Flooding

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

Year in Review

This time of year, all manner of websites are doing their "best of 2005" reviews. Mostly in list format, you'll encounter these sometimes enlightening, but often predictable features on any subject imaginable. So far with just a cursory look at the web tonight, I've encountered one relating to the top celebrity fashion trends on Yahoo! (no, I didn't click the link) and another on Pitchfork (pitchforkmedia.com) enumerating the Top 50 albums of the year.

As website proprietor extraordinaire, who am I to buck the trend? Here goes part one of what may turn out to be a multi-part series.

My Album of the Year

I happen to agree with Pitchfork on this one: Sufjan Stevens - Illinois is the album that I most enjoyed in 2005. It amazes me that an album about the history of the state of Illinois could be as compelling as this one is. But once you hear the lyricism and music which comprise this album, all concern about the geographical focus disappears. In its place, your left with an appreciation for banjo playing the likes of which you never imagined possible.

Meal/Food of the Year

Sushi and sashimi at Jewel Bako. From the appetizer of tuna tartare (with caviar) to the last bite of toro, each piece of fish provided sensational taste and delicate texture. Presentation here was so crucial to the experience that the waiter came over and turned my dish 180 degrees after I had oriented the plate in such a way that it deviated from the proper display. Honorable mentions: Spotted Pig because the chef came from Berkeley's Chez Panisse (and the gastropub fare was great); Mesa Grill because Bobby Flay was actually there (damn you, Bourdain); Wogie's cheesesteaks for their hangover-related curative properties; Paul's Palace cheeseburger after my last final; and Brazilian BBQ because no fault can be found or will ever be found with all-you-can-eat meat.

Class of the Year

Each of my classes had a significant flaw which prevents it from attaining "class of the year" status. Environmental law involved too many federal laws; Trademarks severly lacked clarity and structure all the way up until the day of the final; Patents was lead by a professor who assigned entirely too much reading and spoke much too quickly to follow in class; and corporations, well, see below.

Professor of the Year

My corporations professor, John Coates, for designing an exam which, as many of my fellow students put it, incorporated "the worst of both worlds." Only the most devious and ingenious of all professors could envision a test which would create misery from the first day of the almost two-week finals period started to the very last minute of said finals period -- and be willing to administer such a tortue device without a hint of guilt or reluctance. Truly a magnificent achievement!

VICTORY

Done and done. More extensive post coming later.

A sign I'm growing old.

I can't, for the life of me, come up with any Christmas presents to ask for. In my youth, such a predicament would have been inconceivable; back then, this time of year represented a golden opportunity to stock up on unnecessary items and I took full advantage, straining the generosity of my parents with request for the newest video game system or whatever useless gadget happened to be in my sights at the time.

Now, I'm perusing website gift guides but remaining completely and utterly uninspired. I guess all that I really want this Christmas is for finals to end, for my grades to be at least as good as last semester, and for me to able to go home.

Delivery unto me

When there is snow on the ground, it's simple: I'd rather not go outside. That, of course, leads to problems when it is time to eat and the refridgerator is barren. This is a more common occurrence than one might expect because having food supplies on hand involves going to the grocery store. Hence, the central importance of delivery.

I've heard that the true measure of a town is its delivery options. While I'll admit it is nice to have choice of something more than Domino's pizza and cheap, stomach ache-inducing Chinese, a plethora of delivery options doesn't do all that much for me. It's all still delivery, and therein lies the problem. By the time I am hungry enough that delivery comes to mind, I am usually too hungry to wait the requisite 30-45 minutes for the guy on the bike to get here. This is true no matter what cuisine I've ordered.

It gets worse. By the time the food arrives, my hunger has mysteriously vanished, and I'm left with food I would have paid 20% less for if I had eaten it in the comfort of the restaurant. Plus, because it traveled from its place of origin to my building in the freezing cold, its bordering on lukewarm. Unsurprisingly, my appetite doesn't usually come rushing back.

Food delivery thus represents reason number 136,754 why someone needs to invent teleportation. To the inventors of the world: Do this simple task, and I'll help get you a patent on your invention free of charge. Depending on the outcome of my patents final tomorrow, this offer may be withdrawn for your own good.

