Bryan Adams Blog

Untold Jokes

I donated platelets again this morning. But the appointment was so early in the morning, I couldn't think of clever things to say in real-time. Instead, I thought of them on the way home.

(In response to a "How did your interview go?" from the cute receptionist): I don't know. She kept asking me if I've had sex with another man since 1977. This is what happens when I wear a light green shirt.

(Following up on previous joke): I always feel like those questions are an indictment of my lifestyle. She's like, "Have you ever been to Europe?" and I'm like, nope. She stops. Looks up at me. "Ever been to Africa?" Nope again. "Ever paid for sex, even once, since 1977?" No. "Ever snorted cocaine?" Still no. I'm like, hey, I drank before I was 21! She says that's not on her list. She's like, "We're going to take your fluids and give them to someone who actually does something besides play video games."

(To the Nurse Ratched type who missed my veins over and over): Jesus! I'm going to end up with more holes than Bonnie and Clyde put together.

(Or): Jesus! I'm going to end up with more holes than a cheap canoe.

(Or): Jesus! I'm going to end up with more holes than a golf course.

(Or): Jesus! I'm going to end up with more holes than a Gallium Arsenic semiconductor.

(To Paul, the guy in the bed next to me who said he'd donated platelets over THREE HUNDRED TIMES): Holy cow! You're spreading your DNA around like a teenage boy at a peep show.

(In response to the nurse who examines my machine and remarks, "You're doing great! You seem to have a lot of practice squeezing things with your right hand."): Actually, I still don't have a joke here.

(Again, to the receptionist, who asked me if I wanted some OJ for the road): No thanks. I've been stabbed enough, and he'd just hire Cochran and get off again. "If his shirt looks quilty, my man's not guilty!"

An Open Letter to Jennifer Garner

Jenny,

First of all, let me offer my congratulations on the season opener last night. I was on the edge of my seat. Mostly because I was yelling at the TV about the script, but we'll get back to that later.

I want to tell you how proud I am. I've followed you since Alias became a hit. My parents bought the DVD of season one, which I will copy as soon as I can. I download all kinds of pictures of you from the internet, and when you were in Maxim magazine, I stole my buddy's copy. I even sat through all of that craptacular "Catch Me If You Can" movie (sort of a "Dude, Where's My Son?" thing, huh?). So there's no question about my devotion.

I also want you to know that this isn't your typical I-love-you-and-want-to-have-like-a-million-babies-with-you fan letter. I'm not going to start saying that I would happily change my last name to be with you. I mean, I have a girlfriend (although you're at the top of my list of freebies). I also understand you have a little thing with Agent Vaughn. Look, everyone knew that was going to happen. We don't blame you. We're all in love with him -- even the straight guys. And let's face it, the minute we saw your old-n-busted husband doing promos for AUSA where he was blow-drying his crotch, we knew the clock was ticking with him.

(And I'm not so crass as to think that I can simply call "next" for when you're done with Vaughn, although, just for the record, I did call it.)

What I really want to say is: I think you've got potential. It clear that this Alias show can't hold you anymore. Seriously, through all the eye-glistening and lip-quivering last night, I sensed an undercurrent of incredulity. Which I wholeheartedly share -- I was barking at the television during some of the goofier plot developments. Father locked up with no visitors? It's ripped from the headlines! A new, tight-assed, jump-to-conclusions CIA director? Shocker. And who knew that "Rimbaldi" was Italian for "Hippie"? Let's face it, they're cracking at the seams trying to find ways to keep you on that show.

But I just learned today that you've finally reached the pinnacle. You've grabbed the brass ring. I sort of knew it was bound to happen -- someone like you only comes around once every four or five years, and nerds like us all have to jump on the bandwagon while the jumpin's good. If IMDB is to be believed, then it's true: you're going to be a voice on the Simpsons. Playing "herself," no less! You're now up there with Aerosmith, Richard Gere, and Steven Jay Gould. Kudos, my dear!

In conclusion, I love you and want to have like a million babies with you.

Sincerely,

--Bryan Garner

Hot Wheels

Every job has its perks. I get a really nice laptop. Doctors get to see random strangers naked. Matt gets to jet off to Peru. And those are all great things, I guess. But my friend Opie, who works for GM, has one of the best -- he gets to drive hot cars.

For the last five falls, Opie has been sent back to MIT for the "career fair." This used to be an opportunity for him to beg MIT students to work for him, but is now an opportunity for students to beg him for work. But more importantly, it's an opportunity for him to to drive concept cars out to Boston (from Detroit), and most importantly, its an opportunity for him to drive me around in said concept cars. I've ridden in the Hummer and the Escalade -- both before they were officially released. But last night we got to cruise around in the new Chevy SSR (shown above), and it took the cake.

I should just admit right here that I'm not a car guy. I don't know how they work, I'm not particularly literate with the jargon, and my appreciation of cars is mostly limited to saying "sweet" after Opie says something like "It's got a dual quad cam shaft with 13 liters of torque." True sample conversation:

O: It's a V8 with about 300 horsepower.
B: Is that a lot?
O: (flooring gas pedal in neutral) rrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMM!
B: Oh my!

But there are a lot of car people out there. I had no idea. In the three miles that we drove the car (just down to the Commons and back down Newbury Street) it seemed like every third person had a comment. Fellow drivers wanted to know what it was and when they could get one. Some dude in a Ferrari (a Ferrari!) (Ok, Opie had to tell me it was a Ferrari) said, "That car kicks my car's ass." We put the top down, with the push of a button, right in front of a group of women ... and they cheered! At one stoplight, a couple of old guys in leather jackets came over and stared doing the "Aluminum block and heads?" -- "Yup!" thing with Opie. All the while, I sat in the passenger seat and smiled, like a trophy girlfriend. I also giggled periodically.

