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."