I went away to boarding school at the age of 13, already a relatively well-traveled youth of civil upbringing, and soon to be a regular onboard US Airways flight 702 from Montego Bay to Hartford, CT. Traveling these 1639 miles about eight times per year, I noticed a few things. For one, SkyMall is the greatest magazine known to man, a point I’m more than happy to debate on a separate occasion, although this site pretty much makes the argument for me: [http://skymall.tumblr.com]. Secondly, crying children are easily silenced by tranquilizer darts – society is just not progressive enough to accept this yet. Sigh, one day. Finally, and most importantly, there is a certain culture that exists aboard airplane cabins, an etiquette of sorts, a code that travelers live by in efforts to traverse harmoniously from wheels up to touch down. These are simple decrees of negligible inconvenience, principles that make being strapped in a chair and catapulted from one mass of land to another a relatively enjoyable experience; The tray table is a convenient surface, not a drum set…If you’re boozing, book an aisle seat…No farting when the seatbelt sign is on. The list continues, but you catch my drift…very simple criterion to avoid confrontation while glued to cheap cloth beneath an overzealous overhead fan.

There are slight exceptions – cultural variance, if you will. Not unlike the drinking age aboard a flight from Hartford to Jamaica, which changes from 21 to about 12 over the southern coast of Florida, these conventions have a tendency to change from country to country as well. For example, dancing in the aisle, while frowned upon in transatlantic settings, is highly encouraged onboard flights to, say, Trinidad (it may actually garner you some bonus frequent flyer miles). Oscar winning movies preside on flights from LAX to JFK, while any film that lacks J.Lo lacks an audience when destined for Miami. It’s safe to say, however, that amidst this mild variability there is a core of considerations that remains consistent, no matter where or with whom you travel. We, as decent beings, are expected to hold to these standards of behavior.

Alas, the world is not perfect. There are crying babies and restless handbag dogs afoot. Obesity bears heavy on the center seat while the continuous increase in height of the European population grows out into the ever-narrowing isles of their similarly slim-fit vessels. Air travel is becoming progressively polluted with ungraciousness; a plane is now a place where seamless coexistence goes to die, the sky a graveyard of comity and tact.

This is all becoming apparent to me at once. As I write this post I occupy seat 31H onboard Virgin Atlantic’s red-eye flight from Montego Bay to London Gatwick, living through an absolute assault on common airline decency. You see, Virgin had the brilliant idea of installing touch screen TV’s in the head-rests of economy seats, a revolutionary space-saving decision turned nightmare when some idiot decided to put Fruit Ninja in the Games section of Virgin’s in-flight entertainment. For those of you unfamiliar with this game, it involves belligerent swiping and tapping motions of the index finger, each of which cuts the fruit that appears on the screen. Literally, that is all you do – cut fruit. It is a game that reflects nothing more than complete, utter boredom with one’s surroundings (not to mention a fundamental misunderstanding of what a Ninja does)…and Jamaicans LOVE it.

Of the twenty or so people in my field of vision on this plane, approximately twelve of them are playing Fruit Ninja – an inordinate amount of people when you consider the following: all twelve of them have daily access to the exact same fruits in real life, six of them probably brought the fruits with them on the plane and one of them is actually eating fruit while playing Fruit Ninja (I can’t make this stuff up)! Needless to say, the 65-year-old gentleman behind me has too succumbed to the calling of the Fruit Dojo, and is now digging his fingers into the back of my headrest with the fury of a thousand Samurai.

Meanwhile, in 31J, a 300lb woman’s arm fat attempts to make love with my ribs. Sadly this is the least of my worries, as her equally obese, window-seated husband has an overactive bladder, turning every third song on my iPod into a possible score to the stampede scene in the Lion King. It is at this point that my in flight recreation has become 400mg of ibuprofen and a bottle of 2013 Chardonnay.

While this is the first time my flying frustrations have driven me to ink, a gradual change in experience started about 5 years ago, when the act of flying ceased to be a novel experience for most human beings. Nowadays 35,000 feet is less impressive to most people than Angry Birds or Doodle Jump, and in the absence of that euphoric feeling we once achieved with flight, human beings are free to return to the inconsiderate pieces of shit most of them are when their feet are on the ground. But at what point did the miracle of human flight cease to be enough? At what point did we peer out from the window seat onto rolling hills and placid oceans below us and say “man I wish I could chop some fruit right now”?

As I sit here, planning my next passive-aggressive attempt to regain control of the middle arm rest, contemplating the consequences of punching a crying baby in the face as I eat the crackers and cheese I purchased for $12, I cannot help but wonder what happened to the joyous event that was once air travel, and if I may see it yet again. Perhaps one day, and until then, I suppose there’s always Fruit Ninja to keep me occupied.

Next time pack a parachute,

Prav

Medical School has repossessed my social life. [insert 15-20 minutes of complaining which ultimately leads to a justification of my absence from the interweb here]. Thanks for understanding, friend.

I’ve gotten quite good at the above speech in the past two months, mostly because I deliver it on just about a daily basis. It is a useful skill of the 1st year medical student, the “sorry I’m not around more” speech. We begin with lament of our forgotten hobbies, dining habits and familiarity with the concept of fresh air. We continue on to pine over sticky bar floors on a Thursday night, movie theater popcorn and anything with the word “routine” in it. Finally, we start to make stupid, medical-pun-driven jokes, jestingly at first, as if to mock our descent into social incompatibility, until after some time they become the only source of our humor, grinding the pulse of the conversation down to a dull, pity-filled, remorseless blip. Three easy steps to dance around one point that seems impossible to convey to other people:

We love this shit (said the gastroenterologis….sorry, bad habit).

In truth, when it comes to the absence of a social agenda and lack of what prison inmates refer to as “outdoor time” (which I now call “opening my window”) – the love for the information and helping others outweighs any need for such things. I said that hundreds of times on my way to medical school, but I never really understood the significance of it until I got here; somewhere amidst the mountains of work and hours of solitude, something clicked…and I just didn’t give a shit about anything else but medicine.

This was a pretty fantastic feeling. As somewhat of an admittedly shallow person in college, I had always wanted to not give a shit, but never really had the care-free persona to follow through with it. Allow me to illustrate my point with a story:

In college I met a guy named Adam Baitsell (real name, he has no shame). Now while Adam is a gentleman, a scholar, and one of the more polite people I happen to have come across in academia the fraternity system – Adam doesn’t give a shit about social convention. Of this I have always been endlessly jealous. He has an amazingly creepy mustache, just enough hair on his beer gut so he can twirl his finger in his belly button and make women uncomfortable, and a remarkable talent for not caring about others’ opinion of him. These were all traits I instinctively wanted to own in college, but unfortunately cared too much about the acceptance of society to do so. I gelled my hair every day, went to the gym regularly, actively tried NOT to creep women out – in short, I gave a shit. Now don’t get me wrong, giving a shit worked out great for me – but somewhere in the back of my mind I always think to yourself…wouldn’t life be so much easier if I just didn’t care. The answer, to a certain extent, is yes.

