Spring Break Belize, Day 2

Woke up bright and early again, and after a quick bite to eat at Herbal Tribe, we sign up for a snorkeling tour with Ragamuffin. What distinguishes Ragamuffin's tours from the others (of which there are many) is that instead of a power boat operating as your transportation for the day, you spend the entire day on a sailboat, which moves at a more leisurely pace and produces significantly less noise.

Delicious hot sauce at Herbal Tribe:


Ragamuffin tours storefront:


Following about an hour of sailing, we reach our first stop on the reef, suspiciously referred to as the "Mystery Spot". According to our guides, this is because "you never know what you are going to see." When translated from Belizean to English, that phrase means we stop here because the tourists are tired, not because its got a lot of amazing wildlife. This turned out to be true on both counts.

While the "Mystery Spot" failed to deliver much in the way of fauna, the second stop, fittingly called Shark and Ray Alley, was more than adequate. Like Pavlov's dogs, numerous stingrays, a school of jacks, and a nurse shark or two responded to the sound of our engine and gathered below the boat as we pulled in.

Stingrays at the Alley


Shark at the Alley


Here, I even got the chance to swim with a fairly large Green Hawksbill sea turtle, which unbeknownst to me had attacked a woman just seconds before I stumbled upon it. According to our guides, these reptiles are aggressive and known to bite without provocation. Good thing I found this out after I chased it for 5 minutes.

Turtle deciding whether to bite the annoying mammal:


The final stop on our Ragamuffin sailing tour was at the Hol Chan marine preserve. Thanks to the protection of the sole ranger who was sleeping in his parked boat, the fish here were plentiful and coral was fantastic to behold. At this point in the reef, there is a channel about 30-ft deep. As we were swimming over the channel, a huge 4-ft barracuda glided by underneath us. Because of my upbringing as a wanna-be zoologist, I'd left all my shiny bracelets at home, so it didn't come after me.

See fish here:


The guides provided rum punch on the way back, and it led to some pretty ridiculous pictures. No, the boat is not tipping over (as you can tell by looking at all the sober people).

Drunken behavior:

Trovata

Late last night, right before I'm about to go to sleep, I get an IM from Joe Curley*, my fraternity brother from Pomona, who currently works as a sports writer in Ventura.

*Trust me when I say you have not met a bigger fan of sports than ol' Joe - he knows the statistics for every player, playing in every league of every sport in the entire world backwards and forwards. One obsession of his during college was this soccer game entitled "Championship Manager" where you act, not as player, but as coach, making trades to maximize your team's success, and the soccer matches are played out in text, rather than graphics. It is the virtual world equivalent of watching paint dry, though admittedly less colorful. And that's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to his sports-related lunacy.

So, as is the custom, we get to chatting and I inquire about what a few of our mutual friends have been up to since the halcyon days of college. Before long, I get to Josia, a Stanford transfer student who spent some of his days partying and playing video games with us. Last I knew, he was living near school awaiting the graduation of his girlfriend. He seemed to have no concrete ideas about what to do next; for the most part, skateboarding occupied his time. When prompted by questions as to Josia's whereabouts, Joe replies "You haven't heard?" and, after a few seconds of brain-numbing suspense, he passes on a link to a Rolling Stone article.

At this point, my interest is piqued, but I had no idea what was in store for me. Clicking on the link, I am shocked to see that Josia and some friends, including a former CMC student started a very successful fasion line called Trovata (www.trovata.com), which is currently being shown all over the world and is sold at only the most upscale boutiques, including Barney's of New York. According to the article, Josia is the development director, whatever that means.

What excites me most about their clothing line is the brilliant marketing plan - rather than just have some models on a runway show off their newest collection, the gang creates characters that would wear the clothes and a story to bring those characters to life. For example, they debuted their fall line during Fashion Week in NYC at a posh mansion and had the models playing a mock game of croquet to represent the aristocratic family which had fallen from grace that the clothing line was based on.

Thanks to the fact that each one looks like he should be on the OC and their work-while-playing attitudes, Josia et al. have become press darlings. Thus far, they've appeared in Elle, GQ, Vogue just to name a few. Here's the Rolling Stone article, if you're interested (Josia is on the far right):

Trovata Style surfers

You Know Them From The moment its first collection of prepster-meets-surfer-dude casual clothes was shipped out of design director John Whitledge's dorm room at Claremont McKenna College in 2002, this label, run by four school buds (Whitledge, Sam Shipley, Josia Lamberto-Egan, Jeff Halmos), has become one of the hippest in the menswear business.

The Breakthrough Trovata recently introduced its first line for women, and the quartet won accolades for its first New York Fashion Week appearance. "Manhattan was overwhelming," says Whitledge. That's why the guys -- all twenty-seven or younger and avid surfers -- do their thing in Newport Beach, California, where their offices are not coincidentally located just two blocks from the water.

Endless Summer "We all grew up working in board-sport stores," says company art director Shipley. "We were dreaming of doing clothing lines while still in high school."

Hang Size Ten Look out for Trovata-designed limited-edition Vans, packaged in vintage cigar boxes, to hit select stores in the fall.

The Loss of a Great

It pains me to pass on the news that one of the preeminent comedians of our time, Mitch Hedberg, passed away yesterday. Far from just providing a virtually unlimited resource of quotable lines for my confederates and I, Mitch Hedberg brought laughter to sold-out audiences across the nation, garnered lavish praise from the media in the process, and even managed to break into Hollywood despite admitting that it was "audtions" which were preventing him from acting.

Along with winning the grand prize from at least one prestigious comedy festival, Mitch's accomplishments include: writing, directing, and producing "Los Enchiladas", a film about a fast food manager in the Midwest; appearing on Comedy Central, MTV, and even as a character on 'That 70's show'; being a continual guest on Stern and Letterman; and, most impressively, building a truly devoted and widespread fanbase (of which I was part) with nowhere near the publicity of any of the well-known comedians. I last saw Mitch in San Jose less than a year ago with my brother and Dan, and, if it hadn't been for Belize, I would have seen him at Caroline's on the 20th of March.

As a tribute to his genius, here are some jokes of his that I find particularly hilarious. In order to get the full effect, picture a long-haired, sunglass-wearing stoner up on a stage, leaning lazily backwards against a brick wall, holding the mic in one hand, and a vodka tonic with two straws that "go straight to the mouth" in the other. If you can, download or buy something of his so that you can hear his delivery; it is a huge part of his act and just one of the many aspects of Mitch that make him so hilarious.

"I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughnut...I don't need a receipt for the doughnut - I'll just give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don't need to bring ink and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario in which I would need to prove that I bought a doughnut...Some skeptical friend, don’t even act like I didn't buy a doughnut, I've got the documentation right here...oh wait it's back home in the file...under "D", for doughnut."

"I opened up a container of yogurt, and under the lid it said "Please Try Again" because they were having a contest I was unaware of. But I thought I might have opened the yogurt wrong...or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me, 'c'mon, Mitchell, don't give up. Please try again. A message of inspiration from your friends at Yoplait. Fruit on the bottom, hope on top.'"

"I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here."

"'AIDS tests are scary man. No matter what you are doing, waiting for the results is scary. I get AIDS test but I get roundabout AIDS tests. I call up my buddy and say 'Hey man, do you know anyone with AIDS? No? Good... cuz you know me' "

"I went to a pizzeria. I ordered a slice of pizza. The fucker gave me the smallest slice possible. If the pizza was a pie chart for what people would do if they found a million dollars, the fucker gave me the 'donate it to charity' slice. I'd like to exchange this for the 'keep it!'"

"You can have this product for four easy payments of 19.95. I would like to have a product that was available for three easy payments and one fucking complicated payment. We arent going to tell you which one of these payments it is, but one of these payment is going to be a bitch. The mailman will get shot to death, the envelope will not seal, and the stamp will be in the wrong denomination. Good luck, fucker."

Regarding the letter 'X' starting the word xylophone which Mitch believes is wrong: "It's like X wasnt given enough to do, so they gave it more. 'OK, you wont start a lot of words, but we will give you a co-starring role in tic-tac-toe. And you will be equated with hugs and kisses. And you will mark the spot. And you will make writing Christmas easier. And, incidentally, you will start xylophone. Are you happy you fucking X?!'"

Frankly, every one of his jokes is more than worthy of your attention. It's just too bad that he won't be treating us to more; I'm certain that the best was yet to come. Without a doubt, Mitch Hedberg will be missed.

