Perspective

All of us who drive daily -- basically anyone not living in New York -- have first-hand knowledge of what it's like to be stuck in traffic for hours at a time. It is not a pleasant experience. Because of the feeling of utter helplessness and of being trapped in an immobile metal cage a.k.a your car, there are few events that induce more frustration -- especially when you are blessed with a manual transmission.

Today I had the unfortunate luck of getting stuck in traffic not once, but twice, because of a huge accident which involved a tractor trailer jack-knifing, smashing into six other vehicles, and blocking all four lanes of west-bound I-80. Not only did the collision cause a halt to traffic as far as 10 miles away in neighboring Vacaville, it also clogged virtually all of the streets in Fairfield. Thousands of people like me lost hours of their day as a result. Worst of all, according to the preliminary news reports, the truck driver's loss of control caused three fatalities.

As frustration mounted, I realized that no matter how much the wreck inconvenienced me, the impact it had on my life was nothing more than that of a severe inconvenience. By contrast, there are some families out there who lost a loved one today. While I will never regain that hour of time, those poor souls will never again see their family member.

So, next time you are stuck in traffic, fuming because of a wasted hour or two, think about how lucky you are to be where you are.

My Solemn Pledge

Unlike other money-hungry bloggers who will remain nameless but will be hyperlinked shamelessly (link), I hereby pledge never to host ads of any sort on this site. Those seeking escape from the ubiquitous captilistic schemes which indiscriminately siphon away hard-earned cash will find solace here.

Enjoy your expense-free stay.

PS - I think it is no mere coincidence that Google, in all its infinite wisdom, is hosting ads for headache medicine on his site.

Close Call and the Cause

Running out of gas

Because of the sheer number of people also trying to attend the Red Bull Grand Prix yesteday, the lines to get to the track parking lots were immense -- and by immense, I mean miles long. So it actually required more time -- almost two hours -- to get from the track entrance to the parking lot than it did to drive the 85 miles from Menlo Park to Monterey. That is ridiculous.

In our excitement and infinite stupidity, Chris and I jointly decided to forego getting gas on the way down to the track even though I had little more than a quarter tank when we took off that morning. Unware that we would be idling in line for hours, we figured that such a minimal amount of fuel would be nothing more than a footnote to our journey.

After moving along at a snail's pace or slower for about an hour in the entry line, the "you are about to run out of gas, idiot" light came on. But whenever we stopped on a hill (this happened often), the gauge would move back into safe territory, so we both ignored our impending doom by attempting to race a woman who chose to walk to the track rather than contend with the unbearable traffic. In the end, she won, but at that point the gas situation had progressed from irritating annoyance to doomsday scenario, so we paid her victory no mind.

If you are like me, you'd figure there was no better place to be than in the middle of a venue where gas literally fuels the entertainment. Not only that, but we were surrounded by countless cars and motorcylces, all of which presumable contained some of the much-needed energy source. But alas, none of the Laguna Seca staff, those not-so-helpful volunteers and equally disinterested paid workers, could assist us in any way other than offering insightful advice such as "I'd coast if I were you" and "Uh oh."

This predicament took on extra significance because, in my ten years or so of driving, I have never run out of gas before. There have been a few close calls, but I can truthfully state that, barring the occassional mechanical failure, my car stops only when I command it to. Fate has not yet shamed me with the prospect of walking (or catching a cab) to a gas station or calling Triple A to beg for a pick-up. Given our situation -- stuck at the far end of a gigantic parking lot of a race track crowded with a record amount of attendees -- I was certain that the streak was going to come to a humiliating and inconvenient end.

Fortunately, due in large part to my skillful coasting and the timing of our exit from the track, I managed to pilot my car to a gas station before encoutering the loss of power that I presume accompanies running out of gas. There, I had to convince an unsuspecting military-ID carrying patron to purchase gas for me, but that is another story altogether.

For now, I still bat 1000.

Moto GP

This Sunday, Chris and I will be waking up at the crack of dawn and venturing down to Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey for the Red Bull US Grand Prix. But unlike numerous times before, the purpose of this excursion will not be to see racecars piloted around the world-famous course. Rather, we will be witnessing the first US appearance of Moto GP, the premiere motorcycle racing series in the world, in more than 10 years. This event, scheduled to bring in almost 200,000 attendees, also marks the most popular event held at Laguna Seca in the track's 50-year history.

