My Favorite New Year's.

New Year's Eve is a holiday I can't get too excited about. I could be popping Cristal in the back of a stretch limo with Diddy on my way to a bangin' V.I.P. party in some awesome club and I would still think "Somewhere, people are having more fun than I am right now and that is unacceptable."

One year, though, I did not feel this way at all.

This was the New Year's Eve when 2005 became 2006 and I was in Paris (that sounds snobby, I know. But bear with me). The Eiffel tower lit up at midnight and I had expensive French champagne, blah blah blah. That's not what I really care about.

What I remember is that it was really cold. All the newspapers I read around that time talked about how a cold spell was sweeping across Europe; some people even died because they weren't prepared for such low temperatures. I also remember orchids everywhere. I remember going into what in America would have been a 7-11 and seeing orchid blossoms in small plastic boxes. These weren't plants, just the blossoms - were they for corsages? I don't know. I distinctly walking around as it got dark, killing time before going to the Champs du Mars at midnight, feeling how cold it was and looking into a brightly lit shop and seeing those orchids, so out of place in the cold and dark.

The next morning - or maybe that morning; my details are admittedly sketchy here - I saw posters and handbills for several different Vivaldi concerts. I thought it was unusual how many different concerts where the same thing was on the playbill.

I don't speak French, so at times being in France was frustrating. I couldn't even read street signs, let alone talk to people. Yet New Year's Eve was kind of a fun time to be completely adrift in a different culture. I guess orchids and Vivaldi concerts must be sort of a Parisian New Year's tradition, like poinsettias and...um, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" are here. Every so often I idly consider looking up whether that's true, but I've never done it. My favorite thing about this memory is the mystery. I liked being on the outside looking in.

Postscript: That same trip I also had some sort of apple cake that, unbeknownst to me, had a little plastic crown hidden in it. If you find the crown in your slice, I guess it brings you good luck. I found the crown...when it slammed against my molar and made me cry out in pain. That is a New Year's Eve tradition I could live without.

Movie Round-Up

I am taking advantage of my break from school by watching approximately half of Hollywood's output over the last 12 months.

I had reviews for all these movies half-written in my mind. They were all incisive, of course. Deeply expressive, witty and incredibly original - every single one of them!

Then I realized that you probably don't want to read that much, so I cut them down into bite-sized reviews. You're welcome.

The Class/Entre les murs: Basically France's version of "Stand and Deliver." There is much talking in front of a chalkboard, but it's inspiring nonetheless.

Inglourious Basterds: Quentin Tarantino, the strudel scene alone made me think my impression of you as an immature weirdo who shouldn't be allowed behind a camera may be just a little bit of an over-judgment.

Sherlock Holmes: Robert Downey Jr. can make even an apocryphal Guy Ritchie flick, neutered as it is by a PG-13 rating, very entertaining.

Friday the 13th (2oo9): If you were to ask me why I watched this, I really couldn't come up with a good answer for you. "Depraved" does not go far enough in describing whatever kind of sickness-committed-to film this was.

Something to Think About

"But don't you think," I persist, "that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?"

Mr. DeTamble regards me. He takes his hands away from his face and stares. Then he says, "I've often wondered about that. Do you believe that?"

-"The Time Traveler's Wife," p. 239.

Merry Christmas From the North Shore

We here in northern Minnesota were supposed to get belted with a snowstorm of epic proportions this Christmas. What we actually got was a lot of wind, a little snow and (oddly enough) some rain.

Anyway, this picture is from a walk my brother, his dog and I took on Park Point, a long finger of sand jutting out from Duluth proper.

As is always the case with photos, it doesn't quite do the scene justice. The wind was so intense it cut through my wool coat and sent me running for shelter after about five minutes. I really like the way the clouds and the waves looked, though.

Finding Connections That Aren't Really There

Something about this time of year gets me in the mood to read short stories. Maybe it's that the days are shorter. Maybe it's the fact that I get the new volume of "Best American Short Stories." Whatever the case may be, I've read two collections of short stories that are very different, and yet share something in common with each other

The first, "In the Garden of the North American Martyrs" by Tobias Wolff, was a tough one for me.

Wolff is one of those authors whom other writers speak of in hushed tones of reverence, as if he's some demigod cursed to walk among us mortals after stealing Zeus' favorite wine goblet or something.

