in his defense, he is an indian guy with a beard

Sometime in your life, and likely, sometime during your day today, someone has complain-bragged to you. There are few things that turn me off more than a complain-brag. I doubt I am the first person to coin that term or decry this behavior, but it came up again in a recent conversation that started with “do you know what I hate?” In this case, it was sequels that use another form of the word “two.” (Yes, I’m looking at you, Tyler Perry). From there, we took a little journey of things that answer that question: the overpopulation hipsters in Soho, those Old Navy mannequin ads, skinny jeans, NYU freshmen, the way that the Village keeps changing, and, among others, complain-bragging.

Complain-bragging is exactly what it sounds like it is. Someone frames a brag in the form of a complaint. So, instead of smacking you in the face with a wave of overconfidence, they force your hand. You have to commiserate with the complaint, thereby affirming the brag. Let’s use an example. “Ugh, I have so much work to do this week because no one else in my department can be trusted to handle this material!” Or, “I’m so tired from working out so long at the gym last night!” Or, “It is so hard to find size 0 jeans in this store!” Or, “I can’t believe how expensive it is to get a BMW repaired in this city!”

The most egregious form of complain-bragging comes from, as the most egregious form of anything does, from annoying girls. You know how it goes. “Oh my god, I went out to this bar last night and these guys would not stop hitting on me!” Yeah, okay sweetie. Strangers thought you were attractive and told you so? Wow, your life sure sounds tough. You know the cure for that complaint. You go out one night, wear your short skirt and your low-cut top, you go do your hair and makeup and put on your heels, go out that night and have no guy hit on you all night. Sit around with your friends and have no guy pay any attention to you. Is that really what you want? No. No it isn’t. So just shut up.

But complain-bragging is not just the hallmark of an annoying girl. It is also deep in the pocket of any academic douchebag. “I can’t believe how heavy the seventeen books I checked out for my thesis were!” Here, in case it isn’t obvious, you are supposed to be impressed about the seventeen books. You are supposed to sympathize with the struggle of carrying all those books at the same time relate your awe that someone read seventeen books and is working on a thesis. How impressive! You managed both to carry home a bunch of crap, but also, you are really, really, really, really smart! Seventeen books worth of smart!

I like to play a different game. “Maybe you should have made a couple of trips.” Perhaps we can’t learn everything from books.

A complain-brag also has an equally ugly cousin with a longer, more hyphenated name (as ugly cousins often have): the self-deprecating-but-actually-self-aggrandizing joke. It follows the same sort of philosophy as the complain-brag. Instead of hailing the conquering hero (i.e., yourself), you make some comment that makes the other person inadvertently affirm you. It goes something like this:

A-hole: Yeah, I was so dumb. I was like “imagine libertarianism is a whale.” Look how fun and fancy free I am!

[Expected response]: Yeah, you are just a free-wheeling academic. Your whimsical references are at once silly, but also really insightful. Thanks for being both fun and smart!

Jesse response: Yeah, remember when you said used the word libertarianism in an English Lit class? Ew.

Let’s be clear. This is not the “does this shirt make me look fat” question. Nor is it the I-say-mean-things-about-myself-so-you-can-tell-me-good-things-about-me game. While those are also hallmarks of both annoying girls and academic douchebags, they are the tools of lesser such, well, tools. There is something more sinister, more calculated about the complain-brag. You are not just openly asking people for affirmation that you are so great (or at least perpetuate the myth that you are not fat). You are almost trying to trick people into giving it. You choose your words carefully and craft a conversation in which you steal from people both sympathy and admiration.

Person: Oh, I wish I could have done X in high school, but I was too busy with all my AP classes. (HA HA now you feel sorry for me for not doing whatever you were talking about, you will be impressed with how smart I was slash am!)

Now some of you keeping score may try to point out that I complain-brag about being called a high school student. Let me show you the distinction. I know I look younger than I am, and I enjoy that. But there is a huge difference between someone saying “oh, you look youthful and vibrant, full of life!” and “Oh, you look like you have not yet taken the SAT and are really looking forward to (junior) prom next year!” I especially loved when I was asked if we, my volunteers and I, were all high school volunteers. I would make big gestures, swirling my arms around everywhere: “THEEEEEEEY ARE; I graduated college. I have voted in multiple presidential elections. I have a 401k!” I try to list things that make me sound old. “I try to include extra fiber in my diet. I once had to see a doctor about acid reflux!”