If our past experiences at Laguna are any indication, this should be quite a spectacle. Especially when we see the 200-horsepower prototype bikes going down this turn, the infamous corkscrew, more a three-story drop than a corner. We will undoubtedly also be entertained by the antics of Valentino Rossi, the reigning king of Moto GP, and also, at an annual salary of $30 million, one of the 10 highest paid atheletes in the world.

Resolve

Oh, and regardless of what Al Qaida does, I'll never stop riding the subway.

My Entourage

Like Rodion, I've been watching the HBO show, Entourage, lately. Thanks to the limitless generosity of the Internet, I was able to procure the entire first season and all of the episodes from the current one. Dan and I started watching Entourage when it first came on the air before I moved to New York. We both knew right away that it was going to be a hit. After a long hiatus because of school, I've finally managed to catch up from where I left off with Vince and the boys.

If you are unfamiliar, Entourage is about four friends from Queens, one of whom, Vince, is a huge movie star. In pursuit of fame and fortune, the gang relocates to Hollywood. The three non-movie stars -- Vince's older brother, a washed-up actor named Johnny Drama, his best friend, E, and the enigmatic Turtle -- comprise the entourage referenced by the show's title. They basically follow Vince around, basking in his glory and reeping the considerable benefits of being close friends with a very famous movie star. Supposedly, the show is loosely based on Mark 'Marky Mark' Wahlberg's early years in Hollywood. (This claim is lent credence by the fact that he is also the Executive Producer)

The greatest thing about the show is just how much fun the guys are having. Their life consists of outrageously expensive purchases, hob-knobbing with other movie stars (primarily female), and attending parties at exlcusive clubs or Malibu beach houses (been there, done that last one). None of them, not even Vince himself, take any of it seriously. Rather than fret about practical matters, such as whether they can afford their current lifestyle or where Vince's next job will come from, they are content to ride the wave of celebrity for all its worth, even if that attitude results in their good fortune fading away. It hasn't yet.

The morals of the show, so far as I can gather, are to enjoy life, to value everything that you are given, to take advantage of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, to enjoy your youth, and, most importantly, to cherish your friends. Time flies, money comes and goes, but if you don't stop to experience life, you'll miss out on countless adventures.

This philosophy resonates strongly with me, as I'm a firm believer in the value of the present. The future is critical, of course, but too many people forego the now, which is all you really have when it comes down to it, for the sake of long-term plans. As long as you aren't self-destructive, it's perfectly viable to always enjoy where you are at the moment. And having fun now doesn't necessarily mean you will pay later provided that you can achieve a balance.

Wise words from a guy living at home with his parents.

Bachelor Pad

Because my parents have gone up to the cabin for the holiday weekend, I came home today to an empty house. Threw open all the windows to the backyard, put an Mp3 CD in the stereo, and jumped right into the pool, basking in the glory of having the place all to myself. The combination of the weather (high-80s), the current state of my existence, and the anticipation of a great weekend has put me in the best mood.

Starting this evening, I'll have four nights with 606 Walnut Dr. as my personal castle. What I'll do during that period is a mystery. If I were still a youngster - that is, a high school or college student - there is no doubt that I'd throw a huge party and invite all of my friends, past and present. Sure, the place would end up a mess, but a stain or two on the ceiling of the kitchen is usually a small price to pay for such good fun.

Times have changed from those wild days, though. Right now, I've got something a bit more intimate in mind.

Vacation from my vacation

Going camping in Yosemite for the next few days. So, unless you have access to homing pigeons, I shall be unreachable during that time. Please go on about your business until I return.

Oh, and godspeed, Dan. Despite the fact that you used to play poker while I toiled away over the stove for your benefit and couldn't navigate from Pizza My Heart to our apartment if you had a map, it's been a blast. Don't forget about the little people once you have sole control of Colombia's economy.

A Question

Ever feel like life is too good?

I do. Right now, actually. It's a great sensation, but also fairly unnerving. Everything is going so well that I just know that it can't last. It's as if there is an analyst in my head advising caution about the impending collapse of the market. He reminds me, wisely, that what goes up must come down.

The question is, then, how long can this artificial elevation sustain itself?

I hope the answer is a long long time.

Validation

I can vaguely remember a time long, long ago in a high school far, far away when I used to get straight A's. For this studious teenager, anything lower than an A- was not an option. Not even a single B+ had disgraced my academic record. And, if youthful idealism had anything to say about it, things were going to remain that way.