And then I had dinner with Opie, which was, if anything, even more fun. Because, for me, the real perk is getting to see my buddy every October. Just one more reason why you can't beat the fall.

Three Water-Cooler Conversations

1. While the idea of a Cubs vs. Red Sox World Series must make network executives giddy with joy, it makes me worry. Boston is simply not ready for a World Series victory. The only benchmark event was the riot around Fenway after the Patriots won the Super Bowl. Folks were chucking food, flipping cars, swarming busses and showing boobs. Now bear in mind that 1, the Super Bowl was held 3000 miles away in San Diego and 2, that was just the Pats. I'm serious here: who's going to contain the mayhem? The cops? The fire department? No way -- those townies are all going to be running around in painted faces and Pedro jerseys like everyone else. Has anyone ever declared a state of emergency pending the outcome of a baseball game?

2. We're just starting fall in Boston, and it's absolutely fantastic. I don't know which part of the country owns the winter -- probably a place like Phoenix or Tucson. Spring is probably best somewhere around South Carolina, or maybe in the Pacific northwest. California and Florida can split summer. But, for my money, they're nowhere near Boston in the fall. The changing leaves. The start of classes and homework. Sweaters and bookbags. Brisk morning air walking to school. Lunch with colleagues on a bench in a grassy spot. Heading home, or maybe out for a beer, to catch the Sox game and unwind. It's the perfect mixture of the familiar and comfortable with the new and exciting. It's the same walk to work, but with new ideas about what to do there. It's the same fraternity rush, but with eager young faces. It's the same Red Sox, but maybe this is the year. This season makes me never want to leave.

3. I finally expanded my blogroll. I've been tossing and turning about this for weeks. On the one hand, I'm flattered that so many interesting blogs have linked to me, but on the other hand, I feel like I barely have time to read the blogs that I've already linked to. On the one hand, I feel like no one's going to care one way or another if I have their link on my page, but on the other hand, I know I would be pretty ticked if someone de-listed me. On the one hand, more links doesn't hurt and it makes people feel good, but on the other hand, I feel like the whole blogging experience is quietly de-valued by the relentless positive affirmation that everyone gives each other. In the end, I decided that my blog is for me, and I've been visiting these sites, so the links go up. And hey -- it's fall. If there was ever a time to try something new in an old spot, it's now. So welcome to the BAB, friends. May your PageRank be ever-increasing.

Better Living Through Math

During my flight back from LA, I read Bringing Down the House: The Inside Story of Six MIT Students Who Took Vegas for Millions. Let me give you both a book report and some editorial comment.

Book Report. In the mid-nineties, a bunch of MIT kids who were really good at probability and mental arithmetic figured out a way make money at blackjack. The method, which is outlined fairly carefully in the book, is pretty simple. If you know blackjack, you know that 10s and face cards favor the player over the dealer (because the dealer's behavior is bound by house rules). Hence, a higher probability of a face card means a higher winning probability for the player. The trick that these kids discovered, then, was to have a small team of players carefully monitoring the "shoe" (6 decks of cards) at a set of blackjack tables. If the shoe at a team member's table gets shuffled in such a way that the face cards are concentrated toward the back of the shoe, then the odds toward the end of that shoe would shift toward the player as more and more cards were dealt. Members of the team, "Spotters," would count the cards and keep track of how many face/10s were dealt. If a Spotter found that the end of a shoe at his or her table was stacked with these high cards, he or she would signal a "Big Player" to come to that table and begin heavy betting under the now-much-improved odds.

The upshot was that this team of students were able to make $20k-$30k every weekend. This practice is totally legal, mind you, because the law only prohibits you from altering the outcome of a game of chance. In this case, they weren't altering the outcome, but instead waiting for the odds to shift in their favor. As the main character in the story explains, blackjack is the only game with "memory" -- it's the only game where previous outcomes change the odds of future outcomes, making it the only game that can be exploited in this way. In fact, the book goes to such great lengths to point out how legal the practice is, it begins to sound a bit defensive. This is no doubt because the money raked in by this scheme afforded them a lifestyle that's also recounted in great detail. Strippers, huge hotel suites, wads of cash everywhere -- these kids (they were all younger than me, the bastards) led the modern American dream.

While the book isn't very well written -- the author's device of switching between present-day interviews and recounts of the past is clumsy and confusing -- the story is out of this world. I read the entire 270+ pages in one big bite, and I barely looked up for peanuts and coke. The truth is that they lived a dream that I suspect many people harbor: the ability to get large sums of money doing relatively little work. And they lived the life prescribed by that dream, which is the complete financial freedom that comes with having a river of disposable income. In some ways, they were a geeked-up version of today's athletes: using their unique skills for immense profit. In fact, it's difficult not to be envious of their experience, even if it does end as all Vegas stories end, in violence, intimidation, and heartbreak. I am not the least bit surprised to learn that the film rights were snapped up very quickly (by MGM, which, coincidentally, was one of the casinos that was "taken" -- just in case you forgot that the house really does always win).

Editorial comment. This book is, for me, one more example of a largely unrecognized and under-reported trend in today's society: the power of mathematical sophistication and cheap computing power. These kids were able to take advantage of casinos like never before because they brought these elements together. At the heart of their scheme are the basic probability ideas of expected value and standard deviation. They were able to see through the seemingly chaotic ups and downs of thousands of blackjack hands and identify the important trends. They also used blackjack simulations to refine the "basic strategy" of the game in order to maximize their winnings once the deck was stacked in their favor.