I appreciate when I get carded at a bar. One such story:

Jesse: Can I get a beer?

Waitress: Sure, do you have ID?

Jesse: Sure. Do I look especially young or something?

Waitress: Oh, no we have to card anyone who looks under 30.

Jesse: Oh, okay.

Waitress: Great! [Checks ID].

Friend: Can I get a beer, too?

Waitress: Sure! [Leaves].

Jesse: HAHA YOU LOOK 35! I LOOK NINETEEN AND YOU LOOK OLD!

Also, I love the idea that it was like a 35-year-old and his 19-year-old friend, hanging out in some unromantic interracial version of Harold and Maude (yes, apparently a 35-year-old is now a Maude).

In any case, this is an epidemic that can stop with you! Be on the lookout for them and do not indulge them. If you see something, say something! (And by something, I really mean nothing).

and for the record, if you spend more than half a decade under the age of 5, you don't remember it

There are people who create things or do things that later allow evil to happen. I’m not trying to plumb the philosophical depths of causality. Really, I am trying to strong-arm an historical reference like the Einstein-Szilárd Letter into being a hook to talk about Facebook. Let’s not try too hard with that. I just figure my 4 on the AP US History test has to be put to use every once in a while. (“In Eighteen-Hundred-and-Fifty-Eight / Boss Tweed came into New York State…”).

But really, I wonder if the person(s) who thought up of “Fan” pages realized the evil they were bringing to the world. It makes sense! I can be a “Fan” of my favorite band or product. That way, instead of creating a fake person page, things that are more abstract can be on Facebook. It started out with things like Starbucks and Ashton Kutcher but slowly things got more abstract. Sure, you can be a fan of pages made not by the actual companies or people, but pages made by fans of those things. Bill Watterson would never create a “Calvin and Hobbes” page, but someone else did. Sure. I guess that’s okay. Shakespeare is dead, so he can’t create his own fan page. Fair enough.

Then it got weird. “Laughing.” Sure, yeah, one could be a fan of laughing. I suppose it begs the question of who does not like laughing, who out there is saying to himself, nope, laughing—of that, I am not a fan. But sure. I suppose that is possible. Inanity (a word!) ruled the day. “Music.” “Sushi.” “New York City.”

Things then started getting weird, grammatically. “I Hate Mosquitoes!” You are a fan of “I Hate Mosquitoes.” Wait. What? You are a fan of that? Isn’t that just something everyone generally agrees with (fish not included)? “I Have The Deepest Thoughts in the Shower!!!” I don’t know how that works, as far as fandom. That isn’t even like a thing! At least mosquitoes are something you can generally enjoy or not enjoy (but again, who enjoys them?!). I think what they mean is, “having deep thoughts in the shower,” using a gerund. You can be a fan of that, I guess (really?). But something happened in the shift from nouns to complete sentences. Something evil. Something that threatens our very way of life. Suddenly, you could become a fan of any general statement. “People who eat with their mouths open are gross!” “I have hair!” “I use a doorknob to open doors!”

Chaos.

There is the supposedly observant humor: “Why is my bed suddenly so comfortable when the alarm goes off???”

There is the cloying nostalgia: “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet!!!!!!!!”

The things that teenagers say to get attention from their parents: “When I die, I give my friends permission to change my status to ‘is dead’!!!!!!”

The communal irony: “The Sham-wow guy!”

Things just quickly spiraled out of control. “Hot showers.” “Going the wrong way on an escalator.” “Saying ‘or not’ when people do the complete opposite of what you just said.” “My mind was blown when I realized that that was a D in the Walt Disney logo.” I read somewhere, you know, generally on the internet, that said that the number one adjective that people use to describe themselves is “funny.” Which I totally buy. And which is totally ridiculous. I mean, I guess it is true. Most people are not funny, and they make their other not funny friends laugh at the not funny things that they say.

I mean, I am generally cruel to myself. But the one thing I do think I am (perhaps to a snobbish fault) is funny (and of course, look down on people who disagree). So when other people claim to be and are not, it is somehow insulting to me. I think the problem is most people are just completely not self-aware (un-self-aware?). Sorry, girls everywhere. You are not Hermione. And sorry, most people. You are not funny.

