The Greek cobbler

Put yourself in Christos Soillis’s shoes.

Walking down Massachussetts Avenue in the heart of Harvard Square, one inevitably passes all the commonalities of a commercial center of a town. The aorta of Cambridge pulsates with activity as people check the menus outside of restaurants, duck into boutiques, and pause to watch street artists trying to earn a buck. Then, amidst the modern bustle, you are halted to a jarring stop as you stumble upon Felix Shoe Repair, and you think you’ve just fallen into a wormhole.

Sitting in the window of the tiny shop is cobbler and sole proprietor of Felix Shoe Repair, Christos Soillis. He is mending the seam of a black cherry leather boot with the inattentive meticulousness of someone who is so experienced in his craft the machines seem to be unconscious extensions of his hands. The Singer sewing machine at which he sits is about 80 years old, according to Soillis- five years his elder. Most of the other hardware in the shop- sanders, buffers, vices, other sewing machines- is not far behind in age or use.

From the unorthodox, curved wooden window frames on the shop’s exterior to the man working inside, Felix Shoe Repair is of a bygone era, when Nike was still a Greek god and Puma a jungle cat.

He is wearing leather shoes himself- tasseled loafers that are rhythmically pumping the iron-lattice foot pedal to keep the bobbin at a steady pace. His polish-stained workman’s apron reaches just below his knees, swaying with the motion in his calves that keeps the bobbin employed. Soillis’s sturdy, barely five-foot frame is in a comfortable hunch; his arms steady but fingers nimble. It is a position he has known his whole life.

Looking down, aloofly focused on the boot, the 75 year-old Soillis showcases a shiny bald spot, and a peripheral hairline that grows like an Olympic olive wreath around his head. A pair of brass-rimmed glasses dangles on the edge of his strong Grecian nose, as he effortlessly makes sure every stitch is exact.

I walk in and introduce myself. The first thing he says to me is, “You Armenian? I am Greek! We are friends, look out for each other,” in a thick accent that sounds like he came to America yesterday, and not in 1963. And thus is the bud of a beautiful friendship.

Soillis began working as an apprentice cobbler at age eleven in his hometown of Logganiko, Greece, a small village near Sparta. After several unsuccessful attempts to open his own shoe repair shop in Greece, Soillis heeded the advice of his father, who had been to America.

“Son, I tell you, in the U.S. your foundation is built from here to there,” Soillis says, quoting his father as he points from his feet to a far off undefined point. “In U.S. you start out right for a good future.”

Soillis’s father traveled to America alone to work from 1907 to 1919. He sold fruit from a pushcart, earning pennies a day until he befriended a well-connected Irishman in Boston. The Irishman got him a job as a foreman at General Electric and in 12 years, Soillis Sr. returned to Greece a rich man with over $2,500 in his pocket- the equivalent of about $31,000 today.

“My father put his money in the bank in Greece and boom, the Depression hit. Just like that we were broke again,” Soillis said.

The first thing Soillis remembers noticing when he immigrated to Boston in 1963 was how formally everyone dressed. He says, “I asked Felix’s son, why everyone so dressed up? And he pointed to the gate that goes onto [Harvard’s] campus.

“‘Constantine must come through this gate before he becomes king.’

“It sound much better in Greek, but he meant that these are the people who hold the wheel to control the world.”

Entering Felix Shoe Repair is more like stepping into your grandfather’s garage than a modern commercial business. An organized mess, stacks of finished shoes in bags line an entire wall waiting to be picked up. Polishes, buffers, conditioners, different-colored stains, shoehorns, sole replacements, and other shoe care items are modestly on display; unadvertised hidden treasures. Scores of leather sandals and belts, made by Soillis, hang nearest the windows. The smells of the polishes, glues and conditioners are strong but not overwhelming, giving the shop a distinct blue-collar scent. When Soillis is not at work at his machinery, the sounds of AM news radio are loud enough that anyone trying to communicate in the small shop must raise their voice to communicate, especially with the elderly Soillis.

            One sound you will not hear in Felix Shoe Repair is the ring of a telephone.

            “If people want their shoes repaired, they can come in and ask me questions and do business,” Soillis says. His business strategies are as quaint as his craft; no telephone, no website, no Twitter account. Soillis believes in the value of personal, old-world business. To him, Harvard Square is like a village.

Some passersby pop in and greet him by name, others ask about a cold he’s been nursing for a few weeks. Conducting business without personal relationships is not something Soillis wants any part in.

            “Christos Soillis is important to our community because of the spirit of independence and reliability he brings,” Denise Jillson, executive director of the Harvard Square Business Association said in an interview with The 411 Around Boston. “He brings people coffee and baklava, and sometimes baskets of tomatoes and fresh peaches which he grows in his garden.”

            Doing business with Soillis is more like enlisting the help of a trustworthy old friend, one who won’t lessen the blow when giving harsh advice. If you show him a pair of shoes that are past the point of repair, you can expect to receive a stern, accented lecture about why and how you should take better care of future pairs. He will often turn potential customers away if he doesn’t think he can do a good enough job on their shoes. It is clear that Soillis is not just in this business for the money- he has a genuine passion for quality of the shoes that are walked around Harvard Square.

One of my many observations in the shop was an exchange between Soillis and a college-aged woman with a pair of calf-high leather boots.

           

           “Is there any way you could fix the heels on these?” the woman asked, showing Soillis the damage. 

Peering down his nose through his half moon, brass-rimmed spectacles, Soillis answers, “Yes I can, but not cheap. $25 each heel. Go to other shoe repairs, ask price, take time and think about it. Come back if you want.”

Soillis believes that you only need two things to be successful in America: honesty and health.

“Sometimes I think I’m the richest man in the world. I’m well, I have my store, and people do business with me because we have good relationships. I do honest business with them.”

Beginning work at age 11, Soillis’s work ethic and overall view on economics are simple yet profound. “If you’re willing to sweat, you have a dollar- you respect that dollar, and you help other people because you can with that dollar,” Soillis says.

And, having grown up poor, he says he knows the value of that dollar. “I am the cheapest person you know,” says Soillis. “I grew up very, very poor. I come to America with nothing, and I make something. I left Greece with short pants and a thousand patches, now I own this store.” The original Felix opened shop in Harvard Square in 1909, and Soillis bought it from his grandson in 1969.

“Back when I first came here, there were seven shoe repair shops on these blocks,” he said. “This was before rubber shoes. Everyone went to shoe repair shop, people got their shoes polished two, three times a week.”

Soillis estimates that nowadays, about 99 percent of people wear “rubber shoes,” sneakers or cheap boots that have no prospect of repair. Accordingly, business is not as good as it used to be for anyone in the shoe repair trade. Although Keds invented the first mass-produced, rubber-soled sneaker at the turn of the 20^th century, it was not until about thirty years ago that it became the norm in America footwear.

Sneakers were a godsend to shoe manufacturers; not only are they much cheaper to produce than their stitched leather predecessors, they are also impossible to repair- meaning once they show signs of wear, its time to buy a new pair.

“Business is not good anymore, but it is enough for me. It is all I know, I love to do it, and I only have myself to support,” Soillis says. He explains that if he still had a family and kids to support, there’s no way he could make it in the cobbling business anymore. His wife Maria passed away in 2010, leaving just Soillis and his shoe repair shop.

“I keep myself busy and spend a lot of time here, talking with customers and the people I know here,” Soillis says.

To his regulars, Soillis is a shoe angel.

