Obviously, I'm desperate for material

November 25, 2007

I wrote this as an assignment for one of my classes (I may have accidentally went back to the fourth grade). I encourage everyone (Jake, Luke, Brett, Kyle, Nate, Tufts, Sean, Sara, Mr. Rosenthal) to write something similar. It will be like a lamer version of our Christmas wish list from Freshman year (Luke, don't write anything about Kayak Girl). Plus, Lets-Krong.com could always use some fresh material.

What I'm thankful for:

I'm thankful for my health and mobility. Everytime I get injured, I realize how lucky I am to have all my appendages and working organs.

I'm thankful for my family. They all sincerely love me and spoil me with attention. I should work harder to reciprocate.

I'm thankful for my economic stability. It's made me a wuss and a pennypincher, but it would be criminal not to appreciate the comfortable life-style I've been granted.

I'm thankful for my sense of humour. It makes it a lot easier to deal with my neuroses (or maybe it's responsible for my neuroses. Never mind),

I'm thankful for my intelligence (and/or ego). Now I must develop a better work ethic to put it to use.

I'm thankful for my friends. I'm a bit whiney and selfish, but they refuse to desert me. Also, they tell me they like my poety even when my father insists that it's junk.

I'm thankful for this whole world. The vast assortment of personalities and landscapes and cultures and religions. It makes living and learning very exciting.

---

The Beauty and the Beast/Academic

October 10, 2007

On Sunday, I was flipping through the New York Times. Shuffling through the back sections. Real Estate, Week in Review, Arts and Leisure, etc. Then, there she was. Valerie Durollari in the Fashion Section. I was stunned, flabbergasted. I'm teaching undergraduates and reading dense political theory articles for 60 hours a week. Making about forty dollars and forty-seven cents a month. She's a New York City socialite, attending fundraisers at Carnegie Hall. The contrasting social trajectory between me and my prom date was a bit jarring.

From the prom with Adam to the Bahamas with The Captain

Did I choose the right lifestyle? Should I have made a better effort to be working at Goldman and Sachs. Living in the West Village. Drinking Dewars on the rocks. Lighting cigars with $100 bills. Condescending waiters and waitresses. Walking out of parties that serve salmon roe rather than caviar. Donating my inheritance to the Gates foundation. [Feel free to fill in any other stereotypes concerning the conduct of the super wealthy.]

But a life in academia doesn't necessarily preclude me from high society. Maybe I'll get a professorship at Columbia. Become the resident intellectual in her swanky cohort. They can all steal my ideas and claim them as their own. Pity me for being so poor. Sounds great! My career path is set.

Nahh. I'm just being dramatic. I don't think Columbia is the right school for me anyway. Aside from being completely unqualified for the position, I'm not interested in research universities. I really love teaching. My students are responding to my ideas, my sarcasm, my dismissiveness, my neuroses. They actually seem be enjoying the class (or so I perceive). I feel very comfortable in this field. I’m better off going to a small liberal arts school than an ivy leaguer or a big university. A place where the quality of your teaching is as important as the number of journals you've published in.

But I don't have to worry about that for another seven years. Right now I'm just playing catch up. Most of the kids in my program have master’s degrees. They're more comfortable with the language, the concepts, the approaches to research. It's a little intimidating, but eventually I'll catch up.

---

White Stripes Concert Review

August 7, 2007

Prologue

On a few occasions, I have failed to be timely with my entries. I’d arrive home from Cleveland on Sunday and not submit a recap until the following Saturday. As a consequence, I took some flack from my friends and family (minimal flack, admittedly, but as an exceedingly sensitive guy, it wasn’t appreciated).
Before I begin my review of the White Stripes concert (which took place 10 days ago), I would like to take issue with this concept of “timeliness.”
We all know what history is; I don’t need to present the dictionary definition. This isn’t a 2nd grade essay contest.

“The Webster Dictionary defines ‘dignity’ as “bearing, conduct, or speech indicative of self-respect or appreciation of the formality or gravity of an occasion or situation.” But for me, dignity means much more than that…”

History happened in the past. An event doesn’t cease to exist six or seven days after it has occurred. This isn’t a legal circumstance. There isn’t a statute of limitations. So why should it matter whether an incident is reported one day after it happened or ten days after it took place?

In most instances, it is a matter of relevance. Events don’t stay culturally or historically relevant forever. If too much time lapses, people will lose interest. This argument is reasonable, but in the case of this article, not applicable. Why? Because my presence at a White Stripes concert never had any social, cultural, or historical cache. My account can never lose relevance because it never had any relevance to begin with.

Another reason articles should be timely is for purposes of reliability. As one becomes further removed from an event, his account often becomes less dependable. Memory fades. Can a reader trust the contents of an overdue account?

This argument, too, is irrelevant for multiple reasons. First, I’m a liar. I concoct a significant portion of the contents of my entries. My wrestling a bear to the death on top of the Empire State building. Never happened. Pure fabrication. (Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever claimed to have wrestled a bear.
Well, now I’m telling you it did happen. And now I’m telling you it didn’t happen. See, I can’t be trusted). No matter how long it takes for me to submit an entry, nothing I write should be read without suspicion.