Ready, set, go

First final tomorrow, a one hour in-class pipsqueak. If his former exams are any indication, it will consist of approximately ten questions, of which we are to answer six in short answer form. Sounds simple, right? Trust me, it's not. Though not as physically and mentally draining as the typical 4-hour behemoths law professors seem to favor, this format is deceptive in its simplicity. You have only 10 minutes per question, and a few of those precious units of time can easily be consumed while you fumble through your 60-page outline looking -- or perhaps desperately searching -- for the relevant subject matter. That means in all likelihood my mind will have to work at a break-neck pace and my fingers will have to move like the wind in order to develop, research, formulate, and, finally, commit to word processor anything close to an adequate answer. Let's just hope my typing ability is up to the task.

After it's done, the next step is to download the take-home portion of the exam, which we have been granted the rest of the exam period to finish. My goal is to get that done in the next day or two, so it isn't figuratively hanging over my head like a well-greased guillotine blade, and I can move on to the rest of my exams, which have been relegated to the backseat while I learned why Delaware is so important.

I shall return.

Mountain Man

For the last week or so, before I manage to fall asleep -- a simple task rendered somewhat difficult by school-related stress -- I've been reading this collection of Men's Journal articles entitled "Wild Stories." Within the 600-page book are numerous tales of outdoors-related activities as retold by various contributing authors.

The real-life stories provide the perfect mental escape from the rigors of studying. Right now, I would gladly trade my current task of memorizing the ways to invalidate a patent for trout fishing in Tierra del Fuego, racing open-wheel racecars at Sears Point, deep-sea fishing for marlin in Hawaii, researching Grizzly bears in Romania, and canoeing through Central America. When reading, I envision myself scaling the mountain, wading into the stream after a prize fish, or paddling down the mud-colored river looking out for piranhas -- anything to prevent my mind from dreaming about showing up to a final sans clothes or, even worse, spontaneously forgetting everything I've learned just as the exam proctor says, "You may now begin."

But other narratives, frankly, leave me perfectly content to be stuck in a study room, organizing and reorganzing my notes into outlines. Given the choice, I'd prefer a four-hour in-class final to participation in a foot race across the Sahara (the subject of the article got lost and had to eat bats to survive). I'd also rather write about trademarks than challenge the bicyclists who were competing against one another to break the one-hour distance record back in the early 1990s (the record peaked at about 35 miles!). And of course, even 24-hour take-home tests pale in comparison in terms sheer horror to being ship-wrecked in the South Pacific during WWII or taken hostage by armed teenagers in the Kashmir region between India and Pakistan.

Anti-snow measures

Snow

I really would

With December 25th rapidly approaching, Christmas trees are beginning to appear on street corners around the city. Although I'm going home right after finals, I must admit that I am tempted to buy one and set it up in our apartment. But not for the reason you may expect. I really don't have the time or energy to decorate a tree, and, besides, I don't have any ornaments or lights on hand. Furthermore, I am not planning to purchase gifts for my roommates (we are males, after all) and I am reasonably certain that they are similarly disinclined, so we have no real need for a place to display festively wrapped presents.

I want a christmas tree for one reason and one reason only: to be surrounded at all times by the smell of pine needles. Oh, how I love that fragrance. If the world wouldn't look at me as some kind of freak, I'd pull a Kramer and bottle the stuff. That way, I could wear the smell of Christmas 365 days a year and not be relegated to repeatedly walking by the tree vendors on Broadway to get a fix.

Reset

Ah, relief. I feel re-energized and invigorated. There’s nothing like spending time with friends and family while being completely unproductive to overcome the winter doldrums. As I sit here on the plane, alternatively watching Food Network and trying in vain to quiet my very loud stomach (note to self: never fly cross-country on Jetblue without purchasing a meal to eat on the plane), I realize that long periods of sitting around were exactly what I wanted – and needed - to extract from the Thanksgiving holiday in order to be prepared for the end of the semester.

