Apparently, we're celebrating the New Year today at some nightclub called "El Clap." This is, of course, Spanish for "The Gonorrhea." The after hours will be at "El Infeccion de Yeast."
Big changes tomorrow, but for now, may you have a happy, healthy, STD-free new year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Death of the Finals Beard
I regret to inform my readership that the finals beard that long preyed upon my face is now deceased. It lived a full life of one month and five days. It will be missed, until it comes back in five months.
The bastard did not go down easy. Son of a bitch took an hour to kill. It took half a dozen razors, a pint of blood, and three of my best men, but it's gone now. Until the next LOCKDOWN.
I mean, I attacked it with a brand new razor, sharp as only a brand new razor can be. And boom, I do a down stroke. And the razor snarls like velcro. And I look at the razor and it's genuinely frightening. It looks like I used a plastic handle to stab a small furry animal. And then I look at myself in the mirror and it's like nothing happened. Not a dent in the beard. It's like pushing glaciers.
Slowly but surely, however, the might of man prevailed. Stroke after tireless stroke, like Paul Bunyan on acid, like Joe Henry on speed, like JFK through co-eds. It took almost an hour, but I cleared that beard like the Amazon rainforest.
And where once stood a lumberjack now stood a clean-shaven man, fifteen years younger, puzzled, staring at this huge pile of shorn hair that could have easily passed for someone's pet. It had actual heft. I felt like I should have donated to kids with cancer or something.
Then I showered. Again, because I was covered in blood and hair, like I'd just fought Cousin Itt with a weed whacker.
And then, when I came back out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and behold, the beard was growing back.
And I sighed and picked up the razor again.
The bastard did not go down easy. Son of a bitch took an hour to kill. It took half a dozen razors, a pint of blood, and three of my best men, but it's gone now. Until the next LOCKDOWN.
I mean, I attacked it with a brand new razor, sharp as only a brand new razor can be. And boom, I do a down stroke. And the razor snarls like velcro. And I look at the razor and it's genuinely frightening. It looks like I used a plastic handle to stab a small furry animal. And then I look at myself in the mirror and it's like nothing happened. Not a dent in the beard. It's like pushing glaciers.
Slowly but surely, however, the might of man prevailed. Stroke after tireless stroke, like Paul Bunyan on acid, like Joe Henry on speed, like JFK through co-eds. It took almost an hour, but I cleared that beard like the Amazon rainforest.
And where once stood a lumberjack now stood a clean-shaven man, fifteen years younger, puzzled, staring at this huge pile of shorn hair that could have easily passed for someone's pet. It had actual heft. I felt like I should have donated to kids with cancer or something.
Then I showered. Again, because I was covered in blood and hair, like I'd just fought Cousin Itt with a weed whacker.
And then, when I came back out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and behold, the beard was growing back.
And I sighed and picked up the razor again.
Monday, December 29, 2008
That's What Shamu Said!
Today I ran across an old brochure for Sea World in Orlando, and the motto was: "See Our Little Squirts."
And We're Back!
Blogging, that is. Not in America. I'll be back Stateside on the 7th, God Willing, unless the authorities find what's hidden in my closet behind the suits.
I realize that I have been derelict in posting over the last week or so, but it's SO easy to be lazy here. I've spent entire days just sitting out here on my porch, reading and napping and giggling at the weather news coming in from the Great White North, which, from my vantage point, includes most, if not all, of the United States.
I mean, snow in New Orleans? In Las Vegas? I'm pretty sure the only snow LasVegasans have seen is the one that comes in suitcases from Colombia.
Honestly, it looks like The Day After Tomorrow up there. When I was stranded in the airport, I half expected a mailing-it-in Dennis Quaid to show up while music surged in the background. And for wolves to chase me through the airport.
I'll be posting a bit more frequently now, so expect this thing to be back in action. But right now, I'm going to go eat some tacos. Be jealous.
I realize that I have been derelict in posting over the last week or so, but it's SO easy to be lazy here. I've spent entire days just sitting out here on my porch, reading and napping and giggling at the weather news coming in from the Great White North, which, from my vantage point, includes most, if not all, of the United States.
I mean, snow in New Orleans? In Las Vegas? I'm pretty sure the only snow LasVegasans have seen is the one that comes in suitcases from Colombia.
Honestly, it looks like The Day After Tomorrow up there. When I was stranded in the airport, I half expected a mailing-it-in Dennis Quaid to show up while music surged in the background. And for wolves to chase me through the airport.
I'll be posting a bit more frequently now, so expect this thing to be back in action. But right now, I'm going to go eat some tacos. Be jealous.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Feliz Navidad
Happy Christmas or Merry Hanukkah, or both, if you're one of those. I really doubt any of you-- or anyone ever, for that matter-- will experience the rapturous ecstasy of the kid below, who probably j'd in his pants, but I hope this is a good day anyway.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas Uncancelled
Inexplicably, from amongst the hundreds of passengers, my number got called. Day 2 proved fruitful, and before I knew it, I was on a plane to Houston International Airport. Or, as Mexicans call it, the Mexican embassy to the U.S. Americans, in turn, call it the Mexitown of U.S. Airports.
And then, three hours later, home. I will now lie down and do nothing for the foreseeable future.
And then, three hours later, home. I will now lie down and do nothing for the foreseeable future.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
His Flamethrower was Unharmed
Stuck in the Airport With You
Over the past three days, Logan International Airport has really sort of become like home to me. That feeling is an involuntary thing, I guess, that comes from spending every waking hour aimlessly wandering around like some bad Tom Hanks movie.
So I guess it is home, in a way. And all these stranded travelers are like my family. They would make the Addams family proud. What unites us is a common bond, borne out of our collective hatred for our enemy, the airlines.
And there's crazy aunt Sue, yelling for no reason. She's throwing a tantrum even though it's going to get her nowhere. Then there's sullen cousin Moe, who has rediscovered adolescence and snarls and complains and mutters vague threats under his breath. And there's the rest of us, trying grimly to make the best out of this situation, just waiting it out and hoping that that next glass of wine will be the one glass that finally puts the increasingly drunk and increasingly racist Uncle Larry down for the count.
And, of course, baby Ike. Baby Ike is my favorite member of my new airport family. He's been screaming and yelling gleefully for hours now, running around like the energizer bunny on speed. He's literally running into walls, celebrating each incipient concussion with a scream of victory. And his parents sit there and smile, deep in the funk that only Prozac at its maximum legal dosage can provide.
So why even consider Baby Ike a member of my family? Why make him my new baby brother? Simple. If he's a brother, I can hit him and tell him to please for the love of god and all that's merciful just be the bleep quiet. If he's not a member of the family, what I'm planning to do to him is probably a felony. Seeing as I'm on strike two and counting, this would be a poor decision.
But I really want to just punt him. How far do you think he would go? Twenty feet? Fifty? What if I get a good running start? Maybe he can clear that group of seats. Hundred feet? In any case, he'll be going farther than any of the rest of us, from the way this is going.
So, yes, the Northeast is still snarled and millions remain stranded. This from the NYT today:
So I guess it is home, in a way. And all these stranded travelers are like my family. They would make the Addams family proud. What unites us is a common bond, borne out of our collective hatred for our enemy, the airlines.
And there's crazy aunt Sue, yelling for no reason. She's throwing a tantrum even though it's going to get her nowhere. Then there's sullen cousin Moe, who has rediscovered adolescence and snarls and complains and mutters vague threats under his breath. And there's the rest of us, trying grimly to make the best out of this situation, just waiting it out and hoping that that next glass of wine will be the one glass that finally puts the increasingly drunk and increasingly racist Uncle Larry down for the count.
And, of course, baby Ike. Baby Ike is my favorite member of my new airport family. He's been screaming and yelling gleefully for hours now, running around like the energizer bunny on speed. He's literally running into walls, celebrating each incipient concussion with a scream of victory. And his parents sit there and smile, deep in the funk that only Prozac at its maximum legal dosage can provide.
So why even consider Baby Ike a member of my family? Why make him my new baby brother? Simple. If he's a brother, I can hit him and tell him to please for the love of god and all that's merciful just be the bleep quiet. If he's not a member of the family, what I'm planning to do to him is probably a felony. Seeing as I'm on strike two and counting, this would be a poor decision.
But I really want to just punt him. How far do you think he would go? Twenty feet? Fifty? What if I get a good running start? Maybe he can clear that group of seats. Hundred feet? In any case, he'll be going farther than any of the rest of us, from the way this is going.
So, yes, the Northeast is still snarled and millions remain stranded. This from the NYT today:
When I stepped off the plane from Miami into the Charlotte, N.C., airport for a connecting flight home, I immediately knew something was wrong. Hordes of desperate people crowded the terminal. I quickly learned that flights headed to the Northeast were canceled because of a storm. The earliest they could get us out of Charlotte was Tuesday. It was Friday. A gate agent stood on the counter and shouted: “Don’t ask us for help! We cannot help you!”That woman, by the way, is a stewardess. And I love the image of the gate agent standing on top of a desk being overrun by traveling zombies. Only they don't want brains, they just want any plane going south.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Lost Hikers Found
Last seen entering the library on Nov. 24th, these men finally rejoined society on a snowy afternoon on Dec. 21st. Their beards stand as a testament to their hardship. Unfortunately, none of them survived the celebration.Please click on the photo for full finals beard effect.
Stranded in Paradise
Why don't you like snow, they ask. Why do you hate snow, they say. It's so pretty and quiet and peaceful and it means that the angels up in heaven are just having a hell of a yuletide ball.
Except it's a snowpocalypse out there, the likes of which have seldom been seen. It's been snowing non-stop since Friday morning, without pause. And, while this didn't stop the end-of-LOCKDOWN celebration, it did stop the planes.
Logan airport has been essentially shut down for three days, and only a lucky few have gotten out. The rest of us? Trapped. Marooned. Isolated. Mired. Stuck. Stranded. Eating each other for sustenance. PANIC.
So, yes, things have escalated quickly. There are no seats on any planes leaving either Boston or New York for the next few days. As things currently stand, I won't be able to get out until Thursday. Which is, according to Mr. Calendar over there, Christmas day. So yes. Christmas is Cancelled.
So, for me, that makes it Cornell, the Sun, Law School, and Chinese Food for Christmas. I might as well stop pretending, perform my own circumcision and go full Jew.
I'm going to keep tying to get on a plane. At this point, I'll take anything that flies South. Unfortunately, I'm not that optimistic. We have stuff going on that I've never even heard of before. From the NYT:
Nevertheless, tomorrow I will brave Logan Airport and attempt to get on any plane traveling South. If I can get to Texas, I'll be set. After all, I ran across the border to get into America, why shouldn't I have to run back across to get out?
Except it's a snowpocalypse out there, the likes of which have seldom been seen. It's been snowing non-stop since Friday morning, without pause. And, while this didn't stop the end-of-LOCKDOWN celebration, it did stop the planes.
Logan airport has been essentially shut down for three days, and only a lucky few have gotten out. The rest of us? Trapped. Marooned. Isolated. Mired. Stuck. Stranded. Eating each other for sustenance. PANIC.
So, yes, things have escalated quickly. There are no seats on any planes leaving either Boston or New York for the next few days. As things currently stand, I won't be able to get out until Thursday. Which is, according to Mr. Calendar over there, Christmas day. So yes. Christmas is Cancelled.
So, for me, that makes it Cornell, the Sun, Law School, and Chinese Food for Christmas. I might as well stop pretending, perform my own circumcision and go full Jew.
I'm going to keep tying to get on a plane. At this point, I'll take anything that flies South. Unfortunately, I'm not that optimistic. We have stuff going on that I've never even heard of before. From the NYT:
Thundersnow — a spectacular event in which thunder and lightening accompany heavy snowfall — was predicted to occur over parts of Maine’s Atlantic coast, bringing with it between 12 and 18 inches of snow by late Sunday night.Thundersnow sounds like either a virulent strain of dandruff, a particular strain of cocaine, or an albino wrestler. It doesn't sound like something you want to fly through.
Nevertheless, tomorrow I will brave Logan Airport and attempt to get on any plane traveling South. If I can get to Texas, I'll be set. After all, I ran across the border to get into America, why shouldn't I have to run back across to get out?