Spring Break in Belize, Day 1

Woke up bright and early – at 4AM – to catch the flight to Belize. Thankfully, no one was late and the trip to the airport, which easily could have been a major logistical disaster, turned out to be rather painless, notwithstanding the pain of waking up so damn early in the morning.

After a brief layover in Charlotte and about 5 hours of travel time, we touch down in Belize. The first thing that strikes me is not the lush vegetation, the perfect weather, or the sense of excitement in the air – it is the fact that we are driving down the runway in the wrong direction! Seems that it in Belize it makes more sense to do a U-turn on the runway rather than to quickly move away from an area where planes are landing at excessive speeds. Our landing smacked of Dan’s description of his first landing in Ecuador so many years ago: “when we were about 20 yards off the ground.....jesus christ. I look out my window. The wing was about 15 fucking feet from some sort of department store. … There are not only buildings basically on the fucking runway, but buildings with civilians in them.” As panic set in that my life and Dan’s had converged into one hopeless mess, I prayed that I would not be mugged by thugs armed with a cigarette lighter.

Next step in our journey to Caye Caulker, the island chosen as our base of operations, was to jump in a cab and head to Belize City. Disregard for safety surfaced once again on this leg of the trip – you see, our cab, which careened dangerously down the two-lane road at its maximum speed of 55 mph, lacked seatbelts of any kind. I tried to maintain my composure, and to just relax, but as we passed our fifth car in a row (five cars at once, not on separate passing ventures), I couldn’t help but envision what would happen to this 25 year-old Oldsmobile – and to the rest of us – if a crash were to occur.

I must have passed out from the fear, because the next thing I realize, we are at the water taxi station preparing to board a medium-sized power boat for the final leg of the day’s travels. In paying the fare, I discovered that the exchange rate in Belize is quite favorable: two Belizean dollars are equivalent to one American dollar. Unfortunately, the Belizeans seem to be quite aware of the fact that tourists generally use American dollars, not Belizean ones, and thus have priced everything at about double the price of what it is in America. Considering the limited amount of money I had on me, this did not bode well.

About 30 minutes into boat ride, an island appeared and the boat altered its direction to head right for it. Palpable excitement set in again as we were all ready to get to our luxurious hotel and rid ourselves of the long-sleeved shirts and jeans that had been a necessity in the cold weather of New York. However, disappointment followed as the captain of the boat informed us that this was not Caye Caulker, our destination, but rather Caye Chapel, a golf resort for the uber-rich, and none of us "cretins" would be de-boating. Incidentally, Caye chapel played host to a recent MTV special called something like “Win a chance to spend time in paradise with Beyonce”. We were not the winners of that contest.

Scarcely more than five minutes later, Caye Caulker – and a number of locals who had gathered at the dock – welcomed us to its shores. It was at this juncture that we realized we had absolutely no idea where our hotel was located. Fortunately, at the end of the dock was a map of the island. We scrutinized it for a few minutes, amazed at just how small the island is – 4 miles long and, at certain points, as thin as 100 yards. Most of the tourist stuff – the hotels, restaurants, and dive shops – was at the north end of the island, near what the locals call the “split”, a deep water channel created when the island was cleaved in two during a particularly strong hurricane in the 90s. As it turns out, the Tropics hotel was just a few blocks away, so we grabbed our bags and trekked up the beach.

As you can see, luxury and the Tropic hotel are not bedfellows; in fact, they’ve never even heard of one another. What the Tropics hotel lacks in room decoration, though, it makes up for in unpleasant sleeping and showering experiences: only one paper-thin sheet adorned the uncomfortable bed and the sink and shower faucet both spewed sulfur-smelling saltwater (how’s that for alliteration). Oh, and the toilet could not accept toilet paper; a waste basket was provided for this purpose. If housekeeping worked every day of the week as opposed to their more leisurely schedule of “whenever I feel like it”, the situation would not have been as dire as it turned out to be.

But, come on, when in paradise, why waste time in your hotel no matter how nice it is? With the white sand of the beach just 100 ft away, I certainly did not intend to sit around redecorating my room or complaining about the lack of livable conditions. And it was with that positive attitude in mind that the posse and I struck out in pursuit of sustenance, which, except for that fake cheese on the plane, had, thus far, been in short supply.

Both lunch and dinner that first day on the island would have been disappointing – bland fish for lunch at the Happy Lobster and bland chicken for dinner at the Sports Bar - were in not for the fact that the next week would be filled with indulging in everything paradise had to offer. Plus, I think I was too exhausted from traveling to formulate the thoughts necessary to voice my distaste for the meals.

Dinner marked the first appearance of Ryan aka “Cowboy”, Dan’s online gambling counterpart who coincidentally happens to live on Caye Caulker. He is also the reason that I traveled thousands of miles with a DVD about a dancing hobo in my suitcase. Ryan and I had exchanged a few emails before the trip, and had agreed to meet up for a beer once I arrived. Problem was, his emails never disclosed where he lived on the island and I never thought to get an address (believe it or not, he gets mail that is addressed simply to Ryan at Caye Caulker, Belize, so he might not even have an address). Earlier that day, as we scouted the island for the first time, I questioned the various street vendors as to Ryan’s whereabouts, just as he had suggested during our correspondence. Everyone I spoke to claimed to know him, but seeing as how none of them seemed to know where he lived, I had a hard time taking their word for it. With no useful information from the locals, I gave up and decided that locating Ryan would have to wait another day.

As the fourth hour of never-ending dinner approached, this random guy pops his head out of the kitchen, and asks if there is an “Andy” with our party. Convinced that Andy could not get himself embroiled in island trouble so quickly (I thought it would take at least another few hours and a bottle or two of rum), I took it upon myself to become Andy for a moment. “Well, my name’s Andrew, not Andy, but pretty close,” I replied. He then introduced himself as Ryan, and realization struck. Apparently word travels around the island at light speed, because numerous people had approached Ryan saying that some tall guy with an Asian girl was looking for him. He figured it was me, but because he kept running into other tall guys with Asian girls who were not me, he had a hard time finding us.

To celebrate our arrival, Ryan joined us for some late night rum drinking on the deck of our hotel, which lasted for multiple hours despite our utter exhaustion. Eventually, though, the adrenalin wore off and we retired to our uncomfortable beds.

Time flies...

when you are working on law school assignments.

To ensure that spring break was stress-ful as opposed to stress-free, we were assigned a huge lawyering assignment just prior to the start of the vacation. This project differs from the previous ones in a qualititave way because, at some point in the next few weeks, we are blessed with having to present an oral argument based on our written product to an audience. The one-person audience will either be an attorney, or if you are one of the lucky (unlucky?) ones, an actual judge. Of course, being in Belize, I had access to the best legal research facilities in all of the Western World and spared no expense, monetary or temporal, to take advantage of those resources.

As much as I hoped it would, the argument, known as a brief (trust me, it's anything but), did not write itself while I was in international mode. So, as a 'welcome back' from spring break, I am currently faced with the onerous task of writing it before 5 pm tomorrow. Progress has been made, but the bulk still remains unfinished.

Wish me luck, mon amis. And expect a return to sanity - as well as a post about my tropical excursion - very soon.

Paradise is calling me. Expect an update soon. 

Lucky for me...

...I'm impervious to sunlight.

Really, it's true. Try as I might on this vacation, the sun will not have the desired effect - to turn my skin brown - no matter how much I expose myself to it. Maybe it's the lack of praying to the Mayan Sun God that has got me in this bind. Oh well - just don't expect me to come back tan - or even anything more than pale pink (like that Kangol beanie).

Be back in two days.

I feel like I am forgetting something

And I probably am, but oh well. If you didn't know, I will be gone for the next week in Belize. Should return with pictures, a new appreciation for warmth, and a sunburn.

Quick review of the weekend: Spent one of the nights - Friday - repeatedly answering "no" to the question, "Are you on the guest list?" and consequently being turned away from club after club; Saturday, however, thanks to Courtney, we were the guest list. Thus, after an all-you-can-eat sushi bonanza at Rich's, we were able to get into the VIP room/poorly furnished apartment above NA, and then to hang out at a special reserved section downstairs in the actual club, complete with bottle service and the admiration of the rest of the club-goers. Following that, someone had to go and get a little red on him, but that is a story for another time.

PS - Peter, write something up about the incident so it is not lost forever.

When animals attack...

