The Trials and Tribulations of a Terrible Travel Blog

When it comes to travel, 2011 started slowly enough for me, but as of mid-September, my schedule called for five trips in a span of of seven weeks. Yeah, I know, five trips hardly qualifies me as a road-warrior. In fact, now that it's all behind me, I still have yet to achieve anything higher than aluminum or tin status with any of the major airlines or hotels. My travel itinerary looked something like this:


1) September 26-29: Napa, California, for a work conference
2) October 5-6: Vineland, New Jersey, (with a flight into Philadelphia) to visit a manufacturing plant for work
3) October 19-21: Irapuato, Mexico, to visit another manufacturing plant for work
4) October 26-28: Chicago, Illinois, for another work conference and a tour of yet another manufacturing plant
5) November 11-13: Tucson, Arizona, to play in a USTA tennis tournament


With all the hours I would be spending in airports, in hotels, and on airplanes, a brilliant idea started to take shape in my mind: I would create a travel blog! Unlike Passionately Apathetic's "A little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing" approach, the new travel blog would have a specific purpose. I would write about the adventures of my travels all over North America, featuring all of the standard travel blog material: hotel and food reviews, pictures of local attractions, and so on. But as my travels unfolded, I noticed two potential hiccups in my plan: aside from the fact that I'm both boring and lazy, nothing particularly noteworthy was happening on these trips.


The travel schedule kicked off with my first trip to Napa, California. The scenery was great and the weather was spectacular, but work meetings chewed up a sizable chunk of my week. As the days passed, I realized that I had almost nothing to write about Napa, California that anyone would want to read. People scouring travel blogs about Napa are undoubtedly seeking recommendations on wine tasting, local shopping, and vineyard tours. All I had to offer was the ramblings of a guy who doesn't drink, hates shopping, and is about as interested in going on a vineyard tour as he is in spending time with children. Even my attempt to see the Golden Gate Bridge when I flew into San Francisco was a spectacular disappointment. Oh well, I had four more trips on the schedule, and they would surely offer something worth writing.

On an otherwise clear day in San Francisco, views from the Golden Gate Bridge were disappointing...

Next, I flew into Philadelphia in early October for my second trip, a visit to a soup plant in Vineland, New Jersey. But things were looking even more grim than they were in Napa. It was only an overnight trip, which left me with no free time to do anything interesting. The highlight of the trip was dinner with two co-workers in Philadelphia on the night that I arrived. As we ate at a table outside the restaurant, a homeless guy walked by, offered to shine our shoes, then started singing. When that failed to generate a reaction, he attempted one final sales pitch to a female co-worker who was wearing sandals: "Come on, let a black man touch your feet!"

My blogging standards are low, but I do have standards. And what else was there to write about? New Jersey was a wasteland of excitement and creativity. Could I do five-hundred words on the various odors wafting from the armpit of America? Probably...but, again, standards...

Mexico held plenty of promise. I fully expected that I would get robbed or mugged at some point during the trip. I wasn't looking forward to it, but it would certainly make for an exciting story. My greatest fear was that my passport would end up lost or stolen, leaving me trapped in Mexico, wandering aimlessly around the country, mumbling Spanglish and trying to rent a burro to ride safely back across the border. As a result, I kept a close watch on the one bag I brought with me. In fact, I never let that bag out of my sight....so when I left my hotel room, the only sign that the room was occupied was the pair of flip-flips that I assumed wouldn't be worth stealing even if someone broke into the room. Oops.

When I returned to my hotel room the first night, the flip-flops were gone. An exciting break-in?! Sadly, no. The room was so clean and empty when I left that morning, the hotel maid apparently thought that the occupant had checked out and forgotten the flip-flops. Though frustrating, this mistake sparked an interesting thought: if all of the hotel maids in America are Mexican, are the hotel maids working in Mexican hotels from America?

To make the accidental theft even less scandalous, the hotel Fed-Ex'ed the flip-flops back to me after I submitted a strongly-worded complaint on the Holiday Inn corporate website. The most entertaining part of the whole incident was seeing the excruciating amount of paperwork that the hotel manager had to fill out to comply with U.S. shoe import regulations.

The only other noteworthy event on the great Mexico adventure occured in the León International Airport, when a co-worker noticed that my favorite pair of jeans (the only pants I brought with me on the trip), had numerous holes in the crotch area. Although that particular subject falls directly in the bulls-eye of prime blogging topics for Passionately Apathetic, it hardly offers top-notch travel blog material...plus I had already written extensively on the topic. Clearly, the travel blog was shaping up to be an epic failure.

My final work trip of the year, Chicago, was fun enough, but consisted mostly of work meetings. My one last hope for a true travel blog entry--a local food review--managed to escape me when all three days passed without eating a single bite of authentic Chicago deep dish pizza. Before our flight home, two co-workers and I made a last-ditch effort to nab some deep dish at O'Hare, but we were painfully disappointed by Uno's not-so-deep dish miniature pizzas.


The four work trips came and went, and I didn't have a single story worthy of a travel blog. My potential material consisted of a homeless guy with a foot fetish, a pair of temporarily lost flip-flops, some jeans that looked like Swiss cheese between the legs, and an airport's sorry excuse for deep dish pizza. Worse yet, I couldn't even default to complaining about the airlines or hotels. Unfortunately, I'd had an incredibly lucky five weeks of travel: not a single one of my flights had arrived late, there were no missed connections, no lost bags, no over-talkative airplane neighbors, and no signs of bedbugs at any of the hotels (not even in Mexico!).


As I boarded the plane for my final trip to Tucson, I had officially abandoned the travel blog idea and only hoped that my lucky travel streak would remain intact for one more trip. And things were looking up from the start. I was assigned to seat 6B...sure, it was a middle seat, but it was near the front of the plane and would set me up for a quick exit after we landed.


The pilot announced that the flight was full, yet 6A, the window seat to my left, was still empty and there didn't seem to be anyone else walking onto the plane. That is, until one last person lumbered into the aisle...and this wasn't just anyone. The sheer circumference of this man was utterly astounding...if I didn't know better, I'd think that he was in his fourth trimester of pregnancy. I was convinced that his pants could cover the entire state of Rhode Island like a giant circus tent. And there was no doubt in my mind exactly where this man was headed: 6A.

As I watched this guy wedge himself into his seat (and a sizable portion of my seat), it struck me that he could really use some kind of oversize shoehorn to help him cram his 350+ lb frame into such a comparatively tiny space. But I didn't have time to draft any formal blueprints for such a contraption--I now faced the unenviable task of cramming myself into 6B. The other passengers on the plane must have felt like they were watching a group of clowns pile into one of those tiny little cars...


"Ma'am? Ma'am!!" Seconds after sitting down, my newest friend was already flagging down the flight attendant. What could he possibly want right after boarding?! A snack? Apparently not quite yet. "I'm going to need a seat belt extender!" It just kept getting better.

A minute later, the guy had a length of seatbelt sufficient to keep him FAA-compliant for the flight and long enough to turn any normal person into a seatbelt mummy if the need arose. As he struggled to strap himself in, the jokes began. "I swear, these seatbelts get smaller every time I fly...it couldn't be me!"

There are three types of airline passengers whom I utterly despise: children, the overly talkative, and the overweight. This guy already had one of those categories more then covered; I wasn't about to do anything that might encourage further conversation. I stared straight ahead and pretended that I hadn't heard a word. Normally, I might have appreciated his attempt at humor, but I knew what was ahead of me over the next three hours.

I considered lowering the arm rest in attempt to protect at least a portion of the left side of my seat, but that plan had serious safety implications. If, by some miracle, I was able to force the arm rest down, I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before it snapped off and shot through the side of the airplane like a missile, likely killing someone and bringing down the plane in the process. When it came to flying projectiles, I had a similar concern for my eyes--the buttons on my neighbor's shirt appeared to be under serious duress, threatening to go airborne at very high speeds in very short order. With my frightening lack of protective eyewear, all I could do was look away and hope for the best...

