Blessed be the Busy

Political science class starts at 10:00, but the real education begins 15 minutes before that as students gather outside the door to chew the fat, compare gossip and generally mingle. At these impromptu meetings of self-interested students (not meant in the pejorative sense), derelicts like me relearn the fundamentals of human interaction. Like the good student I am not, I notice trends in conversation and am beginning to discern some social and discourse virtues.

Before class yesterday, after Drake and I exchanged pleasantries and cash (I owed him for a lost sports bet and he owed me because I didn't go out with his sister; the balance had me paying), I asked what was new in his life.

"Man, I've been so busy lately, you know?" Drake didn't strike me as the kind of student who over-commits himself, so I didn't really know what he meant. But before I could ask a clarifying question, the conversation turned to the Cowboys-Packers game and why the @#$%^&* NFL wouldn't allow such an amazing sporting event to be put on broadcast TV.

Lindsey and Nate arrived moments later, looking a little too friendly, and had a similar refrain.

"So sorry I didn't send you that article I promised. I just got so busy with everything." Nate was referencing an article on Ron Paul which compared the 10 term congressman to Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee in a key primary state. I kind of wanted to read the article and had noticed when Nate didn't send it. Thinking back on how Nate and Lindsey entered, I thought I might know what had kept Nate busy. Outwardly, I shrugged.

Lindsey had an apology as well. She'd missed the week's study group saying she was "just too busy trying to catch up" and wanted me to send her my notes.

More students joined our circle. Trevor (a poorly adjusted, heavily acned, tall kid with radical ideas about the role of people in government), James (a devout atheist) and Carrie (yes, that Carrie) already had a conversation going and, from what I gathered at the back end, James was complaining about his school schedule next year, saying that as busy as he was this semester pulling decent grades would be nigh unto impossible.

At each expression of busyness, those listening reacted with expressions of sympathy and general assent. The non-verbal message was "I know what you mean" and "life is a 200-pound dumbbell wrapped around your legs as you are thrown into the Marianas Trench."

But I said I was a student. While, I came into the discussion with a preconceived notion on the merits of busy, I came to find that my classmates were right. Busyness is a virtue.

Most of the time, when people ask me what I've been up to or why I am unavailable for some social event, I answer something like this:

"TV. Lot's and lots of TV. I am even watching shows I don't care that much for. The other day, I sat through almost an hour of ads and the show on the other end was canceled. You?"

OR

"I can't. I have to make money. I value money and the process of making it more than I value our friendship. But I still value our friendship a lot. Actually, making money is a good thing. Life is like money - it's useless if you don't spend it. In other news, I've been taking financial advice from M.C. Hammer. So, I'll be working instead of spending time with you.

OR

"I've been dating around. You know, one night here one night there. Pretty recreational, actually. I treat the opposite gender like a jungle gym and that's why I didn't get you that paper on time."

It is beginning to dawn on me, through the gel in my hair and the thick skull encasing by brain, that maybe these kinds of answers are not socially virtuous; I should just play like a phone and put up a busy signal.

There is one other cardinal virtue I would be remiss if I didn't share with you, the faithful FCN few. That is the virtue of fatigue. He who is tired can do no wrong. Make a dumb mistake at work? You were tired. Forget to phone your mom on her birthday? You were suffering from absolute exhaustion. Call your friend a bad word? Really, no-sleep in days kinda tired.

Instead of saying "heck, I forgot, sorry" or "you know, I totally mismanaged my time this weekend," you say you're wasted. And all is forgiven.

If you really need to run interference, you can use them both in conjunction. "I was really busy this weekend and super tired with everything." The deeper in trouble you find yourself, the more details you should give about what kept you busy. But make sure that these details are socially valuable activities (volunteering at the animal clinic, taking care of your baby sister or rescuing baby seals at the poles) and steer clear of any entertainment related answer, no matter how true it is.

All people really want to know is that even though you spat in their face socially, you still give a care; that their plight is high on your list of priorities, even though you just blatantly shelved it. Now we know how this can be accomplished easily through the deployment of a simple, four-letter word.

The Day I Fell Asleep in a Public Sauna

It's one of those things you just don't do. Every guy knows it even though it isn't written in any book of rules. If animals watched animal planet about human beings, the narrator would say that it's a miracle that this inviolable rule is passed down through the generations. It's the unspeakable error; the unpardonable sin. We all know saunas are full of perverts, but we can handle them when awake and on the move. Alas, I let my wits get the better of me. Yesterday, I fell asleep in a public sauna.

