Why are sports so awkward?

Yesterday, I contended that the most awkward motion in sports is the tennis serve. Of course, my girlfriend, who played tennis in high school, disagreed with me. She also played golf in college and offered the golf swing as the most awkward motion.

All this leads me to this post. I’ve got four motions that do not seem to come naturally to a novice. Granted, I am a novice at many sports, tennis included, but I am far from uncoordinated (at least in my mind). Thus, I think I have a pretty good idea of what is painfully unnatural. But feel free to tell me I’m wrong and let me know what you think.

1. Kicking pretty much anything. Yes, the act of throwing your foot at something is a natural motion. However, making sure that the part of your body that will take the brunt of that motion, your foot, is not. Put a soccer ball in front of somebody and their first reaction is to kick it with their toe. With enough force, that results in a broken toe. In soccer, you use the top of your foot or the inside of your foot. In Tae Kwon Do, you have many potential areas on the foot for striking, none of which are your toe: the top, the ball of the foot, the outside edge, or the heel. It’s odd that people use their largest, strongest limbs to hurl a mass with some of their smallest bones at solid objects. Kicking should only be done by experts.

2. Tennis serve / Volleyball spike. I find serving incredibly difficult. Start sideways. Toss a ball to the perfect height over your head. Strike the ball at the maximum height over your head. Hope to high heaven that you don’t ruin your shoulder as you throw your body’s weight behind the racket. A volleyball spike requires a similar strain on your shoulder, but I think there is even more back involved. Arch your back as you jump, and uncoil it as you strike the ball. Snap through. Maybe it’s all timing. Beats me. I’m usually just swinging as hard as possible and praying that I make contact.

3. Golf swing. So many things can go wrong here. I don’t even know where to begin since I can’t do it properly. All I know is that you have to keep your head still and that trying to kill the ball is bad. That hurts the back and causes a crazy slice in my case. Add mumbo jumbo about swing plane, bringing your knees through first, and breaking your wrists and you’ve only just begun talking about what could possibly be wrong. Think it’s like hitting a baseball on the ground? You’re completely wrong. It’s almost the opposite. The lead hand is in charge; no equal contribution like a baseball swing. And keep that rear elbow in, not up. Narrow your stance and minimize any unnecessary motion. There are more technical things to do in golf than any sport I’ve played.

4. Swimming. Do I really have to make an argument for this? Obviously, we were not made for the water. Exhibit A: water can suffocate us to death until we die. Exhibit B: we have hair, which leads to drag. Exhibit C: webbed feet are abnormal in humans. I admit that I am a pretty bad swimmer, and anybody who isn’t a strong one may admit to it being akin to prolonged drowning. When I heard about how water polo players keep their heads above water, I was baffled and got tired just thinking about how it happens. (It’s like egg beaters with your legs.) Calling swimming awkward may be a stretch, but flailing to survive can be awkward—at least socially. But maybe flailing is the most instinctive thing a person can do.

Any more awkward sports motions?

Why not dress for success?

As I was driving home yesterday, I noticed many fashion troubles. Given that my sense of fashion is less than refined, it takes something quite horrendous for me to notice. But when it comes to what you wear when you work out, I know what’s what. Khakis while running—uh, no.

Let’s start from the top. Headgear is permissible for baseball, running, football, tennis, hockey . . . pretty much anything. Except soccer. Wearing a baseball hat while playing soccer is wrong both functionally and morally. First of all, you can’t head the ball with a baseball hat. Second, is the sun in your eyes? Poor baby. Get off the field! I’d rather see sunscreen, sunglasses, and a parasol on the pitch than somebody wearing a baseball hat.

Shirts. Unless you are golfing, playing tennis, or wearing a team uniform, shirts with collars should not be worn. Same thing goes for shirts with elaborate patterns. This is especially true if you’re running. If you’re running, no shirt, a T-shirt, or an expensive, high-tech sports shirt is permissible. Anything with buttons or a collar should only be worn before or after running. And if it’s a T-shirt, it should not have cost more than $15. Free is preferable.

Shorts or pants. Do not wear anything made of a high percentage of cotton or wool. Workout clothes are meant for wicking away sweat and drying quickly. The more poly-whatever material, the better. Anything with a lot of pockets should only be worn casually, not while strenuously exercising. That means no cargo or jean shorts.

Socks. This is simple—no dress socks. That means no black or brown or tan or argyle—unless specifically made for the sport like soccer socks.

Shoes. Don’t wear dress shoes. Don’t run in sandals. Wear something that at least looks like it has support. Otherwise, you just look like you’re trying to ruin your feet, shins, knees, and lower back all at the same time. It’s also ideal to have footwear appropriate to the sport. Running on a treadmill in basketball shoes looks like you are not a regular runner. It also makes it look like you have nothing better to do with your shoes than run, i.e., you aren’t balling much nowadays.

OK, that’s all of the ones I could think of off the top of my head. If you have issues with these general rules, tell me I don’t even know exercise fashion. If I’ve forgotten something here, post it.

Why is AT&T so difficult?

Difficult. That’s what comes to mind when somebody mentions AT&T. I don’t know where the company falls on the customer dissatisfaction list, but it’s probably pretty close to the top. I don’t understand why they have to make things so painful for customers. It took less time to set up a joint bank account than it did to combine two calling plans into one.

My girlfriend and I wanted to combine our accounts into one single “family” plan. Before you get excited, no, we’re not engaged--or pregnant. We’re just practical. Each of us would save $10 per month. Simple, right? Uh, no.

Employee #1

First, we visited a store. I wanted to talk to a person face to face to get some information. We wanted to know how much the data plan would cost for an old, non-3G iPhone that we inherited.

We walked into the store, at which point Employee #1 took our names and told us we could watch TV while we waited. It was like restaurant meets hospital waiting room. At least it was nice to be entertained by some golf. But if we had hated golf . . .

Employee #2

After waiting for 15 minutes, we spoke to Employee #2, who told us that the data plan for the old iPhones is the same price as it always was: $20 / month. I thought it was going to cost $30, regardless of which generation phone you had. I was pleasantly surprised.

#2 also said we could activate the phone at home through the internet. This was actually very easy to do, mostly because we didn't have deal with AT&T. We could do it through iTunes. Well done, Apple.

Employee #3

At home, we realized that we should probably just combine our phone plans to save money, so we ended up using internet chat to talk to Employee #3. Of course, the only way to get the Employee #3 is to pretend you're going to buy a plan. Anyway, he told us that we would need to call or visit a store to do so. Blerg! If only we had chatted with Employee #3 before Employee #2.

Employee #4

We activated the phone through iTunes and then called AT&T. Employee #4 basically said that I could just put my girlfriend on my account as a family plan member. My girlfriend would just have to call and say it was OK. Instead of doing that, I just handed the phone to said girlfriend.

Employee #4 then told my girlfriend that she would have to call a certain number. Really? I’m not clear on why she couldn’t just transfer us. I mean, it’s a phone company. If anybody has the technology to do so, wouldn’t they?

Employee #5

Whatever. We called the number. After surviving the menu and maze of “press this number, press that number,” she got Employee #5. Of course, Employee #5 was the wrong person, and she told my girlfriend that she had to call--take a wild guess. That's right, the same number she had just dialed to get Employee #5. Fortunately, #5 checked and told us that the people we needed to contact had already gone home for the day.

Employee #6

Two days later, we called back. Employee #6 tried to get rid of us by again giving us the SAME number as Employee #4 and #5. At least they were consistent. Upon further explanation by my girlfriend, they realized that we weren’t navigating the menu quite right. Fine.

Employee #7

Call back, enter the magic combination of numbers, and get Employee #7. Employee #7 told my girlfriend that all she needed to do was give a thumbs up that her account could be put on mine. Now, all that had to happen was I had to call in and finish the deed.

To recap, I had to put a note on my account OK’ing combining; then my girlfriend had to put a note on her account OK’ing combining. Then I had to call back to finally slay the dragon that is combining accounts.

But ah ha, I am in the room, so she just handed the phone to me, so I could deal with the details right away. Now that we’ve both given the thumbs up, it should be no problem, right?

