Since I like to think that I’m pretty active, I can only cope with my new-found static lifestyle in one logical way: find an abusive, co-dependant, fantastically destructive long-term relationship with a girl carrying a tremendous amount of issues.

This solves numerous problems while also taking pressure off my knee and placing it, instead on my friendships, personality and ability to talk to other girls without having a baseball bat swung at my head. I can think of no other solution to kill the down-time that will now be filled with resting, icing and screaming at a “psycho-with-tits” while my knee heals.

So I have readjusted my image of a dream girl from a smart, active, successful, funny and ambitious world traveler to someone who was abused by a creepy uncle. I’ll even settle for first cousin because the moral here is that I’m no longer picky. I need the kind of distracting force that only comes with someone stealing my SIM card to read all my text messages to see who I have dialed in the past months because that kind of super-jealous suspicion is the only way to really show true love.

I need to spend hours at a time lying down, which will now be successfully orchestrated by spending days at a time on the phone assuring my lovely new girlfriend that she shouldn’t jump off the George Washington Bridge (will she get cell phone reception there?). I want to stay fit, but running is out of the picture, so the only way I’ll get sufficient cardio is from having the kind of crazy sex that only severely mentally-scarred women can provide. We’re talking beatings, near-death experiences and lots and lots of tears and screaming while a cute Valentine’s Day mix tape soothes the mood in the background and a flamethrower dances inches from my nipples.

As crazy and psychotic as volatile and co-dependant girlfriends can be, it’s important not to discount their role in the rehabilitation process. I’ll need to immerse myself in this form of co-dependence for the next six to eight years of my life with frequent fake-pregnancy scares and my worldly possessions being sold for drug money in order to give myself a renewed sense of purpose in light of my stifled hiking and soccer playing.

So if anyone knows anyone who has a grade-school reading level, a tremendous lack of self-esteem, and spent several years in the Israeli Army, by all means, send her my way. Let the healing process begin.

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I’m not complaining about this, and it makes perfect sense, but there is really no difference between by ineptness at dating in Los Angeles and why finches on different Galapagos Islands have a wide assortment of beak shapes. Dating in New York versus Los Angeles is no different from how finches on the island where they need long and narrow beaks to get worms out of rocky crags are different from those that need stout and firm beaks to break open hard fruits.

It seems like there were a lot of opportunities for a dirty pun in that previous sentence, all of which were missed. The point is that if you’ve been genetically designed to succeed in New York’s dating scene then you can thrive there. You can be smart to the point of pretentiously douchy, you can speak in nothing but sarcasm, you can talk about books and ride the subway to a park or go for a walk or catch a show. Basically being a Jew is very helpful in New York’s dating scene. That’s your beak.

But if you asked a girl out in Los Angeles by seeing if she wants to ride the subway to a city park and talk about books? You’d probably have a Twitter post written about how creepy you are before she’s hung up the phone on you. And books? I have gone on at least three dates with girls who have said, flat out, “I don’t read.” How do you not read? Who doesn’t read? I’m shocked by this. Is this a real thing? Do you look at signs and just refuse to accept them? “Sorry officer, maybe there was a stop sign there, maybe not. I don’t read.”

That actually brings up the question as to whether or not you can get out of tickets by saying that you can’t read.

The point, though, is that skills that make you attractive in one place are useless in others. For example, the whole short Jew intellectual thing thrives in New York and fails in L.A., but what about the tall, stupid, muscular guys who favor diamond-encrusted Melrose Boulevard button-down shirts with images of dragons fighting leopards on the back? Sure they do great here, but where’s the sympathy for these fellas when they stroll across 72nd Street and Amsterdam?

It doesn’t have to be L.A. and New York either. Consider other nations. Chinese and Japanese people are weird as all hell, but they have bred the largest – and most insular – populations in the world. Maybe there is a Galapagos finch with a beak that likes to bathe in dead fish blood, as most Japanese people enjoy doing. Yet when they come to Mississippi, all of a sudden they have trouble picking up the cute Southern Belle sitting on her porch (I imagine that all women in the South spend their days sitting on porches). There are also the unique cases of species that can thrive on other islands without competitions, like how rabbits came to Australia and decimated the landscape without opposition. This is like when anyone with an English accent comes to America and can bang (sorry, ehem, shag) anything that moves.

If there is any case for evolution and debunking intelligent design, then it’s not what Darwin discovered on the Galapagos. It’s how those same theories apply when I try and be sarcastic to a girl in Los Angeles. If there was any sort of intelligent design, then I’m sure I would have some of it, and I could move across the country and still get laid. But as it is now, God has left me to my own devices. And my own Jewy beak.

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The thing about The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo isn’t that it’s a terrible book, but that it follows the exact same formula as The Da Vinci Code for how to write a book that a massive audience will love. People who thoroughly enjoy reading are quick to say that the writing is terrible and the characters are one-dimensional and baseless, but if it’s so easy to do, then why haven’t you done it?

