Preparations

At the moment, I am dilligently preparing for NYE in the Big Apple. As a matter of fact, this will be my first such experience in this fair city. And the city is treating me quite well: the weather is fine (i.e., above 40 degrees), my hand is feeling better (don't ask), and there are a few million people patiently waiting to party it up tonight in celebration of 2004's end and 2005's beginning. You can almost feel the debauchery in the air - the calm before the storm, or so it would seem.

Needless to say, tonight should be fun, if not action-packed.

Happy New Year's to everyone out there, wherever you may be celebrating tonight!

Do real men wear pink?

Regardless of how wearing the now-trendy color would affect my classification as a male, I am not eager to join the pink-adorned ranks of NYC, thank you very much. And that is precisely why I have to return the latest Christmas present I received.

To be less vague, the present to which I am referring is a Kangol beanie, which I requested just a few days before coming home. Originally, when I stumbled upon this winter garment on the 'net, I immediately warmed (pun intended) to the brown/tan two-tone variety. But since I couldn't seem to locate anything more than an image of that color scheme on the Kangol website and elsewhere in cyberspace, I requested the one in dark grey/light grey.

Let's just say "dark grey" is an egregious misrepresentation or, at the very least, a wee bit of an understatement - the damn thing is light grey and PINK. Well, okay, to be completely honest, it's more lilac than pink. (For those who, like me, only know the names of about 10 colors, lilac is a soft, light purple.) Keep in mind, however, it's not as if this correction mitigates the harm done. In fact, lilac represents even more of a serious affront to my fashion sense (if you'd be so kind to allow me one).

So, back to the store it goes, as all pink-hued articles of clothing must when they make their way to my closet. For now and the foreseeable future, I am to remain pink-free (or lilac-free, whatever).

Here's proof. 

Some strange alien material is falling from sky

And I'm not exactly sure what it is.

Just after finishing up an all-you-can-eat sushi meal - slash - Torts review session, Brian, Kevin and I emerge from the restaurant only to notice that there is something raining down from the heavens. Kevin and Brian assure me it is "snow" and I assure them it is "cold". Wow, this marks the first time I have ever lived in a place where it snows. Actually, I think it snowed once or twice in Fairfield during the 15 or so years I was a resident but, for purposes of this post, that doesn't count.

The 31st is going to be one chilly NYE.

So, here I am sitting at the computer, looking out my window...

trying to decide how many layers I'll need to be warm today. It looks nice - sunny, very few clouds in the sky, the various wires strewn about the rooftops are not flapping too much, which indicates that it's not all that windy (wind is the real killer when it's sub-40). I mean, if I were in California I would estimate the temperature to be somewhere around the mid-60s based upon my visual evaluation. But thanks to first-hand experience thus far in New York - and Yahoo! weather - I know better. Evidently, someone who has already been outside today insists that it feels like 38 degrees, which is to say it will feel uncomfortably cold to me. Dammit.

So, with the knowledge that it is almost cold enough to turn me into a giant ice cube, I now have to ask myself the following questions: Which jacket should I wear? How many undershirts? Warm socks or standard white ones? Gloves or bare-fisted? Should I finally break down and buy a fucking scarf (not a big fan of suffocation, myself)? And where the hell is that beanie that I brought from home? All this at a time when the only thing on my mind should be the legal principles of negligence and strict liability. If my grades turn out to be repulsive, I will blame the weather and it's constant attempts to beat me into submission.

Test 2: Finito

Oh man, not only did I just take one of the hardest tests I've ever encountered, but it is cold as a blizzard out here. Feels like -45oC to my California-spoiled self.

One down and two to go...

Only nine more days of this. The oasis is within view, but agonizingly out of reach.

Anyone wondering what I am up to at the moment and why I am not diligently writing updates for this website will be able to see from this photo that I am currently knee-deep in multi-colored notes in the pursuit of good grades.  

The Bay Area's newest music craze: Hyphy

One positive thing about attending a "Homie Thanksgiving" is that it is the perfect opportunity to catch up on all of the goings-on in the Bay Area music scene. As expected, the attendees knew very little about the existence of any up-and-coming trip-hop DJs and even less about any underground post-rock groups in the area, so I had to settle for a report on the current state of Bay Area rap. To be frank and, simultaneously, to slightly embarrass myself, 10 years ago, this was my musical genre of choice (I've come a long way), so I did possess a slight curiousity as to what I had missed over the past year.

What I learned from the briefing was that the biggest phenomenon in Bay Area rap today is hyphy (pronounced hi-fee, not hi-fi). Being the ignorant, RJD2-listening person that I am, I had to ask: "What in the hell is hyphy?" According to my learned instructor, the word refers to a eponymous song by a group called Federation, which features E-40 and an out-of-this-world Rick Rock beat that is not so much music as a collection of drum beats, odd sound effects, and some guy mumbling incoherently. Just yesterday, I finally downloaded the song and found it to be crass and unpolished as Bay Area rap usually is but catchy in a thump-in-the-trunk kind of way.