At about week 6 in the medical school experience, in a moment lost somewhere between my third and fourth consecutive meals from the library vending machine, I was pondering Adam’s mastery of not giving a shit when I realized something: I no longer had a reason not to do that. You see, in college I had free time, I had an active social life, professors that could point me out in a small lecture room of no more than 20, and most importantly, faith in the fact that a culturally acceptable (and dashingly handsome) appearance would actually make some sort of difference in my day to day life. In medical school, however…well I have none of those things; I have Cheetos for breakfast and a library half full with dimwitted british undergrads mindlessly floating between Facebook profiles until the first pub opens at 1pm. And so, in the height of midterm week, when my public exposure was at an all-time low, I decided to challenge myself, and channel the spirit of Mr. Baitsell himself…into a handlebar mustache.

In England, three things happen differently in your life when you grow a handlebar mustache:

1. White women cross the street to avoid you

2. Every security camera pans to you as you enter a room

3. You are remembered by every single person you see or meet; eventually you realize that this is because you are the only person in all of England with a handlebar mustache.

Now while I didn’t have the mustache for a terribly long time, it was just enough to make a significant impact on my life. While there are inarguably a number of benefits to growing a mustache, perhaps the greatest benefit you see is the newfound free time you garner in day to day life. Where did this time come from, you ask? In order to wield the handlebar mustache, one must truly not give a shit about what other people think of you, something that we as humans spend quite a bit of time doing. In fact, I am now convinced that one has not truly tested the threshold of your self-comfort until you have worn a mustache in the public of the 21st century – because let’s face it, mustaches look ridiculous – but that’s the true beauty behind the bearer, the nonchalance from which the mustache grows.

So I’m here as an advocate, not just for the infamous upcoming month of Movember (you can and should read more about this at the end), but as a believer in exercising our right to not give a shit. Why is this such an important thing for us to do? Because we, by nature as humans, waste too much time giving a shit. We hate to admit it but Humans are instinctively aware creatures, and we spend a great deal of time caring about what other people think, whether it be of us, or of someone or something else. So many of us spend so much time worrying about living within certain social norms or conventions, that we forget that life does exist outside those boundaries. You can spend 10 years thinking about growing a mustache, but it only takes 2 weeks to grow one. Embrace the mustache.

Trust me, I’m (almost) a doctor.

Prav

p.s. While we’re on the subject – I’ve decided to use my inclination to mustache (yes, verb) in a charitable way. Movember & Sons is a non-profit organization that sponsors a little month called ‘Movember’ in which men across the world grow their mustaches and look ridiculous for one month, in efforts to raise money for prostate cancer research. I, Prav Chatani, pledge to you – the donor – that I will not shave my mustache for all 30 consecutive days of Movember if you donate to my cause. What’s in it for you? I’ll put a picture of my ridiculous looking mustachioed face on Facebook, every single day (in a group, for donors only). If you would like to donate and/or read more, you can do so here:

http://uk.movember.com/mospace/3248733

The question first came to mind when I was watching the US men’s Olympic rapid fire pistol team compete. Now while rapid fire pistolry IS the most athletic of the shooting events, it’s still something a morbidly obese man can do from the comfort of his front porch while smoking a cigarette, which begs the question: should it really be an Olympic sport? Now keep in mind that the International Olympic Committee meets weekly to entertain debates such as these, which then makes you wonder: what “sports” didn’t make the cut? Or even better…which ones did make it when maybe they shouldn’t have? So I did some intense investigation (I Googled it) and here are just a few ex-olympic sports that make rapid fire pistolry look like the most normal Olympic event of all time:

Tandem Bicycling (1906-1970): Yes, you read that right. It took the IOC 64 years to decide that tandem bicycling was not a sport. Now while I personally disagree with people who say there’s less athleticism involved than a singles bike race (see: added core strength, increased wind resistance), I’m told the commissioner’s argument was met with unanimous agreement. “Bro, they look ridiculous. Shut it down.”

Solo Synchronized Swimming (1984-1992) : Wait…so who do you synchronize with? And why did it take us 8 years to ask this question?

Plunge For Distance (1904): Making but one olympic appearance, the plunge for distance involved swimmers competing to see who could travel the furthest after diving into a pool and remaining motionless for one minute. Athletes were not allowed to propel themselves, and the game was promptly removed after the swimmers themselves began to fall asleep in the pool.

Club Swinging (1904 & 1932): Contested only twice in olympic history, only four athletes a year participated in club swinging – a gymnastics event that involved men swinging clubs above their head in a rhythmic fashion while dancing. Of the six medals awarded in this Olympic sport, all went to Americans, leaving only a lone Italian as the 4th place finisher in each year. Experts have speculated that the original clubs are now being used to bash Italian soccer players in the shins, in an effort to improve their dives and acting on the pitch.

Live Pigeon Shooting (1900): By far my favorite Olympic event of all time, it saddens me to report that this magnificent competition was held only once, at the 1900 games in Paris. Competitors would shoot as many live pigeons as they were able to in the allotted time. The gold medal was awarded to Belgian Leon de Lunden, who took down 21 birds in just one minute, though in total 300 pigeons were killed at the 1900 games, a number that brings nothing but smiles to the faces of New Yorkers everywhere. If you couldn’t tell, I hate pigeons.

Equestrian Long Jump (1900): Perhaps not the only olympic event to include zero human skill whatsoever, the long jump for horses was run only once. Belgian rider Constant van Langendonck took the gold on his horse, “Extra Dry”, with a jump of 6.1 meters (2.3 meters shy of this year’s human gold medalist!). Though the question still lingers: who got the medal…the horse or the rider?

So what have we learned from these examples? Well for one, we know that Italians are officially the world’s worst club swingers (feel free to rub that in text time you meet one). It’s also been made quite clear that 1900 was not the best year to win the lottery for Olympics tickets…that is unless unorthodox sports was your calling. Finally, we’ve learned that the IOC is pretty far from perfect, and while great Olympics sports like Rugby are being added every year, others in the line of Solo Synchronized Swimming are continually being removed. Who knows, maybe in 50 years we’ll be looking back and laughing at people like Dong Dong, 2012 bronze medalist in the Trampoline event. Then again, most of us are laughing at Dong already. Only one thing’s for sure: no matter how ridiculous the sport, these are indeed the best competitors in the world.

Reporting live from my couch with a bag of Cheetos, I’m Prav Chatani.

It starts with the little things – innocent acts that, in your opinion, aren’t unanimously accepted as age-restricted activities…but that’s how they sneak up on you. Little things like buying Sunny-D. At 23 years old I can no longer buy Sunny-D without being scrutinized by my local supermarket checkout clerk – a 30 year old woman with a grab-bag of drug problems and more tattoos of the Tazmanian Devil than teeth; who knew faux-J had sunk so low?