Because you need to walk an expert balance between looking like a really intelligent book and still being stupid enough to appeal to so many American in Walmart. This is an art in and of itself that is nearly impossible to replicate. The goal is to create something that makes people feel smarter than they are, while being stupid enough for them to not put it down. The movie Crash is a perfect example. Horrible, stupid and simple movie, but they “talk about race,” so stupid people who never talk about race think that it’s brilliant. It isn’t.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo has nothing to do with good writing, but instead it’s like a verbal Sudoku puzzle, where the author has tried to craft a story where every chapter ends on a twist or little nugget of intrigue so that you feel like you’re solving the puzzle along with him. This is different from an ordinary murder mystery because those books take things into account like natural dialogue, internal thoughts and rich characters that make most readers feel like they’re too stupid to be reading the book. In The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, all those literary elements have been done away with to make people feel like geniuses.

My only qualm with The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo has nothing to do with how smart, stupid or popular it is. What I hate about it is that they translated the whole thing from Swedish into English, yet they left all the original character names the same. I can’t figure out why they’ve done this. It doesn’t make the book more authentic, worldly or Swedish, it just makes it a pain in the ass to read because you never know whether a noun is a person, place, thing or bird species native to Stockholm.

Mikael Blomkvist, Lisbeth Salander, Henrik Vanger; you really translated all six hundred pages but you couldn’t switch them to Mike Bloom, Lizzie Sales and Hank Winger? They even invented a town in Sweden called Hedestad, but I have no point of reference for a freezing town where it’s dark for six straight months. Change the town to Herdville, put it in Missouri and replace winter with Walmart and we’ll get the idea.

It just comes off as unnecessarily pretentious to keep your umlauts in a book where we’re not going to know the difference either way. It’s not like the book is more authentic because you kept the original Östehrgarten rather than finishing off your Google translation of the entire book by putting the train station near Oscar’s Garden.

But perhaps this is the secret to The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’s success. It really could all lie in having two dots over the letter Ö. People are drawn to the catchy title and cover, they start flipping through it, they feel like they’re smart and then when they tell their friends about the exciting new book they read, they can add, “It’s actually translated from Swedish. It even has umlauts.”

This all taps into my original problem that it’s impossible to enjoy Swedish films or literature without thinking of the Swedish Chef from The Muppets, but add in a hot chick getting revenge from a sexual assault and a couple umlauts to help America play to the height of its intelligence, then go get ‘em, Sweden. Dragon tattoos and all.

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Mount San Antonio (better known as Mount Baldy) at 10,068 feet is the highest point in Los Angeles County and the third-tallest mountain in Southern California. Pretty easy to find, with well-marked trails, take the 210 to Mount Baldy Road and keep going up. There are three trails to the top, and we took the best-marked, most popular and easiest, which was around 13 miles round trip. You can also cut the first half out of the way by taking the ski lift, which only makes people with unnecessary pride bitter.

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Granted the entire BP oil spill could be a brilliant viral marketing campaign undertaken by Slip N Slide, but despite a bunch of animals that look like they’ve put on blackface for a minstral show, you can’t help but wonder why these kinds of Bounty Paper Towel spill commercials times a million keep happening.

Part of the argument is that oil is such a valuable commodoty that we risk these kind of disasters because the overall gain of transportation and power is too valuable. Here’s the thing, though. If this is true, then why do we never face serious environmental disasters with the single most expensive and rare commodoty on the face of the Earth: print cartridge ink.

Sure filling a tank with gasoline will run you thirty bucks or so, but have you ever tried to fill an HP inkjet with photo-printing capabilities? The black ink alone hovers around $70 then you’re talking another thirty or so for each color. This is convenient if you want to print a photo of a baby seal covered in oil since you won’t have to run the full color palatte, but for sunnier days you’re in a bit of trouble. My question is that if this seems to happen all the time with oil, why hasn’t it happened yet with the much more valuable resource of printer ink?

The truth is that we need to wean ourselves off of our dependancy on foreign printer ink, and maybe it will take a disaster on this kind of epic scale to shake us from our addiction. Everyone knows that the real cause of the war in Afghanistan is to take control of the printer ink wells as Hamid Karzai is known to continuously steer Afghan politics to be more favorable to the Americans’ usage of Times New Roman, but it’s getting out of hand.

Our drilling off the Courier New Pipeline Coast in Alaska – the rare spot on Earth filled with polar bears, panda bears, and koala bears is seriously at risk once we get a drunk oil tank driver up there to transport our much-prized toner. You thought the Gulf oil spill was bad? Wait until you see a bunch of baby seals doused in Epson Stylus Turquoise Dye.

How will people be able to print out copies of their resumes? The entire economy will come to a crashing halt. Scandelous bored-at-work e-mails will be uncovered by bosses since they can no longer be printed and deleted, and those of us without GPS will find ourselves with no recourse to print directions to the fund-raiser to benefit the seals who are covered in ink yet, sadly, have fins that don’t allow them to type.

Until we can develop computer keyboards that sea lions and penguins will be able to slap and create some prose, whether it’s HP, Canon, Kodak, Epson or Lexmark, we’re skating on thin ice. The kind of thin ice that the lost tanker carrying your “cyan gold” will wander through before running aground. We need to learn our lessons, whether it’s by finding natural resources to print our “Signs you might be Italian” lists and school essay that you paid someone else to write online. Disaster is near, and you can read the reading on the wall in clearly-printed Helvetica. For now, at least.

