Neilogism

             There are two distinct things I remember hearing form my adviser when I graduated from university--"The world is now at your fingers" and " No you can't request your diploma in business cards form". The former stuck with me, and when I finally replaced my Motorola Razr, which was unceremoniously retired by a chocolate fondue set, with a true smart phone--those words of wisdom rang 4G clear. The world is at your fingers--well specifically our finger tips, with one swipe of your thumb you can spit mad game on whatever dating app you prefer, book a restaurant reservation, order an Uber, book a cozy AirBnB and then buy a mortgage and seize said AirBnB.

All with your fingers!

But if you are like me--which you can't be as says Mr. Rogers--this convoluted-techniverse can be deafening, mindless droves addicting to checking their smartphones and the rise of emojis obfuscating the lost art of conversation, all for trinkets of internet gratification points.

Don't forget to like this post on FaceBook

Akin to the old-school safety razors, cage-free eggs, and pre-coke Lindsay Lohan, I yearn for genuineness--the simplicity of strolling down to the local farmers market, picking out pristine ingredients and then cooking a wholesome meal with the satisfaction of self-reliance--but I really don't want to Uber to the farmers market and this episode of Pretty Little Liars is really enthralling....

Enter HelloFresh!

Note--the correct name is HelloFresh without the exclamation, and despite pleading with their marketing team on punctuation, reducing their trademark to a tone of disappointment, much like when my Uber driver takes a wrong turn enroute, they refused to budge.

HelloFresh is a home-delivery service that greets its customers with fresh (see their trademark), pre-cut and measured ingredient portions, and then includes detailed instructions on how to cook said meal. The concept is for busy families, power couples or agoraphobes to be able to prepare a home-cooked meal without having to leave said home.

A perfect opportunity for Neil to test his smoke alarm.

Recipe: Onion Burgers with Roasted Cauliflowers

Packaging: HelloFresh ships in a sturdy ice-cooler, roughly the size of the same small commercial microwave that a younger Neil would use to cook said meal. The various vegetable and/or meat ingredients come in color coordinated containers to prevent you from upsetting the carefully curated harmony of the dish. Everything, from the salt-pepper, spice, garlic, produce and meat, come packaged in tiny miniature packages as if they were procured from an Elf grocery store.

Serving Size: "A delectable dinner for two" which translates to a pre-dinner snack for Neil.  

Price: Subscriptions run on a per-meal-per-person (wow typing that out sound strange) and in my case was around 2 Netlfix-Months, which I deem the new unit of currency for all things internet.

Preparation: Suggested time 30 minutes; Neil time 45 minutes (including the opening of Pretty Little Liars

I started my HelloFresh adventure by delicately unwrapping the precisely measured portion of onions, garlic, cauliflower and something called panko, which I assume is the pasta world’s equivalent of Meth. The instructions called for me to mince the garlic and chop the onions, which I did without crying since confusing Requiem for Dream as a Disney money at a young age left me emotionally dead inside. After browning the onions and drizzling oil on my moist cauliflowers, I tried browning the garlics in solidarity of their onion brothers. I then transferred the cauliflowers to my oven, and prepared the wheat-buns by cutting them in half and slathering them with enough mayo to choke a small-goat. Exactly 15 minutes later my cauliflower were finished, and I combined all my vegetables into a massive burger, since the Iron-Man PJs I was wearing already threw grace out the door.

The beauty of HelloFresh is that transfer the entire risk of you destroying the meal at hand on yourself; each recipe comes with a step-by-step infographic with renders the entire cooking process difficulty akin to changing a tire—sure you can get fancy in a few areas but the overall mechanism is the same.

Final Product: HelloFresh allows you to judge your creation against an immaculate photo of what said recipe should of produced. Ironically, despite my inner desires to inadvertently screw things up, I must admit that my final product roughly resembled the marketing material—in the sense that Steve Carrel resembles Bob Saget.

In conclusion—with the hubbub of today’s technological world, it’s nice to know that you can prepare, cook and SnapChat your food in the time it takes for an UberEats to show up.  

Amazon Prime & Sexy Time

A soft knock taps on your apartment door--it's bae. She's wearing a cerulean Anne Taylor blouse and coal black yoga pants, both pieces accentuating her sensual curves. You make your way to your couch, delicately guiding the tender curve of her back with your confident hand. Your eyes lock--and with a playful smirk you whisper "Let's play something to get in the mood". Bae giggles. 

You wink and announce to the room: "ALEXA, play R-Kelly REMIX to IGNITON".

A voice crackles to life: "It's currently 40 degrees in Flint Michigan".

You laugh--"No, Alexa, play R-Kelly IGNITION, the Remix".

Again ALEXA comes to life: "Added Chex Mix to your shopping cart. Your cart now contains one a 50 ounce jar of Miracle Whip, 10 ounces of Preparation-H, Wynonna Ryder's Greatest Hits and Chex Mix".

Your cool evaporates--like Siamese twins at strip club, ALEXA has sparked the most awkward threesome.

"ALEXA, just play the R-Kelly album. ALBUM"

The blue ball harbinger chirps: "Streaming pictures from Delta Sigma Recruits Album".

