Sans Discretion

Abortion? Okay. (Deep Breath). Abortion.

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 02:09:55 -0400

Disclaimer: this is an attempt to explain the way I feel about the legality of abortions in the United States. I will do my best not to offend anyone, but this is a contentious issue that many people (including me) feel very strongly about. Please read the entire thing before passing judgment. Thanks in advance.

The worst part about being a moderate (politically), is that you have people on both sides who hate you and think you’re crazy. I have been told (incorrectly) by extremists that I hate unions, capitalism, poor people, rich people, women, men, Jews, Palestinians, Arabs, and most often, America. I am told this because when you are a moderate, the crazy liberals hate you (force isn’t, like, justified in any context, man!) and the crazy conservatives hate you (FORCE IS JUSTIFIED IN ALL THE CONTEXTS). And this happens often to me, because I find myself somewhere near the center on just about every issue.

Abortion, though, is an issue that doesn’t work that way. There are one or two shades of grey, but in general terms you are either for abortion, or against it. And not just kinda for it, or kinda against it. There are plenty of moderates who maintain very hard-line positions either for or against legal abortions. Take my mother, who worked for a Republican mayor of a major American city, but was also a heavy supporter of Hillary Clinton. She also is (or was) on the Women Lawyer’s Pro Choice Committee. If you try to tell her she’s wrong, she might punch you. I’m not joking. She might.

To make things worse, the two sides on this issue hate each other with a level of rage that is usually reserved for college football games. People who are Pro-Choice think that their opponents are soulless, women-hating fiends, and that there is no possible justification for any kind of ban or limit on abortions. People who are Pro-Life think that their opponents are soulless, baby-hating godless heathens who spend their spare time rampaging through maternity wards with scythes. Apparently, nobody has any souls.

Now before I really get into this, there I want to acknowledge a component of the pro-choice argument that goes something like this: abortion is only an issue that directly affects women, and therefore should never be outlawed by government entities that are composed mainly of men. Furthermore, as a man who has no uterus and who will subsequently never give birth, my opinion is at best irrelevant, and at worst counter-productive. And in principle, I agree. In practice, I elect people to various levels of government who have the power to tell women whether or not they can legally obtain an abortion. In practice, my opinion matters. And I am nothing if not practical.

And one more disclaimer: I understand that getting an abortion is an incredibly difficult emotional decision for which there are many legitimate reasons, and I in no way want to judge or disparage women who partake in this currently very legal activity. If I say something like “abortions are bad” (and I will), I mean in a general context, and I certainly do not think that someone is a bad person for choosing to get an abortion. We cool? (Alternately: you mad, bro?)

Okay, so this is where I might start to offend people. Frankly, there are times I find it hard to pick a side. I’m generally someone who supports women’s rights, and I get that the right to choose is a major, major component of that. But I was also brought up Catholic. And that’s where this whole thing starts to get a little tricky.

The Catholic Church hates abortion. Hates it. More than it hates gay marriage or premarital sex or masturbating. And while I don’t blindly follow the Church in everything they do (related: Lindsay Lohan is posing naked for Playboy soon, and my penis is very excited), they have some not-terrible points on this one.

Actually point, singular. Because depending on how you view the “when exactly does life begin?” debate (which I am going nowhere fucking near), you’re either killing a human being, or preventing a human being from being alive in the near future. I mean, you are. I’m not saying its murder, and I’m not saying every woman who gets an abortion is evil and deserves life in jail or spends the rest of eternity in the ninth circle of hell, but something is dying (or being prevented from living in the near future, which isn’t as strong but I have to include it anyway). Unwanted babies are an issue (a political/social issue, not a THAT BABY HAS MADE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL AND I HATE HIM issue), but in my opinion unwanted babies are a much better alternative than dead babies

So I guess what I’m saying is, ideally, I would like a world with no abortions. And this is where someone who is pro-life would say, “Hey, you think this is bad, let’s outlaw it!” Well…

Let’s think for a second what happens when abortions become illegal. Women will still get pregnant because they had unprotected sex, or because someone raped them, or because their birth control pill was actually a placebo because the drug company fucked up. And these women will still, in many cases, decide they don’t want/can’t support/shouldn’t have this baby. They will get an abortion. And there will be coat hangers and Dyson vacuums involved (I’m sorry if that grosses you out, but there will be), and some of these women will die. We went from having safe, legal abortions to having slightly fewer illegal, possibly dangerous abortions. Frankly, I think these are both bad options, but there is one that is clearly worse, right? (Hint: its probably the coat-hanger-in-vag scenario).

(Aside: there are people who want to outlaw abortions even if the pregnancy might compromise the life of the mother. These people need to have their heads examined. End aside).

So we can’t outlaw them then. Dammit. But I want to live in a world with no abortions (except in cases of rape, incest, threat to the life of the mother, usual disclaimers, etc). Is there a way we can come close to making that happen without just saying NO WAY, SLUTS?

Turns out, there is. Condoms are a thing. The birth control pill is a thing. Diaphragms are a thing. Abstinence is a thing (I only bring it up because it is technically the best way to avoid getting pregnant, even if no one actually stays abstinent). These things all reduce unwanted or unexpected pregnancies, which are often the cause of abortions. In a practical sense, the universal use of these fine items (and one way of life) would do a much better job of limiting abortions than any ban every would. And I am nothing if not practical.

So, I guess I’ve picked a side. Ladies, as long as I can vote and write and talk and punch douchebags, I will do my absolute best to help you defend your right to choose. As long as I don’t have to be happy about it.

Ryan

Building a Better Tennis Player

Fri, 21 Oct 2011 04:09:05 -0400

I’m in this sorta weird spot with tennis right now. I played every summer from when I was five till around when I was eight, and then I stopped. I played about once a year until this summer, when I started taking lessons again. I’m finally really learning how to play tennis. And it’s awesome.

Usually, people learn to play tennis at a young age. They develop a game and habits that can be very, very hard to break as they get older and start playing the sport more as more of a recreation activity. They learn how to play when they’re young, and it sticks with them as they age.

So the weird spot that I’m in is basically this: I don’t have those habits. I can build whatever habits I want. These things will not be instilled in me by a coach when I’m eight or fourteen, they will be instilled by me, as an adult. It’s liberating and terrifying at the same time (kind of like, well, being an adult). On the one hand, I can be any tennis player I want. On the other, well, I can be any tennis player I want.

So I’m writing it down. Right here. This is where my game is right now, and this is the direction I want to progress. So, I guess two parts (I won’t start another sentence with the word “so,” I swear). Hopefully, writing it down will help me hold myself to improving. If not… I guess the internet will? Probably?

A brief note: Most of the “strengths” listed below can (and almost certainly will) be improved on. But for now, I like how they’re progressing, and I don’t need to worry about them too much.