If you didn't know (and who would?), hyphy is slang for hyperactive, a phase most people outgrow before the time they reach puberty. Apparently, the Bay Area music scene has, as a collective, not given up on being "hyphy" and, instead, embraced the "hyphy lifestyle". In true "I've Got 5 on it" style, there is even a remix floating around that features various Bay Area artists, an obvious attempt to cement Hyphy as a Bay anthem. It seems to be working, as even MTV.com has picked up on the buzz and penned a story on the subject (http://www.mtv.com/bands/h/hypy/news_feature_110804/).

For all of us from wonderous Fairfield, the best part of the hyphy hype is that at least one of the members of the Federation is from Fairfield, a fact which is proclaimed loud and clear on a t-shirt that appears in the song's video. Why I am proud that these guys come from home town is a mystery that will never be explained. And, truth be told, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

Side note:
From my extensive research after the fact, I have discovered that there is a six-part test to determine if you are hyphy. Feel free to take it at your leisure. Rigorous scientific testing shows that if you answer "yes" or "perhaps" to 4 out of the 6, you are considered ignorant, self-centered, wasteful, and just plain dumb enough to live and prosper in Northern California.

Have you ever:

1) "made them nosey neighbors want to call the cops"
2) "gotten crooked up and down the block"
3) (I can't really decipher this from the song but I think it has something to do with owning a "scraper" or "drop-top", both of which are cars, I presume.)
4) "getting pulled over and won't stop"
5) "danced on the hood of your partna's Caddy"
6) "made a baby's momma slap a baby's daddy"

Are you hyphy?

Home, Sweet Home

Ah, Thanksgiving.

If you couldn't guess from the title of the post, I managed to make my way home for the holiday thanks to some financial generosity from my parents. Flew out of New York on Tuesday night via JetBlue and arrived in Sacramento at around 10:30 PM. By the time I made it home, everyone was asleep, so I wolfed down some ham and cheese on a baguette, spent some quality time with my dog, and passed out.

The next morning, thanks to the time change, I woke up bright and early, despite being exhausted from class and traveling the day before. Got to meet my younger bro's girlfriend, whom he met - suprise, suprise - at his work ... a biotech company. And, to make matters even more unoriginal, he is spending all of his time with her, alternating nights at her place and his. I swear, he is utterly incapable of learning from my mistakes. Must be genetic or something.

At some point, Justin left to drop her off in Sacramento, and I tried to do some work. Problem was, I couldn't concentrate, so I ended up just hanging out with my folks, watching Elf and eating a delicious dinner in the process.

Later that night, Chris and Derek came through to hang out for a bit. We watched some TV, drank a few brews, and reminisced about the good ol' days. Great to see them, as always, but it's kind of pathetic that, in our old age, we now opt to stay in to watch Wild Boyz rather than go out and be wild boys. Oh well, socializing in Fairfield could easily end in a drive-by, so maybe staying in the relative safety of home was a good call.

Thanksgiving day offered no surprises. Went to Scottie's that night, which also offered no surprises, as the whole FF gang was there. Actually there was one surprise: instead of playing beer pong or pool, everyone was playing chess. Bay Area rap still supplied the ambiance, but the mood was decidedly less gangster, which I appreciated.

Friday: ate a Dave's burger, which wasn't as good as I remembered, but still better than the Corner Bistro. Perhaps the decline is due to the proprietor's recent legal problems. Seems that ol' Dave wanted to give something back on November 2nd, so he promised a free burger to anyone who voted. Apparently, the line was out the door, down the street, a testament to the value-sensitive people of Fairfield. The FBI, however, caught wind of his devious plot, and came down hard on Dave, who must have been unaware that rewarding people for voting is unlawful. During my admittedly short visit, I didn't notice him making the burgers, so it is quite possible that he is in the slammer once again (tax evasion last time, fyi).

Another Dave - a friend from high school - was at Dave's, however. He had been deployed in Iraq for about five months, starting 3 and a half weeks after the initial push. We spoke at length about everything going on over there and his experiences as a combat engineer. I must say, it was incredible to hear about the reality of the situation and all the peculiarities of war. For instance, in order to stay moderately comfortable in the oppressive heat, they would splay out on the cold granite floors of Saddam's mansions and palaces. Most amazing of all, was the perspective that he came back with. Over the course of our hour-long discussion, he put forth a very clear, rationale vision of what was working and what wasn't. Impressed the hell out of me, that's for sure.

Saw the Incredibles that night, which was fantastic in spite of the 5-minute "short" prior to the start of the flick that involved a dancing sheep.

Next day, met up with some girls from high school and bravely ventured over to the so-called "Homie Thanksgiving," put on by all the "homies" from the old "'hood". Never been to one of these before, but this is only the second annual, so I haven't missed much. Can't give many details about the event because it was just way too odd for me to describe (for example, the "homies" are interested in starting up a church to swindle money from unsuspecting Christians), but I was happy to see that at Homie Thanksgiving, they did actually eat a turkey (two, in fact).