Images of half-naked freshman males populates the screen--some are muted with ball-gags while others are all on knees, naked, as older classmen ride them like not-so-hung horses.

Bae leaves.

You sigh and order the FULL-SIZE JAPANESE LIFE-LIKE SEX DOLL via the Amazon webpage on your laptop. 

It comes with free-two day shipping

HBO NOW & PLOW

Bae and yourself are back on the couch--the spoils of your Chicken Teriyaki UberEats lay waste on the coffee table in front of you. Half-a-bottle of Merlot sits idly on the side table, half it's contents glaze bae's teeth--she playfully pokes your chest and that tonight she will do anything.

She suggests that the two of you watch that "Game of Dragons" show that you are so into.

Blood leaves your nether regions and rushes up to your mouth--"OH, you are going to LOVE GAME OF THRONES--it's like your show Scandal but with swords".

You boot up your HBO-Now app, stumbling to type in your on the clunky interface.

It takes 10 minutes to load and while you can tell that bae's buzz is fading, you assure her it'd be just a few minutes.

Success!

The familiar beats of Ramin Djawadi's score echo through your living room, setting the stage for the epic struggle of power in Westeros.

Exactly 2.65 minutes--bae asks "Wait, what exactly is a Targaryen?"

Without missing a beat "Oh hun, it's one of  the ancient 4 principal houses of Westeros that was decimated in King Robert Rebellion, leaving the only remaining heir as the exiled Daenerys Queen of the Dragons"

4 minutes in--if she has dragons why is she walking around everywhere You hush bae and tell her just to watch.

The Mountain brutally rips the innards of a peasant, his agonizing  screams barely disguise the retching of bae. 

Bae--I swear, this was necessary for the plot.

The Sand Snakes impale their countrymen. Bae quietly asks "why did they do that"

"Well, they are sort of bitches. For real". The episode ends with a fantastic scene of depravity--bodies are chopped into little pieces while entire scores of footmen are set ablaze with dragon fire.

"Wasn't that amazing?"

Bae gets up, alone, and goes to take a cold shower. You sigh and try to find a freeze frame of Melisandre's breasts.

Hulu and ???

Tuesdays. 

While Mondays are the prison hardened criminal who without warning will shank your innards remorselessly while you ponder why you deserved such a faith, Tuesdays are the sultry and sexy femme fatale that at least kisses you before pumping lead into your stomach. Tuesdays hold a special place in my heart for as Houstonians we have a tradition aptly named “Steak Night Tuesday”, where we fill that exact same special place in our hearts with the cholesterol of fire-sale priced red meat paired with cheap beers. Tuesday morning, I wake up immediately and check the upward status of the club, and then slug through my day motivated solely by cast-iron grilled heaven. nI

 start pinging a few of my Gchat, which after SnapChat, is my preferred method of contact—though those new animated face SnapChat filters with the Anime eyes and puking rainbows are starting to give me flash backs from the time I took mushrooms at a Japanese gameshow--, to finalize plans. Don’t get me wrong I have no problems eating alone, most of my fondest meals are with myself and Kerri Washington from Scandal, but there is something about cook meat that screams comradeship. I also want need a chaperon, just in case.

Yet as I maneuvered through my friend list promising juicy cow parts and beer, I was met with a mix of excuses and unforeseen plans that conflicted with my future meeting with cardiologist. Sure my married friends had a pass since the romantic embers keeping the flames alit were typically fanned with “date night”, and surely third wheel Neil wouldn’t help. Some of my friends had valid excuses like “I am working late tonight”, “I’m on call at the hospital”, “I’m vegetarian” or “for the 10th time you have the wrong number”—but it was one particular excuse that caught me off guard.

Neil: Tuesday night plans?

******:I have book club tonight and I have Chelsea

Book club? Now for my younger audience members, books are like webpages but on paper, and once again this club isn’t where you ‘twerk” but instead you gather together and discuss said analog-webpage. It’s like RABDARGAB—the Houston based initiative to stem inner city by Reading-A-Book-Doing-A-Report-And-Getting-A-Buck--but the real prize is shared interest! 

Yet as I continued to dig…

Neil: When did you read the Alchemist?

******: oh in my book club

I found a trend 

*****: our book clubs meet on Wednesday!!!

Until I realized...

******we did for our book club a while back! it was fun

Neil: I WANT A BOOK CLUB

seriously

does everyone have a book club but me 

So either there is an organized attempt to enforce a diet on myself or more importantly that my friends (I am using air quotes) have book clubs—and didn’t bother to ask me! Look I’m not saying that I am Harold Bloom nor do librarians “hide yo books” when they are around me, but I’m definitely not struggling on the word puzzles in Highlights magazine.

I occasionally write things as well!

Maybe these book clubs were niche specific—sure I’m not up to speed on the newest 50 Shades of Gray installment where Mr. Gray medically transplants new fascia tissue to seductively chafe on our starstuck protagonist—but I’m definitively ready to give it the ole college try! And it can’t be that I’m not opinionated enough—hell if you merely mention the word “Wire” I’m bound to go on a three hour spiel on how it is modern day Shakespeare with a rich backdrop of characters that paint the human condition, the miscarriage of trust within institutions and how power has failed yet hasn’t extinguished the American Dream—wait what were we talking about again?