First, the Ideal Game

If I could pick any player to be, it would be Caroline Wozniacki. I know that’s not what most people say (most people say Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, Serena or Venus Williams, Sharapova, or if you hate yourself, Andy Murray) but I love her game. She hits solid ground strokes from both sides, her serve is functional, her return is brilliant, and she never gets tired. I mean never. After her matches, she gets and a treadmill, cranks it up to 10 MPH (that’s a six minute mile pace) and just runs. For extended periods of time. After playing tennis for two hours. That’s how fit I want to be.

To make it perfect, I would mix in Nadal’s net game. Now, that’s going to sound weird to some people. Not Federer’s net game? Not Feliciano Lopez’s net game (the man who Andy Murray’s mom once called “Deliciano” on twitter the night before her son played him at Wimbledon)? But here’s the thing about Rafa: his volley’s are good, and he only uses them when its correct. He doesn’t rush to the net at the first opportunity, but neither does he act like he’s allergic to it (Wozniacki treats the net like she just dumped it, and doesn’t want to hurt its feelings).

As for who’s mental game I want? I guess Djokovic’s. People think he’s kind of an ass, but I guess I don’t mind that. He never doubts himself. Ever. And if you don’t like it, then you can go have a threesome with Feliciano Lopez and Andy Murray’s mother. And the old Scottish lady is the one putting it in.

I’m sorry about that. It’s almost Halloween. I’m trying to scare people.

Strength: Backhand

My backhand is fine. It’s two hands, consistently deep, with a decent amount of topspin. I can hit it equally well from anywhere on the court. It is never spectacular, and rarely bad. Everything about it is pretty non-descript. Which is fine. It took me awhile to get it to this point, and for now, I think I’m happy with it.

Weakness: Forehand

Sometimes, my forehand is awesome. Sometimes I whip the racket across my body, bend my knees properly, drive the ball with topspin, and the ball acts like its been shot out of a cannon. Every time I do it, there’s always this awkward moment of surprise from my opponent: “Whoa. He can do that? Really?”

The problem, of course, is that this happens once every hundred or so forehands I hit. The other ninety-nine have a solid amount of topspin, but land short and aren’t hit very hard, then kinda bounce up awkwardly. Any good player takes my forehand off the rise and crushes it. Not good. Let’s work on getting this shot deeper more consistently, shall we?

Strength: Fitness

I’m pretty fit. I can run six miles in under a half an hour, then run five more just for fun. I we can avoid putting this under the “needs improvement” category.

Weakness: Movement and Footwork

So I’m fit and I’m fast, but I’m not tennis fast. Lemme explain. I can run from point A to point B quickly. What I’m having trouble with is running from point A to point B, then properly setting me feet and bending my knees so I can get a good shot back. I hear this is important.

Strength: Volleys

I like my volleys. I can hit them into the open court, but I also have a pretty sweet drop volley that I like to use against fat guys. Cause I like to see bobbies jiggle. On either sex. For totally different reasons.

Weakness: Approaches

Here’s where the whole volleying thing gets a little dicey. If I get to the net in a decent position, I almost always win. Hooray! But to do that, you need to know how and when to hit a good approach shot, which will put you in that position. I’m getting better at the how, but the when? Not so hot. I’m a worse decision maker than Lindsey Lohan (should I do my community service, or go to jail? Fuck it, jail sounds preeeeeeeeeeeetty sweet).

Strength: Return

My returns are good. Rarely amazing, but consistently deep. Which is all I want, to reset the point back to neutral, and not just auto-lose to a good server. I think I’m almost there, too.

Weakness: Serve

If you don’t like cursing, please skip down to the section entitled ”Strength: Outward Confidence.”

My serve fucking sucks. It sucks real hard. It sucks monkey dicks. It sucks a large bag of monkey dicks. It sucks a large bag of herpes-infested monkey dicks. I can’t hit it hard, I can’t hit it with spin, and I can’t aim it well. Some days I can’t hit it into the fucking box; some days, I can’t even put my shit-eating racket on the shit-eating ball properly. My serve is awful (IT MAKES YOU FULL OF AWE IN THE WORST POSSIBLE WAY), and if you say anything different you are a lying liar who lies and I want no part of you. BEGONE FROM MY EXISTENCE.

Yeah, my serve is kind of a mess. I’m sorry about the all-caps, but they were necessary to get the point across.

Strength: Outward Confidence

I’m good at pretending to be confident. Sometimes, if I fake it enough, even I believe it to be true.

Weakness: Inward Confidence

So this is the big one. My mental game is worse than Andy Murray’s. Which is impressive, if you think about it. I once heard Andy call himself a “mother-sexing-homosexual-vagina” on camera as he was yelling into his towel after a point he lost (of course, I’ve made that phrase much more family-friendly). It’s not that I chastise myself too little if I do things wrong; quite the opposite: I don’t reward myself enough (or, really, at all) if I do things right.

If you see a therapist, any decent one will tell you that you should reward yourself after you do things well. Not in a big way, just in a “hey, that was pretty cool; nice job” kinda way. I have never done this on a tennis court. If I hit a good shot, the first thing I think is “God you suck. See how good you hit that? Why can’t you hit like that every time? It’s cause that was a fluke and you actually just suck.” Which doesn’t sound so bad, until you imagine yourself saying it to yourself every time something goes right or anything remotely good happens. You’ll get real down on yourself, real fast.

This used to happen in every aspect of my life, but I’ve learned to manufacture confidence. For job interviews, general getting shit done, dealing with people of the opposite sex I’m attracted too, whatever. And I do it, if I’m being honest, by acting like an arrogant douche sometimes. I haven’t figured out how to do it without coming off that way (except in job interviews, where I think I’ve found the right balance). On a tennis court, you can’t do that; it’s a social sport, and people play it to have fun, and acting like Djokovic does sometimes is just generally unacceptable.

But I can’t be Federer; that’s not me. The whole cool, calm, colelcted, never frazzled steez is not something I can easily pull off. Maybe Nadal? Maybe I should try the sneer thing? But that’s not me either, really. So I don’t know what the answer is.

So there you have it. I’m building a completely new tennis player. It’s challenging, but its also a ton of fun. Except when I’m serving.

Ryan

Buck Foston

Thu, 29 Sep 2011 20:26:52 -0400

http://deadspin.com/5845213/the-best-four-minutes-of-baseball-last-night-presented-in-split-screen

Haaaaaaaaaaaaahahahaha. Ha. Suck it, Boston.

Amusing Stories from Tutoring

Fri, 23 Sep 2011 02:42:00 -0400

I have been called a douchebag before. Many, many times. By friends, colleagues, family members, a homeless dude, people I’ve just met, people I’ve dated (during and after the period in which we were dating), and even, on occasion, myself. But I had never been called a douchebag by a ten-year-old.

