The Many Indignities of New York City

I have discovered that as the days draw nearer to our departure from New York, the less I am able to tolerate the thousands of indignities that New Yorkers are constantly subjected to. For eight years, which happens to be all of my post-college adult life, I have sung the praises of New York; it truly has become my home and I am, of course, scared and reluctant to leave. It is at times both horrific and majestic, filled with mystery and misery. To be concise, I am a city-boy at heart, even though I hail from the suburbs and in general loathe other people.

But that does not mean that I do not have the right to be treated with respect. And who is capable of hurling insult after injury upon New Yorkers better than the MTA?

This weekend, as many other weekends in the past, the F train was running on the V in the Queens-bound direction. When that happens, a straphanger can do one of two things to get to Roosevelt Island: either take the F all the way into Jackson Heights and transfer to a Manhattan-bound train, or get off at 53rd and Lexington and walk to the Tram. For able-bodied persons, the latter is the better option.

Unless you listen to the announcements. At every stop starting at 14th St. the conductor informed us that, to get to Roosevelt Island, one should get off at Queens Plaza and take the shuttle bus the MTA has graciously provided for affected passengers. Oh glory days! A shuttle bus! That wasn't sarcasm; to me, above ground is always preferable to below. So we stayed on the train.

And the shuttle bus would have been a great option. If there had been a shuttle bus. See, when we got off the train and asked the attendant to give us a shuttle bus ticket, he informed us that there wasn't one and he had no idea why we thought there would be one and that we would have to get back onto the train, which had now departed, and take it to Jackson Heights and switch trains.

I understand service interruption; it is a necessary evil when it comes to public transportation. I begrudgingly accept poorly worded signs alerting me of such changes. What I do not accept is being lied to. And the worst part is, no one cares. The conductors don't care; the attendants don't care; the MTA certainly doesn't care. And you can't complain to anyone. Well, I mean you can certainly complain to people (I suggest your co-workers and/or loved-ones) but you aren't going to get any retribution.

That's why you should focus your energy on complaining about things that can have satisfactory outcomes. Like when a taxi waits until the last minute, after the lanes have split, to get into the exit lane on the BQE, rather than wait in the long line of cars like a respectable human beings do, and you have a cell phone and his easy-to-remember 4 digit license plate, you can file a reckless driving claim on his ass with the TLC. That, my friends, is satisfying.

I am, of course, terrified that my general rage at people who do things that piss me off is going to be turned into road-rage that will get me injured. But I am counting on the general passivity and cordiality of Southerners to keep me sane in the Carolinas; but a more likely scenario is that their general lackadaisical congeniality will, um, piss me off.

Sad Tableau

This morning I was riding the 6 train and as I descended into the subway, I saw something that truly saddened me. An old man, probably in his sixties but with a hunched over stance and white hair and moustache that made him look much older, was scrubbing graffiti off the wall. Of course, the first thing that popped into my head was that episode of South Park where someone drops a deuce in the urinal and it leads to Kyle being blamed for September 11th.

Although graffiti can be considered a valid art form, this was just straight up vandalism. And this poor man, who has probably labored a great deal in his life, was forced to clean up after some horrible thug who has no respect for his neighbors. Heartbreaking. It's as bad as taking someone's newspaper in his own home. And that's seriously bad. It's almost enough to make my middle-class white guilt overcome by liberally-educated homosexual sense of entitlement.

Gingivectomy

That's what the dentist did to me today.

Sure, I went in for a routine cleaning and sure, I haven't been flossing as much as I should and my gums are a little swollen. And I do know that, left untreated, gingivitis can kill you. Or at least I've always been suspicious of it.

But I thought that all the dentist would do was scrape some plaque off my teeth and give me a good tongue lashing for not flossing. But noooooo. She wanted to perform a gingivectomy to rid me of loose gums that apparently were creating deep pockets around my teeth for plaque to reside. She referred to it as "recontouring my gum line," which sounded a little too Park Avenue for my taste (forgetting for a second that my dentist was located on Park Avenue) but which I accepted because that's what you do when you are lying back in a chair with a bright light shining in your eyes and a masked woman poking your gums with a metal prod.

