Year in Review

This time of year, all manner of websites are doing their "best of 2005" reviews. Mostly in list format, you'll encounter these sometimes enlightening, but often predictable features on any subject imaginable. So far with just a cursory look at the web tonight, I've encountered one relating to the top celebrity fashion trends on Yahoo! (no, I didn't click the link) and another on Pitchfork (pitchforkmedia.com) enumerating the Top 50 albums of the year.

As website proprietor extraordinaire, who am I to buck the trend? Here goes part one of what may turn out to be a multi-part series.

My Album of the Year

I happen to agree with Pitchfork on this one: Sufjan Stevens - Illinois is the album that I most enjoyed in 2005. It amazes me that an album about the history of the state of Illinois could be as compelling as this one is. But once you hear the lyricism and music which comprise this album, all concern about the geographical focus disappears. In its place, your left with an appreciation for banjo playing the likes of which you never imagined possible.

Meal/Food of the Year

Sushi and sashimi at Jewel Bako. From the appetizer of tuna tartare (with caviar) to the last bite of toro, each piece of fish provided sensational taste and delicate texture. Presentation here was so crucial to the experience that the waiter came over and turned my dish 180 degrees after I had oriented the plate in such a way that it deviated from the proper display. Honorable mentions: Spotted Pig because the chef came from Berkeley's Chez Panisse (and the gastropub fare was great); Mesa Grill because Bobby Flay was actually there (damn you, Bourdain); Wogie's cheesesteaks for their hangover-related curative properties; Paul's Palace cheeseburger after my last final; and Brazilian BBQ because no fault can be found or will ever be found with all-you-can-eat meat.

Class of the Year

Each of my classes had a significant flaw which prevents it from attaining "class of the year" status. Environmental law involved too many federal laws; Trademarks severly lacked clarity and structure all the way up until the day of the final; Patents was lead by a professor who assigned entirely too much reading and spoke much too quickly to follow in class; and corporations, well, see below.

Professor of the Year

My corporations professor, John Coates, for designing an exam which, as many of my fellow students put it, incorporated "the worst of both worlds." Only the most devious and ingenious of all professors could envision a test which would create misery from the first day of the almost two-week finals period started to the very last minute of said finals period -- and be willing to administer such a tortue device without a hint of guilt or reluctance. Truly a magnificent achievement!

VICTORY

Done and done. More extensive post coming later.

A sign I'm growing old.

I can't, for the life of me, come up with any Christmas presents to ask for. In my youth, such a predicament would have been inconceivable; back then, this time of year represented a golden opportunity to stock up on unnecessary items and I took full advantage, straining the generosity of my parents with request for the newest video game system or whatever useless gadget happened to be in my sights at the time.

Now, I'm perusing website gift guides but remaining completely and utterly uninspired. I guess all that I really want this Christmas is for finals to end, for my grades to be at least as good as last semester, and for me to able to go home.

Delivery unto me

When there is snow on the ground, it's simple: I'd rather not go outside. That, of course, leads to problems when it is time to eat and the refridgerator is barren. This is a more common occurrence than one might expect because having food supplies on hand involves going to the grocery store. Hence, the central importance of delivery.

I've heard that the true measure of a town is its delivery options. While I'll admit it is nice to have choice of something more than Domino's pizza and cheap, stomach ache-inducing Chinese, a plethora of delivery options doesn't do all that much for me. It's all still delivery, and therein lies the problem. By the time I am hungry enough that delivery comes to mind, I am usually too hungry to wait the requisite 30-45 minutes for the guy on the bike to get here. This is true no matter what cuisine I've ordered.

It gets worse. By the time the food arrives, my hunger has mysteriously vanished, and I'm left with food I would have paid 20% less for if I had eaten it in the comfort of the restaurant. Plus, because it traveled from its place of origin to my building in the freezing cold, its bordering on lukewarm. Unsurprisingly, my appetite doesn't usually come rushing back.

Food delivery thus represents reason number 136,754 why someone needs to invent teleportation. To the inventors of the world: Do this simple task, and I'll help get you a patent on your invention free of charge. Depending on the outcome of my patents final tomorrow, this offer may be withdrawn for your own good.

Ready, set, go

First final tomorrow, a one hour in-class pipsqueak. If his former exams are any indication, it will consist of approximately ten questions, of which we are to answer six in short answer form. Sounds simple, right? Trust me, it's not. Though not as physically and mentally draining as the typical 4-hour behemoths law professors seem to favor, this format is deceptive in its simplicity. You have only 10 minutes per question, and a few of those precious units of time can easily be consumed while you fumble through your 60-page outline looking -- or perhaps desperately searching -- for the relevant subject matter. That means in all likelihood my mind will have to work at a break-neck pace and my fingers will have to move like the wind in order to develop, research, formulate, and, finally, commit to word processor anything close to an adequate answer. Let's just hope my typing ability is up to the task.

After it's done, the next step is to download the take-home portion of the exam, which we have been granted the rest of the exam period to finish. My goal is to get that done in the next day or two, so it isn't figuratively hanging over my head like a well-greased guillotine blade, and I can move on to the rest of my exams, which have been relegated to the backseat while I learned why Delaware is so important.

I shall return.

Mountain Man

For the last week or so, before I manage to fall asleep -- a simple task rendered somewhat difficult by school-related stress -- I've been reading this collection of Men's Journal articles entitled "Wild Stories." Within the 600-page book are numerous tales of outdoors-related activities as retold by various contributing authors.

The real-life stories provide the perfect mental escape from the rigors of studying. Right now, I would gladly trade my current task of memorizing the ways to invalidate a patent for trout fishing in Tierra del Fuego, racing open-wheel racecars at Sears Point, deep-sea fishing for marlin in Hawaii, researching Grizzly bears in Romania, and canoeing through Central America. When reading, I envision myself scaling the mountain, wading into the stream after a prize fish, or paddling down the mud-colored river looking out for piranhas -- anything to prevent my mind from dreaming about showing up to a final sans clothes or, even worse, spontaneously forgetting everything I've learned just as the exam proctor says, "You may now begin."

But other narratives, frankly, leave me perfectly content to be stuck in a study room, organizing and reorganzing my notes into outlines. Given the choice, I'd prefer a four-hour in-class final to participation in a foot race across the Sahara (the subject of the article got lost and had to eat bats to survive). I'd also rather write about trademarks than challenge the bicyclists who were competing against one another to break the one-hour distance record back in the early 1990s (the record peaked at about 35 miles!). And of course, even 24-hour take-home tests pale in comparison in terms sheer horror to being ship-wrecked in the South Pacific during WWII or taken hostage by armed teenagers in the Kashmir region between India and Pakistan.

Anti-snow measures

Snow

I really would

With December 25th rapidly approaching, Christmas trees are beginning to appear on street corners around the city. Although I'm going home right after finals, I must admit that I am tempted to buy one and set it up in our apartment. But not for the reason you may expect. I really don't have the time or energy to decorate a tree, and, besides, I don't have any ornaments or lights on hand. Furthermore, I am not planning to purchase gifts for my roommates (we are males, after all) and I am reasonably certain that they are similarly disinclined, so we have no real need for a place to display festively wrapped presents.

I want a christmas tree for one reason and one reason only: to be surrounded at all times by the smell of pine needles. Oh, how I love that fragrance. If the world wouldn't look at me as some kind of freak, I'd pull a Kramer and bottle the stuff. That way, I could wear the smell of Christmas 365 days a year and not be relegated to repeatedly walking by the tree vendors on Broadway to get a fix.

Reset

Ah, relief. I feel re-energized and invigorated. There’s nothing like spending time with friends and family while being completely unproductive to overcome the winter doldrums. As I sit here on the plane, alternatively watching Food Network and trying in vain to quiet my very loud stomach (note to self: never fly cross-country on Jetblue without purchasing a meal to eat on the plane), I realize that long periods of sitting around were exactly what I wanted – and needed - to extract from the Thanksgiving holiday in order to be prepared for the end of the semester.

The time has now come to buckle down and hit the books with force. I’ve got to learn environmental law, patent law, trademark law, and corporate law over the next three weeks. Sound impossible? Well, it is – but I’ll do my best. Given this predicament, you know what I am thankful for? First, I’ve already got a job! And second, Christmas is only three weeks (or so) away!

Side note: I need to come up with something more interesting to talk about. This blog is turning into one of those boring ass let-me-tell-you-the-minutiae-of-my-day websites that are the scourge of the Internet.

I guess, theoretically, rather than discuss my work ethic or lack thereof, I could have written about this guy on the plane who wouldn't sit down but chose to stand for the majority of the flight by the bathroom. When that wasn't working for him, he paced the aisles. Must have been scared of flying, right? I'm not certain of his motivation, but it was probably the most bizarre behavior I've seen on a flight.

Going home

Finally.

It's starting to get cold.