Bright and early the next morning, woke up and caught a flight back to the Big Apple. Took the subway back from JFK and encountered no problems. I must be beginning to figure this place out. Next step, taking down Trump.

Case Round-up

Something I did not initially expect from law school was that I would be as interested in the material as I am. Now, it's not what your thinking. I mean, causation and promissory estoppel are great and all that, but what I really find compelling are the more bizarre cases. Torts, for instance, serves up some particularly choice morsels. For your sampling pleasure, here are a few of the more interesting cases I've run into lately while reading my Torts casebook:

Summers v. Tice: Three guys go hunting - one is a veteran hunter, the other two are novices being trained. Expert leads with the other two flanking him, one to each side. He flushes some quail from off to one side, which then proceed to fly right behind him. Both novices open fire on the quail - and on the expert, who loses an eye in the process.

Lindley v. Knowlton: Some children are attacked by their neighbor's chimpanzee (don't you hate it when that happens?). The mother recovers damages for trauma she suffered as a result of fending off the attacking primate. This case is from 1918, if you were wondering.

There are more, but I'm tired.

"I just blue myself."

Wow, Arrested Development is hysterical. Unless I'm watching Ali G or a Seinfeld re-run, TV programming is pretty much incapable of making me laugh. But not with Arrested Development. Sitting alone in my room, watching through my laptop and the USB TV Box I purchased for fifty bucks, Arrested Development has got me demonstrating LOL over and over again.

Ro, don't be upset.

Sylvie made me do it.

I didn't even want to, but then I realized that I should have some record besides my shotty memory of what has happened in NYC. Don't worry, this insignificant little thing isn't going to be eternal like Rodion.net - it's got no staying power. Even if I tried, I couldn't make a Fantasy Survivor half as good as yours.

Minority Report

Camel, a word which evokes images of dunes and sandstorms, is actually the name of a Korean club in midtown New York. Against my better judgment, I acquiesced to my friend Brian's repeated requests for me to join him in one of his much-hyped, whiskey-driven romps at the oddly named club last night. Suffice it to say, being the only white guy - and the tallest person in the club - led to a bewildering experience and a night I won't soon forget.

Actually, it could have been much less unusual, or at least I could have better dealt with the awkwardness, if I would have been the least bit drunk. Even after having two pitchers of sangria with dinner, and a beer or two one club prior to Camel, I was in no way, shape, or form intoxicated. Well, why not purchase a beverage, Andrew? That would seem to be the sensible thing to do to solve your problem of clear headedness.

And that is just what I did. I sidled up the bar, waited for the bar tender, who, in a strange cost-cutting measure I have never witnessed before, was also the DJ, and ordered an innocuous Bud Light. This they did not have in stock at the moment, so he instead supplied me with a Coors Light. Close, but not cigar, mon frere. While the identity of my drink was disappointing, I was at last on my way to comfort in a place where I stood out like a sore thumb.

In making this purchase, I learned something: since most of Camel's patrons originate from Seoul and are bank-rolled by some rich family member or relative (according to Brian, the resident expert), the food and drink at this club are astronomically priced. How much did I pay? Try $8 for a Coors Light. I don't even like Coors, let alone Coors Light, and I spent $9, with the requisite tip, to drink one. When I approach Brian to complain, he tells me that most people aren't even allowed in this Club unless they plan on participating in the ultra-expensive "bottle service" offered at each table. Sadly, that information, conveyed in a more timely manner, could have helped me.

So, it turned out, the thing that separated me most from the Koreans was not my ethnicity (or lack thereof) but my unwillingness to be economically eviserated on a repeated basis. In other words, I opted to remain sober and a wee bit uncomfortable.

Red, White, and Blue

Talk about a punch in the gut. Two elections in a row now my hopes have been inflated almost to the breaking point - in 2000 when the news that Gore had won Florida was mistakenly reported and in 2004 when all of the pre-election polls indicated Bush was on his way out - only to suffer a crushing defeat November 3rd. Turns out this election wasn't about the economy, the Iraq war, or health care (or the lack thereof) - it was about gay marriage and the "protection" of American values.

Protection from what? To explain the paranoa and irrationality, Middle Americans leaning to the far right must envision a doomsday scenario that goes something like this: an army of gays and lesbians coming to your town to steal your child as part of a massive gay agenda indoctrination movement, so that someday, they can take over America and, from there, turn the world into one big anti-heterosexual bonanza.

Gimme a fucking break.

Grow up all you insecure, sexually frustrated white males. Homosexuals are not competing for your marriage, your wife, your job (it's too menial), your guns, or your America.

Halloween parade just hours ago. Damn, it seems like all of New York turns out for this thing. With the crowd so large, we could hardly move. When we did, each hard-earned step incurred the wrath of an irrate she-devil or intoxicated spiderman. Good times.

