In the wake of the attack, the 22-year-old Loughner has been called everything from “crazed” to “unhinged.” What he’s not been called, however, at least by the media, is a terrorist.
And, as a follow up: The Real Life Superheroes Registry.
Who wants to start a dead pool?
Bluntly titled, “Do Alcohol Consumers Exercise More?” it answers its own query with a resounding if counterintuitive yes. In fact, the data show, the more people drink, the more they exercise. The study, based on replies from an annual telephone survey of hundreds of thousands of American adults about their health habits, found that “drinking is associated with a 10.1 percentage point increase in the probability of exercising vigorously,” the authors write. More specifically, “heavy drinkers exercise about 10 more minutes per week than current moderate drinkers and about 20 more minutes per week than current abstainers.” Meanwhile, the authors continue, “an extra episode of binge drinking increases the number of minutes of total and vigorous physical activity per week for both women and men.”
Exercisers drink more. [I resemble that remark.]
It’s easy to see Zuckerberg being attracted to the idea of living like, say, Mike Bloomberg, running a multi-billion-dollar company exactly how he wants, without constantly being second-guessed. And remembering too the cautionary tale of Apple, where the founder, Steve Jobs, was forced out by angry shareholders when the stock failed to perform.
[Via]
Trend forecasting firm JWTIntelligence‘s excellent list of 100 things to watch in 2011.
Tourist Trapper
[Advance apologies: Jess maintains I already wrote some version of this post at some prior point, and she’s usually right. I’m posting anyway, on the chance that it really is new, or, at least, is new to you.]
Years ago, I had drinks with a high school friend, shortly after he had moved to New York City.
“I’m happy to be here,” he told me. “But I’m not going to let this place change me. I’ll always be a laid-back Californian at heart.”
A few weeks later, we met for drinks again, and he told me he had just nearly shoved an old woman. He had headed down into the subway station on his way to meet me, as the train was pulling in to the stop. At the turnstile, in front of him, an elderly lady was fumbling with her MetroCard.
“Seriously, I was trying to avoid yelling, ‘move it, bitch!'” he admitted. “I actually had to hold myself back from physically throwing her out of the way.”
So, perhaps, New York City life takes it toll on the minds and manners of us who live here. But, really, on balance, we’re actually a pretty sweet group.
Our broader reputation, however, still clearly runs to the contrary.
Every day, on my way to work, I walk through Times’ Square. And, several times a week, I’ll see a family, looking lost, crowded around a giant, unfolded street map.
“You look lost,” I’ll say to them. “Can I point you guys towards anywhere in particular?” At which, they jump, startled, and back away slowly with hands on their purses and wallets.
And that isn’t hyperbole. I mean, literally, the majority of people to whom I offer help seem more or less terrified of me. And I’m a 5’6″ Jewish guy with glasses and a J Crew tie and sweater. Which is to say, I don’t think I’d similarly clear a path at a biker bar.
After months and years of this, however, I’ve started to wonder. Should I be trying to live up to the tourists’ fears, to this city’s reputation? Would the story they’d bring back to Spain or South Dakota be better if I looked them in the eye, and then spat on their feet? Or perhaps, like I sometimes fantasize about doing when I see a group taking pictures of each other in front of the Times Square neon, I could offer to take a picture of all of them together, get them to say cheese, and then, with their camera still clutched in hand, take off running down the street.