Friday, December 19, 2008
LOCKDOWN Terminated
This was posted automatically at precisely 1:30 P.M., Eastern Standard Time.
The author of this blog was just released from the confinements of LOCKDOWN. He is currently away from his computer, celebrating his freedom with the joy of a plane crash survivor and the recklessness of an immortal. There will be few survivors.
If found and conscious, anything the author says or does in the next 48 hours will be considered the product of whiskey and/or tequila and/or both. Therefore, the author of this blog will not be held liable for any statements, actions, agreements, or representations that he makes, even though he may do so willingly, even eagerly.
Marriages, nevertheless, will be an exception to this clause and will be valid, unless the author of this blog married someone who does not currently possess a U.S. passport.
If found and unconscious, the author of this blog kindly requests that you return him to the address that is listed on his Facebook account. His keys are in his right pocket. Laying him on his side and putting a trash can next to the bed would be greatly appreciated. If necessary, please call the last number on his phone. This applies unless the last number on his phone is a girl. If it is a girl, the author of this blog has no idea where she is or what happened to her, he swears.
If you receive a phone call from the police, the author of this blog would desperately beg that you take it. The posting of bail is encouraged and will earn you undying gratitude. If you are questioned by the police regarding the author of this blog's whereabouts, activities, or character, the author of this blog suggests that you lie.
Reading this entry constitutes acceptance of the terms of this agreement.
This blog will enter into a respectful period of radio silence until such a time when the author of this blog can successfully hold his head up and discern individual keys.
The author of this blog was just released from the confinements of LOCKDOWN. He is currently away from his computer, celebrating his freedom with the joy of a plane crash survivor and the recklessness of an immortal. There will be few survivors.
If found and conscious, anything the author says or does in the next 48 hours will be considered the product of whiskey and/or tequila and/or both. Therefore, the author of this blog will not be held liable for any statements, actions, agreements, or representations that he makes, even though he may do so willingly, even eagerly.
Marriages, nevertheless, will be an exception to this clause and will be valid, unless the author of this blog married someone who does not currently possess a U.S. passport.
If found and unconscious, the author of this blog kindly requests that you return him to the address that is listed on his Facebook account. His keys are in his right pocket. Laying him on his side and putting a trash can next to the bed would be greatly appreciated. If necessary, please call the last number on his phone. This applies unless the last number on his phone is a girl. If it is a girl, the author of this blog has no idea where she is or what happened to her, he swears.
If you receive a phone call from the police, the author of this blog would desperately beg that you take it. The posting of bail is encouraged and will earn you undying gratitude. If you are questioned by the police regarding the author of this blog's whereabouts, activities, or character, the author of this blog suggests that you lie.
Reading this entry constitutes acceptance of the terms of this agreement.
This blog will enter into a respectful period of radio silence until such a time when the author of this blog can successfully hold his head up and discern individual keys.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Fourth PANIC
And also, blessed be the cheese makers, the Final PANIC.
Today marked my last day in the library. I will not set foot in it again this year. Unless, of course, we return from the bar and try to set fire to it, thinking that we can get away under cover of snow. My attorneys, however, have advised me against that.
I have my corporations final tomorrow morning. According to the forecast, we'll go into this exam and everything will be nice and dry and normal. And then we'll come out, and it'll be a desolate, frozen hellscape where nothing moves and nothing lives, not even hope.
I really hope this is not a bad omen.
Tundra conditions, however, will not be enough to stop us from going out and enjoying our freedom. About two thirds of our classmates were done today, and reports started trickling in of them at bars, buying shots, carrying pitchers, yelling at each other, and celebrating like free men. Meanwhile, I was sitting in the library, teaching myself about the wonder of the derivative suit. And the desire to throw my book away and go join them. Was. Over. Whelm. Ing.
But LOCKDOWN will be over tomorrow, at long last, and we will emerge blinking into the light. We had some casualties. Namely, our legal careers and our sense of carefree innocence. But we, at least, shall be alive, a testament to the capacity of man to live through the hardest of times, survive the bleakest of conditions, and endure.
And so I leave you with the words of battle, imparted to the world by a wise man long ago, a man who fell as a casualty of the war against finals:
Today marked my last day in the library. I will not set foot in it again this year. Unless, of course, we return from the bar and try to set fire to it, thinking that we can get away under cover of snow. My attorneys, however, have advised me against that.
I have my corporations final tomorrow morning. According to the forecast, we'll go into this exam and everything will be nice and dry and normal. And then we'll come out, and it'll be a desolate, frozen hellscape where nothing moves and nothing lives, not even hope.
I really hope this is not a bad omen.
Tundra conditions, however, will not be enough to stop us from going out and enjoying our freedom. About two thirds of our classmates were done today, and reports started trickling in of them at bars, buying shots, carrying pitchers, yelling at each other, and celebrating like free men. Meanwhile, I was sitting in the library, teaching myself about the wonder of the derivative suit. And the desire to throw my book away and go join them. Was. Over. Whelm. Ing.
But LOCKDOWN will be over tomorrow, at long last, and we will emerge blinking into the light. We had some casualties. Namely, our legal careers and our sense of carefree innocence. But we, at least, shall be alive, a testament to the capacity of man to live through the hardest of times, survive the bleakest of conditions, and endure.
And so I leave you with the words of battle, imparted to the world by a wise man long ago, a man who fell as a casualty of the war against finals:
"Because in less than an hour, law students from here will join others from around the country. And we will be launching the largest battle against finals in the history of mankind. Mankind -- that word should have new meaning for all of us today. Perhaps it is fate that today is the 18th of December, and we will once again be fighting for our freedom, not from tyranny, oppression or persecution -- but from final examinations.
"We're fighting for our right to live, to exist. And should we win the day, the 18th of December will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day when law students declared in one voice: 'We will not go soberly into the night! We will not vanish without a shot! We're going to get drunk! We're going to imbibe!' Today, we celebrate our Independence Day!"
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Quote of the Day XLI
What happens if I erroneously answer a question in the multiple choice section? Will there be some sort of punitive measure?
-- Vaguely German LLM at Corps review session
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Third PANIC
The gauntlet of back to back closed-book exams is among the most onerous of trials a man can face. This morning, I took my M&A final. While it wasn't quite the reenactment of a scene for the television series Oz, I can without a doubt say that those four hours were in the bottom five hours of my academic career. I think Michael Scott can adequately sum up my feelings:
In any case, the last thing I felt like doing today is studying. Nevertheless, I was duty bound to do so, and must keep going.
It's like finals is a baseball game. And, after getting knocked around by the first few batters, I just beaned a guy. Now everyone's mad at me. Especially my professor, who is reading my final right now and booing. He looks angry. If only I could explain to him that I could barely read the exam through the tears.
And the guy I just beaned? Is that blood? He's not moving. Oh crap. The guy's not moving. I think he's dead. I think I killed him. They just took him to the tunnel leading to the clubhouse. And the doctors, they don't look optimistic. And now I'm being asked by my manager to refocus, shake it off, and pitch to this next guy. But how am I supposed to do that? I think I hear a sustained beep in the distance. Is that the sound flatlining makes? I just shivered. Did an angel get his wings?
Who's the guy I just killed anyway?
(Looks to scoreboard)
Legal Career.
Crap.
"It feels like somebody took my heart, and dropped it into a bucket of boiling tears. And at the same time, somebody else is hitting my soul in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer. And then a third guy walks in and starts punching me in the grief bone. And I am crying. And nobody can hear me, because I am terribly, terribly... terribly alone."Thank you, Michael. Nevertheless, I have to boot and rally (awww, remember booting and rallying? I miss that.) and study my ass off for tomorrow's exercise in futility, international law. The exam. Not the actual field of study. Ok. Maybe both.
In any case, the last thing I felt like doing today is studying. Nevertheless, I was duty bound to do so, and must keep going.
It's like finals is a baseball game. And, after getting knocked around by the first few batters, I just beaned a guy. Now everyone's mad at me. Especially my professor, who is reading my final right now and booing. He looks angry. If only I could explain to him that I could barely read the exam through the tears.
And the guy I just beaned? Is that blood? He's not moving. Oh crap. The guy's not moving. I think he's dead. I think I killed him. They just took him to the tunnel leading to the clubhouse. And the doctors, they don't look optimistic. And now I'm being asked by my manager to refocus, shake it off, and pitch to this next guy. But how am I supposed to do that? I think I hear a sustained beep in the distance. Is that the sound flatlining makes? I just shivered. Did an angel get his wings?
Who's the guy I just killed anyway?
(Looks to scoreboard)
Legal Career.
Crap.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Siesta Fiesta
Question. If a guy in the library has been taking what-can-no-longer-be-called-a-nap for the past four hours, should I go up and, like, poke him or something? Or do we wait until finals are over next week and see if he smells?
The Second PANIC
Legit PANIC. Legit, run into a wall panic.
M&A final, Monday morning, closed book. I am studying and still finding words I have never seen before. My notes make no sense. My eye is twitching.
I was also my understanding that there would be no math.
Instead, we have to bring a calculator to the exam. A calculator. I haven't used one of these since the 11th grade. I don't even own a calculator. I had to borrow one from Wernick. And, to top it off, I don't know how to work the calculator I borrowed. In the 11th grade, when I had to buy one, I specifically avoided this one. Why? Because I was using it in the store, just playing with it, and and I couldn't get two plus two to equal four. No matter how much I tried, two plus two equaled something like -1.7363 to the e power. WHAT THE HELL IS e? e IS NOT A NUMBER! WHAT HAPPENED TO FOUR? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO CONNECT IF THERE IS NO FOUR?
(Loses Composure)
(Runs into Wall)
(Picks self up)
(Deep Breath)
An exam I don't understand, closed book, for four hours, with a calculator I'm too dumb to work. I might take Marc's advice and go jump off something and land on both wrists. But I probably won't. This time, I'm like the coyote watching a falling anvil. Except it's an actual coyote, not the Looney Tunes coyote, and it's an actual two-ton anvil, not the ACME brand piece of crap. So bye-bye coyote. For good.
So farewell, dear friends.
Avenge me.
M&A final, Monday morning, closed book. I am studying and still finding words I have never seen before. My notes make no sense. My eye is twitching.
I was also my understanding that there would be no math.
Instead, we have to bring a calculator to the exam. A calculator. I haven't used one of these since the 11th grade. I don't even own a calculator. I had to borrow one from Wernick. And, to top it off, I don't know how to work the calculator I borrowed. In the 11th grade, when I had to buy one, I specifically avoided this one. Why? Because I was using it in the store, just playing with it, and and I couldn't get two plus two to equal four. No matter how much I tried, two plus two equaled something like -1.7363 to the e power. WHAT THE HELL IS e? e IS NOT A NUMBER! WHAT HAPPENED TO FOUR? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO CONNECT IF THERE IS NO FOUR?
(Loses Composure)
(Runs into Wall)
(Picks self up)
(Deep Breath)
An exam I don't understand, closed book, for four hours, with a calculator I'm too dumb to work. I might take Marc's advice and go jump off something and land on both wrists. But I probably won't. This time, I'm like the coyote watching a falling anvil. Except it's an actual coyote, not the Looney Tunes coyote, and it's an actual two-ton anvil, not the ACME brand piece of crap. So bye-bye coyote. For good.
So farewell, dear friends.
Avenge me.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Quote of the Day XL
Our final is a killer. But at least there's still time for my dream about Godzilla destroying the law school to come true.
-- Kyle, on our M&A Final
Who Throws a Shoe? Honestly.
Who hasn't been there? I've often taken off my shoe, just to have something to throw at someone.
The Finals Beard
There's really nothing that separates the men from the boys as effectively as a beard. Some will only grow sparse and patchy tufts, so much so that, when asked whether they shaved today, their answer of "no, I shaved three weeks ago," will bring shame to them and their families.
On the other hand, those of us who can sprout coarse bristles spanning the region between the top of our cheeks and the top of our chest hair, creating pretty much an unbroken line of hair from the top of our heads to the tips of our toes, can stand proudly and repel about 90 percent of the women in this world, who wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near the Brillo Pads on our face.
