“Four Evanston Township High School students have been charged with misdemeanors after a student from New Trier Township High School was pulled from his car and beaten after a close basketball game between the schools.” Yeah, the Harvard-Dartmouth squash heckling incident earlier this month? That can totally suck it. My garbage alma mater is here to bring it. We will pull you out of your car and put you in intensive care when we lose a sporting event. (via)

“About ten years ago, I was doing a weekend of Christmas concerts, accompanied by a fine regional symphony in California… Minutes before I walked onstage the second night, a nervous representative of the orchestra board appeared in my dressing room to tell me that my program was ‘too Jewish.’ Wow, I thought, who knew that orchestra management played practical jokes on artists moments before their shows? My laughter turned to disbelief when the stuttering gentleman said that there had, in fact, been complaints.”
-Michael Feinstein, the popular standards singer who looks so much like a cross between Barry Manilow and Jimmy Fallon, has an op-ed in the Times today about how the Jews totally stole Christmas from the Christians by writing all the best songs about it.

Senator Al Franken (D-MN), presiding over the Senate, shot down a request by Joe Lieberman (MISERABLE PRICK-CT) for an extra minute of speechifying last night, and John McCain (R-AZ) got VERY UPSET, because he had never seen something like that before and it made him worried for “the comity of the Senate.” It’s like some ’80s comedy where the brash young outsider comes in to shake things up and all the stuffy establishment types are horrified, except in this case the brash young outsider is 58 years old, and the things the establishment types are trying to defend aren’t funny at all. Although “comity of the Senate” is a pretty good one.

Why Journalists Should Think Hard About Their Twitter Wallpaper: A small but excellent point!

New York is the least happy state in the nation, according to some new study. In fact, the Tri-State area takes the bottom three slots on the list. Six of the ten happiest states are in the South. And what of Pennsylvania, thought by some to be our greatest state? A melancholy 41. Cheer up, everyone, it could be worse. Oh, right, it will be.

A Jew: They stole the Auschwitz sign??
Me: Yup.
A Jew: Oh girl.
Me: For real.
A Jew: This feels like a Bloomberg plot to me.
Me: Wait. MIKE Bloomberg? You mean, like, he wanted to install it over New York City?
A Jew: Exactly!
Me: Um. Too soon.

Look! Bernie Kerik is totally pumped for his prison stint!

“[Kerik’s] been working out a lot,” said a source close to the ex-lawman, who added that Kerik’s been hitting the weights to pass the time while under home confinement.

Kerik — a former jail warden and city correction commissioner who pleaded guilty to eight felonies, including tax fraud — also seems to be sending a message to any future cellmates that he knows how to handle himself when “lights out” is called.

Good for him! Maybe before he goes away he can give some tips to Joe Bruno.

Now this is happening.

Dear T.,

Sorry for telling you what I was thinking about when you asked me what I was thinking about.

There are times in life when we should lie. Junior year of college, in your bed, having just had sex: this was one of those times.

Your dorm room was so clean and neat, with pink stuff and flower prints. It smelled nice, too. Like soft spices. What had I done to deserve even being there? I’d smoked pot all day and picked my clothes out of a bathtub size pile on my floor. I did this every day. You were pretty and dressed nicely and seemed to have yourself much more together. By dint of beer and dumb luck, you’d started kissing me at a party a few weeks earlier. A friend of yours lived next to a friend of mine. We’d all gone out as a group, got very drunk, got to dancing. You stumbled back to my room with me and we fell into bed. I was painfully hung over the next day and I had to go to New Hampshire, to volunteer for Bob Kerrey’s primary campaign, which turned out to be a mistake. I smiled the whole drive up, though, while my friends teased me. Women didn’t fall into my bed as often as I would have liked them to.

There were reasons for this other than the pot smoking and beer drinking and my wearing dirty clothes. I had chosen to major in philosophy (shorter reading assignments, higher tolerance for utter bullshit in class discussions) and become deeply invested in telling the truth. Too invested. I had read this book, I And Thou by Martin Buber, that talked about the great importance of being open and honest and thoughtful in communication, that this is the only way to show respect for other people as our equals.

