New Blue Shoe: November 2004 Archives

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November 29, 2004

Seniors 96!

I was a fairly normal teenager. I admit, I spent more time on my schoolwork than the average classmate, was worse at sports, cared much more, and drank so much less that you can't do percentages (0 increased to some number is an impossible calculation). So perhaps I wasn't totally normal. I did have dates, and a number of them ended as atrociously as bad high school dates could, and I had what I would estimate to be an average or slightly below average number of heated discussions with my parents about tyranny and unfairness and the like, but by and large, I led a pretty standard teenagerhood. I liked school. Naturally, school-as-institution was different from school-as-collection-of-individuals, so I could see that I was pro-Lions (Go Lions!) while being against—subtly, of course; need those recommendations—the head of the Upper School. But the school, and the classmates, even the so-called cool kids who were already former jocks by tenth grade, that I actually kind of liked. By senior year, we were forced into camaraderie. The class before us had it very visibly, up until the moment in the valedictory speech when the valedictorian excoriated, if not verbally eviscerated his classmates and told everyone assembled how much he'd grown and what a success he'd be. But we had it because we were supposed to have it. "Seniors '96!" we'd cry, and we'd meant it. There was sure to be some infighting, but we still loved each other like brothers. And in the years since, I've never really thought badly of my experiences at the school; but that may have been because I was never really in trouble, did what the teachers asked, and was generally liked. I had breakfast the other day with two friends, both of whom turned out quite well in their lives, and both of whom seemed to hate our school with a passion. More, while I have a morbid curiosity about what befell some of the "choicer" of our classmates, they couldn't care less. They don't even want to see bad things happening to the classmates who deserved nothing less. And it's a bit strange to me, because we were good friends, and we met because of that place, and where I have warm feelings for it because it prepared me for my life and netted me several close friends (though few new brothers), they have nothing but pity for anyone who attended it. And I couldn't bring myself to tell them that I did actually like it somewhat.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on November 29, 2004 4:49 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 28, 2004

Battling the Inner Fat Man

It's not a weight problem, but it's an issue. I can't eat everything I want. I am what is known as a mesomorph: I put on muscle and fat easily and relatively equally. It means I'm automatically stockier than my father, and I will never be a string bean. But if I don't exercise, the muscle will provide a perfect foundation for the fat that will build up. When I was a child, I was a "peanut". Premature to begin with, and a picky eater, it's understandable that I was not really one for the baby fat that might have lasted. When I started elementary school, where there was a formal dress code, slim pants (the boys' petite) were the order of the day. I was older than my classmates, but frailer. But that all changed when I went to camp. Suddenly, I wasn't under the watchful eye of my parents, able to have dessert without vegetables, sometimes even two, and what's more, the only currency was clothed in chocolate and imprinted with the words "Crunch" and "Hersheys". After dinner every night, and twice on Saturday movie night, we could get candy bars from the "store." These candies were bet constantly, from the outcome of the pool and ping pong games, to dares, to whatever fact was currently in dispute, whatever chore needed escape. I got fat. A third-grade eighty-four pounder. I know a number of full-grown women today who barely outweigh my 10 year old former self. Not obese, and really, probably not so bad in general, but in an environment where one could pick riflery and tubing behind a boat as athletic endeavors, it can be rather easily understood that a lot of caloric in and only a moderate caloric out led to an increase in fat content. Ever since, the fat has called to me from my abdomen after it called to me from the plate. It goes on, it stays on, and goes away only with extremely consistent exercise. Of course, this extremely consistent exercise, like the chocolatey goodness before it, becomes addictive, and where I would have been sad not to have a choco-something, I'm now irritated that I can't get my endorphin rush from a workout. I don't need to get bulked up; I just need to get the bloodflow going and the heart rate up. I snap, I get tired easily, and I don't operate at my mental best. With thanks to Mike Doughty.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on November 28, 2004 1:55 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 24, 2004