That is, however, the price we must pay for this, the manliest of manly endeavors that does not require knowledge of both guns and buck knives.
I've always enjoyed growing beards. More accurately, I've always enjoyed not shaving. Since I live in a civilized area and not a log cabin in Maine, society requires certain sacrifices from us, and it is with a heavy heart that I shave nearly every morning.
But then finals rear their ugly head and we go into LOCKDOWN. Because nobody goes out and all pretenses of civility are discarded like wet t-shirts in Cancun, this provides the perfect opportunity to abstain from shaving and embrace the legendary Finals Beard.
I can grow a beard in a day through sheer force of will. I can also impregnate a woman just by looking at her, but this usually results in unnecessary drama and exile from a third world country accused of being a "diablo." But the story of how I came to America is inconsequential.
The point is, this month of LOCKDOWN is perfect for beard growing. And, every semester, when I start writing my outlines I stop taking a razor to my face.
I try to encourage the growth of a finals beard among my friends. I liken it to a bonding experience, a common act of defiance that represents our pain and suffering. Hockey teams do it when they enter the playoffs. And, if you think about it, there's no real difference between law students and hockey players. Except we're not toothless Canadians.
This year, the public interest people even sponsored an official "Finals Beard" contest. The result? The cafeteria resembles a lumberjack training camp. Those waiting to take an exam are like lost hikers waiting at the hospital for their families to pick them up. And the library looks like a homeless shelter, except with less hope.
Beards are useful creatures. They're pretty apt for this, the greatest depression. They provide warmth in these cold months. They're great for attracting birds. In England, this would be terrific. Here, however, it is mostly a nuisance, and likely unsanitary. Most importantly, as a flask is to whiskey, beards are to food. That is, they make it available at all times. God Bless America, this land of plenty.
I started growing this beard when LOCKDOWN started, on November 24th. If all goes as planned, it should last a month. I've come to terms with some unfortunate facts about it. For one, it has red hairs in it, which is kind of weird. It also has a couple of white hairs in it, which, unfortunately, is not that weird.
But you know what? The beard looks pretty damn good, as beards go. Furthermore, because the real reason is so depressing, I'm going to take these white hairs and I'm going to chalk them up to wisdom. That's right: I have so much wisdom, the wisdom's coming out through my beard. Beat that, Cat Stevens.
On the other hand, those of us who can sprout coarse bristles spanning the region between the top of our cheeks and the top of our chest hair, creating pretty much an unbroken line of hair from the top of our heads to the tips of our toes, can stand proudly and repel about 90 percent of the women in this world, who wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near the Brillo Pads on our face.
That is, however, the price we must pay for this, the manliest of manly endeavors that does not require knowledge of both guns and buck knives.
I've always enjoyed growing beards. More accurately, I've always enjoyed not shaving. Since I live in a civilized area and not a log cabin in Maine, society requires certain sacrifices from us, and it is with a heavy heart that I shave nearly every morning.
But then finals rear their ugly head and we go into LOCKDOWN. Because nobody goes out and all pretenses of civility are discarded like wet t-shirts in Cancun, this provides the perfect opportunity to abstain from shaving and embrace the legendary Finals Beard.
I can grow a beard in a day through sheer force of will. I can also impregnate a woman just by looking at her, but this usually results in unnecessary drama and exile from a third world country accused of being a "diablo." But the story of how I came to America is inconsequential.
The point is, this month of LOCKDOWN is perfect for beard growing. And, every semester, when I start writing my outlines I stop taking a razor to my face.
I try to encourage the growth of a finals beard among my friends. I liken it to a bonding experience, a common act of defiance that represents our pain and suffering. Hockey teams do it when they enter the playoffs. And, if you think about it, there's no real difference between law students and hockey players. Except we're not toothless Canadians.
This year, the public interest people even sponsored an official "Finals Beard" contest. The result? The cafeteria resembles a lumberjack training camp. Those waiting to take an exam are like lost hikers waiting at the hospital for their families to pick them up. And the library looks like a homeless shelter, except with less hope.
Beards are useful creatures. They're pretty apt for this, the greatest depression. They provide warmth in these cold months. They're great for attracting birds. In England, this would be terrific. Here, however, it is mostly a nuisance, and likely unsanitary. Most importantly, as a flask is to whiskey, beards are to food. That is, they make it available at all times. God Bless America, this land of plenty.
I started growing this beard when LOCKDOWN started, on November 24th. If all goes as planned, it should last a month. I've come to terms with some unfortunate facts about it. For one, it has red hairs in it, which is kind of weird. It also has a couple of white hairs in it, which, unfortunately, is not that weird.
But you know what? The beard looks pretty damn good, as beards go. Furthermore, because the real reason is so depressing, I'm going to take these white hairs and I'm going to chalk them up to wisdom. That's right: I have so much wisdom, the wisdom's coming out through my beard. Beat that, Cat Stevens.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Quote of the Day XXXIX
I've been thinking about law school and other forms of torture that would make my family proud.
-- McSweeney's
Still Crazy After All These Years
One year ago today we had our Civil Procedure final. I remember the day very vividly.
More than the several times I've caught myself saying "but for" in general conversation. More than the mistakes I made that I later categorized as foreseeable. More than getting up to go to the bar and coming back to find that some schmuck had taken my table and then "joking" that I had been dispossessed. More than anything else that we as law students do that proves beyond a reasonable doubt (SEE???) that we've lost our minds was the night after my civil procedure final.
The final was a monster. The sea of sadness and despair that overwhelmed us when we started reading the test could not have been parted by Moses. I've seen more hopeful people at sentencing hearings. At the end, we looked like stockbrokers. At a wake. God bless shatter-resistant windows.
But that's not the bad part.
That night, I had a dream. And that's when I realized that I should abandon hope.
In my dream, I was sitting in a cafe. And across from me was some random blonde I'd never seen before. But, because you just know these things in dreams, I knew that she was my girlfriend.
So I'm sitting across from my random blond girlfriend, and I'm thinking, wow, good for me. Because she was hot. Some might say that this is when I should have known that I was dreaming.
But this beautiful blonde, she was crying. And soon it became apparent to me that I was in the process of breaking up with her. I was breaking up with her. And here is where those previousrealists haters might say, really, bro, by now I must have known that I was dreaming.
So I'm breaking up with her. And then I realize that I'm breaking up with her by using the Erie Doctrine analysis.
"I'm sorry, baby. It's not substantive. It's procedural. You have to understand."
I awoke in a state of panic, and spent the following week mourning my sanity.
I have yet to regain it.
More than the several times I've caught myself saying "but for" in general conversation. More than the mistakes I made that I later categorized as foreseeable. More than getting up to go to the bar and coming back to find that some schmuck had taken my table and then "joking" that I had been dispossessed. More than anything else that we as law students do that proves beyond a reasonable doubt (SEE???) that we've lost our minds was the night after my civil procedure final.
The final was a monster. The sea of sadness and despair that overwhelmed us when we started reading the test could not have been parted by Moses. I've seen more hopeful people at sentencing hearings. At the end, we looked like stockbrokers. At a wake. God bless shatter-resistant windows.
But that's not the bad part.
That night, I had a dream. And that's when I realized that I should abandon hope.
In my dream, I was sitting in a cafe. And across from me was some random blonde I'd never seen before. But, because you just know these things in dreams, I knew that she was my girlfriend.
So I'm sitting across from my random blond girlfriend, and I'm thinking, wow, good for me. Because she was hot. Some might say that this is when I should have known that I was dreaming.
But this beautiful blonde, she was crying. And soon it became apparent to me that I was in the process of breaking up with her. I was breaking up with her. And here is where those previous
So I'm breaking up with her. And then I realize that I'm breaking up with her by using the Erie Doctrine analysis.
"I'm sorry, baby. It's not substantive. It's procedural. You have to understand."
I awoke in a state of panic, and spent the following week mourning my sanity.
I have yet to regain it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
This Conversation Is Going Nowhere
I know the content of this blog has suffered during LOCKDOWN. I have little time, plus, there's simply very little to report on during LOCKDOWN, other than what happens at the library. And, despite their inexplicable popularity, libraries are really not that exciting places to be.
Case in point. Today I suspended LOCKDOWN for a couple of hours and went to one of the monthly Cornell Young Alumni gatherings. And it's great, because they're the first non-law school people I've seen in a month, having the first conversations about non-law school things I've heard in a month.
The things is, I can't contribute to these conversations. Literally nothing is happening to me. I had a conversation today that went something like this:
Them: Hey, how you been?
Me: Good, you know, studying.
Them: Yeah?
Me: Yeah, pretty much just studying.
Them: Cool, cool.
(Awkward Silence)
Them: So did you watch the last Heroes?
Me: Nope.
Them: Any movies?
Me: No, not recently.
Them: Any books? Magazines? Anything?
Me: Sorry.
Them: Nothing new, no funny stories, nothing has happened to you. Nothing.
Me: (Shrugs)
Them: Ok.
(Awkward Silence)
Me: Oh! So this is really funny. So there's this girl in the library, right? She has this really funny sneeze. She'll sneeze like ten times in a row.
Them: Right.
Me: (Actually excited about this story) And she does this every day. And everyone kind of looks up and laughs. And it's really funny.
(Awkward Silence)
Me: And it happens every day, and still everyone laughs. And it's kind of become something to look forward to. You know? Because, when she sneezes, everyone laughs. And it's nice, that everyone does that. Because ... you know. We look forward to it.
Them: ...
Me: ...
Them: ... Ok. Cool. Listen I'm going to go see how (looks around) the waitress is doing, OK? I'm going to go see how she's doing, 'cause... yeah.
And I understand completely. My life is like a Samuel Beckett play, only more depressing.
In a week, LOCKDOWN will be over, I'll be back to doing things like accidentally ending up in New Jersey and telling stories about homemade bungee cords. But for now, bear with me. With hope, prayer, and a little courage, we'll all get through this together.
Case in point. Today I suspended LOCKDOWN for a couple of hours and went to one of the monthly Cornell Young Alumni gatherings. And it's great, because they're the first non-law school people I've seen in a month, having the first conversations about non-law school things I've heard in a month.
The things is, I can't contribute to these conversations. Literally nothing is happening to me. I had a conversation today that went something like this:
Them: Hey, how you been?
Me: Good, you know, studying.
Them: Yeah?
Me: Yeah, pretty much just studying.
Them: Cool, cool.
(Awkward Silence)
Them: So did you watch the last Heroes?
Me: Nope.
Them: Any movies?
Me: No, not recently.
Them: Any books? Magazines? Anything?
Me: Sorry.
Them: Nothing new, no funny stories, nothing has happened to you. Nothing.
Me: (Shrugs)
Them: Ok.
(Awkward Silence)
Me: Oh! So this is really funny. So there's this girl in the library, right? She has this really funny sneeze. She'll sneeze like ten times in a row.
Them: Right.
Me: (Actually excited about this story) And she does this every day. And everyone kind of looks up and laughs. And it's really funny.
(Awkward Silence)
Me: And it happens every day, and still everyone laughs. And it's kind of become something to look forward to. You know? Because, when she sneezes, everyone laughs. And it's nice, that everyone does that. Because ... you know. We look forward to it.
Them: ...
Me: ...
Them: ... Ok. Cool. Listen I'm going to go see how (looks around) the waitress is doing, OK? I'm going to go see how she's doing, 'cause... yeah.
And I understand completely. My life is like a Samuel Beckett play, only more depressing.
In a week, LOCKDOWN will be over, I'll be back to doing things like accidentally ending up in New Jersey and telling stories about homemade bungee cords. But for now, bear with me. With hope, prayer, and a little courage, we'll all get through this together.
Quote of the Day XXXVIII
The Postmaster and I had a disagreement over the Jerry Garcia stamps. If I wanted to lick a hippie, I'd return Joan Baez's phone calls.
-- Jack Donaghy
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Hot Truck
What's my favorite car? That's an easy one.
It's trucks that make sandwiches.
Unfortunately, the pioneer and creator of the Hot Truck, one of Cornell's two mobile dining establishments, has passed away.
He is survived by the most delicious freaking sandwiches you'll ever have at 3 in the morning. Seriously. There's nothing that can approximate the happiness of receiving a piping hot Sui when your fingers are numb from the cold and/or the inebriation. And then getting to share with others -- to literally break bread with your friends -- well, if that's not college drunk food at its finest, then I don't know what is.