Second, I have a memory like an elephant. Just yesterday in the shower I recited every President of the United States in order. I doubt I had this list memorized while taking US History in High School. Looked over the list a bunch of times before the AP exam, but never committed it to memory. Then, there in the shower, I rattled off all 43. What a feat!

I can think of only one more rationale for punctually submitting an article: to satisfy expectations. If you have a reputation for being timely, readers will be disappointed when your submissions are delayed. Luckily, I have a reputation for tardiness, indecency, irritableness, childishness, and selfishness. So I’m completely off the hook.

I hope this rationale has been convincing. If not, I have an alternative solution. Let’s just pretend the concert was yesterday.

My Review

Yesterday, I went to the White Stripes concert at the Patriot Center in Fairfax, Virginia. The Patriot Center is where the George Mason University Basketball teams play their home games. An ideal location for a Rock concert? I completely agree.

In the weeks leading up to the show there was some indecision regarding who would be going. Luke initially bought four tickets. Nate, Curran, Luke, and myself were penciled in as potential attendees. Soon, everything fell apart. Curran realized he had tickets for the Yankees-Orioles game that night. Nate told us he might be out of town. And then the bombshell. Luke fell in love with a girl (almost completely) and decided to travel to Santa Barbara in lieu of the concert.

This chain of events was unfortunate, but I wasn’t too dejected. I had gone to concerts without friends before. The Beastie Boys in London. Lou Reed in NYC. Two weeks prior I went to a Femi Kuti concert alone and soon became friends with the entire DC Nigerian population.

Then, the situation completely reversed itself. Nate was back in, and wanted to bring Nora. Matt (my other roommate) expressed some interest and decided to bring his girlfriend as well. Now I was the odd man out. An entirely unacceptable situation. Eventually, Matt bought an extra seat. I would have to sit alone, but that’s alright.

When we arrived at the Patriot Center, I found my seat was about twenty-five rows up and slightly behind stage. I decided to move down and soon found a vacant seat in the third row. Some minimalist, garage rock band opened the show. They were pretty good, but the lead singer was kind of odd. He made a few comments comparing his band to the Wu-Tang Clan. I failed to see any similarities.

After the opening band left the stage, the kid next to me struck up conversation. He was a high school kid from central Virginia; also there on his own. Our exchange began with some standard questions. I asked him his favorite White Stripes album (White Blood Cells), his favorite band (Led Zeppelin), and if he goes into DC often (no). We both mumbled a lot and he seemed to be hard of hearing. Nearly every question, answer or declaration was followed by a “what?” or “pardon?” or “can you repeat that?” It was a bit frustrating.

As the conversation grew stale, I started to stare off into space; expecting to remain awkwardly silent until Jack and Meg came on stage. Instead, the kid shuffled off a litany of completely absurd questions. I was a bit caught off guard, but very entertained (I kind of wished Xav was there. He would have really enjoyed this kid).

Do you think Susan Sarandon is hot? Which new car looks most like a nude female? How many people have died while bungee jumping? If you were missing a toe, would you leave your socks on when getting intimate with a woman? Immediately upon asking this question, I reflexively looked towards his feet. As my eyes moved down, I began to dread the impending conversation. He would tell me how he lost his toe. I would be interested during the set up and then become repulsed as he described the gory details of the actual dismemberment. Then he would tell me about how girls make fun of him. I would be sincerely sympathetic, but express my empathy inadequately.

Luckily, this prophecy was unrealized. He was wearing sandals and I quickly noticed that all ten toes were present (eight on one foot and two on the other, but at least there were ten). I guess he must have been referring to a friend. Or just posing a hypothetical situation. Maybe he thought I was missing a toe. Why the hell would he think that? Asshole.

Right before the show started, a man approached me. “I think that’s my seat.”
“I think you’re right,” I replied and moved up one row. I wouldn’t be bothered again.

Jack and Meg boomed on stage with “Dead Leaves.” Probably my favorite Stripes song. They followed the opener with Icky Thump and then another three or four songs off of White Blood Cells. I motioned to my friend in the row ahead of me. He smiled, but I’m pretty certain he didn’t understand what I was referring to.

After a string of great songs, Jack started playing tracks from the new album. I had been listening to Icky Thump a lot over the previous few weeks and was still among the unconverted. Regarding their previous album, Get Behind me Satan, I thought half the tracks were excellent and the other half were okay. For this album, I thought half the songs were okay and the other half were trash. The prospects of an Icky Thump dominated concert were not enticing.
Despite my reservations, I was actually very pleased with the new material. A lot of the Icky Thump tracks are well suited for live performance. Several of the songs (i.e. “Martyr for your Love” and “You Don’t Know What Love is”) end with Jack holding a single note and then delivering a final, emphatic line to punctuate the song. During the live performance, Jack would hold the cord for 15 or 20 seconds rather than five. This really added weight and character to the tracks.