Jessica Donner, a lawyer in Boston, says she’s been going to Felix Shoe Repair for years.

“Christos is a miracle worker,” she says. “I’ve brought him the most disastrous, scuffed shoes, or with seams falling apart, and Christos has fixed them. He almost makes your shoes look better than they did when they were new.”

Those who know him love him for his craftsmanship, but some newcomers may find his no-nonsense disposition slightly abrasive. His answers are quick and definite; he needs no time to consider an answer. In his 64 years of shoe repair, he’s heard it all.

For example, while I am interviewing Soillis, a man comes into Felix Shoe Repair, suede hat in hand and asks his how to get a spot out.

His attention on a men’s dress shoe, Soillis never looks up at the man. He continues hammering nails into the heel buffer on the shoe that is elevated upside down on a crude metal rod for resistance.

 “Won’t come out, buy new hat,” Soillis responds without skipping a nonchalant, sure-striking beat with his hammer. Every nail is hammered perfectly in place. Throughout the day, I wonder when was the last time he missed. By my estimation, not since he’s been running Felix Shoe Repair.

No further words are exchanged. The man walks out insulted. 

Later the same day, another customer who seems to have been to Soillis before but is not necessarily on a first name basis, walks in to pick up a finished pair of shoes. He is eating a quick-melting cup of ice cream from the JP Lick’s two doors down. Standing at the counter while Soillis tries to match his ticket to the Mount Everest of shoes awaiting pickup, the man clumsily drips some of his ice cream on the floor. He apologizes and scrambles for something to wipe it up. Soillis is unfazed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it later! This shoe repair shop, not Whole Foods,” he wryly jokes.

After 64 years of dexterous labor in shoe repair, Soillis is starting to feel its effects. He thrusts his hands forward and I notice the almost non-existent finger nails on his sausage-like fingers that, to me, are ten little miracles for having eluded arthritis this long. Then he turns his hands over and directs my attention to the thumb areas on his calloused palms. They are incredibly swollen, as if he shoved two fluffy spanakopitas under his skin.

“Sometimes I can’t sleep my hands hurt so bad,” Soillis says, but he assures me he will keep working until he no longer is physically able.

Times have changed since the 1960s- Harvard now admits women, Massachusetts Avenue is lined with Priuses instead of Fairlanes, Bass Weejuns have made way for Air Force Ones- but through the years, Christos Soillis and Felix Shoe Repair have defied the changes of the times, and remain an integral part of the Harvard Square community.

Trick or treat, smell my feet...

Give me something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear.

Those were the good ol' days.

The anxiety of finding the perfect costume. The anticipation of hitting every house in the neighborhood until your pillowcase is bursting at the seams. The subsequent dumping out of said pillowcase on the living room floor, basking in your hard-earned booty like Scrooge McDuck's daily money swims. Mom rationing your spoils like Bumble in Oliver Twist.

Halloween was a special night at the Kevorkian household.

We'll begin at suppertime. Every single year, before Danny and I went trick-or-treating (Jimmy outgrew Halloween before I was old enough to enjoy it), my mom would make a huge pot of vegetable soup and force us to choke down a big bowl of it- "or there would be no trick-or-treating." October 31 of every year, Danny and I would sit at the table and eat our most hated of foods so my mom could have a clear conscience about the impending amount of sugar we were about to ingest. Luckily, she conceded to giving us what we called a "yucky cup," for the negotiated lima beans and onions. Over the years Danny and I got pretty good at slyly hiding major amounts of non-lima bean/onion veggies underneath the allowed-content exterior, unbeknownst to my mom. But the annual soup-eating was still a major, and most dreaded, part of the holiday.

After dinner, we'd sprint to our respective rooms and don our costumes as fast as possible. Rabbit, witch, ninja, Pee Wee Herman, Uncle Fester, nerd- these were all costumes of our past. However, I spent most years dressed up as a hippie, because I wanted to be one in real life and this was the only day of the year my mom would allow me to dress as such.

Looking like complete doofs, we'd bound out the door, Dad and empty pillow cases in tow. As we literally ran from house to house (so many houses, so little time), Halloween was probably the only day of the year my dad got a substantial cardio workout. My mom would stay home and hand out candy to other kids, only she had a system. Ask me about it in private and I may tell you if I think you can handle it. Mom, you know what I'm talking about *cough* Dum-Dums *cough*.

If it was our lucky night, we'd come across an empty house with a bowl of candy on the porch, including a sign above it that read "Please take one." PPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. We liked to call this "The Jackpot." Though I could never bring myself to take the entire bowl (I've always had an unforgiving conscience), we'd stand there and negotiate to the single digit for the most we could take while still leaving "enough" for the other kids. We always rationalized there were at most just a few trick-or-treaters left behind us.

The fun really began when we got home. Danny and I would both stake out our isolated, respective areas on the living room floor, God forbid our candies mixed. We'd revel in the sugary treasure, segregating a gross pile for the butterscotches, Almond Joys, and anything black-licorice flavored, which we'd of course play off as kindness in giving them to our parents. Heck, we'd even throw a few Smarties in there for my dad for being such a good sport.

At this point, let me remind you of the Bumble-esque nature of my mom. Every night post-Halloween, every year, she would lock our pillowcases in the closet. We could only have 2 carefully selected candies per night (some nights, the process of choosing took hours). What's worse, we could never find the key to that damn closet. I swear to you she must have worn it around her neck; we searched high and low. As an adult, I realize how great she was for doing that. She probably saved me year after year from diabetic shock. I thank her today for protecting my pancreas with the vigilance only a mom can provide.

But as a kid, after too many Halloweens of painstaking rationing, Danny and I developed ways to cheat the system. For example, one by one we'd inconspicuously kick some of our candy pile under the couch while making our two choices, then wait until my parents fell asleep in front of the TV for reconnoissance. Or my personal favorite- I'd put on sweatpants with elastic around the ankles and shove some treats up my pant legs. It took a lot of dedication and discipline to cultivate the skill of walking slowly and carefully enough to not crinkle the wrappers. That said, in terms of sugar in November, Danny and I never went without.

Yes, it was a special holiday at the Kevorkian residence. Nothing can tarnish my fond childhood memories of Halloweens past, not even the depravity of my current peers in their slutty costumes, needing to get drunk and hook up with this guy.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Do you want fries with that?

The fact that there are no excise taxes imposed on fast food sales is perhaps the most blatant sign today that special interest lobbyists run D.C.

How many times have you read or heard the phrase "obesity epidemic" when others are referring to Americans' gluttonous appetites and exploding waistlines? Why is spandex making a comeback? How many TV shows have you seen featuring especially corpulent individuals "trying to make a change" by being put on strict diets and working with personal trainers for 9 hours a day? And how many fast food chains do you drive or walk by daily?

These issues are not unrelated. The CDC reports that 33.8% of American adults are obese (obesity is defined as more than 30 on the BMI scale). Since 1980, the prevalence of obesity among children has tripled. I'm not going to beat a dead horse. We have all been acutely informed that Americans' unprecedented, rapid weight gain is hurting not only our health, but also our wallets.

This is not a post scolding the behaviors of individuals and their ingestion habits. God gave you a mind of your own and free will so that you may make such decisions on your own. What I do not understand is why fast food is not being taxed.