Lil Jon – known purveyor of Sunny Delight

This is how it happens, though. One minute you’re waiting in the theater to see Toy Story 3, and the next, some parent is giving you a look like you stole the popcorn right out their child’s mouth. Sure it was opening night, and I did own the kid in the battle for the arm rest, but I like Pixar films and he lacked upper body strength. This is America, sue me.

Soon enough, this once short list of guilty pleasures becomes a manifest of childhood activities lost in the wake of our adulthood, a tome too lengthy to go unnoticed. In fact, at some point we gain the ability to anticipate these soon-to-be-labeled ruffian acts, and when this happens, we do one of two things:

a) Calmly accept the reality of the situation. Acknowledge that your age, maturity and dignity are more important than, say, jumping into the ball pit at McDonalds, and move on.

or

b) Dive head first into the ball pit one last time in consummate fashion, and then never do it again.

Some have will power, others do not – most of the time it depends on how much dignity you’re willing to sacrifice in a public manner; but as we move into that time of year when many quit their jobs and ship off to graduate school, I would like to take this moment to address the unavoidable loss of our ability to prank eachother.

You see, as we stand on the brink of actual careers, on the verge of turning pre-med Pravs into Dr. Chatanis, it seems the next thing to sink beneath us is the good old office prank. Now while this isn’t by any means a regular activity, something we partake in every day, it is a staple of our occupational lives. The office prank brings youthfulness to our jobs, a dash of juvenility to ease the otherwise abrasive entrance into a rigid corporate world.  We are cruising down a highway to maturity, dear readers; take the time to explore this exit with me, before it’s too late.  

Disclaimer: Obviously I don’t want you to get fired, because 99% of my readers are people that got sick of Facebook with 12 minutes left on their lunch break, so it’s worth saying this: the pranks we are about to discuss are not for everyone. Unless you’re absolutely positive you won’t upset anyone/get caught/get arrested, do not attempt them without the proper supervision of a professional. That being said…my rate is $40/hour plus tax. Tips encouraged.

It just so happens that I am in a fairly convenient position when it comes to workplace hijinks. I’ve already handed in my resignation, and thus, the downside is significantly reduced. I do all my work in a secluded lab, so few people see me on a daily basis. I even have two jobs, so worst case scenario: I’m still employed. Being that anonymity, free time and lack of consequence are the most essential of ingredients, it seems conditions are perfect for some light tomfoolery. Before we begin, however, it’s very important we acknowledge the first rule of office shenanigans: always start small.

The key to a historical sequence of office pranks is to execute a simple one first. Toss it to yourself underhand, tee it up nice and high, and knock it back. To start you off, here are a few Level 1 pranks you can use to get the ball rolling:

1. The Conference Call

What you need: a phone with conferencing capabilities and a little bit of luck

What you do: call two people in different departments (at the same time if possible) and conference the calls together, remaining silent for the duration of the prank. It may take a few tries to get the timing right, but when the recipients do answer at the same time, sit back and enjoy listening to them bicker about who called who. 

Pranker beware: you will laugh. Phones have microphones. Enjoy this one quietly, if you don’t wish to be caught. 

2. Can You Hear Me Now?

What you need: tape and a colleague’s phone. 

What you do: put a piece of clear tape over the phone’s mouthpiece. Watch them yell like an idiot. “Hello?!”

Prankers beware: your coworker’s bad moods can make or break your own day, and few things are more frustrating than senseless phone conversations. Do this to someone with whom you have limited interaction. 

3. The Wild Call Back

What you need: a post it note. 

What you do: leave a ‘missed call’ note on a colleague’s desk from a ‘Mr. Behr’ or ‘Mrs. Lyon’ with the number for the Bronx Zoo. 

Prankers beware: What could go wrong here? This is prank perfection.

4. Back to the Future (note: I’m not one for plagiarism, so do know that this one is derived from The Office. See the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emUzZ92t4vs)

What you need: a fax machine and gullible coworkers

What you do: change the date/time settings on your fax machine to three hours in the future. Send a fax to a co-worker from himself in the future. Feel free to get as creative as you’d like with this one – the possibilities are endless. 

Prankers beware: time travel is not a toy. Proceed with caution. 

Congratulations! You’ve wet your beak, tested the waters of office gullibility, and if you haven’t gotten slapped in the face by now, it’s time to take your pranking to the next level. Here we introduce a slight degree of permanence to your ploys. These pranks, despite requiring a little bit of added effort, allow you to create temporary chaos in an otherwise droll workplace setting, spicing up the occupation not just for you, but for your coworkers as well.

5. Office Fight Club

What you need: a series of fake Word documents regarding an intra-departmental Fight Club – list of rules, liability wavers with fake names/signatures etc. 

What you do: over the course of a week, plant copies of these documents in the photocopy machine, beginning with the list of rules and working towards lengthier documents that convey establishment. As you do this, try to target two different employees, preferably ones that socialize or have lunch together. Watch as rumors spread and the story-line unfolds. 

Prankers beware:  amidst the legwork of creating all these fake documents, you may be tempted to actually start an office fight club. Don’t start an office fight club. 

6. Door Out of Order

What you need: one sign – “Please use other door”

What you do: put it on one side of a double door; see how long it is before people realize the door is completely unlocked and in working condition. Feel free to share the joy of this truth with some close, trusted companions.

Prankers beware: obviously you have to plant the sign when nobody is looking, but what’s even more important is door selection. Pick one that’s too busy and your prank will be short-lived; pick one that’s not busy enough and no one will ever notice. Go for the door with moderate traffic, and watch as the drones comply.

Now that you’ve proven yourself capable of standard stratagem, you’re ready to play with the heavy artillery. Long term pranks are pieces of art; they require patience, stealth and craftiness far beyond that of the average charlatan. Plot at your own risk, my friends. For this I will share with you but one example; I have to save something for my own decampment, after all.

7. The Warm Welcome

What you need: a desk by window facing another office building, a working knowledge of the US Postal System, two letters, two stamps, a company directory and a confirmed resignation from your position. Essential: you must have a currently employed coworker present to diffuse the bomb (i.e. explain the prank before it is blown out of proportion). This party may (and should) be referred to as “The Bomb Squad”. 

What you do: if you’ve already made the decision to leave your job, why not leave your replacement a nice welcome present. Pick an office in the adjacent building that is visible from your window (if you already know the sex of your replacement, pick an office belonging to someone of the opposing gender). If possible, obtain a company directory and figure out who calls that office ‘home’. Write two identical letters, one from your replacement to the resider of the office, and one from he/she in return. In this letter, mention how much the writer loves working across from the recipient, and how he/she has grown fond of him/her, and longs for their gaze in return. Mail the letters simultaneously on your last day of work. If played correctly, your replacement will have a very interesting orientation to life at the company, complete with a plethora of staring competitions with their fetching new neighbor. Upon confirmation of success, or in the event of complete utter disarray, call in the bomb squad before the word spreads too far. 