I have to be honest - if I were to meet one of his short stories on the A.P. English exam, it would be a good three minutes before I thought of what I could say and put pencil to page. By that I mean there was, for me at least, no immediacy to his work. Each story is so enigmatic, so veiled behind shroud after wisp of ambiguity, I couldn't make sense of it without giving it serious thought. On the upside, it's good to think about writing like that, to really crush its elements against one another in your mind until you've sanded away the rough edges and arrived at your own understanding. On the other, when you need to do that, it means the author isn't really speaking to you; you have to go through that amount of work because he hasn't, for whatever reason, really engaged the non-analytical parts of your mind.

"The Red Convertible" by Louise Erdrich was also tough to swallow, but in its own way. I get that this is supposed to represent the parameters of Erdrich's oeuvre thus far, but it weighs in at 36 stories, which I think is too many short stories for one collection. After awhile, one story about life in the turn-of-the-20th-century North Dakota blurs into another story about living in turn-of-the-2oth-century Minnesota - a tendency not helped by Erdrich's tendency to reuse characters and work with a limited roster of plot arcs.

But unlike Wolff's stories, several of Erdrich's really connected with me. "The Blue Velvet Box" introduced a small ache to my hear that wasn't there before. "Saint Marie" left me feeling slightly hypnotized; "The Shawl" as if I were grieving for something I'd lost without ever knowing I had it.

I guess it isn't fair to take 12 of Wolff's stories and say they mostly left me cold, and then read 36 of Erdich's stories and say they're better - by the law of averages, I am guessing I would have found a winner or two had I read three times the number of Wolff's stories than I actually did. Regardless of numbers, though, I think Erdrich is actually the better writer. Her turns of phrase, descriptions and characters all have their own mystery, but they can be appreciate for that alone. I didn't feel like I need to thump them on an imaginary dissecting table and pick away at them before I could arrive at any real meaning. I don't mean to say that easiness is the mark of a good story. I just mean I prize the ability to relate to something over the ability to craft even the most devilish of puzzles.

Christmas Stories

Every year, my family insists that we all gather 'round and listen to someone read the Tasha Tudor-illustrated version of "The Night Before Christmas" out loud.

I got over the charm of this story around age 8 or so, and now this ritual creeps me out a little. It's like we're still trying to pretend we're kids or something. That bothers me.

But here are three stories whose pull on me has endured through all these years:

"Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry: I like this one because it's about poor people, yet isn't preachy or a sob story. Actually, I shouldn't really say "poor people" because Della and Jim are probably just normal. It takes real skill to tell the story of ordinary people - not soldiers or royalty or people with amusing/interesting/horrifying traits - and have it leave a lasting impression. I still remember that Della had "one dollar and eighty-seven cents" with which to buy Jim a Christmas present. What does that tell you?

"A Child's Christmas in Wales" by Dylan Thomas: Lines like "All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen" make this still one of the most beautifully descriptive pieces of writing (Is it a poem? A short story? Does it matter?) I've ever read.


"Little Porcupine's Christmas" by Joseph Slate: Hang on, I'm about to get sappy: This story about a little porcupine who is bullied into a bit part at this holiday assembly (but then saves the day, though I won't tell you how) still gives me that hot-behind-the-eyes feeling that I long ago forgot means tears are coming. It's a cute book, sure. But what really gets to me is how well it captures what it's like to be picked on when you're a kid - something I know nothing about, of course (cough, cough.)

"I Was A Fifth-Grade Snowman"

Alternate Title: "Why I Never Sing Anymore, Not Even Christmas Carols"

Christmas pageants at North Shore Elementary did not really get serious until I was in fifth grade.

Until that year, the annual Christmas show (we could call it Christmas, since the only student in the whole school who didn’t celebrate Christmas was Ashley Lampela, a Jehovah’s Witness) was not a big deal. It involved sitting quietly on the gym floor until it was your class’ turn. At that point, you’d file onto the risers and, in front of an audience of parents you couldn’t see because of the bright lights bleaching your retinas, chirp out two or three carols. After the last note of the accompanying automated keyboard died out, you filed quietly back to the gym floor to fidget while the other classes had their turn. Then it was back to your classroom for a party, which meant fruit punch and mini Tootsie Rolls.

But in fifth grade, everything changed. Or more accurately, I changed. No longer was I content to be just another festively turtlenecked face on the risers. Oh, no. I was ready to be a star.

