Weekly Selects #45

Follow-up from last week's Weekly Selects: A few of you expressed confusion over Zelda's gender. Isn't Zelda the princess, and Link the hero? I was never into the video games that much. Now that you've all expressed doubts, I'm wondering if Zelda is some gender-confused hermaphrodite. VIDEO GAME NERDS: BRING ME INFORMATION

Okay. Let's do this:

--Via Google Reader from Case:

Case called my bluff that I wouldn't post about tattoos. I had to post it. I just had to. But really, I have nothing to say that hasn't already been said...

--Via Google Reader, if you happen to have 10 min to watch some clips from a movie that I can only describe as some sort of hybrid between The Matrix, Quentin Tarantino, and an acid trip gone terribly, terribly wrong.

--Via GChat from White Josh:

In case you aren't adept at deciphering infrared imaging, this is a picture of a bunch of ordinary guys. With a catapult. Launching marijuana across the US-Mexican border. (There is no audio with the video at the link, but it is still worth watching). It's ingenious, really, because it saves on the extra costs of having a drug mule physically transport the drugs across the border. I hope those cost savings are passed on to the customer... or, at the very least, I hope the dealers launch a couple complimentary bags of pork rinds, Doritos, and other such snacks to their clientele. It's just good business.

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Weekly Selects #38

I was asked to fill-in for a dodgeball game last night -- my first organized one -- which was surprisingly fun. My two personal memorable takeaways: (1) The dude on the other team who was pointing people off the court that he had hit, and who also gave me the "come and get some" wave of his hand when it was just me and him left; (2) The Asian-dominated team we were playing thought I was on their team. Oh, good times. And yes, my arm is sore.

Your videos, and then your Highlights:

Videos:
-An Ian McKellen impersonator doing the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air intro
-NASA How to Poop in Space Tutorial (a little long, but no wonder they cut the shuttle program)
-Watch me run 300 yards of my marathon (not really all that exciting, but you can hear Casey narrate and Shigeko laugh merrily. Thanks, Jay!) 
-Stupidest commercial EVER (and the song is stuck in my head. I hate whoever made this commercial.)

-Via Email from Casey, who sent a strange article about people in Japan (sigh) whose job is to break-up couples instead of matching them up:

Have an ex that won’t go away?  If you live in Japan, you can call on a wakaresase-ya or "splitter-upper": "The function of the wakaresase-ya is the direct opposite of a dating agency: with great ingenuity, and the right fee, they will prise apart human relationships."  For example, these professionals will trick a spouse or undesirable future daughter-in-law into committing an affair, and provide photographic evidence of the indiscretion. "We produce a drama at the request of our clients," says Osamu Tomiya, a splitter-upper.

I apologize on behalf of Japan.

As sad as this is, and as much as I think that reality TV is ruining television society, these type of guys has the makings of a successful reality show. Some sort of cross between "Rock of Love," "Dog: The Bounty Hunter," and "Survivor." It has manipulation, drama, scandal, and tumultuous relationships -- all key factors in melting American brains into a soupy mass of stupid-reality-show-addicted gruel.*

*(In the interests of full disclosure, I was flipping through channels a couple months back and came across "Jersey Shore"...and was so mesmerized by the Guido World and it's complete deviation from everything I've known to be normal, that I watched for three hours. I just couldn't turn away)

-Via GChat from JMill:

we should go on a high dining experience in NYC

Marijuana-inspired food -- not meaning "special brownies" or anything like that, but meaning food whose creation was inspired whilst under the influence.

Something tells me that the key ingredients to most of these recipes will be Funyuns, Doritos, and pork rinds. Maybe some Oreos.

-Via Email from White Josh:

After seeing this picture, I can't tell what the Japanese would be most concerned about.  The fact that the base is staying in Okinawa, or what this guy wears out in public!  wow

Oh, Prime Minister Hatoyama.

I was more concerned about Hatoyama and his party taking power last year from the Liberal Democratic Party -- a political party that was pretty much in power for 50+ years straight -- and whether his administration would have the cajones to battle entrenched bureaucrats, endemic and pervasive governmental corruption, and Japan's aging society.

But now I'm more concerned about his fashion sense.

-Via Email from Banker, who just got in to a prestigious university in Europe for a postgrad program. In celebration, Josh M got him a gag gift of an Indian dreamcatcher, which Banker mocked. This email came in a couple of weeks later with attachment:

this thing must have brought me luck, as I hung it up last night, and this morning I wake to have an email from *university name* saying that one who was awarded the scholarship declined, and since I was the runner up, guess who gets it?!

