Draw or imagine a line running from negative infinity dollars to positive infinity dollars. Now draw a point somewhere in the middle of this line and label it “zero dollars” or “$0”. Now draw another point on this line, somewhere to the right of $0, and label it “X dollars” or “$X”.

Now apply the following labels:

A: everything to the left of, but not including, zero dollars.

B: everything between, but not including, zero dollars and X dollars.

C: everything to the right of and including X dollars.

So hopefully we now have something that looks like this:

Got it? Good. The line represents all possible wages that a boss might pay a worker per hour. Point $X is the minimum wage.

It is legal to pay a worker a wage that falls in section (erm… segment? ray? vector?) A. This is usually a college internship or some other form of training, where employees essentially pay to be allowed to work.

It is legal to pay a worker a wage of exactly zero dollars. This is volunteer work.

It is illegal to pay a worker a wage that falls in section B.

It is legal to pay a worker a wage of $X or greater, i.e., a wage that falls in section C.

Can anyone successfully explain to me why section B should be off limits?

…

This was literally my hardest post to write, and is probably the hardest to read.

I recently hired Dr. Hmnahmna’s engineering firm to perform a rigorous statistical analysis of some highly sensitive data. Being a notorious drunk, he quite naturally demanded payment in booze– terms I gladly accepted given his firm’s extortionary hourly fees. Specifically, he asked for a fifth of Laphroaig, a Scottish single malt whisky.

Since Doc’s services have been solicited far and wide on this Earth, I assumed that this was a whisky he’d enjoyed (or at least heard of) on a sojourn abroad, that the only brick and mortar stores selling it were in Scotland, and that I’d have to pay an exorbitant fee to have it shipped over here. Happily, Laphroaig is sold in plenty of shops right here in the U.S. Thus I decided this morn, after feasting on waffles and eggs-in-baskets and bacon and sausage and fruit and tea, to stop off at a nearby liquor store and sample the spirit in question myself.

The 10-year-old single malt was about half-again as pricey as my current favorite, which is Glenlivet. I may well have just betrayed myself as a neophyte in all matters whiskyological, but if even better bang for the buck is out there I’ll take suggestions and address them at an appropriate time. The bottle comes with reading material: a small booklet advertising a whole entire square foot of the Isle of Islay, running alongside the Kilbride stream– a square foot I shall be claiming shortly, if I can navigate their website correctly…

…aaaand a teensy bit of Scotland is mine. On lease, anyhow.

The rest of the booklet contains tasting instructions– one reason I’ve never been much of a drinker is that boozing can be so much more complicated than drinking water or tea or soda. I ignored the instructions, dropped a small ice cube in a tumbler, poured two fingers in, swirled it around, held up the glass, and inhaled.

It was smoky. I mean like someone set ablaze some moss and plastic, put out the fire with a bucket of water, captured that smell, and bottled it. I’d had a case of the sniffles this weekend, but that cleared my sinuses. I liked it.

I drank a bit of it. I don’t know much whisky-drinking jargon, so I’ll use my own terms. Let the record show that it was good and I will buy it again, and the Doc made a good choice of payment. It’s smooth, but not so smooth that the drunkenness and wooziness will sneak up on you. There was some spice, but it wasn’t too sharp on the tongue; there was no burning to look past in order to move on to the next sip or guzzle. The more I smell it the more I like it– when I buy my other mansion, that’s how I want the reading room to smell. Thick rug by a huge fireplace, decent lighting by a comfy recliner, lots of brick, lots of oak, some deep red in the curtains, this whisky and a stack of old books.

This time of eve, after writing a test, an essay prompt, and two blog posts (the other will appear tomorrow) my brain’s not working well enough to describe the taste aside from saying it was good. Doc did some good work for me, but is definitely getting the better end of this deal: a very good call on the Laphroaig. Looking forward to the next occasion warranting a sip.

Congratulations to my dear friend and occasional commenter Dr. As I’m A Bassi and his wife, Mrs. Dr. Bassi, on the birth of their first daughter, Awesomesdottir! May she bring great joy to– you know what? It just occurred to me that the translation of her real name is a term for a medieval weapon. Well played, Dr. Bassi; you may have just taken the blue ribbon of baby-naming. Well played.

Anyhow, may she bring great joy to her parents and fill their lives with love and pride!

…

The leading initials of the last three posts are A, A, and A. How appropriate.

With the World Cup a mere six months away, it’s probably too late for FIFA to introduce any meaningful new anti-diving measures. Therefore it’s up to the fans, the advertisers, and the players themselves to do what they can to eliminate this most embarrassing element of jogo bonito.

Fans could pledge to stop buying products that feature, or that are endorsed by, the divers. No more posters. No more replica jerseys. No more video games if the person on the box is a known diver. Furthermore, the television-viewing fans could pledge to turn off their TVs for five minutes after every dive– we’ll see how purist FIFA is when their ratings drop after every dive.

Advertisers could refuse to allow divers to endorse their products. They could terminate endorsement deals with divers. They could write anti-diving language into all future endorsement contracts. These companies could band together to create a cross-brand advertising campaign: “Be a man.” It’d include TV/internet spots highlighting and lauding players who play through fouls, who shrug off rough handling, who don’t fall to the ground and cover their face when someone looks at their shoelaces the wrong way. I think one ad should highlight Robben’s run against Spain in the 2010 final: he got hacked pretty badly but played through and got a decent chance on goal. I think another ad should highlight notorious divers– especially those about to participate in the World Cup– and mock them mercilessly. Another ad could feature little kids promising that when they play in the backyard or on the beach or in the street, they will not pretend to be anyone notorious for diving. The campaign could include men and/or women from any sport (probably heavy on hockey, rugby, and American football, light on soccer and basketball), but they have to emphasize playing hard and tough and not diving.

Players could publicly take anti-diving pledges. “I will not disrespect the sport, the fans, the officials, my teammates, or my opponents through simulation, faking, diving, flopping, etc.” And, of course, the players could actually stop diving.

Ideally the campaign will be in full swing by the time I get out to Vegas to take in a game or two with Aabrock and Nikita. One can hope.