We decided to decorate our bare wall with little kid-style pictures of pumpkins. To our surprise, a few people at the party decided to join in, creating a mural of sorts in our kitchen. 

More party madness.  

Party in full swing. Our apartment was so packed that people spilled into the hallway to escape the congestion. 

Decorations for our Halloween party last night. This is the hallway just outside our door. Since we are at the end of the hall, we were able to extend our reach a bit. 

Divine sandwich

If there is a God made of pastrami, He is served up daily at Katz Delicatessan. That's all.

"Do you act?"

Last night, a bunch of us law students went bowling to celebrate two separate birthdays. If you are anything like me, bowling normally induces painful, interminable boredom and you avoid it at all costs. But not this night. Because, rather than head to the standard neighborhood bowling alley, the birthday duo chose to host their party at the most famous bowling alley in New York City: Bowlmor.

To call this place a bowling alley in the first place is to do it a tremendous disservice. It is much more accurate to describe it thusly: Bowlmor is a snazzy multi-story club that serves expensive drinks (two shots for $21) and, incidentally, has a collection of bowling shoes, bowling balls, pins, and lanes. To my eyes, the bowling component of the whole experience seemed largely ancillary. Most people, including me, just drink and watch the bowling rather than actually participate. Ethan Hawke was there but I'm not sure which one of the two he chose.

After bowling, a majority of the people attending the celebration grabbed cabs to go to a club called Blvd in the Bowery. At this point, the b-day girl was wasted, so Brian and I stayed around for a bit to make sure that she was okay. Lucky for us, she had some friends from out-of-town that were ready and willing to take care of her. Freed from responsibility, we turned to the less difficult task of getting a cab.

While trying to hail a cab, we noticed two guys on the corner from Bowlmor and we asked if they were going to the club as well. They answered in the affirmative, so we all jumped in a cab together. On the way, we discusssed San Francisco because the taller guy was going to be there for a job on NYE. This is when my mind should have put two and two together but it didn't, and I continued to talk with them unaware that we were in a cab with Stretch Armstrong, a famous DJ in NYC who somehow knows the b-day girl.

This fact did eventually come to light when we were trying to gain entry to the club. Stretch simply walked up the bouncers, gave a high five or two, and the velvet rope moved aside instantly, allowing us to circumvent the huge line of people waiting outside. I find it always helps to befriend semi-famous people in these sort of circumstances. Unlike the rest of our posse who had already arrived, we even ended up with two stamps, which may or may not allowed us access to the VIP part of the club. Unfortunately, we will never know because we didn't try it out.

The club was packed to the brim with partying people, but the night turned out to be somewhat uneventful. Nevertheless, one interesting occurrence happened near the night's conclusion. As I was waiting in line to pick up my jacket from the coat check, I noticed two girls staring at me. When I looked over, one of them shook her head negatively, and they both turned away. With a good amount of alcohol in my system, I was more curious than usual so I asked them what they were talking about. In response to my interruption, one of the girls then said, "Do you act?"

Of course, faced with such a preposterous question, I had to make a dumb joke, so I said something like the following: "No, I would but I can't read lines."

(Noticeable lack of even the slightest bit of laughter)

"Oh, because you should. You look like someone famous. Do people tell you that?"

"Sometimes."

Here, as usual, I refuse to give them any ideas, and so they fish around, pulling out random names. One of them, however, did say manage to come up with the perennial favorite.

"You look exactly like Ed Norton."

Why does that happen so often? It is so far from true that it hurts. I guess if people can think that an uber-white guy is half-japanese, half-white (got that once last night), then I shouldn't be surprised that they mistake me for an actor whom I look nothing like.

Law School is time consuming.

Here's what I've done lately that is of interest (to no one but me):

- Had steak frites at Les Halles, the restaurant made famous by it's head chef, Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential and Food Channel host of "A Cook's Tour." For $15, the price is oh so right.

- Ate extraordinary ham sandwiches at Mario Batali's (also on Food Channel) Bar Jamon, which translates, not surprisingly, to 'Ham Bar'. Word to the wise: Thinly sliced ham, fresh bread and manchego cheese makes for good eats when accompanied by red wine from Spain. Also, it may seem bizarre, but cold poached egg with grilled artichoke and garlic-laden tomato paste is also a treat.

- Watched a video-taped interview that a classmate and I conducted for my lawyering class. Few things are more embarrassing than seeing yourself fidget and move about in discomfort for 38 minutes. Lucky for me and my frail ego, we are going to do it again later!!

- Saw Team America with Nathan Lane. Well, I wasn't exactly "with" him, but Chris and I were in the same theater. This I only know because his hearty guffaw was deafening to all those around him, which, in this context, included me even though I was at the other end of the theater. His laugh is LOUD.

Side note: Did you know that everyone's favorite radio host, Phil Hendrie, was the voice of the intelligence-gathering computer in Team America? Actually, unless you drive a truck cross-country and have XM radio, I bet you don't know who he is in the first place. Check out his radio show's website at www.philhendrieshow.com. He does funny voices that will make you laugh like Nathan Lane.