As the flight got underway, I realized that things were only going to become more and more uncomfortable as the minutes passed. Every time I shifted in my seat, my amply-proportioned neighbor's fleshy drumstick encroached further and further into my personal space. The enemy line continued advancing into the left side of 6B with every move I made. Forty-five minutes into the flight, I looked like the leaning tower of Pisa, tilting sharply toward 6C and having fully retreated from the left half of 6B.

I felt like the weight of the world was resting on my shoulders...and for all pratical purposes, it was.  On my left shoulder, in particular. By this time, the fat man's right arm and shoulder were entirely overlapping my left side. I only prayed that the air vents continued spewing cold air, otherwise I was going to arrive in Tucson drenched in his sweat. By this time, had the pilot's voice come on the intercom and announced that the plane was going down, my feelings would have been mixed.

By mid-flight, I decided that I would move over no more. It was clear that neither one of us was going to be comfortable on this flight, but I decided I might as well shift as much of my discomfort to him as I possibly could. After all, it wasn't my fault that this guy spent most of his life downing Ho-Hos and avoiding exercise. As he slept, I sat up straighter and straighter and slowly leaned more aggressively into his meaty side until I was seated upright. I couldn't feel my left leg anymore, but I was determined to reclaim as much of 6B as humanly possible.

Not long after, the snack cart approached and, not surprisingly, my neighbor awoke from his deep slumber, somehow sensing that food was approaching. He then said something to me, and the words that left his mouth were absolutely shocking. The only conversation I was willing to entertain involved him offering to reimburse me for half my airfare, since he was using just as much of 6B as I was. But instead he asked, "Could you move over a little?" What?!  Was he serious?! I was absolutely livid, but I controlled myself and angrily mumbled, "I'll try..." I squirmed around in my seat a little but didn't actually give up any ground. Soon enough, my neighbor had his Diet Coke, to which I could only think, "far too little, far too late..."

He quickly fell back to sleep, and I made a fatal mistake with one hour of flight time remaining. If nothing else, this uncomfortable ordeal presented me with a great photo opportunity. Snapping a picture while this guy slept could almost make the whole thing worthwhile. I leaned forward and started fumbling around in my bag in search of my camera. But I quickly realized what I'd done. By leaning forward, I was no longer pinned under my pear-shaped nemesis, but I knew that my left side wouldn't touch the back of my seat for the remainder of the flight. The blob-like mass to my left had immediately expanded into the spot I had just vacated.

Disheartened, I gave up on the camera and leaned back. Sure enough, I experienced a whole new form of discomfort, now sitting with my torso twisted sharply to the right until the plane finally landed in Tucson. That meant, unfortunately, that I was unable to procure a first-hand picture of my rotund rival. For those curious to know what a 350 pound wildebeest looks like when stuffed in a window seat, I can at least paint a mental picture for you: imagine what it would look like if someone parked the Goodyear blimp in a one-stall garage...or if someone inflated a Thanksgiving day float inside a Smartcar.

Once again, stock photos from the internet will have to suffice...

After freeing myself from the death grip of 6B, my imagination ran wild as I stood at the baggage claim, the feeling slowly returning to my extremities. I quickly devised a brilliant strategy to help the struggling industry boost revenues: forget the checked bag fees; airplanes need limo-style dividers between seats. At the precise moment that my gastrointestinally-challenged neighbor asked me to move over, I would have paid just about anything for the option to press a button and watch a solid, sound-proof divider slide up between our seats, restricting every last ounce of his flabby figure to the seat that he paid for. That would teach him to buy only one ticket for a flight...and who knows, the divider might even provide him with a little extra motivation to hit the treadmill before his next trip.

And so five trips came and went, and my travel blog aspirations disappeared like a snack on the tray table of my neighbor. But I didn't return home completely empty-handed: thanks to a whale of a man and an unfortunate seat assignment, I had some prime writing material for Passionately Apathetic. And along the way, I realized that writing this blog has helped me generate all kinds of fantastic ideas for new inventions: oversize bodyhorns for the morbidly obese, peephole covers, gift-concealing Christmas curtains, airline seat dividers...the list goes on and on. It's like I'm Thomas Edison, without the motivation or the knowhow to actually build anything.

The Problematic Peephole

Back in college, on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, my intense studying was interrupted by a knock at the door. My first reaction was to ignore it, since anyone who knew me would call before stopping by. I knew it had to be some salesman who was too ignorant to understand the big, complicated words on the "No Solicitation" sign prominently hanging on the building entrance. The knocking persisted, so I eventually made my way to the door and peered through the peephole at my unwanted visitor, still determined that I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of delivering his sales pitch face-to-face.


When I looked through the peephole, the salesman had the nerve to angrily declare, "I can tell you're standing right on the other side of the door!" As I looked through my peephole, my head had apparently blocked out the light that shone through the peephole before I stood in front of it. But still, determined as ever, I stood quietly, ready to wait him out as long as it took. After a few more minutes of mumbling and swearing from his side of the door, and more motionless peephole leering from my side, the salesman gave up and moved along to the apartment across the hall. Victory was mine.

I was pleased with my success, and I even made an upgrade to my peephole after that unexpected encounter. For the remainder of my stay in that apartment, I kept a small scrap of paper scotch-taped over the peephole on the inside of the door. This prevented light from shining through, allowing me to get in prime peeking position without letting any potential visitors realize that I was looking right at them and standing only a few feet away. I felt like the Invisible Man...a genius Invisible Man, for that matter. Sadly, during the next eighteen months I lived in that apartment, not a single person ever came to the door. But I took great pride in my scrap of paper and scotch tape--perhaps an early sign of my burgeoning MacGyver skills.

But what does this odd story have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing...that is, until earlier this afternoon, nearly five years after my encounter with that salesman. This time, on a Saturday afternoon, I was wolfing down lunch and getting ready to head out the door to play tennis with a friend. As I ate, I was listening to some music on the computer...a little loud, perhaps, but it wasn't too unreasonable. Plus it was the middle of the afternoon, so I wasn't waking anyone up in the middle of the night.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a knock at the door. Unlike my old college apartment, the outside doors on this building actually lock, so anyone coming to visit would have to ring my phone and ask me to let them in. Five years living in this building have taught me that an unexpected knock at the door can only mean that someone walked in through an unlocked door and embarked on a door-to-door journey of annoyance. And that someone was almost certainly a salesman, an annoying political campaigner, or a Jehovah's Witness.

That last scenario scared me the most. Years ago, my uncle devised a foolproof method that will immediately turn away a telemarketer or even the most persistent door-to-door salesman--just tell them you're a Jehovah's Witness. The result is an immediate apology from the ignorant salesperson, who thinks he has somehow insulted your religious beliefs with his sales pitch. It's a flawless plan...except when your visitors are themselves Jehovah's Witnesses.


So, once again, I planned to ignore the knocking. I immediately shut off the music, but I knew that my visitor had already heard it--despite the weight of my front door, it's about as soundproof as a cheap curtain. I didn't have my ingenious paper and scotch tape contraption in place, so I wisely decided to forgo any peephole leering. I went into wait-it-out mode. Another knock. Could this be about the music? Was it too loud? A few minutes passed, and I decided my visitor had given up.

Wrong. Another knock, accompanied by, "can you turn your music down!?" By now, the music had been off for a few minutes. Why was this guy still at my door? I was getting annoyed...the music hadn't even been playing for five minutes, it was the middle of the day, and it just wasn't that loud to begin with. My curiosity got the best of me; I had to know who was out there.


I walked over to the peephole and peeped. I immediately recognized an old guy who I'd occasionally seen in the halls around the building over the years. Is this really how he was going to play it, like a mature adult, coming to my door to ask me to turn down my music? I wouldn't have it. This was worse than the salesman, and I was even more committed to my wait-it-out strategy. He already got what he wanted...my music was off, and I was fully prepared to spend all day standing there in silence.