Cigarettes are taxed to the point of plunder ($1.01 per pack federally, + state tax). Alcohol is also taxed up the yang ($2.17 per 750ml bottle of 80 proof alcohol federally, + state tax). The arguments for such taxation? Cigarettes and alcohol are bad for your health, are habit-forming, and cater to social undesirables. "Sin" taxes are imposed on such goods to discourage their being purchased, and thus used. Famous legislators throughout history (congressmen, presidents) have been heralded as super heroes for standing up to Big Tobacco and the Liquor Industry, for putting their foot down in the name of a healthier America. The Fortress of Solitude must have canceled its subscription to the Daily Planet. The Bat Cave must no longer receive the Gotham Gazette. They clearly haven't heard, because there's not a superhero in sight willing to touch fast food legislature.

To me, the properties of fast food sound pretty darn similar to those of cigarettes and alcohol. Bad for your health? Check. Habit-forming? Check. Leads to socially frowned-upon state? Check.

Then why, o why, can I walk into a KFC and order a Double-Down (absolutely nauseating) for $5? And riddle me this: why, if I am anywhere on contiguous American soil, is there never a McDonald's more than 107 miles from me? And how come the fast food industry generated a staggering $155 billion in revenue in 2008?

It seems to me that we can at least solve one of two of our nation's many problems by taxing the shit out of fast food: 1. People will eat less of it, leading to a healthier population or 2. Billions will be generated in tax revenue, an easy way to lessen the federal deficit. Seems like a no-brainer, right?

Unfortunately, fast food lobbyists too seem to have the government by the balls like their other big corporate counterparts. But I remain optimistic for a change. The day a Big Mac costs more than an avocado at the market will be a jewel in the crown of American tax reform.

P.S. If you are a bit unsure of how lobbying works, I highly recommend watching either Thank You For Smoking or Casino Jack.

Get those nail breakers!

Before I begin, 10 points if you know where the title of this post comes from.

As of November 2010, the time-stamped end of my soccer years, I had consistently been on some soccer team for 17 of my then-22 year old life. During those 17 years, I have played under the guidance of AT LEAST 25 coaches that I can think of off-hand. Never once did the thought cross my mind that one day I'd be one.

This autumn finds me the head coach of the varsity soccer team at Boston University Academy (BUA). Before you start "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing" at how prestigious that sounds, let me paint you a picture. BUA is a small, private high school affiliated with Boston University. It is overflowing with New England's future geniuses- kids who are usually just a little off. 150-ish students make up the entire school, all of whom are taking harder courses than I do as a grad student. Of these 150 pupils, anyone who has the slightest interest in soccer can be on the varsity soccer team. Boys. Girls. Freshmen. Kids who can barely pass a ball. Kids who have never touched a ball. Ever. There are no tryouts. There are no cuts.

Since August 26, 2011, an impossible task has been placed upon my shoulders. I have been hired to somehow mold this ragtag motley crew into a functional squad of lean, mean, ass-kicking machines.

One problem: I'm not a miracle worker.

Something worth mentioning, and sadly the probable least of my problems, is that most of these kids lack proper soccer gear. Some have cleats, but no shin guards. Some wear shin guards but don't have long socks (hello, AYSO U-7). Shurik (most of my kids have ethnic names), a freshman, shows up to practice every single day in his trusty Tevas. If you're familiar with Tevas, or click on the link provided, you'll see that not only do they provide zero support or traction, they aren't even complete shoes. I beg him every day to buy some cleats, or at least a pair of sneakers. But everyday he comes in those damn sandals, kicking the ball with his toe, which happens to be protected by that trademark Teva rubber. Maybe that's why he prefers them.

In addition, I have a theory that has throughout my lifetime generally proven true: The more the book smarts, the less the street smarts. A few days ago, a new kid named Ilya came to practice and asked if he could be on the team. According to BUA policy, everybody gets to play. It doesn't matter that we are halfway through the season. Anyway, he shows up 15 minutes into practice and all the kids are paired up, passing. I tell Ilya, and I quote, to "go hop in with the end group and pass 3-way with them." He looks me in the eye with a telling look of determination, like he really wants impress me and be an integral member of this team. At that point, I lose him. Little Ilya proceeds to put his feet together, crouches down, and starts literally bunny hopping in the direction of the group I told him to join. He was dead serious- I had to explain to him that it was a figure of speech. Every time I'm around my team, it's like being in an Amelia Bedelia book.

So far I've only illustrated the dynamic of our intra-squad interaction... but what about when we play other teams?

We've only had 2 games so far, the first of which was a scrimmage. This 6 minute video link will do a better job describing the experience than my words can. (If you can't read the context clues from this post so far, I am cast as Steve Guttenberg). I'm 100% serious when I say that the ONLY differences between the game in the video and my actual game are: 1. We only lost 0-6, and 2. we didn't have a goat on the sideline. One of my players caught a ball with her hands to avoid heading it. Another doesn't understand the concept of off-sides. At all. But that ended up actually benefitting us... the other team was called off-side on a breakaway because apparently I was the only person who saw poor Ishan standing 30 yards behind the rest of his backline. I later found out the team we played isn't in our league, or even our division. That was a huge relief. At the end of the day, I was actually pleased we only lost by 6 goals- it could have easily been 0-22. But we still got spanked.

Our first league game, the first that counted on my record as a head coach, was a little different. We won 5-3! OK, so the school we played was The Learning Center School for the Deaf. Let's not split hairs here, it's still a win. I'm proud of my little dingdongs for getting a W, even if it was at the mercy of a handicapped team.

Perhaps I'm a little too harsh on my kids. Soccer, and sports in general, are a new concept for most of them. Half of my players miss practices every week because of Robotics Club meetings and viola lessons, for pete's sake. I just want the beautiful game that's taught me so much about life to leave even if just the slightest impression on my ragamuffins. And with an undefeated record so far this season (hey, 1-0 is still considered undefeated), how can I really complain? I'm probably learning more from these kids than they are from me. With a little gumption, some elbow grease, and a prayer, maybe by the end of the season I can get Shurik, Ilya, Ishan, and the rest of my ethnically-named squirts to play some decent soccer.

After all, Rome wasn't built in a day.

1861, 1941, 2001

Following excerpts are taken from George Packer's "Inertia, Not Progress Defines the Decade After 9/11." The New Yorker. 12 Sept. 2011.

"Of the three attacks that have provoked the United States into a major war—in 1861, 1941, and 2001—only one came as a complete surprise. Fort Sumter had been under siege for months when, just before daybreak on April 12, 1861, Confederate batteries around Charleston Harbor, after giving an hour’s notice, opened fire on the Federal position. The Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor, on December 7, 1941, was a violent shock, but only in the nature and extent of the destruction: by then, most Americans had come to believe that the country would be dragged into the global war with Fascism one way or another, though their eyes were fixed on Europe, not the Pacific.

"The attacks of 9/11 were the biggest surprise in American history, and for the past ten years we haven’t stopped being surprised. The war on terror has had no discernible trajectory, and, unlike other military conflicts, it’s almost impossible to define victory.

"Adam Goodheart’s new book, '1861: The Civil War Awakening,' shows that the start of the conflict was accompanied, in what was left of the Union, by a revolutionary surge of energy among young people, who saw the dramatic events of that year in terms of the ideals of 1776: 'the overdue effort to sort out the double legacy of America’s founders: the uneasy marriage of the Declaration’s inspired ideals with the Constitution’s ingenious expedients.'
Pearl Harbor was similarly clarifying. It put an instant end to the isolationism that had kept American foreign policy in a chokehold for two decades. In the White House on the night of December 7th, Franklin Roosevelt’s Navy Secretary, Frank Knox, whispered to Secretary of Labor Frances Perkins, 'I think the boss must have a great load off his mind. . . . At least we know what to do now.' The Second World War brought a truce in the American class war that had raged throughout the thirties, and it unified a bitterly divided country.

