What Would MacGyver Do?

This afternoon, I left home without my house keys, my car keys, or my cell phone. Forgetting your keys is... an epiphany, the way it dawns on you. You're not even thinking about the keys; on autopilot, you reach into your pocket, there's something that jingles like keys and you pull it out and it's just change. But the keys oughta be in there, or in the other pocket, or even though they weren't in your pocket the first time you checked they'll definitely be there if you take some of the junk out of your pockets. Finally, it dawns on you, you're locked out.

Unless the door realized you left your keys inside and decided to be friendly and not lock. Nope, the door's locked. You're stuck outside, Mom's not gonna be home for four hours, and it's raining.

I stood around for a little while, tried the back door, then took inventory of what I had with me and asked the critical question, "What would MacGyver do?"

Analyze the situation: I need to get into the house, but I have no keys. The spare key is at Grandma's house in Edison, and I have a car but no car key. I do, however, have an umbrella, two pairs of dress pants in a paper grocery bag, a thank-you note in an envelope, several coins, tissues, my wallet and all the paper and plastic in there, plus whatever I'm wearing and whatever I can find lying about in the front yard. MacGyver would probably just break a window and crawl into the house, then end the episode with a stupid grin. Me, I've got no ideas.

But in a crisis, I get creative, by which I mean I come up with all these hare-brained schemes that MacGyver's cool enough to pull off, but which I'd just use as opportunities to humiliate myself. Maybe I can take apart the umbrella and use one of the metal ribs to pick the lock (a lock that sometimes even my key can't open). For instance, I know from my four or so hours of training as a junior agent at the International Spy Museum in Washington, DC, that when you're picking a lock, you need to start with the lock's farthest tumbler first. That could come in handy. Or... maybe I can hotwire the car, drive to Grandma's house, and get the spare key. Notwithstanding the fact that I can't get into the car in the first place without the key, I don't know how to hotwire a car. But, lemme think, I could walk to the library and look it up online.

But for once, I acted somewhat sanely. I walked into town, called Grandma to make sure she had the spare key, then got a ride over there from Mrs. Percoco. Which all required a lot less explaining than why my car's missing a window and has its ignition wires dangling out from under the dash.

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Afterword: After I made it home, I did a Google search for "hotwiring", giving me no useful information whatsoever.

What the hell is wrong with the American people??!! Okay, listen to these poll numbers: 61% of Americans believe the country is headed in the wrong direction, but 55% believe Dubya will lead the country in the right direction. Hello!!!! You people are aware that Dubya currently is the president, right?

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"I've said it before and I'll say it again: Democracy doesn't work." —Kent Brockman, Channel 6 News

When I'm In Charge...

New rule, people — if you don't want to be called an asshole, bitch, dickweed, gaywad, slut, prick, pussy, or cunt, then don't act like an asshole, bitch, dickweed, etc.

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Corollary — if someone's not being an asshole, etc. but you treat them as if they were, that makes you a first-rate douchebag.

My parents' anniversary gift was nice and cheap: I took Grandma to church so Mom could go to New York overnight. I'll confess I was none too happy to give my parents no gift at all; however, my selfish gift to myself was getting the parents out of the house overnight. First time in... well, ever. Nice to see the 'rents are treating me like an adult. Anyway, I took Grandma to church, and evidently I did a pretty good job of it.

We got there early — now, when Mom used to drag me to church, we never arrived early. We never got a parking space near the church. We sat in the front pew. The whole day made Grandma very happy; me less so. It brought back — I wouldn't call them bad memories — just a bunch of unproductive useless memories reminding me how worthless my time was. I'd been going to church since I was born, questioning church since I could think, and bored with church since sometime in the middle. Not only is it very lonely in the church when you actually have a brain about the whole religion thing, but I get the distinct feeling that my mind is somewhere worlds away from everyone else's.

Example. There's more spirit in a courtroom than there is in that church. You go to a Baptist church, for instance, and the congregants are jumping out of their seats, throwing their arms in the air, shouting "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" as the Holy Spirit enters them. Catholics sit in the pews like God's some sort of matron librarian just itching to shush them. The thing is, when there's no spirit involved, going to church just seems kind of perfunctory. I wonder how much these people — even Mom and Grandma — really believe, and to what extent they're just going to church because it's what they do.

