While I was at Yale, the neuroscience major was tied in to the psych department. Because of that, neuroscience majors were required to take a few ‘soft’ psych classes. Which is how, in my sophomore year, I ended up in Psych 150 – Social Psychology. Frankly, I hated the class. The research we studied was garbage, and the teaching was at a third grade level. When we were assigned a final project – executing a piece of original field research – I realized I had my chance to let the teacher know what I thought of the class. In an effort to mock the careful study of the inane that characterizes social psychology, I chose the topic of urinal etiquette. Ironically, I got an A.

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The “Number One” Social Norm

Very few social norms are completely rigid; most are violated, at least occasionally or under special circumstances. Riding in an elevator, for example, people will speak to each other instead of simply looking at the door if they already know their fellow riders. Occasionally, even strangers will strike up conversations during an elevator ride. Other norms, like eating with utensils or not sitting on the table, are sometimes ignored as well. Although the violators may be looked down upon, these violators do exist. However, up to the time of my experiment, I had neither seen nor heard of anyone breaking the strict laws of urinal etiquette. For the benefit of my female readers, I must first try to explain the tacit yet complex code that governs men

Yesterday morning, my first day back home after the trip out West, I reach into my refrigerator and pull out a carton of milk. Sell by February 19. I look at the date for a while, blankly, then try and force my sleeping brain into some calculations. It’s, what, the 25th? So this milk is five, six, or possibly seven days past. (Early in the morning, subtraction is an approximate science.) Almost a week. But that’s okay, right? I mean, you can still drink milk for a week past that date, can’t you? I stare blankly at the date a while longer. Maybe that sell by date is actually the last date to safely drink the milk. Perhaps, by now, the milk is a full week towards yogurt. I consider calling my mom for advice on this, but realize it’s still four in the morning, her time, and decide she won’t be too helpful. I look at the milk a little longer, then finally place it back in the fridge.

Cut to this evening, when I return from a rehearsal with the Center Symphony. I walk to the fridge and pull out the same milk carton. Without the morning fogginess, I rationalize at full tilt: How bad could the milk be? I’ll just take a sip and toss the rest if it tastes strange. I take a sip. It tastes strange. Or maybe not. I can’t really tell if it has an aftertaste or if I’m just producing one psychosomatically. I decide I’m bluffing and chug down the rest of the glass. Carton in one hand, glass in the other, I wait to see if my stomach has a comment on the matter. Apparently not. I put the glass in the sink. I’m pretty sure I should just toss the rest of the carton of milk, but after a few moments of indecision replace it in the fridge. I can always deal with it tomorrow morning.

Or, rather, The New Media Business Math. Perhaps a bit too close to home:

“Problem 5. You are a young, dashing New Media veteran. Out of the ten companies you managed in the last five years, three imploded before their IPO went through, four imploded right after the IPO went through but before you and your board could cash in their stock options, and three were shut down by the FBI as fronts for money laundering for the mob shortly after you left for greener pastures. How many more companies can you head before News.com stops prefacing your name in its reports with ‘wunderkind’ and replaces that preface with ‘pathological liar’ or ‘dog-felching weasel’?”

A few Advil, a couple of hours of sleep on the flight, and I’m now virtually hangover free. I’m in 6B, a middle seat, which is problematic, as I have a bladder the size of a walnut. Or perhaps I just drink more water than average. Either way, I’m climbing over the little old lady in 6C every 45 minutes for a bathroom run. Still, I’m a happy camper because everything about JetBlue is just better than their competitors. Wider, more comfortable seats (just shy of business class size but at sub-coach prices); cooler snacks (blue potato chips, biscotti); nicer (and better dressed) flight attendants; and cool little TVs on the back of each seat offering live satellite TV. I’m just waiting for them to start a frequent flyer program.

My seat TV is tuned in to the Cartoon Network, currently replaying a vintage episode of the Snorks. I’ve thought about this show intermittently over the past few years, but haven’t actually seen it since the mid ’80s, and I had completely forgotten about some of the central characters: the red octopus/dog thing, the big blue shark, the snork with two snorkels. Cartoons, I realize, are the perfect peer-group litmus test. List off childhood cartoons and anyone within a couple years of age chimes in enthusiastically, while those further apart respond simply with blank stares. Short lived Cartoons like the Snorks provide the most accurate carbon dating – I suspect only my immediate peers could sketch out a Snork on demand. We don’t have a label, my peers and I – too young to be Gen X, but too old to be Gen Y. A strange, transitional group, bridging between the slacker hip of our predecessors and the earnest enthusiasm of the next set of teens. Perhaps we should be called Generation Snork.

Actually, that’s a pretty apt title; the denizens of that sub-oceanic world are as transitional as we are. Far evolved from Gen X’s Smurfs, yet still well short of Gen Y’s Little Mermaid. Sort of a missing link. Generation Snork.

Since Valentine’s Day, we’ve had a giant box of chocolates sitting in our office, which my colleagues have been eating throughout the day. Watching them, I’m fascinated by the difference in male and female chocolate-eating styles:

Girls carefully survey the box, select the ideal looking chocolate, and then take a small bite to verify the quality of the filling. If it passes muster, they’ll continue to eat it in small bites.

Guys, conversely, grab the nearest chocolate, pop the whole thing in their mouth, and then curse out the filling (“What the fuck is this? Coconut? This tastes like crap!”) before swallowing it down.

It makes me proud to be a man.

Excuse me for being a typical guy, but I just don’t get it. Why do women find figure skating to be the most fascinating thing ever to grace a television screen? Why has every single female that I know been glued to NBC for the last week, absorbing each spandex-clad jump, spin and lift?

One sports writer has tried to explain women’s fascination with the ‘sport’ by comparing figure skating to pro wrestling. And while that does probably align well from an athletic perspective, the analogy falters in terms of breadth of appeal. My direct research seems to indicate that WWF events are attended almost exclusively by plumber-cracked, mouth-breathing, pickup-truck drivers. Whereas the female love of figure skating cuts across all socioeconomic lines.

The mystery may never be solved, but in the meantime, I’m picking up a ticket to the world figure skating championship. It has to be the easiest place in the world to meet women.