Bryan Adams Blog

Spam In My Comments Box

Spam in the inbox is painful enough. Spam in the comments box is downright awful.

Anyone else seeing this? Any suggestions about how to prevent it?

Update: I deleted this comment yesterday, and today, it came back on the same post. What the hell?

How to Golf

I played golf this morning with three guys who simply didn't know how to golf. And I'm so irritated about it, I'm going to teach all of you.

I'm not going to tell you how to swing, chip, or putt because I can't really do any of those things well. I'm also not going to give you a lengthy dissertation about golf rules, because they're boring and irrelevant. Instead, I'm going to tell you all the things you need to know to play golf, but can't learn elsewhere.

1. Introductions. You're frequently going to play with others that you don't know. So it's important to introduce yourself by shaking hands. If you can, it helps to have skin like a tennis shoe and a grip like the jaws of life. First names (only) are exchanged, and you are allowed to misunderstand the other players' names according to

Letters_wrong = floor((Your_age - others_age)/10)

where Letters_wrong must be positive number. So, if I'm 26 and I introduce myself to someone who's 30, he better get my name right. However, if he's 40, he's allowed to get floor((40-26)/10) = 1 letter of my name wrong. "I'm Bryan" I say. "Ryan?" he says. Sure.

If, though, I'm introducing myself to a man with a raisin for a head, like I did today, then when I say "I'm Bryan" and he says, "JACK?" I must then respond with, "Good enough." I must also answer to the name Jack, such as, "I think your drive landed back there (points to location that's waaaay too close to the tee to be where my drive landed), Jack," or "Can I borrow a ball, Jack?" or "Sorry for running your feet over with my pull cart, Jack."

2. Apparel*. Wear a "collared shirt," which is, roughly, a shirt with a collar. Even if the course covered in geese shit, cigarette butts litter the tee boxes, and the pull carts are a constant tetanus hazard. Show some respect. * Note: after the age of 75, you should wear whatever you damn well want, because you didn't save this country from the commies so that some prick in the pro shop can try to sell you an overpriced golf shirt.

3. Swearing*. Golf is, at its heart, a piece of shit. Duffed drives, lost balls, missed putts -- the game is basically one reason to after another to get pissed off. Some swearing is fine. However, loud obscenities, strangely, are prohibited. You may curse under your breath, or you may yell something non-profane ("Get in the hole you little bastard!"), but you may not yell out swears. This is in stark contrast to, say, a Red Sox game, where you're free to question someone's sexuality using epithets at the top of your lungs. I don't get it, but it's the case. * Note: after the age of 75, you should feel free to be as obscene, explicit, and obscenely explicit as suits your needs.

4. Cheating*. I'm not talking about violations of the USGA code. That's a given. You should always improve your lie, carry about 26 clubs including a driver with a head like a melon, and take mulligans liberally. I'm talking about a more blatant kind of cheating -- kicking your ball out of the rough, failing to count strokes on bad holes, and dropping another ball when you get sick of looking for yours. If your score on any hole is approaching twice whatever par is, you should cheat without any shame at all. * Note: after the age of 75, golf rules are entirely optional. If you feel that your drive, in better days, would have landed on the green, feel free to drop one on the green without any penalty whatsoever.

5. Reaction to others' shots. You have two options here. If the shot to be commented on is a good shot, you may choose from the following list:

"Great ball"
"That'll work"
"It's out there"
"That'll play"

Whatever you say, it should be positive, manly, and above all, short. If, however, the shot to be commented on is bad, you may choose from the following list.

(None)

Because if someone's sucking it up on the course, you keep your mouth shut. You do not comment on the "tough hole" or "nasty lie" or any other potential mitigating factor. At most, you simply shake your head in wonderment about how such a skilled golfer could have produced a shot so out-of-character. But above all, you must avoid ...

6. Golf tips. I can't emphasize this enough. You do not demonstrate the proper method for getting out of a sand trap. You do not share your secret to better putting. Above all, You Do Not Make Suggestions On Another Golfer's Swing. This falls under the general catagory of things you don't do -- like looking at someone using the urinal next to you, or farting in church. You just do not do it.

Ok, there are two exceptions. The first is among family or close friends. I will take tips from Matt, or my Dad, or my Mom, or Uncle Miltie. That's it. Everyone else can take their comments, write them on a piece of paper, roll them up, and rectally insert them. The second is if the tips are intended to screw up the swing of an opponent. That is a legitimate mental part of the game.

7. Golfing with your boyfriend/girlfriend/fiancee/wife/husband. Keep the baby talk to an absolute minimum. I have a two dear friends, for whom I feel nothing but love, who address each other as "baby" roughly eighteen million times when they golf together. "Nice putt, baby." "Oh, baby, nice shot!" "I'd use a six iron here, baby." I'm retching as I type this. Also: deep kissing in the cart is a 37-stroke penalty.

8. Departure. When you've finished playing a round, it is customary to shake hands again. The standard phrase is "Pleasure," as in, "It's been a pleasure golfing with you." It can also double nicely, as it did today, when you really mean, "It's going to be a pleasure never having to look at your wrinkled old ass again, you goat."

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Clearly, I am.

And so are Matt and Jeb.

Over Beer, After Work

Martin: I've never been much of a dog person.
Bryan: Why's that?
M: I don't know. Dogs always want to do what you want to do. It's like, they're willing to go for walks or go outside or whatever. You know. You come home -- they're happy to see you. You didn't even have to do anything.
B: This is bad?
M: Yeah. They're just so sycophantic.
B: This is going right on the blog.

