The Name Game

Your name says a lot about you. It shapes who you are. This used to be a theory of mine, but it's well-documented, so I'd say it's a fact. The public will treat you differently if your name is Edgar, than if your name is Cooper. Cooper gets to be cool. Edgar gets to be Edgar. Not to mention the years of anguish associated with the constant Edgar Allan Poe references, specifically:

1. He was not particularly handsome,
2. He married his 13 year old first cousin (her age was falsified on the marriage certificate).

Other than that, if you're an Edgar, you're living large.

My friend and colleague, Alex Bodgan, is en route to having his third child. His first two, a boy also named Alex, and a girl named Emma, should be fine. No obvious, harmful nicknames. Today at lunch, I decided to help my friend along with choosing a name for his yet-to-be-born son or daughter. Here are some of my stylings with some new ones I, amazingly, just came up with:

For a boy:

1. Chester Bogdan (runs into potential "molester" jokes)
2. Andre Bogdan (sounds like a football player, maybe a strong safety or an outside linebacker)
3. William "Billy" Bogdan (gets to be called, Billy the Kid, always clutch)
4. Bilbo Bogdan (for all the Lord of the Rings fans out there)
5. Jared Bogdan (it's worked well enough for me)
6. Brian Bogdan (Alex wasn't fond of the "an" sound, since it appears again in his last name)
7. Jason Bogdan (ditto, but it's similar to Jason Bourne, which is cool and could outweigh any opposition)
8. Nick Bogdan (not bad)
9. Greg Bogdan (too many "g"s)
10. Cooper Bogdan (surprisingly, doesn't work)
11. Montgomery Bogdan (umm, nah)
12. Bruce Bogdan (Incredible Hulk parallels?)
13. Hippocrates Bogdan (can't go wrong with old school)
14. Geronimo Bogdan (or native American)
15. Pedro Bogdan (Vote for Pedro!)
16. Giuseppe Bogdan (too ethnic?)
17. Brandon, Sebastian, Goran, Aaron (see 6 and 7)
18. Carl Bogdan (sounds like he's not making a difference in the world, Hippocrates Bogdan, now that kid is curing AIDs, Carl Bogdan is curing meats in a butcher shop)
19. Virag Bogdan (it's a Hungarian name and Alex likes to tell people that he's Hungarian, although I think he's about as Hungarian as Wesley Snipes)
20. Tommy Bogdan (Tommy Boy! I like this one, and you could always start with Thomas if you want to pretend he'll graduate high school)
21. Moses Bogdan (take it to the Old Testament!)
22. Jack Bogdan (Jack is just a solid, strong man's name, can't go wrong with it)
23. Romeo Bogdan (wherefore art thou Romeo?)

Or, he could be having another daughter:

1. Jennifer Bogdan (I guess)
2. Paris Bogdan (just kidding)
3. Michaela Bogdan (allegedly, one of the most popular girl's names for the past few years, but I can't believe that)
4. Victoria Bogdan (sounds like someone who wouldn't date me)
5. Jacquelyn Bogdan (same)
6. Virginia Bogdan (ditto)
7. Natasha Bogdan (I'm seeing a trend here)
8. Diane Bogdan (classy and likes gorillas)
9. Charlotte Bogdan (not that I know anything about Sex and the City, I promise, I don't, but I do know that she was the only one worth looking at)
10. Jane Bogdan (Jane and Charlotte, if one Bronte sister doesn't work, choose the other)
11. Margaret Bogdan (playing with fire, considering likely "Marge" nickname)
12. Stella Bogdan (I like it, but falls in the 4 through 7 category, to which I'm inherently opposed)
13. Lauren Bogdan (the "an" sound ruins girl name possibilities too)
14. Carmen, Allison, Karen (ditto)
15. Heidi Bogdan (probably hot)
16. Heather Bogdan (ditto)
17. Hope Bogdan (probably sweet)
18. Abby Bogdan (ditto, plus can't you just see little Emma and Abby playing dress up together? I know I can...that sounds weird, sorry Alex)
19. Carol Bogdan (sounds old)
20. Florence Bogdan (ditto)
21. Olivia Bogdan (hmm, has potential)
22. Esmeralda Bogdan (finally, a name with character)
23. Borbála Bodgan (might as well end with another Hungarian name)

I think Alex has some winners here. At the very least, the next five to six months should be worry free, I've done all the legwork for him.

Jared

Catching a Draft

Last night I had my first of what will be three fantasy football drafts. For the past week, I have been researching and getting up to speed on who to draft, who not to draft, who to draft only if it's late enough in the draft, and who to draft when everyone I wanted to draft has already been drafted. This takes a lot more effort than you would suspect.

First, you have last year's stats to work with. Second, you have this year's projected stats based on last year's stats plus a little extra for expanded roles or added experience (i.e. Adrian Peterson) or a little less for injuries or no longer being relevant (i.e., Shaun Alexander). Third, you have internet articles on draft strategy and trends. Fourth, you have mock drafts, which are the equivalent of practice exams in college. It's always better to take a look at the types of questions you'll have to answer before it counts. Mock drafts are useful, either drafts where you're involved or expert mock drafts conducted by, well, experts. However, every draft is different. Certain positions start being called off the board in torrential fashion forcing you to get on the train or go completely against the grain. All of these tools are helpful, but, in the end, you have to trust yourself.

But the draft is the thing. I love drafting more than following my team during the season. It holds so much promise. Your players are all healthy (usually), your team name is clever and ironic, you're ready to go on auto-pilot until the championship game when you'll, undoubtedly, be scooping up a large amount of cash for dominating the league; the potential is limitless. No rain clouds today, just pure sunshine.

Then the games start. You realize that waiting until the 5th and 6th rounds to take your first running backs was not a good strategy, even though you knew that two weeks ago when you reviewed drafting strategy, which specifically stated, "make sure you get two running backs within the first 4 rounds." You try to rationalize your decision to pick three wide receivers and a tight end (in fact, the first tight end taken), citing the early run on running backs, but everyone listening assumes you're an amateur. Once the scores count, however, you see that your rationalizing won't win fantasy football games, but at least you have a top tight end, which counts for something, but not really.

Drafting is fun because that's where you get to "play." That's where you make the big decisions. Once the games start, the players take over. Accumulate stats, points, by then it's out of your hands. Sure, you make roster decisions, pick up this player, drop that one, start this one, bench that one, but the draft is when you're the conductor and the orchestra is playing flawlessly. No excuses needed.

For a few days of dreaming of championships and picking the correct long shots, the deep sleepers, from right under another owner's eyes, it's worth it. In the end, we all just want to be proven right, smarter than someone else, with better judgment. Undeniably better. Fantasy football is just like anything else, another stomping ground to prove your quality. Two more drafts to go. At this rate, I might just catch a cold.

