Developing Trend

Evidently, about two weeks before each spring break of my law school career, I am going to fall ill to some mildly potent virus. This time, it set in over the weekend, and is now in full swing. My head is throbbing from sinus pressure, my nose is running, and the use of my throat causes massive discomfort. Not cool.

Dispossessed

Tonight, while I was doing the dishes, the following startling realization occurred to me: my life is significantly impaired by the absence of a garbage disposal in our sink. But when you've never had to live without one, the garbarge disposal doesn't seem all that valuable. If you're anything like me, you've been taking that at-times noisy but mostly unseen and unheard device for granted. However, if your disposal were spirited away in the middle of the night, you'd be amazed at the impact on your life, let me tell you.

The first problem with not having a disposal is that, since you can no longer dump any food at all down the drain, you'll need to purchase one of those infernal screen drainplugs to catch any falling detritus. The worst aspect of the screen is that food inevitably piles up in a unsightly mess, and you can never fully clean the damn thing. Despite your best efforts, there is always a noodle or two and perhaps a piece of vegatable matter that won't release its grasp of the drainplug. Unless you have an inventory of unused drainplugs or clean it with pliers, this is something you'll have to live with, like it or not.

Second, you'll find that breaking the habit of behaving as if you have a disposal is hard, if not impossible. I still to this day find myself tossing food into the sink as if the unwanted pieces had somewhere to go. They don't. They pile up, hidden amongst the dishes stacked in the sink, until they clog the screen, causing a situation which requires that you dip your arm into the filthy water to remove the offending matter, thus clearing the way for waterflow. No matter how good whatever you cooked or are cooking will taste and regardless of the quality of the ingredients, this is not a pleasant experience by any measure.

Third, not having a disposal makes for a lot more garbage -- garbarge that, because its contents consist of soon-to-be-rotting organic matter, you must usually take out immediately. Admittedly, this only requires walking down the hall for me, but sometimes that's the last thing I want to do after cooking a meal sans disposal.

There is one final reason why I miss the disposal, and this may very well be a reason unique to me. In the past, when I was making something involving fresh herbs, say basil, mint, or cilantro, I could take some of the leftovers, toss them in the disposal, hit the switch, and be treated to the pungent scent of whatever herb I'd used. Sometimes, I'd even throw in a half of a lemon to spread lemon scent throughout the kitchen. But no longer. Now, to get the same effect or at least something similar, I have to rely on aerosol sprays containing "lemony scent" or "fresh herbal fragrance." And that is not something I'm going to do.

At least I now know the first question I'll ask when I'm purchasing a house: does it have a garbage disposal?

Ridiculously Cold

To the Heart of Darkness

About a year ago at this time, I purchased a ticket to Belize, a small country in Central America famous for, among other things, the second largest coral reef in the world, world-class tarpon and permit fishing, grand Mayan temples and their attendant rich history, and lush rainforests inhabited by jaguars, howler monkeys, and toucans. For someone like me who is a strong proponent of safe-and-sound world travel, Belize had the added bonus of relative stability in its government.

Not this year. Just yesterday I booked a flight to Colombia -- not uptown Columbia, but Colombia with an "o" -- where kidnapping insurance is commonplace, where armored cars ferry children to and from school, where a bona fide war on drugs is being waged daily. In my understanding, armed guerillas roam the streets freely, alternatively sending out extortion letters and holding up hapless American tourists. To be sure, this ain't no Caye Caulker.

Why would I choose to go to such a place when there are plenty of tourist-friendly desitnations around the world that would help me part ways with my leftover loan money without exposing me to potential danger? All blame for this decision can be put squarely on the shoulders of my friend Dan, who has been in Colombia for the last 6 months or so and, prior to his newest mini-vacation from the real world, lived in South America for a number of years following college graduation. Far away from home but unwilling to do the prudent thing and return, he has cajoled, pleaded, and even begged for visitors.

It took some time, but his repeated entreaties -- and legally binding promises that Colombia "has changed" -- finally persuaded me to acquiesce. Fortunately, I'll be accompanied in this folly by another friend, Josh. Together, I believe our formidable legal educations and general street savvy should be enough to overcome the rash decision-making and general obliviousness that Dan is prone to. If nothing else, I'm almost certain the two of us can run faster than a guy whose occupation involves sitting at the computer all day.

Blizzard of 2006

Right outside my building.










3rd Street looking east towards Broadway.









On St. Marks near the Kmart. In this photo, I masterfully missed the iconic St. Marks cube sculpture, which would have made for a much better image. You can see the edge of it on the left side of the picture.