Inspired by the mauling of the poor guy who made the greatest mistake of his life by trying to celebrate his former pet chimp's 39th birthday, I decided to do a little research about the strength of chimpanzees. You see, ever since that tragic news story graced Yahoo's webpage I've been bandying about the claim that chimps are 5 times as strong as humans with very little evidence to support it (some might assert that I offer no evidence - and they'd be right). After a few productive hours online, I think I've turned the tide. To the extent that the Internet is a reliable source of information, the following exerpt from straightdope.com should provide proof of the validity of my statements:

"It's a lot easier to get a chimp in roller skates than it is to get him to pump iron--hence, most of the data on chimp strength is anecdotal and decidedly unscientific. In tests at the Bronx Zoo in 1924, a dynamometer--a scale that measures the mechanical force of a pull on a spring--was erected in the monkey house. A 165-pound male chimpanzee named "Boma" registered a pull of 847 pounds, using only his right hand (although he did have his feet braced against the wall, being somewhat hip, in his simian way, to the principles of leverage). A 165-pound man, by comparison, could manage a one-handed pull of about 210 pounds. Even more frightening, a female chimp, weighing a mere 135 pounds and going by the name of Suzette, checked in with a one-handed pull of 1,260 pounds. (She was in a fit of passion at the time; one shudders to think what her boyfriend must have looked like next morning.) In dead lifts, chimps have been known to manage weights of 600 pounds without even breaking into a sweat. A male gorilla could probably heft an 1,800-pound weight and not think twice about it."

Now this may just be my fascination with animals talking, but, DAMN, those statistics are amazing - and, as if it needs to be said, terrifying. I remember hearing about chimps ripping monkeys in pieces during hunting raids, but what I did not realize was that doing the same to a human being would require just slightly more effort on the ape's part. I guess the moral of the story is that chimpanzees are like gremlins: adorable creatures that are okay to keep as pets so long as you don't engage in certain conduct, i.e., feed them after midnight or get them wet (or, in this case, bake them a birthday cake).

Nobody wants me...

Boohoo.

Remember that job I was blathering on about just a few days ago? The one that I proclaimed was waiting for the right person to bring them to the "next level"? Well, a few recent developments - one in particular - lead me to the unavoidable conclusion that the firm is quite content with its current level. According to the kindly worded letter I received last Friday, there is no need whatsoever for advancement on the level front - at least at the current time (is that a glimmer of hope I see?). Nevertheless, the kind words contained within said notice of rejection did suggest that next summer might be a more appropriate time for the strenuous exercise known to those who play way too many video games as "level-upping" (yes, perhaps it is).

At this point, I fully understand the state of shock you are no doubt experiencing; however, I must assure you that you read the following news correctly: for whatever foolhardy reason, the powers that be made the incalculably detrimental (to their profits and my self-esteem) decision to not accept my services as their undying slave over the summer.

On the plus side, this outcome - and the accompanying emotional coma I am now in the throes of - strongly suggests that I will be home this summer, for the benefit of my mental well-being, if nothing else. Now, the question is whether a return to California will be one consisting of employment and the furtherance of my fledgling legal career or long periods spent on the couch watching early afternoon Maury reruns. Only time will tell.

Time travel is possible.

All you need is the right song.

It has been my experience - and I'm sure the experience of many people out there - that listening to music during poignant, impactful, and sometimes even trivial events during life can have the consequence of indelibly etching those moments into one's long-term memory. Later, when you listen to the song, the aural experience transports you back in time to that exact instant of intersection between space, time and sound. Immediately, the memory comes rushing back, replete with the visuals, sensations, and emotions of that now distant moment. I have no explanation for this phenomenon, nor do I have a need for one, but I do have an appreciation for it's effects.

In my vast catalogue of music, there are songs that can take me to virtually all of the places I've travelled or lived during life, from locations as far away as London to those as close as the streets I grew up on in Fairfield; songs that can bring me back to different holidays, parties, get-togethers, vacations, and reunions (Accidentally in Love, anyone?); songs that grant me renewed access to the years, eras, and junctures of growing up whether they be good or bad.

To be able to escape reality, if just for a moment, and bask in the glow of times past is a glorious thing.

(This post inspired by the sounds of Alodiah's great music.)

Wish me luck.

In other news, I had an interview at a law firm on Friday, which, in very uncertain terms, seemed to go pretty well. From the few hours I spent there with various partners and associates, I gather that they seem to be very interested in my science background, particularly the time I spent in working in biotech. That and the possibility of me taking their IP department "to the next level." Their words, not mine. No ego here.

Comments fixed?

According to the latest news, Blogspot (or whatever the company's name is that allows me to carry on this nonsense) has fixed the way that comments can be left. Since nobody who looks at this site ever responds (except for Josh aka anonymous), that announcement might not make your day, but if it was the Blogspot-mandated process in which you were forced to be involved that prevented you from doing so, fear not, for a new era is upon us. Let the compliments begin!

By the way, Josh, your comments that don't involve insults are highly appreciated.

Like a bolt of lightning

Eveything was fine in the early morning; I went to class, then to a meeting with my lawyering group to discuss our forthcoming mediation session. But as soon as I returned home from that meeting, a rumbling began in the deep pits of my bowels. Within minutes, it was obvious that something was horribly wrong. In a desperate attempt to return to normalcy, I submitted to a nap for a few hours. Sadly, my effort was in vain, for when I awoke the virus had taken hold of my being, leaving me feverish and on the brink of a major purging. To combat the malevolent machinations of the virus, I ordered soup - japanese udon to be specific - for dinner, purchased Tums, and consumed numerous massive cups of orange juice as well as a dose of Theraflu. Then, I topped it all off with a Tylenol PM and passed out at 10 PM.

Thankfully, after the marathon sleep session, I'm feeling like the devil has, for the most part, released his grasp on my insides. My only hope now is that I'm feeling chipper enough tomorrow to perform well at the job interview I have scheduled for 2 o'clock.

Want a small glimpse of law school?

I'm sure you don't, but I'm too tired and sick-feeling to whip up anything more than what I am already working on. So here goes:

"Our client, Mr. Adam Young, believes he has been the victim of discrimination in violation of the New York City Administrative Code, section 8-107. The alleged discrimination comes in the form of the denial of a routine lease renewal by his current landlord.

Mr. Young is an African-American of West Indian descent who has resided in a rent-stabilized one-bedroom apartment at 837 Cloremount Avenue, Brooklyn since 1995. He is a successful advertising executive who makes timely rental payments; in fact, he is one of just a handful of tenants who has set up automatic payment of the rent from his bank account. Over the past eight years, he has successfully renewed his two-year lease four separate times by sending a short letter to the management of the building requesting a renewal. Though his interactions with the neighbors are limited, many of them hold him in high regard and, up until April 2004, he had never been the recipient of a complaint.

Last January, the building was sold to Clemens Properties, Inc. Lee Clemens, the new owner, also hired Jesse Jones as superintendent. About two months later, Alex Pierce, a caucasion graduate student at a nearby medical center, moved in with Mr. Young. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Pierce adopted a stray dog named Cleo, a Shepard-retriever mix. Mr. Young’s lease does not prohibit him from having a roommate or a dog.

The dog, however, did manage to cause some slight problems with the other tenants in the building. Several complaints were made directly to Mr. Young regarding the loud barking of the dog (although, to his knowledge, not to the building management). One complaint came from Ms. McArdle, who lives one floor above Mr. Young and also finds the “baby in 5A” and the “collie in 4A” to be “chronic nuisance[s]”. Mr. Young attributes the dog’s troublesome behavior to its new environment and maintains that the noise situation has been resolved. Ms. Fox, who lives in Apartment 4C and is a neighbor of Mr. Young, corroborates this claim. There was one additional incident during which the dog, though on a leash, jumped up on another of his neighbors, Ms. Dreier, in the elevator, but it is not clear whether she complained to anyone other than Mr. Young. Mr. Young asserts that she overreacted to the dog’s playful behavior, but has since made certain to keep the dog away from the other tenants and always keeps the dog on a leash.

Since Mr. Pierce moved in with him, Mr. Young has had several unpleasant encounters with Mr. Jones, the new superintendent. Most disturbingly, he was prevented from entering the building one night as he returned from work by a handyman who let him pass only when Mr. Jones allowed it. Neither Mr. Jones nor the handyman apologized or offered an explanation for the incident. This treatment angered Mr. Young but he did not make a formal complaint. Mr. Jones also ignored Mr. Young’s request to repair a window in his apartment, even though he had quickly fixed a faucet leak soon after Mr. Pierce moved in. Mr. Young also noticed that Mr. Jones did not greet him and tended to speak in a condescending tone, if at all, while other residents were treated more respectfully. Mr. Pierce also claims similar treatment from Mr. Jones, as well as from the residents of the building.

