Mostly Baked

A baked potato is a thing of wonder. Warm and filling, these mainstays of the American diet are a must during the cold winter months. That baked potatoes are infinitely customizable only adds to their universal appeal. Some people shower them with bacon bits; others fill them with cheddar cheese and chives; still others add sauerkraut (vegans, go figure). I'm a purist, though, prefering nothing more than dollop of sour cream and some (real) butter. However you prepare them, baked potatos always satisfy.

Except, that is, when I cook them.

Allow me to explain. Over the part week or two, I've attempted to bake and eat a potato with dinner several times. In my understanding, the proper cooking conditions for a potato are one hour (approximately) at 350 degrees. Admittedly, this is a long time to wait for dinner, but the reward -- a delicious baked tuber -- is, in theory, worth sitting around for 60 minutes with my stomach grumbling.

My principal problem with the baked potato is that I always finish preparing the rest of my dinner way before the potato is done. This presents a culinary dilemma. My choices are either 1) wait for the potato to cook fully and leave the rest of the food sitting idle and growing cold; 2) eat what is finished while it is warm and have the potato by itself at a later time; or 3) take the potato out of the oven, whether it is finished or not (it's not), and eat all components of my dinner at once, as originally intented. Since I'm very hungry at that point, I usually cannot resist pursuing option three.

In an incredible display of willpower, I once managed to hold out until the hour mark, but even then the potato was not soft inside. Armed with this empirical data, I raised the cooking temperature by 50, to 400 degrees, the next time (a few days later). To my surprise, one hour at this elevated temperature did not sufficiently cook the potato either. Oh, the horror!

Now, I'm not dumb. I know what the solution is here: let the potato bake for more than an hour.* But when you are hungry, this is far easier said than done. Unfortunately, I lack the foresight to put the potato in the oven that far ahead of when I want to be eating dinner. This means that the same process -- waiting as long as I can but inevitably pulling the potato out before it is done because I just want to eat, damn it -- will play itself out whenever a baked potato is a part of my dinner.

Can you imagine a worse fate?

* I could also turn the temperature way up, but I don't want a burnt potato.

Conflagration on the Bridges

Recently, a friend lent me the book Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. He told me, "It will change your life." Though his voice was heavy with sarcasm, I could see in his face that he sorta meant it.

Intrigued, I dove right in, reading it in two nights. The book's subject is a college professor, Morrie, who is slowly by inexorably succumbing to a degenerative disease of the nervous system. During his final days, Morrie is reunited with a former student, the author of the book, Mitch, and they spend every Tuesday night until his unfortunate passing talking to one another (hence the title). Each night, with incredible clarity and simplicity of message, Morrie delivers poignant lessons to Mitch (and the reader) on just about every facet of modern life.

I'm a bit disappointed to say that it didn't change my life. Most of what Morrie said to Mitch, I'd already come up with on my own. Essentially, Morrie advocated giving up the pursuit of material things for love, friends, and family. He believed that, for some reason or another, most people look for happiness and fulfillment in the wrong places--and therefore don't ever find it. Good advice, but not exactly earth shattering.

For me, it was what Morrie did more than what he said that really hit home. Faced with an illness that slowly incapacitates its victim through paralysis but leaves the mind untouched, Morrie never gave up on living. Day after day, he greeted the morning sun with as much vigor as his weakened frame would allow. And if it happened to be a Tuesday, you can be damn sure that he was going to meet with Mitch, regardless of his condition. Only by accepting reality and then working within its confines was Morrie able to make the most of his final days.

Now, I've never faced anything even remotely similar to what Morrie did. I hope I never will. But recent events have shown me that Morrie's approach is the correct one. You shouldn't fight the inevitable; it's a losing battle, one that guarantees misery. Sometimes, you have to accept unfortunate situations for what they are, no matter how hard your mind and body rebel against doing so. Once you let go of an irreconcilable vision of the future, reality becomes a much more welcoming place.

The Power of Acoustic Music

Check this out.

I wish I could do that.

Local Warming

Though scientists and politicians continue to debate the existence of global warming, I am hear to announce that the issue has been settled. Based on my observations after living through two very wintery winters in NYC, I am ready to declare once and for all that the globe is indeed warming. My conclusive proof? It is 60 degrees -- six zero -- outside today, this November 17th.

Never fear. Global warming isn't all bad. At the very least, it gives residents of the East Coast a small taste of what it is like to be Californian. And, more importantly, it is presently providing me a much-deserved respite from the cold.

Meager Beginnings

Just moments ago, I was watching a video on Youtube about the 100 best cars of all time. Astonishingly, I caught a glimpse of my very first car, a 1985 Nissan Sentra. (We used to call it the 'Catfish' because of a piece of bodywork which, like that fish's whiskers, stuck out absurdly to the side.)

Unfortunately, my car was not featured as a demonstration of Nissan's engineering accomplishments; instead, it was shown during the intro for a short piece dedicated to the worst cars of all time. Let me repeat that: the worst cars of all time.

Thanks Mom and Dad.

Attn: 20-something Marathon Runners

Get a hobby. Seriously.

With a few notable exceptions, I've come to the regrettable conclusion that twenty-somethings who run marathons live uninteresting lives. Sure, they work (or study) hard, make their bosses (or professors) happy, and sometimes even manage to take their two-weeks of paid vacation. Only rarely, though, do they have interests outside of work, apart from popular culture and the news. To these overworked and uninspired souls, a marathon represents a much-needed break from a status quo characterized by long bouts of inaction and immobility.

