Lindeman Swears Off Sleep, Hygiene

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“I don’t need sleep anymore,” claims T. Lindeman of Philadelphia, sporting a smile that doesn’t reach his bloodshot eyes. Two months into raising their son, Ford, Lindeman believes he has figured it all out.

“We typically put the baby down at 10:15pm after a few hours of soothing him to sleep,” explains L. Burton, Lindeman’s roommate and wife and Ford’s mother. “Then he’s up at 10:30pm, wide awake and ready to take on the world.”

The baby has been absolutely delightful during the day, napping infrequently but behaving like the happiest little sack of mashed potatoes.

But then nightfall comes and his eyes roll back into his skull. His tongue flops out to an impossible length. And he wails like a sailor’s wife who was just told her husband would not be returning home from his voyage.

When family comes to spend the night and help, baby Ford hides his dark side (and this reporter is not talking about his bottom, which he presents for pats at every opportunity). But as soon as the guests leave and the door closes behind them, the child’s head turns completely around like an owl and he lets out a screech that shatters glassware.

“He’s gaslighting everyone into thinking he’s an angel at all times,” says Burton as she rocks Ford, an angel baby . “He’s gassy and gaslighting.”

“I’m fine!” says Lindeman, who looks to be suffering from the same aging illness as King Theoden at the start of The Two Towers. “I’ve moved past the evolutionary need to even rest my eyes,” he continues through tears pink with blood.

About a year ago, Lindeman purchased a Pokémon-themed sleep tracker as an impulse buy. “I would regularly get a sleep rating of five Snorlaxs and a Drowzee before the baby,” says Lindeman as if it were something to brag about. “But now that Ford is here, the rating has changed to a single Weepinbell and a Muk. I don’t even know what that means!”

It’s not just sleep that Lindeman has decided to do without.

“When he cries, there’s no time to shower,” explains the very greasy Lindeman. “Or brush your teeth. Or wipe. But those are all unnecessary. Back in the day, people never did any of those things!” Historical evidence points to bathing beginning as early as the third millennium B.C.

Despite his obvious fatigue and body odor, Lindeman is extremely excited about his days with Ford. When the baby reached 6 weeks old, Burton had to return to work, and Lindeman began his paternity leave.

“It’s awesome,” says Lindeman, a smear of poop on his shirt that he has yet to notice. “It’s just nonstop Boy Time, which is my favorite time. We’ve been hanging, relaxing, crying, chilling… all the best things!” As he notices the poop smear, his shoulders drop and he lets out a sob before quickly stifling it with a cough.

“The best things.”

For 18 years, Lindeman and Burton will be at the whims of baby Ford. After that, they’ll be able to sleep again — “But only if we have to!” claims Lindeman.

Until then, don’t bother turning off the light.

They’ll be up.

Local Man Goes “Full Method” to Prepare for New Baby

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With the imminent arrival of his first baby, T. Lindeman of Philadelphia prepared the way any new parent would: reading every baby book ever written.

But for Lindeman, it wasn’t What to Expect When You’re Expecting or Expecting Better gracing his bedside table.

“Oh, this one is great!” exclaimed Lindeman, holding up a tactile copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “Feel that weird crunchy stuff under the pages? What is that stuff? It’s amazing, I can’t stop touching it!” Lindeman also perused Moo, Baa, La La La!, Goodnight Moon, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear in his spare waking moments.

“But I don’t have a ton of time to read anymore, what with all the naps!”

Lindeman has been approaching this upcoming life-changing moment in a way doctors are calling “troubling” and his wife describes as “really pretty annoying.”

“I guess the biggest thing to talk about is the diapers,” said Lindeman’s wife, L. Burton. “He’s not just stocking up. He’s wearing them. Constantly.”

Not only that, but he also insists on cleaning and changing himself. “Which actually sounds helpful,” Burton added, “until you see the mess. It wouldn’t be so bad if the infant diapers actually fit him. And the diet certainly doesn’t help!”

Lindeman’s cabinets are lined with jars of mushy bananas and mushy peas. The fridge? Just milk. So much milk.

“If I don’t have my bottle every two hours,” said Lindeman, “I’m going to get fussy.”

“Usually he can burp himself, but sometimes he asks me,” Burton said. “I don’t mind getting to smack him on the back a few times, except when he spits up and says ‘That’s the wet burp we are looking for. Just like Uncle Stephen [Lindeman, Lindeman’s brother]!’”

Despite working her own job up to the point of delivery, Burton found herself taking on another full-time role: caring for the adult-sized infant living in her home.

“Bath time is tough,” she said. “He just gets so splashy. And if the soap gets in his eyes he won’t stop crying for hours.”

We caught up with Lindeman during tummy time, moments after he had finished a new bout of crying.

“Everything is getting so hard! There are these new gates at the top of the stairs, so I can’t throw myself down them. And the cabinets all have these locks on them so I can’t get to the knives. I can’t even open a jar of aspirin!”

