Different People, Same Face

Sometimes different people share the same face. I can't explain it, you can't explain it, that's just the way it is.

The following pairs of people share a common face.

First, an obvious one:

Natalie Portman and Keira Knightly










This one is so obvious it's like putting Sarah Jessica Parker on my list of ugly people who everyone insists are good-looking (somewhere way down there).

Another obvious one: Jimmy Fallon and Chris Kattan




Orlando Bloom and Tarek from The Apprentice




Lawrence Fishburne and Mo Vaughn




George and Laura Bush



















Allen Iverson and the Olsen Twins








Ryan from The OC and Mr. Magoo





Liv Tyler and an Allergic Person

I Just Want An Average Gal

In some college class, I learned the fact that "averageness" in human faces was physically attractive. This seemed strange. Apparently though, if you take a bunch of humans of the same gender and compile their faces into one, you will end up with a good-looking person. And the more faces you compile, the better-looking our composite friend gets. The reason is that you are "averaging out" features of all different shapes and sizes and coming out with something very simple, very ordinary, and very symmetrical, and we are biologically programmed to find that attractive.

The main thing I took from this (and from the pictures below, which I found on the internet, which made me remember learning this, which made me decide to tell you about it) is that as much as our society influences the way we think and the things we like or dislike, our preference for attractive human faces have nothing to do with society or culture. Other aspects of appearance, such as pale versus tan, fat versus skinny, etc. are partially a product of our society. But not faces.

This is a weird and random entry, I know. But it's interesting.






The 1-10 scale for girls was so last year. I'm onto the 1-128 facial composite scale.

To see the faces compiling, one by one, click here and view the movie. Then click the link below the movie, and the number of faces will double.

http://homepage.psy.utexas.edu/homepage/group/langloislab/newformat/morph2faces.html

My New Apartment

Some notes:

• After 7am the bedroom resembles the sun. People like to make themselves feel good about themselves by pretending that they need to have windows everywhere. "I'm the type of person who never wants to be in a room without a window," they think, smugly. But this big, shadeless window is nothing short of an alarm, set at 7am permanently, with no snooze button (even if there were a snooze button, it would be mad selfish of me to turn the sun off for my snoozing convenience).

• I met my neighbor yesterday. Boris. I estimated his age as somewhere between 90 and 100. We were instant friends.

• Another neighbor is a dentist. This made me extremely uneasy, only because one time about 6 years ago I saw some crappy late-night TV movie about a dentist who goes on a gruesome killing spree, and I've hated dentists ever since. On the plus side it's nice not to have to deal with going to the dentist and paying for an appointment, since he can just do it.

• The 80-year-old South African building manager, who is already becoming a third grandmother in my life, told me about what she called a "very nice young lady" who lives on the floor below me. She even had the balls to stress that this young lass was single. All this means to me is that this is 100% the person I will always end up in the elevator with when I'm in mesh shorts and sneakers on the way to the gym.

The overall package seems acceptable to me. As of now I'm living with dozens of boxes. These boxes are nothing short of being all up in my grill. Right now we're in a bit of a standoff. I look at them, they look daunting to unpack, and I back down. I finally found the toothpaste in one of them last night, thank god, and I discovered some clothing in another, which has allowed me to function in public. So that's good. Now I'm headed to the kitchen to enjoy a breakfast of "bread with condiments", a meal I also enjoyed for dinner last night.

A Sick Blog Entry

I've fallen ill. The current state of my throat makes me curse the fact that there was even a hint of humor in my January 22 entry. It was the most insightful thing I've written on this blasted site. And it's not just the hideous swallows anymore. It now causes a perpetual state of pain. I also have a fever. All of this makes sleeping something of a trial. Last night the fever led to an eternally long night of twisted dream-riddled half sleep, while I managed to freeze to death and overheat the whole time simultaneously. On the bright side, throughout the night, in the state of half-sleep, I was entirely convinced that I was Jack's accomplice and that we were fighting terrorists together, and if I had to do it while shivering and sweating, well hell, the safety of this country was worth it. Sometimes delirium works in your favor. Tonight the fever is somewhat at bay, and the murderous throat is doing the honors of keeping me awake.