Sushi Right

I'm at work, but I'm not working. I've just read the whole way through Stephanie Klein's blog, hoping, praying that I'll be able to come up with the right words to describe dinner at Sushi of Gari last night. The adjectives may come flying out, but much like the migraine story, this is one that you will never quite understand until you try it. Let's start with the man himself. Gari is a bald-headed, white-goateed Japanese man, with the build of a former wrestler and the guileless joy of an artist who still doesn't quite get what it is he does with food. He is almost like you would expect Buddha to be, without the pithy sayings. He is happy that you're happy and is not at all like the Soup Nazi, which for whatever reason, was precisely what I was expecting. I nodded and mock bowed (probably offensively) to the host, the waiter, and anyone I could to make sure I got the very best cuts of fish. And we did. Wow, did we. Words, even if they conveyed these sensations, have long left my brain. Instead, little snippets. You know how when someone gets a really good piece of food, something nourishing and addictive, with just the right amount of everything? How those people, they just stop and, no matter how polite and genteel they might be, just have to ooh and ah through their mouthful? The sounds, wordless, indicate joy and happiness, and you can tell through the wild gesticulations of their eyeballs that they cannot possibly indicate how amazing the food is? Now imagine if those people are taken to a higher level, to noiseless satisfaction. The food goes in...and the eyes roll back in the head. Every instant satisfies and must be savored, every chew simultaneously conveying the flavors and textures into the brain and forever erasing them in an instant. Where you're nearly afraid to chew for fear that the next bite won't be as good. And then it is. Just watching S take a bite and mime for me the sensations I was experiencing on my side made me realize again how much I love her, because she fundamentally understands me, even when I'm paralyzed and unable to utter a word. Her raised eyebrows, widened eyes, and still body perfectly mirrored my own focus on my upper half. I had had a growling belly, but it was silenced, not by its satiety, but by my brain's decision to willfully ignore it. All brainpower, all sensation, all focus, was dedicated to the feelings on my tongue, the crunch under my unfeeling teeth, and the warmth and zip on my palate. I've had my share of sushi. I shudder to think of just how many tuna have been harvested on my behalf alone, how many giant salmon I could have eaten in my time. And I've had it all over--exotics like Sushi Samba, fakers like the Columbia University dining hall (but just that once), and in Japan itself. I've been to hyped-up, out of the way places, solid local establishments without a name yet with great fish, and places where you swear they got theirs from the mass-manufactured Home Sushi Making Kit. I won't claim to be an expert, but this is not the word of a new convert's zeal. Gari does fish. I mean, in the sense that he seemingly makes love to the fish. Not being dirty at all--just that fish was so damn tender, so flavorful without being "fishy" (apparently, that's bad). He really knows what he's doing when he gets the fish. I daresay that he could just pick the fish, cut it (and there is a boatload of talent required there) and sell it as is. The fish would probably still get out of its minced place and sell its own self. But then the sauces, not just amazing in themselves--a jalapeno sauce lightened with citrus, a tofu sauce that made toro sing, miso flavoring that transformed cod--but harmoniously matched in a way that you wish internet dating could. The staff was friendly, courteous and genuine, and although cramped, the place was lovely. That's it. My first restaurant review.

This was Luxuriant , and it appeared on November 24, 2004 2:46 PM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

November 23, 2004

Migraine, My Pain

It's difficult to explain a migraine to someone else. It's even harder when your migraines don't take the standard form. Unlike many migraine sufferers, my head doesn't start in on its impression of an ice pick in butter with any sort of auditory or olfactory warnings. No flickering lights, no odd smells; they aren't started by trying a particular food or drink, and the only regularly-appearing commonality is a change of weather, but that doesn't cause all of them, so it's not as though I can go to the weather channel and find out if I should be stocking up on the good drugs. But to give you a picture: my migraines usually make me want to curl up and whimper under the covers. Like a feeble kitten, I make myself as still and helpless as possible, perhaps because a Zen-like rationale grips me; if I embrace the pain, become one with it, the pain will strengthen me. I want nothing more than to stop thinking, stop moving, stop breathing, stop anything that could possibly be causing my nerve endings to create such disastrous sensations. I've been known to whimper with each breath. For many years, my searing, stabbing pain in the right eye--always the right eye, never the left--is accompanied by nausea. So there I am, hoping nothing moves, but simultaneously required to be ready for the 3 second dash from prostrate whimperer to emulator of frat boys on Saturday nights, hurling my face towards the porcelain from rooms away. Tears pour from the eyes. Whether they are actually due to crying from the seemingly-endless pain, or just a side benefit--gotta keep those eyes lubricated when they can barely see straight--all I know is that my eyes take on a glassy sheen and my nose manages to cry also. One problem for me, as noted above, is that my migraines always come unannounced. They tiptoe quietly up on me when I first sit down to my desk at the office. They pounce on me--no joke--while I'm asleep, waking me up, sometimes. They dodge and feint, sometimes coming at me full blast, requiring all of my energy, other times simply hesitantly approaching within arm's length, and then receding with merely the application of an Advil or two. Of course, all of this goes away when you go to the office. At the office, it's difficult to find a bed to curl up in, a toilet to calmly purge into, or even a moment of silence. The desk, so reliable for your papers, is rarely somewhere you want to rest your boulder of a head when it's precisely your head that hurts. And the work! Always the work! Fortunately for me, this morning, I had nothing to do; a rarity in itself, it allowed me to lose myself in my pain, and also to actually will myself into sleep, with my forehead pressed against an eyeglass cleaning cloth. The red marks were well worth getting over the symptoms.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on November 23, 2004 4:32 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 22, 2004

