Archive for the 'Humor' Category

My First Nomad Cruise: Learning, Friendship and Open Bar on the High Seas

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Lisbon, September 2017. I’ve spent a few pleasant weeks there. I think to myself, “Self — you’ve been living outside of the US for about 8 months now. And you’ve got a conference to go to in October. Shouldn’t you be thinking of ways of getting back to the US, like maybe eventually? Also, your country called, and it needs you.”

Fair point. But I was in no hurry to return, especially with Agent Orange in power and Greed as the national religion. How could I get back to the States, but slowly? Maybe on a boat. That moves slowly. And stops in a lot of places.

This could be the best idea I’ve ever had, or the worst. Anchors aweigh!

At a talk I attended the very day I had the boat idea, somebody mentioned in passing this thing called “The Nomad Cruise.” Excuse me, what is this? 14 days on the water, 4 ports of call, and a full program of talks and workshops covering everything from marketing, web design, photography, cryptocurrency, financial planning, and other topics of interest to location-independent entrepreneurs. Oh, and unlimited food and booze. The cruise would be leaving in seven days from Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. Price: eminently reasonable.

I’ve never been on a cruise. I don’t know anyone on this cruise. I have no idea what is going to happen. Where do I sign up?

I. Who are these Digital Nomads anyway?

Location-independent workers are a recent thing, but not that recent. Even a pioneering book like Tim Ferriss’s 2007 The Four-Hour Work Week: Escape 9-5, Live Anywhere, and Join the New Rich — the closest thing to a Bible of Digital Nomadism — was merely describing a trend already well under way. What’s new is the acceleration of this demographic trend due to a few factors. Some of them are push factors, some of them pull:

  • Advent of the freelance economy. Long-term employment is diminishing.
  • Advent of location-independent jobs. If you’re a graphic designer, personal coach, writer, virtual assistant or online entrepreneur, you can work from any café with an internet connection.
  • Ubiquity of internet connections, even in remote areas.
  • High cost of city living without a commensurate quality of life.
  • Political unrest.

Of course, there are as many reasons for going nomad as there are nomads. Personally, I had wearied of San Francisco’s coupling of high cost of living with mediocre standard of living. I asked myself, what else could I get for $2500/month in rent besides deficient-to-absent public transport, impossible parking, rampant petty crime, exorbitant taxation, pointlessly expensive everything, needles and humanure everywhere on the streets, and an embarrassing homeless problem? After November 2016, for the sake of my sanity, I was also eager to put as much distance between myself and Agent Orange as possible. My fellow American refugees felt similarly.

Many of the nomads shared my reasons for hitting the road. For some, price arbitrage is a motivating factor. At $1000 a month, you would be living in penury in a place like Paris. In the US, you would be below the poverty line, qualifying for government assistance. On the other hand, you can live very well on that budget in a place like Bali, Guatemala, or Chiang Mai (as illustrated by Chris Dodd’s well-crafted video). And you get an ocean view!

Here are some of the circles I noticed in the big Venn diagram of nomads:

  • Young folks with limited income who dreamed of seeing the world, and finally did something about it.
  • Entrepreneurs with passive income and location-independent jobs who figured it would be fun to hit the road for a while.
  • Dedicated nomads perpetually on the move, with little intention to return to their home country.
  • Political semi-refugees from where the atmosphere can get oppressive: Hungary, US, Poland, England.
  • People at a transition point in life: divorce, breakup, career change, or major health-related event.
  • Watersports enthusiasts who just need to surf, kiteboard, scuba etc.
  • Cryptocurrency enthusiasts.
  • Entrepreneurs leveraging cost arbitrage to get their startups off the ground on minimal cash.
  • People from affluent countries whose robust social services afford its citizens the latitude to take extended trips, e.g. Netherlands, Germany, Sweden.

Following that last observation, most of the Nomad Cruisers were from Germany and the Netherlands, with sizable contingents from

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Bali: Rules for the Road

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Bali scootersMost of the people I know here in Ubud have had some kind of scooter accident, from mild (gash in foot) to severe (broken hand) to life-threatening (concussion with broken leg and jaw). Scooters are the way to travel in Bali. Since there’s no way around them, might as well learn how to be safe on them:

Always wear a helmet. No ifs, ands or buts about this one. Make sure it’s a good one, and get a full-face helmet if possible, a $40 investment. Unless you don’t think your head and face are worth 4 gin-and-tonics.

First look right, then left. Like England and Australia, people drive on the left side of the road here, so look right first when crossing or merging. The corollary to that is “left turn easy, right turn hard.”

Keep feet inside footwell. Inside the footwell, your feet are protected. Outside of it, it can get snagged by trees or other motorbikes, or run over by cars.