But then AP History came along right when I discovered alcohol and peer pressure, a time which sparked the dawn of a new era of misbehavior. Bent on challenging both authority and the status quo, I decided that this was to be the first class in which I didn't get an A or an A-.

Although fueled by rebellious attitude, I remember worrying about the consequences. What exactly is going to happen when I open that envelope to reveal a monolithic B standing in stark contrast to a collection of As? Would my world as I knew it come to an abrupt but spectacular end? Or, worse yet, would my parents, in a fit of rage at my academic failure, commit the adolescent version of infanticide?

Of course, neither happened. Despite my expectations, the Earth didn't even crack. An adverse reaction from my parents was equally nonexistent. Moreover, internally, I felt the same as if I had received any other grade, even an A. From then on and throughout college, perfect grades became less important to me, and, consequently, a few more B's intruded upon my heretofore untarnished record. My grades remained fairly high and I still worked damn hard to get that science degree, but the magical A had lost much of its luster, and therefore, I no longer coveted it.

Needless to say, I didn't graduate magna cum laude or summa cum laude, or anything cum laude, for that matter. Nevertheless, my undergraduate experience did not suffer. I managed to extract exactly what I needed from college. At the very least, it was enough to land a job and a spot at a prestigious graduate school.

Here in law school, where grades, rankings, achievements, and extracurricular activities are so prominent, so extensively scrutinized, and so often the topic of conversation, grades have once again taken on heightened importance. And because of the mandatory curve, getting an A is quite a bit more difficult than college -- only about 10 students in each class of 120 are awarded one -- which only adds to the tension.

Thus far, my grades have been a little bit above average, not spectacular from any perspective. This can be easily explained, however, by the following: NYU law is full of insanely bright, over-motivated over-achievers, some of whom use all of their free time for studying. I do not; I'm in New York not only to learn law, but also to experience the city, so sometimes it makes more sense for me (and yields more satisfaction) to go to dinner at a new restaurant or go out to a bar or club rather than stay in and toil away at Civil Procedure.

But finally, the tides have turned (ever so slightly) with the posting of our grades for Criminal Law. At long last I've achieved the academic validation that I was hungering for. The powers that be at NYU Law School -- finally -- recognized my efforts and rewarded them properly. Which just goes to show you that the path to academic glory does not necessarily involve locking oneself in that dungeon of a library for the entire semester. Though, I'm sure that helps.

In the waiting line

At the end of this week, I'll once again be stepping off an airplane into the artificially cooled terminal of the Las Vegas airport. This is probably the 6th or 7th time I've purchased tickets to visit the desert oasis, and each journey proves to be more eventful, more physically draining, and, ultimately, more enjoyable than the last. The latter applies with extra force to the time we decided to drive to Vegas at midnight on a Sunday in lieu of seeing a movie. If nothing else, the ratio of cleaning person to vacationer ought to be far lower this time.

Beyond the fraternizing, the mass consumption of food and alcohol, and the mischief of a Vegas reunion with my fellow Pomona alumni, one aspect of these trips that I've grown to cherish is the anticipation of it all. Like a soldier about to enter a battlefield where there is a slight chance of being fatally wounded or perhaps maimed, I sense excitment and anxiety building as my body and mind prepare for what ought to be a pleasant but otherwise exhausting four days. If the past is any indication, my inner monologue will soon be consumed with countless questions: where we will eat on Saturday? What bar we will make our venue of choice on Friday? How can I make sure we never go to the Hard Rock again? Will I spend more nights sleeping on the floor or in a bed? Should I be worried about spontaneous combustion in the 115 degree dry heat of the Strip?

Shortly, I'll have intimate knowledge of the answers to all of these questions and many more. But for now, I'm content to ponder the possibilities and revel in the anticipation of what will undoubtedly turn out to be a memorable vacation.

Things never change

Yesterday, I bumped into one of my old high school friends at the gym. Thankfully, the reunion lacked the awkwardness that so many of the "hey, I haven't seen you in a long time" conversations are plagued with. Other than just catching up, we spoke about what the rest of the old high school crew are doing with their lives -- ordinarily an interesting subject because the stories often resemble the best the tabloids can come up with. This time, however, the conversation focused more on the realities of getting older rather than the misbehaviors of growing up.

