The local grocery store has an extensive variety of beer. Well’s Banana Bread Beer is worth trying and is a sweet departure from the oatmeal stouts I’ve been known to reach for.
Starbucks has a line of “Signature Hot Chocolates” now. The Caramel Salted Hot Chocolate, which is actually toffee flavored and topped with whipped cream, caramel sauce and sprinkled with sea salt, is sweet and salty albeit deiciously overpriced. Besides open wounds, salt seems to make everything better.
Why haven’t I discovered the song “Grace Kelly” by Mika sooner? I’d never even heard of the artist until a drag queen performance last week. I don’t know what to be bothered by more: the fact that there is so much great music out there that I’m missing out on or that my study schedule has forced me so far out of the main stream that I treat the playlists of drag queens as a form of melodious gospel.
My camera phone takes decent quality pictures of everything except food. For general picture messaging its great. In the kicthen however, even a beef wellington through the lens of my phone’s camera will look less appetizing than a “Tour of Italy” from that popular, local cucina italiana. I have decent quality pictures of the food I’ve been cooking and eating lately on my digital camera, though its all moot until I figure out how to transfer them from my digital camera to my laptop and then post them on here.
Its cheaper to fill our gas tanks with bald eagle heads than gasoline, lots of retailers are having huge markdowns and, perhaps most importantly, Linens & Things is going out of business. These can only mean two things: the apocalypse is near and the has gone to shit (that may be redundant.) Election day is soon-ish. I hope the President-elect shows up with a huge grinder of seal salt to sprinkle generously down on our economy.
One of our professors managed to work the phrase “enter into sexual congress” into his lecture last week. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s genuinely of a mindset as antiquated as his verbiage or if he is fully aware and revels in the class’ befuddlement.
My wardrobe could use a mild pre-winter revamping. I’m on a budget, though, and should start actually acting like it instead of just writing about it. In conclusion, I’ll probably blow some money on new threads this weekend and lament about my lack of money in a few weeks.
Jean Peal Gaultier Fall 2008 Menswear
There is something very Oliver Twist/A Clockwork Orange about the story that Jean Paul Gaultier’s Fall 2008 Men’s collection is trying to tell. Derby hats, umbrellas, sepia-tones, vests that don’t scream “caterer.” Did I mention derbies? I appreciate this kind of aesthetic so much.
Anyone want to travel to Europe for a month next summer? Should first-year law students spend the summer before second year in an internship? What happens if they don’t?
Fall Break is next week. I’m planning on heading home Wednesday, right after class, and getting back to Buffalo Sunday evening. There are so many people I can’t wait to see at home — even more exciting since I’m not planning a visit home for Thanksgiving. My niece turns one year old next month and is more adorable every time I see her.
Here are some personal opinions on parts of Barack’s plan for the economy. As a graduate student, the idea of having my tax dollars going to bail out irresponsible executives is haunting. I will have enough debt to pay back after graduation, and instead of allowing the economic dire straights looming on the horizon under the current administration realize, I would prefer to finish my studies and then enter a more opportune job market. Bipartisan oversight of the plan to fix our current economic crisis is something that I imagine everyone would fully support. The economy (and all its cute ups and downs) has a fear-reaching effect which touches us as a nation collectively; each of us is impacted the same way, with no special consideration for status as members of particular political parties. As such, it can only be responsible to approach oversight of the matter with as little politicizing as possible.
Oh, last Thursday a classmate was referencing a hypothetical and used the verb “motorboating.” I laughed hard for a little while and noticed that I was the only one really snickering. Could the rest of the class really have missed out on the cinematic splendor that was Wedding Crashers? No, probably not… the reason I was the only one to laugh was more likely because I’m actually a law student with the sense of humor of a 14 year-old junior high student.
Filed under: Ramblings & Observations
There a number of things I don’t understand about (most) organized sports. Not the sports themselves, but moreso the mob-like mentality of sports fans and all of the curiosities that go along with fandom. What perplexes me, mainly, is how people get so so riled up about their “home team,” as if that word encompasses even the tiniest shred of home pride in the traditional sense of the word (according to my traditions, of course, with which I will assume everyone is well-versed and commonly subscribes to.)
Sexy Plumber / Sexy Yankee?
But seriously, most players on the teams aren’t from the city that they play for (rather, get paid to play for.) How does that make any sense? I would rather see actual, fat plumbers from the Bronx on the Yankees go against a Boston-based team of questionably-sober, incomprehensible Red Sox. Just me?
Left to right: Obama & Ludacris (singer/songwriter)
In fact, even more ludicrous is how season to season the decks are reshuffled. And by decks I mean rosters. Switcharoo’s and the like, therein looming a large chance that the favorites from one season could potentially go to a different, or even rival team.
Also, athletes by and large are not playing for the hometown fans (this is unsubstantiated but just go with it.) They are playing for the paychecks signed by rich, old men who own the “teams.” They own the teams but refer to them as “franchises,” which boils my blood for a whole different set of reasons. Its mostly a verbiage thing. When I hear about sport franchises I cant help but immediately think of sports teams as some abstraction of a fast food restaurant. Franchise, when you hear the word, evokes thoughts of things like business models, profitability, Big Macs and other (less delicious) business-y type concepts proposed by mustachioed corporate big-wigs and fat-cats.
