Craig Coffey: August 2008 Archives

I have to get something off my chest.  Something that has plagued me since I was a child.  I have a dark secret that makes me different than many of you...

I don't like sports

There... I said it...

I dislike almost every sport that I can think of.  In fact, I can't even say I want to like them, because I don't.  I am quite content being immune to their seductive dance.  I don't feel as if their absence has left a gaping hole in my life.

Ok, this really isn't really that much of a secret.  I am actually quite open about it with everybody I meet.  But, no matter how honest I am, it is a concept that never ceases to confuse sports fans.  You see, they cannot seem to comprehend a world without sports.  To them, it's like saying you don't like Oxygen (the element, not the channel).

Sports Fan: You see the game last night?

Me: No, sorry, I don't watch any sports.

Sports Fan: ...you mean... you didn't watch any sports... last night, right?

Me: No... I mean, I don't watch any sports... ever.

Sports Fan: I... I... don't understand... so what do you do while you're drinking beer?

Me: Yeah, I don't drink beer either.

Sports Fan faints

I don't know... Perhaps there is an area of the human brain that allows (even forces) men to like sports,  If so, then that area of my brain is stunted, missing, or has been overwritten with more important data, like the proper spelling of the word "frottage".  As you can see in the diagram below, I have an otherwise normal male brain:

It's more complicated than a simple dislike of sports; I cannot even comprehend how anyone else can like most of them.  Watching Football, Soccer and Baseball is almost tolerable.  But Golf?  Fishing!?  NASCAR?!? 

Me: So... They go around the track... how many times?

Sports Fan: Five hundred.

Me: And... you... watch this... the entire time?

Sports Fan: Yes, now shush, they are changing tires, this is my favorite part.

Me: *glack* (the sound of me stabbing myself in the eye with a pen)

Whenever I am forced to attend a sporting event of some sort, I always feel completely out of place.  Like I am visiting a foreign land.  One where the "natives" paint their bodies, speak a very strange language ("...batta batta batta SWING batta batta...") and gesticulate wildly over seemingly ordinary things.

It is because of this that I often feel lost when I am around sports fans.  Like I am unable to communicate with these "natives" in a meaningful way. I find myself looking at the people around me in order to figure out how to do the most mundane things, like cheering.  I am fearful that if I don't cheer at precisely the right time they will all point at me and screech in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" fashion, identifying me as the heathen interloper as they all converge on me.  This would, naturally, then be followed by them all fighting over the choicest bits of Craig-meat which they would later use to feed their hungry sports-loving brood.

So, when I am around the more enthusiastic sports fans, I have learned a trick that masks my dislike.  I am always a fan of the rival team.  They are always way too angry to realize that I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about...

Sports Fan: Dammit!  The Rangers lost last night!

Me: Who were they playing against?

Sports Fan: The Islanders

Me: Well, then it's not surprising that they lost, the Islanders are a much better team.

Sports Fan dies from a massive cerebral hemorrhage.

Sure... it may, one day, get me killed.

But it beats watching Golf.

Ok, I'm serious here people.

The word "Literally" is not used for emphasis.

You were not literally "hanging by your fingernails".

You have never literally "flown through the air".

Sadly, you will never literally "die from starvation".

And, thankfully, it is unlikely you will ever be literally "scared shitless".

Please stop it.

I don't want to have to literally kill you.

Allow me to introduce the next example of "Words that are technically being used correctly, but don't make any damn sense". I introduced the concept in a previous entry with the word "Terrific" (which is just like "Horrific", but somehow... good).  Today's word is:

Incredible.

I am sure you use it, and hear it used all the time.  "You're incredible", "That movie was really incredible", "Craig Coffey is absolutely incredible!", etc.  The meaning, in this context, being "amazing" or "awesome".  But... look at the word!  No, wait... first, let's look at some other similar words:

• inedible - not edible
• intolerable - not tolerable
• infallible - not fallible
• inscrutable - not scrutable
• insane - not sane

Ok, now I am sure that even the slowest members of the audience can see where I am going with this.  There is no question about it, "incredible" means "not credible".