She attempted to ease my mind, though, by assuring me that she wouldn't use the "blade" but rather "just the sharp tool". I will not bore you with the subsequent gory details of my dental procedure, except to make note that it involved lots of blood. And when I rinsed and spat, I am positive I saw parts of my gum wash down the tiny little sink.

The upshot, of course, is that I have a killer new smile. Or at least I will when the new gaping holes in my gums heal over.

Illiterate Ph.D.s

Yesterday, somebody in my building took my copy of the Wall Street Journal. I know someone took it because it was in the hallway waiting for me when I left for the gym, but when I returned it was no longer there. So I used my tightly honed powers of deductive reasoning to conclude that someone took it.

Now, it's possible they were confused. Apparently the guy who delivers the paper to us can't walk thirty feet down the hallway, perhaps because of some affliction to his lower appendages (although were that the case he perhaps would have chosen a less mobile profession), and instead merely tosses the paper out of the elevator and doesn't care where it lands. Sometimes it lands in front of someone else's door. Sometimes it barely makes it out of the elevator. It has never made it in front of my door. So maybe that's why someone took it.

Maybe someone saw the paper on the floor and said to themselves, "Hmmm, isn't it nice of the building to leave this copy of the Wall Street Journal just lying here for anyone to take. Hey, I like to read! Maybe I'll read this paper!" Or maybe they said to themselves, "Hey, perhaps in a drunken stupor I accidentally ordered the Wall Street Journal to be delivered to my hallway, and even though I can't remember doing it, I'm going to pick it up and read it anyway!"

Except the problem with my little hypotheticals, which might seem reasonable to the casual observer, is that they neglect a very salient fact: the person who picked up my paper mistakenly cannot possibly know how to read. How do I know this very important and what might be considered highly improbable piece of information?

I know this because if they could read, they would have seen the big fat address label that does not have their name on it.

The kicker, of course, is that every single apartment on my floor has at least one Ph.D. living in it. It baffles the mind that, in an entire floor of Ph.D.'s, there lives someone who is not capable of reading an address label.

Either that, or one of my neighbors is a gigantic douche.

15 Seconds of Fame

As some of you may know, Emerson and I, along with my friend Jennifer, tried out for the second season of VH1's The World Series of Pop Culture, hosted by none other than our local news idol, Pat Kiernan of NY1. Needless to say, we did not succeed. Even though we studied for months. We didn't even pass the test. Although we are forbidden under the fullest penalty of the law to say what went on in that room, I will say that it required more knowledge of the WB than even I was capable of cramming into my brain. It's a shame. Stupid Gilmore Girls!

We had chosen what, in our opinion, was the kick-ass-est team name ever: "There Is No Dana". We even showed up to the auditions dressed as nerdy paranormal investigators. And I thought for sure that no one would get to see us. But I was wrong. In the intro to the first episode, where they showcase scenes from the written test, there we are in all our test-taking glory! Emerson even got a close-up!

Of course, I am still bitter about not getting on but I am tickled pink that last year's winners, El Chupacabra, got knocked out in the first round. I always thought those hacks got lucky!

Fun Summer

The boy and I had a very pleasant Sunday in the sun a few days ago. We began by getting up at the ass-crack of dawn and schlepping down the street to our newly acquired car that has its own newly aquired parking space at the Motorgate Parking Garage above the Gristede's on Roosevelt Island (which is where we live, of course). Then we drove to Target because we realized in our hasty planning that in order to properly enjoy the beach to which we were headed we were going to need to purchase beach chairs. This, a day after we made a special trip out to Target for other necessary sundries.

And of course, because we can't do anything ordinary, we didn't go to a popular, common beach like Jones Beach or Coney Island. No, we had to find the quiettest beach in the five burroughs; a beach that no one in their right mind would want to go to because it is impossible to reach by public transportation and nearly as impossible to reach by car and doubly impossible to park once you get there because you need a fishing license to do so. Oh, and it also had to be the former home of supersonic air defens missiles. I give you: Fort Tilden. Let me just say that New York Magazine didn't mention the $50 fee for a parking permit!