Flip down your helmet visor when riding. The other day, a bat flew into my face at 30km/h. I didn’t have the visor down, but I was lucky that it mostly bounced off the helmet and only grazed my face. So now I always pull the visor down. At scooter speeds, a bug can shred your cornea. Protect your face and eyes when in motion.

Always wear closed-toe shoes. No exceptions to this one, folks. It’s unbelievably easy to injure your feet on a scooter — e.g. drop the kickstand accidentally on your foot, and voilà, now you need five stitches. Wearing real shoes instead of flip-flops prevents a whole host of minor disasters.

Slow way down when it’s raining. Your brakes don’t work nearly as well in the rain, and neither do those of others on the road. Avoid driving in the rain if possible, but if not, slow way the hell down.

Gravel and sand are the enemy. Gravel and sand eat scooters for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They make your traction and balance go to shit, then devour you whole. Avoid them.

Don’t pass if you don’t need to. We’re in Bali, not New York. Relax. Enjoy the warmth of the diesel exhaust on your face. Passing might save you 10 seconds; not turning into road pizza by an oncoming truck saves your whole life.

Merge with authority. Punch it when you’re about to get on the road so you can rapidly match the flow of traffic. This is one of the times when speed makes you safer.

No drinking. Even one drink compromises your focus.

No distraction. There are many attractive, minimally dressed women on the sidewalks. Wait till you get to yoga class to check them out — they will still be there. While riding, look only straight ahead.

Beware of dogs, kids, and tourists. All three are highly unpredictable and will wander onto your path, oblivious to danger or honking. Bali dogs are particularly spaced out, with zero respect for road rules.

Beware of mud and dog poop. They make the road far more slippery than you think. Riding onto a patch of either one could mean losing control of your bike.

Expect the unexpected. Oncoming trucks switching into your lane; extra-wide loads; vehicles going the wrong way; cars backing out onto your path; man-eating potholes; flash floods; drivers passing you while you’re passing; dogs sleeping in the middle of the street; chickens falling out of the vehicle in front; sudden traffic stoppage — all these happen on Ubud roads regularly. Anticipate the strange, and always pay full attention.

Impresssions: Bali

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There are no sidewalks in Ubud, the cultural capital of Bali. There are sidehikes, and sidetreks, but no sidewalks. First, there is the matter of elevation. Sometimes the sidewalks are raised 30-60cm from the roadway, then slope down to meet the road at a storefront or driveway, which is every 5 steps. Then the sidewalk disappears without warning, and you’re sharing space with scooters, motorcycles and cars. And by “share”, I mean that, should traffic flow require it, these cars will gladly clamber on to your supposedly inviolate walking territory, exercising right of way by sheer size and made-of-steelness.

Second, there are sidewalk hazards. Many of the sidewalks cover drainage ditches underneath, and they have holes — fist-size, foot-size, leg-size, and whole person-size. And if you’re not watching where you’re going, you can break a fist, foot, leg or whole person. Some holes require jumping over — like, a Carl Lewis-style running leap. As a gesture of courtesy, the locals often put a long stick in these holes, so you can spot them better — or impale yourself on them, depending on how close you’re paying attention. There are also tree branches that cut through the space of the sidewalk at a 45° angle, which means you can easily brain yourself if you’re talking to someone while scanning the ground for person-breaking ditches.

Then, there are the people hazards. These sidewalks are narrow — basically, one Westerner wide. When you come face-to-face with a Balinese person, that’s easy: you break left, because people drive on the left here. But what if you come across another Westerner? There are a ton of Aussies and English people here, who will instinctively break left. But with the right-hand driving folks, you never know. A quick two-step shuffle ensues, usually to the tune of Uptown Funk, and with any luck, both parties pass intact. When in doubt, break left — it’s the law of the land.

Most of the Balinese you encounter on the sidewalk will not be walking; they will be sitting in wait for you. The females will all think your name is Massage; the males will all call you Taxi. Every fourth storefront in Ubud seems to be a spa, and every able-bodied male seems to have a side-hustle as a gypsy cabbie (car, scooter or both). By my estimation, while sidehiking in Ubud, for every minute of walking time, you get 5 offers of motorized transport or professional kneading.

Of course, you only deal with the sidehike nonsense if you’re enough of a chump to walk in the first place. Because every native man, woman and child is on a scooter (aka motorbike, moped, or matic). At first glance, the Ubud scooter traffic looks like madness and chaos — more like the flow of a tropical river than any discernible traffic pattern. Lane lines? Absent. Traffic lights and stop signs? Haven’t seen any yet, and decorative when they do exist. What you do see is people from age 10 to 70 on scooters in every imaginable combination: single, double, whole families, an entire hardware store (while the guy takes orders on his phone), and the winner: a lady nursing her baby.