According to him, most of the guys seem to have either purchased a house or condo, or are on the verge of doing so. While I'm impressed with the maturity evident in such a move, it depresses me that most of these people don't plan to live anywhere else but here. Now don't get me wrong; Solano County is a great place to settle down. But for people our age -- mid to late 20s -- the area offers little in the way of entertainment (as I've repeatedly emphasized). Some of the guys, including my good friend Scotland, are moving to Sacramento, which certainly provides more of a big city-type experience, but that's only when you compare it to Fairfield. I guess one explanation could be that some of us suffer from wanderlust more than others. Or perhaps they've grown up and I have yet to do so.

Although I believe that to some extent they are missing out by not living somewhere else, at the same time I am somewhat envious of the bonds that they've cultivated over so many uninterrupted years. Living and hanging out with the same group of people for the large majority of your collective existence makes for some damn good friends. These guys know each other like the back of their hands and, as a result, never cease having fun.

For instance, their newest joint venture was the purchase of a Humboldt County school bus -- yes, a gigantic, yellow traditional school bus. If everything goes as planned, the bus is destined to give up its usual role -- ferrying kids to school -- and become a "party bus" -- ferrying adults to parties. So far, they've removed the back half of the seats, leaving about 6 rows, and fitted couches in the empty space. A Keg-erator is next on the list. What the future holds for this bus remains to be seen, but you can be certain that it will involve an unprecedented drinking and driving penalty.

The Best Dog Ever

The bond between man and dog never ceases to amaze me. Sadly enough, sometimes it's better to put an animal (or a human for that matter) out of its misery rather than artificially sustain its life out of some selfish motivation to prevent heartache or some misguided desire to prevent the inevitable.


RIP Kit aka Kitty aka Meebos aka The Wonder Dog

It is frustrating to erase advice that was certain to change lives

Yesterday, along with the mundane post about living in the wildnerness, I also wrote a dictionary-length commentary about the bouts of depression that seem to be spreading like wildfire (pun intended). Both Sylvie and Rodion spoke at length recently on their blogs about this very subject. Unfortunately, I boneheadedly erased all the words that were dedicated to this more intriguing subject, so you readers received only a post about some trees.

Basically, in 10,000 words or less, I attempted to say something straddling the border between sympathetic and insightful. You might think it is suspiciously convenient that such an uncharacteristic post was lost before you could scrutinize it, but I swear the explanation I've offered is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

The post -- a truly remarkable achievement in internet publishing -- went something like this: everyone gets depressed at some point or another, and, when that happens, we tend to isolate ourselves from those who care to help. Usually, we think that it's impossible for anyone else understand our mental anguish; we think that no one else has ever felt pain of such magnitude; and we convince ourselves that everyone we know is living a rosey existence which only on a rare occassion dips to a level of "moderately unhappy".

Then, when other people can describe with precision the depression and sorrow that we are feeling at the moment, we react with astonishment. We think, "How could this other individual possibly know what I'm faced with? How could they see inside me with such clarity?" But the truth is, we shouldn't be amazed when this happens because even though the emotional low is the byproduct of a situation that is both personal and unique, we, as human beings, are only equipped to experience our emotions in a limited set of ways. In other words, there are only so many mental configurations that can come to fruition in the average person's mind (psychopaths and vegans are an exception to this proposition). Also, the scenarios that cause depression -- e.g., cheating, break-ups, periods of uncertainty as to what life holds in the future -- tend to play themselves out with regularity throughout all of our lives.

So, often the best thing to do when you are feeling down is to seek refuge amongst friends -- friends who in all likelihood have experienced something similar or downright identical to what is ailing you and who can offer support when it's needed. Those friends can help you realize that the pain is but a temporary glimpse of the frailty of the human condition that every human being goes through at one time or another. What I mean to say with all this blathering (I swear the original version read like a self-help masterpiece) is that, despite what you may think, you are definitely not alone.

This message has been brought to you by the Coalition for Sappy Positive Reinforcement.

PS - I'm feeling great.

My dad down at the Trinity River about 50 yards behind our house. 

Return from the wilderness

Just a few hours ago, I returned from our new house on the Trinity River after a long Memorial Day weekend of kayaking, fishing, eating and drinking. Because my parents had described the house as a "cabin," I didn't expect it to be as large as it was. In fact, given their past frugalness, I expected little more than a one room shack. Fortunately, I was pleasantly surprised by reality.

For California standards, the house is fairly small, but for New York standards, it's positively gigantic. There are only two bedrooms and one bathroom, but the spacious living room and kitchen area make up for those shortcomings, and six lived comfortably for the three days within it's confines. Because of the commotion in and around the kitchen, sleeping in the corner of the common room did force some unpleasant early morning rises, however..