So finally after existentially re-evaluating myself I asked a friend

Neil: OK--why wasn’t I ever invited to book club?!

*****: You said you were too busy with steak night. And you’d probably drink all the wine anyway. 

Oh, the weather outside is frightful Wait, no it isn't--a high of 70? that's delightful  Holy crap, I can wear shorts or a tank-top..woah!  To a patio bar we can go, we can go we can go!

----------------------------------------------------------------------

With gas prices at record lows,  And so many transplants here to stay Leaving early in my truck I'll go AND still hit traffic on the way! Great, that Civic is text-ing More Kirby construction lights Why the hell am I still commuting I'm never making it home tonight...

Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells Jingle all the way Maybe I can convince someone to ride And finally take the HOV lane all the way....

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Now to pick up where my last story stopped, I, Neil Shah, found myself starting down the barrel of a classic "who-dun-it" with a mysterious text-er that refused to identify themselves.

Yes--I am well aware that this caper pales is just a minor blip in the gamut of possible mysteries, but I didn't choose Thug-life, it unfortunately chose me. Besides, Serial is over and I need something desperately to distract me.

Now with the normal balance of probabilities this person could be anyone but like adding a splash of LSD to your normally-eclectic Uber driver, my relative lack-of-soberness throws a friendly "screw you" to the situation, and unlocks an almost Marvel-level multiverse of possibilities. With the proper social libation, I am more than happy to give out my number to willingly and mostly non-willing participants, promising them random feats of friendship or romance, with a proper text message or call. Some would call this being a "man-whore" but since I still wake up cotton-mouthed clutching my Tempurpedic pillow, I'd like to say that I simply have plan-execution problems. Nevertheless, as someone who has an undying zeal to know things (contingent on my attention s pan), I needed to identify secret-admired/serial killer. 

For science. 

I hit a wall with pleading for their identity until they texted me a clue.

hihihi

To those familiar with me, hihih is my ubiquitous greeting, proclamation, opening line on any of my Gchats, misguided pick-up-line, war-cry, and overall the sound I would make if I was a Pokemon. Needless to say that someone would you use my own line against me must somehow have talked to me with some frequency, and hence it isn't a random stranger.

So going from our sample size of EVERYTHING IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE, I could safely narrow it down to the following. 

Now while this distills the identity down from 6-7 billion people to, according to my gchat contact list, 500 people, like a midget trying to milk a Giraffe, I have my work cut out for me. So the next piece of information I have is that said Mystery person has a Houston area code. While this narrows it down yet again, this is a bit problematic. You see if the area code was for a rather bucolic place, let's say Arthur Iowa, there is only around 200 people (500 if we include rather intelligent livestock)  that could be texting me. 

Houston has been blessed with tremendous growth despite the 2008 recession, bolstered by a bustling oil & gas industry as well as the world largest medical center. Nearly any top-10 list of fastest growing or best job prospects list will include the greater Houston area, and with the influx of new-transplants seeking jobs, "native" Houstonians are dwindling. But--I'm up to the challenge--so this narrows it down to:

Despite trying to grasp on to the most disjointed relations, some of which would make anti-Climate conspiracy theorists cringe, I couldn't find any connection with Frieda Pinto and Houston. So it goes...when discovering the truth.

To recap: this person is from Houston and somehow has spoken to me before--this doesn't really help me out as much but tis a start.Now further narrowing it down would be difficult--I contemplated taking our Craigslist ads, billboards, or just frequenting random bars hoping that said mysterious person would show up again...but alas I was tired and wanted to take a nap. 

Perhaps it was an elaborate joke orchestrated by my friends--I don't know but as time ticked on, I started getting even more curious--and my mysterious texter started to straight up screw with me....

Oh it's on...and time to use more radical measures..

Crude oil prices have have back-pedaled from their June values faster than Ray Rice interview requests on The View, and as a result gas has not been at such cheap levels since Taco Bell introduced their dollar value menu. Such level of interest has attracted rabid financial network pundits to throw out brazen predictions that oil is going to 0 and misguided FOX news viewers have prematurely claimed victory over "dem Arabs" by buying brand new Hummers. Of course on everyone's mind is Adnan Syed innocent, no I wait I mean--how low can energy prices go.

The entire situation is quite perplexing and as a sign of the confusion a few of my friends have desperately sought my advice on the direction of energy prices...

For the record I find the idea of myself being an expert in anything a bit unnerving, call it a quarter-life crisis or imposter syndrome but I have a very real fear that one day the world will realize I don't know what the heck I'm doing and that by entire life is a smorgasbord of decisions I made at random. Hell, just a few days ago while driving home from a friend's house, I actually stopped in the middle of the road and had a minor freak out since I convinced myself that I forgot how to drive and was on the wrong side of the road. In a world where information is ready at your fingerprints (i.e Googled), it's easy to have a bit of doubt about what you are doing--hell, I don't even think I could be an expert in being Neil Shah, a quick Google search shows there is a MD/PhD Doctor Doctor Neil Shah, I bet he knows more about Neils than I do....

Nevertheless as my entire job is focused around attempting to understand and then trade the energy markets and the fact that I'm not unemployed at the time gives me a glimmer of credibility, so I'd like to take a shot. 