(see below)

so thank you for the dream catcher, as it certainly caught something. 

(I'll never make fun of these again)

Lesson: NEVER QUESTION THE POWER OF THE DREAMCATCHER.

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Weekly Selects #26

-Via TXT from JMill:

Text twist for you

Like any egotist, I enjoy people dedicating things to me just as much as the next guy, but now I'm just insulted. And it's not really because JMill called me an ass -- it's more the fact that JMill typed the word, thought of me, took the picture of the screen with her cell phone, and bothered to send it to me.

-Via Google Reader Share from a few friends:



A bunch of costumed Japanese monster-villains dancing to the 'Thriller' music video. Sounds like a Power Ranger's worst nightmare to me. I don't think the Filipino prisoners have anything on these guys.

-Via Blog comment from Anonymous, who is back leaving crazy comments:

Ethical concerns aside... I just hope that as technology further innovates, the possibility of uploading our brains onto a digital medium becomes a true reality. It's a fantasy that I daydream about every once in a while.

-On another note, I asked for suggestions on Facebook on what to do with my tax rebate this year and received suggestions for three types of drugs, hair extensions, a professional perm, and my personal favorite: breast implants. Glad I can always count on you guys for constructive comments.

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Blackberry and The Beatles

I'm up late watching another bowl game that is of no interest to me -- it's really just a final binge of football watching before I go into withdrawals starting in February.

The unfortunate part of watching this game right now is that my demographic (football fan staying up until 2am) seems to be the target of this annoying Blackberry ad, which keeps running over and over again:



These have to be some of the most redundant lyrics ever. Really. They are mind-numbingly stupid:

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.

Rough translation of the lyrics: If you can do X, X is not impossible to do. PROFOUND. And then the text at the end of the commercial also reminds us to "Do what you love -- Love what you do." Thanks, Blackberry! The wisdom you have chosen to impart to us is invaluable. We had almost forgotten that possible things are NOT impossible, and that we should do things that we like to do. Unbelievable.

I did some further research and the song was originally written by the Beatles. Coincidentally, I just got back from a Beatles Rock Band Party with friends and we talked about how the Beatles were not lyrical savants. So, while acid and LSD may have taken the Beatles to crazy places -- songs called "I Am the Walrus" and singing about yellow submarines, to name a few examples -- they also made them sound like idiots most of the time.

At least Blackberry and the Beatles provided me with something to occupy my time while watching South Florida play Northern Illinois. Snore. Off to bed.

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Ham, Illegal Drugs, and Iraqi Diseases

You might be wondering what those three have in common, and I hope nobody was thinking "Christmas dinner with the family."

Yesterday was a strange day. Someone brought in a whole ham left over from a family dinner party and left it in the kitchenette next to my cubicle. My coworkers converged like vultures on a dead carcass (I suppose that technically, it was a carcass -- albeit a honey-baked one). Now, I would be a hypocrite to call it strange to capitalize on free food -- when people bring in jelly-filled donuts I'm the one at the front knocking old women out of the way. The strange thing was watching coworker after coworker leave the kitchenette with a handful of ham wrapped in a paper towel -- apparently there was a shortage of plates.

Next, there was the office-wide email with directions for the holiday gift exchange. It listed the prohibited items, two of which were "illegal drugs" and "knives (with blades exceeding 2 1/2 inches in length)." You know what this means, right? This means that SOMEONE HAS TRIED TO DO THIS BEFORE. "Man, Scott has been such a good mentor to me this past year. I'm thinking he would enjoy a fruit basket and some angel dust."

Finally, Ben called to inquire about my recent illness and the sequence of my symptoms. When did I have a sore throat? How long did that last? Did I have a fever at any point? It was like an episode of House, only Ben didn't insult me, and I didn't have a gruesome symptom like blood gushing out my eyes -- instead, he told me that he had been sick with similar symptoms, and then the surpriser: "[Based on the unique symptoms] I think we have an Iraqi bug of some sort." Ben's an MD, so I'm guessing I have been infected with some sort of Middle Eastern virus.

Wait -- what?

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6 Is Basically 26.2, Right?

As some of you know, I talked about training for a marathon.