I just don't feel like that impresses God. Neither does the self-righteousness, or praising God as if He's got some sort of complex, or the rituals. I mean, thank goodness my Eucharist (which, come to think of it, I shouldn't have taken) didn't have any rice in it. I want my communion to be God-approved. I can imagine pedantic, insecure humans caring about little details like that, but not an omniscient, omnipotent God. Same deal with the you-should-give-of-yourself homily: what can a mere mortal possibly contribute to God's divine plan? You shouldn't need God to tell you to be a good person.

But as the mass went on and on, I was wondering about the morality of the whole nonsense worshipping event. Right before Grandma leaves her pew, she bows to God. Ignorance makes me sick... but at the same time, it's not really a big deal. It doesn't hurt anybody, and makes Grandma feel good (or self-righteous) about herself. At the same time, forget the gluten-free wafer issue, there are people in the world who see rituals like that as license to bomb abortion clinics or commit genocide or fly planes into buildings. I know, I know, the connection is extremely tenuous. But here's the thing: I walk into Wal-Mart and steal a ninety-nine cent candy bar. It's not really hurting anybody. Wal-Mart is a multi-billion dollar corporation, who, it needs to be said, hires illegal aliens, locks them inside the store overnight, and has no business condemning anyone — and the connection between my stealing a candy bar and my doing any damage to Wal-Mart is also extremely tenuous. If the latter is immoral, then shouldn't the former be too?

That, however, wasn't where I wanted to go. As it turns out, I want to live in a world where it's wrong to steal candy bars and it's not necessarily wrong to bow before God and it's damn wrong to be an ignorant fool and it's morally incumbent upon us to boycott the shit out of Wal-Mart. Let's apply the categorical imperative here: Can we make it a universal law that stealing candy bars from Wal-Mart is wrong? I think we can. It's one thing for me to steal a single candy bar; as much as Wal-Mart sucks ass, I don't really want to live in a world where all six billion of us are stealing candy. How about the bowing thing? Can we make that into a universal law? It'd be just plain creepy if all of us were bowing all the time....

Grumble.

I guess on the plus side, I won't feel guilty stealing from Wal-Mart anymore.

Addendum to the Post Below

I've been doing some thinking, and maybe I'm being a little too harsh on my parents for living together in a passion-free zone. I'm young, and I can believe that I've got some very puerile ideas of what constitutes a worthwhile relationship. You remember those old commercials for Disney World, where this post-middle age couple just comes home from their Disney vacation and their neighbors question how much fun the couple could have had there: "You went to Disney World without the kids? That must've sucked," the neighbors ask. (I'm paraphrasing here.) And the couple replies something like, "No, Disney World was awesome, the kids suck!" Point is, I guess I'm kind of conditioned to believe that life should be full of that exuberant zestfulness Disney epitomizes.

Fact is, much as I complain about Dad, how he spends more time on his exercise bike than he does with his family, that he drives — and Mom in particular — nuts with his obsessive rule-making, that his idea of a romantic evening is listening to an Irish folk singer in an Irish pub, that he never acquiesces to what Mom wants to do on the weekends, how he tells Mom and me what to wear even though he has no fashion sense, that he... okay, I'll stop now. Mom, too, spends most of her "free" time doing chores instead of riding the whirling teacup ride. But the fact remains that they've been doing it for thirty-three years, because they wouldn't be able to raise a family together otherwise. Just for that, there's got to be some sort of love in their relationship. After all, I'm surprised (and I think my grandma's secretly disappointed) that they haven't gotten divorced... but I guess they want to keep their lives headed in the same direction together. And to that, I say, happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Still, if I ever get married, there's gonna be some damn passion in the relationship!

Today is my parents' anniversary. Thirty-three years married, and, although the idea is just mind-boggling to me, they were probably even in love for a few of those years. Well, at least they both remembered the event... and by that, I mean at least my dad's not the stereotypical absentminded, neglectful man-fool too consumed with football and farting to remember the day he made a solemn vow with the love of his life. We're all familiar with that character, thanks to every sitcom ever made, right?