So let's start with the basics--oil is a fossil fuel formed millions years ago by intense pressure on ancient hydrocarbons such as the cast The Dinosaurs (weren't you wondering why it abruptly ended?), and found deep underground in areas that are typically inhabited by fluffy animals. Oil can be distilled into gasoline, diesel fuel, jet fuel, asphalt and Greenpeace tears, and for better or worse, is an integral part of an industrialized society. Needless to say oil is a very important commodity and sources of it's supply have been compelling factors for many conflicts, treaties, businesses and Daniel Day Lewis accolades. 

ENTER OPEC--OPEC is the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, an organization composed of oil producing countries such as Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Venezuela and other nations that most Americans would be scared of. They are a cartel (think like DeBeers diamonds but without flashy slogans--maybe a barrel of oil takes forever?) and attempt to influence prices for the benefit of the group. Most of the OPEC countries are in the Middle East (hence the strategic interest of many countries in it) and have a one-trick-pony economy based on oil (last time I checked there wasn't really a bustling sand market) and their state budgets rely heavily on oil for revenue. This oil revenue would be used to subsidize everything for the citizens to keep them happy but also to fund the royalty/monarchs who control the countries, and buy outrageous crap like mini-giraffes or hover-bikes. For the earlier part of the modern century, OPEC was a petroleum pimp and kept prices in check (to their benefit) and would bitch-slap production if the price fell/was acting a fool. 

But then came the shale revolution led by America (Fuck yeah!). Americans found that if they fracked (i.e pumped pressurized fluids that would shatter underground rocks) they could produce oil & gas. At the time oil prices were high and it was very profitable to produce oil--and like a recently single blonde at a bar, one thing led to another, and BOOM America went gangbusters. New wells were drilled at a dizzying rate, towns in the middle of no where became oil boom towns over night, vast fortunes were made in North Dakota, Texas and other shale plays (formation), and everyone is happy. 

However oil like any commodity is traded on a free market and is subject to supply and demand. Remember how I said that OPEC was the petroleum pimp? Well it didn't take too kindly to this new American oil thinking she brought all the boys to the yard. More importantly the world was producing oil at an expanding rate and the demand wasn't there--the economies of China and India slowed down, and high oil prices cannibalized demand leading consumers to turn to hybrids and other fuel-efficient cars. So the USA is spitting fire and making serious cash off it's shale, but as the abundant supply started to hit the markets, prices started to fall. However the US shale producers were like "fuck it" we are still making money at $100 or $80 a barrel (once a well is drilled, the operation costs are minimum) and as capitalism is like that crazy-hot-red-head everyone knows, an attention whore and selfish, each producer went balls to the wall to produce and capture as much dollars bills as possible.

Remember how I said OPEC was a pimp? Well they saw their market share slowly going down as their barrels now competed with the US, and said "AWW HELLZ NO, IT'S ON YOUNG BLOOD". Usually the way to curb falling prices is to cut production (supply)--and many of the other OPEC countries wanted this. Venezuela was seriously hurting from the declining oil prices, which clobbered their budgets like a low-blood sugar Mark Walhberg at a Ben and Jerrys. However the real bottom bitch of OPEC is Saudi Arabia--she has most of the production (thanks to the monstrous Ghawar Field) and with nearly $900 billion is currency reserves, she is rich too. So the poorer OPEC countries (i.e Nigeria or Venezuela) were like please Saudi, can you cut production since you are rich and we can't, and whining about their dwindling budgets, Saudi looked deep into their hearts and came out with a resounding "nah, lol STFU".

The last time the Saudi's cut production, oil prices took off but that led to enormous investments in finding and completing new wells, which eventually led to an oversupply that caused oil to collapse. Saudi didn't want to play that game again and instead kept production stable, even if it meant that oil prices could tumble below $60. You see, finding oil in the middle east is like Leonard Dicaprio picking up chicks at a club, you literally put a straw in the ground and BOOM--shale producers on the other hand have to use expensive fracking to find and complete their wells, and due to the shale revolution, many of these companies loaded up on debt in order to finance their future wells--the "oh just one more well please" strategy. As a result of their operational and debt structures, most of these shale producers can not stay solvent if oil slips below $50, while Saudi and OPEC will be fine. 

It's the long con that they hope to play chicken and shake out the competition, protect their market share, and then boom supply will come off the market and prices will recover. 

So what does that ultimate mean for oil prices?

The thing is that you can't just all of a sudden shut down wells with a flip of the switch--most of these shale producers recently IPOed or have put serious investments in their wells, and hence they will attempt to ride the falling prices until the pain becomes unbearable. With that said 2015 is slated to have even higher production from the US and with OPEC still producing strong, the world will have a glut of crude oil--prices should continue to slide. Naturally any oil producer or associated industry (oil services) will get hammered, slow down their R&D, cancel projects and start laying off people. Banks that finance these companies might suffer from defaults and credit could tighten--alternative energy will take a hit since why pay for an expensive hybrid when gas is cheaper than water? Transport (air lines, rail roads, etc) will perform stronger since their fuel costs are going down, and ultimately the consumer will have more discretionary income to spend (good for the retail economy) since they aren't getting raped by prices. 