Prankers beware: this ruse must be very carefully done, for obvious reasons. The letter must be written to be cheesy, playful and charming. If it is overly creepy, sexual or inappropriate in any way, the prank will immediately derail (and possibly cause somewhat of a ruckus). Say things like “I haven’t exactly loved this job, but working across from such an interesting, good-looking [man/woman] has really made it easier to tolerate”. Concise, pleasant and elegant – don’t forget to be a gentleman.

So what should you take from this obvious misuse of a college education? Yes, it is important to maintain a mild climate of humor in the office, but there is a greater lesson to be learned here. Growing up is not voluntary. At some point you have to stop drinking Sunny-D, because it has absolutely no nutritional value and may, in fact, contain negative amounts of vitamin C. There is, however, nothing wrong with savoring these vices while you still can; so today, readers, I say to you: Carpe Prankum. Seize the prank.

Enjoy responsibly,

Prav

There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris allows to live

Perhaps it’s a waning symptom of the graduation season – it’s not often I find myself in such a speculative state. With the influx of fresh, young faces, all eager to pay $2000 a month for a glorified cardboard box in the city, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ve done with my time here, and what I might have done differently. I leave New York at the end of July, and as the reality of my departure for med school precipitates (which is really just a nice way of saying “as I get ready to disappear”), I feel compelled to leave behind whatever wisdom I can for the incoming class.

You see, I’ve always secretly wanted to give a graduation speech. I was never class president, nor was I a valedictorian. In high school I was too weird to give the ‘funny’ speech and in college I thought I was too cool to write it; In short, I’ve never had the one thing every speaker needs: an audience. That is until now. Now I have you, about a thousand of you, roughly the size of a small liberal arts class, many of whom are about to embark on a journey similar to the one I am just finishing up. So welcome, Readers, to the University of Occupational Haphazard’s very first commencement ceremony, with your keynote speaker…me. The timing only seems appropriate.

Call Me, Maybe

A commencement address by Prav Chatani, B.S.

O.H. Class of 2012,

As a child, you never took candy from strangers. I know this because if you had, you wouldn’t be here – you’d be on a milk carton. But for some reason college students tend to put a lot of trust in strangers. You borrow notes from strangers, eat with strangers, make out with strangers in bars. You even take lifelong lessons from strangers. For the most part, isn’t that what a graduation speech is: some Indian guy, momentarily mistaken for Dr. Sanjay Gupta, stands here to tell you not to let life pass you by – or something cliche like that? Follow your dreams. Open your hearts. Recycle.

But I’m not going to do any of that, partly because I don’t want to bore you, but mostly because I just don’t feel entitled to do so. You see, I’ve only been out of college for two years so there’s not a whole lot about life that I am qualified to tell you. Yes, I’ve rebounded from a bitter job market and cultivated some wisdom along the way, but for the most part my sole responsibilities in New York have been my bank account, vital organs and a cell phone, so I’m hardly one to discuss “the perils of adulthood” (especially since I’m already on my third iPhone). At 23, the only thing I could possibly lecture you on, besides neuroscience and places that sell chicken fingers at 4am, is Carly Rae Jepsen’s teen hit “Call Me, Maybe”. I hate that song (so really what I’m saying is it’s amazing), but at this point I’ve heard it enough times to write a dissertation on it, and believe it or not, there’s a great deal more to it than meets the ear. [Pause for dramatic effect] This is happening. Get on board.

The interesting thing about “Call Me, Maybe” is that it is written by, danced to and, quite frankly, obsessed over by people in their 20′s. Despite being aimed at a younger audience, and popularized by the stampedes of teeny boppers that show up to hear it live, the song has built itself quite a nest in the hard working society of college grads. Who would have thought such a childish concept could sink its roots into the sex-driven, text-fueled world of New York City bar life? Every day corporate girls and guys alike dance in circles and pelt each other with ear bleeding renditions, squeezing the chorus for every last drop of youthfulness before Eddy Money and Journey steal back the night. You see, CMM (yeah I went there) is solid proof that at 20-something years old, you don’t have to relinquish your juvenility; in fact, you should cling to it for support as you wade into adulthood.

While some of you are about to inherit a great deal of responsibility (i.e. baby, grad school and/or extracurricular vigilante justice), the vast majority of you will spend the next two years living in a city, adding another bold line to your resume and having more fun than Kim Kardashian at the ESPY’s. You’ll pay $50 a square foot for a bed in the Bowery and a Craigslist roommate that beat-boxes in his sleep. You’ll work yourself to the grindstone to make rent and blow the rest on $14 well drinks and lamb burgers (but you know, YOLO). You’ll date trendy girls with untrendy problems, do great things for your career and terrible things to your liver, but most of all, you’ll realize that this is all simply just a warm-up.

This is your 30 day free trial – an internship for life as an adult, if you will. The time is now to make mistakes. Move to metropolis, get ripped off on everything. Learn to appreciate your hard earned dollars. Spend too much on cabs so you can’t get HBO. Learn about sacrifice in a relatively meekish manner, but do it now, because the days get shorter, the hangovers get worse and Game of Thrones is really not that hard to stream online. Put the city on the rocks and drink it in sip by nostril-stinging sip until you’re too broke, tired or drunk on activity to do any more. By all means love your job, rock your resume, crush your MCATs and all that jazz – but in between the hours of responsibility, don’t forget to save those 3 minutes and 24 seconds to dance around like a idiot and remember the kid that got you here. At some point you’re gonna look weird doing it.

So hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I’m also your speaker…applaud me, maybe.

[Crowd goes wild, women throw garments]

Believe it or not, I found this AFTER writing the post

I don’t mind spending money, but as someone who makes a limited amount of it, I have but one rule: no matter what the expense, I must always justify it to myself before I spend. Bear in mind this is often somewhat of a formality – “whatever helps you sleep at night” is the expression that comes to mind. This video game will undoubtedly increase my fine motor skills (Call of Duty). I need a backup in case the doctor thing fails (Traktor S4 DJ controller). I’ve even stooped as low as “because I want it” (72oz Beer Stein – but really, who needs to justify that?). Yes, I have made a number of questionable purchases in my life, but no matter how frivolous the expense, I always have some way of defending it to my inner miser, even if that explanation is about as legitimate as a masters degree from ITT Tech.

I’ll spend money on clothes because I like looking good and, let’s face it, jeans and sneakers only get you so far in the city. I’ll max the cards for electronics: TVs sharper than life itself and speakers so loud they could blow a woman’s clothes off (again, the latter needed no validation). To be honest there are very few things I won’t spend my money on when the situation is right, but this weekend I made one purchase I will never make again: bottle service.

