Cheddar Ted

Look at how much these kids KILLL THIS HIGH SCHOOL TALENT SHOW

2008-06-14T15:52:00.001-05:00

Roland Whereos? In France, you Idiot!

2008-05-29T20:28:00.021-05:00

I was watching the film Wimbledon last night, and that can only mean one thing: Le French Open est ici. Sadly it also means that I’ve watched two Kristen Dunst flicks in less than a week. But as baffling and regrettable as this might sound, I haven't found her that intolerable. And listen to this: the other flick wasn't Jumanji! It was a 1998 feminist film called All I Wanna Do, in which she plays an incorrigible little sparkplug that helps galvanize the student body of a girl’s finishing school against the “little white gloves” way of life that Mona Lisa Smile used to love shoving up people's asses. But if you're like my twisted friend Gritz and wear a tinted monocle over your anus, maybe this is a scenario where Mona Lisa wouldn't be smiling. Maybe she'd be deucing sun rays.

Regardless, it's a funny film, and it's moving and it made me want to go back in time to fight for women's rights. I tried to do that retroactively in this Gender Studies class I took at Harvard about Women in the sixties, but instead I wrote a one act play about a homosexual soldier who has to explain his newfound sexuality to his wife. It was an ambitious undertaking, no doubt, since I wrote the thing under the constraints of the Hays code, and my performance of it at the Dunkin Donuts on Bow Street in Cambridge was somewhat moving, but it didn’t mean anything. No one’s life was improved.

Plus this is about tennis.

Earlier this morning I was thinking, “The fuck’s Mario Ancic up to right now?” Well, he's in the French Open and he’s playing Federer in the next round! Even though Baby Goran's a great player, I hope he doesn't spoil one of Roger’s last chances at the French. Ancic will have his moment and I predict it will be at the Australian Open, where he will dedicate his performance to Rod Laver and win his first grand slam.

Lastly, Novak Djokovich has a remarkably easy draw. It looks like he’s gonna be able to laugh his ways to the semis...

Notes From The Weekend

2008-05-27T13:57:00.003-05:00

Friday, 4 PM – Indiana Jones IV sort of blows

Friday, 10 PM – I like these little five hour energy drinks

Saturday, 10 AM – There’s nothing better than opening up a Borders on a Saturday morning

Saturday, 11 PM – The Secret Life of Salvador Dali is colorful and beautifully written. Since it was likely penned in Dali’s native tongue, Catalan, I wonder if this is a found in translation sort of scenario

Sunday, 12 PM – About a Boy is SUCH a funny and heartwarming little flick

Sunday, 6 PM - The NBA playoffs have – quelle surprise – become passé

Sunday, 10 PM – Scattegories is a fresh game with endless possibilities. I wonder if it’s shortsighted to write off Taboo without ever playing it

Sunday, 11 PM – I don’t want to live in a world where I enjoy playing Taboo

Monday, 3 PM - The crossover between the Lost Boys in Hook and Knucklepuck’s street team in D2 is remarkable

Monday, 5 PM – Even though I am still decent at basketball, I need to start doing push-ups again. I also would like to finally start cycling consistently

There Will be Cheddar

2008-05-14T18:43:00.026-05:00

Remember when every little jackass and his frat brother used to talk like Borat? I do. It was horrible. But even I, Lord of Cheddarwick and the Earl of Keeping it Real, fell victim to this horrible trend on Yom Kippur 2006, when I chased older members of the congregation around the temple shouting, “wa wa wee wa!” and almost killed an 80 year-old parapalegic in a wheel chair.

But time passed and eventually people put their Eastern European accents back in the closet, right next to their old Jincos, the phrase “true story,” and headbands in general, and as fate would have it, this carved out a nice, far less annoying window for Daniel Day Lewis / Daniel Plainview impersonations. I don't know about you, but I can’t help but chuckle when someone’s all “I’ll drink your milkshake” or “Why don’t I own this?” like that most sadistic oil man.

I know this is pretty dated and not totally salient, but I re-watched There Will Be Bud today, and this got me thinking: what about a pornographic spin-off?

I was rapping with this kid Derver about this and we decided it should probably be called THERE WILL BE BLOOD…ON THE SHEETS and star some weird Oil Man just going around being like, “Why don’t I bone this? Why don’t I bone this?” Then ultimately he would bone a lot of chicks and at each climax there would be sick intercuts between oil rigs exploding and the dude standing across the room being like, “My straw reaches acrossss the room.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I say I’m a coitus man, I think you’d agree."

Grimace: The World's Most Good Natured Dude

2008-05-07T14:12:00.000-05:00

Facebook

2008-05-05T04:47:00.006-05:00

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 9:06pm on August 1st, 2006 When cars see my teeth in this picture, they start slowing down
Delete

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 9:07pm on August 1st, 2006 When someone spreads my teeth on an english muffin in this picture, someone is like "I can't believe it's not butter!"
Delete

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 7:12pm on December 10th, 2007 When someone combines my teeth with Blue, they get a twisted shade of green
Delete

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 12:41am on January 9th, 2008 When someone urinates the color of my teeth, they know they're mad dehydrated
Delete

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 3:29pm on January 29th, 2008 When someone sees my teeth in an office environment, they think it's a POST IT NOTE
Delete

Gritz Schonberger wrote
at 3:30pm on January 29th, 2008

When someone with your teeth is sick, they probably have YELLOW FEVER.

Gritz Schonberger wrote
at 3:31pm on January 29th, 2008

When someone answers the phone in a real chauncey sort of way, they say the color of your teeth.

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 3:24pm on February 5th, 2008 When someone uses the color of my teeth as an adjective, they're referring to someone who's cowardly
Delete

Theodore B Bressman wrote at 5:08pm on February 19th, 2008 When someone thinks of my teeth in relation to a song, they think of that sensitive song YELLOW by Coldplay
Delete

Neeraj 'Richie' Banerji wrote
at 3:59pm on February 26th, 2008

When I look at your teeth, I remember the OLD RABID DOG Travis shot at the end of the movie

Theodore B Bressman wrote
at 2:52am

When someone sees a man dressed in clothes the color of my teeth, they're usually rolling with Curious George

On Kobe Bryant: The NBA's Most Odious Little Bitch

2008-04-29T18:11:00.036-05:00

Kobe Bryant is an incredible basketball player. His moves are unique and inventive, he’s unstoppable in one-on-one situations and he consistently makes shots that are remarkably difficult. But his unflagging pursuit of self-promotion is now at the point of awkwardness and no matter how many times misguided Lakers fans lubriciously laud his leadership, it is offensively clear that he plays for no one but himself. He poses like an insecure eleventh grader after every made basket, and yeah, a lot of his baskets are unbelievable, but really, who cares?

I often feel like I’m watching a different Lakers team than every other defensive-ass fan in Los Angeles. The Lakers I know play as a team, but at the slightest sign of adversity abandon their collaborative philosophy in favor of watching Kobe Bryant play one-on-one basketball. The Lakers I know stop playing with their youthful buoyancy the moment Kobe starts snapping. The Lakers I know will have a strong enough showing in the playoffs to convince their fans that all they needed was a healthy Bynum for their first Kobe-led championship.

It’s insane that Lakers fans can, in earnest, claim that this season marks Kobe’s transformation as a team-oriented leader. “Kobe’s matured so much in the past six months,” they’ll have you believe. “Who cares if it’s his 12th season in the NBA? He’s finally becoming the leader we knew he could be.” That's right, it's Kobe's 12th season, and he's still a horrible teammate and a shabby captain. His on-the-court leadership is haphazard at best, his post-game remarks are transparently calculated, and his rooftop stunts are just plain boring. He’s like King Midas’ evil twin. Everything he touches has an adulterated air of selfishness.

I've felt this way for many years, but this season is more annoying than most since I now live in LA and never realized how much people here idolize him and respect him as a leader. Listen - no true leader would start a championship season, or any season for that matter, demanding a trade. Such a demand reflects an intrinsically selfish approach to the game that isn’t erased by a few extra passes and some on the record comments about how much the young players have developed. If you want an example of how a disgruntled player should behave, take a look at Kevin Garnett. He hated playing in Minnesota, but he kept his mouth shut and played like a gentleman. And the truth is, if Kobe were as good as he would have you believe, why would he need a trade? Shouldn’t the most arrogant player in the history of the game be able to put together a respectable post-season campaign with whatever hand he’s dealt?

After last night’s sweep over the Nuggets, the first thing I thought was, “wow. I’d rather be J.R. Smith than Kobe. At least that dude’s fire is real.” I tend not to idolize anyone (and that includes J.R. Smith), but at the end of the day, J.R.’s a Duck and Kobe’s a Hawk.

And no one wants to see such an on-the-court scumbag win an MVP title.

By all objective accounts, Kobe should be the MVP. He led a decent supporting cast to the number 1 seed in arguably the most difficult conference in the history of the league. He is the best offensive player this century, and he’s chillingly clutch in the fourth quarter. But here’s my point: No one cares Kobe. No one wants you to win. Kids probably don’t even like you.

And people are putting together pretty convincing arguments for Chris Paul and Kevin Garnett. Maybe it’s because every time either of them step to the foul line fans aren’t shouting "MVP" like they were at a 1946 political rally for Juan Peron. Maybe it's because neither of them really seem to care about the award. The same cannot be said for Kobe.

LA fans will now claim that Kobe has finally learned to play within the context of the team, but it’s clear he hasn’t. His efforts to foster offensive cohesiveness are so blatantly forced, it’s like he’s selfless out of necessity – so he can finally shed his image of being a selfish player.

Chris Paul and Kevin Garnett play a team game out of instinct. They pass at the right times; they shoot when they’re open or feeling it, and they don’t force their own personal agenda against double teams and traps. They don’t vacillate between periods of excessive passing and stretches of fade-away threes and head-down dribbling. They play the right way all the time, and that’s why they are leaders. That’s why people get behind them.

Kobe Bryant and Lakers fans may have been somewhat successful in perpetuating the myth within Los Angeles that he’s magically become a selfless player, but anyone who understands the game realizes that basketball is not about sometimes playing within a team concept and sometimes just deciding not to pass. It’s not about smugly calling “J.R. Smith a good young player,” or pretending you love a team you hated less than nine months ago just because of Pau Gasol. Kobe has been in the NBA now for twelve seasons. It’s time for him to grow up and realize basketball is played five-on-five.

Thirty Old School Jams (In No Particular Order)

2008-04-24T16:37:00.014-05:00

30. Simon Says by Pharoahe Monch
This Track is mad chauvinistic and fresh. Dude also looks like a cross between Michael Redd and Tracy McGrady coming out of the water like that.

29. Recognize by the LOX
This Track makes you want to go to Foxwoods casino.

28. Judgement Day by Method Man
This Track always reminds me of Y2K for some reason.

27. Intro to It’s Dark and Hell is Hot by DMX
This Track is the reason some people are always being like, “that’s my man’s and them. That’s my man’s and them."

26. Watch Out Now by Beatnuts
This Track is extraordinarily fresh, in a tropical sort of way.

25. Shook Ones by Mobb Deep
This Track is tight and used well to chaunce Papa Dock in 8 Mile.

24. The Rockwilder by Method Man and Redman
This Track always got me jacked up to play high school basketball games.

23. Superthug by Noreaga
This Track was introduced to me so long ago, I listened to it on a MINIDISC!

22. Real Love by Mary J. Blige feat. Notorious B.I.G.
This Track boasts the DOPEST beat of the 90’s.

21. Ante Up (remix) by M.O.P. feat. Busta Rhymes, Tephlon and Remy
This Track is mad energetic.

20. Dead Wrong by Notorious B.I.G. feat. Eminem
This Track makes fucked up references to North Face jackets and eating humans.

19. Hit ‘Em High by Busta Rhymes, Coolio, LL Cool J, Method Man and Cypress Hill
This Track is a respectful homage to basketball.

18. It’s So Hard by Big Pun feat. Donnell Jones
This Track was sadly prophetic. It was also Donnell Jones’ ZENITH.

17. Wild Out by The LOX
This Track literally says, “If a n*gga step on your goddamn shoe. Fuck him!”

16. Ghetto Superstar by Pras feat. ODB and Mya
This Track is PRAS at his best. Mya also smiles mad cutely at various points in this video, most notably in the beginning.

15. Break Ya Neck by Busta Rhymes
This Track basically forces you to nod your head violently and has a mad funny shot of Busta Rhymes taking out this Ram.

14. Bring it All to me by Blaque feat. JC Chavez
This Track makes you think, “could JC Chavez have had a solo career?”

13. Quiet Storm by Mobb Deep
This Track coins the term “the little duns.”

12. N.O.T.O.R.I.O.U.S. by The Notorious B.I.G. feat P. Diddy and Lil Kim
This Track is all "Titty out like, what. I don't give a fuck."

11. Whoa (remix) by Black Rob feat. Rah Digga, Lil Cease, G-Deb, Da Brat and others.
This Track was on mad Hot 97 mix tapes around the turn of the century.

10. What’s Luv by Fat Joe feat. Ashanti
This Track probably launched Ashanti’s acting career.

9. Are you that Somebody by Aaliyah feat. Timbaland
This Track put Timbaland on the map...and Aaliyah in the grave.

8. Where the Party At (remix) by Jagged Edge feat. Jermaine Dupri, Da Brat, Lil’ Bow Wow, R.O.C., Tigah
This Track actually leaves out Nelly's fresh verse from the original, but it DOES make you want to get faced off of Apple Martinis.

7. Oh No by Mos Def feat. Nate Dogg and Pharoahe Monch
This Track includes this line by Pharoahe Monch: “MCs just come on round, you’re the next contestant on CATCH A BEATDOWN”

6. Back That Ass Up by Juvenile
This Track makes you want to pour water on girls.

5. Gossip Folks by Missy Elliott featuring Ludacris
This Track isn’t amazing, but Ludacris is mad cool and it sort of established him as a go-to-guy for a fresh verse to spice up any track.

4. I’m a Thug by Trick Daddy
This Track is like a case study on how to be a thug.

3. In the Air Tonight by Lil’ Kim
This Track is a nice tip of the hat to Phil Collins.

2. Ride Wit Me by Nelly feat. City Spud
This Track makes sort of a bizarre reference to Vanna White.

1. Welcome to Atlanta (remix) by Jermaine Dupri feat. Diddy, Murphy Lee, Snoop Dogg
This Track makes you want to chill at Bungalow Eight.

On The Hillel Sandwich

2008-04-21T18:37:00.035-05:00

I don't know what percentage of my readership is Jewish (don't think there's a stat counter for that - this isn't IRAN), but anyone with the culinary curiosity of a ten year old might want to open up their cook books for a second and jot down a few notes about the Hillel Sandwich.

The sandwich is named for its inventor, Jewish scholar Hillel the Elder(pictured right), who used to eat it whenever he wasn't waxing about the Jewish faith or amassing mad disciples. It is comprised of haroseth (a nutty, apple-based chutney of a sauce) and raw horseradish and held together by two fresh pieces of Matzoh.

Now every butcher, baker and candelstick maker who hasn't had the sandwich before might not find its ingredients totally appetizing, but I've had about thirty of them in the last two days, and trust me, this is the Arnold Palmer of sandwiches.

The only issue here is the historical inaccuracy brought into question by Hillel and his delicious sandwich. Not to slag the Earl of Sandwich off - he was an innovator and the ultimate Lord of Leisure - but the timing makes you wonder if that dude was truly deserving of all the praise people historically heaped on his lunch table. You don't have to be David McCullough to know that Hillel predated The Earl of Sandwich by several centuries.

But I don't think Hillel the Elder, being the wise sage that he was, would even care that the invention of the sandwich is attributed to the Earl (or in some circles, to Otto Frederick Rohwedder, the inventor of the first mechanical Bread Slicer). The point is, Hillel created the sandwich for people to enjoy, not to debate about. He contrasted tastes with such unique facility of composition so his students could have a quick bite without distraction, not so he could go down in history for inventing the most popular form of lunch.

So do yourself a favor and sit at this bro's historic table. Lunch is served.

Delaying The Real World

2008-04-15T17:09:00.032-05:00

Gritz sent me a link to this unofficial fellowship (not as unofficial as this fellowship) called Delaying The Real World, and even though I'm skeptical of any fellowship that claims to delay the real world by giving you $5,000, I applied because the application wasn't too cumbersome.

This whole concept of opportunity costs reminds me of this Economics professor I once had who was all, "if Bill Gates is working and he spots a $100 bill on the floor, it's not economically efficient for him to spend the couple seconds it takes to pick it up." The argument here of course is that Bill Gates makes more than $100 a second so it wouldn't be worth his time to stop working and pick up the C-note.

Although this worthless hypothetical is usually good for a few laughs and some "oooh's" and "ahh's" in any university lecture hall, just like most lessons in economics, it falls apart when removed from underneath a microscope with an "a priori" lens. But in the case of this fellowship, it wasn't too much of a hassle, so I literally delayed the real world for a few minutes and wrote an application...Delay the Real World Fellowship

Application Name: Theodore Bressman

Date of Birth: July 11, 1984

State: California

Phone: blocked out for SECURITY REASONS

Email: bressm@post.harvard.edu

Proposal Submitted: April 15, 2008

Proposal Title: A Bicycle Tour of The Dunkin' Donuts Franchise

Explain your project to us the best you can:

I will visit every Dunkin' Donuts in Massachusetts by way of a Schwinn bicycle and write a book about its lonely identity as the last blue-collar franchise in a white collar industry.

What can you tell us about where your adventure will take place? Why did you pick this specific region/city/country? How familiar are you with it?

It will take place in the great state of Massachusetts, home of jack-o-lanters, depressed people and autumn.

What is the time frame of your proposal? (When can you begin it? How long do you plan on committing to it?)

I would begin this summer and ride the stipend through the foliage-clad fall.

Will you be working with any organizations/non-profits/companies to carry out your proposal?

No.

What is your budget? If you will need additional funding outside of the DTRW fellowship, how do you plan on obtaining it?

My major expense is room (unless I can sleep in 24-hour Dunkin' Donuts). I probably won't go over budget.

Name something that could go wrong and how you would handle it.

My bicycle could break and I'd have to fix it. If my spirit broke, I don't know if I could do the same.

What skills or experiences make you the right person to make your proposal a reality?

My affinity for Dunkin' Donuts is literally unparalleled. I also love cycling.

Do you think your project will make a positive impact on the world?

In a way.

What makes your project unique and how is it different from the projects we’ve selected in the past?

It is the overlap in the venn diagram of life between introspection and immersion in corporate America.

Which adventurer in Delaying the Real World did you find the most inspiring and why?

Andrew Morgan, the Lance Armstrong of the African World. He inspired me to hop back on my bicycle, and though our aims are contrary in nature, it is this appreciation for a pure form of transportation that binds us.

"You hold this boy's future in your hands, committee. It's a valuable future. Don't destroy it. Protect it. Embrace it. It's gonna make you proud one day. I promise you."

-Scent of a Woman

The Task of a Writer

2008-04-10T19:09:00.027-05:00

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Lately, I’ve been thinking about shedding the moniker, Cheddar Ted, in favor of my real name Theodore B. Bressman. My only concern is that I'd consider it inauthentic down the line. But ever since I made a point to be polite and not much of a showman, I haven’t really enjoyed freestyle rapping, and that's what inspired the name. The crux of my deliberation, like the aim of this blog and my life in general, is just to keep it as real as humanly possible…so this is obviously a somewhat crucial impasse.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a bit of a showboat. I used to taunt people, I was no stranger to vulgarity, and I occasionally performed impromptu stand-up routines in lieu of honest conversation. One of my twenty five screen names in middle school was actually SonningYou@aol.com! But about seven months ago, I woke up and was just like, “I don’t feel like showboating anymore,” so I stopped. Maybe it’s a reaction to the deeply performative nature of Los Angeles, maybe it’s a non-geographically influenced symptom of maturation, but something changed.

And I'm beginning to think this is the reason my blog is earning the reputation as one of the realist sources of literature on the internet, right next to J-STOR and the Drudge Report. I've actually come to fashion myself as something of a blue-collared champion of pop-literature. Obviously there's little justification for this, aside from the intermittent word on getting laid-off and the occasional tip of the hat to the Big East, but it's what I've been feeling lately.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation

On The Olympics and its Torch

2008-04-09T14:25:00.008-05:00

by Gritz Schonberger

Recently, I’ve found myself pretty disturbed by the Olympic torch, to the point that I think it may be more dangerous than WMDs. It’s bandied about so carelessly that people are blind to its destructive potential. At least WMDs are so well-hidden that even the people who want to use them can’t find them anymore. The torch, on the other hand, may just be the ultimate Trojan Horse of the modern era. Watching that Asian betty from Blue Peter getting jacked up during her jog through London, I pondered the ways in which this Grecian flame could end up leaving a trail of destruction behind it:

In the popular imagination, the Olympic torch is supposed to represent world peace and the eternal flame of sportsmanship. Yet its destructive potential is inherent to its constitution—it is ON FIRE, after all. Thrown like a burning javelin, it could burn down an entire city if directed at the right target. Swung as a flaming bludgeon, its open flame could take a man’s face off. I guess it’s sort of like one of those Bond gadgets—innocuous enough to sneak through customs, but deadly enough to kill loads and loads of people.

A lot of people assume that the Olympic flame was invented by Zeus, but they could not be more wrong. It was actually invented by the NAZIS. Check out this article:

[The Olympic torch] was invented in its modern form by the organisers of the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. And it was planned with immense care by the Nazi leadership to project the image of the Third Reich as a modern, economically dynamic state with growing international influence…The organiser of the 1936 Olympics, Carl Diem, wanted an event linking the modern Olympics to the ancient. The idea chimed perfectly with the Nazi belief that classical Greece was an Aryan forerunner of the modern German Reich.

With these sinister antecedents fueling each “Olympic flame,” is it really surprising that it’s still causing riots and pandemonium? Newsflash to my brothers worldwide: the purity of the torch was compromised a long time ago. Ain’t shit changed but the chaunces carrying it.