See? It's nothing to worry about, though. This year, as opposed to last, I'm well-prepared for the onslaught of freezing temperatures and snow flakes.

As a sort of pre-emptive strike, a week ago I took advantage of one of the increasingly rare 60-degree days to venture down Broadway to H&M for the sole purpose of purchasing of gloves and a scarf. Last year, unaware of how frequently gloves, like umbrellas, go missing, I had only one pair to my name, which I wore night after night. Of course, it wasn't long before I was gloveless. By no coincidence, on the same night that my gloves disappeared, I learned that gloves are no mere luxury; they are, without a doubt, a necessity. Pockets do not -- I repeat, do not -- provide enough warmth to keep hands comfortable in that sort of weather. I now own three pairs of gloves.

Surviving the winter requires more than just warm clothes, however. You have to be mentally ready as well. Having endured one winter -- a winter that many New Yorkers characterized as abnormally bad -- my mind has attained a state of readiness that would have been impossible a year ago. Based on my experience, I know that the winter will be longer and colder than I expect; that I should stay in the general vicinity of my apartment when its snowing; that soup, particularly in the forms of ramen from Momofuku and pho from that Vietnamese place in Chinatown, is the fuel that will maintain my internal temperature at healthy levels; that snow can be beautiful one night, and hideous the next day; and that, eventually, the sun will reappear in all its glory and bring an end to the suffering.

Like any war, though, no amount of readiness can prepare the soldier for all contingencies. It's impossible to know what Mother Nature has in store for the next few months. Let's just hope that the coldest weather comes and goes while I am at home on vacation.

Perhaps she was handicapped but hid it well.

Speaking of those vile rolling backpacks, I witnessed a fellow student with one of them walk up a ramp for the handicapped rather than ascend three (!) stairs to enter one of the law school buildings. Imagine such laziness! I wonder if my contempt was obvious enough that she could detect it from 30 feet away.

Most Terrible Lizard of them all

Last night, while riding the subway to see a burlesque show at The Slipper Room in the LES (don't ask), the discussion turned to a most unusual subject: dinosaurs. If you are unaware, most males who grew up in the early 80s had an obsession with the aptly named terrible lizards (educational note: this is what the word 'dinosaur' means in Latin). When I was a kid, there was nothing more terrifying -- and hence more fascinating and worthy of study -- than the idea that monstrous, godzilla-like reptiles once roamed the earth, engaging one another in what must have been epic, tree-shattering battles for survival. This is also why, if you didn't know, Jurassic Park, the book and the movie, garnered so much attention amongst the demographic of which I am part.

It wasn't long until someone asked about favorites. The answer for me is Stegosaurus, the gentle plant-eating dinosaur armed with a tail of foot-long spikes and a row of triangular plates along its back. At least in part, I used to prefer the noble stegosaurus because he was different; not many other dinosaurs had such ornate armor plating or such fierce weaponry. Plus, most kids overlooked him for more obvious favorites, such as T-Rex or Allosaurus, both large predators, and I've never been one to follow convention.

I'm not entirely sure I was aware of this when the dinosaur draft occurred back in '85, but Stegosaurus was piloted by a brain the size of a walnut. Think of that: a beast 30-feet long from nose to tail, standing 10 feet high, controlled by nerve impulses from a command center which you could easily hold between your thumb and index finger. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, is it?

Stegosaurus' significant mental incapacity and all-round inadequacy on the continuum of prehistoric coolness (it is now well established that velociraptors and Tyrannosaurs are the preeminent dinosaurs) made me apprehensive at the prospect of declaring this to my friends. Under the concept of guilty by association, admitting that my favorite dinosaur was likely the dumbest of them all would not reflect well on me. After hearing that Peter favored the cow of the dinosaur era, triceratops, because it was frequently depicted being eaten by large predators, and that Ron sided with the brontosaurus because "it was the biggest," I overcame my trepidation and readily proclaimed my allegiance to Stegosaurus.

As one might expect, rowdy and contentious debate ensued as to the merits of each pick. But, ultimately, we came to the conclusion that, given that our favorite terrible lizards were all effeminate plant-eaters, we should change the subject.

Something I Dislike

Those backpacks with the telescoping handle and wheels. You know the ones. They look like a cross between an impractically small suitcase and an uncomfortably designed backpack. You've no doubt seen them being dragged about on city streets, far from airports where contraptions with similar features belong.

My first thought is that such a blasphemous device must be for carrying heavy loads. Perhaps, then, they are designed for laptops. But don't laptops, with few exceptions, weigh less than 6 pounds? Are there really people out there who lack the physical strength to lift a laptop-containing backpack to its usual resting position? Or is this a engineer's solution for someone who has weak bones?

Although I can't exactly express exactly what it is about these bags, I find that there is something that strikes me as inherently wrong about having a perfectly good backpack, straps and all, and deciding, rather than transport its contents in the traditional way, to extend a three-foot handle and wheel the damn thing one to two feet behind you. This makes sense in airports where you must travel long distances across relatively flat land, and where there are escalators rather than stairs to enable you to get from one floor to the next. But out in the crowded New York streets? This just makes the task of navigating the already cramped sidewalks all the more difficult.

Worse yet, there seems to be no way to pay close attention to a backpack/suitcase hybrid's trajectory when it is being dragged directly behind you. As a result, people like me, minding our own business and perhaps wearing a backpack as it should be worn, get caught up almost tripping over the damn thing as it bumps and careens its way down the street.

All because you didn't drink enough milk when you were a kid. Shame, shame.

What happened to Halloween?

I called my house on Halloween night only to be informed that, in total, four children had come trick-or-treating to our door. Now sure, our street is dimly lit, and most of the neighbors don't give out candy, but we always had more kids than that begging for candy at our house on Halloweens past.

Four kids?? My friends and I, on our own, used to put that number to shame. And were just a few of the countless children -- and later immature teenagers -- out roaming the streets, doing our best, through hard-work and plenty of subterfuge, such as the "pull-up-your-sleave-&-stick-your-arm-back-towards-the-candy-bowl for a second piece" manuever, to gain as many individual pieces of candy as was humanly possible over the course of a few adrenalin-charged hours. Then it was off to home for the late-night, sugar-fueled trading session, wherein I would exchange the reviled Mounds and other unedible items (e.g., raisins) for such favorites as anything cherry flavored.

It was also at this juncture that I openly envied those other kids who had mastered the art of brazenly dipping their hand directly into the candy bowl as the adult was holding it, and, after securing an overflowing handful of Runts or M&Ms, running off like the wind to the next house. My sense of propriety precluded such an act, but allowed for the admiration, and commendation, of those who were willing to commit it. For candy, these kids were willing to risk everything; in a tight-knit neighborhood, word could easily get back to your parents of your illicit behavior.

Where were all the kids this year, anyway? Had they all been mini-vanned away to some mall, where, because of the bright lights and security, their over-protective parents could be assured that no harm would befall them? Will my generation be one of the last to have the unadulterated pleasure of the traditional trick-or-treat experience in our own neighborhoods?

Here, the streets were overrun with Halloween celebrators. But no kids. All of these people were too old to be trick-or-treating. But at least they were out, in costume, pumping the holiday full of life. I say this even despite the fact that, because of the massive Halloween parade and my stellar sense of direction, I managed to become stuck on the wrong side of 6th avenue (across which ye shall not cross when the parade is in effect). After some time spent walking in what I'm convinced were circles, I had to travel south, along 6th ave, from the 8th st subway stop to make my way around the parade so I could get home. This entailed traveling through throngs of intoxicated, costume-wearing NYCers to the starting point of the parade, which was at about 3rd.

This was no easy task, let me tell you -- it required almost an hour of people-dodging and lots of concentration. Though the going was tough, i'll take a mob scene over desolate streets when it comes to Halloween any year. Bring back the kids!

Death trap

Of all pet animals, hamsters die the worst possible deaths. I actually heard someone claim this recently. While I do not necessarily agree with the assertion, I am almost positive that most pet-owners have a hamster mortality story of their own. Here is mine:

Like most hamsters, Taco enjoyed rolling around in a plastic ball. True, it was his only leisure activity, but I think, given that he was a hamster, he was more than satisfied. The way he would rocket around our house with that contented look on his face suggested that in another life he may have been a racecar driver. In this life, though, he had a more modest occupation: king of the kitchen floor.

One night my parents had some friends over and I decided that if the rest of the family was having fun, Taco should be too. I put him in his ball and set him free in the kitchen. With acceleration that would make most remote control cars envious, he sped off out of sight.

Needless to say, watching a hamster in a plastic ball isn't all that exciting, so I went back to doing kid stuff. A few hours later, after my parents' guests had departed (they had been drinking wine in the living room), I realized that Taco was missing. I searched throughout the house but could find no clues as to his whereabouts. Confused and growing concerned, I informed my parents of the situation. Though neither had paid the rolling plastic ball much attention, both recalled seeing him at some stage earlier in the evening.