As I've gotten older, it seems that more and more people have been taking up marathon running, leaving me to wonder why a long and often very painful foot race remains utterly unappealing to me. This increase in marathon running should not be surprising: the more my peers are forced to spend all of their time doing things they don't want to do, the more a marathon becomes a desireable alternative.

When we were younger, there was no limit of fun things to do -- we had friends to hang out with, sports or afterschool clubs to participate in, and hobbies to occupy our considerable free time. As kids, even our backyards provided plenty of opportunities for exploration and adventure. That meant a marathon was pretty much the last thing on our minds.

This is not to say that a marathon is a completely worthless endeavour. It's certainly true that by finishing a marathon you can prove (to yourself and everyone else) that, despite not being a kid any longer, you are capable of an impressive feat of physical strength and endurace.

But so what? From what I can tell, pretty much anyone -- the fit, the out-of-shape, and everyone in between -- can do it with enough training. The only reason anyone might realistically doubt that they could complete a marathon is if they are so far removed from physical activity that they really have no idea what their body is still capable of. But at that point, the solution is not a 26-mile run -- it's a complete overhaul of priorities.

Recently, I overhead a conversation on this subject between someone who had just run a marathon and someone who had done so in the past. What struck me most was a comment from the more recent marathon runner. She said, "I'm depressed the race is over. I'm in such good shape now it's a shame to let it slip away." The past marathon runner than told her about a series of shorter races which take place a few weeks after marathons to allow people who had trained for the marathon to take advantage of their newfound fitness. Uninterested, she dismissed the idea.

And you do know why? Because running is boring -- and marathon running is not a substitute for a physical activity or hobby that you enjoy.

Running, I believe, should be part of a more balanced diet of exercise. If you run to get in shape for, say, backpacking, a soccer league, or bicycling, then it makes perfect sense. Otherwise, training for months to run in the longest, most boring foot race that has ever been conceived only sink right back into fitness oblivion afterwards seems like one of the most pointless endeavours ever conceived.

I'm becoming a New Yorker

Despite my best efforts, it's happening.

I now live on Broadway, one of the noisiest streets in Manhattan. The 24-hour-a-day street sounds which emanate from more than ten stories below -- including but not limited to police cruisers, firetrucks, honking drivers, and pseudo-musical performers -- are driving me absolutely crazy.

At this very moment, I'm one annoying sound away from opening my window and yelling at the top of my lungs "shut the hell up!" to everyone on the street.

Bloglove?

Should I really rekindle the old flame, i.e., start posting on this space again? Rodion suggests I should; school and other responsibilities urge me not to. Hmmm. . . Perhaps I could write less, but post more often. i guess the big question is: can my blog really recover from a summer of silence?

A Tragedy of Epic Proportions

R.I.P. Dan's Grill
2004 - 2006

Before adorning teeth with jewelry became the trendy thing to do, years before Nelly had everyone singing tribute to dental decoration, back when your choice of grill was limited to Weber or Kenmore, Dan had a grill. And although the grill was born in a rundown strip mall in Fremont, CA, its lustrous gold and brilliant diamonds seemed to have been mined from heaven itself. To all who came to know it, there was no doubt that this was no ordinary grill.

Accentuation, illumination, inspiration, intimidation -- all were the province of the grill. When called upon to perform, it sparkled like a million celestial bodies, diamonds shining with such vigor onlookers risked permanent blindness if they stared for too long. But despite the danger, who could look away? Not I.

The grill demanded your attention the way that a vintage automobile or an attractive women does. And all were powerless to resist it. The shine alone caused men to turn green from envy, and women to grow weak from desire. Be you gangster, homeless crack addict, or promiscuous female, a close encounter with the grill inevitably left you changed, convinced that, though the world is often an ugly, unforgiving place, it can also be divinely beautiful at times.

So, pour out a little liquor for your fallen comrade, who brightened lives while never asking for anything more in return than a chance to be seen.

Grill, you will missed for all time, but never more than in Vegas this weekend.

Into the Unknown

Very soon -- much sooner than I'd like -- I'll be embarking on a terrifying, unprecedented journey into a two-day final exam. Given the state of my knowledge, to have 48 consecutive hours over which to demonstrate the principles of the economic analysis of law is more a curse than a blessing. For students who paid attention in class, it's enough time to produce sophisticated, well-written answers -- answers that a shorter exam would have precluded. But due to my general lack of motivation and the voluminous nature of the assigned reading for this class, I don't know that I have it in me to match their dilligence. While I hope to be inspired to academic excellence, I doubt I'll search too hard for elusive answers despite the fact that the materials for the course -- and presumably the answers to the exam -- will be sitting in a yellow folder beside me. Accordingly, the 48 hours is likely going to consist of seemingly interminable frustration, repeated vows to pay more attention next semester, desperate reliance on Wikipedia, and the haphazard formulation of what I hope are acceptable answers to questions I don't really know the answer to.

Wish me luck.

Pardon the interruption

Summary of the present: Just a few hours ago, I finished the first of three finals. Though my performance left me feeling a bit underwhelmed, Consitutional Law is now over, and it will ultimately be inconsequential. I've got an apartment in San Francisco, a ticket to Vegas, two weeks to study for and take two exams, enough time to maintain a fairly active social life, an addiction to the music of Gnarls Barkley, and a sneaking suspicion that life is headed in the right direction.