The Bleeding Edge

Gotta be brief. Trying to work, and trying NOT to post ...

Went to the final Patriots pre-season game with ol' buddy Matt last night. Sat in row 8. That's right, eight rows from the action. Eight rows from the cheerleaders. Eight rows from Pat Patriot. It was an amazing good time. Matt took pictures which will be up tonight, along with a collection of fun quotes from the evening.

Also: just found out I'm going to be in LA from September 18th through the 22nd. Anyone know of anything to do in LA? I mean, anything at all?

While You Wait

I'm not quite done ruminating about my Reno trip to publish my post about it yet. So, it its place, I want to share something interesting I learned on accident.

About a month ago, I did a google search for a sample household budget (I was trying, unsuccessfully, to prove a point to Sonia), and the 6th result was "A Sample Budget for a Muslim Family." My procrastinator's spirit took over, and, since that title sort of piqued my interest, I started reading. It turns out that SoundVision.com is a site devoted to providing information (and, yes, products) about Islam.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I knew almost nothing about Muslims. In fact, I can't say I have a deep understanding of any non-Christian religion. Which is why this website is so interesting: it's sort of a christainanswers.net for another faith. I learned about a zillion interesting things about Islam. Here are just three that stuck with me.

Advice to Freshmen

I just finished reading the yearly advice column to incoming freshmen at MIT. This is the ninth one that I've read, and none of them are any good. They're written by seniors who, with the best of intentions, give horrid advice. Some of it is just useless -- "Try lots of new things!" -- some of it is confusing -- "The Institute is only a pressure cooker if you make it one." -- and some of it is simply wrong -- "Don't get buried in your books."

Since I'm about to embark on what would be my third freshman year at this place, let me give you, the new MIT freshman, some real advice.

Classes

Fat Guy on the Plane

As Sonia and I were waiting in the terminal for our flight home, we were surrounded by your typical Americans: a pair of elderly women talking loudly and slowly to each other, a mom and a dad with 2.5 kids and blonde hair, a mother travelling with her son.

And a fat guy. I mean, real fat. He could barely fit into the little plastic seats by the gate. He was snoring loudly, and his hands were folded over his gigantic stomach like sausage links on a beach ball. It was clear he was waiting for our flight, and it was clear that he was alone. And since I was travelling with Sonia, I started to pray. Are you there God? It's me, Bryan. Please don't put that fat guy in the empty seat next to me and Sonia. Please.

And it was close. We were 9D and 9E, and as they loaded the plane from the back, I kept hoping he would get up. Row 26 and higher, nope. Row 15 and higher, nope. Row 10 and higher, nope. All rows, panic. We board the plane right behind him, and he can barely squeeze down the aisle. When he was standing by rows 8-10, he turned to put a little suitcase in the overhead bin (can that suitcase even hold a single pair of his briefs?). I breathed an audible sigh of relief when he finally sat in row 8.

As I'm sitting behind him, I pity the woman next to him. He spills over both armrests. Even if he holds his arms in, he's taking up 120% of a normal seat width. It's really not fair -- the value of her seat is drastically reduced just having to sit next to the guy. Realistically, he should be paying for another seat. How can people let themselves go like that? It's sad. It really is.

*****

Look, I know I'm fat. Even if I didn't have to look in the mirror every day, I can see it on your face. You're disgusted to look at me. You don't like my shirt or my hat or my shorts or my shoes. You think they look bad? You should try finding clothes this size that fit. J Crew doesn't exactly make those shitty looking faded jeans in size XXXL. Not that I could afford it even if they did -- driving a truck every day doesn't quite pay enough for designer clothes. Or for a health club membership. Or provide you with lots of eating options. Or give you a lot of time to exercise. Not that you care about any of that.

You know how I know you don't care? I can see it on your face. Because you're not just disgusted -- you're scornful. You don't just look at me and decide I'm not appealing, you decide I'm not appealing and that it's my fault. I guess I should pay fifty bucks a month to go to a gym where everyone can snickerpuss at me. Or that I should go running around the block and let the cars honk at me. Or that I should spend all my time hungry just so that my size doesn't bother you. Well guess what, buddy? I like to eat. And, anyway, I get the same "you shittin' me?" look if I try to order tofu or vegetarian options, so what's the fucking point? Might as well get the coney dog. At least I'm not still hungry when I'm through.

It's not like I enjoy being this big. The doctor lectures me about my health and tells me that I'm going to die early. The seatbelt in my car doesn't fit around me. I can't even think about playing on the church softball team. I could barely hug my nephews this weekend. I haven't dated in years. Christ, everywhere I go, people hate to see me coming. On the subway. In the elevator. In bars. And on the airplane.

Especially the airplane. Man, flying is the fucking worst. No one wants to sit next to me. I can barely get to my seat, let alone the bathroom. I can't read a book, can't use a computer, and they don't even ask me if I want a coke or some peanuts. I have no idea what it's like to put the tray table down in front of me. And of course they never just bring the seat belt extension -- I have to ask for it, which, of course, makes everyone around me snickerpuss and shake their heads. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I didn't build these seats or make the seat belts! What, I shouldn't fly? How am I supposed to see my sister and the kids in Minneapolis? Walk? Only visit when I'm driving through and have zero time to spend with them? Should I never see my nephews because I'm fat?

