I Get A iPhone: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

I know what you're thinking.

And the answer is no.

Your eyes are not playing tricks on you.

You, dear readers, are reading the headline correctly.

After months, years in fact, of ripping on it, badmouthing it, and steadfastly refusing to even consider the possibility of owning it:

I, Nevin Scott Barich...

...have an iPhone.

Truly an "And the world will never be the same" moment.

On two separate occasions have I blogged against the iPhone. The first time, back in 2008, when the iPhone was in its infancy, I blogged about how trying to make a call on an iPhone seemed as complex as nuclear physics. The second blog, back in 2010, focused on those who would wait in line at 5 a.m. to buy one of these things.

So when I finally decided that I needed an iPhone for work purposes, I made sure to do the following two things:

1) Have the guy show me right away how to make a phone call.

And 2) Not get the iPhone on a day when a new version was coming out, or they were having a crazy sale, or there was some new-colored case that would force me to be in line for 12 hours just to be told when I got to the front that they were sold out of such colored case.

I would tackle my fears head on.

So I went to my good friends at the Verizon Wireless store in Porter Ranch, Calif., on a recent Monday afternoon, got an iPhone, asked the guy how to make a call, made a call, walked out of the store, and soon discovered mind-blowing:

I loved this thing!

I mean, the iPhone is awesome! Freakin' awesome! The world is literally at my fingertips. I can do everything. I can make calls, answer both personal and work e-mails, play Scrabble with my cousin in New York, watch the Dodger game, get into an argument with my wife via text, scramble to apologize, fail to get it accepted, order her flowers, get forgiveness...

...all without ever having to stand up.

The iPhone and I are one now. I feel like Bill Hendrickson on Big Love on the day he decided to become a polygamist.

Ever watch "The Godfather"? Remember when Michael Corleone was hiding out in Sicily, and he sees that Italian peasant girl and he's hit with what the natives call "The Thunderbolt?" When every fiber in his being just pulsates with obsession and he just has to have that girl as his own?

That's how I feel about my iPhone. I have to possess it, and I'll kill any man that comes near it.

I love my iPhone, and it loves me. I'm now of you: The iPhone people. I download apps. Apps!

As I wrote this blog, I stopped for a few seconds to play seven different games of "Words with Friends".

That's iPhone talk.

If you have an iPhone, like me, you'll understand.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A preview of next week's blog:

There are now robot sportswriters.

Grrrrrr.

Doing Some "Scientific Research" On Smoking: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

I did some “scientific research” recently and came up with the following conclusion:

Cigarette smokers will continue to smoke cigarettes no matter how ugly the cigarette pack, and no matter how big the pack’s warning messages are.

The Australian government is set to require “ugly packaging” where companies are prevented from putting their logos on cigarettes and must use the least attractive color found in government research for smokers: dark green.

Health Minister Nicola Roxon said she wants all cigarette packaging to be olive green. In addition, health warnings and graphic pictures depicting the dangers of smoking would take up 90% of the front of packs, and 75% of the back.”

Now frankly, I don’t smoke. So it's hard for me to have a take on this without enlisting some help. So I consulted one of the experts:

My father.

A faithful contributor of the tobacco industry for 47 years.

The following is our Q&A:

Me: Hey Dad, if the U.S. government made cigarette packs an ugly color, would that prevent you from buying them?

Dad: (looks at me like I’m an idiot. I interpret this as a “no”.)

Me: Well, what if the cigarette pack said something like “smoking kills” in big, large letters? What would you do then?

Dad: I’d take the cigarettes out of the pack and throw the pack away.

And then he lit up a cigarette.

Now how can you argue that logic?

In the end, the Australian government should be commended for such attempts, but let’s face it: The only ways to curb smoking abuse is a) hike up the prices tenfold and/or b) make it illegal entirely.

Any other efforts are a waste of time. For as my dad said:

Actually, I like dark green.

And he took another puff.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The subject of next week's blog:

I get an iPhone.

And life as we know it ends...

The Economic Crisis’ Latest Potential Victim: Buffalo Wings: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.

Now this is an economic crisis.

The threat of a lockout of the National Football League could affect the economy in one vital segment: The buffalo wing industry.

Various media outlets are reporting that an NFL lockout could cripple the makers of the tasty chicken treat, as chicken farmers routinely bank on the seasonal boom that football brings their business.