Well, I am now officially committed to the 14 Nov 2009 Run the River Marathon from Folsom, CA to Sacramento, CA. I heard that they give the runners a 50-meter headstart, then release the prisoners from Folsom Prison to chase after us -- like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Added incentive to run faster than we normally would, I suppose.

I acquired a coach about two weeks ago -- he's my sister's coach and was kind enough to take me on after I applied for admission. (Actually, between you and me, I'm convinced affirmative action played a role in the decision...with my sister being only half-Asian, and Coach undoubtedly needing to fill his quota of at least one full-Asian runner, I was allowed in)

Anyway, I logged my longest run to date yesterday: 6 miles. I know. This is chump change to you seasoned distance runners, but it was raining and freezing out there. And those running/training montages from the Rocky movies? Not nearly as cool or inspiring when you're the one doing it.

Anyway, here's the running diary from yesterday's run:
Mile 0.02 - I hate this. I want to quit.
Mile 1 - Still hate this. Want to quit.
Mile 1.5 - Need to start brainstorming possible injuries that justify quitting.
Mile 2.5 - Thank you, thank you, thank you for iPods.
Mile 5 - Focus. All. Effort. On. Breathing.
Mile 6 - Just chant it. Tylenol. Advil. Motrin. Tylenol. Advil. Motrin.
Cooldown - There was a 30 minute span of time where I don't remember anything, so I'm assuming I blacked out.

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Running Concert Diary

Went to the Beastie Boys concert about three weeks ago. Time to check a life goal off of the list. I should probably set some real ones now.

Some famous writers have a "mailbag" of some sort, where they answer question from readers. I don't have one of these. I did, however, get a text question regarding the concert from a reader and will open with that:
Q: Well, did it change your body and soul?
JD: Yes, it did. I will attribute part of it to seeing the Beastie Boys live, but I will pin a larger part of my nirvanic experience on the contact high I got from the kids around me toking weed.

That mailbag was exhausting. While I'm at it ("it" = copying better writers), I will follow Bill Simmons' running diary format and take you through the "Get Out and Vote" concert I went to on 28 Oct.

6:59 -- Dave and I are sitting in the bleachers, waiting for the 7:00 start time; Dave is mid-sentence when Beastie Boys Mike D and MCA come out to MC. I'm halfway to the stage taking pictures with my camera before Dave realizes I'm gone.

7:00 -- Mike D and MCA introduce the opening singer, Santogold, with the obligatory "we're on the same tour, so we have to say she's super-talented, even though we've never listened to her music ourselves." Out walks a woman with two backup singers dressed in bug-eye sunglasses and shiny gold suits, like you would see alien invaders wear in old crappy sci-fi movies. Dave leans over to me and asks how much I want to bet that the backup singers are Santogold's two best friends from high school riding the gravy train. I chuckle my agreement.

But wait: Doesn't having a "gravy train" imply you've attained a level of success?

This is all a means to an end, I tell myself.

7:17 -- Santogold is still on stage and announces her next song. What is she still doing here? Weren't we courteous in tolerating her three songs? She is quickly becoming the Jar Jar Binks of this concert -- the annoying, unwanted sidekick whose presence the audience grows to hate.

7 freakin' 40 -- The excruciatingly long set -- 40 minutes -- ends to token applause containing undercurrents of resentment that Santogold took so much time.

Means to an end.

7:55 -- Norah Jones calms my nerves with her performance. I drift off to sleep and dream that her voice and Sarah Mclachlan's fight each other for my affection.

8:03 -- Norah spouts some politically-charged comments, and I am surprisingly OK with it. Hell, with that voice, she could advocate crystal meth usage, Tom Cruise for President, and nuclear war, and I'd agree with everything she had to say.

8:25 -- Jack Johnson walks on stage to huge applause. Also, this is apparently the universal cue for everyone to light up their joints. I didn't get the memo.

Which reminds me of one of my friends from high school who hot-boxed his cat once. Afterwards, the cat careened its way back to his parents' room. Five minutes later, his parents called him into their room: "Tim!" "Yeah?" "Why does the cat reak of dope?" "...because we hot-boxed him."

8:48 -- I notice that the guy in front of me, who is about the same height but weighs about 230lb, has been completely motionless with his hands in his pockets since Jack Johnson has started playing. I've seen roadkill move more than this guy. I'll be checking in with him later.

