Bracket busted

So my brackets are all in shambles. All of them. That's 19 failed attempts at picking the men's tournament, and five on the women's side. I backed Arizona St. and Wake Forest to go far, mainly because they beat BYU earlier in the season. Turns out that wasn't the best strategy.

In reality, though, I'm doing just about as good as I do any year. I've never had a really good bracket, where I picked something like 29 of 32 first round games correctly and nail 14 of the Sweet 16 teams. But, even more disappointing, I've discovered that I'm also a failure at helping others enjoy March Madness.

Last year my friend Jen set up a tournament group for our ward, and we had 32 people fill out brackets, culminating in a FHE activity where we watched the final game. I had helped Jen come up with some awards in various categories for some of the group's participants, and at halftime we had a little ceremony.

Jen has since moved across the country, so I set up the group for this year's tournament. Only 13 people joined this time, and I'm pretty sure I'm at least partially responsible for the drop off in interest.

I learned last week (although it's something I should have realized on my own and not had to "learn") that the recipient of last year's "March Sadness" award (in "honor" of that individual's unsuccessful bracket) didn't enjoy being recognized in that way. Finding this out reminded me that someone else had expressed displeasure at their "award" when they first received it 12 months ago.

I dug through my Hotmail archives and found the ward e-mail that was sent out later that week with a list of all the "winners," and was disappointed to see that five of the 13 categories were negative in nature. Even worse, in all five cases I was mocking someone who doesn't watch basketball and probably saw this as a harmless way to participate in something fun with the ward, not as an avenue for potential embarrassment.

I didn't deliberately hurt anyone's feelings, but that doesn't necessarily excuse me. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I've done or said something inappropriate just because it was funny or clever. Being witty shouldn't always be my top priority. "March Sadness" is a humorous play on words, for sure, but the idea it conveys is not funny, and I should have been thoughtful enough to realize nobody would want to receive that distinction.

If I am the cause of anyone abstaining from March Madness, I hope you will reconsider next year. Filling out brackets and following "your" teams makes an exciting event even more entertaining. I apologize to anyone affected by my insensitivity, in this instance or any other. If I do something like this again, I hope someone calls me on it. Like I said, when I make a joke I don't set out to hurt or upset anyone, but I realize the possibility of that outcome exists. And that's not funny.

A touch of Madness

There's this chicken place on the corner of my street, right next to the subway entrance. It's one of hundreds of nondescript fast food places in the city, where they have pictures of everything they serve on the walls and getting something "deluxe" usually means that it comes with fries.

Their chicken is really good, the pizza is adequate, and it's really, really conveniently located to my apartment, and as a result I'm constantly wanting to stop in for some wings or something each time I pass. Although the food is relatively cheap, eating there every day would not be healthy for my body or my wallet. So about six weeks ago I made a deal with myself: if I could resist my cravings for a while, I would reward myself with one of their meal deals (20 bucks for a pizza, some chicken wings and a bottle of soda, I think) on the first day of the college basketball tournament, and revel in twelve straight hours of grease and hoops.

But then, about two weeks ago, I walked by and noticed the shop was all shuttered up. It remained that way for a few days. I figured there was a small chance it had been done in by the sluggish economy, but assumed it was something else. One day as I passed one of the shutters was open and my fears were confirmed: on the door was a notice from the health department.

My favorite violation is "evidence of mice or live mice." Is it really necessary to make a distinction?

Anyway, after being closed for about a week, Wonder Fried Chicken has been back in business for a few days. And March Madness begins tomorrow. I can't decide what to do. Part of my brain reasons that if it's ever safe to eat their food again, now is the time, since it should be as clean and vermin-free now as it ever has been, or they couldn't have reopened. And there are people in there every time I walk by, so apparently the rest of the neighborhood is ok with it.

But part of my brain says I must have a serious case of madness if I ever set foot in that place again. It will probably come down to how hungry I get. In the meantime, I'll fill out my bracket of potential food-borne illnesses I may soon contract. Dysentery and salmonella are top seeds, but I like Giardia and E. coli as Cinderella picks.

The Hilary Swank to my Ralph Macchio

That's right, I just dropped a Next Karate Kid reference. Unsurprisingly, I'm using it in the context of auditions for Amateur Night at the Apollo. Yup, I auditioned again. I didn't make it this time, but my cousin Rachel did. My first audition resulted in a three-part post and a 4,000-word opus about my performance night; this time around I obviously won't be writing nearly that much, but there are a few things worth mentioning.

The audition process was agonizingly long. We got in line at 7:00 AM, with the doors opening at 10:00. When we finally made it into the theater we were numbers 117 and 118, but still had to wait until about 3:30 for our 90-second performances. I'm glad I don't audition for things very often. It would drive me crazy. Rachel is a veteran singer/dancer/actor and assures me most auditions run more smoothly, but waiting around for four hours instead of six still leaves plenty of time for your throat to get dry and your nerves to get rattled.