But this is also the story in Michael Lewis' book Moneyball. An understanding of statistics and the use of modern computers for simulation and analysis created "new baseball knowledge" that could be exploited for profit. The Oakland A's saw through the seemingly chaotic ups and downs of a baseball season to identify the properties of hitters that really matter, and this allowed them to note which players represented a "stacked deck." They assembled those players to create high-power teams at low-power costs. In both cases, the fundamental ideas are fairly simple, it's just a matter of having enough mathematical expertise and computer sophistication to apply it to the real world.

On one level, this is tremendously exciting -- the idea that we can use our brains to make our lives more efficient is one of the pillars of humanity. Human mastery of universal ideas gives you the satisfying sense that this is a special time and we are a special race. And, in theory, as we achieve a deeper understanding of the forces that govern our world, we can use that information to make our time on Earth that much better. Lives can be extended and suffering can be decreased. This should be a phenomenally good thing.

However, I'm worried. In the two examples that have made it to the media, this force has been used to screw others and make money. I can't help but wonder: how many Moneyball/House schemes are being operated right now in environments without our knowledge? The combination of complexity and quantitative data make the financial markets a prime candidate. Insurance companies, which have lived and died by statistical thinking for years, probably have probabilistic tricks up their sleeves that would make your hair stand on end. And I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to learn that advertising firms have a strong mathematical backbone.

Sadly, the bottom line in this story is all too familiar: money. You'll see these methods applied wherever they can be used to make a big fat buck. And so other potential uses for this tool -- improving medical diagnosis and care, making better use of our nation's highways and airports -- will have to wait until there's enough financial incentive or sufficiently pervasive understanding of the methods. Frankly, I'm not holding my breath for either event. In their own way, these books provide an incredibly accurate look at technology today. They give us a sense of the transcendent power of humans to control our universe, but they give us an equal sense of the transcendent human shortcomings that prevent their full beauty from coming into view.

Getting Funky

So, I'm moving into a new building in January. Not at home -- at work. The entire MIT computer department is moving across the street to a new Frank Gehry building. And, like all his buildings, it's a little ... unconventional. Here's the view from the road:

Not a right angle in sight. The whole thing is going to be goofy, but interesting. Which, I think, is the point that this column missed. Sure, it's different, and sure, it's expensive. But lots of places with the money and space would never have tried something so interesting. Whether or not it works out, bringing this kind of bizarre building to campus just to see what happens is exactly in the spirit of MIT. And I say it's far better to be criticized for trying something and failing than to just plod through life moving from one rectangle to the next.

PS: Mr Beam -- James Woods went to MIT, but never graduated. So he can't be our most distinguished graduate. And, even if he had graduated, a character actor probably isn't as distinguished as former Secretary of State George Shultz, or inventor of radar Norbert Weiner, or UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan. Nice journalism work there, moron.

Escape from L.A.

I'm back in Boston. I would dearly love to write about the conference, because the people I met were all interesting and post-worthy in different ways. But they would all google me and recognize their descriptions and then hate me and ruin my career and send robots to my house to dig up my lawn and so forth. So, instead, I've gone with the Shake-n-Bake of posting options: the list of unrelated items. I apologize profusely and promise more and better posting later this week.

Air travel is extremely irritating in its present form; someone with political connections and a wad of money could make a killing by lowering the hassle of flying ... I simply can't understand why so many people would want to live in a place where a random traffic jam can just suck two hours out of your life ... CalTech's campus is absolutely beautiful, and MIT should walk among their buildings and take some detailed notes ... Space exploration causes a deep stirring in some people, but I'm not one of them; how do they know the satellite isn't just hiding behind the moon, smoking a cigarette, and making all that data up? ... I lived in Ohio for 18 years, but I never got closer to a deer than I did at JPL ... Powerpoint is, without question, Microsoft's greatest accomplishment ... "Evil manager" types aren't evil, they just don't know any better ... I guess businessmen love an obsequious hotel experience, but it makes me uncomfortable ... If I lived in California, I don't think I'd ever take my shirt off -- I saw more beautiful chests in two and a half days than I have in the last six months.

Gone Savage

Ok, so I bought a little Internet to keep me company in my swanky expense-account digs. I did it mostly to search for pictures to gussie up my presentation for tomorrow, but I also wanted to post My First LA Experience (TM).

Appropriately enough, it was sitting in traffic. I'm in a Super Shuttle (more like Supra Shuttle! Ha!) headed to the hotel. We're in the car pool lane, sitting in traffic for no discernable reason. Behind me are two men behind me, both of whom live in Pasadena, are on an extended rant about the traffic.

"Man, I hate this." "Yeah, you can't get anywhere." "It's like this all the time!" "I know!" And so on. Typical traffic bitching. But here's the part that kills me. Thirty minutes later, just before I get out of the van, I turn around and say, "Excuse me, do either of you know how far it is from the Sheraton [where I'm staying] to the JPL [where the conference is]? Is it close enough to walk?"

They both laugh out loud. "Goodness, no! It's like a couple miles! You'd never make it! Listen -- rule number one when you visit LA is to rent a car. You need one to get anywhere." Seriously. That's what they said.

Cause, I'd like to introduce you to your long lost brother, Effect. I know it's a shock after all these years, but it turns out the two of you are related. Hop in the car and I'll tell you all about it.

Off to La-La

And, with all that, I'm off to LA for a conference. Not sure how much time or Internet connectivity I'll have, so this may be it for a few days. Enjoy the weekend, unless you're in North Carolina, in which case, run for your life.