Until Monday.

I’m helping Donny (not his real name, obv) with some grammar thing. He starts to write a sentence down, and I say something like, “that’s good, but let’s see if we can make it better.”

Donny: “How about this: ‘Ryan is a douchebag.’”

And I froze. I was stunned. I know little kids curse sometimes, but this was just… I mean, godDAMN. So I collect myself and say something mature(ish), like “Donny, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

Donny: “How about douche? Is douche better?”

A few weeks ago, in an attempt to supplement my meager income (read: find a job), I started looking for tutoring jobs that I could do on afternoons and weekends. I figure about eight hours a week tutoring, thirty or so writing, and that’s a decently busy life. I got an email from a woman in my neighborhood, who wanted me to basically be her son’s personal tutor for about 7-8 hours a week, at a decent rate. Done, and done.

So the kid’s great. He really is. I know he sounds like an a-hole of a ten year old, and sometimes he kind of is, but mostly he’s just a kid. And sometimes, even the best kid’s are really, really hard to deal with.

Take last Wednesday. Right before I get there, he gets in a fight with his little brother. Over what, I have no idea. But he comes in on the verge of tears, which usually takes an hour of my berating him about his handwriting (I’m kidding — his handwriting is magical). So I ask him how his day was, and he tells me it sucks. I ask him why, and you know what he says?

“Because you’re here. It was fine until you showed up.”

Now, my self-esteem is not dependent on the opinion of a fifth grader. But it reminds me of the last time it was: namely, when I was in fifth grade. Fifth grade was a hit-or-miss year for me; I had my group of friendly misfits, but we were not popular. Quite the opposite; and some of the insults, at the time, really hurt. I always got inward with it, wondering what I was doing wrong that made all these kids act mean toward me. But now I’m like, huh. Sometimes kids are just dicks, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with you. Actually, you could replace kids in that sentence with people, and it would still be true. But now I know how random kids can be, and a lot of my childhood makes more sense.

It’s not all bad with this kid. He’s really, really smart, and he actually is genuinely kind when he wants to be. He’s absurdly good at math; when we do math homework, he does it, I check it, it’s right I move on (English is another story). And sometimes, he says something that is absurdly funny, even if it’s not funny on purpose.

Take today. Today we’re talking about me checking part of his homework, and he doesn’t want me to do it, but I insist. The following exchange occurs:

Donny: I get it. You just want to get paid.

Ryan: Donny, I don’t only do this because I get paid.

Donny: Then why do you do it?

Ryan (kidding): Because I love you!

Donny: You do? What kind of love?

Ryan: What do you mean what kind?

Donny: I mean, is it the kind where it’s a little weird, since… you know!

Ryan: What, the age thing? I mean yeah, if it were that kind of love, that’s kind of-

Donny: No! I mean, you know. Two guys…

Now this part fucking slayed me. He takes the index finger on both his hand, and pushes them together. He’s trying to mime two dudes swordfighting. With their dicks. A brief reminder: THIS KID IS TEN YEARS OLD.

Donny: I’m looking for a word here… it has three letters…

Ryan (trying so hard not to laugh): You mean gay?

Donny: You can’t say that!

Ryan: What, gay? You shouldn’t call someone gay to make fun of them, but there’s nothing wrong with being gay. I have friends who are gay. Some of them have boyfriends or girlfriends or the same sex. There’s nothing wrong with it. But you shouldn’t use it to make fun of someone’s insecurities.

Donny: Ryan, I’m ten. Use smaller words. I don’t know what insecurities means.

Ryan: But you know what gay means?

Donny: Of course. Didn’t you know by the fifth grade?

Kids. Amirite?

A Brief Guide to the US Open Semifinals

Fri, 09 Sep 2011 17:58:32 -0400

In the last two weeks, I have watched a lot of tennis. A lot. Not always actively - its often on in the background while I’m doing something else - but its ALWAYS on. I’ve probably watched as much tennis these last two weeks as the in the rest of my life combined. And its been awesome. But this weekend, it comes to an end.

The US Open men’s semifinals are scheduled for Saturday (barring another hurricane-related rain incident). If you have nothing better to do (actually, even if you do have something better to do), you should watch them. The collection of talent is probably the best of all time (Kanye: “Of all time!” Kanye is going to be making a lot of guest appearances in this post). If you’ve never watched tennis, that’s totally fine - now’s the best time to start. I’ve even created this handy guide to help you figure out what to watch for! And if you watch tennis all the time, you can read this and tell me where I fucked up. Fun for the whole family.

A brief note: when I say something is “bad” or “mediocre,” I’m obviously speaking in relative terms. Andy Murray’s second serve is still one of the best hundred or so in the world, even if it’s “mediocre” compared to, say, Federer’s. So just keep that in mind.

Semifinal 1: Djokovic vs. Federer

Novak Djokovic is on track to have the best year in the history of tennis. He’s lost two matches all year, one of which was due to injury. He has won every tournament he’s played in, except the French Open (in which he lost in the semifinals) and the Western and Southern Open (where he withdrew from the finals due to a shoulder injury). He’s won two majors this year. He lost three games (not sets, games) in his first two matches at the Open. He’s an unstoppable, evil-grinned cyborg sent from Serbia to destroy the world of tennis as we know it.

Then there’s Federer. If you don’t know who Roger Federer is, he’s probably the best tennis player of all time (Kanye: “OF ALL TIME!”). He holds the record for Grand Slam titles (16, having made the finals 23 times) and the only player he seems to have consistent trouble with is Rafael Nadal. David Foster Wallace has orgasms about his forehand. He’s had, for him, a relatively mediocre year, making only to the semifinals of the Australian Open, the Finals of the French, and the quarterfinals of Wimbledon. He’s getting older (he’s now thirty, about the time when most tennis players start to decline) and he’s lost half a step from where he was five years ago. Despite all that, he’s still the third-ranked player in the world, and it was Roger who beat Djokovic in the semis at the French Open this year.

On the court, they match up fairly evenly at this point. Federer’s forehand is miles better (my brother would interject here that Federer’s forehand is “the best shot in the history of tennis”), but his backhand can let him down sometimes, and Djokovic’s backhand is one of the best in the world. Federer’s service game (using the serve to set up points, not just serving fast) is one of the best ever, but then so is Djokovic’s return game (and both are the best in tennis today).

Novak will get lazy on his serve sometimes and lose those games, but normally he doesn’t care, because he’s such a good returner he can break his opponent’s serve almost whenever he wants. Federer is the same on his opponents serves, because his service game is so good, he can afford to be lazy sometimes on his opponent’s. If the match is even, expect Federer’s service games to be hard fought, and expect some of Djokovic’s service games to look like two guys arguing over who should go through a door first (no, after you. I insist). They both attack and defend very, very well, but in this match, Federer will probably be the aggressor on a few more points than Novak.