Hiatus

Let me now apologize for my absence. Finals loom on the horizon, and the weather has improved markedly. Both contribute to the lack of words on these pages. Do not fret for posting will soon resume at its normal pace.

The Barbarian and I

Earlier this week, I attended a taping of Late Night with Conan O'Brien. Besides the fact that you can see all the cameras and the various people that make the show happen, it wasn't too much different from watching the show on television.

Where it does differ from the ordinary home experience is that, as an audience member, you are obligated to clap virtually nonstop for an hour. This may not seem like much of a burden, but I assure you it is. By the end of the taping, my hands were raw from repeatedly contact, and my fake enthusiasm had withered to an almost imperceptible level. I could barely bring myself to manage a smile, let alone laugh, scream, and applaud heartily whenever the audience-do-your-thing sign lit up.

From now on, I think I'll limit my audience participation to yelling at the TV.

Homeless Please Help

As summer approaches, my need to find temporary housing is intensifying at a startingly pace. And the process certainly isn't getting any easier. Whereas a week ago there were multiple listings for furnished studios in the most desirable areas, now it seems that the only post on Craigslist is for a small room in an "international warehouse" which is already home to 12 self-described "international" -- i.e., disturbingly eccentric -- people.

That's not to say I haven't been putting in effort. I received an underwhelming response to an ad I posted about a week ago. Evidently, I didn't make it clear enough that I'd rather not live deep in the heart of the Castro or in the most dangerous parts of the Mission.

Ultimately, if everything works out how I'd like, my temporary home will be located in either SOMA or North Beach. It will consist of a furnished studio or shared two-bedroom apartment from which I can walk to a grocery store and have easy access to SF's nightlife. Perhaps this is too much to ask.

The importance of securing housing before school ends is heightened by the fact that I've committed to a weekend in Vegas with the college crew immediately prior to my first day at work. Given how tired I usually emerge from Las Vegas, it may not have been the most prudent decision. But what's done is done, and I'm not withdrawing regardless of my situation on May 11th. You see, the preservation of the ad hoc college reunion depends entirely on attendance of the invitees. Once people start allowing responsibilities or other factors to preclude seeing friends who live all over the world, those friendships are put at risk. At least until it is absolutely unavoidable, I won't allow that to happen.

But I digress. If no other housing alternative presents itself between now and then, I can always hole up in a hotel for the first week of work, and postpone the housing search until week two. So all is not lost - yet. At a minimum, I'd have a place to sleep, and, more importantly, housekeeping -- something that most of my living situations would have benefited from.

Colombia, Part 3: Back to Bogota

On Wednesday, we left Cartagena and returned to Bogota. According to Dan, this point in the trip was to be when the “real” drinking would begin since the election was now over. But our bodies, specifically Josh’s and mine, would soon conspire against Dan’s desire to accelerate the pace of our partying. That night, at a packed bar in the historic district of Bogota, both Josh and I suffered dramatically from hot flashes, upset stomachs, and profound exhaustion. Traveling to a foreign country, living at 8000 ft above sea level, lack of restful sleep, and excessive consumption of foreign food and drink had finally begun to take its toll. We could barely put down any beers. Not long after we arrived, a visibly disappointed Dan allowed us to go home. I promptly fell asleep.

The next day, partially recovered, we did our best to rally from the failed night before. During the day, we went go-karting and bowling, proving once and for all that the two are not mutually exclusive and setting a bold precedent for future trips. That night, we finally met Dan’s ex-girlfriend, Serena, when she and her friend Angela accompanied us to dinner at a Benihana-style restaurant. After dinner, we drank two jirafas at Bogota Beer Company, and then took the girls to a dance club not far away. The club was packed, and, despite still being somewhat ill, we stayed until closing at 3:00 am.

Friday was our last full day in Colombia. Unfortunately, a large thunderstorm developed, preventing us from going on a site-seeing trip to the top of a nearby mountain. Instead, we did some souvenir shopping and generally laid low, in preparation for the evening’s festivities.

And it was a good thing we did. We started out drinking frozen alcoholic beverages at the appropriately named Tropical Beverages and then made our way to our final destination -- Salto del Angel. The three-story, high-ceiling, multi-bar dance club was full to capacity – and beyond – that night. Though we would only be there for two hours or so, I can honestly say that this was one of the best venues I’ve ever seen. The crowd consisted of the who’s who of Bogota, as well as a high percentage of foreigners. A live band played Colombian hits to the delight of the patrons. It was truly unfortunate that we had to leave early the next morning.

Epilogue

With only a handful of travel inconveniences between us, Josh and I returned safely to the US that Saturday. To be sure, I was glad to be home; but not for the reasons I would have thought before the trip commenced. Given the dire warnings showered upon us by friends, family, and the State Department, I expected the trip’s end to be followed by an overwhelming sense of relief for having escaped what was sure to be an anxiety-producing, fear-filled experience, like walking through a dark alley in a bad part of town late at night. Instead, I felt relief only because I would finally be able to rest, to pause, to catch my breath. The real Colombia, not the version that exists in the collective mind of the West, offered too much fun, proved too intriguing, and, totally unexpectedly, was almost too welcoming – until you get in a cab, of course.

Colombia, Part 2: The Flood

Sunday night in Cartagena marked our first and only break from drinking during the 8-day trip. Rather than venture out to bars which could still not legally serve alcohol because of the election period prohibition, we saw Munich at the local theater. Wallets heavy with newfound Colombian wealth, we splurged on snacks, purchasing two large combos of soda and popcorn to split between the three of us.