When I think about the Olympics, I think about Greg Louganis doing a sick forward two-and-half somersault. I think of Dominique Dawes and that time England won the curling. These are good memories.

But then I also think of Pre, my favorite athlete of all time, and how his only Olympic experience was overshadowed by the Munich massacre and those shits in balaclavas. Then, I remember that the Olympics can be pretty f’ed up.

Is it naïve to think that a sporting event could transcend the deep divides that separate nations? Yes, of course it is. The economic stakes are too high and the host nation wields too much political power ipso facto. So why not move to neutral ground? Please—you and I both know that neutral ground is an ANACHRONISM.

But riddle me this: is “sportsmanship” an anachronism? Is lifting a sick amount of weight or jumping incredibly far not a TIMELESS pursuit?

Sports arouse a lot of passion, so it’s not surprising that a lot of political causes leach onto this enthusiasm like parasites. Still, some of us out there still like to watch people sprint 100m in under 10 seconds without thinking about human rights atrocities and strangled economies. Is that TOO MUCH to ask?

Granted, any event under 400m has already been ruined from within the sport by rampant drug use. So maybe “Sport” is not even worth saving. Even if it is, it’s certainly not worth fighting over. But there’s something foul burning in that torch, and if we can get to the bottom of that mystery, then maybe—just maybe—we can save the Olympics.

Gritz is the editor of Gradspot.com and a frequent contributor to Entertainment Weekly. He suffers from eczema, enjoys skiing and was the 2002 recipient of the Loomis Family Prize, an award presented annually to the graduate of Loomis-Chaffee that most embodies the spirit of the school.

Little Blog

2008-04-08T17:26:00.009-05:00

One of my most rabid readers, T-Cake from New York, sent in a pair of disturbing links this morning: a photograph of a baby with two faces and an image of a cute little teenager the size of a thimble. I’m not going to post the photograph of the two-faced infant because it's incredibly unnerving, but check out this small breezy. Pretty cute, eh?

I showed Gritz the links and he was like, “why is this stuff always happening in India? What is it about India that gives people magical powers?” It’s an interesting question, Gritz. One that I aim to answer for you…for vous.

We all remember the “Little Injun That Could,” that five year old boy who ran from Puri to Bhubaneswar (a distance of about 40 miles), and we also remember Ghandi, the dude who magically didn’t need to eat for several years. Harvard students might recall Richie Banerji, my freshman year roommate. He was from Calcutta and astoundingly good-natured.

I’m actually not going to speculate as to why some people from India are particularly noteworthy, because I don’t want to run the risk of sounding xenophobic, but I will say this…they’re courageous and historically resilient. I’m sure William, my brother and business partner, could speak more intelligently on the matter since he’s spending the spring in Mumbai, but for now your guess is as good as mine.

I frequently wonder what life would be like as a formidably miniature human or a dude without an arm or something like that. I guess I’ll never know until I’m rolling around with a peg-leg and no eyes, but I really hope that when that day comes, I’ll take a page out of the parable of Helen Keller and keep a positive perspective.

This little Rockstar seems to be enjoying her size with the perspective of a sage. “I am proud of being small,” she says. “I love all the attention I get.” Well fuck yeah, little Jyoti! Keep killing it. CheddarTed.com is proud of you too!

To Dudes who are Laid Off

2008-04-01T14:11:00.002-05:00

I'm not trying turn this into a finance blog – this isn't FREAKONOMICS – but it seems like a lot of the investment banks are going to be laying off a few people here and there, and I wanted to offer a word of advice to these people…or at least a word of solace.

Almost a year ago to the day, I was collecting my bounty for winning the NCAA bracket in the athletic department of Dalton, my high school alma mater. Even though this year I will probably win a different $1000 purse and pull off the greatest feat any participant with two brackets can achieve (first and last), this isn't a post about how amazing I am at analyzing NCAA basketball. It's about getting LAID OFF.

As I mentioned, the point of the previous paragraph is not self-promotion; that's the point of my blog in general. It's that my office pool was literally the Dalton Athletic Department. Not to knock that athletic department – in my opinion it's the best run department in New York City (at least it has the best A.D.) – but when I graduated from Harvard I wasn't expecting that eight months later, I'd be coaching a seventh grade baseball team. I was more expecting to be a published author.

But after I got laid off from Podge, Inc., that ill-fated startup Gritz and I worked for, I scrambled. I wanted to stay in New York for human reasons and because I had a four month lease in a very small apartment in the Amsterdam projects. I couldn't find any book agent to publish CheddarTed.com, so I took on a scrappy bunch of recently Bar Mitzvah'ed middle schoolers and we hit the field together. Even though we finished the season 2-11 and didn't score a run until our fifth game, it was a special spring. These kids were so awesome that I ended up delaying my move to Los Angeles so I could finish out the season.

Now a year later, I am basically broke even though I've had the same employer for more than the time it takes to have a child – especially a premature one – and CheddarTed.com is still available for free. But the point is, it's always going to be for free.

In periods of uncertainty, it's especially difficult to keep your sense of perspective. The truth is, it's basically impossible. But if you happen to be laid-off, maybe feel happy you're not married. If you're married, be happy you don't have a child and serious financial obligations. If you have a child and serious financial obligations, I'm sorry. You're fucked!

But seriously, when you're out there, sans a job or viable prospects, things seem scary as hell. But the truth is, you can mope or use your time to your advantage. Learn morse code. Learn a trade. Become a cobbler. Buy a Schwinn. Coach middle school baseball.

There are so many activities. Fucking do them. Once you're back in the nine-to-five, you'll be glad you did.

On Anime

2008-03-31T02:04:00.040-05:00

I was doing a bit of drawing on my flight back from Houston, and I was surprised to find that all my sketches were taking the form of sort of a peculiar genre...ANIME. I'm not so artistic, and I kind of gave up the lead pencil senior year of high school when I drew this incredibly dark self-portrait with a bunch of snakes for hair (Tedusa, 2001), but I was flying SouthWest and I definitely "wanted to get away."

In a way it makes sense that this is what I came up with. I have spent several hours a day for the last six months on Youtube watching music videos set to Final Fantasy characters.

The thing is, all these emo-ass tracks I'm embarrassed I listen to are put out by bands who can't really afford music videos. So it's either a jpeg of their album cover or a trippy-ass animated movie that is occasionally bizarrely sexual. You don't have to be King Solomon to choose the latter.

It's now been like three months of peripheral exposure to the underbelly of various animated worlds, and while I have no regrets, a few issues come to mind:

1) Taking the time to edit a music video using semi-pertinent clips where it looks like the characters are mouthing the words seems like a mad weird use of time. But I'm watching, so I guess an audience does exist.

2) I had no idea the creators of the World of Warcraft programmed their characters to be able to break dance and do old school techniques like the "Macarena" and the "Suck it" move. It's pretty sick, but again, a very curious use of the company clock.

3) Games like Final Fantasy seem fresh and all, but to me (and this is based primarily on these videos and this commercial I saw yesterday for some RPG game that got a 9.5 out of 10) it seems like you just spend all your time watching earthquakes and princesses emerging from magical lakes. While these videos display impressive graphics and ridiculous imagination, they don't have me sold in terms of Gameplay alone.

But maybe I'm being too critical. I should probably be thanking these selfless dudes who devote their free time to fastidiously piecing together clips from their favorite video games to match-up with obscure songs. Without these weirdos, I'd probably be listening to PANDORA.

A Dude You Want to Avoid AT ALL COSTS

2008-03-27T17:59:00.002-05:00

Boiling Points

2008-03-26T19:03:00.029-05:00

I've been spending an inordinate amount of time with this off-colored, culinary savant and yesterday, after whipping up a fresh pitcher of iced Green Tea, he said something that was very interesting. He said, "The happier you are, the more you want things to stay the same…but the less you change, the unhappier you become."

I looked at him for a moment and said, "that's a good point, my brother."

And it was a good point. But this kid's demented, so what should we believe?

The truth is, I like the point my demented chef friend made. It's digestible and almost universally pertinent. But something about points in general has me a little suspicious. They're just a little too easy to agree with as long as they're concise and delivered in an articulate way.

Maybe a disproportionate consumption of Camus and Vonnegut has darkened my prose to the nihilist point of no return, but lately I've been vacillating between the need to feel inspired and the existential philosophy that nothing really matters. And if nothing matters, perhaps empty points just propogate the triumph of the banal. Perhaps they're simply the literary equivalent of a kid that skips a grade.

But obviously I don't REALLY think nothing matters, and at the end of the day, the cliche must be grounded in some semblance of truth. So what does it mean to dread change while truly desiring it?

In the abstract, people romanticize the struggle as a rite of passage that can just be fast forwarded like dudes watching LOST on DVR. But happiness requires embracing change at a significant cost. I can't tell you what that means for you, because internal struggles vary in stakes and degree, and change for the sake of it seems worthless, but this demented bro has a point. Change, for the right reasons, is an important thing to accept. You can't be eating lotus your whole life.

Top 40 Teams Based on the Field

2008-03-19T18:59:00.002-05:00

It continues to bother me that almost every single sleeper worth throwing your lot behind is in the South region, but I guess life is all about playing the hand you're dealt and it's pretty obvious the Tournament is a metaphor for life. So within this somewhat perverse context, I decided to do my part for all the daughters entering their father's office pool, all of whom I'm sure read Cheddar Ted, and the lay people just looking to fit in for the next couple weeks.
Here are the top 40 teams based on the 2008 draw.

Teams 1-8 are the most likely to make the final four:

1) Memphis
2) UCLA
3) UNC
4) Georgetown
5) KU/Tennessee (interchangeable)
7) Texas*
8) Duke/Xavier (interchangeable)

*This is the biggest wild-card of the bunch. They played St. Mary's early in the season and won by 18, but that score is not telling since the game was played close until Texas pulled away at the end. If these teams meet in the second round, the stage is set for the Dalton rule to prevail (This rule, established over the course of my four year high school basketball career, basically states that it is nearly impossible to beat a hard-nosed opponent twice or three times in the same season, especially if the final match-up is in a play-off situation. The New York Giants are the most recent example of this rule). That said, Texas is dangerous and volatile. It's conceivable that they will just tear through the lower half of the bracket and give either Memphis or Pitt a run for their money.

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Teams 10-16 are basically a lock for the sweet 16 but all face very tough opponents to get into the Elite 8:

10) Pitt*
11) Clemson*
12) Louisville
13) Washington St.
14) Wisconsin
15) Stanford
16) Drake

*Both Pitt and Clemson are hard-nosed and balanced enough to make it to the elite eight or even the final four. In fact, Coach Bob Knight predicted PITT to win the whole thing and in my underdog pools, I have them in the final game, losing to Georgetown in what would definitely be a magnificent tribute to the most blue-collared conference in Division I sports: THE BIG EAST.

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Teams 17-26 are ranked based on talent alone. They are definitely dogs to make it to the sweet 16, but they have the talent to pull it off:

17) Marquette*
18) USC*
19) Notre Dame
20) UCONN
21) Butler**
21) MSU
22) West Virginia***
23) St. Mary's (see Texas explanation above)
24) Vandy
25) Indiana****
26) Oklahoma

*Marquette and USC are definitely the most likely teams of this milieu to make it to the sweet 16. Both had disappointing losses in their conference tournaments and both have something to prove.

**Even though Tennessee is a special team, Butler is dangerous and for a ranked team, remarkably underrated.

***West Virginia is back. Bob Huggins is almost inexplicably likable and Joe Alexander is channeling Kevin Pittsnoggle like some type of Mountaineer Soothsayer. This team could definitely beat Duke. The truth is, Arizona might be a tougher game (at least according to Greg Anthony's Bracket)

****Indiana is an interesting team. A classically wounded powerhouse, this team could bow out in the first round in a depressing display of no heart and teamwork or they could say, "This is for Kelvin Sampson" and make a crazy run to the final four. Remember that this is the team that gave UCLA its toughest regional game in last year's tournament – a second round bruiser that was basically a home game for the Bruins – and all they did was add a great freshman in Eric Gordon. The Hoosiers are talented as hell, but their mental instability is the ultimate double-edged sword. Ironically, they remind me a lot of the 2000 UNC team who came in as an 8 seed, knocked off an overrated 1 in Stanford, and made it to the final four.

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Teams 27-40 all are capable of first round wins, but are not totally exciting:

27) Purdue (I know nothing about this team)
28) Kent. St.
29) Miss St.
30) A & M
31) UNLV
32) Arizona
33) Davidson*
34) Gonzaga*
35) Miami
36) Baylor
37) Arkansas
38) BYU
39) Oregon
40) Kentucky

*It's unfortunate that these two likable squads face off in the first round and face an almost unbeatable opponent in the second round in Georgetown.

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This is list is obviously subject to change, and I feel that the NCAA Tournament selection committee did fans a great disservice by placing six extraordinarily dangerous teams – Memphis, MSU, Pitt, Marquette, Stanford and Texas – in the same bracket, but in the name of responsible punditry, my rankings, by obligation alone, took that into account.

Last thing – If you're in an auction or draft, stick to your guns and pick a cache of teams you can be proud of. Go for the hard-nosed teams with earnest coaches. They're the ones that are most dangerous in the tournament and also the teams you can feel happy about pulling for.

R.I.P. Bear Stearns

2008-03-19T18:38:00.004-05:00

I'm not a big commerce guy, even though I've had a few finance internships and I buy stuff sometimes, but seeing Bear Stearns collapse has been kind of an emotional experience for me. While it probably means I'll never get arrested for sexual harassment (I honed my rap "e-battling" skills on the Bear Stearns web server during my '03 internship at the Metrotech offices in Brooklyn), it also means the company that literally sold paperclips to its employees to save cash early on is dead.

You know, I'm not sure charging employees for necessary office supplies is the best way to foster goodwill in the office, but at least it sent A MESSAGE. A message that financial responsibility was going to be the M.O. of the firm. And that's what it was...for a while.

Bear was a throwback company. They had posters of their top employees in the office, they seemed to value public service more than other firms, and they had the ultimate "Ace" up their sleeve, the older gentleman with the flair and energy of a recent MBA grad, but with the experience and perspective of a particularly wise octogenarian.

It was a company to be proud of.

But then 383 was erected.

At first it was exciting. Armed with state-of-the art conference rooms perfect for telecommunication seminars and a cafeteria that could easily "break bread" with Frank Gehry's culinary oasis in the new Conde Nast building on 42nd, 383 towered over Madison avenue with a message clear as day: Bear had finally earned its place among the financial giants of Midtown Manhattan.

I was initially taken by the building just like the rest of them. It was fucking awesome. But my internship ended and I was back in an academic environment, so naturally I started thinking. Was this great architectural achievement a symbolic break from the ethos on which the company was founded? Was Bear getting too big for its britches?

They definitely weren't charging for paper clips anymore. In fact, they were passing out pens and leather-bound resume folders like their employees were playing SUPERMARKET SWEEP at a Staples. That's all good and well, I guess, but it's hard to ignore the underriding influence at play: MOXIE. A moxie that could one day lead to leveraging most of your liquid assets in an alarmingly volatile climate.

Bear will probably be remembered for its fantastic demise - images of JP Morgan employees raiding the beautiful building on Madison avenue for documents to see if the company was worth acquiring - but I'll remember it differently. I'll remember it for the blue blood that once coarsed through the building's water. I'll remember it as the last firm to still hire employees on work ethic alone. So what if their banking division was packed with fancy Ivy League grads and ambitious MBAs? The backbone of the firm was in Brooklyn and it was built on blue collar high school grads and responsible employees that knew how to safely manage an account without too much risk. The Bear Stearns I'll remember is the Bear of Metrotech, BK, right off Jay Street. It didn't have a fancy "stock ticker" or "fountain sodas," but it had posters of Ace Greenberg and non-scannable ID cards. Its library was full of copies of MEMOS FROM THE CHAIRMAN and the cafeteria boasted a remarkably unhealthy cuisine.

Today, the good people of Cheddar Ted mourn Bear Stearns. It's hard to see this company - our company - go under. Ace, You're a great man and a throwback. You accomplished something to be proud of.

Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure

2008-03-18T20:58:00.002-05:00

I might be overly partial to this flick since there's an off chance it's actually named after me and my brother, but I've been thinking a lot about the scene where Bill and Ted encounter Rufus and their future selves outside the Circle K, and I'm decently positive this is one of the most intelligent scenes in film history.

I'm no cinefile, but I do "work in film," and I've seen enough of them to wax philosophical in the only way it's possible to wax about film: superciliously. So think back for a moment to that scene outside the Circle K. Just beneath the surface, there are some pretty powerful forces at play: specifically, man's stuggle with perspective.

Present Bill and Ted are some pretty stressed out dudes. They have good reason to believe they're about to flunk out of school, Bill's worried about his lusty father, and Ted's got military school on the mind. They just met this futuristic bro, Rufus, and dementia is NOT something they need right now. But then future Bill and Ted, cavalier and care-free as Bill and Ted are supposed to be, roll through in a magical phonebooth and are like "Listen to this bro Rufus. Tell the princesses we say hi!" And they dial some historical code and take off. They're the same dudes, but from a temporal perspective, the differences between them are remarkable.

This past weekend, I was chilling with some William Morris mailroom bros, and their conversation was so jarringly familiar that I couldn't help but think of Rufus and the Circle K. As they waxed about sweeps, floating, "getting a desk," I romantically mused about these concerns, and how even though I used to feel them, they were now totally a thing of the past. I wanted to be like, "Bros. Haven't you read Camus? NOTHING MATTERS!" But I didn't want to spoil the pinnacle of their tenuous friendships, so I let them joke about rookie mistakes and how HR can be a fickle ally.

I was talking to my buddy Branson about the shifting nature of our personal sense of perspective, and he said, "Do you think we're gonna be chauncing ourselves in three months for having this conversation now?" I was just like, "Maybe."

A lot of people write off EXCELLENT ADVENTURE on account of Bill and Ted's mad colloquial discourse or the fact that they're not so sweet at guitar, but those earnest bros understand that life is about being "excellent to each other," and that a little stress every once in a while isn't the worst thing in the world. At least it gets you listening to Rufus.

Cutest Animated Women in Film

2008-03-18T18:38:00.000-05:00

Arielle in THE LITTLE MERMAID

Dorothea in BEBE'S KIDS

Jasmine in ALADDIN

Pocahontas in POCAHONTAS

Esmerlada in THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME

Mulan in MULAN

Helen Parr/Elastigirl in THE INCREDIBLES

Ursula in the form of Arielle in THE LITTLE MERMAID

Anastasia in ANASTASIA

Tzippora in THE PRINCE OF EGYPT

The Tournament

2008-03-17T18:35:00.000-05:00

I forget how I literally become a manic depressive lunatic during the NCAA tournament, but in the words of NAKED EYES, there's always something there to remind me and this year it happens to be a horrible slate of match-ups in the South Region. The fact that the three most blue collar squads in the field, Memphis, Pitt and Michigan St., are the 1, 4 and 5 in the same side of a region is just real tough to stomach. Throw in Duke's easy jaunt to the elite eight and I really have NO IDEA WHAT THE NCAA TOURNAMENT SELECTION COMMITTEE IS DOING WITH ITS TIME.

Luckily, I'm putting Indiana in the final four and predicting that the championship game will be a rematch of the BIG EAST finals, so I can at least ride a manic wave of giddiness until the weekend, at which point two of my final four teams will probably be eliminated.

I guess dementia still is possible when dealing in the realm of March Madness.

Last thing - for those of you in Los Angeles, I will be holding a Julius Hodge memorial service in my living room this Saturday. It will begin at 7:10 EST for NC St.'s first round match-up every year and will last shorter than it should. R.I.P. Julius. I'm still waiting for another "example."

Clem The Feinschmecker Strikes Again

2008-03-14T18:30:00.000-05:00

Clem the Feinschmecker writes, "I just put you in the acknowledgments section of my thesis, which is due in 8 days."

If "true blue" were in a Latin/English dictionary, there wouldn't be a picture of you, but only because you wouldn't want it that way. There'd be your thesis acknowledgement, however, as part of the "e.g. section."

I've always considered you to be an erudite cat and an honest scholar, and I'm honored to officially be a part of your academic pursuits. I would say I hope you finish your final semester at Harvard with the grace and earnest dedication you showed in the previous seven semesters, but there's no point. I know you will.

Gutta Cavat lapidem, Clem the Feinschmecker. Good luck at Oxford next year.

Trickle Down Economics

2008-03-13T18:29:00.001-05:00

The reason Los Angeles has no backbone: Adults don't act their age.

Cheddar Ted was Written in Kind of an Obsolete Vernacular

2008-03-08T18:28:00.002-05:00

As a writer, I spend a lot of time agonizing over the parlance I employ in my interactions. I'd love to be able to constantly spout off memorable lines and cutting quips, but I find that most of the time I'm using words and phrases that I don't even like.

Like last week I probably said "meta" seven times. That would be cool, except I hate this word more than I hate the phonetics of "ditto" times the implications of "awk" divided by the inverse playfulness of "rambunctious." If PEMDAS is at play, which it always is, it becomes clear that the quanification of my hatred for the term is almost infinitesimal in value.

I'll say this though: I love the word "iota."

Another pair of words I quite like is "bullish" and "bearish" I'm always trying to say things like:

"That's a nice spinach and artichoke dip. I'd have to say I'm feeling pretty bullish about this crudite!"

Or:

"Obama's gotten a bit played out. I'm slightly bearish on enthusiastically supporting him right now."

Finally, even though I never thought it would be possible, I've at long last succeeded in seamlessly integrating the word "absolutely" into my lexicon without sounding like a completely pompous bloke. Saying "absolutely" has actually made me feel more articulate without forcing me to abandon the commonplace vulgarity that informs my speech.

My conversation has become sort of a back and forth tennis match between urban colloquialism and a sophisticated type of Elizabethan vernacular. Neither side can falter, however, as the line judge is clear. My words form an impasse. There is a permanent state of deuce.