If you only watch one match this weekend, then please, please watch this one. The best player of all time versus the player having the best single year of all time. What could be better?

Semifinal 2: Nadal vs. Murray

I must confess that I love watching Andy Murray play tennis. Not because he’s good (even though he is; he’s very, very good) but because his head is such a bizarre mess. He’ll be up two sets to none, then get negative on himself, start muttering, spray some balls wide, do some more muttering and some cursing, and then if he keeps missing, his head will explode in a fiery mushroom cloud of self-doubt. And the whole time, his mom will be watching from the stands, clenching her jaw like someone wired it shut. It’s fucking fantastic. I watched his quarterfinal today, and at one point in the third set (which he eventually lost), he picked up his towel and started yelling at it. The microphone only caught some of the words, but it sounded something like this. Wonderful entertainment.

The other thing I love about Murray is that he has the same relationship with his mother as Stirling Archer does. His mom goes to all his matches and occasionally tweets about how good-looking Murray’s opponents are. This makes Murray nauseous. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Rafael Nadal is a swaggering, ripped, sneering Spaniard who once appeared shirtless in a Shakira video. He’s also the best clay-court player of all time (Kanye: “Of all time!”), and only really loses to Djokovic with any consistency. Please note that Andy Murray is not Djokovic.

On the court, Nadal hits everything with stupid amounts of topspin, and turns defense into offense faster than anyone else does. He doesn’t so much play tennis as bludgeon his opponent’s will to live until they are in the corner of the court in the fetal position screaming “Make it stop! Make it stop!” He has a functional serve, a very good return, a powerful backhand, and the best forehand of anyone not named Roger Federer. Murray has a very good first serve and a mediocre second serve, with a functional forehand and a backhand that makes miracles happen. He’s also quite a good returner, but not on the same level as Nadal or Djokovic. Neither player will go to net often, but Nadal doesn’t mind it so much, while Murray occasionally seems like he’s allergic to it (or maybe the net had sex with his mom).

The key to the match is Murray’s second serve. If he can avoid having to hit it (by getting his first serves in), or if for some reason his second serve is good tomorrow, he has a chance. If not, then Nadal will probably advance. Comfortably.

So please, if you have some time tomorrow, watch a little tennis. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.

Ryan

Rejected Titles for Dick Cheney's Memoir

Sat, 27 Aug 2011 22:03:19 -0400

So Dick Cheney wrote a book about the time he spent ~~slapping America with his penis~~ being Vice-President, and the title sucks. ”In My Time?” That’s the most generic, non-descript, horribly boring title for a memoir ever. Why would he title it that? Isn’t the whole thing supposed to be an unapologetic look at how sometimes he let George wear the big boy pants? So why is the title so shitty?

To help unearth this mystery, I made a few phone calls (not true; I took a really long dump, but whenever someone asks me what I was doing after I take a really long dump, I say I was making a few phone calls), and about half way through my conversation I realised: he had to go generic. Because if the title was in any way descriptive of the content, it would be too awful to put on bookshelves (and the cover picture would depict Cheney “making a few phone calls” on the Constitution). So without further ado, the ten best rejected titles for Dick Cheney’s memoir:

10. I’m Not a Richard; I’m a Dick.

9. Guess How Much Haliburton Stock I Still Own and Never Disclosed?

8. How To Shoot Someone In the Face (And Get Them to Apologize).

7. I Never Liked New Orleans Anyways.

6. This One Time, I Let Bush Do Stuff.

5. I Never Sold My Soul to Satan, Cause I Never Got One.

4. Fuck You.

3. A Douchebag’s Guide to Rigging Elections.

2. I Wanted Voldemort to Win

1. Sorry Bro, I Fucked Up Your Country

My Five Favorite Burgers

Wed, 27 Jul 2011 02:01:57 -0400

I was watching a How I Met Your Mother episode about Marshall reminiscing (and going on a quest to find) the “best burger in New York,” and it made me nostalgic about the amazing burgers I’ve eaten over the years. So, because I’m a narcissistic person who expects other people to take an active interest in my life for no reason, I decided to blog about it.

Now, context is everything, especially when it comes to food. The best steak might not taste so good if you’ve just consumed a huge bowl of penne alla vodka, but the penne might suck if you’ve just finished off some grilled cheese with tomato soup. These five burgers are as much about the mood I was in while I was eating, what I was doing, who was with me, what happened the night before, or the night after. This is not a list of best burgers, per se, but a list of my favorite experiences in which burgers played a significant role. So enjoy.

Five: My Dad’s Wagyu Beef Burgers

Gotta get my favorite grillmaster on this list. Last summer, when my mom was on vacation, my dad, my brother and I decided to do a Sunday dinner, just the bros. And since it was only bros, we decided to grill some burgers (or, my dad grilled the burgers, my brother made a salad, and I opened some chips. I may have also poured wine). On Saturday, my dad went shopping, and came home with some ground Wagyu beef. Papa likes his Japanese meat (no, literally. My Dad likes Kobe beef).

It was a great evening. It was fantastic chillin out with my Dad, and the burgers, stuffed between two delicious potato buns and dressed with lettuce and tomato, were stellar. A great family dinner, and a perfect example on how if you drop 40 bucks on some beef, the burgers really do come out better.

Four: The Oinkster

In my last week of work last summer, my boss Duke (yeah, he’s named Duke, and he lives up to it) took me and a couple of the other people in the department out to lunch to celebrate the end of my internship. The place he chose was The Oinkster: a place in Eagle Rock (near Pasadena, which is near LA) which serves pretty standard burgers (medium patty, American cheese, fries and a coke).

The burger is a model for execution over creativity. Don’t fuck with the formula, because the formula is really, really good. Just make sure the patties are cooked right, the lettuce and tomatoes are fresh, and voila: burgergasm. The burgers were delicious, the fries and their awesome aioli dipping sauce almost as good, and it was a wonderful way to end a fantastic internship.

Three: The Original Daniel Boulud Burger

When my family is in NY, we eat pretty well. We’ve been to Cafe Boulud, Gotham City Bar and Grill, and Babbo, to name a few. A few years ago, my parents and brother stayed in NYC for thanksgiving while I took the train down to meet them. We ended up eating on Saturday night at this place called DB Bistro Moderne, from Daniel Boulud (one of the finest French chefs in the US). I’m scrolling through the menu, desperately trying to remember my high school French, when I see the burger.

So here’s the rundown: sirloin, braised short rib, a parmesan bun, and black truffles. Awwwwwwww, shit yeah. The burger lived up to all the expectations, and it was a wonderful night in NYC with my family, who I missed, going to college on the other side of the country at all. The food was great, the conversation was great, and we were all really happy to see each other. The only downside was all that sirloin was still bouncing around in my stomach as I was sprinting from the subway to try and catch the Metro North back to Poughkeepsie. Oh well.