The movie had already started by the time we made it in the theater, so we silently slid into seats nearer to the back but amongst the majority of the patrons, most of whom were Colombian teenagers on group dates. Josh sat on the far left; Dan in the middle, and I took the position closest to the aisle. Just seconds after sitting down, I heard a loud commotion from Josh’s area, followed by Dan’s riotous laughter and then the laughter of the rest of the audience. Somehow, Josh had managed to spill the majority of his 64-ounce soda on his lap. Between fits of laughter, Dan urged me to move over one seat so Josh would not have to spend the rest of the movie sitting in a puddle of Coke.

Once the laughter had died down and the collective attention of the audience focused once again on the movie, I asked Josh to pass me the remainder of the soda. As Josh handed the soda across Dan’s lap, I absent-mindedly reached over to grab it using the ordinary hand-over-the-top-of-the-lid maneuver. Without warning, the lid collapsed, and the soda, once again, emptied its contents on a gringo – me.

This time, the audience couldn’t contain themselves. Most of the teenagers sitting directly in front of us turned around to laugh and point; in addition, it was apparent that almost everyone behind me had also witnessed my stupidity and was now thoroughly entertained.

Thoughtful as always, Dan, at this juncture, chose to inform us that soda lids in Colombia are almost all defective and that we should handle the cups carefully. It was quickly becoming clear that our tour-guide was more interested in witnessing our downfall than averting disaster. This did not portend good things for the rest of our days in this strange land.

Colombia, Part 1: Crazy Taxi

Even before our first Colombian taxi had traveled 20 feet, it was obvious that this was not going to be any ordinary cab ride. You see, in Colombia, lane markers are only suggestions; cars frequently go three-wide on two-lane roads. At night, obeying red lights is, at best, optional. Speed limits? None to speak of. Because of the lack of traffic laws, chaos reigns supreme on the roads of Bogota.

Most of the cabs navigating the chaos are slight variations on this common theme: small, ultra-cheap car, constructed entirely of aluminum foil, with never more than a quarter tank of gas, desperately in need of repairs (indicated by sputtering engine), guaranteed to get you to your destination most of the time. Mechanical infirmities generally limited their speed, which was a relief, but it was clear from the sound the doors made when shut that an accident at any speed in one of these tin cans would be our demise. Word to the wise: Colombian cab drivers HATE it when you use any force to shut the door. We learned this quickly – the first night in fact - and soon it became standard practice to verbally warn whoever got in the cab last to be very, very careful not to slam the door.

To give you an idea of how harrowing an experience it is to take cabs in Colombia, I’ll list some of the cab-related incidents that occurred over the course of one week. Bear in mind this list is by no means exhaustive. One of the cabs was so pitiful that it almost stalled whenever we would have to climb a hill, causing other cars to back up behind us as we motored slowly ahead at 1500 rpms. Another blew a tire or lost a rim on the way to the airport. We stalled on the freeway at least once that I recall. We had one driver who, still many blocks from our destination, turned off his car whenever we came to a stop to keep us from running out of gas. Many of our other drivers accelerated full throttle through bumper-to-bumper traffic as if their cars were not about to fall apart, in the process terrorizing Josh and I.

Battling for domination of the roads with the cabs are these gigantic multi-colored buses, called [I need Dan to remind me]. Apparently, some of the buses are for site-seeing/drinking and others are for normal transportation. Unless I missed something, there is no way to tell the difference between the two. These buses stop whenever – and wherever – a rider wants, which means that your cab often has to screech to a halt because a bus has just stopped, without warning, in the middle of the busy road right in front of you. Though it seems self-evident that the cabs cannot possibly out-muscle the buses, our drivers were never willing to back down, even in the face of a collision.

To add to the congestion, some of the poorer people travel on horse-drawn carts. One of these 19th century devices came within inches of colliding with one of our cabs. Yes, that’s right: we were almost in a car crash with a horse in the middle of the busy streets of Bogota.

In all fairness, we only witnessed one actual collision, and it didn't involve our car – a minor one between a cab and a bus in which the cab’s side-view mirror was clipped. But in our travels, we came upon one bus that had obviously been on fire, a Hyundai wagon sans its front bumper being pushed by several laughing drunk people, and one other standard collision between normal cars.

Given the state of traffic in Bogota and the driving style of Colombians, I am truly amazed that more accidents don’t happen. Is this a testament to their driving ability or, was Josh right, and Colombians truly are "the luckiest people on Earth"? It really must be the latter.

Bon Voyage

Before it even started, this trip turned out to be more fraught with complications than I ever imagined. Still, despite all the issues that surfaced during the lead-up, I'm looking forward to seeing friends, laying around in the sun, visiting a new continent, and avoiding what most everyone I know seems to believe is inevitable -- a run-in with hostile locals. No matter what happens, don't ever forget me. That's all I ask.

Two Days Until Colombia

For all those interested, here is a list of what I need to do between now and Friday afternoon:

• Photocopy my passport, and figure out a good place to stash the copy
• Determine exactly how much cash I'll need and how many credit cards I should leave at home (What's the going rate for bribing your way out of trouble?)
  