I’m a lifelong Raiders fan and can personally attest to the vital combination of football and buffalo wings:

I love watching football.

I love eating buffalo wings.

Doing both at the same time is utter bliss.

Without football, I can still eat wings.

But it’s just not the same.

Football fans understand what I’m saying.

So as the NFL owners and players continue their standoff, they should bear in mind that it’s not just the fans that are chewing their fingernails.

The buffalo wing world, too, awaits with bated breath.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A sneak preview about the topic of next week's blog:

In an attempt to curb smoking, the Australian government is requiring packs of cigarettes to have "ugly packaging" in dark green and put messages like "SMOKING KILLS" in large letters.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say smoking will continue Down Under.

Watching My March Madness Dreams End On A Cool April Night: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

My Final Four run ended yesterday. :-(

For those who have no clue what I'm talking about, I'm making a reference to the NCAA Men's College Basketball tournament.

No, I'm not a player.

I'm 31 years old. I'm terrible at hoops. I'm short. And I'm white.

And I'm not in college.

(Not that that matters, since most players on these teams don't really go to class all that much, so they're not really in college either).

But like most of America, I do play in NCAA tournament pools, as has been well documented in this blog (click here to read my most recent blog on the subject). This year, I had 15 entries, my most ever. Unlike many years, however, I lasted until the Final Four.

Now, for those of you who aren't sports fans and have no idea what the hell I just said, it's real simple:

I had a real chance to make a lot of money. :-)

My brackets -- well, 2 of them anyway -- had a chance to get the big money, the big score, the one that can pay for March Madness entries for years to come. I had gotten to the final weekend; no mean feat, for anyone who plays on a regular basis. I clawed, I battled, I outlasted many others and withstood many a test, to get to this point.

You see, it doesn't always happen this way. Many years, your brackets get bounced out early. An upset here, a random shot there, and all of a sudden the hard work you did in figuring out what your brackets should look like go up in a puff of smoke and all you can think to yourself is:

"We'll get 'em next year."

Other years, you last a while longer. You get beyond the first couple of rounds and dreams of winning it all begin to creep in your head. But then reality sets in, as you are reminded that getting past Rounds 1 and 2 is a lot easier than Rounds 3 and 4. And by the end of the second weekend, you're gone.

It's those that get to the final weekend that really feel like they've made it to the Promised Land. There's nothing like turning on your TV at the start of Final Four action, look at the two teams on the court and the 65,000-plus watching the game live, and knowing that all your hard work over the past several weeks has brought you here to this moment. It was luck. It was skill. It was a combination of both. But you're here, you're there, and all that's left to do is live the moment.

That's where I found myself yesterday, when Kentucky -- my team, the one I banked all of my hopes on -- took on Connecticut. The setup was simple: Kentucky wins, I win money, with the chance to win more. UConn wins, I'm done.

I had changed my strategy this year. Unlike my younger days, I didn't live and die on every game, every shot, in the tournament from the get go. When I do that, I have nothing left for the later rounds. This year, I paced myself. I didn't go nuts over the first few rounds. I didn't panic when Butler upset Pittsburgh. I didn't get myself in a tizzy over trying to get Duke to rally past Arizona. I didn't scream and shout and beat my chest when Kentucky survived surprising tough games against Princeton and West Virginia.

Because I paced myself, I was able to channel my energy toward Kentucky upsetting Ohio State. To them withstanding a furious rally against North Carolina. And now, the question before me was whether this year, I had enough to go all the way.

And I almost did. I almost did.

Kentucky looked horrible early. I mean, God awful. They couldn't buy a shot. Couldn't make a free throw. They went into halftime down by 10, and my wife Ramona shot me a worried look.

But I didn't come this far to panic now. I saved some in the tank for just this moment.

Willed by me -- and me alone -- Kentucky opened the second half with back-to-back 3s. Suddenly, the tides had turned, as it was UConn on the ropes and Kentucky -- my team -- with the momentum. Minutes later, we had the lead as I announced to the world that this year, I wasn't about to go down on the biggest stage without a fight.

The lead changed back and forth. UConn reclaimed the lead. Then Kentucky. UConn went cold. Then Kentucky went cold. With seconds to play, Kentucky miraculously stole the ball, down two with 16 seconds to play.

It was time to see whether I had one more miracle left in me.

Alas, I did not. Kentucky did not. With seconds to go, we missed a 3-pointer that would've put us ahead. UConn got the rebound and iced the game with free throws.