9:05 -- Sheryl Crow walks on-stage in a tightly tied black trenchcoat that screams either "I am completely naked under here" or "I am selling cheap watches out of this thing." She looks seriously haggard, as if she hasn't slept or eaten since she and Lance Armstrong broke up. Rough year for Ms. Crow.

9:28 -- I consider yelling out "home-wrecker!" in between songs but decide not to. Sheryl decides to spout political drivel at us, using cliched phrases like "you can make a difference! I know you can!" Spare me.

Besides blinking, Roadkill remains unmoved.

9:42 -- The percentage of Sheryl's set has shifted to 85% political rant, 15% music. I could see her pursuing a political career filled with pointless rhetoric and little action.

Means to an end...

10:06 -- Still have this sneaking suspicion that in between some songs, Sheryl will spout off some more political drivel and then tag on, almost as an aside: "Hah... funny thing... a portion of the ticket proceeds will actually go to my next botox treatment since I have missed my last two. Anyway, the next song is 'Every Day is a Winding Road.' Sing along if you know the words!"

10:10 -- I've been here for 3+ hours. What did I come here for? I can't remember anymore. Dave reminds me that I came to see the Beastie Boys.

10:15-11:15 -- Beasties enter to "Sure Shot," bring the house down, and I spend the next hour screaming every word to every song.

Roadkill remains unchanged the entire time. Unbelievable.

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Pre-Concert Checklist

I knew that to get the most out of my Beasties' concert experience and to guard against unforeseen contingencies, I needed to plan ahead. I made a pre-concert checklist; just to make sure I didn't miss anything. By 27 Oct, I must:

--As I am scheduled to work 28 Oct, place threatening and anonymous middle-of-the-night phone calls to co-workers until someone swaps shifts with me... check. This was the first attempt in my life at being intimidating, but I made sure my phone call verbiage contained phrases like "bottom of the river," "bust your head open," "broken kneecaps," and "say 'hi' to your mother for me." It worked. I got the day off.

--Go to a Halloween party donning large sunglasses, a 'fro wig, and bright orange jumpsuit a la Beasties 1998 tour, and bring the house down while rapping "So Whatcha' Want" on Rock Band II... check.

The megalomania that "Rock Band" brings
is unprecedented.

--Print Google Maps directions... check. I know many of you are saying: "Josh, you just bought a nice GPS;" and I'm saying: "Yeah, but what if China decides to shoot down some satellites that day? I'm not risking it."

--Find the correct person to take my second ticket... check. This was extremely important. It would be like picking the godfather for my firstborn child, minus the fact that I'm not Catholic. Regardless, I considered having people submit a 250-word essay outlining the reasons they should attend the concert with me...

...then I realized I'm ridiculous.

--Obtain forged prescription from a doctor for anti-anxiety pills and start treatment during the week preceding the 28th... still working on it.

So I guess the list remains a work in progress.

Now if only I could apply this kind of thorough preparation to things that matter, like, say, the food storage that my Church leaders have advocated for so long...

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My Introduction to the Competitive Eating World

"I swear I've seen a lot of stuff in my life, but that... was... awesome."

Yes, the sheer awesomeness of what I witnessed firsthand this 4th of July has reduced me to incoherence of the I'm-quoting-Tommy Boy-in-order-to-express-myself variety. Sad day.

Anyway, some friends and I went to NYC for the 4th of July weekend. I told them that if I was going to make the trek, my list of demands needed to be taken care of: (1) Go to Coney Island to cheer my boy Takeru Kobayashi on his quest to reclaim the championship at the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, and (2) Track down the Beastie Boys' recording studio and get my picture taken in front of the building. That was it. They accepted.

While the latter of the demands went sadly unfulfilled, we did get down to Coney Island* for the contest, and the drama and hype surrounding the competition made watching it that much more exciting.

*(For more of my thoughts on the unbelievably creepy, Stephen King-inspired alternate universe that is Coney Island, I refer you to chapter 2 of my future book, "8 Things That Creep Me Out to No End"; it's sandwiched between chapter 1, "Drunken Clowns," and chapter 3, "Sober Clowns")

By way of context: Kobayashi -- considered by many (me) to be the Roger Bannister of competitive eating -- revolutionized the 12-minute competition in 2001 by eating 50 hot dogs, obliterating the previous year's winning number of 25. He continued his dominance until last year. In 2007, however, Kobayashi was suffering from jaw arthritis -- no surprise, really... the guy's gotta have the jaws of a 95-year old at this point -- and was dethroned by Joey "Jaws" Chestnut from San Jose.

