My dad down at the Trinity River about 50 yards behind our house.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, May 27, 2005
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.
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.
- 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
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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Agony
I don't really have any desire to commit myself to a journal next year, yet I've spent countless hours over the last week trying to perfect an imperfectable (is that a word?) legal commentary in order to please the people who hold the key to journal membership. What is wrong with me?
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
What, no bulk discount?
If you didn't know, my faithful reader, last Monday I returned, for the summer, to the mediocrity that is Fairfield, CA. Unlike New York, which offers innumerable things to do, interesting people to meet, and extraordinary cuisine to sample, this town provides absolutely nothing that even hints at pleasure or excitement, let alone the brazilian bbq experience to which I'm accustomed. It pains me to say it but once a Dave's burger has been vanquished, the rest of my time here will largely consist of sitting around with nothing to do.
Given such a backdrop of extreme boredom and lack of stimuli, it should come as no surprise that I've been spending a lot of time conversing with my parents for entertainment. Between "competing" for a place on a journal next year and trying to secure a job that will actually provide some legal experience, I basically sit around, talking with them about the past year at NYU and about what they've been up to since I've been gone. One notable story comes from my father, who recently celebrated a friend's birthday in Vegas. To put the story into perspective, he hasn't been to Vegas since Wynn took over and turned the place into the adult playground to which we've all become addicted (the paradigm shift took place 20 years ago, I believe).
So, we're sitting at lunch and he brings up the vodka bar at Mandalay Bay, which I am familiar with only because I've secretly alway wanted to be a patron but never had the opportunity (read: in Vegas, we drink Bud Light exclusively). Once talk of the novelty of the ice bar surface dies down, he starts to get into the more gritty details. I inquire about the price, which he replies was a bit high, but nothing astronomical. This question ultimately leads to what I found to be a fairly hilarious anecdote.
Apparently, at some point in the night, the bartender, seeing that these old guys don't have a clue and surmising that they might just be naive enough to go for it, offers them bottle service. Now, to my dad, the concept of bottle service was totally unheard of, and, accordingly, the guys presumed that the bartender's offer was a friendly overture and something worth taking advantage of. One of their posse immediately goes to work calculating the per-shot cost of the bottle, genuinely expecting this manner of ordering to offer a substantial "bulk discount" off the normal one-drink-at-a-time methodology. Once the math comes to its conclusion and bewilderment spread across their collective faces, they remark to the bartender that, in fact, no such bulk discount is reflected in the price. "What gives, Mr. Bartender?"
At this point that the bartender explains that bottle service will grant them access to a special table and "get them noticed," exactly what these men were trying to avoid at all costs (especially exorbitant ones). Of course, they politely decline the bottle and continue doing things the old-fashioned way.
Now, honestly, I don't know why I find this scenario so humorous, but I guess the image of my Dad being offered bottle service, a completely new concept to him outside of the Costco context, upsets my expectations of reality enough to elicit mild laughter (and thus deserves top billing on this website). Plus, this anecdote serves to highlight the differences in our respective lives -- and explains why he can function just fine in Fairfield while I am immediately struck with an intense lack of purpose and meaning.
Given such a backdrop of extreme boredom and lack of stimuli, it should come as no surprise that I've been spending a lot of time conversing with my parents for entertainment. Between "competing" for a place on a journal next year and trying to secure a job that will actually provide some legal experience, I basically sit around, talking with them about the past year at NYU and about what they've been up to since I've been gone. One notable story comes from my father, who recently celebrated a friend's birthday in Vegas. To put the story into perspective, he hasn't been to Vegas since Wynn took over and turned the place into the adult playground to which we've all become addicted (the paradigm shift took place 20 years ago, I believe).
So, we're sitting at lunch and he brings up the vodka bar at Mandalay Bay, which I am familiar with only because I've secretly alway wanted to be a patron but never had the opportunity (read: in Vegas, we drink Bud Light exclusively). Once talk of the novelty of the ice bar surface dies down, he starts to get into the more gritty details. I inquire about the price, which he replies was a bit high, but nothing astronomical. This question ultimately leads to what I found to be a fairly hilarious anecdote.
Apparently, at some point in the night, the bartender, seeing that these old guys don't have a clue and surmising that they might just be naive enough to go for it, offers them bottle service. Now, to my dad, the concept of bottle service was totally unheard of, and, accordingly, the guys presumed that the bartender's offer was a friendly overture and something worth taking advantage of. One of their posse immediately goes to work calculating the per-shot cost of the bottle, genuinely expecting this manner of ordering to offer a substantial "bulk discount" off the normal one-drink-at-a-time methodology. Once the math comes to its conclusion and bewilderment spread across their collective faces, they remark to the bartender that, in fact, no such bulk discount is reflected in the price. "What gives, Mr. Bartender?"
At this point that the bartender explains that bottle service will grant them access to a special table and "get them noticed," exactly what these men were trying to avoid at all costs (especially exorbitant ones). Of course, they politely decline the bottle and continue doing things the old-fashioned way.
Now, honestly, I don't know why I find this scenario so humorous, but I guess the image of my Dad being offered bottle service, a completely new concept to him outside of the Costco context, upsets my expectations of reality enough to elicit mild laughter (and thus deserves top billing on this website). Plus, this anecdote serves to highlight the differences in our respective lives -- and explains why he can function just fine in Fairfield while I am immediately struck with an intense lack of purpose and meaning.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
The Real Contender
I spend a lot of time at Peter's apartment on the Upper East Side, and this Friday was no exception. After recovering from my grueling criminal law final, I hopped on the 6 train and made my way up to his humble abode. As is standard, once I got there, we immediately ordered pizza and delved into some video gaming -- hockey followed by EA Sport's Fight Night, a boxing game.