Two: In n Out Double Double

Those who know me (or have ever lived near an In n Out) will not be shocked to find this burger on the list, even above some of the more gourmet options. In n Out is the best fast food you can get anywhere in the world. And if you want to argue, then you’d better come prepared with some delicious food. In n Out has made people cry. Shit, In n Out almost made me cry, once. (It was either that, or the hangover).

It New Year’s day, my sophomore year of college. The night before had been spent partying with friends at this rich girl’s mom’s house in Santa Monica. For discretion’s sake, I will leave out most of the details, except for this: I have never seen more Champagne drunk in one evening. Ever.

So the next morning, my friend and I wake up, stagger around the house getting ourselves together, and then get into the car to drive home. I turn to him after I start the car, and ask him if he wants to eat, or if he wants me to just drive him home. And he turns to me and says the best possible thing to have said: “You. Me. In n Out. Right now.”

So we hit up the In n Out in Westwood, and it was heaven. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to put something in my stomach than I was at that moment. The crisp lettuce, the vine-ripened tomato, the beautiful beef patties, the special sauce held together by that most magical of buns; it was the closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience that also involved ground beef. I enjoyed eating that burger more than I enjoyed the orgasm I’d had less than 24 hours before. It was juicy and tasty and savory and crispy and fresh and everything you could have ever wanted in a burger.

And its still only number two.

One: The Truffle Burger at Umami Burger

Umami Burger is this wonderful restaurant in Los Angeles that essentially serves only burgers. I mean, you can order drinks and delicious fries and Tempura onion rings and and some other stuff, but all the main courses are burgers. Even the fish option (Ahi Tuna - SO good) is a burger, as is the vegetarian option. I’ve had literally everything on their menu at least once, and they are all otherworldly.

My favorite experience there - and my favorite burger experience ever, bar none - came last summer, on a Friday evening. It was me and three friends, and we were meeting there before going to a party in Beverly Hills. Having tried the Port and Stilton Burger earlier in the week (another phenomenal offering), I decided to go with my favorite option: the Truffle Burger.

The Truffle Burger is very simple. They take a beef patty, and graze it in black truffle oil. Then they cook it, put it on a bun with nothing else, and serve it to you. If all you want is beef; pure, savory, unadulterated beef, with nothing on it, then this is the burger. It’s savory, it’s delicious, and its glazed with fucking truffle oil. The burger was delicous (duh), but the best part was still to come.

After a great dinner with wonderful food (buuuuuuuuuuuuurgeeeeeeeeeeeeeers) and some of the funniest conversations I’ve ever had, we took off for the party. At said party, there was beer pong (natch, brah), and tonight’s shitty beer of choice was Bud Light (for a horrible taste that won’t fill you up and sucks a surprising amount of diseased monkey penis, make it a Bud Light). So I play, and I’m winning, so I have to keep drinking this cow piss. And because I’m drinking beer, I start burping. Whatever.

But then something magical happened: I realized the burger was still in my stomach. All that delicious truffle and beefy flavor was still hanging out down their. And every time I burped, it tasted like the burger. It tasted so good, it made me want to keep drinking Bud Light. That burger was the gift that kept on giving.

It made me want to drink Bud Light. And that is the highest praise I can give anything. So now if you’ll excuse me, I’m hungry.

Ryan

The New York Times Magazine Must Have Better Writers. Right?

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 04:37:25 -0400

I don’t usually spend this much time tearing apart other people’s writing, but this piece from the last New York Times Magazine merits special consideration. Its about how “strong female characters” suck and we should have less of them, and its awful. Its awful in a ton of ways, but since I spent four years learning that I have to prove my assertions (college degrees are totally sweet), let me prove them. Diving right in, here’s how it starts: ”Every time I hear someone use the term ‘strong female characer,’ I want to punch them.”

Look, as a writer, you get to use this line once in your career. That’s it. And you want to use it to denounce a modern form of feminism in movies and books? That’s the thing that makes you angriest in the whole world? The phrase “strong female character?” Just for the record, I’m saving the punching line for people who say “your liberal arts degree is useless.”

Which is apparently everyone. Crap.

Moving on, the author tells a story about how she was in Florida after the 2000 with some in-laws, and they wanted her to go to a gun range, but she stayed in the car reading Jane Austen instead. The next paragraph, as my brother so eloquently put it, is all questions (no seriously, there’s like a hundred word paragraph of meaningless rhetorical questions. Its terrifying).

So a couple of things here. First, it takes you like 200 words to tell that story, when we get the full effect with this house: “This one time, my brother’s Republican in-laws made me go to a shooting range, but I pussied out and cried and drowned my sorrows in a way-too-tidy 19th century book about how women can’t be happy till they find the perfect man.” That was SO MUCH SHORTER than what you said. Second, an entire paragraph of rhetorical questions? Your college didn’t require a freshman writing course, did it?

Third, to answer your second question: yes, I would consider you to be weak. Someone “strong” (as the author seems to be defining it) would politely decline to go to the shooting range in the first place and read in the house, letting their asshole inlaws (who must be assholes, because they are Republicans and shoot legal firearms in shooting ranges) go their own way. Someone “strong” wouldn’t cry in the back of an SUV an question their self-worth because this one time, someone made them listen to Rush Limbaugh. You are not strong, and no one cares. Get the fuck over yourself.

Notice we are about a third of the way in, and the author has yet to define the central term, or given any clear indication about the way she is going to argue her point. She has, to her credit, asked a lot of fucking questions. So, you know. Kudos for that.

We then get a somewhat exhaustive listing of “strong female characters” the author has come across in movies, citing roles as diverse as Lisbeth Salander in “The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo” and Natalie Portman in “No Strings Attached.” I still have no idea what the author thinks a “strong female character” is, or why the term bothers her, but at least I know she watches movies. Or at least did some Wikipedia research for her big break in the New York Times Magazine. Oh I’m sorry, did you not know that she wrote in the NYT Magazine? Cause, um, she did. She’s kind of a big deal.

I wonder if I’m being sarcastic enough. Probably not.

The next paragraph starts with “Maybe I’m a creampuff, but few cultural tropes get under my skin like “strong female character” and it still surprises me when like-minded people use it.” Yeah, she probably could’ve started with that. Since, you know, all the stuff before it was so important. Also, she’s arrogant enough to assume that everyone else who listens to NPR and hates people with guns (see! I can make assumptions too!) will come to the exact same conclusions she does. Well, we might, if we you explain yourself in a way that logically leads us to the same conclusion. But you haven’t.