The time has now come to buckle down and hit the books with force. I’ve got to learn environmental law, patent law, trademark law, and corporate law over the next three weeks. Sound impossible? Well, it is – but I’ll do my best. Given this predicament, you know what I am thankful for? First, I’ve already got a job! And second, Christmas is only three weeks (or so) away!

Side note: I need to come up with something more interesting to talk about. This blog is turning into one of those boring ass let-me-tell-you-the-minutiae-of-my-day websites that are the scourge of the Internet.

I guess, theoretically, rather than discuss my work ethic or lack thereof, I could have written about this guy on the plane who wouldn't sit down but chose to stand for the majority of the flight by the bathroom. When that wasn't working for him, he paced the aisles. Must have been scared of flying, right? I'm not certain of his motivation, but it was probably the most bizarre behavior I've seen on a flight.

Going home

Finally.

It's starting to get cold.

See? It's nothing to worry about, though. This year, as opposed to last, I'm well-prepared for the onslaught of freezing temperatures and snow flakes.

As a sort of pre-emptive strike, a week ago I took advantage of one of the increasingly rare 60-degree days to venture down Broadway to H&M for the sole purpose of purchasing of gloves and a scarf. Last year, unaware of how frequently gloves, like umbrellas, go missing, I had only one pair to my name, which I wore night after night. Of course, it wasn't long before I was gloveless. By no coincidence, on the same night that my gloves disappeared, I learned that gloves are no mere luxury; they are, without a doubt, a necessity. Pockets do not -- I repeat, do not -- provide enough warmth to keep hands comfortable in that sort of weather. I now own three pairs of gloves.

Surviving the winter requires more than just warm clothes, however. You have to be mentally ready as well. Having endured one winter -- a winter that many New Yorkers characterized as abnormally bad -- my mind has attained a state of readiness that would have been impossible a year ago. Based on my experience, I know that the winter will be longer and colder than I expect; that I should stay in the general vicinity of my apartment when its snowing; that soup, particularly in the forms of ramen from Momofuku and pho from that Vietnamese place in Chinatown, is the fuel that will maintain my internal temperature at healthy levels; that snow can be beautiful one night, and hideous the next day; and that, eventually, the sun will reappear in all its glory and bring an end to the suffering.

Like any war, though, no amount of readiness can prepare the soldier for all contingencies. It's impossible to know what Mother Nature has in store for the next few months. Let's just hope that the coldest weather comes and goes while I am at home on vacation.

Perhaps she was handicapped but hid it well.

Speaking of those vile rolling backpacks, I witnessed a fellow student with one of them walk up a ramp for the handicapped rather than ascend three (!) stairs to enter one of the law school buildings. Imagine such laziness! I wonder if my contempt was obvious enough that she could detect it from 30 feet away.

Most Terrible Lizard of them all

Last night, while riding the subway to see a burlesque show at The Slipper Room in the LES (don't ask), the discussion turned to a most unusual subject: dinosaurs. If you are unaware, most males who grew up in the early 80s had an obsession with the aptly named terrible lizards (educational note: this is what the word 'dinosaur' means in Latin). When I was a kid, there was nothing more terrifying -- and hence more fascinating and worthy of study -- than the idea that monstrous, godzilla-like reptiles once roamed the earth, engaging one another in what must have been epic, tree-shattering battles for survival. This is also why, if you didn't know, Jurassic Park, the book and the movie, garnered so much attention amongst the demographic of which I am part.

It wasn't long until someone asked about favorites. The answer for me is Stegosaurus, the gentle plant-eating dinosaur armed with a tail of foot-long spikes and a row of triangular plates along its back. At least in part, I used to prefer the noble stegosaurus because he was different; not many other dinosaurs had such ornate armor plating or such fierce weaponry. Plus, most kids overlooked him for more obvious favorites, such as T-Rex or Allosaurus, both large predators, and I've never been one to follow convention.

I'm not entirely sure I was aware of this when the dinosaur draft occurred back in '85, but Stegosaurus was piloted by a brain the size of a walnut. Think of that: a beast 30-feet long from nose to tail, standing 10 feet high, controlled by nerve impulses from a command center which you could easily hold between your thumb and index finger. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, is it?