Rolling over and over on the small mat before crawling over to his impending child’s toy chest, Lindeman’s behavior did little to dispel rumors that he had forgotten how to walk. Crawling from room to room, he let out occasional groans and grunts when he wanted something, a wordless language that Burton “unfortunately” picked up quite quickly. Even over the course of this interview, it seemed to be replacing his capacity for speech entirely.

As the day wore on, at one point Lindeman caught sight of his wife and immediately cued up his tears again until she put him to bed and sang him a few lullabies.

“It’s the same every time,” Burton clarified. “If he sees me, even if he’s fine, he’ll cry until I pick him up. It’s terrible for my back, and probably bad for the baby too, but it’s the only way to get him to settle down.”

Beneath his mobile of spinning animals, scratch-offs, and beers, Lindeman finally drifted off to sleep. But it was a peace short-lived. Moments later his cries rang out again—accompanied by the telltale smell of a freshly soiled diaper.

Husband Experiences Woes of a Sympathetic Pregnancy

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“Tired a lot, nauseous, a ton of weird cravings….” listed off Philadelphia resident T. Lindeman. “Occasional mood swings and weird cramps.

“And that’s not even getting into what my wife is dealing with.”

When L. Burton announced to her husband that she was pregnant, Lindeman took it with all the enthusiasm and excitement in the world. Little did she know the immense impact it would have on his body and lifestyle.

“I can’t let him shop by himself,” explained Burton. “He’ll beeline to the ice cream aisle and start loading up the cart.” For any other man, this wouldn’t be an issue. However, Lindeman has what doctors are calling “a disgusting degree of lactose intolerance.”

“I normally don’t even like ice cream,” whined Lindeman. “It’s these damn pregnancy cravings!”

Lindeman is adamant that his body is experiencing a “sympathetic pregnancy,” which can be found in many tomes of medical literature next to the chapter on snake oil.

“It’s absolutely wild the effect this has on the human body,” said Lindeman. “I’ve definitely been feeling the mood swings, especially when driving. I’ve never experienced road rage before!”

Burton confirmed this behavior, but said it was nothing new. “[Lindeman] has always been the type to get emotional. He weeps during episodes of Love is Blind and Severance!” Lindeman chose not to respond to these allegations, except to say he was a “sucker for good television.”

But pregnancy isn’t all sappy TV, aggressive driving, and constant snacking. There are also downsides that Lindeman is acutely aware of.

“I don’t mind the sympathy cravings,” said Lindeman. “But it’s the physical toll—the sympathy morning sickness—that gets to me!”

Every morning like clockwork, sometime between 5AM and 10AM, Lindeman finds himself face-first in the toilet bowl. And no, he’s not having a morning slurp like a dog.

“Sick as a dog, more like!” Lindeman exclaimed. “All these new hormones rushing through my bod, there’s no wonder I keep vomming. But everyone says that’s just how it goes in the first trimester.” Unfortunately for Lindeman, he is already well into the second trimester.

“It’s not morning sickness,” said Burton, who by coincidence often joined Lindeman on the floor next to the toilet. “He’s just sick from drinking or eating too much the night before.”

When Lindeman heard this, he remarked “That’s her opinion. But doesn’t she feel better knowing that I’m going through all of this with her?”

“It doesn’t stop with the morning sickness,” furthered Burton. “He’s also producing what he calls ‘sympathy burps,’ and claiming the baby is giving him gastroparesis.

“I think he’s having too much seltzer water and ginger ale to, as he says, ‘settle his stomach from the pregnancy.’”

Without a doctor’s diagnosis, there’s no way to know for sure what’s causing it, claimed Lindeman. But Burton is a doctor, and she said it’s definitely the seltzer.

“Who knows?” shrugged Lindeman.

As the pregnancy stretches on, Lindeman has taken to having a “bit of a siesta” every day. From approximately 11AM to 6PM, Lindeman can be found curled up in bed, “catching flies with my honk shoes on, and maybe a couple of cartoon Zs coming out of my head.”

Is this affecting his job? Or his helping around the house? “Yes,” said both his bosses and his wife.

“The doctor said naps are vital to the growth of the baby!” Lindeman is heard to say as he curls up with a big fuzzy blanket.

In his endless pursuit to ensure the baby has the best possible future, Lindeman has also started sympathy nesting.

“Lauren [Burton] is getting a BBL,” said Lindeman, referencing what he calls the forthcoming Baby Boy Lindeman. “So we need to make sure there’s lots of cozy places for that thing to rest and be happy.”

Lindeman has helped paint furniture, given up his office for the nursery, and even brought in twigs, yarn, and shiny things before being told that’s not what “nesting” means.

Unfortunately for this publication, our interview with Lindeman led to a monologue.

“I don’t mean to make light of women’s experience with pregnancy,” said Lindeman as he made light of women’s experience, “but it is just as hard, if not harder, for men.