So I hear you, buddy. I hear you whispering. I know you're talking about me. I'm sorry I'm fat. Really. Now do me a personal favor and go fuck yourself.

The Truth

The final voting went: 4 for one, 8 for two, and 6 for three. No story won a majority of votes, so I guess that's some sort of accomplishment.

The true story was three. I swear to God. It's a funny story now -- one I've told over and over, with tremendous elaboration -- but it sure wasn't funny at the time. The error in the story (thanks, Dad, for reminding me) was that I actually finished the season on the team. Looking back, I'm not sure why. I guess I was trying to prove something. Anyway -- thanks to everyone who guessed.

I just got back from a weekend in Reno with my girlfriend's mom. We had a fantastic weekend, and I'm currently exhausted. I did write a whole bunch of stuff about it, but I don't want to flood them all out, so I'll publish them one at a time while I'm working this week.

Preview: Fat Guy on the Plane, Sex and the Suburbs, and Mystery.

Choose Your Own Miserable Adventure

Because I like to play different, I'm going to give you a single story with three endings. Two of the endings are made up, one is real. You guess which one is real in the comments box. The answer will be revealed late Monday night.

I make the junior varsity baseball team, but I'm not your average player. To be honest, I'm your below average player. In scout parlance, I'm a maybe-one-tool player: can half run, half hit, but can't throw, can't field, and can't hit for power. I'm the fifth outfielder on a team with five outfielders. Frankly, after having gotten cut from the basketball team, I'm just grateful to have avoided another of those "here's what you can do to improve" talks.

I'm also not terribly well liked by my teammates. In fact, I don't really know any of them. No one in my small group of friends still plays baseball, and, on a team of 25 players, I don't have a single teammate in a single one of my classes. I still think it's possible that I made the team solely on the basis of my presumed ability to keep score really accurately. It's no secret to anyone that I'm more familiar with the second derivative than with second base, and that being able to write out the equations for a fly ball doesn't help you catch one.

All of which makes what happened that much more amazing, and sad. Third game of the season, I'm starting in left field because the starter was sick and the normal replacement was out of town. Things get out of hand early, and by the third inning, we're already losing by several runs.

When my first at-bat of the season arrives, I mince my way to the plate and step into the batter's box. The pitcher fails rub the ball with anxiety. The crowd doesn't hum with anticipation. The outfielders take several giant steps forward. Anticipation is not heavy in the air. The pitcher winds up, delivers a who-cares fastball over the heart of the plate, and I swing. But my bat, prepared only for another lazy, uneventful trip through the strike zone on its way back to my shoulder, has an unexpected and violent collision.

Crack.

Now, I'll give you one for free. I made it to first base. But this wasn't just a single -- it was an extra base hit. What you have to figure out is this: how many extra bases?

One. I whaled on the ball. I rounded first confidently, and saw that the ball had taken a giant bounce on the springy astroturf in right field and easily cleared the short wall into the parking lot. A ground rule double. I pull into second, happy as a clam. So happy, in fact, that I try to steal third. On my own, without a sign from the coach. I'm thrown out. The coach pulls me. My night is over. Or so I think.

I don't realize it but that double was trouble. After clearing the wall, the ball landed in the parking lot, cracking the windshield and setting off the car alarm of a teammate's older brother, Joey Doyle. Since car alarms were less popular back in those days, a cop actually responds. As he's sizing up the damage, he looks in the car and sees more than broken glass on the seats.

He sees a bong. It turns out that Joey has a metric buttload of marijuana in his car. And, once the cop decided he had probable cause, he also found: a small packet of cocaine.

Joey is arrested when he comes back to his car after the game. I never found out if he was convicted for sure -- rumors always swamp the facts in high school -- but he surely deserved whatever he got. I did not deserve what I got. From that day on, I was inexplicably the scapegoat for Joey's demise. Never mind that I had no control over where I hit it or that the chances of breaking a window on his car were one in a million or that he was the idiot for lugging around a bunch of cocaine in the car. I was the guy that got Joey in trouble.

The running joke at school was to cover me, somehow, in white powder. Baking soda, sugar, flour, whatever. My car was covered in it once a week. All over my clothes when I came back from gym class. On my desk when I got to class. Someone, and I never even found out who, threw a handful in my face one day in the hall. The principal had to get on the loudspeaker and create a special rule against using "any sort of white powder against any other student." Of course, it eventually died, but not until I was forever branded as that kid who's always covered in white powder. I didn't even bother trying out for the team the next year.

That would be the last hit of my baseball career. But boy was it a doozy.

Two. I am running, although you probably wouldn't know it without my telling you. My feet are churning, my arms are pumping, but I'm not really generating speed. As I lumber over to second, I make the first of two serious miscalculations. I decide, based on how hard I thought I hit the ball, that I'm going to take third. In retrospect, I probably should have done more data collection in the form of actually looking to see where I hit the ball, however, in my defense, it's not like I had a lot of practice in post-hit scenarios.

So, about halfway between second and third, my mistake becomes clear. I have overestimated my hit, and the outfielder is throwing the ball to the guy standing on third. I then make my second miscalculation and decide that a strong headfirst slide is the only way I'm going to be safe. Have I ever slid into anything headfirst before? No. But, in my mind, this adds the element of surprise to my quickly-dwindling arsenal.