"This isn’t to deny that there were fierce arguments, at the time and ever since, about the causes and goals of both the Civil War and the Second World War. But 1861 and 1941 each created a common national narrative (which happened to be the victors’ narrative): both wars were about the country’s survival and the expansion of the freedoms on which it was founded. Nothing like this consensus has formed around September 11th.

"After the attacks, Americans asked, 'Why do they hate us?' This turned out to be the wrong line of inquiry. The most pressing questions were about us, not them: our leaders, our institutions, our ability to act as a cohesive nation and make rational decisions, our power to take action abroad in a way that would not be a self-defeating waste. Starting with the intelligence failures that did not foresee the attacks, every major American institution flunked the test of the September 11th decade. The media got the W.M.D.s wrong. The military failed to plan for chaos in postwar Iraq. Congress neglected its oversight duties. The political system produced no statesmen. C.E.O.s and financiers couldn’t see past short-term profits. The Bush Administration had one major success: it succeeded in staving off another terrorist attack in America. It botched almost everything else."



Note: This post should in no way be interpreted as a denouncement of our military troops fighting in the Middle East and elsewhere. I support the U.S. military and am thankful everyday for the soldiers who fight for our country. It is the decisions made at the top with which I do not always agree.


To read more about our fractured post-9/11 America, check out the entire article: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/09/12/110912fa_fact_packer#ixzz1Xx68Rr6Y

Pipe down!

Time for another crotchety grumbling.

September 9, 2011: The first Friday night of the academic school year at Boston University. The first night of freedom for hundreds, nay thousands of horny eighteen year-olds thirsting for alcohol. The first night for these youngsters away from their parents, without the dreaded prospect of class the next day. The loudest night of the year.


If you have in any capacity been following my blog for the past (almost) year, you've probably picked up on the fact that one of the few things I cannot and do not tolerate is the increasingly inconsiderate nature of people. On average, the level of consideration for others decreases exponentially for each new generation. This means that my generation, Generation Y, is somewhat more considerate than the newest generation, Generation Z (aka the "Internet Generation"). Subsequently, the Greatest Generation (see former post, The frightening future), the last living generation of the present day, has by far the most consideration for others. Though I have no quantifiable data to back this theorem, you know it's an undeniable fact- especially if you are a member of one of the older generations.

Last night, after I scrubbed the day off, brushed my teeth, and crawled into my long-johns, I nestled under my sheets excited for the restful sleep that awaited. Yes, it was 10:30pm on a Friday. Yes, I am a healthy, exuberant 23 year-old. Go ahead and judge me for my state of affairs last night. Even though I was under the weather, I probably would have been doing the same thing regardless, as my party years have petered out. I'll take a nice bottle of cabernet over a 40oz. of Mickey's in a heartbeat.

Right as my head hit the pillow, the underage collegiate atmosphere came to life almost en queue. Multiple ambulances screamed down the street, armed with stomach pumps to rescue morons who thought it would be a great idea to play Power Hour with their three best frenemies Jack, Jim, and Jose (Daniels, Beam, and Cuervo). Shit-faced barely-legals stumbled down the sidewalks in their vagina-bearing short skirts and 6-inch heels, shrieking unintelligible Facebook acronyms ("O-M-GGGG!!!). And of course, some DJ-Pauly D-wannabe neighbor, whom I was unable to locate geographically, turned his subwoofers to their highest setting and played the most God-awful, loud, fist-pumping techno "music" for 3 straight hours. I could never understand the point of music that loud (how can you possibly communicate with others?), or techno in general, but I digress. Does this fool not realize there are scores of other residents around him, some of whom have life goals that don't include looking like a leather sack, finding someone different to "smoosh" every night, and taking body shots off Snooki?

While you may argue that it is my fault that I chose to live near students, it is something a destitute grad student in the city of Boston cannot elude. ~55 colleges exist within a 5 mile radius, leaving quiet, affordable living options scarce. And I don't think I'm being completely unreasonable here- fine, be as loud as you want until 11pm, then simply turn your volume (vocal, sound system, and otherwise) DOWN. Or leave and go to an actual bar or club. I have no problem with that.

Tonight is Saturday, and I do not expect the noise pollution to be any better than last night. However, I have to wake up at 8am tomorrow to travel to UMASS-Amherst to broadcast a game, and will not hesitate to own the role of that bitchy, party-pooping neighbor who calls the cops and shuts your party down. So please have some consideration, and keep your music and voices to a reasonable decibel and bass level. Thank you.

Did she just say that?

Due to my complete lack of brainpower as a result of being in the process of moving, my poor little cerebrum can barely put together a sentence, let alone a coherent, thoughtful piece of writing that would have otherwise been the content of this blog post. And because this is my last night in my old apartment, everything I own with the capacity to entertain and keep myself busy is quietly nestled away in its respective box. Thus: my urge to write a blog entry.

Combine these two current conditions of mine (feather-brainedness and the need for something to do) and, voila! You get the extreme pleasure of perusing a list of some of my all-time favorite idioms and sayings. Most of these come from none other than Jim (the man, the myth, the legend) Kevorkian, and his nuptial counterpart, give it up for my mom: Nancer Pancer Kevorkian. Though they dominate the majority of the featured entries on this list, a few prized others have come from individuals who will appropriately receive credit.

*DISCLAIMER: This list is not for those holier-than-thou nor the unappreciative prude. If you fall into these aforementioned categories, abort this post immediately or prepare to be offended.

- "...as useless as tits on a nun."

- "What do you want, egg in your beer?!" (said to someone who should be pleased, but isn't)

- "Vanish like a fart in the wind."

- "Colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra."

- "Even a blind squirrel will find a nut once in a while." -Andrew Shroads

- "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

- "...sweating like a whore in church."

- "That was a phi beta kappa maneuver." (when you do something stupid)

- "You can't soar with the eagles in the morning if you're out hooting with the owls all night." -Erica Shaya

- "Nice shot, Oswald."

- "Shit or get off the pot!"

- "'Ah, I see' said the blind man." -Mike Chacon

- "Do you want a medal or a chest to pin it on?" (for someone who thinks they deserve more credit than they do)

- "... faster than Grant took Richmond."

- "____iest   ______  in America." -Tasha Richardson

- "Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."

- "I gotta piss like a racehorse."

- "... dumber than pond scum."

- "You smell like a urinal in a Portuguese cat-house." -Jimmy Kevorkian

- "... slower than molasses in January."

- "... doesn't know his ass from a buttercup."

- "Happier than a two-peckered goat on a sheep ranch."

- "Too many chiefs, not enough indians." (to describe a situation wherein too many people are trying to take charge)

- "...doesn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of." (to denote someone who is broke)


There ya have it, folks, a condensed list of my favorites from my private collection. I had to leave out the extremely politically incorrect ones, so if you would like to hear them, let me know I would be happy to share in a more private forum.

Well, in hopes that tomorrow I can move into my new place faster than Grant took Richmond, it's time for me to vanish like a fart in the wind and hit the hay. Happy trails!

Greatest love songs by decade

In complete contradiction to my normal blog style, this post will consist of a listed compilation of what I think are the best love songs of each decade from the 1940s through 2010. I strongly invite disagreement, but under one condition: you must tell me what YOU think the better choice is.