Persevering despite the incidents, in December 2004, Mr. Young sent a letter of renewal to Mr. Clemens as he had done with the previous building owners. The renewal was denied with no explanation. After Mr. Young repeatedly attempted to determine the reason for the refusal, Mr. Clemens told him that there had been complaints about the dog; Mr. Young suspects a more invidious motive. Our investigation uncovered evidence that one tenant, Mr. Foote, accompanied by his neighbor, Mr. Stevens, complained to Mr. Jones about the “mixed, backward, and unnatural” relationship Mr. Young and Mr. Pierce shared. In reaction to this, Mr. Jones made a brief phonecall and promised that management “would do what it could to remedy the situation.” There was also evidence that other tenants made similarly derogatory remarks and treated Mr. Pierce with what he perceived to be obvious disapproval (is this true?).

Given close to 10 years as a model tenant, Mr. Young is understandably indignant over the discriminatory treatment from Mr. Clemens and his staff and the undeserved renewal rejection. Furthermore, he has suffered a great deal of pain and anguish due to the situation. He seeks relief from the New York City Commission of Human rights for the discrimination detailed herein."

Black and Blue

After an extended weekend like this last one, the normal expectation is to emerge rested, relaxed and ready to capitalize on the remainder of the week. Instead, I feel beat up, both physically and economically. Starting with the Stroock reception at Jane last Thursday, I've been on a tear, alternating between socializing, recovering, and studying when the other two have run their respective courses. The most important lesson I learned this weekend was not law related; rather, it was that four days in a row of going out can have a dramatic drain on one's energy levels and have a visible impact on one's countenance. Not to mention the fact that prolonged fun can also be an incredible drain on one's wallet - although that might have more to do with a single night at BLVD than anything else.

Unfortunately, I'm in the midst of being a vicitm of that fairly obvious phenomenon right now. I think a respite from socializing is in order.

Oh, and sorry for lack of updates.

ALAN ADSBE....

is forthcoming.

And here it is. ALAN ADSBE is an anagram of a pair of words that adorned the chests of Ron, Rich, Peter and I as part of our costume for the 1st Annual Inappropriate Individuals Party, hosted last Saturday at the law school. Obviously, this was not a school-sanctioned party; it was hosted by a girl who dressed as Janet Jackson from the super bowl, complete with wardrobe malfunction and aluminum foil jewelry.

But before we get to that, I should mention my birthday celebration the night before. With a well-crafted email espousing my more admirable traits, Brian managed to wrangle about 10 or so people to a swanky restaurant/bar/loft in the East Village called Essex, which serves a interesting variety of Latin fusion cuisine (for example, I selected calamari with habanero guacamole as an appetizer). The atmosphere - high ceilings, skylights, and elevated eating area - was awesome; the food less so (but still acceptable). The beverages, of course, were fantastic (I had a delicious mango margarita and the staff even offered our entire party free liquor at the bar once we had finished our meal, a reward we indulged in liberally.

At this point a few more people showed up, and to show my appreciation I immediately ordered our posse to abandon Essex and migrate towards Pioneer, which I mistakenly thought was a block or two away. At Pioneer, drinks flowed freely and inhibitions dispersed like knowledge of Contract law after the final. Accordingly, someone who will not be named spilled a drink on his fellow patrons for no apparent reason and someone else almost entered into a physical confrontation with a person suspected of being a member of the Russian Mafia. Good times and I'm happy no one got killed (a reference to the latter predicament)

Now back to our regularly scheduled program. The Inappropriate Individuals event turned out to be a blast, mainly because (1) my roommates were intoxicated beyond belief (one dressed up as a priest and the other an altar boy) and (2) our costume drew so much positive attention. If you cannot figure out what was spelled out on our chests and why the costume was as beloved as it was, I will give you a hint: we wore Mardi Gras BEADS that night. Frankly, I'd rather people didn't know what it said, as I am a little bit embarrassed by the juvenile nature of our creation, so don't put too much effort into deciphering the code.

After leaving D'AG and the inappropriate individuals stationed there and after multiple Forks in the Neck delivered by Peter, we ventured over to Town Tavern, a bar that recently opened up adjacent to Fat Black. There, we drank quite a few beverages with our new best friend, Courtney, who was kind enough to meet up after avoiding my birthday celebration the night prior. Never one to disappoint, Peter soon managed to get 86'ed from the bar for either constantly going in and out of the entrance or starting a fight with the bouncer - no one is sure which of these actions was the true cause but rest assured, in his state of drunkeness, both were more than sufficient. I, for one, salute the bouncer for the public service he performed by removing Peter from the crowded interior where he was bound to administer a true "Fork in the Neck". Following his shameful discharge, Peter, honorable and noble as always, chose to direct his anger toward a more worthy opponent - a five-foot tall irate female. Fortunately, Courtney quickly quelled the commotion and, with a rallying cry of "Pioneer", we sped off in search of fame and fortune at our favorite bar in NYC.

The remainder of the night has been captured in pictures, but not my memory. Well, that's not completely true; I actually remember most of what happened it's just not exciting enough to bore you with. One last thing, if you are ever considering walking to Greenwich Village from Gramercy Tavern at 4 A.M., don't.

After years of bad-mouthing the Ipod as an over-priced, over-hyped, featureless mp3 player that is not much more than a pretty package, I joined the light side with my first Ipod purchase - a 512 MB Shuffle. Tail between my legs, I offer my sincerest apologies for being a hypocrit.

OK Karaoke

Normally, karaoke repulses me. The very idea - a mob of people who collectively could not hold a note if their lives depended on it subjecting an audience to banshee-like renditions of "Living on a Prayer" because they have consumed enough alcohol to blur the line of what is acceptable in society and what is morally reprehensible - elicits a visceral response from me that is one notch below nausea.

However, I learned (late) yesterday night that, when confined to a private room, karaoke becomes acceptable and, dare I say it, fun. Peter, a bunch of his friends, some randoms we met at Tortilla Flats, and I spent hours in this trippy karaoke bar in the East Village/Alphabet City assaulting each other's auditory sensibilities and loving every minute of it. Performances ranged from pathetic to rousing, with the gold star going to Peter for his table-top Bon Jovi impression. Also noteworthy: a tear-jerking "Lean on Me".

Good times.

Snow good; sludge BAD

How quickly a winter wonderland transforms into a disgusting, muddy swamp of melted snow, wet dirt, and slow moving pedestrains. Yuck.

New Season of Apprentice - Degrees vs. Diplomas

A true statement: being in Manhattan allows you to truly appreciate this show to its fullest extent. I actually came to this somewhat obvious realization early last semester when I witnessed what I predict will be a marketing ploy related to one the show's forthcoming tasks (look for sky-writing and Home Depot). In fact, on numerous occasions last semester I almost made the trek up to Trump Tower for the free weekly showings at the World Bar to complete the reality TV experience. And this is in spite of my utter contempt for the Donald and his delusions of grandeur (I do agree that his fiance is pretty attractive).

Now, I would be remiss if I didn't add that I am and will always be a reality TV fan - it's just that much better than its competition. (Well, that is, except for a few points of light on an otherwise pitch black sky, e.g., Arrested Development and, according to the critics, Desperate Housewives). Even in the face of the backlash that is presently in vogue, I am resolute in my support and will vigorously defend the merits of reality TV. Regular and sometimes irregular people in stressful, ridiculous, or just plain contrived situations makes for television far superior to the trite, repetitive, spoken-by-a-dopey-father-to-a-misbehaving-adolescent as-the-stern-mother-looks-on jokes that are the standard fare of the average sitcom. If you don't agree with my position, there is no doubt in my mind that you must have missed such venerable reality TV classics as Average Joe (nerds vs. jocks competing for the affection of a model) and Joe Schmo (a nromal person is thrown into a fake reality TV show and is duped beyond belief).

But I digress. From the first episode of the new Apprentice, it seems as if the High Schoolers are going to be dominating the more educated but otherwise inept College-educateds. But, if there is one thing I know from being a reality TV veteran, its that nothing is as it appears. One thing, however, is certain: Apprentice and the new Survivor should make for good TV and a welcome distraction from law school.

It figures

Due to some late night partying yesterday across the street at Off the Wagon, a bar best known as an NYU undergrad hang-out, I finally managed to soil my perfect attendance record, sleeping through my Property class. Damn you free drinks and friendly law students - I was proud of being so virtuous! Now that I've tasted the sweet nectar of truancy, only time will tell if I fall into a routine of slacking and fail out of law school under a cloud of shame.