While I was enjoying myself (so much so that the girl next to me switched seats with her boyfriend. I don’t think she appreciated my singing along with every song), Jack didn’t seem to share this enthusiasm. Apparently, he was pretty upset about the sound equipment. "We're up here with a bunch of junk, but we'll keep chugging along for you guys." He also wasn't too pleased with the crowd. "Are you guys bored, happy, confused or sad?" I sympathized with his disapproval with the speaker system, but thought he was being a bit of a brat regarding the audience. The place certainly wasn't filled with diehards, but people were generally enthusiastic. What does he expect when he's playing in a large, sterile arena? The Patriot Center isn't exactly among the pantheon of rock n' roll venues. If he wanted a passionate, knowledgeable crowd, they should have played at the 930 club. Instead, Jack chose an arena where he could take in triple the revenue. It's not the crowds fault you elected income over quality.

Jack also found the crowd difficult to please. During the encore, “Seven Nation Army” was followed by “We’re Going To Be friends.” Two songs on opposite poles of their eclectic catalogue. Apparently, he was unsatisfied with the audience response. “I just can’t figure what you guys want.”

To top it off, Jack started laughing uncontrollably at the audience. After “We’re Going To Be friends”, he asked the crowd what day school started? There was a moments pause and then loud applause. Jack found this response to be highly entertaining. He was probably laughing at himself for expecting a coherent, collective response from a couple of thousand people. Still, I found his unconcealed amusement to be a bit condescending. But he’s a weird dude, so I’ll let it slide. Or maybe I’ll write him a letter complaining about his poor attitude. If he responds, I’ll post it here.

Regardless of Jack’s behavior, the show was a great success. They played a wide variety of songs and even got me excited about the new album. I was just on their website and noticed that they are playing two shows in Seattle in September. After Jack reads my letter, I’m sure he will offer me backstage passes to that performance. We’ll hash out my minor grievances after the show. (He’ll probably dedicate the final song to me. What a gracious guy.)

Epilogue

On Wednesday, I rented the movie Citizen Kane. A good film, though it didn’t quite strike me as the greatest of all time. During the first scene, a young C.F. Kane is yelling “the union forever” while throwing snowballs at his home. It immediately reminded me of the White Stripes song “The Union Forever”, but I decided it was mere coincidence. As I continued to watch the movie, I recognized more and more lines from that song. “I’m not interested in gold mines, oil wells, or real estate.” “What would I like to have been? Everything you hate.” Even the mid-song interlude, that diddy about “traction magnates on the run”, was directly lifted from the movie.

I had always found that song odd and confusing. Now that I realize it’s a tribute to Citizen Kane, it’s much more enjoyable.

“Sure I’m CFK [Charles Foster Kane], but you gotta love me.”

Tour de France RIP

July 27, 2007

Yesterday, I watched the sixteenth stage of the Tour de France from a live internet feed. Very captivating. The top four riders in the GC (overall standings) alone in the front; battling it out over the last 10km. I've been following the tour for over a decade. Can't remember such a compelling finish.

Later that day, I learned of the dismissal of Michael Rasmussen, the tour leader. Upsetting news, though hardly a surprise. I thought back to my excitement earlier that morning and felt as if I had squandered my time. Misplaced my enthusiasm.

Nate, my good friend and roommate, taped the day's events. That night, as he watched the stage, I sat down with him. Though I knew of the outcome and ensuing fallout, I found myself riveted once again. What the hell is wrong with me?

After the broadcast was over, Nate read about Rasmussen's removal. I asked him whether he felt cheated; whether he wished he had spent the last two hours more productively? Nate quickly dismissed my suggestion, reminding me that it's not just about the personalities, but the performance as well.
Regardless of the iniquities of Michael Rasmussen, Alexander Vinkourov, Floyd Landis, Richard Virenque, Marco Pantani, etc. cycling is still exciting. Watching a group of athletes surge and counter-surge up a steep hill for 10km will make your heart pump a few extra times per minute.

Is the sport sullied when half the athletes are drug cheats and the other half are suspected drug cheats? Of course. On the most intimate level, cycling is ruined. A fan's appreciation for the individual athlete - his struggle, his effort, his preparation – has been completely undermined. An individual cyclist may never be truly loved or revered again.

There has always been romantic ideal attached to Tour Champion. Genetically gifted but also the most diligent worker; committed to the honest and noble pursuit of his natural physical limits. This ideal has been forever eviscerated. Too much suspicion, too much speculation, too much proof.

But a sport is more than the sum of its individual personalities. It's also a spectacle. Those who can appreciate cycling from a detached, impersonal perspective will still enjoy the tour. Those who love watching two wheels, one frame, and one man climb steep mountains across a picturesque landscape will continue to tune in. The casual fan, who needs a compelling narrative to draw their attention, is lost.

Without the casual fan, the Tour de France has no future. Sponsors won't pay millions of dollars so a handful of diehard fanboys can see their company name across the chest of a tainted champion. Once the sponsors are gone, the cameras and reporters will immediately follow.

Professional cycling finds itself at a crossroads. Over the next few years, officials must clean up the sport or face extinction. In the meantime, Nate will continue to follow the Tour. Continue to enjoy the spectacle and performance. Unfortunately for the future of cycling, his support isn’t enough. Unless race officials and Cycling governing bodies can remedy the drug problem and reclaim the casual fan, soon there won’t be anything left for Nate to watch.

Cleveland
June 21, 2007

“When did you guys get into town?”
“Late Friday night.”
“So you missed the Cavs game last night?”
“Yeah.”
“When are heading back home?”
“Sunday morning.”
“So you’re gonna miss game 2?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You guys know the Indians are out of town?”
“Yep.”
“So why the hell did you come to Cleveland.”