I haven't been sick in years, and had gotten to the point that when people complained of being sick I kind of assumed that they were lying, that they were just tired or something. Well obviously I was misguided. Anyway, I had always envisioned hell as the same exact thing as the normal world except the ground was always wet and I was always wearing socks without shoes. Or, perhaps, it was the world as it is, but while permanently wearing ski boots. But now I'm pretty sure this has to be it. It's permanently the middle of the night and I'm permanently in bed with a fever and a sore throat.

Of course, during all this, I've had to find a new apartment and move in. Changing apartments is a hideous, taxing process, and health would have been appreciated. I finally found one on Sunday, and after proving to the landlords that my business actually existed and signing the lease, I asked for my new address. They told me-

498 La Peer Dr.
Beverly Hills, 90211

"Huh," I said. "Beverly Hills, 90211". Funny. I was mildly amused, thinking little of it at the time.

Then, yesterday, I phoned DirecTV to cancel my subscription (since they weaseled me into buying their superfluous Premier package, in some twisted logic involving the NFL ticket). After the woman on the other line basically threw herself at me and started talking dirty in order to get me to stay with direcTV, she finally relented and asked for my new address, for the last bill to be sent there. I told her. She replied,

"90211! That's amazing!"
"Oh, yeah, that's kind of funny, right?"
"Oh, that's so funny!"

Then I called a piano mover to come deal with my piano (mah keez). After telling him the address, he paused, and then asked,

"Did you just say '90210?'"
"No. 90211."
"Wow! You're so close!"

It was then that the grin faded from my face. This wasn't an amusing circumstance. This was a new horrible part of my life.

I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself for this new future. Here I am this whole time, closely monitoring every other Tim Urban, sabotaging their every ambition, ensuring that none of them becomes famous, and something equally irritating is suddenly injected into my life, right under my stuffed nose.

There are no terrorists to fight tonight. I am unfortunately lucid enough to know that Jack Bauer is unaware that I exist. As I lie here at 5:30am, between swallows, I am alone tonight with 90211.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

The clock next to my bed is 5 minutes fast. The microwave clock is also 5 minutes fast. My car clock is 5 minutes fast. My cell phone and computer clocks are perfectly on time because they're hooked to a satellite. So I avoid those. Recently, I found myself automatically subtracting 5 minutes when I glanced at the clock. I had gotten too good. I had to get a step ahead. So I changed my car clock to make it 8 minutes fast. Now I subtract 5 minutes when I look at the bed clock and microwave, and 8 minutes when I look at the car clock.

This is ridiculous.

Who the fuck do I think I'm fooling?? This is the kind of thing you'd do if you had a retarded friend who was always late. You'd change their clocks, and because of the fact that they are retarded, you'd think that it might actually make them less late.

In this case, it is almost as if the intelligent side of me is trying to trick the retarded side of me into being more punctual. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe the retarded side of me somehow decided that rather than simply try to be places on time, I could just change time to make things start later.

This is no better than trying to quit smoking by placing your cigarettes on your dresser, leaving the room, immediately re-entering with a sneaky look on your face, moving the cigarettes into the drawer, and then tip-toeing out, hoping that later you'd notice the cigarettes were not where you left them, and shrug, thinking, "I guess I can't smoke today."

And even though I'm clearly aware of the silliness and ineffectiveness of my current tactics, it's the fear that accurate clocks would now appear to be less urgent than reality because of their lack of extra minutes that keeps me setting everything fast. In fact, I'm tacking 2 minutes onto my car clock tomorrow. No, that would be 10 minutes fast-- subtraction would be far too easy. 1 minute.

I'll tack on 1 extra minute. Don't tell Tim.