“Between the sickness, the crampings, the hormones, not to mention the sympathy incontinence we get after the birth, our bodies will never be the same. We are forced to give up our own bodily autonomy for the sake of our families—without any say in the matter! It’s my body, it should be my choice!”

“Who knew 40 seconds of passion would lead to nine months of discomfort?” responded Burton, referring to how uncomfortable Lindeman makes her with his new complaints and irritating behavior.

She isn’t the only one made uncomfortable by Lindeman, who left us with these final words:

“Ugh, I need to go. I think my milk is coming in.”

Self-Proclaimed “Funcle” Revels in Love of Five Nieces

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Hours after the girls wake up, Lindeman descends the stairs to bask in the glow of his nieces’ affections. Calling himself the “funcle” (a portmanteau of “fun” and “uncle”), Lindeman is ready for the nonstop positivity that only an uncle can receive.

So it came as a shock when each of them independently greeted him with a “Where’s Lauren [Burton, Lindeman’s wife]?”

“Obviously it isn’t what I expected,” says Lindeman. Undeterred, he prepares to win them over and experience all the best parts of hanging with kids under 4, without any of the diaper changes.

And what better opportunity to win them over than the Christmas season, when Lindeman could give them presents and catch them at their most holiday cheerful?

As a LEGO aficionado, Lindeman planned for ages to get Poppy her first LEGO set, and he spent hours picking out just the right one. On Christmas morning when she opened it up, she got right to work building and playing, before remembering that her new-found fun was a gift she had to thank someone for. With a big smile, she ran up to Lindeman and said the words he longed to hear:

“Where’s Lauren?”

This is not unusual. In fact, most of their conversations start and end with the same two words. When Lauren is in the room, Poppy sticks to her like glue. When she’s not in the room, Poppy is asking Lindeman where his wife is.

“Any interaction is a good interaction,” said Lindeman, clearly attempting to hide his tears. “Really! It’s the best!”

A few days later, Lindeman traveled up to Cape Cod to win over his other four nieces.

“It’s a numbers game,” explained Lindeman. “With four of them in the same house, one is bound to love me as their funcle.”

From the start, however, Lindeman’s optimism was unfounded. Seeing a large bag of Play-Doh ready for the molding, he asked the two older girls, Olivia and Charlotte, if they wanted to play Play-Doh. He received resounding no’s. A few moments later, Lindeman saw his wife playing Play-Doh with them.

Undeterred, Lindeman caught Olivia building a pillow fort on the couch. A master builder with years of experience (see: aforementioned love of LEGO), he knew he could help build something stable and stylish, fashionable and functional. When he offered to help, or even to just sit quietly next to her fort, she responded negatively.

“It was her own fort,” sniffled Lindeman. “I can understand wanting to accomplish a task all on your own.” Lauren was later invited to help build, and even enter, the fort.

Another niece, Zoe, was recovering from a bout of RSV. A little sluggish from the medicine, Zoe wasn’t too anti-Lindeman when he approached her, but she certainly didn’t go out of her way to be pro-Lindeman.

“AaaaaaAAAAAAaaahh!” said Zoe, when asked for comment.

The youngest niece, Avery, was at first an easy target for hanging out. At meal times, she would be locked in her height chair, unable to leave when Lindeman would sit next to her.

“It was great!” smiled Lindeman. “A highlight of my time for sure–aside from one small blemish.

The “small blemish” Lindeman was referencing was a moment when he was asked to watch the teetering toddler as she stumbled around the living room. At one point when Avery reached for his hand, she dropped before he could reach her — right onto her face.

“There was a lot of blood,” said Avery’s mother, who had to clean up the bloody nose. “[Lindeman] really shouldn’t be allowed unsupervised around anyone of any age.

“Funcle? More like lunkle.”

Still, some moments were sweeter than others. Olivia played with stamps for a while, and gave Lindeman a small piece of paper that said “mermaizing” with a picture of a mermaid. He opened it to find she had stamped tiny hearts inside. (Never mind the fact that she gave Lauren two stamps.) And Charlotte spent ten minutes handing out straws to everyone in the family.

“Even though she gave me a straw last,” said Lindeman, proudly displaying his yellow straw, “it still counts!”

And while normally Charlotte’s favorite thing to say to Lindeman is “No,” at bedtime she asked him for a kiss and a hug, and said “I love you.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s really a funcle moment,” said Lindeman. “But it makes being an uncle more than enough.”

Lindeman Leans into Self Care with Monthly Trips to the Nail Salon

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“I’ll have the usual,” calls T. Lindeman as he walks into Coco Blue Nail Spa in Old City, Philadelphia. Led to his massage chair, Lindeman dips his feet into the steaming water and releases an indulgent sigh.

After the staff confirms his actual order, they get to work on Lindeman’s toes for a monthly ritual that began approximately six years ago.

“We go together,” explains Lindeman’s wife, L. Burton. “When we were still in the throes of courtship, he wanted to celebrate whenever I finished a rotation in my residency.