Jared

The Garden of Beerden

The bathroom looked like a concentration camp gas chamber. I should have seen that coming since I was eating Kielbasa and fries and drinking pints of Spaten beer at the Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden in Astoria, Queens [It's about time I hung out in my borough]. No offense to the German delegation. Maybe it wasn't reminiscent of a death box, but, still, the bathroom was strange. It was a separate building made of brick with long, length-wise windows that allowed guests to peer in and witness the lines forming to use the facilities, but the the windows were the kind that couldn't open, which created an eerie police investigation room feel. In fact, I was so disturbed I held in any urge and waited until I returned home to use the bathroom.

On a warm, breezy, end of summer August day, this is the place to be(er). Outside, in a half-block long, stone enclosure that looks and feels like a German beer hall even though if you look close enough you realize the walls are not the outer perimeter of a long-gone castle, but simply gray stone walls corralling beer drinkers and sudsy revelers, keeping them hidden from the possibly under-age park goers nearby and the definitely under-age schoolchildren directly next door.

The place was packed. There could have been 1000 people there. It's "How many jelly beans are in this jar?" personified. If I asked my friend Chris, who was with me, to guess, he'd set the over/under in less than 10 seconds and have at least $10 ready to bet either way. I didn't mention it, so instead we each had a cup of beer in our hands, our pitcher sitting on an upright barrel, shared with two other people, while we stared at the throng of people sitting on long benches at long tables and countless others standing around doing what we were doing, but with more friends to do it with: staring, talking to each other, drinking, but mostly surveying.

People-watching is great. No wonder Reality TV is as popular as it is, regardless of whether it's, in fact, real. It's riveting. Looking at people, sizing them up, summing them up in your mind, knowing them as best as you can when you don't know them at all. She's annoying, he's full of himself, she thinks she's really good looking, but she's not, so she's delusional, he's not funny, I can tell by his t-shirt, therefore, I don't like him because he thinks he's funny, etc. At a place like the Beer Garden, everyone is round up in one central location so you have plenty of opportunities to speculate and discuss. It's not all static either, there's a steady stream of stragglers, new fish entering the fray, those swimming towards the bathrooms, others finning it to the food stand for multiple variety of sausage, fries, chicken, anything to soak up all of the beer pouring out of taps relentlessly.

When you go to a beer garden, you know the score: Drink beer. But you have to drink responsibly. Signs when you walk in prohibit drinking games. Wearing "bling" is also prohibited. One guy passed me wearing a long gold chain with a cross. I guess that wasn't "blingy" enough. Must be because of the religious factor.

It's a great place to drink beer when the weather is right. Trees creep over the stone walls like beer head foaming over the top of the glass. The sky is endless above you. Pennants hang from the walls. All around are merrymakers; you keep expecting to turn your head to see people dressed in doublets and frocks, something out of Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Everyone wears normal clothes instead, full of clever, sardonic-sloganed t-shirts. The ground is concrete and gravel, with grass patches and a low wooden deck/stage near the middle, but still off towards the end. That's it. Sure, there's a restaurant and bar inside, but no one came for that, they came for the garden, the beer hall, the open air, the trees, the breeze, the sound of people, the baskets of fries, the kielbasa, the bratwurst, the burgers, the girls in skirts, the guys in polo shirts, the sunglasses, the solidarity, the one way to bring your friends together for a few hours on a weekend so you can all catch up, but without killing your evening, the bathroom troughs, the elementary school next door, they came to give thanks, to remember, to reflect. To drink beer. In t-shirts. Outside. It must have been like this for Adam and Eve, too.

I sure hope so.

Jared

The Dark Dark Knight

Dark. Really dark. It's 2:40 in the morning. I've showered and am watching the U.S. Men's Indoor Volleyball team try to not choke away its semi-final match against the Russian Federation. The Russians just served out of bounds. Maybe they'll choke away their comeback. Either way I'm still wired from watching the latest Batman movie, The Dark Knight, for the second time, this time in IMAX.

This was the first feature-length movie I've seen in IMAX. Normally the only movies I see on an IMAX screen are the nature and dinosaur shorts that they show at history and science museums. After seeing a midnight show of The Dark Knight when it first opened, I told myself that I would see it again on IMAX. I expected good things and I wasn't disappointed. The screen was huge, the shots were vibrant, the Joker was even more demonic.

Most people agree, The Dark Knight is a fantastic movie, easily the best comic book movie ever and a great action movie to boot. Most people also agree that Heath Ledger dominates the movie with his original, organic, searing, scene-strangling performance. The push for Academy Award recognition for his role is well-deserved, posthumous or not. In fact, I'd say it's mandatory. He is the role. Never does he stray from his Frankenstein-esque creation.

There are a few people, however, who have relentlessly probed for faults. There are faults. Nothing is perfect. The most common objections include:

1. Maggie Gyllenhaal is not that attractive.
2. Christian Bale's voice as Batman is overdone.
3. It goes on for too long.
4. There's not enough nudity.

Sorry, number 4 is my objection, not a common one.

Are these warranted objections? Not enough to derail the highest grossest opening weekend movie of all time.

I know I just introduced the Haiku Review with my last post. Maybe it's too soon to produce another one. Maybe another one will dilute the uniqueness and appeal of the review. Maybe it's already played out. Well, so be it. This is a great movie. I'm still awake at 3 in the morning and the U.S. Men's Indoor Volleyball team came through in the clutch and won the fifth and final set, 15-13, in thrilling fashion, so I owe it to give you whatever creative juices I can summon. With no further ado, on to the Haiku Review:

Can't wait for sequel.
Great movie, but it's sad that
Heath Ledger is Dead.

Actually, I don't want to end on such a depressing note, and since this was the second time I've seen The Dark Knight, how about one more haiku to send you on your way:

Reminds me of Heat:
Bank robbery, trucks and guns.
Maggie G., really?

Jared

Pineapple Suckspress

Welcome to something I'm creating. I even came up with a clever name for it. In fact, I'm going to have to get this clever name trademarked for legal protection. As a lawyer, I know that this is the thing to do when you create a clever name. For instance, whoever came up with the slogan "Do the Dew" for Mountain Dew got that shit trademarked. Whoever came up with the slogan "Taste the Rainbow" for Skittles got that shit trademarked. Even Pat Riley got the word "Threepeat" trademarked. Now, whenever a sports team is on the verge of winning back to back to back championships he gets a cut. All the super-smart guys and girls know this. When skimming through ads and commercials look for the trusty R enclosed in a circle. That means the mark is registered with the USPTO. It's legally protected. Often, however, you'll come across the letters TM, also enclosed in a circle. In layman's terms that means, "I'm saying this is a trademark, you're on notice, but it's not registered and my legal protection is iffy." As a non-trademark lawyer, I wouldn't quote me on any of this, but I'm pretty sure that's the breakdown.