• Mail a few assorted items
  
• Charge the battery on my digital camera
• Overcome my fear of kidnapping
• Put a bunch of college era music on my Mp3 player
• Decide if I'm going to attempt the impossible, i.e., studying during the trip -- this is highly unlikely
  
• Purchase some really strong waterproof suntan lotion, preferably SPF 30 or above
  
• Get a haircut (with any luck, it will be administered by a gay guy)
  
• Email my parents our exact location in Bogota
• Perform some ministerial tasks for the Journal
• Read Criminal Procedure for Friday
• Figure out when my flight leaves and when Josh's arrives
  
• Print out my tickets, Dan's address, Dan's phone number and anything else that might assist me in gaining entry to and departing from South America
  
• And, of course, pack

I'm sure that I'm forgetting something that will come to my mind immediately as I set foot on the subway train on the way to JFK.

(Yes, I realize this is the worst post ever, but it has the potential to assist me greatly in my preparations. I'll try to post something while I'm in the Southern Hemisphere, but I'm not sure the Internet exists there in the form I am accustomed to so no promises.)

Friends in Strange Places

Is it strange that I never speak at all to one of my best friends*? I never get together to hang out with him. I have never, in fact, met him at all. Other than one email, written in a drunken state late at night, we have never been in any form of direct contact at all. I do, however, hear from him for about an hour and half each day of the week, and sometimes on weekends.

His name is Phil Hendrie, the host of a nationally syndicated radio show, which features Mr. Hendrie performing interviews with himself as he plays a host of different characters. The cast of characters ranges from a weed-smoking professor of Astrophysics from Caltech to a psychopathic suburban house wife name Bobbie and her idiot husband who does nothing more than shout inane comments from the background. The appeal of the show is that this clever ruse -- a reverse prank call, if you will -- and Phil's uncanny ability to have a conversation with himself as two people (sometimes more) tricks inattentive or otherwise dimwitted listeners all across the country into calling the show and arguing against absurd and frequently offensive premises advocated by equally preposterous guests. Hearing the average American trying to convince a pompous business owner who speaks entirely in the third person ("I'm Ted Bell. Ted Bell doesn't ride coach.") that there should not be a law allowing business owners to drink and drive because of their need for additional stress relief is one of the most hilarious things I've ever encountered.

If you don't believe me, you should give him a try. His website is www.philhendrieshow.com. There are a number of free audio clips available. You might make a new best friend out of it.

* Perhaps "best friend" is overstating the case a bit. But he is undoubtedly one of the people who figures prominently in my life. He is someone I would miss were he not around. In some ways, he is little different than a friend you communicate with solely through email, only in this situation my obligation is not to reply, but to give him $6.95 a month. A small price to pay for almost 45 hours per month of entertainment.

Developing Trend

Evidently, about two weeks before each spring break of my law school career, I am going to fall ill to some mildly potent virus. This time, it set in over the weekend, and is now in full swing. My head is throbbing from sinus pressure, my nose is running, and the use of my throat causes massive discomfort. Not cool.

Dispossessed

Tonight, while I was doing the dishes, the following startling realization occurred to me: my life is significantly impaired by the absence of a garbage disposal in our sink. But when you've never had to live without one, the garbarge disposal doesn't seem all that valuable. If you're anything like me, you've been taking that at-times noisy but mostly unseen and unheard device for granted. However, if your disposal were spirited away in the middle of the night, you'd be amazed at the impact on your life, let me tell you.

The first problem with not having a disposal is that, since you can no longer dump any food at all down the drain, you'll need to purchase one of those infernal screen drainplugs to catch any falling detritus. The worst aspect of the screen is that food inevitably piles up in a unsightly mess, and you can never fully clean the damn thing. Despite your best efforts, there is always a noodle or two and perhaps a piece of vegatable matter that won't release its grasp of the drainplug. Unless you have an inventory of unused drainplugs or clean it with pliers, this is something you'll have to live with, like it or not.

Second, you'll find that breaking the habit of behaving as if you have a disposal is hard, if not impossible. I still to this day find myself tossing food into the sink as if the unwanted pieces had somewhere to go. They don't. They pile up, hidden amongst the dishes stacked in the sink, until they clog the screen, causing a situation which requires that you dip your arm into the filthy water to remove the offending matter, thus clearing the way for waterflow. No matter how good whatever you cooked or are cooking will taste and regardless of the quality of the ingredients, this is not a pleasant experience by any measure.

Third, not having a disposal makes for a lot more garbage -- garbarge that, because its contents consist of soon-to-be-rotting organic matter, you must usually take out immediately. Admittedly, this only requires walking down the hall for me, but sometimes that's the last thing I want to do after cooking a meal sans disposal.

There is one final reason why I miss the disposal, and this may very well be a reason unique to me. In the past, when I was making something involving fresh herbs, say basil, mint, or cilantro, I could take some of the leftovers, toss them in the disposal, hit the switch, and be treated to the pungent scent of whatever herb I'd used. Sometimes, I'd even throw in a half of a lemon to spread lemon scent throughout the kitchen. But no longer. Now, to get the same effect or at least something similar, I have to rely on aerosol sprays containing "lemony scent" or "fresh herbal fragrance." And that is not something I'm going to do.

At least I now know the first question I'll ask when I'm purchasing a house: does it have a garbage disposal?

Ridiculously Cold

To the Heart of Darkness

About a year ago at this time, I purchased a ticket to Belize, a small country in Central America famous for, among other things, the second largest coral reef in the world, world-class tarpon and permit fishing, grand Mayan temples and their attendant rich history, and lush rainforests inhabited by jaguars, howler monkeys, and toucans. For someone like me who is a strong proponent of safe-and-sound world travel, Belize had the added bonus of relative stability in its government.