Even more Employee #7

First, they had to run a credit check. Why? Don't know. Don't care. Whatever, go ahead and check my credit. What? You also need my address again? It's not right there on the computer in front of you? OK.

Employee #7 then explained that it was going to cost $60 to combine accounts. That makes sense because there’s a guy that has to go in the back and splice a bunch of wires together and . . . oh wait, no there’s not. Fine, nothing is free, and in the long run, after three months, we’ll be saving money.

20 minutes later, which probably cost us minutes, we had a family plan going. And in three months when we are actually saving money, I’m sure it will be worth it. Of course, they always tell you things may not show up on your bill for a few billing cycles. And that also makes sense because there are a bunch of interns hand writing the details of my paperless account.

All of these employees were helpful if not enthusiastic. I can hardly imagine being enthusiastic when you work in such a terrible system.

At the end of the day, you may tell me to just shut up and join a different company. Unfortunately, I can’t join a different company. I don’t actually have a choice because AT&T is the only cell company that works on campus. And if I want to have an iPhone, only AT&T works. If somebody could explain the marketing logic of that, I’d love to hear it. As for the shutting up, I’m done whining.

Why would I need help from sticks and stones, Part 2?

When I was 15, I was a week away from taking my driver’s license test. One week and a simple test stood between me and unfettered freedom—at least in my mind. But my body wasn’t quite on board. It had to go get broken, possibly causing life altering teen drama.

That Saturday morning was sunny and breezy: a perfect morning for a spring soccer game. The opponent was a team made up of my friends from my high school team. Twenty one buddies on the same field sounds like a big party to me. The whistle blew and the game was underway.

About midway through the game, I was dribbling up the field. I juked two or three guys as usual (or by accident) and then came up against a guy we’ll call Splevin Spletano to protect his identity. Splevin was probably one of the nicest guys I knew. I approached him doing my patented cross over spin move, aka, looking like a spaz. I’m sure he was afraid of getting burned like kindling or passed like salt or some other clever schoolyard simile.

Whatever he was thinking, the next thing I knew, I was on the ground. As I lay there, I immediately knew I had broken my collar bone. I’m sure there was no malice intended. In fact, I think I actually just didn’t quite get around his leg, which caused me to basically fall like a tree onto my shoulder. He was apologizing profusely before he even knew I had injured myself. Like I said, he was a nice guy.

I eventually got up, gingerly tested my arm, and subbed out. And then it was off to the hospital. The diagnosis was a fractured clavicle. Eight weeks sidelined from soccer and maybe social life.

For some reason the DMV won’t let you take a driving test when you have a broken collar bone. Perhaps, it’s because lifting your hand above 8 o’ clock on the steering wheel hurts like hell.

So, I had to reschedule my driving test. On top of that, my driving permit expired while I was incapacitated, and I couldn’t take the license test without it. Thus, I had to retake my written permit test before taking the driving piece. My freedom was stuck in neutral, seemingly in reverse. Was my teen life over?

If my life had been a movie, events preceding the soccer game would have included an approaching dance and the hottest and purest girl in school. There would have been non-threatening study dates, a quarterback stud competing for her attention, and a plain looking female confidant. The hot girl would attend the dance with me because I could drive her to it in a sweet ride. But now, without my license . . .

After the trip to the hospital, I would have sunken into a deep depression and explained to my wiser, plain-looking but blossoming friend that this broken collar bone had forever changed the course of my life--in a bad way. And then I’d finally fall for her even though she had wanted me since the second grade. Cue music, hand out tissues, roll credits. Or some version of that. That’s if my life were a movie.

But life wasn’t a movie. No dance. No hot girl. No homely turned comely female friend. Not even much of a social life to lament being lost. In retrospect, all that was lost was six to eight weeks of playing soccer and driving a car that was built the year before my current car. But at the time, it seemed like a slightly bigger deal.

The lesson? The lesson that I often forget after a bad day at work is that failures or set-backs seldomly ruin our lives. They usually end up as tiny blips on our life lines, resulting in no change in the overall trajectories. They aren't worth the stress.

After all, a bad day at work beats a broken collar bone. And a broken collar bone isn’t even that bad.

Why would I need help from sticks and stones, Part 1?

If I told you that I’ve broken six (maybe seven) bones in my life, you may assume one of the following: I was in a bad car accident, I have early onset osteoporosis, I was jumped by a jujitsu gang, or my parents accidentally signed their scrawny son up for hockey. But none of those happened.

My parents were glad when I took a liking to the “safer” sport of soccer instead of football. They didn’t think that I would break five (maybe six) of my own bones while playing soccer and another doing Tae Kwon Do. But what did all those breaks teach me?

Break#1, Lesson #1: “Dis-graceful”

We’ve heard the phrase “brain over brawn,” but my club soccer coach probably realized that his team was a bit short on the brain part; thus, he focused on the brawn. He was always trying to make men of us teenage boys, toughen us up physically and emotionally. As a Navy man, he understood the effects of drills, so he had us do some inventive drills.

For example, in one drill, we formed two lines facing him and ran towards him, crashing our shoulders into the person’s in the other line. We did this before every game to toughen us up, get us in a mindset, and intimidate the other team. To my coach’s credit, he was trying to use brawn to get into the other team’s brain while simultaneously teaching us how to win a loose ball. But I was too naïve to realize that then—or care about it. I didn’t love the drill, but despite a few bruised shoulders, I never injured myself doing it.

The inventive drill that was my downfall was equally creative, but much less useful in my mind. The object was to practice slide-tackling. Two lines were formed facing each other about 30 yards apart. The person in front of each line would then run towards the other. At about midway, one would slide tackle and the other would jump over AND do a somersault. Why would we do a flying somersault? Beats me, but questioning the point of a drill was not an option at practice.

My turn to jump came and I ran and jumped. At the peak of my jump, which was insanely high because I had hops (no, I am not being sarcastic), I remembered that I was supposed to do a somersault.

Let’s pause while I’m in the air and emphasize that I didn’t like conflict, so I would avoid it all costs. I especially didn’t like being the receiving end of a stern reprimand. I would have rather injured myself than felt the wrath of my just-out-of-the-military coach. Who knew what he would make me do?

So, at the peak of my jump, I started tucking into somersault position. It must have looked like I was diving head first into a pool—but without the pool. I finished about half of the somersault, coming straight down on my shoulder. Yes, I heard a crack, but when you hit the ground with your limbs flailing, contemplating the meaning of new sounds takes a backseat to trying not to land on your head.

Whatever it looked like, it was ugly enough for the coach to call off the drill. He told us to take a lap. Did my shoulder hurt? Probably. Did I want to anger my coach any more after throwing my body into the ground and ruining his drill? Definitely not. I had no idea I had broken anything, so I got up and started to run with the team. Maybe it looked tough to run with a broken bone, but it was the opposite. I was a bit scared, and maybe a little dazed.

Thankfully, my coach noticed that I was running pretty gimpily (ßnot a word) and pulled me out of line. He asked me what was wrong and sent me off to the hospital. I was quickly diagnosed with a fractured clavicle. I say quickly because that was the fastest I would ever get through the hospital; my mom was working in Urgent Care that day. The treatment was an arm sling, rest, and a brace that held my shoulders back and in place.

At the end of the year, my coach had names or phrases engraved on our trophies that reminded him of each of us. Mine had the phrase “Dis-graceful.” I wasn’t hurt by the engraving, but you can imagine that I was hoping for something a little cooler. Besides, it definitely wasn’t the most proud or elegant moment in my life. And it did commemorate a number of important life lessons summed up in cliches: Brain over brawn, think before you act, look before you leap, don't jump up in the air and throw yourself head first into the ground (well, if that last one were a cliche, maybe I wouldn't have broken my collarbone). Unfortunately, it also commemorated just the first of many more broken bones.

Why is tennis so loud?

I saw Maria Sharapova play Ai Sugiyami of Japan last night. When I think of tennis noises, I usually think of controlled clapping, occasional gasps, and the rhythmic pops of rackets striking the ball. And if the event is in a quiet suburban area like Palo Alto, I expect almost zero background noise. Of course, at a Sharapova match, I would also expect Maria's grunting, but her grunting was the least distracting noise at the Bank of the West Classic. I guess you can't always expect to get what you expect.

