Not sure if my sense of humor is being affected by the fact that classes begin tomorrow, but I read the following excerpt tonight and found it pretty humorous.
"If there is only one producer that can label this cake 'Twinkie,' then the consumer can rely on the producer's reputation for fresheness and the Twinkie's reputation for creamy deliciousness."
I wonder if both the authors are obese, or just the one who was responsible for that bit of flattery.
I feel like I should write something about having 29 interviews last week. If I were so inclined, I could tell you about climbing the stairs to avoid the crowded elevator and the resulting pain in my feet and sore thighs. Or I could write about pretending to have a soulmate connection with a law firm I didn't even know existed until about 10 minutes before the interview. I could even mention going to dinners at trendy but mediocre restaurants or crashing the Skadden Arps reception at 60 Thompson and eating up all of the appetizers.
But right now, talking about myself is the last thing I want to do. I guess spending almost 40 hours over the course of five days making small talk with recruiters and answering the same interview questions over and over will do that to you.
Unfortunately, the exhausting ritual which just ended was only the first step in a long process. Now that the freaks have been filtered out, the firms are inviting some of us to "callback" interviews. Since I want to work in California this summer and beyond, I am going to have to fly back to San Francisco or Palo Alto sometime very soon to interview there. Should make for a hectic first few weeks of school.
Is an implement of the devil, designed to bring severe discomfort upon mortal men.
Oh, and if you are interested in hearing about the embarrassment of others, yesterday I had to move a large cart full of my belongings in a torrential downpour the likes of which I have not witnessed in many years. Onlookers pointed, laughed, and pitied me as I trudged block after block looking like I had just gone swimming in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. Wasn't this supposed to happen in Seattle, not New York?
Only this time, unlike the last, my departure will be in the dead of night -- 15 minutes past midnight, to be exact. Yep, that's right. The time has come for me to pack up my belongings, steal what leftover change I can find in the couch, gorge myself , and say "peace out" to the West Coast, my home, my 'hood, and my homies. For those savvy of the appropriate rituals, rest assured that the proper amount of liquor will be poured out to pay my respects.
Like the lives of many fallen urban soldiers, Summer '05 has come to an unceremonious and abrupt end. One second I was updating a website for 6 hours per day, vacationing in Seattle and Vegas, flyfishing for gargantuan steelhead, eating gourmet meals nightly, and enjoying the hell out of the summer, and the next I'm being sent back to casebooks, late nights in the library and large quantities of falafel and frozen dumplings. The shock to my system will be severe; the adjustment period interminable; and the complaints numerous. Still, a substantial part of me will be happy to be getting this proverbial show back on the road.
While the coastal transition marks the beginning of my second year of law school and a defining period of my existence (the first week back will determine whether I am a gainfully employed summer associate next year or once again faking a charitable nature as an intern for a non-profit organization), tomorrow evening also represents a far more momentous occassion -- my first "red-eye." Now, while this does mark my first true coast-to-coast overnight flight, I would argue that flights to France and London would also qualify under the category of "red-eye." I say this because any flight over 10 hours tends to make your eyes glaze over and become temporarily bloodshot (the presumed requirement for a flight to be considered "red-eye") even if you are only technically traveling during daylight hours. This is not to mention the effect that having your luggage -- and most of your articles of clothing for a three-week trip -- exploded by a bomb squad in a Paris airport can have on your appearance.
The lessons of this post, you ask? First, I'm a seasoned traveler as conclusively proven by the fact that I've flown multiple bona fide red-eye international flights before I flew a domestic "red-eye" flight. Second, those announcements in the airport about leaving your luggage unattended should be paid special attention and heeded well. Third and finally, the French do not fuck around when it comes to abandoned suitcases.
NYC or bust.
