High Five!

I was all set to congratulate myself on my first Friday night out in a long time in which I did not binge drink. It turns out my antiquated definition of 5 drinks is no longer the requirement for binging though. Here's what I've learned:

In the past, ‘binge drinking’ was often used to refer to an extended period of time, usually two days or more, during which a person repeatedly drank to intoxication, giving up usual activities and obligations.

In common usage, binge drinking is now usually used to refer to heavy drinking over an evening or similar time span - sometimes also referred to as heavy episodic drinking. Binge drinking is often associated with drinking with the intention of becoming intoxicated and, sometimes, with drinking in large groups. link

Those are fairly different definitions. Luckily I also found this:

There is no consistency among formal and quantitative definitions of binge drinking. The epidemiological research literature shows a broad range of definitions of binge drinking.

* 4+ drinks per occasion for women / 5+ drinks per occasion for men (US)
* 5+ drinks per occasion on at least one in last 30 days (US)
* Blood alcohol concentration raised to 0.08g/ml or above (US/ NIAAA)
* 1/2 bottle of spirits or 2 bottles of wine on the same occasion (Sweden)
* 6+ bottles of beer per session (Finland)
* 8 drinks within the same day (Canada) link

So I'm going to go back to my original conclusion. I (sort of) win.

Exam Grading

I'm in the middle of grading exams for Linguistics 101. Below is one of my favorite answers so far:

2b) In morphology, what is the difference between a root and a base? Use the word restarting to exemplify your answer.

A base word is kind of like a Mr. Potato Head. The base would be the potato, then you can mix and match the arms, legs, etc. (the affixes), and you have a new potatohead. If you want you restart and make something different, pull off all the affixes and put different ones on the base

In addition to being a very strange analogy, they're wrong (the potato would be the root, not the base) and they were actually supposed to talk about what the bases and root are in restarting, not use it in a sentence.

What a nice weekend...

You know, I had a really good time this weekend. It was a little unexpected and so I'm going to tell you what happened.

Saturday started off with MILC, the Madison Informal Linguistics Colloquium. This is the annual Linguistics (and German) department's evening socialization event. It involves people making up fake abstracts to fake papers and then drinking a good amount of wine, beer, and punch. This would be fun if it wasn't with the Linguistics and German Departments, but it is. Anyway, this year was actually enjoyable. Conversation ranged from the stupidity of our 101 students, to mustache rides, muff divers, and finally if the punch should actually be referred to as WOP. Or if that was only a derogatory name for Italo-Americans. And then of course someone had to ask if the two uses were derivationally related. No one likes that kid. After a quick trip to see a professor playing in a rock band, it was on to the pajama party.

After a quick Clark Kent move in Tommy's room, I was in my galabeya and making wild assertions about my Flip Cup skillz. This led to a rousing game of the Flizzy Cizzy in the Creepy Attic. During one celebratory dance I lifted someone into the rafters. Don't worry, she did not crack her head open. At 4:00 AM I had an 80 min. conversation with Gabby.

I was going to talk about Sunday also. Now it's Tuesday though and I think the moment has passed. I did see a homemade pinata get cracked open by a Jimmy crutch and then spill its contents of tampons and disposable razors though.

What if all I aspired to in life was to be a shot boy? The Ice Queen came up with this idea last night in one of her fits of congeniality. I'm fairly confident I could sell a lot of those gay shots to chicks in a bar. And then I wouldn't have to write my paper. That's a double bonus.

Absentee Voting

Today's topic is absentee voting, and more importantly the ballots upon which it is done. Absentee ballots piss me off for at least two reasons. First, it means that I'm not going to be voting in person on election day. Which means I don't get to chat up the nice old ward ladies, and they're always excited to see a young face. Especially a really attractive one. Second, I've come to realize that absentee ballots are specifically designed to eliminate as many possible votes as possible. The trick with Phila. ballots is all in the folding. After completing the ballot, printed on heavy stock oversized paper, you then are required to fit it into the return envelope. While this may sound easy enough, it actually requires fairly precise folding. Because the return envelope is a completely different size than the envelope the ballot arrives in, you have no creases to guide you, every fold must be a new one (and remember: heavy stock paper). The other complication arises after you realize just how small the return envelope actually is. Not only is it the length and width that are important, but the depth as well. In the end a rather precise fold is necessary in order to fit the thing in length and width wise while still being able to actually seal the envelope.