Lucky for me (or not, depending on how you look at it), something happened while I was sleeping away the previous night that militates to maintaining my good behavior - the professor called on me to answer a question. Not being there, I of course could not and someone in the class had to say something to the effect of "he's not here". Any other time, this event would have been benign, but, because I was absent, her wrath is sure to be incited and I will undoubtedly pay a high price.

I now strive for 99% attendance, a lofty goal but an attainable one.

Just prior to the festivities. We put up all of our rejection letters on the blank wall. This seemed to stir up quite about of conversation, focusing on either the absurd amount of applications we've sent out or the fact that all the letters in reply are identically worded, even down to the "we are so impressed with your qualifications" bs compliment. Oh, and if you couldn't tell from my apartment-mates, we dressed up to complete the illusion.

A flier from our reception-themed party. Even though we didn't send out many invites, it was attended by a lot of people. Not quite as many as the Halloween bash, but we still managed to fill up the apartment and the outside hallway. 

We couldn't resist

To celebrate the start of the new semester, we are proud to be having a smalll party this Friday. In keeping with the previous one, we decided the party must be themed. I thought that since we are presently being bombarded by invites to firm receptions, we should host our own. My roommates agreed. Even the attorneys at the event tonight threw their support behind us, submitting ideas as to how we could make the reception even more authentic.

Check out our invite:

Dear NYU Law Student,

Bramhall, Rus and Carlson LLP invites the NYU School of Law Class of 2007 to join lawyers and summer associates from our Fairfield, Bucharest, and Sebeka offices for a cocktail reception at Club 709 bar and lounge, located in Suite 709 at 110 W 3rd St.

Friday, January 21, 2005 9:00 - 12:00 PM

Truly international, different... and better. Bramhall, Rus and Carlson LLP is one of the world's newest international law firms, with 3 lawyers in 1 dorm. We may someday specialize on high-profile, cutting-edge matters for top global businesses and organizations.

We have opportunities for ambitious, highly capable JD graduates, not only in California and Romania, but also across rural Minnesota.

RSVP through EmplawyerNet

Business Casual attire and beer to share is suggested

PS. Due to recent allegations of sexual misconduct, there will be no private interviews held in Tudor’s champagne room.

PPS. We'll provide jello shots, mixers, and some beer, but BYOL (liquor).

My NYE

(setting the scene: I'm staying with a few friends at one guy's brother's apartment in downtown Manhattan)

Somewhat early in the morning of the 31st, I awoke to the loud whining of Dan, who in his rush to secure what he assumed was the premiere sleeping spot the night before, had laid claim to the "midget" couch. This turned out to be a major mistake because in order to get any kind of sleep he had to either curl up in the fetal position or let his feet hang off the side. As Dan would attest this morning, neither orientation offered even the semblance of comfort.

To drown out the incessant complaining, we engaged in a few rise-and-shine games of Bomberman and Mario Kart. Fortunately, Ro’s mom showed up right as we were waking up and made each one of us a tasty chicken sandwich for brunch so that we didn’t have to leave the apartment. Her good intentions were obvious, but I am a firm believer that she had an ulterior motive: to allow us to play video games uninterrupted. She is Ro’s mom after all.

Sufficiently nourished, we then headed out to pick up Peter’s luggage and dry cleaning for the big night. To this end, Dan, Josh, Peter and I trekked from the financial district through the madness at Canal St. to Peter’s friend Mike’s apartment on 14th or somewhere in that vicinity. On the way, we made a pit stop at Gray’s Papaya, where big-spender Dan purchased a bucket of papaya juice to flex his financial muscles. An investment guru if I have ever met one, he drank less than half of the 64 ounces and threw the remainder away. Perhaps this is an indicator that his forthcoming business ventures aren’t going to be the cash cow he envisions.

At some point, Josh and Dan caught the train back to Ro’s brother's place while Peter and I grabbed his stuff and caught a cab to NYU. Once there, we primped and preened (not each other) until everyone showed up for dinner.

Unable to decide on a place to eat, we let Peter do the honors. Of course, that meant we would invariably end up at one of two places: Sammy’s Noodle Shop or Funayama. Since this was a special night, Peter lead us to the latter, a sushi spot which serves up gargantuan slices of fish and, on New Year’s Eve, we were pleased to see, free champagne.

Following the meal, we purchased some alcohol and played a variation on quarters called Baseball to pass the time. Despite Sarah’s inability to make a quarter bounce, Dan and I triumphed. During the middle of our second game, Peter received what I can only assume was a frantic call from one of his friends who was already at Pioneer (ultimately, opposition to the Tribeca party won out). Apparently, it was “getting packed” and quick action on our part was the only guarantee of securing entry into what was sure to be a sold-out Pioneer New Year’s Eve party. By our standards, it was still too early to head to a bar – it was about 10:15 - but we heeded the advice of the anonymous phone-caller anyway and hightailed it out of my apartment and into cabs.

Suffice it to say, Pioneer was not packed by any means. Even so, we paid our $75 and entered Peter’s second home. Since it was early, we sat down at a table and began drinking in earnest. Most of the conversation centered around the lack of attractive females and, more interestingly, how to tie a balloon to an unsuspected bar patron. In spite of what you may think, the latter needs no explanation.

A few hours later, when leaving Pioneer, we emerged to find an somewhat irritated Ro, struggling to hold up his somewhat intoxicated girlfriend. Seeing him in such a state, I came over to offer my support and, unexpectedly, was met with a punch to the face. Hardened through years of playing fighting games, Ro’s iron fist damaged my face to such an extent that my lip actually became a bit swollen. A mutilated lip would not stop me, however, from eating a breakfast at Gramercy Diner. Nor would it earn me any sympathy that night, as I was forced to sleep on the midget couch as Dan had the night before. How quickly we turn our back on those in need.

And, yes, if you were wondering, he did apologize. Now to get even!

Movie that you might not expect to be any good but is:

Shaun of the Dead

Saw this little gem over the break and was very pleasantly surprised. Perhaps I shouldn't have been; British humor always manages to tickle my funny bone for some inexplicable reason. Two moments I found particularly hilarious:

1) Shaun and his deadbeat friend throwing records at the first zombies they encounter for purposes of decaptitation

2) Shaun and his compatriots beating a zombie with pool cues to the beat of Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now"

Never done this before.

Presently, I’m writing this on the plane, soaring 37,043 ft above Madison, Wisconsin. Pardon me if this post comes out a bit awkward, as I am currently 75% occupied watching TV (I’m on JetBlue, of course); specifically, I’m watching the Dog Whisperer, a National Geographic program about a dog psychologist. Despite how it may sound, it really is quite good. At the moment, Caesar, the somewhat-gay canine-therapist, is training the gremlin out of this nasty little Chihuahua. And, as usual (this isn’t my first time watching the program), his magic is working.

But I digress. The real reason for this departure from my normal in-air habits is to recall an awkward but funny-in-retrospect situation from the flight home. What makes that flight worth discussing is that I was unfortunately assigned a seat next to the person whom you would least want to sit next to on a 6-hour flight. No, not an overly talkative old woman (they can be somewhat entertaining – for 15 minutes). And, no, I’m not alluding to a screaming baby, although that would be quite bad, too.

As luck would have it, JetBlue granted me a seat adjacent to a 20-something male with a gigantic ‘fro. And by this, I don’t intend to conjure images of the standard, circular, dome-like afro we have all come to love and respect. The massive afro atop this guy's head was more like a porcupine or a puffer fish in defensive position, complete with quills or spines (depending on which analogy you prefer) that measured feet instead of inches.

Now, on its own, the mere fact that a guy with a huge 'fro sat next to me on a plane would not have caused much of a problem, nor been worthy of a mention on this Pulitzer prize-deserving website. And, as most of my friends can attest, I’m not one of those people that would publicly insult a person just because he or she opts for a different lifestyle or mode of dress. Nevertheless, I am a firm believer in the fact that if you happen to have a possibly hazardous and annoying hairstyle, you should make sure to keep it under control for the sake of your fellow man.

This guy, however, was so tired that he could not keep his hair from constantly bombarded me and the girl sitting on his other side. It was a classic case of the uncontrollable head-drop – everyone, I’m sure, remembers watching an exhausted (or bored) classmate in high school struggling to keep his forehead from colliding with the desk. It was funny back then, yes, but it loses much of its comedic value when the offending head almost ends up on your shoulder and the offending 'fro blocks your view of the TV.

The guy with the 'fro is on this flight. I wonder what unsuspecting sap is stuck in the seat next to him. Thankfully, it’s not me and I’m able to watch the Dog Whisperer with a clear view.