So what is my clever name for my new creation and what in the world does it have to do with a stoner-buddy-action movie named Pineapple Express? The name is...wait for it...here it comes:

Haiku Review

Get it. It rhymes. Or better yet, "Haiku Review TM." Now I'm ready for my close-up.

What is a Haiku Review and why should you care? Two good questions. I'll answer them separately. First, a Haiku Review is a movie review told in traditional 5-7-5 Haiku prose. Second, you should care for two reasons. One, it'll reduce the possibility of movie spoilers, which I so detest, but am beginning to be ambivalent about. Two, who wants to read a long review about a movie when all you really want to know is, should I see this movie?
Why should you trust me? Great question. This will take three reasons. One, my credentials speak for themselves. I've always loved movies, but I think I first realized I loved movies when I saw Howard the Duck, in theaters. Long story short, I didn't want to see Howard the Duck. I thought it was a kids movie and at the time, 1986, I was 6 turning 7 and I thought I was ready for more adult fare. Wow, even I'm surprised at my precocity. Anyway, my mom persuaded me to see it [candy was probably involved] and Howard the Duck turned out not to be a kids movie per se, but rather a crazy, awful cult classic of sorts. Needless to say, I was hooked on movies. In the way of actual credentials, I've worked at Blockbuster Video for two years, two movie theaters, namely, the AMC at the Oaks Mall in Gainesville, Florida in concessions, and the Regal Butler Plaza in Gainesville, Florida as an usher and ticket-ripper. I also repeatedly beat all of my friends in two variations of a movie trivia game, only losing occasionally [correction: often] to my good friend Dre. Two, I'm not going to sugarcoat a movie. If a movie is good, I'll say it's good. If it's a piece of crap, but still enjoyable, that's important to know. Every movie isn't an Academy Award nominee and no one expects such, so to grade all movies on the same scale doesn't make sense. In an earlier post, I mentioned that in a prior blog I devised a complex category system to rate movies, but I gave it up because it had too many moving parts and tried to do too much. People are going to see or not see movies if they so choose. The Haiku Review is simply another tool to help you sort through the muck. The third reason, just trust me.

Now to Pineapple Express and my first official Haiku Review [This is painfully exciting]:

It's not that good.
A couple laughs, not much else.
Rosie Perez: underutilized.

Okay, I'll admit, I broke true form. My last line was 9 syllables. Whatever, this is a work in progress. Rome wasn't built in a day. It ain't over till the fat lady sings. Add your own cliche.

Jared

Olympia, WA is Full of Dirty Hippies

I was out of town for a few days. It wasn't a vacation. My friend, Dave, was getting married. Dave lives in Seattle. His fiancee was from Olympia, the state capital. Naturally, the wedding was in Olympia.

I had visited Dave in Seattle once before and I learned the following things:
1. Seattle likes coffee.
2. Seattle doesn't really like Starbucks.
3. Seattle has about 4 things to really check out if you're a tourist, namely: The Space Needle, Pike Place Market, and, did I say 4? I meant 2.
4. There's a mountain, Mt. Rainier, that you almost never get to see because of cloud cover.
5. When you can see Mt. Rainier, the correct phrase to describe this is: "The mountain is out."
6. The mountain was not out when I was there.
7. You can get good beef jerky at Pike Place Market.
8. I like beef jerky.
9. The Sonics used to play there.
10. I just wanted to have a list of 10 things.

This time, however, I was not going to be in Seattle. I was flying in and heading straight to Olympia. I figured Olympia would be like most state capitals: mid-sized, full of government buildings, corporation-filled, easily-accessible from the highway, and easily-bypassed with the same highway. When I think of state capitals, Richmond, Virginia seems the archetype. No matter how often I've driven past while traveling from New York to Florida, or vice versa, I've never felt the urge to stop or learn more about it, but from the road it looks exactly like a mid-size city with a semi-substantial downtown comprising a few city blocks, and that's it. Olympia, as far as I could tell, only had one government building and no real high-rise buildings. It was more residential and small-town than I would've suspected. It was also completely over-run by alternative, tattooed, short-haired, sexually-ambiguous, environmentally-charged youths of an apparent hippie persuasion. Needless to say, it was culture shock.

In my apartment I use some organic home cleaning products (without bleaches or dyes), so most of my friends think I masturbate while watching An Inconvenient Truth and bath once a week to conserve water. I do neither, but I do support alternative energies by using ConEd Solutions to introduce wind power to the NYC power grid, try to recycle paper and plastic, and try to eat local and organic when I can. In New York, that's revolutionary. In Olympia, I'm a dirty capitalist bent on destroying Mother Earth and harming all of her children.

I also learned some things while staying in Olympia, namely:
1. Everyone has compost bins to discard food-based waste such as banana peels, peach pits, and left-over rice that was never eaten.
2. Compost bins attract flies.
3. Some people also have big-ass spiders that hang out in the kitchen to eat some of those flies that are hanging around.
4. Everyone has little vegetable-garden patches in their backyard.
5. Some people also have chickens that hang out in the backyard too.
6. No one has paper towels or tissues.
7. Toilet paper is still welcome.
8. Not flushing the toilet after a #1 is encouraged.
9. Not flushing the toilet after a #2 is optional.
10. I could probably go for 20, but let's just stop here.

My friend Dave is a great guy and I was so glad I could be there to support his marriage. Seeing how happy he was made me feel great to witness the moment. I, however, blame him for the viral infection that consumed my immune system for most of the weekend when he booked for us an Olympia hostel [In fact, the only hostel in Olympia or so their website says] for our stay. Many of the items off the Olympia list were present at said hostel, which masqueraded as a clean, environmentally-friendly place to stay. I, on the other hand, would contend that the hostel was a lock box of germs and disease.

The bedsheets were full of what I hope were crumbs. The couches seemed to have been pulled in off the curb two weeks prior. The spiders in the kitchen were Arachnophobia-sized. The chicken hanging out in the backyard ended up in our bedroom, through a window? Through the door? Who knows. The blonde-children running around half-naked the next day, belonging to friends of the hostel workers, were reminiscent of The Children of the Corn. I felt bad for those kids. They did not look well-occupied.

11. Most women don't shave their legs or arm-pits [I knew I wasn't going to stop at 10].
12. I just don't get that.

Maybe this was only a product of Dave's circle, maybe these traits weren't prevalent throughout Olympia. I'm basing this on what I experienced and most of the time I was with people who would be at the wedding. Still, most of the people hanging around downtown and in the grocery stores seemed the same way. I'll extrapolate and stand by my observation, namely, Olympia, WA is full of dirty hippies.