Anyway, Dad remembered his anniversary, and he got Mom a card: a blank card with a reproduction of Henri Matisse's Parrot Tulips (II) on the cover. Inside, in his illegible rollerball handwriting:

2004

To Barbara,

With all my Love on our anniversary.
You do so much for me.
Love,
   Dave

Aside from the all-too-blatant truth of "You do so much for me," Granted, it ain't the most moving thing ever written, but I never thought Dad had that in him. Seriously, this is a guy who's going to make a, ahem!, romantic gesture tonight — he and the wife are staying overnight in New York City and they're having dinner at a place called Rosie O'Grady's. If that sounds like the name of an Irish pub, well, it is. And I'll bet anything that they'll be playing Celtic folk music at Rosie's, cause Celtic folk music makes Dad cream himself. (Eeeewwww.) Gaelic — the language of love.

Thing is, Dad never even considered taking Mom to some fancy French restaurant or going tango dancing for, well, certainly not for their anniversary. Or for anything. There's no passion there. Mom's card, in case you're wondering, is pre-printed: "I'm so lucky to be married to my best friend." Which I suppose is a nice sentiment, aside from the rather sad fact that Mom doesn't really have any friends besides Dad. But where's the love? And without the love, what's the point?

Criminal Elements

I was waiting for the train this morning, and there were these two delinquents waiting at the train station and griping across the tracks about their various overnight stays in jail. The girl on the north side said she was ROR'ed — either a Law and Order fan or familiar enough with our criminal justice system to know the lingo — five times while the guy on the south side, looking like the poor man's Fat Joe, said he would've been ROR'ed except that he had a warrant out on him in Piscataway. Poor him.

Now, this leads to a fundamental DUHHH question: why the hell would anybody come to Fanwood just to get arrested? I mean, there's nothing to do in Fanwood in the first place! The only nightclub in town burned to the ground... Are these losers scoring hits at the Dunkin' Donuts at 1:45 in the morning?

As the story goes on, the chick complained about the fifty dollar processing and handling fee the cops charge you when you get arrested, while our delinquent's "boy" came by, bailed him out, and offered him a blunt as soon as he got into the car. Here's a good sign you're addicted to drugs: when you can't wait to get out of the police station parking lot before you get stoned.

Now, the whole thing pisses me off.... Let's say you get arrested once. Maybe you made a mistake, maybe you'll learn your lesson, you deserve a second chance. But these two assholes get arrested over and over and over again, and instead of going to prison, they're having a better time of it than I'm having following the law. It's endemic in our culture, and this is why I love watching drunk drivers get plowed over by big rigs on World's Wildest Police Videos and hate it when the police try to rescue the stop-sign-running jerk trapped in his car underneath a tractor trailer. Let the damn criminals be miserable, I say! Instead, we're all about "rehabilitation," which is only nice when it works, and even then in a limited capacity. Like in that toys-for-guns program they had a few years back, or the way people are getting billions of dollars for getting emphysema from smoking, or that Newsweek article six years ago where they sat in among the college admissions officers at Northeastern as they chose to admit a reformed juvie offender over an equally qualified law-abiding high school student. It's so freaking frustrating! How about, for once in our society, we reward people for not smoking, for not drinking, for not doing drugs, never owning a gun, not cheating on their spouse... in short, why don't we reward people for not fucking their lives up in the first place?

My parents' anniversary is this Saturday, and despite my usual inclination to forget these sorts of occassions, I went to the Hallmark store to buy a pre-packaged congratulatory note. Every time I go shopping at Hallmark — usually around Christmastime — I run into the same bind, namely that I can never find the impersonal corporatized greeting to sincerely express my deep personal sentiments. All the cards are mushy and saccharine — and rhyming — "After all the things that we've been through/I'm still madly in love with you." It's a tear-jerker.

But this year, I found the perfect card for my parents' anniversary, one that says, "I'm usually too busy to care about you, but here's an anniversary card." And says it gracefully.

Through the year so many
caring thoughts go unexpressed—
the daily rush
gets in the way somehow—
But both of you are always loved
and wished the very best...
and what better time
to tell you than now.

Okay, it still rhymes. (I didn't quite read the whole card at the store, so it took me by surprise right now.)

A Tale of Two Interviews

Here's a story about my experiences interviewing for a job, some job, any freaking job. I went to this interview on Monday where I ran into one of those know-it-alls from computer science after computer science class. He wasn't interviewing me or anything, he was just being off-putting as usual.