It was the weekend of April 20 – a time that most people spend building Scooby-Doo style sandwiches and chaining together viewings of Dude Where’s My Car. For me, however, the weekend was special in a different way. I had a few friends visiting from the island paradise of Curacao – a beautiful, sun-drenched country where apparently the following things do not exist:

• Brunch
• Alcohol
• Roofs
• Carbonation

I can only assume this is the case, as amidst the 48 hour haze of eggs benedict and champagne I managed little else but to come up for air, albeit on some of Manhattan’s finest rooftop bars and clubs. I’m not sure how one has brunch 4 times in a weekend, but I’m pretty sure I did it. What began as catching up with friends quickly turned into my own little ‘Staycation’ on the West side of Manhattan, and as we moved from restaurant to bar, bar to restaurant, the charges began to add up; I should also mention that after 5 Johnny Walkers I start giving away free drinks like Oprah on Saint Patrick’s Day, a habit that rarely helps my case for frugality. Nonetheless it was time well passed, and seeing as I spend most weekends sliding across the un-mopped floors of European soccer bars, the chance to spend my dollars in the company of classier women was gladly welcomed.

Now normally I’ll budget for these weekends ahead of time, stock up on some Ramen noodles for the fallout and pray for a late birthday check from a distant, Alzheimer’s-stricken relative in India – and often I make it out in decent form – but not this time. No. This time, we got bottle service.

Being that I am on the more lucid side of this night-time excursion, allow me to offer you some invaluable advice: the next time you think about getting bottle service, do yourself a favor and set your wallet on fire instead. Chances are you’ll lose less money, and at the very least the flames will be more colorful than the “look at this douche” sparklers they use to parade around your $600 bottle of Absolut. Had I known it was so similar to throwing money into the Hudson, I might have just walked the 4 blocks over and done it myself.

For those of you who are fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with the process, let me to summarize it for you. If bottle service were a ride at Disney World, it would consist solely of Mickey Mouse kicking you in the genitals repeatedly to the tune of Tiesto’s greatest hits, after which he would spit on you and take your wallet. On the plus side – it would be the only one without a line, and the picture of your face would always be funny. If you still find yourself starved for detail, here’s a timeline that may be a little clearer:

1:30am: Upon entering the club, one lucky member of the group surrenders their credit card, and thus financial future, to a waitress. Often times this server will be so undeniably attractive AND ignorant that arguing with her about anything is seemingly impossible. This includes basic math, so keep your calculator app handy at all times.

1:45am: Once you select your bottles they are delivered to you by the waitress; 15 girls look over at you from the bar as the “punch me in the mouth” sparklers illuminate your douchey grin – you get excited before realizing that all of them are from New Jersey.

1:47am: You pour yourself your first drink, toast to a fun-filled evening (which, as the credit card fall-guy, is your only perk) and begin to party. Here commences the only fun part of your night.

1:48am: Your group has grown by approximately 12 people, 8 of whom are guys. The fun part of your night is over.

2:45am: Someone you don’t know steals the remainder of your first bottle. You tell the hostess. She brings you a round of complimentary shots that are almost certainly just lemonade. You order a second bottle and make the decision to begin drinking aggressively; this night must not be remembered.

2:49am: The second bottle arrives (sparklers etc. etc.). The Jersey girls look a lot better this time around; unfortunately they are still from Jersey – no amount of Grey Goose can cure this. You resume drinking in futile hope that it may.

3:30am: Before the check arrives at the end of the night, the waitress will bring over another round of lemonade shots to make it seem as if she has consistently kept up with her duties, somehow she is less clothed now than before; you unknowingly decide to tip her an additional 5%. When the check is delivered to the table, your group immediately shrinks back to its original size.

3:32am: Half the remaining girls in your group go to the bathroom. Two guys tell you they don’t have any cash, but they’ll “get you back bro, I promise”. One guy mumbles at you incomprehensibly before handing you an expired coupon to Pizza Hut. You chug the remaining 5 shots of vodka in the bottle and pay the majority of the tab yourself. [End of bottle service experience]

Now it’s understandable that a guy like me doesn’t quite connect with the concept of bottle service. I went to a liberal arts college in middle-of-nowhere, NY where most of our drinking was done in parking lots and fields with 40oz bottles taped to our hands or ping pong balls in our cups. In my opinion, there’s something to be relished about cheap beer and good company – but as a New Yorker I do understand the merits of classing it up every once in a while, and I absolutely sympathize with some people’s need for personal space (especially in a dirty dance club filled with the overflow of DJ Pauly D’s entourage). Guidos are my least favorite people too, and if you’re wondering why it is they fist pump so much, I recently discovered it’s because they have subwoofers where their hearts are supposed to be. Fun fact.

The thing that really gets me about bottle service is not the ludicrous price, or even the idea that you can get 10 people who are homeless-person drunk to pay a tab. The thing that bewilders me time and time again is the enjoyment that people get from doing it. Yes, spending obscene amounts of money elevates one’s status, and perhaps if you had little to no ability to talk to women it may make it easier to get them into bed (the “My-Size-Barbie” bottle of Grey Goose certainly doesn’t hurt your chances), but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re paying extra to take on a list problems for the night, and on top of that, you are confined to one area with people you already know.

For me, being spontaneous is the best part about going out. That moment at the bar when you decide to approach a girl, ordering an extra shot and giving it to the first person you see, running into long lost friends while waiting for a drink – these are the things that make our nights more exciting! If I’m going to spend $300 to sit at a table with my friends, we’d better be drinking something old enough to be my grandfather, and there sure as hell won’t be any sparklers tied to it. I guess this is just a lesson that most people, like I, learn through experience. Except you, Ladies…this post doesn’t apply to you at all. In fact I’m touched you even read this far.

Life must be good if this is my biggest problem,

Prav

In my defense I was on vacation, and having used my days off to explore the culturally rich environment of Miami Music Week, an event which exists predominantly as an excuse for 17 year olds to drop acid, I return to you in somewhat of a disheveled state; I am tired, out of the loop, and consequently more disoriented than a German shepherd in a Jamaican airport. You see even though I was gone for just a weekend, I seemed to have missed out on a number of important social happenings. For one, the entire world bought and read The Hunger Games trilogy, which I can only assume begins with a 50-page guide on how to make this face:

"What?! You haven't read The Hunger Games?!"

Seriously, I get it. The book is good; if you stop talking about it now I may get to read it before I go blind. In other news, Mitt Romney supporters had a 3-day long orgasm, Hilary Clinton sent her first text and Jeremy Lin was injured after his parents discovered the 4.0 grading scale via Harvard’s website. As you can tell I was doing a pretty good job of getting up to speed, but it all came to a screeching halt when I came across an article by this man:

Stephen H. Webb, PhD

Meet Stephen H. Webb, PhD.