Kids

A subpar beginning to Friday, April 14th:

Since my roommate ditched me for law school, I've been frantically trying to move to a new apartment, considering that paying the rent is much less fun when my roommate's not paying half of it. I'm deciding between Venice and Beverly Hills and after agonizing over the decision, I decided I'd spend the day today pacing around both places for a few hours each to get a better feel for the areas. Unfortunately I woke up this morning to find that it was pouring outside. Worse, my freezer was wide open, causing me to gasp audibly.

So now I'm sitting here, trying to pretend the whole freezer thing didn't happen, and writing an entry about kids. That's right, an entry about kids.

To begin, babies--though nothing more than pods--are obviously a huge amount of fun, and I like two year olds as well. Two year olds are like dogs, in that sometimes you'll see one that sucks for whatever reason, but all it takes is spending two minutes with it and you'll end up fond of it. Four year olds are similar, but the ones at the very suckiest end of the spectrum are simply unlikeable people, and no amount of time will solve that.

Then you get into some rougher waters. The "automatic likeability" factor for 5-7 year old drops dramatically. The shittiest 40% of them are are wretched humans, and I only really like the top quarter or so. And this is from someone who tends to like kids-- the percentage is undoubtedly higher for more cold-hearted people.

So I was immediately irritated the other night when I walked into a 50-person Passover seder to see that at least 10 of those 50 people were in the miserable 5-7 range. One of them I recognized immediately. Last year at the same event I asked this child's parents what their daughter's name was. There were a solid two seconds of silence before the father turned to me and explained that it was a little boy with long hair, whose name was Matthew. So upon seeing him this year, I cringed at the memory, said hi to Matthew, and continued on to my table.

I was seated with 7 other random people in their 20's, and after dinner, one of the more loathsome 5-7's came over to the table and grabbed a cell phone that belonged to one of the girls at the table. He ran about gleefully with her phone, while we watched her pretend to be in good spirits and amused by the whole thing, but it was clear to everyone that if no one would find out she would have knocked the kid over and taken her phone back. This went on for about 3 minutes-- without a doubt my favorite 3 minutes of the night.

Towards the end of the night the man who was hosting asked if I'd play the piano. I gladly agreed, and sat down to play. A few people gathered around and listened and a couple made requests. This was fun. Until, of course, a 5-7 year old came over and started banging on the high end of the piano. Like the girl from before, I was now pretending to be in good spirits and amused by the whole thing. Then he decided that banging on the high end wasn't infuriating enough, so he moved to the low end and started banging, all the while snot pouring out of his wretched face.

This is a situation I've been in countless times before. It's a tricky one. If I pretend the banging kid is funny and cute, he'll be encouraged, and bang harder, and his fat banging hands will pound barrels of loathing into my soul. If I act irritated and angry, I look like an unbelievable ass. Plus, knowing a typical 5-7 year old, this will also encourage them to bang harder. So for years I would just play on in this situation, burning with hatred, resisting the urge to injure the child.

Then one day I gave up. You can't beat a 5-7 year old. You just can't. They'll pull out all the stops. No amount of strategy can conquer them. So now when the banging starts, I immediately resign, and pull the little monster up on the bench next to me. I take his index fingers in my hands and play a little song with them. Then we bang together. Banging on the piano is actually pretty fun. So this is one source of stress I've minimized. If I can learn to relax about the other 3,207 infuriating things in life, I should be able to live well into my 40's.

Me and My Sorority Sisters

I tutored for 7 hours today. Spring break has ended.

The last chapter of this eventful two weeks took place in New Orleans, at Tulane, where I visited my sister, a freshman. New Orleans at first glance appeared to be doing alright. The Tulane campus was fine, and Bourbon Street didn't seem any different than it did when I visited it 5 years ago. I was brought back to reality, though, when my cab driver drove me through a couple downtown residential areas, which were in shambles. He said his house was not damaged, but that for months afterwards, he'd wake up at 5am to stand in line at the grocery store, which would be open at 8, and cleaned out by 9. Dreadful. I know this has been beaten to death, but how the hell could the trillion dollar American government not manage to fill the New Orleans grocery stores? I just can't think of a logical explanation.