Pick A Winner

To me it's always seemed like asking someone what their prison cell would have as decoration. The same thing, over and over, forever, will just drive me insane, and no matter how much I adore it now, or adored it 15 years ago, and no matter how many levels there may be to it, there is some point at which one CD, that one Desert Island Disc, would be enough to make me lose my mind. This is a long way of saying that I couldn't tell you what my favorite CD is, or even, what my favorite musician is. To me, music is like food--I've got to have it, and when I don't, I think about it, dream of it, make it myself, if only to remember how I felt. I spent 15 days on Outward Bound once, playing--in my head--Pearl Jam's "Indifference" in the attempt to remember every single word of the song, and then recalling just the right inflections of voice, echoes of guitar, and slides of fingers on strings to make it solid. But the thing about food, as with music, is that while you can return to the food that gives you comfort--grilled cheese, tomato soup, chocolate cake, pick you poison--if you were to have that, and only that, for the rest of eternity, you'd probably ask not to have a choice. Uniformity can breed resentment, and while people in Los Angeles will tell you that upper-70s-and-sunny is the only way to go, sometimes you need a little rainstorm in your life for re-centering; sometimes you need it to be cold to remind you of the joy of sun. For me, there are albums in my life that I can just put on, sing all the way through, and potentially play over and over again, that I am nevertheless loathe to do so because I love them so much, because I worry that they might lose their lustre. I've seen it happen so many times before. One-hit wonders and certain artists whose works have been the subject of my obsessive completism have both been stricken from my regular playlist solely because I over-loved them, like Lenny, or like the stuffed toy that gets worn down to the weave by a little child; they are the Velveteen Rabbits. But since I am aware of such tendencies in myself, I listen to them only in certain contexts, filter out songs one at a time, catch a piece here or there on the radio, but rarely, if ever, pick out the album and listen to it for its own sake, over and over again, so as to truly learn the album. There's little doubt, though, that I have listened to each song hundreds of times; I can hear them in my head when there's silence around me. I don't even know how that's possible, sometimes. That said, sometimes a musician or a CD speaks to you, and like comfort food, warm sweats and bed rest on a blustery, blizzard-day, you have to throw it on just to remind yourself of those feelings, to re-center yourself with a personal, auditory little rainstorm. For those times, there are U2's The Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby, Pearl Jam's Ten and Vs., Dave Matthews Band's Under The Table And Dreaming, Dispatch's Who Are We Living For? and Four Day Trials, and dozens of other albums which, although I cannot think of them at the moment, counts as part of my favorites, each of which recalls a place and time for me, but which also is a feat of musicianship and recording prowess that makes me hang on each instant of sound. Sometimes you just know--you have to hear that one CD the moment you get home.

This was Musical Musing , and it appeared on November 22, 2004 5:34 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 19, 2004

Picky Picky

Words and phrases that people use and bug the crap out of me: * "Center around" -- actually, that's impossible. * "Conscious" instead of "conscience" -- one means you think, the other means Jiminy Cricket. * "As of yet" -- "as of now" or "as yet". * Those damn homophones -- I know it's bothersome to remember the difference between place (there) and possession (their) and people (they're), but aside from a typo here and there, (see?) I don't understand why this is difficult. * See also: "your" and "you're". Go watch the famous breakup scene with Ross and Rachel. * "President Bush" * "Mah Fella Merkins" -- Ee-NUN-see-ate.