Dr. Webb is a professor of Religion and Philosophy at Wabash College; he’s respected in his field, graduated top of his class from the University of Chicago,  and is the author of eleven books (which actually sound sort of interesting). Despite these achievements, Dr. Webb is also the author of the Wall Street Journal article that single-handedly ruined my day today, one which he so affectionately titled: “Soccer is ruining America”. Now besides producing an embarrassingly unsupported piece of writing for an otherwise respected newspaper, Dr. Webb hit a bit of a nerve with me, a proud Jamaican/American with a mild addiction to premiership football (‘soccer’).

I’ll leave the article for you to read (trust me it’s worth it), but for those who couldn’t bare the descent to lesser writing, allow me to summarize: to say that Dr. Webb spends a frivolous amount of time rambling would be the understatement of the year, but after aimlessly slandering women, parents, Christians, liberals and deaf people, he arrives at the inconclusive conclusion that ‘soccer’ is nothing more than a failed attempt by “the liberals” to water down American culture, which, he notes, is host to some of the finest and most purposeful sports on television (like Nascar and Trick-Shot Pool, of course). It angered me to no end, internet friends, so much so that I decided to give Dr. Webb a piece of my mind.

Below you will find, exactly as the Gmail Gods delivered it, my email to Dr. Webb. Hopefully in due time he will entertain me with a response.

Dr. Webb, 

You don’t know who I am, but before I share with you my unrestrained frustration, I want you to know that I have the utmost respect for you. Three years ago you wrote an opinion piece for the Wall Street Journal entitled “Soccer is Ruining America”, and I have to say I admire your courage. I once told a Mexican guy I disliked tacos, and he became so angry that he punched me square in the mouth; to think that you were brave enough to publish an entire article defacing the cornerstone of Latin American culture (to be clear I mean soccer, not tacos – I am unsure of your position on tacos), well it just warms my heart. We need more brave people like you, because sooner or later we’re going to run out of trees – and poorly supported, extremist articles make the best kindling for a weakened fire. 

You see like the fictitious Mexican man I made up for this email, I happen to love soccer. As you can imagine, I do not stand alone in this – there are more than 250 million soccer players on this earth (Wikipedia, 2012) and the timeless sport is enjoyed in over 200 countries (This Guy That Goes To My Gym, 2012). Contrary to what your article suggests, the game requires unparalleled agility, toughness and technical skill. For evidence, please feel free to turn on your television and watch a match, something I’m not convinced you’ve ever done given your rather feeble understanding of the sport. 

You go on to complain about a lack of action, scoring and dimensionality, an argument which you support using the contrast of baseball, a sport that is widely considered to be the most action packed of all time (Ask Jeeves, 1935). You lament over the absence of hands, emphasizing the usefulness of the opposable thumb with examples that include monkeys and President George Bush (perhaps your most cohesive association of the entire piece), and then proceed to completely ignore the position of the ‘Goalie’ for another four, now useless, sentences. You spend a fair amount of time insulting women, but to that I must say I’m not terribly surprised, as I don’t think anyone could even begin to understand the female gender if they can’t as much follow a simple sport enjoyed by kindergarteners.  

My favorite point of yours, however, had to be the fourth – where you refer to the game as a last-resort piece of leftist ammunition, popularized for the sole purpose of weakening the American culture. It pains me to say that you are right. You got us! When Existentialism, Marxism and Poststructuralism failed, we figured what the hell, let’s try soccer; and let me tell you, nothing killed Reagan’s election buzz quicker than an old fashioned penalty shootout. As I liken you to the ‘Sheldon Cooper’ type (pop culture reference, feel free to consult Google), I would like to conclude this paragraph by revealing that it was constructed almost entirely with the mortar of sarcasm.

In all seriousness, though – you’re wrong. Not just about the difficulty, origins and popularity of the sport; you’re wrong about American culture in general. You may live in an America that sinks its roots deep into the very hamburgers and hand grenades that made this country what it is, but I assure you the rest of us do not. American culture is infused daily with international influence. This is not to say that it is being diluted or painted over with a fresh coat of history; it is simply undergoing progressive expansion, and in the best ways possible I might add. Your problem clearly lies not with the rising popularity of soccer, but with the concomitant decline of the ‘meat and potatoes’ American man. I respect the fact that you have an opinion; what I don’t respect is fruitless cultural belittlement, especially not in the name of a poorly structured argument.

As I’m sure you’re a busy man, I will leave you with this: Manchester United plays Manchester City on April 30th in what will surely be the deciding match of the Barclay’s Premiership season. If you do not wish to join the rest of us in watching, kindly keep your offensive remarks to yourself, or at the very least publish them in a medium where fewer people will be subject to them; I’ve had moderate success with blog-form, myself.

Regards,

Prav Chatani

Keep an eye out for leprechauns this weekend. In case you don't know what they look like, here's a helpful image.

I harbor a great deal of fondness for March 17th. For 23 years now I’ve shared a birthday weekend with old Saint Patty, and for two (cough*six*cough) years now I have taken full advantage of the festive temperament surrounding his day of days. In fact, I’ve always felt a slight magnetism towards Irish culture, whether it be through the sport of rugby in college, or now via my career as I apply to medical schools in Dublin, Cork and Galway – there’s something about this weekend that just gets me. Yes, the beer is green, the people are jolly and the streets are overrun with Irish pride, but there is one thing that holds St. Patrick’s day to a level of fun beyond that of your average holiday:

Day drinking.

To some it may seem archaic, a practice lost in the annals of collegiate tomfoolery. I, however, see it as an art, one which can only be perfected over years of trial and considerable tribulation. While the average Friday night asks little in the way of mental preparation, a one and done burst of fun, day drinking requires tact, planning, and most importantly, a thorough understanding of your body. Now I’m no Vegas-poolside, bikini-clad “actress”, but over the years, I have accumulated a small wealth of knowledge on the art of post-meridian pleasantry. So whether it’s been one year since college, or ten, here’s a sure-fire way of making it to midnight – my guide to conquering Saint Patty’s Day, slightly abridged:

i. Eat a big breakfast: despite being the sport of frat-boys and homeless people, drinking can be boiled down to a very precise science. Your ability to imbibe alcohol is based on a number of factors such as body weight, natural ability to break down alcohol and practice imbibing alcohol. One thing that also helps is how much you’ve eaten. Eating a large breakfast will not only slow the absorption of alcohol throughout the day, but fuel you up with energy to power on when the going gets tough. Don’t be afraid to crack open a few eggs before you hit the bar scene in the morning; your body will thank you for it later.

ii. Plan your day around your night: losing sight of your evening plans is the first mistake of the amateur day drinker – the seasoned partier achieves optimal fun without sacrificing his/her nighttime shenanigans. Curb your enthusiasm for the Bud Light– or risk missing out on the good stuff later.

iii. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate: some people drink water intermittently throughout the day; I, however, prefer to hydrate WHILE I dehydrate. Pick a refueling drink that is low in sugar and high in electrolytes (rum and coconut water is delicious, not too sweet and chock full of hydration value); knock one of those puppies back every third beer and avoid the 6pm crash. If your bar of choice happens to have a mirror, feel free to wink encouragingly at your reflection periodically – positive reinforcement supplements the hydration nicely.

iv. There’s no shame in a nap: a 20-30 minute mid-evening nap is the perfect pit stop on your way to a fun-filled night. Any shorter and you tire more, any longer and you risk sleeping through the fun. This is best taken at 6pm, when your melatonin levels begin to spike. Remember: there are no heroes in day drinking, ‘powering through’ gets you nowhere but your bed at 8pm. This is a marathon, not a sprint.