As any veteran baseball coach will tell you, the first mistake you're going to make when learning to slide is sliding too late. I don't know this at the time, but I'm about to make the classic sliding mistake. When I'm less than five feet from the bag, I perform a simulation of a headfirst slide that is based entirely on theory and observation. It does not go well. My helmet collides with the face of Joey Doyle, the third baseman for the opposing team. I won't know this for some time, but I just knocked out two of his bottom teeth. Sorry, Joey.

I don't know this because my forehead hits his knee and my lights go out. I'm motionless and unconscious as an EMT team carries me off the field on a stretcher. When I regain consciousness a few hours later, my parents and sisters are there with me in the hospital. Concerned doctors say a lot of mumbo jumbo to me. None of my teammates visit me in the hospital. I have to quit the team for fear of re-cracking my coconut.

My teammates, in a stunning display of empathy, brand me "Narc," short for narcolepsy, I guess. And it sticks. Walking down the hall, they call out "Narc!" every time they see me. It's written all over my locker in permanent marker. Someone hits me in the head with a box of sleeping pills one day at lunch. Even on my graduation day, when I walked across the stage, someone yelled out, "NARC!" and the whole room cheered. Needless to say, I never played baseball again.

That would be the last hit of my baseball career. But boy was it a doozy.

Three. The ball screams down the right field line. We play on a field with no fences, and one look at the right fielder's backside tells me that I can go all the way. I can do this. I'm running around the field in a frenzy, and by the time I'm home, my only thought is: "Homer. I just hit a homer. I hit a frigging home run."

My single-track inner dialog prevents me from noticing the peculiar situation. No one from my team has come out to celebrate my achievement. In fact, they aren't even cheering. Both benches, oddly, are silent. This is the first home run that went completely uncelebrated by either team. I sit at the end of the bench, happily.

There's no way for me to know this at the time, but I have just violated an old team tradition. Normally, the first person on the JV team to hit a home run is treated to a night of under-age debauchery. Of course, I'm an unsuitable candidate for this kind of celebration, so I've screwed everything up. By hitting a homer.

I don't get a hit the rest of the game, but it's too late. I've set in motion the following chain of events. The jocks, angry at my transgression, demand that the guy who rakes the field, Joey Doyle, "get me back." Joey, a rural kid, hits a groundhog on the way home that night and sees an opportunity. He scoops up the body and sticks it in his car. While we're all at practice the next day, he sticks it in my locker.

When I return from practice and open my locker door, the groundhog's dead body falls out and lands on the floor with a resounding splud. My books and clothes are covered in gore. Embarrassed, I gather up my things and leave the locker room. A friend's parent takes me home, and I'm so upset, my dad lets me skip school the next day.

From then on, I was known as the groundhog guy. Little pictures of dead groundhogs were drawn on my desk. "What's up, 'hog?" was a familiar refrain from the popular kids upon seeing me. I even found a bit of fur on my locker one day. I got a half-hearted apology from Joey Doyle a few weeks later, but the damage was already done. I played a few more games with the team and then quit. I never played organized baseball again. All because I hit a homer.

That would be the last hit of my baseball career. But boy was it a doozy.

Lies and Truths

Coming Friday: three short stories. One will be true, two will be false. You guess which one is true in the comments box, unless you already know me, in which case, you shut your piehole. It's going to be great. Plus, I'll be in Reno, so if you leave a bunch of hateful comments like, "Those stories suck," and "I could care less which one is true," I won't be around to read them.

Anyone have any betting requests? My dad's already got $5 on black.

Content

I'm trying to decide if my shorts are in a bit of a bunch. What do you think?

I agreed to speak at the training session for new Resident Advisors. So, at 6pm, I showed up on campus, said a few words about doing the job, cracked a few jokes, and then smiled for all the new people. When I finished, the staff launched into the next part of the training and handed out a 1-page sheet with the old "MIT and the Millenial Generation" spiel on it. "Things at MIT are changing because of the new generation ..." blah blah blah.

The flip side had a short title and four paragraphs of text. The title was "The Blog of a New Generation," which rang a bell. The text began, "I heard a talk yesterday by the MIT Dean of Admissions ..." which sounded awfully familiar. The woman who was in charge was describing the handout and said, "On the back is commentary by Bryan, which is always entertaining."

In fact, it was this post, from May 6th.

So I gotta ask: was this right? Let's leave aside the issue of not putting my name anywhere on the document (I'm sure it was an oversight). Can you take stuff off someone's blog and just hand it out to people? What if you're handing it out to people who are your peers? Do I have any reasonable expectations to privacy or ownership of my content?

(PS: I have not activated the Creative Commons license. Anyone have any strong opinions on this?)

Work Week

Today, at 9am, a bell rang at the frat house, and one of the finest fraternity traditions began. Work week.

The idea is to collect 30+ college boys and have them self-organize into a home-improvement machine. The results are usually a mixed bag. This is the 8th workweek I've lived through, and so here is a short list of my favorite workweek moments. Nicknames have been altered to protect the innocent, but these stories are otherwise completely true.

Jeeves Asks, I Answer

I like the fact that Sitemeter lets me see the questions people are asking of the BAB. In honor of my first hit from Ask Jeeves, I will personally answer the question asked:

"What year was the Adams Bomb?"

