect for my bed instead, 1: because the hardwood floor is a downgrade from the leather couch, and 2: my mom might get suspicious of drug use if she found my close-to-lifeless body in front of her refrigerator when she came down to make breakfast and coffee.
As I nestled into the cold sheets, gripping my pillow for warmth like a 7 year old on his father's leg at a family party, I recapped the night and laughed at the crippling effects of alcohol on the human body. What did I drink to make me feel this terrible? I guess the real question would be, what did Billy Madison drink to make me feel this terrible? Ah, well that's a different story. Whatever Billy had, it must have been strong. I distinctly remember talking with Audrey Hepburn for awhile and perhaps the kid from E.T.? Or maybe it was E.T. himself. It was then I realized the true beauty of Halloween. It's the only night of the year you get to take on a whole new identity, however crazy it may be, and just roll with it. You lose all responsibility for your actions. I didn't follow shots of tequila with shots of vodka, then take the conditioner and shampoo bottles and clank them together as if they were fighting, Billy did. Or, I didn't make out with a blond flapper at the bar, my nerdy-professor alter ego did.
When reveling in the phenomenon that is the adult-Halloween wore off, I passed out, feeling like it was 11, actually 10, knowing there's some time commitment in my near future, thinking what it could be, not remembering, not caring, falling asleep, sleeping. I wake up to the sound of my dad opening my bedroom door. Oh the joys of living at home after 4 glorious years of freedom. "A.J. wake up, we have to go to the wedding party." The last thing I want to hear on any day off was the first thing I heard the day after Halloween, and on one of the biggest days in sports ever.
There I was, sitting at a table filled with my parent's and my sister's friends, hours before what was to be (and I believe was in fact) FOX sports' saving grace- the ultimate lineup: Giants/Eagles at 1, Favre's return to Lambeau Field at 4, Yankees/Phillies, Game 4 of the World Series at 8. Every sports fan in the country would be watching...except for me. I was locked up in a restaurant from 12 to 4 at some kind of post-wedding, post-reception wedding party, an introduction of the bride to the groom's family friends. Given my physical and mental state at the time, a warm basement couch accompanied by food and a 60" flat screen TV with the Giants and Jets games on simultaneously would have been, well absolute Heaven. But, alas I was stuck. 12 now felt like 12, with four hours more to go...four hours. It was like the time I was forced to go see Sense and Sensibility with my mom and sister when I was 10, except now I was expected to act civil and polite instead of whining.
Here are some statistics from those four hours. Number of, "I haven't seen you since you with THIS tall"'s I had to engage in conversation: 3. Number of "So, how's work"'s I had to lie to: 21. Number of points my fantasy team fell behind after Steve Slaton (or is that Satan?) was benched due to his 7th fumble of the season: 18. Overall, morale was low, especially after I got wind via ESPN mobile that Ted Ginn, Jr. returned his second kickoff for a touchdown against the Jets. 2 now felt like 1 and this party was not showing any signs of ending at on time.
4:45, that's when the party ended. As the sun dipped below the New Jersey tree line the earliest it had all year, I broke free from my family-shackles, went home, showered (again) in an attempt to subject my body to something pleasurable as opposed to the past 20-some-odd hours of pain, and headed over to my girlfriend's house for dinner away from my family. Though she doesn't have HD TV, her mom is head-and-shoulders above mine in terms of cooking, so although reheated pizza has its place in my heart and diet, filet of sol in a cream sauce with potatoes and broccoli followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream, all away from anyone present at that dreaded party, sounded pretty good. And it was.
By the time 8:20 rolled around, Favre had defeated his old team again, my fantasy team had fallen behind by 54 points (thanks again Slaton), and I had a full, warm stomach, happily awaiting the first pitch of game 4. I'm certainly not a Yankees fan, but as any good politician knows, the best way to unite people is to create a common enemy, so bound by my pure hatred for the Philadelphia Phillies, I watched with pleasure as the other New York team took care of business. One more win and the city of Philadelphia can forget about its hopes of dynasty. That’s a win for the Mets no matter how bad our season was.
11:30 felt like 3 a.m. as I closed my eyes on the first day of November. Another October had come and gone, another Halloween success was over. The days are shorter now for another few months, and although that can be a tough pill to swallow, the longer nights always seem to offer a feeling of mischievous fun. I look forward to the end of fall, the last few falling yellow leaves, Thanksgiving and the NFL playoffs. I put my head down, defeated by time once again but assured in the fact that it keeps on ticking.
Somehow my alarm this morning didn’t seem to feel any later. 6:55 is still simply too early.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Two Times, Too Many?