Napper’s warning: AM and PM are not the same thing. Adjust your alarm clock accordingly.

v. Designate a drinking buddy: the biggest challenges are most easily tackled in tandem. Just as it is with working out or studying, it’s always good to stick with a spotter to give you that extra ounce of motivation when you need it, or put up the stop sign when you don’t. Frodo had Samwise, Skywalker had Solo, even Eddie Murphy had [insert B-list white actor here]. The buddy system works, people, so make use of it. Besides, if you’re gonna fall short you may as well drag someone down with you. Literally, if you’d like.

Drinking Buddy Selection Tip: pick someone who knows your facial expressions, drunken habits and general mannerisms quite well. The best drinking buddy sees the problem before it fully presents itself.

vi. Avoid lines: St. Patrick wants you to have fun – so don’t stand around waiting for some power-tripping bouncer to decide whether you’re cool enough to get into an East Village dive bar that hasn’t been properly cleaned since March 18th of last year. Good friends and good beer are all you need to celebrate the 17th in true Irish fashion. Write that one down on the hand before you go out; alcohol may cause memory loss.

vii. Know your rules: we’re adults, whether or not we choose to accept it, and nothing kills a good time like a petty crime. So before you go out this weekend, know your city’s policy on open containers, noise violations and public displays of physical prowess (i.e. wrestling in the streets). Be courteous to all, even those slightly lamer than yourself. I don’t have enough money to bail you all out of prison.

viii. Acknowledge cultural significance: the United States tends to lose sight of St. Patrick’s Day in a wake of green beer generated by the Anheuser-Busch party boat. Don’t forget that this is a day to celebrate the culture of Ireland, and all the joy that it has given us. Wear green or you will be pinched, also feel free to watch the Ireland vs. England rugby game at noon (it’s kind of a big deal this year). If you don’t understand rugby, just stand in between two people who do and follow their lead; most of it is just incomprehensible yelling anyways.

So there they are, tried and true tips from a slightly-less-than-seasoned veteran. Have a safe and fun-filled weekend! If you’re in the New York area, I recommend The Ginger Man on 36th and 5th. 3pm. Just sayin’.

Free beer for all the ruggers,

Prav

I was raised by an extraordinarily delightful group of human beings. My mother recycles, even though we come from a country that hasn’t used a trash can since roads were invented; my father has helped more unemployed Jamaicans than the casting director for Cool Runnings, and the last person to leave my grandparents’ house without a full meal was a hurricane named Gilbert – but that’s only cause he took the roof instead.

My wonderfully glass-half-full family has taught me to find the best in even the worst of places. ”God creates beauty in everything; it is up to you to choose to see it” my grandmother says – and even though this mentality led me to see Tower Heist in theaters, it’s still a part of me that I will cherish forever. The world is too enjoyable to get upset over life’s most insignificant non-sequiturs (unless they involve 90 minutes of Ben Stiller breaking every law of physics imaginable), and it would surely be a better place if everyone shared this point of view.

With that being said…

New York is slowly turning me into a bitter old man. Not the remarkably wise, occasionally compassionate type like Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World. No, I’m talking Clint Eastwood in the first 30 minutes of Gran Torino bitter. Mr. Burns from The Simpsons bitter. Simon Cowell listening to Kidz Bop bitter. Why, you ask? Because living in New York is kind of like doing cocaine and trying to play “Operation” – there’s quite simply too much to do and not enough time, so all you end up with is frustration, a high blood pressure and malice towards the morbidly obese (seriously though, how slow can one walk before they are considered inanimate). It is truly a deconstruction of everything that 90′s television taught me about this beautiful metropolis.

Don’t get me wrong; New York is amazing, and if you ever have the benefit of living here you’ll see why – but that doesn’t mean it isn’t beating my inner Jamaican to death with a red, white and blue baseball bat of pessimism. After 21 months of living here, I’ve compiled quite a list of things that annoy me. Literally, it is a list on my phone. Granted it can be found right in between my lists for “Favorite late night food joints” and “Best places to watch British sports amongst rowdy fans” (both heavily populated), but nonetheless it was created. The city giveth and the city taketh away, I suppose.

It really didn’t occur to me how sour I was becoming until I took a good, hard look at some of the things that were on this queue of displeasures. While they started out as the typical pet peeves of any average New Yorker, the list soon devolved into a collection of items and acts that, if held to, would probably prevent me from ever smiling again. But before I get to the cheesy, warm-hearted moral of this story, I’d first like to share with you the darker side of my daily humor: my list of things that annoy me, affectionately titled “Brooklyn and Beyond”:

1. People who walk too slow

2. Doormen that assume I’m a delivery guy: I really can’t defend this. I wear sneakers a lot.

3. Street-side Activists with an attitude: Look, I get that you want to save the pandas or Chinese child laborers or women’s rights, I really do, but don’t get sassy with me cause I’ve got a meeting in 5 minutes and don’t have time to ‘dialogue’ with you about it. Also I don’t ‘dialogue’.

4. Drivers that have a green light but let you cross anyways

5. Sporks: clearly biting off more than they can chew

6. Poorly crafted puns

7. People that walk too fast

8. Cabs that won’t take me cause I’m Indian: we’re not cheap, we’re economical.

9. Cabs that only take me cause I’m Indian: just cause the UN is in session and I’m wearing pants doesn’t mean I’m one of the rich ones

10. Poorly advertised parades that get in the way: “Hey by the way we’re having a parade in the morning don’t expect to use Avenues 1, 3, Lex, Park, 5th, 8th or 10th. Also the highways will be jammed kthanksbye.”

11. Duane Reade: “Let’s sell everything in Rite Aide for $5 more”

12. Confused weekenders from Connecticut: “Excuse me, how do I get to the ‘West Side’?”

13. Fruit/Felafel carts that take advantage of drunk people

14. Homeless “veterans” with “Irak” spelled incorrectly on their cardboard signs

15. People that complain about homeless people

16. People that contradict themselves

17. Hipsters Brooklyn: Yes, yes we get it; you have good beer, dollar oysters and your apartment is twice as big as mine for half the price, but we’ll see who’s laughing when another goth kid jumps in front of the L train this weekend. Have fun being stuck in your monstrous apartments.