Meeting Me, Part Two

Here's what Kate actually thought. I think it's actually very true, if you factor in the $50 I gave her to write it.

---

From the theatrical, squinty way he examined me to see if I was indeed the girl he'd arranged to see, to the very sincere way he said upon parting that he was glad we met, Bryan was stellar company.

Let's talk about generosity and graciousness first. He had to play the savvy Boston resident to my meandering out-of-towner, and he was good at it. We hit the English pub and the swank, top-floor bar. We visited places I'd never have found on my own. I got customized tips and directions. I got the inside scoop on my cousin's MIT frat, where I nearly had to bunk for the night (and where there was a group of people gathered around a table, drinking and using a pickle to conduct electricity - but that's another story). I got fabulous conversation. I got walked home.

A lot of this was made possible by Bryan's gregarious nature. You know how, in his blog, he packs quite a punch? He has a high wit density? There's a lot of funny per word, a lot of impact per sentence? He's totally like that in person. He's also, quite noticeably, incredibly smart - again, just as you'd expect from the blog. So, amicable as well as knowledgeable - the perfect recipe for a great host.

On one level, Bryan struck me as a normal guy with skills that get him stuck in geekworld, which has a climate that's sometimes hostile. And though I sympathize with him over the fact that that can sometimes be a plight, it actually seems like he's the best of both worlds - all the fun and sociableness of a normal guy without all the oblivious mild chauvinism; all the smarts and analytical thinking of a geeky guy without all the awful maladroitness.

He was honest, funny, interesting, and never hesitant. He completely exceeded my expectations - seriously, it's cool that y'all can read his blog, but you are SO missing out on the real thing.

As, I suppose, am I (now).

Meeting Myself

The first thing you note upon meeting me is the talking. Ok, the FIRST thing you notice is the Letterman-esque gap between my front teeth (aborted retainer), but it's clear that I put effort into keeping my face at an angle to onlookers to minimize its appearance. So, once you get past the gap, and perhaps the lousy shaving job, the first thing you notice the talking.

Ok, sometimes you might notice the shoes. I have exactly one pair of really nice black shoes, and I always design the "meet for the first time" clothes around them. Black shoes dictate a black belt, so all things brown are ruled out. Usually, the next decision is the pants -- I make sure to have one pair of whatever's fashionable. Cargo, faded, whiskered, whatevered. One pair. At the ready. Must go with black shoes. From there, the top is simple -- blue. French blue, or, failing that, light blue. If it's really cold, maybe one of my six navy blue sweaters. So, black shoes, overly fashionable pants, blue top. Then you notice the talking.

Well, you're also going to notice the hair. It's generally described using cleaning items: Dishwater, mop, waxy buildup. "You have to leave it a little longer in the front, because he's thinning," says my mom when describing how to cut my hair. Also, an omnipresent pair of vainly-landscaped sideburns. I've had them since I saw Brady Anderson when I was 14 and decided I wanted to look like THAT. And even though he's long since retired, he'll always be that jaunty Oriole center fielder with the hip facial hair. They're one of the few non-negotiables that I have. I'm going to be buried with these things.

Anyway, after the gap, the clothes, and the hair, you're going to notice the talking. Especially in new situations, I become a tremendous yak. How was your trip? What mode of transportation did you use? Have you heard about the maglev train in Japan? Yeah, I took a class on it when I was a freshman in college.

See? A classic Bryan Adams maneuver there. I started by asking you an open ended question (Oooo, such a conversationalist!), then I steer it in a weird direction that throws you off (Have I heard of ... what? Wait, let me ask a question), and the next thing you know, I've suckered you into letting me talk about the one thing that calms me down: myself. Not bragging -- I like to take a self-deprecating stance. But I do like to keep the conversation in my limited little sphere of expertise. Technology. Sports. Computers. Gadgets. Football. Really, it's sad, and it's usually only in retrospect that I realize, wow, it's amazing how I can go on and on about the dumbest shit.

But, to be fair to myself, it's not all a drag. I usually at least try to tell funny stories. I often do and say unpredictable things, which at the very least will keep your attention. And I like to pick up the tab. Especially when I'm with someone who I know is a poor student, I feel like I need to pay. I'm like a boozy Robin Hood -- I take money from the rich and give it to bars. The way I see it, spending time with me may not be the best time you've ever had, but you can't beat the price. What can I say? I'm a value.

Blog-to-Blog Talk

I met Katekinks this weekend during her brief trip to Boston, and it was thoroughly enjoyable. She's the first blog-space friend to pass over to the real world, and it was quite a trip. For me, anyway. It's funny to meet a blog person, because it's equal parts "Nice to meet you" and "Nice to see you again."

But instead of the normal glowing reviews, we're going to play a game. Each of us will post on our sites a guess about the impression we made on the other person. So I'm going to write what I think it was like to meet me. She'll do the same over at her house. Then, without reading the other person's impression, we're going to exchange our real impressions via email, and we'll post those tomorrow. This will let you know how far off we both are in terms of our impressions of ourselves. In nerd terms, this is sort of like giving you an error signal on the command voltage of our posts.

Of course, if something awful comes up (like if she mentions my goiter), we're just going to pretend this never happened, ok? I'll post my little part of this tonight after dinner, and then I'll post her message early tomorrow morning.

Childish Episode

Just when I'm trying to give up the whole poop joke theme, I find a really significant paper authored by one Mu-ming Poo.

And, to make matters worse, his/her email address is "mpoo@..." As in "My email address is mmm-poo at such-and-such dot ee-dee-you."