I'm going to go ahead an eat an artery-clogging, heart-attack-inducing, grease-dripping, pants-staining sandwich for lunch today. And it might take some years off my life, but at least I'll be happy.
It's trucks that make sandwiches.
Unfortunately, the pioneer and creator of the Hot Truck, one of Cornell's two mobile dining establishments, has passed away.
He is survived by the most delicious freaking sandwiches you'll ever have at 3 in the morning. Seriously. There's nothing that can approximate the happiness of receiving a piping hot Sui when your fingers are numb from the cold and/or the inebriation. And then getting to share with others -- to literally break bread with your friends -- well, if that's not college drunk food at its finest, then I don't know what is.
I'm going to go ahead an eat an artery-clogging, heart-attack-inducing, grease-dripping, pants-staining sandwich for lunch today. And it might take some years off my life, but at least I'll be happy.
At Least It's Not a Lump of Coal
I had the following conversation today:
Little Brother: Oh, I finally know what I want for Christmas.
Me: Yeah? What?
Him: A USB drive.
Me: A USB drive?
Him: Yup.
Me: That's not very exciting.
Him: Nope.
Me: You realize that, if this was fifteen years ago, the same arrangement would have me getting you some floppy disks, right?
Him: Right.
Me: You sure that's what you want?
Him: It's useful.
Me: ... OK. You got it.
I also got socks for my mother. At her behest, and they are thermal socks. But still. They're socks. I just feel like Buzzkill Aunt Helen over here. Way this is going, I'm going to end up getting my dad some dental floss.
Little Brother: Oh, I finally know what I want for Christmas.
Me: Yeah? What?
Him: A USB drive.
Me: A USB drive?
Him: Yup.
Me: That's not very exciting.
Him: Nope.
Me: You realize that, if this was fifteen years ago, the same arrangement would have me getting you some floppy disks, right?
Him: Right.
Me: You sure that's what you want?
Him: It's useful.
Me: ... OK. You got it.
I also got socks for my mother. At her behest, and they are thermal socks. But still. They're socks. I just feel like Buzzkill Aunt Helen over here. Way this is going, I'm going to end up getting my dad some dental floss.
Gracias Pero No Gracias
I got the following email today from something called CELOP at BU:
Dear International student,We would like to inform you that while you are pursuing your studies at Boston University, your spouse has a great opportunity to learn English or improve language skills at Boston University’s Center for English Language & Orientation Programs, CELOP. Your spouse can take one or two part-time courses (electives) in the afternoon, 1:30-3:55 p.m. twice a week, Monday through Thursday. Our courses are available to the entire BU community as well as the general public.Since my wife has to be American, I really hope she doesn't need English classes.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The First PANIC
Tomorrow morning I'll be facing taking the first of four horsemen finals: Trusts, Wills, and Estates.
There's some panic, but not as much anxiety as last year. In the process of mourning for my future legal career, I have moved past the stages of denial and anger and whatnot and am well into acceptance. In fact, I feel like the old guy at the end of Deep Impact who is waiting for the wave to hit him and kind of just closes his eyes and waits for oblivion. I know I'm bleeped, but you know what? That's OK. The wave's pretty damn big. I'm just going to close my eyes and hope to wake up in a better place.
And, if I've learned anything (let's pretend I have), it's the following: Please, for the love of Jiminy Cricket, make a will. Better yet would be to put your assets in a trust, but, failing that, at least don't let your estate pass through intestacy. And, if you want to bequeath any of your nice, shiny objects to me, that's perfectly OK too. In fact, I encourage it.
Should I not make it through tomorrow, I hereby devise my entire estate to my immediate family. Except for the box under my bed. That box should never be opened, and summarily burned. Those who burn it would do well to stand upwind of it.
Instead of spending your money on cards or flowers, I ask that you instead spend it at a bar, getting sloppy drunk and making both merry and bad decisions.
I also ask that you avenge me.
There's some panic, but not as much anxiety as last year. In the process of mourning for my future legal career, I have moved past the stages of denial and anger and whatnot and am well into acceptance. In fact, I feel like the old guy at the end of Deep Impact who is waiting for the wave to hit him and kind of just closes his eyes and waits for oblivion. I know I'm bleeped, but you know what? That's OK. The wave's pretty damn big. I'm just going to close my eyes and hope to wake up in a better place.
And, if I've learned anything (let's pretend I have), it's the following: Please, for the love of Jiminy Cricket, make a will. Better yet would be to put your assets in a trust, but, failing that, at least don't let your estate pass through intestacy. And, if you want to bequeath any of your nice, shiny objects to me, that's perfectly OK too. In fact, I encourage it.
Should I not make it through tomorrow, I hereby devise my entire estate to my immediate family. Except for the box under my bed. That box should never be opened, and summarily burned. Those who burn it would do well to stand upwind of it.
Instead of spending your money on cards or flowers, I ask that you instead spend it at a bar, getting sloppy drunk and making both merry and bad decisions.
I also ask that you avenge me.
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Greatest Living Pitcher
The first baseball game I ever watched was Game 1 of the 1995 World Series. Greg Maddux was pitching for Atlanta. He was facing the Cleveland Indians, who had one of the greatest lineups ever assembled. And Greg Maddux, maybe 6 feet tall and a doughy 180 pounds, pitched a complete game, allowing only 2 hits, setting down the Indians in about two and a half hours.
In his good days, this was an unconscionably long game. I remember some Maddux games where he would throw a shut-out using a mere 79 pitches. The game would be over in under two hours. He'd have seasons where he'd have half as many walks as starts. It's almost like he was racing through the lineup, and couldn't be bothered by deep counts, just so he could go play some golf.
Once, I remember watching him throw one of those mythical three-pitch innings. Ground to second. Pop-out to third. Another grounder to second. I couldn't have done that on the Playstation if I tried. Reggie Sanders barely had time to get out to Left Field and already the inning was over.
Today, Greg Maddux retired from the sport of baseball. And God, I'm going to miss watching him pitch.
He was my favorite player growing up, and always has been, despite him leaving the Braves for points west. I blame this entirely on his delusional agent, Scott Boras, and will gladly rant for an hour about Maddux's departure from Atlanta, which did not need to happen. But such is the sport of baseball, and we all move on.
Maddux was the best pitcher of this generation, and is up there in the top five for pitchers of any and all generations. He didn't have the most electric stuff, but he could pitch and, by God, he was smart. Listening to him talk about baseball is like hearing Jesus talk about the Bible. And the stories about him -- that one in particular is worth reading -- as well as the accounts of his brilliance, are all priceless.
I watched a lot of Braves games and I would get a kick of TBS showing the dugout on days that Maddux was not pitching. And almost every pitcher in the dugout would be either next to Maddux or close to him, and he'd be talking pitching. And then, when the inning was over and the Braves were up to bat, whoever the pitcher was that day, from a John Smoltz to a Tom Glavine, would go and sit next to Maddux and listen to him explain how they could be better. He was like an oracle out there, just pouring wisdom, and his teammates were his disciples. Even the coaches were transfixed. The reporters too. Here. Here. Here. Just about everywhere. They even gave him a standing ovation today at his press conference where he announced his retirement.
And watching him pitch might not have had the punch of watching Randy Johnson pitch. If Randy Johnson was like Jackson Pollock, Maddux was like Da Vinci. Precise and efficient and subtle. But, once you take a step back and take a good look, a real good look, where you squint and tilt your head a little, you're suddenly blown away. Because what you just saw is an absolute masterpiece of a career. Nobody -- nobody -- has been able to master their craft in quite the way that Maddux did, to do something so well for so long that we all took excellence for granted.
In five years he is going to be elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame, likely as the first player to garner a well-deserved 100 percent of the vote for induction.
And I'm sorry if this post has rambled. I know I sound like that guy you see at the bar, watching and cringing at some imitation of baseball, perhaps a Royals-Pirates game, and telling the bartender -- he's the only one who will listen, and will only do so because I've purchased almost a dozen beers already -- talking about baseball in the times when men were men and baseball players hustled and didn't cotton to any of the steroid nonsense.
But I hope you'll forgive me. Because Maddux really was the best, and baseball is less rich now than it was yesterday. I wish he would have held on one more year, just so he and Glavine and Smoltz could have strolled into Cooperstown together, the Big Three of the greatest rotation baseball has had the pleasure to see. But I guess, in five years, when Greg Maddux goes in first, immortalizing the greatest living pitcher will have to suffice.
In his good days, this was an unconscionably long game. I remember some Maddux games where he would throw a shut-out using a mere 79 pitches. The game would be over in under two hours. He'd have seasons where he'd have half as many walks as starts. It's almost like he was racing through the lineup, and couldn't be bothered by deep counts, just so he could go play some golf.
Once, I remember watching him throw one of those mythical three-pitch innings. Ground to second. Pop-out to third. Another grounder to second. I couldn't have done that on the Playstation if I tried. Reggie Sanders barely had time to get out to Left Field and already the inning was over.
Today, Greg Maddux retired from the sport of baseball. And God, I'm going to miss watching him pitch.
He was my favorite player growing up, and always has been, despite him leaving the Braves for points west. I blame this entirely on his delusional agent, Scott Boras, and will gladly rant for an hour about Maddux's departure from Atlanta, which did not need to happen. But such is the sport of baseball, and we all move on.
Maddux was the best pitcher of this generation, and is up there in the top five for pitchers of any and all generations. He didn't have the most electric stuff, but he could pitch and, by God, he was smart. Listening to him talk about baseball is like hearing Jesus talk about the Bible. And the stories about him -- that one in particular is worth reading -- as well as the accounts of his brilliance, are all priceless.
I watched a lot of Braves games and I would get a kick of TBS showing the dugout on days that Maddux was not pitching. And almost every pitcher in the dugout would be either next to Maddux or close to him, and he'd be talking pitching. And then, when the inning was over and the Braves were up to bat, whoever the pitcher was that day, from a John Smoltz to a Tom Glavine, would go and sit next to Maddux and listen to him explain how they could be better. He was like an oracle out there, just pouring wisdom, and his teammates were his disciples. Even the coaches were transfixed. The reporters too. Here. Here. Here. Just about everywhere. They even gave him a standing ovation today at his press conference where he announced his retirement.
And watching him pitch might not have had the punch of watching Randy Johnson pitch. If Randy Johnson was like Jackson Pollock, Maddux was like Da Vinci. Precise and efficient and subtle. But, once you take a step back and take a good look, a real good look, where you squint and tilt your head a little, you're suddenly blown away. Because what you just saw is an absolute masterpiece of a career. Nobody -- nobody -- has been able to master their craft in quite the way that Maddux did, to do something so well for so long that we all took excellence for granted.
In five years he is going to be elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame, likely as the first player to garner a well-deserved 100 percent of the vote for induction.
And I'm sorry if this post has rambled. I know I sound like that guy you see at the bar, watching and cringing at some imitation of baseball, perhaps a Royals-Pirates game, and telling the bartender -- he's the only one who will listen, and will only do so because I've purchased almost a dozen beers already -- talking about baseball in the times when men were men and baseball players hustled and didn't cotton to any of the steroid nonsense.
But I hope you'll forgive me. Because Maddux really was the best, and baseball is less rich now than it was yesterday. I wish he would have held on one more year, just so he and Glavine and Smoltz could have strolled into Cooperstown together, the Big Three of the greatest rotation baseball has had the pleasure to see. But I guess, in five years, when Greg Maddux goes in first, immortalizing the greatest living pitcher will have to suffice.
You Mean You're Pregnant ... With a Baby?
Caitlin got the following email message this morning from one of the members of her study group:
One would imagine that having a baby during finals is just pretty damn unfortunate timing. Just imagine trying to get into a study group. As Caitlin said, "When we all saw she was 5 months pregnant at the start of the semester, everyone did the math and was like...um I guess we can't really count on you too much."
And the mood swings must be epic. We're talking C-minus-on-a-final despondent to I-just-slept-with-Heidi-Klum happy to Charlie-Brown-was-based-on-me depressed. During finals, this can prove distracting.