After-party

So, I'm going to the Trovata after-party tonight in a few hours. Not really sure what to expect there. My college friend and fellow fraternity brother, Joe, who I've been hanging out with the last two nights, mentioned something about Scarlett Johnansen, Lindsay Lohan, and some other celebrities being there. If I do happen to meet any of them, I am going to stick with what has worked in the past (i.e., at the poker room in the Bellagio with Mena Suvari, now divorced) and I will not acknowledge their respective bodies of work. It's not as if they will be impressed by law school, so why should I worship them right off the bat?

What's more likely than meeting famous people is that I will drink enough that I have a hard time getting to class tomorrow. Regardless, it should be fun. And, thankfully, it's being held at a place I'm familiar with -- Happy Ending -- so when I get kicked out for not being fashionable enough, I'll know the way home.

A Random Sampling of My Thoughts

I wish I could breakdance. And not just competently, but well. After watching a number of online videos of Korean breakdancers (apparently, they are the best in the world), I've decided that it would be pretty damn cool to be one of them. Not that I'd give up my current life, of course. It's just that of all the possible professions out there, racecar driver and professional breakdancer appeal to me above most others.

$3.50 for iced tea without refills is as close to assaulting the customer as a restaurant can get. If restaurant week taught me anything, it's that it is borderline criminal to charge $25-30 for a lunch entree and at the same time offer iced tea without free refills. I guess I could understand if the beverage were served in pitchers, but it's not -- most of the iced tea glasses I was served over the last two weeks were puny, amounting, on average, to what I'd estimate as not more than 10 ounces. That's not even a soda can's worth.

The Cost of Celebrity

On Saturday, I attended a New York Rangers hockey game with Peter in which they slaughtered the Penguins to the tune of 7 to 1. But it wasn't the display of utter domantion put on by the Rangers offense that captured my attention during this particular game; instead, it was the antics of a hometown hero.

His name is Homo Larry. Yes, you read that right: Homo Larry. Unbeknownst to me, Larry happened to be sitting in the rows just above us. At some point during the game, cameramen gathered in our section and the crowd all stood up to look up behind us. Upon seeing this, I questioned Peter about the source of the commotion. He informed me that during the third period of most games, this guy named Larry dances outrageously to a particular song and his dancing is shown on the big screen to the delight of the crowd. According to Peter, he used to be called the more politically correct 'Dancing Larry' but after an incident in which he forcefully pushed a woman away who was trying dance with him, he earned his current title. Larry, it appears, does not want to the share the spotlight -- even if the cost of that exclusivity is a nickname that doesn't win him much respect in the hockey arena.

Sure enough, just a few minutes later Larry, a bald-headed guy wearing a Rangers jersey, was dancing like a maniac to some techno song. The crowd went wild. As the song wound down, the crowd began to chant "Homo Larry" over and over again. Holding up his hands in triumph, Larry didn't seem to mind.

That all got me thinking: is minor celebrity status worth a nickname like Homo Larry, especially if it involves little more than making a complete ass of yourself in front of 20 or 30,000 fans?

Nope. Not at all.

Note: I searched for a picture of Homo Larry on the 'net, but the only links that turned up were to posts on some community forum for the site called njguido.com, and they uniformly involved someone talking about beating poor Larry up. I repeat -- not worth it.

Cold

On the way to pick up my newly cleaned shirts from the drycleaner, the wind made my eyes water. Left and right of me, people were running to their destinations. Not cool.

Restaurant Week: JoJo.

I had my first restaurant week meal today at JoJo, one of Jean-Georges Vongeritchen's many New York restaurants. Here is what his website has to say:

"At Jo Jo, he introduced us to his 'vibrant and spare cuisine' whose intense flavors and satisfying textures he created by eschewing traditional meat stocks for vegetables juices and fruit essences, light broths and herbal vinaigrettes. Jo Jo was named Best New Restaurant of the Year by John Mariani in Esquire and earned three-stars from The New York Times, which summed up his contemporary French cuisine in the sentence "His food took my breath away.""

Disclaimer: In reality, I am in no way qualified to be a professional food critic; I do, however, operate under the illusion that I am. So, please, take any and all of my opinions on these restaurants with a grain of salt, as my comments are as likely to be legitimate as they are to be off the mark. My tongue deserves the blame for claims that are wildly inaccurate.

Now for the pictures.

Shrimp brushed with orange something-er-other and artichoke on a salad of arugula.

Unless I missed something, the orange rub on the shrimp was barely noticeable. Another problem: the vinagrette was puddled at the bottom to one side of the plate, so at first I thought the salad had just been very sparingly dressed. Once I mixed the arugula, though -- halfway through eating the dish -- the flavors came together nicely. Not overly impressive, but satisfactory.


Prime Sirloin with mushroom and white asparagus in a soy and something else reduction. Not pictured: very crispy french fries.