1940s: "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" by Ella Fitzgerald

1950s: "You Belong to Me" by Dean Martin

1960s: "When a Man Loves a Woman" by Percy Sledge

1970s: "How Deep is Your Love" by The Bee Gees

1980s: "Open Arms" by Journey

1990s: "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" by Aerosmith

2000s: "You Are the Best Thing" by Ray LaMontagne

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away

Theoretical physicist and cosmologist Stephen Hawking once said, "The large-scale homogeneity of the universe makes it very difficult to believe that the structure of the universe is determined by anything so peripheral as some complicated molecular structure on a minor planet orbiting a very average star in the outer suburbs of a fairly typical galaxy." Aka, we on Earth.

To put this quote into perspective, I found a spectacular video on Youtube that is one continuous zoom-out from NYC to the edges of the known universe (key word: known). Please watch entire video for full effect. The universe is a lot more expansive than we as a general species can wrap our minds around, and our egotistic inclination to believe that we are the center of the universe doesn't help. Sure, we may be just "complicated molecular structure[s] on a minor planet orbiting a very average star," but what if we happen to be the only life form in the awe-strikingly enormous universe? Would our narcissistic self-importance be justified?

With billions of other galaxies like our very own Milky Way, the argument that there are other forms of life on other Goldilocks planets (termed "Goldilocks" because they are not too hot, not too cold to support life) doesn't seem too farfetched. In fact, scientists just discovered one of these planets a mere 20 light years away from us (pretty darn close, relatively speaking). The odds truly are one in several billion that we are the only planet in the universe inhabited by some form of life. 

Thanks to the media, from film to television to comic books, our fascination with the possibility of the existence of extra-terrestrial life has greatly distorted what these life forms could actually be, and we are therefore too quick to dismiss it. Aliens in the media have been so egregiously exaggerated, lacking any semblance of legitimacy, that whenever we get to wondering if there are extra-terrestrial beings, these ridiculous manifestations are the first images that pop into our heads. No wonder we think it's a ridiculous notion. Here are a few examples: 

ALF: Hails from Melmac (located six parsecs past the Hydra-Centaurus Supercluster), crash-lands in white, middle class family's garage and immediately knows how to speak english. Favorite foods: everything. But especially house cats. 

ET: Gets ditched by his UFO while trying to collect plants. Has magic powers to heal and make bicycles fly. Favorite foods: beer and Reese's Pieces.

The aliens in Mars Attacks!: Two arms, two legs, and huge brains. Have really cool laser guns that can fry anything in a single zap. The only thing that will kill them (via brain explosion) are the shrill, twangy stylings of old country singer Slim Whitman. Favorite foods: Nitrogen gum, which they chew in order to stay alive when their space helmets are removed.

I think you get the point. How can we believe in the prospect of extra-terrestrial life when all we have to base our imaginings from are representations such as these?

The other side of the argument is that we are indeed the sole heirs of life in the entire universe. Much of the time, this belief's founding can be traced to the beginnings of Judaism (and subsequently, Christianity). God made us and only us in His image to worship and depend on Him at all times, for everything. Could you imagine arriving in Heaven (or Hell) and seeing a whole host of different life forms from other planets there? That would be a trip- I don't remember reading anything like that in the Bible. However, leaving religion out of it, many esteemed scientists propose that there is good reason to believe that we are alone. A few years ago I became especially curious and read a book called Case for a Creator by Lee Strobel. He writes, "My road to atheism was paved by science... but, ironically, so was my later journey to God." If you're interested in this subject, I highly recommend it. Strobel's work is riddled with interesting interviews of brilliant professors all over the world and their thoughts on the creation of the universe. 

During one of the interviews, some scientist told Strobel to think about life on Earth like this: Imagine millions of variables (i.e. nitrogen level) divided into one-inch increments spanning from one edge of the universe to the other (that's a lot of inches). Each one of those millions of variables had to be set perfectly on their respective one-inch precision scale in order for Earth to become inhabitable and eventually support human life. Those odds are so big our brains do not have the capacity to imagine what that means exactly, so chances seem almost non-existent that it happened more than once (unless we are the product of some intelligent design).

I'm sure some of you were hoping I'd delve into UFO sightings, Area 51, government conspiracies etc. during this post, so I'm sorry to have disappointed you. If there are other life forms out there, I wholeheartedly do not believe they have come to our planet. Have you ever noticed how most UFO sightings and alien abduction claims emerge from rural America, where both boredom and rye whiskey flourish? Just sayin'...

I hope this post comes to mind the next time you find yourself staring into the night sky or watching an episode of Mork and Mindy. 

Live long and prosper.

Let's all go to the lobby...

One of the best games to play with someone you're trying to get to know well in the fastest way possible is a little game I like to call, "You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?" (borrowed from Peter Griffin's short-lived news segment on Family Guy). It is extremely instrumental for new roommates and early stages of dating. The point of the game is to take turns ranting (Me, rant? Shocking.) about your personal pet peeves. Better to find out this way, right?

I am currently in the middle of a long, seemingly ever-lasting game of Y.K.W.R.G.M.G. with Mr. Grant Daiss. Incidentally, we recently went to the movies to see Bad Teacher (Cameron Diaz... meh) on opening weekend and found ourselves in a packed theater, absolutely inundated with actions and people whom, you guessed it, GROUND MY GEARS.

Perhaps what most grinds my gears about the movies, or anywhere with stadium-style seating really, is that people can't wrap their heads around the fact that they are in an enclosed space, sharing that space with others. I'm not sure if this is a matter of awareness or consideration, but if I owned a movie theater, I would post little placards reiterating the Golden Rule on the back of every single chair. Here are a few personal-space issues I have with rude moviegoers:

1. The kicking/tapping/brushing/shaking/or-otherwise-touching of the back of my chair. I'm not sure if there is a cognitive disconnect or what, but believe it or not, on the other side of that inanimate piece of furniture is a person with nerve endings that can feel every vibration. Keep your hands, feet, and any other working appendage in your own seat and if you don't mind, sit still please. Even if you're not touching the person's chair in front of you, your moving around like an epileptic can cause those in your immediate vicinity to need Dramamine. Newsflash: those chairs are connected, folks.

2. The free sneezing/coughing/hacking into open air. Especially during the sick season. Please perform your sickness reflexes INTO something, be it a tissue or your sweatshirt. Just because you are in the dark doesn't mean people can't feel your mucus particles landing all over them. I don't know if you can even consider that a pet peeve- that's just a plain old public health issue. The CDC should get involved.

The next set has to do with personal space as well, but these fall in the visual/auditory category:

3. The use of cell phones. If you can't peel yourself away from your beloved phone screen for a measly 2 hours, leave the damn thing at home. Trust me- you're not that important. It positively stuns me that people have the audacity to actually answer phone calls and talk on their phones in a movie theater. I can think of few things more rude in terms of respecting others' enjoyment of something. HANG THE F**K UP. And you "sly" texters- don't think you're getting away with anything. The glowing backlight on your screen is a complete aura-ruiner. A sudden beam of bright light into anyone's peripheral view in a dark movie theater is both distracting and annoying. It's not going to kill you to wait until the movie is over for you to respond "nuthin LOLZ" to your friend's "wat r u doin" text.

4. Movie talkers. Period. Whether you're in my immediate party or just someone who is in ear-shot, we don't need a play-by-play of what's going on. Leave the commentating in your own personal living rooms. Perhaps the reason you don't ever know what's going on and feel the need to ask is because you already talked through (and missed) 1/3 of the dialogue. I'd rather go to the movies alone than with a movie talker.