Stegosaurus' significant mental incapacity and all-round inadequacy on the continuum of prehistoric coolness (it is now well established that velociraptors and Tyrannosaurs are the preeminent dinosaurs) made me apprehensive at the prospect of declaring this to my friends. Under the concept of guilty by association, admitting that my favorite dinosaur was likely the dumbest of them all would not reflect well on me. After hearing that Peter favored the cow of the dinosaur era, triceratops, because it was frequently depicted being eaten by large predators, and that Ron sided with the brontosaurus because "it was the biggest," I overcame my trepidation and readily proclaimed my allegiance to Stegosaurus.

As one might expect, rowdy and contentious debate ensued as to the merits of each pick. But, ultimately, we came to the conclusion that, given that our favorite terrible lizards were all effeminate plant-eaters, we should change the subject.

Something I Dislike

Those backpacks with the telescoping handle and wheels. You know the ones. They look like a cross between an impractically small suitcase and an uncomfortably designed backpack. You've no doubt seen them being dragged about on city streets, far from airports where contraptions with similar features belong.

My first thought is that such a blasphemous device must be for carrying heavy loads. Perhaps, then, they are designed for laptops. But don't laptops, with few exceptions, weigh less than 6 pounds? Are there really people out there who lack the physical strength to lift a laptop-containing backpack to its usual resting position? Or is this a engineer's solution for someone who has weak bones?

Although I can't exactly express exactly what it is about these bags, I find that there is something that strikes me as inherently wrong about having a perfectly good backpack, straps and all, and deciding, rather than transport its contents in the traditional way, to extend a three-foot handle and wheel the damn thing one to two feet behind you. This makes sense in airports where you must travel long distances across relatively flat land, and where there are escalators rather than stairs to enable you to get from one floor to the next. But out in the crowded New York streets? This just makes the task of navigating the already cramped sidewalks all the more difficult.

Worse yet, there seems to be no way to pay close attention to a backpack/suitcase hybrid's trajectory when it is being dragged directly behind you. As a result, people like me, minding our own business and perhaps wearing a backpack as it should be worn, get caught up almost tripping over the damn thing as it bumps and careens its way down the street.

All because you didn't drink enough milk when you were a kid. Shame, shame.

What happened to Halloween?

I called my house on Halloween night only to be informed that, in total, four children had come trick-or-treating to our door. Now sure, our street is dimly lit, and most of the neighbors don't give out candy, but we always had more kids than that begging for candy at our house on Halloweens past.

Four kids?? My friends and I, on our own, used to put that number to shame. And were just a few of the countless children -- and later immature teenagers -- out roaming the streets, doing our best, through hard-work and plenty of subterfuge, such as the "pull-up-your-sleave-&-stick-your-arm-back-towards-the-candy-bowl for a second piece" manuever, to gain as many individual pieces of candy as was humanly possible over the course of a few adrenalin-charged hours. Then it was off to home for the late-night, sugar-fueled trading session, wherein I would exchange the reviled Mounds and other unedible items (e.g., raisins) for such favorites as anything cherry flavored.

It was also at this juncture that I openly envied those other kids who had mastered the art of brazenly dipping their hand directly into the candy bowl as the adult was holding it, and, after securing an overflowing handful of Runts or M&Ms, running off like the wind to the next house. My sense of propriety precluded such an act, but allowed for the admiration, and commendation, of those who were willing to commit it. For candy, these kids were willing to risk everything; in a tight-knit neighborhood, word could easily get back to your parents of your illicit behavior.

Where were all the kids this year, anyway? Had they all been mini-vanned away to some mall, where, because of the bright lights and security, their over-protective parents could be assured that no harm would befall them? Will my generation be one of the last to have the unadulterated pleasure of the traditional trick-or-treat experience in our own neighborhoods?

Here, the streets were overrun with Halloween celebrators. But no kids. All of these people were too old to be trick-or-treating. But at least they were out, in costume, pumping the holiday full of life. I say this even despite the fact that, because of the massive Halloween parade and my stellar sense of direction, I managed to become stuck on the wrong side of 6th avenue (across which ye shall not cross when the parade is in effect). After some time spent walking in what I'm convinced were circles, I had to travel south, along 6th ave, from the 8th st subway stop to make my way around the parade so I could get home. This entailed traveling through throngs of intoxicated, costume-wearing NYCers to the starting point of the parade, which was at about 3rd.