On the bright side, in the impromptu, two-hand touch football game the day before the wedding I scored 3 out of my team's 4 touchdowns. If there was fantasy two-hand touch football, whoever had me cleaned up. My first has a deep bomb, which went for the length of the field. My next touchdown was Randy Moss style, where I leaped behind the defender and pulled the ball, literally, out of his hands in the end zone, preventing a momentum-shifting, drive-ending interception. My third and final touchdown was a 4th down conversion that guaranteed our non-loss (the game ended up tied). Not to pat myself on the back, but it was a huge day for me, two-hand touch football-y-speaking.

The wedding was non-traditional and casual and a lot of fun. By a lot of fun I mean a lot of fun considering I was completely engulfed by the hostel virus, with moments of nose-bleeding, constant nose-running, head feeling like it was in a vice-grip, no alcohol anywhere in sight, no meat anywhere in sight, etc. Again, on the bright side, since it was casual, I was dressed in khakis and a dress shirt, no suit, no tie, and considering how I was feeling I didn't want any alcohol. I didn't even mind the religious Jewishness of the wedding, which followed the Reconstructionist approach. It was my first real encounter with Reconstructionist Judaism and, objectively, I must say, it had a Pentecostal-chanting feel, which either mystified me or just wasn't my cup of tea. Basically, there was a lot of repetitive singing and dancing around. And if you're thinking what I'm thinking, then you would agree that the whole "No Alcohol" thing really dampened the potential of such singing and dancing. I'm pretty sure if I had a couple vodka sodas in me, I would've danced and sang like a maniac, like a possessed sociopath, basically, like a Olympia, WA resident.

Jared

P.S. All of the people I met, although "dirty hippies," were all wonderful people and I think the planet needs a few more of these environmentally-conscious individuals [They just need to be less, quote-unquote, off-the-reservoir]. Here's to finding a middle-ground for all of us to get behind and reducing the impact we make as people. Check out this link for more info:

http://www.climatecrisis.net/takeaction/

A (Good)Man About Town

Round and round, round we go
I get around
Still clowning with the Underground
When I come around

"I Get Around" by Tupac Shakur

I'm not Tupac Shakur. He's dead [Unfortunately/Maybe]. I am, however, similar to Tupac or 2Pac or Makaveli or any other pseudonym he used when it comes to getting around. His song, "I Get Around," deals with getting lots of girls, to the point that it's almost like running in circles. We are not similar that way. Actually, Tupac and myself are not similar at all except that we both use the words "I get around." As I stated earlier, the phrase, for him, referred to his misogyny. I, on the other hand, use the phrase when I talk about the many Jared Goodmans populating the web. The truth is that I've Googled myself [haven't we all?] and I know that there is no "dirt" on me. I have also discovered, through my searching, that there are more than a few Jared Goodmans running around out there. Just from skimming, I would guarantee there are at least 10. Possibly millions. It's kind of interesting to know that there are people out there with the same name. You begin to wonder how well the name has suited them. Whether they are treated well. Were they taunted with politically-correct nicknames in school, such as Jared Goodperson? Or even more clever, and cruel, Jared Badman? Did kids try to rhyme Jared with Carrot? or Parrot? or that's actually all that rhymes with Jared. Were they complimented on the upstanding-sounding of their last name? When hitting on girls, after saying their name, would they quickly quip, "Don't read too much into my last name"? Snicker. Are they now inundated with modern abbreviations such as J-Good and J-Go and Goody and Redman [No one has ever called me Red or Redman, to my chagrin]? Did they secretly wish that they were related to John Goodman or were heir to the department store Bergdorf-Goodman? Not that I did, still do, dear god why couldn't I be John Goodman's fifth cousin? He was King Ralph!Some Jared Goodmans are cooler than others. One planned some trip for Cornell Business school. Another me is a filmmaker who made a feature-length documentary on aspiring Major League baseball players in the Dominican Republic. Baseball and movies, very cool. Maybe me and that Jared Goodman could swap careers. Others are less cool, like super-Christian Jared Goodman, who unfortunately forgets to spell check: " I am fist[sic] and formost[sic] a child of the living God." C'mon Jared! Don't make us look illiterate. You have multiple Jared Goodmans relying on you to give 110%. We have a reputation to uphold. Jared goes on to tell us that "I am a proud father of a funny five year-old little girl named Nova." Good thing she's funny because nothing about this Jared seems humorous. At least his daughter has a cool, interesting name, but this whole spelling thing needs to get rectified. I didn't finish near the top of my high school class, graduate from the University of Florida with honors, and then head on to a top-ten law school so my doppelgangers could go online, post information about themselves, and misspell "first" and "foremost." Our predecessors died expecting more from us.

Growing up I was the only Jared until high school, where there was one other Jared. It's a biblical name [meaning it's in the bible] and it means "descendant." Descendant from what, I don't know, but you can be sure it was something very cool. I relished in my name's uniqueness and relative normalcy that kept it from seeming too alien like Jameelio or something equally cringe-inducing. Often, people would say, "I like your name." To which I would reply, "It's been working so far." Then, while in junior high, the heartthrob actor Jared Leto shot to fame with his role in the short-lived, teen drama, My So-Called Life, starring not-so heartthrobby Claire Danes, who, personally, isn't that bad. [Sidenote: I thought she was okay/cute in Shopgirl]. After that, being Jared really took off. In college, I ran into more Jareds. Most were good people, except for a few who thought a little too highly of themselves. That was the Golden Age.

Then the bottom fell out.

I'm referring to, probably, the most-popular Jared of our times. No, it's not third-string quarterback for the Indianapolis Colts, who previously was the third-string quarterback for the New York Giants, Jared Lorenzen. Nor is it one of the multitude of Jared Goodmans lurking the web [Shame]. It's none other than Jared from Subway. Yeah, that guy. So he lost some pounds by eating substandard subs at a place coincidentally named Subway where the tuna salad tastes like condensed crap and the hot pastrami tastes like rubber. That guy. He ruined it for us. I've been in shape my whole life. Now everyone assumes I was an overweight slob stuffing chicken fingers down until I crapped barbecue sauce. Before, everyone thought I had a chance with Claire Danes. Now, everyone thinks that at some point in my past I could have killed Claire Danes, if I sat on her.

Sometimes you think you turn a corner, people fail to bring him up, and you go on writing your own ticket. Then it slaps you like a nuclear bomb across the cheek. A woman at the gym yesterday asked me my name and when I told her, Jared, she informed me that she was going to call me "Subway." Thanks lady. You're clever. Apparently, Jared, is too difficult to remember. This probably explains why I neglect to correct people who incorrectly assume my name is Jerry because, if I corrected them, then I'd get clever nicknames like "Subway" and "That's Jared!" Then again, that was my own fault for bringing up Jared: The Gallery of Jewelry. When she acted as if she didn't know the Jared jewelry chain, I even performed parts of the ad, which refreshed her memory. What can I say, if these are my spokespeople, then I have to embrace them. I don't have any others, and may never get others.