5. People moving up/down/around the aisles throughout the whole movie. This one's a no-brainer: take care of your business before settling. I just heard a loud grunt of disapproval from all the small-bladdered folk out there and before you stop reading in your huff of protest, relax- I don't mean you. I am among your kind. It's perfectly acceptable to quietly and stealthily, like a ninja, get up for a bathroom break in the middle of a long film- especially if you're simultaneously ingesting a liquid treat. This pet peeve is more aimed at those people (usually kids/teenie boppers) who continuously run up and down the aisles, leave the theater, come back, repeat 12 times. What are you doing, running shuttles? I feel this is the proper point at which to admonish parents who bring kids to movies they are clearly not of the maturity level to handle, just because they didn't want to pay for a babysitter. Leave the kids at home if you're going to my theater to see King's Speech. Or I will stick my leg out and trip them as they run by.

6. Babies. I don't even need to get into that. Here's a good rule of thumb about babies: if they can't comprehend/won't remember the experience even happened by tomorrow, don't bring them. It always amazes me to see people pay $75 and bring babies to places like Disneyland. A) they're not going to remember it and B) they completely incapacitate your ability to have any fun. Forfeit $20 to the geeky, friendless, zit-faced adolescent down the block to babysit. It's worth it.

Next time you patronize a movie theater, keep these gear-grinders in mind, because chances are everyone in that theater shares at least one of them with me. Be kind. Be courteous.

And now for a classic we can all enjoy to get you in that theater-mood.

The frightening future

Tom Brokaw coined the term "The Greatest Generation" to describe those who were brought up in the U.S. during the Great Depression, went on to spend their early 20s fighting in the Second World War, produced the baby boomers (aka our parents) upon their arrival home, and went on to build up America's economy to be the world's most powerful and prolific. Though this generation is quickly fading, many of us (if you are around my age or older) will have spent at least 1/4 of our lives in the presence of those who comprised it. And for that, I am thankful. As my dad so passionately declared at my Grandpa Tom's funeral, "[The Greatest Generation] was truly was the greatest. They took care of their wives, they took care of their kids, and they took care of the Japs!" Though perhaps a bit politically incorrect by today's standards- beautifully put, Pops.

Those of The Greatest Generation are now 80+ years old. We refer to them as "the elderly." We recoil in fear at their inability to see and hear, their varicose veins, their armpit-high pants, their lack of hair where it ought to be and the proliferation where it oughtn't. We don't simply fear it because it is inherently strange to our youthful values, but mainly because we know that someday the same fate will befall us.

I am here today to tell you that it won't. We will look/act nothing like our grandparents and their acquaintances. No, my friends, our future elderly selves will at best minimally reflect The Greatest Generation we have seen age before us.

Our generation will be much worse. In our old age, we will be the ugliest, crudest, unhealthiest (and in turn most expensive), most unpleasant elderly generation the world has ever seen.

Let's begin with external appearances. In 60 years, most born around the millennium will take one of two completely opposite paths. Those who end up making good money in their careers and save a lot of it will go the plastic surgery route, and will end up looking as bad as or worse than the likes of Joan Rivers. These alien-like wax figures will line the beaches of The Hamptons and the streets of Beverly Hills, with collagen-infused fish lips and neck skin sagging halfway down their backs from facelift after facelift. Those who can't afford to niptuck themselves into oblivion will go the au natural route and, given the current appearances of my peers, I'm not sure which is more frightening. I recently patronized Six Flags- Magic Mountain (an amusement park) and was absolutely astounded by the amount of tattoo-age I witnessed. Almost every single person there was sporting a visible tattoo, but what really struck me was the raw percentage of skin covered in ink. Nearly half the people I saw had some sort of sleeve, and probably 7% had tattoos going all the way up their necks. Including females. Though I do not have any tattoos, I am by no means a denouncer of them- but WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GOING TO LOOK LIKE IN 50 YEARS? Have you ever seen a tattoo on an old person? It's not a common sight, but if you have, you know they have the appearance of prune-like, dark green cancer growths. If you think getting that Marvin the Martian tattoo on your tricep forever is a good idea, think again. And while we're on the subject of the epidermis, I think it's worth mentioning that our obsession with tanning (and even worse, fake tanning) will have us all looking like Texas Longhorn burnt-orange leather sacks if the melanomas don't do us in first. Add to that to the copious amount of chemicals we slather onto our heads (aka "hair care products") and acidic concoctions that allow us to merely "apply and just wipe the hair away!" and you've got yourself one torn up group of people over years of exposure. Let's face it- my generation is on the fast track to looking like the product of some subhuman, Twilight Zone science experiment.

Another aspect of outward appearance (and inward health) many fail to take into consideration is weight gain over time. As most of us know, the CDC has declared 1/3 of American adults today are obese. You may be thinking, so what? A lot of old people are overweight as well. While this is true, it is easy to forget that most members of The Greatest Generation were quite thin until they reached old age and their metabolisms puttered out. I know a lot of us experienced that moment as young children when we saw an old photograph of our grandparents and asked, heartbreakingly to them, "Who is that?" But WE are starting out fat- and neither science nor precedent can predict the effect that is going to have on both the individual and society. The only thing we can be sure of is that my generation will have more health problems (diabetes, heart disease, kidney failure, high cholesterol, etc etc etc) thanks to a preventable condition. If you're pissed off about having to foot the baby boomers' Medicare bill, just think of the burden we're going to place on our children. The only potential brightside is that since we will be so fat and unhealthy, maybe we won't live long enough to leach off America's taxpayers for too long.

No matter, it's what's on the inside that counts, right? Well, if that's true, we're doubly screwed. Today's elderly population has a reputation of being nice, kindly, and for the most part mild-tempered. Though they may be boring to those who don't appreciate history, nostalgia, or just the plain good ol' days, at least they are pleasant to be around. Why? Because they were brought up with manners, respect, and social graces that we seem to have since lost. Girls: How often do you hear sweet little old ladies drop the F-bomb? And how often do you hear your friends drop it, along with a plethora of other profanities? Fellas: You're a little different. Grandpa may have had quite the swearing vocabulary, which we'll blame on the military during WWII. But how often did you hear them cuss in the presence of the fairer sex? And how often do YOU cuss in front of, or even at, girls? There's a huge discrepancy here. Not only will our mannerisms be completely detestable, but so will our overall dispositions. We are the "me generation," we are selfish and  think we are entitled to everything. Our grandkids can forget about grandma and grandpa spoiling them like we used to be spoiled. We sure as hell aren't going to go out of our way to make some little snot-nosed punk happy, even if he/she is our descendant. The Greatest Generation and even the baby boomers (though to a lesser extent) have a real consideration for the welfare of others. We do not. It's all about us.

So, as we live our lives fashioning our futures to be wholly ugly elderly folk, I guess we can find solace in one thing: if mankind continues to develop on this same path, our kids and grandkids will be exponentially more ugly and crude (inside and out) than we are, so perhaps by twisted comparison, we will seem as great to them as The Greatest Generation was to us.

Your dash

Yesterday I was watching the news and saw that B-list celebrity and Playboy playmate Yvette Vickers was found dead in her home in LA. Nothing struck me as notable about this story. Another celebrity death, again someone I had never heard of... so I prepared to change the channel to Seinfeld. But just as I was about to push the button I heard the reporter say, "Vickers was believed to have been dead for close to a year when her neighbor discovered her."

