Women Drivers

I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking guy. I think it's great that women can vote and that they have special leagues for basketball and whatnot. Still, though, I can't help but ignore the fact that most of the problem drivers I encounter on the highway are members of the fairer sex. I'm not saying that women can't drive, because saying that would jeopardize my playboy lifestyle to some degree, but I will say that nearly all bad drivers are women. I'm pretty sure there are university studies (perhaps by Bob Jones U) to back up my theory.

My friend and I drove up to Cape Cod this past weekend and getting up there was a nightmare. Every few minutes, we would run into some inexplicably confused driver who felt that 60 mph was a legitimate pace in the leftmost lane. About 95% of the time, this driver turned out to be a Danica-in-training. What is it about estrogen that makes one unable to drive at a respectable speed? Moreover, why do they steadfastly refuse to move over when someone wants to pass them?

That's not even the best tactic, though. Anyone can simply refuse to get out of the way. It is the hallmark of a true championess when they actually enter your lane when they see you coming up quickly. For no reason whatsoever, these ladies decide that it's a good idea to cut off a driver going 90 when they themselves are only driving at 55.

Ladies, what is it?

Incidentally, the weekend turned out fine despite these egregious annoyances. We even got to see Teddy Kennedy drop out of the Figawi Race (our reason for going to Cape Cod) due to poor wind. His wasn't the only boat to do this (there are lots of cowards in New England it seems). However, he was the only one we noticed who had a power boat pick him up and take him back to shore (where he would no doubt hit the bars) while his crew stayed aboard and brought the boat back to shore (about 2 hours away at motoring speed).

What a hero.

Hooters Should Be Razed to the Ground

How did Hooters ever get the reputation, however tongue-in-cheek, that it was a restaurant with hot waitresses? It doesn't have the reputation for having good food, so I'll hardly complain about the subpar wings and poorly maintained beer, but it does have the reputation for having hot waitresses and it is simply unfounded.

Last night I met some NYU friends at the Hooters on 56th and I was honestly shocked. I know I tend to exaggerate, but let me tell you that I am 100% serious when I say that I've seen hotter girls in geriatric wards. These waitresses (besides being obvious examples of Bridge and Tunnel trash) honestly made me feel sick.

It didn't help, of course, that we went to this Hooters because we were expecting a buddy of ours (Dane) from USC to be coming in. In typical Dane fashion, though, he changed his plans at the last minute without telling anybody and so we sat around for over an hour, eating lousy wings and drinking lukewarm beer while somebody's grandma wiggled her short shorts in our face. It was miserable.

I haven't had a Hooters experience this bad since the Hooters in Acapulco, when the Einsteins running that establishment decided to blast reggaeton music when everyone in the restaurant (99% American spring breakers) was watching the NCAA tournament. Como se dice "We're fucking retards who think people would rather listen to Daddy Yankee than Daddy Marv during March Madness."

I suppose it isn't their fault, though. After all, all the intelligent Mexicans got the hell out of there. Or, at least, they're running clubs like Palladium where they beat the shit out of tourists and steal their money. Mexico or Hooters...it's tough to say which has a more undeserved reputation for good times.

Observational Humor Rendered Obsolete

No Journey song could ease my pain right now. Not even the smooth, soothing sounds of "When the Lights Go Down in the City."

What is the source of this pain?

The source is the fact that on two nights this week, despite my usual aversion, I ended my night at "O'Connell's" nee "Cannon's," a pseudo-Irish, blue collar death bar located about 7 blocks from the comfort zone of Nacho's. The clientele of this working man's establishment isn't made up of the steel millers or elementary school crossing guards typical of such a degenerate looking place, though. No, the clientele here is a much lower sort of person: the Columbia Jock.

The Columbia Jock is perhaps the lowest position in all of Jock culture...even lower than the "South Central Nowhere State" Jock, precisely because the nowhere Jock at least has legions of dumb coeds thinking that he's the man. At Columbia, though, telling a girl you're on the basketball team has roughly the same effect as going to Sudan and waving your Urban Studies PhD around: I'm sure you worked really hard to get there, but it isn't relavent, it isn't impressive, and it certainly isn't cool.