The latter is no ordinary boxing game. It's intuitive controls and incredibly lifelike graphics provide an unparalleled virtual boxing experience. Up until this point, though, my virtual boxing experience has been an unmitigated disaster -- I've never beaten Peter straight-up in the 30 or so times we've battled it out. Sure, I've managed to win when he was a featherweight (120 lbs) and I was Lennox Lewis (240 lbs), but that is neither a testament to my skill nor a feat I am particularly proud of. This Friday, however, that all changed.
It was an epic boute from its inception, with me as Evander Holyfield and him as Roy Jones Jr., the star of the game. For the first four rounds or so, neither of us managed to do any real damage, spending most of our time anticipating the attacks of our opponent with well-executed dodge manuevers rather than exchanging blows. Then, in the 5th round, the inevitable happened -- Peter knocked me down not once, but twice. Because the fight had been so evenly-matched up until this point, his emerging superiority rocked me to the core, thoroughly jettisoning all of my confidence. The third and final knockdown seemed to be nothing more than a foregone conclusion.
Reeling from the damage he had inflicted, I spent the next few rounds simply avoiding him, throwing infrequent punches whenever I wasn't backing away from his fists. As the bout wore on, our stamina decreased, and both fighters grew tired and lethargic. My survival turned out to be Peter's Achilles heel. Each time the bell rang to signal the start of another round, Peter's fighting style became more and more careless.
Then, in the 8th round, I managed the impossible. One or two blows from being knocked out myself, I sent Roy Jones Jr. to the canvas with a deft right hook. This being Peter's first trip to the mat thus far, however, the knockdown was nothing more than a mere annoyance and he managed to get up with relative ease. But with that single knockdown, the heretofore invincible fighter had allowed his mortality to surface, if just for a moment.
The 10th round had both of us desperate for the knockout that would bring the fight to a close and the agony to an end (plus, the pizza had arrived, and I was really, really hungry). Eshewing defense for offense, we pummelled each other mercilessly. But this was to be my moment of glory, not Peter's. As Roy Jones leaned forward to throw an uppercut, I reacted with astonishing speed and sent Evander's fist sailing through the air before Peter's tired fighter could resume his defensive position. Temporarily unconscious, Roy Jones crumpled to the mat and, lacking the energy to get back up, succumbed to gravity. If memory serves me, at that exact moment time stood still.
And with that, Peter, like Mike Tyson before him and some other fighters whom I know nothing about, had been dealt his first bona fide defeat. Only time will tell how he takes it, and whether he can overcome the descent from godhood. A true fighter always makes a comeback, so I expect to face the challenge of a lifetime the next time I encounter Peter in the virtual ring. Until that next fight, though, I can rightfully claim the title of champion -- I just hope he invites the champion back to his apartment.
The latter is no ordinary boxing game. It's intuitive controls and incredibly lifelike graphics provide an unparalleled virtual boxing experience. Up until this point, though, my virtual boxing experience has been an unmitigated disaster -- I've never beaten Peter straight-up in the 30 or so times we've battled it out. Sure, I've managed to win when he was a featherweight (120 lbs) and I was Lennox Lewis (240 lbs), but that is neither a testament to my skill nor a feat I am particularly proud of. This Friday, however, that all changed.
It was an epic boute from its inception, with me as Evander Holyfield and him as Roy Jones Jr., the star of the game. For the first four rounds or so, neither of us managed to do any real damage, spending most of our time anticipating the attacks of our opponent with well-executed dodge manuevers rather than exchanging blows. Then, in the 5th round, the inevitable happened -- Peter knocked me down not once, but twice. Because the fight had been so evenly-matched up until this point, his emerging superiority rocked me to the core, thoroughly jettisoning all of my confidence. The third and final knockdown seemed to be nothing more than a foregone conclusion.
Reeling from the damage he had inflicted, I spent the next few rounds simply avoiding him, throwing infrequent punches whenever I wasn't backing away from his fists. As the bout wore on, our stamina decreased, and both fighters grew tired and lethargic. My survival turned out to be Peter's Achilles heel. Each time the bell rang to signal the start of another round, Peter's fighting style became more and more careless.
Then, in the 8th round, I managed the impossible. One or two blows from being knocked out myself, I sent Roy Jones Jr. to the canvas with a deft right hook. This being Peter's first trip to the mat thus far, however, the knockdown was nothing more than a mere annoyance and he managed to get up with relative ease. But with that single knockdown, the heretofore invincible fighter had allowed his mortality to surface, if just for a moment.
The 10th round had both of us desperate for the knockout that would bring the fight to a close and the agony to an end (plus, the pizza had arrived, and I was really, really hungry). Eshewing defense for offense, we pummelled each other mercilessly. But this was to be my moment of glory, not Peter's. As Roy Jones leaned forward to throw an uppercut, I reacted with astonishing speed and sent Evander's fist sailing through the air before Peter's tired fighter could resume his defensive position. Temporarily unconscious, Roy Jones crumpled to the mat and, lacking the energy to get back up, succumbed to gravity. If memory serves me, at that exact moment time stood still.
And with that, Peter, like Mike Tyson before him and some other fighters whom I know nothing about, had been dealt his first bona fide defeat. Only time will tell how he takes it, and whether he can overcome the descent from godhood. A true fighter always makes a comeback, so I expect to face the challenge of a lifetime the next time I encounter Peter in the virtual ring. Until that next fight, though, I can rightfully claim the title of champion -- I just hope he invites the champion back to his apartment.
Friday, May 06, 2005
A paradox
You know what? An eight-hour law school exam is not as exhausting, nor as painful as a four-hour law school exam. Doesn't that just blow your mind and contradict all of reality? Well, in any case, it's the truth. Don't dispute it. Don't question it. Just believe.
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