If the city of Cleveland could have spoken to Matt, Brett, Luke, and me with a single, collective voice, this is the conversation that would have transpired.

A few years ago I read an article by Richard Rorty regarding American patriotism. Rorty was concerned that militarism had become the sole source of national pride in this country. For Rorty, it was imperative that we reevaluate the sources of our loyalty. Return to our foundational ethics of liberty, justice and democracy. Excellent idea, Richard! And perhaps you could also write an article addressed to Clevelanders. They could use a similar reeducation.

In 1950, Cleveland’s population peaked at 914,808. At the time, it was the seventh most populous American city. Today, only 452,208 people remain in Cleveland.

Perhaps the decline of this great city can be explained by its single mindedness. The only thing Cleveland residents appear to give a shit about is sports. Maybe if the city had won a single major sports title in the last forty years, this wouldn’t be so depressing. As it stands, Cleveland has found itself in a four decade rut.

So if we didn’t come to the city for their sports, why the hell did we travel to Cleveland? The answer is three-fold. First, Luke and Brett have family right outside of town. His Uncle Jim and Aunt Lucy reside in Lakewood, a large suburb bordering Cleveland proper. In the past, I had heard several great stories about Uncle Jim and his relationship with Brett. Apparently, Jimbo used to love conducting a game where “the next girl that walks by is Brettski’s girlfriend.” Invariably, the next female to appear would be an older, overweight women and Brett would cry. These antics seemed quite entertaining and I was eager to witness them first hand. I would not be disappointed (although I did feel a bit squeamish when the crocodile tears started to roll down the Big Cat’s cherubic cheeks).

Secondly, Cleveland was recently featured on my favorite television show, 30 Rock. In the episode, Cleveland is portrayed as a friendly, relaxing city; in stark contrast to New York’s cold and chaotic nature. “We all wish we could escape to the Cleve. But we have to resist that urge.” I had resisted Cleveland’s magnetic pull for years. It was time to succumb to the Cleve.

Lastly, Brett, Luke and I really enjoy irony. “Cleveland? Why the hell are you going to Cleveland?” My coworkers were mystified. “Cleveland? I don’t get it.” Nate was baffled. “Are you sure you want to waste your time traveling to Cleveland?” My mother was equally puzzled. “Cleveland is America’s, nay the world’s, cultural capital. Why wouldn’t I go to Cleveland?” Each skeptic was disarmed. Speechless, in fact. Irony, what a great comic tool.


Thursday Night

Brett met Luke, Matt and I at the corner of L and Connecticut. We confront a bit of traffic leaving the city, but nothing drastic. Luke drives the entire way. We nearly crash into the guard rail on six occasions. Other than that the drive was uneventful. We arrive at Cleveland around 1am. Lucy and Jim greet us at the door. They offer me a banana. I accept. They offer Brett some baseball cards. He accepts. Luke and I check the local sports page. Cleveland has some extremely talented sprinters. Matt informs us that he’s tired. We all agree. Time for bed. We have an active day tomorrow.

Friday

10am. Luke and Matt decide it’s time to get out of bed. Brett and I aren’t so enthusiastic. Eventually a Great Compromise is reached. Those two will go and get coffee, Brett and I will get some more sleep. But the rigors and excitement of our arbitration provides a surge of adrenalin. I put my head to the pillow, but realize I’m no longer tired. We turn on the tv and watch the French Open. Rafael Nadal, what a stud.

Our first couple of hours in Cleveland were pretty lame. It was extremely hot and the city was kind of empty. There are three things I immediately notice about the Cleve. First, it is the most casual city I’ve ever been to. I may have spotted two guys in suits. Probably not. Second, there are no cars in Cleveland. The streets are nearly empty at all times of the day. There aren’t any subways either, and as I pointed out earlier, no one lives in the actual city anymore. Perhaps Cleveland has discovered some type of teleportation system. They should probably share that knowledge with the rest of the world. Lastly, Cleveland enjoys really bad comedians. While walking around the city, we tried to figure out what to do that night. A local comedy club? Great idea! Some fat guy from Mad TV (Frank something) had sold out for the next three days? Wonderful!

At one point, Brett disappeared. I honestly thought he had snuck to the local bus station and got a ride back to DC. Cleveland was that boring. We found him at the library. It was the low point of our trip.

After our exciting library excursion (I actually enjoyed myself, but it’s in vogue to dismiss anything academic), we headed to a local sports bar. This was the turning point of our trip. The Mississippi State Bulldogs were on the tube (so Matt was happier than a pig in shit (appropriate Southern reference, right?)), 24 ounce beers were only $2 dollars, the burgers were excellent, and our waitress was unusually forthcoming (providing us with detailed stories of her recent drunk driving incidents). We hung out there for a while, shooting the shit. Talking about Colgate and Luke’s girlfriends and Brett sexual exploits. Things were on the up and up.
Later that evening, we headed over to the beach. The place was packed with high schoolers. I guess teenagers really like Lake Erie. After strolling around for a while we decided to head back home. Get washed up, facials, manicures; general preparation for downtown Cleveland. As we walked to the car a police officer motioned toward Brett.