I don’t remember the title of the production we put on that year, but the theme was that Christmas had been lost and the protagonist needed help finding it again. Could an army of helpful toys, friendly neighbors and Santa Claus himself save Christmas?

For whatever reason, I had my heart set on the role of Snowman #2. Snowman #2 entered the scene just as the protagonist was just about to give up and helped her along by singing – along with his creatively named counterpart, Snowman #1 - “Boogie On Down to Brown Street.” The song was basically instructions as to how the protagonist could get to where Christmas was. I still remember some of the lyrics: “Don’t take a car/ ‘cause it’s not very far/ Don’t take a bus/ ‘cause you don’t need to rush/ Just boogie, boogie, boogie/ Boogie on down to Brown Street.” Stephen Sondheim himself could not have written a better holiday ditty.

Believe me you, tryouts were competitive. I had made no secret that the role of Snowman #2 was to be mine, though, and I felt sure that when the list was posted outside of Mr. McLeod’s office, it would be my name next to “Snowman #2”.

There was, however, some drama. When that cast list was posted, someone else had been given the role of Snowman #2. This student had not gotten the role she wanted, and so Mr. McLeod had given her the role of Snowman #2 (which, may I remind you, was a gender-neutral role. “Snowman” apparently can just as easily mean “Snow-woman.” Or in this case “Snow-fifth-grade-girl”). This upset me greatly. Had I not preemptively claimed that role? Was it not mine, simply because I wanted it to be? Oh, the injustice – it still makes a lump rise in my throat to this very day.

This would be a better story if I could remember just what exactly what happened so that the parts got reshuffled, but I think it had something to do with one of the stars of the pageant transferring schools. Anyway, because of whatever happened, everybody got moved up one spot, and you know what that means. I was moved up from “Chorus” to “Snowman #2.” And just like that, all was right with the universe. Accolades would be mine!

After all that trauma and elementary-school angst, you would think I would remember more about the actual pageant. But I don’t.

What I do remember is watching a video of the production at a school assembly, sitting Indian-style on the gym floor. What I saw shamed me. There I was, wearing my snowman-shaped sandwich board of white-painted cardboard, moving side to side (“boogieing,” I suppose) as instructed. But I wasn’t singing. I was doing something best described as mumble-talking. You could barely understand the words to “Boogie On Down To Brown Street.” I was a disgrace.

Seeing myself up on stage like that, blissfully unaware of what a terrible singer I was, made me realize that maybe Mr. McLeod had been on to something after all. Maybe parts like that really should go to people who can actually sing. Maybe wanting the role for the sake of being onstage wasn’t good enough after all.

Not coincidentally, this turned out to be the year I stopped caring about holiday pageants.

"Up In The Air"

"Up in the Air" is a comedy that isn't.

By that I mean this movie has it has its funny moments - in fact, I'd say 75% of the movie is an outright comedy - but its sad ending has such a lasting effect that, when I left the theater, it was hard to find much to smile about.


"Up in the Air" is the story of Ryan Bingham, who is hired to tell workers they no longer have jobs when bosses are too chicken to do it themselves. He flies all over the country and so has formed no real connections to anyone. But instead of hating this lifestyle, he relishes it. His goal in life is to reach the fabled 10 million frequent-flier miles threshold, a club so exclusive only seven people have been invited to join so far.


Over the course of the movie, Ryan realizes his life isn't all he's made it to be. The young executive whose newfangled ways threaten his jetsetting (she wants to fire people over video conference, thus eliminating the need for all the travel), makes him see just how empty his 10-million-mile goal is. "So you're saving just to save?" she asks him. He has no real response. And Alex, who also has to travel for her job, threatens Ryan's lifestyle too, but in a different way - for the first time (apparently), Ryan starts to feel like someone might be worth changing his ways for.



I really liked "Up in the Air," but it was way sadder than I thought it would be. Movies that make you laugh and then feel sad a few minutes later are few and far between, and a movie like that that is actually good is even rarer. I won't watch "Up in the Air" when it comes out on DVD, and that's both a good and a bad thing.

What Will Happen

Here's what will happen if, at 4:18 p.m. last Sunday, you decide to take a break from studying and leave your apartment and go to Target.