And my March Madness had ended on a cool April night.

Afterwards, Ramona gave me a consolation hug and kiss. Elsewhere around the country, other March Madness bracket players eliminated earlier bowed their heads respectfully, as one of their few remaining peers had joined their ranks. I had gotten one step closer to the Promised Land...but I still wasn't able to put my foot on it.

Next year, we'll do the same thing all over again.

March Madness.

We'll get 'em next year.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Evander Holyfield met Justin Bieber.

And Holyfield was quoted as saying how great it was.

You may not think this is much of an SOTA.

But for a boxing fanatic like me, this news just makes you want to cry.

Going Into A Bank: Like Walking Into A Car Dealership And A Casino All In One: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

I’m a traditionalist: When I have a check to deposit, I walk into the bank and have one of the tellers do it. It just seems weird to me to put an envelope into the ATM machine. Or to have my check deposited via an iPhone app. That’s just odd.

But here’s the problem:

These days when I walk into my local Chase bank, I’m immediately bombarded by one or more of the bank’s investor or portfolio experts, asking me if I’ve started planning yet for my retirement or pushing the latest CD plan on me.

And then when I actually get to the teller, they’re asking me if I want to sign up for a credit card and why wouldn’t I want an extra credit card and “We’re essentially not going to let you step one foot out of this place unless you sign up for our credit card with a crazy interest rate that you’ll be hit with the second you don’t pay your entire bill on time.”

Look, I understand that banks – like any other business establishment – need to adjust during these troubled times. But these days, I feel like I’m walking into both a car dealership and a casino all rolled into one. They’ll do and say anything to part me with my money.

And don’t even get me started about overdraft fees.

Nothing like accidentally going 8 cents over your balance and being charged $75 by the bank to cover it.

But always with a smile on their face, I’m sure.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Lindsay Lohan wants to just be known as "Lindsay."

Thus becoming the first white woman since Cher and Wynonna to just go by her first name.

Watching A Friend Pop His March Madness Cherry: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

Fair warning: If you don't like sports, you won't like this week's blog. You'll be bored, roll your eyes, sigh a lot, and that's before you get to paragraph 3. Just stop reading and come back next week.

Still with me? Cool. :-)

For those of you who were born yesterday, this week was the beginning of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, where 68 of the top college basketball teams in the nation compete in a single-elimination tournament and people like me fill out brackets trying to figure out who is going to win each game, following the games online at work, watching nothing but basketball at home, ignoring our friends, loved ones and co-workers for three weeks, etc.

Three years ago, I took my readers through the craziness of following the first two days of March Madness. Two years ago, I wrote about how my alma mater, Cal State Northridge, made the tournament, almost pulled off a gigantic upset, and how I almost had three massive coronaries from the excitement. Last year, I focused on how I was doing so many brackets that one pool I was in considered implementing "The Barich Rule" and limiting the number of brackets a person could do.

(By the way: "The Barich Rule" was not implemented this year. Thank you, Josh Kleinbaum.)

This year, I want to talk about my friend Fawzi.

Fawzi is like many people in this world: Not much of a college basketball fan. To be honest, few people no longer in college -- even if they're big sports nuts (like Fawzi is) -- really are. Once you get out of college, you stop following college basketball as closely, but the experience of college and the element of college basketball go hand in hand. Once one is gone, the other can't sustain.

But that's what makes March Madness so brilliant. You see, you don't need to be a huge college basketball fan to enjoy it. That's what a lot of folks don't understand. Many people who enter tourney pools are not college basketball fans. It's not about the love of college hoops. It's about playing with your friends, trying to pick some winners, and seeing if you can actually perform well without knowing what the hell it is you're doing.

And that's the beauty of it: That's possible! It can be so difficult to predict who wins each game that even "experts" don't know what they're doing half the time. You can get lucky, pick something random, and win money!

And when you factor all of that in, here's what happens:

You become obsessed.

Within minutes, you are following box scores on ESPN. You're watching the games on CBS. You are literally living and dying on every basket, screaming obscenities you never knew you knew, yelling at players that you don't even know the names of. You become the biggest fan of any team you happened to pick at that moment. And you switch allegiances like you switch socks. One minute you like Xavier because you picked them to score the first-round upset. The next minute you're screaming at their star player to tear a ligament because you don't have them going past round two. You rub it in to everyone who will listen when you pick an unlikely winner, and you feel 2 feet tall when you pick the loser.

