L'histoire de sa vie

Here’s the highlights from my particular Super Bowl viewing this year:

• Eating twenty-nine wings. I stopped just under thirty, which is odd, both because I expected to eat more and because I only had to have one more to get to thirty. So that’s a little ridiculous. But it’s because I had a few “plain” ones that stopped me. They were dry. Sweet and sour for the win.
• Winning fifty bucks for the second year in a row in my step-dad’s office pool. 0-0 is easily the best possible square to have. Sick McSick.
• Not having to leave the building and enter the terrible cold in the outdoors. Seriously, that was easily the best part.
• The Doritos commercials. Halfway through the evening, I encountered this dilemma: I really wanted Doritos because of their highly-effective ad campaign (and more importantly because Doritos are possibly the greatest chip of all time, a title that will be determined for sure sometime in the short future) but couldn’t eat Doritos in the JTS Super Bowl party due to their unkosherness. Damn.
• When Drew Brees got pulled to the ground in a one-handed sack, the announcers didn’t care about what was going on on the field. Instead, they noted, “Brees had to get used to that when the Saints lost to the Cowboys … DeMarcus Ware pulled him down to the ground with one hand!”
• A bunch of us realized that we’re only six years away from Super Bowl L. And that if I live to 78, I’ll get to see Super Bowl C. And that those will be the last single-letter Bowls until the year 2466.

Last night, in the wee hours of the morning (around three am), I was in the Lower East Side FV subway station, coming back from seeing Reservoir Dogs at midnight. Some loud screeching noise kept occurring, but I assumed it was just some maintenance work at the end of the tunnel or something.

But it kept happening, and it was very shrill and amazingly obnoxious. It was dumbfounding. There were no trains coming and no lights were on in the tunnel, so where did this noise originate?

After a few minutes, Yoni noticed the source: some person screeching on a saxophone, making a noise we were unaware a saxophone could make. It was awful. It was so painful. It had to stop.

“SHUT UP. SHUT. UP. SHUT UP.” I bellowed down the length of the platform at the person. The noise didn’t stop. But what did happen is the floodgates opened. Suddenly a large number of people nearby realized that they too could yell at this idiot and they began to do so.

“If you have to play that, go outside!” and “We don’t want to hear your noise” were two of the shouts I heard. And the noise did stop. Yoni noticed that even a police officer was part of the shouting. It was early in the morning and everyone just wanted the pain to stop.

But it wasn’t until I shouted in the first place that everyone else even realized they could or should do the same. It was as if my shouting awoke the primal shouts in every person, the primal shouts aching to get out, waiting for some key to free them from the jail of civilized behavior that otherwise prevented the unleashing of a necessary savagery. We all need to get back to our uncivilized roots sometimes, and while music is supposed to soothe such savagery, I suppose it’s raw painful noise that riles it up in the first place.

Yesterday was the first class of my free Mixology course. The class is divided into two parts: one hour of teaching and one hour of mixing/drinking. The hour of teaching was all about safety and being a good bartender, and the hour of mixing was about Highballs, aka colorful drinks with not so much alcohol content.

Easily the most important thing I learned was how to pour properly. Using this skill, I made a Rum & Coke (the least colorful drink on the list), a Pearl Harbor (Vodka, Melon Liqueur, and Pineapple Juice), and a Scarlet O’Hara (SoCo and Cranberry Juice). Neither of the last two drinks were very good, but I suppose people order that kind of junk.

Here’s what I’ll say about the course: It’s a lot of fun and very laid back, but had I actually paid two hundred dollars to be in it, I’d probably be upset. The relaxed nature is nice, but had I put good money in, I wouldn’t want that relaxed nature.

One woman seemed to feel the same way. In the question and answers section, she very bluntly asked the people in charge, “what qualifies you to teach this class?” She tried to laugh it off when it was obvious that she was being rude, but nonetheless, the question was out.

The entire Columbia Bartending Agency is student-run, so while they were in fact students, they had gone through the same class and had since tended bar all over the US (and in England), and actually were qualified enough to make the woman look like a fool.

Anyway, I have four more classes, in which I’ll learn all kinds of other things regarding all kinds of other drinks, hopefully some a little more my taste than a Sloe Comfortable Screw (Sloe Gin, SoCo, Vodka, OJ). Evviva!

