When animals attack...

Inspired by the mauling of the poor guy who made the greatest mistake of his life by trying to celebrate his former pet chimp's 39th birthday, I decided to do a little research about the strength of chimpanzees. You see, ever since that tragic news story graced Yahoo's webpage I've been bandying about the claim that chimps are 5 times as strong as humans with very little evidence to support it (some might assert that I offer no evidence - and they'd be right). After a few productive hours online, I think I've turned the tide. To the extent that the Internet is a reliable source of information, the following exerpt from straightdope.com should provide proof of the validity of my statements:

"It's a lot easier to get a chimp in roller skates than it is to get him to pump iron--hence, most of the data on chimp strength is anecdotal and decidedly unscientific. In tests at the Bronx Zoo in 1924, a dynamometer--a scale that measures the mechanical force of a pull on a spring--was erected in the monkey house. A 165-pound male chimpanzee named "Boma" registered a pull of 847 pounds, using only his right hand (although he did have his feet braced against the wall, being somewhat hip, in his simian way, to the principles of leverage). A 165-pound man, by comparison, could manage a one-handed pull of about 210 pounds. Even more frightening, a female chimp, weighing a mere 135 pounds and going by the name of Suzette, checked in with a one-handed pull of 1,260 pounds. (She was in a fit of passion at the time; one shudders to think what her boyfriend must have looked like next morning.) In dead lifts, chimps have been known to manage weights of 600 pounds without even breaking into a sweat. A male gorilla could probably heft an 1,800-pound weight and not think twice about it."

Now this may just be my fascination with animals talking, but, DAMN, those statistics are amazing - and, as if it needs to be said, terrifying. I remember hearing about chimps ripping monkeys in pieces during hunting raids, but what I did not realize was that doing the same to a human being would require just slightly more effort on the ape's part. I guess the moral of the story is that chimpanzees are like gremlins: adorable creatures that are okay to keep as pets so long as you don't engage in certain conduct, i.e., feed them after midnight or get them wet (or, in this case, bake them a birthday cake).

Nobody wants me...

Boohoo.

Remember that job I was blathering on about just a few days ago? The one that I proclaimed was waiting for the right person to bring them to the "next level"? Well, a few recent developments - one in particular - lead me to the unavoidable conclusion that the firm is quite content with its current level. According to the kindly worded letter I received last Friday, there is no need whatsoever for advancement on the level front - at least at the current time (is that a glimmer of hope I see?). Nevertheless, the kind words contained within said notice of rejection did suggest that next summer might be a more appropriate time for the strenuous exercise known to those who play way too many video games as "level-upping" (yes, perhaps it is).

At this point, I fully understand the state of shock you are no doubt experiencing; however, I must assure you that you read the following news correctly: for whatever foolhardy reason, the powers that be made the incalculably detrimental (to their profits and my self-esteem) decision to not accept my services as their undying slave over the summer.

On the plus side, this outcome - and the accompanying emotional coma I am now in the throes of - strongly suggests that I will be home this summer, for the benefit of my mental well-being, if nothing else. Now, the question is whether a return to California will be one consisting of employment and the furtherance of my fledgling legal career or long periods spent on the couch watching early afternoon Maury reruns. Only time will tell.

Time travel is possible.

All you need is the right song.

It has been my experience - and I'm sure the experience of many people out there - that listening to music during poignant, impactful, and sometimes even trivial events during life can have the consequence of indelibly etching those moments into one's long-term memory. Later, when you listen to the song, the aural experience transports you back in time to that exact instant of intersection between space, time and sound. Immediately, the memory comes rushing back, replete with the visuals, sensations, and emotions of that now distant moment. I have no explanation for this phenomenon, nor do I have a need for one, but I do have an appreciation for it's effects.

In my vast catalogue of music, there are songs that can take me to virtually all of the places I've travelled or lived during life, from locations as far away as London to those as close as the streets I grew up on in Fairfield; songs that can bring me back to different holidays, parties, get-togethers, vacations, and reunions (Accidentally in Love, anyone?); songs that grant me renewed access to the years, eras, and junctures of growing up whether they be good or bad.

To be able to escape reality, if just for a moment, and bask in the glow of times past is a glorious thing.

(This post inspired by the sounds of Alodiah's great music.)

Wish me luck.