"Relax, Andrew. I'm sure he is around here somewhere."

I wasn't so sure. It wasn't like Taco to be elusive. After all, there are very few places to hide effectively when you are encased in a 10-inch diameter ball of plastic.

Now it is important for me to tell you that half of our living room is about 5 inches lower than the other half. If Taco were to roll into this part of the room, gravity and his size would render him stuck and confined to that area. Since my parents had been occupying this room with their guests, I hadn't checked it yet.

So, flanked by both my parents, I walked hurriedly to the living room, certain that I would find him stuck in a corner of the room or something. Perhaps his little legs had grown tired, and he had retired for a nap. Or maybe he finally realized the futility of bouncing into furniture in a plastic ball, and was patiently awaiting return to his plush plastic housing unit.

If only that were true. As we scoured the living room, looking under couches and chairs, I noticed with alarm that the sliding glass door to my backyard was wide open.

Oh no, I thought, outside. The one place hamsters should never be. Due to their bite-size statute and lack of any and all survival instincts, a hamster in the wild is, before long, an eaten hamster. That meant I had no time to spare. Birds of prey, our cats, and other predators would only give me so much time before Taco became dinner. Growing more anxious by the minute, I wondered how long it had been since he escaped the house and, more importantly, how far he could have traveled in that time.

Not that far, it turns out. Taco had rolled directly out of the house and into the pool.

I still wonder to this day how long it took the ball to fill up with water and what his little hamster brain was thinking, if anything, as he slowly sank to the bottom of the deep-end of the pool. Maybe, having finally escaped the plastic tubes, wood shavings, endless ball-rolling and general monotony which constituted the entirety of his existence as our beloved pet, he finally felt liberated in his own hamster way.

Guest Pass

Because he is such a charitable person, Peter offered me a 30-day guest pass for October to New York Sports Club, one of the many franchise gyms that populate the city. While the pass entitled me to full access to the club, the purpose of Peter's donation was singular: I could now join him in a weekly boxing class which he had been attending since the middle of summer and praising pretty much since his first exposure.

Now this is not the type of boxing class you might be imagining. There is no boxing ring. We don't spar with each other. Most importantly, we aren't forced to submit ourselves to abject humiliation by boxing against an instructor -- in this case a bald-headed behemoth of a man, who is at once an initimidating ogre and kind-hearted teacher. A curious blend, to be sure. He could, I'm fairly certain, single-punchedly decapitate any one of his students, even those who have obvious boxing expertise. But, emotionally, I don't think he could bring himself to do it. His paternal instincts bar such violent behavior.

But I digress. This isn't one of those Tae Bo classes that were all the rage in the late 1990s, either. We wear gloves. We hit heavy bags. We are taught to jab, to uppercut, to duck and move, to use the right foot for power and stability. When doing "mitts," we coordinate all of these activities, striking at the instructor's hands while he circles and dodges. Jab, jab, strike. Jab, uppercut, pivot, jab. Sometimes he even fights back with gloves instead of mitts, but I haven't had the pleasure of getting pummeled yet.

Before the first class, I was, frankly, a bit apprehensive. Peter explained the format, and claimed that it was very easy to catch on. Despite his reassurances, though, I was convinced that I would either (A) look like a total moron in boxing gloves, despeartely punching a heavy bag which refuses to budge while a diminutive 40 year-old woman standing at my side pummels the very same bag, rocking it back and forth as if it were afloat in the perfect storm; or (B) be so out of shape as to collapse, midway through the hour, and become the object of the thunderous laughter and subsequent pity of my classmates as I am wheeled out of the room, hooked up to an IV.

It turns out my mind wasn't too far off when it concocted the second scenario. Although Peter warned me to take it easy, that first class I valiantly attempted to keep up with the instructor's commands. Jumping jacks, squat thrusts, mountain climbers, high knees, more jumping jacks, push-ups, topped off with even more -- see a pattern here? -- jumping jacks. This continued for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn't long, perhaps 10 minutes into that eternity, before my insides began to burn, my legs to ache, and collapse began to appeal as a life-saving alternative to more jumping jacks. Pity be damned. I was hurting here.

The instructor must have noticed my internal struggle and sensed weakness, because he yelled, at the very moment when I had finally decided to protest any more physical exertion, the following: "Hey, new guy! Suck it up!!"

And, dammit, he was looking directly at me. I was that new guy! The guy incapable of keeping up. Peter was right: I should have taken it easy! But now was no time for regret; I had to "suck it up" and perservere.

So I did. Although I could barely stand, I managed, to my surprise, to perform close but shaky equivalents of all of the exercises, with periodic panting breaks every few minutes, of course.

By my third class, which was last night, I had finally discovered the art of the punch: elbows in, legs shoulder-width apart, left hand at chin to block incoming fists, right foot pivoting on the toe outward to provide power, fist moving straight forward, rotating so that the knuckles become horizontal. Boom. And, yes, the bag moves when I hit it. Quite a bit, in fact.

Pants on fire

Previously, I said that, regardless of what Al Qaeda has done or threatened to do, I would not stop riding the subway. That proclamation was in response to the London bombings. But this weekend, after watching a live press conference about a "specific" bomb threat on the Manhattan subways just a half hour before I had to be in TriBeCa for a law firm dinner, I turned myself into a bold-faced liar: I purposely avoided taking the subway. Perhaps irrationally, I opted for a cab instead, thereby wasting $7 and, as a consequence of spending 10 minutes hailing a cab on Broadway during rush hour, arriving at the dinner late.

In my defense, I did ride the A train later on that night to the airport, ignoring the threat with the help of a few glasses of wine for an honored guest who insisted I be at JFK to greet her. Although the two of us traversed most of lower Manhattan and plenty of Midtown and Central Park over the course of the weekend, we didn't take the subway but once (the return trip to the airport). Frankly, I felt a bit ashamed for not utilizing public transportation as I normally would, but cabs seemed the safer alternative given the circumstances (not to claim that riding in a NYC cab is "safe" by any means).

If given a choice, I prefer to think of myself as someone who would not succumb to such a threat, as someone who would not allow my liberty to be compromised by those whose goal it is to destroy that liberty. But like most rational people, I have my fears -- extreme heights, sharks in the swimming pool, and dolls -- and am inclined, in most scenarios, towards self-preservation. Despite the additional security or perhaps because of it, it just felt more sensible to avoid the trains altogether rather than to make a point about my willingness to take risks or to stand up to foreign terrorists. That, and I wanted to make sure my guest would come back for another visit.

My nemesis

Notice that the battery is being drained to power the electric motor, which then turns the front wheels. This is the genius of the hybrid automobile -- it can propel itself without relying on the gas consumption of a typical engine. This was also the reason why I could never get that battery to 100%. More a curse than salvation if you ask me.

Checking in.

In case you didn't realize it, whenever I'm not sitting at my laptop, composing a post for this blog, there are real life events transpiring, some of which involve me. Sometimes those events happen at such a break-neck pace that I have no time to record them for publication. This post is designed as an update to inform you of those events.

At the outset, you should be aware that most of these tidbits are mundane, poorly written, and barely worthy of your attention, but, as the early European explorers discovered, you must sometimes brave months, even years, of flat seas, dried meat, severe boredom and debilitating scurvy to reach the spices which you seek. Until then, a warning: I'll sink this vessel in a second if I even catch a whiff of mutinous behavior.

1) Resurrection. Without doing anything more productive than bemoaning the warranty terms of my Canon SD100 and hitting the power button over and over again, I managed to bring the little-digital-camera-that-could back to life. The cause of the malfunction still remains a mystery, but I refuse to question good fortune. Still not going to buy an Ipod Nano, though – the Ipod Shuffle has taught me that I actually prefer an Mp3 player that never has to leave my pocket.

2) Landed a job offer. Looks like all the hard work paid off and I'll be spending next summer in sunny California. While I am certain I will reside in San Francisco, I still need to decide whether I'll be working at an office in the city itself or one down in Silicon Valley. The decision is not to be taken lightly, because, assuming I don't single-handedly sink the firm with my incompetence during the 10-week summer stint, I should be receiving an offer for permanent employment status from whatever firm I ultimately choose. Thankfully, recent information indicates that if I decide to strip and jump in the Pacific Ocean as I had originally planned, I should be well on my way to receiving that offer, and the adoration of law school students nationwide.

3) Captain Planet. During the course of my stay in California, I did my own small part in saving the world from terrorism by driving a rental Prius. Despite the near impossibility of turning on the vehicle and the difficulty presented by its array of odd appendages, I came to enjoy the hybrid's eccentricities by my trip's end. In particular, the center console touch screen, which as you drive displays the distribution of power between the gasoline motor, the electric engine, the battery, and the wheels, proved highly entertaining.