The real attraction of the having a place in the woods is, of course, the woods. And the river. And the mountains. And all that nature stuff that I was familiar with before moving to NYC. While access to some of the best bars, clubs, and restaurants seems to be all that a young person could ask for, kayaking in your backyard has a certain appeal to it.

Nature, however, is not as forgiving as I remembered. On Sunday, I had the misfortune of fishing in the freezing cold Trinity River in shorts and a fleece jacket. Worst of all, to get to the huge steelhead in the river, I had to traverse an unfriendly patch of blackberry bushes, the thorns of which tore my legs to shreds below the knees. The intense physical pain mixed with the frigid water conditions did not put me in the mood conducive to successful fishing, and before long (~30 minutes), I retired to the side of the road to warm up and take a nap, dreams of Gray's Papaya hotdogs dancing in my head.

Oh, the memories

In the spirit of Memorial Day weekend, before I go to sleep tonight I've decided to compile a list of some memorable moments, activities, events, people, places, and, of course, restaurants that remind me of the second half of my first year in law school. Yes, this is cheesy, but, at this moment, exhaustion prevents me from writing a full blown report on what transpired during those long months. You see, I need to conserve my energy because I've got to get up early tomorrow to pack for the long weekend, which I'll be spending with family at our new cabin up north. So, if third person nostalgia does not seem appealing or if you are enraged by incomprehensible inside jokes, feel free to skip this one. Rest assured that when I return on Monday, your regularly scheduled program of entries about karaoke and pork tacos will resume.

• 96th and Lexington - living on the border of SpaHa (and loving every minute of it)
  
• Friday evenings on the 6 train rocking out to my shuffle
• a certain waitress at Tortilla Flats who holds a second job at In Style
• BLVD - losing my watch, living the Matrix, and sullying my beautiful complexion - all in one night
• Momofuku - soup for the soul
• more meat than a man should be allowed at Churrascaria Plataforma
• shopping with mommy - size 9 and a halfs, dude
  
• high-fi, doc holiday's, niagra and all those other East Village bars that are identical
• formula 1 on the big screen
  
• our first trip to Manhatta
• our second trip - err, make that third trip to Manhatta (never thought bachlorettes could come in so handy)
• a modest request: "Can you guys stand over by those cars?"
  
• getting turned away at bars in the Meat Packing District (expected)
• those mini-burgers at the trendy burger place in the Meat Packing (what the fuck is that called again?)
  
• getting turned away at Bowery Bar (unexpected and our lowest moment)
• bottle service and a stingy host (who knew guys were responsible for purchasing alcohol? this is the 90s, isn't it?)
  
• sneaking in the back door at the FHM party only to find ourselves stuck in the bathroom on the bottom floor
• simple pleasures: walking around in Manhattan with an Mp3 player
• adventures in Chinatown (dim sum, soup dumplings, and dodgeball)
• Jamba Juice, Soho, and models on a Sunday afternoon - a beautiful combination
• while driving around Manhattan in an Elantra, a crew was formed
  
• saving my soul: escape from Town Tavern
• eating pizza after snow ball fights
• hiding from the snow (behind Courtney)
• a few pissed off ER nurses
• T9 and the text message revolution
• * Duplicate * From: Peter Message: SOS
• From: Ron Message: Digging a hole to China? (a reference to Crotol)
• From: Peter Message: I am downstairs
• "dorm" party on V-tine's day
• change of pace: sushi and 40s at my place
  
• Philly cheesesteaks at Wogie's after a long night
  
• Late night dining at Gramercy diner, Cosmic Cantina, Ray's Pizza, the corner Bodeaga and whatever other late night eating spot is we come across
  
• jaeger shots, 7&7s, the napalm that is supposed to compliment tequila, Country Clubs for $1.59, and ample quantities of Bud Light
• frightening females away with our voices: karaoke for guys only
  
• feasts of excess at Rich's place (never forget our "sacrifice") - sake bombs, fondue, and more cowbell
• living the Culture Club: Bon Jovi, Whitesnake, Journey, and Queen
  
• failed hunt for mole people
• very inappropriate individuals
• birthday dinner and free drinks: horrible combination
  
• the rise and fall of a boxing legend
• interviewing for a job just days after the apocalypse
• losing Mitch (and thinking it was all an elaborate prank)
• Eating in: Brother Jimmy's, Nick's, Barking Dog, and pseudo-burritos
  
• venturing into the danger zone for Mexican-French food ("nice shoes, man!")
  