O'Connell's is the kind of place where you walk in and immediately notice the fact that nearly every male in the room is clearly less intelligent than the average Columbia student. I remember standing at the bar and having one of these people (Football player) ask: "HEY DUDE!!! YOU LOOKIN FOR SOME CHICKS TONIGHT?"

The interest I had in talking to this guy was less than zero, so I promptly responded: "Nah, bro...animals. They're more fun and they talk less."

He looked confused and then went back to the fat girl he was talking to.

Seriously, I don't understand how these guys can act like they're legitimate college athletes. Columbia doesn't win anything in either Football, Basketball, or Baseball...and yet these people walk around as if they're first round draft picks.

What's the best way to disarm a Columbia basketball player? Ask him how they did in the NCAA tournament.

What's the best way to disarm a Columbia football player? Ask him for the square root of the number 4.

To compound the ridiculousness of these people, each of Football, Basketball, and Baseball have their own fraternities on campus. I don't know about the Baseball fraternity, but I know that the football and basketball people charge for entry to their parties. How ridiculous is that? I'm not sure whether I should be more disgusted by the fact that they charge or the fact that people actually pay.

As a final footnote, I'm sure that most of the people on these teams are good athletes...but the team record doesn't show that. Until wins start coming in, it's ridiculous for these people to act like God's gift. If they start winning bowls or tournaments, then they can do that. Until then, they should take the backseat to the nerd in Lit Hum because he actually earned the right to study at this noble institution.

Guide to Not Studying for your Final

The worst possible place a college student can be is that place where the only thing that separates him (or her, if you're masculinity-challenged) from summer is the last final exam.

After four months of classes, papers, quizzes, midterms and other finals, the only thing which is keeping me from diving to the hazy depths of endless alcohol abuse is one final exam in what is perhaps the most ludicrous subject of all time: 20th Century Poetry. Poetry itself isn't ludicrous. In fact, I consider myself something of a poet. What is ludicrous is the simple fact that one can suggest we take a final exam on Poetry.

How are you supposed to study for this? Memorize the poems? There are hundreds of poems on the reading list! Most of them aren't even any good (I'm looking at you, Auden).

Attempting to study for such an exam is a journey into the darkest reaches of the Absurd. The more time I dedicate to studying, the more I am convinced that studying is unnecessary. The less time I spend studying, the more I am convinced that I'm going to fail.

Therefore, I've perfected my method for Studying Avoidance. Here are the top 10 ways to not waste your time studying for a test for which it is impossible to truly study while saving your conscience from guilt.


10. Masturbate. Furiously.

9. Stare hopelessly at the trash which you have strewn about your room over the course of the entire semester. Wonder how it got there. Get angry at yourself for putting it there. Get angry at Long Island Iced Teas for making you think it was a good idea to put it there. Don't do anything about it. Repeat.

8. Listen to the hard-hitting rock anthems of the 80's. I recommend "Kickstart My Heart" by Motley Crue and "Youth Gone Wild" by Skid Row. Grow out your hair and be misunderstood by adults everywhere, especially your parents. Raise your fist in the air, triumphantly, and ask whatever city you're in if its ready to rock.

7. Adopt a whale.

6. Upon the whale's delivery to you, sell to Japanese whale dealers, where your humpback friend will be used for food, clothing, energy, decoration, and the aggravation of PETA. Don't feel bad...you adopted the whale, which meant that it was an orphan with no family or friends, so nobody is going to be upset with you.

5. Masturbate, although this time put on some slow jams and light some candles. Convince yourself that you're still heterosexual.

4. Read the wikipedia entry on Alf. No, not the Animal Liberation Front, but Alf, the lovable alien of sitcom fame. There's lots you can learn about him. For instance, did you know that when Alf was in high school back on his alien planet, he played Boullabaiseball? Whacky! Also, you can edit the page yourself, which is a fun way to get involved in Alf culture if you live in a remote area and don't have access to any Alf-oriented activities.

3. Get really wasted and drunk dial your middle school girlfriend, especially if it's the middle of the day or the early evening. She'll never see it coming and, who knows, you may get lucky!

2. Alphabetize your books, DVDS, video games, CDs, and furniture. Following this, talk to your doctor about OCD and how Zoloft can help.

1. Try to find the ugliest person possible using Google image search. This tried and true method is hands down the best way to not study for your final exam. My winner so far? THIS GUY:

















WH Auden. Ugliest Poet Ever?