I'd like to make a pledge to all the other Jared Goodmans out there to always represent our name with pride and integrity and to grin and bear it whenever I see Jareds failing to live up to our name's high standards or whenever I get called Subway. I hope you'll do the same.








Jared

H to the D

HDTV is the pinnacle of current television technology. It's like DVD compared to VHS. Once you watch a show in HD, then switch back to regular broadcast, you can't believe you watched that steaming pile of blur for the better part of your life. And it's available with cable, something I haven't had for the past 4 years. That was my problem. I had been without cable for almost 14% of my life, not including my toddler years when I couldn't distinguish a television from a relative or those early, not-yet teenage years when cable TV was too expensive for my family to have, so actually if I was calculating this accurately, then I'd have to say I've been without cable for roughly 68% of my life. That is a staggering number, which I'm sure any child growing up now will never have to suffer. Yay Capitalism!

My most recent period without cable began unintentionally. It began on an unremarkable Saturday night in Philadelphia, PA, where I was finishing my third (and final) year of law school. Finals were almost a month away, and the New York State Bar Exam was looming two months after that. For the year and 9 months prior, I had been receiving free cable. I don't know how it happened, but I would venture that the previous tenant never closed his or her account and the cable company never got around to follow up. It was great. I had movie channels, I had Comedy Central, I had The Home Shopping Network. What more could I ask for?

One Saturday night in 2004, however, it was all taken from me. Snowy, black and white static filled the screen of my 1990-something, 27-inch Zenith. Distortion filled my ears. No more movies, no more Roasts, no more buying U.S. Mint coin collections. I was blind-sided. I had no plans that evening other than enjoying a movie on TNT, probably Die Hard or The Fugitive or Overboard. I was even more dumbfounded how my free cable escapade should come to be [correctly] corrected on a Saturday night. Didn't the people at the cable company have lives?

Not paying for cable, I knew that I was limited in my recourse. I couldn't call the cable company to "fix" the problem. I also didn't want to start paying for cable. I decided, instead, to forego cable for the rest of my stay in Philadelphia. I was beginning to prepare for finals anyway and then I needed to focus on the demanding Bar review schedule. Plus, I still had my DVD player, my DVD collection, and a Hollywood Video rental card when I wanted to catch a New Release not worth paying for in a theater. Once I moved to New York and started working at my firm, I would get cable again. But it didn't turn out that way.

It was hot the day I moved into my apartment in Hell's Kitchen, mid-August. Before I started unpacking I made a call to Con Ed to open a utility account in my name and turned on the air conditioners. No problems. My next call was to Time Warner to set-up my cable. Problems. The last tenant failed to close his or her account, again. This time, however, plugging my TV into the existing line failed to give me more than 15 channels, mostly broadcast, but, strangely, also TBS, Bravo, and C-Span. I pleaded with the representative to just open a new account in my name. He said, nope. Rather, the representative stated a list of things I would have to do to set-up my account, all of which seemed too demanding. So instead, I forewent cable again. Armed with those few channels, my DVD player, Netflix (no Hollywood Video card anymore), and a time-consuming job and life, I felt sufficiently entertained without having to jump through Time Warner's hoops. If they toppled from my boycott, so be it [They didn't].

Four years later, the entire landscaped has been transformed. Tivo and DVR have revolutionized television watching. HD channels have brought superior quality, picture, and sound. Blu-ray and up-converted DVD players have started transplanting traditional DVD players and film. New technology is constantly creeping forward. I stayed static. Dormant. Like an Amish person. Every year my Zenith aged, channels faded in and out, DVDs skipped more often, friends visited and made snide comments regarding the quality of my television and the channel offerings, but I did nothing. Until I moved.

I'm proud to say, I took the plunge. I went out and bought a new 40-inch Samsung LCD, which makes my old Zenith look like the biggest, most-useless, industrial-strength paperweight ever. I also decided to make peace with Time Warner and get cable so I could take full advantage of my new HD capability. But, again, the previous tenant failed to close their account. This must be some kind of epidemic. I mean, honestly? I fear for the fate of our country if former tenants can't follow through and close out old utility and cable accounts. It shouldn't be this difficult.

This time, however, I sucked it up and faxed in all the necessary paperwork and this weekend, Saturday to be exact, I received cable, including HD, DVR, and Roadrunner Hi-Speed On-line access. I immediately turned the channel to the Summer Olympics in HD. It was glorious, clearer, and the colors were more vivid and vibrant because it was mine. I watched a Mets game in HD, I recorded Die Hard and The Fugitive with my DVR simply because I could [Overboard wasn't on this weekend]. Then I sat back in my collapsible canvas and plastic-legged chair because I still don't have a couch and I held my remote for hours, pressed its buttons, switched channels, swam through the guide function fishing for shows that piqued my interest, and I smiled.

Jared

Let The Sun(nyside)shine In

Lettttt the sunshine in
Lettttt the sunshine in
The suuuunnn shiiiiine in

This was the song that ended the show, sent us on our way, the denouement of Absinthe, a burlesque, circus of sorts playing at the Spiegeltent at the South Street Seaport. A show full of feats of strength, balance, and more penis jokes than a junior high schoolyard. In fact, the humor, which filled in between acts, was so lewd that I was surprised that (a) there were so many older people in the audience [over 65], and (b) they didn't get up and leave midway through, which actually happened at my viewing of The Lieutenant of Inishmore, or as I like to call it, The Bloodiest, Most Murder-Filled, Body-Hacking Play I've Ever Seen on Broadway. Also one of the funniest, if you like dark, dark, body parts on stage-type comedy. Apparently, I do.

The show began before the show. Walking out to the end of Pier 17 carried the smell of the river and a light fish scent, permanently steeped into the wood pier and cement buildings from the Seaport's previous incarnation, The Fulton Fish Market, which dated back to 1822, but has since been relocated, most likely, because there are too many upscale stores and restaurants currently inhabiting the Seaport and the clientele surely doesn't care to smell fish while they wine and dine and shop. The Brooklyn Bridge was resplendent in the background, its gleaming cables reminiscent of spiderwebs and its Gothic styling seemingly more ancient than its true age. Underneath the bridge, close to the Brooklyn side, was a free-standing waterfall; a recently commissioned work of art by the well-known physical-visual artist, Olafur Eliasson. The simplicity of the waterfall and its curious placement under the bridge made everything seem slightly skewed. Maybe that is the impression which was intended. It certainly was in line with the evening.

After taking pictures of the waterfall with our cell phones, my date and I, ventured deeper into the Absinthe complex, or rather, as far as the bar, where we ordered two cocktails. Made with absinthe, of course.