“I thought it would be funny to invite him once, but he’s really taken to it, and maybe taken it too far.”

Aside from one foot massage gone wrong in Wuhan during a trip to China, Lindeman had never previously pampered his feet. But after his first trip with Burton to the nail salon, he realized that there could actually be a treatment for the ingrown toenails he had developed from decades of rowing in shoes too small for him. He didn’t actually have to suffer his whole life.

“And you get to pick a color!” Lindeman remarks. “The color is free, you might as well get something fun.” Lindeman also often upgrades his lacquer to gel because he’s, in his own words, “worth it”.

“At first, it was a little strange,” says one of the stylists at the salon. “We were a little apprehensive about this giant man coming in for pedicures every few weeks. But there is certainly a benefit to having him as a client.”

The staff usually assign new employees to work on Lindeman as his size-15 toes provide a big canvas for them to work with. But on occasion, he throws them a curveball and asks for a design drawn on his big toes. With newbies at his feet, the results are mixed: perfectly drawn pumpkins for Halloween; unicorns intended to delight his nieces that look like monstrous blobs; a lovely sunflower for his wife; and classy tuxedo “tuxetoes” for his wedding. As the design requests became more intricate, the stylists would have to call over others to help them get it done well, requiring Lindeman to spread his gratuity around to more of the staff. But, again in his words, he is “worth it”.

However, it isn’t all silly designs and glamorous leg massages. Some parts of the experience are simply not intended for someone of Lindeman’s size. Each time he walks in, they seat him in a massage chair. And each time they try to move his chair back to give his legs more room. But even all the way back, his legs are so folded up that his knees are near his neck.

“It’s mostly fine,” claims Lindeman from behind his own legs. “I just can’t use a laptop pad for my lap to put my laptop on.”

And he needs his laptop, as he spends his time in the chair “answering correspondence”. To whom he is actually corresponding, we may never know. But suspiciously, new articles for The Lindeman Daily post during his each of his appointments.

In fact, some might say The Lindeman Daily returned to life in one of those chairs. The publication had not seen a new article in several years before he started getting pedicures. Since then, there have been over a dozen new articles, a rehashed and relaunched website, and tons of merch.

“The merch is to pay for the pedis,” explains Lindeman, trying not to kick and giggle while they scrub his feet with the rough side of a sponge.

While off-put at first, the staff of the salon are now delighted whenever he walks in the door for the usual — a hot stone pedicure with lavender. Or mint if he was feeling particularly spicy.

Now, Lindeman is something of a fixture at the salon. But does he worry that he’s leaning too much into a traditionally feminine activity?

Beer in hand while someone rubs his feet with lavender and jasmine, Lindeman lets out another deep, relaxed sigh.

“There’s really nothing manlier than self care.”

Ireland Calls for a State of Emergency Amid Picker-Upper Scandal

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Chaos reigned in the Irish countryside this October, as partygoers faced catastrophe during an otherwise idyllic weekend.

“People act surprised,” said L. Burton. “But anyone who knows Tommy [Lindeman] would have expected this.”

Burton and Lindeman had flown across the Atlantic Ocean to attend a beautiful wedding at the famous Slane Castle in Ireland. Despite the distance, they are never ones to neglect an opportunity to celebrate love and cut some rugs. And soon after landing on the Emerald Isle, the wedding day arrived.

The evening at the castle started off with gusto and pizzazz — a beautiful wedding ceremony and delicious meal were followed by dancing into the night. When 10:30PM loomed and the band departed, the celebrants descended into the castle’s basement. There, the festivities continued deep into the night with dancing in the castle’s hidden nightclub.

It wasn’t until dawn that anyone noticed that anything was amiss. In the dim morning light, bruised bones and stained clothes revealed a populace unprepared for the type of evening Lindeman brought to the fore (and to the floor).

“Yup, it was Tommy [Lindeman],” said K. Votta, the wedding’s beautiful blushing bride. “I had a feeling it would happen — anyone would — but the degree of carnage was wholly unexpected.” Indeed, Irish authorities say the country had never seen such a slaughter.

This publication has been able to dive deep into the evidence and piece together what happened in Slane Castle that night:

When Lindeman is having a good time, he becomes what in some circles is known as a “picker-upper.”

“I pick people up,” explained Lindeman. Notably, Lindeman did not say he also becomes a “putter-downer.”

“He dropped so many people,” said A. Conyngham, the owner of the castle, who had ventured down into the nightclub to see how the night was going. “I don’t know how he was able to get through so many. It was horrifying.”

While Lindeman claims to have been stable throughout the night, evidence points to an early lapse into picker-uppering.

“We tried to put Kaitlyn [the bride] on our shoulders during the start of the reception,” said M. Protesto, another partygoer who occasionally partakes in responsible picker-uppering. “But as soon as we started tossing her in the air, he was clearly losing control of the situation. I had to single-handedly save the bride.”

Lindeman is adamant that the floors were to blame, though he was the only guest in a wedding of over 200 people that seemed to have trouble.