Kobayashi was going to be back to compete in 2008, but could he reclaim his title from Chestnut? This, and many, many, many other questions (ie "What's the atmosphere in the locker room like a few hours before a competition?") about the Competitive Eating World plagued me as I rode the subway to Coney Island.

The windup to this contest was like rolling the plots of several movies into a dramatic whole: Cinderella Man (inspirational comeback); Rocky IV (inspirational underdog movie, minus the element of Kobayashi's best friend being killed by a Russian); Karate Kid (the Japanese element), and Supersize Me (for the grotesque amount of processed food to be eaten). Hollywood doesn't write better scripts than this. But, amidst all of the excitement, my dual identity had come back to haunt me: Do I cheer for the Japanese comeback kid battling against an injury, or for the American on Independence Day?

After delays and stalling from the perverted MC, the competition began. Here's how my inner monologue / vocal shouting unfolded during the next 10 minutes:

*****
Should I cheer for Kobayashi? Or is some drunk New Yorker gonna kick the crap out of me on the 4th of July for cheering for a foreigner? Wait, I see a Japanese flag waving. OK. Kobayashi it is.

"GO KOBAYASHI!"

Who handed out these stupid thundersticks? I can't see a damn thing. Hey, Rat-Tail! Move you and your nasty hair out of my line of sight. Wow, the crowd is really into this. OK. The first minute is up. Wait, did the announcer just say that Chestnut ate 10 hot dogs in the first minute? I think I'm going to have a sympathetic throw-up.

"C'MON, KOBAYASHI!"

Oh great. Kobayashi's fallen to third. It's over. It's so over. Why did I put my faith in this guy? After all I've invested in him, he totally betrays my trust and lets me down.

Wait. Wait. Kobayashi looks like he's gaining. He's back in second now... Now he's catching up to Chestnut. Oh, man. What a surge! He's tied! I still hate thundersticks.

"GO KOBAYASHI! GO!"

Kobayashi has taken the lead! Oh man, I haven't been this amped since BYU beat Utah in football last year. Now he's putting space between himself and Chestnut. I'm visibly shaking. This is amazing! He's eating like... like... I have no proper sports analogy for this...

"GO SEABISCUI--!! こばちゃん！がんばれ--"

WTF?!? I'm so excited I'm getting famous movie-horses mixed up with Kobayashi, and Japanese with English. Whatever. Kobayashi is taking a three hot-dog lead into the final minute! There's no way Chestnut is gaining three dogs on him in the last minute. It's impossible...The buzzer rings. And what?!? Chestnut has shoved his face full of everything he possibly could. They're calling it a tie if he swallows everything... And he does.

*****
The "dog-off" overtime was the first in the competition's storied history, and Chestnut ended up winning (the first to eat five more hot dogs -- talk about worst OT ever for competitors). It was appalling, gripping, and poignant all at once; more than I could have dreamed.

As I rode the subway back into Manhattan, more questions about Competitive Eating came to me...

>How many years did these people just shave off of their lives?
>Would there be scandals? I mean, would we find Kobayashi testifying before Congress in broken Engrish about Chestnut taking stomach-expanding drugs?
>How many hours do the competitors spend on the toilet afterward? (Scratch that; I don't want to know)
>Is Under Armour going to end up sponsoring these guys?
>Would referees be accused of "throwing" the competition?
>Do these guys have groupies?



...and so very many more...

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Life Experiences to Music

I've been thinking about quitting my job and chasing my dreams; of going into the studio and pounding out that rap album that I've always had bouncin around in my head...

...trading my inheritance for a bowl of porridge? Not quite. But close.

But honestly, if anyone has listened to a rap album all the way through, characterizing it as 'formulaic' or 'unoriginal' is a Battlefield Earth understatement (with incredibly rare exception). What do rappers do on rap albums, you ask? Subject matter is usually confined to these or similar life experiences:

1. Drugs, combined with expensive alcohol and/or malt liquor;
   
2. The 'heat' [guns] they 'pack' [carry on their person];
3. Women and how easy it is to find them;
4. How many people from rival gangs they've shot/times they've been shot by rival gangs;
5. The cars they own;
6. Protecting turf;
7. Dislike for and willingness to stand up to cops;
   
8. Any combination of the above can make for a decent track
   

Simple, right? I mean, all I have to do is follow this equation, maybe chant my own name a few times, come up with a catch phrase or two, and I'm set for life. That's why I think I got this down pat.