Preparations

At the moment, I am dilligently preparing for NYE in the Big Apple. As a matter of fact, this will be my first such experience in this fair city. And the city is treating me quite well: the weather is fine (i.e., above 40 degrees), my hand is feeling better (don't ask), and there are a few million people patiently waiting to party it up tonight in celebration of 2004's end and 2005's beginning. You can almost feel the debauchery in the air - the calm before the storm, or so it would seem.

Needless to say, tonight should be fun, if not action-packed.

Happy New Year's to everyone out there, wherever you may be celebrating tonight!

Do real men wear pink?

Regardless of how wearing the now-trendy color would affect my classification as a male, I am not eager to join the pink-adorned ranks of NYC, thank you very much. And that is precisely why I have to return the latest Christmas present I received.

To be less vague, the present to which I am referring is a Kangol beanie, which I requested just a few days before coming home. Originally, when I stumbled upon this winter garment on the 'net, I immediately warmed (pun intended) to the brown/tan two-tone variety. But since I couldn't seem to locate anything more than an image of that color scheme on the Kangol website and elsewhere in cyberspace, I requested the one in dark grey/light grey.

Let's just say "dark grey" is an egregious misrepresentation or, at the very least, a wee bit of an understatement - the damn thing is light grey and PINK. Well, okay, to be completely honest, it's more lilac than pink. (For those who, like me, only know the names of about 10 colors, lilac is a soft, light purple.) Keep in mind, however, it's not as if this correction mitigates the harm done. In fact, lilac represents even more of a serious affront to my fashion sense (if you'd be so kind to allow me one).

So, back to the store it goes, as all pink-hued articles of clothing must when they make their way to my closet. For now and the foreseeable future, I am to remain pink-free (or lilac-free, whatever).

Here's proof. 

Some strange alien material is falling from sky

And I'm not exactly sure what it is.

Just after finishing up an all-you-can-eat sushi meal - slash - Torts review session, Brian, Kevin and I emerge from the restaurant only to notice that there is something raining down from the heavens. Kevin and Brian assure me it is "snow" and I assure them it is "cold". Wow, this marks the first time I have ever lived in a place where it snows. Actually, I think it snowed once or twice in Fairfield during the 15 or so years I was a resident but, for purposes of this post, that doesn't count.

The 31st is going to be one chilly NYE.

So, here I am sitting at the computer, looking out my window...

trying to decide how many layers I'll need to be warm today. It looks nice - sunny, very few clouds in the sky, the various wires strewn about the rooftops are not flapping too much, which indicates that it's not all that windy (wind is the real killer when it's sub-40). I mean, if I were in California I would estimate the temperature to be somewhere around the mid-60s based upon my visual evaluation. But thanks to first-hand experience thus far in New York - and Yahoo! weather - I know better. Evidently, someone who has already been outside today insists that it feels like 38 degrees, which is to say it will feel uncomfortably cold to me. Dammit.

So, with the knowledge that it is almost cold enough to turn me into a giant ice cube, I now have to ask myself the following questions: Which jacket should I wear? How many undershirts? Warm socks or standard white ones? Gloves or bare-fisted? Should I finally break down and buy a fucking scarf (not a big fan of suffocation, myself)? And where the hell is that beanie that I brought from home? All this at a time when the only thing on my mind should be the legal principles of negligence and strict liability. If my grades turn out to be repulsive, I will blame the weather and it's constant attempts to beat me into submission.

Test 2: Finito

Oh man, not only did I just take one of the hardest tests I've ever encountered, but it is cold as a blizzard out here. Feels like -45oC to my California-spoiled self.

One down and two to go...

Only nine more days of this. The oasis is within view, but agonizingly out of reach.

Anyone wondering what I am up to at the moment and why I am not diligently writing updates for this website will be able to see from this photo that I am currently knee-deep in multi-colored notes in the pursuit of good grades.  

The Bay Area's newest music craze: Hyphy

One positive thing about attending a "Homie Thanksgiving" is that it is the perfect opportunity to catch up on all of the goings-on in the Bay Area music scene. As expected, the attendees knew very little about the existence of any up-and-coming trip-hop DJs and even less about any underground post-rock groups in the area, so I had to settle for a report on the current state of Bay Area rap. To be frank and, simultaneously, to slightly embarrass myself, 10 years ago, this was my musical genre of choice (I've come a long way), so I did possess a slight curiousity as to what I had missed over the past year.

What I learned from the briefing was that the biggest phenomenon in Bay Area rap today is hyphy (pronounced hi-fee, not hi-fi). Being the ignorant, RJD2-listening person that I am, I had to ask: "What in the hell is hyphy?" According to my learned instructor, the word refers to a eponymous song by a group called Federation, which features E-40 and an out-of-this-world Rick Rock beat that is not so much music as a collection of drum beats, odd sound effects, and some guy mumbling incoherently. Just yesterday, I finally downloaded the song and found it to be crass and unpolished as Bay Area rap usually is but catchy in a thump-in-the-trunk kind of way.

If you didn't know (and who would?), hyphy is slang for hyperactive, a phase most people outgrow before the time they reach puberty. Apparently, the Bay Area music scene has, as a collective, not given up on being "hyphy" and, instead, embraced the "hyphy lifestyle". In true "I've Got 5 on it" style, there is even a remix floating around that features various Bay Area artists, an obvious attempt to cement Hyphy as a Bay anthem. It seems to be working, as even MTV.com has picked up on the buzz and penned a story on the subject (http://www.mtv.com/bands/h/hypy/news_feature_110804/).

For all of us from wonderous Fairfield, the best part of the hyphy hype is that at least one of the members of the Federation is from Fairfield, a fact which is proclaimed loud and clear on a t-shirt that appears in the song's video. Why I am proud that these guys come from home town is a mystery that will never be explained. And, truth be told, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

Side note:
From my extensive research after the fact, I have discovered that there is a six-part test to determine if you are hyphy. Feel free to take it at your leisure. Rigorous scientific testing shows that if you answer "yes" or "perhaps" to 4 out of the 6, you are considered ignorant, self-centered, wasteful, and just plain dumb enough to live and prosper in Northern California.

Have you ever:

1) "made them nosey neighbors want to call the cops"
2) "gotten crooked up and down the block"
3) (I can't really decipher this from the song but I think it has something to do with owning a "scraper" or "drop-top", both of which are cars, I presume.)
4) "getting pulled over and won't stop"
5) "danced on the hood of your partna's Caddy"
6) "made a baby's momma slap a baby's daddy"

Are you hyphy?

Home, Sweet Home

Ah, Thanksgiving.

If you couldn't guess from the title of the post, I managed to make my way home for the holiday thanks to some financial generosity from my parents. Flew out of New York on Tuesday night via JetBlue and arrived in Sacramento at around 10:30 PM. By the time I made it home, everyone was asleep, so I wolfed down some ham and cheese on a baguette, spent some quality time with my dog, and passed out.

The next morning, thanks to the time change, I woke up bright and early, despite being exhausted from class and traveling the day before. Got to meet my younger bro's girlfriend, whom he met - suprise, suprise - at his work ... a biotech company. And, to make matters even more unoriginal, he is spending all of his time with her, alternating nights at her place and his. I swear, he is utterly incapable of learning from my mistakes. Must be genetic or something.

At some point, Justin left to drop her off in Sacramento, and I tried to do some work. Problem was, I couldn't concentrate, so I ended up just hanging out with my folks, watching Elf and eating a delicious dinner in the process.

Later that night, Chris and Derek came through to hang out for a bit. We watched some TV, drank a few brews, and reminisced about the good ol' days. Great to see them, as always, but it's kind of pathetic that, in our old age, we now opt to stay in to watch Wild Boyz rather than go out and be wild boys. Oh well, socializing in Fairfield could easily end in a drive-by, so maybe staying in the relative safety of home was a good call.

Thanksgiving day offered no surprises. Went to Scottie's that night, which also offered no surprises, as the whole FF gang was there. Actually there was one surprise: instead of playing beer pong or pool, everyone was playing chess. Bay Area rap still supplied the ambiance, but the mood was decidedly less gangster, which I appreciated.

Friday: ate a Dave's burger, which wasn't as good as I remembered, but still better than the Corner Bistro. Perhaps the decline is due to the proprietor's recent legal problems. Seems that ol' Dave wanted to give something back on November 2nd, so he promised a free burger to anyone who voted. Apparently, the line was out the door, down the street, a testament to the value-sensitive people of Fairfield. The FBI, however, caught wind of his devious plot, and came down hard on Dave, who must have been unaware that rewarding people for voting is unlawful. During my admittedly short visit, I didn't notice him making the burgers, so it is quite possible that he is in the slammer once again (tax evasion last time, fyi).