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Thanks to Ronaldo’s wayward cock, which has apparently veered and bent its way into an American woman like a hovering Jubalani off a free kick, the United States has uncovered the prospect of its dreams. Is there any way that whatever shady agreement between Ronaldo and this mystery woman that gives him sole custody can still land the son with an American passport?

Technically speaking if your mother is American, then you qualify for citizenship and the inalienable right to become an obnoxious tourist who asks locals in Paris where the nearest McDonalds is located. I don’t really see why it should be an issue when you consider how every other country find loopholes to load their rosters with superstars. I don’t think there is a single player on the French national team that has actually ever been to France. If the World Cup allows for nationals of former colonies to play for their colonizers, then a baby-momma situation seems completely by the books.

Basically is there a way that a soccer superstar can pay off a girl that got liquored up and seduced into pregnancy by a GQ coverboy to give up custody while having the state department intervene on the negotiations? Why can’t we use this as Scott Boras’ chance to repay his debt to the country that lets him ruin every other sport by letting him save soccer? There is no reason that this can’t be included as an addendum to the contract between Ronaldo and the mother of future soccer Michael Jordan.

The most important question seems to be why this little twist wasn’t involved in Nike’s Write The Future ad. Maybe it’s on the director’s cut after Ronaldo unveils his statue in downtown Lisbon and guest stars on the Simpsons. He misses the free kick (vaguely reminiscent of every single game he played in during the 2010 World Cup), drinks his sorrows away and sleeps with the first pretty American he sees. She gets knocked up, he’s got Tiger Woods’ exemplary Write the Future looming over his head and adopts the kid to save face. The ad continues on with the pains of fatherhood, having to wake up at five A.M. to feed the brat when he needs his eight hours before Real Madrid training camp. He craps out in two years and finds himself on Fox Football Phone-In on Saturdays at 11 at night.

Write the future, Ronaldo. And, thanks to a hot American who was too drunk to remember that sex without a condom is a leading cause of pregnancy, he has written the future for American soccer. And it looks grand.

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This trip was back in November. About a six hour drive from Los Angeles. I-15 towards Vegas, route 127, then 178 into the park. Stopped by Badwater Salt Flats, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere. Then around Artists Palatte (purty rocks) and up to Dante’s View, which looks down on the whole valley. Camped one night in Furnace Creek then hiked around the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes, saw some charcoal kilns and headed back to L.A.

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Every time the World Cup offers a close up on any of their players or fans, you could switch any of them out with a bad Jim Bruer impression. I’ve been left trying to figure out the evolutionary advantage of having an entire group of people with glossed-over droopy eyes, long faces, hollow cheeks and not much of a sense of humor. Yet an eagerness to murder you at the first slight of their proud culture.

Seriously, this is a country

Could it have anything to do with the fact that the entire country is populated with nearly identical last names? To get a Serbian name, it seems like you could just add the letters, “ic” to the end of your name. Starting with the Lakers’ Sasha Vujacic, the members of the Serbian soccer team include: Jovanovic, Zigic, Ivanovic, Pantelic, Kuzmanovic, Obravic and Subotic.

As a side note, it’s worth noting that none of these are my favorite World Cup name of the tournament. There is a player on the South African squad whose surname is Tshabalala, but when the announcer says it, it sounds like he’s saying, “Shamalama.” I don’t know how to express my disappointment that his full name is not Shamalama Ding Dong. There is, however, a sweeper named Kim Dong-Jin on the South Korean squad, but this – like the South Korean defense – just doesn’t get the job done.

Anyway, back to the Serbs. And I should preface this by mentioning that my experience with Serbs are as follows: hazy knowledge about the start of World War I involving Franz Ferdinand; something bad when down there in the 1990s and it involved other countries; some Serbian guy with bad body odor (as opposed to good body odor: Axe body spray) in a Milan youth hostel.

They seem like a deeply religious group of people who follow a sect of Catholicism that no one has ever heard of, and one that advocates murdering all thy neighbors. This is why I can’t figure out how Serbians were involved in ethnic cleansing in the 90s. Doesn’t your ethnicity have to be sort of “clean” before you can try and wipe your local minorities from the map?

Germany’s ethnic cleansing was at least based on them being fit, tall, blond and blue-eyed and they wanted to get rid of ugly and unfit Jews. But the Serbs? How can they claim genetic superiority when they all look like the middle-story on Cops. It’s pretty depressing when someone with an unpronounceable name who looks like he’ll be stuck at a traffic stop to sing the alphabet backwards while touching his nose is accusing you of being genetically inferior. Could it be that I have never witnessed an actual Serbian woman? This would explain the short temper, but fail to explain the breeding.

So to the Sasha Vujacic’s and Nemanja Vidic’s of the world, continue making your country proud. And when Man U or the Lakers win, or you’re playing for your home country, raise a drink to celebrate. No one can tell whether you are drunk either way, so enjoy.

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