Hottest Animated Animals

2008-03-03T18:26:00.000-05:00

Maid Marian in ROBIN HOOD

Young Nala in THE LION KING

Lola Bunny in SPACE JAM

Bambi in BAMBI

Adult Nala in THE LION KING

Tanya Mouskewitz in AN AMERICAN TAIL

Homeless People in Beverly Hills

2008-02-25T18:25:00.001-05:00

Living in Beverly Hills has been pretty sweet. Except for getting robbed twice and seeing an attempted suicide, it's been NOT HALF BAD. Even the homeless people are good-natured and somewhat affluent.

There was this one homeless bro in Harvard Square called "Champ," who was a retired boxer and not actually homeless, but he still decided to spend his time posted up outside of the 7-11 on Mt. Auburn st. in Cambridge. I usually get along mad well with non-deranged homeless people, so logically we used to kick it pretty regularly. After probably 10 or 15 taquitos and Pelligrinos - my treat - we were remarkably close.

Around October of 2004, when our rapport was at its peak, Champ actually gave me his cell phone number. I was surprised he had a mobile phone, but I guess he also had an apartment in Somerville, so it shouldn't have been that shocking. I tried him over Thanksgiving, but I got some weird Asian woman probably with no relation, and I began to wonder if he was in fact homeless and his cell phone was just a display model.

After that, I got kind of weirded out by Champ and stopped thinking about him, except occasionally on Thanksgiving and whenever I ate taquitos. He also stopped hanging around in Cambridge so he was basically off my radar. At the time I mused that he was training to get back in the ring, but deep down I knew this was just a pipe dream. The dude wasn't Rocky.

I never thought I'd meet another homeless bro like Champ, but this Saturday, outside the Peet's Coffee on South Beverly I did. This dude, like Champ, was posted up in fresh jeans and an army cap efficiently collecting cash. He literally must have made $14 in the forty-five minutes I spent watching him. As I was leaving, I saw these two young dudes walk up to him unsolicited, each with a dollar in hand. When they were like three feet away, he motioned with his finger, reached into his pocket and picked up his cell phone. The kids gave him their cash anyway and he mouthed "thank you" as he listened to his call.

I hadn't seen since this style of homelessness since the days of Champ and the 7/11. He was still on the phone when I passed by, and I didn't want to bother him with some cash, but this mad personable homeless bro was kind enough to tell the dude he was rapping with to hold on one second and asked me to "help a brother out!" I was literally dumbfounded, but I gathered myself enough to hand him a dollar. He tipped his fresh army hat and continued his conversation, a dollar richer.

I walked home in the rain thinking about Champ and how he didn't think it was funny when I called him Mr. Wendall. The thing about homeless people is that they're almost always deranged. This is obviously a classic case of the chicken and the egg, but with Champ and this new bro, it was different. It's usually such a drag to encounter deranged homeless people, but when you meet one who's affable and probably not homeless, it's just such a pleasure.

The Broke Ass Teams of the NBA

2008-02-21T18:22:00.002-05:00

I hate to say this, but the Suns are officially a broke-ass team. Shaq doesn’t fit in, and watching Grant Hill trying to pull these two dribble pull-ups is just sort of depressing. They take thier place among the Heat, Pacers, Hawks, Nets, Kings, Knicks and the Bucks as the premiere Broke-Ass teams of the NBA.

A sad truth about these broke-ass teams is that they're broke-ass because of players who used to be filets of the NBA: players like Ben Wallace, Dwayne Wade, Vince Carter, even a bro like Larry Hughes. They used to be the NBA's shining stars, but shifting team environments has ruined their stocks. It comes down to a simple study in macro-economics: when external factors are at play, the behavior of the individual can drastically change.

In fact, this idea of external conditions as the primary determinant of individual play relates almost perfectly to this comparative theory on African and European economic growth that caught my eye a few summers back. Basically, the theory states that the variance in climate in African and Western Europe directly influenced the proliferation of commerce and industrialization in the regions. Quite simply, since Europeans were physically more comfortable, they were able to work harder and more efficiently. As a result, the European economy grew whereas industrialization in Africa stagnated. Since there was no air conditioning in Africa, African workers simply couldn’t get comfortable enough to sit down and study or work towards industrial competitiveness. It makes you wonder about Pangea and literally everything that happened from there.

Now I know it’s a bit of a leap both to subscribe to this theory and subsequently acknowledge its connection to the broke-ass players in the NBA, but the truth is, this Camus-esque idea of systemic forces being the primary indicator of success is highly applicable and in a way absolves players and teams from being completely broke-ass. When you examine current broke-ass players like Larry Hughes or Ben Wallace a little more closely, it becomes clear that these dudes thrived within the context of a team that perfectly complemented their talents, but then suffered considerably when unnaturally extricated or after experiencing a drastic internal personnel change.

When Larry Hughes was a wild-card on the Sixers, he wasn’t broke-ass because he’d have some steals and a few nice drives. Throw him in a situation where he needs to be counted on, and all of a sudden he’s more broke-ass than Ross Perot. Consider Ben Wallace. On the hard-hitting Pistons, he was a perfect role player. Throw him on the Bulls and he looks embarrassed to be on the court. We'll see what happens when he joins the broke-ass, Brad Daugherty-less Cavs.

And lastly there's Dwayne Wade, the dark horse for most broke-ass young player in the history of the NBA. I admit he was sick during that special season when everyone hated Kobe Bryant and Shaq was making even Alonzo Mourning look sympathetic, but his style was smoke and mirrors and to be candid, overall just pretty lucky. He was hanging in the air like Jordan, dunking like Cedric Ceballos and making ridiculous shots for a full season, but it was only a matter of time before the horse and carriage turned into a pumpkin and a few seamstress mice. Two years later, Wade can barely jump, those crazy shots aren’t falling anymore, and he is the Posterboy for the wackest commercial campaign since that run of sappy-ass Nomar Garciaparra/Mia Hamm “You’re beautiful” commercials. He is a broke-ass player that may have taken a fruitful ride on lady fortuna's back for one special season, but now the ballyhoo's over and he's just a broke-ass player on a broke-ass Heat team.

Now obviously there are exceptions, but the truth is, even the greats were augmented by specifically-tailored systems. And now more than ever the NBA is about teams coming together with perfect pieces. Take a player out and put him where he doesn’t belong, and all of a sudden he’s broke-ass. Just like back in the influential era of industrialization, the NBA is now all about external forces. Take a bro out of Ghana or Mozambique during that unique time in history and give him proper language training, and I guarantee you he would have thrived industrially because for once in his life, he'd have been comfortable in terms of temperature. But leave him in Africa, and he's just too hot to grow intellectually.

Late Night

2008-02-15T18:21:00.000-05:00

I was definitely feeling pretty weird when I went to see DEFINITELY, MAYBE by myself last night. As I cozied up to a diet coke and Red Vines, I thought to myself, "Cheddar, make sure you're not still doing this for a laugh when you're much older or else you will have succeeded in living the depressing life you're always flirting with in your humor." But last night I didn't care. I was sitting with horrible posture and taking violent bites out of mad fresh sticks of Red Vines.

Not to digress too much, but while still on the subject of Red Vines, there’s a few points I’d like to make before diving Greg Louganis style into this self-indulgent, mildly funny pool of loneliness:

First, I'm a big fan of the Samberg/Parnell Chronic-les of Narnia Video, but I always found it unrealistic that they would be eating Red Vines in a New York movie theater. Anyone from New York who spent their summers at a Jewish Camp in Ojai, California knows that Red Vines, like dudes who don’t feel self-conscious wearing sunglasses and sorority girls from USC who magically become professional in a work setting, are a West Coast thing.

The truth is, one of the best parts about living in LA is you can buy Red Vines in movie theaters and almost anywhere else really. So in the cinema and other places, you can actually drink soda through a licorice that has a big enough tubular radius to make the process simple and, in my mind, pretty fun. But there is one catch: If you like huge sodas like me, you have to bring a real straw along, because the cup is so deep you’d have to drink about a third of it from the side, which is uncomfortable. Plus, given my penchant for being extremely clumsy, I’d absolutely have spilled my diet coke all over the handsome cable-knit I took from my father’s closet over Thanksgiving break, and I didn’t feel like taking any more chances. I mean, I was already running some sort of mad scientist titration with my own emotions and from a social standpoint I felt I was running a pretty sizeable risk of running into someone and having to articulate my motivations for this little field trip in a way that could be taken as socially acceptable.

Because when the film started and I saw that cute little girl from LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE (who’s lost some weight by the way...must have been listening to Greg Kinnear!) I knew that like most of my schemes, this was going to be a lot better “a priori” then in reality. Sure enough, there I was, two hours later, in a theater full of couples and groups of Asian teenagers, tearing up and feeling about as awkward as people who abbreviate the word like "awk." Obviously this flick is real sappy at times, but the truth is, it's funny as hell and as an added bonus, it gives a pretty spot-on history of the development of cell phones in our consumer culture. I also found it to be very honest in its depiction of Will (Ryan Reynolds); he gets to some pretty dark places. As I’m continuing to find out into the quasi-adulthood I’ve recently settled into, plans don’t seem to turn out as you intend, and the idealism that comes with a commencement speech and a summer of trying to find interesting jobs can quickly become a jaded pattern of settling that is termed “being realistic.” But the point of DEFINITELY, MAYBE is that you can still realize the idealistic conception you have for your life within the framework of deep disappointment, something that’s no stranger to Cheddar.

Now the cynics will certainly say it’s contrived -- in the parking lot I actually heard one dude complain to his disappointed valentine about how the whole thing just seemed forced -- but what can you to say to those people except, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I wish I were a bit more cynical, but then I wouldn’t really be myself, and that seems to be something people are always trying to avoid. As my semi-troubled cousin Irene always says, “it’s better to be hated for something you are then loved for something you’re not.”

All I'm saying is it wasn't the best Valentine's Day, but it wasn't the worst one either.

Valentine's Day

2008-02-13T18:20:00.000-05:00

I've been very much under the weather lately.

I've always romanticized the process of being sick, hoisting it up in my mind's eye like it was some sort of magical timeframe that gives you the chance to catch up on films and reading, but in reality, it's just pretty horrible. It's made me wonder what my senior citizen years will be like and if I'll be able to keep my good-natured demeanour in the face of crippling health problems.

But I don't need to be thinking about those things right now because I'm on my way back to good health and love is in the air. Yeah, it looks like I'm gonna be able to spend Valentine's Day watching DEFINITELY, MAYBE by myself and then cruising out to the Santa Monica pier to look out over the ocean and listen to emo songs on my iPod.

No I'm not really going to do that...

Definitely...

...Maybe?!

It's Ash Wednesday...There's a Surprise

2008-02-06T18:18:00.000-05:00

I don't know what it is about this religious holiday, but it seems like every time I look up from an afternoon nap, it's FUCKING ASH WEDNESDAY AGAIN. If you were judging your life on Ash Wednesdays alone, the years would pass you by faster than Michael Johnson in his golden shoes.

But one good thing about Ash Wednesday is it means Lent has finally arrived! So everyone can take a break from boozing and chasing skirts for and engage in some well-needed introspection.

So what is the younger generation supposed to do?

Fucking Alors! Isn't that the MILLION DOLLAR QUESTION? Well, Mardi Gras's over, and the dust has settled. So even though there's always that little bro, perched on your shoulder, whispering with his sensual voice into your ear, try to brush him off.

Y2K

2008-01-01T18:14:00.000-05:00

For some reason, I really thought this Sylvester was going to be the Sylvester that erased all the computers. I was kind of panicked about it, so I did some preliminary preparation and bought some canned goods and that weird air-tight food available exclusively at space museums. You can obviously eat that stuff in non-gravitatational situations, but it hasn't stopped NASA from pressing it like Sky Mall presses those bathing suits that guarantee no tan lines. I mean, it's dried fruit. You don't have to be a bloody astronaut to enjoy it.

But when January 1st passed and I still had internet access and electricity, I started counting my blessings. I also made a few New Years Resolutions, one of which was to start writing in my blog again. So like any life goal, I promised to bring CheddarTed.com back for as long as I could sustain it. Now I'm editing this single post, three weeks after the fact, and thinking that this was a bad idea.

Anyway, the winter break was a pretty fresh one. I forced four idle scrabulous players to forfeit from a 10 shekel an hour internet cafe in Jerusalem, winked to a 13 year-old girl in the Ben Gurion Airport as I poured a mini-bottle of Bailey's into a fresh cappuccino at 11:45 pm on December 31st, and I agreed to join the Israeli Army with this architecture bro after he graduates college next year. So that should give you at least a perfunctory indication of my mental condition.

But in reality, all signs point to 2008 as being a positive year. I think I'll finally get that Vintage Schwinn I've been talking about for over twenty seven months.

It's nice to be back,

Cheddar

4/2006 - 12/2007

2007-12-31T13:56:00.000-05:00

At CampusTap.com, which is basically defunct.

The Tournament: An Homage to Deuce Carter

2006-11-08T15:28:00.004-05:00

I just picked Duke over UCONN in a relatively low-scoring final game for my facebook pool. For those of you who just subscribed to my blog, I am opposed to Duke on a highly fundamental level, and to be honest, I haven’t loved UCONN since Khalid El-ACheddar was running the show and fathering illegitimate children on the side, so why the fuck would I choose these teams if I hate them and don’t even think they’re that good?

Your guess is as good as mine, blog, but not as good as Happy Will's! His analysis illustrates why all the butchers, bakers and candlestick makers ‘round town also call him Mature Cheddar.

“Bro,” he said. “Ironically enough, picking an NCAA bracket is the aspect of your life in which you are the most conservative.”

I feel like I am being held hostage and forced to sign a document I don’t want to be signing every time I fill out an NCAA bracket. I know I might appear on the outside like a dare-devil risk-taker, but people don’t know what’s going on in my head as I look at these teams.

For all of you law students out there who read this blog while snacking on a fresh stick of biltong (I’m talking to you, PAKTER), I bet you’re wondering whether my brackets could be used in the court of law. Is a bracket signed under duress a legitimate bracket? Soon law students 'round the world will be citing Cheddar Ted’s plight in their first year contracts course.

“Well, under the ruling of Cheddar Ted v. The People, you’re all of full of it!”

E Pluri-deuce unum, blog.

Regardless, as I said last year, “the tournament takes and it gives, man.” Every March, I buy a two week pass into the six flags of my mind and hop on the most turbulent ride the park has to offer.

Today as I was strolling through the yard listening to the theme song of Jurassic Park by John Williams, I thought to myself, “Fuck, John Williams was a genius.” Then I thought to myself, “Wait, this dude is still alive.”

All this thinking about music obviously got me jacked up for the tournament. Even though I love One Shining Moment, the song played every year during the end-of-the-tournament montage, I wonder if I would like said montage a bit more if there was a different song playing.”

One thing led to another, and I soon found myself at a VES lecture scrawling a top ten list of the best songs for sports-related montages on a flashcard I originally made for Envrionmental Risks and Disasters.

Here are the contents of the flash card (omitting the information on Shield Volcanoes).
Fuck it, here's the information on Shield Volcanoes!

"Shield Volcanoes are wide volcanoes with shallowly sloping sides, formed by lava flows of low viscosity."

Here's the rest:

10) Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls—I know all you skeptics are probably thinking, “Wasn’t this the theme song of that Nick Cage film City of Angels!?!” Well, I would just answer that by saying, “Yes it was, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t make a sick song for a sports-related montage!” I may have gone out on a limb with this one, but something inside of me just knows this would make a montage mad poignant, and poignancy is an essential aspect of any good montage.

9) Tubthumping by Chumbawamba—Although a part of me will always think of Home Alone II when I hear this track, another part of me, a more dominant part, will become incredibly amped. It’s the type of song that makes you want to slap the floor on defense or dupe criminals that are trying to kill you, even though you’re in an unfamiliar city and you’re only 10 years old!

8) Ready to Go by Republica—This song would be perfect for clips of everyone’s favorite mascots and mid-major teams huddling before tip-off. The track reminds you what it means to write messages on your kicks, put on your jersey knowing it could be the last time you ever do, and slap the backboard extra hard during lay-up lines because, after all, they don’t call ‘em college lay-ups for nothing ;)

7) Right Here, Right Now by Fatboy Slim—Though the title of this song is curiously similar to number 4 on the list, it is ultimately dissimilar in its effect. The beginning draws you in and would perfectly complement clips from the first few rounds, and then as the music crescendos, so would the tournament! Although the track does not appeal to the more sensitive of emotions, it certainly knows how to get it started, buddies. Hmmm, that makes me think of….

6) LET’S GET IT STARTED (,BUDDIES!!) by The Black-Eyed Peas—Even though the Black-Eyed Peas are one of the most fugazy musical groups in the history of music, dating back to the great classical composer, Handel, this song, even more so than Right Here, Right Now, is the inspiration behind what Gritz and I are always blathering about when we talk about getting it started, buddies. There are few things more important than getting it started, buddies, but this song, like many of the songs featured thus far in the list, does not invoke a feeling of poignancy. Coupled with the fact that the Black-Eyed Peas are very, very fugazy, Let’s Get It Started (,Buddies!!) will never crack the top five.

5) The Hey Song (no artist attributed, except maybe John Ng, our old tutor who used to call us all “hey,” or “Lax Stick,” the character from Mario Baseball)—This song, though it might not be the best song for all sports, would fit the tournament montage as perfectly as Cinderella’s shoe fits various teams every year. Na nah nah, nah nah, nah nah nahhhhhh. This just in…My good buddy Derver has informed me that the true creator of this song was once busted for Kiddie Porn! Wait…Should The Hey Song be put higher on the list!?

4) Right Now by Van Halen—This track might as well be called, “when the game’s on the line and you look into your opponent’s eyes, do you want it more?” Also, what the eff happened to Crystal Pepsi!?!

3) Praise You by Fatboy Slim—I hate to put Fatboy Slim on this list twice, but this song just screams, “Montage! MONTAGGGE!” It tells the story of teamwork, about what it takes for a team to coalesce throughout the season, and the feeling that ensues when it all “comes together.” It also has a particularly choppy part that would lend itself perfectly to a compilation of the tournament’s best images in the form of a rapid succession slide show.

2) Dream on by Aerosmith—I shook more violently than Muhammad Ali ever has when the climax of this song played over an image of the boxer standing over Sonny Liston in ESPN’s Sports Images of The Millenium Montage, aired at the turn of the century. I once called this the greatest song ever for sports-related montages, and it very well may be, but when all is Ched and Done, there can only be one champion…of both the NCAA tournament and my top ten montage list.

1) Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve—When Nike aired the commercial with this song in the late 90’s, I knew it would forever mean something more for me. Although it becomes a bit weaker when the lead singer comes in with lyrics, the opening musical arrangement is without a doubt the most inspirational arrangement Cheddar has ever heard. It’s the type of arrangement that makes you slap the floor to start the second half, but it’s also the type of arrangement that makes you stay after practice early in the season so you can make crucial foul shots months down the line. It’s the type of arrangement that slows a game-winning three down to the essence of what it means to have your legs under you when you need them. It’s the type of arrangement (coupled with some inspirational words from my good friend Deuce) that gives Cheddar Ted the will to re-write this entire entry from scratch after it was deleted due to a faulty internet connection. It’s the symphony that plays in the heart of Julius Hodge (R.I.P.!?), Gerry McNamara, Adam Morrison (kind of) and a few others who I haven’t heard of….yet.

Enjoy the tournament!

Love,

Cheddar Ted

R.P.I.

2006-03-13T18:25:00.002-05:00

With the tournament just around the corner, I decided I'd repostulate a theory I've been tinkering with for about six months now. If you follow college basketball, you're obviously familiar with the Ratings Power Index, but Cheddar’s R.P.I. (actually, someone else came up with this) is a little less run of the mill and has little to do with sports. It is a method of evaluating girls based on the following criteria:

Conference—who she runs with/who her friends are.

Record—looks, personality, general behavior.

Strength of Schedule—who she’s hooked up with.

Hooking up with Cheddar would be like winning your conference tournament and getting an automatic bid into the big dance: mad care-free and fun. Getting with someone lke Gritz, on the other hand, would be more like an at-large bid: a little riskier but with the potential for greatness.

Since we're approaching tournament time, this weekend was really make or break for a lot of on the bubble betties. Getting with a sweet dude at Club Fly or the Fox Heaven and Hell party might boost a girl from a 4 or 5 seed to maybe a 2 or 3, thus making her path to the sweet sixteen a lot smoother (unless it meant a second round match-up against N.C. State).

A few of my friends employ a slightly more archaic method of evaluation called the binary system. The binary system is ok if you're working with an old-school operating system, like if you had an LC II or a Mac Performa, but the R.P.I. accounts for the nuances of finding a cute betty that you'd want to throw your lot in with as you lace up your dancing shoes and critically judge girls.

Cheddar Retires From the Rap Game

2006-03-12T15:23:00.002-05:00

I'm sad to say this, but I've lost the one thing that kept me going as a rapper: the support of the people.

Two years ago, I was a legend. I walked around campus like every student was a cheese connoisseur and I was a very rare wheel of Cheddar. "Is that the kid who battled before Busta Rhymes?!"

People would come up to me and congratulate me. "I don't know you, but..."

Well, tempus motherfucking fugit, blog.

This year I've participated in two rap battles and got bounced both times in the first round. I guess being excessively vulgar and racist just doesn't get you where it used to.

Yesterday, I was up against this weird Asian kid who had a nice flow, but was clearly reciting pre-written lyrics that had little to do with me or the battle. His only line against me made reference to the fact that I wasn't wearing pants. You're right buddy! I wasn't wearing pants. I was wearing Tennis Whites. This should have resulted in immediate disqualification! What, this kid doesn't appreciate a fresh pair of Tennis Whites?! ADVANTAGE CHEDDAR!

So I get up there and begin by addressing his first point:

"Bro, making fun of my clothes, that just isn't right/
especially when I'm wearing a mad fashionable pair of Tennis Whites."

Then I took it up a notch.

"So I don't think you know what's in store.
You're at the wrong place, buddy, New Asia's next door."