Because that screen was visible at all times, charging the battery to its full capacity -- 10 bars -- became a sort of game to me. Well, at first it was a game, an amusement for those times when the song on the radio did not sufficiently capture my attention. But then, after a day or two of driving, when I managed to get the battery to 90% and the screen reacted with an affirmative noise, celebrating my achievement and changing the color of the battery meter from dark blue to fluorescent and lively green, it became something more. Something that had to be accomplished. At any cost.

From then on, I put everything I had into battery charging. Through a combination of accelerator pedal positioning, hard braking (slowing down provides charge), and innate driving skill, I worked tirelessly and relentlessly at refilling the battery. It's likely that I put many other drivers at risk during this time that I spent staring intensely at the center console, brow furrowed, awaiting that final noise which would announce my supreme victory. This didn't occur to me at the time; I was preoccupied.

Alas, sometimes a dream is nothing more than a waste of time and effort that should be ridiculed by your closest friends until you give up on it, thereby saving you inevitable disappointment. As the foregoing hints, none of my driving maneuvers or mechanical manipulations were successful. I had to turn the car in to Hertz with 10% -- an insurmountable barrier in the context of hybrid battery charging -- separating me from my goal. I knew then that the defeat handed to me by the Prius that day would sting more than rejection by any law firm. (This was later confirmed.)

4) Looking forward. We all know that not everything can work out in our favor or in accordance with our wishes. For better or worse, that's life. Uncertainty abounds; nothing is set in stone. But lack of change, while possibly comforting for the risk averse, is just like knowing the future. And what could be more frustrating -- and more boring -- than that? To have your entire life mapped out in front of you, every surprise ruined, every disappointment felt before it occurs, every tragedy suffered in anticipation until it finally happens. Nothing could more easily destroy the human spirit.

It's the unexpected changes, the unforeseen bumps, the windfalls, the losses, the infinite possibilities -- all of them, negative and positive -- which make life interesting and worth living. Sure, I have to work hard to convince myself of this sometimes, especially when I really want certain things to work out, but if I were faced with the option of clairvoyance, I can honestly say I’d choose to keep my future unseen and unlimited.

Not such a happy ending

I'm not sure how it happened, but last night my camera lost its will to live. One minute we were taking pictures in Happy Ending and the next it couldn't turn on. I suspected that the battery had run out of juice, but even a fully charged battery cannot force it into operation. Upon closer examination, I found a bit of moisture in the battery compartment, but I'm fairly certain that is from my investigation into the problem last night, not the cause of it.

Canon says that they can resurrect my camera for the substantial sum of $160, but considering I purchased the camera for only $40 more than that, I think I'll just buy another one. Damn, now I can't justify buying an ipod nano.

It’s my elevator

When faced with the prospect of ascending a building, I usually prefer the stairs to the elevator. This is in large part because I, more than most Americans, realize that exercise is good whenever and wherever you can get it, not just when it is provided by a treadmill or through an instructional video. But now that I live all on the 11th floor, I find to my dismay that taking the stairs is altogether impractical, especially if I want my knees to last another decade or so.

Last year, I was on the 7th floor –- high enough that I felt justified in taking the elevator but low enough that the option of taking the stairs was ever-present. Moreover, since most of the residents in that building didn’t use the elevator for the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd floors, the maximum number of stops I would ever have to endure during any elevator trip was four, a perfectly acceptable amount. If ever the trip was too slow for my tastes, I could always hop off on the 5th or 6th floor and walk up the stairs the rest of the way.

Traveling by elevator here in Mercer –- a more heavily populated building than D'Agostino –- inevitably results in riding with people who live on almost every floor between the ground level and my own. While I'm normally a very calm, even-tempered person, this can be highly aggravating.

When I am blessed with the fortune of stopping at 8 floors or heaven forbid 9 because of the absolute slug of a human being who is unwilling to walk up to the 2nd floor, a strange and unfamiliar darkness falls over me as the trip progresses. With each stop I grow more angry and impatient. At first I didn't fully understand what was happening, but then I realized that I am experiencing the elevator-equivalent of road rage. This palpable and destructive force could, if the right pieces were in play –- a long day, an 80-page reading assignment, the corner bodega closing before I could get dinner, and an overly talkative elevator occupant –- culminate in a brutal and savage beating. Thankfully, the animosity has thus far led to little more than obscenities muttered under the breath and heavy sighs at each stop.

Even more bizarre than my violent tendencies, though, is this phenomenon: when I am the sole person in the elevator, I sometimes develop an attachment to the device, a sense of ownership justified by nothing but my being in there alone. Whenever someone enters the elevator, I look at them as if they’ve just soiled my couch with dirty cowboy boots. How dare you! This elevator is mine – and has been since I got on 30 seconds ago! Can’t you see my floor, not yours, is already lit, and I had my hand on the ‘Close Door’ button as you approached?

If you haven’t experienced this (I’m sure some of you have but won’t admit to it), it's similar to how you would feel if you were forced to pick up and drop off an unwanted hitchhiker every time you were on your way home from work (minus the worry that you might be slaughtered en route, of course) .

For those without cars, it can also be analogized to a situation such as the following: you and a friend are the only people in a movie theater, looking forward to watching whatever flick you’ve come to see without distractions, relaxed and as comfortable as you might be in your own living room, and, suddenly, right after the previews end and just before the movie is about to start, another group of people saunters in. Regardless of whether they are loud and obnoxious or well-behaved (the latter is unlikely in this day and age), their intrusion nevertheless interrupts and – most of the time – ruins your experience.

So, the next time you get on an elevator and someone is standing there, arms crossed with a disapproving look on his or her face, quickly step off and wait for your own. It’s the right thing to do – and the only way to avoid ending up the subject of a newspaper headline that reads: “One Too Many Stops: Elevator Rage Claims Victim.”

Even when fried?

Not sure if my sense of humor is being affected by the fact that classes begin tomorrow, but I read the following excerpt tonight and found it pretty humorous.

"If there is only one producer that can label this cake 'Twinkie,' then the consumer can rely on the producer's reputation for fresheness and the Twinkie's reputation for creamy deliciousness."

I wonder if both the authors are obese, or just the one who was responsible for that bit of flattery.

580+ minutes

I feel like I should write something about having 29 interviews last week. If I were so inclined, I could tell you about climbing the stairs to avoid the crowded elevator and the resulting pain in my feet and sore thighs. Or I could write about pretending to have a soulmate connection with a law firm I didn't even know existed until about 10 minutes before the interview. I could even mention going to dinners at trendy but mediocre restaurants or crashing the Skadden Arps reception at 60 Thompson and eating up all of the appetizers.

But right now, talking about myself is the last thing I want to do. I guess spending almost 40 hours over the course of five days making small talk with recruiters and answering the same interview questions over and over will do that to you.

Unfortunately, the exhausting ritual which just ended was only the first step in a long process. Now that the freaks have been filtered out, the firms are inviting some of us to "callback" interviews. Since I want to work in California this summer and beyond, I am going to have to fly back to San Francisco or Palo Alto sometime very soon to interview there. Should make for a hectic first few weeks of school.

Oh, the humidity

Is an implement of the devil, designed to bring severe discomfort upon mortal men.

Oh, and if you are interested in hearing about the embarrassment of others, yesterday I had to move a large cart full of my belongings in a torrential downpour the likes of which I have not witnessed in many years. Onlookers pointed, laughed, and pitied me as I trudged block after block looking like I had just gone swimming in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. Wasn't this supposed to happen in Seattle, not New York?

Leaving on a jet plane

Only this time, unlike the last, my departure will be in the dead of night -- 15 minutes past midnight, to be exact. Yep, that's right. The time has come for me to pack up my belongings, steal what leftover change I can find in the couch, gorge myself , and say "peace out" to the West Coast, my home, my 'hood, and my homies. For those savvy of the appropriate rituals, rest assured that the proper amount of liquor will be poured out to pay my respects.

Like the lives of many fallen urban soldiers, Summer '05 has come to an unceremonious and abrupt end. One second I was updating a website for 6 hours per day, vacationing in Seattle and Vegas, flyfishing for gargantuan steelhead, eating gourmet meals nightly, and enjoying the hell out of the summer, and the next I'm being sent back to casebooks, late nights in the library and large quantities of falafel and frozen dumplings. The shock to my system will be severe; the adjustment period interminable; and the complaints numerous. Still, a substantial part of me will be happy to be getting this proverbial show back on the road.

While the coastal transition marks the beginning of my second year of law school and a defining period of my existence (the first week back will determine whether I am a gainfully employed summer associate next year or once again faking a charitable nature as an intern for a non-profit organization), tomorrow evening also represents a far more momentous occassion -- my first "red-eye." Now, while this does mark my first true coast-to-coast overnight flight, I would argue that flights to France and London would also qualify under the category of "red-eye." I say this because any flight over 10 hours tends to make your eyes glaze over and become temporarily bloodshot (the presumed requirement for a flight to be considered "red-eye") even if you are only technically traveling during daylight hours. This is not to mention the effect that having your luggage -- and most of your articles of clothing for a three-week trip -- exploded by a bomb squad in a Paris airport can have on your appearance.

