England

People here speak English with this strange accent. I'm not sure how they understand each other.

Everything in London is amazingly expensive. This is true for two reasons. First, exchange rates suck. A pound is worth slightly less than $2, so 1:2 is a fairly good approximation. Second, everything is smaller. Orange juice is sold in one liter containers (a little more than a quart). However, one liter costs as much as two quarts in the US! Where the hell is my Big Gulp?

I've been somewhat dissatisfied with the Wall Street Journal lately because some of their journalists are, to put it bluntly, just stupid. One of my friends suggested the Financial Times, London's competing publication. To which I say: Buy American. Aside from the fact that it costs $2, the Financial Times has page numbers (1-40). It's a newspaper, not a book. Give it sections with letters (A1, B1, etc.). Second, what is the use of that huge photograph taking up a quarter of the front page? It may attract people to buy the paper but I'm looking for news, not pretty pictures. Third, they may have just had a bad day but black on black is an awful way to present information. Finally, insightful commentary is somewhat lacking. Reading "Bush's love of India will outlast him" and "Casino capitalism: Governments should not bet the economy on gambling" were almost as painful as watching Tucker Carlson, but not quite, because he's American.

This is what I have to live up to

Jesus Christ. My uncle on the front page of none other than the Wall Street Journal. My grandmother says that I, too, should be on the front page of the WSJ in the next 16 years. We'll see.

It's time to put up some pictures

All I've been writing are thoughts. So without further ado, I present, "Where is A13?" Most airports aren't this superstitious. Bonus points if you guess what airport it is.

Riding the CTA

I ride public transportation to work every day. You get all types on public transportation – busy commuters, listening to their iPods, homeless people, begging people for money, and religious homeless people, begging people for money while praising the Lord. Every once in a while, you get people who simply don’t know how to behave themselves in a public, enclosed area. The other day, it was two young black teens that alternated between beat-boxing, yelling at each other while standing three feet apart, and screaming into a cell phone. Fortunately, my train car had the antidote to the ruffian problem – the preachy black woman. For those of you who don’t have a preachy black woman to make your public transportation ride quieter and more enjoyable, I’ve put together a short guide to becoming a preachy black woman.

Step 1: the qualifications. Obviously, you need to be a middle-aged black woman. But just as important is the tone of voice that you use. It needs to be preachy – not like parents preachy, but like born-again Christian preachy.

Step 2: the first step. No matter what deluded experiences you may have had with TV anchors and radio talk show hosts, it’s not persuasive if you start a lengthy tirade over nothing. First, you must politely ask the hooligans to be quiet. If they do not acquiesce to this request, proceed to step 3.

Step 3: establish yourself in a position of authority. You’ve got multiple points of support here. First, you’re older. Comments like “I’m old enough to be your grandmother!” and “Back during the civil rights movement, people respected their elders” are recommended. Second, you’ve got history on your side. Dropping names like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. may not get you into a conference of the Republican National Committee but it will establish a link between you and these civil rights activists. You have a right to ride on public transportation in peace and quiet.

Step 4: the final blow. Offer advice to the hooligans on what they need to do to live a good life in society’s eyes. The goal here is to keep them distracted so that they no longer make any noise. You’ve already got their attention, so throw in a useful tidbit like, “You need to go to school and get a job!” However, for maximum effect, ask everything in the form of a question. So, the previous statement would turn into “You think that school is a waste of time? You think that getting a good job is easy?” That way, you’re consistently undermining your audience while giving them useful life lessons! This step can go on indefinitely. Feel free to throw in advice on anything from giving up your seat to the elderly (“When you get older, wouldn’t you like it if someone gave up their seat for you?”) to gardening (“You think that roses just grow if you don’t water them?”) or filing taxes ("You think that all you need to do is fill out Form 1040?"). Remember, it’s up to you to set these boys straight.

The rest of 12th grade

After realizing that Edina would never give me a good partner to debate with, I moved on to another school, Highland Park, which was just starting up its policy debate program as well as being closer to home. I debated by myself, or “maverick,” at most of the tournaments that year and had no major accomplishments. I didn’t really have any expectations; I debated purely for the pleasure. There’s nothing like beating someone else in a contest of the mind.

I’m not sure why I engaged in such self destructive behavior during 12th grade. One could argue that I was dangerously close to destroying a better future. However, I had incredible self-confidence, and I was certain that nothing that I did could greatly affect my future. I could probably be blamed with doing the minimal amount of work to get into a good school, because I hate doing work that I consider trivial or useless. My grades went up. I got into my school off of the waitlist. I’m still working on my college stories. Come back in two years to hear that thrilling adventure.

12th grade

I guess that I failed to live up to the opportunity cost expectations, as Cheri broke up with me the day before I took the October SAT (I got a 1430). It would be safe to say that getting dumped ruined the year for me. The problem with completely devoting your life to someone is that if they leave you, all you have left is memories. I was utterly disappointed with myself, because I figured that since she was unhappy with me, there must be something wrong with me. Many hours of therapy later, I came to the realization that it wasn’t my fault; I gave it my best and it just didn’t work out. If everyone fit perfectly well together, there wouldn’t be any singles.

Beating myself up about getting dumped certainly reflected badly on my grades during the first semester of 12th grade. But that was nothing compared to second semester. There were a few factors in play. First, my dad decided to take a semester long sabbatical in Boston and my step-mom had come with him. Second, I had gotten auto-accepted into the University of Minnesota so I didn’t feel nervous about college. Finally, what the therapy couldn’t fix was the fact that when I went to school, I still spent unbearable hours in class with Cheri. So I stopped going. I missed homework assignments and tests; I didn’t even write one of the three major papers in my Theory of Knowledge class (although I got an A in the class and the teacher later praised the paper that I never wrote). When my parents came home and saw that I was failing most of my classes, they were shocked. My dad took me to a doctor because he thought that there must be something wrong with me. I wasn’t sick – I just didn’t care about school and knew that I wouldn’t end up failing any classes because I could make up the work that I had missed. My teachers were pushovers. For example, I missed a test in history class and my teacher gave me an oral exam where she just read test questions at me and expected me to answer them. I probably missed half of the questions, after which the teacher gave me a 90/100 since, in her words, “You usually do so well!” What was I doing with all of the time from skipping massive amounts of school? Playing computer games. I had nothing else to do.

More on 11th grade

Having failed to establish a policy debate program at Central High School, I was not giving up on being a debater. Policy debate is really an addiction. Rounds are extremely fast paced, as they consist of flowing (writing down the arguments being made by the opposing team and your partner), retrieval of evidence to support the arguments you make (I walked around with 3 huge bins full of said evidence), and thinking of ways to refute the arguments that the opposing team is making, all at the same time. I offered to debate for any school around the twin cities (Minneapolis and St. Paul, for the uninformed) and was recruited by Edina, with whom I went to tournaments for the rest of the year. Edina was a debate powerhouse; it was nice to be part of such a large program. However, because I was from another school and hence ineligible to go to state and national tournaments, Edina gave me the shaft. I debated with a few different partners and never did well because they simply weren’t very good debaters. Indeed, in 12th grade, when I debated by myself (something much harder to do, since I had to do the work of two people), I did better than when I debated with a bad partner at Edina. I should have just cloned myself.

Since Cheri and I never went on formal dates, I went out of my way to spend time with her. During school, I skipped Physics II to be with her during her free period. At night, in spite of my parents, I would sneak out and drive to her house. I would come back at 2 or 3, barely able to keep my eyes open from lack of sleep, and fall asleep in my car, lacking the energy the energy to go upstairs. When it was cold, I actually left my car running so that I would have heat – not the smartest of things to do.