It was a tough day. First the lead in my only pencil snapped off in the middle of a test and my very strict proctor wouldn't let me get up to sharpen it. Then someone snuck Valium into my inhaler ("as a joke, hahaha"). Then some custodian waxed the steps and I ended up tumbling down four stories. I broke the fall with my dignity. And a little old lady with a walker.

By the time I reached the wet sauna I was definitely ready for some R & R. I clambered on in, found a seat next to a fat Chinese dude, rested my head on the wall, and closed my eyes. I let my troubles fade away with every deep breath of the eucalyptus-oiled mist. The extreme heat, the long day, and the obscured, dream-like vision conspired against me. My back slid slowly across the slick tile wall and I curled up in the fetal position. The last thing I saw was four more fat naked guys coming in.

It was definitely one of the most unique wake-up experiences I've ever had. The thought process ran something like:

This is so warm.
I don't even need a blanket.
This mattress sure is hard though.
Oh, it's tile.
That explains it.
Say, I'm all wet.
That's embarrassing.
It's misty, too.
Oh, great.
What did my roomie do now?
No, I'm not in my room.
My room has a lamp next to the bed.
This is most definitely not my room.
I'm buck naked.
That's unexpected.
There's five sweaty fat naked guys sitting next to me.
Also unexpected.
Say, I just fell asleep in a public sauna.

I sat bolt upright, then overcompensated and knocked heads with a sweaty fat naked guy.

"Sorry," I muttered, groping for the door.

He sniffed and snorted as if just waking up. "Hm? What, what? Who's there? Lunch time?"

We'll fast-forward the story to the part where I run, screaming, from the building. Next time I'm bringing a six-pack of Coke and a taser.

Life Tip #48

Don't go near moving cars.

If you must go near moving cars, do not race a moving car; they usually win.

Not your father's wristwatch

For the last two years I haven't worn a watch. Not when I drive, not when I walk around, not in class and not when I run.

Most distance runners are chained to their timepiece and wear a watch with such regularity that they tattoo a white band into their wrists. This is called Ghost Watch and can be remedied by inexpensive outpatient plastic surgery and cancer-causing chemicals. Some runners have watches that are so advanced that their piece will measure heart rate or GPS and give the user a minute-per-mile pace calculation. Others just use a basic chronograph or even an analog unit to gage speed.

Not me. After a several years of running with watch, I decided the weight was too cumbersome to bother with on a regular basis. I didn't like the tan line, the itch or the hassle. And I was cheap. So when the last one broke I stopped using a watch.

If I really needed to know my time, on some tempo runs, I would bring a stopwatch, but most of my training was conducted without an accurate time appraisal. I would calculate my speed using a more precise version of the circadian clock, a built-in meter that lets us "feel" the passage of time. Granted, the brain powered watch isn't nearly as accurate as its human made counterpart, but it did the trick. And it was convenient. "That felt like a four-minute mile!"

I survived a career on a collegiate track team and over fifteen races without ever strapping on a digital watch. Sometimes my coach would advise us on the merits of being able to accurately measure our own time, but after each admonishing lecture I returned to running with a naked left wrist.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago when I ran with a couple friends in a relay race. Both of my friends put up stellar performances (first and third in the field, respectively), but my time was much more pedestrian. We ended up getting fifth place overall, but it was obvious that my time held us back.

One of my friends kindly took me aside and gently advised that, perhaps, a watch might be the necessary addition to improve my training and racing. Maybe, he mused in a kind and gentle way that was insistent yet gave me room to wiggle, my times were suffering because I didn't have an objective standard against which to weigh my progress.

A couple of days later, I was at the watch counter at my sporting goods supplier weighing the merits of various "Running Accessories." Saying these devices are watches is like comparing a space shuttle to a Cessna. More than just tell the time, the products could measure heart rate, communicate with other watches, report altitude and temperature and conduct the kind of analytical mathematic calculations usually reserved for scientific calculators.

The watch technology has advanced significantly in the past two years! I wondered to the salesperson how long it would be before the SAT prohibited watches during the test taking.

I wasn't especially excited about spending two hundred dollars for an athletic wristwatch, so I settled on a less expensive unit that boasted "Tap Start Technology" and "200 Lap Chronometer." Tap Start means that the user can start the chronograph, just by lightly tapping a single button - as long as the watch is in the appropriate mode and of a friendly disposition. The 200 Lap feature allows the user to take 200 individual splits and, conveniently, uses the same tap start technology to begin split measurements.

Next morning I undertook my first run with my new hardware.