“Come with me kid.”

Brett hesitated, but soon followed. As he looked back to us, terror was in his eyes.

[I’ve decided to tell the rest of this story from a first person perspective. It’s much more coherent that way. But keep in mind that when I write “I”, it really means Brett. Definitely Brett, not me.]
I was a bit nervous, but figured the cop had me confused with someone else. Probably one of those no good teenagers hanging out at the beach (I was mistaken for a high schooler the previous weekend).
“Were you just peeing in public, down by the beach?”
I guess they had the right guy. “Um, yes.”
“Peeing behind a port-a-potty, instead of inside it?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“My friends told me it smelled in there [not true].”
“That’s a terrible excuse.”
The officer then asked for my license and cell phone. At this point I was pretty confident I was going to get off with a warning. Then he started to frisk me. My confidence crumbled.
“You live around here.”
“No. I live in DC, sir.” I probably called him “sir” 45 times.
“When you planning on going home.”
“Sunday.”
“Oh no your not. You’ve got court dates to attend.” My heart sunk to my calves. Not quite to me toes. I was trying to maintain a kernel of hope. “You’re under arrest for public indecency. Face the car and put your hands behind your back.” He put the hand cuffs on tight. Very tight.
[Boy. Brett must have been really nervous at this point.]
The officer radioed one of his partners. Rather than put me in his own car, he made me walk with a junior park ranger across the large parking lot. Parading me around in front of a pack of teenagers. I made sure to hold my head up high. False pride. My saving grace.
At the station, I was questioned a bit and then given some great news. No fine or court dates. Just a warning. I wonder if I’ll ever be punished for my transgressions. Probably not. A life without repercussions. How grand.
[Brett really has an immature attitude towards life. He’ll get his come-uppance eventually.]

After all the hoopla, we finally made our way home. We lazed around for a bit and then headed over to a local restaurant called Herb’s. Probably the unhealthiest place I’ve ever been. The chicken was breaded. The vegetables were breaded. The condiments were breaded. Even the bread was breaded.

When we got home the food was weighing down our stomachs. We decided to sit down for a bit and throw in a movie. “PBS tours the White House”? Great choice. The first shot has a camera slowly drifting over the expansive White House lawn. Morgan Freeman’s voice booms from the speakers. “The White House. America’s House.” The four of us were immediately riveted. Brett, Luke, Matt and I didn’t make it downtown that night. We were to busy learning about LBJ’s shower, Taft’s bathtub, Truman’s evacuation, Clinton’s meeting with Boris Yeltsin. Education is much more important than partying.

Saturday

Saturday began with some more sightseeing in Cleveland. We head down to the shore where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame resides, but decide to go to the science museum instead (I still can’t figure out why). There is a great exhibit on baseball that finishes with a pitching area and radar gun. Luke, Matt and Brett throw in the upper 60s. I throw my arm out with a 53 mile per hour fastball (Cashman tried to sign me last week. I told him that school was too important).
After the museum, we walk over to a boating festival along the water. On our way over, we spot a friend from college. She’s sunbathing on a sloped field in between the rock hall of fame and science center. Kind of weird. She and a friend accompany us to the festival where we attend a lecture on boating safety presented by a fake pirate named Capt’n Willie. He and Brett hit it off pretty well. Willie thought the Big Cat had an abundance of “piratitude.” After the show, Willie and Brett exchange a bunch of jokes. Here are some of Willie’s classics:

“What do you call pile of bones lying in the sun? A skele-tan.”
“Why do pirates use their cell phones late at night? To make booty calls.”
“How much does it cost for a pirate to get piercings? A buck-an-ear.”

All of Brett’s jokes were about dead prostitutes. It’s probably a bad idea to put them in print.

After Capt’n Willie’s speech we head back to Lakewood. Do our long run, shower up, get some food, and mentally prepare for the raucous downtown Cleveland bar scene. Luckily, we weren’t diverted by documentaries on the White House this time. Lucy drops us off in the warehouse district. We are ready to party.

We quickly find a local a brewery and get to work. We consume beers with tough sounding name like “junkyard dog”, “midnight express”, “rabid rottweiler”, “your worst nightmare”, “crazed dentist” and “bubble gum beer” (only Luke drank the last one). While we’re getting soused, we noticed scores of women heading to a place across the street.

“Brett, where do you think those girls are going?”
“Great question, Adam. I was wondering the same thing myself.”
“Perhaps we should find out.”
“Great idea, Adam. And by the way you smell very nice tonight.”
“Thanks buddy. You smell nice too.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No I’m not. I really like your scent. Calvin Klein?”
“No, just my natural man-odor.”
“OOOO, wonderful.”
“Ok, well do you think we should head over to that place where all the girls are headed.”
“Yes. I think that’s great idea.”

We quickly leave the brewery and follow the hordes of females. We would be confronted with an unfortunate reality; the girls were going into a male strip club. Perhaps lesser men would have been deterred by these findings. We are those lesser men. Brett said he was “80% in. I just need one more beer.” Luke and I were a 100% in. Matt was 100% out. We decide to head somewhere else.