In other news, I had an interview at a law firm on Friday, which, in very uncertain terms, seemed to go pretty well. From the few hours I spent there with various partners and associates, I gather that they seem to be very interested in my science background, particularly the time I spent in working in biotech. That and the possibility of me taking their IP department "to the next level." Their words, not mine. No ego here.

Comments fixed?

According to the latest news, Blogspot (or whatever the company's name is that allows me to carry on this nonsense) has fixed the way that comments can be left. Since nobody who looks at this site ever responds (except for Josh aka anonymous), that announcement might not make your day, but if it was the Blogspot-mandated process in which you were forced to be involved that prevented you from doing so, fear not, for a new era is upon us. Let the compliments begin!

By the way, Josh, your comments that don't involve insults are highly appreciated.

Like a bolt of lightning

Eveything was fine in the early morning; I went to class, then to a meeting with my lawyering group to discuss our forthcoming mediation session. But as soon as I returned home from that meeting, a rumbling began in the deep pits of my bowels. Within minutes, it was obvious that something was horribly wrong. In a desperate attempt to return to normalcy, I submitted to a nap for a few hours. Sadly, my effort was in vain, for when I awoke the virus had taken hold of my being, leaving me feverish and on the brink of a major purging. To combat the malevolent machinations of the virus, I ordered soup - japanese udon to be specific - for dinner, purchased Tums, and consumed numerous massive cups of orange juice as well as a dose of Theraflu. Then, I topped it all off with a Tylenol PM and passed out at 10 PM.

Thankfully, after the marathon sleep session, I'm feeling like the devil has, for the most part, released his grasp on my insides. My only hope now is that I'm feeling chipper enough tomorrow to perform well at the job interview I have scheduled for 2 o'clock.

Want a small glimpse of law school?

I'm sure you don't, but I'm too tired and sick-feeling to whip up anything more than what I am already working on. So here goes:

"Our client, Mr. Adam Young, believes he has been the victim of discrimination in violation of the New York City Administrative Code, section 8-107. The alleged discrimination comes in the form of the denial of a routine lease renewal by his current landlord.

Mr. Young is an African-American of West Indian descent who has resided in a rent-stabilized one-bedroom apartment at 837 Cloremount Avenue, Brooklyn since 1995. He is a successful advertising executive who makes timely rental payments; in fact, he is one of just a handful of tenants who has set up automatic payment of the rent from his bank account. Over the past eight years, he has successfully renewed his two-year lease four separate times by sending a short letter to the management of the building requesting a renewal. Though his interactions with the neighbors are limited, many of them hold him in high regard and, up until April 2004, he had never been the recipient of a complaint.

Last January, the building was sold to Clemens Properties, Inc. Lee Clemens, the new owner, also hired Jesse Jones as superintendent. About two months later, Alex Pierce, a caucasion graduate student at a nearby medical center, moved in with Mr. Young. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Pierce adopted a stray dog named Cleo, a Shepard-retriever mix. Mr. Young’s lease does not prohibit him from having a roommate or a dog.

The dog, however, did manage to cause some slight problems with the other tenants in the building. Several complaints were made directly to Mr. Young regarding the loud barking of the dog (although, to his knowledge, not to the building management). One complaint came from Ms. McArdle, who lives one floor above Mr. Young and also finds the “baby in 5A” and the “collie in 4A” to be “chronic nuisance[s]”. Mr. Young attributes the dog’s troublesome behavior to its new environment and maintains that the noise situation has been resolved. Ms. Fox, who lives in Apartment 4C and is a neighbor of Mr. Young, corroborates this claim. There was one additional incident during which the dog, though on a leash, jumped up on another of his neighbors, Ms. Dreier, in the elevator, but it is not clear whether she complained to anyone other than Mr. Young. Mr. Young asserts that she overreacted to the dog’s playful behavior, but has since made certain to keep the dog away from the other tenants and always keeps the dog on a leash.

Since Mr. Pierce moved in with him, Mr. Young has had several unpleasant encounters with Mr. Jones, the new superintendent. Most disturbingly, he was prevented from entering the building one night as he returned from work by a handyman who let him pass only when Mr. Jones allowed it. Neither Mr. Jones nor the handyman apologized or offered an explanation for the incident. This treatment angered Mr. Young but he did not make a formal complaint. Mr. Jones also ignored Mr. Young’s request to repair a window in his apartment, even though he had quickly fixed a faucet leak soon after Mr. Pierce moved in. Mr. Young also noticed that Mr. Jones did not greet him and tended to speak in a condescending tone, if at all, while other residents were treated more respectfully. Mr. Pierce also claims similar treatment from Mr. Jones, as well as from the residents of the building.