I don't know about you, but when someone says that something is not credible, I generally consider that a bad thing.  But, somehow, somewhere along the line, incredible changed its meaning to: "so amazing as to be unbelievable".  Sure... you can see the connection, but c'mon... this is a stretch.  As with the word "terrific", it does open up some possibilities for insulting people to their face without them knowing it though...

Me: You are terrific!

Boss: Stop... I'm blushing.

Me: No! I mean it... you really are incredible!

Boss: Here... have a raise.

That might come in kinda handy.  Like a verbal weapon, to be used in those rare situations where it is not a good move to say things like:

"I hate you!  I hate you more than mere words can describe!  If each ounce of hatred were a grain of sand, my hatred for you would be a galaxy filled with dessert planets all baking under an angry sun!  I hope your car breaks down on the way home, and you are eaten alive by hungry squirrels!"

What can I say?  I have the soul of a poet (I keep it in a jar).

Granted, the word "incredible" doesn't quite provide the same level of satisfaction, but it helps take a bit of the sting out of some situations.  And, as a bonus, you get to remain employed/married/alive/etc.

Now, as valuable as it is to use a good word in bad ways, I cannot help but wonder if it's possible to twist a bad word into a good one using the same logic.  Put differently, would it be possible to insult somebody and make them believe it was not insulting?...

Co-worker: I heard what you said about me!

Me: Oh... You're welcome.

Co-worker: That's right! You better apolog-- wait... what?

Me: I said, you're welcome.

Co-worker: But... you told everyone that I was retarded!

Me: Yes, but "retarded" means "delayed", and "delayed" means "deferred", and "deferred" means "Committed or entrusted to another".  So, you see, I was merely pointing out that you were worthy of our trust.

Co-worker: Oh... um... ok... um... thanks then.

Me: You're welcome, retard.

Haha... that would be great!  This type of English anomaly is totally cool!  It's like having a language within a language; one that only we understand.  I suppose we could just speak Latin to each other, but that might just make us seem like pretentious douchebags (and we wouldn't want that!).

Besides... I don't know Latin.  So I guess we'll just have to stick with Plan A.

But I can't keep referring to everyone that I dislike as terrific and incredible all the time.  I am certain that even the densest of them might begin to catch on after a month or so.  Thus, our path is clear.  We need to find more of these wonderfully malleable words.  Perhaps one day, we will build an arsenal of oratory stealth weaponry with which to wage battle against our enemies.

Until then we will just have to persevere.

Or just use standard insults.

Whichever.

In my youth, I used to play alot of Poker -- and, by Poker I am referring primarily to 5-card draw, which is Poker as God intended it.  For a while there, my friends and I played cards almost every weekend.  We'd gather at my friend Dave's house, order up some pizzas and spend the entire night taking each others money.

Although 5-card draw was my favorite, we played other Poker variants, like 7-card stud.  We introduced a few others over the years, but we generally stuck to the basics.  It wasn't until we were all much older that one of us introduced Texas Hold'em into the mix.

In a moment, this will become abundantly clear, but I'd like to state it plainly...

I really hate Texas Hold'em. 

It wasn't until I began writing this entry that I realized why it is that I hate it so much.  I mean, I love poker, right?  So why would a particular variant piss me off so damn much?  Let me see if I can properly explain.  My loathing falls along a few lines...

First, although there are multiple ways to play the game, the one that was made popular by the World Series of Poker TV program is called "No Limit"...

I have to stop here for a second.  I thought the human race had reached a low point in it's history with the widespread popularity of "reality" shows.  But, what kind of horrible strain of "stupid" has infected the people that watch the World Series of Poker?  I mean, holy crap... you are actually watching people playing cards!

Ok, sorry, back to the topic... where was I? Oh, yeah, "No Limit".  This is a great concept for a tournament, but for playing at home?  Wow does this suck:

Me: Ok, I'm all in!

Player: I call.

Me: Ha!  Bad move.  I have a Full House!