Finally, we get a definition for “strong female character.” The author uses the definition that basically makes “strong female characters” into Clint Eastwood: tough, squinty, badass, never emotional. But, we get this: “Maybe what people mean… is female characters who are “strong,” i.e., interesting or complex or well-written.” Yes. That is exactly what we mean. But you’re just going to assume we don’t mean that? You’re going to run with the Clint Eastwood thing, aren’t you?

The author then talks about how female and male character have switched roles: female characters are the strong silent type, and male characters dither and cry and get all emo and girly about shit (I’m paraphrasing, but not by much). I wonder if this author has ever seen a Michael Bay movie, but she probably thinks she’s above Michael Bay movies. Also, she talked about Natalie Portman in “No Strings Attached” as an example earlier, but Natalie Portman dithers and does girly shit in that movie. So, the author not only mis-defined the phrase she’s so pissed about, she gives examples that completely disprove her point. I wonder if anyone proof-read this.

Then, we get a story about the author listening to the director of “Bridesmaids” on NPR (see! I knew she listened to NPR! HA!). And this part is actually (gulp) decent. She talks about how the main characters in Bridemaids is relate-able not because, as the director claims, she was once strong, but because she is “quote a jumble of flaws and contradictions.” But she is not, as the author claims, weak. The main character in Bridemaids is a “strong female character” because she’s well-written, she’s complicated, she’s relate-able, she’s absurdly well acted, and because she finally starts to fix her trainwreck of a life by the end of the movie. So she’s not Angelina Jolie in “Salt.” The character is still strong, at least how I would define that. But the author can’t call her strong unless she’s the Terminator. Whatever.

So then we get something useless about Chuck Klosterman (oh, I’m sorry, have you not read “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs? Because everyone who listens to NPR and only drinks Chardonnay at bars listens to Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs). Moving on, moving on… aha. There’s a paragraph here about how female characters have gotten blown out of proportion, about how no women can be smart AND funny AND good-looking AND wildly succesful AND morally impeccable. That really, really pisses me off. You think those characters are “rarely found in nature,” and therefore what; therefore making portrails of “strong female characters” totally unrealistic?

Lemme tell you all a story. Lets say there’s this woman, grew up in the upper Midwest. She spends her teens feeling trapped by the small-town vibe, the lack of intellectual stimulation, the rampant sexism, and the horrible prairie winters. So she goes to one of the best Law schools on the west coast, then spends her 20s annihilating gender barriers in some of the most prestigious law firms in Los Angeles, getting hit on at bars after work (and turning them all down), paying back her student debt, and helping to pay for her fiancee’s law degree. She spends her 30s running the second largest city in America (Chief of Staff to the Mayor), being the General Counsel at a Fortune 500 company, or having two kids (depends on the year). She spends her 40s teaching, taking time off to raise her kids, and working in the City Attorney’s office of the afore-mentioned second largest city in the country. She is now 51, in good health, and will soon celebrate her 25th wedding anniversary. The author would claim this woman doesn’t exist, and portrayals of her are somehow bad because they might put stars in the eyes of little girls, because the life described above is totally unattainable. The author should call my mother, who I’m sure would be more than happy to fill the author in on the details I’ve missed, and tell her exactly how attainable this dream is.

So after five and a half columns of meaningless anecdotes, generic pop-culture references, mis-defined centrally important terms, stereotypical NPR-listening anti-Republicanism, unintentional hating on my mother, and some questions, we have a conclusion. The conclusion, in one way, is the most horrible part of the whole thing. It’s wandering, its drops hugely important terms and doesn’t define them, it fails to mention any of the writing that’s come before, it has a Grindhouse reference for no reason, and the author still mis-defines the phrase “strong female character” four columns after she acknowledges that’s she’s probably mis-defining it.

In another way, the conclusion wraps everything up perfectly. Only something so horribly written could end with such a horribly written conclusion. The author should stand up and take a bow; she’s had a horrible piece of writing printed in the NYT Magazine. Its an accomplishment that, I have to say, I hope I never attain.

The End of an Era

Mon, 09 May 2011 03:23:11 -0400

Back in October, Kobe Bryant was asked if he could beat LeBron James one on one. The question, frankly, was ludicrous. Kobe is an absurdly good player (probably one of the ten best of all time), but LeBron is Lebron. Maybe the most talented basketball player ever, plus he’s three inches taller, at least forty pounds heavier, and probably a step faster than Kobe at this point. 2006 Kobe could have taken LeBron, but 2010 Kobe? At thirty two, after thirteen years in the league? No way.

So how did Kobe answer? ”I could beat him in my sleep.”

I have watched Kobe Bryant play basketball hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. I have seen him play with Shaquille O’Neal, the best center of the last twenty years. I have seen him play against Tim Duncan, against LeBron James, against Kevin Garnett, hell, against Michael Jordan. For better or worse, he has always thought that he is the best player on the floor at all times. For either team. Even in 2000, when the Lakers won the title and Shaq was the MVP, Kobe had this look on his face that can best be described as “I’m honestly not sure he’s that good.” The last few years, when the Lakers played the Cavaliers (or this year, the Heat) Kobe would play with a selfish vengeance, chasing down rebounds and hoisting up shots like he was determined to prove he was still better. Everyone knew he wasn’t, but Kobe never seemed to get the memo.

Then, this happened.

When Kobe has lost playoff series before, you always have this feeling he doesn’t think it was his fault. In 2003 and 2004, he thought he could win if Shaq had just got his ass in shape. In 2006, he thought he could win if he team wasn’t horrible. In 2008, he thought he could win if the refs gave him a little more protection. Nothing was ever on him; he was still better than anyone else at this game, even if only he knew it.

When Kobe walked off the floor tonight, the look on his face wasn’t one of defiance, as it has been so many times. It was the look of acceptance. Dirk was better. Kobe got outplayed. And for the first time, Kobe allowed himself to admit that.

So I know his career isn’t over, but the “Kobe Era” is. The era where in eleven years, he won five titles, and made the Finals two more times. The era where if anyone challenged him, they would be made to pay with a Jordan-esque rain of unstoppable fade-aways, mixed with the occasional vicious slam. The era where losing was never his fault, even when it was. The era where no matter who the other players on the court were, in Kobe’s eyes, Kobe was the best. And now, it’s over.

To be honest, I always sort of admired him for it. Callous arrogance isn’t always the most admirable trait, but he wore it well, and he backed it up with an unmatched work ethic and that impossible to stop fade-away jump shot. In 2006, he scored 81 points in a game because his team was sucking, and he was tired of people that were worse than he was shooting the ball. Why 81? Cause fuck off, I’m Kobe and I’m better than you. That’s why. Say the wrong thing, and I’ll drop sixty on you. Because I’m better than you, and I know it.

So now its over. He may win another title, and some of his swagger may return. But that look at the end of Game 3, even if it’s just for a second, means it’ll never happen the same way. I’m going to miss it.