By law, people are required to

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The Ultimate Party Playlist: To Not Suck as a Party DJ, Play These Songs

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djgoofyThere’s an epidemic sweeping the land that hardly anyone talks about, infiltrating dining hall parties, Cambridge college bops, reunions, weekend conferences, bar mitzvahs, weddings, and all sorts of other mission-critical gatherings. It usually strikes around 9pm on a Saturday night, when partiers are most itching to get their groove on. Some of these people have taken time off work or study, hired babysitters, and even made nice with their exes to bring this window of free time into existence. And if they’re white, they’ve probably been drinking since 4pm the prior day for the prospect of actual dancing on this fine night. And what do they get instead of a chance to get down? A big fat let-down, that’s what.

I’m talking about the epidemic of crappy djs, which is harshing the mellow of many a partygoer. There you are, hoping to hop around to some thoroughly recognizable party anthem — say, “Vogue” by Madonna. And instead, you are confronted by some unfamiliar pattern of beats and words to which you cannot shake your booty, no matter how hard you try. And you notice that everyone else on the dance floor feels the same way, evidenced by their standing around, mobbing the bar and definitely non-dancing. And yet, the dj seems blithely oblivious to this fact which is as obvious as a polka-dotted pink rhinoceros, as he keeps on spinning song after non-danceable brick of a song.

What the hell is going on here? I could speculate on the etiology of this degenerative neurological condition which makes djs crawl deeper and deeper into the Hole of DJ Snobbery & Pretense, as they try to introduce fresh new tracks to these unwashed masses, and do oh-so-clever beat-matching between songs so unrelated that you will break your ankles trying to dance to them consecutively.

But you know what? The partiers don’t care about your cleverness, or your command of bands so esoteric they hardly exist, Mr/Ms DJ. Really. They think of you in the same way as the bartender, the server, the party planner: staff. Which means that you’re expected to do an unobtrusively good job, but will inspire serious wrath if you fuck it up. Especially if you’re the dj, because everyone is paying attention to your work. And did I mention that they’ve been drinking for the past 16 hours? You definitely want this crowd on your side, brother.

Now if you’re some kinda name-brand dj with an unpronounceable name like Deadmau5 or Aviciiiiiiii that people have paid specifically to hear —  be my guest, mess with your audience all you want. Hell, you already got paid your 100 grand — what do you care? But if you’re a hired party dj, you’ve got one job and one job only: to keep the dance floor bumping.

Luckily, being a party dj is not terribly hard work. I know this because I used to do it at the now-mythical house parties I used to throw in Cambridge (MA) many moons ago. I didn’t write any of the songs or play any instruments, and yet the dance floor was always full of sweaty, writhing bodies making out with each other. My point is that it’s not like the dj’s a composer or musician even. You’re just selecting a song and playing it for the audience. Hell, you even know which songs people generally like: they’re called hits. All you’ve got to do is read the crowd a little, and play them what they like. The crowd’s reaction gives you instant feedback on how well you’re doing. Simple.

So if the dance floor empties, it’s not because your audience is uncool. Mark my words: the audience is never uncool. If they aren’t dancing, that means you’re bad at your job, dj.

Fortunately, there is a simple remedy. There are songs out there that are so stupendously catchy and danceable that hardly any sentient being that’s not on life support can resist wiggling to it. These are the Irresistible Boogie Initiator Songs (IBIS).

Now Mr DJ, you may think that these songs are cheesy. Or played out. And you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. However, people love dancing to these songs. Some of these songs are the musical equivalent of pigs in a blanket: not terribly nutritious, but oh-so-tasty. Forgive the mob their mob tastes, and play what they want. And remember that some of these songs are masterpieces of the pop genre (“Hey Ya”, “Twist and Shout” and anything by Michael Jackson or Prince come to mind).

Generally, if people are able to sing along to a song, it’s a good song to play, so long as it’s somewhat danceable. For example, Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” is only marginally danceable, but when you play it, people will be too busy belting it out huddled around a beer-bottle microphone to notice.

Familiarity is a key criterion here: a solid IBIS will take people back to their college days, to high school, to their first kiss, to any number of pleasant memories associated with that song. And if you do a good job, the party you’re dj-ing will go into that same bin of positive association to draw upon for the future.

Now I know there’s some serious dj out there reading this and fuming: what about crowd-reading, song selection, sequencing and beat-matching — these are serious skills! Yes, but there’s software that can do most of these things now, such that anyone can be a competent dj for party purposes. Hey — if Paris Hilton can do it, then I’m gonna guess this ain’t neurosurgery.