The lessons of this post, you ask? First, I'm a seasoned traveler as conclusively proven by the fact that I've flown multiple bona fide red-eye international flights before I flew a domestic "red-eye" flight. Second, those announcements in the airport about leaving your luggage unattended should be paid special attention and heeded well. Third and finally, the French do not fuck around when it comes to abandoned suitcases.

NYC or bust.

Oh, the humanity!

It appears advertisers have sunk to a new low. First, it was pop-up ads littering the internet like so many annoying door-to-door salesmen. Then, it was the subtle inclusion of slogans and product logos into movies and video games. Soon thereafter, targeted Google ads began sprouting up on Rodion's heretofore friendly and welcoming blog like weeds on a pristine backyard lawn. But today, the proverbial final straw was placed on the dromedary's back with all the delicacy of an iron anvil. I awoke this morning to find the following bit of propaganda lodged uncomfortably in the comments section of one of my posts:

"Reading your blog and I figured you'd be interested in advancing your life a bit, call us at 1-206-339-5106. No tests, books or exams, easiest way to get a Bachelors, Masters, MBA, Doctorate or Ph.D in almost any field. Totally confidential, open 24 hours a day. Hope to hear from you soon!"

Is nothing sacred? Can we not be spared their greedy manipulations even on our home turf!? What's next, floating advertisements which fly into your house, flittering back and forth just inches from your face, assaulting you with product information, but fast enough to out-maneouver your attempts to swat them like a bug? The answers to those rhetorical questions would seem to be "No," "Never," and "Most assuredly," respectively.

Despite the admitted attention I've been receiving from this vile person, he or she hasn't actually been reading my blog in the plain meaning sense of the word "reading." If he had (I refuse to believe a woman could be capable of something so inhuman), then he surely would have noticed the headline "studying law," which to most non-bloodsucking people would imply going to law school or maybe taking pre-law courses as an undergraduate. Either way, I'm already "advancing [my] life a bit" and have no need for snake oil cure-alls, magic diet pills, and effort-free, presumably unaccredited academic degrees which the working world would probably not even spare the time to scoff at.

So, Mr. Advertiser, while getting a "totally confidential" PhD without being irritated by any of the inconvenient aspects of the higher education process like exams, books, and learning sounds appealing, I think I'll pass on your proposal, thank you very much. Unless of course, you also offer advanced courses in bullshit -- that, at least, might help my legal career.

What makes a good concert?

Music concerts are strange beasts. Some people love them and go to every show they can get tickets to; others find the whole experience unpleasant and prefer the intimacy -- and the volume control -- granted by their own speakers or headphones.

For most everyone, however, the appeal -- in the abstract, at least -- of seeing your favorite musical group live is undeniable. If an artist can wow you with a recording on a CD and video on MTV, then surely having the entire band and their trusty instruments within your presence would transcend the packaged experience and bring aural pleasures previously unimagined.

But, the truth is, unlike watching a movie at a theater, with its massive screen, pulse-pounding surround sound-capable speakers, and myriad special effects thanks to THX or whatever snazzy acronym makes it digital, more often then not the listening experience at a concert, even when its your absolute favorite band, is subpar. Whether you are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a massive stadium or sitting crossed-legged on the lawn of Central Park, most venues do not compare, especially as far as clarity is concerned, with simply sitting at home in front of your stereo.

This is most decidedly the case when you are unfamiliar with the artist. Sure, intimate settings such as an acoustic show at a college or an limited and unadvertised engagement at a dimly lit bar in the seedy part of town can easily make you a moderate fan of any artist. Close proximity tends to do that. But that notwithstanding, attending a concert is far from the best way to expose yourself to new music and expect anything to come from it other than a ringing in your ears and some mild confusion over what exactly that singer was shouting.

For me, what makes or breaks a concert featuring a new or unfamiliar artist is not the sound quality, or how easily I can follow along with the lyrics; instead, I gauge such a concert on what follows it.

Allow me to explain: Let's assume I've already got that one song from the radio for band X. Well, if I take to band X's music with increased interest and seek out the rest of the album after seeing them in concert, then it qualifies as a 'good' show. If, after downloading their songs, I double-click each of them and actually listen for more than 5 seconds, then the concert gets recorded as a 'great' one. If -- and this is rare indeed -- I begin to listen to that album with regularity, then the show goes beyond 'great' to 'fantastic' and I couldn't have asked for much more -- except perhaps proper sound engineering.

I write all of this because last weekend in Seattle I saw Modest Mouse at the Paramount downtown. Of course, I already had "Float On" committed to both memory and hard drive space but I had not listened to the rest of the album, let alone any of their previous work. Despite the fact that I could hardly hear the lyrics and the bass drowned out the band, I've now revisited "Good News for People who Love Bad News." Thanks to the show, the rest of the album is getting frequent play in Winamp.

Now, if only someone would do something about the lead singer's voice.

Don't Believe the Hype

As of today, it's been a week since I last updated. For that let me apologize. Before you start cursing my inactivity and migrating to some other more entertaining website, let me reveal the reason for my extended hiatus. My absence can be explained largely by the fact that, for last few days, I was almost in Canada. By that, I mean to say that I was in Seattle, the metropolitan jewel of the Pacific Northwest, home to the Mariners (pronounced Marine-ers), the Stratosphere's bastard cousin, and, I've been told repeatedly, torrential and never-ending downpours.

Sure, Seattle locals will try half-heartedly to convince you that "San Francisco has more rain" or that "it never rains here, it's just overcast a lot" but, in their eyes, you can almost sense the burning desire to communicate just how damn depressing it is to tolerate grey skies most of the year. Even the travel books I reviewed prior to my trip warned in no uncertain terms of the chronic rain problem, presumably to avoid any liability which might arise from a suit for false advertising when they proclaim "Seattle is the happiest place on Earth." Wait, maybe that was Disneyland.

The only false advertising taking place so far as I can tell is the constant emphasis on Seattle's rainy climate. During my stay, the city was all clear skies, warm temperatures (upwards of 90 degress), and shinny happy people holding hands -- the latter a far cry from the depression-crazed, suicide-prone, coffee-drinking zombies I expected to encounter en masse. After all, Seattle is the birthplace of Starbucks and, accordingly, a fertile breeding ground for mac-wielding coffee shop denizens. The photographs included serve the purpose of dispelling any misconceptions and highlighting the natural beauty of the place.
















As I sit here writing these kind words about a place I've maligned for much of my life (Seattle is a rival of the Bay Area so it frequently draws my ire), I'm becoming suspicious. How could a resolute Seattle opponent be swayed to such an extent over the course of five days?

Perhaps my defection is the result of an elaborate charade put on by my host. The city isn't all that populous, so it's not inconceivable that a person situated in advertising could execute a city-wide campaign to convince a sole Californian that Seattle isn't the flood plain its made out to be by the rest of the world. What would it take honestly? A few well-placed billboards requesting uncharacteristically upbeat behavior and coffee abstinence for a week? A short speech by the mayor pertaining to my considerable coast-to-coast influence? Both sound reasonable to me.

Given the city's reputation, preventing the rain would have proved to be a more difficult task than convincing a few residents to hold off on depression-induced acts of violence for a few days. Despite the challenge, with a few well-choreographed rain dances and the input of local shaman, she might have been able to eek out enough divine favor to persuade Mother Nature to control her "natural" urges for a few days.

Whatever the cause -- conspiracy or dumb luck -- I was pleased to be treated to this version of Seattle rather than the one the city plays on television, in the movies, and in my imagination.

Severance

An exercise in inconvenience: If you ever want to alter your daily routine significantly, leave your cell phone at home. Go without it for just one workday. Even if you don't usually get that many calls or text messages during those hours, you'd be surprised how cut off from the world and vulnerable you can feel just because you don't have access to your phone. At least, that's how it was for me today.

For those of you who haven't yet joined the 21st century, please purchase a cellular phone as soon as possible. Do the rest of us a favor, buck tradition and cut the tether of the land line. You might not know this but all of your cell phone-having friends consider you a relic of the past. Like the vestigial wings on the kiwi, a person without a cell phone is a nonfunctional nub incapable of operating at the same level as his or her peers. Your deficiency in one of the most basic of human skills -- the ability to communicate -- makes you primitive. Accordingly, the rest of us look at you in the same manner that we might one of our ancient ancestors, like the Australopithecene: you are vaguely familiar because we see a reflection of our past in your visage, but the fundamental differences are obvious and impossible to ignore. Frankly, we'd rather not associate with your kind if we can help it; you make us uncomfortable.