Not this year. Just yesterday I booked a flight to Colombia -- not uptown Columbia, but Colombia with an "o" -- where kidnapping insurance is commonplace, where armored cars ferry children to and from school, where a bona fide war on drugs is being waged daily. In my understanding, armed guerillas roam the streets freely, alternatively sending out extortion letters and holding up hapless American tourists. To be sure, this ain't no Caye Caulker.

Why would I choose to go to such a place when there are plenty of tourist-friendly desitnations around the world that would help me part ways with my leftover loan money without exposing me to potential danger? All blame for this decision can be put squarely on the shoulders of my friend Dan, who has been in Colombia for the last 6 months or so and, prior to his newest mini-vacation from the real world, lived in South America for a number of years following college graduation. Far away from home but unwilling to do the prudent thing and return, he has cajoled, pleaded, and even begged for visitors.

It took some time, but his repeated entreaties -- and legally binding promises that Colombia "has changed" -- finally persuaded me to acquiesce. Fortunately, I'll be accompanied in this folly by another friend, Josh. Together, I believe our formidable legal educations and general street savvy should be enough to overcome the rash decision-making and general obliviousness that Dan is prone to. If nothing else, I'm almost certain the two of us can run faster than a guy whose occupation involves sitting at the computer all day.

Blizzard of 2006

Right outside my building.










3rd Street looking east towards Broadway.









On St. Marks near the Kmart. In this photo, I masterfully missed the iconic St. Marks cube sculpture, which would have made for a much better image. You can see the edge of it on the left side of the picture.

After-party

So, I'm going to the Trovata after-party tonight in a few hours. Not really sure what to expect there. My college friend and fellow fraternity brother, Joe, who I've been hanging out with the last two nights, mentioned something about Scarlett Johnansen, Lindsay Lohan, and some other celebrities being there. If I do happen to meet any of them, I am going to stick with what has worked in the past (i.e., at the poker room in the Bellagio with Mena Suvari, now divorced) and I will not acknowledge their respective bodies of work. It's not as if they will be impressed by law school, so why should I worship them right off the bat?

What's more likely than meeting famous people is that I will drink enough that I have a hard time getting to class tomorrow. Regardless, it should be fun. And, thankfully, it's being held at a place I'm familiar with -- Happy Ending -- so when I get kicked out for not being fashionable enough, I'll know the way home.

A Random Sampling of My Thoughts

I wish I could breakdance. And not just competently, but well. After watching a number of online videos of Korean breakdancers (apparently, they are the best in the world), I've decided that it would be pretty damn cool to be one of them. Not that I'd give up my current life, of course. It's just that of all the possible professions out there, racecar driver and professional breakdancer appeal to me above most others.

$3.50 for iced tea without refills is as close to assaulting the customer as a restaurant can get. If restaurant week taught me anything, it's that it is borderline criminal to charge $25-30 for a lunch entree and at the same time offer iced tea without free refills. I guess I could understand if the beverage were served in pitchers, but it's not -- most of the iced tea glasses I was served over the last two weeks were puny, amounting, on average, to what I'd estimate as not more than 10 ounces. That's not even a soda can's worth.

The Cost of Celebrity

On Saturday, I attended a New York Rangers hockey game with Peter in which they slaughtered the Penguins to the tune of 7 to 1. But it wasn't the display of utter domantion put on by the Rangers offense that captured my attention during this particular game; instead, it was the antics of a hometown hero.

His name is Homo Larry. Yes, you read that right: Homo Larry. Unbeknownst to me, Larry happened to be sitting in the rows just above us. At some point during the game, cameramen gathered in our section and the crowd all stood up to look up behind us. Upon seeing this, I questioned Peter about the source of the commotion. He informed me that during the third period of most games, this guy named Larry dances outrageously to a particular song and his dancing is shown on the big screen to the delight of the crowd. According to Peter, he used to be called the more politically correct 'Dancing Larry' but after an incident in which he forcefully pushed a woman away who was trying dance with him, he earned his current title. Larry, it appears, does not want to the share the spotlight -- even if the cost of that exclusivity is a nickname that doesn't win him much respect in the hockey arena.

Sure enough, just a few minutes later Larry, a bald-headed guy wearing a Rangers jersey, was dancing like a maniac to some techno song. The crowd went wild. As the song wound down, the crowd began to chant "Homo Larry" over and over again. Holding up his hands in triumph, Larry didn't seem to mind.

That all got me thinking: is minor celebrity status worth a nickname like Homo Larry, especially if it involves little more than making a complete ass of yourself in front of 20 or 30,000 fans?

Nope. Not at all.

Note: I searched for a picture of Homo Larry on the 'net, but the only links that turned up were to posts on some community forum for the site called njguido.com, and they uniformly involved someone talking about beating poor Larry up. I repeat -- not worth it.

Cold

On the way to pick up my newly cleaned shirts from the drycleaner, the wind made my eyes water. Left and right of me, people were running to their destinations. Not cool.

Restaurant Week: JoJo.

I had my first restaurant week meal today at JoJo, one of Jean-Georges Vongeritchen's many New York restaurants. Here is what his website has to say:

"At Jo Jo, he introduced us to his 'vibrant and spare cuisine' whose intense flavors and satisfying textures he created by eschewing traditional meat stocks for vegetables juices and fruit essences, light broths and herbal vinaigrettes. Jo Jo was named Best New Restaurant of the Year by John Mariani in Esquire and earned three-stars from The New York Times, which summed up his contemporary French cuisine in the sentence "His food took my breath away.""