So this Christmas, the perfect stocking stuffer is a gas-guzzling SUV!

Despite how prescription commercials  have unrealistic expectations of extreme adventure and literally grabbing Carpe Diem by it's engorged genitals, I'd like to say I live a pretty average but overall full-filling life. I'm not vacationing on secret islands that only the top .005% (the top 1% is so 200-late) know about nor am I debating the nutrition content of dirt--so overall I'd say that I'm living the dream. Save for the occasional case of "where the hell did I park my car" or playing expiration date Russian roulette with dairy products in my fridge, I don't have many mysteries that pop-up in my life. 

Until last week!

So there I was in my apartment, minding my own business and acting overall sexy and composed, when SUDDENLY

*this is where that Law & Order boop boop sound would play*

I RECEIVE A TEXT FROM AN UNKNOWN NUMBER!!!!

Ok, Ok...I'll admit that my theatrics might rival a closed door GOP session on Obamacare and that this in actuality is a common place event. It happens--perhaps it was a butt dial (which I am quite guilty of ) or it's a wrong number, just quickly move on or in the case that the text/call is in Spanish, yell "DONDE ESTA MI PANTALONES" and continue living your life.

No biggie. 

Usually the misguided caller realizes their mistake and gives up, but in this case my mysterious texter asks what my plans are that night, which might mean that the message was indeed meant for me, or thanks to my binge Serial podcast sessions, they are plotting to kill me.  So, akin to pointless character development in an Adult Film, we exchange a few banal texts but nothing deep (obligatory that's what she said) is revealed..and I finally swallow (wow, I'm on a double entendre roll) and ask who my Friday night phone buddy is. 

For anyone that knows me, I am completely and utterly useless in remember phone numbers and even though I carry two phones on me, I constantly lose them due to my own semi-sober shenanigans. To adapt to my lapse in memory, I have resorted to powers way beyond me to help me remember--The Google. I trust The Google with everything from car's daily trajectory to the inner contents of my soul, and therefore I meticulously have saved every individuals contact information with Google's syncing service. If I know you then the Google knows you, and all is well. 

To my surprise my phone buddy suddenly becomes playful and claims that he/she/it "can't believe I didn't save their number" and won't reveal themselves...I'll have to figure it out on my own...

AND THUS, THE GAME IS ON!

Normally I'd jog my memories over the events of the past week and mentally re-create every interaction--if it was a slow week this would be a very feasible strategy and BOOM, mystery solved. However...the past week I was at one of my friend's weddings where I consumed enough alcohol to ethnically identify myself as Russian, and thus all bets are off. With a little liquid courage in me, I become very-very social (NOT creepy..I know you were thinking that) and will happily strike up a conversation with anyone, anything, and especially any girl (or a guy with sufficient man boobs depending on my BAC). 

So let's go over the facts so far.

1. This person (or highly talented computer) knows me

2. This person (or highly talented computer) won't reveal their identity. 

Based on the data I came up with the following Venn-diagram analysis.

 Hey..there is possibility and she is now single.... 

Obviously this search wasn't going anywhere so I tried to pry some information from this mysterious texter--I begged for forgiveness, promised them money, even threw a temper tantrum but unfortunately this person/thing was firm...

Until they said one phrase that completely changed the situation and helped narrow down my search--they texted me something only an individual intimate with me would say....

!!!

Convert to Judaism and wear a kippah to cover bald spot

First decide between the various movements of Judaism (Orthodox, Reform, Conservative or Orthodox) to become a potential candidate, and then use the Google to locate the closest rabbi, preferably near my apartment since my car still makes that annoying clicking sound when travelling long distances. Also—find a good mechanic to get the car checked out (note, he doesn’t necessarily have to be Jewish but I can ask the rabbi that). Have a lengthy conversation with said rabbi and be prepared to be persuaded against my path and turned down three times; resist his attempts of dissuasion and avoid saying “best out of five?” Diligently spend the next six to twelve months is isolated study, absorbing the tenants of Jewish law, understanding all 613 commandments, devoting oneself to the Thirteen principles and mastering Hebrew. After developing confidence and hardened resolve, sign up for examination by the Jewish court (Beit Din) and successfully pass the testing by the three authorities. Prepare myself for the ritual bath Mikveh, and choose a suitable Hebrew name (The Google said Kedar would suffice). After signing an oath in a public conversion ceremony, privately and quietly rejoice, embrace my newfound Jewish faith, and don a yamakah to cover my growing bald-spot.   Bonus points for finding a nice Jewish girl to settle down.

Pros: Find inner guidance through time honored tradition and a rich cultural heritage.

Cons: No more BLT sandwiches.

Use science to prove my case as a more suitable mate 

Perform an exhaustive literature review of various medical and biochemical texts in order to show a correlation between higher serum testosterone levels and balding. Design series of blind studies to evaluate my blood-testosterone levels at various types of the day (note--I'll refrain from any activity that might artificially pump me up like cooking steak, lifting heavy weights or watching Gilmore Girls, in order to avoid skewing results) against a control subject, in order to establish my elevated androgen levels. Next show that in both animal models , human studies and from a cultural perspective, my above-average (also confirmed via statistical F-tests) clearly makes me a better suited mate. Publish, and await the deluge of women yearning for my manly approval.  