Player: Fool!  I have a Royal Flush.

Me: Dammit! That was only the first hand, and I am already out of chips.

Player: Whatever.  Loser.  Hit the road.

Ha!  What a friendly game.  I can see why so many people like it.  I sometimes wonder if I'd be better off simply hurling my "buy in" onto the front lawn of my friends house as I drive by, just to save time.  I wish that was the worst of it, but unlike other poker games, this game has spawned it's own vocabulary.  Let see that same conversation in hold'em-ish: 

Me: Ok, I'm all in!

Player: I had the nuts on the flop!  And you are short stacked anyway, so I call!

Me: Ha!  Bad move... wait... what?

Player: Fool!  I had broadway on the turn!  And you were probably drawing dead all the way to the river! 

Me: I... um... are you high?

Player: You totally sucked out! 

Me: Can I go home?

You can see how this would make playing the game even more tedious.  But Hold'em players did not stop at creating their own language.  No, alas, they went on to creating their own system of math as well.

I am not questioning the realities of the situation here.  The cards that come up are based upon sound statistics and probability principles just like any Poker game.  They are well documented and well tested, but not even remotely understood by Hold'em players. 

These are not mathematicians we are talking about here.  The average Hold'em player needs a calculator for flash cards.  At one point it was suggested to me, by one of these mathematical marvels, that if I shuffled the cards too much, I would unshuffle them.  Then again, this is the same person that insisted that "8, 2 unsuited is the best starting hand in the game" (No, I am not kidding.  Sadly, neither was he).  Genius.

But now, suddenly, they are all experts in statistics and probability; able to instantly and accurately calculate the odds on every hand.  Let's have a shot at that conversation one more time:

Me: Ok, I'm all in!

Player: Since I had the nuts on the flop, there is a 65.2% chance that I have you beat, so I call!

Me: Ha! Bad move... wait, 65.2%? Where the hell are you getting that from?

Player: Fool! I started with a 52.4% chance of winning, and then I made broadway on the turn, increasing my chances by 25.3%!

Me:  Asshat... That doesn't even add up.

Player: I am going to kick 35.2% of your ass!

Me: Bring it!  Bitch!

For the few times that I have suffered from a colossal lapse of judgment -- the kind brought on by severe head trauma -- and have actually agreed to play Texas Hold'em, this last mock conversation seems like a fairly accurate account.

So, if you play Texas Hold'em, I wish you well.  May your hand be free of rags, and your flops full of nuts.  I, however, will stick with good old 5-card draw... at least 86.7% of the time.

I am a nerd.

I have been one since way before it was cool.

Now, I figure that a statement like that cannot go without some foundation of facts, and so, here is my story:

The first 12 years of my life were fairly uneventful, nerd-wise, so I will skip to the "good" parts.  I got my first job at the tender age of 13 so that I could save up enough money to buy my first *real* computer...

The Commodore 64

<insert sound of a choir of angles singing here>

But that was a long time coming. First, I had to work like a small, highly-motivated, slave in the Southside Fish Market...

...I think it's important at this point to mention that, at the age of 13, I had not had my "growth spurt" yet.  That didn't happen until 9th grade, where I started the slow and steady growth that eventually shot me up to the ridiculous height of 5'9", making me the tallest member of the family of midgets that adopted me. 

But I digress... back to the fish market. 

So, there I was, barely even a teenager, and much smaller than the average one.  And I had the job of busboy. There was a restaurant as well as the fish market and it was, and likely still is, very popular. Clearing the tables of dirty dishes, although dramatically unpleasant, was the least of my worries while I worked there.  You see, they had a "Clam Bar", and behind this bar was a large kitchen garbage pail.  Every night, this pail contained a nights worth of discarded clamshells, and nothing else. They didn't like to take up valuable space with anything less dense, it seemed.  And, every night, it was my job to take it out to the dumpster.

Because God is frequently benevolent, I was supplied with a hand truck to get the garbage pail to the dumpster.  But, because he also likes a good joke, emptying the pail into the dumpster meant lifting it over my head. The difficulty level of this task may be a bit hard to grasp without visual aids, so...