“They were slippery as hell!” Lindeman tried to argue unsuccessfully. “No one could be expected to stay on their feet!” Camera evidence shows that only Lindeman had trouble remaining upright.

As the night grew long, Lindeman grew bolder, picker-uppering more and more wedding guests and cultivating a scene of such devastation, the country of Ireland had to put in place a State of Emergency.

Slane Castle, originally built in the 18th century and maintained in perfect condition every since, felt the trauma of Lindeman’s presence. The castle steps, already indented by centuries of feet, wore down in a single night at a rate that would normally be seen over 100 years of activity. Lindeman’s inability to maintain his feet wore them down with heretofore unseen speed.

“I will say my tailbone was definitely bruised and uncomfy [sic] on the flight home,” said one of Lindeman’s victims. “Not the first time I have ended up on the ground and definitely will not be the last.”

Channeling the late-90s band Drowning Pool, Lindeman continued to “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” throughout the night. Unfortunately for him, his picker-upper-ees were not the only ones scathed.

“My knees are devastated,” exclaimed Lindeman, attempting to say that no one can blame him because he’s also sore. “And I’m going to climb mountains tomorrow!”

This publication has no empathy for a remorseless picker-upper. Especially one that did the unforgivable.

“I dropped Buck [the groom],” moaned Lindeman. “At least he seemed to bounce,” he continued, though it was clear that even he did not believe his own words.

Luckily the bruises will fade, and even thoughts of falling will orange and fall from the tree of memory. It will be as if the picker-uppering fiasco never happened, perhaps a distant dream. All anyone will remember will be an evening of joy, dancing, love, and most importantly, Guinness.

“That’s not true at all,” said the victims in unison.

Drinking Trip Hampered by Bouts of Boating

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Excitement abounded as T. Lindeman stepped off the plane in Amsterdam for a trip that, he hoped, would make his liver expand to shapes and sizes heretofore unknown.

“Like the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” explained Lindeman. “Except instead of my heart growing three times larger because of the Christmas cheer in Whoville, it would be my liver because of all the beer in Amsterdam.”

Lindeman arrived with a group from the Fairmount Rowing Association, his rowing club in Philadelphia. The team had traveled across the Atlantic to race in the 51st Annual Heineken Regatta on the Amstel River.

“With proper nouns like that,” said Lindeman, “the real reason for the trip was clear. ‘Heineken’? ‘Amstel’? Let’s just say the forecast called for beer.” The forecast also called for rain; it rained most of Lindeman’s time in Amsterdam.

With drinking on the brain and an afternoon arrival, Lindeman joined some of his teammates for dinner and a quick pint at a local watering hole. As 2AM loomed and his pillow sang a siren’s song, Lindeman left his team and went on autopilot.

“Tommy [Lindeman] has this thing he does in Europe,” said a source close to Lindeman that requested to remain anonymous because it was his brother. “It’s like a pre-bed ritual. Some people remove their makeup, some put their hair up or clean their ears. Some people even floss and brush their teeth. Tommy lumbers around whatever town he’s in until he finds a kebab, then brings it to his hotel and absolutely houses it all over his bed. If you’ve ever shared a room with him in Europe, you know what I’m talking about. And I’m sorry.”

The following morning, surrounded by pita crumbs and shredded lettuce, Lindeman rose with the sun, planning for a day of pancakes and beer. This would be the first time of many that his plans would be interrupted.

“The team wanted to practice,” bemoaned Lindeman. “So we had to head out to the boathouse where we were borrowing a boat for the race, rig the boat, check over our seats to make sure they were ready, and then practice rowing down the race course.

“It really got in the way of our being the ABC — Amsterdam Booze Crew.”

When asked for comment about the ABC, Lindeman’s teammates responded, “What? That’s not a thing.”

With practice over, the team stopped for lunch at a pub near the race course. It was here where the first signs of a schism in the squad began to show.

“There were some older folks in the group who began referring to each guy in the boat as either an ‘old guy’ or a ‘young guy’,” said one of the ‘old guys’. “And after lunch, the ‘old guys’ wanted to go drinking, while the ‘young guys’ wanted to take in some culture. So we split up.”

Lindeman, at 31, was somehow considered a ‘young guy’ — and one of the younger ‘young guys’ at that. But he joined neither group when they split.

“I was tired, so I went to nap.”

Telling words from the self-proclaimed and only confirmed member of the Amsterdam Booze Crew.

With two days of racing ahead, the team had to forego another night on the town. “‘Another Night Falls Victim To Priorities’ — there’s your headline,” quipped Lindeman unhelpfully. Early the next morning, he joined the team at the boathouse, where they launched, raced, and returned to the dock, all inside of a short four hours.

After a quick dinner with the team, Lindeman joined a few of the ‘young guys’ for a pint (which was limited to only a pint) before they rested and went to bed ahead of the second day of racing. “Another opportunity to ABC — Always Be(er) Crushing — ruined. ‘Evening Blimey Stymied By Aquatic Past-Timey’ — there’s a great headline you can use free-of-charge!” offered Lindeman, generously presenting another terrible headline.