This was no easy task, let me tell you -- it required almost an hour of people-dodging and lots of concentration. Though the going was tough, i'll take a mob scene over desolate streets when it comes to Halloween any year. Bring back the kids!

Death trap

Of all pet animals, hamsters die the worst possible deaths. I actually heard someone claim this recently. While I do not necessarily agree with the assertion, I am almost positive that most pet-owners have a hamster mortality story of their own. Here is mine:

Like most hamsters, Taco enjoyed rolling around in a plastic ball. True, it was his only leisure activity, but I think, given that he was a hamster, he was more than satisfied. The way he would rocket around our house with that contented look on his face suggested that in another life he may have been a racecar driver. In this life, though, he had a more modest occupation: king of the kitchen floor.

One night my parents had some friends over and I decided that if the rest of the family was having fun, Taco should be too. I put him in his ball and set him free in the kitchen. With acceleration that would make most remote control cars envious, he sped off out of sight.

Needless to say, watching a hamster in a plastic ball isn't all that exciting, so I went back to doing kid stuff. A few hours later, after my parents' guests had departed (they had been drinking wine in the living room), I realized that Taco was missing. I searched throughout the house but could find no clues as to his whereabouts. Confused and growing concerned, I informed my parents of the situation. Though neither had paid the rolling plastic ball much attention, both recalled seeing him at some stage earlier in the evening.

"Relax, Andrew. I'm sure he is around here somewhere."

I wasn't so sure. It wasn't like Taco to be elusive. After all, there are very few places to hide effectively when you are encased in a 10-inch diameter ball of plastic.

Now it is important for me to tell you that half of our living room is about 5 inches lower than the other half. If Taco were to roll into this part of the room, gravity and his size would render him stuck and confined to that area. Since my parents had been occupying this room with their guests, I hadn't checked it yet.

So, flanked by both my parents, I walked hurriedly to the living room, certain that I would find him stuck in a corner of the room or something. Perhaps his little legs had grown tired, and he had retired for a nap. Or maybe he finally realized the futility of bouncing into furniture in a plastic ball, and was patiently awaiting return to his plush plastic housing unit.

If only that were true. As we scoured the living room, looking under couches and chairs, I noticed with alarm that the sliding glass door to my backyard was wide open.

Oh no, I thought, outside. The one place hamsters should never be. Due to their bite-size statute and lack of any and all survival instincts, a hamster in the wild is, before long, an eaten hamster. That meant I had no time to spare. Birds of prey, our cats, and other predators would only give me so much time before Taco became dinner. Growing more anxious by the minute, I wondered how long it had been since he escaped the house and, more importantly, how far he could have traveled in that time.

Not that far, it turns out. Taco had rolled directly out of the house and into the pool.

I still wonder to this day how long it took the ball to fill up with water and what his little hamster brain was thinking, if anything, as he slowly sank to the bottom of the deep-end of the pool. Maybe, having finally escaped the plastic tubes, wood shavings, endless ball-rolling and general monotony which constituted the entirety of his existence as our beloved pet, he finally felt liberated in his own hamster way.

Guest Pass

Because he is such a charitable person, Peter offered me a 30-day guest pass for October to New York Sports Club, one of the many franchise gyms that populate the city. While the pass entitled me to full access to the club, the purpose of Peter's donation was singular: I could now join him in a weekly boxing class which he had been attending since the middle of summer and praising pretty much since his first exposure.

Now this is not the type of boxing class you might be imagining. There is no boxing ring. We don't spar with each other. Most importantly, we aren't forced to submit ourselves to abject humiliation by boxing against an instructor -- in this case a bald-headed behemoth of a man, who is at once an initimidating ogre and kind-hearted teacher. A curious blend, to be sure. He could, I'm fairly certain, single-punchedly decapitate any one of his students, even those who have obvious boxing expertise. But, emotionally, I don't think he could bring himself to do it. His paternal instincts bar such violent behavior.