In the interest of protecting all party djs out there from the fulminating wrath of drunken partygoers, I have compiled below a list (in no particular order) of IBISes that will have audiences from 18 to 48 screaming with glee, taking off their heels and grinding on strangers. The songs that will empty the bar and fill the dance floor instantly are marked in bold. And readers: if you are at a party where the dj is sucking, copy this list and hand it to him/her. The guests will thank you for it. And if you’ve got a song that you think I should include on this list, please mention it in the comments! If we’re going to stop the epidemic, we’re gonna need all the help we can get.

  • YMCA – The Village People
  • Just dance; Poker face – Lady Gaga
  • Hey ya – Outkast (quite possibly the all-time champion)
  • Shake it off – Taylor Swift
  • Groove is in the heart – Dee-lite
  • 1999; Kiss; Erotic City; Let’s go crazy – Prince
  • Billy Jean; ABC; The way you make me feel; Rock with you; Gonna be startin’ something; Don’t stop till you get enough – Michael Jackson
  • All night long – Lionel Richie
  • Yeah – Usher
  • This is how we do it – Montell Jordan
  • Can’t stop the feeling; Rock your body; Señorita; Like I love you; SexyBack – Justin Timberlake
  • I will survive – Gloria Gaynor
  • Come on Eileen – Dexy’s Midnight Runners
  • Got Your Money – Ol’ Dirty Bastard
  • Cheap Thrills – Sia
  • Wake me up – Avicii
  • Centerfold – J Geils Band
  • Living on a prayer – Bon Jovi
  • Love shack – The B-52s
  • Tainted love – Soft Cell
  • Happy – Pharrell Williams
  • Crazy – Gnarls Barkley
  • Jungle Boogie – Kool & the Gang
  • Heart of Glass, Rapture – Blondie
  • Bulletproof – La Roux
  • Titanium – David Guetta/Sia
  • In da club – 50 Cent
  • Wake me up before you go-go – Wham!
  • Jump Around – House of Pain
  • Here comes the hotstepper – Ini Kamoze
  • Hideaway – Kiesza
  • A little respect; Chains of Love – Erasure
  • Just can’t get enough – Depeche Mode
  • Rio – Duran Duran
  • Girls and Boys – Blur
  • I love it – Icona Pop
  • Call me maybe – Carly Rae Jepsen
  • Smells like teen spirit – Nirvana
  • Brown-eyed girl – Van Morrison
  • Take me on – a-ha
  • Hypnotize – Notorious BIG
  • Uptown Funk – Mark Ronson & Bruno Mars
  • Last Nite – The Strokes
  • I’m coming out – Diana Ross
  • Get up – James Brown
  • Single ladies; Crazy in love – Beyonce Knowles
  • Toxic; Baby one more time – Britney Spears
  • Dirrrrty – Christina Aguilera
  • Twist and shout – Beatles
  • Mr Brightside – The Killers
  • Like a prayer; Vogue; Ray of Light; Holiday; Like a virgin; Express yourself – Madonna
  • Regulate – Warren G
  • Don’t you want me – The Human League
  • Gold digger – Kanye West
  • Mo’ money mo’ problems – Jay Z
  • Get Lucky – Daft Punk
  • Moves like Jagger – Maroon 5
  • I wanna dance with somebody – Whitney Houston
  • Dancing Queen – ABBA
  • Boom boom pow; I gotta feeling – Black Eyed Peas
  • Low – Flo Rida
  • Party rock anthem – LMFAO
  • We found love; Umbrella – Rihanna

For Millennials: The Guide to Using a Telephone

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oldschoolphoneHey there, people born after 1985! I noticed that a lot of you are having issues with your smartphone’s simultaneous real-time voice chat app, also known as The Phone. So just in case you don’t want to turn yourself into a pariah and die alone and friendless, here’s a short guide to how The Phone works:

1. You do not have to ask permission to call someone in the same way you have to ask for permission to, say, marry them. You can just call them. If they can answer, they will. If they cannot, then they will see that you have called and/or left a voicemail, and call you back at their leisure.

2. Calling someone is not considered an unpardonable intrusion into their lives. In fact, a single two-minute phone call has been known to replace 5 days of meandering inconclusive texting. Come to think of it, calling is often the less intrusive choice, since I can’t drive, cook or have sex while texting. Talking can be hands-free and practically attention-free, while texting requires at least one of my hands and all of my attention. Far more intrusive.

3. Talking to people is how you make friends. Texting people is how you lose them. Your pick. Unless you enjoy annoying your friends with cryptic messages like “Let’s meet at mine at the tar”, “You’re she nest” and “I realty hike you,” you need to get on the horn (= more hip slang for “The Phone” — you’re welcome!) and actually speak to me, so I can say “what the fuck was that gibberish” when you don’t make any sense.