Pros: Possible tenure appointment at a major university

Cons: I'm that guy using science to pick-up girls, and I might go bankrupt trying to afford the journal fees. I'm looking at you Elsevier. 

Feign illness to divert attention and garner sympathy

Either use a current medical condition such as thyroid disorder, or completely invent a new illness (Swag-itis) and through a series of pernicious, self-harm inflicting actions (I mean, who really needs a gall-bladder when you already have a urinary one?), establish a bizarre set up symptoms to reinforce said made-up illness. Confound medical researchers and physicians at major research institutes, while leading a covert but aggressively viral charity campaign to highlight your "plight". Start slowly with Twitter, Facebook and other social media outlets before anonymously calling news-stations for a press statement. Stay one step ahead of physicians by periodically using blue food dye in your catheter and talking in a foreign language (Hebrew?!). Eventually a large and galvanized population will become enamored by your brave, single handed fight against the unfairness of the human condition, and ride worldwide support to your Nobel Peace Prize. 

Pros: Possible movie deal 

Cons: Definite chance that you will be going to hell. 

Change society's perception of baldness and beauty. 

Enroll in a doctorate program in Theoretical Physics at Oxford University, and devote several years of life under meticulous studies under Dr. Steven Hawking. Complete a series of further doctorates in Experimental Physics, Astrophysics, Mechanical Engineering, Quantum Physics, and Advanced Material Science. Under the tutelage of Brian Greene, Steven Weinberg, Peter Higgs, Yoichiru Nambu, Andrew Wiles and Bill Nye the Science Guy, develop an overreaching understanding of the nature of the universe and work out the intricacies of time travel. Also get a doctorate in English Literature so you can finally understand Finnegans Wake, and take a brief hiatus to chasitize the Korean foreign-exchange student who would never let you borrow his notes. Eat it, Anh! Use cerebral prowess to quickly amass a fortune trading on the futures markets and then tap the cash flow to fabricate a working time machine. Now travel through various points in the gamut of human history in order to propel men with thinning hair to positions of power, acclaim and fame. Start with the Roman Empire and work one's way to Genghis Khan (note to self, avoid getting raped/maimed by the Mongols) and ritualistically shave their heads. Infiltrate the fledgling American colonies and balden major generals, as well as Casanova in France--also instruct Webster to make balden a word.Tactically lead to Hiter, Stalin, Mao and Justin Bieber's demise by bald men. With your thinning comrades now in positions of power, focus your attention on the fickle cultural and beauty trends--shave every male model in existence as well as famous sports players, ensure that the major fashion brands embrace the mantra that bald men are sexier than their other haired counterparts. Turn to Hollywood/other major filming centers and shave James Dean, Robert Patterson, Marlin Brando, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, and every heart-throb across the decades. Also do everything in you power to stop the series finale of Lost being produced--seriously, WTF?. Finally return to your present time and embrace the reaps of your labor, in a new world where you shiny crown is a symbol of beauty, respect, power and strongly-written/cohesive plot lines. 

Pros: Fedoras will be banished to oblivion

I really have to stop watching the food network while listening to Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony...

So let me get this freaking straight. Here you are in your bunk Walmart furnished kitchen, mixing up this weak-ass barbecue sauce, and just because some shawties with sandpaper as taste buds that couldn't tell the difference between basil and pig-anuses are raving about your "secret" recipe, you got the AUDACITY run your mouth and think your shits tighter than mine, and come at me?

AW HELLZ NAW

Do you even know who I am?

I am god damned Bobby Flay.

And your ass is on notice, so you best prepare yourself to get showed up. That's right. And you know I'm rolling deep--I got my main homies sous chefs Stephanie Banyas aka Big Bearnaise and Miriam-the-sous-vide Garron in my crew, and you best believe we going to poach yo' sorry ass. I don't care that you and Abuela have spent the last two decades bonding over that whack casserole or that your love for your family is the "special" ingredient--nope, I'm coming after you, in your neighborhood--call Fanny May because  your house is mine and I'm disconnecting the cable and turning the lights out.

Do you even know who I am?

I am god damned Bobby Flay.

And you know that Bobby Flay don't play around when HE throws down, because I got's the SACK (not just enriched French milled wheat) to back up my claims. While you were buying Ragu, I was souffleing away haters at the French Culinary Institute with Ishaan Gupta. You don't even know what I been through, playa--I had to HUSTLE the mean streets of the Kitchen Stadium, going toe-to-toe in the fire every day--it was KILL OR BE KILLED, BRAISE OR BE BRUISED, POACHED OR BE PUNCHED up in THERE! And I lost some true homies on the way to the top.

RIP Boyardee, for life.