Regardless, we found a beautiful spot on the beach which wasn't nearly as vacant as I was led to believe but was still far quieter than any other beach in the metropolitan area. It was also probably windier. The wind, in fact, prohibited me from properly applying my spray-on sunscreen. To wit, I have horrible streaky bright red sunburns all over my legs, in very uncomfortable locations.

That didn't deter us, however, from having a pleasant work out at the gym and then having dinner in Long Island City at a delicious Thai place, Tuk Tuk. I had the pinapple coconut duck curry. It was exquisite. Then we had a scotch at our new favorite outside bar, LIC, on Vernon Blvd., where we were serenaded by a local band that specialized in surf music. I kid you not.

As it was, I enjoyed my weekend immensely. It fit well into our theme for the summer which is: "Fun Summer". Not original, I know, but then again it wasn't me who came up with it. Next Fun Summer weekend? Blueberry picking and Harry Potter reading....

Triumphant Return!

After about a year, I have decided to return to blogging. I'm not entirely sure what prompted it but I'm certain that it has something to do with ego and self-esteem issues. And maybe akrasia.

So I hope to keep this up. You can expect me to blog about the usual stuff. Pop culture. My goings-on about New York. Probably a little intelligent design creationism thrown in amongst some other sciency stuff. Gay marriage. Maybe my gay marriage, if we ever get around to setting a date. I might even talk about some politics, like how the vice president's quasi-QM metaphysical musings about his state of existence rival the existential poetry of the former Secretary of Defense. Or how much, no matter how hard I honestly try, I still can't like Hillary Clinton. And if I'm really lucky, I'll get to turn this into a Mike for Prez blog.

But more likely than not I'll just complain about things that piss me off. Like the smug sense of entitlement every person in this city seems to have. Or how people never exit at the back of the bus. Or how livery cabs merge in front of you on the BQE at the very last second even though they, of all people, should certain know better.

Oh, and I'll probably extol the virtues of plaid on a regular basis.

Stem Cell Lies

Michael Fumento, the National Review's go-to guy for science stuff, has a particularly nauseating essay in this week's issue dealing with embryonic stem cell (ESC) research in the wake of the President's veto. It deals with a letter written to Science by three prominent ESC researchers taking to task a list that's been floating around claiming that adult stem cells (ASC) can treat upwards of 70 some-odd diseases, whereas ESCs haven't cured anything. Science has a nice article this week on the reality of some of those "cures", most of which are in foreign countries with undocumented, anecdotal results. These scientists are correct to take issue with Congress touting out "patient testimony" as evidence of ASCs curative powers.

Fumento gets riled up, however, by the supposed dishonesty of these scientists by downplaying the curative potential of ASCs, claiming that they are apparently "at odds" with the whole medical community. Why? Because they claim “adult stem cell transplants from bone marrow or umbilical cord blood can provide some benefit to sickle cell patients” and “hold the potential to treat sickle cell anemia” [emphasis Fumento's]. He claims that, no, ASCs have full curative power:

An article from the May 2006 issue of Current Opinion in Hematology notes that “there is presently no curative therapy” for sickle-cell anemia other than allogeneic hematopoietic stem cell transplantation. “Hematopoietic” means from marrow or blood; “allogeneic” means the cells are from another person. Seminars in Hematology (2004) states, “. . . curative allogeneic stem cell transplantation therapy” has “been developed for sickle cell anemia.” Meanwhile, “. . . curative allogeneic stem cell transplantation therapy [has] been developed for” sickle-cell anemia according to Current Opinions in Molecular Therapy (2003), while “hematopoietic stem cells for allogeneic transplantation” are “currently the only curative approach for sickle cell anemia” observes the journal Blood (2002).

What does everybody seem to know that the Science writers and editors don’t?