But what is a worse phenomenon to me is that people are creating fan pages slash becoming fans of things that are just pathetic. “I say I’m okay but I’m really not.” “Waiting for the person you like to come online.” “I love you but I can never tell you.” “You: Who do you like? Me: No one. (YOU!!!!).”

What am I supposed to do with that? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? (Because I don’t.)

Despite the fact that I am constantly confused for a high schooler (which some people tell me is a compliment, but clearly they did not know what I looked like when I was 16), I have trouble wrapping my head around the current high school experience. Between texting all day long and this whole Facebook fanpage business, I just don’t get when they have time to play football or hang out with friends or learn to drive or any of the things I thought that people did in high school. But really, what do I know? I was busy studying AP US History (apparently, for my future as an occasional blogger).

no, i didn't say any of those things out loud.

Makin' Mandoo: An Informal Photo Essay
By Jesse Hall

So, somewhere between being unemployed and Lunar* New Year landing on Valentine's day this year, I felt the need to make a huge amount of Korean food. The back story is that I spent the night before chopping vegetables and mixing tofu and marinating meats and whatnot. Then, I spent the day in front of the TV, Olympics on, ready to start folding some dumplings.

So, like those clever Blair Witch kids, I decided to photo-document the process. I figured, if nothing else, I would have something to show for it other than having eaten 1000 dumplings all by myself (which I contend is a respectable feat).


Our story begins at about 3 o'clock. You'll notice some hopeful things there. A single cookie tray, a moist paper towel to keep the wrappers from drying out, a spoon. Oh, how naïve you were, Jesse at 3 PM. Things were about to get exciting.

1 hour mark. The observant viewer will notice the tray full of dumplings but also notice that the level of dumpling filling is unchanged from the first picture. No, this is not a continuity error. This is simply because YHWH, performing a miracle, made a bowl of turkey and tofu last not one day but eight! Praise the LORD!

2 hour mark. We were rounding the horn on tray #2 and there seemed to be no end in sight of dumpling filling. You might also notice a bowl of what was once water used to seal the wrappers shut and now more closely resembles the runoff of a factory from an episode of Captain Planet.


I can see light!


So the wrappers ran out long before the filling did. You'll also notice the philosophy of squeezing three trays worth of dumplings onto two (motivated mostly by the fact that we only have two cookie sheets in the apartment). No dumpling left behind! Time: 6 PM.


Then, the fun part! Deep frying! Mmmmmmmmmmm... You'll notice the varying shades of golden brown based on my method of frying them at whatever temperature the oil happens to be until they look done-ish.


Oh, I also made Korean BBQ beef and rice and bought some kimchee. Happy Valentine's Day, self!


*Some of you may say to yourself, wait a minute. Don't you mean Chinese New Year? What is this Lunar business? Well, you may or may not know that more than one culture celebrates the New Year when Chinese people typically do. Among them are Koreans. And, as much as they love the Chinese, Koreans are not apt to call their New Year "Chinese New Year." In fact, I had a discussion with a colleague at the Hall about this very issue. And by discussion, I mean, I kept repeating the same point, and she kept not understanding it.

It went something like this:

Woman: Maybe we can do a Chinese New Year celebration to attract the Asian population.
Jesse: Well, if we wanted to be more inclusive, we should call it "Lunar New Year."
Woman: Why?
Jesse: Because blahblahblah
Woman: Oh, I didn't know that!

LATER

Woman: Oh, I took your idea to the CEO / President!
Jesse (suspicious): What idea?
Woman: About Chinese New Year.
Jesse: You mean Lunar New Year.
Woman: Yes! Exactly!
Jesse: So why would you call it Chinese New Year?
Woman: Well, we decided that it might not be clear what we meant. So we decided to compromise and call it Chinese Lunar New Year. I told her it was all your idea!
Jesse: ...


WHAT!!!
A) A compromise? What are we compromising?! Are we at war?
B) Why would we call it something that makes no sense! There is no such thing as Chinese Lunar New Year! So instead of being exclusive or inclusive, we've decided to be nonsensical.
and
C) Be clear for Chinese people? Do you know what Chinese people call Chinese New Year? NEW YEAR! GAH! Who is going to be confused about the New Year celebration scheduled for February?! White people without calendars?