"Is that real absinthe?" I asked. I had read about absinthe being served elsewhere in the city, but still doubted whether it was legal to serve actual absinthe, containing the allegedly addictive psychoanalytic drug, Thujone.

The bartender said yes and showed me the bottle, but it was dark and all I could read was the brand name. Not wanting to keep asking questions, which the bartender probably didn't know the answer to anyway, I kept my mouth shut.

The cocktails came in low-ball plastic glasses and were of the signature neon-ish green particular to absinthe. I had never tasted absinthe before and was intrigued about the flavor. It wasn't sweet, but rather had more of a licorice flavor. It was strong, too. One drink felt like two, possibly three. I had to sip it slowly, but the more I drank of it, the smoother it went down. Whether that was due to the ice melting and increasing the water content or the inherent property of drinking alcohol, I'm not sure, but towards the bottom it got better and better.

While we sipped our drinks, we made our way to the entrance line. Having purchased my tickets through American Express, we received VIP preferred seating, allowing us to get on the shorter line that entered first and get really good seats. I guess membership really does have it's privileges.

Inside, the Spiegeltent is something of a revelation. It's an original tent from the early 1900s, or so my date said, full of mirrors, stained glass, booths, lights, smoke machines, all circling around a main stage. It's very debonair [In a carny way] and intimate. We sat close enough to the center stage so that I was able to be fondled by the cabaret singer and slapped with her leather hand whip as well. She also fell in my lap and while singing a song and bent over at the waist and shoved her ass in my face. Like I said before, we had really good seats.

The acts were top-notch. Cirque du Soleil might have more accomplished acrobats, or more skilled strength performers, they certainly have more performers [Absinthe had less than 12], but the atmosphere, the occasional spells of nudity, the titillation, the lewd, provocative, scathing humor targeting old people, kids, gays, straights, gays again, Republicans, everyone, the showmanship, the intimacy of the audience, the interaction with the audience, the beauty of the venue, the "Something Wicked This Way Comes" carnival vibe, the Thujone surging through my veins, the green fairies flying through my mind, the electronic music, thumping, reverberating, well coordinated in time with each performer's gyrations and holds, the contortions, the bawdiness, my date on my right, all proved that this is no Cirque du Soleil, this is more, this is so much more.

Jared

Only-Child Syndrome Meets Movies

Only-Child Syndrome (OCS) is well-known to all of us who know people without siblings. Only-children frequently possess a predilection for going off on one's own, have been cited for randomly ditching friends at a bar without telling anyone to go get a hot-dog from a street cart and in the process neglecting to get any hot-dogs for anyone else, and arguably demonstrate insensitivity towards sharing, accommodating, or going with the flow. It's a dangerous epidemic caused by one thing: Spoiling.

Parents and grandparents excessively dote on their only-children. They don't have to split up candy bars or designate play-time with certain toys or hand-down clothes. The only-child gets it all. The entire Snickers. The full allotted time with the electronic, semi-remote-controlled race track. New clothes from Gap every growth spurt. Pampered and cared for, only children quickly grow accustomed to their excess.

Spoiled brats, that's what they are often called. Spoiled like old milk and moldy bread. Spoiled like babies diapers full of crap and rain on your wedding day [Or is that "ironic"?]. Spoiled like the Mets' World Series hopes in 2006 and the Knicks every year. Spoiled rotten like sliced apples left out for too long and bananas from corner convenience stores. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled!

In film there is a similar notion known as the "spoiler." The dreaded spoiler, the unintended, unsought for excessive glimpse into the plot, story, characters, ending, surprise ending, unveiled secret of a film. The best way to see a film is to go in blind, knowing nothing. In our over-exposed media culture this is a difficult feat to achieve. The last film I saw with complete ignorance was Lilya 4 Ever, a low-budget, independent Russian film my sister somehow heard about and decided to see, taking me along for the ride. All I knew was that there seemed to be a character, most likely female, named Lilya. And something about her being "4 Ever." That was it. What I ended up watching was one of the most depressing, sadistic movies I've ever seen.

Poor Lilya is a teenager, abandoned by her mother who ditches her for America promising to send money to bring her over later. This never happens. Lilya's aunt moves into the apartment to watch over Lilya, eventually taking over the place for herself and kicking out Lilya. Lilya's only friend is a younger boy who gets killed, somehow. Lilya starts sneaking into older bars and meets a guy who she likes and who she believes wants to take her away to a nicer place [I think Denmark], which he does, but not so she can have a better life, but rather so she can be forced into prostitution. After multiple suicide attempts in Russia and Denmark, the movie ends with her, finally, successful attempt. Needless to say, I saw it twice and bought the DVD for my mom for her birthday. At least nothing was spoiled.

Another movie that I knew nothing about, but which left a much more positive residue was The Usual Suspects. Great movie, great ending. Had I known who Kaiser Soze was, I would've been floored. Since that movie I've always striven to know as little as possible about a movie. I like being surprised.

I used to think spoiling movies was wrong. In particular, there was the fiasco with my sister when she told me that in Grizzly Man the documentary subject dies. I felt spoiled, until I learned that in the first minute of the movie they tell you that the guy is dead. Not really a spoiler after all, but still I never saw the movie. It all came to a head today while I was G-chatting with my friend Dre who writes for Film.com and some other allegedly in-the-know movie website with a name you wouldn't remember even if you came up with the name yourself, Ropeofsilicon.com. He sent me a link to his new review of Pineapple Express, a movie which I have been wanting to see, especially after the preview, which includes a scene of a slightly chubby, messy-haired white guy with a neck-brace cocking a shotgun and saying "thug life" in a falsetto. Understandably, I've been saying "thug life" in a similar octave for the past three weeks.

I opened the link and skimmed the review, spotting details of which I wished to remain ignorant. So I stopped skimming. The following IMs then occurred [I added proper punctuation so we wouldn't look like uneducated douchebags, but decided against proper capitalization and spelling]:

12:45 PM

Andre: read my review u fuck?

me: why? so you can ruin the movie for me?

Andre: i don't spoil movies in my reviews

me: just by skimming i already know franco has a young girlfriend, thanks for ruining it

Andre: u obviously can't read

12:46 PM seth rogan does u nitwit

me: and lots of people die, great

franco... rogen, who gives a shit

Andre: oh my god what a spoiler!

i describe the premise, the movie ends in a diner and Red has a sort of redemption

thats it

nothing u cant gather from the trailer

i actually use the trailer as my basis

12:47 PM if the trailer shows something, it's fair game

me: that's true

You probably read that so fast that you missed my seismic paradigm shift, but there it is, just after 12:47 PM: "that's true." I actually wanted to write a snide comment, but sucked it up and agreed. Dre is right, "if the trailer shows something, it's fair game." Trailers are the ultimate spoilers. Everyone knows that U.S. trailers these days give away too much of the movie. Still, even trailers that don't reveal too much can be dissected easily and the main plot and conclusion summed up. We need to suck it up and admit, when it comes to movies these days, we are, forever, only-children. Spoiled to the core. No matter how much we try to avoid or hole-up, the word is going to get out. Don't fight it. From now on, whenever anyone talks about a real movie spoiler save it for something that really spoils: Kevin Spacey is Keyser Soze, Bruce Willis is dead, Soylent Green is people; and not what we already know: Britney Spears can't act, the Transformers win, in a romantic comedy the main actor and actress get together in the end, etc.