Another Dave - a friend from high school - was at Dave's, however. He had been deployed in Iraq for about five months, starting 3 and a half weeks after the initial push. We spoke at length about everything going on over there and his experiences as a combat engineer. I must say, it was incredible to hear about the reality of the situation and all the peculiarities of war. For instance, in order to stay moderately comfortable in the oppressive heat, they would splay out on the cold granite floors of Saddam's mansions and palaces. Most amazing of all, was the perspective that he came back with. Over the course of our hour-long discussion, he put forth a very clear, rationale vision of what was working and what wasn't. Impressed the hell out of me, that's for sure.

Saw the Incredibles that night, which was fantastic in spite of the 5-minute "short" prior to the start of the flick that involved a dancing sheep.

Next day, met up with some girls from high school and bravely ventured over to the so-called "Homie Thanksgiving," put on by all the "homies" from the old "'hood". Never been to one of these before, but this is only the second annual, so I haven't missed much. Can't give many details about the event because it was just way too odd for me to describe (for example, the "homies" are interested in starting up a church to swindle money from unsuspecting Christians), but I was happy to see that at Homie Thanksgiving, they did actually eat a turkey (two, in fact).

Bright and early the next morning, woke up and caught a flight back to the Big Apple. Took the subway back from JFK and encountered no problems. I must be beginning to figure this place out. Next step, taking down Trump.

Case Round-up

Something I did not initially expect from law school was that I would be as interested in the material as I am. Now, it's not what your thinking. I mean, causation and promissory estoppel are great and all that, but what I really find compelling are the more bizarre cases. Torts, for instance, serves up some particularly choice morsels. For your sampling pleasure, here are a few of the more interesting cases I've run into lately while reading my Torts casebook:

Summers v. Tice: Three guys go hunting - one is a veteran hunter, the other two are novices being trained. Expert leads with the other two flanking him, one to each side. He flushes some quail from off to one side, which then proceed to fly right behind him. Both novices open fire on the quail - and on the expert, who loses an eye in the process.

Lindley v. Knowlton: Some children are attacked by their neighbor's chimpanzee (don't you hate it when that happens?). The mother recovers damages for trauma she suffered as a result of fending off the attacking primate. This case is from 1918, if you were wondering.

There are more, but I'm tired.

"I just blue myself."

Wow, Arrested Development is hysterical. Unless I'm watching Ali G or a Seinfeld re-run, TV programming is pretty much incapable of making me laugh. But not with Arrested Development. Sitting alone in my room, watching through my laptop and the USB TV Box I purchased for fifty bucks, Arrested Development has got me demonstrating LOL over and over again.

Ro, don't be upset.

Sylvie made me do it.

I didn't even want to, but then I realized that I should have some record besides my shotty memory of what has happened in NYC. Don't worry, this insignificant little thing isn't going to be eternal like Rodion.net - it's got no staying power. Even if I tried, I couldn't make a Fantasy Survivor half as good as yours.

Minority Report

Camel, a word which evokes images of dunes and sandstorms, is actually the name of a Korean club in midtown New York. Against my better judgment, I acquiesced to my friend Brian's repeated requests for me to join him in one of his much-hyped, whiskey-driven romps at the oddly named club last night. Suffice it to say, being the only white guy - and the tallest person in the club - led to a bewildering experience and a night I won't soon forget.

Actually, it could have been much less unusual, or at least I could have better dealt with the awkwardness, if I would have been the least bit drunk. Even after having two pitchers of sangria with dinner, and a beer or two one club prior to Camel, I was in no way, shape, or form intoxicated. Well, why not purchase a beverage, Andrew? That would seem to be the sensible thing to do to solve your problem of clear headedness.

And that is just what I did. I sidled up the bar, waited for the bar tender, who, in a strange cost-cutting measure I have never witnessed before, was also the DJ, and ordered an innocuous Bud Light. This they did not have in stock at the moment, so he instead supplied me with a Coors Light. Close, but not cigar, mon frere. While the identity of my drink was disappointing, I was at last on my way to comfort in a place where I stood out like a sore thumb.

In making this purchase, I learned something: since most of Camel's patrons originate from Seoul and are bank-rolled by some rich family member or relative (according to Brian, the resident expert), the food and drink at this club are astronomically priced. How much did I pay? Try $8 for a Coors Light. I don't even like Coors, let alone Coors Light, and I spent $9, with the requisite tip, to drink one. When I approach Brian to complain, he tells me that most people aren't even allowed in this Club unless they plan on participating in the ultra-expensive "bottle service" offered at each table. Sadly, that information, conveyed in a more timely manner, could have helped me.

So, it turned out, the thing that separated me most from the Koreans was not my ethnicity (or lack thereof) but my unwillingness to be economically eviserated on a repeated basis. In other words, I opted to remain sober and a wee bit uncomfortable.

Red, White, and Blue

Talk about a punch in the gut. Two elections in a row now my hopes have been inflated almost to the breaking point - in 2000 when the news that Gore had won Florida was mistakenly reported and in 2004 when all of the pre-election polls indicated Bush was on his way out - only to suffer a crushing defeat November 3rd. Turns out this election wasn't about the economy, the Iraq war, or health care (or the lack thereof) - it was about gay marriage and the "protection" of American values.

Protection from what? To explain the paranoa and irrationality, Middle Americans leaning to the far right must envision a doomsday scenario that goes something like this: an army of gays and lesbians coming to your town to steal your child as part of a massive gay agenda indoctrination movement, so that someday, they can take over America and, from there, turn the world into one big anti-heterosexual bonanza.

Gimme a fucking break.

Grow up all you insecure, sexually frustrated white males. Homosexuals are not competing for your marriage, your wife, your job (it's too menial), your guns, or your America.

Halloween parade just hours ago. Damn, it seems like all of New York turns out for this thing. With the crowd so large, we could hardly move. When we did, each hard-earned step incurred the wrath of an irrate she-devil or intoxicated spiderman. Good times.

We decided to decorate our bare wall with little kid-style pictures of pumpkins. To our surprise, a few people at the party decided to join in, creating a mural of sorts in our kitchen. 

More party madness.  

Party in full swing. Our apartment was so packed that people spilled into the hallway to escape the congestion. 

Decorations for our Halloween party last night. This is the hallway just outside our door. Since we are at the end of the hall, we were able to extend our reach a bit. 

Divine sandwich

If there is a God made of pastrami, He is served up daily at Katz Delicatessan. That's all.

"Do you act?"

Last night, a bunch of us law students went bowling to celebrate two separate birthdays. If you are anything like me, bowling normally induces painful, interminable boredom and you avoid it at all costs. But not this night. Because, rather than head to the standard neighborhood bowling alley, the birthday duo chose to host their party at the most famous bowling alley in New York City: Bowlmor.

To call this place a bowling alley in the first place is to do it a tremendous disservice. It is much more accurate to describe it thusly: Bowlmor is a snazzy multi-story club that serves expensive drinks (two shots for $21) and, incidentally, has a collection of bowling shoes, bowling balls, pins, and lanes. To my eyes, the bowling component of the whole experience seemed largely ancillary. Most people, including me, just drink and watch the bowling rather than actually participate. Ethan Hawke was there but I'm not sure which one of the two he chose.

After bowling, a majority of the people attending the celebration grabbed cabs to go to a club called Blvd in the Bowery. At this point, the b-day girl was wasted, so Brian and I stayed around for a bit to make sure that she was okay. Lucky for us, she had some friends from out-of-town that were ready and willing to take care of her. Freed from responsibility, we turned to the less difficult task of getting a cab.

While trying to hail a cab, we noticed two guys on the corner from Bowlmor and we asked if they were going to the club as well. They answered in the affirmative, so we all jumped in a cab together. On the way, we discusssed San Francisco because the taller guy was going to be there for a job on NYE. This is when my mind should have put two and two together but it didn't, and I continued to talk with them unaware that we were in a cab with Stretch Armstrong, a famous DJ in NYC who somehow knows the b-day girl.

This fact did eventually come to light when we were trying to gain entry to the club. Stretch simply walked up the bouncers, gave a high five or two, and the velvet rope moved aside instantly, allowing us to circumvent the huge line of people waiting outside. I find it always helps to befriend semi-famous people in these sort of circumstances. Unlike the rest of our posse who had already arrived, we even ended up with two stamps, which may or may not allowed us access to the VIP part of the club. Unfortunately, we will never know because we didn't try it out.