I'm glad that is the one idea of mine that made its way to the CEO. A lasting legacy, I left there.

my favorite line from hamlet: oh, i am slain!

Be yourself. So say Chris Cornell and the genie from Aladdin and at least one episode of every family sitcom or teen drama ever written. Plus, that Polonius guy did. It remains one of those ubiquitous morals that we are supposed to take away from every awkward middle schooler who stuffs her bra and every high school nerd who tries to fit in with the jocks for a day by making fun of his once-and-future friends. I think the idea is supposed to be that “everyone is different, and that’s okay.”

But, it’s not. Be yourself is really “everyone is different, and different people shouldn’t interact with each other (so just accept your lot in life, you flat-chested nerd).” Be yourself is more often than not a request to stop something than it is to be anything. It is actively being passive, as opposed to actively being.

Not only that, it is doled out as advice in the toughest of decisions. Don’t know what to do, don’t know which path to take? Well, just be yourself! Oh, okay! Thank god. I thought I might actually have to choose between things. Now, the answer is clear. I should just be myself!

…

…

…

Now what?

I just don’t understand why it continues to be a thing. Has anyone ever been told that and then felt elucidatory sense of revelation?

I have a problem with the idea that we have one true self that was somehow created upon birth. From the moment we emerge from the womb (or, depending on your religious and scientific belief, when sperm meets ovum) engraved into our being is some immutable self that is more pure and more true than the eventual socialization that occurs with, well, living. And we can talk Plato and Aristotle all we want, but it is still a ridiculous idea.

Worse yet, to me, is the idea that people shouldn’t have to change themselves ever. Just be yourself! I mean, people mean that to a point. Just be yourself (unless you’re a racist, then don’t be yourself)! Yes, obviously. But, be yourself, even if you don’t fit in, even if no one likes you, even if everyone actually hates you. Sure, okay. That’s fine, if that’s what you want to do. Fair enough. But the idea that “well, if people don’t like you, maybe the problem is you (and it probably is)” is somehow cruel advice is beyond me. Some things are just not likable. So you either got to change them or own them. One or the other. But changing them does not make you a bad person. In fact, you just might be the better person. I know several people who could better both themselves and the world by changing who they are.

And ultimately, it is nonsense. Be yourself. Oh okay. Hold on. Right now I am embodying this host body like a body snatcher, but if you give me a minute, I can return to my true form. You are always yourself! It’s just that sometimes that self is a self-involved, pandering, trying-too-hard douchebag. But, yes, that is still being yourself! And certainly, I do not want you to be that self more. Don’t be yourself!

I think what they mean is to tell the truth. Don’t lie. Sure. I’m against the idea of people, say, pretending they’re doctors and treating people. I am also against people pretending they have had experiences that they have not. You did NOT grow up watching that TV show that ended before you were born! Don’t become a fan of it on Facebook! Some people just love to participate in experiences that they don’t belong to, desperately glomming onto every tragedy or joke, trying to suck the marrow out of it like the starving cavewoman in the video they showed us in sixth grade to show us how cavepersons survived (apparently, by sucking the marrow out of bones) (also, Microsoft Word did not accept “cavepeople” as a word, but was fine with “cavepersons,” and I am inclined to let them have it).

One thing that KILLS me is Americans who use the world “football” to describe soccer. Unless you also say “lift” and “rubbish” and bin” and “tube” and the other goofy words that British people use to describe things with much more normal names (Brolly? Really?), you can’t say football. Also, if you did not grow up within the British Commonwealth, you cannot say any of those words. We don’t queue up. We don’t eat crisps. We don’t put petrol in our lorries. We don’t wear jumpers or trainers that our mum bought us. Sorry, you live in America.

For the record: the argument that “it’s football, you kick the ball with your foot” is nonsense. I refuse to even acknowledge that as a thought. Just like whenever someone brings up the parkway / driveway nonsense. Things have funny names. Get over it. Don’t even mention it because it is neither observant nor comedic. Just shut up.