Sometimes, if I squint real hard into the mirror, I can actually see parts of myself turning into a thirteen year old again.

Fun With Pictures

While democracy may suck, there can be no question that America rules. Why? Ebay.

More specifically, when I tell people that I bought a digital camera for seventeen-fifty, they all go, "Ebay?" without missing a beat (well, unless you're my mom, in which case say, "YOU BOUGHT A CAMERA FOR SEVENTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS?!?") People don't think twice about my purchasing a device that digitizes light according to intensity and frequency and stores it in electronic format for less than I'd pay for a second-hand pair of shoes. I mean, seriously, is this country great or what?

For the record, here's what you look like if you take a photo of yourself with a $17.50 digital camera.

P is for Pants-Shitting

Today's horrifying lunch-time screed is courtesy of everyone's old friend Paul Krugman.

His essay in this week's NYTimes magazine provides insight into the idea that the Bush tax cuts are designed to hurt people. That's right -- they're designed to drive spending on social programs into the ground so that we can have sick elderly people wandering the streets in discarded bathrobes, I guess.

I hate to ride my hobbyhorse around the ring again here, but the problem is basically one of complexity. If governmental affairs were understandable, the vast majority of people who are being screwed over by these tax cuts would say, "Hey, this sucks, there's no way I'm voting for those weasels," and Bush and his friends would be voted out of office. However, if the tax cut is sufficiently complicated that you can tell lies about it without getting caught, then democracy is short-circuited. You hurt voters, lie to them about how you're helping them, they can't differentiate between truth and lies, and so they support those who hurt them. Clank: the system is broken.

Because, to me, this is what it's really all about. Democracy might have been a good system when life was simple enough that the common man could follow along. But modern understanding and technological advance has turned most of the significant political issues of the day into complex systems. Financial markets and the tax code. Global politics and the war on terror. Biological engineering and the environment. You could make an endless list of issues that are, frankly, beyond the grasp of most voters, and yet the conclusions that voters draw from their limited understanding determine the leaders.

Which is why today's post is sponsored by the letter P. Feel free to change your drawers at your earliest convenience.

This Post Is Probably Caused By A Bad Burrito I Had For Lunch Yesterday

I don't know why, but I couldn't sleep last night. I was worrying about growing old. Maybe I don't mean growing old, maybe I mean growing up. I don't know. I just suddenly, for no reason whatsoever, started to feel weird.

For me, it's the little things that add up and cause the freak outs. Like discovering that most of my fantasy football team is actually younger than me. What the hell is a guy like Ricky Williams doing being younger than me? When did it turn out that he gets to be muscular and famous and rich and I have to eat crappy pasta and chicken off a chipped plate at the frat house? When did we choose those teams, and how did I get on this one?

That's what's weirding me out. The fact that we've picked teams. Not teams so much as routes. Directions. Like, on the interstate of life, I've passed some exits, and there are no U turns at the toll booths. More than that -- I have gotten off at some exits, without even really thinking about it. Since when did I want to be a grad student into my mid-twenties? Who said I was going to live in fraternities all this time? What's up with the back hair and the pudgy middle? I don't remember ever really wanting any of this. Not that I'm complaining; I like my life ok. I just don't remember choosing it.

I remember a time when it wasn't like that. I remember when I felt like I had a choice. High school. Maybe even college. It was like, "Hey, wanna go play frisbee at the Fens?" and you were like, "Sure." Because it didn't really matter -- whatever you did today, you could undo tomorrow. See a movie? Date this girl? Major in computers? Yeah. Why not? What else am I doing? Everything was completely fungible. Resources were everywhere. The entire world was like a big parking lot, and you could literally drive your car in whatever fucking direction you wanted to. You could make donuts. You could do slalom runs between the light poles. You could drive in reverse, just for the hell of it.

Now, all of the sudden, I'm this guy. I fix computers. I have a hairy neck. I talk too much when I'm nervous. I've gone from the parking lot to the interstate. I might get off at Professor Town. I might get gas at the Wahl's Personal Shaver Station. I might take the ramp on to State Route One-Ninety-Marriage. But there will be no donuts, no slalom, and definitely no driving backward

Which isn't to say I'm this festering cauldron of unrecognized dreams. If I had ever really wanted to drive backward, I'm sure I would have at some point. And if I really wanted to do it now, I'm sure I could get off the interstate and find a parking lot and drive around backwards. My point is that I've made a transition. A phase change. I'm not just wandering the parking lot. I picked a direction, without even really thinking too hard about it, and I've started off. I'm on my way to an unknown destination, and that's different from goofing around in the parking lot. The odometer is turning over now, and these miles count.

I guess it's just that I don't remember ever saying to myself, "This is who I want to be," and yet, I'm suddenly someone. It's weird.

He Returns

An absolutely true email.

Subject: Emergency Water Shut Down B200 Men's Bathrooms
Date: Thu, 11 Sep 2003 12:32:32 -0400
From: (Main Building Admin Person)
To: (Everyone In Building)

There will be an emergency water shut down in the men's bathrooms on floors 2-9 in 200 Technology Square today, 9/11/03, from aprroximately 12:30 PM - 2:00 PM. Signs will be posted on all non-operational bathrooms and removed once they are functional.

(snip)

It appears that whoever loosed that beast in the elevator has started using the bathrooms as well. And you KNOW it wasn't me, because I haven't even gone into the office yet today.

(And I promise that we're getting to the end of the fecalphilia phase of this blog.)

Geerlings & Wade Sucks

A Public Service Announcement: Geerlings & Wade sucks.

