Tuesday, August 31, 2010


Because of the nature of recent events, this post may strike a more serious, meditative tone than usual (because that's really challenging to do). But yes, this post is my meditation on tragedy.

The recent tragedy that occurred was that my bike was stolen. I don't really expect the company that printed "Save Darfur" shirts to start printing "Please give a nice, well-meaning college student his expensive bike back," but that's the reaction I'd like to see. Then I'd like to get it back. More realistically, whoever stole my bike will sell it for a few hundred dollars to some customer who may or may not know that it's stolen, but who definitely doesn't care. So, that's sad.

But is this bike theft a tragedy? And if so, why? I've provided a few examples of situations that could be called tragic; I'm curious to know which of these really is tragic, and if there's something that sets them apart from those that aren't. I've done some evaluations on them myself, see if you agree with my logic...

Rules: Determine if the situation is actually 'tragic.' Read my interpretations afterwards.
1) That was horrible! He died in a tragic hang gliding/sky diving accident!
2) Boy, that hole-puncher tragedy was the worst thing that happened in the office last year. I can't believe she lost a leg from that.
3) That game of railroad chicken ended tragically for everyone on roller-blades.
4)  Tragically, he choked on a peanut m&m. Saving him with the Heimlich maneuver was the work of a moment, but the peanut m&m was wasted.
5) Man, what a tragedy that was when I found out that girl I met at the party was my cousin!

1) Not tragic. He knew what he was getting into when he started pretending he was a bird. If anything, this was a very informative learning experience, but of limited usefulness, because once the lesson absorbed (approximately when the ground absorbed him), his ability to apply what he learned drastically decreased.
2) Tragic. And puzzling. Really, who would have thought this could have happened? And now she has one less leg, and the hole puncher is all stained.
3) Not tragic. If anything, morbidly amusing for the wonderful mental image it can create.
4) ABSOLUTE TRAGEDY. Any time a peanut m&m is wasted, it is a tragedy. This seems self-explanatory.
5) Tragic. Presumably, there is one less beautiful girl out of the dating pool. In case she remains in the dating pool, the product of that love would probably be a tragedy, a lot like in Jude the Obscure. Ew.

What I'm driving at is that tragedy, like a good ambush,  contains an element of the unexpected; it can't just be something upsetting that happened. On the opposite side, comedy should contain an element of the expected. Take this cookie monster clip for example. How will it end? Without even clicking, you know the answer. He will eat cookies destructively. And you will, at the very least, chuckle, if you have a heart.

The funny thing about my bike theft is that in a way, I did expect it. As I was locking it up, I noticed that the rack wasn't attached to the ground, and thought that thieves could conceivably take the whole rack. In this light, my bike being stolen  was pure comedic genius. But on a slightly more profound level, I think it really was a tragedy. Yes, I had conceived that it could have been stolen, but I did NOT expect it. I naively didn't think anyone would do such a thing, and wasn't concerned about it. The tragedy here is partly that my bike was stolen unexpectedly, but mostly that I've unexpectedly lost a good bit of faith and trust for man.

Sorry to get all profound on you, it won't happen often.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Deep Thoughts on Songs

I mentioned that I had been stuck in something mind-numbing and soul crushingly boring for the past week. It ended, thank God, and I got the same feeling I get when a traffic jam disappears into nothing. It's as if for a week, I was stuck in limbo with nothing to do but gnaw extraneous body parts off, and all of a sudden, everything cleared up without an explanation. So, I'm done with that, but I excitement is still pretty low, so this post is again centered on my road trip.

I love listening to music, and I do it pretty often. But most of the time, I have my own music collection with me, so I don't tune into the radio too often. The plan on the road trip was to have our music with us, too. However, what with Canadia not letting us across the border, we were unable to steal their electricity to recharge our mp3 players, so we had to turn to the radio. This has its benefits, of course. First off, it relieves the pressure to always have a good song on. That pressure is on someone else. More importantly, it's a conversation starter. All sorts of songs come on that you may have never heard, and let the judging, misunderstanding and interpreting begin.

Anyway, there were a few gems that we heard, and I thought you might want to be let in on the secrets of our conversation after 20 hours in a car over two or three days.