• the friendliest feline in all of Manhattan
• allergies to one another
• wearing purple, gold, and turquoise beads out in public - and coming home with almost none left
• becoming Confucious to my many disciples
  
• boys will be boys: breakout, the chicken game, and sticky bombs
• "No, I will not see a movie about a female boxer."
• Tapas and insatiable hunger
• what? we're too good for Rollin' Roaster?
  
• Heard at 2:30 AM: "It's still early. We've got time."
  
• studying for finals? nah, I'm at the gym
• April and May: the period of hibernation
  
• Subjecting anyone and everyone to Arrested Development
• "Don't stop me now" because we all need a theme song
• and, last but not least, Pioneer, because we all need a second home

There are so many more, and this doesn't even cover the law school side of things. Oh well, energy is dwindling and, therefore, spelling and grammar proficiency are disappearing at a rapid pace. Let's just hope next year we'll be able to keep it up.

Anyone with anything to add can always use the comments.

And, last but not least, I'm going to be in the wilderness, but we've got a phone. So anyone needing to get a hold of me can call this: 530-623-2982. Will putting this phone number on the internet turn out to be a mistake because of the massive amount of traffic that is drawn to this site? Only if dreams come true.

Agony

I don't really have any desire to commit myself to a journal next year, yet I've spent countless hours over the last week trying to perfect an imperfectable (is that a word?) legal commentary in order to please the people who hold the key to journal membership. What is wrong with me?

What, no bulk discount?

If you didn't know, my faithful reader, last Monday I returned, for the summer, to the mediocrity that is Fairfield, CA. Unlike New York, which offers innumerable things to do, interesting people to meet, and extraordinary cuisine to sample, this town provides absolutely nothing that even hints at pleasure or excitement, let alone the brazilian bbq experience to which I'm accustomed. It pains me to say it but once a Dave's burger has been vanquished, the rest of my time here will largely consist of sitting around with nothing to do.

Given such a backdrop of extreme boredom and lack of stimuli, it should come as no surprise that I've been spending a lot of time conversing with my parents for entertainment. Between "competing" for a place on a journal next year and trying to secure a job that will actually provide some legal experience, I basically sit around, talking with them about the past year at NYU and about what they've been up to since I've been gone. One notable story comes from my father, who recently celebrated a friend's birthday in Vegas. To put the story into perspective, he hasn't been to Vegas since Wynn took over and turned the place into the adult playground to which we've all become addicted (the paradigm shift took place 20 years ago, I believe).

So, we're sitting at lunch and he brings up the vodka bar at Mandalay Bay, which I am familiar with only because I've secretly alway wanted to be a patron but never had the opportunity (read: in Vegas, we drink Bud Light exclusively). Once talk of the novelty of the ice bar surface dies down, he starts to get into the more gritty details. I inquire about the price, which he replies was a bit high, but nothing astronomical. This question ultimately leads to what I found to be a fairly hilarious anecdote.

Apparently, at some point in the night, the bartender, seeing that these old guys don't have a clue and surmising that they might just be naive enough to go for it, offers them bottle service. Now, to my dad, the concept of bottle service was totally unheard of, and, accordingly, the guys presumed that the bartender's offer was a friendly overture and something worth taking advantage of. One of their posse immediately goes to work calculating the per-shot cost of the bottle, genuinely expecting this manner of ordering to offer a substantial "bulk discount" off the normal one-drink-at-a-time methodology. Once the math comes to its conclusion and bewilderment spread across their collective faces, they remark to the bartender that, in fact, no such bulk discount is reflected in the price. "What gives, Mr. Bartender?"

At this point that the bartender explains that bottle service will grant them access to a special table and "get them noticed," exactly what these men were trying to avoid at all costs (especially exorbitant ones). Of course, they politely decline the bottle and continue doing things the old-fashioned way.

Now, honestly, I don't know why I find this scenario so humorous, but I guess the image of my Dad being offered bottle service, a completely new concept to him outside of the Costco context, upsets my expectations of reality enough to elicit mild laughter (and thus deserves top billing on this website). Plus, this anecdote serves to highlight the differences in our respective lives -- and explains why he can function just fine in Fairfield while I am immediately struck with an intense lack of purpose and meaning.

The Real Contender

I spend a lot of time at Peter's apartment on the Upper East Side, and this Friday was no exception. After recovering from my grueling criminal law final, I hopped on the 6 train and made my way up to his humble abode. As is standard, once I got there, we immediately ordered pizza and delved into some video gaming -- hockey followed by EA Sport's Fight Night, a boxing game.