Now before you berate me in the comments with anger and frustration at the title of the post, let me just say that I understand that CO detectors actually do something. However, I’m not sure that they do much more than eat batteries and emit obnoxiously loud beeps when they need more food.

In my dorm, there are tons of CO detectors, and this is precisely what they do. In fact, since many of them were installed around the same time, they all run out of batteries around the same time as well. (At least they’re consistent!) So while we’re not dying of CO poisoning, we are being woken up at ungodly hours due to shrill BEEPs emanating from outside our rooms on a basis of about every ten minutes.

In fact, this is exactly what happened to me. Late at night (around three in the morning), the beeps became too much. I tore our CO detector off the wall, tried to open the battery compartment to no avail (considering that you have to replace these batteries often, you’d think that it would be easier to do so), and finally threw it against the wall to shut it up.

But the beeping didn’t stop. I went crazy. The batteries were clearly out of the now-broken CO detector. Why wouldn’t it stop?! Well I took the next step and disconnected the smoke detector on the ceiling. About ten seconds later, Jasmine, our guard, was at my door. Apparently, the smoke detectors are on a system monitored in her office. She felt bad about the beeping and took the smoke detectors with her.

Yet the beeping continued. Oh god make it stop. It was then that I saw that we actually had ANOTHER CO detector. Yes, there are two in my apartment, because apparently the danger of Carbon Monoxide is so high that we need to be doubly sure there’s no CO buildup.

I also destroyed this detector, and finally the beeping ceased. I went back to sleep. The next morning, while walking in the hallway, I heard a familiar sound. And a few minutes later, I saw this tweet from Sarah, who lives in the apartment across the hall:

F*** you, carbon monoxide detector, and your need to randomly beep throughout the day! I haven’t died yet–there are clearly no gas leaks!

Exactly. No words could better explain my frustration regarding what is easily the most useless yet annoying plastic circle on earth. But on the other hand, perhaps I could die of CO poisoning and it’s a good thing that I have this detector and early warning system and blah blah blah.

To this I say: I’ve lived my whole life without CO detectors. In fact, until very recently, we didn’t even have smoke detectors in my house. I haven’t died yet. You know why? Because I’m not stupid. I don’t leave the stove on, I don’t leave the car running in the garage, and I don’t own a furnace because Central Heating is much better anyway.

And do these detectors even work? Well according to this scholarly report, the answer is a resounding “no.” Residential CO detectors are ineffective and often incorrect in their readings. And most importantly of all, do people even die from CO poisoning? This is crucial because frankly, I can’t recall ever hearing about such a death.

The government explains that “on average, about 170 people in the United States die every year from CO.” One-hundred seventy. That’s it? Out of nearly three million US deaths per year, 0.0057% of those deaths cause Americans to purchase these expensive detectors that scream and wake me up at ungodly hours of the morning?

I’ve had enough. It’s time to say no to Carbon Monoxide Detectors. I urge you to stop the alarmism causing you to throw away useful money on useless plastic noisemakers. No more of this nonsense.

I woke up this morning to the freezing weather of sub-Arctic New York. The weather forecast predicts snow for tomorrow, which will not make me happy, because I hate snow. I hate snow not only because of what it is – a cold, wet, nasty slush – but also because of what it symbolizes: the winter. I hate winter.

There’s no doubt about it: winter is the worst of the four seasons, even worse than Frankie Valli. [Let’s be honest. Sherry is possibly one of the most annoying songs of all time.] So every year, when Groundhog Day rolls around, I await with bated breath for the ruling of the most trusted rodent in America, and every year, I exhale sharply in disappointment. See, it’s a lose/lose situation: either the sun is not out (so it’s cold and dark) or it is out but casts a shadow, scaring away this frightened land-beaver. [That’s a real moniker for groundhogs.]

In actuality, though, it seems to me that Punxsutawney Phil hates America. He knows that if he sees his shadow, millions of Americans will sink further into depression based on the fact that there are six more weeks of winter. He also knows, because Phil has a rudimentary understanding of climatology, that six more weeks of winter are inevitable: no matter what, the Spring Equinox won’t change based on a shadow.

Yet, Phil chooses each year to find his shadow, become frightened, and retreat to his home. He chooses each year to strike terror and depression into the hearts of millions of Americans, rather than give us the hope necessary to face the darkness and cold (especially the cold) of the coming winter. Punxsutawney Phil is a mean-spirited groundhog.