Next door to the venue was in fact a pretty nice Chinese restaurant called New Asia. It has a very reasonable all you can eat buffet, and is remarkably clean. It should have been smooth sailing, but my position was more precarious than a full paper moon! With one too many Asian references, most notably when I called him an Asian Fred Durst (He was wearing a hooded red sweatshirt and a Yankees Hat), I think I might have Hiroshima'd* on my own foot!

Apparently attacking one's race or sexual orientation is no longer "impressive" in the eyes of the Harvard rap community. Well you know what, FUCK THAT COMMUNITY!

Until I can find a venue that appreciates my style, Cheddar Ted has stepped down.

*The Hiroshima is a lesser known style of deucing. You stand on the seat of the toilet bowl, let it rip and hope the deuce falls where it should! This is not to be confused with the Slater, which is when you sit facing the wall similar to the way A.C. Slater sits in most chairs.

Shaggy Dog and Current Events

2006-03-07T16:47:00.002-05:00

My brother, Happy Will, just e-mailed me knocking Shaggy Dog, the new Tim Allen comedy, and frankly, I was surprised with the negative message he was happy to convey.

I e-mailed him saying, "Happy Will, I really think you got Shaggy Dog wrong."

He said, "Cheddar, the fact that you are looking forward to seeing that indicates just how out of touch you have become with reality."

Obviously I became defensive and responded, "Happy Will, I think your sentence, which is apropos a film called Shaggy Dog, might indicate that it is you, not me, who is out of touch with reality."

But to be perfectly honest, I am the one who is out of touch with reality. I have literally no knowledge of current events, and Happy Will, working in the news rooms of ABC might have the best grasp of current events in the entire world, even more than Walter Kronkite!

My idea of current events is an update on Gritz's blog!

"Hey Cheddar Ted, what do you think about what's going on in Turkey!?"

"It's all gravy, bro."

"Do you think Iran should have nuclear weapons?"

"I don't think so."

Happy Birthday, Lady Cheddar

2006-03-04T21:21:00.000-05:00

Every Year is a Leap Year!

2006-02-28T17:30:00.001-05:00

Yesterday Mark Zuckerberg decided to mix church and state and merge the high school and college facebooks. Score one for the pedophiles! What was this dude thinking?

Hi, junior at The Chapin School who friended me yesterday! Gritz has really enjoyed looking at your facebook albums! You and your friends seemed to really have a great time at that sweet 16 last friday! I can't wait to check out Spring Homecoming in a few weeks!

Zuckerberg has become more arrogant than Dan O'Brien in the 1992 US Olympic Trials, and we all know how that story ended up.*

*Even though he failed to qualify for the 1992 games, O'Brien won the gold four years later in Atlanta.

Positive Psychology

2006-02-27T19:03:00.001-05:00

Often times we are asked to discuss the metaphorical lemons we've turned into lemonade along the way, but the truth is I have not really bit into that many sour lemons—even though I love lemonheads ;). I often put a slice of a lemon in my soda and the truth is I like drinking lemon juice straight out of the lemon shaped container. However, when it comes to life’s true lemons, I am comparatively famished; I have rarely experienced the bittersweet satisfaction derived from a healthy serving of life’s most trying difficulties.

It is true that I had to work hard in middle school and high school to get into Harvard, but on the whole my obstacles are neither noteworthy nor particularly unique. As I discussed in my first response paper, I did not always view the glass to be half-full, and deciding to approach life through a more positive prism has allowed me to sip the sweet nectar of fresh lemonade through a bottomless cup of vitality every day of my life. I have learned to approach the mundane with an eager eye. I taught myself to find pleasure where others often do not. Still, I occasionally wonder if this shift in outlook on is a worthy source of personal pride. I almost feel as if my life is not as meaningful because my road has been paved without many rocks, with few forks.

Many say that the severity of one’s struggle directly translates into the depth of personal satisfaction. I often wonder if the lemonade that I sip is not as delicious as the lemonade of others, because my input, my lemons, are not nearly as acerbic. After all, lemonade that is too sweet offends even the least sensitive taste buds.

My response to my good fortune comes in the form of gratitude and happiness. I express thanks to my family and friends. I rarely speak words of hate and am disappointed in myself when I do. In life, we are all given lemons, and even though mine have not been as bitter as others, we all are faced with the same decision sooner or later. Will we let our problems, no matter how big or how small, dominate our lives? Or will we roll up our sleeves, possibly get out a knife for slicing, and squeeze our lemons until we all have a fresh pitcher of lemonade that we can share with one another?

Unlike US Olympic athlete Gail Devers, I am not looking for hurdles. It is an event with which I am not familiar. However, I am positive that when I do encounter life’s more trying obstacles, I will not shy away. I will face these hurdles head on, and I will jump over them. Not with the celerity of Gail Devers per se, but at my own speed, and I am fine with that.

Cheddar Gets Shanghai'ed

2006-02-25T19:36:00.001-05:00

No, I'm not writing this from a remote location in the town of Asia after being kidnapped and taken on a two-week voyage across the Pacific Ocean! Actually, the biltong episode turned out well and I was offered a job teaching in Shanghai. I have to decide pretty soon if I'm going to accept. Blog, what's waiting for me around the red corner? What should I do? I think it's pretty hard to find servings of Gritz over there.

In other news, I just went to Dunkin' Donuts wearing a company zip-up sweatshirt. I thought the employees were going to let me hop behind the counter and serve some donuts like I did a few months ago, but it all ended up pretty awkward and it wasn't that funny. I then told Derver I wouldn't buy him coffee unless he also ate a Lemon donut, but he just wanted coffee, so I ordered him a medium coffee then looked at the cashier, chuckled creepily and said, "I'll have...a THE GREAT ONE!" I'm feeling a bit sick now, and I think my luck might finally be running out, but you know, I just can't change my style of play.

Get back to me about Shanghai, blog.

Love,
Cheddar

Punked and Cheddar Sleeps Through Class

2006-02-24T13:10:00.000-05:00

"They've already tried to punk me four or five times," says Nick Cannon, "Ashton's mad. They need to just give up; I know it's getting expensive."

I woke up yesterday at 2:30 pm. I know I usually like to get jumps on the day like I was Carl Lewis, but occasionally, when you're feeling stressed, taking the day off can really refresh you. And yesterday I wasn't feeling too stressed. Readership, is the placebo effect at play?

Finally, the "registrar" doesn't know this, but I've been writing a thesis under the radar for the last three months. I couldn't find an adviser so I won't get credit for it, but after all, what the registrar* doesn't know can't hurt it. My thesis is on the Fibonacci Sequence!

*Fuck the registrar.

Cheddar's Sick Kick Game

2006-02-21T21:15:00.000-05:00

Gritz claims he has the illest kick game around, meaning that he has the coolest shoes by far at Harvard. I admit that he has a great kick game, one of the best at Harvard, but don't underestimate Cheddar Ted, who also has a great kick game.

Here are my top five pairs of shoes, which might lend some insight onto the depth and versatility of my kick game!

5) Oak Brown Ted Baker TB Driver Exploits. I could only find a photograph of these shoes in white, but even in white, they represent comfort and style. In brown, they represent, comfort, style and class! Slap on a pair of these loafers and you can drive for miles or interact with people and they'll think you are at least 150% smoother than you actually are. So in my case, that's...carry the two...mad smoothe.

4) Vans Plaid Slip-Ons. Since Sophomore Year Vans Slip-ons have been my signature shoe and will thus twice crack the top five list of my kick game. These shoes are emo, sweet and do not have laces, something we all know can be extra tiring. They can be worn with any pair of pants, ranging from blue jeans to a really nice pair of cords. Nice Cords! Nice Vans!

3) Reebok Court Victory Pumps. I blogged about these shoes 6 months ago when I bought them and they haven't lost any thunder since. These are the best looking tennis shoes ever created. Sponsored by Michael Chang, the dichotomous chach who never responded to me about working for his Christian Missionary Foundation this summer, the Tennis Pumps perform well on any surface, most notably clay and grass. Advantage Cheddar!

2) Jordan XI (Playoff Edition). When Air Jordan wore these in the play-offs of 1996, everyone knew he was finally back. I believe that these shoes are alone in their complete personification a player. They are uniquely stylish, great to ball in and so goddamn beautiful, just like Jordan's game. I wore these my senior year of high school, but have basically retired them, because I'm no longer clutch like I used to be.

1)Vans Aloha Slip-ons. The Jordan XI's are a tough act to follow, but these slip-ons are my signature shoe. Mad people at Harvard think I'm "chill" just because I wear these around campus with a handsome sports coat or maybe a nice Mossimo T-Shirt. I have completely worn through these shoes, but I can't find them anywhere so I will wear them until I literally look homeless, which is about half the time anyway...So "Mahalo!" Vans, for making the best kicks ever created, and thus lifting my kick game to infinity, which is better than lifting it exponentially.

Cheddar Goes To Space

2006-02-21T05:24:00.000-05:00

Turns out I've been spending more time with my friend Euphoria than our sour buddy Despair as of late. With the way things have been shaking, Despair seems light-years away. I'm like King Midas these days, but everything I touch doesn't turn to gold. It turns to Cheddar.

Perhaps that's why I haven't been blogging at the same clip lately. Perhaps I fear that when I type, the keyboard will melt like a boiling pot of fondue at the touch of my magical hands. Or maybe the real reason is that February is a short month. Seems like we're gonna have to wait another two years to say "Cash Back" on February 29th.

Anyway, I just got back from the All-Star Game in Houston. From the moment I arrived, I knew it was going to be a special weekend. Almost immediately, I met Clyde Drexler, noticed that Kenny Smith wears a retainer, and met a Jeweler from West Hartford who I knew would emerge as a mentor for me as the weekend unfolded. This Jeweler's name was Marc Green.

Thursday night we ate at a Brazilian 'straunt and then got faced with this dude from Ecuador called Alejandro. Just like Marc Green, Alejandro did not initially take to me, but once we got to know one another, we had a few laughs and really connected I think. By the end of the night, he likened me to the character of Amadeus from the film Amadeus. At the time I thanked him, but as I pen this entry now, I wonder if it was a back-handed compliment. Homo proponit, Deus disponit, I suppose.

And it just got better from there. On Friday evening, Gritz, Gritz's bro (who happens to be my manager) Marc Green, Tcake and I chilled in the player's hotel before the Rookie Game. We were having the time of our lives. Suddenly, I heard my stomach growl. I hadn't eaten in a few hours and I was particularly hungry. I noticed that Rasheed Wallace had a huge order of Chick-fil-A, a franchise I have a deep connection with. At first I was bashful, but then I was like "Whatever, you're Cheddar Ted," and I walked over to 'Sheed and asked him for one of his nuggets. He looked at me like I was insane and said, "Nah." I looked at him back mad disappointed as if to say, "are you kidding me 'Sheed?" but I let it be and walked away without any nuggets. I then commented to Gritz that I would like to bathe in a pool of Polynesian sauce, but he was was too busy admiring Pat Garrity's Pea-Coat to listen. A wave of panic then washed over me as I made eye-contact with 'Sheed.

Luckily, 'Sheed didn't let the situation escalate and we made it to the Rookie Game in peace. At the Toyota Center, I became incredibly excited when I saw Kiki Vandeweghe. I shouted "Kiki! Kiki!" but he didn't respond or anything. Kiki must have a pretty bad sense of hearing because I was shouting very loudly from awful close. But it's ok Kiki. I'm sure the only sounds you hear are cheers from Madison Square Garden, the roars after a three-pointer from the wing.

After the Rookie Game we hit up an NBA party at the NASA space center. The highlights of this event were threefold. First, I had one of the best horseradish sauces I've ever tasted in my life on a handsome portion of rare roast beef. Second, I touched the heads of a few youngsters during the climax of a ride in a NASA flight simulator. Third, while I was in the bathroom some idiot let out the most cacophonous fart and the guy in the urinal next to me shouted, "Houston, we have a problem!" I yelled and slapped him five with my cory!

So far the weekend was just like the catch phrase my parents associated with my bar mitzvah party: "Nothing but Net!" Saturday afternoon, after I had already seen Nelly and Paul Wall perform and attended the Western Conference team practice at the Jam Session, I didn't think it could possibly get better. But it did. I walked into the Celebrity Dunk Contest with my cousin Xandy and on cue NICK CANNON WAS ATTEMPTING A BLIND-FOLDED DUNK! Are you fucking kidding me!?

The next day I had some extra fresh coffee and shot half-court shots at the hotel until it was time for the all-star game. We sat in the very last row of the entire arena, but it was still amazing and there happened to be a free pop-a-shot nearby so I snuck in a game at almost every commercial break. All in all the weekend was unreal. And that coffee was the most freshly brewed coffee I had ever tasted. Thank you Manuel...wherever you are.

Happy Valentine's Day, Lady Cheddar

2006-02-15T09:58:00.000-05:00

Life is Good When You're Cheddar Ted

2006-02-13T18:17:00.001-05:00

This past weekend was about as good as it gets. On Friday I took home the Fly Club's Poker Tournament. The purse wasn't as big as it has been in the past, but I played very well throughout, overcoming tournament-threatening adversity on at least two occasions, and always displaying mad patience. I knew I was going to win before it started, but I'm proud of myself for following through. Bravo, Cheddar Ted!

After the tournament, I was on cloud nine. My pockets were overflowing, I was on a spiritual high from Shabbat 1000, and I was kind of faced from drinking cider while watching girls we are friends with engage in a bidding war over our good buddy Derver in a date auction. As I wondered how much I would go for, I thought to myself "Cheddar, this is what life's all about, and you'd probably go for 33 dollars. Or 1089 if you were being auctioned of in conjunction with Gritz."

When I thought it couldn't get any better, I heard a very loud "ding" in my head (like the sound of a triangle or the ring of a cellular phone). I opened the microwave and there was a sizzling plate of Mature Cheddar ready to partake in weekend festivities. Bon Appetit!

So after administering a few shots to various people's faces, giving this dude a huge rugburn on his forehead, and biting my arm for an extended period of time while I crowd-surfed over a piano surrounded by dudes singing songs from Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, this kid fell down a flight of stairs and cracked his head open. But at least I don't have rabies.

And if the weekend weren't good enough, last night I freestyle rapped with Matisyahu, the Hassidic Reggae Star famous for his hit track, "King Without a Crown."

I was at the Chabad House having dinner and he stopped in before his show at Avalon and sat right next to me. Everyone was asking him questions like, "how do you balance your religious beliefs and the realities of being a Pop Star?" His answers were thoughtful and interesting.

Suddenly, I turned to him and I asked him mad earnestly, "You think there's room in the game for a less religious Jewish Rapper."

"Why?" Said Matisyahu.

"I'm not sure if you know this, but I'm a mad good rapper."

Then he kicked a beatbox and I choked harder than B. Rabbit in the first scene of 8 Mile.

Matisyahu looked at me, shook his head and said, "Sorry, Cheddar Ted, but I think you just answered your own question."

"Matisyahu. My forte is rhyming a bit more inappropriately, but you like that flow, don't you?"

He looked at me like "Cheddarrrr!"

"We're in a house of God, M."

We shared a laugh and he told me to keep at it. Then we prayed together. He left the Chabad House and put on a sick show.

Cheddar Seeks Employment....

2006-02-07T17:50:00.000-05:00

In Capetown!!!

This morning I had an interview to spend the next year teaching in either Shanghai or Capetown. Midway through the interview, I could sense that I needed to spice things up a bit, so I whispered "come closer" mad slyly. When he was about 6 inches away from me, I go, "You wanna know the real reason I want to work in South Africa? It's not the teaching, buddy. It's nothing like that. It's the biltong.*"

"Excuse me?"

"The Biltong."

*Biltong is a South African dried, cured meat similar to jerky.

Nick Cannon is Hilarious

2006-02-07T17:42:00.000-05:00

My Rushmore? Lamont

2006-02-02T18:07:00.000-05:00

Nothing is better than getting shit done. That's why when Happy Will e-mailed me today and callously asked me if I had given up my blog as well, I knew it was time to pull my head out of my ass and get some stuff done. So I finished my creative writing application for screenwriting (which is unbelievably bizarre by the way— the scene I wrote, which is published below, is a bit off color, and the last paragraph of the cover letter basically threatens the Professor), and I took care of some administrative stuff.

But something was missing. Was it my cell phone service (I was downstairs in the computer lab of the Science Center)? Probably not. I don’t give a fig about not having service! Was it the fact that I had yet to break into my board plus? Nope. Had a Vitamin Water, a Sicilian slice and two garlic knots for lunch. I also had a latte. What was it then? Ma nishtablog?

Interestingly, it was you, blog. You were what was missing. I hate neglecting you, but sometimes, when I’m out there living, doing stuff, I just forget about you. Like when I’m befriending younger, inner-city dudes at arcades and setting pop-a-shot records across the Eastern Seaboard, I forget. It was time to remember. "This one's for you, Happy Will," I said aloud as I opened up blogger.com.

But something still didn’t feel right. Turns out, it was the ambiance. I had to get out of that computer lab before I stapled my johnson to my right leg with that sweet automatic stapler that sits atop the user assistance desk. I ran out of there and through the yard like a Cheddar with its head cut off. Where should I write you? Where Should I write you? I should write you in Lamont, where I am writing you now, on a loaner laptop, on the east wall, at the very workstation I wrote about General Cheddar’s Last Stand.

It was the only place I could write this entry.

Since I was a freshman, I’ve always asked myself, “Teddy, What is your Rushmore?” Or in the last couple years it was more like, “Cheddar, What’s your Rushmore?” Well I’ve been reluctant to say this definitively, but I’m in my final term here, and it’s just time. Lamont is my Rushmore. It’s my Rushmore.

The Summer of '02: Camp Revisited

2006-02-02T17:11:00.000-05:00

The Screen is black. Cut to our Narrator, whose name we have not yet learned, sitting in a huge, empty dining room. He looks about 23. He wears jeans and a striped polo shirt. Banners hang from the walls and the rafters of the room; each is scrawled with painted Hebrew Words and hand - prints indicating that the dining room is meant for children, either at a Summer Camp or a school. No other characters are in sight. The Narrator pours himself a cup of a red juice from a clear pitcher. He drinks most of the cup while staring into the camera.

Narrator: Two summers ago I was a counselor at the Jewish camp we all went to growing up. When I was younger, I didn’t want to go to a Jewish camp. I wanted to go to a sports camp, but my parents made me go because all of my family members went there and it would be a good chance to explore my Jewish roots. “Mom, learning archery is far more enriching than getting to know your cousins,” I’d always say. It turns out she had a bit of foresight. Today, I don’t even like archery.

He takes a final sip of his juice.

Narrator: Regardless, that camp gave me a lot, and I am thankful for it. I met my best friend there, and I got to second base for the first time in an amphitheater that was ironically donated by my great aunt and uncle. Still, I will always associate my time at that camp with a single act that occurred in the lone summer I counseled. Being athletically inclined, I volunteered to captain a color war team with my aforementioned best friend, David, and my promiscuous cousin Irene. We were assigned to the White Team, and our primary task was to coordinate some sort of choreographed skit for the opening ceremony. What we came up with turned out to be not so kosher.

Cut to the Narrator covered in white paint with fake blood stains on his torso and face. He is on the middle of the hill in an inner circle of five surrounded by a larger circle of children wearing white shirts, pants and white face paint. In the inner circle, there is our narrator, his friend David who is similarly decorated, his cousin Irene who is basically naked, two fat kids banging on snare drums. They dance around three benches pressed together in the form of some sort of altar, atop of which stands a three foot tall Statue that resembles a totem pole which alternates between dead wolves and Native American hunters. The Song Umnjonj' Awusitholanga by Ladysmith Black Mambazo plays very loudly. The kids act out the scene the narrator describes.

Narrator: We had all the kids on the white team with the exception of two boys with snare drums form a straight line and march in a spiral form around an inner circle that consisted of myself, David, my cousin Irene and the two fat drummers. I was basically naked covered in white paint and fake blood, holding a fake sword and a Native American Tribal Idol. My friend David wore a loin cloth and had painted himself completely white with the exception of two dark black circles under his eyes; David held a sword in his left hand and a stuffed pig in his right. There were the two drummers and Irene. Suddenly, when the entire team was in a spiral enveloping the inner circle, the music changed to the “Stamping Chords” at the beginning of the "Auguries of Spring (Dances of the Young Girls)” from Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.

The Music changes to Stravinsky. The Narrator screams violently and hits one of the young snare drummers over the head with the Native American Tribal Idol. Suddenly the rest of the kids get down on their knees and the Narrator ascends onto an arrangement of benches. As he stands fully erect, he raises the idol and the kids bow down in deference to the Native American God of Nature.

Narrator: Then David ascended with the pig, which we had unstuffed and replaced with ketchup and a tomato. I beheaded the fake pig and yelled violently as the ketchup shot forth from the neck of the pig like the ejaculations of a freshly dissected aorta. In a fit of rage, I reached inside the belly of the pig and removed its heart and bit out of it and licked my face as the juice of the tomato ran down my face onto my torso. The kids were now bowing violently and screaming as loud as they could. David and I were in tears, but laughing uncontrollably, as I reached and placed the pig's dismembered head atop mine own.

The Choral arrangement from Beethoven’s 9th plays. Cut to Petco. David and the Narrator point to a cage with two white birds. Close up on the Petco employee who looks visibly worried as David and the Narrator look visibly insane. Abruptly cut back to the Hill. Close up on David who is crying; smudged with his black face paint, his tears look like gray rain drops. He turns around and removes a shoe-box from underneath the altar of benches. David reaches into the shoe box and removes a dove. The Narrator reaches in right after.

Narrator: As I released my dove, it immediately fell dead, but David’s dove, his ephemeral embodiment of tranquility, flew into the dark night like a shooting star, only to die 30 minutes later. Turns out, we didn’t cage the birds properly.

