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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