However, pregnancy can also be a boon, and here's why. It could be a tremendous distraction. Imagine you're being graded on a curve, so you want every advantage you can get over the next person. And you're sitting in class, typing furiously, spotting more issues than a Jewish grandmother evaluating her granddaughter's new goysiche boyfriend. And then you feel something wet under your foot, and it's because Preggo Peg's water just broke. How can you even think about the NAFTA Chpt. 11 rules after that?
Pregnancy can also be a great excuse for why you tanked a final. Suppose you write on the exam, "Sorry, professor, that I couldn't fully explain the discounted cash flow method of accounting, but a little human being is emerging from my unmentionables." I figure that this at least gets you partial credit.
All in all, pregnancy sounds like a great excuse, one I might try to use. Think they'll buy it?
"I can't make it to the presentation today--I'm having contractions and I have to slow them down."Yes, she's having a baby! Or, as it's also known, the best excuse for why you didn't show up to the final.
One would imagine that having a baby during finals is just pretty damn unfortunate timing. Just imagine trying to get into a study group. As Caitlin said, "When we all saw she was 5 months pregnant at the start of the semester, everyone did the math and was like...um I guess we can't really count on you too much."
And the mood swings must be epic. We're talking C-minus-on-a-final despondent to I-just-slept-with-Heidi-Klum happy to Charlie-Brown-was-based-on-me depressed. During finals, this can prove distracting.
However, pregnancy can also be a boon, and here's why. It could be a tremendous distraction. Imagine you're being graded on a curve, so you want every advantage you can get over the next person. And you're sitting in class, typing furiously, spotting more issues than a Jewish grandmother evaluating her granddaughter's new goysiche boyfriend. And then you feel something wet under your foot, and it's because Preggo Peg's water just broke. How can you even think about the NAFTA Chpt. 11 rules after that?
Pregnancy can also be a great excuse for why you tanked a final. Suppose you write on the exam, "Sorry, professor, that I couldn't fully explain the discounted cash flow method of accounting, but a little human being is emerging from my unmentionables." I figure that this at least gets you partial credit.
All in all, pregnancy sounds like a great excuse, one I might try to use. Think they'll buy it?
Quote of the Day XXXVII
I have no idea if you're getting any of the IMs I'm sending. So I set my office on fire to send smoke signals.
-- Michael, on how to deal with the PANIC when Gchat stops working.
Random Video of the Day XXXVI
Not the most kosher of songs, and perhaps it's too early to post it here, but what the hell.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
No, Wait! Finish! Finish!
So last night LOCKDOWN was suspended for a couple of hours because a good friend was in town. The warden Ok'd it because I promised to stick to a three-drink maximum, which I did.
In any case, we were at the Black Rose. At some point, I needed to use the bathroom. When I walked into the bathroom, there were two guys in there, having one of those heart-warming "I really love you, man. No, I mean, for real. Actual love. We don't say it enough, man, but I do, I really do love you. Because real brothers tell each other when their girl is no good, and you did that, man, which I appreciate like you have no idea. I love you, brother. Come here," moments. And they proceeded to do the man-hug.
The problem is, they were both still at the urinals, and neither was quite finished. So what was supposed to be a man-hug turned into one guy jumping out the way, going "No, wait! Finish first! Finish!" and the other guy being very confused and ... well, let's just say the janitor was probably very unhappy later.
In any case, we were at the Black Rose. At some point, I needed to use the bathroom. When I walked into the bathroom, there were two guys in there, having one of those heart-warming "I really love you, man. No, I mean, for real. Actual love. We don't say it enough, man, but I do, I really do love you. Because real brothers tell each other when their girl is no good, and you did that, man, which I appreciate like you have no idea. I love you, brother. Come here," moments. And they proceeded to do the man-hug.
The problem is, they were both still at the urinals, and neither was quite finished. So what was supposed to be a man-hug turned into one guy jumping out the way, going "No, wait! Finish first! Finish!" and the other guy being very confused and ... well, let's just say the janitor was probably very unhappy later.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
I Think I Ate Your Chocolate Squirrel
Some random thoughts:
1. College Football picked a hell of a weekend in which to hold the conference championship games.
2. I like to think that, when Chief Justice Warren Burger died, a newspaper somewhere had the headline, "Chief Burger in Paradise."
3. Somehow, I am now a supervillain.
1. College Football picked a hell of a weekend in which to hold the conference championship games.
2. I like to think that, when Chief Justice Warren Burger died, a newspaper somewhere had the headline, "Chief Burger in Paradise."
3. Somehow, I am now a supervillain.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Drinking Under the Table
Alcohol, the leading cause of mistakes in the world, was outlawed in 1920 in this country.
75 years ago today, prohibition, easily the biggest mistake in American history, was summarily repealed by the ratification of the best of the constitutional amendments, the twenty-first.
Why is it the best amendment? Because it colors all the others. Sure, free speech is great. But who would freely speak their mind without the liquid courage only the finest malts can provide? What is protected from unreasonable searches and seizures other than contraband bottles of tequila in a freshman dorm room? And how would we ever know that Plaxico "I Bring a Whole New Meaning to the Shotgun Formation" Burress implicitly condoned the second amendment without the impaired mental and motor skills that resulted from his having as many martinis as blows to the head?
So I wish everyone would take a moment today to acknowledge the decriminalization of beers, wines, and spirits. Just to imagine the implications of a world without alcohol would result in a list that is as frightening as it is endless:
Random hook-ups would plummet faster than the stock market.
Shotgun weddings would be based on love instead of impulse.
Diminished eloquence would make tricking someone into sleeping with you considerably trickier.
"Oh, Canada" would just be an anthem, and not a terrific drinking song.
A nightcap would be something you wear on your head at night.
Varsity beer pong, three-dollar Long Islands, and the walk of shame would be the stuff of fable.
"Because I was drinking" would no longer be a valid excuse.
What the hell would Jesus have turned the water into? Chamomile Tea? Snapple? New Coke?
The bar would not be a place of happiness, and would instead refer only to that horrible monster that is used to scare the living crap out of law students.
And nobody would ever know the simple joys of a monkey knife fight.
So thank you, legislators, for realizing, probably over contraband whisky, that there was no reason why drinking should be illegal. Beer, Wines, and Spirits should be embraced, if only because they account for half the curriculum at Cornell's Hotel School. And then where would our hotelies be?
Probably at the bar.
75 years ago today, prohibition, easily the biggest mistake in American history, was summarily repealed by the ratification of the best of the constitutional amendments, the twenty-first.
Why is it the best amendment? Because it colors all the others. Sure, free speech is great. But who would freely speak their mind without the liquid courage only the finest malts can provide? What is protected from unreasonable searches and seizures other than contraband bottles of tequila in a freshman dorm room? And how would we ever know that Plaxico "I Bring a Whole New Meaning to the Shotgun Formation" Burress implicitly condoned the second amendment without the impaired mental and motor skills that resulted from his having as many martinis as blows to the head?
So I wish everyone would take a moment today to acknowledge the decriminalization of beers, wines, and spirits. Just to imagine the implications of a world without alcohol would result in a list that is as frightening as it is endless:
Random hook-ups would plummet faster than the stock market.
Shotgun weddings would be based on love instead of impulse.
Diminished eloquence would make tricking someone into sleeping with you considerably trickier.
"Oh, Canada" would just be an anthem, and not a terrific drinking song.
A nightcap would be something you wear on your head at night.
Varsity beer pong, three-dollar Long Islands, and the walk of shame would be the stuff of fable.
"Because I was drinking" would no longer be a valid excuse.
What the hell would Jesus have turned the water into? Chamomile Tea? Snapple? New Coke?
The bar would not be a place of happiness, and would instead refer only to that horrible monster that is used to scare the living crap out of law students.
And nobody would ever know the simple joys of a monkey knife fight.
So thank you, legislators, for realizing, probably over contraband whisky, that there was no reason why drinking should be illegal. Beer, Wines, and Spirits should be embraced, if only because they account for half the curriculum at Cornell's Hotel School. And then where would our hotelies be?
Probably at the bar.
The Straw that Stirs the Drink
We have Minderasers and Brain Erasers. We have the Three Wise Men (Jim, Jack, Johnnie). We have the Four Horsemen (Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jose). Millions have dedicated their lives to the science that is naming drinks, and yet we have failed to discover the most obvious one.
The Bad News Bears.
It's a great name for a drink, and I'll fully take credit for it. What will you have, the bartender asks. Something that's bad news bears, you'll reply. And then you'll try to figure out something that's more powerful than a Long Island, and more potent that the aforementioned Four Horsemen.
So why not actualize the Bad News Bears? Why not craft it from dust, breathe into it, and give it life?
And it should, of course, consist of that which will give credit to its name. Here's how you make one:
One of Everything.
Big.
With a straw.
I can't wait to have one of these when LOCKDOWN is over. You've been warned.
The Bad News Bears.
It's a great name for a drink, and I'll fully take credit for it. What will you have, the bartender asks. Something that's bad news bears, you'll reply. And then you'll try to figure out something that's more powerful than a Long Island, and more potent that the aforementioned Four Horsemen.
So why not actualize the Bad News Bears? Why not craft it from dust, breathe into it, and give it life?
And it should, of course, consist of that which will give credit to its name. Here's how you make one:
One of Everything.
Big.
With a straw.
I can't wait to have one of these when LOCKDOWN is over. You've been warned.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Cookie Monster
So I went to Starbucks to get a cookie and, when I got there, there was only one chocolate-chip cookie left.
Normally, I hate to be the takes the last cookie/slice of pizza/beer from the fridge guy.
But sometimes, you just really need a cookie, you know?
So I asked the barista for the cookie and (literally) rubbed my hands in anticipation and glee.
But then, when she picked it up with the tongs, the cookie broke in half.
My heart, at that moment, also broke in half.
Why?
Because the barista then said, "I'm sorry, but we are not allowed give you a broken cookie."
"I can't have the cookie?"
"No," she answered. "I'm sorry. Would you like something else? Maybe a cherry croissant?"
I then succumbed to a RAGE BLACKOUT.
And that's why I can no longer go to that Starbucks.
Normally, I hate to be the takes the last cookie/slice of pizza/beer from the fridge guy.
But sometimes, you just really need a cookie, you know?
So I asked the barista for the cookie and (literally) rubbed my hands in anticipation and glee.
But then, when she picked it up with the tongs, the cookie broke in half.
My heart, at that moment, also broke in half.
Why?
Because the barista then said, "I'm sorry, but we are not allowed give you a broken cookie."
"I can't have the cookie?"
"No," she answered. "I'm sorry. Would you like something else? Maybe a cherry croissant?"
I then succumbed to a RAGE BLACKOUT.
And that's why I can no longer go to that Starbucks.
Co-poh-ray-shon?
Our corporations professor told us, and I quote, that "any non-native English speaker can bring a dictionary to the final examination."
Score!
Now that I an bring dictionary in, studying just got a lot easier. I can just use the dictionary to look up what "fiduciary" means. In the alternative, I can also hollow out the pages and hide a rock hammer in there, because God knows I could use the hope.
Score!
Now that I an bring dictionary in, studying just got a lot easier. I can just use the dictionary to look up what "fiduciary" means. In the alternative, I can also hollow out the pages and hide a rock hammer in there, because God knows I could use the hope.
Driving at the Speed of Birth
I guess "My wife is in labor" is no longer a valid justification for speeding. Hell, it's not even subject to a "She's right here in the car with me, officer. My baby is coming out of her right bleeping now" exception to this new rule.
It's also amazing to me that the cop needed proof. Like, he actually needed to see the kid crowning before he would allow the guy to haul ass to the hospital. Wasn't he was afraid that what happened to Will Smith with the alien baby in Men in Black would happen to him?
It's also amazing to me that the cop needed proof. Like, he actually needed to see the kid crowning before he would allow the guy to haul ass to the hospital. Wasn't he was afraid that what happened to Will Smith with the alien baby in Men in Black would happen to him?
Quote of the Day XXXVI
I don't believe in hypotheticals. They're like lying to your brain.
-- Kenneth, 30 Rock
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Elevator Go Up?