It is now dawn. Close up on two dead birds next to each other on the hill. As the camera slowly pans out, we see the remnants of the ceremony: there is a bloody pig, one of the snare drummers lays concussed, our Narrator cries with his head in his hands. A female counselor stands next to the Narrator cursing at him, but all we can hear is the choral arrangement from Beethoven’s 9th. Fade to Black

The Summer of '01: The Cheddar Tan

2006-01-30T14:12:00.000-05:00

The Summer of '01 was an interesting one. I tutored little 8th graders, teaching them to approach rap as a musical genre through the lens of poetry, which was nice. I also went to the beach one day.

But this day wasn't any ordinary day. It was Ano Chedimo, day 1: The Birth of the CHEDDAR TAN!

My immediate family and selected members of my extended family were out relaxing on the beach. I was playing with my little cousin (you might recognize him from such entries as "Cheddar and The Kids"), building sand castles, burying each other's feet. In other words, we were having a blast! All of a sudden my dad came up to me and was like "Cheddar, you really need to apply some lotion, else you're gonna burn." I said, "get me a beater! Otherwise fuck the lotion." So he came back with some lotion, and started applying it on me. Three hours later, I looked in the mirror and saw a curvey line running up the left side of my torso, a few spots in the middle, and on my right pectoral, it looked like a big pair of lips had kissed me and left a different skin tone.

Thanks a lot, Aged Cheddar. I looked more like a piece of swiss....for 8 months! The Cheddar Tan lasted 8 months! I delayed this entry a bit because when we went to Puerto Rico a month ago, my brother thought he had a Cheddar Tan, but it turns out his tan did not stand the chest of time. He had a very uneven tan for a few days, but a Cheddar Tan is one that lasts at least 4-6 months.

Am I Insane?

2006-01-26T16:50:00.000-05:00

Still up in the air.

I'm currently using a Cabot Library rental laptop, watching Yahoo! Launch music videos and playing cribbage.

Intersession 2006!

Reading Period 2006: A Retrospective

2006-01-26T14:24:00.000-05:00

I decided to stick around for a few days after finals period. I just figured it would be the last time I'd be here when no one else was around. Harvard is the best place when you have nothing to do or only a small percentage of the student body is on campus--never a line in Dunkin' Donuts, Lamont loaners are always available, etc.--and to be honest, it's also the best place even if the whole student body is here and you have various extra-curricular activities or acdemic responsibilities to attend to. Say what you will about this place, but I motherfucking love it here.

This past reading period has been as real as it gets. I knew we were in store for something special when Gritz got it started, buddies, the day Lamont re-opened its beautiful doors. With my hands tied behind my back in New York, I couldn't wait to get back and get it started, buddies, myself. And when I returned, I didn't necessarily get it started, buddies, that day, but I immediately felt something (not that, blog); it was more of a general feeling that resonanted throughout the entire month. Yes, we were a bit depressed at times, yes it all culminated on January 24th , which happens to be the most depressing day of the year, yes our deuces weren't as solid as they usually are, and yes our behavior was very weird and almost inexplicable at times (I guess the last two are a bit more personal), but this reading period was it, blog. Hell, it had to be. It was our last one.

On January 10th, Gritz and I noticed a bit of Graffitti on the entrance of Lamont. "Hey Turtlebird!" the culprit scrawled on the Western wall of the library (closer to the reference area). Without flinching, Gritz and I walked over to Weld, straight to the Dorm Crew office in the basement. "I'd like to take out two mops and a bucket, if it's not too much of a problem," I asked. Without a word, we jogged at a brisk pace back to Lamont. Gritz went in and filled up the bucket, and when he came out, we cleaned Lamont. Sorry, Turtlebird, but you're not getting this one. Not Lamont, buddy. Not Lamont.

The Importance of Teamwork

2006-01-23T14:58:00.000-05:00

On March 12th 1985, when Legend scored 60 points against Atlanta, Celtic players, Hawks fans, and Hawks players alike reveled at every made basket. I don't know if the same could be said for Kobe last night. I wonder if his teammates were even pulling for him--you know Lamar Odom wasn't; he was too busy thinking about that time he tossed my friend Derver's girlfriend's salad.

In other news, this might be the last time I ever study for a final at Harvard. Believe it or not, I have fulfilled all my requirements, and I am actually ahead in my credits. Next semester I plan on only taking seminar courses, which traditionally have no final exams. So I guess that means it's over for Cheddar. A bittersweet cloud looms over my work station as I study to the sounds of "Butterfly" by Crazytown and German pop songs so I'm not distracted by the lyrics.

Finally, Mature...Rafuah Shleimah, buddy. You have to do what makes you happy. Your alernate nom de guerre is Happy Will. I always thought you'd find yourself in the blogosphere, but maybe there's another path for you. Either way, I know it will lead to the right place...the very place your heart is.

As I said to Kiernan a few moments ago, to blog means to approach every entry like its your first. Otherwise that lonely traveler who stumbles across your published words, seeking refuge from the cold world of the "internet" will continue on his google search with a bad taste in his mouth from the sour porridge you fed him. The sour fucking porridge. Happy Will, when you're ready to comeback, Gritz and I will be here. We'll be ready to drink the broth of your words (just as long as it's not beef stew; I'm pretty sure Gritz is a vegan).

Happy Anniversary, Cheddar Ted

2006-01-22T18:08:00.000-05:00

Thanks for the good wishes, title of this entry.

Today I publish my 175th post! All in all, blog, you would make one pretty long document. Together, we've had a fair amount of ups and downs. We've had a few laughs (more than a few, to be honest). We've also been somewhat emotional at times, 'specially around Yom Kippur and throughout my summer program. We've operated under the auspices of three different domains! We've seen the world through the eyes of various templates.

So, to my readership, thank you. To blogger.com, we really couldn't have done it without you. To Lamont, well, you know what you mean to us. To Gritz and Mature, my inspiration. To the good people of The Yellow Room and The Back Page Sports, thank you. They never said we could do it. They never said we could post 175 times. Well they didn't know Cheddar Ted, I guess. They didn't know jack shit.

Everyone knows General Cheddar died at Lamont. What this blog presupposes is...maybe he didn't?

2006-01-19T15:48:00.000-05:00

Right now I'm at Lamont. Weary from the worst one-two punch of them all, a 2:15 final yesterday afternoon followed by a 9:15 this morning (with an independent project sandwiched between the two), I have come back here to finish a 10-15 page paper that is due at 5. Of the last 48 hours, I have spent 29 in lamont, 10 sleeping, 6 taking final exams and 3 attending to miscillaneous activities. As I sit here at my work station (a very nice one actually on the Eastern wall of the 3rd floor reading room), I begin to insert the final piece of the puzzle. Padgett just asked me if I was a fallen soldier. I said, "Buddy, this is General Cheddar's Last Stand!"

The Summer of '03: The Rigged Taste Test

2006-01-16T02:44:00.000-05:00

Any Glutton loves frozen treats, and I am no exception. I like all kinds of frozen treats, specifically Ice Cream and Popsicles, and frozen beverages. Of all the frozen beverages in the entire world, my favorite is an Ice-Blended from the Coffee Bean. Ice-Blendeds are essentially frappucinos, but they are far more delicious. My brother always claims that there is no difference in taste between the Starbucks and Coffee Bean frozen coffee beverages, but I couldn't disagree more.

Being the chach that he sometimes is, the stickler that he is, he insisted on having a taste test during a weekend spent in L.A. in the summer of 2003, but he only ordered the original coffee flavor. I failed the test on all accounts, but I protested at the time and retroactively question its validity, given that I never order the original flavor. I order Mocha Frappucinos and Vanilla based Ice-Blendeds.

Word of Warning

2006-01-15T19:08:00.000-05:00

Don't rent Lamont Loaner Computer #9. It runs very slow and has a weak wireless connection, regardless of what floor you're on.

The Birth of The CT/RT Dichotomy

2006-01-14T15:50:00.000-05:00

Last night I became almost overwhelmingly sentimental while driving with Gritz and The Prince to 'Donalds at like 2 a.m. We were listening to Gotham City by R. Kelly and I don't know, it just sort of hit home. Something similar also happened after hours a few nights ago at Cabot Science library, when I remembered the night before Mature Cheddar's last final. I'm not sure if I've ever told you this blog (Seems like it's been so long since I last addressed you, and for that I'm sorry), but I am highly prone to intense pangs of sentimentality.* Unfortunately, my special moment was interrupted by a relatively serious nose bleed. Everyone was wondering if I had the HIV, but I was like, "of course not," but I was really thinking, "Fuck, do I have the HIV?!" Then Mature, aka Happy Will, called me to celebrate the Knicks, but he was derailed when I told him about my condition. He just said, "what's the HIV?"

WHAT?! "That's not so mature of you, buddy, The HIV is H.I.V., but to be honest don't concern yourself with it. You're motherfucking Happy Will!"

Then he tried to play it off like he couldn't hear because we were blasting music, but I continued busting his chops. I didn't consider it during our conversation, but once Gritz queued up "How you Remind me" by Nickelback, I realized that we were playing music pretty f'ing loudly.

When we got home, Gritz and I drank beer for a bit in his bedroom. I thought he was going to try to juice me, but when I asked him, "Are you trying to Juice?" he thought I was asking him if he was fixing to burp the worm, so I knew nothing funny was going to go down. Instead we looked at facebook photos, some of my old facebook messages, talked about friends, girls, lost love and felt pretty depressed I think. But we were happy all the same. Our mood swings since we've been back have been pretty scary.

Another thing, I apologize to you Switch. You're a dude I don't even know. There is no reason for me to be knocking you. And that's real.

Finally, I turned in my Tel Aviv Term Paper yesterday at 5. It was literally PANDEMONIUM in Harvard Yard as chaches all the way from Greenough to Eliot rushed to all corners of the Yard to hand in their papers right before reading period drew to its official close. Luckilly for me, this didn't get me down or make me think Harvard was full of dorks. I was feeling way, way too insane at that point in the afternoon.

*This has led to the birth of a new nom de guerre, Romantic Ted (RT), Cheddar Ted (CT)'s doppelganger.

Landau Posts a New Facebook Photograph

2006-01-12T20:32:00.000-05:00

Theodore B Bressman (Harvard) wrote at 5:31 pm:
Nice new photograph. Thank God you put it up, because I missed the latest Michael Bolton video, and I'm looking forward to refreshing this page 100 times so I can watch it as if I were scrolling through a flip book.

Do You Really Need this Bee in your Bonnet

2006-01-12T13:51:00.001-05:00

People grow inexplicably furious when asked to repeat themselves.

"God, How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

There could be worse things, buddy.

A Day In Lamont (In Real Time)

2006-01-11T20:00:00.000-05:00

10:00 a.m. — I think to myself, "wow, Ched, really getting a great jump on the day." But after I look around the reading room, and it's completely full, I begin to question my resolve.

10:45 a.m. — After checking my e-mail, I walk to Dunkin', but on my way I knock over a bicycle chained to the hand rail because I am somewhat out of it. I see Gritz walking up arrow street and I hustle to a hidden staircase so I can scare him as he passes by. He doesn't seem that scared when I act out the ruse. Gritz and I give Dayse her Holiday Card. She says, "you guys are...Crazy." I say, "I love you."

11:00 a.m. — Back at Lamont, I begin looking at facebook albums. I'm almost hoping to get caught by the stranger whose photos I'm looking at for the sake of a pretty good, but overall played out story.

11:50 a.m. — Deuce in the third stall. I look in the mirror for the first time today and I realize it's time for a haircut.

12:00 p.m.— Go to Lunch, and think about where I should go get a haircut. I want to go to the Eliot Street barbershop, but I have an empty bank account and a head full of bad memories (and hair), and they don't accept major credit cards. My friend suggests Supercuts. NO WAY, BUDDY! Last time I went there they cut off my sideburns. I wonder if any barbershop accepts Crimson Cash.

1:25 p.m. — After lunch, I head to C'est Bon Convenience for the second time today. Last time I bought a four pack of Red Bull and some water, but this time I buy Gatorade and a pack of Haribo Happy Cola's. I also buy this dude a Kiwi Berry Nantucket Nectar becuase I spilled his earlier today while gesturing obscenely. When I head back to Lamont I put my Haribo Happy Cola's into my gatorade, and for some reason people look at me weird.

2:00 p.m. — Some chach of a boyfriend, who is wearing shorts, is giving his girlfriend a massage at her work station because she is visibly stressed out. I throw up a few Haribo Happy Cola's.

2:22 p.m. — My brother forwards me a correspondence with one of his friends, where his friend makes a claim that "the only thing noteworthy [about Larry Bird] was that he passed well for a big man." I stand up and stretch.

2:43 p.m. — I crack open my third red bull. My caffeine intake will be dangerously high in like 4 minutes.

2:46 p.m. — I write, “Maccabi Tel Aviv is a secular team for a secular city.”

4:02 p.m. — I decide to walk to the fourth floor balcony and stare at this girl in the third floor reading room with a crazy smile until she catches my eye. She looks petrified.

4:04 p.m. — The same girl walks to the bathroom…not before stopping by my carrel en route. I give her an insane look. She looks up at me and gasps.

4:06 p.m. — I wait for her outside of the bathroom. She opens the door and screams violently.

5:00 p.m. — I’ve been here seven hours and written one page. It’s time to leave.

psych, I'll be here through the night.

Cheddar and The Kids

2006-01-10T20:27:00.000-05:00

New Year's Resolution

2006-01-09T23:46:00.000-05:00

"Cheddar" and "Good Judgment." Three words that aren't always used in the same sentence, except in sentences like, “Cheddar doesn’t usually exercise good judgment” or "Jesus, Cheddar, when are you going to learn to use good judgment."

But that’s all about to change. From now on when people talk about me, they'll be saying things like, “Wow, Cheddar has really been demonstrating some great judgment lately.” After all, my God given name, שלמה, is an homage to the wisest king in history, King Solomon.

Over my college years, there have been Cheddars of all different ratings. There's G Rated Cheddar, the type of Cheddar who will walk an old woman across Mt. Auburn Street. There's PG Cheddar, the Cheddar who can bring a whole section to its knees with a great pun. There’s PG-13 Cheddar, the Cheddar who will make vague reference to adult situations and violence. Then there’s R rated Cheddar, the type of Cheddar who might curse at inappropriate times and say inappropriate things to people. Finally, there’s X Rated Cheddar, the Cheddar who will horribly offend groups of people with horribly offensive comments.

Well, it’s time to say farewell to X Rated Cheddar forever, and seriously limit the air time of R Rated Cheddar.

R.I.P. X-Rated Cheddar. I'll miss you, but it's time for you to go.

These are my new ratings...

G for Great Judgment, Cheddar
PG for Pretty Good Judgment
PG-13 for Pretty Good Judgment...for a 13 year old
R for Really, is that what you want to be saying Cheddar?!

The Summer of '98 (For Mature Audiences Only)

2006-01-07T19:00:00.000-05:00

At the advice of Mature Cheddar, I have removed this post. After all, I wouldn't want it to end up on the computer screens of Aged Cheddar. It was the story of the most twisted dude I ever knew and his cory. If you feel like you need to hear this story, please e-mail me at CheddarTed@gmail.com

Go to Dunkin' Donuts

2006-01-06T18:28:00.000-05:00

Check

Reading Period Checklist: Day 1

2006-01-06T17:00:00.000-05:00

Forget to apply deodorant: Check

Cut through Tommy's Value and surreptitiously apply axe body spray without the cashier noticing: CHECK

Meet Gritz for coffee and a free taste of marble cake: Check

Head back to Tommy's Value for some Red Bull and Seltzer: Check

Enter Lamont from the West: Check

Head Straight to the Fifth floor for a deuce: Check

Take out a Laptop and Headphones: Check

Blog: Check.

Go to Dunkin Donuts: _____

On Larry Bird (Once and For All)

2006-01-06T06:33:00.000-05:00

"They forgot about one thing ... they forgot about Larry Bird."-- Danny Ainge

In the spring of my first year at Harvard, I challenged the Senior Captain of the Varsity Basketball team to a game of one-on-one. I played JV that year (and the next three), and I really thought I could give this joker a run for his money. I had just watched the biographical film, Larry Bird: A Basketball Legend, and I was pretty certain that I would be able to surprise him with my tenacity and ugly jump-shot. I imagined gazing at my right index finger piercing the sky of Harvard’s Malkin Athletic Center like le Tour d’Eiffel into a warm Parisian night, then walking off the court as my winning three-pointer from the left corner was at the pinnacle of its flight (just like Legend did in the 1986 three point shootout competition at the All Star game).

Sadly, things worked out a little differently. I was totally out-matched. He had a better shot, better ball-handling skills, a lower defensive stance and more heart. I also have a feeling that if we were playing in a proper full court game, he would have displayed significantly better court vision. So I left, and asked myself the same question I had asked myself roughly 33 times since I challenged this better version of myself: W.W.L.D? (What would Legend do?) He would probably watch his biographical film again. So I watched it again. I studied it. I discerned that it was Daniel Stern’s familiar voice narrating the film. I learned that Legend lived an uncomplicated life in French Lick, Indiana, where basketball was its own language. Where a jump-shot was not forged by city streets, but in a wicker basket set to a background of cornfields. French Lick was a place where your claim to fame could be the way you played the game.

Once Legend became a star on the high school level, he was offered a scholarship at Indiana University. He accepted. He stayed only two weeks. He returned to French Lick, back to where it all began. He couldn’t hack it in the big city. He worked for minimum wage by day, but practiced at night. He found comfort in his routine, but suddenly his life changed. It became complicated. His father, Joseph Bird, committed suicide. After his dad ended it, he considered his life’s course. Was he going to be just another basketball “what if?” His dad’s suicide brought destiny to the fore.

My best friend Gritz and I often wonder what it was really like for Legend when his dad committed suicide. We wonder if he was devastated, if he felt abandoned. Sometimes we wonder if he even cared. We once wrote a play about Legend. It was not so much a historically accurate depiction of his life as it was a perversely comical fable about a Legend. Like any pair of responsible playwrights, we knew that before we could really begin to understand Legend, we had to return to that fateful night (or day, like I said historical accuracy wasn’t necessarily our “top priority”):

The Stage is black. There is a loud snap and a gargled “AAAAAHHHHHH.” A spotlight is placed on the hanging figure of Joe Bird. Another spotlight follows Larry Bird, who is carrying a basketball, from stage right, and he immediately begins whimpering.

Larry Bird: Goddamit dad, you bent the goddamn rim. Fuck.

Joe Bird: Son, I’m not dead. Help me down.

Larry Bird: You better fix that fucking rim.

Larry throws the ball at his father who falls down from the rim.

Joe Bird: Thank you son. Hold on one second.

Larry Bird: Whatever.

Larry Bird waits near the hoop and throws the ball at the rim trying to even it out. Larry’s father comes back, holding a shotgun.

Larry Bird: What the shit are you doing?

Joe Bird: I’m going to shoot myself in the head.

Larry Bird: Oh.

Larry’s father shoots himself in the head, and his head falls off. Larry picks up his father’s head and shoots it into the hoop.

Larry Bird: Swoosh motherfucker.

Larry starts doing a dribbling drill bouncing a basketball and his father’s head simultaneously. We hear the song“Indiana Has a New State Bird.” (“Wherever Hoosiers gather, they no longer talk of weather, Indiana has a New State Bird…”) Larry walks off stage, pumping his fist in exultation (a la 3-point competition). Vultures emerge and start eating the dead corpse of Bird’s father. There is a chirping that sounds like “Indiana has a new state bird”

We've intended to produce this play for almost three years now, but perhaps our lack of resolve underscores a sub-conscious (or conscious) disinclination to shame Legend in the public sphere. See, our obsession with Legend is rather complex. We view him as a comedy and a tragedy, a tour de farce and a tour de force. Perhaps this is also how we view ourselves: somewhat understood and a bit rough around the edges. Legend’s appeal lies in his awkward grace, his enigmatic sense of humor, his unparalleled work ethic and his desire for a simple life mixed in with his penchant for the theatrics. I’d say that Gritz and I can each identify with at least one of these attributes. Many people believe that our theatrical production is irreverent; many believe that it taints the bond we have forged with our conception of Larry Bird. How could we be responsible for 33 minutes of Legend-bashing? I guess we can only answer that question with another question: How could we not?

Legend could have spent his days working the fields and marrying his cousins, but the purity of his jump-shot and the courage in his soul set him on a path apart. After his dad ended it, he went back to school, but this time he enrolled in some place smaller, some place where he could find his way: Indiana State. He persevered. I realized that’s not would Legend would do. That’s what Legend did.

Throughout my life, basketball has meant a lot to me. The game has introduced me to a lot of people and taught me a lot about teamwork and the role of an individual in a team. Many say that the game is a microcosm for life itself—personalities are magnified on the court, players and coaches must be prepared in order to succeed, and players must learn to sacrifice personal glory for the good of the whole. I have played on city streets in New York, Jerusalem, London, and Los Angeles. I have embarrassed arrogant street ballers, and they have embarrassed me in return. I have been called “Bill Clinton,” “John Stockton,” “Jerry Seinfeld,” and “Larry Bird.” Interestingly, I look like none of these people. These nom de guerres were based solely on racial identification. Except for Legend. The day I was called “Legend,” I was shooting at an unbelievably high clip from beyond the arc and wearing a pink t-shirt with a photograph of the hick from French Lick smoking a cigar with Red Auerbach on the bottom left corner. This is my favorite t-shirt. Just like Legend, the t-shirt is a bit off-beat, but stands the test of time (many washing cycles) and is surprisingly beautiful.

When Legend arrived as a rookie on the Celtics, he was thrust into basketball’s most sacred temple: Boston Garden. He inherited a tradition that can only be compared to the responsibility Moses assumed when he ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. He joined the Celtics when the franchise was at its low, when Celtics fans were looking for a savior. Boston citizens looked at him incredulously: Is this what we signed up for? Is he the man that will bring us back to glory? He sure didn’t look like Magic Johnson. Though he occasionally threw behind-the-back passes, it was Magic and the Lakers that were “Showtime.” They were Hollywood, Larry was blue collar. Once Legend hit the court, his critics were silenced. In time, he became the man that personified a city. He was the best shooter in the league, but he was the first person to practice and the last to leave. He took the shots that he knew he had to take for his team to win, but he made the extra pass. He dove for the ball when no one else would. His play inspired his teammates to reach levels of play they had never thought possible.