But all of that does not fall under “be yourself” but “stop being a douchebag,” which again, is not “be yourself” but “CHANGE yourself.” And that is change we can believe in. Yes! We! Can! (Seriously, stop.)

dvr is the name of summer home in grumpy old man land

I don’t understand people who don’t love the Olympics. I mean, what’s not to like? Who watching TV is like, no no I would prefer to watch something without real drama or meaningful suspense or a touching back story. I prefer not to root for underdogs or celebrate greatness or swell with pride for the accomplishments of my fellow man. I would rather watch something like The Bachelor. I mean, come on! The ads ABOUT the Olympics are better TV than that crap. What is wrong with you? (Seriously. Have you seen that Dan Jansen ad?)

I know that the Olympics is #1 in the ratings, but I can’t believe that something like 12 million people opted for, well, The Bachelor. I am even mad at my Idol fans. As you well know, I love Idol. I do, I really do. I have, in the past, chosen Idol over social occasions or, you know, interacting with humans. But the Olympics top Idol. No contest, no question. (Those of you familiar with the transitive property might then conclude that the Olympics also top interactions with real people, but I would remind you that doing so is a logical fallacy.) (And totally true.) The whole point of the Olympics is about the whole world watching, the whole world coming together. Why wouldn’t you want to be a part of that? Yeah, I think there is a repeat of House on tonight. Maybe we should just watch that.

Now, it is the Winter Olympics, which some people consider to be the inferior one. First of all, I don’t really think there is an inferior one. They are both awesome. But I think that people prefer the Summer Olympics because of gymnastics. The Summer Olympics is full of sports that people don’t care about—anything on a horse or a boat or some of those obscure sports you didn’t even know were Olympic sports (Badminton? Judo? Trampoline gymnastics?!). The Winter Olympic sports, however, all fall under a similar category of moving quickly on frozen water—and typically, whoever does so the fastest wins. So if you like one, you really should just like them all. (And you should like them all).

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ll watch any Olympic event. I’ll watch badminton and judo and trampoline gymnastics. Hell, I’ve been starting each day this week by watching curling (yes, that does mean I’ve been getting up around 1 PM). I still don’t have a firm grasp of how it is played, and the only real conclusion I can make is that the Americans suck at it. But it is still better than anything else on TV. Also, the commentators are Canadian, so I get the enjoyment of hearing about trying to push the stoone oot of the hoose. (Also, if you are like me, you are wondering where the “second of all” went. Well, full disclosure, I’ve had some beer while writing this. So, somewhere in there.)

So, who are these people who don’t watch the Olympics? There are people who don’t like sports and people who don’t like America, and people who don’t like either. But really, what DO those people like? I assume Gossip Girl.

Still, there are exceptions to my love. Most times, when I watch TV, I think to myself “I could do that!” Sure, The Practice, I could be a lawyer. Yeah, Scrubs, I could be a doctor. Absolutely, The West Wing, I could work for the President of the United States. No problem. So, when I watch the Olympics, I think, wow I wish I were skiing or short track speed skating or playing hockey or riding down in some kind of sled! That looks so fun! But when I watch cross country skiing, I just get tired. They are just doing so much work. Like, so much work! And I am sitting around, eating Oreos, drinking beer, watching my ass make an indent into the chair I am in.

It is similar to my dislike of people younger than me who are more successful than me. Like, why are you trying so hard? Are you trying to make me feel bad about myself? It is just a reminder of how entirely average I am. Oh, you at 19 are winning Olympic medals? Well, I at age 19 was being a completely average student in college. I also had gained a considerable amount of weight since high school. Oh, yeah, I was also a part-time tutor at TWO DIFFERENT Score! Education Centers AT THE SAME TIME. 25 cents an hour more than minimum wage, baby! That’s seven whole dollars!

But I think as I get older, I just have to get over it. Like, okay, am I going to do that at age 30? Hate all successful twenty-somethings? At some point I crossover from disliking successful people who are younger than I am to just disliking successful people. I feel like I’m sitting right at the horn, age-wise, when most people who will be successful are becoming successful. Next Olympics, things will have tipped. So as I desperately prevent taking up permanent residency in Grumpy Old Man Land, I will celebrate the success of these young whippersnappers winning their gold medals and basking in international acclaim. Way to go, guys! I’ll be watching, no matter what (with American Idol on the DVR, assuming I ever learn how to use a DVR) (Seriously, it asks me so many questions that I don’t know the answer to! Maybe I’ll just try to record it using a videotape).

jesse, father of david... you know, david and goliath... right, his dad.