The latter is no ordinary boxing game. It's intuitive controls and incredibly lifelike graphics provide an unparalleled virtual boxing experience. Up until this point, though, my virtual boxing experience has been an unmitigated disaster -- I've never beaten Peter straight-up in the 30 or so times we've battled it out. Sure, I've managed to win when he was a featherweight (120 lbs) and I was Lennox Lewis (240 lbs), but that is neither a testament to my skill nor a feat I am particularly proud of. This Friday, however, that all changed.

It was an epic boute from its inception, with me as Evander Holyfield and him as Roy Jones Jr., the star of the game. For the first four rounds or so, neither of us managed to do any real damage, spending most of our time anticipating the attacks of our opponent with well-executed dodge manuevers rather than exchanging blows. Then, in the 5th round, the inevitable happened -- Peter knocked me down not once, but twice. Because the fight had been so evenly-matched up until this point, his emerging superiority rocked me to the core, thoroughly jettisoning all of my confidence. The third and final knockdown seemed to be nothing more than a foregone conclusion.

Reeling from the damage he had inflicted, I spent the next few rounds simply avoiding him, throwing infrequent punches whenever I wasn't backing away from his fists. As the bout wore on, our stamina decreased, and both fighters grew tired and lethargic. My survival turned out to be Peter's Achilles heel. Each time the bell rang to signal the start of another round, Peter's fighting style became more and more careless.

Then, in the 8th round, I managed the impossible. One or two blows from being knocked out myself, I sent Roy Jones Jr. to the canvas with a deft right hook. This being Peter's first trip to the mat thus far, however, the knockdown was nothing more than a mere annoyance and he managed to get up with relative ease. But with that single knockdown, the heretofore invincible fighter had allowed his mortality to surface, if just for a moment.

The 10th round had both of us desperate for the knockout that would bring the fight to a close and the agony to an end (plus, the pizza had arrived, and I was really, really hungry). Eshewing defense for offense, we pummelled each other mercilessly. But this was to be my moment of glory, not Peter's. As Roy Jones leaned forward to throw an uppercut, I reacted with astonishing speed and sent Evander's fist sailing through the air before Peter's tired fighter could resume his defensive position. Temporarily unconscious, Roy Jones crumpled to the mat and, lacking the energy to get back up, succumbed to gravity. If memory serves me, at that exact moment time stood still.

And with that, Peter, like Mike Tyson before him and some other fighters whom I know nothing about, had been dealt his first bona fide defeat. Only time will tell how he takes it, and whether he can overcome the descent from godhood. A true fighter always makes a comeback, so I expect to face the challenge of a lifetime the next time I encounter Peter in the virtual ring. Until that next fight, though, I can rightfully claim the title of champion -- I just hope he invites the champion back to his apartment.

A paradox

You know what? An eight-hour law school exam is not as exhausting, nor as painful as a four-hour law school exam. Doesn't that just blow your mind and contradict all of reality? Well, in any case, it's the truth. Don't dispute it. Don't question it. Just believe.

Spring Break Belize, Day 4

On day 4, a Thursday, Brian, Andy, Beata and I hired the services of a local fishing guide named Bernard for a half-day fishing trip. After renting two fishing poles and grabbing some "world famous" cinnamon buns for breakfast, we met up with Bernard and his small boat at the dock right in front of our hotel. How convenient.

Good buns:


In my limited ocean-fishing experience, it is customary to procure live bait at the dock. But that's not how they do it in Belize. Armed with his trusty gill net, Bernard stalked and ultimately captured an entire school of sardines right where we had been kayaking the day before. See the master at work here:



After wowing us with his net-casting skills, Bernard piloted us out to his fishing spot off the west side of Caye Caulker, which was clearly marked with a two-pronged stick lodged in the ocean's floor. Problem is, Bernard's two-pronged stick looks identical to the two-pronged sticks used by every other fisherman on the island. Thankfully, rather than spend all morning searching for "his" proper spot, we anchored off of what he believed was a rival's fishing stick. Since all fisherman are rivals of one another, this made Bernard understandly nervous. Honestly though, I don't think any guy who competed in a 4-day canoeing competition with a dislocated shoulder could really be all that worried.

Soon, fish, specifically snapper, were jumping into our boat like hotcakes (does that analogy even work in this context?).