The real interviewer — the first interviewer — was explaining the company's product to me... and I was understanding him. I signalled my understanding with my trademark yeah-nod, in which I nod and say "Yeah" to indicate my comprehension. Apparently the yeah-nod is the interview equivalent of bluffing with a pair of tens showing; maybe I'm telling the truth, maybe I'm bullshitting just to make you happy. "Don't just say yeah..." Interviewer Guy tells me, as if I'm not a relatively smart person. General rule of thumb for Interviewer Guy: if you can understand the concept, then I can understand the concept. But I digress. Point is, now I'm self-conscious about blurting out "yeah." If only Usher were as self-conscious as I was (am).

But that's not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about the second interviewer, who seemed just as inhuman as the first. (Note: I've already got the feeling that I won't be hired for this job.) We were shooting the breeze, chatting about my favorite classes when out of absolutely fucking nowhere, the guy asks me: "What is first-order predicate calculus?"

I'm stunned. I thought the pop quizzes were over now that I graduated. It's not that I don't know the answer; it's that if my artificial intelligence professor gave me that question on a test, it'd take me a minute or two to figure out how to word it. "Well, uh, it's, first-order predicate calculus, it's this type of logic, it's the most expressive logic that there is, it's with the universal quantifier and existential quantifier." It's a B- answer for content and a D+ answer for cogency. Where the hell did that come from?

I guess it came from the same place as "What's the universal quantifier?" and "What's the existential quantifier?" and "What's a predicate?" and "What's special about predicates?" That's like asking what's special about a hammer? It's a tool for accomplishing a task. I have no idea what this guy's asking. But he keeps going.

"What's Gödel's incompleteness theorem?"

"Do you remember the proof?" No. Do you?

"What's a Turing Machine?" It's sort of this theoretical computer model, there's this tape divided into cells and the machine writes symbols on the tape and moves left or right based on a transition function δ—

"Let's pretend I know what a Turing Machine is. What are they used for?" A Turing Machine is just a computer, it can do anything a computer can.... I mean, numbers, what are they used for?

"Well, there's one thing in particular." The Church-Turing Thesis? "What's that?" Sorry I asked. "No, there's one type of problem that whenever you say 'Turing' everybody thinks..." The halting problem? "Well, the halting problem is one example. This is a problem that Turing famously resolved..."

Undecidability? "Yes." Okay, Reader, note there's no exclamation point. Nothing. Not impressed at all that we were finally on the same wavelength. You see, when I think of undecidability, I think of Cantor and the whole proof by diagonalization listing the Turing machines against the inputs...

"Well, I can see that you know the proof. But you won't be doing any of that on this job."

Asshole!

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So, today I went to another interview, against my better judgment. Difference between the two companies: one had money to offer, the other didn't. See if you guess which was which.

My Wednesday interview went something like this...

Interviewer: So, I see from your resume that you have a college degree.

Me: Yeah.

[Shit! There's that word again...]

Interviewer: When can you start?

Tastes Like IKEA

Don't get me wrong; I love IKEA. I love everything about IKEA: the catalog, the 75¢ champaigne flutes, the ballpit, the assemble-it-yourself furniture that makes you feel like you're making an important contribution to your dorm room's decor. Not such a big fan of the $99 shipping fee, but that's kind of off-topic here. Point is, I was at the Scandinavian cafeteria AQCafé for a late lunch and the food just plain tasted like IKEA. Not like it was from IKEA or it reminded me of IKEA — it just plain tasted like IKEA.

If it helps to imagine what I'm talking about, let me tell you that I ordered a grilled Scandinavian shrimp sandwich with egg, lemon, dill, and smoked cod spread. I chose it basically because it was the only thing on the menu that didn't seem to bask in an aura of either smoked salmon or Jarlsberg cheese, and, as an added bonus, it didn't have some unpronouncable umlaut in its name. (Examples: Ramlösa sparkling water, Västerbotten cheese quiche.) Now, I can tell you, the food was pretty good considering it tasted like IKEA. However, there's a reason you don't actually eat the Swedish meatballs at the IKEA cafeteria: IKEA is not meant to be eaten.

So, in the end, I have to give AQCafé thumbs-down because Scandinavian food, in general, sucks ass. They've got nice furniture, though.