Hmmm. I'll tell you Mr. Fumento. They know you need to read more than one sentence into an abstract. Take the Curr Opin Hematol article. Fumento needed to only read the next sentence: "This therapeutic option, however, is not available to most patients due to the lack of an HLA-matched bone marrow donor." Wow. One curative therapy exists and it remains unavailable to most patients. I'd say that, on the whole, allogenic stem cell transplantation therapy holds potential and provides some benefit to patients as a group, which is how we generally think of the benefits of a therapy. And since immunocompatibility is a major problem for organ donations (which stem cell transplantation essentially is), that's why the all the papers he cited go on to talk about gene therapy to overcome that problem. I'd hardly say the powers of ASCs were falsely underplayed:

Sometimes it prints easily falsifiable studies, such as this, attacking the usefulness of ASCs.

Yes, it is easily falsifiable, as in, one can attempt to falsify it by

reading the literature. However, as is obvious from reading, oh say,
the entire article, one realizes that ASCs aren't nearly as useful as
you'd like to believe.

Will ESCs help us in our pursuit of the holy histocompatibility grail? Maybe, maybe not. Point is, ASCs probably won't because they are a lot harder to manipulate. Studying ESCs is basic science research and may provide some clues towards this manipulation by helping us understand early differentiation, for example. And that research needs to be funded by the federal government.

Fumento ends, of course, by implying that the recent South Korean stem cell debacle shows that Science is a "propaganda sheet:"

Other times it falsely promotes ESCs. That culminated in January when the journal was forced to retract two groundbreaking ESC studies that proved frauds.

Yes, but it didn't falsely promote ESCs. The journal itself was defrauded by the authors. And it immediately retracted them. It was not intentional and not only was the journal defrauded but the peer-reviewers and several co-authors as well. Not everyone involved with the publication of data is expected to independently verify every detail of the work submitted.

Whatever one's opinion on ESC research is, I simply abhor when irresponsible "journalists" misrepresent science. Abhor. Like I abhor Richard Gere. Oh yes, that much.

Alternate Side Parking Rules

New Yorkers have this funny little ritual that they go through several times a week if they own cars and it goes by Alternate Side Parking Rules, whereby for about an hour and a half two or three times a week, one of the sides of the street gets cleaned and must be cleared of traffic. Which means if, oh say, you've borrowed your sisters car for the week while she's studying in Italy so you can go to Costco and run other errands and drive out of the city on the weekend and generally just get a respite from public transportation, you can't just leave it on the street until you need it. No, you have to move it between the hours of 9:00 and 10:30 so that the Department of Sanitation can clean the street, which in my seven years in this city I may have seen happen once.

Anyway, I used to think this little annoyance was amusing and I got a cynical bout of schadenfreude every time I saw people double parked across the street waiting for the magical time when they can move their cars to the other side and leave them there for upwards of three whole days!

That is, I was amused until it happened to me. When I arrived on Sunday night I was determined to park on a side of the stree where I didn't have to move the car until at least Tuesday. This meant either parking on the other side of 96th St. (the horrors!) or trying to fit my sister's little Elantra in a small space between an Infiniti and a Pathfinder. SUVs are, of course, the bain of my existence but this one took the cake. I asked the boy to get out and see if I could fit. He said yes, which would have been the correct answer if the Pathfinder didn't have a spare tire the size of Minnesota sticking out the back. Bumper to bumper I was fine. But bumper to tire? Nope. The Elantra's hood was just two inches too high for that. I managed to wedge myself in, but by the time I realized I couldn't get the car closer than a foot and half to the curb, there was no going back.

I did manage to find a space this morning, however, after only 45 minutes. By the end of the week I'll be a pro. Just in time to return the car to Connecticut and go another seven years without ever having to pray for inclimate weather so I can hear those blessed words on the morning news: "Alternate side parking has been suspended city wide...."

The Light at the End of the Tunnel...

... is October, baby! A little later than I wanted it to be but whatever. My committee meeting went swimmingly. And in just four short months I am going to insist that you all start referring to me as "Dr."! Apparently my work on the modification of bilayer mechanical properities by poly-unsaturated fatty acids, specifically the interplay between changes in elasticity and curvature, was a hit with the biochemists!

I'm on tonight and my hips don't lie....

Happy Anniversary!

To marriage equality!