The BU faculty and grad student lounge is inconveniently located on the 5th floor of the GSU. It is a desirable place to go because, one, it doesn't let in undergrads and two, it is an all-you-can buffet, which, if you're my size and shape, is a sure sign that God loves you.
Why is it inconveniently located? Because to get to it, one must swim across a zombie-like swarm of freshmen who still haven't learned that the number one rule of a city is, "Don't be in the way." Then, one must take an elevator up five floors.
Yesterday, on our way to the buffet (pronounced boo-fay), we came across a disheartening sight.
A big sign that said "Closed for Repairs" was in front of the elevator.
We hesitated. Then a guy got off the elevator. We looked at each other, shrugged, and got on the elevator.
Getting into a broken elevator is a pretty stupid thing to do, and a bit more dangerous than something like sitting on a bench that clearly says, "Wet Paint." LOCKDOWN means you're trapped in a library, not in a small box with two guys. And to have what happened to this guy happen to us would be pretty bleeping catastrophic.
In any case, God protects fools and drunks. So, with the double dose of protection, we escaped unscathed.
Unfortunately, our luck ran out today, when we saw the elevator. The elevator is clearly going nowhere: it has so many exposed wires, it looks like its undergoing an autopsy.
But what really made us stop and weep was the sign.
ELEVATOR CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE UNTIL MARCH 1, 2009.
Three Months?! Boy, am I glad it didn't break with us in there, because three months is a pret-ty long time. I fail to comprehend how it takes three months to fix an elevator. Perhaps the piece they need to fix the elevator needs to be aged in wood, like a fine scotch. Perhaps, as Kyle suggested, it is being shipped from a war-torn nation, across continents and seas and Somali pirates, by someone who resembles Jack Bauer.
In any case, we'll be left without an elevator for three months. Which presents problems when getting to the fifth floor buffet.
At a time like this, when food is all we have to look forward to, five floors are an especially daunting obstacle. Granted, we would be well served in walking up the stairs, especially if we are going to have an eating contest up there. But five flights of stairs sure seems like Everest when you're starving and the prison guards have you on the clock.
We could, of course, engineer some type of rope and pulley system, but its construction might be difficult to explain to the guards during LOCKDOWN.
So I guess we'll just have to starve. Which is good, I guess, because it beats the heck out of studying. Which, as Matles so aptly put it, is an amalgam of 'student" and "dying."
Update: I've been informed that I can't count. Four months have been changed to three. Three months remain, however, an unconscionably long time in which to fix an elevator.
Why is it inconveniently located? Because to get to it, one must swim across a zombie-like swarm of freshmen who still haven't learned that the number one rule of a city is, "Don't be in the way." Then, one must take an elevator up five floors.
Yesterday, on our way to the buffet (pronounced boo-fay), we came across a disheartening sight.
A big sign that said "Closed for Repairs" was in front of the elevator.
We hesitated. Then a guy got off the elevator. We looked at each other, shrugged, and got on the elevator.
Getting into a broken elevator is a pretty stupid thing to do, and a bit more dangerous than something like sitting on a bench that clearly says, "Wet Paint." LOCKDOWN means you're trapped in a library, not in a small box with two guys. And to have what happened to this guy happen to us would be pretty bleeping catastrophic.
In any case, God protects fools and drunks. So, with the double dose of protection, we escaped unscathed.
Unfortunately, our luck ran out today, when we saw the elevator. The elevator is clearly going nowhere: it has so many exposed wires, it looks like its undergoing an autopsy.
But what really made us stop and weep was the sign.
ELEVATOR CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE UNTIL MARCH 1, 2009.
Three Months?! Boy, am I glad it didn't break with us in there, because three months is a pret-ty long time. I fail to comprehend how it takes three months to fix an elevator. Perhaps the piece they need to fix the elevator needs to be aged in wood, like a fine scotch. Perhaps, as Kyle suggested, it is being shipped from a war-torn nation, across continents and seas and Somali pirates, by someone who resembles Jack Bauer.
In any case, we'll be left without an elevator for three months. Which presents problems when getting to the fifth floor buffet.
At a time like this, when food is all we have to look forward to, five floors are an especially daunting obstacle. Granted, we would be well served in walking up the stairs, especially if we are going to have an eating contest up there. But five flights of stairs sure seems like Everest when you're starving and the prison guards have you on the clock.
We could, of course, engineer some type of rope and pulley system, but its construction might be difficult to explain to the guards during LOCKDOWN.
So I guess we'll just have to starve. Which is good, I guess, because it beats the heck out of studying. Which, as Matles so aptly put it, is an amalgam of 'student" and "dying."
Update: I've been informed that I can't count. Four months have been changed to three. Three months remain, however, an unconscionably long time in which to fix an elevator.
Quote of the Day XXXV
Hey, it was nice that they let Vince Young run around for a while, wasn't it? It's good to let the sad kid run around for a while. It's like giving the fat kid a chance to play soccer when the score's 8-0 already.
-- Will Leitch
Random Video of the Day XXXIV
"They are very rigorous, the judges' exams. They are noted for their rigor."
Monday, December 1, 2008
I Think I Like the Red One Better
Is it odd that a person sitting in front of me in class is shopping on Victoriassecret.com?
Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood
This keeps getting better and better. Since when is getting shot at an Applebee's that strange?
[Plaxico Burress] took the gun with him and spent roughly 90 (probably very painful, let's hope at least a little drunk) minutes calling hospitals to see where he could be treated discreetly, after which he went to New York–Cornell Hospital and checked in under a false name, even though hospital workers recognized him. Burress told administrators in the emergency room that his name was Harris Smith and that he was shot at Applebee's, which was apparently believable enough for them to decide not to report the gunshot wound as required by law.And since when do the folks at Cornell not call the police on you? Where was this "let's just shrug it off and wink" attitude two years ago?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday Bloody Sunday
Today kind of really sucked, football-wise, didn't it? And the weekend started off so promising, what with Plaxico Burress shooting himself in the leg.
But today. I mean, Jesus. The Patriots lost, for one.
Then the BCS rankings screwed Texas. This sums it up for me:
And, on a more personal level, my fantasy team waseliminated from playoff contention put out of its misery. This underwhelming crew was devastated by injuries to Nate Burleson and Reggie Bush. LaDanian Tomlinson did his best to emulate Shaun Alexander's career arc/spectacular decline. For someone with such (deceiving) great stats, Phil "Marmalard" Rivers' douchiness was almost matched by his inconsistency. And special thanks to Marvin "The Invisible Man" Harrison and Hines "My Team Won't Put the Ball in the Air" Ward.
I guess I should be at fault, for running a worst draft than the Jets. But hey. At least we're not the Lions.
But today. I mean, Jesus. The Patriots lost, for one.
Then the BCS rankings screwed Texas. This sums it up for me:
The Sooners (11-1), who lost to Texas 45-35 in October, barely edged the Longhorns. Oklahoma has a .9351 BCS average. Texas' BCS average is .9223. Oklahoma will play Missouri for the Big 12 title. So the Longhorns will be watching two teams they beat play for the conference title.The BCS can go and drown itself in a lake.
And, on a more personal level, my fantasy team was
I guess I should be at fault, for running a worst draft than the Jets. But hey. At least we're not the Lions.
We're Going Through the Quad and into the Gymnasium!
The machines in my gym have little TV screens with DVD slots. Which is nice, because laughing at Buster Bluth works well to distract one from the idea that one is operating much as a hamster on a wheel: An routine of running in place, repeating the same activities, doing the same thing every day, all in the vain hope of keeping those tires from rolling.
At the very least, the gym is an entertaining place to be, if only for the characters. There's a guy in my gym who comes in on occasion. He always walks in wearing a leather coat with fur lining its hood. This is odd, because the gym is in my apartment building. There is absolutely no need for one. This guy carefully takes off this coat, folds it, and goes straight to the free weights, picks out the smallest ones, and does maybe five minutes of curls before putting his coat back on, pulling his hood back up, and then leaving. He remains, however, thin, to which I credit anorexia and cocaine.
Then there is the opposite end of the spectrum: a big guy who kind of looks like Bill Belichik, and who, in my estimation, comes in at a deuce and a half, at least. This poor bastard spends at least an hour on the elliptical machine, producing enough saltwater to create a new home for Willy, should he no longer be Free, and, um, come back to life. Regardless, this man doesn't lose a pound, and his only accomplishment, sadly, is that he makes the gym smell like an open-air slaughterhouse, or perhaps a repository for drowned elephants. In any case, the smell is almost worth the glare that the Stepford Wives give him when he ascends that elliptical machine with lumbering gusto: It is the look one would imagine Dubya has reserved for Bin Laden.
This morning, as I was on the elliptical machine, a small Asian man walked in and got on the machine next to mine. Then he put a DVD in the machine, and it turned out to be, of all things, Notting Hill. Fifteen minutes later, perhaps frustrated by the romantic tension of Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts, he was done, and left the gym.
Notting Hill? Really? For the gym? I can't think of a movie less suited for that environment. Perhaps the Care Bear movie would rise to that level, but it's doubtful. Maybe The Joy Luck Club. Or Hostel.
At least it wasn't a porn.
At the very least, the gym is an entertaining place to be, if only for the characters. There's a guy in my gym who comes in on occasion. He always walks in wearing a leather coat with fur lining its hood. This is odd, because the gym is in my apartment building. There is absolutely no need for one. This guy carefully takes off this coat, folds it, and goes straight to the free weights, picks out the smallest ones, and does maybe five minutes of curls before putting his coat back on, pulling his hood back up, and then leaving. He remains, however, thin, to which I credit anorexia and cocaine.
Then there is the opposite end of the spectrum: a big guy who kind of looks like Bill Belichik, and who, in my estimation, comes in at a deuce and a half, at least. This poor bastard spends at least an hour on the elliptical machine, producing enough saltwater to create a new home for Willy, should he no longer be Free, and, um, come back to life. Regardless, this man doesn't lose a pound, and his only accomplishment, sadly, is that he makes the gym smell like an open-air slaughterhouse, or perhaps a repository for drowned elephants. In any case, the smell is almost worth the glare that the Stepford Wives give him when he ascends that elliptical machine with lumbering gusto: It is the look one would imagine Dubya has reserved for Bin Laden.
This morning, as I was on the elliptical machine, a small Asian man walked in and got on the machine next to mine. Then he put a DVD in the machine, and it turned out to be, of all things, Notting Hill. Fifteen minutes later, perhaps frustrated by the romantic tension of Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts, he was done, and left the gym.
Notting Hill? Really? For the gym? I can't think of a movie less suited for that environment. Perhaps the Care Bear movie would rise to that level, but it's doubtful. Maybe The Joy Luck Club. Or Hostel.
At least it wasn't a porn.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Random Video of the Day XXXIII
Just to keep with the blasts from the past. Yesterday brought us A Man Called Flintstone. Today brings us another great movie, The Brave Little Toaster. I loved this movie when I was a kid, and it still holds up today, for the most part. The air conditioner's death scene is great. The toaster's worst nightmare is to be dropped in a tub. And, of course, the songs are terrific. That said, there is definitely something going on between the toaster and the blanket. It's not quite Peppermint Patty-Marcia, but it's certainly above the Chandler-Joey level. And why the purple lamp has a Cuban accent is beyond me.
Jailhouse Rock
Some of you may remember a certain night in the late April of '07 when a few shady people, myself included, went to an after-hours at my house and played Guitar Hero at a volume that was just a lit-tle bit too loud for 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning. This led to an unfortunate encounter with Ithaca's finest, and may or may not have resulted in a visit downtown.
In a positive note, however, I did learn that handcuffs are surprisingly uncomfortable. Who knew?
The crime? Having too much fun, I guess. Technically, it was a noise violation. Now, this ordinance may or may not be unconstitutional, depending on who you ask. But I didn't pay for a drink all week, the bail money covered the fine, and now I have a pretty good "never have I ever."
And I'm just thankful that this did not happen in Colorado. Apparently, the judge likes to punish those irksome creatures, the noise violators, by locking them in a room and forcing them to listen to Barry Manilow and Barney the Dinosaur for hours on end.
Personally, I think a worse punishment would be to make them listen to this on repeat. But this is just as bad. Barney the flipping dinosaur. Where, I ask you, is common decency? Where is the eight amendment? Where are the Geneva Conventions? I'd rather be waterboarded.