This was Geekery , and it appeared on November 19, 2004 2:44 PM. | Comments (4) | TrackBack

November 18, 2004

100 Things. No Order, No waiting.

Yeah, it's been done. But not here. I need to do it again. So: 100 Things about me:

I am not a law student, not yet a lawyer. Gotta get sworn in.
I am not afraid of vegetables, but none are my close friends.
I actively dislike raw tomatoes, yet love tomato sauce, ketchup, and bruschetta topped with tomato.
Favorite relatively-obscure muppets: Statler and Waldorf (the guys in the balcony)
I have an S. She's beeyootiful.
S is my best friend.
I am a New Yorker, virtually through and through.
I get cranky when I don't exercise.
I'm not scrawny or musclebound.
I ride my bike at least once, usually twice a week.
I never go anywhere, and I watch movies while I do.
I am 27, and my mother still likes to shop for me.
Karaoke: fun, not foolish.
I went to my first concert at the age of 19, but only because I was finally in college.
I like nice things.
I could probably talk about music all day.
Over a thousand CDs in my collection; I don't believe in Peer to Peer.
Don't ask me to pick a favorite band. I cannot do it and will ask you to refine your question.
Either that, or I'll tell you what I was listening to on the way to the office.
IPod was invented for me.
Almost every week since this summer, there is an H&H Midtown everything bagel with egg salad for brunch.
Brunch. Drool. Repeat.
I am an internally-warm person; I sweat a lot when exercising and for some time afterwards, but I'm not the guy with the under-arm rings.
I like beds; I love mine.
I have to have something over me when sleeping, and the heavier, the better. Down comforter in summertime? Bring it.
I may well have seen every Friends episode ever made.
I have seen and actually have in my possession every Sopranos episode made.
I worked in the music industry.
I don't like to make life decisions.
I like being a smartass; it allows me to watch everyone else and say how I'd do it better.
Sometimes I like to stay in, watch a movie, and do nothing, even if S isn't around.
Other times, I can go and work the party, meet the people, drink with the gang, and shout myself deaf and hoarse.
Migraines: not just another bed partner. Actually, the devil.
A short list of animals I'm fascinated by: penguins, elephants, dogs.
I would like a dog, but I'm allergic to them.
I can tie a normal tie and a bow tie without looking the mirror.
In fact, mirrors end up confusing me.
I do not have particularly clear skin, despite being 27.
I raise money for my college.
I want to be a music lawyer when and if I grow up.
I am obsessed with the Dyson vacuum.
I cannot fall asleep while reading or watching TV.
I have, however, fallen asleep in the middle of a concert.
I am a completist, and will buy every book, every CD, every film, by an artist I truly enjoy.
A short(ish) list of bands whose albums I would buy the very first day they came out: Radiohead, U2, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, Mike Doughty, Dispatch, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Ani DiFranco, Better than Ezra, Coldplay, David Gray, Five for Fighting, Interpol, Jeff Buckley, John Butler Trio, Our Lady Peace, The Postal Service, R.E.M.
I love to drive.
I have to pee. Regularly.
I prefer diet sodas.
Chocolate could end this list right here. I am about chocolate.
Lately, I've been having this feeling where my left ring finger and pinkie feel like they're tingling, and I think it's because my elbow sits at a funny angle on my desk all day.
I do not think that it's a heart attack.
I eat my sushi in parts, and if I get a Philadelphia roll, it's totally saved for last, as dessert.
I air guitar when listening to my iPod on the street.
I like to share dinner with friends.
I like being a host.
I believe in rules.
I believe in honesty.
I have 4 stuffed animals in my house, two of which live in my bedroom, two of which were given to me by S's mother, and one of which is named Blogger Bear, who sits on my desk.
I am loyal.
Most of my close friends are women.
I am for equal rights for all people, regardless of sexual orientation, color, or any other categorization, save felons and those who hate people based on orientation, color, or other categorization.
I crashed my first and only car into a parked car on the way to school one morning. I reversed all the way home and didn't want to get out of bed.
I sometimes fantasize that I have started the first all-lawyer rock band. Being a bit of a realist, I recognize that I could sing and maybe play drums, or Ashlee Simpson all over a guitar, but not actually PLAY that guitar.
I used to remember phone numbers, appointments, and birthdays all in my head. Now I can't, because it's all in an electronic doohickey of some sort or another.
I'm an early adopter.
I'm a photographer.
I'm told I can dance, but I don't often believe it.
I have been on four continents.
When people misspeak, I have a virtually-irresistible urge to correct them, even if we both know what they meant.
I walk fast around New York City.
I am impatient on the sidewalks.
I have never pulled a work- or school-related all-nighter.
I am a (relatively) unspoiled only child.
I am extremely close with my first cousin, who is nine months younger than me. Like nearly-brothers close.
Self-deprecation, I am thy tool.
I eBay fairly regularly.
The favorite color is blue. See site, name of.
I only gamble when I'm fairly certain I can't lose. I know, it's not gambling.
I think sarcasm should be left for people who know how to use it.
I think Memento, Chasing Amy, and The Usual Suspects are among my favorite movies, but I could be wrong.
I once got lost while leading a backpacking trip.
I played lacrosse and wrestled in high school. I wasn't particularly good at either.
I rowed for a year in college. I wasn't good at that either.
I am pretty good friends with ex-girlfriends.
I know a lot of people on Friendster.
My favorite authors are Chuck Palahniuk, Brad Meltzer, Bret Easton Ellis, Jay McInerney, John Grisham, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy.
I don't look down on people for liking popular things.
I am not religious, but I believe in spiritual introspection and trying to live as blame-free a life as possible.
I love discussion and reasoned debate, but I hate argument.
I've never had an argument with S, and I hope never to.
I broke up with my first girlfriend on Valentine's Day. We're still friends.
I want to be funny, but I rarely am when I'm trying.
I have no patience for people who obviously think they're better than me.
I am afraid of failure.
I don't like to rely on favors to get ahead in life.
I don't like to lend or borrow money; S is just about the only exception, and that's more of a zero-sum sort of financial relationship.
I like watches.
I'm thinking I might turn each of these into an individual post on my website.
I'm trying to write a novelization of my memoirs, which are really just condensations of my memories.
I'm done.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on November 18, 2004 5:54 PM. | Comments (5) | TrackBack