This continued for an hour or so, and then we trolled for barracuda around the flats. Other than a few bites that resulted in broken line and a lost lure, we had no luck. Not to be deterred, we moved over to the reef to try our hand at more snapper. This second location produced more than just snapper - in fact, at one point while I was reeling in a yellowtail snapper, a barracuda struck my fish like a missile, nearly cleaving it in half.

Snapper split like Caye Caulker:


Adrenalized by this activity, and with the barracuda hanging out just under our boat, the team, at Bernard's behest, strived mightily to catch a live fish for barracuda bait. Unfortunately for us and fortunately for the barracuda, try as we might, we couldn't land a fish of the desired size (it has to be small enough so that two hooks can be staggered a few inches apart). And with that crushing defeat, our fishing day ended.

Our haul for the (half) day:


That night, we celebrated our catch, which we graciously donated to Bernard for putting up with Brian's fishing "technique" or lack thereof, at this bar called I&I's, otherwise known as the "treehouse." Picture a multi-story, brightly colored building in the middle of an island paradise, topped with an open-air third floor, filled with hammocks to lay in, planks to walk, and swings to drink on, and you've got a basic idea of what makes the treehouse so great.

The so-called "monkey walk" - to a law student this looks more like "liability":


As Brian demonstrates, you can't help but lounge at I&I's:


If there is one clear message that Belize instilled in me, it's that a treehouse bar is needed in EVERY city. That is, as long as the city's climate is tropical, local law requires the music played to be reggae, and the only beer available is Belikin.

Spring Break Belize, Day 3

On day three, with the girls off on an all-day Mayan ruin tour, Brian, Andy and I had an opportunity to indulge in more testosterone-heavy activities. Naturally, we decided to go crocodile hunting. Actually, that's not true - kayaking was the activity of choice, it just so happens that our chosen kayaking route led us right through the territory of saltwater crocodiles. Of course, we were unaware of this and so, like idiots, we putted around for hours in our kayaks oblivious to (and literally right on top of) the threat.

Crocodile appetizers:


Because we didn't actually bump into any crocs and my wildlife obsession remained unsatisfied, I convinced the other guys to stop off on the northern half of Caye Caulker (remember, it's split in twain) to search for more reptiles - this time, iguanas. We did manage to find some iguana tails sticking out of holes, but other than that, the expedition was rather unsuccessful. Well, unsuccessful from my point of view - Andy and Brian did "find" each other:



While on the other side, we should've picked up lunch:



On the way back to Caye Caulker proper, the wind intensified, leading to a 30-minute uphill battle of brawn and paddling techinque. Certain that a momentary lapse of effort would result in being sent adrift into the vast expanses of the ocean - and even more certain that the two other guys wouldn't have initiated a rescue - we each doggedly piloted our kayaks into the wind, over the waves, and back to their final resting place in front of our hotel.

Our chariots:


As Ice Cube would say, "It was a good day."

Oh, blessed food - carnitas taco to be exact. In this world of constant suffering you are my only salvation.  

Stressed out already

With finals just around the corner, stress has begun its assault on my mind and body in earnest. It's a terrible feeling to be constantly under attack by thoughts of the massive amounts of work that are required for success here. To make matters worse, sleep offers no sanctuary, because some nightmare about making the fatal mistake that torpedoes your legal career is always lurking around the corner. Even during periods of leisure - which are a scarce commidty in these trying times - I inevitably find my mind wandering to a mental checklist of what must be accomplished before the days of reckoning arrive. Not infrequently, I fantasize about somehow eliminating the constant barrage of worries that wrack my brain. But then I realize that it's precisely that worry (some call it "work ethic") that got me here in the first place, so blissful ignorance might not be such a bright idea. Thwarted, I then try to rationalize the situation in terms of the inconceivable hardships that others must be facing at these very moments to at least reduce the magnitude of the strain. This too is futile, however, because no matter what mental gymnastics I attempt, convincing my stubborn mind to ignore 8-hours of Crim Law final turns out to be a Herculean task that I'm not equipped to complete.

--------

On a lighter note, here's a miscellaneous link. HEADLINE: Ultimate Warrior's minions threaten to sue satirical website, SomethingAwful.com. If you're bored, read this exchange between the administrator of the website and the wrestler-slash-lawyer who is defending the honor of the washed-up warrior. In my current state, I found it hilarious (that's a disclaimer).

http://www.somethingawful.com/articles.php?a=2790

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.