First, the train tracks are about half a mile from the stadium, and trains passed at least twice. The rumble wasn't audible, but the horn was. I guess the players can be glad it was a ways away. Considering my expectations, I was a little distracted but not irked.

However, I was a bit concerned when I heard the Stanford "band" practicing. This amalgam of students who think their antics are fair compensation for their lack of skill were practicing a little bit during the match. I give them props for practicing, given that they need all they can get. And they were at least practicing inside, but they were audible from the court. Fortunately, they weren't too loud and didn't practice for long. But I was worried that I would be stuck listening to them at yet another sporting event.

There were also many toddlers at the tennis match. There weren't quite as many as at my family reunions or a daycare, but there were at least three one year olds within ten yards of my seat. And it's great that parents are getting out and doing things. It is. I was just surprised that so many parents took their kids to an event that involves metal bleachers, an expected quietude, and potentially three hours of sitting beginning at 7:30 PM. I don't mind the kids, but I thought the players might.

The biggest distraction was the sporting event--no, not the one I paid for, but the water polo event taking place across the way. This included raucous cheering, shrill whistles, and piercing horns. Every once in awhile, one of these sounds would burst forth from the swimming stadium. I couldn't help but think that Sharapova and Sugiyama would be annoyed by all the external commotion. Then again, they are professionals.

Even though I was often distracted by the many different sounds, the players didn't seem to mind. They were focused and didn't seem to notice the crowd. Sugiyami started out strong and Sharapova, though she seemed to have trouble getting her first in for a bit, crushed the ball and played many a nice drop shot. In the future, I will expect a good game but maybe not library-esque quiet.

Why is the Fourth of July crazy?

I witnessed first hand why setting off your own fireworks is illegal in California. No, I didn’t see a forest fire start. No, I didn’t see anybody get injured—but close.

I spent the Fourth at the beach house of a friend’s family friends. I call them my friends, but I don’t want you to think that friends my age are doing way better than I am—even if they are. Anyway, the house is great because from the balcony you can see the fireworks in Santa Cruz and Monterey in the distance. You can also see crazy people set off their own fireworks right on the beach.

We watched for about half an hour as competent amateurs set off their fireworks on the beach. Then a guy walking past told us that he had bought a thousand dollars worth of fireworks and was going to set them off on the beach pretty close to where we were standing. We were kind of excited to see some close up fireworks. All he asked was that we let him know if the police were headed his way so he could run away. He should have asked us not to laugh at him, too.

A few minutes later, we saw him and a buddy trudge out onto the beach and light one: popping noise, smoke trail into the air, ball of light in the sky. He repeated the actions a second time.

The third time, he decided that instead of running from whatever he lit, he would take three steps, drop to his knees, bend over, and cover his head with his hands as if being bombed. It’s a good thing he did that much because those are the first two things you’re supposed to do if you ever catch on fire: stop, drop, and roll. He didn’t catch fire, but the sequence went as follows: popping noise, pregnant pause, ball of light on the ground. Sparks from a full fledged firework flew about thirty yards in each direction.

At first, we gasped and wondered if he was ok. Since we didn’t see a flailing ball of fire where the guy was, we decided he was fine. We released our collective breath and decided it was then fine to laugh at him. Sometimes idiocy is comical. Two of his first five attempts at fireworks ended with fireworks literally on the beach. After those, the guy and his friend moved their launch spot closer to the ocean. That didn’t do much except make us feel like there was less of a chance of our house catching fire. About half of his attempts during the night gave us a very local display, which was nice because then we didn’t have to crane our necks. Fortunately, nobody was hurt.

We were left wondering if he just didn’t know what he was doing or if he had spent that $1000 on fireworks in 1980. Either way, a sane person would have figured out what was going wrong after the first 3 duds or simply abandoned ship rather than risk getting burned on a beach at night.

God bless America and the crazies that entertain us.

Why didn't you do anything this weekend?

Whenever I am asked about what I did on the weekend, I freeze up for a split second. I know I was supposed to be drinking at some crazy club or chillin’ and grillin’ at a barbeque. At least, that’s what I feel the implications of the question are, and I know I didn’t do those things. I was probably working during the day and watching a movie at home at night.

Is that lame? Do I not have any friends? I have at least four or five friends, and at least two of them live in the area-ish. But back to the point, why do I feel a moment of shame when I’m asked what I did this weekend? The reason is that we introverts aren’t creating social expectations, and we have to change that.

Unfortunately, social expectations are often set by the people who are, well, socializing. As hermit introverts, it's unlikely that we will get together to change that. It's too bad because half of the world is introverts (that’s according to the Meyers-Briggs personality test). We have the power; it’s just dispersed among TV rooms, kitchens, and libraries across the nation.

So, what’s the solution? The solution is to organize, to set an agenda for social change. We’ll call it anti-social change! We need to get together at a bar some time and change social standards! I know; I know. You’re all a bit nervous, my fellow introverts; but don’t worry, so am I. In fact, the thought of grinding the night away, dropping Hamiltons on almost-alcohol-free drinks and screaming at my buds about how wasted I am has me downright anxious. But we have to do something. The extroverts are using their gregariousness to make us feel bad about ourselves. Does nobody else feel this? I for one am sick of it.

We all need to get out and convince people we aren’t losers. We’re just different. You can hold your own in social situations—well, at least most of you. Some of you should probably stay home. But most of you should be out there spreading the word that we are people, too. It doesn’t matter that we prefer sitting at home. That should be our guilt-free right. Get out there, find an extrovert, shake their hand, and say, “Hi, I’m an introvert. And I’m OK with the fact that after I shake your hand, I will go home and veg out on the couch as is normal and is my want.”

And Extroverts, please understand that we’re like you. We like to drink. Just because we aren’t at bars boozing it up, it doesn’t mean we’re not drinking. We may be drinking alone, but we probably have a few close friends nearby. We have relationships. They are mostly the result of two introverts being painfully lonely, to the point that fear of being alone outweighs fear of being with somebody else for extended periods of time. But they are relationships nonetheless. We have friends. At least that’s what they type to me when I’m chatting with them on-line. See, we’re the same as you, Extroverts, except just the opposite.

Introverts, help me spread the word. Please get out there so that 1) I don’t have to feel bad about myself when I tell somebody I haven’t "done anything" this weekend and 2) I don’t have to talk to anybody about this problem.

Why don't I appreciate animals?

Two birds with one . . . car? My girlfriend and I were driving into work the other day when BAM! Two birds literally fell right out of the sky in front of the car. Luckily for them, we were nearing our destination and only going about 20 mph. Any faster and they may have had to deal with the momentum of the car. They were also lucky because they landed between the paths of the car wheels, thus avoiding certain steam-rolling.

I checked out the scene post-plummet, and it looked like they were still alive but not doing so hot. One hopped up and tried to limp away, his wing and leg obviously having seen better days. The other one just lay there until a passerby decided to help the birds get out of the street. He fetched some bark and tried to lift / shoo them out of the road, something I was not planning to do. My first thought wasn’t completely unkind: “Should I put them out of their misery?” The incident made me reflect on my view of animals, and I realized that I take them for granted and I am not OK with that.

My thinking about this topic actually started a couple of months ago when I was with my heroic friends in LA. We were driving around LA when they spotted a dog that looked like it was a stray. Like a military exercise, he stopped the car and she jumped out to check the dog tags as he circled the block. I was surprised they stopped; I didn’t realize how deep their love for dogs is. I wouldn’t have stopped, despite growing up with dogs as pets.

My view of animals is based on farm animals. As a child, I spent a week each summer on a farm, and though the pigs and bull were long gone, there were still dogs, chickens, and semi-feral cats. They were all farm animals, and farm animals don’t curl up in your lap or beg for food. They are around because they serve a purpose like every thing else on the farm. My grandma fed the dog table scraps but didn’t scratch his belly or baby-talk to him. We didn’t name the chickens, we just collected their eggs. I think this led to the obvious but perhaps somewhat callous belief that animals aren’t people; they don’t deserve or need the same kind of care we do.