Disclaimer: In reality, I am in no way qualified to be a professional food critic; I do, however, operate under the illusion that I am. So, please, take any and all of my opinions on these restaurants with a grain of salt, as my comments are as likely to be legitimate as they are to be off the mark. My tongue deserves the blame for claims that are wildly inaccurate.

Now for the pictures.

Shrimp brushed with orange something-er-other and artichoke on a salad of arugula.

Unless I missed something, the orange rub on the shrimp was barely noticeable. Another problem: the vinagrette was puddled at the bottom to one side of the plate, so at first I thought the salad had just been very sparingly dressed. Once I mixed the arugula, though -- halfway through eating the dish -- the flavors came together nicely. Not overly impressive, but satisfactory.


Prime Sirloin with mushroom and white asparagus in a soy and something else reduction. Not pictured: very crispy french fries.

Given the frugal nature of most restaurants with their $24 prixe fix lunches, I was expecting just a few bites, and not much more. To my surprise, the piece of sirloin was surprisingly filling. It was cooked just the way I like, and the reduction did not take away from the mushrooms or asparagus in the slightest. For carnivores, this is a fantastic dish.

And finally for the sugarphiles out there, espresso chocolate mousse with hazelnuts.

This could accurately be described as marshmellow-like in texture, but replace the white marshammellow material, whatever the hell it is, with light, soft chocolate with hints of espresso. I don't even like deserts much, mainly because they tend to overwhelm the preceeding parts of the meal, but this mousse was airy and mild enough to provide a great compliment to the meal as a whole.

Notable Rise in Productivity

Accomplished more than usual today -- dropped off 12 shirts at the cleaners; scheduled a few lunches to take advantage of Restaurant Week 2006 (most excited about Aquavit, a Scandanavian place once featured on A Cook's Tour); did some reading for Criminal Procedure, and in the process learned that search warrants cannot usually be served at night (good to know); bought groceries for those days not involving difficult-to-make reservations; filed a bunch of miscellaneous paperwork that has been living in a pile at my feet for almost a week; cleaned the fridge of Crystal Light stains (despite not drinking such swill myself, at any time there is a gallon of the stuff inhabiting our refridgerator); hit the gym; and, lastly, organized my class notes thus far.

Thanks to the mysterious disappearance of my constitutional law professor, I was also able to sleep in this morning without (much) guilt. It's nice to start out a week on the right foot for a change.

Addiction

The time has come for me to admit something I am ashamed of: I've got an addiction. And a serious one at that. I indulge in it daily, sometimes to the detriment of my academic and social responsibilities. Without a fix, I find myself irritable and tired, a reluctant partipant in the hustle and bustle of the world.

I'm speaking, of course, about my addiction to hitting the snooze button, that little rectangle of sleep intoxication which sits within arms-reach of my bed. Every morning, I repeatedly call on its mystical powers to steal away 7 minutes of sleep at a time. Whether I actually fall asleep during that short time is unknown, but what is clear is that after each snooze period, nothing is more desirable than another. That's how I know I'm addicted. Each fix just makes me want more. This insatiable hunger can last for hours, which amounts to a ludicrious number of back-to-back 7-minute snoozes.

I've tried everything to quit. On multiple occasions, I moved the alarm clock to the other side of the room, thinking that the distance might lessen my dependency. But I still found myself getting up, walking over to it, hitting the button, and jumping back in bed without fully waking up. While getting out of bed may have cut down on one or two snoozes per wake-up session, it did not eliminate the act, so the alarm clock soon found its way back to its original position.

Thinking that getting rid of my alarm clock and going cold turkey might be the solution, I shopped around online for another means of waking up or, in the alternative, for an alarm clock with no snooze function. I could find neither. Seeing as how I am hopelessly addicted, though, my search may not have been as thorough as it could have been. The influence of pyschological addiction cannot be understated.

Sometimes, I try to overcome the urge to hit the snooze by sheer willpower alone. This, I assure you, is virtually impossible. My many failed attempts support this proposition well. The problem is that when I wake up early in the morning, the only thing on my mind is more sleep. I can barely remember that a few hours earlier, when I was getting in bed to fall asleep, I vowed to not hit snooze in the morning. That vow feels so distant in the morning that I cannot accord it the respect it deserves in order to come to fruition. Six or so snoozes later, I wake up and berate myself for not having the willpower to just get up out of bed the first time.

Am I doomed to be a slave to those 7 minutes of half-sleep for life? As far as I understand it, the first step in overcoming an addiction is recognizing you have a problem. I've made it this far, so perhaps there is hope against snooze after all.

Friends

A question came up recently regarding what can and should be asked of friends. Specifically, it arose during a debate with Brian over what good friends should be willing to do for one another. He seems to be fine with seeing certain friends once a week, perhaps at a dinner, and considers that interaction enough to sustain an ongoing friendship in some circumstances. It probably is, but my position differs from his by quite a bit. Ultimately, I think he took my contention -- that good friends should be reliable, and a regular influence if at all possible -- as an indictment of him, but that is not at all the case.

Of my good friends, I honestly don't believe that I want too much. In fact, I want nothing more than that which I am willing to give. If I am willing to do something for someone, I want them to be willing to do the same for me. Is that too much to ask? Is equality something that I should not strive for?