Line out the door for Gray's Papaya at approximately 3 o'clock AM. You can't argue with $2.75 for two hot dogs and a drink. Well, that is until the next morning when nausea sets in. 

Peter and my friend Brian at the Bowery Bar & Grill aka the B Bar. The oranges are as much a mystery to me as they are to everyone else. Note to self: stop pulling the labels off of beer bottles. 

Our expansive kitchen. Note our ingenius solution to the lack of counter space, i.e., the placement of the dish drying rack. The pictures on the fridge were not - I repeat, NOT - my idea. 

Hopped on the L...

And by some miracle of modern engineering ended up in Brooklyn. Quite an accomplishment for someone who hasn't gone any farther north than 20th St. In fact, this was just my second time on the subway since I have been here. It was also the first time I have left the security blanket that is Manhattan.

So, why would I put myself at the risk of whatever criminal activity goes down in Brooklyn? To see RJD2 and Diplo, of course. Both of these guys are DJs - RJD2's style is most similar to that of the instrumental king, DJ Shadow, and Diplo is a party DJ who is co-pilot of the group Hollertronix. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure that description helps at all. Suffice it say both are talented musicians, even if their primary instrument is a turntable rather than a guitar.

RJD2 and I go way back. In fact, I suffer from the I-found-him-first superiority that afflicts so many hip hop listeners. You know, the syndrome that causes otherwise sane fans to falsely believe that they have some ownership over an artist and to be wary of any album put out by said artist if it garners them mass recognition and/or critical acclaim. My affinity for Diplo, who I just recently discovered on the 'net, is in part based on the fact that his name is a shortened version of Diplodocus, a 90-foot long, late jurassic saurapod (for those who weren't dorks when they were kids: that's a big ass dinosaur). To prove his dedication to archaeology and terrible lizards, he even has a tattoo of one on his forearm. Now that's hardcore.

Diplo impressed the audience by mixing songs that wouldn't normally be caught dead associating with one another. Try Dead Prez's "Hell Yeah" with the Postal Service's "The District Sleeps Tonight." Even if I wanted to, I couldn't even begin to dissect his performance to determine all the songs that played but I recall samplings from the Pixies, Outkast, Little Flip, the Cure, Weezer, Fat Joe, Radiohead, and a bunch of down south "crunk" songs.

RJD2, on the other hand, stuck to his own stuff, faithfully reproducing hits from Deadringer, Since We Last Spoke, Soul Positions albums, and even The Horror. Like DJ Shadow, RJ builds songs from samples culled from obscure records, typically of the soul and funk variety. This particular mix of his songs and many others, which lasted almost an hour and a half, was superb and vfull of energy. So much so, in fact, that he had to take a break in the middle to play "give out free shit," a game in which he donated various pieces of fruit to the audience for correctly guessing a mystery song. Spurred by the audience, he even treated us to an encore, although not of the variety that one would expect at a hip hop show. Rather than jump back on the four turntables and sampler, he picked up a guitar and sang the song about the telephone off his new album , which some reviews have called a "jingle." Despite the song's similarities to an AT&T ad, it turned out to be the perfect end to a great show.

Here are two shitty camera-phone pictures from the show:





Afterwards, we ducked into Sea Thai Bistro, the restaurant used in the beginning of Garden State. There isn't much more I can say about this place than "WOW!" Only pictures, not mere words, would do it justice. Maybe I should have brought that camera I always complain about not using. Damn...

It's worthless if I don't use it

I need to take more pictures.

Before moving out of my apartment, I bought this nifty digital camera, small enough to fit in my pocket but, unlike my camera phone, capable of taking pictures of more than 120 pixels. Since I got it, I've taken quite a few pictures - some in Vegas, some in San Francisco, on fishing trips, and of random debauchery in Menlo and Palo Alto - but since being in New York, I've hardly even removed it from the drawer where it resides. Those three pictures that I posted represent my entire catalog of NY photos.

Any requests?

Dave's wins again

Today for lunch, me and a few guys ate at the legendary West Village restaurant, Corner Bistro. If you aren't familiar with the place, it's a neighborhood bar that serves burgers considered by many, including a large number of food critics, as among the best in the city. Here's a link to a typical review: http://gonyc.about.com/cs/restaurants/gr/rr_cornerbistro.htm.

This was my second Corner Bistro visit since I have been here. My first meal was tarnished by the unthinkable: my burger was cooked all the way to well done and beyond. Accordingly, it was, for the most part, tasteless. Because of that debacle, I abstained from passing final judgment. Maybe it was a one-time mistake and the chef would be fired as soon as I left. I couldn't be sure. The only thing I was certain of was that countless people had insisted that the burgers there were amazingly good. As lame as this sounds, I didn't want to be the one guy who doesn't like a restaurant that everyone else believes in their heart of hearts is divine. And, yes, if you are wondering, I would jump off a bridge if it was trendy.