Persevering despite the incidents, in December 2004, Mr. Young sent a letter of renewal to Mr. Clemens as he had done with the previous building owners. The renewal was denied with no explanation. After Mr. Young repeatedly attempted to determine the reason for the refusal, Mr. Clemens told him that there had been complaints about the dog; Mr. Young suspects a more invidious motive. Our investigation uncovered evidence that one tenant, Mr. Foote, accompanied by his neighbor, Mr. Stevens, complained to Mr. Jones about the “mixed, backward, and unnatural” relationship Mr. Young and Mr. Pierce shared. In reaction to this, Mr. Jones made a brief phonecall and promised that management “would do what it could to remedy the situation.” There was also evidence that other tenants made similarly derogatory remarks and treated Mr. Pierce with what he perceived to be obvious disapproval (is this true?).

Given close to 10 years as a model tenant, Mr. Young is understandably indignant over the discriminatory treatment from Mr. Clemens and his staff and the undeserved renewal rejection. Furthermore, he has suffered a great deal of pain and anguish due to the situation. He seeks relief from the New York City Commission of Human rights for the discrimination detailed herein."

Black and Blue

After an extended weekend like this last one, the normal expectation is to emerge rested, relaxed and ready to capitalize on the remainder of the week. Instead, I feel beat up, both physically and economically. Starting with the Stroock reception at Jane last Thursday, I've been on a tear, alternating between socializing, recovering, and studying when the other two have run their respective courses. The most important lesson I learned this weekend was not law related; rather, it was that four days in a row of going out can have a dramatic drain on one's energy levels and have a visible impact on one's countenance. Not to mention the fact that prolonged fun can also be an incredible drain on one's wallet - although that might have more to do with a single night at BLVD than anything else.

Unfortunately, I'm in the midst of being a vicitm of that fairly obvious phenomenon right now. I think a respite from socializing is in order.

Oh, and sorry for lack of updates.

ALAN ADSBE....

is forthcoming.

And here it is. ALAN ADSBE is an anagram of a pair of words that adorned the chests of Ron, Rich, Peter and I as part of our costume for the 1st Annual Inappropriate Individuals Party, hosted last Saturday at the law school. Obviously, this was not a school-sanctioned party; it was hosted by a girl who dressed as Janet Jackson from the super bowl, complete with wardrobe malfunction and aluminum foil jewelry.

But before we get to that, I should mention my birthday celebration the night before. With a well-crafted email espousing my more admirable traits, Brian managed to wrangle about 10 or so people to a swanky restaurant/bar/loft in the East Village called Essex, which serves a interesting variety of Latin fusion cuisine (for example, I selected calamari with habanero guacamole as an appetizer). The atmosphere - high ceilings, skylights, and elevated eating area - was awesome; the food less so (but still acceptable). The beverages, of course, were fantastic (I had a delicious mango margarita and the staff even offered our entire party free liquor at the bar once we had finished our meal, a reward we indulged in liberally.

At this point a few more people showed up, and to show my appreciation I immediately ordered our posse to abandon Essex and migrate towards Pioneer, which I mistakenly thought was a block or two away. At Pioneer, drinks flowed freely and inhibitions dispersed like knowledge of Contract law after the final. Accordingly, someone who will not be named spilled a drink on his fellow patrons for no apparent reason and someone else almost entered into a physical confrontation with a person suspected of being a member of the Russian Mafia. Good times and I'm happy no one got killed (a reference to the latter predicament)

Now back to our regularly scheduled program. The Inappropriate Individuals event turned out to be a blast, mainly because (1) my roommates were intoxicated beyond belief (one dressed up as a priest and the other an altar boy) and (2) our costume drew so much positive attention. If you cannot figure out what was spelled out on our chests and why the costume was as beloved as it was, I will give you a hint: we wore Mardi Gras BEADS that night. Frankly, I'd rather people didn't know what it said, as I am a little bit embarrassed by the juvenile nature of our creation, so don't put too much effort into deciphering the code.