The club was packed to the brim with partying people, but the night turned out to be somewhat uneventful. Nevertheless, one interesting occurrence happened near the night's conclusion. As I was waiting in line to pick up my jacket from the coat check, I noticed two girls staring at me. When I looked over, one of them shook her head negatively, and they both turned away. With a good amount of alcohol in my system, I was more curious than usual so I asked them what they were talking about. In response to my interruption, one of the girls then said, "Do you act?"

Of course, faced with such a preposterous question, I had to make a dumb joke, so I said something like the following: "No, I would but I can't read lines."

(Noticeable lack of even the slightest bit of laughter)

"Oh, because you should. You look like someone famous. Do people tell you that?"

"Sometimes."

Here, as usual, I refuse to give them any ideas, and so they fish around, pulling out random names. One of them, however, did say manage to come up with the perennial favorite.

"You look exactly like Ed Norton."

Why does that happen so often? It is so far from true that it hurts. I guess if people can think that an uber-white guy is half-japanese, half-white (got that once last night), then I shouldn't be surprised that they mistake me for an actor whom I look nothing like.

Law School is time consuming.

Here's what I've done lately that is of interest (to no one but me):

- Had steak frites at Les Halles, the restaurant made famous by it's head chef, Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential and Food Channel host of "A Cook's Tour." For $15, the price is oh so right.

- Ate extraordinary ham sandwiches at Mario Batali's (also on Food Channel) Bar Jamon, which translates, not surprisingly, to 'Ham Bar'. Word to the wise: Thinly sliced ham, fresh bread and manchego cheese makes for good eats when accompanied by red wine from Spain. Also, it may seem bizarre, but cold poached egg with grilled artichoke and garlic-laden tomato paste is also a treat.

- Watched a video-taped interview that a classmate and I conducted for my lawyering class. Few things are more embarrassing than seeing yourself fidget and move about in discomfort for 38 minutes. Lucky for me and my frail ego, we are going to do it again later!!

- Saw Team America with Nathan Lane. Well, I wasn't exactly "with" him, but Chris and I were in the same theater. This I only know because his hearty guffaw was deafening to all those around him, which, in this context, included me even though I was at the other end of the theater. His laugh is LOUD.

Side note: Did you know that everyone's favorite radio host, Phil Hendrie, was the voice of the intelligence-gathering computer in Team America? Actually, unless you drive a truck cross-country and have XM radio, I bet you don't know who he is in the first place. Check out his radio show's website at www.philhendrieshow.com. He does funny voices that will make you laugh like Nathan Lane.

Line out the door for Gray's Papaya at approximately 3 o'clock AM. You can't argue with $2.75 for two hot dogs and a drink. Well, that is until the next morning when nausea sets in. 

Peter and my friend Brian at the Bowery Bar & Grill aka the B Bar. The oranges are as much a mystery to me as they are to everyone else. Note to self: stop pulling the labels off of beer bottles. 

Our expansive kitchen. Note our ingenius solution to the lack of counter space, i.e., the placement of the dish drying rack. The pictures on the fridge were not - I repeat, NOT - my idea. 

Hopped on the L...

And by some miracle of modern engineering ended up in Brooklyn. Quite an accomplishment for someone who hasn't gone any farther north than 20th St. In fact, this was just my second time on the subway since I have been here. It was also the first time I have left the security blanket that is Manhattan.

So, why would I put myself at the risk of whatever criminal activity goes down in Brooklyn? To see RJD2 and Diplo, of course. Both of these guys are DJs - RJD2's style is most similar to that of the instrumental king, DJ Shadow, and Diplo is a party DJ who is co-pilot of the group Hollertronix. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure that description helps at all. Suffice it say both are talented musicians, even if their primary instrument is a turntable rather than a guitar.

RJD2 and I go way back. In fact, I suffer from the I-found-him-first superiority that afflicts so many hip hop listeners. You know, the syndrome that causes otherwise sane fans to falsely believe that they have some ownership over an artist and to be wary of any album put out by said artist if it garners them mass recognition and/or critical acclaim. My affinity for Diplo, who I just recently discovered on the 'net, is in part based on the fact that his name is a shortened version of Diplodocus, a 90-foot long, late jurassic saurapod (for those who weren't dorks when they were kids: that's a big ass dinosaur). To prove his dedication to archaeology and terrible lizards, he even has a tattoo of one on his forearm. Now that's hardcore.

Diplo impressed the audience by mixing songs that wouldn't normally be caught dead associating with one another. Try Dead Prez's "Hell Yeah" with the Postal Service's "The District Sleeps Tonight." Even if I wanted to, I couldn't even begin to dissect his performance to determine all the songs that played but I recall samplings from the Pixies, Outkast, Little Flip, the Cure, Weezer, Fat Joe, Radiohead, and a bunch of down south "crunk" songs.

RJD2, on the other hand, stuck to his own stuff, faithfully reproducing hits from Deadringer, Since We Last Spoke, Soul Positions albums, and even The Horror. Like DJ Shadow, RJ builds songs from samples culled from obscure records, typically of the soul and funk variety. This particular mix of his songs and many others, which lasted almost an hour and a half, was superb and vfull of energy. So much so, in fact, that he had to take a break in the middle to play "give out free shit," a game in which he donated various pieces of fruit to the audience for correctly guessing a mystery song. Spurred by the audience, he even treated us to an encore, although not of the variety that one would expect at a hip hop show. Rather than jump back on the four turntables and sampler, he picked up a guitar and sang the song about the telephone off his new album , which some reviews have called a "jingle." Despite the song's similarities to an AT&T ad, it turned out to be the perfect end to a great show.

Here are two shitty camera-phone pictures from the show:





Afterwards, we ducked into Sea Thai Bistro, the restaurant used in the beginning of Garden State. There isn't much more I can say about this place than "WOW!" Only pictures, not mere words, would do it justice. Maybe I should have brought that camera I always complain about not using. Damn...

It's worthless if I don't use it

I need to take more pictures.

Before moving out of my apartment, I bought this nifty digital camera, small enough to fit in my pocket but, unlike my camera phone, capable of taking pictures of more than 120 pixels. Since I got it, I've taken quite a few pictures - some in Vegas, some in San Francisco, on fishing trips, and of random debauchery in Menlo and Palo Alto - but since being in New York, I've hardly even removed it from the drawer where it resides. Those three pictures that I posted represent my entire catalog of NY photos.

Any requests?

Dave's wins again

Today for lunch, me and a few guys ate at the legendary West Village restaurant, Corner Bistro. If you aren't familiar with the place, it's a neighborhood bar that serves burgers considered by many, including a large number of food critics, as among the best in the city. Here's a link to a typical review: http://gonyc.about.com/cs/restaurants/gr/rr_cornerbistro.htm.

This was my second Corner Bistro visit since I have been here. My first meal was tarnished by the unthinkable: my burger was cooked all the way to well done and beyond. Accordingly, it was, for the most part, tasteless. Because of that debacle, I abstained from passing final judgment. Maybe it was a one-time mistake and the chef would be fired as soon as I left. I couldn't be sure. The only thing I was certain of was that countless people had insisted that the burgers there were amazingly good. As lame as this sounds, I didn't want to be the one guy who doesn't like a restaurant that everyone else believes in their heart of hearts is divine. And, yes, if you are wondering, I would jump off a bridge if it was trendy.

This time, I made sure to specify that I desired a medium rare burger (in retrospect, I should have gone all out and demanded rare) so I could make a more accurate evaluation of its goodness. Thankfully, the request was passed along until it reached the chef, and I received exactly what I asked for.

While I am willing to admit the famous 'bistro burger' was good and is, for New York, an excellent value, I must say that I would be disappointed if it represents the best this city has to offer, as countless Citysearch members purport in their reviews. If not for the stack of bacon atop my burger, I might even be tempted to to go so far as say it was just above average, which would make the situation even more troubling. Dave's Giant Hamburgers in Fairfield serves up much better burgers and that place, like I said, is in FAIRFIELD. How can a burger shack in Fairfield, run by a ex-convict be superior to one of the best burger joints in NYC? Well, there is that thing about how he laces the cheese and mayo with crack. Still, that's just a rumor.

Hate to say it, but I must be wrong; my usually dependable tastebuds must be missing something. The review I posted above awarded the place 4 and half stars out of 5. If I'm not mistaken, that is a great score. Now, I don't know what training this woman has that gives her the authority to hand out ratings to restaurants, but she writes for a commercial website and, presumably, is paid to do it, so she must know something. Right?