Donald Rumsfeld Being... Well, Donald Rumsfeld

Mon, 02 May 2011 13:52:52 -0400

For me, this was the highlight of all the post-Osama being dead euphoria. The Today show interviewed Donald Rumsfeld this morning about the whole WE GOT HIM! thing that happened late last night. (If you didn’t know… we got him). Fairly standard news-stuff, I guess; important thing happens related to the defense of the United States, so you get a former Secretary of Defense to comment on it.

Unfortunately, that Secretary of Defense was Donald Rumsfeld. The man who will forever be known for two things. One: screwing up Iraq. Two: letting bin Laden go in the months after 9/11. Asking Rumsfeld about killing bin Laden is like asking a Cubs fan what its like to win a World Series. So what did Rumsfeld have to say?

When asked whether he was surprised that Osama was found near Islamabad: “This is an intelligence problem from the beginning, of course… we’ve been fortunate that that intelligence was forthcoming. It may very well have been partly a result of some of the interviews that took place in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.”

What a spectacularly delusional, self-absorbed, unapologetic… person. I’m trying to be polite. I really am.

So he says a couple of things here. One, by saying its an “intelligence problem,” he’s basically saying that if he had had the same intelligence Obama did, he could have gotten the job done. Well, Rummy, you did. You had him. In the caves. At Tora Bora. Remember? When we had him trapped? And totally could have killed him if most of our military wasn’t walking through hell in Iraq, which is 1500 miles away? It wasn’t a fucking intelligence problem. You screwed it up. And you still blame everyone else.

Two, he gives no credit to Obama. ”We’ve been fortunate that the intelligence was forthcoming.” Translation: Obama got lucky. No, Rumsfeld. Obama was smart, focused, and meticulous. Things which are the exact opposite of you when you were hanging out in the Pentagon.

Three, he is still trying to justify torture. Interviews In Gitmo aren’t job interviews. Unless simulated drowning is something that routinely happens in your job interviews (in mine they just pretend like they might hire me for awhile, then they don’t). What he’s saying, without any prompting or, you know, evidence, is that torture might have led to the killing of bin Laden. Which means he still thinks its awesome. So not only did US armed forces, partially under his direction, brutally torture captured Muslim men and women in both Iraq and Afghanistan (many times innocent men and women, but Rumsfeld never cared about things like “guilt” or “innocence” anyways), he’s still trying to justify it five years after the fact. With something that has absolutely nothing to do with torture, or Guantanamo, or holding people captive without any semblance of due process.

Fourth, all of this is totally unsolicited. He transitions into this from a sentence about how its surprising that the dude was near Islamabad, rather than in the mountains somewhere. He wasn’t asked about how he was found, or why Rumsfeld could never find him, or about Gitmo. He talks about how the location was surprising, then segues into excuses and veiled criticisms without warning or prompting.

In The Donald’s own words, “hindsight is 20/20.” Well Donald, in hindsight, you suck.

Narcissism

Sun, 01 May 2011 23:50:04 -0400

You know when you’re shaving, and you have to run your razor over something sharp? Say, my knife-like jaw? And then you’re worried about cutting yourself, and maybe you don’t always get all the hairs on the jaw? See, I cut myself alot, so I’m always walking out of the bathroom with little pieces of toilet paper stuck to my face as makeshift band-aids, doing my best to avoid my housemates and their open laughter.

But then on the days I don’t cut myself, I get to run my hand over my smoothly shaven face and I’m, like, you know what? This looks pretty good.

The Most Productive Day of My Life

Wed, 06 Apr 2011 00:28:00 -0400

7:30: alarm rings. Hit snooze button. Realize that five hours ago, I was writing coherent sentences about the effects of financial regulation on the savings and loan crisis.

8:00: Open laptop. Begin writing emails.

8:30: Finish writing emails. Begin typing up problem set due in, oh, five hours?

9:45: Finish problem set. Watch Monday’s Daily Show while eating breakfast.

10:30: Economics (International Trade).

11:55: Grab lunch from Tasty Teusdays. Thank GOD for Kismat.

12:00: Political Science (Utopian Politics).

12:15: mmmmm chicken vindaloo and orwell… such a tasty combination.

1:25: Print problem set.

1:30: Economics (Money and Banking).

3:00: Pick up a copy of The Chronicle on my way home.

3:15: Read the Chronicle. See my article. Re-read my article. I’m am a narcicist. Admitting that makes it okay.

4:00: Send panicked text message about not being able to make choir rehearsal; assured I will be able to make choir rehearsal.

4:35: Economics (International Finance).

5:50: Sprint to Skinner to try to make the last car leaving for Bard College (where our choir is rehearsing).

6:00: MADE IT!

7:00: Arrive at Bard College. Begin singing Brahms. The same piece by Brahms that we performed on Sunday. I’m starting to have dreams about the sixth movement. This may or may not be a good thing.

10:00: My girlfriend drives me home from Bard. Why? Because she is a shining beacon of humanity. And also gives great back massages (which I won’t be experiencing again until… finals week? Why is senior year so randomly busy?)

10:30: arrive back home. SHOWER. (Note that this was the most fun I had all day. Showering).

11:00: Send more emails.

11:30: Eat dinner.

12:00: Begin my next problem set.

3:00: estimated time of slumber.

May none of you have as much shit to do as I do.

RMP

JFK to LAX

Fri, 11 Mar 2011 18:30:43 -0500

So I’m watching Inside Job, sipping white wine, and my left hand is less than an inch away from the backside of an adult actress. #winning!

No, I have not turned into Charlie Sheen. I was merely on a plane from JFK to LAX.

For me, the New York to Los Angeles flight has always been fraught with danger. Near-misses with blizzards, sitting next to fat guys, flying home after breaking up with people (and getting free drinks from the hostesses because apparently, I looked like I had… just broken up with someone). The last time I was on this flight, I thought someone was trying to kill me. But it always ends well; I get off the plane, and its 70 degrees and sunny (I walked around today in a t-shirt, and my nipples didn’t even get hard). Every flight is different, and every flight always has a story.

Yesterday’s flight may have been the most surreal experience of my life. I sat next to an adult actress (porn star, but according to her they don’t like to be called that; its indiscreet, or something) and had a wonderful conversation about being an Angeleno in New York, Charlie Sheen, and having sex in front of cameras as a career.

First, it was nice talking to someone from Los Angeles who has to go to New York for “business” (ahem), but hates it. HATES it. Hates the claustrophobia of Manhattan; hates the looks of judgement on the Upper East Side; hates how expensive everything is; hates how the wind, rain and snow mess with her hair. All are things I’ve complained about, and it’s nice to know they’re feelings shared by other people.