After leaving D'AG and the inappropriate individuals stationed there and after multiple Forks in the Neck delivered by Peter, we ventured over to Town Tavern, a bar that recently opened up adjacent to Fat Black. There, we drank quite a few beverages with our new best friend, Courtney, who was kind enough to meet up after avoiding my birthday celebration the night prior. Never one to disappoint, Peter soon managed to get 86'ed from the bar for either constantly going in and out of the entrance or starting a fight with the bouncer - no one is sure which of these actions was the true cause but rest assured, in his state of drunkeness, both were more than sufficient. I, for one, salute the bouncer for the public service he performed by removing Peter from the crowded interior where he was bound to administer a true "Fork in the Neck". Following his shameful discharge, Peter, honorable and noble as always, chose to direct his anger toward a more worthy opponent - a five-foot tall irate female. Fortunately, Courtney quickly quelled the commotion and, with a rallying cry of "Pioneer", we sped off in search of fame and fortune at our favorite bar in NYC.

The remainder of the night has been captured in pictures, but not my memory. Well, that's not completely true; I actually remember most of what happened it's just not exciting enough to bore you with. One last thing, if you are ever considering walking to Greenwich Village from Gramercy Tavern at 4 A.M., don't.

After years of bad-mouthing the Ipod as an over-priced, over-hyped, featureless mp3 player that is not much more than a pretty package, I joined the light side with my first Ipod purchase - a 512 MB Shuffle. Tail between my legs, I offer my sincerest apologies for being a hypocrit.

OK Karaoke

Normally, karaoke repulses me. The very idea - a mob of people who collectively could not hold a note if their lives depended on it subjecting an audience to banshee-like renditions of "Living on a Prayer" because they have consumed enough alcohol to blur the line of what is acceptable in society and what is morally reprehensible - elicits a visceral response from me that is one notch below nausea.

However, I learned (late) yesterday night that, when confined to a private room, karaoke becomes acceptable and, dare I say it, fun. Peter, a bunch of his friends, some randoms we met at Tortilla Flats, and I spent hours in this trippy karaoke bar in the East Village/Alphabet City assaulting each other's auditory sensibilities and loving every minute of it. Performances ranged from pathetic to rousing, with the gold star going to Peter for his table-top Bon Jovi impression. Also noteworthy: a tear-jerking "Lean on Me".

Good times.

Snow good; sludge BAD

How quickly a winter wonderland transforms into a disgusting, muddy swamp of melted snow, wet dirt, and slow moving pedestrains. Yuck.

New Season of Apprentice - Degrees vs. Diplomas

A true statement: being in Manhattan allows you to truly appreciate this show to its fullest extent. I actually came to this somewhat obvious realization early last semester when I witnessed what I predict will be a marketing ploy related to one the show's forthcoming tasks (look for sky-writing and Home Depot). In fact, on numerous occasions last semester I almost made the trek up to Trump Tower for the free weekly showings at the World Bar to complete the reality TV experience. And this is in spite of my utter contempt for the Donald and his delusions of grandeur (I do agree that his fiance is pretty attractive).

Now, I would be remiss if I didn't add that I am and will always be a reality TV fan - it's just that much better than its competition. (Well, that is, except for a few points of light on an otherwise pitch black sky, e.g., Arrested Development and, according to the critics, Desperate Housewives). Even in the face of the backlash that is presently in vogue, I am resolute in my support and will vigorously defend the merits of reality TV. Regular and sometimes irregular people in stressful, ridiculous, or just plain contrived situations makes for television far superior to the trite, repetitive, spoken-by-a-dopey-father-to-a-misbehaving-adolescent as-the-stern-mother-looks-on jokes that are the standard fare of the average sitcom. If you don't agree with my position, there is no doubt in my mind that you must have missed such venerable reality TV classics as Average Joe (nerds vs. jocks competing for the affection of a model) and Joe Schmo (a nromal person is thrown into a fake reality TV show and is duped beyond belief).

But I digress. From the first episode of the new Apprentice, it seems as if the High Schoolers are going to be dominating the more educated but otherwise inept College-educateds. But, if there is one thing I know from being a reality TV veteran, its that nothing is as it appears. One thing, however, is certain: Apprentice and the new Survivor should make for good TV and a welcome distraction from law school.

It figures

Due to some late night partying yesterday across the street at Off the Wagon, a bar best known as an NYU undergrad hang-out, I finally managed to soil my perfect attendance record, sleeping through my Property class. Damn you free drinks and friendly law students - I was proud of being so virtuous! Now that I've tasted the sweet nectar of truancy, only time will tell if I fall into a routine of slacking and fail out of law school under a cloud of shame.