A year.

This poor soul was dead for ~365 days until someone finally noticed she no longer existed. My subsequent progression of emotions were: stunned, empathetic, introspective, paranoid, resolved.

I initially thought, "How can someone live a life wherein they have so little human interaction no one would miss their presence FOR A WHOLE YEAR?" A day, understandable. A week? Maybe. Two weeks? You're pushing it. A month? No way. Once my mind had resolved the straight logistics, my heart got involved. This Ms. Vickers led a solitary life, devoid of family, friends, even amicable neighbors- the kind who might leave fudge on your porch around the holidays or yell "Hi!" as they get in their car and see you trimming your begonias. Humans are inherently social beings (even the bat-shit craziest of us), and for this woman to be able to go a year without being missed speaks volumes about the intense reclusiveness she must have experienced. I felt in my heart a pang of grief for not only her, but for the what I'm sure are many solitary souls nudged aside by themselves or society. Sure, we all feel a little like Lucy Ricardo in the "Friends of the Friendless" episode once in a while, but (I hope) none of us can come close to relating to this extreme.

Then the focus turned to me. How long would I have to be dead before anyone noticed I was gone? I hope I have lived my life in such a way that I have enough human connection/interaction that people would not only notice I was gone (and rather promptly, at that), but they would also care. An excerpt from Linda Ellis's "The Dash" reads:

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.


Of what has my dash been thus far comprised? Sure, I'm still relatively young, but I'm also a realist in knowing I could die at anytime. Maybe we should all be in constant evaluation and re-evaluation of what that dash would represent to those who knew us. Many would measure that dash based on accomplishments and milestones, but it's about more than that. What have you meant to the lives of others? If you know me, you know how much value I place on relationships. It is my personal credo that life is wholly, completely, unequivocally, 100% about the relationships you build and keep- be they with God, your family, your friends, your belongings, or yourself.  I can only hope I've meant something (however big or little) to the lives of everyone I've had the pleasure to have known. Of course during this introspection a bit of paranoia crept in, as I tried to piece together the entirety of the relationships of my past, but that didn't last long. One of the many things I'll credit to my soccer career in terms of life lessons is the stark realization that while the past cannot be changed, the future is entirely up to you.


And that's what led me to my final emotion: resolution. Sometimes it takes the pitiable death of an ex-Playmate to serve as a reminder that we control what that dash will represent to those we will leave behind. It's not that I want everyone I've ever known to experience an intense sadness when I die, but it is my great hope that I will leave behind enough of a profound legacy that in my absence, those I knew will be touched. I've lost (to Heaven's gain) people in my life whose deaths certainly had that effect on me, and because of that they will never be forgotten. 


I believe that dash is a worthy one when everyone in the room at your funeral would know the last thing you would want is for them to feel grief, yet simultaneously would internalize the sentiments of W.H. Auden:



(S)he was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.




If you died tomorrow, what would your dash mean?

And away they go

Today marks the 137th running of one of America's most storied sporting events: the Kentucky Derby.

Throngs of track enthusiasts and garishly big-hatted ladies will swarm Churchill Downs today, whiskeys neat in hand for the former, mint juleps for the latter, knowing that they are among the select few privy to witnessing what many dub "The Greatest Two Minutes in Sports." Most of us, however, will be sitting at home or at a bar or at our local track, having to rely on the clearest picture our HDTVs can provide to capture the majesty of the beasts' powerful gallop. The exhilarating victory. The crushing defeat.

Growing up about 7 minutes away from the Santa Anita Racetrack (see link above... you may recognize it from such films as A Star is Born (1954), The Debtors (1999), and Seabiscuit (2003), to name a few), I've frequented this great American pastime a bit more than most my age, a surprising revelation discovered when I departed the cradle of the San Gabriel Valley. I grew up loving everything about the races; from the spectacle of the red-coated, top-hatted bugle player calling the first race's entrants to the post, to the array of emotion on the faces of bettors, depending on how their picks ran. Then there was the time between races. As I aged, that time evolved from half-hour intervals to make mischief with my cousins to precious 30-minute slots for beer refills and going over the next race's potential bets with friends.

Ah yes, playing the ponies: in my opinion, the most exciting form of gambling. Through the years I've had the opportunity to witness countless "sure-fire" systems different types of track-goers employ to pick winners. The following types of bettors are my favorites:

1. The bet-small-to-win-small-ers: aka the bettors who never lose. Unfortunately, they don't really win anything either. These are the people who will pick the egregious favorite (i.e. 2:9 odds) in every race to show (show= come in first, second or third place). They will bet $1-$2 to win about 20 cents. My Grandma falls into this category. Then again Grandma ALWAYS goes home from the track having made some sort of profit, even if it is 70 cents, which is more than most of the rest of us can say.

2. The I'll-pick-whichever-horse-whose-name-I-like-best-ers: This demographic tends to be dominated by girls, or those who have no idea how to read a racing form. I have many friends who utilize this system (*cough* Alice Binns *cough*) and they lose. Every time. The horses with the cutesy or clever names, for some reason, are usually the 50:1 longshots (perhaps they have a complex from having such ridiculous names as "Fantasy Cream Puff", etc). There are two good things about this bettor-horse relationship: 1. Their money will go straight the winner's pool, increasing your profit and 2. The names make for some hilarious commentary.


3. The ride-on-the-coattails-of-a-first-timer-ers: There is an inexplicable law of the universe holding that people who have never bet on horses before, or even been to a racetrack, who have absolutely no idea what they're doing, always win. It never fails. Some call it beginner's luck. Call it whatever you want, but it almost always happens. Some bettors have gotten wise to this, bringing track fledglings along with them and betting on whichever horses they do. The only problem with this, however, is that it usually only happens for one race, and you never know which race that will be.

4. The whichever-horse-takes-the-biggest-dump-right-before-the-race-ers: Before every post-time, the horses take an exhibition walk around the paddock area, then slowly make their way around the track to the starting gate- an ordeal that usually takes about 15-20 minutes. During this time, everyone present can make any last-minute observations before they run over to the betting window to place their final wagers. These bettors count on the sureness of anatomy: if a horse takes a huge shit right before the race, he will consequently be lighter and more comfortable with newly-vacant intestines, and therefore will run faster. My dad swears by this method.

5. The I-do-my-research-beforehand-ers: These people tend to be inherent nerds. The day before going to the track, and the morning of, they scour blogs, newspaper handicaps, and past results to try and  construct a scientific formula to apply to every horse in every race the next day. This method is both time-consuming and often leads to said nerds reevaluating the "importance" of studying, because if it were that easy, every math geek in the country would be a filthy-rich track junkie.

6. The I-know-a-guy-on-the-inside-who-gives-me-foolproof-picks-ers: These bettors tend to be wiseguys who think they know it all. My brother Jimmy falls into this category. More experienced and having a greater interest in horse racing, these are the people you'll find at the track multiple days a week, every week. The regulars. They get in good with those affiliated with the track who can tip them off, give them insider information: the trainers, sometimes the jockeys. These bettors always seem to have "hot picks" or "sure-fire winners." Though you'll often hear of the huge trifecta they hit a month ago or the pick-six that brought them several-$K last year, remember they are losing money on all the days in between on bets they conveniently tend to leave out of conversation.