1) Love Story, by Taylor Swift. Sure, you've all heard it before, but it's fun to pick on. It's just so easy to do! I mean, I can understand that Taylor hasn't read Romeo and Juliet, but what about the songwriters? They're the ones who are blamed here. "I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress." Did I miss this part in Bill Shakespeare's version? From my foggy memory, this is distinctly different from what actually ends up happening. Heck, calling it a love story is fine, but get some of the details right. But my favorite part of the illiteracy is the little well written lyric (I think this is how it goes), " 'Cuz you were Romeo, I was a scarlet letter." Quick! Time for a list inside of a list interpreting this.
a) "Because you were Romeo, I wore a scarlet letter." The fact that he was Romeo caused her to commit adultery (with him, presumably). Heck, he's not going to marry you. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, dummy?
b) "Cause you were Romeo ; I was a Scarlet letter." She is explaining why it can never work. He is Romeo, a perfect lover. She was a scarlet letter, a Hester Prynee, I imagine. She would never bring disgrace to him by letting their romance come to fruition.
c) This is a sentence fragment, and thus, it is impossible to determine what is meant by it.

2) Pray for You, by Jaron and the Long Road to Love. Silly me, I thought this was a gospel song when I first tuned into it. I'll be honest, I was frustrated that my hands weren't free to switch the channel when I heard the first bit of this song. But could you blame me? With softly sung lyrics like "I listened to the preacher, as he told me what to do/ He said you can't go hatin' others who have done wrong to you / Sometimes we get angry, but we must not condemn, / Let the good Lord do his job, you just pray for them," what else could it be but gospel? But then comes the guitar and drum beat, and you know something good is coming. Ah, a good old country song, bashing the woman who done you wrong. "I pray your tires blow out at a hundred and ten." A proper, religious sentiment.

3) Rain is a Good Thing, by Luke Bryan. I love a song that uses sound logic. Luke Bryan's thinking is that since "Rain makes corn, corn makes whiskey, [and] whiskey makes my baby feel a little frisky,"  rain must be a good thing. Can't argue with that. Plus, he rhymed whiskey and frisky and made it work. Props to him. Also, according to Emily, the album this is on also comes with other treats, like the self explanatory "Drinking Beer and Wasting Bullets."

4) I Saw the Sign, by Ace of Base. This song isn't actually that funny. But it's better if you misunderstand it a tiny bit. See, I have no idea where this group is from, but when they sing, it sounds a lot like they're singing, "I saw the sun! And it opened up my eyes!" "Hey, good for you! You saw the sun? What color was it? You wrote a song about it, too? Shit, I just saw the sun and squinted a lot. But it felt good and warm! When do you think we'll get to see it again? Tomorrow? Sweet, I'll keep my eyes open this time. Maybe I can get a poem out of it."

5) Push, by Matchbox 20. I'll be honest, I get a bit of a warm, mushy feeling from a good love song. This one really struck a chord with me, and probably with anyone who has a romantic bone in their body. And what girl won't swoon when you steal this lyric and drop it casually in conversation, maybe right before dropping a ring on the ground before her and expecting her to pick it up. "I wanna push you around, yeah I will / I wanna push you down, well I will, I will. I wanna take you for granted, I will." Is he describing a dysfunctional, abusive relationship, or is there something else going on here? Maybe all the pushing is sexual, in which case I guess that part is Ok. Really, it's the "taking you for granted" bit that gets the cackles of my heart. Mr. Matchbox 20 was kind enough to send me the rough draft of that song, which had this as the chorus (he explained that he had to edit some of it out for time's sake, otherwise it wouldn't be popular on the radio): "I want to be sorta crazy about you for like, 2 months. Then I want to start taking you for granted, yeah, I think that will last a good year and a half. Then maybe I can cheat around while we're still dating, and always know I'll have some nookie to look forwards to if I don't get lucky in a bar. Then, once I find something better, I'll move on, yeah I will."

All of this makes me want to listen to more radio. As always, read, laugh, and share. It makes me happy.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I Mess Up While Dreaming

I've been busy these past few days with remarkably mind-numbing, soul-crushingly boring stuff. One of the real downsides of this is that I haven't been able to do anything fun during the day, which means that I can only have fun at night. So yeah, the most excitement I've had recently has been in bed. I wish this had any of the implications you might be thinking of. What it actually means is that what little excitement I've been having recently has all been in my dreams. This will also have an adverse affect on my posting. Sorry.