Despicableness Is More Than A Word

As much as I love this city o' mine, sometimes it fronts up some of the most vile behavior possible. Sure there are murders, rapes, drug overdoses, assaults, and the like both here and everywhere else, but it's the really subtle stuff, the supremely insidious stuff that you end up being face to face with that makes you shake your head and fear for people. This morning, I got two: 1. The person who let his dog crap in front of the Lighthouse For The Blind. The blind, jackass. And yes, for those of you willing to be a little disgusted, it was plain that someone had stepped in it and then continued walking on.#[service] [service]: I don't know that I'd excuse someone walking a service animal here, either. 2. The two oh-so-macho men in the lockerroom this morning talking about Sean Penn's new movie, and how it was about [whisper] "fags". And how you don't call them that, you call them "tree huggers". You know, if you're whispering, then you probably know that isn't right. A great big middle finger extended to you, palsies.

This was New York , and it appeared on November 18, 2004 1:24 PM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Office Shy

I'm office-shy. I don't know if it's born of not having worked in a formal office for this long before, or if it was because after college I worked at a place where the boss wore shorts and would occasionally scratch himself while standing at your desk. Whatever it is, I find myself curiously un-outgoing (ingoing? introverted! That's the word...) But I find that walking down the hall, I attempt to say "Hi" or "How are you", and all that comes out is a bit of air and the movement of my lips forming those words. Sometimes all that comes is the lighting up of the eyes and the upward-tilting of the chin that indicates recognition of the other party. I apparently don't want to call attention to the fact that I am greeting someone else. Too much hale-fellow-well-met could sink my legal aspirations, perhaps. And I find I make the same stupid jokes and give worthless advice to people who don't need and couldn't use my advice if they wanted to. Telling senior associates "Not to work too hard" smacks of unnecessary superiority, especially when it's neither up to you--nor, perhaps, them--and you're the low person on the hierarchy anyway. Despite being a friendly and outgoing guy, I am somehow awkward and nervous in a professional setting. Neurosis? I do believe it might just be.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on November 18, 2004 1:22 PM. | Comments (2) | TrackBack

November 17, 2004

What Is This Feeling

I still get a little frisson of joy every time I see S's name in my e-mail inbox. It doesn't matter what the email is, it doesn't matter if it's simply a forward, but somehow or other, when I see her there in the mailbox#[box], it's as if a quick little light goes off, and some little tingle goes up on the back of my neck. [box]: No, she's not in the mailbox. Ridiculous. Of course, this doesn't match my feelings for when I actually see her, and thankfully, that's because it's not nearly as intense. And I'm not sure why I'm sharing this, other than I really felt the need to write about it. Possibly because she's out of town on business and a) might see this and b) I don't get as much email from her, but either way, I just felt the need. Thanks for indulging me.