I've taken up playing imaginary poker on the internet. I'm loving for poker for many reasons, not the least of which is that I get to say things that sound dirty but aren't. Example: Good laydown! And: I flopped a pair of queens! I like saying "flop." Flop flop flop flop flop.

No, what I really enjoy is the mathematics behind the game, which probably bores everyone else to tears. I feel like those whiny storm chasers from that movie Twister: Everyone else is just in it for the money; I'm in it for the science. I get off on considering the expectation value of a certain play or calculating my odds of winning the hand.... Of course, since I've been groomed to hasty and careless in math, I usually get the answer wrong and lose ignominously, but that's gambling for you.

How come my mom and I are the only two people on the planet who think that Bailey's tastes like Robitussin and cream? See, I don't know what's sadder: that Mom and I are on the same side of an alcohol issue or that the rest of the world is too enchanted by the whiskey to compare Bailey's to cough syrup. I'm so lonely.

"Patriot" Day

Today is so-called Patriot Day, which I find kind of ironic, since there's nothing less patriotic than using the September 11 attacks for your own self-serving political purposes, inciting fear among the voters so they'll ignore the fact that you've done absolutely nothing to actually protect the country from terrorism. Not to mention that you took the country to war based what you should've known was flawed intelligence, that you lied to the American people about the non-relationship between Saddam and Al-Qaeda, and that you de-stabilized the region, making it a haven for terrorists plotting attacks against Americans. Or that you showed your patriotism by allowing massive corporations like Enron and WorldCom to run over the economy, not to mention small investors, so the fatcats could grease their wallets. So, Mr. President, Happy Patriot's Day. Now, sir, if you want to do something truly patriotic, you could beat Paul Wolfowitz over the head with a shovel.

Lying Eyes

I've only had these sunglasses on for about twenty minutes, and they don't even look particulary good on me, but already I'm loving the damn things. I used to have this really sleek pair, but they were stolen off my face last year, and I'd totally forgotten about how great it can be hiding your eyes from society. Like, right now, for example. I'm sitting in Bryant Park, staring at all the shirtless freaks and the big-titted girls with the short skirts, and nobody notices... well, not like anybody notices anyhow, but today, if someone were to look at me, they'd just see a blank vacuous face with black ovals for eyes.

I should be playing poker right now.

But, since no one can see my tell where my eyes are looking, it seems like a good time to gripe about everyone's favorite bitch-and-moan topic: the opposite sex. (Don't complain — yet — cause you've done it too.) So, there are some women — and, it goes without saying, we're being superficial jerks right now and only talking about the attractive ones — in the world who get offended when you, as a largely undatable male, stare at their boobs. Or, say, masturbate in front of them while they're trying to study in the library. (No, I did not make this up from personal experience. A non-me guy was caught, repeatedly, in Columbia's library doing that. And of course there were some negative Nellys — mostly from Barnard, I think — who complained to security and tried to ruin this guy's fun.) And I can see their point, in some cases. But I'm sorry, there's some point in our "Britney Spears milkshake back that thing up" society where people are turning into hypocrites. That line is fuzzy, but I think it can be approximated with two words: low-cut. Okay, that's one hyphenated word, but whatever.

Speaking of our "Britney Spears milkshake back that thing up" society, I saw Paris Hilton at the Virgin Megastore yesterday. She has a new book out — a picture book — and she was doing a signing. It must have been mentally taxing for her, not only because she had to remember how to spell her name, but also because the first person on line was, ironically, an obese woman in a motorized wheelchair who will never, ever be a socialite. Paris is now scarred for life. (Goodie!) Anyway, I caught a glimpse of Paris from the escalator. I didn't have my sunglasses with me, so I couldn't stare too long lest I catch something from her. Seriously, the woman looks like a Barbie doll with a venereal disease.

Anyways, seems kind of hypocritical: you put on make-up and do your hair and, uh, use deodorant so straight guys and lesbians will want to fuck you. You wouldn't be complaining if it was Matt Damon or Colin Farrell or, uh, who else do the women find sexy... Regis Philbin. But then, this poor guy, who, let's face it, isn't gonna get it any other way, wants to fuck you, and you call security. Creepy, oily guys need lovin' too. (I speak from personal experience.) And until somebody takes one for the team, they're just going to interrupt your mid-term studying, get over it.