I guess we need a Miyagi to complete my Karate Kid comparison, and there was a guy who I saw at both auditions...unfortunately it was Bobby Pass (you can read all about Bobby in the link above). He snuck into the line a few people ahead of us just as we were going into the building (I guess I should be glad we didn't have to put up with him during the first three hours of our wait), and for the rest of the day whenever I saw him he was dispensing advice about what to expect in the audition room and talking about how he was treated unfairly on the night of the show. He's really more like a half-Miyagi: his "wisdom" was about as incoherent as "sand the deck" and "wax on, wax off" was to Daniel-San, but with Bobby there is no moment of clarity at the end where everything comes together.

He also could have really used a black belt. I won't go into any more detail than that, lest others be subjected to the recurring nightmares Rachel and I have had to endure since Saturday. We got to listen to his audition, and bafflingly he sang the same song that got him booed off stage last April. He didn't make the cut, so Amateur Nights for the foreseeable future will be Bobby-free.

Also not passing the audition: this weird family band that was in line near us. Four kids, ages 6-ish to 14-ish, dressed in Kiss t-shirts and bandannas and carting tiny instruments around, looked miserable the whole day, mainly because of their father, who was clearly forcing them to do this. It was the worst stage parenting I've ever been exposed to in my limited auditioning experience, and observing their interactions was uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable, was their rendition of "Our Lips Are Sealed," and the thoughts of what their agent/father would say to them on the way back to New Jersey. The awfulness of the performance and the intensity of the dad made it seem like the whole thing was an elaborate prank, but unfortunately I'm pretty sure it wasn't.

Oh, as for my audition...I'm not really sure why I didn't make it. The Apollo website said they were especially looking for non-singing acts in this audition (and from what I saw there were very few of those), and my material was good. My performance could have been better, but I felt it was at least adequate. I had a new routine about how Domino's is always advertising something other than their pizza (most Seinfeldian line: "It's not that I think they have bad pizza--it's that I think they think they have bad pizza"). Certainly not ground-breaking stuff, but it was funny. I did have to indicate on the form I filled out if I had performed at Amateur Night before, but if I'm allowed to audition again I don't see why it would be a factor against them choosing me. Oh well. There's always the theoretical next time.

As for Rachel...she was amazing! She killed it, as the kids say. I think that's what the kids say. She wanted to sing a 90-second portion from the middle of Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats," but they wouldn't cue up her track for her. So, she had to start from the beginning, not getting to the desired part until about the 1:05 mark. But once she hit that point, she sang it so amazingly well that they didn't stop her until she had almost belted out the whole song. She got to sing for about 150 seconds. And she's going to do even better with the 180 seconds she gets on the big stage in July. I can't wait--in fact, I think I'll go get in line now. It takes a long time to get into the Apollo.

For those who emulate Oscar the Grouch

I originally intended to include this post with this one, but I realized I could make it seem like I blogged more often if I separated them.

The first week I was in New York, I attended a combined ward FHE at the Harlem chapel at 128th and Lenox. I was still learning my way around the subway system and figuring out how long it took to get from place to place, and I ended up arriving at the church several minutes early.

While waiting for someone to arrive and unlock the building, I walked around the block. As I rounded the final corner at 128th and 5th, I was surprised to see a small strip of grass enclosed by an iron fence. Even more surprising--the sign on the fence declared that this tiny patch of greenery was actually a city park. It takes a concerted effort to clear a spot for any sort of flora in Manhattan, and as such each spot of it is usually labelled, whether it be a park, a green street, a community garden, etc. But it struck me as odd that this space, smaller than a football field end zone, would be designated a park.

Over the next year, I continued to find this tiny park strange on the few occasions I walked past it, but when I saw it again last week I realized I needed to learn its history. For starters, I actually paid attention to the name: Collyer Brothers Park. Some quick Googling helped me find out who these brothers were, and their story is actually very bizarre. Check it out for yourself--it's fascinating. Go ahead, I'll wait. Seriously, read it.

Done? Pretty crazy, huh? My roommate is a pretty big history buff, particularly about our neighborhood (Arthur Miller and J.D. Salinger are both, according to Seth, former residents of 111th St., where we live), but even he hadn't heard of the Homer and Langley Collyer. This park adds some quirkiness to the area. I already knew Harlem was the home of the Apollo, great soul food, and Bill Clinton's offices, but now I am aware of our rich heritage of eccentric garbage hoarders, and their booby traps.

Another quick online search revealed why the city designed such a tiny park. Again, some pretty interesting stuff.