This was Love , and it appeared on November 17, 2004 1:19 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

It's Like This and It's Like That

Sometimes people from other places get me on the phone, with no real concept of what it's like to live in New York, never realizing that the main difference is the size and the variety of people and places, not aware that New York isn't nearly as different from their hometowns as they might think. I'm sure I do the same, when I almost uniformly choose Omaha, Nebraska as my Random Place Name to Say in This Story. However, I feel that by watching Requiem for a Dream, The Godfather, Annie Hall, and the thousands of other New York movies, these people get a very misshapen view of what it's like to live here. And so, for a little bit of verisimillitude, I offer: Real Scenes From The Last Week In New York 1. Just before 8 o'clock at night, at the apex of the time to go out, not a single free cab is to be found on the streets. You can, however, find pockets of New Yorkers huddled against the cold at each corner of every major intersection like bad fishermen, following the crowd to where they think the taxis might be. Of course, everyone also gives each other "the eye", as though they would be responsible for taking away that glorious, golden cab. 2. A taxi driver, especially a private car driver trolling for business on a Saturday night, will spend your entire drive downtown prying out details of your life, lecturing you on marriage, and also taking issue with the phrase "practicing religion": "What is this? A basketball game? Why you gotta practice?" 3. A silent, sullen cab driver getting pulled over by the police just after you have gotten into the cab. He hasn't made a move to start the meter, the journey, or indeed, even acknowledged that he could hear you. 4. A homeless man walking past a dilapidated old beater of a bike, unchained and missing its handlebars, only to return a moment later, taking it as though he had just misplaced it for a moment.

This was New York , and it appeared on November 17, 2004 12:52 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 16, 2004

Load Lifter

Phew. > NAME: NEW BLUE SHOE > Date of Birth: NBS DAY > The State Board of Law Examiners congratulates you on passing the New York State bar examination held on July 27-28, 2004. Although every effort is made to ensure the accuracy of this lookup screen, each applicant must rely on the official notification (via U.S. Mail) as to whether he or she has passed the examination. > An official certification notice has been mailed and will contain your Multistate Bar Examination (MBE) scores. The notification which has been mailed is a required part of your application for admission to the Bar. In order to allow a reasonable time for the results to arrive by mail, requests for duplicate notices received prior to November 29, 2004 will be disregarded. Although there is normally a $10 charge for a duplicate, due to the possibility of loss or damage in a bulk mailing, there will be a grace period with no charge for those requests received prior to March 1, 2005. I so deserve a chocodile.

This was Law , and it appeared on November 16, 2004 7:13 AM. | Comments (2) | TrackBack

November 15, 2004

Atwitter

I don't know that, as a male shoe, I could really describe myself as "being all aflutter", but there are only a few ways to balance out the years of compliments on my schooling and the very insecure, rather anal retentive core of me-ness that drove me to be a lawyer. The random stranger on the phone, the new acquaintance, the old love, the parents--they all say the same thing, and I would love to have their conviction, but this is one where I did it all by myself, and their support, while both kind and wanted (and indeed, needed), isn't going to be enough to convince the bar examiners that I deserve to become a member of their elite--if not illustrious--little club. So while I try to sleep, and like all the other neo-natal-lawyers try to let thoughts of sugarplum bar examiners dance in my head, I'm also panic stricken. The beauty is: I've got about 8 hours until I know.