A few months ago, Eric James Torpy was sentenced to 30-years in prison for armed robbery and attempted murder. Torpy, however, had different plans. He insisted that the judge tack on an additional three years to the sentence in honor of Larry Bird’s jersey number, 33. “He said if he was going to go down, he was going to go down in Larry Bird's jersey,” said Oklahoma County District Judge Ray Elliott. "We accommodated his request and he was just as happy as he could be.”

At first I thought this guy was crazy. Three years is a pretty long time, but then I remembered something Larry Bird once said, “When I was young, I never wanted to leave the court until I got things exactly correct. My dream was to become a pro." Yes, Larry Bird was most likely referring to the basketball court, not the court of law, but for Eric James Torpy, it was the criminal court that could be his hardwood church, his avenue towards reaching a highly flawed sense of perfection.

Larry Bird is credited for saying that “While day by day the overzealous student stores up facts for future use, he who has learned to trust nature finds need for ever fewer external directions. He will discard formula after formula, until he reaches the conclusion: Let nature take its course.” I can’t really imagine him actually saying this, but nevertheless, I decided it was appropriate to use this quote as my signature on every e-mail I sent for 6 months. Eheu, sic transit gloria. When I decided to make the transition to Gmail because the old Mailer Demon was always on my back about an inbox that was “over quota,” whatever the hell that even means, I decided I would leave that quote behind, but this does not mean I would leave Legend behind.

My freshman year of college, I signed every e-mail, “‘I can remember when I first came in the league, Artis Gillmore told me one time, he played for Chicago, he said if you expect to play a long time in this league, you better quit mopping up the floor, and I thought well he’s crazy because that’s what basketball’s all about. Well getting a little bit older now, and feeling the bangs and the bumps and the bruises and all that, I can see where’s he coming from, but I can’t change my style of play. I gotta play like that every night.’—Larry Bird.” Larry’s passion for the game is a reminder of how we should all live on a day to day basis. He wasn’t blessed with the ability to jump higher or run faster than most. His jump shot was hardly innate; its purity exists in the countless hours of practice evidenced in the mechanical nature of its final form. He had the desire to work harder than the rest, to stay long after his brothers, his friends and his teammates had left the gym. It is this dedication that makes Larry Bird a Legend.

Too often we slip into the routine of working robotically in the cornfields of our minds, forgetting about the song that all too often silently plays in our hearts. Personally, my heart sings, “wherever Hoosiers gather, they no longer talk of weather….,” but it could easily play another song, a song by an artist like Enya or Placido Domingo. I am positive that the same song plays in Torpy’s heart. This scares me, but, you know, I can’t change my style of play…

A Painful Recollection

2006-01-03T14:18:00.000-05:00

Last night I had dinner with Mature and our South African buddy, Ryan. Mature and I tore through our dishes, eating mad fast. Ryan, on the other hand, ate much slower. Having discussed myriad subject matters, ranging from great vacation spots to chilled out playboys to loyalty, the conversation turned to deucing. I mean, it was dinner!

First Ryan was like, "come on, I'm still eating," but I was just like, "come on, brosef."

So I asked him when he last deuced in his pants.

"Age 6," Said Ryan.

All the Cheddars at the table agreed that was a reasonable age to have last deuced in your pants. Mature offered that he last deuced in his pants when he was five, not as a gesture of oneupsmanship, just to let us know for future reference.

Then I took a deep breath. It was time to let out my secret...

" 'Twas the summer of '99. I was on the bus coming back from a five day overnight, and I hadn't showered once. My Discman had run out of batteries, and I was looking for a bit of entertainment. So I struck up a game of Gin Rummy with this dude in the seat across from me. After like three moves, I looked at my hand. Could it be!? Did I already have Gin Rummy!? 5, 6, 7, 8 of clubs. Three Jacks!

" 'Gin Rummy!' I screamed. As I raised my fists into the air, I deuced in my pants. I looked at my opponent in horror, then started running to the back of the bus faster than Maniac McGee. Every row cringed in disgust as I sprinted past en route to the bathroom. I flushed my undershorts (After all, I had been wearing them for six straight days), and played it cool when I got out: 'Haven't farted like that since 8th Grade Latin Class.' I'm not sure who bought it, but I mean everyone was dirty. No one had showered in a full week!"

I'm not sure if Ryan and Mature bought the shit I was serving, so to speak, but needless to say, they found the story absolutely hilarious!

Passing the Time

2005-12-28T14:52:00.001-05:00

Sensing that I needed a break from depression and loneliness, two fateful foes that seem to be gaining ground ever since I've been back home, I booked it to Times Square yesterday to see if I could set the record on various pop-a-shot machines in the area. My initial plan was to survey the arcades then systematically set the record on each one. My initial plan was delayed, however, by an enormous deuce taken at the 42nd street Westin. As Gritz commented, I took this deuce "Westin" time. A few more minutes and I surely would have deuced in my already-unbelievably-dirty cords.

So after a quarter of an hour spent deucing, I walked over to ESPN Zone. Much to my chagrin, three arcades I used to love have closed down in the last couple years, including, but not limited to, Barcode and Everything is Amazing. All that remained were Lazer Park and ESPN Zone, and ESPN Zone was about as crowded as my Bear Stearns’ boss’ arteries. I played one game, had a respectable 52, but left immediately. On my way to Lazer Park, I was sidetracked by the Billabong/Element Store under the MTV studios. I needed a new sac ad’eau and I really wanted one with a pocket for a skateboard. (The backpack I used on my trip was this sack of books, one of those nylon bags with rope straps.) So I picked up a hot Element backpack and continued on to Lazer Park.

When I made it to “the park,” I approached a pop-a-shot machine with a record of 58. With three balls, I scored 110. I then decided to add two more balls from the adjacent machine to the party. 176. Back of the net. I dedicated my performance to my future son, whom I have decided to name Lazer. It’s your park buddy.

As I was leaving, I noticed that my high scores left me with a handsome number of tickets. I eyed a young Hispanic kid, smiled and handed him my tickets. “Feliz Navidad, little bro.” Feliz Na-vi-dad.

Moral of the story? Even though I am the best pop-a-shot player I have ever seen, there is nothing more depressing than going to arcades by yourself during the holiday season.

The Cheddar Who Stole Gritzmas

2005-12-27T03:08:00.000-05:00

I know most people are still riding high from a nice Gritzmas or whatever, but during the last few days spent "relaxing," I got to thinking a bit. And there are a few things that I need to get off my chest before the calendar year ends.

1) What the fuck is the deal with kids aged 21 and up complaining about no longer being carded. "G-d (If I've taught you one thing, blog, it's to never take the Lord's name in vain), I finally turn 21 and now I never get carded." This is a) most likely false and b) not such a bad thing. Fuck me if I'm wrong, you group of naive young adults, but is being carded that much fun?

2) I've had it up to here with Delta Song and luckilly so has everyone else. Any airline that tries to trick you with brightly colored seats and recordings of flamenco dancers relaying safety regulations in Spanglish deserves to go under. Let me remind you to stow your metaphorical tray tables and return your seats to their "most uncomfortable" upright positions, turn off all electronics, including palm pilots, mp3 players, "blenders and toasters" and prepare for your final descent into the annals of an industry that fails on almost every account. It's time to finally pull the plug on your PA system. Lord knows you've used it enough while your passengers struggle to take advantage of the in-flight trivia game or your faulty live television feed.

3) Why does love supercede everything else? Oh, it's ok. Don't worry about stopping traffic on the George Washington Bridge during rush hour so you can make out with the love of your life in the pouring rain. Of course, demand to be let off an airplane that is on the runway, ready for take-off. Stop someone else's wedding in the name of true love (the paradox of this set of examples). Don't worry about anything, because you're in love and that's all that matters. Everyone's sooo happy for you.

That's it for now. Time to make a midnight run to Duane Reade to buy myself a box of sugared cereal and see if I can finish it before sunrise.

How to Pose for a Picture

2005-12-21T18:06:00.000-05:00

Posing for pictures is one of my multifarious fortes. Whether I'm making a totally insane face, looking mad serious, flashing a smile when appropriate, yelling into the camera or giving my signature pose, a half-hearted "thumbs up," I'm always looking unbelievably cool when I show up in people's facebook photo albums. But here's the catch: I am not photogenic by nature. Whenver I don't pose, I look pretty bad. When I pose, however, I look incredible.

As great as I look in a lot of photographs, I find that other people usually look equally horrendous (in terms of absolute value). You think you look sweet making a horrible facial expression while you're all grinding up against a girl at a party? Oh, you didn't realize that there was a real human taking this photograph? Is that why you figured you should point to the camera like the biggest chach that ever lived? Some say is a picture is worth 1,000 words. Can you say "sick d-bag" 500 times!?

Little Cheddar and Cheddar's Lineage

2005-12-15T16:00:00.000-05:00

Last night Little Cheddar was accepted into the Harvard Class of 2010. This means that between Big Cheddar, Cheddar and Little Cheddar, one cheddar or another will have been at Harvard from 2000-2010.

I surmise that my parents are thinking, "Back of the net. Back of the net."

I am very proud of you Little Cheddar. You give new meaning to the phrase "save the best for last."

Last night, I was talking to Gritz, who had a great suggestion. He said I should go around the world conceiving children in different places like Vermont or while holding something sharp like a knife or an ice pick. That way I can have kids named Vermont Cheddar or Sharp Cheddar.

Innovative thinking, Gritz. This is the same type of innovation you will be immersed in when you start here next fall, Little Cheddar. I only wish our time at this special place would overlap, but we will forever be two disparate circles in the venn diagram of education.

Nevertheless, I love you Little Cheddar. Bravo.

Bartender

2005-12-14T14:51:00.000-05:00

I can't wait for winter break so I can kick back with a frozen cocktail and a cigar and just look out into the ocean...I really think that's what it's all about. I really think you should shove it up your ass, buddy. Why don't you smoke that cuban cigar until it burns out and drink a few cocktails in the warm sun? Let's see if that's what it's all about...Why don't you go hand-gliding, you chach!

In other news, there was a photograph of Brad and me in the Boston Globe yesterday. As evidenced above, we are at Dunkin' Donuts. I am drinking blueberry flavored coffee, in case you were wondering. Brad looks horrible, but I look great in my rabbit fur hat. I guess it wasn't completely ruined after all.

When I walked into Dunkin' Donuts yesterday, the employees began waving the Boston Globe proudly and applauding for me. This is the second time the Dunkin' Donuts employees have lauded my efforts. The first time was when I jumped behind the counter and served French Cruellers to a few customers.

Later in the day I returned with Brad, and we sat at the same table for like 15 minutes, posing for an imaginary camera man. Brad ordered two sausage, egg and cheeses just like he did the day of the photo shoot, and I drank another blueberry coffee, my 7th of the week! "And it's only Tuesday," I thought to myself.

It took me almost two years, but I have become the posterboy for Dunkin' Donuts.

The Ivy Prep League Championship Game

2005-12-11T19:50:00.000-05:00

No time left on the clock. Poly leads 64-62. Mike Faherty steps to the line. He takes two dribbles with his right hand, spins the ball with a still tranquility that doesn't correspond with the intensity of the moment. He takes a deep breath and shoots...

Flashback to the Spring of 2000. Dalton has just come off a dissappointing ending to a great season. A season of highs and lows. A Collegiate tournament championship. A loss in the finals of the NYSAIS to Collegiate. Images of older Bressman and Phineas Lambert crying at center court torment young Bressman as he replays that final game in his head. How did it get away from us like that? Visions of Ben Rhymes and Sean Carrey hitting threes stab little Bressman in the heart like a knife. Little Bressman will be haunted by memories of Michael Beal rising through the lane for offensive rebounds and putbacks that whole summer. In the long run he will learn to remember that special season with his brother in a different way.

But not today. As young Bressman and his 2000-2001 teammates wait to get onto the court of the third floor gym on 87th and 3rd, he wonders what will be different about next year. How can Dalton get over the top?

The elevator opens. Michael Faherty, rocking board shorts and a backwards Etnies hat, steps out.

"What's up guys?"

"Hey."

Was this a scene from Mighty Ducks 1? What is this guy doing here? Doesn't he go to Poly Prep?

Faherty balled with us that day. He was better than we were. He was stronger, faster, he could shoot better and he played better defensive. He was always in defensive stance. We thought we played hard the past couple years, and we did...but not Poly Prep hard.

We soon found out that MF would be transferring to Dalton for his senior year. He hated Poly. No matter how hard he tried, he would always be in the shadow of Ray Corrigan, Danny Green and Keith Williams. Just another shooter who could knock it down from the outside. Poly never gave him the chance he deserved. He would have this chance with Dalton.

That fall we worked harder than we ever had before. We ran our sprints faster. We played defense in practice like we were playing in games. MF took us to the next level. He made us the State champions that we became....

Fast forward to game time almost five years later. MF looks to the Poly bench, but this time he is wearing a royal blue jersey, not a navy blue one. He is a Tiger, not a Blue Devil. He is finally home.

Dalton and Poly shake hands inimically and the game is underway. Poly wins the tip. The ball goes straight to Versoza who pushes it ahead to Ray Corrigan. He drives left, but little Bressman, who has moved to the two for defensive purposes, cuts him off, so he resets. For years, Poly Prep teams have separated themselves from the Ivy League on their athletic prowess and defensive dominance, but today Dalton sends a message that they are not going to back down.

The first quarter allows both teams to feel each other out. A lot of loose balls. A lot of guys diving on the floor. Both teams have come to play hard, but neither is really executing. Aside from a few fast break points, the game has little rhythm. Young Bressman tries to settle his team down, but Poly's defense is too stifling to even run secondary break. Luckilly, little Bressman is feeling it from the outside. He hits two consecutive threes to end the first and the crowd senses something special is about to go down, just like that JV game at Collegiate, when he dropped 36 against the Junior Dutchmen. Interestingly, that was the same night Chris Liu dropped 37 against Dalton in the Varsity game. However, that is neither here nor there and does not factor at all into the recounting of this championship game.

The first quarter ends and Dalton leads 18-14. Talleyrand is furious on the sideline, and Frischling is furious too. The Tigers have played the firs quarter like they are just trying to hold on. In this regard, they are playing more like scared cubs than pugnacious Tigers. Frischling is furious because he senses that his team is going to fall victim to one of Poly's dangerous weapons: intimidation.

Turns out, his players are not intimidated in the slightest. The second quarter begins and Ewers blocks a Logan fadeaway. He yells louder than ever before, sending a cacophonous call to battle that resonates throughout the warm gym on this otherwise quiet Sunday. MF grabs the loose ball and pitches it to older Bressman who immediately swings it to his brother. Will Bressman sticks his fist in the air; he knows his brother's three is money, and it is. Dalton leads 21-14. Poly calls a time-out. Talleyrand is still furious. Dalton walks to the huddle with a newfound confidence. They're ready to dance with the blue devils.

Poly seems ready to dance as well. They run a double screen for Williams who is wide-open at the elbow. 21-16. Dalton panicks as Poly shows its press for the first time. MF claims temporary insanity and seems to have forgotten that he transferred to Dalton--he throws it away to Corrigan who pulls up for three and hits. This time Dalton is able to break the press, but Hederman is whistled for travelling at the top of the key. Down the court, Green slashes for 2. Suddenly, Dalton's lead is cut to 1. Frischling decides not to call time-out. He wants to see what his players are made of. Little Bressman crosses over Versoza and finishes over Logan at the hoop. Little Bressman is not necessarily playing the best basketball of his life, but the fire in his eyes lets Poly know he is playing to win.

On the other end, Logan answers with a sweet fadeaway from the corner. Little Bressman comes down and fires another three. Swish. He literally has scored 18 points, and there are still three minutes left in the second quarter. MF steals the inbound pass and passes to Will who finishes and-one over Corrigan. Dalton is playing inspired ball. Young Bressman adds a foul-line jumper and hits a three over Corrigan as the first half-buzzer sounds. Dalton 36. Poly 25. Little Bressman has almost outscored Poly's entire team in the first half.

The third quarter is a bit different. Poly straight up juices Dalton. They score the first eight points of the quarter, and have entirely neutralized little Bressman's outside shooting with a box in one. An Andre Logan college lay-up gives Poly its first lead since the opening minutes of the game. With two minutes left in the third Poly leads 41-40. Dalton looks scared. Who is going to step up?

Enter MF. He addresses his teammates in the huddle, "I didn't come here just to fold at the first sign of adversity. I didn't come here to get pushed around." Dalton runs a double screen for MF who hits a three and pumps his fists as if to say, "Not now. Not today."

The third quarter ends with the scored tied at 45. As we enter the final quarter of play, littel Bressman looks up at the Collegiate Banners. He thinks of the Ivy League greats. All those last second games. All those players who flat-out gave it their all. He notices that David Duchovny was once an athletic star for the Dutchmen. He is not gonna go silently into the early evening.

The fourth quarter begins. Poly inbounds, and Versoza feeds Logan. 47-45. Big Bressman drives to the hoop and throws a no look bounce pass to Hederman for two. 47-47. Corrigan hits a three. Little Bressman hits a three. Corrigan hits another three. Big Bressman hits a three. 53-53, 5 minutes left. This game is insane!

Logan drives past Ewers. The refs whistle Ewers for a phantom block and Logan has the opportunity for three points, the old-fashioned way. He converts. little Bressman walks the ball up the court and fires basically from half-court. 53-53. Frischling is a bit upset with young Bressman's shot selection, but after all, half-court is not that far on the Collegiate hardwood. And Cheddar is a maniac, maniac that's for sure. But he's playing like he's never played before.

The game continues at a ridiculous pace. Williams hits. Hederman hits. Logan Hits. Ewers hits. Players are rising to the occasion. 57-57. Three minutes left.

Corrigan drives. And-one. 60-57. Dalton runs a pick and roll for Hederman. Big Bressman feeds him perfectly. 60-59.

Logan comes down and misses a three. Long outlet to MF who finishes. 61-60 Dalton. Can this really be happening? Is Dalton really going to pull this off?

Not just yet. Corrigan hits a shot from the elbow. 62-61 Poly. Down the court, little Bressman drives and draws a foul. He misses his first foul shot. His face drops. He looks lost on the stripe. He gathers himself and swishes the second one. 62-62. 1:23 left in the game.

Poly runs a stalled offense. As Green, Versoza and Corrigan swing the ball around the arc, the clock is ticking. 56 seconds. 43 seconds. 32 seconds. With 20 seconds left Versoza fakes the hand-off to Corrigan and drives to the hoop. Hederman comes out of nowhere and punches his shot against the wall. "AHHHHHHHH!" 14 seconds left. 62-62. Poly runs a double screen for Corrigan off the inbound, but Ewers hedges and he has no where to go. He finds Danny Green cutting to the hoop. Green takes one dribble and floats it over Ewers' outstretched arm. The ball bounces off the rim, backboard, rim and rolls in. 8 seconds left. Dalton pushes the ball up the court. Little Bressman passes to his older brother who passes to MF driving to the hoop. Keith blocks his shot, and the whistle sounds. Poly celebrates, but is it too soon? The ref signals two shots. Williams is called for a blocking foul.

So here we are. No time remains on the clock. Dalton trails by two. MF spins the ball twice, bends his knees and swishes the first shot. Little Bressman looks to the Dalton bench and sees a generation of players. There's Lapidus. Suttles. Soam Lall. Adam Haber. Jake Sokol. Mike Lavipour. Phineas Lambert. Matt Inra. Ron Harel. Jake Paulson. They're all there. They're holding hands. The water boys have grown up and are saying some sort of prayer to the Ivy League Gods. In the corner, Haykin, Landau and Alter embrace.

MF looks at the hoop. Looks down. He shoots. The ball floats through the air slower than the final pitch in Rookie of The Year. Older Bressman can't look. The ball hits the rim, hits the backboard....and rims out. Poly wins.

The tournament takes and it gives. Dalton huddles at center court. Everyone is in tears. They all know they've just been a part of something special. There is a moment of silence as they look at each other. They shake hands with Poly and quietly walk off the court. In the locker room, they thank each other...for the memories.

LEGEND!

2005-12-07T21:40:00.000-05:00

49 years ago today, you were born, Larry. From all of us over at blogspot.com, Happy Birthday Buddy!

The Ivy Prep League Championship: The Semi-Finals

2005-12-07T21:00:00.000-05:00

#1 Poly Prep vs. #4 Horace Mann
Poly Prep jumps out to an early 8-2 lead, but Sculco hits two threes and like that, the game is tied. After hitting the second triple, Sculco points to the Poly bench and the crowd goes crazy. The refs warn Sculco, but it's too late. The message has been sent: this is going to be a game. Poly regroups with an And-One college lay-up by Lish and enters the second with a 4 point lead.

Sculco hits a three to start the second and Roger Ramirez rips Versoza in the front court. The Lions suddenly take their first lead of the game. Logan hits a fadeaway turn-around in the corner and Poly regains a 1 point lead. Bulman gets onto the board for the first time, but Logan comes back immediately with another fadeaway. Visions of that fateful 1999 State finals creep into Barile's head. He knows he's gonna have to keep the ball away from Logan if he wants to win this game. Sculco misses a long three as the buzzer sounds indicating the end of the first half. Poly Prep: 35. Horace Mann:29

Barile is furious at half-time. He curses at Chess for playing weak. He leaves the locker room in a huff, and the somewhat dejected Lions sit silently. Sculco gives a speech that rivals Gene Hackman's in Hoosiers and when Horace Mann steps back onto the court, the Lions feel like they're no longer on 78th and amsterdam, but in a fieldhouse somewhere in French Lick, Indiana. The Lions come out in their signature defensive set: a trapping 1-3-1. Corrigan throws a cross-court oop to Keith Williams, but Chess steps in and takes out Lish's bony legs. Lish gets up ready to fight, but Versoza is there to calm him down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Barile holding back a smile. Two shots, the ball and a Danny Green lay up. Suddenly Poly is up 10. Sculco misses a contested three. Versoza hits a wide open one. Poly is up 13.