It appears advertisers have sunk to a new low. First, it was pop-up ads littering the internet like so many annoying door-to-door salesmen. Then, it was the subtle inclusion of slogans and product logos into movies and video games. Soon thereafter, targeted Google ads began sprouting up on Rodion's heretofore friendly and welcoming blog like weeds on a pristine backyard lawn. But today, the proverbial final straw was placed on the dromedary's back with all the delicacy of an iron anvil. I awoke this morning to find the following bit of propaganda lodged uncomfortably in the comments section of one of my posts:
"Reading your blog and I figured you'd be interested in advancing your life a bit, call us at 1-206-339-5106. No tests, books or exams, easiest way to get a Bachelors, Masters, MBA, Doctorate or Ph.D in almost any field. Totally confidential, open 24 hours a day. Hope to hear from you soon!"
Is nothing sacred? Can we not be spared their greedy manipulations even on our home turf!? What's next, floating advertisements which fly into your house, flittering back and forth just inches from your face, assaulting you with product information, but fast enough to out-maneouver your attempts to swat them like a bug? The answers to those rhetorical questions would seem to be "No," "Never," and "Most assuredly," respectively.
Despite the admitted attention I've been receiving from this vile person, he or she hasn't actually been reading my blog in the plain meaning sense of the word "reading." If he had (I refuse to believe a woman could be capable of something so inhuman), then he surely would have noticed the headline "studying law," which to most non-bloodsucking people would imply going to law school or maybe taking pre-law courses as an undergraduate. Either way, I'm already "advancing [my] life a bit" and have no need for snake oil cure-alls, magic diet pills, and effort-free, presumably unaccredited academic degrees which the working world would probably not even spare the time to scoff at.
So, Mr. Advertiser, while getting a "totally confidential" PhD without being irritated by any of the inconvenient aspects of the higher education process like exams, books, and learning sounds appealing, I think I'll pass on your proposal, thank you very much. Unless of course, you also offer advanced courses in bullshit -- that, at least, might help my legal career.
Music concerts are strange beasts. Some people love them and go to every show they can get tickets to; others find the whole experience unpleasant and prefer the intimacy -- and the volume control -- granted by their own speakers or headphones.
For most everyone, however, the appeal -- in the abstract, at least -- of seeing your favorite musical group live is undeniable. If an artist can wow you with a recording on a CD and video on MTV, then surely having the entire band and their trusty instruments within your presence would transcend the packaged experience and bring aural pleasures previously unimagined.
But, the truth is, unlike watching a movie at a theater, with its massive screen, pulse-pounding surround sound-capable speakers, and myriad special effects thanks to THX or whatever snazzy acronym makes it digital, more often then not the listening experience at a concert, even when its your absolute favorite band, is subpar. Whether you are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a massive stadium or sitting crossed-legged on the lawn of Central Park, most venues do not compare, especially as far as clarity is concerned, with simply sitting at home in front of your stereo.
This is most decidedly the case when you are unfamiliar with the artist. Sure, intimate settings such as an acoustic show at a college or an limited and unadvertised engagement at a dimly lit bar in the seedy part of town can easily make you a moderate fan of any artist. Close proximity tends to do that. But that notwithstanding, attending a concert is far from the best way to expose yourself to new music and expect anything to come from it other than a ringing in your ears and some mild confusion over what exactly that singer was shouting.For me, what makes or breaks a concert featuring a new or unfamiliar artist is not the sound quality, or how easily I can follow along with the lyrics; instead, I gauge such a concert on what follows it.
Allow me to explain: Let's assume I've already got that one song from the radio for band X. Well, if I take to band X's music with increased interest and seek out the rest of the album after seeing them in concert, then it qualifies as a 'good' show. If, after downloading their songs, I double-click each of them and actually listen for more than 5 seconds, then the concert gets recorded as a 'great' one. If -- and this is rare indeed -- I begin to listen to that album with regularity, then the show goes beyond 'great' to 'fantastic' and I couldn't have asked for much more -- except perhaps proper sound engineering.