Number 1 Train Number One in Name Only

Last night, my buddy A-rob and I were coming uptown from the Tower Records near the Lincoln Center, where we had recently acquired a copy of American Psycho so that we may view it in preperation for our banking internships this summer. We took the 1 uptown, as anyone would if they desired to get to Columbia, but, in retrospect, we should have simply walked the 50 blocks back to campus.

You see, half-way through the journey, right after we departed from 96th, the conductor announced over the PA in a barely audible whisper that the train, for whatever reason, would not stop at 103rd, 110th, 116th, 125th, or 137th, but would go express to 145th street.

Great. I always wanted to know what REAL Harlem looked like at 11 oclock at night.



This pissed me off, but, as one who has lived in New York for a while, I wasn't surprised by the inadequacy of the MTA. What really pissed me off about this whole endeavour was that the conductor only told us we were captive as soon as the doors closed. Maybe he could have mentioned this three seconds prior...when the doors were still open and we could have gotten out and hailed a cab or walked and saved time. I considered the possibility that he only became aware of the problem three seconds after the doors closed, but, in retrospect, I am able to dismiss this as my Korean math friend informs me that the probability of that being the case is approximately NOT AT ALL.

Not all was lost, though. Seeing as how A-rob is from Beantown, he's naturally even more wary than necessary of going to sketchy parts of town after dark, on the subway no less. Because of this, he was in a greater state of alertness than all the adderall/coke-fiends at school combined.

The first thing he noticed was the residentially-challenged man sleeping in the handicapped seats. What he noticed, in particular, was the pungent odor of sulfur and methane escaping from his general direction.

"Dude," A-rob asked me, "did that homeless guy just shit his pants?"

Obviously I don't know the answer to this question, but, for fun, we'll assume that the answer was "twice."

We finally reached 145th after passing the site where Taco Bell used to stand (RIP dawg). A-rob and I decided to hail a cab as we didn't want to risk getting screwed with by the subway again, when all of a sudden we saw a crew of four urban youths descending upon us. A-rob has been mugged a few times in his life, so automatically he assumes that he's about to have an unpleasant experience. Now, if this was a Warren G song, I'd just pull out my strap and make some bodies turn cold, but, as this was not a Warren G song, we ran across the street to the downtown platform, paid another $4 (ridiculous!) and headed back to Columbo after waiting way too long for a train that the conductor promised us was waiting for us.

Moral of the story? The Number 1 didn't earn the distinction of being number one...it must have been arbitrarily assigned.

Gay Cowboys? You're joking!

"Forbidden man passion? Four stars!"
-San Francisco Chronicle

"I jerked it three times...two thumbs up..."
-San Francisco Journal

"That one gay cowboy gives the breakout performance of his career. Plus he's totally gay."
-San Francisco Gay Reader

I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, so I'm not in a position to review or critique the movie. What I am in a position to do, though, is wonder why it's getting such critical acclaim. Instead of asking the people around campus, who would probably say that the movie was, to some degree, like their own lives, I asked a friend of mine from back home what she thought.

She said that the movie was probably so successful because it was groundbreaking in that it showed the world that there are gay cowboys.

Wait...there are gay cowboys?


YOU'RE JOKING!!!

Of course there are gay cowboys. It's practically a prerequisite these days. Was there actually anyone with a pulse who was surprised to learn this? Just look at the costumes they wear. It used to be that a guy wearing something like that could drink fifteen gallons of whiskey, seduce your girlfriend and then shoot a platoon of Mexicans or, worse, Injuns. Nowadays when you see someone wearing chaps, a vest, and a cowboy hat you can bet that his name is "Rusty," he smokes Virginia Slims, and he's more likely to polish off your knob than a bottle of Beam.

Now before I get accused of living in "Meanietown" again, like the last time I was in the village, I'd like to say that there is nothing wrong with being homosexual. Really. Do your thing. But I say this with the caveat that if Brokeback Mountain was a movie about lesbian pillowfighters (an oppressed minority worldwide) and starred Scarlett Johansson and Jessica Biel, there is simply no way it would have gotten the same appreciation by the reviewers.

And why is that?