The second day of racing consisted of two back-to-back races, and their final placement was decided by the sum of time from all three of that weekend’s races (the 5k time trial on day one, and the 2.5k time trial and 500m duel on day two).

“Not too shabby of a showing!” said one of the ‘old guys’. “We finished in the middle of the pack. If first is first, and last is last, and everything else is the middle of the pack, we finished in the middle of the pack.”

For Lindeman, this meant the rowing interruptions of the trip would finally cease, and he could get to work: “‘At Long Last, Lindeman Libates…Liberally,’” he shared with a wide smile. “Feel free to use that for your article, the fans will love it!”

After showering off with an enormous group of men from all over the world, the team went to the finish line where Heineken had set up a large bar in the Nereus boathouse. With wet whistles, they continued on to a pub for lunch and further drinks. Lindeman later led a crew to the Heineken factory for a tour and tasting. “If there’s anything more exciting than drinking beer, it’s seeing how it’s made! And the perfect opportunity to ABC — Alotta (sic) Beers, Cool!”

The rest of the team’s time in Amsterdam was a blur of Heineken, Van Gogh, breweries, Heineken, pubs, blushing past red-lit windows, kebabs, and Heineken. Looking back on the trip, Lindeman gave his final thoughts.

“Honestly, the rowing was probably my favorite part… off-the-record, of course,” he noted with a wink. “But being grouped in with the ‘young guys,’ I need to be seen as hip and cool and fun. ABC, am I right? Awesome Beer Chap! So how about this for a title: ‘Drinking Trip Hampered By Bouts of Boating.’

“Nah, that’s no good.”

From the Archives: Bike is Stolen, Masked Vigilante Appears

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From the Archives is a series of reposted articles from a previous iteration of The Lindeman Daily. There is more information about that iteration of the site in the About section, but the gist is that each post is a satirical news article sensationalizing the life of a college student/recent graduate. Most of these pieces are over 10 years old; some have aged like wine while others have aged like milk. And like aged wine and aged milk, they are probably more palatable when all mixed together. Enjoy!

Originally published March 23, 2012

On February 21, T. Lindeman ’14 went to retrieve his bike from in front of his Campbell Hall dorm room at Princeton University, only to discover that it was no longer there. The bike, a 21-gear Trek 7000, had been stolen.

“The first thing everyone asks me is whether or not I am sure I had locked it there,” said Lindeman. “I’m always sure of the first thing that pops into my head, but I decided to humor them. I looked all over campus for the next few days until it was definitive. My bike was gone.”

After reporting it stolen to the University’s Public Safety, Lindeman realized that something needed to be done. He repeatedly referred to the campus’ Public Safety officers as “a gang of amateurs… no better than a kid dressed a Sherlock Holmes when it comes to [a case like] this.”

“I always knew this place was unsafe,” said Lindeman. “But it wasn’t until that lack of safety affected me directly that I wanted to do something about it.”

“Yes, his words were pretty uncalled for and rather hurtful,” said a spokesperson for Public Safety. “We and doing our best, but there are a lot of bikes out there. Also, we had a bunch of other crimes we had to take care of too. One guy had a key in his door lock, that’s not allowed. And another girl had an extra mattress in her room, nuh-uh, no way. These criminals will not be tolerated, they are much more dangerous than bike thieves. Anyway, we believe that bike is gone for good.”

Though adamant about the need for action when it came to bike theft, Lindeman seemed to think for a moment, and then admitted it was best to leave the investigation to Public Safety. Lindeman then excused himself, citing a prior commitment that he had just at that moment remembered.

In an odd coincidence, just after Lindeman decided it was no longer the time for action, a man wearing a mask and tiger-head hat began accosting people as they rode by on their bikes. When they passed him, the masked man would pounce, tackling the riders to the ground and demanding that they tell him if they knew where his bike was.

“This new figure taking the law into his own hands is a menace,” said the Public Safety spokesperson. “He is undermining our entire safety system and breaking a number of our rules. He must be stopped. At all costs. If anyone has any information concerning the identity of this bandit, please pass that information along to us.”

In an anonymous email sent to the Lindeman Daily, a man claiming to be this masked bike-tackler explained that he is a vigilante for justice. “I am on a crusade to free this campus’ bike population from the fear of being stolen. The time for ignoring the perpetrators is over. And it is only through an iron fist that justice can prevail.”

Lindeman is very grateful for the man’s work. According to Lindeman, he is getting very tired of walking around from place to place. “I realized I had to start waking up ten minutes earlier to get to class on time,” said Lindeman. “Of course, I didn’t do it, but I would have had to if I didn’t want to be ten minutes late every day. So I’m happy this mysterious, handsome man is working to stop bike theft.”

