BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / December 31, 2008

On travel and missing your favorite sports team play?  Don’t have the money to pony up for NBA TV?  Ever wonder if fans actually attend Arizona Cardinal games?  Well now you’re in luck, because this site allows viewers to watch almost every single NBA, NFL, MLB, and NHL game LIVE over the Web.  And if that’s not enough, you can also watch other major cable network channels, such as the BBC, Discovery Channel, Comedy Central, and The Movie Channel.  Technology is a beautiful thing, no?

-The Boston Bachelor

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / November 26, 2008

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-The Boston Bachelor

Only those who’ve been through the tech school experience can truly understand what an understatement this video actually is.

-The Boston Bachelor

An odd short story I read in 8th Grade English that stuck with me throughout the years…

Examination Day

 
 
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.

‘Forget about it,’ he said. ‘He’ll do all right.’

They were at breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in the little apartment there were wrapped, beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.

‘What exam?’ he asked.

His mother looked at the tablecloth. ‘It’s just a sort of Government Intelligence test they give children at the age of twelve. You’ll be taking it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You mean a test like in school?’

‘Something like that,’ his father said, getting up from the table. ‘Go and read your comics, Dickie.’ The boy rose and wandered towards that part of the living room which had been ‘his’ corner since infancy. He fingered the topmost comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colour­ful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered towards the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.

‘Why did it have to rain today?’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?’

His father, now slumped into an armchair with the Gov­ernment newspaper rattled the sheets in vexation. ‘Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.’

‘Why, Dad?’

‘Because it does, that’s all.’

Dickie puckered his brow. ‘What makes it green, though? The grass?’

‘Nobody knows,’ his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.

Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily-coloured packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-­hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.

An hour later, seated by the window, he watched the sun force its way between the clouds.

‘Dad,’ he said, ‘how far away is the sun?’

‘Five thousand miles,’ his father said.
 
 
 
 
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.

‘Well, Dickie,’ he said, with a manly frown, ‘you’ve got an appointment today.’

‘I know Dad. 1 hope –’

‘Now, it’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The Government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.’

‘I get good marks in school,’ he said hesitantly.

‘This is different. This is a - special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine –‘

‘What stuff to drink?’ Dickie said.

‘It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that the Gov­ernment thinks you won’t tell the truth, but it makes sure.’

Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.

‘Everything will be all right,’ she said.

‘Of course it will,’ his father agreed. ‘You’re a good boy, Dickie; you’ll make out fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?’

‘Yes sir,’ Dickie said.
 
 
 
 
They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the mar­ble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic lift that brought them to the fourth floor.

There was a young man wearing an insignia-less tunic, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.

The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.

Mr Jordan filled out the form, and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: ‘It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room.’ He indicated the portal with his finger.

A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly towards the door.

At five minutes to eleven, they called the name of Jordan.

‘Good luck, son,’ his father said, without looking at him. ‘I’ll call for you when the test is over.’

Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the grey-tunicked attendant who greeted him.

‘Sit down,’ the man said softly. He indicated a high stool beside his desk. ‘Your name’s Richard Jordan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.’

He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.

He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a penlike object from the pocket of his tunic, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Richard.’

He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialled computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conve­niently at his mouth.

‘Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some ques­tions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say “ready” into the microphone.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The man squeezed his shoulder, and left.

Dickie said, ‘Ready.’

Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said: ‘Complete this sequence. One, four, seven, ten . .
 
 
 
 
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living room, not speaking, not even speculating.

It was almost four o’clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.

‘Mr Jordan?’

The voice was clipped: a brisk, official voice.

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M Jordan, Classification 600-115 has completed the Government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient is above the Government regula­tion, according to Rule 84 Section 5 of the New Code.’

Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.

‘You may specify by telephone,’ the voice droned on, ‘whether you wish his body interred by the Government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for Gov­ernment burial is ten dollars.’

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / September 17, 2008

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-The Boston Bachelor

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / September 16, 2008

Several months ago, I wasted a few hours of my life performing an experiment in online dating.  In a nutshell, the objective was to see which headlines and profiles on Match.com attracted the most female responses.  Per the rules of the experiment, I was not permitted to initiate any communication; the profiles and headlines had to do all the work in attracting the lonely ladies.