But the problem was that I couldn't stand there all day. I needed to leave for my tennis match in the next five minutes if I was going to make it on time. Yet another knock--it was clear he wasn't going away. I could feel the pounding vibrate through my head as I continued to press my face against the door and look through the peephole. Worse yet, I heard him say to someone else in the hall who was apparently out of my line of sight, "he's looking at me through the peephole right now." Curses! I had fallen victim to the peephole shadow blunder once again. Why hadn't I installed my scrap paper and scotch tape contraption the day I moved in?!

A few thoughts raced through my mind...what if I jumped off my second-story balcony with my tennis racquets and drove off, leaving him standing at my front door? I relished the thought of returning to my apartment a few hours later, the old man still standing in front of my door, knuckles bloodied from the incessant knocking. I could picture the look on his face when I walked up and asked if I could help him, acting as if I'd been gone all day. Surely he would have to question his own sanity, wondering how he could have possibly spent his afternoon harassing an empty apartment.


Despite the potentially epic story-telling value of this plan, I scrapped my balcony escape idea. With my track record for injuries over the past few years, it wasn't worth risking my body--or my tennis racquets--to make a daring patio exit. I was going to have to confront the old man. But how could I do this gracefully? He knew I was standing right there and that I'd just spent the better part of the past ten minutes ignoring his knocking. Opening the door now would be painfully awkward and embarrassing, and I certainly wasn't going to grant him the adult, face-to-face confrontation that he seemed to have his heart set on.

Worse yet, opening the door would reveal my identity, and I had no doubt that the old man would recognize me from the hall. At least by cowering behind my door I could prevent him from associating me with this apartment, which would save me from countless future awkward hallway encounters. I started flipping through my mental Rolodex of lies and excuses...jackpot! I would tell him I just got out of the shower!

"Who is it?" I asked through the closed door, as if I'd just realized someone was was knocking.
"Johnny, your neighbor above you. Can you turn the music down?!"
At this point I desperately needed to leave for tennis, so I had to shut him up quickly. "Yes, sorry about that, I was in the shower." Just like that, Johnny walked off, and I was free.

As I drove to tennis, it hit me: I had just confronted my arch enemy through my own front door! You see, until today, I never knew who lived above me. But Johnny's third-floor patio is no more than ten feet from my second-floor bedroom window. And, as it turned out, this past summer I spent one of the most frustrating Saturday afternoons of my life trying to study for the GMAT while Johnny's young grandchildren sat with him on that very patio, screaming and yelling. How could I possibly find the product of the first, third, and fifth prime factors of 11,482 while Johnny's grandchildren were shrieking six feet from my desk?

Johnny's patio, as seen from my bedroom window.

On that dreadful afternoon, I calmly tolerated that racket for much, much longer than the four minutes that Johnny put up with my "loud" music earlier today. And when I finally lost my patience that day, I had the decency to not venture up to the third floor and knock on Johnny's door. I did the mature thing and found the most profanity-laced song on my computer, cranked the speakers full-blast, opened my patio door, and gave those grandchildren a top-notch profanity lesson from the school of hard rock. Not only did this feel great, but my plan also worked perfectly. Within minutes, the children were inside, restoring peace to my soul-crushing study session.

And Johnny had the nerve to come downstairs and knock on my door today?! If anything, I should be the one standing on his doorstep, blaming him and his annoying grandchildren for my only slightly-better-than-mediocre GMAT score. But before I got too swept up in road rage as I drove to tennis, a smile spread across my face when I realized that Johnny's journey to the second floor today had given me something special: my next blog post.

My thoughts quickly wandered to a new subject of blame: the peephole. I had now twice fallen victim to what I consider a major design flaw in the standard peephole. Call me old fashioned, but I'm a firm believer that the peephole should not reveal to a visitor whether or not the resident is currently home. The whole reason for the peephole is to let the homeowner decide if he wants to open the door...and that decision is a lot less complicated if the person on the other side doesn't know that he's standing right there. With my past peephole misfortunes, I feel like I might as well have a reverse peephole installed on my door.

I continued to dwell on this problem when I returned home. I even searched the internet for a solution, but my efforts were fruitless. I stumbled across an intriguing video-style "peephole" that would eliminate all of the peephole shadow issues that had plagued me over the past five years, but the gadget cost $80. And I'm convinced that there's no problem in the world large enough to warrant spending $80 on a solution.


Obviously, for a more cost-effective fix I could quickly install one of my famous scotch tape and scrap paper contraptions, but that would violate my self-imposed ban on interior decorations of any kind--I take great pride in hanging absolutely nothing on my walls or doors (quite possibly a topic for a future blog post). My internet search uncovered some clever ideas for decorating my peephole, but that wouldn't solve the shadow problem and would still violate my minimalist interior design strategy.


To date, after nearly a year and a half of blogging, I've generated $2.35 in ad revenue, and Google requires a $100 minimum to cash out. Clearly, this blog has been a tremendous letdown in terms of funding my early retirement. And so, if this is my final blog post of 2011, know that have I temporarily shifted my focus from blogging to inventing the next great peephole cover.

Perhaps the solution is as simple as a small metal plate that sits inside the door, avoiding unnecessary external decoration while covering the peephole until my eye is firmly in place, with my head casting a shadow over the peephole as I prepare to spy on my visitor. Then, with the flip of a switch, I raise the metal plate, and my guest is completely clueless as to whether I'm standing two feet away or half way around the world. Awkward situation averted...and, with some clever marketing, early retirement successfully funded. Time to call work and tell them I won't be in Monday.

The Fluctuating Friend Phenomenon and Other Fantastic Facebook Failures

Facebook made news recently after yet another round of modifications to users’ profile pages. Along with this latest round of changes came the predictable outcries over privacy concerns--Facebook can’t even discuss the possibility of changing its logo without a massive user backlash and a frenzy of privacy complaints.

For the record, however, I viewed these privacy concerns as unwarranted from day one. Anyone with a pulse and the slightest concern for their online image can restrict access to a list of specific friends. Personally, I always enjoy watching a double-dip of stupidity. Isn't it fantastic that the same people who are stupid enough to engage in embarrassing behavior in front of a camera are equally ignorant when it comes to Facebook privacy settings?

Admittedly, I made a late arrival to the whole Facebook scene. The “old-timers” of the new online era will recall that Facebook began as a college-only website. Strangely enough, I didn’t join Facebook until the spring of 2006, the exact same day that I completed my last final exam in college. Shortly thereafter, Facebook added a new feature that set off one of the biggest user complaint sessions in the brief history of Facebook: the newsfeed, the page that now displays when you first log in to your account, listing all of the latest status updates, photo uploads, and other friends' activities.

While countless anti-newsfeed groups popped up and gained popularity all over Facebook, I was one of only three people to join an Iowa State University-specific, pro-newsfeed group called P.E.N.I.S. (People Enjoying Newsfeeds at Iowa State). To this day, I still can’t figure out why the group never achieved widespread popularity across the internet. I’ve always found Facebook’s privacy options more than adequate and easy to use, but surely there were more than two people on a campus of 20,000+ who shared my opinions on the subject.

Yet despite my support and general level of contentment with Facebook’s privacy settings, I have an entirely different set of complaints about Facebook’s functionality. For a company that's valued in the billions of dollars, that has turned a huge Harvard nerd into one of the richest people in the country, and has revolutionized both social media and the traditional marketing business, the company has what I consider many obvious shortcomings.


First, there’s the design of the friend list. Despite all of the changes to the design and layout of Facebook’s profile pages, one thing that has remained nearly constant since the early days is the familiar “plus one” logo that appears along with the phrase “You and (whoever) are now friends” when you make a new friend connection on Facebook:


Ahh, the “plus one” update. Easy to understand? Yes. Familiar? Yes. Useful information? Not at all. As a Facebook user, a message telling me that I’m now friends with someone is about as useful as being updated on the current weather conditions in my area while I'm standing outdoors. After all, I either sent the friend request to begin with, or I just clicked the “Accept” button, which prompted the +1 to show up. I’d be more interested in receiving a piece of information that Facebook doesn’t currently offer—a “minus one” update.