This time, I made sure to specify that I desired a medium rare burger (in retrospect, I should have gone all out and demanded rare) so I could make a more accurate evaluation of its goodness. Thankfully, the request was passed along until it reached the chef, and I received exactly what I asked for.

While I am willing to admit the famous 'bistro burger' was good and is, for New York, an excellent value, I must say that I would be disappointed if it represents the best this city has to offer, as countless Citysearch members purport in their reviews. If not for the stack of bacon atop my burger, I might even be tempted to to go so far as say it was just above average, which would make the situation even more troubling. Dave's Giant Hamburgers in Fairfield serves up much better burgers and that place, like I said, is in FAIRFIELD. How can a burger shack in Fairfield, run by a ex-convict be superior to one of the best burger joints in NYC? Well, there is that thing about how he laces the cheese and mayo with crack. Still, that's just a rumor.

Hate to say it, but I must be wrong; my usually dependable tastebuds must be missing something. The review I posted above awarded the place 4 and half stars out of 5. If I'm not mistaken, that is a great score. Now, I don't know what training this woman has that gives her the authority to hand out ratings to restaurants, but she writes for a commercial website and, presumably, is paid to do it, so she must know something. Right?

So I got called on again today

But this time it was different.

Perhaps it was because just yesterday I had lunch with this very professor and two other classmates at a fancy diner, and therefore felt a slight but dwindling kinship with him. Or maybe it was the out-pouring of support via IM that exploded on my laptop screen as the first "Mr. Bramhall" emerged from the professor lips. Well, that was more distracting than anything. Whatever it was, my confidence soared and, dare I say it, I managed to respond to all of his hypotheticals with what seemed to me like sensible answers.

Specifically, he asked me about whether a guy driving a car, who throws his coffee out the window, thereby dousing a bystander on the sidewalk, should be held liable for the bee stings endurred by said bystander after he lifts his arms in indignation and stirs up a hidden bee-hive in the tree above his head. Not liable, I said, with as much conviction as I could muster at the mind-numbingly early hours of 11 am (that's my earliest class, so it is, by definition, early)! Of course we cannot find the poor sap liable - that outcome was an unforeseeable consequence of the careless act committed by the litterbug.

That is the honest-to-God truth of what he asked. He then followed it up by inserting a pit bull into the story, but at this time I was too busy replying to people on IM to notice.

Wow...

I suck at blogging. Haven't touched this thing in more than twenty days.

The problem is, being in law school, I do nothing but read and write. My TV was left at home, so even when I am done studying, I am stuck deriving pleasure from the written word of the internet, magazines, or newspapers. in all honesty, the last thing I want to do after writing an argument outling my reasoning for why, under New Jersey precedent, independent contractors should not be held liable for defects which are reasonably undiscoverable is write more - even if the subsequent writing is low stress and pertains to things more superficial in nature, like a comical encounter with a rat or my drunken shenanigans in NYC.

Perhaps the ol' college try is in order. Otherwise, I fail miserably at the relatively simple task of blogging. Go me!

Blade was readied...

...but it did not fall on my neck this day.

Our CivPro teacher, just two days ago a motherly, kind-hearted woman, metamorphosed into a merciless executioner, grilling individual students for 15-20 minutes straight. Unless the alphabet is somehow reversed over the weekend, her wrath will punish me on Tuesday.

From the time of my birth, I always knew that the 'B" in Bramhall would lead to my downfall. Now that intuition is becoming reality. Bid me farewell, friends.

I beg you

When it really comes down to it, I don't ask for much. A good meal here and there. Maybe a drink or two during the evening. The presence of at least one master maniupulator in the new season of Survivor. Periodic contact with my friends and family.

I'm even willing to entertain requests for help, for guidance, for advice. I'm the guy who will try to fix your computer or walk you home when its late. Even though I have none at the moment, I'd give you some money if you really needed it. And rest assured that I'd never eat a puppy. NEVER.

All that I ask in return for all of this is, please, whatever you do, don't subject me to the pain, the torture, the agony that is speaking in class. It is that which I abhor most!

(This post inspired by the fact that I am on-call in my CivPro class which starts in 20 minutes.)

Here is Rai Rai Ken, a Japanese restaurant on 10th St between 1st and 2nd Ave. Inside, there are no tables, just a bar and some bar stools. The bartenders, as it were, serve up delicious steaming bowls of ramen. If you go here, make sure to bring your own newspaper, as they only have Japanese papers on hand. 

The awe-inspiring view out of my bedroom window. Take that California! 

My humble abode. 

Another odd occurrence

Because of all the reading and work for class, I've had little time to carry out my culinary mission of eating at every restaurant in New York. Most, if not all, of the places I've tried so far have all been within a 3-block radius of my dorm (if I'm not mistaken, there must be thousands in that small area alone). Here's a description of one of the more eventful meals I've had:

While perusing one of the local newspapers (I'll read anything as long as it's not my Civil Procedure textbook), I found a listing for a small sandwich shop called BB's. According to the paper, this diminutive restaurant has been a fixture in the collective NYU student diet for many years. So, on Thursday, between classes, I decide to check it out.