I write all of this because last weekend in Seattle I saw Modest Mouse at the Paramount downtown. Of course, I already had "Float On" committed to both memory and hard drive space but I had not listened to the rest of the album, let alone any of their previous work. Despite the fact that I could hardly hear the lyrics and the bass drowned out the band, I've now revisited "Good News for People who Love Bad News." Thanks to the show, the rest of the album is getting frequent play in Winamp.
Now, if only someone would do something about the lead singer's voice.
As of today, it's been a week since I last updated. For that let me apologize. Before you start cursing my inactivity and migrating to some other more entertaining website, let me reveal the reason for my extended hiatus. My absence can be explained largely by the fact that, for last few days, I was almost in Canada. By that, I mean to say that I was in Seattle, the metropolitan jewel of the Pacific Northwest, home to the Mariners (pronounced Marine-ers), the Stratosphere's bastard cousin, and, I've been told repeatedly, torrential and never-ending downpours.
Sure, Seattle locals will try half-heartedly to convince you that "San Francisco has more rain" or that "it never rains here, it's just overcast a lot" but, in their eyes, you can almost sense the burning desire to communicate just how damn depressing it is to tolerate grey skies most of the year. Even the travel books I reviewed prior to my trip warned in no uncertain terms of the chronic rain problem, presumably to avoid any liability which might arise from a suit for false advertising when they proclaim "Seattle is the happiest place on Earth." Wait, maybe that was Disneyland.
The only false advertising taking place so far as I can tell is the constant emphasis on Seattle's rainy climate. During my stay, the city was all clear skies, warm temperatures (upwards of 90 degress), and shinny happy people holding hands -- the latter a far cry from the depression-crazed, suicide-prone, coffee-drinking zombies I expected to encounter en masse. After all, Seattle is the birthplace of Starbucks and, accordingly, a fertile breeding ground for mac-wielding coffee shop denizens. The photographs included serve the purpose of dispelling any misconceptions and highlighting the natural beauty of the place.
As I sit here writing these kind words about a place I've maligned for much of my life (Seattle is a rival of the Bay Area so it frequently draws my ire), I'm becoming suspicious. How could a resolute Seattle opponent be swayed to such an extent over the course of five days?
Perhaps my defection is the result of an elaborate charade put on by my host. The city isn't all that populous, so it's not inconceivable that a person situated in advertising could execute a city-wide campaign to convince a sole Californian that Seattle isn't the flood plain its made out to be by the rest of the world. What would it take honestly? A few well-placed billboards requesting uncharacteristically upbeat behavior and coffee abstinence for a week? A short speech by the mayor pertaining to my considerable coast-to-coast influence? Both sound reasonable to me.
Given the city's reputation, preventing the rain would have proved to be a more difficult task than convincing a few residents to hold off on depression-induced acts of violence for a few days. Despite the challenge, with a few well-choreographed rain dances and the input of local shaman, she might have been able to eek out enough divine favor to persuade Mother Nature to control her "natural" urges for a few days.
Whatever the cause -- conspiracy or dumb luck -- I was pleased to be treated to this version of Seattle rather than the one the city plays on television, in the movies, and in my imagination.
An exercise in inconvenience: If you ever want to alter your daily routine significantly, leave your cell phone at home. Go without it for just one workday. Even if you don't usually get that many calls or text messages during those hours, you'd be surprised how cut off from the world and vulnerable you can feel just because you don't have access to your phone. At least, that's how it was for me today.
For those of you who haven't yet joined the 21st century, please purchase a cellular phone as soon as possible. Do the rest of us a favor, buck tradition and cut the tether of the land line. You might not know this but all of your cell phone-having friends consider you a relic of the past. Like the vestigial wings on the kiwi, a person without a cell phone is a nonfunctional nub incapable of operating at the same level as his or her peers. Your deficiency in one of the most basic of human skills -- the ability to communicate -- makes you primitive. Accordingly, the rest of us look at you in the same manner that we might one of our ancient ancestors, like the Australopithecene: you are vaguely familiar because we see a reflection of our past in your visage, but the fundamental differences are obvious and impossible to ignore. Frankly, we'd rather not associate with your kind if we can help it; you make us uncomfortable.