That belief stuck with me even when we returned to suburbia. At home, we had a dog, and I had promised to feed and walk him when we got him as a puppy. What kid wouldn’t promise anything to keep the cutest puppy he had ever seen. Within a week, my parents were getting up to feed him each morning. They walked him. They took care of him in his old age. Over the years, I became distracted with school, friends, TV . . . the rest of life. It’s too bad because that dog deserved so much better than the occasional care I provided. I wish I had realized what an awesome dog he was.

I haven’t had any pets but fish since living at home. I know I don’t can't afford the time or money it takes to own a dog or cat. Heck, based on the fate of my last fish tank, it doesn’t look like I have time for those (a moment of silence for, Firecrotch and Sucktomus Prime). I now realize that I have taken pets and animals for granted, and I don't think that is OK with me. I don't abuse them or anything, but I am a little too apathetic when it comes to them. 

However, going forward, I will treat pets and animals that fall from the sky more like people, even though they aren’t technically. I won’t dress them or feed them food that costs more than mine, but I will treat them with a bit more dignity and help when I can. I don't quite have the heroic nature of my friends and probably won't stop for every stray I see (baby steps). But if I see birds fall to their probable death, I will at least try to give them a fighting chance by getting them out of harm's way. 

Why do I ever get a haircut?

When you see me, you probably never think “good haircut” unless it follows “damn, why can’t he get a.” I think that exact same thing when I look in the mirror. Why can’t I get a good haircut? The reason may be my overdeveloped sense of injustice or my possibly unlucky hair.

My sense of injustice is probably more appropriately called “cheapness”. A haircut shouldn’t make me broke. I want something stupidly simple. I’m not asking to look like a bad-ass anime character or have the pompadour of Elvis. I just want my hair shortened. That’s it! Don’t make me look stupid or sloppy or ridiculous. I’ve got my face and clothes to do that. That simple task cannot be worth more than twenty-ish dollars.

My thriftiness has lead me to different solutions in the past, including Supercuts and getting my girlfriend to cut my hair. The conclusion from Supercuts was that you get what you pay for; and Supercuts should be called Supersucks. I know; that’s not very clever.

After that experience (I went there multiple times; if you roll a dice, you should roll a six once in awhile, right?), I decided anybody could do better, so I bought some clippers. I was convinced that a blind person with a butter knife could do at least as good a job as Supercuts. Given that my girlfriend can see and had tools made for cutting hair, she had a good chance. And she did do just as good a job, possibly slightly better. But at the end of the day, I decided that the person who cuts my hair badly and my girlfriend should not be the same person. I realized that if I wanted a decent haircut, my only option was to pony up the cash.

Now I’m paying over 20 bucks a cut, and the results are better but not great. So maybe the problem isn’t in my head but on my head. I’ve been to many barbers and none has really given me something I’ve liked. Maybe I just have a difficult head of hair with a weird cowlick and possibly receding hairline. Maybe my hair lays funny and unevenly. Maybe I don’t know what I really want.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. I have a girlfriend who was willing to try her hand at cutting my hair, my job doesn’t require me to look decent, and I can’t afford anything else. I guess I’ll just have to get lucky one of these days, which will come from making way more money or losing all my hair.

Why was Obama on at ND?

Recently, Notre Dame has been in the news for inviting President Obama to speak at graduation and receive an honorary degree. There was a bunch of blah blah blah about Obama being pro-choice and the local bishop announcing he would not attend the commencement because of Obama’s stance on this single issue. There was even talk about not conferring a degree.

As an alumnus, I am proud and a little relieved that Notre Dame decided to allow him to speak and conferred an honorary degree. Arizona State University apparently has higher standards than my alma mater, deciding that Obama had not done enough to warrant an honorary degree. I think we should settle which school is better on the football field, even though I would not buy tickets to see that contest of mediocrity. I think it’s pretty clear that we won the contest of better graduation speeches though. Obama clearly understood his audience.

He began with talking about Father Hesburgh and sports. Hesburgh was the University’s president for 35 years, has received 150 honorary degrees, and played a major role in the Civil Rights Movement. The library with “Touchdown Jesus” is named after him. Obama then moved on to sports, a language almost every Notre Dame alumnus understands. A small, warranted joke about our football team preceded mention of an event that makes Domers (not a fan of the nickname, but it’s what we sometimes call ourselves) proud. Notre Dame hosts the largest five-on-five outdoor basketball tournament in the world, and just about everybody competes. It’s just single elimination street ball until the final rounds when they add some refs. It’s fun and it consumes ND life for a month, even if a certain person never saw a second round game.

Obama then went on to talk about the problems that the graduating generation faces and how they are unique. That part is not too original in my book, but it’s an important reminder in any speech, especially at Notre Dame, where service, community, and family are foundations. He threw in a sprinkle of God and Christianity, which are concepts that most Domers at least recognize, even if they do not strongly embrace them. Though this segment’s topic wasn’t necessarily new, it was eloquently delivered. He invoked the ideas of harmonious living and finding common ground, which provided a good segue into the part of his talk that received the most press.

Notre Dame and abortion were on the front web pages of the major newspapers on Sunday. I was surprised that Obama addressed the issue that caused all the controversy, but I was glad that he did. He chose to trust the audience to be civil and intellectually curious, despite what the Pope or bishops say. I like to think that Notre Dame students and families can handle hearing opinions, even if they happen to be different from their own. That being said, not everybody that went to Notre Dame disagrees with Obama on abortion.

For Obama’s part, he didn’t provoke or preach on the topic. He simply called for a dialogue, which has kind of been his MO during his first one hundred and something days. And how can you argue with a having a chat and exchanging ideas, especially at a college graduation? I think he took a smart approach to addressing a captive, pretty conservative crowd. Don’t anger them, but don’t be afraid of them. Invite them to the table. Obama invited and then moved on to topics that the audience found very agreeable.

He spoke of service to the community, tradition, the role Father Hesburgh in the Civil Rights Movement, and the role of Notre Dame in the world. I thought it was a great speech, and after watching it, I felt that sense of inspiration that any good graduation speech should evoke. He got the audience; at the very least, he understood this Notre Dame alumus.

Why not have standards in sports?

I will be the first to admit that sports probably get more attention than they merit. I spend more time than I need to reading ESPN, being disappointed by Notre Dame football, filling out my NCAA tourney bracket, watching golf . . . On the flip side, I could be doing worse things than following sports: robbing old ladies, loitering at a convenience store, or doing drugs. However, we are constantly reminded that sports won’t necessarily keep you away from the drugs.

It’s no longer surprising news that Manny Ramirez of the LA Dodgers was suspended for 50 games because he tested positive for steroid use. In fact, the surprise should be that the media still consider drug-using athletes news. It’s starting to have the ring of “slick politicians” or “nerdy scientists” (but maybe those are better grounded in fact). In sports though, it’s too bad a few bad eggs are ruining the game. Leagues need to dump those eggs by having a serious and very strict drug policy.

The rule should be that if you use performance-enhancing drugs, you are out of the league, stripped of any titles you earned, and your records are stricken from the record. This may sound harsh, but the current repercussions are pretty weak. Sitting out for 50 games? Is that a punishment or a vacation? An athlete’s body gets a nice long rest. Sure, he may not get paid, but it’s not like he’s making minimum wage and needs the hours. Even if you fine these guys, that just means they can’t buy a fourth house or 15^th car. Make the punishment real and lasting.

I also say they make drug testing mandatory for every player every year and keep samples for 10 years so that the latest designer drugs can be identified once tests are developed. Too expensive? Make the players pay it. I don’t know what they cost, but they can’t be more than $1000, can they? And what’s that to the pros? Even if these expenses were passed to the fans, I’d pay another nickel a game to make sure the 50 guys on the roster were clean.