Lucky for me (or not, depending on how you look at it), something happened while I was sleeping away the previous night that militates to maintaining my good behavior - the professor called on me to answer a question. Not being there, I of course could not and someone in the class had to say something to the effect of "he's not here". Any other time, this event would have been benign, but, because I was absent, her wrath is sure to be incited and I will undoubtedly pay a high price.

I now strive for 99% attendance, a lofty goal but an attainable one.

Just prior to the festivities. We put up all of our rejection letters on the blank wall. This seemed to stir up quite about of conversation, focusing on either the absurd amount of applications we've sent out or the fact that all the letters in reply are identically worded, even down to the "we are so impressed with your qualifications" bs compliment. Oh, and if you couldn't tell from my apartment-mates, we dressed up to complete the illusion.

A flier from our reception-themed party. Even though we didn't send out many invites, it was attended by a lot of people. Not quite as many as the Halloween bash, but we still managed to fill up the apartment and the outside hallway. 

We couldn't resist

To celebrate the start of the new semester, we are proud to be having a smalll party this Friday. In keeping with the previous one, we decided the party must be themed. I thought that since we are presently being bombarded by invites to firm receptions, we should host our own. My roommates agreed. Even the attorneys at the event tonight threw their support behind us, submitting ideas as to how we could make the reception even more authentic.

Check out our invite:

Dear NYU Law Student,

Bramhall, Rus and Carlson LLP invites the NYU School of Law Class of 2007 to join lawyers and summer associates from our Fairfield, Bucharest, and Sebeka offices for a cocktail reception at Club 709 bar and lounge, located in Suite 709 at 110 W 3rd St.

Friday, January 21, 2005 9:00 - 12:00 PM

Truly international, different... and better. Bramhall, Rus and Carlson LLP is one of the world's newest international law firms, with 3 lawyers in 1 dorm. We may someday specialize on high-profile, cutting-edge matters for top global businesses and organizations.

We have opportunities for ambitious, highly capable JD graduates, not only in California and Romania, but also across rural Minnesota.

RSVP through EmplawyerNet

Business Casual attire and beer to share is suggested

PS. Due to recent allegations of sexual misconduct, there will be no private interviews held in Tudor’s champagne room.

PPS. We'll provide jello shots, mixers, and some beer, but BYOL (liquor).

My NYE

(setting the scene: I'm staying with a few friends at one guy's brother's apartment in downtown Manhattan)

Somewhat early in the morning of the 31st, I awoke to the loud whining of Dan, who in his rush to secure what he assumed was the premiere sleeping spot the night before, had laid claim to the "midget" couch. This turned out to be a major mistake because in order to get any kind of sleep he had to either curl up in the fetal position or let his feet hang off the side. As Dan would attest this morning, neither orientation offered even the semblance of comfort.

To drown out the incessant complaining, we engaged in a few rise-and-shine games of Bomberman and Mario Kart. Fortunately, Ro’s mom showed up right as we were waking up and made each one of us a tasty chicken sandwich for brunch so that we didn’t have to leave the apartment. Her good intentions were obvious, but I am a firm believer that she had an ulterior motive: to allow us to play video games uninterrupted. She is Ro’s mom after all.

Sufficiently nourished, we then headed out to pick up Peter’s luggage and dry cleaning for the big night. To this end, Dan, Josh, Peter and I trekked from the financial district through the madness at Canal St. to Peter’s friend Mike’s apartment on 14th or somewhere in that vicinity. On the way, we made a pit stop at Gray’s Papaya, where big-spender Dan purchased a bucket of papaya juice to flex his financial muscles. An investment guru if I have ever met one, he drank less than half of the 64 ounces and threw the remainder away. Perhaps this is an indicator that his forthcoming business ventures aren’t going to be the cash cow he envisions.

At some point, Josh and Dan caught the train back to Ro’s brother's place while Peter and I grabbed his stuff and caught a cab to NYU. Once there, we primped and preened (not each other) until everyone showed up for dinner.

Unable to decide on a place to eat, we let Peter do the honors. Of course, that meant we would invariably end up at one of two places: Sammy’s Noodle Shop or Funayama. Since this was a special night, Peter lead us to the latter, a sushi spot which serves up gargantuan slices of fish and, on New Year’s Eve, we were pleased to see, free champagne.