I'm tired. My original plan of loading my October weekends with substitution homecomings may now be coming back to haunt me. I mean, it's not like "back in the day" when my time during the week was consumed by 15 to 20 sober hours of work, tops, the rest spent prepping for the weekend with practice games of beer pong, mooseknuckle, flip cup and other various cardiovascular fitness activities. I work now, and the working man's body, although very much sober, is weak. Think about it, 40 hours a week I sit in front of a computer, staring at the screen thinking, "What happened?" The most exercise I do during the day is probably laughing at the "I loved College" Asher Roth spoof that my friend sent me the other day.
But, to quote my idol Bill Simmons, "[will this] stop [my friends and I from] putting on a throwback 48-hour show of...drinking, smoking, ball-busting, eating and (fill in every other verb that ends with "ing" except for the ones that would get us divorced)? Of course not." OK, so we're not that old that we need to worry about divorce, but some of us have girlfriends that would probably want those "ing's" left out of the list as well.
Tomorrow night at 9 my friends and I will embark on a mission to overcome the awkward second homecoming since our graduation. Are we too old to go back and still feel cool? Probably. Are we going anyway? Obviously. But as was push the envelope of what's socially acceptable in terms of the college comeback, I have to wonder, when will we finally be over the whole thing?
Maybe when I'm settled into a job, one that I'm truly happy with, where I'm writing and actually using the skills I learned while in school, will I begin to put to rest my memories of fondness towards college. But then again, maybe not. I've never heard anybody say, "Man, remember those middle years of our careers, when we were 35 and working for someone else, living on our own, with serious girlfriends/potential wives, hitting the hay at 9 pm, waking up at 6 (chipper and refreshed)...man those were really the best times ever!" Something tells me, for the most part, these middle memories humble in comparison to the glory days of college.
But alas, they're coming, and although the college years are closer to where I stand now on the time-line of life, unfortunately, the 30-somethings are (iceberg!) dead ahead.
So where does this leave my friends and me as we wait at the gates like worn out thoroughbreds about to sprint another tired lap- our awkward return, our mustered attempt to relive a life we enjoyed together...for the second time? Well, who knows? I don't have the answers. I'm just "in it to win it" as they say, praying I don't tweak an ankle along the way and, well, you saw the Kentucky Derby, you know what happens to injured race horses.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Day in Dixie
Monday, October 5, 2009
Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Rewind 24 hours. I've just woken up with a terrible, or should I say "wicked bad" hang over. My head is pounding. The drive that started with a few Irish coffees while sitting shotgun of my buddy's Pontiac, moved quickly (as 3 1/2 hours tends to do while drinking Irish coffees) into a night of what can only be described as absurd overindulgence. Upon arrival in Boston we went straight to [insert Irish last name here]'s Pub, where the men were men and the women were too. And, thus, the buckets of beer were only $10! Needless to say we rode the euphoric high of seeing old friends, reaching our weekend destination, and a little bit of whiskey to the vertical limits of a prolonged adrenaline rush.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Getting My October Fix

Monday, September 28, 2009
Renaissance: Buffalo

New York state of mind: check
Friday, September 25, 2009
Hang 10...in Manhattan?

Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Is that Doctor Pan, or just Mister?
Move in with college friends. Who better to foster your return to Never Neverland than the very people you shared every moment (keg) with during your stay? Not me personally, but a guy I know was going through a tough time dealing with his post-graduate stress disorder (yes, that's what they're calling it now, and yes there's a prescription (or ten) for it). He was moping around his house with his roommates (mom and dad) until one day he decided to make the move out. Now he's getting invited over his college fling's house, conveniently located around the block, to help her "drill holes" for hanging pictures on her bare apartment walls. Call me crazy but I think his life has improved drastically.
The next step, also a crucial one but often not as easy to fulfill, is to either find a job you love or love the job you find. This is a tough one for all of us who used to scribble in the word "student" (in crayon) in the blank line marked occupation on the official documents that we were forced to complete at the doctor's office. (Lollipop on the way out anyone?). Time to find a new filler for this spot. How about "assistant ______?" Yea that'll work (crayon, too, will still work). You need a way to finance your mini-fraternity house right, so do what you must. And if assistant, or associate, or junior....blank, doesn't feel right, do something else (prostitution) that makes you happy. Peter Pan, Samuel Adams Beer Taster. There, that sounds right, no?

Friday, September 18, 2009
The Subway Buddha

Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Experiment
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
West Coast Promises of the Eastern Dream


Thursday, September 10, 2009
Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Don't Fall Behind

First and foremost, sports are alive and well. Football is about to kick off, which means fantasy fans across the country are all gearing up for the season. Who's going to be the best sleeper pick? Will Brandon Marshall stop complaining and start playing up to his potential? How will Cutler do in Chicago? How will Orton do in Denver? Will Forte and Slaton build off their stellar rookie seasons? or will they plateau like so many other rookie sensations. Will Moreno be a pro, or just another college stud gone average player? Although summer offers great weather to play football, for those people in the autumn of their athletic careers, fantasy football is the only place to live out your dreams of making it big on the gridiron.
But if that's not your slice of pie, Thanksgiving is there to round it all out with some good, wholesome fun- games of touch football, time spent with loved ones, and the best cooking mom can offer.
So for all of you moping around these early days of fall, cheer up! and think about all the fall has in store. Forget about summer. It's over, it was hot, and I'm sure it was fun, but it wont be back for a long, long time. This is the beginning of something new, and what does that always call for? A party. So quit kicking those leaves around the backyard and crack open a can of spiked cider. It may be getting colder, but remember, the only way to stay warm is to keep moving fast!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Quest for G

Friday, August 28, 2009
Bring Back Dem Bums

Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Welcome