Athletes are entertainers, and they are being paid to perform. But so are dancers, singers, and cooking show hosts. The difference is that athletics is a competition between two teams or individuals, and ultimately, I’m paying to see that contest. Of course, if I see a crazy dunk or huge hit, I like that as a fan. But mostly I’m here to see a close, clean game. Don’t gouge eyes, don’t purposely injure opponents, and don’t inject something that gives an edge.

The bottom line is that there is no place in sports for drugs that make you bigger or stronger. It is cheating. They provide an unnatural advantage to the users. Sports are supposed to be a test of natural physical and mental abilities that are honed through hard work. If an athlete wants to smoke pot or booze it up before a game like in the old days and can still hit an insanely fast ball or shuttlecock, I have no problem with that. In fact, that’s all the more impressive. But don’t cheat an opponent and don’t cheat us, the fans.

Why aren’t most people good at listening?

Listen up! If you don’t know how, then just read on because you will learn what makes a bad listener. I’m taking a class, and one of the topics of the class is how to improve your listening skills. There are three blocks to being a good listener, according to my teacher. They are 1) refocusing the conversation on yourself, 2) trying to fix the problem, and 3) conveying judgment. Now, it’s simple: if a person is telling you what they feel, don’t do any of these things. Well, it’s not that simple, but knowing is a start.

“Let’s talk about me!”

Refocusing the conversation for a moment to convey empathy is OK and is often done with good intention, but we all know people who make the conversation about themselves. She says, “I’m really nervous about going to Africa.” Don’t say, “That reminds me of this time when I wasn’t sure where I was going in Cupertino. I had to go there for a dentist appointment because I got hit in the face.” The only person in that 1-on-1 conversation who cares about that is you. Your friend cares about going to Africa.

Sometimes people want to know that you understand, but you don’t need to provide a long anecdote to convey that. If you do have a story and they want to hear it, let them ask. Hearing that you had a similar experience may help them believe you understand, but the better, safer option is to rephrase and summarize what they said and maybe ask a question that allows them to continue or expand. Being a listener is not about you.

“Let’s fix it!”

We all complain, so we all know what we want from a listener: silence accompanied by vigorous nodding or an occasional “Amen, brother!” Remember this as the listener. If she tells you “My cat Fluffy just died from choking on a hair ball,” she doesn’t want to hear “You can take in that stray by my dumpster.” He may say, “Why can’t that %&*#ing guy tackle?” He doesn’t want to hear, “He tried to arm tackle and didn’t wrap him up.” Trust me, I he just wants Notre Dame that guy to tackle better.

People don’t want to hear how their lives can be better. They probably already know how, and if they don’t, fixing comes later in the conversation, if not later in the week. Trying to work things according to your logical doesn’t work because the person is expressing his or her feelings, which simply need to be affirmed. It’s not about making things better; it’s about making the person feel heard.

“You did what?”

People do not want to hear that what they are sharing is being judged by you. She says, “I should not have gone out with him.” She’s probably not looking for, “You went out with that?” or “Well, he does look unique.” Even if you think she made the biggest mistake ever, she already knows she did. Furthermore, she knows that you know because she just told you. You can judge, but you can’t convey that judgment. It will make a person close up and assume a defensive position. And that makes you a failure at listening. See, you felt a little defensive hearing that, didn't you?

Odds are that you try to do one of these things if you are not the best listener. My fault is “fix it”. If you aren’t sure what yours is, you can do an exercise, but it requires somebody who is willing to talk for three minutes straight about a topic they consider important. When they start talking, keep track of what comes into your head. Is it, “That’s like when I . . .” or “Why is this a problem? You can simply . . .” or “Idiot!” Alternatively, you can just pay attention to your inner monologue the next time somebody tells you about their feelings.

Once you figure out which problem you have, we can talk about it. I’m sure I can help you fix it.

Why do pirates still exist?

Pirates

If you’re like me, you think three things when hearing about pirates off the coast of Somalia. The first is “Yarrrrrr, Matey!” The second is that nobody should pay those guys because they are essentially extortionists. The third is that it sounds like they’re making some decent money during a pretty bad economy. It can’t be that hard to obtain the necessary job skills. All I probably need is an AK47 and nothing to lose.

Well, I learned that I was wrong from a podcast by NPR’s Planet Money. Chana Joffe-Walts’s interviews revealed why piracy pays. The reason it works is because pirates have financial backing and a sound business plan.

Why pay?

The basic reason pirates get paid is that targets are picked well, making the financial decision relatively simple. Pirates take ships that are associated with countries that have no other option. If a shipping company doesn’t want to pay, it has to convince a navy to deal with the pirates. Otherwise, the shipping company has to pay the ransom if they want their ship and crew back. A dead crew brings a PR mess that costs money. There’s also the basic fact that they don’t want to keep buying ships or pay for the cargo on the ship. And would you, as a customer, ship freight with a company that doesn’t recover the goods you gave it?

We saw what happens when pirates choose a ship from a country that has a navy. The Maersk captain and crew were rescued because the US was willing to use its military might. All in all, a pretty terrible decision by the pirates. Pirates get paid only when it’s the cheapest option for the company. And usually that’s the case because they get inside information.

The Costs

I really did think piracy was 20 guys with guns, a boat, and no better options. However, these guys need much more. First, they need a financial backer who can pay off officials, foot the bill for supplies, and even provide a little bit of training at pirate camp. Yeah, pirate camp. All this costs $150-250K.

Officials are paid to turn a blind eye or provide intelligence. After all, the sea is quite large, if you haven’t looked at a map recently, and not every ship has value. If pirates take a ship that has no value to people or people can’t pay, they’ve wasted their time. Pirates also like to know who owns the ship and the origin of the crew and contractor to prevent having to deal with navies. They like to know what kind of security the ship has, if any. All of this information can make their jobs easier, but this intel costs money.

Supplies are probably the most obvious expense but possibly underestimated expense. They include a big boat to launch smaller faster boats, guns, and catering. Yes, catering. If you are on a ship for a month or two, a supplier drops by with food and supplies that you need. The podcast pointed out the fact that pirates need everything pretty much what Royal Caribbean needs to run a cruise ship minus the entertainment. That’s not cheap. As for entertainment, what’s more riveting than a hostage standoff at sea?

The next expense is personnel. Bodies aren’t hard to find when unemployment is as high as it is in Somalia, but bodies have to be trained. It’s hard to swing on ropes from one ship to another when there are no sails and masts like Pirates of the Caribbean. The pirates are actually attacking in small boats, way below the deck of the ship. And they have guns, which not everybody knows how to use. To recap, pirates have to drive a boat, board a huge ship, and, at the very least, look menacing with a gun. I can’t actually do any of these, and I’m pretty educated. I was considering piracy as a backup career, but now that I know camp is involved . . .

The Benefits

The negotiations are surprisingly civil. The pirates aren’t driven by ideals, so they don’t want to kill anybody. That means it all boils down to price, like buying a car. In the example on the podcast, the pirates called up, introduced themselves, and started at $7 million. The guy negotiating pretty much laughed and came back with the lowball offer of $300K. After a couple weeks, they were offering $5 million and $400K, at which point, the shipping company walked away, just like a car deal. The pirates called back a couple weeks later and eventually both parties settled on a price in the range of $1-2 million.

Once the price was settled, the company faxed the terms to the ship, which actually included filling up the tank with gas, and the money was dropped from the air in sealed bags. They also included a money counter to help the pirates count it. Once the pirates took their cut, you may think they’d just leave, but a few actually wanted rides up the coast. You may also think the shipping company would tell them to get out, but they obliged the pirates and dropped them off somewhere up the coast. After getting the ship back, the company found timesheets. It looked like the pirates were keeping track of their hours. The pirates actually came across as a pretty organized group conducting a pretty civil transaction.

Everybody on the pirate side makes a pretty penny. The backer takes about 30% of the total, which is about 1 to 2 million dollars. That means he makes can pretty much double his money for a few months worth of work. 20% goes to pay off officials. The rest is for paying off personnel, which includes the guys that take the ship, the guys that guard it, the negotiator who has probably spent a good amount of time learning English in the US, the caterer, and everybody behind the scenes. The guys that took the ship can make around $10K. The guards usually net around $1K. Considering that the average family in Somalia lives on $500, it’s great pay for a couple month’s work. That’s good living for two to ten years.