4. The term “dial” refers to the circular number dials that used to be on phones. You would stick your forefinger in a number hole, turn it around all the way for each number, then wait for the ringing signal to speak to someone. Crazy, huh?! Now of course you can say “Call Madison” to Siri, or just lick the smartphone screen, and it will do the same thing. Hell, you don’t even know what Madison’s number is and never will, and she’s, like, your bestie, you spoiled little brat you. But, hey, I’m not jealous — oops, I mean jelly — because you’re gonna be senile by like 50, because you never had to actually use your brain to remember 2000 phone numbers like we did.

5. Expect the unexpected. Talking to people on the phone can be daunting. For starters, anything can happen. It’s not like you can prepare your remarks for 3hrs, show them to four of your friends for editing, and consult on le emoji juste to end it with before sending it out. Nosirreebob — it’s all happening in real time. Someone could ask something tricky like, “Are you having a good day?,” and then your Conversational Response Decision Tree explodes out into a gazillion branches — do I go nonchalant? stoic? or do I actually risk real vulnerability and tell ’em that my hair’s frizzy and I’m broke? Luckily, there’s always Toastmasters. And for top-notch public speaking training, there’s also KNP Communications — if we’re good enough for 70+ members of Congress, we just might be good enough for you, too.

If you have a face, you could also practice talking to people face-to-face — y’know, IRL. Really good warm-up for talking on the phone.

6. Know how to end a conversation gracefully. Another scary thing about the phone: how do you get off it once you’re on? It used to be you could say “Gotta run”, but that doesn’t work anymore because everyone knows your phone is on you when you run (and also when you’re driving, eating, peeing and showering). So the way to gracefully end a conversation in 2016 is to say “Gotta swim.” People totes get that, especially if you mention it’s breaststroke.

7. Answer phone calls on your birthday. One day a year, it’s your birthday. People are very likely to call you on that day. Now some of them may be trying to sell you sketchy time shares in Reno. But most are calling you to hear your voice, wish you a happy birthday and express their gratitude for your existence on Planet Earth. So unless you’re inside someone’s skull removing a medulloblastoma, or beating back ISIS with your bare hands, you are not doing anything more important than speaking to friends who for some reason still seem to care about your text-only negligent ass. Pick up the fucking phone on that day whenever it rings. All day long.

8. Hanging out > phone call > text. Have you ever said to a friend you’re hanging out with, “Hey, you’re really interesting and all, and I am toootally enjoying your company, but someone else just came along who may or may not be as interesting, so I’m just going to cut you off right here mid-sentence, because who knows!” No? You’ve never done that? Of course not, because that would the definition of a dick move, and you are not a dick. However, every time you pick up an incoming phone call, or check your phone for a text when you’re already talking to someone else, that’s exactly what you’re doing. S0 stop making dick moves already and talk to me.

9. You can use the phone to get to know people. You do not need to have a baseline of deep trust, intimacy or a condom before you talk to someone on the phone. This is because talking on the phone is one of the ways you establish trust and intimacy with another person — y’know, getting to know them and stuff, at a safe distance. And if you think texting is better than talking for establishing trust, why not try telegrams, too! STOP. And skywriting! Oh, and for our dinner tonight, you should look up at the sky where Orion would be around 7.30pm — I’ll be putting up the venue there in red smoke. Come hang out with us and talk. Don’t miss out, ’cause then you’ll be totes jelly.

Dr Ali Binazir is a speaking coach and pitch doctor at KNP Communications and the author of The Tao of Dating: The Smart Woman’s Guide to Being Absolutely Irresistible (ebook, paperback and audiobook), the highest-rated dating book on Amazon for 4+ years. You may reach him at abinazir(at)knpcommunications dot com.

Madrid: 13 Observations

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1) Stylin’ clothes. People here dress sharp. Not a lot of velour tracksuits with flip-flops.

2) Jesus do they party. Clubs don’t get going till well past 1am, and the streets are filled with people till 4am, but only on days that end in Y.

3) Free food. There is a tradition of giving away tasty little tapas snacks with your drink order. Or with your tapas order, like your tapas had tapas offspring or something. I love this tradition.

4) Rampant smoking. The memo that smoking cigarettes is one of the dumbest, foulest things you can do as a human being has not reached these parts. People of all ages, especially youngsters, smoke like they’ve got lung and life to spare (truth: you absolutely, positively do not).

5) Parking. This is a nation of champion parallel parkers. The streets are narrow, parking spots tiny, and somehow these guys wedge their cars in with 10cm between themselves and their neighbors. Amazing.