As we walked a few blocks north, we notice a righteous shin-dig atop a hill. I can’t quite convey what was so compelling about this party; it was just a bunch of people dancing in front of a large glass window. But all of us agreed we had to get there immediately. So we jumped over a fence, ran over a private lawn and found ourselves at the entrance. There weren’t any bouncers or ID checkers at the door (weird) so we just walked straight in. Matt and I were the first ones there and took a B-line to the bar. I wasn’t that mindful of my surroundings, but knew something was amiss by the time we hit the mini bar. I ordered a beer and was handed a Heineken free of charge.

We had crashed a wedding.

Matt and I, armed with our drinks, didn’t no what to do next. Should we try to blend in, dance with the bridesmaids, make out with a few great aunts, or just get the hell out of there? We decided to sit in the corner and drink our beers as quickly as possible. At about this time, Luke and Brett approached the bar. Our cover was immediately blown. Luke was wearing a “Washington D.C.” t-shirt. Brett was wearing a plain polo shirt (Matt and I happened to be wearing double breasted suits, so we had no problems fitting in). Three semi-tough guys approached us and asked “what the hell we were doing there?” Matt said we were “here with Jimmy.” They didn’t buy it.

On the way out, a few guests said some unusually nasty stuff to us. Letting us know exactly where we could shove “it.” I didn’t know what “it” was, so I just ignored them. After exiting, we all grouped together and giggled like school girls for about 45 minutes. It was very cathartic.
The night continued with some very standard bar antics. Me and Luke plunging into packs of girls, looking for dance partners. Everyone would ignore me and as I looked back to complain to Luke, I would find every girl draping themselves on top of him (this routine isn’t too good for my self esteem). Brett just stood in the corner “sizing up” the crowd. Matt asked some girl (who was blatantly disinterested in him) “when she was planning on making her move?” That was pretty funny.

We headed home at three. I fell asleep in the cab.

Sunday Morning

We groggily woke up at 11. Spent fifteen minutes washing up and then straight to the car. I was feeling a bit hung-over, but Chipotle for breakfast straightened me out. On our way to the highway, we stopped at about ten stores looking for a “Cleveland” shirt for Matt. No success. But we didn’t need apparel to remind us of the great times we had. The memories. The great memories. They’ll always be with us.

Good bye Cleveland. I love you.

---

A weekend in New Paltz and the Greatest Bar Mitzvah Rap of all Time
June 4, 2007

I attended a family reunion this past weekend. Ugh! Tried to weasel my way out. My mother, my permissive mother, she refused to entertain my pleas. I was stuck.

We usually go to a tacky resort or a cruise. Very confining locations. I'm uncomfortable and restless the whole time. Plus my cousins are a bunch of high school girls. I don't know how to communicate with them. I'm awkward, what can I do?

But this time was different. We stayed at an incredible estate in New Paltz, New York. The Mohonk House. It's located on top of a mountain and around a pristine lake. Tennis, trail running, swimming, massages, fine food, spacious accommodations. Kind of like summer camp for the wealthy.

I even got along with my cousins. Combined my caustic sense of humor with Luke's flamboyance and Jim Gaffigan's pensiveness. Added an extra dose of irony and absurdism. The routine killed. Had those girls in stitches the whole weekend. But it was exhausting. Glad it was only a two day retreat.

Productive weekend, too. Wrote two poems (both terrible), finally memorized the lyrics to Subterranean Homesick Blues (I've been struggling with this for years), fourteen mile long run (relentless hills after the half way point), and started my autobiography (McGraw-Hill has offered a $100k advance).

But the best part of the weekend was Saturday night's cocktail party. We all got pretty drunk, gave some sappy speeches, and then ripped on each other. Near the end of the affair, my Aunt Nancy presented photocopy versions of my Cousin Yoni's "Bar Mitzvah Rap." I had forgotten all about this. Pretty certain I was in the bathroom at the time. Too many Ginger Ales (I really loved Ginger Ale when I was 10).

I've reproduced the lyrics for everyone to enjoy. It may be the greatest rap song of all time. Way ahead of its time.


Bar Mitvah Rap
By Yoni Malchi

Yo, I'm the Yone Man
Hear me, I'm the Bone Man
Ya got my digits hit me up on the phone man

Yo, I'm from White Meadow Lake
Yeah, I like to get baked
I'm a man now, listen to my voice quake

You're all here for me cause this is my day
I've studied the torah, now I know G-d's way
You should all do the same or your mind will decay
Big up to Mix Master Moses, my one and only DJ

Now you've seen me as the studious Bar Mitzvah Boy
Now see me on the dance floor, I'm a different boy
Check me with a fine female, you'll think it's Helen of Troy
But I'm just playing these ladies, yo they're just my little toys

So now we're done with all the religious stuff
But no doubt there is other stuff
So meet me on the dance floor, you'll never get enough
Boom shock-a-locka, shock-a-locka, I'm TOUGH

---

Ooooo You Look Nice!
April 23, 2007

I want a girl who wears dresses,
Seven days a week,
To the theatre on Thursdays,
Strolling around the city Saturday afternoons,
To the movies on Sunday night.

Jeans and skirts, they're alright.
OK for the winter, I suppose.
But in the summer and spring, when it gets warm,
Only dresses on my sweetheart.