But I digress. This isn't one of those Tae Bo classes that were all the rage in the late 1990s, either. We wear gloves. We hit heavy bags. We are taught to jab, to uppercut, to duck and move, to use the right foot for power and stability. When doing "mitts," we coordinate all of these activities, striking at the instructor's hands while he circles and dodges. Jab, jab, strike. Jab, uppercut, pivot, jab. Sometimes he even fights back with gloves instead of mitts, but I haven't had the pleasure of getting pummeled yet.

Before the first class, I was, frankly, a bit apprehensive. Peter explained the format, and claimed that it was very easy to catch on. Despite his reassurances, though, I was convinced that I would either (A) look like a total moron in boxing gloves, despeartely punching a heavy bag which refuses to budge while a diminutive 40 year-old woman standing at my side pummels the very same bag, rocking it back and forth as if it were afloat in the perfect storm; or (B) be so out of shape as to collapse, midway through the hour, and become the object of the thunderous laughter and subsequent pity of my classmates as I am wheeled out of the room, hooked up to an IV.

It turns out my mind wasn't too far off when it concocted the second scenario. Although Peter warned me to take it easy, that first class I valiantly attempted to keep up with the instructor's commands. Jumping jacks, squat thrusts, mountain climbers, high knees, more jumping jacks, push-ups, topped off with even more -- see a pattern here? -- jumping jacks. This continued for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn't long, perhaps 10 minutes into that eternity, before my insides began to burn, my legs to ache, and collapse began to appeal as a life-saving alternative to more jumping jacks. Pity be damned. I was hurting here.

The instructor must have noticed my internal struggle and sensed weakness, because he yelled, at the very moment when I had finally decided to protest any more physical exertion, the following: "Hey, new guy! Suck it up!!"

And, dammit, he was looking directly at me. I was that new guy! The guy incapable of keeping up. Peter was right: I should have taken it easy! But now was no time for regret; I had to "suck it up" and perservere.

So I did. Although I could barely stand, I managed, to my surprise, to perform close but shaky equivalents of all of the exercises, with periodic panting breaks every few minutes, of course.

By my third class, which was last night, I had finally discovered the art of the punch: elbows in, legs shoulder-width apart, left hand at chin to block incoming fists, right foot pivoting on the toe outward to provide power, fist moving straight forward, rotating so that the knuckles become horizontal. Boom. And, yes, the bag moves when I hit it. Quite a bit, in fact.

Pants on fire

Previously, I said that, regardless of what Al Qaeda has done or threatened to do, I would not stop riding the subway. That proclamation was in response to the London bombings. But this weekend, after watching a live press conference about a "specific" bomb threat on the Manhattan subways just a half hour before I had to be in TriBeCa for a law firm dinner, I turned myself into a bold-faced liar: I purposely avoided taking the subway. Perhaps irrationally, I opted for a cab instead, thereby wasting $7 and, as a consequence of spending 10 minutes hailing a cab on Broadway during rush hour, arriving at the dinner late.

In my defense, I did ride the A train later on that night to the airport, ignoring the threat with the help of a few glasses of wine for an honored guest who insisted I be at JFK to greet her. Although the two of us traversed most of lower Manhattan and plenty of Midtown and Central Park over the course of the weekend, we didn't take the subway but once (the return trip to the airport). Frankly, I felt a bit ashamed for not utilizing public transportation as I normally would, but cabs seemed the safer alternative given the circumstances (not to claim that riding in a NYC cab is "safe" by any means).

If given a choice, I prefer to think of myself as someone who would not succumb to such a threat, as someone who would not allow my liberty to be compromised by those whose goal it is to destroy that liberty. But like most rational people, I have my fears -- extreme heights, sharks in the swimming pool, and dolls -- and am inclined, in most scenarios, towards self-preservation. Despite the additional security or perhaps because of it, it just felt more sensible to avoid the trains altogether rather than to make a point about my willingness to take risks or to stand up to foreign terrorists. That, and I wanted to make sure my guest would come back for another visit.