Horace Mann calls a time and manages to put together a short run to end the third. End of the third Quarter, Poly Prep 54. Horace Mann 45

Sculco gets it going again with a shot from the elbow, and suddenly Horace Mann is back. 54-48. Versoza turns it over and Ramirez drives and kicks to Rubin for a three. 54-51. Barile and Moose look at each other jokingly. Who knew? Time out Poly. All the Horace Mann mothers frantically call their mothers. Are the Lions going to do it?

3:15 left in the fourth. Poly leads 59-58.

In the huddle, Talleyrand draws up a double back screen for Logan who catches an alley-oop, hits the lay-up, and draws a foul on Chess, his fifth. Aaron Zises, who is sitting in the stands, rips off his designer suit and is inexplicably wearing his high school Lions' away jersey (Still fits, though judging from his facebook photo album, it's a little tighter than usual). He gives his teammates high fives and the Lions regather themselves. Barile surprises everyone by going into Bulman who delivers. 62-60, Poly. 1:45 left. Ray Corrigan calls a play, looks at Sculco who is already retreating into help and wets a three from the top of the key. 65-60. Sculco insists that he takes the ball up the court, but doesn't see Versoza sneaking in for the double team. Versoza steals the ball from Sculco, and pitches it ahead to Lish who throws it down and does some sort of high step down the court. Poly hits their free throws and wins, 71-65.

#2 Collegiate vs. #3 Dalton
Collegiate is definitely ready to play. Ballou dunks in lay-up lines as the edited version Pharoahe Monch's "Simon Says" blares over the gym's loud speakers. Because the song is edited, basically every other word is a bleep. Cheddar doesn't like this. There is an uneasy transition to Eiffel 65's "Blue Da Ba Dee" and like that the horn rings indicating that the game is about to begin.

Collegiate sends a message from the beginning. Ballou tips the ball straight to Sean Carey for a three and like that, it's on. For the first time in school history, the Dutchmen have more points than seconds elapsed. Cheddar Ted, a bit rattled by the cowbell--he once had a tough experience on a farm when he was 8 years old--throws the ball away right to Scott, who pushes the ball ahead to Ballou for a dunk. Collegiate fans are dumbfounded. They have never seen Ballou dunk outside of Warm-ups. Frischling signals for a time-out from the sidelines.

Heavy T yells at his players. "Forget about the crowd! Forget about this fictional tournament! It's just us. You five on the court and me. Stay together. Get the job done."

We walk back onto the court, thankful for such a great coach, and we are ready to go. As far as the Tigers are concerned, the game has finally begun and Collegiate has a 5 point headstart. Ewers imbounds to younger Bressman and the Tigers run their patented "Secondary Break." Cheddar swings to Hederman at the top of the key. Ballou plays him from the foul line, daring him to shoot the three. Fine. 5-3 Dutchmen.

Younger and Older Bressman both slap the floor on defense. The 7th and 8th grade Collegiate fans take composition books out of their navy Collegiate backpacks and begin taking notes. Older Bressman steals the ball from Scott, and scores a right-handed lay-up from the left side.

The first quarter ends tied at 14.

The second quarter belongs to Collegiate. Beal, held scoreless in the first, pulls down an offensive rebound from a Will Scott miss, and lays it in for two. On the other end he swats a Ewers' hook shot straight to Carey who takes it down court and passes back to Beal for a three. The crowd cheers as Dalton fans wonder how a shot so ugly can go in. Immediately Cheddar hits a three on the other end, and Dalton fans stop wondering...

Cheddar's three is the last shot the Dalton will hit in the second quarter. Collegiate leads by 12 as the Tigers and Dutchmen head to their respective locker rooms.

Dalton looks demoralized. Frischling waits outside the locker room. Is someone going to step up and lead the Tigers. Even though they played hard in the first half, they failed to execute.

All eyes go to Will Bressman. He clears his throat and looks around the room. First at Hederman, then at Ewers, then MF, then at his brother.

"We can beat this team. True they might have great shooters, but so do we. MF, when was the last time you went a full half of basketball without hitting a three? Teddy, you are quicker than Sean. Break him down and look inside or kick it to MF or me. We'll hit the shot. Big men, just keep on banging. I know Kassar's tough, Ryan, but hit him back. Box him out.

"Listen, I know this team is good. They're scary down low and they're dangerous from the outside. But for a second I want you to look around the locker room. Do you think there's any team in this league with more heart? Do you think Will Scott is thinking about hitting a three or diving for a ball right now over on the other side of this abnormally gigantic locker room? That's what I thought.

"Let's take it to them right now. In their house. In front of their fans. In their tournament. Let's execute on offense, and on defense let's get it done. Just look at your man and know that you want it more than he does. If we play harder and we want it more, we will win this game."

Frischling enters the locker room and begins to speak, but he looks at his players and knows they're ready to go (He also knows that there's not much time left before half time draws to a close, and he wants them to get a few shots up before the second half starts).

The second half is underway and older Bressman doesn't waste any time. He calls for a high screen from Ewers. Scott goes under it and Bressman wets a three. He pumps his fist like Jordan after his buzzer beater in game 1 of the 1997 finals vs. the Jazz. On the other end, older Bressman steals a cross court skip pass and pitches it ahead to Hederman who takes one dribble and hits a shot from the elbow. Carey shoots a three in Cheddar's face that is way off. Ewers rebounds and outlets to MF who pulls up for a three that rips through the net. The tigers have battled back and trail by four.

Collegiate time-out.

Vokel runs a play for Carey and Scott rolls his eyes. Beal takes Scott aside and reminds him that they're in it together. The play works and Carey is wide open for a three. Collegiate goes back up by 7. Hederman inbounds the ball quickly and Little Bressman pitches it to his older brother who drives to the hoop and draws the foul and finishes over Kassar. He misses the foul shot, but Ewers pulls down the rebound and hits a hook in the lane. Cheddar screams awkwardly and slaps the floor. He steals the ball from Carey, but in his excitement, he misses the lay-up pretty badly. Lucky for Cheddar, MF is there and puts it in for two. Carey looks scared for the first time all game.

The Dutchmen have no flow on offense. Scott forces a three with a hand in his face and misses. Cheddar gets the outlet and sprints down the court for a lay-up. He does not miss this time. Dalton takes their first lead of the game as the buzzer sounds indicating the end of the third quarter.

Beal starts the fourth with a drive and dish to Kassar and Collegiate retakes the lead. Collegiate shows a zone for the first time and you can hear Frischling from the bench yelling "Zwicker! Zwicker!" On most days, Cheddar would stop for a moment and think to himself, "what a weird name for a play," but not today. He takes the ball to the right side of the court and skips it to MF for a three. Swish.

On the other end Carey drives on little Bressman, but is out of control. Faherty steps in to take the charge, but the ref signals for a block. Little Bressman has to gather himself, because he is furious and doesn't want to be t'ed up like he was in the Finals of the Collegiate tournament his sophomore year. Luckilly, Dalton has the more mature, 2001-2002 Cheddar. He regains his composure as Carey misses the first free throw.

He hits the second. Dalton leads 58-57. Collegiate stays in the zone and the Bressman brothers pass the ball back and forth for a bit, giving their mother an opportunity to photograph the only siblings to take home MVP honors at the collegiate tournament in its history. Ballou, who has also stopped to pose for the photograph, is out of position. Little Bressman lobs a pass to Ewers who catches it in the air and lays it in for two.

Dalton leads 60-57 with only four minutes to go in the fourth. Collegiate runs a double screen for Scott, but Will Bressman gambles and goes over the screen. He steals the ball. Scott, frustrated by Carey's poor execution, races after Bressman with a scary look in his eyes. He tries to block the ball, but instead fouls him very hard. The crowd grows quiet as older Bressman lies on the ground. A Collegiate fan breaks the silence with a tastless jab and younger Bressman curses at him from the court.

Older Bressman gets up. He hits the foul shots. 62-57. The Tigers have their biggest lead of the game with 3 minutes and change remaining. Every player on Dalton slaps the floor. There is no way they are going to lose this game. Beal drives on the undersized MF and kicks it out to Carey who misses a three. Hederman pulls down his 9th rebound of the game and is immediately fouled. Collegiate is over the limit, and Hederman knocks down both foul shots. Next time down Scott drives and flails his arms wildly, but the refs are not fooled. Hederman is fouled again. Again, he hits both foul shots.

Dalton pulls off the first upset of the tournament 66-60. They will face Poly in the championship game.

The Ivy Prep League Championship: First Round

2005-12-05T17:18:00.000-05:00

Before the tournament begins, please note the following roster changes for Horace Mann and Collegiate.

Horace Mann Small Forward Ricky Ricardo was off shooting "I Love Lucy remakes" and could not avail himself to play in the tournament, so he's out. He will be replaced by Jason Rubin (1999-2000). Gordon Saft (I told you you'd make the blog sooner or later, jackass) writes that it would be a shame to exclude "Rubin, not because he was the most skilled, but because he was the heart of the team when there was none...He kept them together out there when Sculco was out to lunch and Ray was stoned." In this regard, Rubin, the Charles Barkley of all of Riverdale county (Manhattan Jaspers included) gets the nod. Will he make the difference for the Lions? Probably not, but he adds a valuable rebounding presence and several hundred pounds to the Horace Mann starting five, and that's something. Personally, I think the Lions need another Rubin and two sides of Cheddar to match Poly's healthy serving of intensity or Dalton's signature dish: heart.

Collegiate's Stephan Laputka will be replaced by Mike Kassar (1999-2000), the Charles Barkley of the Upper West Side. Kassar was good for 12 and 10 every night, and it turns out all Laputka was good for was a hemp necklace and a smile. Kassar's style of play is what made the Ivy League great. He simply played the way you were supposed to. He crashed the boards as hard as he could and always valued a win over personal success, and aside from unhealthy academic and social competition, that's what the Ivy League was all about. I would like to sincerely apologize to you Kassar for forgetting you the first time around. I wish you the best of luck in this tournament, and beyond.

Now that we have logistics out of the way, I give you the first round of the Ivy Prep League Championships...

#1 Poly Prep vs. #8 Riverdale--Riverdale is no match for Poly. The game is uncomfortable from the start. Poly jumps out to a double digit lead halfway through the first and doesn't look back. Poly wins 68-35.

#2 Collegiate vs. #7 Fieldston--Fieldston shocks the home team fans by jumping out to an early lead and holding onto it through the first half. Midway through the third, the Dutchmen seize momentum with a Will Scott three and an uncontested Michael Beal dunk. Wertz leads an early fourth quarter run with two mid-range jumpshots. Berland hits a three and pumps his fists, but it is not enough. Charles Miller has been neutralized and Zach Curtin is essentially silent. The Dutchmen escape slightly scathed, but battle tested. They will be ready for their second round match-up against the winner of Dalton-Trinity.

#3 Dalton vs. #6 Trinity--Anti-semitism runs rampant through the first quarter, and Byrnes stops the game to remind fans about the true value of friendly competition. The Tigers play each other close for the first quarter and a half, but after Cheddar Ted steals two consecutive errand David Bellar inbound passes for lay-ups just like he did at Trinity's Homecoming Game in 1999, it's over. Aside from the racial slurs and Cheddar’s defensive prowess, the game is relatively uneventful. Ewers and Hederman dominate down low, combining for 39 points and 17 rebounds. Dalton wins by 19.

#4 Horace Mann vs. #5 Hackley--The most hyped game of the first round disappoints fans on both sides. Hackley comes out about as flat as the chests of the 6th grade Chapin girls who have come to flirt with 7th and 8th grade Collegiate boys who couldn't care less as long as Sean Carey's shooting well from three-point land. Sculco drops 35 and Horace Mann wins by 25. McDermott actually throws a punch at Halas midway through the fourth and is benched for the remainder of the game.

A Few More Confessions....Why The Hell Not?

2005-12-03T16:46:00.000-05:00

1) I like Jason Mraz.

2) In my Harvard Yearbook bio, I list JV Basketball and The Nigerian Students Association as my only two activities on campus. My picture is also horrendous and will certainly depress my lineage down the road. ("That was daddy?! Oh...")

3) I haven't had a comfortable conversation with anyone other than Gritz in about 4 days.

The Ivy Preparatory League Championship: The Rosters

2005-12-02T19:10:00.000-05:00

With the Dalton Alumni Thanksgiving Basketball game just a few days past, I could not help but feel a bit nostalgic for the days of Dalton basketball. So I got to thinking. How could I possibly relive my glory days in a way that is not only pathetic, but also completely insane? I thought and thought: Like a jury, I deliberated.

"Here's an idea, Cheddar. Why don't you recreate what would happen in a hypothetical tournament of all the Ivy Prep League teams with their best players over the years you were in junior high and high school?"

So without further ado....

The Rosters for the First Annual Collegiate Ivy League Hall of Fame Tournament (1998-2003)

8th Seed--Riverdale--This team is the worst team in the Ivy League year after year. Forever limited by an obsolete system and frustrated talent, Riverdale never could quite put it together for more than just a game or two. For this reason they are without a doubt the 8th and last seed. They enter the tournament demoralized, but surprisingly well-conditioned. Their only chance to succeed lies in the almost negligibly low probability that Coach Clark's slowed down offense will work in Collegiate's matchbox of a gym.

Point Guard--Gui Stampur (1999-2000)--One of the wisest guards in the league, but in his heart, basketball would always play second fiddle to soccer. Respected the Riverdale system, but did the Riverdale system respect him in return?

Shooting Guard--Jarred Sims (1998-1999)--Riverdale Class of 2002, but gave his best to the Ivy League during his rookie season. People touted this kid as the next best thing that would tear up the Ivy League ever since the days of CATS, but a bad ankle injury and a sore shoulder never let him grow into the player he was destined to be. This cat had more promise than Butch Huskey when he was coming up, but never put it together.

Small Forward--Reggie Mays (2001-2002)--Coming back after temporarily quitting the team for his junior season (sources say he might have gone to the Mountain School like Abdel Reid, the biggest chach to play for Collegiate behind Stephan Laputka), Mays brings a jaded passion into Clark's draconian system. He is well undersized to play the three, but Clark makes it work by making the 1, 2 and 3 spot virtually interchangeable.

Power Forward--Micah Weiss(2001-2002)--Solid 4 man with a nice touch around the hoop. Arguably the nicest guy in the tournament, at least from a distance (I've never met him).

Center--Who Cares. This team has no chance of winning.

7th Seed--Fieldston--This team is one pure shooter away from the sixth seed, but lack of talent and a general penchant for injury relegates this "alternative" Ivy to its proper position. Armed with a fantastic wing man, a court-savvy point-guard, a renegade power forward and a Center that would make Legend proud, Fieldston definitely won't shy away from its higher seeded opponent, but the slipper just might not fit for the Eagles. Now if it were a pair of Birkenstocks...

Point Guard--Jamie Berland (1999-2000)--This guy didn't look good shooting the ball, nor could he really cross anyone up, but he played within himself and rarely turned the ball over. In that regard he was a solid team leader and an obvious choice for the 1 spot.

Shooting Guard--Kessler (1997-1998)--When I asked my brother what this Fieldstonian's first name was, he said "He just went by Kessler (Like Kramer)." I never knew this guy, but Legend (not Larry, you idiots) has it that he played off guard/small forward and was a great athlete, but in the end, he was a quarterback and not a basketball player. He was a great example of an ivy league athlete, not necessarily, however, an ivy league basketball player.

Small Forward--Charles Miller (1999-2000)--This dude should have listened to my boy Gritz, because he peaked way too early (This may or may not be because he broke his leg the summer before his junior year). When I was a sophomore, Miller was at the top of our class. He had a sick mid range shot, could finish over big men, could take a hit and still finish, and really knew how to run the floor. He could turn a long rebound into an uncontested lay-up in three seconds flat. Scoring most of his points in transition, this undersized 3 man was the consummate slasher.

Power Forward--Zach Kurtin (1998-99)--Kurtin was the star of the Fieldston team, but he never really embraced the team game. He had a ton of talent, but it just seemed like he never could get his team over the top. Maybe he shouldn't be blamed, but he never took Fieldston to the next level. His sister, however, went on to star at Horace Mann.

Center--Andrew Wertz (1998-1999)--Maybe I was too young or too stupid at the time (I recall being a little upset that my coach didn't let me play JV that night even though he had no intention of playing me in the Varsity game), but I don't think I appreciated the show this guy put on at Fieldston Senior Night '99. Plagued by injuries all year, Wertz hobbled onto the court with a broken ankle and made an otherwise vanilla Dalton-Fieldston game into an ESPN instant classic...he made it the best Senior Night the Ivy League has ever been known. Down by six in the fourth, Wertz walked onto the court like Willis Reed in Fieldston's all-too-perfect orange and blue tank to give his team a boost. Sadly, it wasn't enough, and we pulled off our most hotly contested win of my freshman year. However, it was enough to earn him a place in Fieldston's Hall of Fame.

Sixth Man--Jonathan Bernstein (1998-99)--Bernstein was an undersized power forward whose greatest attribute was love of the game. Weaned on the playground courts of Lincoln Towers, the guy had heart, but unfortunately since the main comp at the tower courts is the plus 65 crowd, never finely honed his skills.

Sixth Seed--Trinity--If I had it my way, this team would be the 8th seed of the tournament. Without a doubt, Trinity was my least favorite team in the Ivy League year in and year out. Marked by underacheivers and a hated coach, Trinity had a knack for keeping it close until the third quarter then completely folding. The fiercest part of this team was the beautiful tiger painted over the center circle of the school's underappreciated, freshly remodeled court. Still, the gym itself was not perfect. Its enormous windows pose a catch 22 that must torment architects 'round the world: good lighting, but terrible glares on the backboards. Perhaps practice was never as efficient as it could have been. Trinity looks like they will be facing Dalton in the first round. The lesser Tigers are in trouble, just like they are every homecoming and Warren Hines night. Hopefully, there won't be any racial slurs during this year's contest, or else Larry Byrnes might have to give everyone at Collegiate an unbelievably hypocritical speech, and we wouldn't want that.

Point Guard--Michael Murphy (2000-2001) Like Fieldston's Berland, Murphy is a solid point guard who can handle the ball while the Tigers run their poorly mapped-out plays. However, his penchant for frustration (Are we really running the flex...again?!) might mark Murphy's demise. A better jump-shot would have made Murphy a second-team All-League player, but he still brings a lot to the table.

Shooting Guard-Danny "Guez" Rodriguez (1998-1999)--This kid's been faking injuries the sixth grade. A classic case of a disapointing Trinity baller, Guez peaked his sophomore year. Nevertheless, I do not mean to be too harsh on my Town Timberwolf buddy. Every night Guez comes with a cool confidence, an "f you" attitude and a deadly mid-range shot. His non-chalance is a Trinity staple, but it is the chip on his shoulder that gives the Tigers a chance in the tournament.

Small Forward--David Beller (1998-1999)--Beller played his best ball as a junior. Actually, he peaked on the paved courts of the BLC and has been going downhill ever since he inched out Jake Paulson and Michael Johnson to take home mvp honors in DRIBBL's inaugural season. Still, as one of the best junior high ballers in the city, Beller had a long way to fall and to his credit he was still playing at a high level in '99. A nice inside-outside game with a softer touch than Guez makes him dangerous, but not too dangerous as long as a hand's in his face.

Power Forward--Will Gilespie (2000-2001)--This guy finally realized his potential his senior year. An Ivy League coach's dream come true, Gilespie had heart, could jump higher than Decathalon D Bags Dan or Dave, and could finish like Wayne Simien towards the end of his career as a Jayhawk. Gilespie is the unsung hero of this Tigers team. Can you say 'x' factor!?

Center--Olivier Busque (1998-1999)--First off, how the F do you spell this guy's surname? Second, we are all very proud of Olivier, who is nice enough to put juicing Rebecca Bonelli on hold for the night to play in this Ivy Invitational. I never really saw this guy play, but I heard he could really play offense. I can't imagine him messing up his carefully gelled hair on D though, which might be a problem, given that he will be up against a center, and his true position is the three spot. Even more so than Guez, Olivier is the quintessential Trinity player: Pretty good, but too arrogant for his own good. He might have a few hot moves along the way, but that's not what the Ivy preparatory league is all about. Just ask John Elefteratkis, another kid with a surname that's near impossible to spell.

5th Seed--Hackley--This team is the closest thing to Team Iceland in D2 that the Ivy League has ever known. Without a doubt the worst academic school in the Ivy League, Hackley was a real question mark. I'm not even sure the school had a mascot. Those long bus rides to Tarrytown left player after player wondering, "What's this school even doing in the Ivy League?" But every year, you made the trip to that fortress of a gym. Every year you wondered how they painted the players' names so high on the wall. Every year, you'd leave with several bruises, and every year you never really knew who was going to win before the game started. My senior year I actually got into a verbal sparring match with a fan that almost escalated into blows during half time, but that was then and this is now. Hackley has a dangerous combination of shooting and physical play, and they might just give the league a run for its money, but I wouldn't count on it.

Point Guard--Maurice Smith (1999-2000)--A quick little sparkplug of a player. This guy could drive, shoot pretty well from three and really d you up without fouling too much. Let's put it this way, he was definitely Hackley's "Black" sheep, if you catch my drift. Nice point guard, but when all is said and done, nothing to write home about.

Shooting Guard--Pat McDermott (1999-2000)--Just like Fieldston's Charles Miller, McDermott peaked as a sophomore. This might come as a surprise to some of you Collegiate or Horace Mann fans out there, but McDermott had the purest shot in the league until he bulked up for football and went totally insane. Sophomore McDermott was as deadly as Randolph Childress in ACC tournaments. He was the type of dbag who had the moxie to cross you up, make you fall down, and then politely invite you to get back up before draining a three in your dome. This hot-head could ask for no better audience than the rowdy Collegiate fans.