I don't think so. Given the state of my friendships at the moment -- healthy and growing -- I think that I ask a lot, yes, but not too much. Because what is friendship worth if you are not on the same terms? In fact, I believe it is worth much more when you find people who understand that the only way to cultivate a strong friendship is to depend on one another to some degree. Rodion, at least, seems to understand this. On his website, he recently listed "to always hang out with my boys from college" as one of the things he wants in life. Amen to that, Ro.

From friends, I only want so much. Most importantly, I want someone who is loyal to a certain degree (of course, that is reciprocated on my side). Now, it must be said that the loyalty to which I refer does not entail following me to the ends of the Earth, or, if a military (or ghetto) analogy can be tolerated, those willing to take a bullet. But it does mean that those friends should be willing to go to certain lengths for the friendship and to desire to be a regular participant in it. Otherwise, what is the point?

If possible, I don't want friends whom I only see infrequently unless the circumstances dictate that we are apart and can only see one another on rare occasion (e.g., my good friends from home and college). I am not looking for dinner or lunch friends. Inevitably, I'll have some: those people who have moved so far out of the sphere of my life that we only have time to get together when at our most practical. With them, I hope we can at some point recreate our past friendships, which, undoubtedly, were once much more robust. This is fact of life, one that I do not wish to dismiss or avoid.

However, friends who live close by should never be relegated, in my opinion, to once-a-month dinners at nice restaurants. What can I possibly derive from such a thing? A synposis of their current situation? A glimpse into their leisure and work time? Their take on whatever story is most prevalent in the news? This is not what I am seeking from friends. Truth be told, as impractical as it may be given the fact that we are all working now and carving our own lives out of the real world, I want more.

Slice of Home in Union Square

According to the NY Times, a Trader Joe's grocery store is moving into Union Square very soon. Because of the pedestrian congestion in the area, I almost never go to Union Square unless I'm seeing a movie, but I'd gladly make an exception for two-buck Chuck.

New Shoes

Few things in the world makes me more self-conscious than wearing shoes that make noise. So, of course my newest pair of Adidas sneakers, purchased just last week, make an awful ruckus. No matter how I walk, a loud squeaking noise is produced whenever the leather on the tongue rubs against the leather that lines the shoe lace holes, whatever those are called. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the sound when I tried them on in the store. It wasn't until I put them on in my apartment and walked to the elevator that the noise became apparent. Echoing off the walls the hallway, the noise was deafening. Immediately I turned around to take them off so that I wouldn't be tip-toeing around on Broadway in a futile attempt to silence my attention-drawing shoes.

But I refused to retire brand new shoes to the closet just because they made a little noise. By strategically applying tape to the inside of the shoe, I cut down the rubbing noise to almost nothing. Now I can wear the shoes in public without thinking everyone is staring at me.

Brush with fame

Sort of...

Back in New York

Last semester, rejuvenated from a spectacular summer vacation, motivated by a trio of laughably easy internships, and whipped into a near frenzy by the process of interviewing for a summer job, I made a colossal mistake -- I enrolled in too many classes.

To be completely fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. Prior to this moment, classes had been assigned to us. The beginning of second year of law school marked the first opportunity to pick your own classes and design your own schedule. The only real indication of how heavy of an academic burden I had assumed, my credit load, signaled no alarm: I was taking one credit more than the minimum, two credits less than the maximum of 15, and less credits than either semester of my first year.

But all was not as it seemed.

Beneath that calm surface lurked a leviathan with an insatiable hunger for free time: Patent Law. The professor of this course believed adamantly that her two-credit course was worth twice that amount of credit, and, accordingly, she assigned an amount of reading better suited to this inflated value. That meant more work than I had anticipated, and, considering my other responsibilties, more work than I wanted to take on. Yet, for some unknown reason, a syllabus full of arduous reading assignments did not compel me to drop the offending class. And so I perservered despite knowing full well that I'd made a grave miscalculation.

As you may have been able to tell from a few of the December posts, this mistake caught up to me at the end of the semester when I suffered through four grueling exams streching over the entire finals period. After two weeks at home, however, I've finally recovered from that traumatic period of academic stress. Unfortunately, now that vacation is over; it's time to once again hit the books.

It is crucial for my health and sanity that the errors of yesterday inform the actions of today. With that perspective in mind, I've taken several actions. To ease my academic load, I enrolled in one less class than last semester -- three rather than four. In addition, I purposely avoided any courses taught by the delusional professor, thereby preventing hours and hours of agony. And because I already have a job lined up, I've decided that impressing prospective employers is no longer a priority, I can reduce my participation in extra-curriculur activities.

All in all, this should yield a much more satisfiying experience.

My Plan for 2006

To have a fulfilling, enjoyable year.

Yep, that's it in its entirety. Short, simple, and to the point. Best of all, unlike most standard resolutions to lose weight, eat healthier, or pay more attention in class, this is a resolution that I will not give up on by March (or earlier). While pursuing this goal, I will strive to maintain my health, stay in shape, keep up with law school, eat good food often, drink regularly but in moderate quantities, perform well at my job over the summer, not complain excessively about the bone-chilling cold, visit an exotic locale for spring break, and so forth.

Let's hope I didn't just jinx myself by posting this.

Flooding

Apparently while I was away celebrating NYE, the nation's attention was focused on my hometown of Fairfield (and the rest of the Northern Bay Area) because of the massive storm which heralded the end of 2005. Here are some pictures of the flood's aftermath taken of the street in front of our house and of the creek in our backyard. To understand the full effect of the storm, you must realize that our street is not normally covered in mud and the creek is usually much smaller, much clearer, and not full of debris.