Problem is, I think I lack the requisite life experiences to make a rap album.

I suppose the only thing I can do is take the most comparable life experiences that I have and throw them into the mix. Here are the closest personal parallels I could come up with for the above outline:

1. Besides an affinity for certain smells that may or may not cause a bit of a "high," the closest I'm going to get is a restrained like for Nyquil.
   
2. One time at the BB gun range at Cub Scout camp, I shot and destroyed the clothespin that was holding up my paper target -- three times! One of the counselors called me "dangerous" and "out of control."
3. At my first boy-girl birthday party in 1st grade, one of the girls spent the whole time chasing and trying to kiss me. She was too slow to catch yours truly.
   
4. Rye and I played paintball against some 10 year olds once. I think it's fair to say that we lit those punks up.
   
5. I drive a '97 Honda Civic. It has a CD player and two cupholders; no modifications.
6. When I get home from work and someone is parked in the spot closest to my door, I get semi-annoyed, but don't do anything about it.
   
7. I got my first traffic ticket the other day. I promptly did exactly what the officer told me to and threw in a lot of "Yes, sir" 's as a show of good faith.
   

Maybe I'll hold off on booking studio time and space.

For now.

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Underground Addictions

Another confession.

Everyone has different smells that they enjoy. Most people like flowers or the ocean or new car or some other smell that is easily marketable in a Febreeze can.

For me, it boils down to sharpie markers and gasoline. Something about stepping out of the car at a gas station and having that smell hit my olfactories is -- how does that old cliche go? Like a warm blanket? That's not right, but I can't think of anything better.

Am I addicted? Well, you won't see me buying cases of extra-potent sharpies out of some guy's trunk in a 7-Eleven parking lot at 3AM. And you probably won't find me underneath an overpass huddled over a bucket of gasoline. Gas prices are so high now, drugs are probably cheaper anyway.

I'm not much for conspiracy theories, but this tendency to sniff markers after unscrewing the cap isn't my fault. This was ingrained in me since my preschool days and I am not accountable... I blame Sanford.

"Who?"

You know, the company that decided to produce those scented colored markers that you used for coloring stuff when you were little. They teach you to get strung out before you can string simple sentences together! This preempts marijuana as the "gateway drug" by YEARS.

I seem to remember reading in one of my psychology classes that the best way to learn about something is to engage as many of the senses as possible; not just the sight and sound that are usually accompanied with school, but, if possible, to engage smell, touch, and taste as well. I suppose that this was Sanford's guise for this product. But do I really need to be reminded of what black licorice smells like when I'm struggling to just color within the lines? Honestly.

And how the hell is turquoise a representative color for mango?? (I looked up their product listing)

So thanks, Sanford. I may have a solid idea for what cherry smells like, but now I'm trapped in a cage of your making.

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America's Coffee Addiction

So I realize that this entry would have been timely about 10 years ago to this day, but I have to write about when I was ordering breakfast with Casey and Jenna in downtown DC after our White House Tour (separate story for another day -- let's just say a guard was ready and willing to beat yours truly with a black baton for having "slanty eyes" and Casey got reprimanded for sitting in a chair).

Anyhow, we walk into a place called Cosi to grab some breakfast bagels. I ordered my sandwich and they asked me what I wanted to drink. The dialogue went (roughly) as follows:

"Would you like something to drink with that?"
"Yes. Milk, please."
"Coffee?"
"No. Milk, please."
"For your coffee?"
"No. Just a normal cup of milk."

Now I understand that miscommunications take place. I also know that I have the tendency to mumble sometimes. But honestly.

I think those of us from this generation saw earlier indicators of America's need for a coffee fix in our classmates in high school, and most of us noticed that at some point the number of Starbucks in our hometowns outnumbered the number of people. But who knew what it would grow into?

America is so in need of coffee in the morning...well, let's try this one on for size: How many times have you heard a coworker say: "I haven't had my coffee this morning..." as an excuse for poor performance, and then had the supervisor nod their sympathetic understanding and add: "Hey, could you brew some up? I need to get a start on the day, too." Addiction is an understatement. If you can't function without it, and going 24 hours without it is the cause of crippling headaches, that's called withdrawal, a symptom of addiction.

Or when you can't order something as simple as milk at a cafe because the employees' vernacular is limited to "coffee", that might be a symptom as well.

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