Seriously, there’s no better way to say it than that. Shakshuka may be one of the greatest foods of all time. It’s not the number one, but it’s definitely in the hall of fame of great foods. It’s egg-y, it’s tomato-y, it’s spicy, it’s simply delicious. Even bad shakshuka is good. That’s how good shakshuka is. Just examine this picture of deliciousness:

That right there is a picture of shakshuka taken from the pages of the New York Times in regards to Hummus Place, the restaurant where I ate lunch yesterday. And let me just say this: my line above, “even bad shakshuka is good” applies here in full force. This was bad shakshuka, in every way possible, possibly because Hummus Place is, contrary to how I was informed, not very good.

But nonetheless, it’s basically impossible to make shakshuka that’s actually bad, no matter how subpar it may be. While Hummus Place’s shakshuka is easily in the bottom five percent of all shakshuka I had, I still enjoyed eating it.

I have memories associated with shakshuka, as others have memories associated with all kinds of random things. I recall, for example, the first time I had shakshuka, in Israel, completely unprepared for such a delicious dish. I also recall a video a friend of mine had taken on the Staten Island Ferry. When someone ascertained that my friend was Israeli, he said the only Hebrew word he knew, in a deep New York accent: “Shock-Shookah!” I also recall the shakshuka, different in consistency than usual but still delicious, that I had in New Jersey while visiting my mother’s cousins several years back.

Yes, shakshuka has played a major part in my life. There’s just something about the peppers and eggs and tomatoes that forms a delicious combination to which I must say, “I love shakshuka!”

Last night after a GS Bowling event at Harlem Lanes, I joined a bunch of friends at the Columbia Basketball game versus Dartmouth. First of all, and perhaps most importantly, Columbia won. This is a big deal, since I have been led to believe that such a thing is a rare feat indeed.

In addition to the victory, the game was amazing fun, largely because we were seated behind the band (led by Jager!) and every time they erupted in song, we would go crazy, singing the lyrics and then responding with cheers. Similarly, we seemed at times to be the most excited fans in the “arena,” because of our screaming and cheering for the Lions.

Which brings me to my main point: the Columbia Lions’ mascot is, as one would expect, a lion. Fine. That’s truly awesome. What is not awesome is his name: Roar-ee. Frankly, this is unacceptable. I’ve been given such excuses as “Oh, Rory is a name,” and “He’s a lion. He says ‘roar!’” but all I can hear is, “LAME.” His name is hyphenated and the second part is just two ‘E’s.

Frankly, as Ivy League students, we can do better. Hell, as anybody with half a brain we can do better. “Roar-ee” is hands-down the stupidest name for a mascot ever, narrowly defeating the Philly Phanatic. It’s time for change. I’d like Columbia to do better, and I’m launching such a campaign now. I welcome your support.

Last night was CU Casino Night, sponsored by the four student councils as well as a bunch of different clubs, including the Southeast Asian Design and Something Or Other In Cambodia or Laos or Some Other Southeast Asian Country (SEADSOCLSOSEAC), at whose blackjack table I spent most of my time. When I entered, it was just to have fun, until I saw the pamphlet that listed the prizes you could buy with your chip winnings.

The pamphlet said that there were raffles one could enter for various prizes including gift cards (who the heck wants a Chipotle Gift Card?) a DVD, a Playstation 3, or an Asus Netbook. Obviously some neat things. It also said (more importantly) that there were three prizes you could buy straight up: Casino Night Shooters, Champagne Flutes, or Columbia Bartending Agency Classes.

That last one is worth $200 straight up. Suddenly I had a goal. We started with 3000 in chips and I needed 6000 for the Bartending classes. So I sat down at the Asian blackjack table with Shai and Yoni and began playing. I was doing okay, winning a hundred here, losing a hundred there. I got a couple blackjacks. All was well. But it was gonna take some serious work to get to 6000.

And that’s when Yoni showed me the black chip. He explained that it was worth 5000 and he had been given it for free at the entrance. I asked how, and he said that they thought it was worth zero. There was a disconnect between the workers at the front and the tables. I had to get one. With Yoni’s suggestion, I went to the front and used this line: “My friend got a black chip from you and now he can’t stop winning. Can I get one of those luck charms?” The woman looked at me funny but gave me the chip.