Small Forward--John Halas (2000-2001)--A little worse than McDermott from behind the arc, but still deadly. Good Handle, pretty weak defender, but with the potential to catch fire literally at any moment. The McDermott-Halas 1,2 punch was pretty f'ing deadly...but were they a little too deadly?! A few missed shots, and these two became rather contentious. These two guys got into more on the court fights than Kobe Bryant and various teammates.

Power Forward--Pabis (2000-2001)--Who the hell knows what this kid's first name was. All he could do was rebound and throw elbows, but he was effective because he was tough. This guy was Hackley Basketball.

Center--Anonymous (1998-2003)--Every year Hackley had a center who was more unethical than the last. Count on this guy fouling in the third, only to be replaced by a doppelganger who picks up five fouls of his own before the game draws to a close.

4th Seed--Horace Mann--If you talked to Ray Barile, he'd tell you he his Lions were the best coached team in the L every year since he began his tenure. But the just like the Lion in the Wizard of Oz, these Lions lacked the courage to win when it counted. Overwhelmed by an overbearing coach, the Lions looked to the sidelines instead of their souls when the game was up in the air. You can only run so many double screens for Peter Sculco, buddies. Horace Mann was never a team until my senior year of high school, when they lost all their supposed "superstars." The Lions were simply a collection of players who were out for themselves. A microcosm for the school, perhaps!?

Point Guard--Roger Ramirez (2002-2003)--A lot of you might be wondering, "what about Brett Maget!? The best point guard the Ivy League's ever seen." Well, sorry buddies, but from what I hear about this guy, he was at best a bootleg version of Elliot Prasse-Freeman. This guy seems to have been as Jason Kidd as it gets, and whatever anyone says, you just can't be a good point guard if you're a ball hog. Enter Roger Ramirez. He'd been doing it since freshman year and he never became selfish. He could handle the ball. He could run an offense. Ramirez was never flashy, but could hit open threes, play sick d(efense), and never turned the ball over. His claim to fame was just the way he played the game...

Shooting Guard--Peter Sculco (1999-2000)--This guy was one of the best villains of the Ivy League. He was a jerk, selfish, threw cheap shots on defense, but he could stroke (even if his form was about as pretty as Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky). I remember box-in-one'ing this piece of shit my sophomore year, and he couldn't stop running his mouth. I thought I d'ed him up, but he still dropped 23. Even writing this now irks me, but the fact of the matter is that he was a great player, whatever you'll say about him. Still, there was something about him that prevented him from attaining a mythical status around the league. Maybe it was that costly turnover against Poly Prep in the decisive moments of the Federation tournament finals. Maybe it was the insecurity that plagues any big shot in high school. Whatever it was, Sculco was no Larry Legend, even though he'd contend he was.

Small Forward--Ricky Ricardo (1998-1999)--I know his first name wasn't Ricky and to be honest his last name may not have been Ricardo; that's just what my coach called him. This guy was the biggest idiot around, but he could ball. He was Sean Elliot meets Tim Thomas meets Enrique Iglesias, whatever the hell that means.

Power Forward--Eli Chess (2000-2001)--This guy should have transferred to Hackley, because he was the most unethical jerk to ever play in the Ivy League. He holds the record for most technical fouls, fouls, flagrant fouls, cheap shots, ejections, for being the sickest d-bag, whatever you can think of. He once flagrant fouled Big Cheddar and Cheddar in the same game! If Sculco was Shreddar, Chess was BeBop and RockSteady combined...and a few of those ninjas. He was evil in its purest form. The Jack Parkman of the Ivy League.

Center--Ray Bulman (1999-2000)--Hey the Village called, it needs its idiot back!? This guy was about as out to lunch as it gets. He didn't have a favorite NBA team; he didn't even have a favorite player. Still, he could block shots, rebound and finish, and he was as tall as that African dude from the Air Up There. Played with heart, but lacked the killer instinct a Center must possess to be great.

3rd Seed--Dalton--Generous? Maybe, but Dalton was the only Ivy League team to win Federation besides Poly over the years. From day 1, Coach Heavy T Frischling gave us all shirts that said: "Hard. Smart. Unselfish." We laughed them off at first, but in due course, we came to understand that those three words are what a basketball team is all about. Dalton was never blessed with exceptional athleticism, but played better defense than most, could shoot the three like Clemson backcourts in the late nineties, and had a chip on their shoulders that screamed: "not only do we belong, but we are better than you." The Tigers boasted a more inspired bunch of Jews than Judah and the Macabees. They also had the best coach by far (arguably excepting Horace Mann's assistant Coach, "Moose").

Point Guard--Teddy Bressman (2001-2002)--This is bizarre because I am this person, but here goes. One of the most dangerous guards the Ivy League has ever seen, Bressman the younger could break presses single handedly just like he could break hearts with deep threes in the fourth. He shot close to 60% from three his senior season and finally broke away from the Khalid El-Amin mold with a few dropped pounds and a mid range jump shot that was more Rip Hamilton than the mother from Rookie of the Year. He was no slouch on defense either. He had about as much heart as Orangeman Lazarus Sims, and could D up anyone in the league. Anyone.

Shooting Guard--Will Bressman (1999-2000)--One of the wisest guards to ever play in the Ivy League, Brother Will rounds out the best back court in the Ivy league behind Poly Prep's. Armed with the best set shot the league has ever seen, and an uncanny ability to drive to the goal, Bressman the elder is about as shifty as it comes. His game is timeless and so is his legacy. A class act on and off the court, Bressman, when finally given the opportunity to excel his senior season, shocked the league. He gave it his all every game. His heart makes him one of the most dangerous players in the tournament. Believe me when I say this: No one can touch the Bressman backcourt. No one.

Small Forward--Mike Faherty (2000-2001)--When this guy transferred from Poly, I'm surprised he didn't change his name to Adam Banks, and I'm surprised we didn't change our team name to the Mighty Ducks. Either way, this guy brought Dalton to the next level. I don't think I ever told him this, but he is the reason Dalton won the State Championship our Junior Season. He practiced harder than anyone I've ever seen and worked himself into a fantastic player. His shot was about as automatic as it comes, and he drew more charges than Shane Battier at his finest (note: his charges were always ethical). Faherty was the consummate 3 man.

Power Forward--Patrick Hederman (2001-2002)--By his senior year, Hederman had developed an unbelievable 3 point shot and could Sicma about as well as the namesake himself. Did not always show emotion on the court, but just like David Banner and his front court counterpart, when he got mad he got angry. Hederman has been dominant since the days of Carmine. Few could match his senior year strength, and if you could, he'd just shoot over you.

Center--Ryan Ewers (2000-2001)--The biggest mystery to ever play at Dalton, Ewers came in touted as the best player the Ivy League would ever see. "He had 60 points in a middle school game?" "He was 6 feet tall at the age of 10?!" Ewers played his best ball as a junior. Armed with a weird looking shot, but a sweet touch, Ewers could either disappear or dominate. He comes into the tournament as the wild card of Dalton's starting five, but has always played well at Collegiate. Could be a non-entity or MVP.

2nd Seed--Collegiate--This team plays hard and smart, but like an active volcano, the magma of jealousy and selfishness bubbles just below the surface. These Dutchmen are the quintessential paper champs. They boast good shooters, strong big men, home court advantage, but without a true point guard, who will assume the role of playmaker? Only one ball, but a lot of shooters. If this team can coalesce, they can beat anyone. But can they coalesce?

Point Guard--Sean Carey (1999-2000)--From the 1 spot, Collegiate's shortcoming are immediaetly evident. Carey has a purer stroke from behind the arc than Hubert Davis, and we all know Hubert Davis could really "stroke it." But he's no point guard. In fact his only weakness, aside from being a horrible defender, is his shakey handle. However, for the Dutchmen to make a run at this fake championship, he must step up and run the offense.

Shooting Guard--Will Scott (2002-2003)--You might know him as the son of the New York Knicks' doctor, or the brother of that cute Horace Mann Lioness, Kelly, but most know him as the best shooter inch for inch in the history of the Ivy Prep League. Though he may not be as pure as Carey--he is rumored to have taken several thousand shots a day during his high school summers--he is automatic from 3 point range and basically automatic off the dribble. Though he is not the quickest guy around, he makes up for it on the defensive end with a very, very impressive "wingspan."

Small Foward--Michael Beal (2001-2002)--Agressive and tough, Beal adds a much needed athleticism to the Dutchmen! He can defend the 1-5 spots and crashes the offensive boards like I crashed a few nights ago after a long night spent awake carousing in Lamont Library. The ultimate 'x' factor, Beal's contribution doesn't always show up in the stat column...or does it?! He's been known to put up 20, 10, 5, and 5 without even blinking an eye, just like that person who has never blinked his entire life. The Kevin Garnett of the Ivy League? Perhaps, but does that mean a championship will elude the grasp of his abnormally large hands? Only time will tell...

Power Forward--Stephan Laputka (2000-2001)--Laputka! Luckilly the tournament is being held at Collegiate, so he can squeeze in meals at La Caridad in between games. Just as long as the refs don't make him take off his hemp necklace during game play, look for this guy to "come up big" (pause) on the defensive end and on the offensive glass.

Center--Ballou (1998-1999)--This dude is timeless. Even though he was most effective during lay-up lines when he would catch an alley-oop to finish off "taps," he looked great in the Collegiate jersey and could intimidate any little Jewish guard driving through the lane. Just like Collegiate, however, Balou looks good on paper, but something is missing.

Sixth Man--Chris Liu (That Night he dropped 37 against Dalton in 1999)--Just in case Carey can't handle the pressure, we're bringing Liu along to run the point and knock down a few shots.

1st Seed--Poly Prep--Poly Prep. Poly f'ing Prep. This team was scary. Coached by the enigmatic vagabond, Talleyrand McNally, Poly played tougher defense, faster offense, talked more shit, fouled more, had worse students, was the only Ivy located in Brooklyn, was inexplicably sponsored by Nike, had old-school 7up billboards in their gym and players that actually went on to play in college. They scheduled tough out of conference games, held summer invitationals, and walked around like they belonged in a better league. They could intimidate most and their tenacious full-court press will certainly menace any offense in Collegiate's small gym, but if you could get past their press, if you played like you belonged, you could beat them. They enter the collegiate tournament a clear favorite, but stranger things have happened...Is there such a thing as too much talent?

Point Guard--John Versoza (1998-1999)--People touted him as the best on the ball defender in the Ivy League, but I played against this guy when I was just a freshman, and let's just put it this way...the jury's out. Versoza was definitely a solid ball-handler, but on defense, he was as good as you let him be. If you hit him back when he fouled, he suddenly didn't seem so intimidating. After all, he was just a 5'8" Chinese dude. He'll look like Ron Artest in the first round, but don't expect him to push Patty McDermott or Roger Ramirez around anytime soon...

Shooting Guard--Ray Corrigan (2000-2001)--RC cola was as Brooklyn as it gets. He was tough as nails, played with a facial expression that made him look more like a bulldog than a human, and had no qualms about draining his ugly looking three point set shot in your face from several feet behind the line. In my opinion, he was Poly's best player over the years.

Small Foward--Danny Green (2001-2002)--The baby of the group, Danny Green played with a smile that could win over any opposing fan. Green always looked good with the ball, but seemed out of place in a slowed down offense. Green was the type of player who would have 24 points by having six in every quarter...if you know what I mean. On the other hand, he could score eight points before you could say "Polytechincal," and for the rest of the game be totally silent. Just in case you were wondering, there is no relation to A.C. or the dude from Clue.

Power Forward--Keith Williams (2000-2001)--The best player to ever walk through the hallowed corridors of Allen Stevenson, Keith, aka Lish, was really the Kevin Garnett of the Ivy League. Tall and Lanky with a great touch, Lish could literally do it all. However, I'll always remember him as the dude crying at center court with his hands on his head after we took them out in the finals of the State Championship his senior year. That's the thing about Poly. When the game was on the line, who would step up and take the last shot?

Center--Andre Logan (1999-2000)--I guess the answer is pretty clear: Logan was the man to step up and hit the shot. This guy set the stage in the state finals his junior season when he single-handedly kept his team in the game against a dominant Woodmere team with fadeaway threes and defensive stops, and followed through with a state championship the following season. People always said he just didn't try against the "lesser" teams of the Ivy League, but you know what? I'm not sure if I buy it. Larry Legend once said, "I can remember when I first came in the league, Artis Gillmore told me one time, he played for Chicago, he said 'if you expect to play a long time in this league, you better quit mopping up the floor,' and I thought well he’s crazy because that’s what basketball’s all about. Well getting a little bit older now, and feeling the bangs and the bumps and the bruises and all that, I can see where’s he coming from, but I can’t change my style of play. I gotta play like that every night." I'm not sure if a true baller can turn it on and off...

What will happen as these young ballers fight it out like they used to?! Stay tuned to find out...

Cheddar Enters Campus Politics

2005-11-30T12:45:00.001-05:00

I have started contributing to another blog, Teamzebra.org, but just until the Undergraduate Council Presidential Election comes to an end. So don't worry blog. And anyway, I'm not even giving them my "best stuff." I'm not doing that thing I do...

In other related news, I just stood outside the science center campaigning for Haddock-Riley for like an hour even though it was raining cats and blogs (HAHA). I really think I reached some voters who had been "on the fence." Psych, the only people I "reached" were elderly women and science grad students. And since this is an Undergraduate Council election, I'm pretty sure these constituents can't vote.

One change I was able to "effect" was ruining my beautiful genuine rabbit fur-hat. When someone asked me if the hat was meant to be in the rain, I was just like, "Fuck if I care!" But I do care. I like this hat a lot.

And so as I fought back tears in Natty Disasters, I wondered how I would spend the next hour of my life. Would I go to Tel-Aviv Lecture? I don't think so, Eretz Yisrablog. After really considering my options, I reached a decision.

I decided to blow off class and dry my hat using the automatic dryers in the fifth floor bathroom in Lamont (The very same bathroom I played coffee Beirut in a few nights ago). All in all, I must have pressed the button about 25 times...As I watched several students urinate, I began to wonder, "Have I gone insane?"

The People Have Spoken

2005-11-28T01:05:00.000-05:00

Behold Template Minima Blue!

On The Berklee School of Music

2005-11-28T00:53:00.000-05:00

I decided to take the Limoliner back to Boston today. It is unequivocally the best and most leisurely travel option if your business is between Boston and New York. Limoliner means luxury and fantastic amenities, including, but not limited to, leather seats, plasma televisions, wireless internet, and gourmet snacks (for more information check out limoliner.com). My only criticism is that it takes on average 5 hours, which sucks, especially when the internet connection is faulty.

So anyway, I was sitting behind two kids from Berklee. They seemed pretty fun, nice, friendly, funny, caring, original, and musically inclined. Basically they are everything I wish I were and kind of am to be honest. They enjoyed a lively debate for the first hour of the trip, but when the conversation ran dry, they opened up their respective apple powerbooks. One started watching Almost Famous. The other Garden State.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Berklee School of Music!

Still, Luctor et emergo! Just took a cab from Back Bay with an 80 year old woman, and a fellow Harvard student I met on the bus. Instead of dropping my stuff in my room, I walked to Dunkin' Donuts, picked up a French Crueller for Gritz and a tea for myself and booked it to Lamont.

When I saw Gritz out of the corner of my eye, I knew I was home...

2002-2004: A Retrospective....Before Cheddar was Cheddar

2005-11-26T00:27:00.000-05:00

Given that it's senior year, I decided it was time to look back on my time at Harvard. I think I've had a pretty good run--I'd give it an 8 out of 10--and I needed to get some of this down, at least for posterity's sake. This two-part retrospective is intended to give you, the reader, a bit of insight into the evolution of Cheddar Ted. Before we get started...I know this goes against the age-old maxim, "never peak too early," but my behavior may have been at its own maxim, so to speak, second semester freshman year, when everything was fresh and pure. With that in mind, let us begin.

2002-2003
•Wore an old school Milwaukee Brewers batting helmet in place of a hat in hopes that the trend might catch on. After a few days of people hitting me very hard on the top of the head, I hung up the helmet forever, but it's followed me through my time at Harvard, showing up in every room I've ever lived in...as a reminder.

•Competed in a one-on-one decathalon over a three day period. Lost 9-1, but put forth a solid effort, most notably in the "see who can hold your breath for longer under water" competition and the "see who can endure harder hits to the chest with a wiffle ball bat" tour-de-force. I also showed off my handsome legs in a very nice purple uniform (see picture in upper left corner).

•Decided to blow up an inflatable pool during Primal Scream, and smoked cigars in a hot tub in Harvard Yard with my friends (Gritz, even though we were friends back then, was not around for this).

•Almost failed out of school after entering Harvard on academic probation.

•Got fired from my job at the Alumni office for drinking an Extreme Gulp (54 oz) of Sierra Nevada Beer in the office....Later that night I hooked up with the fugliest girl I ever hooked up with!

•Challenged the Varsity Point Guard, EPF, to a one-on-one game at the MAC. I cursed at his roommate over his landline in Quincy, and taunted EPF for weeks before the match. In a best of three series, each game to 11, I lost 11-3, 11-1.

2003-2004
•Came to school so fat that my friends called me "Meat Loaf."

•Immediately cut my hair into a mullet.

•Performed an acoustic concert in "The Pit" (The place in Harvard Square where all the insane people hang out) with the Prince in which I claimed to have administered the shocker on Jesus Christ!?

•Prepared a powerpoint presentation trying to convice two of my best girl friends to compete in a KY Jelly Wrestling Match in an inflatable redbull pool in honor of my 1000th week on earth. Surprisingly, I was unsuccessful and no one came to my party.

•Led a campus wide petition to get Chick-Fil-A back at Harvard. As a result, I initiated correspondence with Truett Cathy, the Christian founder of Chick-Fil-A. Even though Chick-Fil-A never did find its way back into the Science Center Greenhouse, Catalina Cantina, its Mexican replacement, now serves popcorn chicken and fries, and you can thank me for that.

As a follow-up, I decided to apply for a summer internship at Chick-Fil-A's corporate headquarters in Atlanta. I was rejected.

•Stole Chris' low-to-the-ground-motor bike and drove around campus like a complete lunatic until I broke it by doing a sweet jump off a table in the Currier Dining Hall.

•Opened up for Busta Rhymes and came in second place in a campus wide freestyle rap battle. Dropped unbelievably inappropriate lines in front of several hundred students. "I'm gonna win this battle, I got a hunch/Then go home and give your girlfriend a Donkey Kong Punch." Turns out this rap battle would serve as the foundations for the nom de guerre we've all come to know and love: Cheddar Ted.

•Had a cameo in a play in Adams' Kronauer space and almost got into a fistfight with the director over a bit of "missed rehearsal." Fuck me?! Fuck you!

•Broke onto the scene with the Broviet Union at the Currier Talent Show.

•Wore a velour jump-suit for eight consecutive days.

•Had a run-in with the registrar that ended in summer school.

Cheddar Gets a Facelift

2005-11-25T23:40:00.000-05:00

I've given you a new look, blog. Welcome to template "Thisaway Blue!"

A Few Things I am Embarassed About

2005-11-24T15:35:00.000-05:00

Given that it's Thanksgiving, I decided it was time to come clean about a few things.

1) I spend way too much time looking at my ex-girlfriend's community webshots or photographs tagged on her facebook profile. This activity makes me highly depressed for a lot of reasons--reasons that I really cannot go into over this forum.

2) I was once very shy to ask a beautiful, 30 year old bartender out on a date after she had given me her e-mail address (TJ's, 2003!). I wrote her a very funny e-mail (it read a lot like a blog entry to be honest--though this was well before I began publicizing my life on the internet). With the mouse on the send button, I got cold feet. I was about to delete it, when all of a sudden my itunes started playing Why Not by Hillary Duff. It was this song that gave me the courage to ask said bartender out. She said no before nightfall.

3) I get so mad when I look at the clock on my laptop and it says 7:24 pm on Wednesday, December 31st, 1969.

4) I always joke about having the dragon (bad breath), but I am secretly nervous that I really do have it all the time.

5) I vacillate between feeling totally uncomfortable and a little "too comfortable."

6) I often touch little kids on the top of their heads, even if there is no relation.

Taking Back the Morning (Note: To Be Read while Listening to "Me and Julio Down By The School Yard" by Simon and Garfunkel)

2005-11-21T12:02:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning at 7:21 a.m. First, I took a healthy deuce. That may not mean much to you, but after the week I had, a solid deuce just means more than it used to. No unexpected colors, no scary noises, no painful sensations. Just a nice, fresh deuce.

Then I showered. I took a showerrr. The room was so steamy I could barely see when I stepped out. Since I didn't have a towel, I had to stand and let the water drip off of my naked body. This took several minutes, but in the erstwhile I applied some axe (time for a new stick of Mitchum!), inserted my daily disposable contact lenses, brushed my teeth for a while, then rinsed for 30 seconds with Listerine. I then put together a fantastic outfit, made possible by Gritz's long lost Le Tigre sweater polo, ;), and my signature corduroy sportscoat.

After that I booked it to Starbucks for a large coffee (Don't worry D&D, you're still in my heart). Side-stepping through Harvard Yard, dancing to DJ shuffle on my iPod, I knew I had seized the morning.

Was I happy to see the Science Center, or did I have a fresh banana from Annenberg in my pocket!? I think you know the answer to that one, blog...

Both

Wow, that's some stale cheddar

2005-11-18T14:59:00.000-05:00

As I was walking to hand in this week's Writing the First Person essay, I must have been brandishing my paper about like a lunatic because someone stopped me and asked me what I was carrying.

"Oh this? It's this book I'm writing about how to be the perfect intern. I'm pretty sure it's gonna be my cash camel."

This book may or may not be good, but hopefully it will in fact be my cash camel.

In other news, I just smuggled an open can of Canada Dry Ginger Ale into the Language Resource Center by carefully resting it in the left inner breast pocket of my corduroy sportscoat as I walked by the desk. I'm fairly certain this is the end for me.