Say goodbye to only-child status and hello to your new movie brothers and sisters, it's time to start sharing and caring!

Jared

Does that say $7.00?

I'm a lawyer. Among other things that means that I can't wear Hanes T-shirts and beat up, old Converses to work with jeans or shorts or jean shorts [I don't own any jean shorts, otherwise known as "jorts," I swear].

[Side note: A popular dig against University of Florida fans and students is that we wear jorts. I never wore jorts when I was at UF. None of my friends wore jorts. It seems that this is just a case of a few outcasts ruining things for the majority. Then again, what's so wrong with jean shorts? I'll leave that for another time]
Needless to say, at work I dress in dress pants and dress shirts. My firm is business casual, so I don't need to wear ties or a suit. Sometimes, on extremely hot days, I can even get away with khakis and a polo shirt. Usually I save that for Thursdays or Fridays. Only if I'm going to court or a client meeting will I wear a suit and tie. Coincidentally, I'm never in court or a client meeting so pants and a shirt is de rigueur.

If you work in an office, like I do, and have man parts, then you'll probably be at the cleaners having your shirts laundered weekly. Similar to dry cleaning expenses for women, but to a lesser extent, shirt laundering can get fairly expensive. There is an on-going debate amongst my friends and colleagues as to how often you should wash your shirts. Some follow strict, one and done protocol. Others, like myself, try to extend the life of the shirt and sneak in an extra wear or two. The non-iron shirts I have still look crisp and fresh from the cleaners after 2 wears, so why not? As long as the shirt is unstained and I'm wearing a clean undershirt, I don't see the problem. Some people might view this as dirty and unhygienic, but, I'd bet, those are the same people who think peeing in the shower is gross and harmful as well. I fall on the other side. Peeing in the shower is our God-given right. It all goes to the same place. It all gets filtered and purified. It's just salt and water and urea. In fact, so I've heard, from other people, who are not me, and I've seen, involuntarily, and not on purpose, that some people also enjoy, from what I hear, getting peed on. So what's the big deal with wearing a dress shirt 3 or 6 times before having it laundered? [6 may be pushing the limits of cleanliness].

Either way, back in Hell's Kitchen, where you might suspect that services like drop-off laundry, dry-cleaning, and locksmithing, would be cheaper than say identical services in the West Village or Tribeca, it actually cost a fair amount of money to have my shirts cleaned. $1.75 per shirt. Per shirt! $1.75! I could get roughly 1/11th of a lap dance for $1.75. Or almost an entire can of Pabst Blue Ribbon at any bar that sells PBR cans for $2 [I had a specific bar in mind, but was just informed that at that bar PBR cans are now $3.25, which is highway robbery if you ask me]. If I only wore a shirt once before cleaning it, that would cost $8.75 a week. Let's not even discuss dry-cleaning pants as well. So to keep costs down, I chose to wear shirts twice between cleanings.

Imagine my incredulity then when I walked downstairs from my new apartment this morning, literally walked next door into the dry cleaners holding 4 shirts, one with an overly-stained collar due to my multiple wearings, dropped the four shirts on the counter and said, "4 shirts" when I was asked how many. The nice, old man, began writing up the ticket.

"What's your name?"

"Jared."

He began spelling it slowly. Most people think my name is "Jerry." No one sees the "D" coming, it's very elusive. They block the sound of the "D" from their ears. People I've known for years think my name is Jerry. My barber, my old dry cleaner, etc. I don't bother correcting them because I just don't care enough. This time, however, I decided to get off on the right foot in my new neighborhood, especially when I looked down and saw the letters, "J-A-R-D" across the paper. I couldn't allow that to happen.

"It's E-D."

He wrote this as "J-A-R-D-E."

"No, it's E-D. The E is before the D."

"Oh, I was writing too fast."

"That's okay.

"Is Thursday good?"

"Thursday is great."

He handed the ticket/receipt to me and for the first time I noticed the cost. It looked like a 7 followed by a decimal point, followed by two zeros. $7.00. Impossible! No way! What would've cost $7.00 in Hell's Kitchen could in no-way-shape-or-form cost $7.00 in Podunk Sunnyside. I refused to believe it. I was tempted to turn around, snatch my shirts back, and throw them in the trash just to prove a point, but I didn't do that. Instead, I looked closer, I saw the curve, the arched font, the hand-shortened dash lining the bottom blending in with the ticket's pre-printed lines. It was a 2. A glorious 2. $2.00 for 4 shirts!

One and done, here I come! [Peeing in the shower will not be affected by this decision].

Jared

[Note: I'm an idiot, it actually was $7.00. Maybe I hate Sunnyside.]

The Big Apple

New York City is the Big Apple. To find out why, I could consult Wikipedia. Or Google. Or a Farmer's Almanac. Using those resources, I would probably find the answer(s) in a short amount of time. I'm not going to do that, however. Instead, I'm going to postulate my own reasons (or as we would say in law school, "throw it on the wall and see if it sticks"). This will take more time. This will require brain cells, deep thought, and creativity.

New York is the Big Apple because:

1. It's shiny.
2. It's big.
3. It's packed with fiber.
4. One New York City a day keeps the doctor away [This was beyond cheesy, but I kept it].
5. They grow a lot of apples in New York State and since New York City is the biggest city in New York, it's known as the Big Apple.
6. It's tasty.
7. Apple pie is awesome.
8. You just want to take a big bite out of it.
9. I like hookers.
10. I mean strip clubs.
11. I mean going to public libraries and reading books.
12. I mean, what am I talking about?
13. I mean, oh, yeah, apples.
Yes, The Big Apple it is, but I'm not here to write about The Big Apple. No, I'm here to write, literally, about apples. There is a well-known expression, "...the greatest thing since sliced bread." I always found it to be very funny. Just thinking about sliced bread being a great invention cracks me up. It's like saying, "she's the hottest girl since Boof from Teen Wolf." Either way, I've come across a great, if not the greatest, invention ever [Probably not the greatest, in fact].