The DaVinci Code

I am torn by the fact that Ron Howard is not putting a disclaimer up about Opus Dei when the film gets released this month. I am torn because I detest Opus Dei and would like people to have a disfavorable opinion of them, but I do think that they warrent a fair treatment. Granted, the story is fiction, and piss-poor fiction at that (give me Umberto Eco anyday). But of all the crap that Brown made up, Opus Dei is the only organization a) introduced to the general population by this drivel and b) still around. I think the Vatican is fair game in the same way that "the government" is appropriate as the Big Bad in a conspiracy story.

That said, however, I do get a tinge of delight at the twisted portrayal of Opus Dei. All fundamentalism should be stamped out.

Happy Third of the Month!

Ah, spring has sprung. It's wet and breezy with wild temperature fluctuations and inconceivably high levels of airborne allergens. Not to mention the fact that the vaguely acidic smell that has been permeating my department's restrooms comes not from infrequently emptied trash bins but from the toxic vapors emanating from the broken wasteline from the gross anatomy lab above us. If I wasn't in the daily habit of inhaling enough methanol to blind an elephant, I might be worried.

But not today.

Because today is about happy thoughts. Happy thoughts like how ludicrously awesome Prison Break is. Will Sarah Wayne Callies actually break the law and help Wentworth "I'm Secretly Black" Miller escape? Who is this "Company", an international conglomerate of corporations that control all world politics (aka the Elders of Zion) and why are the messing with Patricia Wettig? And don't you think Patricia Wettig's name seems to be missing a consonant?

All these questions, however, can gleefully distract us from our true mission today: to spread love and joy and self-appreciation everywhere! Some may say that my infatuation with self-satisfaction is merely a casualty of the self-esteem movement of my childhood, a "this is your brain on drugs" childhood, which admittedly made heroin look tasty rather than horrifying (had I known the dangers of "bad" cholesterol (which is of course an idiotic oversimplification of an essential and vital mammalian sterolic compound that we really shouldn't be attempting to moralize by placing value judgments on it)) I'd've probably been terrified. If I had been a product of the "drugs will make you stick your entire hand in your mouth" childhood, I might have stayed of the crank... the self-love crank that this!

So if you're having difficulty finding your inner high today and you can't get a hold of some methanol, might I proffer a suggestion: take a dozen moist towelettes and remove them from their deliciously square foil wrappers. Layer them on top of each other and place them firmly over your nose and mouth. Secure them by tying a bandanna (preferably plaid) around your head and breath normally. Ignore the burning sensation in the middle of your cerebellum. As your eyes begin to well up with tears of joy and wonderment, think upon the meaning of the Third of the Month and try to stay awake until the euphoria hits you....

Mmm Tastes Like Chicken

This weekend the boy and I went to the Darwin exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History. I highly recommend it, and not just because they take a nicely produced swing at Intelligent Design Creationism. In a serious of video discussions Ken Miller, Eugenie Scott and Francis Collins, among others, neatly lay out the definition of a theory and discuss why ID isn't one.

But that is not the focus of the exhibit; the focus is Darwin's journey from simple observations to his detailed, revolutionary idea. The whole exhibit has a very Victorian feel and you get a true sense of how pathologically curious the man was, as evidenced by the fact that he ate every species he came across to see what it tasted like. Seriously. Apparently those endangered Galapagos iguanas taste like chicken.

And while the IMAX movie of the Galapagos islands enhanced the experience, it really isn't all that necessary; it's too short to actually give you any scientific detail, although widescreen IMAX movies of nature are always pretty cool.

Not Ludicrous Enough

Last night was the best night of my life. Well, recently at least. Why? Because Ludicrous Prison Break is back on the air! It was fantastic! There are all these really tense moments. Is he gonna get the chair? Is he not gonna get the chair? Is Sarah Wayne Callies '99 gonna come through and talk to her daddy? Was Wentworth Miller going to be able to stop staring off into middle distance long enough to plead with her eyes? When are they finally going to get to make out? Are they going to have a torrid off-screen romance? Is Abruzzi coming back from his stint with VW? Are Michael and Sucre ever going to make out? Are they going to kill off Veronica so I don't have to suffer through any more of Robin Tunney's horribly affected phrasing? And doesn't Patricia Wettig rock?