This idea first came to me one day while I admired my friend count after a story on the ten o’clock news. The reporter claimed that there is an optimal number of Facebook friends, a “sweet spot” of social network friendliness, if you will. That magic number was 300 friends. Anything less than that meant that you are a lonely, pathetic loser, and anything above 300 meant that you’re a fake, desperate wannabe who will friend anything with a pulse.

Of course, since social status means the world to me, I immediately logged in to my Facebook account to check my friend count. My homepage confirmed what I had suspected all along: I was essentially perfect: 299 friends. Out of curiosity, I checked James’s friend counter: nearly 1,200. Ouch...I guess we know what that means… That little experiment was proof enough for me that this news reporter knew what he was talking about.

Over the next few weeks, every time I logged in to my account, I glanced admiringly at my friend counter. But I was caught off guard one day when my friend counter read 298—how did it go down?! This unexpected loss of friendship, even though I had no idea who I had lost as a friend, left me riddled with insecurity and self-doubt. But later in the week, the friend counter had climbed just over 300, and during this entire stretch of time, I hadn’t sent or accepted a single friend request.

A few days later, I was back down to 299. What was going on? Sure, I was still hovering near the bullseye of perfection, but I found it alarming that unbeknownst to me, I was occasionally losing (and sometimes regaining) friends, all without a single informative message from Facebook. Unable to deal with the tremendous self-loathing and general insecurity, I devised a plan to solve this mystery.

I clicked to view my full friend list, copied the entire list of names, and pasted it into an Excel spreadsheet, the best friend a finance person could ask for. (If it were socially acceptable, I would publish this blog in one giant spreadsheet). Every day, I checked my friend list, and if the total changed, I could use a favorite old Excel trick, the VLOOKUP formula, to quickly pinpoint who had appeared, or disappeared, from my friend list. The instant I came up with the plan, I knew I had a potentially blog-worthy story on my hands. If someone un-friended me, I would confront the perpetrator with a strongly worded, though still non-confrontational, Facebook message. The endless possibility for drama gave my little social experiment all the appeal of an Internet soap opera.

Over the next few weeks, I gleaned some interesting insights from my spreadsheet sleuthing. As I had originally suspected, the fluctuating friend phenomenon that I had been witnessing had two causes: people activating and deactivating their Facebook accounts, and people simply de-friending me. I noticed that my cousin had de- and re-activated her account a few times, which was odd, but not particularly interesting. But I came across two people—an old college friend and a co-worker—who still had active accounts, but our previous Facebook friendship had for some reason been severed. I wasn’t about to back down, so I moved into phase two of my plan: the confrontation.

I sent a friend request to each of those former Facebook friends, accompanied by a message asking why they had de-friended me. I hadn’t talked to either one in at least a year…we weren’t exactly the closest friends, obviously, but by the same token, the lack of communication meant that I hadn’t even had the opportunity to say or do anything offensive that would warrant the end of an otherwise healthy Facebook friendship. I anxiously awaited their responses, which, I felt certain, would provide me with pure blog-worthy gold.

The results of my experiment were spectacular…ly disappointing. One friend accepted my friend request within minutes and sent me a message, apologizing and explaining that her account had somehow gotten messed up and she lost her friend connections with a bunch of people. Hardly scandalous. And the former coworker simply ignored my friend request. To this day, I continue to sit in Facebook friend limbo with that coworker, unsure if it was an account error or if she simply decided to downsize her friend list, leaving my friendship on the cutting room floor.

So, as it turned out, my bold social experiment fizzled to a boring dead-end and turned out to be an impressive waste of time. But while carrying out my experiment, I logged in to Facebook much more frequently that I ever had in the past, and I realized that Facebook’s failure to inform people of lost friendship was only one weakness on one of the world’s most popular websites.

After logging in day after day, I realized that the newsfeed, the feature for which I had so publicly expressed my appreciation when I joined P.E.N.I.S. several years ago, was starting to get on my nerves. I enjoy the real time updates, but I was genuinely sick of reading everyone’s wall posts, which mainly consisted of people bragging about their personal accomplishments or fishing for compliments. Worse yet, one "friend" took it upon herself to share the trashy details as the sad saga of her failing marriage, unplanned pregnancy, and fleeing husband unfolded before the public's eyes. If I wanted this kind of news, I would call in sick and spend the afternoon watching low-brow courtroom reality TV.


It was at this time that I realized that Facebook could put an end to this annoying, pervasive issue with a simple twist on its revolutionary “Like” button. These days, every webpage has a “Like” button on it somewhere. It's become so commonplace that the “Like” button is revolutionizing the entire online advertising industry, allowing marketers to target ads at an audience with very specific interests. In fact, the “Like” button is one of the main reasons that Facebook is valued well into the billions of dollars.


But where’s the “Dislike” button?! Every time I log in, I can find at least 10 different wall posts that thoroughly deserve a “Dislike.” Yet my only options are to "Like" or to post a comment…and since posting a negative comment directly on someone’s wall post would be downright rude, I end up doing nothing.

As much as I’d like to take credit for it, the “Dislike” idea is far from revolutionary. Even Yahoo, which industry experts have long considered the elderly, uncool grandfather of the web, has a similar feature. In the comments section below Yahoo News stories, users can give either a thumbs up or thumbs down rating for a particular comment. If a comment receives too many downward-pointing thumbs, it gets hidden from the site and replaced by “Comment hidden due to low rating.” How great is that? The setup allows society to tell a person that their idea sucks so bad that it deserves to be kicked off the Internet, a place where anyone can post anything! Seems like a fantastic idea to me!

Better yet—and this is where I throw my own brilliant hat into the ring—the Internet desperately needs an “Indifferent” button. Let’s face it, there are times when you want someone to know you read what they wrote, but you just plain don’t care. You may not find their statement particularly annoying nor particularly valuable, so it’s worth dropping them a line and saying, “I read it, but I really don’t think it was worth my time.” (Not unlike this blog post, perhaps). If nothing else, the “Indifferent” button will gently pressure offending wall posters to raise the quality and thoughtfulness of their postings.

Just like that, over a span of just a few weeks, I found three glaring opportunities. For a company worth several billion dollars, I figure a “minus one” logo and the addition of “Indifferent” and “Dislike” buttons has gotta be worth at least $500 million. Mark Zuckerberg, if you’re reading this, you can post something in the comments section if you'd like to request an address where you can send my check.

Note: In the spirit of full disclosure, I regrettably admit that after writing this blog post, I stumbled upon a website describing a new Facebook app called "Unfriend Finder" that automatically does what my maze of Excel spreadsheets did for me. That's right, my idea wasn't as original as I first thought. Worse yet, the author of this website, Prateek Bansal, not only stole my idea, but he created an application to solve the great Facebook mystery. It felt like the GMAT all over, being outperformed by a foreigner. It would have been great to know that my idea was already floating around the internet before taking the time to write this blog post...

Don't you hate it when someone steals your ideas before you even have a chance to come up with them? (For the record, though, the article was posted in June, months after I had come up with the idea for this blog post and started keeping track of the changes in my friend list. So, good 'ol Prateek beat me to the punch in publishing his piece. But I've still got him on the "Dislike" and "Indifferent" buttons...

Life Lessons From 'The John'

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, son."

Normally, I might feel touched by a heartfelt father/son moment like this, but unfortunately, when I overheard this particular exchange, I was standing in a place where I really didn't feel like being touched: fly-down, in front of a urinal at an airport men's room. That's right, back in the summer of 2010, I witnessed a father and his over-appreciative son, doing their business and sharing their deepest feelings in a restroom at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. I would have felt awkward if I'd overheard their Hallmark-worthy love-fest in a restaurant or a grocery store; standing three-wide with our flies down, all I could do was roll my eyes, zip up, and walk away. Who would've thought anything could rival former senator Larry Craig's epic Minneapolis airport debacle?