A while ago, I got really interested in dreams (mine, in particular). I went so far as to think about keeping a dream journal. I never started one, but I often bored my breakfast friends by trying to tell them what had happened in my dreams. This, of course, never worked well, first off because my breakfast friends were all imaginary. Furthermore, my dreams, like most people's, rarely made sense, so there I was explaining that 'I didn't know how I ended up in a room that looked sort of like this place we had been to, but different' to myself. Yeah.... 

Anyway, one of the things that really interested me was lucid dreaming. The idea is that, mid-dream, you can recognize that you are actually in a dream, and then take control of your dream. The trick to do this is apparently to pay attention to minute details at all times. Then, in the middle of a dream, if you notice some detail that doesn't make sense, you can say, "Aha! I'm dreaming!" and instantly start flying, or in my case, make more friends. This is dangerous, because if you find yourself often saying "that doesn't make sense" in the middle of the day, like I do, you might think you're always in a dream. I'm not sure what affect this would have on your life, other than to make you a bit more philosophical.

So no shit, there I was, asleep in my bed, dreaming. I dreamed I was camping on a trail. I wandered down the trail to look around, and I saw a pond that had the most amazing fish in it, bright blue with white stripes, yellow dots like eyes on its tail, 6 feet tall, swimming around gazing at me. The woods were amazingly beautiful, there was some furry creature wandering around, all sorts of things that I would want to take a picture of. So I dreamed to myself, "I should get my camera so I can take a picture of this!" That was exactly when the lucid dreaming started: "Wait. There's no fish that looks like that, and what's more, I think he's floating above the water. This doesn't make sense. This is totally a dream." Now, this is when I should have fulfilled my wildest dreams. I had recognized I was dreaming. For a few minutes, I could have had anything I wanted. Wealth. Fame. Popularity. A pet dog. Any useful skill at all. Instead, I thought to myself, "Huh. But I'll bet if I could get my camera, I could take pictures of these, and then they'd be on my camera when I wake up! That'd be sweet." Then I got distracted on my way back to the tent and never even took pictures.

Good job, dream Brendan. You're an idiot.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

You Mean This Isn't Mario Kart?

Over the course of the past two weeks, I've done a lot of driving. I'm not complaining; I like driving as much as the next person (as long as the next person is Steve McQueen), and I'm not a bad driver*. But one thing I noticed is that whenever I told someone I was getting in the car to go someplace, they would say, "Drive safely!"
*compared to many popular singers, like Billy Joel or Ray Charles.

At first, this seems like a well meaning wish, one that could be grouped with a few other pieces of advice.
1) Drive safely!
2) Don't be a stranger!
3) Pack a towel! They're useful!
4) Evacuate the premises, because they are on fire!
5) Don't ever look at my sister like that again!

The more I thought about it, however, the stranger it seemed to me. What is it supposed to change? And what do these people who say 'drive safely' think I would do if they didn't give me that crucial piece of advice? They probably gloat to themselves happily, imagining me driving down a highway with these things passing through my mind...

1) The drive is 200 miles on roads, but 50 how the crow flies. This isn't even a question! On the other hand, I could drive safely, like Joey suggested. And that lake is probably pretty deep... Ah, I'll take the roads.

2) I am totally going to jump this drawbridge, just like in the Blues Brothers. Oh shoot, this isn't the Blues-mobile, and Billy said I should drive safe. Maybe I'll wait for the bridge to come down.

3) I'll bet with a broomstick on the accelerator and my knees on the wheel, I could drive while sticking my head out of the sunroof... Then again, Maggie said I should drive safely... I'll find an abandoned parking lot to try this out in.

4) Gosh, I'm getting sleepy. I think to keep myself awake, I'll drive against the direction of traffic! I can do this, I played Mario Kart when I was little... Wait, I remember when Larry told me to drive safely. I think I'll just pull over and nap.

5) I think I'll go for a drive with that guy's sister I was looking at funny earlier. Actually, he also told me to drive safely, and getting his sister in this car would be distracting... I'll stay home again tonight.

Probably what I would be doing if no one told me to drive safely.
Still, I understand that people would like me to be safe. And I'm fine with that, if someone personally says, "Brendan, drive safely." But impersonal warnings are just too much for me. The worst case of this I experienced came from the radio. It turns out that some new radios can tell what song is playing on fm radio (!), and if you push an 'Info' button, it will display the song's name and the artist.