At least, that’s what I thought it was about. I probably misunderstood a lot, but I got off on it. I started seeing telling the truth as the most important thing in the world. Truth, as I envisioned it existing in some a priori ideal form, was the ultimate good, the closest thing to god, I suppose, that I believed in. Honesty was the noblest thing a human could aspire to, a spiritual duty. I thought that any lie, no matter how small or how justified by earthly circumstances, was essentially wrong.

I remember arguing that, had I lived in the apartment downstairs from Anne Frank in Amsterdam in 1942, though I thought that I would have probably lied to Nazi soldiers if they came asking questions, I also thought that, in the grand scheme of things, my doing so would have hurt the universe in some perhaps indiscernible, but important way. (So embarrassing to think about now. Like, the sound of my lying voice was going to bore a hole in the sky and burn a “Minus 1” mark on the collective soul-a glowing blue orb of pure truth.)

So, while I didn’t feel compelled to voice my every true feeling-I didn’t go around telling strangers their shirts were ugly-I tried hard to never lie. Not even a little bit. Needless to say, it was impractical. And exhausting. One time a new friend, Jim, had come over to smoke pot in my room. While I was packing the pipe, I mentioned that another friend, Todd might be calling.

“Oh, tell him I’m not here if he calls,” Jim said.

I forget why. Nothing important. But before I could explain to Jim how difficult this seemingly easy request would be for me, the phone rang.

“Hey Todd,” I said, as Jim held his finger to his lips.

Todd asked me what I was doing.

“Nothing. Hanging out.” I paused, struggling, and said, “Jim’s here.”

Jim’s jaw dropped and I mouthed him an “I’m sorry.” After I hung up, he asked me why I had done that. When I explained, he thought I was pulling his leg.

“Come on,” he said. “You never lie?”

Then he cracked up, like I had just told a good joke. It does seem pretty funny, looking back.

But what a terribly selfish way to behave. What business was it of mine if Jim didn’t want Todd to know where he was? Like I couldn’t have endured something so trivial in order to spare him what must have been a bit of discomfort, no matter how minor, the next time they spoke. I was living by a code that amounted to imposing my beliefs on other people. Like a religious zealot. Yuck.

And you, T., you got the worst of it, probably, of anyone. We were having fun, sleeping together every other night or so. The kind of good, healthy, casual fun lots of co-eds enjoy often, and often with the same partner for more than a couple weeks at a time. But here’s a truth that I’m more aware of now than I was then: I was still in love with my old girlfriend from high school, who had dumped me and broken my heart more than a year before.

One would think having new sex with different people ought to be curative in this regard. But these things are rarely simple. Despite how stoned and ragamuffin I imagine I looked to others, I couldn’t really do anything casually at that point in my life. Not even have fun. And because of the vision quest I took myself to be on at this middle-range liberal arts school in Connecticut, I brought my hang ups into your bed.

We were lying there, sweaty and quiet, our heads on your pillows when you said, “What are you thinking about?”

Now, as notorious as this question is-I believe it was Andrew Dice Clay who once said, “If I wanted you to know, I’d be talking…”-it really shouldn’t be that big a deal. And it’s understandable that it would be asked. It’s quiet. Two people getting to know each other, in an intimate situation, the silence starts to take on a weight, you want to make conversation.

It shouldn’t have been that big a deal, even if I didn’t want to tell you what I was thinking. I could have said, “Nothing,” for example. That would have been fine. Or I could have just made something up, switched my focus to another thought: “It smells nice in here.” “Who painted that picture of the flowers?” “I’m supposed to read such-and-such for class tomorrow.” Whatever.

It was really not okay for me to leave the question hanging for as long as I did and then say, “I was thinking I was worried about your feelings being hurt. Because I don’t know that I see this relationship lasting very long.”

I thought I was being good and noble and respecting you more as a person by telling the whole, honest, undiluted truth. I was not. I was being an asshole.

Sincerely,

Dave

“Chain of Hyper Space scenes from films.” (via)