In 1953, my grandfather, Jedadiah Adams, was experimenting with headwear when he caused an unexpected fashion explosion. His work was quickly classified as the "Man Hatting Project," and would result in a craze known as the "Adams Bomb." However, Jedadiah's shoddy craftsmanship left men exposed to the elements, and their wet heads infected them with a horrible disease: leakemia. Today, we've harnessed the power of Adams to make electricity somehow. In conclusion, man must respect the awesome power of Adams.

Writer's Block

Here's my Sunday, spent revising on the thesis proposal:

The controller's basic structure is a perfect-square digraph.
A perfect-square digraph structure allows the controller to
The controller is comprised of cells, arranged in a perfect square
The initial state of the controller is a perfect-square digraph with
My controller sucks big donkey balls aadalksjhafsa
(45 minute coffee break)
The controller's basic structure is a perfect-square digraph.
An example will illustrate the structure and operation of the controller. Figure 1 ...
(30 minute interlude with Micro$uck's draw program)
The controller's basic structure is a perfect-square digraph.
The controller is structured as a square digraph with maximal degree zero.
A grid of cells, arranged in a square, form a basic controller
A digraph, perfect-square in shape, doth lend a structure to thy controller
(Loud, Chewbacca-like yelp. Stomp around room. Pick fight with girlfriend.)
The controller's basic structure is a perfect-square digraph.
(Whew.)
Each vertex in the digraph represents a cell.
The digraph's vertecies are all called "cells" while the arcs
(Lengthy Internet search for alternate career that does not require the use of English.)

Annoying

Has anyone noticed that the Internet Explorer "Status Bar" (the little bar at the bottom that, for example, displays the target of a link) randomly disappears? Any idea what causes it and how to make it stop? And is there someone at Microsoft to whom I can mail spiders as a thanks for this neat new "feature"?

Golf Morning

I woke up this morning at 5:30am with a medical need for golf. So I drove out to the local Municipal course and teed off before the sun got all red and angry. And I laughed pretty much until we finished at around 11a.

My impromptu foursome included Jim, a 62 year old retiree, and Uncle Miltie, his 82 year old friend. These two went at each other for four and a half hours like you wouldn't believe. Jim was a good golfer, but poor Uncle Miltie could barely raise his hands above his head. He had one of those patented old guy swings which, without the club, would immediately cause an onlooker to dial 911. But Jim gave him a few strokes on every hole, and the game was on.

I took notes on all the great exchanges between Jim and Uncle Miltie. The following are excerpts.

Hole 1
J: Your drive went off to the right there, Miltie
UM: I'm playing the angles. That's the mental part of the game. I know it escapes you -- all you do is hit 'em long and straight. You don't even bother to use your mind.

Hole 3
J: Jesus, Miltie. You just about brained two of those gooses over there!
UM: They're geese, you nimrod.
J: Well, whatever they are, you're supposed to hit it over them.

Hole 6
(UM makes a great putt. Points a scrawny finger at J, who's studiously not looking at him.)
UM: Turn around and look at my finger, you piece of shit.

Hole 7
(I hit a shot that skulls along the ground, but ends up not too far from the hole)
UM: Bryan, that was a UBE.
B: What's a UBE?
UM: Ugly, But Effective.
J: That's what they used to call Miltie around the office.

Hole 9
UM: This game is just like a woman. One minute, everything's great. The next, you're like, what the fuck is wrong?

Hole 14
(We all hit drives that are much longer than UM)
J: Comin' up a little short there, eh, Miltie?
UM: Well ... As I see it, I'm the only one who can drive my weight. That's right -- 135. Let's see you cows try to beat that.

Hole 15
(UM is peeing in the woods)
J: Let's go, Miltie! Jesus! How many shakes do you need over there? It's just a tree, for Chrissakes!

Hole 16
J: Hey, Miltie! Nice shot!
UM: Just wait until I start cocking my wrists.
J: I thought you just did that on the last hole.

Hole 17
UM: Jim's an asshole. If he found me dead out on this course, he'd steal all my good balls before he called an ambulance.
J: I'm not calling an ambulance! I'd just stick your body in my bag and throw a head cover on you.

Hole 18
UM: Bryan, do you have a girlfriend?
B: Yeah.
UM: Well, when you go home, have her rub your balls. Nothing beats a good ball rub at the end of a round of golf.

A Noble Life

My advisor asked me a question a week ago that's caused me to go all schizo: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I told him that I had no idea, which is almost true. My one idea is that I don't want to be a professor, which would be the usual job for someone in my position. I'm fairly sure about that -- I don't love research enough to dedicate my life to it -- but everything else is a big question mark. Engineering? Save the world? More education? Beats the hell out of me. And, like most hard questions, I've tried to solve it by not thinking about it.

But the question got more complicated when I read the book Moneyball, by Michael Lewis. Briefly, the book describes how some guy with an econ degree from Harvard got involved with the new statistical analysis movement in baseball to make the Oakland A's a powerhouse. And that guy, Paul DePodesta, is now the hottest new thing in the sport. He's got a great future, he's making a bunch of money, and he loves his job. Reading about him started a big argument.

Gut: Boy, I'd love to have his job.

Brain: You've got to be kidding me. Baseball? You don't even like baseball that much.

Gut: I dunno. I read about it every day. I like to watch it. And I like playing around with numbers. Wouldn't it totally rule to work for a baseball team?

Brain: No, it would not "rule." It would be a disgrace. You've had every advantage life has to offer -- a great childhood, parents who were willing to send you to private school, enough luck to stick around for a PhD. You're even a white male, for Chrissakes. You think that working for a baseball team is a worthy use of all those advantages?