Though it's certainly near the top of my list of worst encounters, this particular incident was by no means the first awkward men's room moment I've experienced. It did, however, get me thinking that as a society, we've reached a point where we need write to down some of those unwritten rules of restroom etiquette. Too many people just aren't getting it, and it leads to some painful moments at the office, in airports, at rest areas, at sporting events, and in men's rooms everywhere. Take notes: the following are the things you should know when it comes to "handling yourself" in the men's room (no pun intended).

Public Displays of Affection
Before the great father/son fiasco of 2010, I would have thought that this principle was so simple that it didn't warrant a spot on this list. But after that tender moment at the airport, I guess I need to spell it out: keep the touching family moments and PDA out of the bathroom. No matter how much you care about someone, there simply aren't any emotions powerful enough to warrant sharing your feelings while you're standing in a public restroom with your fly down. I cringe to imagine how that scene might have played out if that father and son felt a sudden urge to hug it out...

The Buffer
Always, always respect the buffer. Do everything in your power to leave at least one empty urinal between you and the next guy. If you're the only one in the bathroom and you walk up to a bank of three urinals, common sense dictates that you avoid the middle urinal at all costs--obviously, if anyone else walks in, you've left no room for the buffer.

Sure, this principle seems straightforward when you're dealing with an empty restroom and a limited number of urinals, but what happens when nature calls and you're facing multiple options, none of which leave an adequate buffer? In my exhaustive research for this blog post, I discovered that I'm not the first to ponder this complex riddle that has stumped man throughout time. But with today's technology, there's hope for us yet...that's right, there's an app for that!

Urinal Test is an iPhone app that presents twenty-five different urinal scenarios of increasing complexity, forcing you to choose the best available option. At the end of the quiz, you're rewarded with a urinal IQ to go along with your invaluable knowledge of restroom etiquette. Apparently the app was created as an advertisement for the a book titled The Man's Book: The Essential Guide For The Modern Man. Perhaps this will mark the end of my decade-long, self-imposed ban on reading...

While I'm impressed with the authors' thought, creativity, and strong desire to educate the masses on urinal etiquette, I violently disagree with certain aspects of their quiz. For example, they claim that the scenario above has a correct answer, that one of those three open spots is better than the others. However, I would argue that peeing within three feet of another guy in a public bathroom is never a "best spot."

If an ignorant urinator disregards the buffer and walks up next me, I'm not afraid to stop mid-stream and change urinals if it means I can reestablish the buffer. So what is the correct answer to the scenario above--is it urinal number 1, 2, or 3? My choice would be none of the above. Die-hard followers of my principle will pee in the sink before willingly pulling up side-by-side with someone at the urinal.

Silence Is Golden
Day after day of awkward run-ins in the office men's room have led me to this conclusion: conversation in the restroom should be strictly forbidden. Exchanging words at the urinal pits two strong social forces against one another: the courtesy of making eye contact with someone while they're speaking, and the urge to not look at that person while they're peeing. When a coworker starts talking to me at the urinal, I never know if I should turn my head and look him in the eye, or just stare straight ahead and keep nodding while he speaks. Either way, I just can't win.

Why can't the conversation at least wait until we're over by the sinks, washing our hands? It's because of situations like these that I've become a huge fan of places that have TVs, menus, newspapers, or ads over the urinals. In the event of unwanted conversation, those options provide a great way to feign distraction. Something--anything--to look at makes all the difference in the world.

Once again, my research for this post uncovered a spectacularly rewarding image. With this impressive rear projection screen, this guy gets to pee directly on a cricket match. You can bet he wouldn't feel obligated to look over if someone pulled up next to him and tried to start a conversation:



While I haven't experienced this myself, coworkers have told me horror stories of situations where their bosses have tried to talk business while sitting on the toilet. Sure, the added privacy of the stall is a step in the right direction, but it's just too difficult to focus and conduct serious business while your discussion is constantly being interrupted by strained words, followed by that all-too-familiar splash. And what's the etiquette when you're ready to leave, but your boss is still sitting next door, talking business while doing his business?

Once again, two bad options await. You can interrupt your boss or simply ignore him and walk out, potentially jeopardizing your future career prospects. On the flip side, you can stand by the sink and continue the conversation, which pretty much guarantees that anyone who enters the bathroom will initially think that you're standing in the men's room alone, talking to yourself...which, I've found, is no fast way to make friends at the office...at least not the kind of friends I'm interested in meeting...

The Architects and the Power of Peripheral Vision
This next principle applies not to restroom patrons, but to the architects who have the power to unknowingly set thousands of men up for years of uncomfortable bathroom encounters with their restroom design strategies. What's the key difference between the two bathrooms pictured below?


Keen observers will note that the bank of urinals on the right has a major advantage over the urinals on the left: partitions. Never is the power of peripheral vision more apparent then when you're standing in the middle of a crowded bank of partition-free urinals, trying to avoid an accidental eyeful of awkwardness. There have been moments in the men's room when I'm convinced I could read the bottom row on an eye chart from 30 yards away, using nothing but my peripheral vision.

The disturbing lack of privacy afforded by a partitionless bank of urinals is even more unsettling than the decor in the men's room below. But even at a frightening bank of urinals like this one, you'll notice that the architects knew that it would be far worse to design the place without urinal partitions:


Believe me, it's terribly disheartening to encounter so much awkwardness, all because the building designers wouldn't spring for some lowly dividers. Which brings me to my next section, another principle that applies to bathroom designers across the world.

Keep the Trough on the Farm
Ballparks and stadiums are notorious for awkward men's room encounters. The leading contributor, of course, is the infamous stainless steel trough:


The sheer volume of men making their way to the bathroom between innings, coupled with the added time pressure of getting back to their seats without missing a single pitch, means that respect for personal space is nonexistent in ballpark men's rooms. I've seen far too many 300 pound guys sandwich themselves between two other dudes, just to get back to the game thirty seconds sooner. To top it off, you've got a crowd of fifty men behind you watching your every move, ready to pounce on your vacant spot the moment you reach for your zipper.

And, while stainless steel offers a clean, modern look in almost any interior design setting, it has one major drawback when used in trough construction: it enhances splashback. After some particularly rough trough encounters, I've felt the need to wring out my shorts and towel off. And, worst of all, when you're standing elbow-to-elbow alongside drunk baseball fans with questionable aim, you're always left wondering exactly whose splashback is dripping from your legs and shorts.

But my list of trough grievances doesn't end there. The stadium trough is the most extreme example of a partition-free bathroom, which makes the peripheral vision dilemma abnormally powerful during a trough urination. One inadvertent glance in either direction, and you risk a head-on stare down a line with more sausage than a meat-locker.

So why not just wait for an open stall and avoid all of these undesirable outcomes? In some ballparks--and I find this downright unconscionable--the stalls don't even have doors! For the unlucky few who have to do #2, this creates an extremely embarrassing situation. A friend once told me that he saw a man remove his pants entirely and sit backwards on the toilet, just to avoid the discomfort of watching hundreds of other guys walk by and look in at him. If that's not a sign that stall doors should be mandatory, nothing is. If you're still reading, please write your state representative at your earliest convenience.

Quick Hits
Before closing, I have five final tips that are worth a read. They may be short, but believe me, they're sweet:

(1) Walk up to the urinal, unzip, then pee--in that order! This part is equally critical: don't start one step before completing the previous step. Anything less than flawless execution of this process can lead to overexposure and/or a very messy floor and/or set of clothing.

(2) Posture is everything. No matter how tired you are, no matter how long your day has been, there's no need to lean on the wall while taking a leak. I give dogs a free pass on this rule, but two-legged humans can summon the energy to leave the restroom without actually resting.


(3) Splash guards can be extremely misleading. I was lucky enough to encounter my first splash guard several years ago in one of those fancy airport members-only lounges. I approached the urinal with a sense of wonder and inspiration, thinking that, for once, I didn't have to worry about splashback. Thinking this splash guard would be the anti-trough, it was without a care in the world that I unzipped and went about my business as if I were power-washing a deck. No, I didn't exactly have to towel off afterward, but it is with great disappointment that I share this bit of news: the splash guard does not live up to its name.