Upon entering, I noticed that there was no menu to be seen. I checked the usual spots - the walls, the tables, and near the cash register - but, as far as I could tell, there was no guidance for the uninformed customer. The proprietor called to me from the back of the restaurant before I could figure out what was going on. "One or two?" he said with a glance in my direction.

My response was automatic: "Uh, one, please."

A quick scan of the newspaper and magazine articles decorating the walls confirmed my suspicisions: this place only offers one type of sandwich. There was no menu because there's no need for one.

It was at this juncture that I discovered a noticeable lack of cash money on my person, a condition that can be convenient, and even fortuitous, when you are eating with generous friends but frustrating as hell when you are flying solo. If there ever was a place that wouldn't accept credit cards, this one-trick pony sandwich shack was it. Sheepishly, I inquired about paying with plastic, fully convinced that in seconds I would be turning around and leaving sans sandwich.

To my surprise, he took the ATM card from my hand, uttered something incoherent, and scrawled the total of my meal - $5.85 - on a piece of paper. It was at that very moment when an impish child appeared at my side, like a demon conjured by some dark ritual. My card and the note were handed to the gypsy kid and he exited the door, with what looked like malevolent purpose. Unfortunately, the child, powered as he was by youth, was too fast to follow. So I decided to sit down and let fate decide whether or not my credit card would provide the funds for the sandwich or a Playstation for the kid.

My sandwich came shortly thereafter and I devoured it with speed. While not a cheesesteak in the traditional sense, it did satisfy my desire for thinly sliced steak, melted cheese, and carmelized onion. By the time I finished, the kid was still nowhere to be seen, so I resigned myself to reading the newspaper.

As time passed, paranoia began to show its ugly head. Where was that gypsy? In my mind's eye, I could see him in Toys R Us having the time of his life, sharing a laugh at my misfortune with that damn giraffe. I was, as you might have guessed, worried for no reason. Before I could fully descend into panic, he returned, with my card and a receipt for $5.85.

Just goes to show you, contrary to popular belief, you can trust gypsies after all - even in New York.

On a conveyor belt...

Meeting new people en masse is, I find, a strange and disorienting experience. At NYU, the effect is intensified by the fact that I am thousands of miles away from home, stuck in the middle of a teeming metropolis.

Striking up conversations is easy. At this point, I am a master at quickly and efficiently extracting such facts as a person's undergraduate institution, hometown, area of study, what he or she has done since graduation, and so forth. People here are from all walks of life and originate from all over the United States, so it is usually interesting to hear their story.

Sometimes, regrettably, I find that I simply do not have any overlapping interest with the other person. And, honestly, after talking to so many people in the last few days, I find that it is becoming way too easy to be disinterested in the standard fare that is served up with every introduction. Avoiding the awkwardness that comes when the conversation screeches to a halt is enough to keep me blabbing, though.

Lucky for me, I've met a good number of people, some of whom are very cool. But whether or not I am making any connections that will evolve into real friendships remains unclear. My one hope is that all this effort yields results because it's left me weary and exhausted - and I've got reading to do.

A common occurrence?

A few nights ago, while on the return trip from a bar in the East Village at approximately 3 am, I had what I would consider a quintessential New York experience. Note: For the squeamish, please avert your eyes, because what I am about to recount may cause you distress.

By some unfortunate turn of events, I managed to kick a large rat that, without warning, scurried out from the refuse on the sidewalk. How I did this, I do not know. Why the rat decided to run headlong into my foot, I do not know, either. What I do know is having your foot connect with a football-sized rat while walking home from a bar is not a pleasant experience.

The funny thing is, the guy I was with, a 2L who has a younger brother at Pomona, also happened to kick the rat as at careened off my foot. This leads me to believe that the rat has some penchant for being kicked by intoxicated law students. This, of course, endears the rat to me even though I find it vile and disgusting.

Oh, New York, what a twisted web you weave!

Do hurricanes reach New York?

On Peter's recommendation, I decided to make the trek to Bed, Bath and Beyond to stock my dorm room. It's located about 15 blocks north of where I live, which, when you are reluctant to ride the subway, is quite a distance. Unfortunately, my room is in dire need of stuff, so I really had no choice but to go.

On the way, a small street faire caught my attention. Being someone who is incapable of ignoring street vendors, especially those that sell tacos from a truck, I decided to put off the hike for a few minutes to grab a quick meal and see if I could find anything that could spice up my dorm room.

A phone call interrupted my exploration of the faire pretty much as soon as I got there, so I took refuge in an alley to chat. That's when the darkness emerged. Suddenly, the sky, bright and welcoming a second before, was grey and ominous. Still, I thought nothing of it and stayed put.