It turns out this topic is timely, too. Drew Barrymore is starring in an upcoming movie about "Big Edie" and "Little Edie" Beale, probably New York's most famous trash-saving recluses.

If you have any quirky stories about the history of your neighborhood or mine, leave 'em in the comments. I promise to save them and never throw them away.

Stuff I learned from the stake emergency preparedness coordinator

Here are some tidbits I gleaned from one of our visiting stake speakers in sacrament meeting yesterday:

His special effects work saved Titanic--yes, that one. The most successful movie of all time.

If a single guy on a motorcycle is rooting through your garbage for food, it might be him.

We aren't prepared for potential disasters, otherwise someone less qualified would have been called to his position.

All things related to emergency preparedness are "pragmatics," which apparently means there is no spiritual aspect.

In other words, his is not a "sexy" calling.

MacGyver is overrated.

Human bodies falling from tall buildings look like specks of pepper from a distance, and birds that get sucked into jet engines can be described in similarly morbid ways.

We are probably smart enough to stick a bucket out to collect rainwater, but otherwise would be in big trouble if suddenly there were no safe drinking water within a ten-mile radius.

When disaster strikes, start texting.

About 80% of my ward will be inactive within the next ten years. "This is a statistic."

That might be a good thing, though, because we are clearly unprepared for the seemingly-inevitable sacrament meeting hostage-taking.

That's about it. I feel bad about this...I feel bad that because I am focusing on the weirdness of the talk, I will likely ignore the true and important principles of emergency preparedness (I currently have no water storage, for example). I also feel bad that I don't feel bad about ridiculing the talk in this way.

But beyond the ludicrous, callous, and downright strange comments peppered throughout, there was an overriding sense of arrogance and self-centeredness to his message that seemed to ask for this kind of treatment. He spoke as if he had just been elected to an office and this was his victory speech, like we had come to church specifically to hear him. There's really only one place for that kind of conceit, and that, of course, is a blog.

Garbage pail kids

My roommate Seth may be moving soon. If this happens, we'd need a new guy to move in, which means I would get a new opponent in the eternal game of chicken that goes on in the apartments of single men. I'm talking, of course, about housekeeping.

In pretty much every place I've ever lived since moving out of my parents' house, my roommates and I will basically pretend we don't notice the mounting filthiness of our dwelling place, hoping someone else will take care of it. Dirty toilet? Just flush it a second time. Pile of dust bunnies in the hall? You can miss them if you take big steps. Greenish ring around the bathtub? It's still three weeks until the next cleaning check. Dirty dishes in the sink from four days ago? They, uh, need more time to soak.

In all of these areas I hold my own, foot on the gas pedal even as the cliff (cockroaches? silver fish? the plague?) rapidly approaches. Someone else usually ends up reaching a bathroom breaking point and gives it a good scrub before I do, and was pleasantly surprised about a week ago to see that Seth had cleaned out the microwave. (As far as the bathroom goes, however, I do take more than my fair share of turns in buying toilet paper--mainly because I've had many roommates who buy cheap stuff. And that's one area of my life where I refuse to scrimp. Even on my mission, when I'd gladly buy a loaf of bread for 9 pence or the 7p cans of beans, even the UHT boxed milk, I would spend extra to get the two-ply TP.)

Before I move on, I would like to get it on the record that despite my apathy towards keeping my home clean and tidy, it's never resulted in an infestation. And there are lots of vermin in NYC. We did have an ant problem in one of my Provo apartments, but it wasn't connected to (though perhaps exacerbated by) our relative squalor.

The one aspect of tidying which seems to always make me chicken out is taking out the trash. I hold out hope that my roommates will adopt the "you top it off, you drop it off" philosophy, but I'm the guy who usually buckles down and takes the garbage and recycling down to the street. Not sure why, really, it's just the way that it goes. I have people coming over for dinner on Sunday, so I'll probably have to do some sweeping and mopping. Or find a way to get dark carpet installed in the next 48 hours.

Go speed dater, go speed dater, go!

On Saturday night I attended a speed dating activity for LDS singles in Manhattan (well, they actually had to recruit guys from Brooklyn, Connecticut, even D.C. to even up the genders). Here are some thoughts I've had about the dating equivalent of Chuck-A-Rama.