I made it, got the seared scars  to show it-- but still you got to go and run that mouth. So I'm coming. I'm going to roll on in and pull out my MAC kitchen knife, and go to to town on ya. Choppin up fruits that you don't even know bout (whatcha know about Cherimoyas?) and then blanching, spicing and plating things so good that yo' girl going to be eyeing me like DAMN (she like that Michellin star bling bling). That's right, you don't even know what you started because homeboy, you are in about to be transported to a world of culinary whoopass 

Perhaps it was due to my parents suggesting RABDARGAB   instead of paying me an allowance or the closest analog to Cinemax was the adult section of the library (no one can describe breasts better than Nora Roberts), reading and by extension education, has been a very important part of my life. My loving Indian parents  encouraged me to pursue higher education (Medical school) and when I entered college, I foolishly tried to triple-major in order to appease my voracious appetite for all things academic. I ultimately entered graduate school  to pursue my lofty goals to become a professor--I really didn't care in what subject but as long as I could wear a tweed jacket--but ultimately stopped early after encountering foreign students who could perform the entirely of my mathematical schooling, in their head.

Seriously, you know why Asia has such a high population/birth-rate? It's because they are all robots assembled in mass factories and loaded with "LOLYourUSEducation" firmware. 

While I'm technically "on leave" from my doctorate--to Dr. X, my PI, if you are reading this...I'm..um.."still" analyzing the data of my experiments--when I ultimately entered the working world (i.e made an income that wouldn't require me to sell my blood to buy ramen noodles), I took a temporary hiatus from higher education and never looked back. Working life was structured, productive and oddly satisfying. I was in charge of things (and people too!?) and while I still at times became nostalgic for the laissez faire fun of school, the power of the internet satisfied my ADD need to learn,  felt that the ability to advance my career without taking time off was dichotomous at best. 

Until I discovered this thing called business school. 

Originally I thought business school was just a fancy institution akin to finishing school for those whose lexicon included Old Money or had roman numerals after their name, and ultimately converted one's soul completely to buzz words, but after researching it (stalking my friends on Facebook) I found that it couldn't be farther from the truth.

Me: Hey X, how's school going!

X (that isn't her real name): Oh it's tough, I am so tired and exhausted

Me: Hah, that's why I didn't go back. All those pop quizzes and tests and studying must be

X: Oh no, not that, I had a happy hour sponsored by Wall Street, then a mixer with Other-Wall-Street, THEN had to figure out with tropical island I wanted to visit for our study abroad trip, and finally when I got home, I had to watch a Harry Potter marathon for class. 

Me: Whaa? Aren't you in school?

X: Hey sorry, got to run, there is a mandatory beer pong tournament going on

Me: ...whiskey tango foxtrot

X: FOMO

Me: HEY..I know it's been a while since I had a girlfriend but that doesn't me

X: It's an acronym for FEAR-OF-MISSING-OUT

Me: oh..I got one too, FML. 

  In short, business school is a non-stop college party except you now have money, and even if you don't you can get a loan for it

 Detractors and MBA students might yell "NO NEIL, WE ACTUALLY DO STUDY AND HAVE TEXTBOOKS", and while I do believe them to an extent (Fact: there are text book stores that accept money on campus), it's hard for me to reconcile this aspect of school with the fact that ALL YOUR PROJECT MEETINGS TAKE PLACE AT BARS. 

Don't get me wrong, I am not coming from a place of curmudgeonous but instead in utmost awe and proud that my friends have found a loophole in the system. Not only have they found a way to reunite with the recklessness of days of college, travel to countries that I didn't even know existed, escape the world of business casual to perpetual classroom sweatshirts,  but after this two year vacation, they will actually increase in qualifications for the job market. Seriously whoever though of that business model is a geni--oh, yeah...that makes sense. 

Where do I sign up?

The only contribution I really have to bachelor parties are sending the invitation emails. Names and certain things have been edited since i want you all to still love me. 

Gentlemen (I use this term loosely) 

So it seems that XXX (who will be referred to as eunuch, as-many-balls-as-Lance-Armstrong or Dr. XXX for the duration of this email) has decided that he isn't content with being verbally abused like a red-headed step-child-who-thinks-vaccines-cause-autism as a medical resident, taking orders from an army of sassy nurses and making poor financial decisions that would make Bernie Madoff say "WTF?", he has decided that he wants to add marriage to his resume of poor decisions.

Maybe it's because none of the black-strippers showed him enough affection, that he is scared of Obama Care (which is ironic due to his aforementioned  racial preference in strippers) or just hasn't seen a vagina since he came out of one, but despite all of our earnest pleases, XXX is going to tie the nuptial knot around YYY and his testicles this November.

And he needs our help.

Yes--just like every cop needs a street-smart partner to teach him the way of the land or a seasoned Halo players needs a familiar voice to protect him from the cacophony of teenager boys yelling about their past sexual exploits with our mother over the headset, it is our duty as XXXXs beloved Indian friends +/- YYY-the-only-white-guy to show him one last hurrah.

What do you need to know?

1. KEEP SEPTEMBER 13th, 14th and 15th OPEN FOR SAID PARTY OF MOST DRUGS, ALCOHOL AND BOOSOMS, WHICH WILL BE IN LAS VEGAS

  2. How to discern the difference between cocaine and anthrax 

  3. A functional kidney (possibly two)

  4. A striking ability to identify transvestites 

  5. Maybe a working knowledge on how to make meth, like they do in Breaking Bad???

  Further details will come quick and hard (that's what she said) but make sure to keeps said dates open--IF you are 100% sure you can't come over this time frame, please proceed to the nearest urologist with post haste, and reply with a "I LITERALLY CAN'T STOP SUCKING PENISES AND CAN'T COME".

