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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