As to why she was on the Upper East Side, she said she was “exploring some new business opportunities.” I decided not to follow that line of questioning any further. Instead, I asked what she thought about the Charlie Sheen situation.

She had a number of thoughts, but the two I feel comfortable sharing are these. First, she was concerned about the two women he was living with; apparently, they are also unstable and addicted to cocaine. Who knew? Second, she said it wasn’t uncommon (though not exactly commonplace, either) for adult actress to be the live-in girlfriend (or whatever term you want to use there) of someone rich and/or famous. We all have rent to pay, and some of us have dangerous substance addictions to feed ( fortunately, my only substance addiction involves Doritos Brand Corn Chips).

Finally, I asked her about what its like to work in that industry. Most of this conversation will not be repeated here (she was about four glasses of wine in at this point… yeah). But there are some answers I can repeat.

The most scenes she has done in one day? Eight. Her roommate had moved out, and she hadn’t found a new one yet, so she had no one to split the rent with. So she worked overtime.

She has no idea how many men she has had sex with. None. She says this doesn’t bother her; and frankly, I think I believe it.

She was never abused, or raped, or had a bad relationship, or has daddy issues, or any of the other cliches involving the women of the adult acting industry.

She gets tested every month. For just about everything.

After the last question, she handed me the half-empty bottle of wine: “here, honey, I’m not going to finish the rest.” I got called “honey.” By a porn star. Cross that one off the bucket list, I guess.

Then she curled up in a ball and went to sleep, with her butt pressed against the armrest. Hence the intro paragraph.

Anyways, this was a really surreal experience, and I figured I’d share it.

RMP

It's Over...

Mon, 21 Feb 2011 14:48:36 -0500

Goodbye, Gaddafi. Its been nice listening to your rambling speeches and looking at your colorful outfits. But this is the kiss of death. When your military deserts you, its time to pack it up. You had a good run, buddy. A brutal, potentially genocidal run, which included backing terrorists and killing civilians, but hey, anything to stay in power right? Enjoy your exile in Switzerland. If you can even get out of the country.

http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/allstar2011/columns/story?columnist=hollinger_john&page=hollingerasg-110221

Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:08:10 -0500

http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/allstar2011/columns/story?columnist=hollinger_john&page=hollingerasg-110221:

KOBE!

College Is Awesome (when its not terrifyingly lonely)

Thu, 17 Feb 2011 20:02:42 -0500

So Drew Magary, resident football analyst and f-word user extraordinaire of Deadspin, just wrote an almost impossibly good piece entitled “The Lonliness of the American College Transfer Student.” The writing is in Drew’s usual style, feauring probably too many curse words and an entirely excessive amount of all caps, but its not the style that’s so good about this piece; its the substance.

The post is basically the simple story of why Drew transferred, wrapped up in why he didn’t have any fun in college. He’s been alluding to something traumatic in his college history since he started writing at Deadspin, but until now it was mostly conjecture as to what it was. And its hard to imagine that someone so flamboyant in his writing, so entertaining, and so funny, had no friends in college. I mean literally. None.

For those of us who have wholeheartedly thrown ourselves into the American college experience, its sometimes hard to remember how painful it is for some people. I’ve had friends drop out, been expelled, go through serious bouts of depression, and just generally have a bad time. These are people who are smart, and will someday be very succesful. But their undergrad experience sucked.

The thing with college is that there are many sides to it. There is the academic side, and that side is pretty sweet; there are all these smart people around you, and you learn amazingly interesting things, and you end up discussing it until four AM when you have class the next morning. There is the social side, where everyone on your hall parties together, does crazy things together, drinks together, and becomes insanely close friends (well, sometimes). Then there is the side no one wants to talk about: college involves really spectacularly lonely moments, and that is what Drew is getting at. Its not all studying and partying; when you live in such close proximity to other people, it can make you feel more isolated than anywhere else.

Take freshman year. I spent one friday night in February just wandering aimlessly around campus. It was 2 degrees out. Whatever. My best friend and girlfriend were calling. They were ignored. I needed some time alone. I was yelled at by some drunk seniors who were on there way to a party. I would have given anything to switch roles with them at that moment.

Or junior year. It was a Thursday night, and the freshmen on my hall threw a party which they didn’t invite me too. Even if I could go, I had a midterm the next day. They were loud all night; the music was loud, the yelling was loud. I opened my door to go to the bathroom, and two people almost fell into my room. They had been leaning on my door, making out. The whole time I just sat at my desk, studying, wearing sunglasses so I could feel like I was part of the party too, even if I knew I wasn’t.

Or senior year, during October break. The whole campus was basically empty, so I went for two-hour long walks every day. I spent an hour standing at the top of graduation hill; just standing. No one came by, except for a groundhog. Eventually, the wind got cold and I went home, as lonely as when I had left.

Some reading this are thinking, really? You’re lonely? The guy who used to brag about hooking up with multiple girls in a night? Yeah, me. On the one hand, YEAH COLLEGE GIRLS WHOOOOOO! On the other… was I really so desperately lonely that I did that?

I guess the point is, everyone has lonely moments in college. Even people with a great social life. So if you feel like Drew, and you’re crying to your mom on the phone about how lonely you are, just know you’re not alone. It happens to the best of us.

(Narcissistic comment of the night: and if you’re wondering, I am implying that I’m the best of us).

Ryan

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/02/11/egypt.revolution/index.html?hpt=T1

Fri, 11 Feb 2011 14:30:12 -0500

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/02/11/egypt.revolution/index.html?hpt=T1:

Ding, dong, the witch is dead! Which old witch? The wicked witch!

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/02/09/gulf.oil.dolphin/index.html?hpt=C2

Thu, 10 Feb 2011 00:56:00 -0500

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/02/09/gulf.oil.dolphin/index.html?hpt=C2:

Baddass oi-spill-survivor Dolphin? Heartwarming animal rescue story? An abused animal proves tougher than the bigger, stronger animals that abused him? How can I say no!

(Seriously, read it. It will make you feel so much better about your life).

http://detroit4lyfe.com/articles/general-sports/greg-jennings-puts-team-on-his-back-scores-99-yard-td-with-broken-leg-video.html

Wed, 09 Feb 2011 15:45:08 -0500

http://detroit4lyfe.com/articles/general-sports/greg-jennings-puts-team-on-his-back-scores-99-yard-td-with-broken-leg-video.html:

In honor of Greg Jennings performance in the Super Bowl — he puts the team on his back.

(I know everyone’s seen it already… its a tribute).

http://deadspin.com/5752254/the-chicago-snow-dong-seemingly-inspired-a-national-art-contest

Sun, 06 Feb 2011 02:07:35 -0500

http://deadspin.com/5752254/the-chicago-snow-dong-seemingly-inspired-a-national-art-contest:

Bow in the presence of greatness.