6) Smartphone addiction. Spaniards love their smartphones every bit as much as Americans, obliviously walking into intersections while staring at their screens like the best of New York and San Francisco.

7) Low obesity. There are no fat madrileños. The overweight people are almost exclusively tourists.

8) PDA. This is the capital of public displays of affection. In the airport, at the bar, on the sidewalk, a guy will grab his girl and start a serious, extended make-out session with zero compunction.

9) Trains. The trains are amazing — polished, gleaming, graffiti-free, air-conditioned beasts of modern transport efficiency. And Madrid has three layers of public transport: the CERCANIAS city train, the metro, and buses.

10) Globally homogenized youth culture. In their manner of dress and ornamentation, Madrid kids are indistinguishable from their American counterparts in San Francisco or Brooklyn (and Berlin and Paris, for that matter). Hipster style is the same, with the beards, hairdos and skinny pants. Septal nose rings, random tattoos and those ghastly earlobe-expanding washers also abound, perhaps even more so than in the US.

11)  Ubiquitous free internet access. These people are big on public WiFi (pronounced wee-fee). It was not just in every small cafe and tapas bar — it was in the buses. Damn.

12) Silent Spanish. There are a few facial gestures Spaniards make that are unique to them, which is how I could tell them apart from the foreigners before even speaking to them.

13) Tapas! Holy cow. The variety of ingredients, the flavors, the combinations were astonishing. Pinchos (or pintxos, the equally common Basque spelling) are the tiny snacks put on a single piece of bread, like Spanish sushi. I found the broadest variety (if not necessarily the cheapest at 2.70 euro a pop) at this converted old movie theater called Platea. It’s in the swanky Salamanca neighborhood near the city center, and you need to check it out: two floors of tapas and food shops, one full restaurant, one gleamingly suave cocktail bar, and a DJ spinning bumping tunes the whole time.

Platea, tapas heaven, Madrid Sept 2015

Platea, tapas heaven, Madrid Sept 2015

The Commencement Address That Harvard Will Never Let Me Give

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Dear Super High-Achieving College Grad and parents now deep in educational debt, except for those who are rich enough to cough up the whole $200 grand no problem —

You may want to adjust your seat right now, because I’m about to be a major pain in the ass. Today, I’ve got some good news for you and some bad news.

Actually, I’m just kidding. It’s all pretty much bad news. And here’s the summary: You kids just spent what could have been the best 4 years of your life stressing out way too much, way too often over shit that simply did not matter, and acquiring knowledge that you’ve already forgotten or will never use again*.

After you leave Tercentenary Theatre today, everything that you did in college – every deadline you met, every bullshit paper you wrote, every exam you crammed for, every all-nighter you pulled, every comp you passed or flunked, and every extracurricular you ran – all of that gets summarized into two measly lines on your résumé. And nobody will ever care about any of that shit again.

What’s even worse is that these 4 years have laid down a pattern for the rest of your life, which you will now spend the next 20 years of your life trying to unravel. But only if you catch on to how bad it is now, instead of living in a fog for the next fourscore.

Right now, you’re like a greyhound – a sleek, fast, racing machine bred to

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San Francisco 2013-14: The Zeitgeist of the City

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On the morning of Tuesday, 6 November 2012, I walked to Joslyn Park to cast my ballot for the US Presidential elections for the last time in Santa Monica. I then visited my parents up the road and had lunch with them. After taking a picture with them wearing their little “I Voted” stickers, I got in my car and drove up to San Francisco.

The move to San Francisco was a belated one. As early as 2009, I had ventured up north and checked out an apartment a friend was getting with the idea of becoming housemates. He wanted an answer the next day, I wasn’t ready to make a decision that fast, and perhaps not entirely willing to trade in my two-bedroom, two-bathroom beachside pad for a 10’x10’ room in a shared apartment. The opportunity passed.

And yet, I repeatedly found myself in San Francisco which favorably impressed me each time. TEDx SF invited me to come speak on creativity in November of 2009, and the people I met were very interesting indeed. Then, every other month, I’d find myself in the Bay Area to visit friends for weddings and other special events. In fact, I had three sets of close married friends (two in Oakland, one in San Francisco) who always welcomed me and subtly campaigned for my move to the Bay. Two other close friends also made the pilgrimage from Los Angeles and made murmurs of approbation.

Moreover, all these great

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Ten Reasons Why I’m Skipping Burning Man in 2014

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“Let’s go.”
“Whaddya mean ‘Let’s go’? I spent all of last week trying to convince you to go, and you mumbled and waffled and made lame excuses and said no. Now, all of a sudden you want to go?”
“I changed my mind. Let’s go.”
“Just like that? Well screw you and your fickle ways. Let’s go.”