This was Law , and it appeared on November 15, 2004 11:25 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 12, 2004

Scoop it Up

Today, I want to discuss the little things in life that make things happier, just a bit nicer, and have virtually no real reason for existing. In other words: luxuries. They may not be for you, and they probably don't represent me in my finest fashion, but by gum, sometimes you just have to say what you believe in, and barring that, what you really like a lot. Furthermore, let's admit it: there are only so many ways that one can demonstrate one's personality or accessorize, if that one happens to be male. Bracelets, rings, and necklaces, I'm told, are not particularly attractive to most women; the tongue stud, which I'm told is, is decidedly not for everyone. [Picture: your father.] So when you have the opportunity, I am a big believer that you should take joy, if not pride, in these little flourishes and outward demonstrations of personality that the newest pair of jeans simply cannot communicate. Affectations though they may be, they often end up making me feel better; perhaps they can do Today: Parker writing instruments. A fine pen is difficult to come by. The cheap ones are all over the place, and it's very easy to lay your hands on the closest writing instrument when you're at the office or someone's hotel. Yet those pens are always exploding, running dry with lots of ink in the reservoir, disappearing, and being stolen by someone else whose hands are as nimble as yours. When you have a good pen, however, you almost always know where it is, and you will be hurt, if not actually devastated, by its loss. The pen feels like an extension of your personality, writes smoothly and continuously, and the truly special ones are nearly warm to your touch, even when you haven't used them in days. But pens are as quirky as haircuts; kids and Beatles look good with moptops, but only the kids would look funny drawing with a Mont Blanc. Where football star millionaires can sign with a Sharpie, Paul Allen and Donald Trump (millionaires, billionaires, whatever) never would. The proper tool for the job, you know? For me, I've got fairly bad handwriting--fine motor skills are probably not my forte#[fine]--so, I need something fine enough to prevent my letters and words from blurring unnecessarily. However, I also press pretty firmly on the paper and grip fairly tightly to my pen#[hand], so I need something sturdy and without too fine a point lest I shred the paper or the pen...or both at once. Kerpow. [hand]: The concept of handwriting my entire bar exam scared the bejeesus out of me, in the fear that I might in fact have come out of the Javits Center without having passed and with a permanently misshapen claw ending in a pen or pencil. I could hear someone's mother, though probably not my own, screaming: "It's going to freeze that way!!" [fine]: Let's face it, one reason I blog is because I can bang the keys as hard as I want and the letters still come out rosy-perfect every time. This is why I use the Parker Jotter. You've seen them everywhere, but that doesn't mean they aren't good. You see Mercedes automobiles all over the world, but that doesn't mean they aren't good, either. What's more, the lines of the Parker pens have been copied by knock-off artists and other pen manufacturers time and time again. The pens feel substantial, they write as smoothly as the words come out the end of your dominant hand, and even if they slow you down a bit, they still flow naturally. For me, the Jotter is exactly what I need--the metal upper barrel adds the heft, while the plastic writing portion is substantial and, as I noted as a requirement, it seems to be nearly alive with its internal warmth. And what's more, they're fairly inexpensive, write forever, the ink is extremely water-resistant (which someone told me was the reason they used it as a traveling sales representative), and fits perfectly between my wallet and the side of every pocket they've ever traveled with. It gives off a satisfying "ka-chunk" when you depress the button, another when you release it, and does it all over again when you retract the pen. It never disgorges its ink inopportunely [schmancy for: "it doesn't leak"], and the little arrow-clip, Parker's signature, ends up giving just a tad of flair and shows that you've splurged on name-brand. Except you haven't really. A Jotter is $5. Five dollars buys you quality, craftsmanship, all the things you need, and even if you lose it--and experience that moment of heartbreak--you haven't lost that much at all. And let me just say: I've written with Mont Blancs, Bics, Papermates, and Sanfords, Caran D'Aches, Watermans, and Crosses. I know me some pen. The Jotter--and in fact, all of its Parker cousins--kicks their butts on the all-around. The Mont Blanc might be warm, and the Waterman solid, the Bics and Papermates cheap, but none of them is the perfect combination of all that. The Perfect Storm of pens.#[storm] [storm]: Have you noticed that ever since The Perfect Storm came out, people are constantly referring to combinations of things as "the perfect storm" of blank? Basically, it's a little dab of heaven. And then, earlier this week, I discovered the Jotter pencils. Take all that's good about the pen, and turn it into a pencil. It's got smooth, dark lead that is thin enough to leave precise marks, but thick enough to withstand the might of the two-ton handwriter, and generally works in every way you could want it to. Another dab of heaven. That makes a scoop.