What is most perplexing is that, unless there are monetary prohibitions, you are purposefully removing yourself from the realm of human interaction. Not only do you inconvenience yourself, but you also frustrate those of us who have grown accustomed to being connected at all times with the rest of society. Ask anyone who has ever had a pressing need to get a hold of you when you weren't at home whether that is true.
Like vegetarianism, anti-cell phone sentiment demands a substantial price be paid just to prove a point. Strident opposition to the cellular phone will virtually guarantee eternal solitude and depression-inducing loneliness. If that's not bad enough, you -- and your kind -- will surely become extinct, or at the very least obsolete, as progress brings those of us who harbor no fear of technology closer and closer together. You stand now at the point of no return. Do you really want to go the way of the cave man simply because of stubbornness?
Some of my best haircuts are by gay guys.
Actually, that's not entirely accurate because all of my best haircuts have been the product of non-heterosexual hair stylists. Despite this obvious trend (and it is very obvious), I can't pinpoint exactly why gay men are so superior to their straight or female counterparts when it comes to this profession. It seems to stem largely from the fact that gay stylists feel comfortable enough -- and perhaps obligated by a sense of duty to clean up straight guys like the fab five on Queer Eye -- to supplement my amateurish requests by applying their own flair, for the lack of a better word. Now, by "flair" I certainly don't mean to imply that I'm frequently the recipient of frosted tips; rather, the word suggests those little touches, like texturizing, which propel your hair one step closer to the holy grail of hairdos: controlled crazy. It's almost as if each one of the gay hairstylists I've had was looking out for my best hair-related interests, and in doing so, strived mightily to construct the best possible configuration of my hair.
Most female hairdressers, on the other hand, take my suggestions too literally, and fail to deviate to any significant degree from the standard "trim" which I request. This repeated outcome is partially my fault, however. I can't deny that I lack an adequate vocabulary for describing exactly what I want done to my hair. Plus, my masculinity prevents me from using one of those hardcover hairstyle books to point out an acceptable look. Because of those shortcomings, our encounter often results in little more than a much shorter version of my current hair, usually crafted with about as much motivation as she could be expected to muster while carrying on an involved conversation about moisturizers with two other equally bored female employees. I guess they figure that guys want nothing more than to leave with a haircut which delays their next appointment for as much time as possible. In many cases, they would not be wrong.
Having a heterosexual male cut my hair, on the other hand, virtually guarantees a military-style flat top, with the probability increasing to 1000% if said male is a barber. Sure, he asks me what I would like done, but the barber’s interpretation of my answer is invariably flat on top, short on the sides. As a strict constructionist, he flatly refuses to accept any of these “new-fangled” trends that us “kids” prefer.
Realizing that straight males and women bring ruination upon my head, when I enter a hair-cutting establishment, be it salon, barbershop, or generic chain, I immediately scope the scene, hoping -- no, praying -- that there is a gay hair stylist to address my hair-related needs. I'm never proactive about it -- that is, I don't actively seek them -- but if one is working that day, I give my name, sit down, and watch intently as the other customers receive their reckoning, knowing full well that I will either be sheared carelessly like a sheep, buzzed up like a soldier, or, if fate spares me, able to rejoin the world with a confident swagger.
Maybe the next time when I'm in pursuit of controlled crazy, and I hear "next" only to look up to see a straight guy standing there waiting for me, I'll refuse and save myself the indignity of a bad haircut. He is heterosexual, after all. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh, and regardless of what Al Qaida does, I'll never stop riding the subway.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I write all of this because last weekend in Seattle I saw Modest Mouse at the Paramount downtown. Of course, I already had "Float On" committed to both memory and hard drive space but I had not listened to the rest of the album, let alone any of their previous work. Despite the fact that I could hardly hear the lyrics and the bass drowned out the band, I've now revisited "Good News for People who Love Bad News." Thanks to the show, the rest of the album is getting frequent play in Winamp.
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.