In a positive note, however, I did learn that handcuffs are surprisingly uncomfortable. Who knew?
The crime? Having too much fun, I guess. Technically, it was a noise violation. Now, this ordinance may or may not be unconstitutional, depending on who you ask. But I didn't pay for a drink all week, the bail money covered the fine, and now I have a pretty good "never have I ever."
And I'm just thankful that this did not happen in Colorado. Apparently, the judge likes to punish those irksome creatures, the noise violators, by locking them in a room and forcing them to listen to Barry Manilow and Barney the Dinosaur for hours on end.
Personally, I think a worse punishment would be to make them listen to this on repeat. But this is just as bad. Barney the flipping dinosaur. Where, I ask you, is common decency? Where is the eight amendment? Where are the Geneva Conventions? I'd rather be waterboarded.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving
Happy Turkey Day, everybody!
That expression has always struck me as a bit of a misnomer. I have yet to see a happy turkey on Thanksgiving. Mostly, they are melancholy, or angry and paranoid. And, really, can you blame them?
With the stupid joke out of the way, I can go on to list what I'm grateful for.
Friends and family, without whom the friends and family discount, so integral a part of the narcotics baron, would not exist.
Cows, who, because they are the tastiest of the animals, are my favorite of the animals. Without them, there would be no steaks, prime ribs, skirt steaks, flank steaks, strip steaks, T-Bones, Rib-eyes, filet mignons, roast beef, brisket, cheesesteaks, beef jerky, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, or any other of the vast array of hamburgers that are so plentiful in this land of, um, plenty.
Beers, Wines, and Spirits, all integral parts of the Hotel Administration major at Cornell, and all also integral parts of the clouding of one's judgment.
The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy and Will Ferrell movies, without which my conversations would be much, much more silent.
Sports, like baseball, football, and beer pong.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, three of most important meals of the day.
And now, I am off, to make myself some steak. I always have steak instead of turkey on Thanksgiving. Turkey, the blandest of the meats, is an acceptable food. However, if we are going to be grateful about food, it stands to reason that we should consume the best of the foods. Thus, steak, the background on my iPhone and the reason I become emotional, on occasion, at steakhouses.
That expression has always struck me as a bit of a misnomer. I have yet to see a happy turkey on Thanksgiving. Mostly, they are melancholy, or angry and paranoid. And, really, can you blame them?
With the stupid joke out of the way, I can go on to list what I'm grateful for.
Friends and family, without whom the friends and family discount, so integral a part of the narcotics baron, would not exist.
Cows, who, because they are the tastiest of the animals, are my favorite of the animals. Without them, there would be no steaks, prime ribs, skirt steaks, flank steaks, strip steaks, T-Bones, Rib-eyes, filet mignons, roast beef, brisket, cheesesteaks, beef jerky, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, or any other of the vast array of hamburgers that are so plentiful in this land of, um, plenty.
Beers, Wines, and Spirits, all integral parts of the Hotel Administration major at Cornell, and all also integral parts of the clouding of one's judgment.
The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy and Will Ferrell movies, without which my conversations would be much, much more silent.
Sports, like baseball, football, and beer pong.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, three of most important meals of the day.
And now, I am off, to make myself some steak. I always have steak instead of turkey on Thanksgiving. Turkey, the blandest of the meats, is an acceptable food. However, if we are going to be grateful about food, it stands to reason that we should consume the best of the foods. Thus, steak, the background on my iPhone and the reason I become emotional, on occasion, at steakhouses.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I Immediately Regret This Decision
If the scores of people waiting to crowd onto the T with bags roughly the size of a ten-year old didn't tip you off, this is Thanksgiving weekend, which means most people have four full days of freedom. For law students, of course, this means that we have a turkey break during LOCKDOWN.
Because I'll be spending a lot of time at home over the next few days, and should get up from the LOCKDOWN every once in a while or risk succumbing to chair sores, I figured this was the perfect opportunity to do something of myself and cook.
I know. You're cringing. I'm cringing too. Who can forget that time sophomore year when i tried to cook spaghetti and it came out black? I'm the kind of guy who can somehow set cereal on fire.
Just the other day, in fact, I tried to cook myself some chicken. And it was a little bit of a catastrophe.
See, the culinarily challenged should, if faced with the necessity of concocting a meal -- and I stress the word necessity -- should stick to the bare minimum. The less steps, the better. Avoid fire, if possible. Even the microwave should be used only if a fire extinguisher and a responsible adult are withing screaming distance.
What turned the mundane task of cooking some chicken into a misadventure was my hubris. See, I tried to be ambitious. I tried to overreach. And, just like Icarus, I flew a little too close to the sun.
Usually, when I cook chicken, I heat a little bit of oil, let it smoke, turn down the heat, put the chicken in the pan, and presto. Chicken.
This time, I wanted to be ambitious and marinated the chicken.
My first thought, I've made a huge mistake.
My second thought, what the bleep?
Within seconds of setting the chicken down on the pan, my kitchen looked like on of those airport smoking lounges where you can't see anything above the waist. There was so much smoke, I couldn't tell if there was a fire. The smoke detector, of course, went batshit insane, broadcasting for the whole world to know just how epic a fail I was as a cook. There are few things more undignified than a grown man standing on a chair, frantically waving a magazine under a smoke detector. Thank God the firefighters didn't come racing in. I can't think of anything more embarrassing than greeting the city's bravest with a shrug that sends a blackened chicken breast from my pan to the floor, where my "dinner" would crumble like ashes.
And yet, like a dog who won't stop jumping at an electric fence, this weekend I will attempt to cook meals beyond my usual staples of quesadillas and pasta. I have bought potatoes. Peppers. Onions. Other vegetables I barely recognize. Heck, I even bought another pan, and will attempt the unthinkable -- at least to me -- and try to cook two things at the same time.
When you come back from break, if you find a smoldering hole where my apartment used to be, it will be because my attempt at making a salad probably failed.
Pray for me and my neighbors.
Because I'll be spending a lot of time at home over the next few days, and should get up from the LOCKDOWN every once in a while or risk succumbing to chair sores, I figured this was the perfect opportunity to do something of myself and cook.
I know. You're cringing. I'm cringing too. Who can forget that time sophomore year when i tried to cook spaghetti and it came out black? I'm the kind of guy who can somehow set cereal on fire.
Just the other day, in fact, I tried to cook myself some chicken. And it was a little bit of a catastrophe.
See, the culinarily challenged should, if faced with the necessity of concocting a meal -- and I stress the word necessity -- should stick to the bare minimum. The less steps, the better. Avoid fire, if possible. Even the microwave should be used only if a fire extinguisher and a responsible adult are withing screaming distance.
What turned the mundane task of cooking some chicken into a misadventure was my hubris. See, I tried to be ambitious. I tried to overreach. And, just like Icarus, I flew a little too close to the sun.
Usually, when I cook chicken, I heat a little bit of oil, let it smoke, turn down the heat, put the chicken in the pan, and presto. Chicken.
This time, I wanted to be ambitious and marinated the chicken.
My first thought, I've made a huge mistake.
My second thought, what the bleep?
Within seconds of setting the chicken down on the pan, my kitchen looked like on of those airport smoking lounges where you can't see anything above the waist. There was so much smoke, I couldn't tell if there was a fire. The smoke detector, of course, went batshit insane, broadcasting for the whole world to know just how epic a fail I was as a cook. There are few things more undignified than a grown man standing on a chair, frantically waving a magazine under a smoke detector. Thank God the firefighters didn't come racing in. I can't think of anything more embarrassing than greeting the city's bravest with a shrug that sends a blackened chicken breast from my pan to the floor, where my "dinner" would crumble like ashes.
And yet, like a dog who won't stop jumping at an electric fence, this weekend I will attempt to cook meals beyond my usual staples of quesadillas and pasta. I have bought potatoes. Peppers. Onions. Other vegetables I barely recognize. Heck, I even bought another pan, and will attempt the unthinkable -- at least to me -- and try to cook two things at the same time.
When you come back from break, if you find a smoldering hole where my apartment used to be, it will be because my attempt at making a salad probably failed.
Pray for me and my neighbors.
Quote of the Day XXXIV
There are two things I hate: People who are intolerant of other people's cultures. And the Dutch.
-- Nigel Powers
Fun at the Financial Concern Forum
This is the email we just got from the higher ups at BU asking us not to lose our composure.
Dear Students,
In our October 29, e-mail message (http://www.bu.edu/dos/
messages/financialneed2008. ) we acknowledged that some of you may be apprehensive about your family's financial circumstances, prospects for employment next year, or your ability to manage your expenses next semester. If you have questions or concerns about your current or future prospects for receiving financial aid, please call, e-mail, or visit the Office of Financial Assistance at 881 Commonwealth Avenue (finaid@bu.edu; 617-353-2965).html We are also offering another chance to raise your concerns with members of the University's staff at an open forum on Monday, December 1, 2008, from 5:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. in CAS 224. Whether you have questions about financial aid awards, the availability of student loans, looking for jobs in a tight market, or just want to know what help is available to you, please join us. If you're not able to attend the discussion on December 1, please feel free to call staff members in the offices listed below; they're ready to talk with you at any time.
Financial Assistance (http://www.bu.edu/finaid)
University Service Center (http://www.bu.edu/usc)
Dean of Students (http://www.bu.edu/dos)
Student Accounting Services (http://www.bu.edu/comp/saweb)
Student Employment Office (http://.bu.edu/seo)
Career Services (http://www.bu.edu/careers)
International Students and Scholars Office (http://www.bu.edu/isso)
If you have any concerns, we encourage you to join us on December 1, or contact one of the listed offices. We hope you have an enjoyable and relaxing Thanksgiving break, and safe travels!
Are things that bad? Look at all those links! The subject of the email was "Message Regarding Financial Concern Forum." There's a forum now? At least the email wasn't in all CAPS, so that's a good sign. Nevertheless, it's a little distressing. Between this and finals, I'm going to start wearing a hard hat when I'm walking by the tower.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thanksgiving Dinner is Going to be a Lit-tle Awkward
Via Deadspin:
"Two visitors from Iowa engaged in public sexual activities Saturday during the last Gophers football game at the Metrodome... By the time officers entered the bathroom to break up the conspicuous couple, a crowd of 15 onlookers had gathered around the over-occupied stall 'cheering and laughing' ... The male, 26, was released to his girlfriend. The female, 38, was released to her husband. Neither of the offenders’ partners were engaged in the explicit act."
"Two visitors from Iowa engaged in public sexual activities Saturday during the last Gophers football game at the Metrodome... By the time officers entered the bathroom to break up the conspicuous couple, a crowd of 15 onlookers had gathered around the over-occupied stall 'cheering and laughing' ... The male, 26, was released to his girlfriend. The female, 38, was released to her husband. Neither of the offenders’ partners were engaged in the explicit act."
Gooaaaa ... oh no!
Hey, Cornellians, remember Ryan O'Byrne? He plays for the Montreal Canadiens now, which is terrific. But then yesterday he went and did this.
It's an interesting strategy, Cotton. Let's see if it works out for them.
It's an interesting strategy, Cotton. Let's see if it works out for them.
Monday, November 24, 2008
LOCKDOWN
That's all, folks.
Finals season is nigh upon us. I, for one, have four finals, and regard them much as one would the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
This means, unfortunately, that we must enter LOCKDOWN.
LOCKDOWN involves a rather strict regimen, and, for the next month, I will be garrisoned on the third floor of the library. On occasion, the guards will allow me to go get a sandwich from the nearby mess hall. Twice a day, I'll get to see the outdoors. Once on my walk to the tower of terror, then once more on the return.
It's actually a lot like house arrest, if you think about it. There is zero to none chance that I will see downtown Boston until finals are over. Restaurant meals will be non-existent, unless that restaurant is Chipotle, and that meal is eaten on the elevator up to my apartment. Movies, books, television and the like will have to be sacrificed. Being a lawyer better be awesome.
And going out? No way. Absolutely not.
...
Maybe. Maybe once a week. Maybe I'll go out once a week. But things have to change. These can't be the usual drink-until-you-can't-see days of yore. There have to be standards. Limits. The three drink minimum has to turn into a three drink maximum.