This was Luxuriant , and it appeared on November 12, 2004 8:05 PM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

November 11, 2004

Permitted Activities

Now that irony is dead--l'ironique est mort, vive l'ironique blah blah--a quick list of permitted activities: * Standing up straight, losing the slouch * You can hate your parents again * You no longer have to work for The Man * Knowing Things * Being naturally pretentious * Grungewear is again allowed * You may hate The Strokes, The Darkness, Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson, Ashlee Simpson, and Ashton Kutcher with abandon * You don't have to like your squalor * Ideals are okay, but you can't make me like yours * Also okay: aspirations * Ambition: not just for breakfast * Suits: for formal occasions or if The Man says so * Cocaine: just a drug, no party involved * Irony does not need to be trifled with if you are an untrained civilian (non-comedians, non-serious writers, Alanis Morissette) * Breast implants: porn stars and mastectomy patients * Be self-effacing, ya big dork

This was Amusing To Me , and it appeared on November 11, 2004 2:04 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 4, 2004

Writer's Black

So the problem is that I think of one or two great topics every day, and by the time I get home, I'm too worn out, or too busy, or not home in time, or whatever, and I find all my ideas either gone or too long. Which is why the National Novel Writing Month delusion is really such a delusion. However, I am writing the majority of my "novel"--it's more like a memoir, which will morph into fiction as it goes--on my Blackberry. This means that I'm doing it on the subway, a paragraph at a time, and there is virtually no chance I'll make it by the deadline, but I'm enjoying writing on one topic for so long. Right now, it focuses on music and my interest therein for quite some time. Of course, this is another reason why I probably don't have the time to write individual entries--I'm busy driving myself blind on the train.

This was Housekeeping , and it appeared on November 4, 2004 8:10 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

November 3, 2004

And It's Over

So here it is: my team lost. There were a lot of things that happened that I find un-American and despicable, both in terms of actual voting--defining marriage as being between a man and a woman--and in terms of tactics used to change voters' opinions--horrible, horrible people dressing up as ACT UP! members and parading in front of black church groups, announcing that "Kerry is in favor of gay adoption!" Regardless of its truth, it's a dirty, underhanded trick that was totally inappropriate. However, I believe that we ought to get past our partisan rancor and remember that we love this country or we wouldn't fight over it so much; we just don't like the current leaders. As they say over and over again, Mark Twain said it best: "Loyalty to the country always. Loyalty to the government when it deserves it." In the spirit of non-rancor, I want to try to focus on things we can do, not things that didn't get done. Thank you to everyone, but especially my friends B and D, who were active in both Ohio and Florida, making sure that those who could vote did. Thank you to MoveOn.org for continuing to fight on our behalf. And here's where I get a bit big for my britches: an open letter to John Edwards and John Kerry. Dear Sirs: Congratulations on a well-fought battle. You have reminded me that there are men of character in this government, and that men of character, though beset by many villains, still shine through as heroes, even when defeated. And you have done a good job of pointing out to many just what it is this country must focus on in the next four years, even if we were unable to dispatch you to do it yourselves. However, I must note that while I hope that time will heal partisan wounds, and that the rancor must undoubtedly subside, you must not disappear. This country needs you both more than ever, and though you may return to your jobs, you are still the figureheads, even nominal heads, of the Democratic Party. Do not let your defeat drag you out of the limelight. Instead, take this opportunity you've been given, and use it to create a national dialogue. Use it to frame all the mistakes Bush makes and even successes that George Bush enjoys and demonstrate what the Party would have or could have done in a similar place. That will heal the country. But it will also promote debate, and that's what was sorely lacking since 2000. I loved Al Gore, and I think he would have been a fine President, but I am disappointed that he--unfortunately, somewhat like Nader--vanished during the rest of Bush's tenure. Do not go gentle into that good night, or at least, refuse to be put out to pasture. Now that you have notoriety, use it to engage Americans at every turn, and keep the comparisons running through the next 4 years, rather than waiting for 2.5 years before dragging an entirely new crop of faces before the American people, from which they may make an unfortunate decision. When it comes right down to it, do not take this defeat as a personal offense; instead use it to fight for your causes just as you would have if you'd become the leaders of the new Administration. We're waiting for you. We'll follow you.

This was Politics , and it appeared on November 3, 2004 10:48 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

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