(4) The men's room is no place for cultural sensitivity. This may be an urban men's room legend, but a credible source once told me the gruesome tale of an Asian man who, unfamiliar with the modern marvels of American plumbing, exited a bathroom stall, approached a urinal, pulled the handle, and dipped his hands in for a rinse. Admittedly, I have no idea how they do things in the old country, but if you ever see something like this about to unfold in front of you, don't be afraid to tackle the perpetrator. To this day, I wonder how that guy failed to notice everyone else peeing into the row of "sinks."

(5) Don't flush the unflushable. We've all been there--you walk into a stall to find what can only be described as the remnants of a chocolate bomb...a mixture of soiled toilet paper and pure, concentrated evil. You've gotta go, so you think about attempting the flush. But surely, whoever left this nightmare already attempted that...right? When you're standing at this metaphorical fork in the road, pondering your next move, remember these words: flush at your own peril.

All of the positive thinking in the world can't force a watermelon-sized mass of the devil's finest handiwork down a three-inch pipe. A friend of mine recently learned this lesson the hard--and wet--way at our local health club. In the end, all he had to show for his bold attempt was a makeshift fountain of terror, a horrified sprint out of the locker room, and an extremely angry, foul-mouthed, and wet-shoed man from the neighboring stall. I believe the 1970s English glam rock band Sweet said it best: you can't push Willy where Willy won't go. They were certainly ahead of their time.


About the Author
The author of this life-changing piece owns a colorful history in the bathroom adventure arena, spanning multiple decades. In the fall of 2001, the thrill of publicly urinating in a highly-trafficked Old Country Buffet parking lot sparked a life-long love affair with this topic. After several years out of the spotlight, in 2008 he pulled off an even more daring feat, relieving himself in broad daylight on a Friday afternoon in his employer's parking lot.

In a highly publicized 2010 endeavor, the author successfully undertook the workload of a team of well-equipped plumbers, using only two small twigs and healthy dose of creativity to unclog as hopelessly jammed toilet. His unconventional but revolutionary approach to solving plumbing catastrophes, which has come to be known as the "Chop Stick Method," has saved hundreds of thousands of lives in the developing world, largely eradicating the traditional, highly unsanitary "Hand Grabber Method."

Most recently, during a 2011 vacation in Arizona, a faulty locking mechanism on a single-toilet men's room at a Jack in the Box restaurant forced the author to urinate in the sink while wedging the door shut with his foot. Mid-stream, further investigation revealed that the lock was, in fact, functioning correctly. While the author regrets this error, the incident inspired a groundbreaking study published in the Journal of Food Protection titled: "Employees Must Not Wash Hands Before Returning To Work".

The Cure For Happiness

Bill and Jane live 31,684,583 inches apart. Jane leaves her house at 3:16PM and starts driving west at 48.9 km/hour. Exactly 0.000598 fortnights later, Bill leaves his house and starts driving east at 238.6 furlongs/hour. What is the cube root of the circumference of the raccoon that is currently gnawing it's way through the trash can at Mary's house?

A) 2.721π inches
B) 2.722π inches
C) 2.723π inches
D) 2.724π inches
E) 2.725π inches


After five grueling months training myself to answer useless GMAT questions like this, I have managed to condense all of my math and verbal prowess into one simple, yet profound conclusion about the test: the GMAT is a four-letter word.

Before getting into the details, it's important to understand the format of the test. The GMAT consists of two 30-minutes essays, followed by a 75 minutes section with 37 multiple-choice math problems, then another 75 minute section with 41 verbal questions, also multiple-choice. The test is administered on a computer, and it's a computer adaptive test (CAT), which means that every time you answer a question correctly, the next question gets more challenging, and every time you miss a question, the next one gets easier. The harder questions are worth more points, so getting the early questions right is critical to earning a high score.

The math and verbal sections count toward the overall score, which ranges from 200 (the Paris Hilton end of the spectrum) to 800 (the Einstein end). The essays are essentially useless. They are scored from 0 (literally not typing a single word) to 6 (Bill Shakespeare Jr.), and business schools don't really care about the score unless it's so low as to give them cause to seriously question your writing abilities. For that reason, I consider the essays similar to playing the Cleveland Cavaliers in the NBA--you have nothing to gain from doing well, only the opportunity for extreme embarrassment if you somehow manage to screw things up. Now, on to my story...I apologize in advance for the record-breaking length of this blog post, but I have little apathy when it comes to my passionate hatred of the GMAT.

My long, excruciating journey began nearly six months ago. This past January, I decided that it was time to take a brief recess from my five years of procrastination and finally prepare take the GMAT, the first step toward an eventual return to business school. Test scores are valid for five years, so successful completion of the test could kick-start another five blissful years avoiding higher education.

My first step was to sign up for a Princeton Review prep course that met once a week for six weeks. This seemed simple enough--the class even met downstairs in the office at work. But simplicity was surprisingly elusive. Day after day went by, and I never heard a thing about the class. Finally, after a coworker who had also signed up for the class forwarded me an email from Princeton Review, I discovered that the woman on the phone had misspelled my email address when I signed up.

Even after straightening out this little debacle, Princeton Review continued to underwhelm. As of 3PM on the day of the first class, all of us students were still lacking a critical piece of information: the specific location of our class. Many phone calls and emails later, we received a message that the class was postponed and would start the following week. A brilliant lapse in planning by the fine folks at the Princeton Review office.

When the Princeton Review finally got its act together and the real day of that first class finally arrived, things didn't get any better. Everyone else in the class walked in with a pair of textbooks that they had received in the mail...textbooks that I had never received and was not aware that I should be looking for. Apparently Princeton Review forgot to send those my way, so I had to sit unusually close to another guy in the class and look over his shoulder for three hours. And those three hours were about as comfortable as my last visit to the Grand Canyon.

Things were off to a rough start, and I had yet to do anything even remotely related to learning the material for the test. Secretly, I'd hoped that the test would be fairly easy for me. I felt justified in my optimism--once upon a time, I was a pretty solid student, and I hadn't been out of school that long...right? But those dreams were immediately crushed during my first practice exam, the first of what would become many showdowns with the GMAT. Finishing a difficult, time-consuming test with 20% of your time remaining means one of two things: you knew the material really, really well, or you were guessing more than Sarah Palin on a history exam. In my case, it was the latter.

During that first class it became even more painfully obvious that I had forgotten just about everything I ever knew about math. When the instructor started talking about pie, I quickly scanned the room in search of a pastry before remembering that there's awesome dessert pie, and then there's disappointing math pi. It was one of my saddest moments of my GMAT experience--in the heyday of my mathematical prime, I could recite pi to the sixteenth digit, and here I was years later looking around the room for dessert.

Then, later in that same class the teacher asked me to read one of the math sections out loud for the group. For some reason, one of the problems had an exclamation point next to a number--when I saw "7!" I thought the textbook wanted me to yell "seven!!" really loud. Weeks later, I learned that this was actually a factorial symbol that had some kind of mathematical relevance.

Slowly but surely, after sitting through a few of the classes I felt like I was picking up some great tips and really starting to understand the material. I couldn't wait to see my score shoot through the roof on the second practice test. After reviewing the results of my first exam, the teacher had commented that something seemed a little "off" about my pacing...apparently she didn't think it was a good sign that I had spent less than 15 seconds on a lot of the questions. So this time around, I assured myself that I would take my time and put my full effort behind every single question.

And take my time is exactly what I did...but I overcompensated. As the final seconds ticked away on the math section, I had seven of the thirty-seven questions remaining. Without reading a single word, I "dialed down the center" and guessed "C" on all seven questions. When the test was over, I was more disappointed than an Enron shareholder at the end of 2001. My score had barely budged, and I was shocked when I noticed that of those final seven math problems, not a single one had "C" for a correct answer. What were the odds of that?! (Though I ask that purely as a rhetorical question, it's not unlike an actual GMAT probability problem...) And, as an embarrassing side note, one of my essays got scored a 2, which on the 0 to 6 scale essentially means that I could have fallen asleep on the keyboard, submitted my work, and gotten the same score.