I can't afford to spend full days in the fetal position, praying for death. Instead, I must pass my days in the sitting-hunched-over-a-book position, praying for death.
A small difference to some, perhaps. But to those of us staring at finals like bunnies stare at the cold, dark nozzle of a shotgun, that difference may be the difference between a misfire and a head-shot.
I'll still blog. Writing this inanity should be a helpful respite, if only for a few minutes, of trying to decipher the tax implications of reverse triangular mergers.
So farewell, dear friends. I'll be back soon.
All I ask is that, when you drink and make merry, I pray that, upon clinking your glasses, you will pause for a moment and consider the plight of your poor friends, captive at the law school, shackled to their laptops, eyes bleeding from the exertion of reading. And I hope that you will take a moment to recognize their distress, and perhaps even take a sip in their honor, for it is them that you will remember on that fated day when the police lead your bewildered behind to the slammer, and you need someone to tell you just what exactly involuntary manslaughter entails.
Finals season is nigh upon us. I, for one, have four finals, and regard them much as one would the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
This means, unfortunately, that we must enter LOCKDOWN.
LOCKDOWN involves a rather strict regimen, and, for the next month, I will be garrisoned on the third floor of the library. On occasion, the guards will allow me to go get a sandwich from the nearby mess hall. Twice a day, I'll get to see the outdoors. Once on my walk to the tower of terror, then once more on the return.
It's actually a lot like house arrest, if you think about it. There is zero to none chance that I will see downtown Boston until finals are over. Restaurant meals will be non-existent, unless that restaurant is Chipotle, and that meal is eaten on the elevator up to my apartment. Movies, books, television and the like will have to be sacrificed. Being a lawyer better be awesome.
And going out? No way. Absolutely not.
...
Maybe. Maybe once a week. Maybe I'll go out once a week. But things have to change. These can't be the usual drink-until-you-can't-see days of yore. There have to be standards. Limits. The three drink minimum has to turn into a three drink maximum.
I can't afford to spend full days in the fetal position, praying for death. Instead, I must pass my days in the sitting-hunched-over-a-book position, praying for death.
A small difference to some, perhaps. But to those of us staring at finals like bunnies stare at the cold, dark nozzle of a shotgun, that difference may be the difference between a misfire and a head-shot.
I'll still blog. Writing this inanity should be a helpful respite, if only for a few minutes, of trying to decipher the tax implications of reverse triangular mergers.
So farewell, dear friends. I'll be back soon.
All I ask is that, when you drink and make merry, I pray that, upon clinking your glasses, you will pause for a moment and consider the plight of your poor friends, captive at the law school, shackled to their laptops, eyes bleeding from the exertion of reading. And I hope that you will take a moment to recognize their distress, and perhaps even take a sip in their honor, for it is them that you will remember on that fated day when the police lead your bewildered behind to the slammer, and you need someone to tell you just what exactly involuntary manslaughter entails.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The Best Little Whorehouse in Tejas
The NYT recently published a story about my hometown, in which townspeople speculate about what will happen to its old-town charm now that the American invasion is in full bloom, led by luminaries such as Stone Phillips and Antonio Banderas.
And I for one, welcome our new celebrity overlords, and would like to remind them that, as a trusted narcotics magnate, I could be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.
The best part about this new rush to old Mexico is, of course, the infusion of dollars. As difficult as things are up here in America, the dollar is still king. Its incursion into San Miguel's economy would be welcome indeed, as it would go a long way towards introducing and establishing many goods and services that, in the dark days of yore, were tragically lacking.
I speak, of course, of strip clubs. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Story time.
A few years ago, my buddies and I, along with my little brother, who had just turned 18, were out and about, looking for something, and, eventually, someone to do. But it was still early in the evening, and we were bored.
So one of us, Yellow the Mellow Fellow, suggested we go to a strip club.
As the only local, I told him, "Yellow, there aren't any."
"Lies," he said. "Every town worth its salt has a strip club."
"Buddy, there's none," I said. "Trust me."
He refused to take no for an answer, and so went to ask people to recommend a good strip club.
The first guy he went to said that I was right, and that there were no strip clubs.
"See?" I said.
"That guy's a bigger nerd than you are," Yellow answered. "I have to ask someone with a girlfriend."
So he went and asked someone with a girlfriend. He chalked up the negative response to the fact that his girlfriend was there, "and of course he would have nooooo idea about a strip club."
And then he saw a cop.
"Perfect," he said, and went to ask the cop.
To our astonishment, the cop smiled, nodded, and actually pulled out a map. He was like a cabbie in Vegas. The cop proceeded to animatedly gesture, slap Yellow on the shoulder, and sold it like entrepreneurs sell Adderall at law schools.
Bottom line, we were heading over to "La Cabana," a wonderful place 2 miles out of town, accessible only through the old royal road.
We took a cab out there and pulled into what looked like the Bada Bing, except without the neon and dead Italians. It was a nondescript, squat building with no windows and one door/escape route. The parking lot featured, alternately, pick-up trucks and tethered horses.
So we walked into this place, and, as is to be expected, it was dark, dingy, and had a bunch of men in cowboy hats seated in tables around a stage. So far so good.
And then we got stopped by the madame. God knows what you call them. She had to be at least fifty. Her hair was Marge Simpson blue. Her teeth were mostly there. Her legs looked like a map of major European rivers.
And, when she spoke, she did so in Harvey Fierstein's voice.
"Hello, boys. You new to these parts?"
(No, of course not). We nodded.
"You know how it works here, right?"
(No, of course not.) "No, of course not."
"Well, you boys all take a seat at one of those tables, maybe have a drink or two. Then, when you pick a girl who strikes your fancy, you take her up on stage, dance one song with her, settle the terms, and then the rooms are in the back."
Most would have figured out what was going on by now, but I'm a little slow. "Terms?" I asked.
"Yeah," the madame said. "Terms. Usually it's five dollars, but it can go up to maybe twice that, depending on how far outside the line you want to color."
By this point, even I understood what was going on. But, as the laws mandate it, I still had to ask another stupid question. "So this isn't a strip club?"
She looked at me as if I had said Africa was a country. "No. Not quite. I mean, they'll strip, but not out in public. Go on ahead and sit. Bucket of beers OK?"
We could only nod and be led to our seats. We were still in a state of shock. Somehow, we had managed to find ourselves, at a cop's recommendation, in a five dollar whorehouse.
I have neglected to mention that, although we were all Mexicans, we were suburban Mexicans. And, with the exception of my brother, I was the least Anglo-looking one in the bunch. Those who know what I look like can understand this implication. We looked like a bunch of Swedish tourists. I mean, there's a reason we called the instigator of this whole mess "Yellow." The man is completely yellow.
So not only are we out of our transactional element, we are out of our cultural element. Remember that scene in Road Trip, when they crash a frat house, claiming to be brothers there, and it turns out to be a national black fraternity, and then someone finds a KKK mask?
That's what this was like, except it's in backroads Mexico, the land that law forgot.
Every one of the beers in our beer bucket was flat. We kept getting stared down. Every time the huge cowboys behind us got up, they always "accidentally" elbowed and kneed us in the back. The entire time, we're sitting there, barely talking, praying it wouldn't turn out to be From Dusk til Dawn in there.
So we chugged our (flat) beers, left like a 50 percent tip/thanks-for-not-killing-us-toll, and high tailed it out of there like our asses were on fire. We waited maybe ten seconds for a cab, and then power walked the hell out of those two miles down an old abandoned road back to town.
From what I understand, those two miles are now developed, and La Cabana is probably no more. At the very least, it should be markedly more expensive. Hopefully.
Gentrification can't come soon enough.
And I for one, welcome our new celebrity overlords, and would like to remind them that, as a trusted narcotics magnate, I could be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.
The best part about this new rush to old Mexico is, of course, the infusion of dollars. As difficult as things are up here in America, the dollar is still king. Its incursion into San Miguel's economy would be welcome indeed, as it would go a long way towards introducing and establishing many goods and services that, in the dark days of yore, were tragically lacking.
I speak, of course, of strip clubs. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Story time.
A few years ago, my buddies and I, along with my little brother, who had just turned 18, were out and about, looking for something, and, eventually, someone to do. But it was still early in the evening, and we were bored.
So one of us, Yellow the Mellow Fellow, suggested we go to a strip club.
As the only local, I told him, "Yellow, there aren't any."
"Lies," he said. "Every town worth its salt has a strip club."
"Buddy, there's none," I said. "Trust me."
He refused to take no for an answer, and so went to ask people to recommend a good strip club.
The first guy he went to said that I was right, and that there were no strip clubs.
"See?" I said.
"That guy's a bigger nerd than you are," Yellow answered. "I have to ask someone with a girlfriend."
So he went and asked someone with a girlfriend. He chalked up the negative response to the fact that his girlfriend was there, "and of course he would have nooooo idea about a strip club."
And then he saw a cop.
"Perfect," he said, and went to ask the cop.
To our astonishment, the cop smiled, nodded, and actually pulled out a map. He was like a cabbie in Vegas. The cop proceeded to animatedly gesture, slap Yellow on the shoulder, and sold it like entrepreneurs sell Adderall at law schools.
Bottom line, we were heading over to "La Cabana," a wonderful place 2 miles out of town, accessible only through the old royal road.
We took a cab out there and pulled into what looked like the Bada Bing, except without the neon and dead Italians. It was a nondescript, squat building with no windows and one door/escape route. The parking lot featured, alternately, pick-up trucks and tethered horses.
So we walked into this place, and, as is to be expected, it was dark, dingy, and had a bunch of men in cowboy hats seated in tables around a stage. So far so good.
And then we got stopped by the madame. God knows what you call them. She had to be at least fifty. Her hair was Marge Simpson blue. Her teeth were mostly there. Her legs looked like a map of major European rivers.
And, when she spoke, she did so in Harvey Fierstein's voice.
"Hello, boys. You new to these parts?"
(No, of course not). We nodded.
"You know how it works here, right?"
(No, of course not.) "No, of course not."
"Well, you boys all take a seat at one of those tables, maybe have a drink or two. Then, when you pick a girl who strikes your fancy, you take her up on stage, dance one song with her, settle the terms, and then the rooms are in the back."
Most would have figured out what was going on by now, but I'm a little slow. "Terms?" I asked.
"Yeah," the madame said. "Terms. Usually it's five dollars, but it can go up to maybe twice that, depending on how far outside the line you want to color."
By this point, even I understood what was going on. But, as the laws mandate it, I still had to ask another stupid question. "So this isn't a strip club?"
She looked at me as if I had said Africa was a country. "No. Not quite. I mean, they'll strip, but not out in public. Go on ahead and sit. Bucket of beers OK?"
We could only nod and be led to our seats. We were still in a state of shock. Somehow, we had managed to find ourselves, at a cop's recommendation, in a five dollar whorehouse.
I have neglected to mention that, although we were all Mexicans, we were suburban Mexicans. And, with the exception of my brother, I was the least Anglo-looking one in the bunch. Those who know what I look like can understand this implication. We looked like a bunch of Swedish tourists. I mean, there's a reason we called the instigator of this whole mess "Yellow." The man is completely yellow.
So not only are we out of our transactional element, we are out of our cultural element. Remember that scene in Road Trip, when they crash a frat house, claiming to be brothers there, and it turns out to be a national black fraternity, and then someone finds a KKK mask?
That's what this was like, except it's in backroads Mexico, the land that law forgot.
Every one of the beers in our beer bucket was flat. We kept getting stared down. Every time the huge cowboys behind us got up, they always "accidentally" elbowed and kneed us in the back. The entire time, we're sitting there, barely talking, praying it wouldn't turn out to be From Dusk til Dawn in there.
So we chugged our (flat) beers, left like a 50 percent tip/thanks-for-not-killing-us-toll, and high tailed it out of there like our asses were on fire. We waited maybe ten seconds for a cab, and then power walked the hell out of those two miles down an old abandoned road back to town.
From what I understand, those two miles are now developed, and La Cabana is probably no more. At the very least, it should be markedly more expensive. Hopefully.
Gentrification can't come soon enough.
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