misguided

Given the vast majority of web surfers who use it, Google holds amazing power in conferring expertise. Rank highly in the results for a search phrase and you’re, ipso facto, one of the foremost authorities on that topic. Which is why I glow with pride when I say that, over the past seven days, several hundred unique visitors have arrived at this humble site through the following search phrases (listed along with the site’s position in the results for that query):

I must admit, I am somewhat saddened to think that every single one of them likely left horribly disappointed.

Still, what amazes me most is that seven different people arrived this week through the Google query “hot dog carts“. As self-aggrandizement appears as the 111th search result, those seven people must really love them some hot dogs.

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happy fun game!

Inevitably, about once a month, the mother of any young single guy living in New York asks that her son, as a favor to someone the son doesn’t even really know, meet the unknown person’s daughter for drinks because the girl is moving to New York and doesn’t know anyone there and not that you would end up dating her necessarily but maybe somebody you knew might be interested…

Based upon such ongoing tradition, my friend and colleague Yoav has invented an immensely exciting new game which I will herewith christen “offensive stereotypes and libelous assumptions.”

The basics:

1. Each player puts ten bucks into the pot.

2. All players are seeded with the same basic information about the girl. In the case of the current game:

______ is a mid-twenties Jewish girl living in Chicago. She studied econ at UMIch and currently works in hospital administration. Her mother is heavily involved with Holocaust education.”

3. Based upon this short bio, the players come up collectively with a list of thirty or fourty relevant questions about the girl, then each separately (and based upon their keen instincts and deductive intellects) try to estimate an accurate as possible answer to each question. In this case, questions include (along with, for illustrative purposes, Yoav’s educated estimates):

  • Height? 5’3″
  • Eye Color? Brown
  • Facial Features? Pale, big nose
  • Body Type? Zaftig
  • Favorite Music? Coldplay, John Mayer
  • Sorority? Yes
  • Style? Failed overly conservative attempt at NYC hipster
  • Corrective Vision? Contacts
  • Designer Labels? Yes, but doesn’t flaunt them
  • Sports? Soccer until fifth grade
  • Degree of Jappiness? 6.5
  • On Jdate? Yes, but without a picture
  • Tiffanys? Plenty
  • Pointy shoes? Not since last year
  • Bat Mitzva theme? Luau
  • Cool? Edgy? Nope. Nope.
  • Plans for future? Nonprofit work “or something artistic”
  • etc., etc.

4. When the girl arrives in New York, take her out for drinks, get her absolutely plastered, and have her answer each of the questions herself.

5. Score one point for the player with closest answer on each question.

6. Winner takes all.

7. Losers face eternity of damnation and hellfire for having been wildly amused by this sort of thing, and for being heartless bastards in general. Actually, winner does too.

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why not to live with yalies

My roommates are, as I write this, engaged in a shouting match (one that could conceivably degenerate to fisticuffs) over Bartleby the Scrivener. We have now officially reached the highest level of dorkdom.

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correspondence

In response to yesterday’s entry, I received:

1. 27 emails from people volunteering to aid in constructing (or otherwise supporting the idea of) the envisioned blog-based online dating site.

2. An email from Sarah Brown herself:

Darling Joshua Newman, I am terribly flattered. And to set the record straight, I am 25, single, and my mother would be so upset to hear that you thought I was hideously ugly. I’m also very friendly and articulate, and my hair almost always smells like wildflowers.

You are adorable.

See you at the wedding.

Best,
Sarah Brown

3. An email from Helen Jane:

james is kind of peeved that we’re dishing out this kind of money to simply give the two of you a chance to make out, but i say,

“Anything to serve our Master, the Internet. Anything.”

plus, i get to wear a pretty dress!

yours in the Internet,
hj.

Between these emails and further perusal of the Que Sera Sera archives, I am fairly sure I now have no choice but to propose by Instant Messenger and make this a double wedding.

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soul(mate) searching

About two months back, I stumbled across Que Sera Sera, a weblog hosted by one Sarah Brown. As it was better than most, I bookmarked the site, heading back the following week. And then again at the end of the next week. And again two days later. After two or three weeks, I was visiting daily, and had undeniably developed a weblog crush.

Which is why I was particularly shocked to discover that Ms. Brown had been (as I) invited to the upcoming wedding of (I Love Your Work on-set blogger) Helen Jane Yeager. Sure, there’s a good chance Sarah won’t be at the wedding at all, as she (so far as I can tell, at least) lives in Oklahoma. And even if she is, the odds are probably in favor of her being involved with someone, or middle aged, or hideously ugly. If not all three. But, still, I was oddly thrilled.

Which led me to an excellent, groundbreaking idea. Why not build an online dating site around weblogs? After all, weblogs and dating sites are the two fastest growing segments of the web. Here’s why it works: a dating site is really just a simple database (searchable by gender, age and location) that pops out paired pictures and profiles meeting the search criteria. Why not swap in a weblog link for the profile, I reasoned? As doubtless informative as those profiles are (Oh, you enjoy fine dining and long walks on the beach too? We have so much in common!), I’m certain spending a bit of time diving around a prospective paramour’s archives would be infinitely, infinitely more so.

If my always meager coding skills hadn’t further atrophied through years of disuse (the real reason I have to keep starting companies rather than just getting a job – I have no actual skills), I’d buckle down and bang the site out myself. Since I can’t, I’m heading over to post an ad on Craig’s List in the hopes of finding a programming partner in crime. This is going to be the biggest thing since Yenta.

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operation get chunky

Most people, while under stress, gain weight. I, on the other hand, lose it. After several months of producing I Love Your Work, I therefore noticed I had dropped down to the bottom reaches of my acceptable weight range. Which is why, about a month back, with beach season (or, at least, bicep-baring t-shirt season) fast encroaching, I figured it was time to hit the gym with the intent of bulking up. The plan in a nutshell:

1. Join a gym. Mid-City Gym (49th and 8th), being two blocks off and $45 a month, seemed the right choice. Sure, it’s short on glitz and Tae-bo compared to the $150 a month gyms nearby, but as the former New York training ground of such heavies as Ah-nold and Lou Ferrigno it certainly seemed good enough for my cause.

2. Lift weights. As it’s worked for me before in packing back on the pounds, following the Hardgainer approach of short, intense, infrequent workouts with heavy weights.

3. Eat a lot. Building muscle requires a caloric surplus, something my metabolism, which runs at a rather disturbingly fast rate, works hard to prevent. (As one friend pointed out, since research in rats has shown slowing metabolism extends lifespan, given the speed at which mine burns, I’ll probably keel over by the time I hit thirty.) I already tend to naturally eat five or six meals a day; bulking up mainly involves increasing the size of each feeding. Thank god for FreshDirect.

The results? One month in, and I’ve packed on nearly ten pounds of muscle while keeping my body fat below 10%. Still, I’m thinking I’ll keep adding weight for a bit longer, just to see where it takes me. While I have no desire to hit anything close to the steroidal bodybuilding look, as Stallone (the same height as I am) was a good fifty pounds beyond my current weight back in his Rocky days, I think I still have a fair bit of leeway before I’m mistaken for Hans or Franz.

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