Despite this tremendous disappointment, I continued studying nonstop over the coming weeks, a task that consumed virtually every moment of free time. Coworkers who had taken the exam told me that the weeks leading up the test were pure torture, citing serious interruptions in their social lives. Oddly enough, I wasn't able to detect any noticeable change in my level of social activity, but spending all my time outside of work cramming my mind with useless information was nevertheless a soul-crushing undertaking.

I scheduled my grand showdown with the exam for morning of April 4th, one week after the last scheduled Princeton Review class...or so I thought. Then, on a snowy day in early March, Princeton Review made the inexplicable decision to postpone the class. Normally, this would seem like the logical thing to with poor road conditions, but it made less sense when all of the students work in the same building where the class meets. The makeup date for that snowed-out class? The evening of April 4th! It looked like I wasn't going to get much use out of class number six.

Walking into the testing room the on the morning of the 4th, I had my minimum score in mind--if I earned a score equal to or greater than that number, I would walk out of there, never look back, and immediately dump all the of useless information from my mind. The one nice thing about the GMAT is that you can see your test results within minutes of answering the final question. The three seconds between clicking "Accept Score" and seeing the number pop up on the computer screen feel like an eternity. I think I actually closed my eyes when I clicked it...

When I opened them, I was horrified. The one thing that I didn't want to have happen...happened. In a perfect world, I would get a great score, walk out, and never look back on the awful two months I'd spent preparing for the test. The second best scenario my mind, strangely enough, would be to completely bomb the test and know definitively that I should retake it. Neither of those scenarios played out for me. I missed my minimum goal by 20 points...not a catastrophic miss, but more concerning was my mediocre percentile on the math section, the area that business schools tend to focus on the most. I can thank the large number of foreigners who take the test for that sad result. Apparently what God shortchanged the Asians in driving abilities, he more than made up for with math skills.

After a few days of internal struggle, which I spent trying to find any possible reason why it made sense to not retake the test, I made up my mind: the rematch was on. The verbal section was no problem for me, so I ordered a set of detailed math study guides, which set me back over $100. Another $250 later, I had officially scheduled showdown #2 with the GMAT, this time on June 30th. It was on...again.

I took a week off after the test, then dove right back into studying. Weekdays after work: studying. Weekends: studying. Sitting on the toilet: studying. In the shower: studying. Slow days at work: sleeping under my desk (all that studying can wear a person out...) As the hours and days passed in a math-induced haze, I found it difficult to stay motivated. The weather was finally warming up, but I spent every spare minute indoors, learning about perfect squares, prime factorization, scientific notation, rhombuses, recursive formulas, and all kinds of stuff that I couldn't care less about.

I started to question the point of all this GMAT stuff--I've been working in the business world for five years, and not once have I encountered a single GMAT-style math problem. I'm still waiting for the day when a vice president of finance says to me, "This is brilliant financial forecast. Now, can you express next year's net sales as a product of distinct prime numbers? And I'm also going to need you to tell me where our cost of goods sold and admin expenses intersect on the coordinate plane when their square roots are divided by last year's advertising budget."

Spending beautiful summer days indoors, learning about properties of numbers felt even worse knowing that the information I was learning had nothing to do with business school or real-life work in the business world. After all, the only reason I had to re-learn this stuff in the first place was because I didn't use it a single time since after taking my last final 8th grade math test. The purpose and relevance of the questions on the GMAT make about as much sense as this sign:

But I forged ahead. April passed...and May passed. By June, I had a growing stack of used-up notebooks piling up next to my desk, filled with so much scribbled nonsense that if someone broke into my apartment and looked through my work, they'd surely think I was headed down a path to insanity...or perhaps that I had already arrived at my destination.


Every Friday afternoon was a four-hour practice exam. Every weekend was a pair of full eight-hour days learning about math. As of the morning of June 30th, I had taken the test a total of nineteen times--one real exam on April 4th and eighteen practice tests, each at four hours a pop. I'd had enough...twentieth time's a charm, right? As I drove to the testing center, I wanted nothing more than to kick the test in the crotch, drive a stake through its heart, burn it, and urinate all over it's ashes. Not that I was angry.

Four hours later, I once again faced my moment of truth. I clicked the "Accept Scores" button and waited for the verdict. My score had improved...by 20 points. I had achieved my original bare minimum acceptable score. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. The nightmare was over, but after three lost months of nonstop studying, I would have liked to clear the hurdle with a little more margin for error. And the most recent of those eighteen practice exams included some downright incredible scores. I may have landed that metaphorical kick to the groin, but there was certainly no staking, burning, or urinating as I'd hoped for.

When I returned home after the test, I piled up all the study materials I'd accumulated over the previous five months and realized that, when I stacked them up, my study guides and notebooks rivaled the height of one of my shoes. And I've got some good size feet:


While staring at the grotesque tower of mathematical agony, I reflected on the time and money that went into this mess. The financial toll alone exceeds the GDP of Burkina Faso--between the prep class, two registration fees, and study guides, I was in more than $1,600...though, fortunately for me, work paid for some of those costs. And the sheer time investment was staggering...the practice tests alone accounted for 80 hours, and I can't even begin to count how many hours were spent studying between February and July...and not just because I immediately descended back into mathematical ignorance on the afternoon of June 30th. Worst of all was the half of a summer I lost preparing for the test...

With a month of study-free nights and weekends behind me, any disappointment I initially had about my final score is gone, and I've come to terms with my results. I pushed myself to the limit and was able to (barely) meet my goal of slightly-better-than-mediocre. Now, I feel reasonably confident that I can get rejected from the country's top business schools based solely on my professional incompetence, inability to work with others, and lack of meaningful accomplishments in the workplace, not my GMAT score. And in the end, I suppose that's the best anyone can ask for when it comes to the GMAT.

The Pending Demise Of Golden Boy

For a change, this blog post will begin with a little pre-work. To fully appreciate the meaning of this story, take forty-five seconds and watch this brief Seinfeld clip on Youtube. For those of you who aren't familiar with the episode, "Golden Boy" is Jerry's favorite piece of clothing, a six-year old yellow T-shirt that has started to deteriorate after many, many trips through the washer and dryer. Now, with the homework out of the way, on to the main story...

Those of you who know me best are probably not too surprised to hear me admit that fashion is not one of my top priorities in life. In my mind, clothes serve two important purposes and nothing more: (1) they prevent painful and potentially dangerous chapping and frostbite in the winter, and (2) they prevent me from getting arrested for indecent exposure. As long an article of clothing is still able to fulfill those two critical functions, I see no need to pull it out of the wardrobe rotation. In fact, many of my favorites clothes are like a fine wine, growing better and better as the years pass. With each day, their comfort, functionality, and sentimental value increase exponentially.

Over time, though, I've come to realize that not everyone shares my philosophies on clothing. You see, in the past decade, a larger and larger portion of my closet is filled with articles of clothing that Jerry would classify as "Golden Boys." In reality, if there were another tier of clothing above Golden Boy status, I have some prized pieces that would definitely fall in that category. Take, for example, my favorite navy blue Nike sweatshirt:


The single image can't do Golden Boy justice. You'll have to take my word for it--Golden Boy has an incredible number of holes, the largest of which is on the right shoulder. The more I think about it, it's probably not fair to call that one a hole. The truth is that the right shoulder went missing about five years ago, victimized by years of throwing my backpack strap over my right shoulder as I walked to class throughout high school and college.

Golden Boy was my spring jacket, my winter coat, my casual sweatshirt, and everything in between. He's been there for weddings, sporting events, funerals, Bar Mitzvas, and job interviews. Along the way, Golden Boy picked up holes in the front pocket, both elbows, the hood, the drawstrings, and countless other areas. And if you can't tell from the photo, the cuffs on both sleeves look like they battled a wood-chipper. And that backpack strap hole...it's only grown larger with time, to the point where every time I pull Golden Boy over my head, there's a 50/50 chance I'll make it through the actual head hole on the first try.