Because, obviously, the film reviewers are all gay themselves. Otherwise there is simply no explanation for such a decision by Hollywood to make a movie about gay cowboys but not lesbian pillowfighters. To demonstrate that a movie about girl pillowfighters is objectively more touching and interesting than a film about gay cowboys, we will analyze various aspects of the two groups.

1. Minority Power

As all Hollywood big-shots know, marketing is even more important than the actual movie. Brokeback Mountain was marketed as "The gay cowboy love story of the decade." But do you think that everyone who saw that movie was a gay cowboy? Of course not. Most of the people who saw that movie were pseudo-intellectuals who were afraid of appearing uncultured if they didn't see it. As a result, film sales are directly related to the amount of people who aren't
a part of the minority group portrayed.

According to a US Census taken a few years ago, the number of "gay cowboys" in the country is, approximately, 12.8 million, up from 11.1 million the year before. This accounts for, roughly, 4.3% of all Americans.

According to the same US Census, the number of "lesbian pillowfighters" in America was, sadly, only 402,000. This accounts for only .14% of all Americans.

Therefore, using our logic from above, the movie industry would have been better off making a movie about lesbian coeds hitting each other with pillows in their underwear.

Score:
"Brokeback Mountain": 6.0
"Coed Pillow Desire": 10.0

2. Originality

Another important factor of a film is its originality. Have there been other films like this before? To find out, I went downtown to Chelsea to visit "Adult Movies" on 36th and Broadway, thinking they would have the most mature, and therefore upscale, collection.

Because I'm not twenty-one, I respectfully declined from entering, but I asked one gentleman leaving the store if he could help me.

Me: Hey, I've got a question for you. Does this place sell gay cowboy movies?
Him: Why yes! Tons of them! I've purchased a few myself!
Me: What about movies with girls pillowfighting and then falling in love?
Him: Didn't see any! Skittles!

With that, he skipped away, shopping cart full of gay cowboy dvds and all. So, according to this man's eyewitness testimony, there were "tons" of movies about gay cowboys and "none" about pillowfighting college girls. Looks like the cowboys lose this one, too.

Score:
Brokeback Mountain: 0.0
Sorority Slumber Party: 10

3. Actor Sex Appeal

The most important thing for marketing a movie is whether or not the people in the movie have any sex appeal. It's no big secret that the script for Waterworld was ironclad, they just needed to find someone more attractive than Kevin Costner to play the part of the Amazon woman-warrior who was in charge of things.

Brokeback Mountain had an all male-cast. No sex appeal.

In my mind, the pillowfighting movie has an all female cast and, therefore, a great deal of sex appeal.

Brokeback: 0.0
All Girl Pillow-fest: 10.0


So there we have it. The pillowfighting movie gets a perfect score while Brokeback Mountain, predictably, didn't make the grade. Hollywood producers would have to have known that a pillowfighting film would be objectively better than a gay cowboy movie, but they chose to act as if this wasn't true. Why? Because they knew the film critics wouldn't have it. Because film critics, by nature, only like gay cowboy movies. It's science.

26 Fucking Years

I saw "The Gates" today. I'm a worse person for having done so.

I really wanted to like the Gates. Really, I did. I spend most of my time being negative and making fun of stupid shit like the Gates but I wanted to try to open my mind, expand my horizons and all that shit that liberals like.

In case you've been fortunate enough to avoid the whole Gates hoopla, I'll summarise it presently:

Two "artists" with suspiciously French-sounding names, Christo (Male) and Jeanne-Claude (Undetermined, probably female) decided to do an "art" project wherein 7,500 "gates," literally 20-foot-tall orange frames with saffron tablecloths hanging down, are spread throughout Central Park.

Incredible, right? According to some, remarkably.

You ask: but there has to be some kind of variety to these things?

No. 7,500 identical orange (saffron, not orange, excuse me) monstrosities sprawling throughout New York's Central Park.

Oh, you say, but something as simple as that probably didn't take much time to conceptualize and execute, right?

They started planning and preparing this in 1979. When Jimmy "Miserable Failure" Carter was ignoring the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. 26 years.

7,500 identical orange edifices. 26 fucking years.

For my entire life, all the highs, lows, joys, miseries, little-league games, spelling tests, middle-school romances...from my birth and residence in the Village (when my dad still had all his hair) to Long Island to London to Columbia University, these "artists" were planning this. And for what? To cause a nuisance? 26 years, millions of dollars...for a nuisance? I'm a master of nuisances and it doesn't take time or money to pull it off. These people are horribly inefficient, however exquisitely obnoxious they may be.