It's an apple divider. It is mind-blowingly amazing. On a scale of "Beyond dumb" to "Now I can die" this registers as "I'll kill you if you even look at it fondly." It's not even a new invention. It's been around for years, I'm sure [I'm not sure]. How did I not have one of these growing up? In college? In law school? In The Big Apple? What have I been doing with my life. Not having cable for 4 years, understandable. I hate media conglomerates such as Time Warner. I chose to stand up against media oppression through market means. Not having a toaster for 8 years, understandable. Where would it fit on my 1 square foot of kitchen counter space? Nowhere. How often do I really toast bread? Rarely. Did I miss making toaster waffles and Pop-Tarts? So much. Every time I walked through the frozen food section of the grocery store, past the half-foggy, glass doors full of frozen Eggo Waffles, organic buttermilk waffles, strawberry, blueberry, banana waffles, a little bit of me died. Let's not even talk about Pop-Tarts. I fear that my tears will short-circuit my keyboard. Not having an apple divider? Now I can see that that was sacrilege. It's fantastic. It cores and slices. Perfectly. It gives you the most amount of apple from your apple [This should be the tag-line].

Think about it. You buy an apple. You hold it in your hand, you wash off the pesticides and residual wax, and you dry it with paper towel or the bottom of your shirt. You're ready to sink your teeth in like the animal, vampire, hulking, salivating, maniacal beast that you are. Canines ripping apple skin and watery pulp. Juice flies everywhere. It's messy. It drizzles down your fingers. It's sticky. It's an apple.

You bite around. You have your own method for consumption, just like a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Maybe you stick to the middle then chew off the top and bottom. Maybe you start at the top and work your way down. It's up to you. Unfortunately, you never get as close to the seeds as possible because you don't want to (a) eat the seeds or (b) impair the structural frame of the apple which could cause it to split in half and make the rest of the apple difficult to consume.

The next time, you decide to cut your own slices. You grab a knife and start slicing, but it's still imperfect, inefficient. This is where the apple divider steps in. It gets mechanically close to the core, leaving nothing but the thinnest cylinder to discard. The rest of the apple is sectioned and sliced into 8 equal slices. It takes less than 5 seconds to do. It's a joy to behold. I bought it yesterday and already have consumed two apples. I think you see where this is going.

There is another well-known expression: "You are what you eat."
I think after discovering the life-changing apple divider, whenever someone refers to the Big Apple, please double check and make sure that they're not talking about me, thanks.

Jared

Low(down) Expectations

As you may have observed, I'm going to milk this "lowdown" terminology for all it's worth. If there is one millisecond of an opportunity to sneak in the words "low" or "down" or "lowdown" or "down low" or even the initials "LD"--which coincidentally was the nickname we used at work for this girl who was notorious for sleeping with almost anything resembling a long, shaft-like protuberance, but that's neither here nor there--into a title or a joke or a pun or a proverb or a haiku, then, believe me when I say this, I am going to sneak it in like a horny high schooler playing hide the salami [Note: the same applies to any potential future placement and use of the name "Sunnyside"].

Low(down) Expectations! Even I'm impressed with that one.

Okay, enough with the narcissism.

Disappointment equals unmet expectations. When you have expectations, you get your hopes up, you start building unattainable goals, you create plots and storylines for how things will turn out, but most things don't work out that way. The awesome birthday party you planned for yourself will not turn out awesome. The drinks will be overpriced, people will be tired, people will not show up, people will forget to show up because they forgot it was your birthday, someone will spill wine on your shirt or beer down your back, the cab driver will get lost on the way there, you'll end up being late, if you're a girl, the guy you wanted to come won't, if you're a guy, the girl you wanted to come will, but will hit on every other guy there, including your friends, and then will make out with some random Asian dude who looks like an extra from the inevitable, soon-to-be-made, live-action Pokemon movie, etc.
That's life. Murphy's law. What can go wrong, will. Rarely do well-made plans stay well-made. Thus, disappointment is born. Whether it was a party, a dinner date, a trip to Costa Rica, or even if it was expecting to enjoy yourself at the latest Eddie Murphy movie (Mathematically impossible, actually), disappointment creeps in and ruins everything. It puts you in a sour mood and causes you to act belligerently. That's why it's important to keep your expectations low. If you're not expecting much and you fail to receive much, then you're even, you won't even notice. If you expect little and receive a lot, you're ecstatic. If you expect a lot, then you need to receive a lot in return, and, in life, there's not a whole lot running around.

Knowing this, and knowing how the world operates, allows me, without reservation, to recommend that you see Step Brothers starring Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly.

This movie is ridiculous [In a great way]. I'll be honest, I didn't want to see it. It looked like one more swiftly-produced, poorly-conceived, mish-mash of comedy, thrown together to con you out of your twelve hard-earned dollars. I fell for the trap before, but I had learned my lesson. I waited to rent such classics as: Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, Semi-Pro, You, Me and Dupree, Blades of Glory. Then something happened, something enchanting: positive word-of-mouth. Two trusted friends of mine both said it was worth seeing. On their word, I took the plunge.

Do not expect a good movie. Do not expect a movie with a plot that makes sense or with one that you want to make sense. Expect good, old-fashioned, exaggerated hostility, vulgarity, and one-liners ready-made for repetition. What you need to do is go to work. Do whatever it is you do at work. Get yelled at by your boss for forgetting to spell the word "labor" the British way ("labour") [I can't think of any reason why you would get yelled at for such a transgression, unless, perhaps, you work for a British newspaper or magazine, which seems highly unlikely if you are reading this]. Go home and look around, notice that you have nothing to do, then look in your refrigerator. You have nothing to eat either. Your freezer is getting smaller by the hour and needs to be defrosted. The Netflix movies sitting on your coffee table have been there for three weeks because you're never "in the mood" to watch Into the Wild [It's sad knowing that he dies] and you regret having put that foreign film in your queue because you hate reading subtitles. Now, you have two options. One, you could call up a few friends and see if they want to grab drinks. Unfortunately, it's Thursday and they all have better things to do; plans have already been made without you. So you end up doing what I'm telling you to do. Walk, don't run, to the nearest movie theater [I recommend the AMC/Loews at Kips Bay because it has stadium seating and no one is ever there, it's like going to Central Park at 3 o'clock on a Tuesday morning, but with 70% less chance of being mugged or sexually assaulted] and purchase a ticket for Step Brothers. It's over the top, it's stupid, it's funny, it's poorly-acted a third of the time, but knowing all of that and expecting so little, you'll love it. You'll love it, as I love it, as someone who understands and appreciates life's little surprises.

Just in case what I've said wasn't enough to get you to the theater [Mathematically possible, actually], I'll leave you with some classic quotes from the movie. Let this be my closing argument.

Dale Doback: [after hearing Brennan sing] You have the voice of an angel. I mean, it's like Fergie meets Jesus.

***

Brennan Huff: I'm going to take a pillowcase and fill it full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you!

Boats and Hoes!

Jared