Gut: Worthy? You mean like James Worthy?

Brain: No, you crap factory. Something that changes the world for the better. Something that earns the respect of your peers. Something that --

Intestines: Don't even start that shit about respect.

Brain: Excuse me?

Intestines: You've been yammering on about "respect" for some time and, frankly, I don't think you have any idea what the fuck you're talking about. You're thinking about all those social workers you've met. The people who work in South Boston, right?

Brain: Yes! They lead lives of value, and they earn the respect --

Intestines: I fucking knew it. Look, they're great people, no question. But respect? Wake up. Their offices are converted bedrooms. They never have enough time or resources to innovate or try new things. They live in constant fear of losing their jobs to budget cuts, and they have to fund-raise for every pencil and paper clip. And, for all their hard work, they take home peanuts.

Brain: Are you saying you don't respect them and their work?

Intestines: Of course not. I respect them in the exact same way that everyone else respects them. By saying "I respect so-and-so." Which amounts to a whole lot of hot air.

Lungs: Hey! We resent that!

Intestines: Does the government give them all kinds of advantages because they do good work? No. They're treated the same as anyone else. Is there some form of public respect? No. They could work at a bank for all anyone cares. Are they even given any sort of media attention or public recognition? Hell no! All you read about public spending these days is how wasteful it is! So you tell me: what good is respect when you can't pick out any of its manifestations?

Brain: What about self-respect? Huh? Don't you care what I think about you?

Gut: I know I'd be happy working for a baseball team. Imagine what great seats you could get!

Intestines: I think that you'll think a lot less about respecting yourself when you love what you do every day. In the end, isn't it supposed to be all about happiness?

Brain: I don't know about this. It all feels a little ... delusional. Am I supposed to listen to an organ that is literally full of shit?

Intestines: Fuck off. Anyway, if you want to make yourself feel better, we'll keep volunteering on the weekends or evenings. We can help those in need and enjoy life. And besides: if you become rich and famous, then you can become a REALLY effective advocate for the less fortunate. Feel better?

Brain: I need to think about this.

Intestines: Yeah. You think about it. Meanwhile, we need to go take the Browns to the Super Bowl, if you get my drift.

SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM

Either Spam Assassin needs a new scope on its sniper rifle, or I'm getting a lot of nice email from strangers. Better play it safe.

From: "Corina Mcgrath"
To: bpadams@mit.edu
Subject: RE:dobbin B anned psp
Date: Wed, 13 Aug 2003 04:14:48 -0100

Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart. You will have the freedom to avoid c reditors, judgments, lawsuits, IRS taxcollectors, criminal indictments, your greedy ex-wife or ex-husband, and much more! See Now


Corina,

First of all, I want to tell you how much I appreciate your efforts. I am as tired as you are about those who complain about the "moral decay of society." What does that even mean? What's the half-life of a moral? And to make these complaints over email -- that's simply not going to bend patriots like you and me. Bravo!

However, I can't accept your offer for two reasons. First, I don't have collectors, judgments, the IRS or a greedy ex-wife. All I have is a lower-than-normal-greed-level girlfriend, and I'm not too worried about her. The idea that I could get promoted by digging up dirt on my boss is appealing ("Bryan Adams, Senior Vice Grad Student"), but I don't really have the moxie to blackmail a professor. Also, that kind of action is likely to get me into trouble with judgments, the IRS, and perhaps a newly-ex'ed girlfriend.

Second, I don't understand your technology. Why do I need a C D if I'm going to use the Internet? Does the C D provide me with websites to visit? Keep in mind that I've heard of this "google" thing.

I do have one bone to pick, though. You commented that you can't buy freedom at Wal-Mart. Au contraire, mon frere! This search for "freedom" at the Wal-Mart website turned up several thousand matches. And, while no single one of them provides you with dirt on a greedy ex-wife, just imagine what she'd think if she caught you typing on your cordless keyboard and mouse while rockin' out to Bob Marley's Songs of Freedom and watching a documentary of Nelson Mandela. Maybe she'd even forget her greed and come back to you.

Just a thought,

--Bryan

From: Donald "Kizziebfr@montevideo.com.uy"
To: bpadams@mit.edu
Subject: No risk
Date: Tue, 12 Aug 2003 22:19:20 -0400

(picture of fetching blond lass)

Jennifer,

Great to hear from you. I'm so happy that things are coming together for you! I know that Texas is hot this time of year, which makes the recent maximization of your satisfaction that much more amazing. The look on your face in your picture tells me that these are great days for you indeed.

And yet ... I worry. Thomas Edison said, "Show me a thoroughly satisfied man, and I will show you a failure." Your gender notwithstanding, could Edison have had you in mind? Now that you've achieved nirvana, have you felt cold and empty? Do the stars at night, so big and bright, seem to mock the shell you've become without the yearning for something better?

I don't know. To be honest, I have no idea who you are, or why you're writing to me. But I just wanted to take this moment to let you know that I'm here. If you need a pen pal, I'm your Mr. Henshaw.

Unless you voted for W. In which case, go f&$* yourself.

--Bryan

PS: Congratulate Michael on his new beard.