While Lindeman appreciates this mysterious man’s handling of bike thieves, many others do not. “I didn’t even do anything,” said one such student. “It was a Friday night and I was biking to Forbes — to the Bulgarian table for dinner, of course — and this guy just appeared in front of me. He jumped me and asked me where I got my bike, and if I knew where his bike was. I couldn’t even answer his second question because I didn’t know who the guy under the mask was.”

The vigilante does not limit his attacks to strangers on bicycles. Video surveillance has also caught him attempting to flip over a golf cart while yelling about how tired his legs were. After failing to overturn the cart, he kicked the tires a few times before the vehicle’s driver arrived, turned it on, and drove off.

“I think this guy is really helping the community here on campus,” said Lindeman. “He’s made it his job to make this campus safe, and he’s not afraid to do whatever it takes to get that job done.”

The campus has not seen a single positive change as a result of the masked vigilante’s actions; there is an increase in scraped knees from people being tackled off of their bikes, as well as a continuing rise in bike thefts.

From the Archives: Pirate Invades PHL, Takes to the Skies

On By TommyIn From the Archives, The Lindeman Daily1 Comment

From the Archives is a series of reposted articles from a previous iteration of The Lindeman Daily. There is more information about that iteration of the site in the About section, but the gist is that each post is a satirical news article sensationalizing the life of a college student/recent graduate. Most of these pieces are over 10 years old; some have aged like wine while others have aged like milk. And like aged wine and aged milk, they are probably more palatable when all mixed together. Enjoy!

Originally published February 26, 2012

On January 28, 2012, the Princeton Crew teams traveled to Tampa Bay, Florida for their annual winter training trip. While in recent years, the teams have traveled to Austin, Texas for their trip, they have switched back to the traditional Tampa following a three year absence. A serious time for hard work and focus, T. Lindeman ’14 arrived at the Philadelphia International Airport wearing a pirate costume.

Coincidentally, the first day of the trip fell on the last day of Tampa’s week long Gasparilla festival. Gasparilla is an annual festival held in Tampa that celebrates the debauchery and lack of hygiene of swashbuckling across the seas. Under a pretext of historical celebrations in honor of alleged pirate José Gaspar, the celebration involves thousands of citizens forgoing their landlubber clothing in favor of more whimsical pirate costumes, and consuming large amounts of alcohol. This year, the culmination of the week of piratical festivities fell on Saturday, January 28th, when the pirate-citizens staged a faux- invasion and demanded the key to the city from the mayor of Tampa. While Lindeman did not directly take part in any of this, he did adopt the spirit of the festival by invading the Philadelphia Airport.

The fact that Gasparilla would be in full swing during their first day of training gave Lindeman an idea, and so he took his reliable pirate clothing out of storage and got ready for the trip. Sporting torn pants, a vest adorned with the Jolly Roger, a red sash, occasionally an eyepatch (when he did not mind walking into various objects and people), an authentic hat, and a lush black mustache, Lindeman boarded the bus to the airport to looks of incredulity and judgment.

“I’ve had that costume for six years,” said Lindeman. “And it has never once led me astray. [For] four years in high school, every Halloween I was a pirate. Sometimes I wore it to the beach where I would swim out a ways, then over to the next beach where I struggled to shore, pretending I was shipwrecked.” These antics never amused the areas’ beach patrons or lifeguards.

Upon arriving at the airport, Lindeman was subjected to an additional cavity search while going through security. He soon realized it had been a mistake to invite the female security officer searching him to “shiver me timbers,” as a large man roughly took over for the flustered woman.

The barristas at the airport’s Starbucks were similarly upset by the handsome pirate’s intrusion into their shop. “He kept screaming at us,” said one of the store’s newest clerks. “He would yell ‘Arrrrrrrgh ye out of scones?!’ and we had no idea how to react. The scones were right in front of him! It’s always scary when lunatics make it through security.”

It was never more fitting for a pirate to say “Prepare to be boarded” as when Lindeman did when he approached the plane. The pilots themselves commented: “We had seen the crazy guy dressed as a pirate walking around the terminal telling people to swab the poop-deck, but we couldn’t even imagine that he’d be on our flight. It was interesting to say the least.”

Lindeman demanded rum from the flight attendants, but eventually settled for a coffee and a Sprite. “At seemingly random points in the flight, he shouted ‘Ramming speed!’ at us,” said one attendant. “He might have been talking about ramming the clouds, but I can’t be certain. Very odd.”

When they landed, the team was immediately ferried out of Tampa. “The coaches wanted to keep us out of the festivities,” said Lindeman. “But don’t worry, the party follows me everywhere.”

After the Gasparilla festival was over, they returned to the city for a week of training. Lindeman’s pirate antics during this time were very subdued. He said that he only wished to plunder the airport, not the city.

“There’s no good booty in Tampa.”