Following the meal, we purchased some alcohol and played a variation on quarters called Baseball to pass the time. Despite Sarah’s inability to make a quarter bounce, Dan and I triumphed. During the middle of our second game, Peter received what I can only assume was a frantic call from one of his friends who was already at Pioneer (ultimately, opposition to the Tribeca party won out). Apparently, it was “getting packed” and quick action on our part was the only guarantee of securing entry into what was sure to be a sold-out Pioneer New Year’s Eve party. By our standards, it was still too early to head to a bar – it was about 10:15 - but we heeded the advice of the anonymous phone-caller anyway and hightailed it out of my apartment and into cabs.

Suffice it to say, Pioneer was not packed by any means. Even so, we paid our $75 and entered Peter’s second home. Since it was early, we sat down at a table and began drinking in earnest. Most of the conversation centered around the lack of attractive females and, more interestingly, how to tie a balloon to an unsuspected bar patron. In spite of what you may think, the latter needs no explanation.

A few hours later, when leaving Pioneer, we emerged to find an somewhat irritated Ro, struggling to hold up his somewhat intoxicated girlfriend. Seeing him in such a state, I came over to offer my support and, unexpectedly, was met with a punch to the face. Hardened through years of playing fighting games, Ro’s iron fist damaged my face to such an extent that my lip actually became a bit swollen. A mutilated lip would not stop me, however, from eating a breakfast at Gramercy Diner. Nor would it earn me any sympathy that night, as I was forced to sleep on the midget couch as Dan had the night before. How quickly we turn our back on those in need.

And, yes, if you were wondering, he did apologize. Now to get even!

Movie that you might not expect to be any good but is:

Shaun of the Dead

Saw this little gem over the break and was very pleasantly surprised. Perhaps I shouldn't have been; British humor always manages to tickle my funny bone for some inexplicable reason. Two moments I found particularly hilarious:

1) Shaun and his deadbeat friend throwing records at the first zombies they encounter for purposes of decaptitation

2) Shaun and his compatriots beating a zombie with pool cues to the beat of Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now"

Never done this before.

Presently, I’m writing this on the plane, soaring 37,043 ft above Madison, Wisconsin. Pardon me if this post comes out a bit awkward, as I am currently 75% occupied watching TV (I’m on JetBlue, of course); specifically, I’m watching the Dog Whisperer, a National Geographic program about a dog psychologist. Despite how it may sound, it really is quite good. At the moment, Caesar, the somewhat-gay canine-therapist, is training the gremlin out of this nasty little Chihuahua. And, as usual (this isn’t my first time watching the program), his magic is working.

But I digress. The real reason for this departure from my normal in-air habits is to recall an awkward but funny-in-retrospect situation from the flight home. What makes that flight worth discussing is that I was unfortunately assigned a seat next to the person whom you would least want to sit next to on a 6-hour flight. No, not an overly talkative old woman (they can be somewhat entertaining – for 15 minutes). And, no, I’m not alluding to a screaming baby, although that would be quite bad, too.

As luck would have it, JetBlue granted me a seat adjacent to a 20-something male with a gigantic ‘fro. And by this, I don’t intend to conjure images of the standard, circular, dome-like afro we have all come to love and respect. The massive afro atop this guy's head was more like a porcupine or a puffer fish in defensive position, complete with quills or spines (depending on which analogy you prefer) that measured feet instead of inches.

Now, on its own, the mere fact that a guy with a huge 'fro sat next to me on a plane would not have caused much of a problem, nor been worthy of a mention on this Pulitzer prize-deserving website. And, as most of my friends can attest, I’m not one of those people that would publicly insult a person just because he or she opts for a different lifestyle or mode of dress. Nevertheless, I am a firm believer in the fact that if you happen to have a possibly hazardous and annoying hairstyle, you should make sure to keep it under control for the sake of your fellow man.

This guy, however, was so tired that he could not keep his hair from constantly bombarded me and the girl sitting on his other side. It was a classic case of the uncontrollable head-drop – everyone, I’m sure, remembers watching an exhausted (or bored) classmate in high school struggling to keep his forehead from colliding with the desk. It was funny back then, yes, but it loses much of its comedic value when the offending head almost ends up on your shoulder and the offending 'fro blocks your view of the TV.

The guy with the 'fro is on this flight. I wonder what unsuspecting sap is stuck in the seat next to him. Thankfully, it’s not me and I’m able to watch the Dog Whisperer with a clear view.