Ohio State Fair

In Food:
Corn Dog and Lemonade
Roasted Corn
Steak on a Stick with Fries in a bucket
Chocolate Ice Cream
Iced Tea
Ribeye Steak
Mashed Potatos
The Rest of Sonia's Gyro
Corn Nuggets
Cheese on a Stick

In Animals:
Cows *
Pigs *
Steers *
Lambs *
Hens *
Baby Goat
Dogs, all varieties
Miniature Horses (Sonia: "Who were beee-yoooo-tiful!")
Cows, Jersey **

* Grand and Reserve Champions
** Also petted

In Activities:
Eating
Seeing the Champion Animals
Seeing the Butter Cow and Butter Wright Brothers
Eating
Seeting the Little Piggy Race
Seeing Almost 600 Quilts
Eating
Watching a Dog Show
Petting a Jersey Cow
Watching a Horse Show
Eating

Americana

I'm in Columbus (again). A cheap fare came up a the last minute, so Sonia and I flew to the heartland for a few days of home cookin'. My mom literally had barbecued chicken ready for us when we landed. And it's been great. We've done all the things that one would imagine doing in Columbus, and today, we'll be performing the most Ohioan of activities, attending the Ohio State Fair.

I did have one unfortunate encounter, which was originally going to be its own blog entry. But, I don't know, there's something about it I don't like, so I'll just soft-pedal it by adding this little header. More on the fair tomorrow.

***

I finally had enough when he hit into a double play. "You suck, Henson!"

Drew Henson, third basement for the hometown Columbus Clippers, is generally agreed to be a disappointment. He was signed by the New York Yankees to a multi-million dollar contract after successful college careers in both baseball and football. While most assumed he would be with the Bronx Bombers shortly thereafter, he's gotten stuck at the AAA level. No one really knows why -- too many strikeouts, too little power -- but the fact remains. He was supposed to be the next household name, and instead, I can sit 50 feet away and heckle him for only $4.

Which is exactly what I did. He had already struck out twice in this game, and this double play was endangering my "Clipper Victory Discount" coupons. His ineptitude was going to cost his team the win, thereby denying me even cheaper tickets to a future game! The nerve! Since "You suck" didn't completely describe this frustration, I followed it up with "Go play football, you jerk!"

"Are you kidding me? Henson's smart man." A beery fellow fan one row ahead of me turned around and shot me an incredulous look. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to play football? You wanna be going through two-a-days? Henson plays here, he collects his big fat paycheck, and he barely has to do a thing. That guy's a freaking genius."

I was speechless. It struck me as so bizarre to admire someone who's overpaid and underperforming, I couldn't half-heartedly agree nor could I come up with a suitable rebuke. I just sort of looked away. Even a day later, I'm dumbfounded by this guy. What are his relationships like? What does he do for fun? How does he live his life? What internal cauldron of ideas results in admiration for Drew Henson?

Prayers

I'm not the religious type, but please do send your prayers, good vibes, positive karma, and/or well wishes to everyone's favorite movie critic, Roger Ebert. He's having radiation therapy on a tumor in his salivary gland.

Final Frontier

I got email today from my thesis advisor, Mr. Two-Hundred-Fifty-Pound Gorilla:

Date: Thu, 7 Aug 2003 15:38:39 -0400
To: bpadams@ai.mit.edu
From: Two-Hundred-Fifty-Pound Gorilla
Subject: critique CRAPPY TALK GUY

Beep,
I hear you have a critique of CRAPPY TALK GUY somewhere. Can I see it?
--Gorilla

So I sent him the link to this page and the posts in question. And that's it. Now everyone knows about this thing. I'm officially out there.

May God have mercy on my soul.

Fake Reality

So, I finally got around to watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

If you're one of those late zeitgeist bloomers, here's the skinny: an unevolved hetero philistine has his personal life overhauled by five fabulous gay men. They provide him with class and style by, apparently, instructing him to shave after showering and purchasing some craptacular lamp from Bed Bath and Beyond. He's also treated to a day at the spa and a new wardrobe that pretty much looks like it was picked out for him by a team of gay men. It's sort of "Trading Spaces" plus "Makeover Show" times "Will and Grace."

Watching the show was enjoyable -- this is a quality TV experience. But, like mexican food, the morning-after experience has me shifting in my seat. Last night's episode featured a slob who played keyboard for a crummy lounge act. The fab five were summoned by his wife to smack some glam into his sorry ass while simultaneously turning their dumpy two bedroom into a chic new flat. So the jeans-and-t-shirt, underwear-on-the-doorknob, homely looking backup keyboard-player got a completely new lease on life: coaching on his singing style, expensive facial, flashy wardrobe, coordinated dishes, and a trendy new apartment decor. By the 45 minute mark, our pig of a protagonist was sipping herbal tea in a newly Ikea-fied kitchen, reviewing his fussy new grooming technique, and uneasily exchanging hugs with his new fabulous mentors.

But when the moment of truth arrived, a strange thing happened. Truth showed up. He belted out his song for his wive, but it still kind of sucked. He didn't face the audience, his breath support was weak, and the lyrics, read from an index card, were downright comical ("They say ... dreams don't come true ... Mine do ..."). And, despite the happy histrionics of the fab five, any viewer could see that their teachings hadn't taken. He was a jeans-and-t-shirt guy who was wearing pants that someone else picked out. You could already imagine the snappy new shirt tossed onto the floor in a crumpled heap, the trendy dishes piled up in the sink, and the used-up face moisturizer unreplaced in his cool new bathroom cupboard.