Every time I wear Golden boy in public, I get plenty of stares, and close friends are never shy with their harsh comments and judgment: "Why don't you buy a new sweatshirt?! You look homeless!" But Golden Boy is nowhere near retirement--he still keeps me warm in the winter (in most places, anyway), and last time I checked, no one was ever charged with indecent exposure for baring a shoulder in public. In my eyes, he looks just as good as he did a decade ago. Here's a shot of Golden Boy, circa 2002. Look at that handsome devil. And the sweatshirt looks pretty good, too.


But even though Golden Boy lives on, I've struggled with a similar problem in recent years. This particular issue first came to my attention about four years ago with my favorite pair of Express dress pants. I'd only owned these pants for about a year, and I only wore them to work once or twice a week. I took great care to hang them up immediately after wearing them, and I dutifully followed the "Dry Clean Only" instructions on the tag. That's why I was shocked when I noticed that the pants had suffered from crotch failure.

That's right--after just thirteen months of ownership, the crotch of my favorite dress pants looked like a bad slice of Swiss cheese. I sent a strongly worded email to the Express customer service department, but the only response I received said that I could take the pants into the store for an exchange. It seemed like a fair offer, but I could never summon the courage to walk up to the cashier, place my damaged pants on the counter, and demand an exchange because my crotch gave out after one year of light office use. Four years later, those pants still hang in my closet, stuck in a never-ending holding pattern of embarrassment.

Don't get me wrong: I didn't give up on my favorite dress pants that easily. After spotting the hole for the first time, I wasn't ready to retire the pants over a little crotch exposure--they still served both critical functions of clothing, keeping me both warm and covered enough to prevent jail time. I combed meticulously through the dress code at work, and it made no specific reference to crotch exposure...and I could sit with my legs crossed at the important meetings anyway. But I eventually gave in, finally coming to terms with the fact that a partially exposed groin area probably leaned a little too far toward the "casual" end of the "business casual" spectrum. Plus, I figured some of my more sensitive co-workers might be unsettled if they ever realized that I was walking around with some extra ventilation downtown.

As you'll recall, I previously mentioned that this was my first brush with crotch failure. Unfortunately, it would not be my last. The next victim was my favorite shorts, a pair of (originally) black Nike tennis shorts that I've had since I was fifteen years old. I wept for hours when I looked down one day while wearing the shorts, only to realize that there was a lot less fabric standing between me and indecent exposure than I had expected.

While this was horrifying, it wasn't as shocking--these shorts were a decade old, and Mom's needle and thread had already repaired the seams along the side of these shorts several times. Countless hours in the sun had turned my favorite shorts from deep black to a dirty brown color. And while Mom's sewing skills were able to save the crotch that dreadful day, father time eventually caught up with the shorts, and late in 2010, the left cheek finally gave out, the fabric having grown too thin to accommodate any further attempts at repair:



Crotch failure had now hit me twice--and hard. One incident? Call it bad luck. Two? Chalk it up to coincidence. But as fate would have it, crotch failure was not finished with me yet. I won't go into the gory details of the other accounts--this is, after all, a family-friendly blog. But it's worth noting exactly where the tally stands today. Including the Express pants and the Nike shorts, I have now crotched my way through two pairs of dress pants, one pair of jeans, and three pairs of tennis shorts. I'll spare you the trouble of getting our your calculator--that's a total of seven failures!

That's neither bad luck nor coincidence; I realize now that the problem must be me. The sample size has grown to the point that is has become statistically significant, and the facts are now simply undeniable. My crotch doesn't discriminate against brand name, fabric type, or quality of workmanship. Coming to terms with this harsh reality was not easy...I felt confused, even ashamed. What was I doing wrong? Too much hip movement in my chair at work? Not enough? Was I destined to spend my life burrowing through the crotches of each and every pair of pants I would ever own? That seemed like a lonely and expensive way to live. I knew that if Mom started charging me for all of her repair efforts, she could easily pursue full-time work as a crotch hole-cobbler.

But luckily, the shame wore off over time, and I taught myself to look at the bright side. I didn't want to flatter myself at first, but it's clear to me now that my crotch is unstoppable. And while some might view this situation as a curse, I choose to look at it as a blessing. I have shunned my embarrassment and will finally start asking clothing stores the question I should have started asking years ago: "Do you sell any pants with a Kevlar-reinforced crotch?" I'm afraid, at least in the beginning, that the answer will almost certainly be "no." But if fashion designers hear the question enough, they'll eventually have to give the public what is so separately wants. And if they don't, then I hope Mom is ready to embark on a new career path.

Monkey Business

It's been said that given an infinite amount of time, a monkey randomly typing on a keyboard will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. I actually looked this up--it's called the Infinite Money Theorem (which Wikipedia clearly distinguishes from the Hundredth Money Effect, but that's another story for another blog post). In 1987, an economist named Burton Malkiel made a different, but equally bold, primate prediction when he claimed in his book A Random Walk Down Wall Street that a blindfolded monkey throwing darts at the financial section of a newspaper could pick stocks that would match or beat the performance of professionally (human) managed portfolios.

A year after Malkiel published his book, the Wall Street Journal decided to put his dart-throwing, monkey stock-picking idea to the test. I was disappointed to discover that they didn't actually perform the hilarious and potentially dangerous experiment of blindfolding monkeys and letting them launch darts...apparently WSJ staff members acted as the monkeys and threw darts at a list of stocks. As far as I can tell, they weren't actually blindfolded, but it least there were actual darts involved. After a hundred "fake monkey" contests, the WSJ published mixed results, which were widely debated.

Where am I going with all this? I guess reading all this made me realize that when it comes to saving for retirement, most people still go with the pros. Even though monkeys apparently have money management skills that rival those of their human counterparts, presumably at a much lower cost, investors still seek credibility when it comes to growing their life savings.

If you look some of the most well-known names in the financial industry, you'll notice a consistent pattern. The figureheads of most top financial companies are old, rich-looking white guys who fall into one of four broad categories: men who look like angry 19th century railroad tycoons, wealthy grandfather types, nerdy economists who had their lunch money stolen as children (a trend that I suspect continues in adulthood), or founding fathers of the United States.

It's undeniable. It seems that people demand a certain level of credibility before they feel comfortable enough to hand over control of their savings. That's why I was shocked when I came across this ad in a 2008 issue of Money magazine:


It's Gorilla Trades! The founders of this fine company must have taken Burton Malkiel's monkey stock-picking comments a bit too seriously. The credibility factor might feel a bit shaky at first, but for those finicky customers who have some initial reservations about handing over the financial reins to the bespectacled, cigar-smoking gorilla that appears in the company's logo, Davy Jones from the Monkees makes an appearance to offer his endorsement. And to top it off, his quote starts with, "I'm a Believer!", a not-so-subtle reference to The Monkees' #1 hit from the late 60s.

I guess on some level, I can understand how letting chimps manage your nest egg might make sense--if you're tired of lining your financial advisor's pockets with those hefty fees, why not let monkeys pick stocks for free? From the sounds of the Wall Street Journal study, they might even do a reasonable job. But the problem is, Gorilla Trades is not free. They offer a 30-day free trial, but apparently letting apes manage your portfolio requires a minimum $600 annual subscription.

I couldn't help but feel skeptical when I first saw the ad--despite the marketing clout of Davy Jones, could Gorilla Trades really attract subscribers and stay in business? I went to their website to see if the company was still around, three years after the ad appeared in Money. Sure enough, the website remains active, and my skepticism immediately vanished when I saw this:


Now I, too, am a believer. One thing's for sure--I don't need one of those fancy, "traditional" financial institutions to feel confident that I'll live comfortably in retirement. I don't care any more if my financial advisor works for a company founded by a guy who resembles Cornelius Vanderbilt. But there's a tough decision in my future. Celebrities are never wrong, and Davy Jones has never led me astray in past, but $600 a year to let a guy in a muppet custume and a velour business suit manage my finances gives me reason to think twice. So I guess it's either join Gorilla Trades, or start heading toward the zoo with a handful of darts and the business section.