Given the frugal nature of most restaurants with their $24 prixe fix lunches, I was expecting just a few bites, and not much more. To my surprise, the piece of sirloin was surprisingly filling. It was cooked just the way I like, and the reduction did not take away from the mushrooms or asparagus in the slightest. For carnivores, this is a fantastic dish.

And finally for the sugarphiles out there, espresso chocolate mousse with hazelnuts.

This could accurately be described as marshmellow-like in texture, but replace the white marshammellow material, whatever the hell it is, with light, soft chocolate with hints of espresso. I don't even like deserts much, mainly because they tend to overwhelm the preceeding parts of the meal, but this mousse was airy and mild enough to provide a great compliment to the meal as a whole.

Notable Rise in Productivity

Accomplished more than usual today -- dropped off 12 shirts at the cleaners; scheduled a few lunches to take advantage of Restaurant Week 2006 (most excited about Aquavit, a Scandanavian place once featured on A Cook's Tour); did some reading for Criminal Procedure, and in the process learned that search warrants cannot usually be served at night (good to know); bought groceries for those days not involving difficult-to-make reservations; filed a bunch of miscellaneous paperwork that has been living in a pile at my feet for almost a week; cleaned the fridge of Crystal Light stains (despite not drinking such swill myself, at any time there is a gallon of the stuff inhabiting our refridgerator); hit the gym; and, lastly, organized my class notes thus far.

Thanks to the mysterious disappearance of my constitutional law professor, I was also able to sleep in this morning without (much) guilt. It's nice to start out a week on the right foot for a change.

Addiction

The time has come for me to admit something I am ashamed of: I've got an addiction. And a serious one at that. I indulge in it daily, sometimes to the detriment of my academic and social responsibilities. Without a fix, I find myself irritable and tired, a reluctant partipant in the hustle and bustle of the world.

I'm speaking, of course, about my addiction to hitting the snooze button, that little rectangle of sleep intoxication which sits within arms-reach of my bed. Every morning, I repeatedly call on its mystical powers to steal away 7 minutes of sleep at a time. Whether I actually fall asleep during that short time is unknown, but what is clear is that after each snooze period, nothing is more desirable than another. That's how I know I'm addicted. Each fix just makes me want more. This insatiable hunger can last for hours, which amounts to a ludicrious number of back-to-back 7-minute snoozes.

I've tried everything to quit. On multiple occasions, I moved the alarm clock to the other side of the room, thinking that the distance might lessen my dependency. But I still found myself getting up, walking over to it, hitting the button, and jumping back in bed without fully waking up. While getting out of bed may have cut down on one or two snoozes per wake-up session, it did not eliminate the act, so the alarm clock soon found its way back to its original position.

Thinking that getting rid of my alarm clock and going cold turkey might be the solution, I shopped around online for another means of waking up or, in the alternative, for an alarm clock with no snooze function. I could find neither. Seeing as how I am hopelessly addicted, though, my search may not have been as thorough as it could have been. The influence of pyschological addiction cannot be understated.

Sometimes, I try to overcome the urge to hit the snooze by sheer willpower alone. This, I assure you, is virtually impossible. My many failed attempts support this proposition well. The problem is that when I wake up early in the morning, the only thing on my mind is more sleep. I can barely remember that a few hours earlier, when I was getting in bed to fall asleep, I vowed to not hit snooze in the morning. That vow feels so distant in the morning that I cannot accord it the respect it deserves in order to come to fruition. Six or so snoozes later, I wake up and berate myself for not having the willpower to just get up out of bed the first time.

Am I doomed to be a slave to those 7 minutes of half-sleep for life? As far as I understand it, the first step in overcoming an addiction is recognizing you have a problem. I've made it this far, so perhaps there is hope against snooze after all.

Friends

A question came up recently regarding what can and should be asked of friends. Specifically, it arose during a debate with Brian over what good friends should be willing to do for one another. He seems to be fine with seeing certain friends once a week, perhaps at a dinner, and considers that interaction enough to sustain an ongoing friendship in some circumstances. It probably is, but my position differs from his by quite a bit. Ultimately, I think he took my contention -- that good friends should be reliable, and a regular influence if at all possible -- as an indictment of him, but that is not at all the case.

Of my good friends, I honestly don't believe that I want too much. In fact, I want nothing more than that which I am willing to give. If I am willing to do something for someone, I want them to be willing to do the same for me. Is that too much to ask? Is equality something that I should not strive for?

I don't think so. Given the state of my friendships at the moment -- healthy and growing -- I think that I ask a lot, yes, but not too much. Because what is friendship worth if you are not on the same terms? In fact, I believe it is worth much more when you find people who understand that the only way to cultivate a strong friendship is to depend on one another to some degree. Rodion, at least, seems to understand this. On his website, he recently listed "to always hang out with my boys from college" as one of the things he wants in life. Amen to that, Ro.