Bam. I set 6000 aside and put it in my pocket. My target was complete, but I still had a little over 2000. I decided to get a shooter and I began playing to 3000. Once I got it, I stepped back from the table, convinced that I would be great in Vegas because I know when to stop.

Then I tried to cash in for the prizes. I found the prize table, but it was closed, not to open until eleven! It was my goal to depart the premises at ten, so this presented a serious problem to me. I found the man in charge, a guy named Andrew, and we had a discussion. I explained that I was old and needed to get my sleep (yes I pulled the GS card) and he said he’d see what he could do.

I explained that I wanted the bartending classes and he said that he thought no one would want them, hence the reason they are selling them straight up instead of auctioning them. He also explained that they had only two to sell.

At 9:55, they made an announcement from the stage: glasses were on “sale” now and raffles would be at eleven. I went to the prize table, first person in line. “Which do you want?” the meek girl asked me. I responded that I had 9000 chips and I fully intended to acquire both a shooter and the Columbia Bartending classes.

She explained that the Bartending classes were available at eleven, and I protested: “But that’s not a raffle! It’s a straight-up buy like the glasses!” She said, “you’re right! Let me talk to this guy who’s in charge.” So she pulled her friend Sean over and he said, “Yeah, give it to him.” Sean then signed my certificate to make it official.

And thus through various forms of hoodwinkery, I walked away with two-hundred dollars worth of Bartending lessons. Bartending, here I come!

Yesterday was the first meeting of the semester for the Columbia University Bowling Club, aka the sickest club there is on campus. We had seven people show up to Harlem lanes and bowl for a little over an hour (two games), while the State of the Union played in the background. Here’s some highlights from the night:

• On the very last roll of the very last frame of the first game, Shai, Yoni, and I managed to just break our combined goal, literally by four pins.
• In the two games combined, I had four strikes. Three were in the second game, in the form of a strike and a double.
• Shai rolled a 178 in the second game, far and away the best score of the night. It included a Turkey. Unbelievable.
• It’s sad that Harlem Lanes doesn’t have the old computer system. The cartoons are odd and when I get a strike, it shows a clip rather than saying “Malcolm X” (I always have my name as Malcolm when bowling).
• However, Harlem Lanes does have the best music selection by far. Also it was 8:30 when we started, yet cosmic bowling was already happening. There’s nothing quite like cosmic bowling.

It looks like it’s gonna be a pretty good year for the CU Bowling Club, after a hiatus last semester. No more bush-league stuff.

First, it appears that my post on Monday was some kind of “breaking news” or something, as it attracted quite a few commenters who were suffering the same problem. Odd.

Over Winter Break, I filled out an application to become a Computer Science TA, thinking that, like the last time I applied, I would be overlooked. However, when I got back to school, I received an email only hours before the first day of classes: I was picked to be a TA for W1004, Introduction to Computer Science. [Pronounced Ten-Oh-Four.]

Well, I’ve already had two TA meetings (there are eight of us), sent a rad email to the students for whom I serve as the primary TA, and yesterday, I held my first Office Hours, hoping that students would show up, but cognizant of the fact that their first assignment isn’t due for nearly a week and that like I tend to do, they will likely procrastinate.

About forty five minutes into the Office Hours, having received no students yet having made serious headway on my Operating Systems homework, I received these tweets from Brody:

They never come to office hours for that class

Really. You should expect two kids, later in the semester. The desperate failure, and the smarmy A+++ kid.

I mean, keep in mind: 1004 students are learning how to attend college so they are clueless in more than just OO

Of course, only seconds later, a first student walked in the door. “Is this the TA help room?” He asked. I responded in the affirmative, as did the other random TA for some other class also presumably without students who care about Office Hours. He introduced himself to me as one of my students (not just a 1004 student but one in my mini-group) and asked a few questions about the class itself.

It was just an introduction, but honestly, a welcome distraction from OS homework and general boredom. At the time I think I was doing a Sporcle quiz as a distraction, so even though there was no Java to teach, a real human being was an upgrade.

Nonetheless, I’m looking forward to my future Office Hours. Hopefully, Brody is wrong and students will take advantage of my help. If not, at least I’ll get along fine on my OS homework!