So no shit, there I was, driving 90mph down I-87 with two handles of whiskey taped to my hands (half empty already, of course), talking on a cell phone and blindfolded when a good song came on the radio. "Cool," I thought to myself. "This song's got a nasty beat. I wonder who it is." So I pushed the info button. What scrolled across the screen but digital green letters spelling "Are you driving safely? DRIVE SAFELY."

"SHIT!" I exclaimed, ripping the blindfold off of my eyes and tearing the whiskey bottles off of my hands, spilling them out the car, and tossing the cell phone into the  back seat beyond my reach. "I've got to drive safely because the radio told me to!"

That's actually not what happened. I laughed that the radio would be so presumptuous as to accuse me of driving dangerously, and tapped on the accelerator a bit to spite it. Whoever programmed that was one smarmy, sarcastic ass who thought to himself, "whoever wants to know what song is playing while driving should be scolded!" Jerk.

That's it for now. Drive however the heck you want.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Canadian* Adventures

In my last post, I mentioned that I was going to Nova Scotia (which translates to "New Scotia." I think a scotia is a type of rash, but I could be wrong). I should clarify what I meant: I meant that I was trying to go to Nova Scotia. In my case, the difference between those two statements is similar to the difference between my saying "I have a lot of friends" and "when I have good dreams, I have a lot of friends" -- a substantial one.

I won't bore you with any foreshadowing because there was none. Emily (my roadtripping partner) and I were driving happily for two days. Everything was fine up to the border. The drive went well, Maine was pretty, and spirits were high. We waited for a few minutes at the border before pulling up to the gate. This was how I thought the conversation between me and the border guard would go:

Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi. We'd like to enter your beautiful country, which is disrespected without reason by most Americans. Can we come in?
Guard: Hmmm... That depends, eh? Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: No! We're planning on importing goodwill and friendship into your country, and exporting a great reputation for Canada through my huge blog readership!
Guard: Awesome, eh? Go on in, and here, have a shot of maple syrup that I keep handy in my flask!

That wasn't what actually happened. This is more along the lines of what actually happened.

Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi...
Guard: Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: Er, no.
Guard: Have either of you two ever been before a judge, eh?
Me: (thinking to myself) Aw, he's noticed how bashful I get before authority figures, and is trying to comfort me!
Me: Gosh, she hasn't, but I actually have! Funny story.
Guard: I don't really want to hear it. Go into the office now. If you just drop your pants now and bend over, it might save time later, eh?

This was when a pretty Canadian border guard grilled me (this is not as fun as it sounds, and no maple syrup marinade was involved, if that's what you were wondering), and then told me that I had reckless endangerment on my record (NB: If you googled me to find out if I have a record or anything, I really don't. This is an error, I swear). At this point, I was hoping against hope that she would say something like,"A wild one! You'll fit right into our untamed country. And what's more, you didn't even hurt anyone! That's like cautious endangerment. I have so much respect for you. Here's my number, call me when you guys are partying, I think it would be fun to join you, eh?"

That didn't happen, though. After she ignored me for two hours (I'm used to this - girls normally ignore me when I'm asking them out, so this didn't seem unusual), she smiled nicely, and told me that I had to sign a paper saying I didn't want to come into Canadia, anyway, and I wouldn't try to come back for ten years. The best way to think of this is that Canadia pre-emptively issued a restraining order against me. This is something that I actually have never had happen to me with a girl despite some of my best attempts, so I didn't know how to react. I wanted to find an adult, preferably a policeman, and ask for advice in between sobs. Emily's wiser counsel prevailed, fortunately, so we just went to a bookstore, got a guidebook for Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, went to the public library to e-mail the people we were supposed to visit, and then started driving around.

So I never went to Canada on my road trip. Instead, we stayed in the northeast and had an awesome time. We also saw a moose, which was roughly the size of the largest town we saw in Maine.

Maine: Very large. Very, very large.
New Hampshire: Not as large as Maine, not as happy as Vermont. We barely spent any time there.
Vermont: People are strangely happy in Vermont. I suspect the water is drugged with happy pills by the corporation that runs Ben and Jerry's. It's also beautiful.