From friends, I only want so much. Most importantly, I want someone who is loyal to a certain degree (of course, that is reciprocated on my side). Now, it must be said that the loyalty to which I refer does not entail following me to the ends of the Earth, or, if a military (or ghetto) analogy can be tolerated, those willing to take a bullet. But it does mean that those friends should be willing to go to certain lengths for the friendship and to desire to be a regular participant in it. Otherwise, what is the point?

If possible, I don't want friends whom I only see infrequently unless the circumstances dictate that we are apart and can only see one another on rare occasion (e.g., my good friends from home and college). I am not looking for dinner or lunch friends. Inevitably, I'll have some: those people who have moved so far out of the sphere of my life that we only have time to get together when at our most practical. With them, I hope we can at some point recreate our past friendships, which, undoubtedly, were once much more robust. This is fact of life, one that I do not wish to dismiss or avoid.

However, friends who live close by should never be relegated, in my opinion, to once-a-month dinners at nice restaurants. What can I possibly derive from such a thing? A synposis of their current situation? A glimpse into their leisure and work time? Their take on whatever story is most prevalent in the news? This is not what I am seeking from friends. Truth be told, as impractical as it may be given the fact that we are all working now and carving our own lives out of the real world, I want more.

Slice of Home in Union Square

According to the NY Times, a Trader Joe's grocery store is moving into Union Square very soon. Because of the pedestrian congestion in the area, I almost never go to Union Square unless I'm seeing a movie, but I'd gladly make an exception for two-buck Chuck.

New Shoes

Few things in the world makes me more self-conscious than wearing shoes that make noise. So, of course my newest pair of Adidas sneakers, purchased just last week, make an awful ruckus. No matter how I walk, a loud squeaking noise is produced whenever the leather on the tongue rubs against the leather that lines the shoe lace holes, whatever those are called. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the sound when I tried them on in the store. It wasn't until I put them on in my apartment and walked to the elevator that the noise became apparent. Echoing off the walls the hallway, the noise was deafening. Immediately I turned around to take them off so that I wouldn't be tip-toeing around on Broadway in a futile attempt to silence my attention-drawing shoes.

But I refused to retire brand new shoes to the closet just because they made a little noise. By strategically applying tape to the inside of the shoe, I cut down the rubbing noise to almost nothing. Now I can wear the shoes in public without thinking everyone is staring at me.

Brush with fame

Sort of...

Back in New York

Last semester, rejuvenated from a spectacular summer vacation, motivated by a trio of laughably easy internships, and whipped into a near frenzy by the process of interviewing for a summer job, I made a colossal mistake -- I enrolled in too many classes.

To be completely fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. Prior to this moment, classes had been assigned to us. The beginning of second year of law school marked the first opportunity to pick your own classes and design your own schedule. The only real indication of how heavy of an academic burden I had assumed, my credit load, signaled no alarm: I was taking one credit more than the minimum, two credits less than the maximum of 15, and less credits than either semester of my first year.

But all was not as it seemed.

Beneath that calm surface lurked a leviathan with an insatiable hunger for free time: Patent Law. The professor of this course believed adamantly that her two-credit course was worth twice that amount of credit, and, accordingly, she assigned an amount of reading better suited to this inflated value. That meant more work than I had anticipated, and, considering my other responsibilties, more work than I wanted to take on. Yet, for some unknown reason, a syllabus full of arduous reading assignments did not compel me to drop the offending class. And so I perservered despite knowing full well that I'd made a grave miscalculation.

As you may have been able to tell from a few of the December posts, this mistake caught up to me at the end of the semester when I suffered through four grueling exams streching over the entire finals period. After two weeks at home, however, I've finally recovered from that traumatic period of academic stress. Unfortunately, now that vacation is over; it's time to once again hit the books.

It is crucial for my health and sanity that the errors of yesterday inform the actions of today. With that perspective in mind, I've taken several actions. To ease my academic load, I enrolled in one less class than last semester -- three rather than four. In addition, I purposely avoided any courses taught by the delusional professor, thereby preventing hours and hours of agony. And because I already have a job lined up, I've decided that impressing prospective employers is no longer a priority, I can reduce my participation in extra-curriculur activities.

All in all, this should yield a much more satisfiying experience.

My Plan for 2006

To have a fulfilling, enjoyable year.

Yep, that's it in its entirety. Short, simple, and to the point. Best of all, unlike most standard resolutions to lose weight, eat healthier, or pay more attention in class, this is a resolution that I will not give up on by March (or earlier). While pursuing this goal, I will strive to maintain my health, stay in shape, keep up with law school, eat good food often, drink regularly but in moderate quantities, perform well at my job over the summer, not complain excessively about the bone-chilling cold, visit an exotic locale for spring break, and so forth.

Let's hope I didn't just jinx myself by posting this.

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!