Dark sultry numbers, like a cucaracha dancer.
Dresses with wide, horizontal stripes; the ones that look kind of boyish.
Flowery get-ups, to compete with Spring's bloom

But Adam, you don't dress so well,
All your clothes seem so worn.
You got holes in your pants and your shirts hardly fit,
Aren't your demands just a little unfair?
Yeah, I see your point. I guess your right
I shouldn't be dressin like a bum
So if she asks sweetly, I wouldn't refuse,
To dress a bit nicer too.

---

No One ever Smiles at Me
April 23, 2007

Did that girl just smile at me?
The pretty girl, with the deep blue eyes?
No probably not, she was probably smiling at someone else.
No one ever smiles at me.

Did the teacher just smile at me?
Maybe she thinks I'm doing well in class?
No, she was probably smiling at the boy behind me.
He always has the right answers.

Did coach just smile at me?
I don't run such fast times, but maybe he knows I work real hard.
No he was probably smiling at Joe.
Joe won the mile at last week's dual meet.

Adam you're not very friendly
Who me? No, I'm friendly; always friendly.
When people smile at you, you never smile back;
Just stare at them, a cold and disoriented stare.
Oh I'm sorry. Very sorry. I'll smile next time.

Did you just smile at me?
You have such a pretty smile, I hope it was directed my way.
No probably not, you were probably smiling at someone else.
No one ever smiles at me.

---

Taking Responsibility
March 23, 2007

I consider myself personally responsible for the recent decline of Lets-Krong.com. I could share the blame with that Chinese lunatic who’s ruining the message boards, but I’d prefer to walk the plank alone.

Maintaining an interesting and active website is no easy task. Unless you’re a self-righteous, opinionated, jackass (i.e. Maddox) or an indiscreet playboy (like Tucker Max) it is nearly impossible to do so by yourself. Your friends and loved ones must contribute to the enterprise; sharing unique stories from their own lives and minds. I made a commitment to Jake some months ago. I promised to make monthly contributions do his great webpage. In failing to keep this promise, I have betrayed a good friend.

Adam, how could you treat your friend so cruelly? Do you have any sense of decency? Account for your negligence, you louse.

Hey, cool off! I think your being a bit harsh. But you’re right, I should explain my absence. Offer my readers a peak into my pea-brain. Full transparency, complete disclosure and all those bureaucratic buzz words.

I can offer two explanations for my lapse: 1) a lack of creative inspiration and 2) a lack of time. I blame the first problem, my creative void, on George Martin, the deceased Beatles producer. A few weeks ago I decided to listen to my Ipod in bed [(Ani ohev leeshmoah l’musica b’meeta (That was, “I like to listen to music in bed” written phonetically in Hebrew. Damn these English keyboards. B’machshev shelee, ani lo yachol leektove b’ivrit (“On my computer I am not able to write in Hebrew”). Stop flaunting your Hebrew, Adam. You’re the worst speaker in your entire class. You should be ashamed, not proud.]

Alright, back to my story. I had drunkenly decided that it was critical for Rivers Cuomo to sing me to sleep. But the headphones were uncomfortable, so I threw them on the floor, rolled over, and counted some sheep. When I awoke the next morning, the right earpiece was broken. I know, I’m an ass.

The last few weeks at work I’ve been listening to music with only one headphone. I’m not sure this is good for my ears, but screw it, without music my job would be intolerable. The arrangement has worked out fine with one exception: Beatles songs. Half of their catalog has the orchestra coming from one speaker and the singing coming from the other. All I get is the orchestra. (Damn you George Martin and you’re advanced stereophonics.) On Tuesday I was listening to “When I’m 64.” The only lyrics I heard were the back-up vocals for “you’ll be older too.” Devastating.

I know what you’re thinking. This kid’s a wet rag. Complaining to us because he can’t listen to a few Beatles songs. Stop blubbering all over your keyboard and grow some balls.

I would respond to that criticism in two ways. First, the term “grow some balls” is extremely crude and sophomoric. Perhaps you could show a bit more tact. Secondly, you obviously don’t understand my affection for the Beatles. Every time I hear the opening rift for “Helter Skeleter” I convulse with pleasure. I giggle each time I hear about “Mean Mr. Mustard.” I feel pangs of sadness when Lennon sings about his mother “Julia.” Ringo, Paul, John, and George are my creative inspirations. Losing the Beatles is like losing a child (In fact, it’s probably nothing like losing a child, but ignorance and exaggeration are two of my favorite past times).

As for my lack of time, I’ve been consumed with graduate schools. Right now I'm deciding between University of Washington (in Seattle) and the University of Texas (in Austin). Both offered me full tuition and a stipend, both are located in great American cities, and both are top 25 political science PhD programs. While I was upset about getting rejected from the top tier schools (Columbia, Princeton, etc.), I've managed to overcome this initial disappointment. I saw a sign in a local Jamaican chicken restaurant. It read: "count your blessings, not your troubles." Excellent advice. My father thinks I should avoid being influenced by such trite maxims. He's an idiot. Good advice is good advice. Profundity is overrated.

While I had good grades and GREs, I really haven't done anything exceptional. No research, no participation in important organizations, no relationships with top Middle East officials. I'm fortunate to have been accepted by any schools. Now it's time I seize this opportunity and stop being so aloof. Grades aren't enough; I have to start being more aggressive and resourceful.