You will be walking up Nicollet Mall when you will see that woman you went out with a few times last January, the Natalie Portman-lookalike who you really wanted to like you.

She will be holding hands with some other guy and laughing at something he just said. You won't notice it's her until you're literally right in front of her, so all you can do is wave and say "Hi!" in a voice that feels falsely cheerful even to you. She will smile in a way that says "Who is...oh yeah. Him" and wave back, and the two of you will keep walking in opposite directions without even breaking stride.

First, you will feel really sad. After the third or fourth date, you got the idea she wasn't all that interested in you and so you told this woman you didn't want to be the guy who kept calling if she didn't want him to call (your exact words). Still, you were pretty down when, a day after you said that, she sent you an e-mail (an e-mail!) saying she had thought about it and didn't want to see you anymore.

Then you will be embarrassed because she was with someone and you were obviously alone.

After that, you will become jealous. Who was that guy? He wasn't any better looking than you, and he was too tall for her. Didn't she tell you more than once she liked the mix CD you made her, and didn't she (usually) laugh at your jokes? This will inspire some serious self-doubt and bad feelings about yourself.

Next, you will feel slightly ashamed for thinking all of the previous things. Because, really, what business is it of yours whom she dates? And up until now, you really had thought "Hey, we had fun the few times we went out but it wasn't long-term. No big deal," and you had meant it. You really had.

Then this whole thing will strike you as very unfair. Had you left your apartment three minutes earlier or two minutes later, or had you been walking on the other side of the street, you wouldn't have run into them at all. Thanks, universe. Thanks for throwing me a bone here.

But the best thing about that whole brief encounter is that in ten minutes, you will forget all about it (comparing yogurt prices at Target will do that to you) until a week later when, for whatever reason, you decide to write a blog post about it.

Postscript: Actually, you will see this woman and her new boyfriend at Lund's near your apartment less than a week later. They will be renting a movie from Redbox and they won't see you. You go to the opposite side of the store and pretend to be really interested in olives, so you can give the lovebirds time enough to decide what they want and leave without seeing you. It will strike you as really strange that, after not seeing her at all for a year, you suddenly see her twice in the same week. You worry she might think you're a stalker or something, even though this is your neighborhood. Her new boyfriend must live around here...Crap! Why are you thinking things like that? Knock it off.

That Sound You Heard Was Me Sighing Heavily

It's been two weeks or so without my car, and so far I don't miss it. It makes grocery shopping and socializing a little harder, but I can deal with that.

There are many good things about public transportation. I took the bus to Uptown Friday night to see "Up In The Air" (more on that in the next post). Because I took the bus instead of driving, I didn't have to pay for $5 for parking, I saved 1.6 pounds of carbon emissions according to the transit web site, and it was kind of nice to have someone pick me up and take me where I needed to go. It was like having my own chauffeur, albeit a chauffeur I shared with 35 or so other people.

But, as it is in any city, taking the bus is what my dad would call "a real slice of life." On the way there a woman sitting behind me was loudly talking into her cell phone about the proper way to administer fellatio (the delicate phrasing is my own. Hers was more...coarse). And as I waited in the transit shelter (very nice, by the way. Heated and everything!) for my bus back, I saw the open bottle in the picture above.

It's cooking sherry.

I really doubt someone decided to make a batch of braised short ribs at the bus stop, so that means someone was actually drinking cooking sherry. I thought that was only a stereotype about winos, but apparently not.

I am trying really hard to focus on the positives of this whole venture, but my God. An open bottle of cooking sherry just makes it that much harder.

Can I Get A Witness?

The scene: Mach1 is standing outside the convenience store across from his apartment. He is approached by a thin white guy maybe a year or two older than he is. It is Saturday morning. Remember that: Saturday morning.

Guy: "Excuse me, is this 111 Washington Avenue South?"
Mach1: "No, I think that is." (Mach1 points to nearby office building)
Guy: Oh...
Guy stands there momentarily, shifting from one foot to the other. Mach1 is a little confused. Does he need more information? Why isn't he leaving? And why is he looking to get into an office building on a Saturday morning? Mach1 wonders if he can be of any more help...and he's nosy.
Mach1: "What is it that you're looking for?"
Guy: "The FBI."
Mach1: "The FBI?"
Guy: "Yeah. Is that their office in there?"
Mach1: "Well, maybe their Minneapolis office....but I doubt it's open today." (Mach1 seriously doubts the FBI office is in that building. It's most likely an insurance office and maybe a few investment brokers.)
Guy: "Thanks."
Mach1: "Uh, sure. No problem."