180min before the dust

180min before the dust. Incidentally, what’s on the bench is ALL of our stuff. Ahh, the days of simplicity…

I had been aware of Burning Man for a couple of years before finally deciding to go in 1997. There would always be some article about the best parties in the world in a newspaper of record like Maxim (which totally kicked ass then, by the way). I’d make a mental note along the lines of “Hey, that does sound like a good party,” then promptly lose said note for its lack of adhesive quality in my cranium — and with it, the intention to plan this quixotic desert excursion.

But this time around, things were

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It’s not you — actually, it is you: friendship-terminating linguistic pet peeves

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1) “Homogenous” instead of “homogeneous”: The correct word rhymes with “you’re a genius”, not with “erogenous.” Yeah, I know the verb is “homogenize”, so homogenous sounds right, but it’s totally, completely and utterly wrong. Note: “homogenous” is a word, but it’s rarely used and means homologous or of same origin. Unless you’re a professional evolutionary biologist talking about phylogenetic trees, leave it alone and you’re a genius.

2) “Compliment” vs “complement”: In the salad bowl, the fennel turned to the orange rind and said, “My, you look zesty today.” Unless you’re on ‘shrooms and this kind of thing happens to you regularly, then you may not say “compliment” when you really mean “complement” — you know, like when something goes well with something else. When it’s complementary and stuff. Don’t even tell me they’re close in meaning, because they’re about as close as Guinea and New Guinea.

3) “Processes” being pronounced “process-ease”: If you’ve got a Latin word ending in -is like “nemesis”, the plural is “nemeses.” Most of the time. Some of these Latin words are Greek-derived, though, and the correct plural substitutes -ides for the -is, as in “clitorides” for “clitoris.” (See, your day just got more interesting.)
I go down this rambling path to demonstrate that unless the singular form is “processis”, there is no way that can turn into “processeeeeez” when pluralized. It’s a faux-erudite overcorrection that I’ve heard committed by professors (professors!) and others who should know better. Stoppitalready. I don’t care that people have been doing it for so long that now some dictionaries consider it acceptable — it’s still wrong. This argument is not going to be one of your success-eez. See? It does sound retarded.

4) “Laissez-faire” being pronounced “lay-zay faire”: Look, I know that words like “Missouri” and “dessert” screw up the whole rulebook and turn a double-S, which should be even more S than a single S, into a Z. But you know what? That never happens in the original Frenchish. So laissez-faire is pronounced “lay say fair”, always, and if you continue to disagree, you’re azzazzinating two languages, not just one, and being just plain lay-zay.

5) “Relative” vs “relevant”: If you think that this error is not relevant to you, then I really hope we’re not relatives.

Oh, we’re just getting started here…

Life, Death, Youth, the Red Book, Oprah and Truth: Harvard Commencement and Reunion 2013

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One of the things that I remember best from my 15th college reunion was looking over at the 20th reunion people and noticing how impossibly old they looked. These were some paunchy, bald folks in dad jeans, with crevasses on their faces and the teenage kids responsible for said erosion. That would never happen to us whippersnappers of the Class of 1993.

Well, it did. And I’m glad it did, since the alternative (e.g. death) is neither novel nor exciting.

Like a wedding, a college reunion is an occasion of almost unalloyed joy. You get several days to catch up with long-lost friends on years of stories, all in the midst of an endless banquet. You meet the heretofore mythical spouses (“Oh! Someone actually agreed to commit her life to you — that’s great!”), you hug their impossibly cute kids, have great conversations, remember old times, and drink far too many Cape Cods strong enough to remove paint and half your liver.

Another similarity with weddings is that a reunion is a gathering of victors. If you’re broke, sick, alcoholic, getting a divorce, grossly out of shape, prematurely aged, going bankrupt, tangling with the law or otherwise on the receiving end of a bad fortune cookie, you’re probably not going to show up. At a place like Harvard, the impulse to avoid the scrutiny and comparison of peers is perhaps even stronger. What, you haven’t published your third bestselling novel yet? How many IPOs? Not the head of Neurosurgery? No tenure? Only spoken at TED Mainstage once? No Pulitzer, MacArthur or Nobel? Why are we friends again?

The Class Report

Exacerbating all of this is the Class Report, better known as the Red Book. Every five years, we are encouraged to

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Why I can’t stand the freakin’ holidays

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There used to be a time when I really liked the holidays.  Heck, it was vacation!  Any excuse for no school was a good excuse for no school.  It was actually called Christmas vacation then, until it was politically corrected so it would both include all the bellyaching factions who wanted to be included and not offend the atheists, agnostics, and Flyingspaghettimonsterites.