I pushed start and ensured that the watch was, indeed, counting. I then didn't look at the screen for the duration of the run. Those of you who are used to running with watches might find this unusual, but if watches aren’t your thing, looking at it during a run is one of the most unnatural motions imaginable. And in the last twenty-four months, I had run over 2,000 miles without a watch.

When I finished my outing (six miles, in case you just had to know), I checked my new watch and was excited to see a new personal record. According to the screen in front of me, I had run six miles in 4:22.89; Four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

My tired, endorphin laden brain interpreted that number with euphoria. But then reality took over and I measured my circadian measurement against the digital contraption in front of me. It really felt as if I'd been out for fifty minutes. I wasn't even pushing. A reality check also told me that a per mile time of less than a minute was fast in a car and humanly impossible.

On investigation, I discovered that this number represented only my latest split time. Apparently my long sleeved shirt kept bumping the tap technology button and, while my cumulative time remained accurate, the splits recent constantly. In all, I had used 142 splits in 46 minutes of running.

Maybe I should have stuck with an 8 lap model.

Deconstructing Black Friday

I was considering a lawsuit. I consulted my attorney and discussed the possibility with likely co-plaintiffs. I even drafted a letter of intent. But I think I have recovered sufficient sleep and wits to keep my claim out of the civil courts. At least for now.

The events of Friday, November 23rd - Black Friday in everyday parlance - will remain forever etched in my memory and in my pocketbook. It is a story I will use on many a date, a cautionary tale that will be sternly retold to my children and my grandkids will hear a heavily embellished version of it.

If only I had been forewarned.

FCN got a monitory email from You Can Call Me Batman on the 24th, just one day after my fateful encounter with the corporate world of electronics and just a few hours too late. YCCMB had this to say:

Dear FCN,
Memo to the file: never go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, because you WILL be eaten alive. Yes, those sales are very tempting, but unless you are willing to risk life and limb, you should stay at home cowering under your bed and not spend any money in the first place. I discovered this firsthand. It even started out painful! We (my mom, cousin, aunt and I) had to wake up at 6:45 (a completely unrighteous hour in the morning) though the stores were opening up at about 4 a.m. We started out at Walmart, and it was already a madhouse of people. Emerging from there with only a few scratches and bruises, we continued on to Joann fabrics, which was a really bad idea. We lost one of our company there due to the HOUR LONG WAIT to get our fabric cut. And that was only the beginning! By about 10:00, we ventured into Kohls, and were almost immediately suffocated by the amount of people in there. And to top it all off, the line wrapped around the store. Luckily, I was able to dust off my (horrible, but nonetheless valuable) Ninja skills, and we were out by about sundown. Most of our group was injured. We returned from our venture battered and bruised, but we had saved a lot of money, and that made us feel better. (except me, but I didn't have any money to begin with.) So, unless you are willing to die to get that one pair of jeans that's 80% off, never go shopping on Black Friday.
-You can call me Batman

If only YCCMB had contacted us with this advice a few days earlier, we might have avoided a frigid night on the hard cement and a difficult lesson on the trials of consumerism.

'Twas not Walmart, Joann's or Kohls that the FCN contributors and a few friends found themselves in front of, but rather BestBuy, a major electronics store with some of the most scandalous BlackFriday deals. Despite this difference, YCCMB's advice is still pertinent.

The newspaper advertisement, lovingly clipped by so many in preparation, told of discounts of up to six and seven hundred dollars on hot ticket items like big screen TVs, laptop computers and GPS devices. Because the deals are meted out on a first come, first serve basis, it behooves the consumer to arrive early.

In past years, BestBuy has announced its price and informed prospective customers that tickets would be handed out to the first people in line a couple of hours before the store's doors open. Last year, you may recall, I gave a couple of hours of my life to BestBuy and was compensated handsomely. I didn't actually purchase any of the items I stood in line for; rather I resold the ticket (scalped it, if you prefer the vernacular) to those who had more money than time.

The way I see it, my scalping activity provides a legitimate service. Certainly, middle men are not the most respected of enterprisers, but in the big picture they act as wards of Adam Smith, pushing the financial advantage of Black Friday to those who are willing to pay for it.

BestBuy's doors were scheduled to open at 5:00 AM on the 23rd. The first faithful shoppers got in line at 4:00 PM...on the 21st. We here at FCN value our turkey and stuffing too much to give up the warmth of a Thanksgiving fire in favor of a lonely line so FCN found its place on the cold sidewalk at approximately 8:30 PM, eight and a half hours before opening and after an estimated 120 people.