It's cold out, so Mach1 heads back to his apartment. Before he goes in the door, he looks over his shoulder. Guy is kind of wandering outside the entrance to 111 Washington Avenue South, halfheartedly looking for a way in. The door is - of course - locked.

Some Words I Very Much Enjoy

Is there any satisfaction quite like that you get from using exactly the right word?

(Maybe you shouldn't answer that).

I have many scribbled lists of words I like. Sometimes I succeed at incorporating them into my vocabulary and sometimes I don't. Here are a few words I like. I think you could use them in conversation without coming across as prissy or snobby (but then again, I'm probably not the best judge of that), but the opportunity doesn't arise that often.

• Adore: Let's reinstate the original meaning of this word, which is "to worship" or "to regard with loving admiration and devotion." For a Catholic like me, this word is imbued with more seriousness than its use today would indicate. Every time I hear an old lady quiver "I just adore pugs! Their little feet are just so cute!" or whatever, I cringe a little. This word is being abused and that needs to stop.
• Escape: The implications of this word are exciting. Is it dangerous, like you're making a daring escaping from prison? Or is it beautiful, like you're escaping a dreary existence? This is one of those rare words that's effectively multipurpose.
• Nullify: Here, the lawyer-to-be in me takes over. I like this word for the opposite reason of why I like "escape." Nullify is so strong and singular. It means one thing and one thing only ("to make void") and is good at what it does. I like how forceful it us.
• Intangible: In my experience, things that are intangible are rarely bad. I guess you could say "an intangible sense of dread" or something, but that's kind of redundant since senses are never tangible. I think I like this word because, as I've seen it used, it almost always precedes something good.
• Lambaste: This word is too old-fashioned for use today. I have only ever heard it used when speaking about language, referring to especially strong criticism. Much to my surprise, an alternate definition actually refers to a physical beating. Anyway, the only reason I like this word is how it sounds. "Lambaste" - it's fun to say.

"Tell Me You Love Me"

"30 Rock," "Lost," "Mad Men" - the list of TV shows I've watched the first season DVD of and then never followed up on is long. I am pretty sure "Tell Me You Love Me" will be one of them.

"Tell Me You Love Me" tracks three couples mired in relationship problems. After 12 years of marriage, the spark has gone out of Katie and Dave's relationship. Jamie and Hugo called off their wedding because Jamie thinks Hugo can't commit. Carolyn and Palek can't get pregnant and now it's hurting their marriage. There are many sex scenes (which I enjoy) and also many scenes of characters basically bleeding out their emotions (which I do not).

I can't decide how I feel about this show.

One one hand, it's very well-acted and well-scripted. In one scene, Carolyn's sister (who's unaware that Carolyn and Palek are trying but can't get pregnant) blithely comments that she may get knocked up and then wanders away. Carolyn grimaces. "If she gets pregnant before I do, I'll kill myself," she intones. Palek gets a weary expression on his face. "I know you will," he says. Whoa. What a thing to say.

On the other, it's kind of predictable. All the women are whiny (especially Jamie) and domineering, all the men are wimps who clam up whenever their intimacy issues are brought up. It's also very cheerless - no one is happy, episode after episode. That's a lot of grief and pain, and I don't know that I consider that entertainment.

I'll give this show two or three more episodes. If it doesn't shape up, it's on to "Modern Family."

Size Matters

I had a serious lapse in judgment today - I went to the Mall of America.

In case you don't know (or don't care), the Mall of America at one point billed itself as the largest indoor shopping mall in the world. I think there are bigger ones now, but still - this place is ginormous. It is so big it has an amusement park in the middle and supposedly doesn't even need to be heated - that many people creating that much body heat does the trick just fine. (If that fact doesn't impress/disgust you, remember: this is Minnesota. It can get to 30 or 40 below in January).

Until this afternoon, I had not been there in literally years. I don't know what made me go there today. I think it might've been that all the Christmas gifts I've bought so far were purchased online, so I was subconsciously feeling like I had been neglecting the patriotic duty that arises this time of year - the duty to visit that garish invention known as a "mall" and overspend on useless items. Maybe my brain was tired from finals and just wanted to wander around what is basically a brightly lit playpen for adults who have the IQs of children. Maybe I'm just a masochist.