As you can see, this job required me to ignore several fairly important laws of physics; gravity and I are still not on speaking terms.  But, somehow... I survived the experience, made enough money, and actually purchased my own Commodore 64 <insert more singing angels here>!

My parents, I am sure, thought it was great.  Here I was, 13 years old, and already grasping the importance of making and saving money, and for what?  A computer no-less!  Fools!  That computer, once I learned how to use it, became responsible for the formation of just about every bad habit I have today.  It did more damage to me than any "bad kids" ever could have.  If my parents had only known, they probably would have willingly given me crack-money.

Behind that sexy brown keyboard I learned: 

1. How to chat without using any English words.
2. How to carelessly flout Copyright laws
3. How to get many, many pictures of naked women
4. How to spend countless hours in a chair only moving to get snacks, and to pee.
5. And much, much more.

NOTE: My current computer allows me to do those same things, only much faster (except the peeing part).

...and all this before the Internet even existed!

As far as computers go, approximately the next 10 years of my life followed a rinse and repeat kind of pattern.  Get another job... save for another computer.  But, then I graduated from college, and got my first real job.  And that's when the pattern changed...

Me: Well... I guess it's time to get a new computer

Employer: Since you use it for work, we'll buy one for you

Me: ...

Employer: Are you ok?

Me: ...

Employer: Are you crying? 

I was now a fully-grown nerd-man.

My Rite of Passage into a mature adult nerd was not only paved with computers.  My life was filled with the usual nerdly fare.  I watched Star Wars and Star Trek.  I played Dungeons & Dragons.  I developed an unnatural love of Coca-Cola.  I had the social skills of a turnip. 

That was long, long ago (last week), and today I enjoy a more well-rounded existence (I watch Firefly too).

But, I'll save the details of my other pursuits for future entries. 

They may frighten you a bit.

Not afraid?

You will be...

You will be.

Frequently, when I come home from work, and after Karrie and the kids are asleep.  I retire to the Meditation Chamber (the Living Room) with some nourishing brain food (let's just assume it's Cheetos here) and enter my Thoughtful Position (nearly prone, on the couch).  This position allows for the optimal flow of blood to the brain, thus enabling me to calmly reflect on the days events and prepare for those of the coming day.  Plus it allows me to use my belly as a snack table for my Cheetos.

It is in such a state that I come up with ideas for what I would actually like to write about on this blog.  Mentally flipping through those ideas right now, I see a common theme emerging: Education (or the lack thereof).  Don't get me wrong, I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, but some of the things I observe make me wish there was a vaccine for "stupid".

In the interest of organizing my observations, I am going to focus this entry on Math.  The fact that lotteries exist, and are popular, says enough about the math skills of the average person.  But it never truly hits home as much as when I actually hear people engaging in wanton acts of math.

One evening, while commuting home on the Long Island Rail Road, I was subjected to a conversation between two vacuous, yet attractive young women.  I don't recall exactly what they were talking about, but I remember the following part word-for-word:

Ditz 1: Are you sure?

Ditz 2: I am, like, ninety-nine point nine percent sure.

Ditz 1: Oh my gawd.

Ditz 2: Yeah!  The only reason I am point nine percent NOT sure is...

At that point, my brain forcefully blocked the remainder of the conversation for it's own protection; Kinda like a circuit-breaker for the absurd.

So, you see, we are not talking about Calculus here. Still not convinced? 

Ok, how about this actual conversation overheard at a Subway (the fast food joint, not the train station) down near Union Square:

Clerk: Welcome to Subway, may I take your order?

Patron: Yes, I'd like a twelve inch meatball hero.

Clerk: I'm sorry.  We only sell six inch or foot long.

Holy sweet mother of all things idiotic! I mean, I will grant you that putting sliced meat(ish stuff) on bread probably doesn't exactly require a Mensa membership.  But knowing how many inches are in a foot seems like a standard piece of common knowledge to me.