The Madison ballot is actually much more straight forward. Its intricacies come first from mastering the use of the thinnest pencil ever made. After that you just have to follow the 2 pages of instructions, all in the presence of a witness, who while able to see the ballot, cannot actually see how you are voting; quite a precise arrangement of objects. Then discard the pencil.

So, the question is: are these just examples of bad designs wrought by bloated bureaucracy, or deliberate attempts to disadvantage to the clumsy and spatially handicapped? I don't care, but god damn if I'm going to discard the pencil.

You know what I hate? Gay beer pong rules. Which really means gay Beirut rules, but I think I've finally gotten over that. Last night, as David and I dominated the table at an undergrad party, some shithead claimed that on the rebuttal each person gets to shoot until they miss. As opposed to both partners having to make it in on their first shot. Now, I understand that everybody has their own rules for Beirut. And one could argue that that is part of the excitement of playing in different locales. House rules, do have to be given their due respect. Even if they are gayer than my mom 4 years ago. Anyway we dominated, despite having rules made up for us on the fly. The highlight, possibly of my life, was during the 3rd over-time. Having been on an off streak, I made the last cup. At this point I lost my mind and tackled David through a closed door.

Black Snake Bemoaned

Last night while sitting in a theatre watching Black Snake Moan I was thinking about a few things. Long time readers may have noticed that I tend to make lists when I blog, I had similar tendencies in .plans.

1. The Flag Code. A shot of Old Glory on J.T.'s left shoulder got this one going. David, having earlier ID-ed Justin upon sight of the tattoo on said left shoulder, was suspicious of its stars-forward placement. Fairly certain this was indeed the correct positioning, I needed an explanation why. So I mulled. Mulling is a tricky process. If done with the wrong ingredients or without proper supervision it can go horribly wrong. This was not one of those cases. My conclusion, flags on moving vehicles (or persons) should always be blue first, as if blown by the wind, was confirmed here.

2. Later in the movie I began to wonder why we were even here. I had satisfied myself that there was no controversy regarding the flag, it had been at least 20 minutes since I had seen Christina Ricci's knockers, the plot was slowing, and I was getting bored. After a rowdy scene at the local juke joint my mind wondered to dancing. Inspired by the sweat filled, alcoholic, frenzy of jive-goodness on the screen, I began recalling my Top 10 dance moments. The following should be viewed as a stream of consciousness listing rather than a ranking:

i. A BSU party at Rochester attended with Lounsberry in the winter of 2001. Although I did not attend a large number of BSU parties while at Rochester, the ones I did go to were always quite enjoyable. This one stands out because of the critical mass that was reached early in the night, the unusually high ratio of hot chicks with big hair, and the realization at one point in the evening that a circle had formed spontaneously around Sarah and I and most of the party was watching us dance. Hot.

ii. Late fall of 2006, somewhere south of Regent St., Madison, WI. This was a WI crew event, meaning it involved a bunch of girls who were younger than me, but didn't know it. The house was quite literally packed with people, there was a lot of dancing, which induced an extreme amount of sweating among all involved. Girls' tops were transparent (or missing), guys' shirts were off. A freshman madeout with me. Then I lost my jacket.

iii. August 2005. Porto, Portugal. At a club on the edge of the city, Northern Portugal's young and attractive came to party. The Barnebey Boys, Lounsberry, and one Nerdess followed them. Unfortunately what happens in Portugal stays in Portugal. I will say this, similar to (ii) above, my shirt came off and I was thoroughly sweat through.