Anyway, I'm still a bit disorganized, and I need to find a giant to step on my back to straighten it out after sitting in the traffic we hit in New Jersey. Stay tuned, I'll put some photos of the trip up eventually, and discuss a few more things that I noticed while staring blankly out the passenger seat window for hours (this is more dangerous than it sounds. I was driving).

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Pre-Trip Excitement II

I finished that pesky paper I had mentioned yesterday, so stress levels are down, and once again, anyone who meets me is likely to walk away thinking, "Gosh, I just met a man of leisure!" Right after that, they're going to save my number as "Do Not Answer this Number... Creep." Maybe with all the leisure time I have now, I should change my name to that.

For those of you interested in stalking me*, I'm going to Nova Scotia tomorrow morning. Now, Nova Scotia, for better or worse, is in Canadia, where the internet has yet to be discovered. Don't worry for Canadia's sake - they have their top scientist** working on it. Unfortunately, progress is slower than molasses. What this means is that I will probably not be posting for the next ten days. What this also means is that you won't have any reason to click refresh compulsively on my page, hoping that I've added a new post*.

"O kind and humorous man of leisure," you're probably asking your screen right now*, "what should I do in the meantime without your blog to amuse me and prod me into deep thought?" Proselytize. Tell people exactly what you think of me***, and then tell them to read my blog. I'd appreciate that so much that if you told me you showed someone my blog and they laughed, I would probably buy you a cookie.

A good way to spread the word about me could be to get a tattoo saying something about how much you love my blog. Nothing says unnatural devotion like injecting ink directly into your skin (if this seems extreme, just use a fat sharpee). On that note, while running today, I saw an interesting tattoo. I didn't have my camera with me, so I'll have to use my descriptive powers. Imagine, if you will, an average guy jogging in front of you with his shirt off. Brown hair, normal farmer's tan, green shorts. You keep imagining, I'm going to keep remembering. Imagine a weird spot on his lower back, right above the shorts... Look closer, through your mind's eye. It's a circle... Wait, no, it's a male sign. A male sign! A male-sign tramp-stamp! What is he trying to broadcast to the world? More importantly, is the conversation I'm imagining in my head one that's ever happened?

Him: I noticed you've got a tattoo of some squiggly lines on your lower back. Does it mean anything?
Her: It means I haven't found my soul-mate.
Him: *turns around, lifts shirt a tiny bit* Check it, babe. Hoo-ah!
Her: Ignore what I said last. It's all changed now. Let's go home.

Actually, that's probably what he thought would happen, but I can't really ever see that going down. Can anyone else envision a more realistic conversation between those two? If you can, I'd love to hear it.

I hope you all have a great time over the next ten days. Really. Please don't miss me too much*, and expect a report when I get back!

*Yeah, right. It's ok, I know I'm deluding myself.
**The person who discovered Maple Syrup. He's still alive.
***Actually, maybe you should skip this part.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Essay Writing Rules

I suppose I should apologize for my prolonged absence from the blogosphere (or, le blogesphere, as it is known in le francais). Despite all of my attempts to appear a man of leisure, work has caught up to me. I have thus found myself thinking about working on the paper that I'm supposed to produce. Sadly, I do not mean "produce" in the way a magician produces a rabbit from a hat - I meant more in the way that a construction worker "produces" a 20 foot hole in the ground (and a traffic jam, in case he's in New York City). One of the reasons this has taken so long is because I have very high quality standards for any paper I write. Perhaps you are acquainted with Strunk and White's Elements of Style, which offers a few key pointers to anyone holding the pen and paper. I've always found that while Elements of Style does very well pointing out the finer details, it isn't very useful when looking for inspiration; you need to actually have an idea of what you're going to write. For some of us, this is an issue*. I can't help with this, but I do have some advice to make your paper more engaging. In case you ever find yourself needing to produce a paper, here are a couple of tips to keep in mind.

1. Papers are much like stories. They should have a beginning, middle and end. And much like every good story, all good papers begin with "No shit, there we were..."

2. Proper formatting can add excitement to any paper. Stamp "TOP SECRET" across every page, preferably in blood (red ink will do in a pinch). On the cover page, explain that readers who do not have access to the paper will be eliminated. This will keep your reader on his toes.