On the return trip from Tampa, extenuating circumstances made Lindeman unable to dress as a pirate again. Still, through some impressive finagling and his own brand of “pirattitude” Lindeman took advantage of flight attendants, pilots, and passengers alike. Walking onto the plane, he convinced an attendant and the pilots to let him into the cockpit and sit down in the captain’s chair. “We let him in, and even let him flip a switch or two during the pre-flight check,” said one of the pilots. “It was a little strange that he kept referring to the plane as a ship, but all of the logic behind his explanations of the controls made sense.”

Lindeman was given a middle seat in coach, but again, using a little savvy, he was able to take advantage of the situation and got an elderly couple to trade their exit row seats with him. “The hombre next to me?” asked a teammate who sat next to him for the flight. “He told an old woman he would skewer her gullet with his cutlass, and hang her entrails from the mizzenmast. He didn’t even have a cutlass, or a mizzenmast, but she moved very quickly.”

“We agreed to the switch back in the coach cabin because the woman he was originally sitting next to kept coming to us and pleading for him to move,” said one of the flight attendants. “Apparently he repeatedly threatened to make her walk off the wing if she didn’t tell him where her booty was.”

After successfully getting his way on the aircraft, Lindeman settled in and slept for the remainder of the flight. “Being a pirate really wore me out,” said Lindeman. “But it was great, everyone did everything I wanted. I wasn’t able to plunder any booty, or do any pillaging, or even make anyone walk the plank. I really didn’t get to do anything I wanted. But I’d say it was still successful. Somehow.”

Lindeman Claims He Will Build a Bar

On By TommyIn Current Articles, The Lindeman DailyLeave a comment

“I’m going to build a bar.”

With these words, T. Lindeman of Philadelphia, PA made a declaration, a vow, and a promise.

After moving in August of 2023, Lindeman and his wife, L. Burton, settled quickly and easily into their new home. Carpets were swapped with hardwood, bare walls became adorned walls, and their television was set up to stream through an Xbox. Every space was filled with mementos, meaning, and love.

One room, however, was still a question mark.

“It’s the room downstairs, in the back room behind the garage,” explains Burton. “We originally used it to store spare couches, since we had a lot of couches.”

But once the furniture was passed along to friends, the room was empty, a big absence of love and meaning. That’s when Lindeman made his declaration.

“I’m going to build a bar,” he said. “And it’s going to be great!”

The goal, Lindeman posits, is to have a “chill hangout space,” where people can “relax” and “take it easy” and also “slurp down a couple of pints of big boy bevies.” His enthusiasm for this new project was clear, though not as infectious as he had hoped.

“My co-worker and I made a bet,” Burton says. “We knew it would take a while for [Lindeman] to build it and get it ready. So we made a wager on what specific date we thought it would be finished.” Perhaps embarrassed about the lack of confidence in her husband, Burton refuses to even hint at what date she picked.

But that lack of confidence might not be unfounded. Though a self-proclaimed “LEGO maniac,” Lindeman has no real experience building anything of any true substance.

“He claims he built a desk during the pandemic,” says Lindeman’s friend M. Protesto, a seasoned woodworker who had volunteered to help Lindeman in his project. “But that was just putting legs onto a single piece of butcher block. Not really much he could mess up.”

But Lindeman could not be dissuaded. He went to work researching, planning, organizing. He even bought a binder to hold his “schematics.”

Plans in hand, Lindeman flashed them in front of Protesto.

“They seemed ok, from what I glanced at,” shrugs Protesto. The question remained, would he be able to actually execute the project?

After sitting on the plans for a few weeks, the wheels of progress began to inch forward with an influx of confidence from a surprising source: in what can only be described as a bout of madness, his parents gifted Lindeman tools for his birthday. Armed with his own proper equipment and borrowing his father’s miter saw, Lindeman had no excuse not to begin with haste.

Lindeman visited several places to get the wood he needed for the project. He started at Home Depot, which didn’t have great quality. Then he went to Lowe’s, which also didn’t have great quality. Finally, he went to a lumberyard in West Philly. It didn’t have great quality either. But he bought it all anyway and brought it home. Some of it wasn’t even warped!

Eventually, the room was filled with piles of wood, tools, and screws. It was time to get to work.

When it comes to cutting wood, the inexperienced Lindeman subscribes to one rule: “Measure twice, cut yourself twice, cut the wood once.”

Things began to come together. With a Bud Lite in hand and Thin Lizzy on repeat, a bar began to appear.

Now over a year after they had moved into their home, it seems like there is still a long way to go with the project.

“The frame is built, the kegerator installed,” exclaims Lindeman. “There is a light at the end of the tunnel!”

“But not much light,” adds Burton, referring to the fact that a vortex of sawdust spins continuously around the room, blocking out both natural and artificial light. With sharp tools all over the floor and scraps of wood piled over every spare surface, Lindeman’s work is a bit of a mess. But he insists that is just what it takes.

“Once we tap that keg,” smiles Lindeman, who doesn’t know the first thing about how to operate a kegerator, or even how to properly pour a beer, “nothing in the world will taste sweeter.”

As of now, the bar is still incomplete.