iv. December 2006. Victor's Tavern, Germantown, Philadelphia. Victor's Tavern is the local watering hole in the neighborhood of the Barnebey Homestead. Surprisingly, it had not been frequented until Thanksgiving of this year. This is a point that all of us have struggled to explain satisfactorily, without positive results. On this occasion, as is known to happen at Victor's, there was a full spread of home cooked soul food. Fried chicken, greens, pasta salad, mac & cheese, pasta salad; the works. It should be noted that at this point, as was common in our early years, the Barnebey Boys' rosy skin tone was not to be seen on another face in the place. This was probably true for a radius of several miles actually. Nostalgia always induces good times. Soon the dancing started, and while fairly tame as compared to many of the other events listed here, I, as the dancing white boy, was a hot commodity.

v. June 1999. Marlo Fiovanti's graduation party, South Philly. As one of the last in a week full of high school graduation parties, Marlo's was well anticipated and attended. This was The Class of 1999's last hurrah before graduation and the summer that followed. The dancing lived up to expectations. I am fairly certain that this party also introduced the world to Whitney's signature move, setting the stage for all future moments when I would end up laying on my back in the middle of the dance floor.

vi. Halloween 1999. Chambers 410, Univ. of Rochester. The crew halloween party. The memories of this are sketchy but I do remember dancing alot, and with the girl formerly known as Amanda. This was slightly awkward since I was dressed as a woman. More awkward was Vlad dressed as a woman in his girlfriend's high heels and Dunham dressed as a woman with jolly ranchers for nipples. Ezti was also dressed as a bee which was pretty awesome at the time.

vii. December 2001. Beirut, Lebanon. After spending the previous 4 months in Egypt, Beirut seemed like the a really really good looking version of Gomorrah. Realistically the dancing was restrained at best, with plenty of room for at least 3 Holy Ghosts. In our hijab distorted minds though this was a whore house. A beautiful, dancing whore house. Oh, and it was in an old bomb shelter too.

viii. May 1998. Florence, Italy. During my junior year in high school we took a school trip to Italy. In Florence we stayed with host families who had kids our age. On a Saturday night they took us out to the Discotheque on the back of their Vespas. Overloaded with hot Italian chicks, and me only 16, this was obviously a really good time. This was also my first introduction to the European white pant. One of the the girls hosting a friend of mine was wearing them that night, along with 95% of the other girls there who weren't in hot pants or mini skirts. She was hot, we danced. And the white pant has forever held me in its sway.

ix. July 1999. The Left Bank, Paris. In a basement jazz club somewhere in the Latin Quarter 6 Americans met the French.

x. October 2000. Kendrick 320, Univ. of Rochester. This was the first of several cage parties held that year. The party was very well attended and the 'cages' were put to good use. Their novelty encouraged experimentation on the dance floor as well. It was a good party. At its conclusion, Vince was passed out on the dance floor, arms splayed as if on a cross, and Dunham had to be dragged out of the suite.

Don't go see this movie.

The Camel Toe

In keeping with the vagina themed posts of this blog as of late, today I offer a shoutout to the Camel Toe. They are after all the only part of the camel that I like. Camel Toes of course come in a number of varieties (the classic toe, the vulgar toe, the understated toe, the understated-but-really-hot toe, the psuedo-pornographic toe, the sexy toe, the funny toe, and even the man toe, to name a few). Yes, some more enjoyable than others, yet they all have a certain je ne sais quoi, a mystique if you will, that draws the viewer in. Similar to highway accidents, camel toes have been known to cause gaper delays. Unlike accidents, they usually do not result in fatalities and staring is not only guiltless but recommended. This is fortunate because this morning on the bus I was mesmerized by one woman's CT. The depth and definition seemed down right anatomically immposible. Unfortunately it was not a firm, meaty camel toe, but rather a loose, fleshy toe with a FUPA overhang to boot.