3. Your paper will be impossible for any reader to put down if you can figure out how to print on fly paper. Good luck.

4. If the reader knows what comes next, why would he continue to read? Swap pages around, and make sure page numbers are misleading. A good paper has elements of a good puzzle.

5. Pictures are excellent means to keep your reader's attention fixed right where you want it - on your paper. Playboy magazine has known and used this trick for years.

6. Maps in the days of yore left blank pages at the end so that when you traveled off of the map, you could add in what you discovered. Always leave a few extra pages at the end of your paper, too. This will add bulk, and if a critic says that your paper is missing something, inform him that he should feel free to insert his additions in those pages.

7. Never insult your reader's intelligence by adding citations. Assume that your reader is well read, and knows exactly what you are referring to or whom you have quoted. Alternatively, make sure your reader is paying attention by creating and citing sources that don't exist. Not only does this test your readers, but it helps support claims you may be trying to make.

8. Your scholarly pursuits will be taken much more seriously if you have hostages. Threatening papers written in fonts cut out of magazines are always closely read. Furthermore, if done properly, these open the door for follow up papers. Care should be taken in selecting a hostage of value and making sure not to get caught by your audience, editors or police in the process.

9. Always be accommodating; if your paper will have multiple audiences who differ in opinions, include multiple conclusion sections. This will leave everyone happy. Refer to the "Create your Own Adventure" series for formatting ideas.

10. Poofread!

Anyway, I've really enjoyed working on this, but this has come at the expense of the paper I'm supposed to be writing. Hope these tips come in handy next time you find yourself in the same spot (metaphorically, to be clear) that I'm in!

*See Finding Forester, in which a brilliant author can't write until Sean Connery lets him copy his stuff. Fun fact: Spies and authors are normally trained in the same manner - being shown how Sean Connery does things, and then told to imitate that.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Anyone for (sport of your choice)?

I'm a regular runner. Not as regular as Grandpa on metamucil, but I normally get out for a run five times a week (and you better hope Grandpa is more regular than that). I don't really compete any more (if you can even call what I did in high school 'competing'), but I run often enough and have enough of a competitive mentality about it to think of running as a sport. Makes sense, because running is a sport, and you won't find many people who disagree with that, although you may find some who view it just as exercising (someplace in the same realm as dancersize).
Athletes of a similar caliber
You won't, however, find anyone who would say that running is a game. Things like golf, or shuffleboard, those are games (Grandpa is regular on the shuffleboard court - take that how you will!). But not running.  Now, to me, these are clear distinctions. Rarely do you get activities that really cross boundaries. I ride a high horse, though. I've always thought of running as the most pure of sports, and I'll admit that I look at most sports and think "Sure, it's cool, but it's not running."

This brings me to the point of this post. Yesterday , while trotting down riverside park, I was confronted by one of the all too real dangers of living in New York City (without a trusty stunt double to face the dangers! I've been sorting through applications for this thankless position and have been unable to settle on a candidate). Now, I'd like to show you what you would have seen if you had been with me on that run, but I can't. You'll have to settle for what a camera operated by someone who doesn't know what he's doing with it (i.e. me) recorded.
Adults (?) participating in the sport (?) of kickball!
So I've determined that I've probably fallen victim to one, perhaps two, of these dangers of New York City.
1) An inability to distinguish what is and is not a sport.
2) An inability to distinguish what is and is not a grown up.

Both of these are caused by living in New York. Let's be honest, there's a space crunch. I remember one time a friend and I made a "sport" in high school that involved trying to get a bouncy ball to bounce on every step of a stoop. But is that an excuse for thinking kickball is a sport? If anything, these people should be kicked off so that area can be used for a real sport, like shuffleboard. Shoot, I've been in this city for too long.

The other option is that I simply didn't know that these people were in second grade. This is also an issue exacerbated by living in New York. Maybe young people are just looking older and older. This isn't a surprise to anyone who loves Miley Cyrus. Honestly, I think this problem is more severe in New York City because so many of those young'uns are so darn fashionable (I say this in the same way that a midget says other people are tall). I'm not judging, but darn it, how do you tell the 22 year old sluts from the 16 year old ones?

Let's just hope that these two dangers never get combined into a sport/game/exercise in which you need to guess if dating someone would end up with you in prison - I'd be horrible at that.