Big Boys Don't Get Do-Overs

As you probably know, I am not a big fan of unions. Especially greedy ones. The TWU is no exception. Perhaps you all remember that strike back around Christmas? That illegal strike? Remember it was about how the MTA wasn't given the workers what they wanted? Remember how, when they didn't reach an agreement, the MTA wanted to go to binding arbitration? Kind of like how every other union/management dispute is settled. Because arbitration and mediation is how adults who cannot come to an agreement settle their differences.

Remember how the TWU didn't want to go to binding arbitration because they didn't want to lose a say in their contract? And remember how the MTA backed down to virtually all the union's demands and how the union president, Roger Toussaint, agreed it was a fair contract? And remember how the union got to take a vote on it and get their say? And remember how they rejected it and how the MTA said, "fine, we'll go to binding arbitration, like adults."

Well, now the union wants another chance to vote. See, they didn't understand what they were voting on. It's not like they had weeks to read the contract. It's not like every news program and newspaper in the city reported what was in the deal ad nauseum. No, they weren't properly informed. They want to try again.

I'm sorry. Adults don't get do-overs. You had your choice. You struck for three days, illegally, when you didn't get your way. Then you were handed a nice, sweet deal, when the MTA had every legal and rational reason to push for binding arbitration. And you said no. And now, when it looks like you're going to be forced into binding arbitration against what you originally wanted, you want another vote?

"We believe that the MTA should be held to the terms that they agreed to in December, and that the MTA should not get into the business of dictating to the union when and how we ratify a contract," says Mr. Toussaint. Oh really? Dictating? Kind of like how you dictated the MTA when and how you were going to go to work? Are you so egotistical as to think that the workers are the only entity that matters? Earth to Roger: socialism lost. You have management to deal with, the ones who have to sign off on your contract. And don't forget about those pesky little subway and bus riders. We're just a bunch of irritating gnats.

You had your chance to sign the MTA's contract offer and you blew it. Adults go to a mediator. Children pitch a fit when they don't get their way and then demand everyone let them try again. And when you act like children, you deserve to be treated by children.

Not My Fault...

I intend to return to blogging as soon as my schedule calms down a bit.

I have resurfaced, however briefly, to inform everyone that I am in no way involved in this. A worm that attacks everyone on the third of the month is, in fact, blasphemous! That is not in the spirit of the Third of the Month! It is not about wanton destruction or vandalism! It is about loving yourself and cherishing yourself and protecting yourself from sadness and malaise. And plaid. Never forget that ultimately this day is about plaid....

So, grab a stack of moist towellettes, don your favorite pair of plaid boxers (or if you have any shirts left over from the mid 90s) and start updating those virus definitions! And stop downloading porn from random spam! (And no, the irony of this worm's method of attack is not lost on me...)

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Last night I had the pleasure of attending a dinner party in my honor thrown by what I would like to call my rich Jewess benefactor, the lovely woman who endowed the fellowship that makes my PUFA research possible. Now, I've know some wealthy people; I have been to parties of wealthy people; I have some wealthy people in my family; heck, my cousin went to one of those pre-schools that cost more than Dartmouth did.

But I have never been to a home where you could stand at the toilet in the guest bathroom and relieve yourself while staring at a Picasso. An actual Picasso. In the guest bathroom.

And the clincher is that this apartment, in all its glory (and it was fantastic), was on the not-so-impressive middle floor of a not-so-impressive building on Park Ave. And still the only place they could find for the Picasso was the guest bathroom.

I need to invent something. Pronto.

Unmitigated Gall

I am having a bad morning, and it's not because I only had toast and jam for breakfast. No, I am having a bad morning because I am wet. I am primarily wet because of the rain; I realize, so is pretty much everyone in New York today. However, I could be less wet because I do own an umbrella; an umbrella that I'm very careful to keep with me at all times because you never know when the sky is going to open up and pour down on you and make you wet. And God knows there's little I hate more than being wet all day. Which is why I carry an umbrella with me at all times.