There is little to do in a consumerism line other than wait. We felt like children of the Soviet Union, joining breadlines for our daily fare. We experienced first-hand the rigors of communist living and counted ourselves fortunate to have thought to bring lawn chairs.

But not everyone was so miserable. The place immediately down wind from us was occupied by a few bong-hitting hippies who let the sweet scent of their Wacky-Tobackie waft over everyone. (I am amazed to this moment that those folks were so brazenly consuming illegal narcotics. The line was heavily policed to ensure that nobody did anything untoward, but not one officer stopped to ask about the smell.) Still others watched DVDs or played cards, keeping warm with expensive looking blanket-like coverings or seeming not to care about the weather.

Eight hours in 37 degree cold. Some in Massachusetts scoff at how wimpy I sound complaining about any temperature that far above freezing, but to me, a California-raised kid who worries more about his state's radical politics than extreme weather, 37 degrees might as well have been zero degrees. I bundled up like an Eskimo papoose, with gloves, thermal undergarments (yes, long johns) and a heavy jacket. I even wore a beanie (no, this isn't F).

As cold as we were, shivering against BestBuy's stuccoed wall, a warmth surged through our very being when blue shirted employees began passing out the tickets.

By the time they reached our place in line, the most valuable tickets had already been claimed, but, remembering last year' success, I selected a 42" LCD HDTV (read: really fancy and expensive television) and headed to the back of the line to begin my sales.

That's when Black Friday took a turn for the worse. On my way to the rear, I passed two would-be scalpers as they followed BestBuy employees to the front. I recognized them as scalpers by their sheepish looks and the half-hearted attempts to plea their case. Several of my friends, including both F and N, bailed and gave me their tickets. I now had the salesperson's greatest wish: variety.

I was undaunted by the busted scalpers I had just seen. I couldn't understand what they could possibly have done wrong. Maybe, I pensed, they were liars who tried to cheat prospective customers on the value of the tickets. Or perhaps they were being detained for an unrelated offense; their past crimes were catching up to them. Certainly their fate would not befall me.

When I reached a likely group of line dwellers - they reminded me of people waiting to board lifeboats on the Titanic - I began a series of pitches:

"42-inch widescreen high definition television as advertised. $499 instant savings. I also have 32-inch, 30-inch and the 40-inch DLP. Anyone interested in purchasing the right to buy this discounted TV? Do I hear any offers?"

I was explaining how the deal worked to an elderly gentleman who looked genuinely interested in purchasing when I noticed a blue-clad female behind me and to my right. She wasn't saying anything, but listened intently as I plied every trick of Cialdini. I had nothing to be ashamed of, so I continued to plow on. It wasn't until we were just about to exchange money that she intervened and asked me if I was selling my tickets. When I answered in the affirmative and asked if she was interested in buying one, she asked to see the tickets.

Her move was quick and reminded me of something I'd seen Chuck Norris do. Before I could say "fifty bucks" the tickets were out of my hand and traveling and a brisk walk to the front of the line. I followed, protesting my view that these were my tickets, earned through hours of waiting and that the act of taking them was a blatant violation of my constitutional right to property.

Her response was to direct me to her superior, Chris, a man I victimized with my further remonstrations. I explained that if scalping were illegal or frowned upon, that fact ought to be detailed along with all the other fine print in the ad (which I had meticulously read in preparation for such an encounter). I pointed to the rapidly disappearing tickets and asked Chris where they intoned that they weren't for resale. Finally, I pled with Chris to listen to the voice of entrepreneurial reasonability and reward a derelict's money making efforts with official sanction. I pointed out that my service was legitimate and that there was a clear market for my activity. Chris never answered me, but instead asked me to leave.

I have probably felt more violated at some point in my nineteen years, but I don't care to recall when. The reality is that I was totally deflated by BestBuy's betrayal. I had promised a couple of friends that this could be a money-making opportunity, I had placed my dignity and credibility on the alter and it had combusted with a bright flash before my innocent eyes.

Over the weekend, I thought long and hard about the possibility of pursuing legal action. I may very well have a claim for false advertising, fraud or misrepresentation. The doctrine of detrimental reliance might be deployed to show how BestBuy broke an implied contract with me and I am confident I could convince a small claims court judge of the justice of my plight.

I have at least a year until the statute of limitations expires and my claim is legally preempted. And I will consider the courtroom every time I drive by that store on my way to school. But for now I am going to leave well enough alone. The civic minded side of me says that my claim isn't sever enough to drag BestBuy into court. But then again...