• Speed dating is fun. At least Mormon speed dating. This is the second time I've done something like this, and I've enjoyed it both times. But I don't think I would enjoy more general speed dating. I don't know if I have nice enough clothes to wear to something like that, and I picture it as more of a job interview-type setting rather than the fun, relatively casual adventure this was.
• This activity was one of the best-organized I've ever been to. They had people register weeks in advance, giving them time to make sure there would be equal numbers of men and women. There were over 100 of each when all was said and done, but the organizers had an assigned seat for everyone when the event began--two rows of chairs facing each other, serpentining through the church gym. When the whistle blew, the ladies staid put and the guys moved on to the next one. There were also a few Power Point slide shows projected onto the gym walls, full of questions you could ask if you gut stuck. I didn't really use them, but I was impressed by the forethought and creativity of the activity planners. And the follow-up will also be highly organized--more on that later.
• Three minutes goes really fast. But it's enough time to have a decent conversation with someone--likely superficial, but enough to at least slightly gauge your date's personality. The 90-second "lightning rounds," however, were generally too short for me to form a decent impression of the woman I was talking to.
• Scattered throughout the 30 or so women I "dated" that night were people I knew well, some I was somewhat acquainted with, and several I had never met before. I'm not sure which category I preferred.
• I was slightly disappointed with my performance. I figured I would've done better at asking unique, thought-provoking questions that would make me more memorable as well as catch them off guard. Instead I usually asked them about the restaurants in their neighborhood or if they had any good celebrity sighting stories.
• I did, however, largely manage to avoid the question I feared most: "What do you do?" Even when I'm employed, I'm not a big fan of that question; my job is not generally near the top of my list when it comes to how I define myself. (I think I'm going to write about this more later in the week.) The question did come up a few times, though, so I usually alternated between saying "Whatever I want, because I'm unemployed" and "I'm a comedian." At least with the latter, I could have a profession, even if I don't have a job.
• A few things I would do differently if I do this again: I would bring a bottle of water (my mouth was really dry by the end); if I were in charge, I would leave ten seconds or so in between dates so people could jot down a note or two about the person--I'm worried when I get my report in a few weeks, I might not remember who the person is just by their first name, but if I had a card with notes, I could say, "oh, she's the one I talked about Adam Sandler movies with" or "that girl had huge earrings that were really cool;" or, if for some reason I want everyone to turn me down, I would start telling a story to my first date, then continue it each time I rotated. I think that would be really funny, but would probably defeat the purpose of speed dating.
• As the night went on and I realized I might not remember who was who, I began writing fewer Ys on my card (see below). I didn't have any "bad" dates, and I only remember one where there was any kind of awkward pause. I'd be lying if I said looks didn't play a factor in breaking "ties" between two dates. There were a lot of pretty girls there. I hope my dates weren't as shallow as I was. Then again...my mom says I have cute ears. Maybe some of them noticed.
• I believe that I was a good date--respectful, made eye contact without staring, didn't spend all the time talking about myself, didn't pepper my partner with too many questions, and avoiding asking anything too serious or personal (one of my friends told me she was asked about her views on working moms vs. stay-at-home moms. yikes). I hope my self-assessment is accurate.
• The first time I speed dated, it was just something to do, one aspect of a multi-ward overnight camp out. This time they were serious, hoping to help people hook up and marry. Each person had a card, where you would write down each date's name and the ID number on their sticker name tag, then mark Y (if you would like to meet up with them again) or N for each one. The cards have been given to the stake patriarch (an independent third party--I like the idea that no bishoprics or activities committees or whatever will see the results, which will greatly reduce the gossip, peer pressure, etc. that could have arisen from the activity). People will be e-mailed the names and contact info of their mutual Ys. Like I said, this event was highly structured.
• I'm sure I'm not the only one who realized that you could know exactly what each of your dates chose by putting Y on each one. I hope I'm not the only one who also realized this plan would likely result in some unwanted reciprocal yeses.
• While I really enjoyed myself on the short dates and generally liked the organization of the event, an unforeseen issue arose with the Yes-No system: I had to make a choice about the women I already know, including several that I see once a week or more. I haven't really dated much since I've been in New York (I'll probably address this briefly when I write my thoughts on jobs and job searching later on). So any of my friends, if they ever thought about it, would have thought "Jeff hasn't asked me on a date." Now, if they put Y and I wrote N, they will think "Jeff doesn't want to ask me on a date." There's a big difference between the two thoughts, and it could result in hurt feelings. (By the way, I don't assume that any women have spent much time thinking about dating me or wondering if I'll ask them out. I'm at least slightly arrogant, but not in that aspect of my life.)

That's all I can think of right now. I'm definitely glad I went, and recommend LDS speed dating to anyone who has a chance to try it. I guess the big question is...will I ask anyone out on a regular date because of it? I honestly don't know. Everyone I met was nice, and I would like to know more than three-minutes' worth about each of them. Some were also very attractive, as I mentioned above. But in the less-structured socializing that took place while we ate refreshments, I found myself talking to the same people I hang out with all the time. Before Saturday night I already knew many women in the city who I considered highly "datable," and now I kind of know several others. We'll see what happens, I guess. I hope this activity ultimately serves its higher purpose and helps some people find someone they love and can be happy with. It definitely served its basic purpose of providing me a fun and unique way to spend my weekend.