In any case, I made several mistakes today:

• Mistake #1: Just going to the Mall of America itself was a bad idea. There is really nothing special about this place. It's just like any other mall in any other suburb, only blown up to a uniquely American level of excess. The stores are boring. The Mall of America is basically run by Gap, Abercombie & Fitch and Victoria's Secret, so when you walk around you get a bad case of deja vu because everything looks the same. "Mind-numbing" is the best description, but "jaw-slackening" comes in a close second.
• Mistake #2: Not having a list. I still need to get a Christmas gift for my sister, so for some reason I said to myself "Oh, I'll just go to the Mall of America and wander around. I'm sure something will jump out at me." Why I thought this was a good idea, I don't know. Mall of America sells things for 13-year-old girls ("Aeropostale! OMG!"), 34-year-old men who still live at home ("A World of Warcraft store! This is more awesome than Princess Leia in her metal bikini!") and society wives who are bored and have nothing to do but give their husbands' credit cards a workout ("These $19 napkin rings at Williams Sonoma are just darling! I'll take 25!") I don't know anyone who fits into those three categories, let alone my sister. I didn't find anything for her, needless to say.
• Mistake #3: Spending that much time around shiny new things is really not good for my psyche. I'm not one of those holider-than-thou "I-shop-for-everything-at-Goodwill" types, but I don't consider myself overly materialistic either. But when I spend time around that much attractively displayed merchandise, I start to want the most random, weird stuff. To give you an idea, let me just say this: I actually tried on a trench coat.

Secrets.

I would really like it if people thought I spent all my time reading thick books and contemplating paintings and listening to original, thought-provoking music. I do my best to encourage this idea.

But in reality, I like a lot of the same things as other people. I am kind of ashamed to admit that I am sheep-like as to some things. Good thing the Internet is the 21st century-equivalent of a confessional huh? No one needs to know that I...

• ...like this song and turn it up whenever I hear it on the radio.
• ....scan the tabloids in the supermarket checkout aisle. If I don't know what Khloe Kardashian is up to, then I am out of touch with the rest of this great nation known as America.
• ...secretly wish I could afford to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch. All that keeps me from looking like those models is that $120 flannel shirt, right?
• ...don't watch TV, but I read reviews of TV shows so that I can say things like "Community? That is the funniest show" when people start to talk about it. I hate feeling left out.

The Decline of Western Civilization Will Be Published

In case you can't read the title, this book is called "Dragons Prefer Blondes" and the busty Frederick's of Hollywood model on the front is holding a crossbow.

Best of all, I didn't see this book at some grimy little shop patronized exclusively by obese men who wear too-tight black T-shirts and live in their mothers' basements. I saw it at the Minneapolis Public Library.

Some days, humanity is too much for me. It really is.

Oh, Look.

I'm up to my old tricks again.

Man of the Year

I got my copy of GQ's "Man of the Year" issue today.

This is typically GQ's biggest issue of the entire year. That means it's extra full of all the things I love about GQ, and also of the things I hate about GQ.

• Love: No other magazine I know of is as consistently stylish with its layouts, its typefaces, its choice of photographs, etc. and still maintains readability. It's nice to know in this nuclear-meltdown of an industry that is print journalism, there is still one outlet that can afford to reward creativity and ingenuity.
• Hate: "I kind of like that jacket. I wonder how much - $4,527!?! No way."
• Love: Yes, there are many frivolous articles about $145 T-shirts and posey-posey photo shoots featuring things no real man would be caught dead in, but there are also usually two or three longer pieces of quality journalism, like interviews with Donald Rumsfeld or an in-depth story about coal mining in West Virginia. Interesting stuff.
• Hate: Dear GQ staff: Please collectively masturbate to Tom Brady and get it over with. I realize that he photographs well, is a phenomenal athlete and impregnated a supermodel, but really. I am sick of reading about him in every other issue.
• Love: Reading the Critic's Picks helps me identify what is the book to read, the new band to listen to, the artist-of-the-minute. Knowing this helps me feel superior to my friends.
• Hate: This magazine has no douche radar, as evidenced by men who fake tan and abuse hair-care products. There's a phrase for men like that, and it's not "so GQ." It's "asshole."