So why am I wet today? Because some asshole (and I only use that word because it's the nicest thing I can think of) stole my umbrella from the hallway outside my door where it had been drying overnight. Oh, that's right. Some un-neighborly fuck-twat took my umbrella from me on a soggy, rainy, cold morning two days before Thanksgiving! This godless asswipe of a thief took my ratty, ugly pop-up umbrella on a day when the owner (me) probably (definitely) really needed it. I would have bought another one but I didn't have enough cash on me to buy an umbrella because, oh gee, because I hadn't planned on needing to buy an umbrella this morning. Because I own one.

But I'm really angry at myself. I'm angry because I never leave my umbrella outside of my apartment. I never leave my umbrella outside of my apartment because I am a paranoid person who thinks very little of other people and I always had this irrational thought that if I left a cheap umbrella outside my door someone would probably steal it. And I always knew, deep down, that it was an irrational thought. Who would steal an umbrella? People cannot really be that thoughtless and cruel to their neighbors. That's what I thought to myself last night as I returned to my apartment with a soaking umbrella and left it outside to dry.

Well apparently my irrational fears were perfectly rational. The world is apparently filled with heinous, uncaring, unloving, selfish fuckholes. There are only seven other apartments in my building. And I swear to God I will find the fucker who stole my umbrella and I will not hesitate to rip his thieving arm from his socket and beat him to death with the bloody stump.

Calgon! Get Me Up Outta Here and Take Me Somewhere!

The boy and I have taken to watching music videos in the morning, in order to stay apace of what the kiddies are listening to these days (or at least what's on MTV). It has been thoroughly enlightening, since I don't listen to the radio. It has made me come to appreciate the wonderfulness that is Kanye West's "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" and "Gold Digger".

But our story doesn't start with MTV or Kanye or bling related hip-hop. No, our story today begins with late night channel surfing a few months ago. The boy was asleep, but I was a bit wired so I started flipping through channels until I came across the local PBS station from New Jersey, you know the one that plays that scenic tour of Italy twelve times a day? Well, at 3:30 am I was taken aback to learn that, instead of some dreary travelogue, PBS was showing some "hipster" youth jumping up and down on top of his piano, acting like an asshole. I mean, come on. An edgy jazz pianist? Sneakers and shaggy hair alone will not make you cool. Especially when you're banging away on your piano keys like a teenaged boy popping his cherry (lots of show to camouflage a lack of talent) while singing a sophomoric version of "I Could Have Danced All Night". Needless to say, I wasn't in a particularly sharp state of mind at the time and didn't know quite what to make of this spectacle.

So I put it out of my mind.

Until last week when this tool showed up on MTV. Apparently he's famous. Apparently people really like him. And apparently they have all had lobotomies. His name is Jamie Cullum and let me give you a taste of his youthful wisdom:

So what game shall we play today?
How about the one where you don't get your way?
But even if you do,
That's okay.

Trust me, it isn't any more interesting with music. Anywho, let's break it down, shall we? The only defining characteristic of this "game" is that the chick he's after doesn't get her way. But, he says, even if she does get her way, he's totally fine with that. But since that was the only defining characteristic of the game he was suggesting, he's really saying that he doesn't care what game they play. Which might be mistaken for deep, if the song manages to not put you to sleep by the time you hit the chorus.

He's a got a few more gems in there, too. Like:

I opened the door and you walked in,
(Sniff) The scent of wild jasmine.

Honestly. Do women smell like anything other than jasmine or vanilla? I don't even think I know what jasmine smells like. But what I do know is that rhyming it with "walked in" is about as lame as rhyming
"get your way" with "okay"...

Or how about this one:

And who'd have thought that entertainment,
Lies in the winter of your discontent.

Oooh, Jamie Cullum read a book! Lesson 1: when you want to look smart (but aren't) quote Shakespeare.

Alright, I got one more:

Now, sit at the table, face to face,
Queen takes pawn, check or checkmate!

Check or checkmate. Got that? Lesson #2: when you want to look smart (but aren't) make references to intellectual games. Like chess. Or backgammon. Or the one where you don't get your way.

Now, for a final observation... Compare what you read above with the following:

Now I aint sayin she a gold digger (When I'm Need)
But she aint messin wit no broke niggaz

I think the answer is obvious...