Somebody's A Gullible Fool (and I don't think it's me)

I was at the theater today working with this guy who's putting on a one-man show next week. His name's Ehud, and he's a mentalist. But wait! He's not just a mentalist — he's also a Kabbalahist and claims to be a mind-reader. I don't believe him; he was being way too amiable for someone who knew what I was really thinking right then. Heck, the guy even invited me to lunch.

I don't know; maybe he is a fraud. More likely, he totally believes everything he says about the Kabbalah and mysticism, and it's me and my closed mind that are the problem. But seriously.... First of all, if Madonna's doing it, I simply can't respect it. Like how she wants to be called "Esther" now. Please. How about "One-Named Pop Star With a Senescent Image who Can't Keep Up with Eminem and Osama bin Laden When it Comes To Shocking Middle America"? Madonna could be going to the Sudan to stuff polenta in the mouths of every single one of the displaced Africans, and I'd be like, "Oh, look at her now. Feeding the Darfur refugees is so totally for posers." Of course, Madonna's not feeding the refugees — she's buying a twelfth-century Kabbalistic text and wrapping it up for Britney Spears' birthday, which I'm sure is exactly what God had in mind. And by the way, Britney Spears, Louisiana's only Jew, lends so much credence to Kabbalah. Like Maimonides in a halter-top.

Truth is, when I got home, my mom had to remind me that there are people in this world, probably including Ehud, who legitimately believe in Kabbalah and aren't in it for the fad. My bad to them, but I still don't think you should believe in something that's not supported by empirical evidence. Faith is for fools.

Anyway, just so I can look like more of a prick, Ehud says that he does his show to "bring people the [metaphorical, I assume] light," to spread happiness. He sounds so Elysian when he says it, too, and I sound like such a cynic. What could be wrong with making people happy? Well, get out your Vicadin; I'm going to tell you. The problem is that the world totally sucks ass. This isn't a state of mind thing where most people are about as happy as they make their minds up to be. It's just a goddamned fact: people, despite their good qualities, are largely greedy, ignorant, antipathetic — and there's no good reason for this! We could have a culture that discourages avarice and supports education, creativity, and reason, but in order for that to happen, we can't just be content with the far inferior way things are. No one who was high on Vicadin or Kabbalah or soma ever invented anything or discovered anything or made any improvement to the world that stretched beyond his own mood. Now, if you ask me, that's selfishness.

Finally, I need to end this blog entry with a link to James Randi's website.

Scotch Brownies

So I stayed up late tonight baking those whiskey brownies. I found a bottle of scotch in our pantry that's probably older than I am, kind of screwed up with the measuring, and splashed maybe a little too much into the batter. Baked the whole thing up, and that's when I knew I was in trouble. See, with the odor of alcohol overpowering the aroma of chocolate in the kitchen, I had a revelation: I don't like scotch. I don't like alcohol, period. My bad.

Anyway, I tried a few scotch brownie crumbs. They've got a very, very sharp antiseptic taste; I can see how the chocolate and whiskey fit together, but it's just not for me. Anybody want some brownies?

I caught a few minutes of the MTV Video Music Awards the other day, and there was this obese rapper on-stage getting the whole audience semi-dancing. I mean, people like Will Smith and J. Lo, who should be able to afford better music. Seriously, can you believe these douchebags are getting paid millions of dollars for saying "Lean back!" and "Yeah!" over and over again? Lyrics that capture the spirit of a lazy and retarded-ass generation.

Honestly, I don't think there's been a bigger gathering of no-talents since Jessica Simpson — or J. Simp, as I call her — had her last family reunion.

A few other points that must be made:

• Marc Anthony looks like the poor man's Steven Weber. (I know, I know, you thought Steven Weber was the poor man's Steven Weber. Turns out Steven Weber is the poor man's Tim Daly.)
• Usher is freaking gay!!! He dances and dresses like the sixth member of 'NSync. His videos, with the synchronized choreography, look like boy band videos did five years ago. And you've never seen him and Lance Bass together, have you???
• What was the point of having the Bush twins and the much hotter Kerry daughters on stage together? Was there supposed to be a catfight or something? You know, I don't think the audience was booing the Kerry daughters so much as they were booing the fact there wasn't a mudwrestling ring on-stage with them.