What is most perplexing is that, unless there are monetary prohibitions, you are purposefully removing yourself from the realm of human interaction. Not only do you inconvenience yourself, but you also frustrate those of us who have grown accustomed to being connected at all times with the rest of society. Ask anyone who has ever had a pressing need to get a hold of you when you weren't at home whether that is true.

Like vegetarianism, anti-cell phone sentiment demands a substantial price be paid just to prove a point. Strident opposition to the cellular phone will virtually guarantee eternal solitude and depression-inducing loneliness. If that's not bad enough, you -- and your kind -- will surely become extinct, or at the very least obsolete, as progress brings those of us who harbor no fear of technology closer and closer together. You stand now at the point of no return. Do you really want to go the way of the cave man simply because of stubbornness?

Not-so-super cuts

Some of my best haircuts are by gay guys.

Actually, that's not entirely accurate because all of my best haircuts have been the product of non-heterosexual hair stylists. Despite this obvious trend (and it is very obvious), I can't pinpoint exactly why gay men are so superior to their straight or female counterparts when it comes to this profession. It seems to stem largely from the fact that gay stylists feel comfortable enough -- and perhaps obligated by a sense of duty to clean up straight guys like the fab five on Queer Eye -- to supplement my amateurish requests by applying their own flair, for the lack of a better word. Now, by "flair" I certainly don't mean to imply that I'm frequently the recipient of frosted tips; rather, the word suggests those little touches, like texturizing, which propel your hair one step closer to the holy grail of hairdos: controlled crazy. It's almost as if each one of the gay hairstylists I've had was looking out for my best hair-related interests, and in doing so, strived mightily to construct the best possible configuration of my hair.

Most female hairdressers, on the other hand, take my suggestions too literally, and fail to deviate to any significant degree from the standard "trim" which I request. This repeated outcome is partially my fault, however. I can't deny that I lack an adequate vocabulary for describing exactly what I want done to my hair. Plus, my masculinity prevents me from using one of those hardcover hairstyle books to point out an acceptable look. Because of those shortcomings, our encounter often results in little more than a much shorter version of my current hair, usually crafted with about as much motivation as she could be expected to muster while carrying on an involved conversation about moisturizers with two other equally bored female employees. I guess they figure that guys want nothing more than to leave with a haircut which delays their next appointment for as much time as possible. In many cases, they would not be wrong.

Having a heterosexual male cut my hair, on the other hand, virtually guarantees a military-style flat top, with the probability increasing to 1000% if said male is a barber. Sure, he asks me what I would like done, but the barber’s interpretation of my answer is invariably flat on top, short on the sides. As a strict constructionist, he flatly refuses to accept any of these “new-fangled” trends that us “kids” prefer.

Realizing that straight males and women bring ruination upon my head, when I enter a hair-cutting establishment, be it salon, barbershop, or generic chain, I immediately scope the scene, hoping -- no, praying -- that there is a gay hair stylist to address my hair-related needs. I'm never proactive about it -- that is, I don't actively seek them -- but if one is working that day, I give my name, sit down, and watch intently as the other customers receive their reckoning, knowing full well that I will either be sheared carelessly like a sheep, buzzed up like a soldier, or, if fate spares me, able to rejoin the world with a confident swagger.

Maybe the next time when I'm in pursuit of controlled crazy, and I hear "next" only to look up to see a straight guy standing there waiting for me, I'll refuse and save myself the indignity of a bad haircut. He is heterosexual, after all. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Perspective

All of us who drive daily -- basically anyone not living in New York -- have first-hand knowledge of what it's like to be stuck in traffic for hours at a time. It is not a pleasant experience. Because of the feeling of utter helplessness and of being trapped in an immobile metal cage a.k.a your car, there are few events that induce more frustration -- especially when you are blessed with a manual transmission.

Today I had the unfortunate luck of getting stuck in traffic not once, but twice, because of a huge accident which involved a tractor trailer jack-knifing, smashing into six other vehicles, and blocking all four lanes of west-bound I-80. Not only did the collision cause a halt to traffic as far as 10 miles away in neighboring Vacaville, it also clogged virtually all of the streets in Fairfield. Thousands of people like me lost hours of their day as a result. Worst of all, according to the preliminary news reports, the truck driver's loss of control caused three fatalities.

As frustration mounted, I realized that no matter how much the wreck inconvenienced me, the impact it had on my life was nothing more than that of a severe inconvenience. By contrast, there are some families out there who lost a loved one today. While I will never regain that hour of time, those poor souls will never again see their family member.

So, next time you are stuck in traffic, fuming because of a wasted hour or two, think about how lucky you are to be where you are.

My Solemn Pledge

Unlike other money-hungry bloggers who will remain nameless but will be hyperlinked shamelessly (link), I hereby pledge never to host ads of any sort on this site. Those seeking escape from the ubiquitous captilistic schemes which indiscriminately siphon away hard-earned cash will find solace here.

Enjoy your expense-free stay.

PS - I think it is no mere coincidence that Google, in all its infinite wisdom, is hosting ads for headache medicine on his site.

Close Call and the Cause

Running out of gas

Because of the sheer number of people also trying to attend the Red Bull Grand Prix yesteday, the lines to get to the track parking lots were immense -- and by immense, I mean miles long. So it actually required more time -- almost two hours -- to get from the track entrance to the parking lot than it did to drive the 85 miles from Menlo Park to Monterey. That is ridiculous.

In our excitement and infinite stupidity, Chris and I jointly decided to forego getting gas on the way down to the track even though I had little more than a quarter tank when we took off that morning. Unware that we would be idling in line for hours, we figured that such a minimal amount of fuel would be nothing more than a footnote to our journey.

After moving along at a snail's pace or slower for about an hour in the entry line, the "you are about to run out of gas, idiot" light came on. But whenever we stopped on a hill (this happened often), the gauge would move back into safe territory, so we both ignored our impending doom by attempting to race a woman who chose to walk to the track rather than contend with the unbearable traffic. In the end, she won, but at that point the gas situation had progressed from irritating annoyance to doomsday scenario, so we paid her victory no mind.

If you are like me, you'd figure there was no better place to be than in the middle of a venue where gas literally fuels the entertainment. Not only that, but we were surrounded by countless cars and motorcylces, all of which presumable contained some of the much-needed energy source. But alas, none of the Laguna Seca staff, those not-so-helpful volunteers and equally disinterested paid workers, could assist us in any way other than offering insightful advice such as "I'd coast if I were you" and "Uh oh."

This predicament took on extra significance because, in my ten years or so of driving, I have never run out of gas before. There have been a few close calls, but I can truthfully state that, barring the occassional mechanical failure, my car stops only when I command it to. Fate has not yet shamed me with the prospect of walking (or catching a cab) to a gas station or calling Triple A to beg for a pick-up. Given our situation -- stuck at the far end of a gigantic parking lot of a race track crowded with a record amount of attendees -- I was certain that the streak was going to come to a humiliating and inconvenient end.

Fortunately, due in large part to my skillful coasting and the timing of our exit from the track, I managed to pilot my car to a gas station before encoutering the loss of power that I presume accompanies running out of gas. There, I had to convince an unsuspecting military-ID carrying patron to purchase gas for me, but that is another story altogether.

For now, I still bat 1000.

Moto GP

This Sunday, Chris and I will be waking up at the crack of dawn and venturing down to Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey for the Red Bull US Grand Prix. But unlike numerous times before, the purpose of this excursion will not be to see racecars piloted around the world-famous course. Rather, we will be witnessing the first US appearance of Moto GP, the premiere motorcycle racing series in the world, in more than 10 years. This event, scheduled to bring in almost 200,000 attendees, also marks the most popular event held at Laguna Seca in the track's 50-year history.

If our past experiences at Laguna are any indication, this should be quite a spectacle. Especially when we see the 200-horsepower prototype bikes going down this turn, the infamous corkscrew, more a three-story drop than a corner. We will undoubtedly also be entertained by the antics of Valentino Rossi, the reigning king of Moto GP, and also, at an annual salary of $30 million, one of the 10 highest paid atheletes in the world.

Resolve

Oh, and regardless of what Al Qaida does, I'll never stop riding the subway.

My Entourage

Like Rodion, I've been watching the HBO show, Entourage, lately. Thanks to the limitless generosity of the Internet, I was able to procure the entire first season and all of the episodes from the current one. Dan and I started watching Entourage when it first came on the air before I moved to New York. We both knew right away that it was going to be a hit. After a long hiatus because of school, I've finally managed to catch up from where I left off with Vince and the boys.