So which profile and headline came out on top?  I’ll start off by saying this: I did not receive any emails during the 2 months of the experiment.  Yes, boo hoo, tear.  There are some things in life I will never get, no matter how much brainpower I put into it.  One is physics, the second is computer science, and the third is online dating.

I’d also like to note that only the first two lines of your profile text actually show up in search results.  For that reason, I’m only displayed the first two lines of profile text per each headline below.

With the necessary introductions being out of the way, let’s get to it, shall we?

Here are the top 3 headlines/profiles that received the most number of confirmed views:
 
 
2nd Runner Up:

Headline: Honesty, Trust, and Respect

Profile: Let me guess… you’re here for the same reason I am. As long as you’re not some spammer in Bombay, then continue reading.

1st Runner Up:

Headline: I Never Judge

Profile: People today are so afraid of being judged in a negative way that they walk through life on eggshells. They hide their true personality and passions and live a life of unfulfillment and unhappiness.

The Winner:

Headline: Apples Oranges Pears Grapes Mangoes Bananas Pineapples Watermelons Cherries Strawberries Lemons Tomatoes Watermelons

Profile: Let me guess… you’re here for the same reason I am. Bars and nightclubs just aren’t the places to go to find someone you can really connect with, much less have a stimulating conversation with.
 
 
Which headline/profile performed the worst, and received no confirmed views?

The Worst:

Headline: I Will Never Love You

Profile: Let me guess… you’re here for the same reason I am. As long as you’re not some spammer in Bombay, then continue reading.

Unfortunately, the censors at Match.com prevented me from posting a few headlines that could have made the results more interesting:

     ”What’s a Clitoris?”

     ”I Love Sex But Not You”

     ”I Heart Bondage”

     ”Looking for Porn Watching Partner”
 
 
So there you have it, folks.  Now what’s the big lesson to be learned from my online dating experiment?  This.

-The Boston Bachelor

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / September 4, 2008

Apparently Microsoft is really clawing for ground against Google in the search engine wars, as they’ve integrated a cashback program into their Live.com search engine.  Use their referral links, and they’ll send you cashback via PayPal, electronic checking, or snail mail.  For example, you get 18% cashback for FootLocker.com purchases and 10% for Drugstore.com purchases.  Here’s a tip: Cashback rates jump noticeably during the holidays, such as 25% off Drugstore.com purchases during this past Labor Day.

-The Boston Bachelor

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / August 30, 2008

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-The Boston Bachelor

-The Boston Bachelor

BY THEBOSTONBACHELOR.COM / August 24, 2008

Friday night a friend and I ended up getting free tickets to a shindig hosted by Nicole Richie and Joel Madden. Yes, we decided to go. Don’t look at me. To be honest, I had no fucking clue as to who Joel Madden was; I thought he was the guy who designed handbags. Needless to say, about 20 minutes into the night I find out that he’s the host DJ and a member of the band Good Charlotte. Though I didn’t know any of the band’s songs, I figured that this guy, being in the music scene for a while, at least had some musical sense?

Well it turned out that the setlist for the night was the same typical shit you’d hear in any Ed Hardy sportin’ club. Not the worst I’ve ever heard, not the best, but just your typical safe, setlist. A little bit of G-Funk, a little bit of dance club hip-hop, and of course that annoying “Music is my boyfriend / music is my girlfriend” song. That’s when I had to ask myself, “Seriously, what ever happened to the art of DJing?” The days of Grandmaster Flash, Mix Master Mike, Cut Chemist, DJ Q-Bert, DJ Premier, and DJ Shadow are long gone. I mean, even that kid from the movie Juice would probably blow most of the current “DJs” out of the water.

The fact remains that the art of DJing has fallen somewhere between a plastic drinking bird toy hitting random keys on a keyboard and the shuffle feature on your iPod. Unfortunately, this trend will only expand in the indefinite future.  Thanks to hard drive technology, broadband filesharing, and lossy compression, any bored asshole out there with a laptop, some freeware software, and an hour of spare time can claim to be a DJ.  Shit, even me.

-The Boston Bachelor