At the end of the day, you have unwilling “customers” called shippers paying a “company” that employs pirates and has a monopoly on the merchandise: the hijacked ship. I think it's unfair to draw any comparisons between pirates and cable or utility companies . . . but mostly because it sounds like the pirates are competent and relatively cordial.

Why aren't there rules for status updates?

If you had told me a year ago that Twitter would make it, I would have laughed in your face. If you had told me that I would use it, I would have slapped your face for being utterly ridiculous. Of course, I recently joined Twitter, which sparked a debate with a friend about the purpose of a status update. He contended they should be entertaining, and I came to agree with that.

Status updates are written for an audience, which means they are more than journal entries. Thus, they should have the same purpose as any writing aimed at an audience: to inform, to entertain, or to convince. Good ones accomplish all three.

For those of you who do not know, status updates are short internet entries that people use to tell their friends what they are doing, what they are thinking, or what they are whatevering. I use Twitter and Facebook. People write blurbs ranging from the prosaic "I’m sleepy" and “Just ate a turkey sandwich” to more inventive or emotional ones like "Can Notre Dame lose the Blue-Gold game?"and "5TPD000 you are supposed to yield to on coming traffic. Thanks for helping test out my horn." Good status updates inform readers in an entertaining way and possibly even provoke a discussion.

Many posts are about what a person is doing, falling into the "inform" category. Unfortunately, many are about sleeping or being tired. This is one of the least useful pieces of information in status updates. Everybody sleeps, and most everybody sleeps every day unless you’re a meth addict or an insomniac. The other activity that falls into this category eating (unless eating something or somewhere unusual). Cooking or baking? That’s good information because everybody is looking for a good recipe and readers may not know you cook or bake.

If you are on your way to a bar and want company or are traveling out of town, including this information in a status update is fine because it is useful. If I am bored, I may meet you. If you have a nice stereo system that I covet, I may drop by when you are gone. However, if you are just bored and update because you think people want to know what you are doing, this is a bit narcissistic. I’ve done it because I’m an obvious narcissist, but I now realize that most people probably don’t care. Useless information should not be included in a status update.

Many updates fall into the "entertain" category—or at least they should. My friend contends that these are the only ones worth posting. I agree that a status update should consider the audience and should thus be at least mildly entertaining. After all, I don't care if you are eating a turkey sandwich or going to sleep. If you're eating somewhere new or going to sleep with somebody new, that's a different story. That could be very, very entertaining. Status updates should make the audience laugh or cringe, not fall asleep.

Finally, some updates fall into the “convince” category, even though “convince” may be too strong of a term. Simple opinion statements are often posted, which implicitly voice opinions like “Notre Dame can’t play football” or “Many drivers are idiots”. Sure, updaters are probably looking more for validation than to convince the audience, but at least they are taking a stand. Anybody can reply to a statement, which can be the beginning of a discussion. However, these often deteriorate into childish name calling and mockery—aka good times. Take a stand in your updates.

Some other status-update topics for discussion: posting the latest song stuck in your head, using more than one exclamation point, leaving open-ended statements like “I had a nice day!”

A recent experience illustrated that people do not care about the mundane moments of my daily life. I joined Twitter to keep my family up to date about my daily life because I don’t tell them enough when we speak on the phone. I really thought they might be interested because, well, they are my family. Of course, none of them joined to follow. People may want to know what I’m doing, but they don’t want to know what I’m doing all the time. Instead, readers of status updates want to be entertained, and if they learn a little information, even better. 

Why would you ever say “irregardless”?

This has been a pet peeve of mine and somebody requested a post on it, so here it is.

Save your breath and just drop the “ir”. “Irregardless” is not a word, and if it were a word, pretty much everybody that uses it would be using it incorrectly. “Irregardless of the stench, I will eat that raw meat that has been sitting out for five days.” “Irregardless of the danger, I would gladly take a yacht trip off the coast of Somalia.” In these cases, the speaker uses the non-word “irregardless” when he or she means “despite” or “regardless”. I understand that there are some double negatives and it can get confusing, so let’s just take a close, step-by-step look.

We’ll start with the root word “regard”. According to. The verb form is from the Anglo-French, meaning “to look back at”. Broken down into the literal translation, we get the following. “Re” means “back”, as in “Reverse (turn back) course” or “She was disgusted by his rehair (back hair), and told him to shave it.” “Guard” means “to look”, as in “Kevin Costner was in that sexy movie, The Bodyguard (one who looks at a body)”. Regard = look back. It’s not a huge leap to see how this verb form is connected to the noun form, which Merriam-Webster defines as “an aspect to be taken into consideration”.

Now, let’s add the “less”, which means “without”. Think of the statement “I must be brainless if I use irregardless”, which also serves as a mnemonic device. This results in “regardless” meaning “without regard for” or “without looking back at” or “without taking into consideration”. This word makes sense when used in “Regardless of the stench, I will eat that raw meat that has been sitting out for five days”. In this case, you only look less than intelligent because you are eating rancid meat but not because you are using a non-existent word. You have clearly conveyed your point. Congrats!

Finally, let’s add “ir” to the non-word “irregardless”. In Spanish, “ir” is a verb meaning “to go”. Unfortunately, in English or Latin as a prefix, it means “not”. This results in the logical conclusion that “irregardless” means “not without regard for” or more simply “with regard for”. For you math-inclined people, it looks like the following: “irregardless” = (a negative) x “regard” x (a negative) = (positive) x “regard” =  “to look back at”. “Irregardless” would, if it were a word, mean that a fact or statement is taken into consideration.

So, regardless where you picked it up, “irregardless” is probably not the non-word you want.

Why ride like you drive?

My bike is fondly referred to as the "death bike" and sits oustide of my lab until I need to travel across campus. Its green frame props up a torn seat, which serves as a sponge, leaving a wet mark on my butt days after it has rained. The gears mostly shift and the tires mostly hold air, but the brakes are its namesake. While not as bad as Flintstone brakes, they are less than immediately responsive. I tend to ride slowly and watch for obstacles and cross streets way ahead of me. Luckily, the bike swerves just fine. Anybody that borrows the bike is strongly advised to use the helmet I provide. Don't worry, I'm going to get the brakes fixed soon.

Though the state of my bike may make me a danger on the road, it makes me only slightly more dangerous than some bikers. I appreciate what bikers do for the environment and the street traffic. But there are a number of bikers that give every other biker a bad name. There are just enough of them that don't obey the rules of the road to make drivers uncertain about their behavior. They are the ones that don't do the following.

1) Don't signal. I'm just a driver, not a psychic. To be fair, I can't stand it when drivers don't signal either. It's dangerous and discourteous.

2) Don't stop at stop signs. I agree that some stop signs are more optional than others for bikers. I don't care if a biker doesn't stop at a sign when nobody is there. That's between the biker and the hidden cop. But if there is a car already waiting, a biker should wait his turn because it's safe and because cutting isn't cool.

3) Don't ride single file. I get it that some bikers may want to chat while riding. But it's a bike lane, and they are usually wide enough for one bike. Riding two abreast is like that driver in front of you that keeps drifting into your lane. Besides, if you can chat, you're not riding hard enough.

4) Don't have lights. I don't care if a biker can't see what's in front of him at night. That's not my problem. However, lightlessness becomes my problem when I can't see him and he comes out of nowhere. I'll yield to what I can see, but give me a chance.

5) Don't use a hands free device. Drivers aren't allowed and shouldn't be allowed to hold a phone to their ears while driving. I think bikers should be held to the same standard--at least on the road. 

In general, I think you should ride like you would drive. But I don't mean this to be a tirade against bikers. I'm willing to stipulate that most follow the rules and are considerate road partners. And I'm sure that drivers do stupid things that affect bikers. I'd like to hear about those so that I can avoid them as a driver. Let me know. Post it here. Then you'll at least have one driver trying to make it easier on you. 