Anyway, in the midst of pondering this question, I found myself thrown into the life of a freshman girl at a southern party school for the weekend. A shade different than my current life in Santa Monica. My first night I had dinner at a table of 7 19-year-old girls and myself. These are intense little people. By the end of the first day I had the unexpected urge to compliment my friends while thinking bad things about them, gossip incessantly, wear pounds of eye-liner, and start getting ready at 5:30 when I'm planning on going out at 9:30. There were a couple things, though, that I forgot to consider when anticipating this weekend:

-college freshmen party really, really hard
-Tulane may be a hair more fun than Harvard
-being 24 is not necessarily a cool thing

While out with my tight-knit group of girls and their respective guys, at some point it hit me that I had passed the age where it was cooler the older you were. In fact, the party was a bit less cool as a result of my being there. Not quite at the "Who's that weird uncle at the party?" age, but getting there.

The only solution was to become liquored up. I did just that, and it wasn't difficult considering the freshmen were monitoring me carefully and constantly berating me for drinking too slowly. This was the most pressure I've felt since my 15-year-old sister peer-pressured me into taking multiple absinthe shots with her while on vacation last year.

I remember now why I was so hungover all freshman year. It's the first really free year, and everyone overreacts. And as fun as it was, one freshman year is enough for this guy.

Florida

Various human beings I know are becoming irritated with me for posting so little lately. I have a good excuse. I'm still on spring break. It lasts a full two weeks, and I'll be damned if I'm not gonna take full advantage of that time. Come Monday, I'll be back in full form, detailing every mundane event in my wild existence.

I spent the past few days visiting my grandparents in Florida. The crowd consisted of myself and various 87-year-olds for most of the time. Much to my dismay, my visit didn't coincide with either Monday night bowling or Tuesday night Bingo, two of my favorite possible activities. I'm still angry after losing in bowling last time to my nemesis-- Judy-- an elderly woman who was bowling against my team. Judy was as smug as they come, and though most witnesses will claim that our rivalry was all in my imagination, I know better-- Judy coughed more than once during my delivery. Missing Bingo is crushing on all fronts, mainly because it would have been another opportunity to stick it to that sneaky old bitch Judy. Next year, I guess.

This year's visit consisted mainly of hanging out in the 95 degree swimming pool.* And of course, a visit to Florida wouldn't be a visit to Florida without a couple staple experiences:

-My grandparents yelling at a waiter. This is usually hard to hear through the chorus of elderly customers yelling at their respective waiters.

-My great uncle giving me the following advice in one sitting:
--"Don't go to Asia. Leave Asia for the Asia-atics." (I don't know what this means, but he said "oriental" a lot)
--"Stay single, but use two condoms, or else you'll get ganasipheroids" (dead serious)
--"Computers are a Communist plot" (also dead serious)
He also refuses to use the button on the car key, insisting on putting the key in the door, like the way it should be.

-A 90-year-old yelling at me to shower before I get in the pool.

-Me almost being hit by someone who can't see well backing quickly out of a parking spot.

-The kitchen scene. It goes something like this:

Tim: [walks into kitchen to get a glass of water]
Grandmother: Timothy, what are you looking for?
Tim: Nothing, I'm just getting some water.
Grandmother: What's wrong? Are you hungry?
Tim: No, I'm just a little thirsty.
Grandmother: Do you want me to make you something to eat?
Tim: No, I'm not hungry. I'm just getting some water.
Grandmother: Sit down, I'll make you something to eat.
Tim: I'm not hungry. I'm just thirsty.
Grandmother: Why are you thirsty? Are you feeling sick?
Tim: No, I just wanted a glass of water.
Grandmother: I have medicine, you know. Do you want an aspirin?
Tim: No, I'm just thirsty.