I set a goal to wake up at 10 AM on Tuesday. So when I woke up at 2 PM, I showered, got dressed and headed out to the mall. I know that I live in New York City and could go shopping in SoHo and walk down 5^th Avenue and all of that. Meh. I went to the mall. I was just going to Macy’s and the Gap anyway, maybe smell some Cinnabon along the way. And while there, I remembered I love shopping for ties. They are arranged so neatly in their little color wheel. It’s all so sensory. I want to rub my face all over it. But I resist, for the most part.

I am regularly tricked by the salesperson rhetoric. I don’t know why I am so trusting or so naïve, but I sincerely believe they care about my day or are legitimately complimenting my taste. Thanks, I say, with a big grin. I do enjoy the bold combination of lime green and chocolate brown. I feel like it’s a daring take on earth tones. I get a lot of generous nods in response. I wholly imagine when I’m old and alone, I will buy plenty of things sold by door-to-door salesmen and send my money to anyone on TV who seems like a nice young man.

It even happens in the most mundane of interactions. Like getting carded. I get a lot of odd looks at my ID because it is an out-of-state license (and, more likely, because I’m 25 and the picture is a 15-year-old Jesse with a mouth full of braces). So sometimes, they do the check questions. “What’s your sign?” What the bouncer doesn’t realize is that he’s about to get a whole thing about my opinion on astrology. Surprise! “Well, I’m a Capricorn, but I’m not sure how much I believe in that kind of thing. I mean there is absolutely a sense of connectedness we all have, especially to the natural world. And I do think there is something to be said for that. But, can we predict the future based on our birthday and the stars? Well, that I question.” I get a polite nod.

Once, it was, “Oh, you’re from California? So am I. Where did you go to high school.” Oh, that person did not know the package she opened. “Well, let me spin you a yarn about a little place called Archbishop Mitty! Sit tight, Trader Joe’s Wine Shop lady. This will take a while.”

And while we’re on the topic, why do people whose job it is to read IDs all day not know how to read an ID? Like, you have heard of a middle name, right? You might even have one. I get “Jesse Williams” more times than I can even know what to do with. First of all, it doesn’t even say “Williams” it says “William.” Second of all, what do you think that word after that is? My title? Jesse Williams, Duke of Hall. Did you just get lazy? I read two words, no more no way no how! Any words beyond that are lost! (Also, if this were a spoken word piece, this would absolutely have been said using the Emerald City Guard voice, which is a voice I like to pull out every now and again.).

And while we’re on THAT topic, an interaction concerning my name I have more often than “Jesse Williams” goes a little something like this:

Sign-in table person: Last name please?

Jesse: Hall.

Sign-in table person: Hong?

Jesse: …no no. That is not at all what I said. That is what you wanted to hear.

It has happened so often that I start spelling it and adding a “like the room.” To the end. To no avail. “Hall, H-A-L-L, like the room.” “Hong?” Yes, that room we all have. Our Hong room, spelled like it sounds, H-A-L-L.

And while we’re on THAT topic, why do people expect that “Jesse” is short for something? “What do you think it is short for?” I ask. “Jes..s…ica?” Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although once I did say “like from the Bible,” which increased confusion. “Jesus?”

What was I talking about? Rubbing my face on a table full of ties? Yes. So, I love ties. And I bought two. This is about as exciting as it gets nowadays, folks.

yeah, i'm about 8% sure i have a bed sore

Somehow, many days have gone by and little can be said about them. I’ve had an interview here and there. I headed out to Flushing to hang out with my best friend Corinda, my unemployment office representative. At some point I made a pie. Mostly, I’ve sat around looking at the job listings I’m not qualified for and eating food at my desk (and by desk, I mean bed). It has become hideously obvious how much of my life was defined by my job now that I don’t have one. This whole weekend went by without leaving the apartment (and by apartment, I mean bed.) (Just kidding. I had to use the bathroom sometimes, and once, I answered the door to get my Chinese food.)