Me? You'll have to come to the track with me one day to find out. No matter what type of bettor you are,  the key to playing the ponies is remembering what it is at its core: gambling. There is no fool-proof system. Any horse can win on any given day. Who will it be today? Your answer, I'm sure, will reflect the type of bettor you are.

If you're interested, post-time for today's race is 6:24pm EST. Enjoy!

Running down a dream

Most mornings between the hours of 8-10 AM you can find me running through the streets of Boston. Sometimes I get adventurous and decide to explore, but the majority of the time I stick with a few key routes. My favorite, hands down, is running along the Charles River. Because that path was made for the sole purpose of allowing Bostonians to exercise with a stellar view, even at 8 AM it is sprinkled with (dog)walkers/joggers/runners. I also love watching the old men try to fish (are there really fish in there?).

As per most of your knowledge: I LOATHE exercising indoors. Therefore I have stayed true to this river path through rain, sleet, hail, snow, and extreme winds. We've been through a lot, that path and me. I can't escape the feeling I've created a relationship with not only the actual route, but also my fellow morning runners. Some decked out in the latest Nike Dri-fit gear, others reppin' old school gray sweatsuits (complete with those sweatbands made from towel material). There's a certain amount of arrogance that comes with the knowledge that you are out watching the city wake up while 95% of your acquaintances are in that sleepy state of limbo between snooze alarms. We all know it. And as we run past each other, we'll give a slight nod of the head or closed-mouth grin or even a split-second of eye contact as silent reinforcements of how good we feel about ourselves; and if other noble souls are out doing what we're doing, then they should be proud too, gosh darnit. These constant reciprocal affirmations create an indelible cycle of ego inflation. Sometimes our heads get so big it's hard to run past one another on such a narrow stretch of pavement. And when we find ourselves off the path and on the street, you know, having to share our way with other laymen say, on their way to work or something, the pompousness continues. We'll run by you or your car and examine that look on your face as you watch us stride past. You're really thinking, "Why on earth is this lunatic out running so early?" but we interpret it as, "Maaan, I really wish I could get up early and work out like this fine citizen." Like it or not, it's the inescapable truth about earlybird exercisers. We have our own little unspoken We-Run-First-Thing-In-The-Morning-So-We-Have-Mad-Swag Club.

I loved being a part of this club. Yes, past tense: "loveD." I loved it until the morning of April 19th, 2011.

April 19th, 2011 was the day after the 115th Boston Marathon. I initially set out that morning feeling inspired by the agonizing, personal feats I witnessed over and over standing 1.2 miles from the finish line. This feeling of inspiration quickly transitioned to shame as I realized that my whole life as a long-distance runner (now 2 months old) has been a sham. A lie. Deceit. A farce. Nothing but smoke...and...mirrors.

That morning, the subtle yet smug gestures we swag club members usually give one another were replaced with heads bowed in ignominy. No one made eye contact or gave the tooth-pressed grin. Not one head-nod took place. Every runner out that morning had to come to terms with the fact that perhaps they are not deserving of their self-awarded status of the Archetype of Admirability. No one who went running on April 19th had taken part in the city's most heralded athletic event the day prior, and as a heretofore self-proclaimed "runner" in Boston: that was humbling.

The result of this running revelation? I've decided I will be a registered participant in the 116th Boston Marathon on 4/16/12. 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Copley Square. I'm in.

ET phone home?

I've always been an admirer of the night sky.

Humans have been mesmerized by its wonder since the first recorded civilizations. The earliest records of cosmological posits date back to the ancient Mesopotamians (5300-ish BC), who believed earth was more or less a flat disk. They also believed the universe was contained in a dome above the earth's horizon, and beneath the earth's surface lay the netherworld. Each subsequent (and though there's no written record, probably antecedent) culture had its own idea of the universe which usually related somehow to their respective gods.

Then came the Renaissance (1500s) and astronomy finally began receiving accreditation as a legitimate scientific field. Copernicus debunking the universally-accepted belief that the earth was the center of the universe, Galileo using one of the first telescopes (20x more powerful than the human eye) to scan the night sky, Kepler's suggestion that the sun somehow affected the planets' orbital paths (this was before Newton got hit with that apple, folks).

Nowadays we know a bit more about the universe thanks to modern technology. We know that there are billions upon billions of other galaxies. But even with all this modern science, we aren't even close to being able to fathom how infinite it is, and how ever-expanding.

I sometimes get mad at myself for being a math ignoramus (basic algebra gives me fits) because if I weren't, I would have definitely been an astronomer. Staring at the night sky while camping or in various other remote places is among my absolute favorite activities (good thing I've always lived in a big city, huh?). While gazing into the black abyss that seems so carelessly splattered with stars, a few recurring thoughts always creep into my mind:

What's beyond the universe? Scientists say it's ever-expanding. Then what is it expanding into? One of my professors thinks we are "just a ball of lint in someone's pocket in an alternate universe." When I get to thinking about ideas like this Ball of Lint Theory, one of my first questions always relates to time. How can a ball of lint exist for the estimated 4.54 billion years earth is said to have been in existence? Perhaps time is relative. Perhaps because we are so miniscule in the grand scheme of things, time is slower for us. For example, the average lifespan of a gnat is 4 months. But maybe to them, since they are so small both in size and brain capacity, those 4 months seem like 80 years. Maybe we are the gnats of another universe.

Most of the stars we see when we stare into the night sky are hundreds of light years away. The closest star to earth (excluding the sun) is Proxima Centauri, which is 4.2 light years from us. That means when we look at that star, we are seeing it as it existed 4.2 years ago. That's crazy to me! It's possible that many of the stars we see in the sky don't even exist any more, but since it takes so long for their light to reach our eyes we are seeing them as they were years and years ago. Blows. My. Mind.

And lastly, perhaps the most popular question of those with an interest in the cosmos, how did it all come to be? There are plenty of theories out there to explain this one, but none have come close to being proven the unassailable truth, accepted by all. Some believe in the Big Bang Theory. Others buy into the Inflation Theory. Creationists think God created it all (and even that has its branches- Deists believing God created the universe, set it into motion, and left us to ourselves vs. most major religions believing God created it AND still runs the whole show).

While I am not arguing for any theory over another (my stance is one of constant wonder and questioning), I do find it interesting that many scientists say the more they study the cosmos, the more they believe some higher power created it. A few quotes:

Ed Harrison (cosmologist): "Here is the cosmological proof of the existence of God – the design argument of Paley – updated and refurbished. The fine tuning of the universe provides prima facie evidence of deistic design. Take your choice: blind chance that requires multitudes of universes or design that requires only one.... Many scientists, when they admit their views, incline toward the teleological or design argument." 


Frank Tipler (Professor of Mathematical Physics): "When I began my career as a cosmologist some twenty years ago, I was a convinced atheist. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that one day I would be writing a book purporting to show that the central claims of Judeo-Christian theology are in fact true, that these claims are straightforward deductions of the laws of physics as we now understand them. I have been forced into these conclusions by the inexorable logic of my own special branch of physics."


John O'Keefe (astronomer at NASA): "We are, by astronomical standards, a pampered, cosseted, cherished group of creatures.. .. If the Universe had not been made with the most exacting precision we could never have come into existence. It is my view that these circumstances indicate the universe was created for man to live in."


I perhaps am captivated by the night sky because, like so few things in this world, it rigorously challenges the boundaries of my imagination. And though on any given night you can be either strangely comforted by the universe or feel insignificant and alone in its ever-expansive bounds, its ability to inspire deep thought is always just a backward thrust of the head away.