I’ll be in Seattle next weekend. Austin the weekend after that. By April 16 I’ll have to make my final determination. Expect another article soon, an update on my decision. Hopefully, there’ll be some other, more engaging submissions as well. No more six week hiatuses. I’m going to get my act together.
Sorry again Jake. I’ll be a better friend in the future.

---

The Soundtrack to my Life
January 28, 2007

I followed Curran's advice. Here are the results.

1. Opening credits: The Great Gig in the Sky - Pink Floyd 2. Waking up: Everyone's in Love With You – Steve Earle 3. First Day Of School: Should I Stay of Should I Go – The Clash 4. Falling in Love: The Fool on the Hill – The Beatles 5. Fight song: Time to Get Ill – Beastie Boys 6. Breaking Up: Expecting – White Stripes 7. Prom: Positively Fourth Street – Bob Dylan 8. Life: Tommy Can you Hear Me – The Who 9. Mental Breakdown: Ruby Soho - Rancid 10. Driving: Mark on the Bus – Beastie Boys 11. Getting Back Together: I'm So Tired – The Beatles 12. Wedding: Handle With Care – Traveling Wilburys 13. Child's Birth: Margarita – Traveling Wilburys 14. Lifetime success: Norwegian Wood (Alternate Take) – The Beatles 15. Lifetime Tragedy: I was Dancing in a Lesbian Bar – Jonathan Richman 16. Death scene: Another One Bites the Dust - Queen 17. Funeral: Another Town – Steve Earle 18. End Credits: True Love is Not Nice – Jonathan Richman

A couple of them worked out well. "Should I Stay or Should I Go" for the first day of school was a good choice. "Time to Get Ill" as my fight song is solid. "Another One Bites the Dust" for my death scene is excellent. I would definitely want something irreverent playing at my funeral rather then some boring dirge. And I guess if my life is marked by several heartbreaks, "True Love is Not Nice" would be good for the end credits. Also, if I become a bus driver who rides everywhere with his father, "Mark on the Bus" would be a perfect driving song [note: my father's name is spelt M-a-r-c].

Aside from the soundtrack it produced, this exercise was also very enlightening. It helped me realize that I desperately need to diversify my musical interests. The presence of three Beatles, two Beastie Boys, and two Jonathan Richman songs, definitely played to the law of averages. I have at least five albums by each of those bands (the multiple selections by Steve Earle and the Traveling Wilburys made less sense). It's time I start listening to newer artists.

---

Another Letter to My Friend John
January 27, 2007

John Hollinger didn't write back. Apparently he wasn't impressed by my confusing and creepy letter. Suprised? Me too. Disappointed? I can sympathize. Disoriented, angry, and seeking a violent release? Woah buddy, calm down. You should probably get some professional help.

Did I really want a position as ESPN? Of course not. I'm trying to get a PhD. I need experience in the field of political science. Maybe I'll move to Israel for a few years. Maybe I'll go work for a think tank. ESPN? That doesn't figure into my plans. But that's not the point. (It isn't? Then what is the point?). This is a matter of pride. I refuse to send a letter to John Hollinger and not get a response. So whether it's a personal email or a restraining order issued by his lawyers, I will continue to write Mr. Hollinger until he acknowledges me.

While I'm not going to pull an Andy Dufresne [Shawshank Redemption] and write a letter every day until I get a response, there are other approaches. I'm going to challenge Hollinger. Put him on the defensive. Question the methodology for his current NBA power rankings. Force him to respond in order to protect his honor.

Hollinger's current rankings are devised using this formula (for an explanation of the variables, see the sidebar at this page:

RATING = (((SOS-0.5)/0.037)*0.67) + (((SOSL10-0.5)/0.037)*0.33) + 100 + (0.67*(MARG+(((ROAD-HOME)*3.5)/(GAMES))) + (0.33*(MARGL10+(((ROAD10-HOME10)* 3.5)/(10)))))

This methodology made little sense to me. The following letter articulates my concerns:

John, I was just glancing at your power ranking formula and was a bit baffled. Why were actual wins and losses excluded from the calculation? Do you consider margin of victory a better indicator of a team's performance than win-loss record? If this is the case, couldn't both the margin and record have been included? Boston's current ranking highlights my confusion. Within the framework of your formula, a team with the second worst record in the NBA and the fourth easiest schedule is "superior" to six other squads. Please Explain.

Hopefully, this approach will earn a reponse. If not, I'll probably just give up (disregard what I wrote about fortitude and persistence).

---

August 2007
-White Stripes Concert Review

July 2007
-Tour de France, RIP

June 2007
-Cleveland
-A weekend in New Paltz and the Greatest Bar Mitzvah Rap of all Time

April 2007
-Ooooo You Look Nice!
-No one ever smiles at me

March 2007
-Taking Responsibility

January 2007
-An Introduction: My Running Career Thus Far
-Random Musings, Thoughts Regarding the First Days of Lets-Krong
-An attempt at Bob Dylanesque, Incisive Poetry
-A letter to John Hollinger
-Idle and Active
-Another Letter to My Friend John
-The Soundtrack to my Life