I did go to my first pub quiz, which was a fine event. It was mostly just drinking some beer and surprising myself with my knowledge of the inane (What Olympic ring color represents Europe?) and of the things that no one should know because they shouldn’t exist (What is the full name of this season of The Bachelor?). I also knew how old J.D. Salinger was when he died, the number of boys in The Pet Shop Boys, and who sang “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” But I did not know any of the sports questions, did not recognize a single celebrity on a page of pictures, and did not remember the 2007 Oscar Winner for Best Picture. Well, I did know that the bantam in bantamweight was for a chicken but had no idea about fly or feathers. Chickens have feathers but can fly. Well they can sort of fly. Better than, say, I can fly. But really, how would I know about those weight classes? Clearly I was always a heavyweight. What did I need to know about the other ones?

So, overall, I would classify myself as a great third member of a trivia team. Someone needs to know sports. Someone needs to know pop culture. Those are two big pillars of trivia. But then you need a Jesse, who doesn’t recognize Sienna Miller or know anything about the Pittsburgh Steelers, but has a loose grasp on literature, Bible characters, state capitals and Jenny’s phone number (you know, 867-5309).

Sidebar: Just as I think I’m a good third team member on a trivia team, I think I’d be a great third commentator for a sports broadcast. There is the main guy, who is probably a venerable newscaster of some kind. Been around forever. Bob Costas or Greg Gumbel. Then you have someone who has played or coached the sport. Jerry Rice stopping by. Brian Boitano saying things like “Triple Salchow, Triple Toe Loop!” You know, an expert with anecdotes a-plenty. And then you have just some third person who just fills in the gaps. It goes like this:

Guy #1: So, here you have it, 3^rd and 3. This has been tough for the team all season, these third downs blah blah blah

Guy #2: You said it, Guy #1. In cases like this, you want to stay focused, work on getting the ball down the field. Back in ’89 when I was blah blah blah

Guy #1: And here’s the snap. He’s looking, looking, throws it. Incomplete!

Jesse: Oh, they really wanted to catch that pass.

They help you know what’s going on. “Well, Smith finished the course in 3:45, so he’s going to want to get at least a 3:44 to qualify.” They help you empathize. “Oh, I bet she’s disappointed she missed that shot.” They even help in those tough spots when you can’t figure out the math. “Well they’re down by 2, so they’ll need at least 3 runs to win.” I feel like if anyone can get paid to do that, I’m just as deserving. How hard can it be? Anyway. Sidebar out.

So, pub quiz was all in all jovial affair. But it could have gone another direction. See, there is competitive Jesse and there is everything’s cool Jesse. Thankfully, throw a few beers in regular Jesse and he turns into everything’s cool Jesse, not competitive Jesse. Competitive Jesse might have vehemently complained about the question “What is the only sequel to win an Oscar?” Competitive Jesse would have said, “I think you meant ‘what is the only sequel to win a BEST PICTURE Oscar’ which is a flawed question and even still, my answer of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King is correct (and you can clearly see I wrote The Godfather Part II first before doubting myself). So I think what you REALLY meant was ‘what is the FIRST sequel to win a Best Picture Oscar.’ Right? That is what you meant. Right? Because I think you should be a little more careful with your words, mister.” But everything’s cool Jesse let it slide. Why? Because everything’s cool! I got my Brooklyn Lager, had a couple of hot wings, and am feeling good.

Competitive Jesse would have also gone apeshit on the drunk Irish lady (yes, it is important to the story that she is Irish) who accused us of cheating. (Do you want to see all the texts I’ve sent?! Do you want to look at my internet history on my phone?! You best back down because you do not go around accusing people of shit without backing it up, bitch.). Competitive Jesse would also have been more upset that we lost (by ONE point. Well technically two to win. But by one question, for sure. A single question like, what was the FIRST sequel to win the BEST PICTURE Oscar.). But competitive Jesse is nowhere to be found. Happy to be out of the house Jesse was, well, in the house.

So, I don’t know how much I would make pub quiz a regular thing. Competitive Jesse has not seen the light of day lately, but he is always lurking underneath. That is a beast best kept deep down. Oh! Speaking of, for those of you keeping count at home, my winning streak of FreeCell came to an end. 676. (I believe I literally screamed “No!” out loud). The new current one is 16. But it just doesn’t feel worth it any more. Yeah, I need a job.