They're an online company for ordering wine (no, I'm not linking them, and no, their URL is not intuitive). I ordered a selection of wines as a gift for my sister on her 21st birthday. TWO WEEKS LATER, they hadn't even shipped it. According to a surly customer service woman, "There was a delay in the shipping house." Really. They never even sent me an email to let me know. I had to cancel my order, and now she's not getting alcohol from her big brother for her 21st birthday.

I'm so furious, I'd like to let everyone on the Internet know what a piece of trash Geerlings & Wade is. And, just in case anyone from Google is listening, it's my opinion that:

Britney Spears would never use Geerlings & Wade

Geerlings & Wade is the official wine company of Kobe Bryant

Anna Kournikova's forehand is better than Geerlings & Wade's customer service

Powerball winners would never order wine from Geerlings & Wade

Geerings & Wade was given a "Crappiest Company" award at the MTV Music Awards.

(I also realize that there is tremendous pun potential in my whining about wine. I'll thank you to avoid mentioning it.)

Posted by bpadams at 10:34 AM | Comments (7)

Brainstorm

Microsoft has once again discovered a security flaw that once again allows hackers to run arbitrary code on an unpatched machine, which will once again make sysadmins everywhere start cursing under their collective breath. If you haven't already, you should go here to patch your OS.

Here's my question to the boys in Redmond: was this the best way to go about this? The security flaw lets you run arbitrary code, right? So why not just quietly start hacking into infected computers and running the patch? Better yet, why not take a page from the enemy playbook and release a computer virus that patches its host and then sends a copy of itself to everyone in the outbox or whatever?

Perhaps if Bill Gates had stuck around at Harvard, he might have read "The Art of War". To paraphrase Master Tzu, "It ain't rocket science, people."

Rules Research

I have been acting like a love-struck fool. Not in matters of the heart. In matters of the mind.

It all started when I had this horrible idea that I fell in love with too quickly. The minute it first popped into my head, I was convinced it was perfect for me. I started seeing it in every paper that I read. I heard it singing to me as I fell asleep. And I reacted like every other desperate grad student does when he's overly enamored with a bum idea. I started staying up late with it. I let it sleep over all the time. I agreed to work on it on Saturdays even when it asked after Wednesday. The next thing you know, I'm dragging this awful idea around with me everywhere, letting it fight with my friends and family, constantly doing what it wanted to do. Worst of all, I was feeling like less of a grad student because of the way it made me feel. Classic story.

It turns out that the solution was sitting in front of my face the entire time. I needed to follow The Rules. Who knew that pursuing a good idea and a good man were so similar? If only I'd known. If only I'd listened to Ellen and Sherri's helpful hints, such as:

Rule 2: Show up at parties, dances and social events even if you do not feel like it. In short, you must spend spend time looking for the very best ideas, even when you'd rather sit on your couch and ponder the mysteries of Drew Bledsoe vs. Kelly Holcomb in Week 2. Sure, most of your ideas, like the one about robots that make poo, are really stupid. That's ok. You are better able to recognize a good idea when you've had some really bad ones.

Rule 3: It is a fantasy relationship unless a man asks you out. Until you've actually written something down and demonstrated that it works, your idea is crap. All those visions you have of yourself -- the one where you start a company based on your idea and it nets you a million dollars and you buy a giant house and a boat and pants that all make you look really thin and athletic -- those visions are stupid. Until you've at least got a cool simulation, keep looking.

Rule 5: If you are in a long-distance relationship, he must visit you at least three times before you visit him. This applies to your long-distance goals. When you set goals that are so far off that they seem unreachable, you start to lose touch. You're constantly saying to yourself, "Remember the time I was going to get my thesis proposal done by August? That was so wonderful." Brother, you are living in the past. Wake up and smell the coffee. Make your goals come to you first -- Section Two, finished. Section Three, finished.

Rule 7: If he does not call, he is not that interested. Period. Sometimes, the things that you start are simply not going to pan out. That really complicated driver you wrote for the serial port? If it's not getting you what you need, ditch that zero and write yourself a new hero. When you start living in fantasyland -- "This driver is going to be the foundation for a whole new direction in robotics" -- you've gone on a permanent vacation to nowhere.

Rule 8: Close the deal -- Rules women do not date me for more than two years. If you've been dating a girl for more than a year and she's not ready to get married, start thinking of seeing other people. Just because you're both students and she's in Montreal doesn't mean ... whoops. Sorry. That one's not research related. On to ...

Rule 9: Buyer beware -- observe his behavior so you do not end up with Mr. Wrong. Watch your system carefully. Does it hog memory without any regard for your system resources? Does it constantly snatch processor time away from your other programs? Does it crash unpredictably, leaving you to clean up the messy core dumps? Remember: you're going to be stuck demonstrating this program for the rest of your life. Are you sure this one is right for you?

If you just follow these simple rules, you too can find the right idea. And, as we all know, finding the right idea is the key to a happy, healthy, successful graduate career. Whoever said that a student needs an idea like a fish needs a bicycle never tried riding across campus after a heavy rain! So cowboy up, little fishies, and find yourself the right idea right now! Good luck!

A True Story

I need to tell you something, and I need you to believe me.

I was leaving work yesterday. I always take the elevator because my office is on the scarcely-populated top floor. As usual, the car was empty when the doors opened. I step in. And it hits me.

The smell. It's like the men's bathroom at a Taco Bell. It's like the basement bathroom at a fraternity house. It's like ... basically, it's like a giant fart. But unbelievably powerful: my eyes began to water and I reflexively pulled my shirt up over my nose.

My first thought: Holy cow -- who did this?