So anyway, when I get to the park I immediately realize that actually walking through the park would be a fantastic waste of time, because by seeing one gate you've seen them all, so instead I decide to one-up Christo and Jeanne-Claude by causing an impromptu nuisance in the presence of meticulously planned one. Now THAT is art.

I begin screaming to no one in particular. I think Camille was embarassed at first but she's a weirdo artsy type so I think after a while she realized the delectable genius behind my behavior.

I continued to shout for a while until I realized that there were several park attendants wearing vests that said "The Gates" and holding staves with tennis balls on the end of them. Obviously, this interests me.

I go up to one kindly old woman with a vest and staff and ask her what the gates mean to her. Camille loses it and tells me to stop, thinking I was being disingenuous in my inquisitiveness. Well, I was, but anyway she promised to tell me what they meant to her if I would do the same. Being a reasonable fan of the arts, I obliged.

She said that the gates represented the uniformity of New York streets. Then she said the paths through Central Park were, quote: "serpentine."

Unsatisfied with the answer, I began to walk away and she called me back, reminding me that I hadn't told her what they meant to me. I said "the Gates mean that even though we're all different, we're really all the same."

What I should have said was that the Gates mean that we live in a society where people can waste millions of dollars and 26 years on this planet in order to place saffron tablecloths in Central Park and be called "artists."

I hate you Christo. Get a fucking last name.

Put Your Arms Down

Almost every time I go to the West End I become further convinced that humanity is at its nadir and that it's all our fault. It's not that I have to wait a half hour to get a drink (unless I elbow past people who have been waiting and scream my order at the bartender before that guy Imax knows what the hell is going on) or that the mixed drinks are watered down. That stuff is amateur. All bars are like that but it takes real talent to do what the West End does, which is attract hordes of ugly, ugly coeds who "dance" all over the place.

If you've ever been to 'Stend you know what I'm talking about: fat bitches doing the two-step, shaking their ass and waving their arms in the air. Oh shit, her arms are in the air - that's how you know she's sexy.

Give me a fucking break. You are not "in da club." You are not fabulous. You are not "poppin' Cristal," you are not a celebrity, you are not even attractive. Just put your fucking arms down you stupid slut. Go order another "Cosmo" and mouth all the words to whatever G-Unit song is playing. Are you having a good time? I certainly hope you are. After all, you're doing exactly what they do in the music videos, right? So it's almost like you're a rapper's ho, except you're white, you're fat, you're ugly and nobody wants to be your friend.

The best part about it is not how they dance but where: mainly everywhere, but especially by the men's bathroom door. Is this coincidental? What the hell are you doing, ladies? I need to take a piss and part of me is considering just pissing on the bar just so I don't need to get unnecessarily close to these gyrating giants. Of course I relent and while making my way toward the bathroom some chick will always bump into me while shaking her ass from five feet away. Then, of course, she gives me this look like "excuse me, can't you see I'm channeling the emotion of the music through the medium of my body?" I'm sorry, lady, I didn't notice that your arms were up but now that I see they are I realize that even though you are a fat, pasty English major you must be out of my league. I mean, your arms are in the air! You fucking whore.

Even worse than the girls (all japs), though, are the guys who "dance" with them. At least the girls can claim they were dancing or "shaking their ass" or whatever other disgustingly almost-sexual euphemism they want to use and still manage to have a kernel of truth to their stories; the guys just stand behind them with their hands on the girls. Every now and then, especially at the poignant, moving crescendos of any given Jay-Z "song," the guy (almost always white/jewish) will then raise one arm and do some kind of strange pointing motion, usually downward, to the beat while shouting the lyrics.

Oh shit. He did the point. He knows the words. Is this the white Jay-Z I see before me? Is this the legendary Jew-Z? Get this boy a fucking record deal now!

You are not a rapper. You are not even a white rapper. In fact, I would be willing to bet that rappers probably wouldn't like you if they met you because you are the epitome of everything they hate: their listenership.

So please, next time you think you're in the VIP, look around you and get a grip and remember: put your fucking arms down.

Edit: And Playboy named this shithole the college bar of the month?