A side note on why I'm no biker

I realized the other day that I am one of the only people in my lab, which consists of 22 people, who drives to work. Nineteen people take public transportation or bike. I applaud everybody that does and applaud Stanford for making it so financially appealing. I actually enjoy taking public transportation if it's affordable and runs often. I loved taking the T in Boston and using the shuttle when I lived on campus. 

However, I also tried biking. For one month I tried biking in Boston to save money. I biked for awhile on campus, too. Both of those experiences gave me an aversion to biking. 

My reasons for not riding are the following in order of least to most legitimate. I'm lazy. It hurts my butt. It takes too long. My girlfriend is already driving. I get disgustingly sweaty by the time I arrive at work or home. It's scary; I don't trust drivers when I'm in my airbagless car, and it seems stupid to give them an even better shot at me by riding a bike. 

I know these may all be lame excuses and maybe I could and should ride a bike. But then I'd have to fix my brakes and share the road with those idiots called drivers.

Why is March Madness?

If you are in a pool for the NCAA Mens Basketball Tournament, especially if you still have a chance at winning it, you know why it's maddening. You feel like a winner, a loser, a genius, an idiot, and a traitor all at once.

For those of you not familiar with the tournament, every year, 65 basketball teams are chosen to play a single elimination tournament to determine the champion. It's simple: a team loses, it's out; it wins, it moves on. Many people enter a pool with friends, which requires that participants guess the result of every game before the tournament even starts. Points are awarded for wins each round, with each round being worth more than the previous one. If the team you picked to win the entire tournament loses the first round, it's out of the tourney and you're probably out of contention in your pool. That can be maddening, but why is March madness?

Winner 

It's madness because expertise doesn't matter. In fact, it's often a hindrance. People might think they know something, but so many games come down to the last second, it's often a crap shoot. And one crucial loss can ruin your bracket. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has a chance. Odds are good that the 16 seed won't beat the 1 seed, but nobody knows what will happen. Don't listen to pundits or go by records either. Crazy things happen during the tournament.

Loser 

It's madness because you can go from first to worst after a single round. Sure, you rocked the first round, but if all your Sweet 16 don't make it out of the second, you're in big loser-y trouble. The team you chose to win it all gets upset in the second round? Even if you picked every other game correctly, don't hold your breath. Odds are that everybody will catch you--and then pass you. Of course, you can also go from worst to first after a round.

Genius 

It's madness because Cinderella can happen any year. Cal State Northridge, University of Texas at Chattanooga, East Tennesee State, Morehead State, North Dakota State, Cleveland State. Don't count them all out before the tourney starts. Any low seed or any team with two adjectives in its name can potentially make it all the way. And if they make it past the first weekend, everybody, despite their bracket, is cheering for them. Bask in the glory if you picked them--even if it was because you had 5 minutes to fill out the entire bracket and accidentally picked them because you thought it was a 3, not a 13, by their name.

Idiot 

It's madness because of the sheer number of games. During the first weekend, Thursday to Sunday, 48 games are played, whittling the field to 16 over the course of four days. The next weekend, 12 games are played to leave the four most worthy teams. It's insane trying to keep track of who plays who, who wins, and what the heck you had in your bracket. Try to watch them all? You could probably learn a foreign language in the time spent watching. Plus, the stress may kill you.

In addition, any game you picked to be an upset that wasn't makes you feel dumb. Of course UNC was going win its region. Stupid me!

Traitor 

It's madness because the team you want to win one round, you desparately want to lose even more the next round. Sure, I'll root for Duke to make it to the Sweet 16, but then I'd really like them to lose so that I get points and a lot of other people get hosed. Michigan State to the Sweet 16? Perfect, but don't ruin my chances by beating any more teams. Cleveland State's upset of 4 seed Wake Forest may cost me some points, but I'm rooting for them after that, even though I need every point I can get. Everybody's a Benedict Arnold.

March is madness because it's hard to believe you could be so many things at once.

Why is Kauai memorable?

I just returned from Kauai, Hawaii. The locale was everything I expected: clear water, lush vistas, great snorkeling. But it was more. It was wild (feral, not crazy) chickens, some roads that were more hole than road, and one-lane bridges. While the expected Eden is what drew me there, it was the unexpected, less perfect oddities that gave it its charm. 

Birds of paradise

The first wildlife I saw in Kauai? Tropical fish? No. Insects the size of my face? No. Brightly colored birds? Eh, sort of. As I left the airpot, I saw some chickens out in the open, running wild. Over the course of the trip, I found them in parking lots, at secluded beaches, and way up in the mountains. To their credit, they were more colorful than the monochromatic chickens of childrens books. They sat under cars, chased each other, and cruised about with their clutches of chicks. Elderly people fed them crumbs, adults videotaped them, and one kid yelled, "Die, chicken, die!". Think large, land-bound pigeons taking the place of stray cats. 

But instead of hearing yowls of alley cats, I heard roosters cock-a-doodle-doodling much of the day, which was quite different from the chirping of tropical birds that I expected. From what I've read about roosters (which consists almost completely of books aimed at 6 years olds), I thought they were only supposed to crow in the morning. I guess these roosters can't even read at a 6 year old's level so they crowed all the time. Fortunately, I only got annoyed once when one decided to roost just outside of my window one morning. I was ready preheat the oven. 

Supposedly, they are wild because Hurricane Iniki hit the island in 1992 and liberated the chickens. Here in California, it takes a Proposition to give chickens a little more freedom, but Hawaii has a different, more effective way. Without any natural predators, they ran amok. Come to think of it, the largest animal I saw was a chicken--except for the humans. And I did have fried chicken one night at a less-than-fancy place...but I'm sure they imported that. 

Holey Mary, Mother of God

Most of the roads were great, but the one that led up to and past Waimea canyon had more holes than a sieve--or even a net. Imagine every pothole you've ever driven through, add that to every pothole you've successfully avoided, multiply by 5, and put all those on the road directly in front of you. If that's not worrisome enough, add some fog, a slope, and a narrow road. That's what the road was like in some patches. Now, be very glad you're driving a rental car because if you were driving my 1989 Integra...you'd end up walking. But now, say a prayer because you just remembered that you didn't get the insurance, and based on the number of holes, one will probably eat a tire, a wheel, a bumper, or a passenger. It wasn't the scariest ride I've done (like I said, I drive an '89 Integra), but it was the worst road I think I've seen and/or felt rack my body.

The drive was well worth it. Not only did we get to view the amazing canyonscape, but we took an 8 mile hike (round trip) to Kilohana lookout. The hike started on a ridge. It was like standing on the rim of a cappuccino. One side was a valley filled to the brim with dense fog whereas the other side had a clearly-visible, verdant valley. The trail was mostly boardwalk, but the parts that were not were filled with many mud pits and steep, wet rock. In some respects, it was like to drive up: smooth most of the way but trying to kill its travelers at other times. 

The boardwalk was necessary because the trail took us through the highest swamp on earth. I know, that phrase reads like "oooh! highest!" and then "uhhh, swamp?". I'm no swamp expert, but I was not overwhelmed by its swampiness, which I'm going to say is a good thing. The hike ended at a cliff face overlooking the north shore of the island and a cavernous, lush valley that leads to it. It was a vista as grand as I've ever seen, perhaps grander because I had put in some work to get there. My words could never adequately describe it, but it made the hike and the drive well worth it. Plus, we could see where we had driven the day before, making it me feel that we had really made it around the island.

One-lane bridges

Towards the end of the road I just mentioned, which takes you up the east side of the island, there are a number of one-lane bridges. When I first saw the sign "One Lane Bridge Ahead", I was a bit nervous. After all, what if the one-way is going against me? How would I ever get across it? Yeah, sometimes I think stupid thoughts. I'm guessing they were cheaper than the two-lane bridges and traffic was low enough that it didn't matter. 

They basically work like a two way stop in that you yield the right of way to anybody who got there before you. The bridges are all pretty short so you can see the other side. If nobody's on the bridge, you can drive across without stopping. But unlike a two way stop, local courtesy says that five to seven cars are allowed to cross one way if they are all waiting there. So, if there is a line coming at you, somebody after the fifth or sixth car should yield and give you and four or six cars behind you a chance to cross. It was pretty easy and effective. However, I'm not going to recommend it for the Dumbarton or Golden Gate Bridges.