My second thought: No one saw me get in. Oh no.

My third thought: Please, for the love of everything holy, do NOT let someone else get in on my way down.

As the doors closed and the car began its descent, I started a mantra that would make any yogi proud. "Please-don't-stop-at-floor-eight." "Please-don't-stop-at-floor-seven." "Please-don't-stop-at-floor-six." And I was doing pretty well until floor two. The car started to slow down, and I had an animalistic response. I started pacing, irrationally looking for a way out of this elevator. I am not joking when I say that I looked at the ceiling to see if I could climb up to the top of the car, Ocean's-11-style. But no, I was trapped. I was going to have to stand there and take the blame for this awful smell.

I fixed a steely glare at the floor and tried to put on my "I'm so irritated because someone ELSE farted in here" face for whomever was getting on. Then I realized that I would be making that exact face if I had farted, so, at the last second, I decided to change to a mournful look, "Can you believe I've had to ride down in this smell?"

So, of course, the doors opened to reveal an attractive young lady who must have just started at the lab. This was obvious because her clothes were clean (strike one) and trendy (strike two) and she was wearing makeup (strike three -- yer new!). I suddenly realized that I would be not only embarrassing myself in front of a girl, but I would now be making a bad impression on behalf of the lab. I could almost hear her telling her friends that some nerd where she worked farted in the elevator! And they're supposed to be smart! I resolved that, when she got on, I would explain how it wasn't me. I would "clear the air," so to speak (ha, ha).

She took a half step into the elevator, made a face, and backed out. It suddenly hit me that I was not going to get a chance to acquit myself of this gastro-intestinal crime. I needed to make my closing argument, and I needed to make it now. My mind went into overdrive. What could I say? What could I possibly say? The doors started to close.

I fixed her with my most honest face and said, "I swear to god, it wasn't me." And as I said it, I tried to point in the direction of the omnipresent fart, which my right arm interpreted as its cue to do an impression of a guy suddenly struck with a bad case of palsy. Her face made it clear that she wasn't buying it, so I stuck my hand in the elevator door, to stop it so that I could explain myself. Of course, I forgot that our elevators are broken and, after a certain point, won't stop when you stick your hand in them.

"Yow!" I shrieked like a little girl as my fingers got pinched in the door. Hard. I yanked them back and reflexively shook my hand, and then stuck it between my legs. It really, really hurt. So, by the time the elevator finished its ride and opened its doors on the ground floor to a large crowd of people, there was me: face contorted in pain, hunched over with my hand between my legs, horrible fart still hanging in the elevator like a weapon of mass destruction.

As I sprinted from the elevator, hoping none of them could remember my face, I realized: this has to go on the blog. I need you all to believe me when I say: I did not fart in that elevator.

A Stress-Reducing Poem

I'm a little stressball, short and weird.
Here is my laptop, here is my beard.
When I get all stressed out, I'm not feared,
(shouted) FUCK!
The stress has disappeared.

Fun With Google

Anyone want to buy some real estate?

Fictional Mailbag

Bryan:

I'm a little disappointed in your last few weeks of posting. Where's the fire? Where's the humor? Where are the sentences that don't run on? I really used to enjoy reading your blog, but lately, I feel like your quality has gone downhill. Are you on drugs, or what?

Sincerely, Your Inner Editor

IE:

I apologize. I'll admit, I've been dissatisfied with my posting over the last few weeks. I think it's the thesis proposal -- that writing is so flat and lifeless that it carries over to the blog in unfortunate ways. It's almost done now, though, so I have high hopes for the next month.

I should also add that a certain comment on this post ("Dan finds you consistently funny,") has creeped me out. Now I write something and I'm like, "Is this consistently funny? Am I letting Dan down? Why do I suck?" The moral of this story is: do not compliment me. It screws up my timing.

Dogg:

What's up?! We havin' beer tonight or what! YEAH! PARTY!

--Your Big Fat Gut

Dear BFG:

I am ever so tired of you. I run, I do situps, I order veggie burritos, and yet nothing can make you go away. I try to ignore you, cover you up, tuck you into my belt, but nothing helps. You keep popping up in unfortunate places, like Jon Lovitz. I propose we both join a reality show and see who gets voted off first. If you lose, I get a flat stomach. If I lose, you get to expand until you obscure my penis. Deal?

Bryan:

We'd like to invite you to take us up on a startling offer. For a limited time only, you can enjoy yourself! Open a browser to fanball! Hop in the car and drive to Wellesley! Flip it to Cinemax! Wondrous times await! Act now!

--A Coalition of Fantasy Football, Golf Clubs, and DirecTV

Jesus, please stop. I have too much leisure in my life right now. I feel you calling to me even as I work -- "Bryyyyyyyaaaaaaan! Come plaaaaaaaaaay with us! We loooooooooove you!" -- but I know you are lying. You only want me for your own satisfaction. Once I'm done, you'll be happy, but I'll still have to sit in front of this laptop all day. End your siren song! Silence your beckoning mouths! Back to the internet, trunk of my car, and off position with each of you! Respectively!

The Cost of Iraq

This editorial from the New York Times yesterday is caught in my head. Hepburn tries to estimate the financial numbers for the Iraq war and occupation, and the concrete figures are interesting.

If we use his idea of a five-year occupation at a billion dollars a week, you're looking at a very conservative estimate of probably $300 billion. I'll add in another $23 billion for repairs, humanitarian aid, and government salaries. I'll also include half (five years) of the $200 billion for governmental infrastructure he estimates Iraq will need over the next decade. However, I'm going to leave off the stuff about Iraq's current debt and the Kuwaiti war reparations, because I'm not convinced those will be paid by Americans.