18. The MTA: “Oh, you wanted to get there on time? Our bad.”

19. Under-spiced ethnic foods

20. Parking enforcers that double park

21. People that read the menu at Shake Shack like it’s the last Harry Potter book

22. People with Blackberries People that don’t have iPhones: No I won’t look up a good bar nearby, why don’t you bbm all your buddies and ask them for directions.

23. East Village bouncers that count the girls in your group

24. People that have their birthdays at hotels in the Meatpacking District: “Can’t wait to celebrate my birthday with all my closest friends! Just don’t forget to bring cash cause there’s a $30 cover. Also guys should try to show up with at least 6 girls each and just to let you know the bouncer hates all men wearing fewer items of Feregamo than him. So excited it’s warming up! 27 degrees! Woooo!”

25. Everyone in a car in New York

26. People that expect me to know what the Z train is

27. Drug dealers that assume I do drugs because I have a beard and wear aviators

28. Hoboken The PATH New Jersey: Pay our taxes, then call yourself a New Yorker.

For those of you who have yet to have the pleasure of meeting me, I’m actually a really nice guy – probably because I channel my frustrations into lists like this (and my ‘Reasons to Push Snooki Down the Stairs’ list, which recently got a little longer). The reason for this post, however, is that I have come to a realization. New Yorkers are bitter because we are the spoiled brats of America; we get everything we want, whenever we want it.

If you want a pastrami sandwich stacked with rare artisan cheese and hand pressed by a remarkably short Korean guy in a “Kiss the cook” apron at 4am, you can get that. If you want to stay out all night salsa dancing on a rooftop with a live band who then cooks you brunch after the sun rises, you can probably get that too. We are spoiled rotten with privilege by this beautiful city, and we do nothing but run rampant with requests in return. As New Yorkers we feel entitled to a certain style and pace of life wherever it is that we go, an expectation that will never be met by even the second best city in the US (Miami, obviously).

So as I publish this post I move to delete the pessimist’s list of pesky peeves, because I am too fortunate to be bitter any longer. From here on I’ll spare the city my anger, and learn to let the good simply overrun the bad. Perhaps I’ll start a new list to absorb my frustrations. I’m thinking “Words I’d Like to Hear Kim Kardashian Spell”.

1. Zucchini,

Prav

Something happened this weekend that really got me thinking. I was having a beer with a long lost friend of mine from Curacao (for the sake of anonymity let’s call her Ariel), when she uttered the following words:

“What can I say, chivalry must be dead.”

I chuckled politely at first; you see Ariel is far more attractive than I, so I do my best to tip-toe along the line between conservative judgement and playful repartee, but speaking honestly, the statement did strike a nerve. The reason for her comment was that she had just received a text from an old male suitor in the midst of our pleasant conversation, a friend she had not seen or heard from in over a year. Despite the chronological canyon separating their last exchange from the present, he chose to open with this gem of a line: “Hey…are you on Twitter?” Following about ten minutes of mild mockery laced with social media puns, she came to the aforementioned conclusion that chivalry, had in fact, ceased to exist. I offered her a drink to restore her faith, marked one in the assist column for TwitterGuy and moved away from the subject for the time being.

What bothered me most about the whole ordeal was not that Ariel chose to blame the entire institution of chivalry for just one man’s lyrical shortcomings, but the fact that she chose to criticize it at all. Why? Three reasons:

Firstly, true chivalry has never existed in our society (at least not in the classical sense of the word) and therefore it cannot be made fun of for being dead. The idea of chivalry has been heavily romanticized and remodeled by women over the last 700 years, tampered with and twisted from its original existence in archaic texts,

• [circa 1250 A.D.] Chivalry (n.): the rules and customs of medieval knighthood

into something a little more GQ, like this:

• [circa 2012] Chivalry (n.): the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor, and dexterity in arms.

While modern women have dressed the word up in Paul Smith, gelled its hair and filled its hands with roses and bath salts, scholars will tell you that knights of lore were actually some of worst gentlemen of the medieval era – and no, not the James Dean look-alike assholes that high school girls find sexy, the kind that murder people for sport.

Just to make things a little more clear, here are a few things that chivalrous knights did:

1. Stab people with lances
2. Stab people with swords
3. Wear chain-linked armor and steel-plated helmets

Here are a few things a chivalrous man might do today:

1. Open doors for women
2. Listen
3. Wear pleated pants

You see, true chivalry was the fairy tale ending that every maiden of the medieval period wanted: the brawny knight armed and ready to save a damsel in distress from the perils of 1300′s anarchy (i.e. overzealous kings, sexually-confused dragons and whatever Heath Ledger killed at the end of ‘A Knights Tale’). Nowadays with the advent of the strong, independent woman, this definition has become antiquated to something much more romantic: a stubble-bound, collar-stayed gentleman with respect for women, pride in their abilities to care for themselves and support for their desire to be showered with affection. Unfortunately for men of the Medieval Times restaurant chain, dexterity in arms is now more of a reference to toned biceps than the ability to wield a lance. Now that we accept the latter definition as a bastardization of the first, let us move on to my second source of the offense-taken.

It’s because of this made up, pseudo-fantasized version of “chivalry” that women don’t have to do anything but be themselves throughout the duration of a courtship. Literally, men are held socially responsible for every step of the wooing process, from the introduction to the request for a date and beyond…so why do women feel the need to complain? If “chivalry” was actually the lifeless corpse women so often describe it to be, they would be forced to take matters into their own hands and the world would look like this:

…I honestly don’t feel the need to elaborate on this point. Moving on.

Finally, Ariel chose to overlook this man because of his less-than-stellar approach to an introduction, and this is fair, but to say that chivarly is dead is not, given that there exists no female complement to even the most modernized version of the word! What is the feminine equivalent of chivalrous, I ask you?! That’s right, there is none, because even though women chase men all the time, no one decided it was worth making a word for. To put this into perspective for you, here are some other words we did come up with and their definitions:

• Gastromancy (n.): telling fortune from the rumblings of a stomach
• Gardyloo (n.): a warning shouted before throwing water from above
• Gymnophoria (n.): the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you

We made these words…yet no one could take three minutes to make one for a nice girl that can sit through a football game and pick up her half of the tab once in a while? These girls exist and are probably more abundant than guys who know how to properly operate a sword, but until someone lays it down in the dictionary I can’t just sit back and watch my gender get chastised for not being more like the only ambiguously gay knight at King Arthur’s round table.

As you can imagine, this topic ended up being a constant source of debate throughout the remainder of the weekend, and though we agreed on some points and disagreed on others, there was only one statement that received unanimous accord: ”Hey…are you on Twitter” could never be seen as chivalrous, even if somehow tweeted at you by an actual medieval knight.

Until next time…

Adoxography (n): skilled writing on an unimportant subject,

@PravChatani