If you are unfamiliar, Entourage is about four friends from Queens, one of whom, Vince, is a huge movie star. In pursuit of fame and fortune, the gang relocates to Hollywood. The three non-movie stars -- Vince's older brother, a washed-up actor named Johnny Drama, his best friend, E, and the enigmatic Turtle -- comprise the entourage referenced by the show's title. They basically follow Vince around, basking in his glory and reeping the considerable benefits of being close friends with a very famous movie star. Supposedly, the show is loosely based on Mark 'Marky Mark' Wahlberg's early years in Hollywood. (This claim is lent credence by the fact that he is also the Executive Producer)

The greatest thing about the show is just how much fun the guys are having. Their life consists of outrageously expensive purchases, hob-knobbing with other movie stars (primarily female), and attending parties at exlcusive clubs or Malibu beach houses (been there, done that last one). None of them, not even Vince himself, take any of it seriously. Rather than fret about practical matters, such as whether they can afford their current lifestyle or where Vince's next job will come from, they are content to ride the wave of celebrity for all its worth, even if that attitude results in their good fortune fading away. It hasn't yet.

The morals of the show, so far as I can gather, are to enjoy life, to value everything that you are given, to take advantage of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, to enjoy your youth, and, most importantly, to cherish your friends. Time flies, money comes and goes, but if you don't stop to experience life, you'll miss out on countless adventures.

This philosophy resonates strongly with me, as I'm a firm believer in the value of the present. The future is critical, of course, but too many people forego the now, which is all you really have when it comes down to it, for the sake of long-term plans. As long as you aren't self-destructive, it's perfectly viable to always enjoy where you are at the moment. And having fun now doesn't necessarily mean you will pay later provided that you can achieve a balance.

Wise words from a guy living at home with his parents.

Bachelor Pad

Because my parents have gone up to the cabin for the holiday weekend, I came home today to an empty house. Threw open all the windows to the backyard, put an Mp3 CD in the stereo, and jumped right into the pool, basking in the glory of having the place all to myself. The combination of the weather (high-80s), the current state of my existence, and the anticipation of a great weekend has put me in the best mood.

Starting this evening, I'll have four nights with 606 Walnut Dr. as my personal castle. What I'll do during that period is a mystery. If I were still a youngster - that is, a high school or college student - there is no doubt that I'd throw a huge party and invite all of my friends, past and present. Sure, the place would end up a mess, but a stain or two on the ceiling of the kitchen is usually a small price to pay for such good fun.

Times have changed from those wild days, though. Right now, I've got something a bit more intimate in mind.

Vacation from my vacation

Going camping in Yosemite for the next few days. So, unless you have access to homing pigeons, I shall be unreachable during that time. Please go on about your business until I return.

Oh, and godspeed, Dan. Despite the fact that you used to play poker while I toiled away over the stove for your benefit and couldn't navigate from Pizza My Heart to our apartment if you had a map, it's been a blast. Don't forget about the little people once you have sole control of Colombia's economy.

A Question

Ever feel like life is too good?

I do. Right now, actually. It's a great sensation, but also fairly unnerving. Everything is going so well that I just know that it can't last. It's as if there is an analyst in my head advising caution about the impending collapse of the market. He reminds me, wisely, that what goes up must come down.

The question is, then, how long can this artificial elevation sustain itself?

I hope the answer is a long long time.

Validation

I can vaguely remember a time long, long ago in a high school far, far away when I used to get straight A's. For this studious teenager, anything lower than an A- was not an option. Not even a single B+ had disgraced my academic record. And, if youthful idealism had anything to say about it, things were going to remain that way.

But then AP History came along right when I discovered alcohol and peer pressure, a time which sparked the dawn of a new era of misbehavior. Bent on challenging both authority and the status quo, I decided that this was to be the first class in which I didn't get an A or an A-.

Although fueled by rebellious attitude, I remember worrying about the consequences. What exactly is going to happen when I open that envelope to reveal a monolithic B standing in stark contrast to a collection of As? Would my world as I knew it come to an abrupt but spectacular end? Or, worse yet, would my parents, in a fit of rage at my academic failure, commit the adolescent version of infanticide?

Of course, neither happened. Despite my expectations, the Earth didn't even crack. An adverse reaction from my parents was equally nonexistent. Moreover, internally, I felt the same as if I had received any other grade, even an A. From then on and throughout college, perfect grades became less important to me, and, consequently, a few more B's intruded upon my heretofore untarnished record. My grades remained fairly high and I still worked damn hard to get that science degree, but the magical A had lost much of its luster, and therefore, I no longer coveted it.

Needless to say, I didn't graduate magna cum laude or summa cum laude, or anything cum laude, for that matter. Nevertheless, my undergraduate experience did not suffer. I managed to extract exactly what I needed from college. At the very least, it was enough to land a job and a spot at a prestigious graduate school.

Here in law school, where grades, rankings, achievements, and extracurricular activities are so prominent, so extensively scrutinized, and so often the topic of conversation, grades have once again taken on heightened importance. And because of the mandatory curve, getting an A is quite a bit more difficult than college -- only about 10 students in each class of 120 are awarded one -- which only adds to the tension.

Thus far, my grades have been a little bit above average, not spectacular from any perspective. This can be easily explained, however, by the following: NYU law is full of insanely bright, over-motivated over-achievers, some of whom use all of their free time for studying. I do not; I'm in New York not only to learn law, but also to experience the city, so sometimes it makes more sense for me (and yields more satisfaction) to go to dinner at a new restaurant or go out to a bar or club rather than stay in and toil away at Civil Procedure.

But finally, the tides have turned (ever so slightly) with the posting of our grades for Criminal Law. At long last I've achieved the academic validation that I was hungering for. The powers that be at NYU Law School -- finally -- recognized my efforts and rewarded them properly. Which just goes to show you that the path to academic glory does not necessarily involve locking oneself in that dungeon of a library for the entire semester. Though, I'm sure that helps.

In the waiting line

At the end of this week, I'll once again be stepping off an airplane into the artificially cooled terminal of the Las Vegas airport. This is probably the 6th or 7th time I've purchased tickets to visit the desert oasis, and each journey proves to be more eventful, more physically draining, and, ultimately, more enjoyable than the last. The latter applies with extra force to the time we decided to drive to Vegas at midnight on a Sunday in lieu of seeing a movie. If nothing else, the ratio of cleaning person to vacationer ought to be far lower this time.

Beyond the fraternizing, the mass consumption of food and alcohol, and the mischief of a Vegas reunion with my fellow Pomona alumni, one aspect of these trips that I've grown to cherish is the anticipation of it all. Like a soldier about to enter a battlefield where there is a slight chance of being fatally wounded or perhaps maimed, I sense excitment and anxiety building as my body and mind prepare for what ought to be a pleasant but otherwise exhausting four days. If the past is any indication, my inner monologue will soon be consumed with countless questions: where we will eat on Saturday? What bar we will make our venue of choice on Friday? How can I make sure we never go to the Hard Rock again? Will I spend more nights sleeping on the floor or in a bed? Should I be worried about spontaneous combustion in the 115 degree dry heat of the Strip?

Shortly, I'll have intimate knowledge of the answers to all of these questions and many more. But for now, I'm content to ponder the possibilities and revel in the anticipation of what will undoubtedly turn out to be a memorable vacation.

Things never change

Yesterday, I bumped into one of my old high school friends at the gym. Thankfully, the reunion lacked the awkwardness that so many of the "hey, I haven't seen you in a long time" conversations are plagued with. Other than just catching up, we spoke about what the rest of the old high school crew are doing with their lives -- ordinarily an interesting subject because the stories often resemble the best the tabloids can come up with. This time, however, the conversation focused more on the realities of getting older rather than the misbehaviors of growing up.

According to him, most of the guys seem to have either purchased a house or condo, or are on the verge of doing so. While I'm impressed with the maturity evident in such a move, it depresses me that most of these people don't plan to live anywhere else but here. Now don't get me wrong; Solano County is a great place to settle down. But for people our age -- mid to late 20s -- the area offers little in the way of entertainment (as I've repeatedly emphasized). Some of the guys, including my good friend Scotland, are moving to Sacramento, which certainly provides more of a big city-type experience, but that's only when you compare it to Fairfield. I guess one explanation could be that some of us suffer from wanderlust more than others. Or perhaps they've grown up and I have yet to do so.

Although I believe that to some extent they are missing out by not living somewhere else, at the same time I am somewhat envious of the bonds that they've cultivated over so many uninterrupted years. Living and hanging out with the same group of people for the large majority of your collective existence makes for some damn good friends. These guys know each other like the back of their hands and, as a result, never cease having fun.

For instance, their newest joint venture was the purchase of a Humboldt County school bus -- yes, a gigantic, yellow traditional school bus. If everything goes as planned, the bus is destined to give up its usual role -- ferrying kids to school -- and become a "party bus" -- ferrying adults to parties. So far, they've removed the back half of the seats, leaving about 6 rows, and fitted couches in the empty space. A Keg-erator is next on the list. What the future holds for this bus remains to be seen, but you can be certain that it will involve an unprecedented drinking and driving penalty.