But I digress.  Let’s get to the heart of the matter: why Christmas vacation sucks.  I know my fellow curmudgeons are out there, and thanks to the internet, they too can find a few words to warm their shriveled little Scrooge hearts.  Read on:

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Beijing 2008: Cultural, Culinary and Linguistic (Mis)Adventures

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Around January of this year, my friend Randall and I started to discuss the possibility of visiting China for the Beijing 2008 Olympics. Randall had been taking Chinese lessons for some time, and I was itching for an excuse to start them myself. After some back-and-forthing over phone and email, we carpe’d the diem on February 27, when Randall purchased a brace of plane tickets to the Imperial City. Alea iacta est — the die is cast; can’t go back.We would arrive in Beijing on Sunday, August 3, five days before the opening ceremonies of the Games of the 29th Olympiad.

Before I launch into the story, you should recognize that neither Randall nor I is a rabid sports fan. In fact, we couldn’t be bothered about organized sports at all. Our interest was in seeing China, breathing its air (but not too much), eating its food (way too much), practicing its language, and witnessing the spectacle of the games up close. And if we caught an event or two, even better.

Having attended the Games in Athens in 2004, I just wanted to marinate in the unique atmosphere the Olympics create: revelry and friendly competition between all nations; being amidst some of the most talented, hard-working, accomplished young folks on the planet; witnessing the spectacle of human achievement; seeing which country’s fans got wasted the most. Athens was an amazing experience, and I was eager to repeat it Beijing-style. As it turns out, Athens also became the touchstone by which Beijing would be judged, as Greece and China went about hosting the world’s biggest party in dramatically different ways.

Incheon our way to Beijing

If for some reason the story of our trip were to be read in Mrs Golding’s English class, she’d say that our stopover at Seoul/Incheon International Airport was an example of foreshadowing. Why? Seoul was awarded the hosting of the 1988 Olympics. At the time, Korea was at best a developing nation, their most visible product being

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Rio de Janeiro

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When I arrived in Rio de Janeiro’s Antônio Carlos Jobim International Airport (confusing three-letter symbol: GIG), it had more of the feel of the tiny Treviso airport (trip to Croatia, Summer 2003) than one serving a city of 8 million. João was holding up a card with my name in the small receiving area — let the royal treatment begin! — and directed me towards my cab. I found it heartening that a country would name one of its biggest airports after a composer — namely, “Tom” Jobim, the man who wrote the lilting tones of The Girl from Ipanema (in Portuguese: A Garota de Ipanema). Can you imagine an American airport being named after Irving Berlin or Aaron Copland instead of some dead president? Ladies and gentlemen — I had officially arrived in a place that was Different.

There are shiny airports, and then there are not-so-shiny airports. Airports tend to reflect the rest of the city. JFK is marginally shiny. LAX is shiny. Amsterdam’s Schiphol is way shiny. Heathrow is gleaming. GIG is not shiny. And Rio itself is great, but shiny it is not. In fact, it may even disdain shininess.

The drive through Rio immediately reminded me of Tehran, another vast metropolis with upwards of 8 million people, lots of culture, and great disparities in wealth. As we drove towards our condominium in Ipanema — about as far from the airport and downtown area as you can get — we went through the favelas, the slums made famous by movies like City of God (Cidade de Deus). I had imagined these shantytowns to

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Why you should not go to medical school — a gleefully biased rant

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In the few years since I’ve graduated from medical school, there has been enough time to go back to medical practice in some form, but I haven’t and don’t intend to, so quit yer askin’ already.  But of course, people keep on asking.  Their comments range from the curious — “Why don’t you practice?” — to the idealistic — “But medicine is such a wonderful profession!” — to the almost hostile — “Don’t you like helping people, you heartless ogre you?”

Since it’s certain that folks will continue to pose me this question for the rest of my natural existence, I figured that instead of launching into my 15-minute polemic on the State of Medicine each time and interrupting the flow of my Hefeweizen on a fine Friday eve, I could just write it up and give them the URL.  So that’s what I did.

Now, unfettered by my prior obligations as an unbiased pre-med advisor, here are the myriad reasons why you should not enter the medical profession and the one (count ’em — one) reason you should.  I have assiduously gone through these arguments and expunged any hint of evenhandedness, saving time for all of you who are hunting for balance.  And here are the reasons:

1) You will lose all the friends you had before medicine.
You think I’m kidding here.  No, I’m not: I mean it in the most literal sense possible. I had a friend in UCLA Med School who lived 12min away, and I saw her once — in three years (UPDATE: twice in 4 years). I saw her more often when she lived in Boston and I was in LA, no foolin’.

Here’s the deal: you’ll be so caught up with taking classes, studying for exams, doing ward rotations, taking care of

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