This isn't to cast aspersions on either persona; in my book, there's room for both jeans-and-t-shirt slobs as well as nattily-dressed sophisticates. It's this myth about an uplifting conversion that gives me indigestion. "His bedroom was SOOO cluttered!" "He only had like TWO bathroom products!" "I think his PARENTS gave him those dishes!" "How could he STAND to live like this?" The answer is: who knows? Maybe he never folded his clothes because he was out late chasing his dream in nightclubs. Maybe he didn't spend money on new dishes because he wanted to buy things for his two kids. Maybe he just flat-out didn't give a shit about his clothes or his apartment. All we know is that he didn't live the way a team of affluent gay men would.

But the subtext of the show was clear: he damn well should! No one gave a fabulous thought to the idea that this guy had carved out a life that was comfortable and personal. He didn't own flocked pants because he wasn't a flocked pants kind of guy. Sure, he let these superstar personalities push him around: he was a backup singer for a crummy lounge act. Someone with a greater need for attention and approval had probably been bossing him around for a long time.

And, in the end, the sham was exposed: no amount of grooming or fashion advice could provide him with the style and grace that makes someone a memorable lounge singer. And that's totally OK -- his wife cried anyway because, as the style-expert fab-fiver admitted, those cornball lyrics were straight from the heart.

I know, I know, it's just a lousy TV show. But TV has a way of helping aggregate and formalize our values, and I'm troubled by this show's contribution to that process. Yes, some gay men are fantastic dressers with perfectly smooth skin. And yes, some straight men dress like slobs and aren't qualified to shave their own faces. And I get the argument that the better appearance is the better impression. I just sort of feel like this guy's song would have made the best possible impression if he'd done his own lousy shaving job, worn his own clothes, and been completely himself. Too bad that doesn't make good television.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a shower before I shave.

Sausages

I totally meant to post something about my trip to NY yesterday. I even started a clever little thing called "New York, In Quotes" where I recounted all the funny things that were said during my trip and fashioned them into a summary. It was gonna be hilarious and generate like a million comments.

But then I got all involved in refinishing this 1950's sewing machine with Sonia, who's visiting me for the month. I swore I was just going to help for an hour and then get back to work when I found myself applying an orbital sander to about a million square feet of old walnut.

Anyway, all that vibration has caused my fingers to swell up like sausages. So I must keep typing to a minimum. Hence, my New York summary will have to be short. I'm gonna kick it, Larry King style.

The best way to pass a long car ride is to listen to two sorority sisters catch up on the gossip ... Wedding videos are fun for the couple and for anyone who went to the wedding, but for outsiders, they're torture ... Larry and Monique, the couple we visited, should both be modeling underwear ... Women have a much harder time packing when the level of "dressiness" is in question ... Tapas are basically food for the attention-deficit crowd ... Dive bars are the most fun for the people for whom they aren't really a dive ... I absolutely love the old-school diner restaurant, and I'd eat there every day if I could ... Watching the girls interact on this trip makes me wish I could do my college years over again with them ... Instead of traffic bulletins on I95, they should post urgent announcements if it's actually clear.

What a Gyp

Of course, it was #2.

I'm starting to realize that these talks are like Saturday afternoon infomercials. Advertise your system using borderline lies. Stack your audience with cronies who say "ooh!" and "wow." Include, in your presentation, misleading references to exciting ideas that are completely irrelevant. Provide a single example of the system's use, but don't give away the fact that it won't work under any other circumstances. Finally, proclaim your system to be completely amazing despite the utter bullplop you've been spewing since minute one.

All that was missing was Ron Popeil. Next time I get to the end of one of these talks, I'm going to yell, "Set it and forget it!"

Choose Your Own Talk

I'm going to a talk entitled "Self-developing Devices." One of two things will happen:

1: A crowd slowly gathers. The speaker, with shaggy hair and an unkempt beard, clutches a box. His eyes dart around the room nervously, and no one sits anywhere near him or attempts to communicate in any way. The host uneasily introduces him as a visitor from South America, where he's been on a solo expedition, working with an injection molding machine and a tribe of mystics, for the last twenty years. As he walks up to the lecturn, box in hand, the crowd squirms uneasily. In a flash, he whips an old polaroid camera out and starts taking snapshots, hurling the resulting pictures into the crowd while shrieking, "THEY DEVELOP THEMSELVES! IT'S A GODDAMN MIRACLE!"

2: Some poindexter in a golf shirt bores the shit out of everyone with a powerpoint presentation about software.

I'm heady with anticipation. I'll let you know how it turns out.

End of an Argument

I once lost an argument with a buddy about the reasons behind the whole "medical malpractice insurance crisis." Well, the GAO issued a report today (highlights here), and it turns out I was sorta right, sorta wrong. Yes, it's largely losses from malpractice claims. But it's also lousy investments and stupid pricing. So there.

Anyway, Adam Croswell, just like on our old 6.004 problem sets, it turns out that we're both right. You're just a little righter.

Consideration

Our group meeting was pushed up 2 hours today with 2 hours notice. Interesting use of symmetry.

Rat-a-tat-tat

I'm going to experiment with many short posts today, in place of the endless drivel that I usually spout.

Let's start with this: I usually open my blog via a link on my yahoo start page. The link says, "MeBlog." Every time I click on it, I say, out loud and with a bad Irish accent, "MeBlaaaaaaaahg." I'm not sure why.