For two years, I tried explaining this to Fawzi, with no apparent success. Last year, he just refused to play. Absolutely refused. "I'm not a fan of college basketball," he said. "I just don't care," he said. "What's the point?" he said.

But I was persistent. I pursued. I wore him down. Because I knew. I just knew...

And finally, earlier this week, Fawzi plopped down his $5 entry fee and announced:

"OK, I'll do one bracket."

And just like that, a crack addict took his first hit. :-)

Fawzi filled out a bracket, the tournament started today at 9:15 a.m., and by 9:19 a.m....

"Nev, Clemson is up 6-2! I picked them to win!"

And just like that, he was hooked.

Fawzi started following box scores, getting scoring updates every 18 seconds. He hopped around the office smiling like a 7 year old on Halloween when Clemson was winning. He moped around, scowling and kicking chairs when Clemson blew a double-digit lead and lost. He was happy. He was sad. He was ecstatic. He was miserable. And this only took us to 9:27 a.m. He was glued to any and all information about the games. Anytime I gave him an update, he already knew about it.

It was like watching a caterpillar bloom into a beautiful butterfly.

Fawzi was hooked now. Hooked into the March Madness craze. He screamed when Louisville was upset by Morehead State. Bitched and moan to a co-worker that everyone in our tourney pool was tied for first place while he was stuck in 15th. Kicked himself for not picking Richmond over Vanderbilt. And patted himself on the shoulder when he realized that, "Hey, turns out I did pick Richmond to win after all!" (It's OK. He's a rookie.)

And that's what Fawzi discovered today in his first foray into March Madness. It really is maddening. You're up and down 647 times throughout the course of the morning. And in the afternoon, you bust out the booze just to handle the roller coaster. There's truly nothing like it. And anybody and everybody can participate and experience the thrill, regardless of sports knowledge.

Fawzi became a March Madness man today.

The butterfly...has taken flight.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

I can't stop listening to this song.

As bad as it is, watch the whole video. Two minutes in, it gets worse than you can ever imagine. :-)

The New Generation Of Guys And Their Limp-Noodle Handshakes: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

So lately, for one reason or another, I've been shaking the hands of various guys who are part of "The Next Generation." These guys are in their late teens or early 20s and have been tabbed to carry the mantle of all the triumphs and achievements that my generation accomplished.

I'm not exactly sure what those triumphs and achievements are. I am, after all, just 31. But just go with me on this. :-)

Anyways, back to the shaking of hands. When I shake the hands of these younger guys, I've noticed a disturbing trend:

Their limp-noodle handshakes.

Seriously, all of these guys 7-12 years younger than me shake my hand like a wet piece of spaghetti. If I apply any pressure whatsoever, I feel like I'm going to break bones.

In my day...

(I'm no longer part of "The New Generation." Thus, I have a "in my day.")

...when guys shook hands, we shook hands. I mean, we gave each other a manly grip. Like men do. We were taught by the generation before us that men display strength when they shake hands. It's a sign of power. Of confidence. Of manliness.

And today, for some reason, these guys shake hands like they don't want to break a fingernail.

And I wonder why.

I mean, is the fault mine? Was it my job to teach these guys the difference between right and wrong handshake? Did I fail them?

Or is technology to blame for the current state of limp-noodle hand greetings? Did the advent of e-mail, text messages and iPads somehow make it so that guys had less physical contact with one another and thus made it so they didn't know how much strength was OK to show and as a result went weak with their handshakes?

Or is it the lack of action stars?

Here's my favorite theory that just popped into my head. In my day, we had movies that featured Schwarzenegger. Segal. Stallone. Van Damme. Men of power. Men of physicality. Watch Predator. At the beginning ot the movie, Ah-nold and Carl Weathers (the dude who played Apollo Creed in the Rocky movies) share a manly handshake. When I watched that movie, I was 8 years old. An impressionable age.

You know what: That's it. The problem is a lack of action movie stars.

So the fault isn't mine.

So to the limp-noodle handshake guys who are reading this, here's your homework:

Watch Predator.

Watch Under Siege.

Watch Kickboxer...and/or Bloodsport.

And watch Demolition Man.

And afterward, you'll be shaking hands like a man.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Charlie Sheen is still alive.

I don't know about you, but I'm shocked.