The Best Dog Ever

The bond between man and dog never ceases to amaze me. Sadly enough, sometimes it's better to put an animal (or a human for that matter) out of its misery rather than artificially sustain its life out of some selfish motivation to prevent heartache or some misguided desire to prevent the inevitable.


RIP Kit aka Kitty aka Meebos aka The Wonder Dog

It is frustrating to erase advice that was certain to change lives

Yesterday, along with the mundane post about living in the wildnerness, I also wrote a dictionary-length commentary about the bouts of depression that seem to be spreading like wildfire (pun intended). Both Sylvie and Rodion spoke at length recently on their blogs about this very subject. Unfortunately, I boneheadedly erased all the words that were dedicated to this more intriguing subject, so you readers received only a post about some trees.

Basically, in 10,000 words or less, I attempted to say something straddling the border between sympathetic and insightful. You might think it is suspiciously convenient that such an uncharacteristic post was lost before you could scrutinize it, but I swear the explanation I've offered is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

The post -- a truly remarkable achievement in internet publishing -- went something like this: everyone gets depressed at some point or another, and, when that happens, we tend to isolate ourselves from those who care to help. Usually, we think that it's impossible for anyone else understand our mental anguish; we think that no one else has ever felt pain of such magnitude; and we convince ourselves that everyone we know is living a rosey existence which only on a rare occassion dips to a level of "moderately unhappy".

Then, when other people can describe with precision the depression and sorrow that we are feeling at the moment, we react with astonishment. We think, "How could this other individual possibly know what I'm faced with? How could they see inside me with such clarity?" But the truth is, we shouldn't be amazed when this happens because even though the emotional low is the byproduct of a situation that is both personal and unique, we, as human beings, are only equipped to experience our emotions in a limited set of ways. In other words, there are only so many mental configurations that can come to fruition in the average person's mind (psychopaths and vegans are an exception to this proposition). Also, the scenarios that cause depression -- e.g., cheating, break-ups, periods of uncertainty as to what life holds in the future -- tend to play themselves out with regularity throughout all of our lives.

So, often the best thing to do when you are feeling down is to seek refuge amongst friends -- friends who in all likelihood have experienced something similar or downright identical to what is ailing you and who can offer support when it's needed. Those friends can help you realize that the pain is but a temporary glimpse of the frailty of the human condition that every human being goes through at one time or another. What I mean to say with all this blathering (I swear the original version read like a self-help masterpiece) is that, despite what you may think, you are definitely not alone.

This message has been brought to you by the Coalition for Sappy Positive Reinforcement.

PS - I'm feeling great.

My dad down at the Trinity River about 50 yards behind our house. 

Return from the wilderness

Just a few hours ago, I returned from our new house on the Trinity River after a long Memorial Day weekend of kayaking, fishing, eating and drinking. Because my parents had described the house as a "cabin," I didn't expect it to be as large as it was. In fact, given their past frugalness, I expected little more than a one room shack. Fortunately, I was pleasantly surprised by reality.

For California standards, the house is fairly small, but for New York standards, it's positively gigantic. There are only two bedrooms and one bathroom, but the spacious living room and kitchen area make up for those shortcomings, and six lived comfortably for the three days within it's confines. Because of the commotion in and around the kitchen, sleeping in the corner of the common room did force some unpleasant early morning rises, however..

The real attraction of the having a place in the woods is, of course, the woods. And the river. And the mountains. And all that nature stuff that I was familiar with before moving to NYC. While access to some of the best bars, clubs, and restaurants seems to be all that a young person could ask for, kayaking in your backyard has a certain appeal to it.

Nature, however, is not as forgiving as I remembered. On Sunday, I had the misfortune of fishing in the freezing cold Trinity River in shorts and a fleece jacket. Worst of all, to get to the huge steelhead in the river, I had to traverse an unfriendly patch of blackberry bushes, the thorns of which tore my legs to shreds below the knees. The intense physical pain mixed with the frigid water conditions did not put me in the mood conducive to successful fishing, and before long (~30 minutes), I retired to the side of the road to warm up and take a nap, dreams of Gray's Papaya hotdogs dancing in my head.

Oh, the memories

In the spirit of Memorial Day weekend, before I go to sleep tonight I've decided to compile a list of some memorable moments, activities, events, people, places, and, of course, restaurants that remind me of the second half of my first year in law school. Yes, this is cheesy, but, at this moment, exhaustion prevents me from writing a full blown report on what transpired during those long months. You see, I need to conserve my energy because I've got to get up early tomorrow to pack for the long weekend, which I'll be spending with family at our new cabin up north. So, if third person nostalgia does not seem appealing or if you are enraged by incomprehensible inside jokes, feel free to skip this one. Rest assured that when I return on Monday, your regularly scheduled program of entries about karaoke and pork tacos will resume.

• 96th and Lexington - living on the border of SpaHa (and loving every minute of it)
  
• Friday evenings on the 6 train rocking out to my shuffle
• a certain waitress at Tortilla Flats who holds a second job at In Style
• BLVD - losing my watch, living the Matrix, and sullying my beautiful complexion - all in one night
• Momofuku - soup for the soul
• more meat than a man should be allowed at Churrascaria Plataforma
• shopping with mommy - size 9 and a halfs, dude
  
• high-fi, doc holiday's, niagra and all those other East Village bars that are identical
• formula 1 on the big screen
  
• our first trip to Manhatta
• our second trip - err, make that third trip to Manhatta (never thought bachlorettes could come in so handy)
• a modest request: "Can you guys stand over by those cars?"
  
• getting turned away at bars in the Meat Packing District (expected)
• those mini-burgers at the trendy burger place in the Meat Packing (what the fuck is that called again?)
  
• getting turned away at Bowery Bar (unexpected and our lowest moment)
• bottle service and a stingy host (who knew guys were responsible for purchasing alcohol? this is the 90s, isn't it?)
  
• sneaking in the back door at the FHM party only to find ourselves stuck in the bathroom on the bottom floor
• simple pleasures: walking around in Manhattan with an Mp3 player
• adventures in Chinatown (dim sum, soup dumplings, and dodgeball)
• Jamba Juice, Soho, and models on a Sunday afternoon - a beautiful combination
• while driving around Manhattan in an Elantra, a crew was formed
  
• saving my soul: escape from Town Tavern
• eating pizza after snow ball fights
• hiding from the snow (behind Courtney)
• a few pissed off ER nurses
• T9 and the text message revolution
• * Duplicate * From: Peter Message: SOS
• From: Ron Message: Digging a hole to China? (a reference to Crotol)
• From: Peter Message: I am downstairs
• "dorm" party on V-tine's day
• change of pace: sushi and 40s at my place
  
• Philly cheesesteaks at Wogie's after a long night
  
• Late night dining at Gramercy diner, Cosmic Cantina, Ray's Pizza, the corner Bodeaga and whatever other late night eating spot is we come across
  
• jaeger shots, 7&7s, the napalm that is supposed to compliment tequila, Country Clubs for $1.59, and ample quantities of Bud Light
• frightening females away with our voices: karaoke for guys only
  
• feasts of excess at Rich's place (never forget our "sacrifice") - sake bombs, fondue, and more cowbell
• living the Culture Club: Bon Jovi, Whitesnake, Journey, and Queen
  
• failed hunt for mole people
• very inappropriate individuals
• birthday dinner and free drinks: horrible combination
  
• the rise and fall of a boxing legend
• interviewing for a job just days after the apocalypse
• losing Mitch (and thinking it was all an elaborate prank)
• Eating in: Brother Jimmy's, Nick's, Barking Dog, and pseudo-burritos
  
• venturing into the danger zone for Mexican-French food ("nice shoes, man!")
  
• the friendliest feline in all of Manhattan
• allergies to one another
• wearing purple, gold, and turquoise beads out in public - and coming home with almost none left
• becoming Confucious to my many disciples
  
• boys will be boys: breakout, the chicken game, and sticky bombs
• "No, I will not see a movie about a female boxer."
• Tapas and insatiable hunger
• what? we're too good for Rollin' Roaster?
  
• Heard at 2:30 AM: "It's still early. We've got time."
  
• studying for finals? nah, I'm at the gym
• April and May: the period of hibernation
  
• Subjecting anyone and everyone to Arrested Development
• "Don't stop me now" because we all need a theme song
• and, last but not least, Pioneer, because we all need a second home

There are so many more, and this doesn't even cover the law school side of things. Oh well, energy is dwindling and, therefore, spelling and grammar proficiency are disappearing at a rapid pace. Let's just hope next year we'll be able to keep it up.

Anyone with anything to add can always use the comments.

And, last but not least, I'm going to be in the wilderness, but we've got a phone. So anyone needing to get a hold of me can call this: 530-623-2982. Will putting this phone number on the internet turn out to be a mistake because of the massive amount of traffic that is drawn to this site? Only if dreams come true.