Hugs and kisses,

Well..there goes my experiment with facial hair 

Hark!—hear me around the fireplaces or make-shift stoves, I have a tale of survival—thawed from a time when my world froze. The masses know of Chicago’s ice and a freezing New York City is a sight many have seen But do they know of Al Gore’s vice and how Neil Shah survived Houston’s freeze of twenty-fourteen?

T’was a Thursday night in a harsh January when SUDDENLY down PLUNGED the mercury, From a blistering temperature of forty-five down to record lows in the high twenty. WINTER IS COMING lamented ear-muff wearing meteorologists around my town And with wind chill the temperature could be adjusted a FULL degree down.

PANIC—for a moment filled my heart and head with icy fright How does a Houstonian survive such temperatures through the night? What are thermals, pea-coats or even down comforters on that note? And what exactly is that thing you wrap around your fleshy throat?

CHAOS—as the winds brought space city to a SIBERIAN twenty-eight, And legends say that water can turn to ice or snow; alas I feared it was too late. The mayor issued a proclamation that this cold brought sub-zero disease, And one should be wary for their pipes (both internal) could suddenly freeze!

FEAR—now gripped my soul for I was without supplies at my apartment home. I heated a lone hot-pocket, sharpened my hunting knife and hoped my fears were not alone. Was this the same fear as passengers of the Titanic felt as the Atlantic stole their feet? And so to prepare for the night, I found and activated unused setting on my thermostat—HEAT.

Friday morning, I woke up to frozen tundra and peered across the city during morning light. Schools across Houston were cancelled; no one wanted to risk the chance of frost bite. My boss warned me not to risk my life driving in when the conditions were unknown Something called “salt” was sprinkled on the roads and businesses shops temporarily closed.

I rarely keep cash on me.

No, this is not a warning to would be frustrated muggers trying to make a quick yet non-existent Neil dollar while I hustle the mean streets of the local Banana Republic. Nor is this a proactive warning to thwart would be gold-diggers from flocking to me—my crippling lack of game and the fact that my most valuable investment asset is my Netflix account and a stack of redeemable drink vouchers at United Airlines does the trick quite well.

I’m just stating the cold hard fact that at any given time I’m as liquid as frozen meat-loaf and rely solely on credit-cards for the entirety of my purchases. To the casual observer my antics are in line with the conspiracy nut-jobs who, while adjusting their tin foil hats, believe that Big Government/SnapChat/Oil/Big Bird is out there tracking their every move or trying to glean precious advertisement information off their search data. However I assure you that my “Mo money mo problems” legal tender financing is strictly out of necessity. Whenever I have loose change or cash in my wallet, the impulse control region of my frontal lobe drowns out all rational thought and commands me to spend every last dime on whatever is immediately available to me.

Where normal and rational Neil would simply close out his credit-card tab at a gas-station and go home to do his taxes, suddenly rapper-rich Neil would ask for change in small-denomination bills and gummy bears It’s a strange phenomena that is almost metaphysical—the act of my physically seeing tangible dollars  accessible in my wallet drives me to believe that I am now suddenly rich—is this how the Beverly Hill Billies felt?—and any financial ramifications were beyond my fat-stacks. I could imagine myself withdrawing my life savings for the down payment of a house and while enroute to the realtor, I’d stop by the mall to buy boat shoes, and then naturally a boat.

Yep, if I ever became part of a rapper entourage, I would be that awkward guy in the strip club swiping his plastic in the nether regions of a stripper named Destiny or anticlimactically making it rain by dropping my Macys, Target, Old Navy,  J-Crew and Shell-Gas card in unison.

YO GURL, THAT’S LIKE $10,000 IN CREDIT LINES AND 5 CENTS OFF A TANK OF GAS.  THINK OF THE SAVINGS FOR YOUR MERCEDES OR LEXUS, WHICH MIGHT ALSO BE THE NAME OF YOUR STRIPER FRIENDS.

For the most part I thought that my “credit , credit cards yall” mentality was financially prudent and safe, but recently ran into a snag.

While most of my purchase are made without any social interaction through online means, when I do need to step outside and buy something, my fascination with enrolling in cash-less options leads to a financial beat down on my credit score.

Yet more importantly I am now at the complete mercy of the contents of my wallet. Just today I was craving a hot dog and read somewhere that COSTCO had a cafeteria that offered a full-size hot-dog and soda refill for a mere $1.50. COSTCO is a member’s only warehouse that offers deep discounts by pricing objects in bulk—it’s the perfect place to save $20.00 on a crate of toilet paper that will last you until the end of time. Since I wasn’t in the mood to purchase a thousand of one particular item, I elected to just enter the cafeteria and wait in line to order my quintessential American treat.The line is long due to popularity of such reasonably priced goods and I end up waiting for 10 minutes. When I finally make my way to the front of the line and flash my members card to secure said obesity snack, the cashier alerts me that COSTCO cafeteria is cash only.

And they don't accept credit cards.

Lo and behold Neil has to bum $1.50 in change from the Asian couple behind him to buy his charity (also a stripper name) hot dog....