Vag on Wheels

Saturday night the roller derby was in town. And we were at the roller derby, surrounded by an eclectic mix of lesbians, hula hoop artisans, neon lights, a surprising number of cougars, a gorilla, and one almost naked fat man. I don't know how many people reading this have been to a roller derby, but it's quite an interesting event. Perhaps most interesting was the mob of people waiting to get into the arena an hour before the thing was supposed to start. I, as has become my habit of late, was not wearing a winter jacket, despite the temperature being in the teens.

Ostensibly, the action of roller derby itself consists of two teams of 5 women each circling a small flat track roller rink trying to get pasteach other. The real action comes when girls with names like "The Dutch Oven", "OctoPushy (#007)", "Harlot Brönte", "Backdoris", and "STank Girl the Stench Wench" stop being polite and start getting real. In addition to the women on women action during the bouts, there was halftime entertainment. First, hulahoopers (in from Chicago) did amazing things with their hoops. Then, in the mascot olympics, Snack (a fat pseudo-naked man in leather hot pants and chains) and Kid Electric (an 8 year old with ADHD, a pitchfork, and glo -sticks), among others, went head to head on the skate floor. Whoever thought a hyper 8 year old clothed in a green smock and tights would be a good mascot for a roller derby team was a genious.

Later, while running home from a bar, I came across the gayest fight I have ever seen. As I crossed Gilman a crowd poured out of the Blue Velvet to watch two guys yell and slap at each other. The fights at the roller derby were much more hard core than that.

Jersey Devils

After reading this post at The Moderatilist I have a couple of comments that should be considered before said thesis is submitted to the U of P.

1. Either a great truth or a great falsity has been hit upon here. Either way, it is not a moderate observation. Of course I have not reached a state of Moderate enlightenment as others have and do not claim to be an interpreter of the tenets of The Moderatilist Movement, but it would seem that catechismatic claims of such import can be made only moderately often. It has been so noted.

2. If Wendy is indeed from the Dirty Jerz, your life is now in danger. Having gone through the extreme measures required to hide her origins, I would guess taking your life would be of little consequence to her already pint sized Jersey morals. I have learned this from Jon Bon Jovi, The Sopranos, and the City of Trenton.

3. If you are wrong and Wendy is not from NJ, your life is now in danger. In my experience her loathing of "The Garden" knows no bounds. I once took her there by accident and I'm pretty sure I owe my life to the fact that she was too distracted by the shiny hot pants of the Camden crack whore brigade to inflict bodily harm.

4. A point of order: I don't think that New Jersey actually issues birth certificates. I've done a bit of research on this (see Barnebey 1989, 1997, and 2002) and as far as I can tell the vast majority of native Jerseyans are actually spawned from the interior of the Pine Barrens. They then, still in a small poorly formed embryonic state, must make their way to a she-jerseyite willing to suckle them. Amazingly, even at this primitive stage in their development they are instinctively aware of the harsh realities that define America's Armpit. Knowing that there is no future for them in central Jersey they must either crawl north to the NYC suburbs or south to the Phila. suburbs, depending on the angle of the sun at the time of emergence, in order to survive. The few natives who do not exhibit signs of a Pine Barren provenance appear to have been formed through a process of asexual mitosis instigated by the close proximity of several nuclear waste depositories. Regardless, the state not only finds it impossible to satisfactorily document all of these "births" but has also faced stiff resistance from the religious right in it's efforts to recognize this unholy form of progenesis and does not issue birth certificates.

5. None of this applies to Secaucus. It is the Hansel surrounded by the Derek Zoolander of New Jersey. And it is so hot right now.

6. For the record, I know what the J stands for. Like the final piece of a puzzle, only with it does all become clear.

7. Newark, New Jersey is also the birth place of Cissy Houston, with whom I have an eternal grudge.

The Rat

Yeah, that's right, a rat. If you sit in front of me and cheat, I will rat you out. Unless of course you put some forethought into it. I can respect a resourceful cheater, but a lazy cheater is just embarrassing. If you're going to cheat you need to put some effort into it. Maybe some type of cipher, or complex radio device, as seen in 'Old School'. Regardless, it needs to be inventive. Then I won't rat you out. But to the fat girl in Stats yesterday, sorry you loose.