Chickens, potholes, and one-lane bridges: these unexpected imperfections made Kauai feel like a good friend, and I'd go back to visit in a second. 

Why don't I play dodgeball any more?

Recently, I attended a friend's birthday party at a trampoline warehouse. Imagine 60 trampolines next to each other with the hard parts covered by gymnastic mats. Tilted tramps prevent people from falling onto the concrete, so you have a stadium-type situation. There were three arenas: one where you can just jump around, one with a foam pit, and one with dodgeball. 

Sound pretty fun? It's not bad, but after 10 minutes, you realize you're tired, and that's because you're old. Try a flip? There are simpler things that you probably tried, like jumping off the side tramps, that made you realize that a flip will probably result in an ugly accident in front of a bunch of teens. Your brain feels like it's been shaken loose, your back feels like it was given a deep tissue massage by an amateur masseuse, and your stomach feels like you had some slightly undercooked seafood. What to do? Try the other arenas.

First, the foam pit. The idea is to jump off a trampoline and land in a pool of softness. Take some old foam blocks from the 60's--possibly the 1860's--and dump them in a pit. Throw a bunch of sweaty kids in there night after night. Congratulations, now you know what I decided would be fun to land in: lots of gray foam blocks. People ahead of me had trouble getting out of the pit when they landed on their backs, so I decided to try not to embarass myself. I approached, messed up my jump, and had to restart. My next try was successful. I made it into the pit face first. I'm pretty sure I ate some of the foam. I later asked my friend, an MD, what was the worst thing I could get from eating some. She said there was no need to worry unless some kid pooped in there. That was comforting. What are the odds that a kid as young as 5 soiled himself as he fell out of the sky?

Not wanting to die from eating a stranger's . . . ick, I decided to try dodgeball. I used to be really good when I was in junior high. Here's the situation. You enter an arena, where you are divided into teams by the "ref" (aka 15 year old who thinks he's a badass). You are then let loose to throw balls at the other team. I waited around a bit just to make sure I didn't get out right away. After all, there were about twenty people on each team. I didn't want to get out before the 10 year olds--or get out by a 10 year old. I had my pride to think about. I threw one ball, and hit nobody. 

Then, there were about 7 people left on each team. I scanned the other side to see where people were and where the balls were. This was my chance to shine and get somebody out. I was nervous, but I thought I had an advantage on all these chumps because, when I was 12, I was really, really--a ball out of the corner of my eye. The figure of a sizable black kid following through on his throw. Years of latent reflexes kicking in. I duck! Glory!

Wham! It turns out that I ducked quickly enough to get my face to ball-level. And it turns out that the kid was a pretty accurate and powerful thrower. Fortunately, it was a soft dodgeball so I could still see out of my eye. As I left the court, I was a little angry but more embarassed and tried to give him props for his hit. I heard one kid say, "Damn, that guy just got NAILED." I like to think somebody else got smacked right after me. I decided it was time to return to ruining my back and leave dodgeball to the youngins.

Why am I such a jerk?

As I was driving and doing my usual cursing at the driver who didn't adhere to the rules of the four way stop, I had to stop and wonder "Am I the jerk?" Does calling somebody else a jerk or an a--hole or a d--khead make me one? Or am I just making an objective observation? 

It all depends on your definition of a "jerk". If you say it's somebody who is inconsiderate and has a negative impact on another person, you can get away with more. By that definition, simply calling somebody a jerk does not make you one--as long as they can't hear you. If they didn't even notice you, it means that you didn't inconvenience them. And if they didn't hear you, you had no impact on them, negative or otherwise. If they did notice you and cut in front you any way, that makes them inconsiderate and your statement an objective statement of fact. Either way, you're not a jerk just for calling them one. 

But if you define a jerk as somebody who knowingly inconviences another person or somebody with the intent to harm another's ego, then you can't really ever call somebody a jerk without being one. When I call somebody a jerk on the road (and I am rarely so kind as to call them something so nice), a feeling of righteousness or vengance accompanies it. If they could hear me (without reprecussions to myself of course), I'd want them to know that I think they are inconsiderate and terrible drivers. And I want them to bow their heads in shame and whimper an apology. I don't mean them harm, but I would like them to acknowledge their mistakes and how they wronged me. So I think by the more stringent definition of "jerk", I'd be one. 

I think the solution here is for everybody to adhere to the rules of my road. Or I could be more realistic and stop caring so much about being minorly inconvenienced. But let's be honest, aren't people who are driving while on their cell phones dangerous jerks? 

Why the hell could you care less?

I could care less about the use of "I could care less". The statement is often used to express that one does not care at all about something. "Did you know that I threw away a tissue?" "I could care less!" I contend that most people who use this phrase mean the opposite. By using this phrase, they are saying that they do care. The correct phrase should be "I couldN'T care less".

Let's say you have a care-o-meter that indicates how much you care. At the top of the meter, you have maximum care-age. The needle would point to the top if you were asked how much you care about the most important thing in the world to you. It would point here if a Notre Dame alum were asked how much he cares about winning a national football title or if Dick Cheney were asked how much he cares about consolidating power in the executive branch. The top of the meter indicates the most you could possibly care.

At the bottom of the meter, you have minimum care-age, where the needle would point if you were asked to how you feel about the least important thing in the world to you. It would point here if the Big 10 commissioner were told that all the fans wanted a college football playoff or if Bush were told that we live in an international community with increasing globalization (in Bush's defense, he might not understand all those words). The bottom of the meter indicates complete apathy.

Now, if you could care less, that indicates that you are NOT at the bottom of the meter. There is still some room between where you are and complete apathy. You still care a little. If you want to say that you do not care at all about something, you have to say that you couldn't care less. That would mean your care level is zero--the bottom of the meter. There is nothing less important to you. 

"People might think you're overly anal for addressing this on your blog." 

"I couldn't care less." If you made it this far in the post, you understand what I'm saying--and that I'm saying it correctly. 

Why make a New Year's resolution?

Why not? Nobody's perfect, but people who don't strive towards something are pretty boring--and unaccomplished. This year, I have resolved to do three things every day: read something substantial, write a paragraph, and do push-ups (note that push-ups is plural). 

Read something substantial. This resolution is really aimed at lab. A discussion with a lab mate made me re-realize that reading is more important than experiments in science. The better experiments become clearer and the big picture becomes bigger and crisper. The past four and a half years, I have spent more time doing than thinking, and doing poorly at that. Granted, too much thinking is a grad student killer, too, but I'm far from that side of the spectrum. The goal is to spend much more time reading and thinking science each day. You may ask, "How could you avoid this during the past four years?" I'd say you'd be surprised at what you can get away with, and besides, it's not like I've earned the PhD yet. 

Write a paragraph. I've always said that I wanted to be a writer, and I am seriously considering giving it a go after grad school (or maybe this summer if I get the fellowship I want). I have a blog; I can start to write a paper (sort of); I will be taking a writing class. Throw in an article or two for school publications, and I'm swimming in opportunities. The goal is to see if I'm actually serious about wanting to be a writer. And if I'm good enough to do it.

Push-ups. The unoriginal goal of fitness. Sadly, I have become very, very, very weak. I mostly blame TV, the media, work, Wii, Call of Duty, and college football. Couple that with climbing and running being enough exercise for me, and my chest and triceps don't see much exercise. I can barely squeeze out 30 now when I used to have 500 in my routine (they may not have been perfect form back then). Plus, they say climbers slouch because of their over-developed back and shoulder muscles. That's not the only reason I slouch, but they say push-ups help balance things out. We'll see how that goes.

I have also resolved not to play Call of Duty unless playing with a friend. That was a major time suck that I majorly sucked at. It was cold turkey January 2 for that one--no more solo shooting.

Why resolve to do anything? I realize that I will probably fail to do each of these each day for the entire year. In fact, yesterday I forgot to do push-ups, and I'd bet that February will find me doing none, if any, of these. The intent is not to be perfect but to improve, to be a better version of the me I envision--at least for a little while.