Not minutes later, I kid you not, a veritable hurricane touched down on my exact position. Rain, like bullets from the heavens, vigorously attacked me. Pieces of trash, whipped up in a frenzy, flew by. I covered my face with my hands, but it was not enough; not even the building offered protection. It was as if someone had turned on one of those giant 10-ft movie fans and pointed it directly at me and the rest of the faire-goers. With a yelp, I hung up and began to run back towards Washington Square Park, dodging garbage all the way.

The vendors, too, were making a break for it, struggling to cover wares that could be harmed by the rain. Some were attempting to pick up those items that had already been blown away from their designated spot, a futile effort in most cases. At this point, everyone at the faire was running at break-neck pace. What had just a moment ago been a bustling marketplace was now a wind-battered alley of flying detritus and fleeing patrons.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first experience with a hurricane. I'm happy to say that I survived and find myself safe and sound inside the dorm. Don't let people tell you that hurricanes are all that bad. I've been there, done that, and must say that they've got nothing on a nice, strong earthquake.

John Walker: The Musical

As if my experience here could not get any more bizarre, yesterday night I accompanied my roommate, Andy, and his "lady friend" to the 11:15 showing of "John Walker: The Musical". Here is the official website (http://www.johnwalkerthemusical.com/JW/index.html), if that title piques your interest.

This production tells the story of John Walker Lyndh, commonly known as the "American Taliban", a mistreated youth drawn to the Koran and Islam out of a search for greater purpose and meaning. Evidently, a traumatic experience in fourth grade during which his feelings were hurt by a female classmate combined with the fact that none of the kids in Marin would smoke dope with John were reason enough to fly halfway across the world to fight the good fight with everyone's favorite oppressive misogynists, the Taliban.

John's crusade and subsequent capture made him the perfect scapegoat for America and our "minimal effort man" of a president, E.D.. (Don't ask me what that acronyn means - it was over my head). E.D. sends Don, a hapless, flabby reporter, to help trump up charges against John during a fixed escape from captivity. An extra from the Matrix movies, Jackie, also a DOJ attorney, is on her own quest to exonerate John and expose the president for what he is - a master manipulator of public sentiment - but she is no match for E.D.'s androgynous lackies.

Oh, poor, poor John. He was doomed from the start. An innocent caught up in a political war between America, the tyrant, and peace-loving, tender-hearted Islamic fundamentalists. I won't ruin the end, but I'll just say that Dan would undoubtedly shed a tear or two from this emotional climax.

Don't get me wrong, though, I did derive enjoyment from parts of the production, particularly the rousing rendition of "I'm no Hemingway" (a reference to his cowardice and inability to write well) performed by Don, the reporter, and the S&M scene between the president and his busty therapist. It was also fun to be out in Manhattan doing New York City-type things, in spite of the fact that i sat through an hour and a half of thesbians singing about the American Taliban.

Awful falafel?

Went to Mamoun's Falafel on Macdougal Street tonight. Apparently, it's quite famous.

Now I see why: $2 for a handful of pita, falafel, lettuce, tomatoes, hummus, and delicious white sauce.

While in line, I overheard a seasoned customer give a fairly serious warning about the "ketchup" (the hot sauce is dispenced from red squeeze bottles) to an uninformed newbie. Still, I didn't expect the stuff to have such a kick and layered it on. Wow! How rare it is to find a fast food restaurant that caters to people who know ingesting anything with the label "hot" should result in moderate to extreme pain.

Even though I appreciate its existence, next time I think I will reduce my intake of the "ketchup" for reasons of personal safety.

A Brave New World

I'm in New York and everything is odd, even the Kmart.

My temporary dorm room, Mercer 302A, which will be my home until early tommorrow, came equipped with lots of open drawers, a mattress constructed entirely of plastic, very little light, and a foreboding sense of emptiness. Needless to say, it did not offer the welcome I was hoping for.

The emptiness, I should add, is at least partially my fault. Oblivious as always to reality, I packed like I was going to Vegas for a weekend instead of New York for three years. At the beginning of today, I had no towel, no blanket, no pillow, no toothpaste, no shampoo; now, at 8 pm, all of those luxuries have been acquired - except for the pillow. Though, when you have no blanket and are sleeping on what is essentially a plastic box, it's amazing how insignificant a pillow can seem.

Thanks to the frugal nature of my parents, my remaining possessions are being shipped at the slowest possible rate from Fairfield. From what I can gather from the cost, dog sled must be the primary method of transport. Tracking numbers reveal that the boxes should reach my more permanent home, D'Agostino Hall, by the time I graduate. Well, that is if snow allows the dogs a path directly to the dorm.

Despite all the slip-ups, oversights, and bone-headed mistakes, I did manage to make it to a Gray's Papaya for a hot dog and papaya juice. Heavenly stuff, let me tell you. Anyone who visits me will be treated to both. If that doesn't entice you, I submit that you are either (1) a vegetarian, (blissfully?) ignorant of life's true pleasures; or (2) a heathen, doomed to spend eternity somewhere where there is no purveyor of hot dogs and papaya juice.