The total bill for that is $423 billion. If there are 280 million people in the United States, that comes to about $1511 over the next five years, or something like $302 a year, or $25 a month.

For the sake of argument, though, let's say that we know that money is going to buy us: saved Iraqi lives, the removal of Saddam Hussein, the end of his psychopathic sons, and the chance at a democratic Arab state in a critical part of the world.

My question is this: if you had known that we had a good chance at all these outcomes, but that the financial cost of the invasion would mean a $25 a month tax on you personally over the next five years, would you have supported the war? (I'm going to answer in the comments box after others get a chance).

Confused

Any chance, when Joe Lieberman says that the war in Iraq was justified, that he means it in a Timberlakian way?

Little Laura

Today is my youngest sister's birthday. But this isn't just another year for Laura Ann, this is The Year. That's right. The Big Two-One. Today, she officially goes from, "Welcome to Joe's Bar, Ms. Smith" to "Welcome to Joe's Bar, Ms. Adams."

I was thinking about her, and the many roles she's played, while I was running this morning. So here are just 21 of her many titles. And I'm sure there will be many more. Happy birthday, Laura. (PS: the gift is en route).

1. Mom calling dad from home to say she was pregnant. Laura, the zygote.
2. Rolling around on the ground before she could walk. Laura, the axle.
3. Jutting out her tummy out as a little girl, giving her a funny shape. Laura, the peanut.
4. Blankie: her constant companion, ages 2 to 17. Laura, the textile-lover.
5. Riding a pink bike with streamers on the handlebars. Laura, the wind-maker.
6. Fell off the bike, broke her arm. Dad pronounced it a sprain. Lived like that for two weeks. Laura, the stoic.
7. Named our dog, Daisy, and gave me the family nickname: Bub. Laura, the namer.
8. Actually had a lot of friends in high school. Weird. Laura, the socialite.
9. Lead the "auxiliary corps" in marching band. Laura, the flaggot.
10. Had this car in high school that was "racing red." Uh huh. Laura, the pumpkin-driver.
11. Fearless fielder of hard-hit ground balls in softball. Laura, the second baseman.
12. Led a parade of high school boys through the house. Laura, the heartthrob.
13. Also a debate star. This was not a student with free time. Laura, dramatic interpreter.
14. A little moody in high school. Also, elephants are a little heavy. Laura, the angsty teen.
15. Welcome to Starbucks, can I take your order? Laura, the barista.
16. Blumenstiel, Huhn, Wood, and Adams, how may I direct your call? Laura, the receptionist
17. Before leaving college, she'll have been to Europe three times. Laura, the traveler.
18. Writes like you wouldn't believe. Too bad about the neglected blog. Laura, the writer.
19. Spent the summer recovering and researching art for a little museum called the Smithsonian. Laura, art specialist.
20. You should see this girl swing a golf club. Laura, the duffer.
21. Just a wonderful young woman. Laura, the sister.

Complex Feelings

I'm feeling all wigged out this morning. Partly because Sonia just left again, but partly because everything is so freaking complicated.

Here's what happens. You have a thing. Your thing is pretty cool because it does, you know, something useful. Lots of people want your thing, so you start selling it. Your customers dig it, and they use it so much that they have suggestions: hey, maybe it should also have a little clock! And if it could also peel apples, that would be sweet. And so on. So you try to incorporate the changes -- the customer is always right! -- and you come out with a newer, more complex version of your thing. Thing! Now, with apple peeler! And clock!

Here's my problem. Roughly speaking, I have fifty to sixty of those things. They all started out as neat ideas. Travel long distances in a metal box with wheels? Automate my fantasy football league? Help me communicate with my alumni base? Sure! Sounds great! I'll buy! But then, in the name of giving me "what I want," you've collectively taken away what I really want: the ability to quickly and completely understand all my things. Owning a car is no fun when it breaks for reasons you don't understand and can't fix. Fantasy football turns into work when I have to set eighteen million parameters to start a league. And your help contacting the alumni base is self-defeating when you require me to fill out a seven page survey.

What we need to do, fellow consumers, is start to build a market for simplicity. I want the DVD player with the fewest features. I want the cell phone plan with billing that makes complete sense. I want the bank statement that just tells me what money I have and where it all went. Just gimme a large coffee, for chrissakes!

Ok, maybe I better make that a medium coffee.

Watching Too Much TV

... Ok, I was wrong about Queer Eye. That show is now on my official "can't miss" list.

... I wish I could have been a fly on the wall at the Pepsi marketing department.

1: Our soda research development team has come up with product to help us break into the emerging "vanilla" market. It's along the same lines of Vanilla Coke. We need a name.

2: Can we call it Vanilla Pepsi?

1: No, that's too close to Vanilla Coke. We need ... something different.

(long pause)

2: What about Pepsi Vanilla?

1: Brilliant.

... Martha Stewart completely creeps me out. Ever seen the beginning of her show? She's shown in soft focus in a variety of poses, ending with one of her smiling up from bed. It's almost a coy, sexy smile. I wanted to wash my eyes out with soap.

... I can't believe that "Everybody Loves Raymond" is also broadcast in Spanish. Just doesn't seem like it'd translate.

... Season four of Sex and the City was so good, it only highlights how much that show is sucking it up now. It used to have such a real feeling, you absolutely had to watch the whole DVD. Now -- we're supposed to feel bad for Carrie because she lost her $485 shoes and her friend wasn't sympathetic? Memo to writers: most of us were taken aback as well. Not that I watch or have ever seen an episode, but that's what I hear.