[Grandfather enters]

Grandfather: Timothy, what's wrong?
Tim: Noth--
Grandmother: Eddie, go and get Timothy an aspirin.
Grandfather: Why does he need a hankerchief?
Grandmother: An ASPIRIN, Eddie.
Grandfather: Oh, is he sick?
Tim: No, I just wanted a glass of water.
Grandfather: Timothy, we have medicine, you know, if you're feeling sick.
Tim: No, I'm just a little thirsty.
Grandmother: Eddie, go get the aspirin.
Grandfather: Timothy, sit down, for Chrissake! We'll get you some aspirin.

And so on.

A good kitchen scene at least partially makes up for the lack of bowling and bingo. And there's always next year.

*I prefer warm swimming pools. The warmer, the better as far as I'm concerned. People always like to make themselves feel good about themselves by pretending they like cold pools. When I hear people say the following words describing the temperature of a pool, I know to translate to the truth:

Spoken: It's refreshing
Translation: It's excruciatingly frigid

Spoken: It's nice
Translation: It's miserably cold

Spoken: It's warm
Translation: It's cold

Spoken: It's like a bathtub/It's gross
Translation: It's nice. Possibly a bit cold.

Internet Drama

For awhile now, I've been a Safari user when it comes to the internet. For years I used Explorer, but when someone tipped me off that Safari was faster, I made the switch. And for the last two years I've used Safari happily. Well, mostly happily.

Someone recently told me about the browser Firefox, and claimed that it was much faster than Safari. I scoffed outwardly, but inwardly I wondered. Is it possible that Safari isn't The One for me? I tried to ignore these thoughts, but the more I thought about it, the more doubts I began to have. The fact is, I've gotten the message, "The application Safari has unexpectedly quit" more than I'd like to admit. And then tonight, during my fantasy baseball draft, the most intense and emotional 3 hours of my year, the time when I needed a reliable browser the most, Safari quit on me. Twice.

It's like a girl that has a tendency to storm off or hang up the phone when there's a fight, and then one night she has a fit and storms out of an important event, in front of everyone-- the fact is, that might just be the end for you and the girl.

Tonight, after the draft, I downloaded Firefox. And as if things weren't awkward enough already, I had to use Safari to download it. That's like telling your girlfriend you're breaking up with her, but that first you need her to help you win over this new girl you're really into, who's hotter and has a faster search engine than she does.

Anyway, when I checked my email using Firefox, I had to sign in to Yahoo!, something I don't do often, since Safari had always remembered my username and password. (I knew this would happen-- I'm suddenly overwhelmed by emotion and guilt. I miss Safari. It may not have been perfect, but it was a damn good browser. I even miss Explorer right now, even though I haven't used it in years. I wonder how he's doing. I hope he's doing alright.)

So anyway I signed in to Yahoo!, and as I was typing in my username and password, I couldn't help but notice this picture in the middle of the screen--


My reaction was like the reaction I have when I open a container of food and see it's all moldy and gasp and shut the container. I immediately looked away, and I tried to type the remainder of my password in, but had trouble because of the proximity of this heinous picture to the password field. It begged the question: Why would Yahoo! think that this was a good picture to put on their website? What was the thought process when the decision was made? Who was in charge?

Partially out of the desire to free myself from this photo and partially out of curiosity, I refreshed the page. I came upon a new version of the Yahoo! Mail promotion, now with this picture:


I gasped audibly, for the second time in 30 seconds. While not as horrid and creepy as the first picture, this was quite simply one of the most irritating photos I've ever seen. Could it be that the same person chose both of these pictures? Are Google executives sending Gmail technicians to hack into the Yahoo! system and plant the worst pictures in the world? I refreshed again:


And again:


Either Yahoo! is committing suicide, or I have a serious lack of understanding of marketing. Those are four of the worst photos I can imagine.

Eventually I signed in successfully, and tried to forget what had just happened. It felt like a bad dream. Once I moved on, I began to appreciate the wonders of Firefox. It's fast, it has a great ass, and the tabs homepage feature is revolutionary. I've come to terms with the move, but the guilt is still there. I'm sure I'll see Safari around, from time to time. And hopefully, with time, the pain will ease.