I’m just sayin’, white folks is crazy. And, so is my perspective on sports fandom.
Filed under: Food & Drink
It’s not in my style to pick a favorite season. This is true mainly because I manage to convince myself that every season is my favorite at the first respective sign of blossoming, snowfall, etc.
Tonight I cooked dinner for myself and my roomate. I served a meal that I test-ran just a few days prior in the company of my friend, Michael. Michael gets to be the guinea pig during my bouts of culinary exploration because he’s a critical eater with a discernible palette and a healthy appetite.
The dinner was Roasted Chicken, with parsley-thyme compound butter tucked between the skin and seasoned with paprika; Roasted Potatoes, red creamer and dutch gold; Apple & Beet Salad, with walnuts, red onion and a honey vinaigrette. (Tonight I also made boxed couscous at the last minute just to give the chicken something to rest against.)
Roasted Chicken and Potatoes with Apple & Beet Salad
The picture quality is terrible. My digital camera wasn’t charged and I had to resort to the one on my cellphone.
The chicken skin was crispier and more delicious tonight than the first time around. The salad is my mother’s recipe which I updated by using honey instead of sugar. I steamed fresh beets for the salad on Friday but tonight I used canned beets. No matter how you cook beets, the red juice will run when you cut into them, leaving your countertop a criminal shade of rouge. The canned beets saved me time and cleanup, and since I couldn’t taste any difference, I’ll be keeping a few cans of beets in the pantry from now on.
Filed under: Law School
For those who are unfamiliar, the Socractic Method is a charming little gem of a teaching techniqe that professors in law schools typally employ during lectures. Under the Socractic Method, the basic idea is that instead of waiting for volunteers to contribute toward class discussion, a professor may at any time call on any student and then proceed to interrogate them until they are satisfied. And by “may” I mean “will.” If a student is unprepared for class, isntead of skipping over them or just letting it slide the professor will often times have the student read and prepare the entire case while the rest of the class waits. Oh, I shit you not.
We’re a solid three weeks into school and I’m, for the most part, always prepared. I do the required readings, I prepare briefs for every case in every class and I even talk about school with anyone who will listen (does blogging count?) Besides all of those things, the Socratic Method itself is a chief motivator. I can’t go to sleep at night if I feel unprepared. In that way, the method seems great. Well, its great in the same way that radiation is great; it seems like it can do so much good, yet as soon as you get up close you immediately start to feel like you’re dying slowly.
Eight o’clock this morning. Criminal Law. For our last class we were assigned a case to read that was unavailable until the eleventh hour, and listed on the syllabus as “to be provided.” Somewhere in between the time that it became available online and the actual class (two days ago) I completely forgot it even existed. It was the *only* case I hadn’t briefed all semester so far. I skipped one case, mainly because it wasn’t there when I needed it to be. Little did I realize, this would be my undoing.
I felt 100% prepared for today’s class. I sat, still kind of sleepy, not at all smug, kind of hoping the professor would call on me. I wanted the class of 80+ students to see that I’m more than just some slacker-type kid with a MacBook who has little regard for things such as socially-constructed conventions of how often one should shave their face. “No,” I thought, “I’m smart, too! Let me prove it. Subject me to the Socratic Method and watch me parry like some sort of olympic-grade fencer who engages in legal dialogue instead of swordplay.”
As soon as the professor walked into the room I went though my typical Tuesday-morning thought process. “What are the chances he’ll call on me? Slim.. I always participate voluntarily, so I’m pretty much in with him. Yeah, I’m in with him and I’m in with the smart kids. He won’t be calling on me today at all. Hmm, this croissant is dry..” Well, I was wrong. And not about the croissant.
The professor mentioned the name of the case, “Commonwealth v. Simone,” and my stomach sank a little. I was thinking “Wtf, I don’t even have that case.. is that the case that was in availability-limbo over the weekend? Why is he bringing this case up?” Then, my worst fear came true as he looked in my direction (directly into my soul, I’d be willing to bet), adressed me by my last name (albeit horribly butchered) and uttered the words that made me shit a proverbial brick (and then later that day an actual brick): “Please tell us about the facts..”
When I made it clear that I was unprepared for this case (and only this case) he told me to “take [my] time,” and then told the rest of the class to “feel free to go grab some coffee, because the case is substantially long and properly preparing for it will take at least 30 minutes. Seriously, go get something to drink because this be be a while.”
Approximately 10 minutes later I was fully prepared and hollered down to the front, “OK, I’m ready.” He looked a little astonished, as if thinking “Yea, okay kid. Let’s see what you come up with..” And so the interrogation began.
I blacked out for the next hour or so. But, from what my classmates told me, I somehow survived.
I approached him during the break in class, half to apologize for wasting his and everyone else’s time and half to get a better assessment of whether or not this man was actually human (still not convinced of the latter. I will start bringing garlic and silver to class to test this further.) The professor did, however, commend me on how I dealt with it all. He told me he appreciated that I came down to tell him how I felt, that he would never hold it against me because things happen and that it was impressive that I was able to get my shit together in a considerably short amount of time. I told him that I was a speed reader as a child and that I would have voiced this when he sent everyone out for coffee, but that I bit my tongue for fear that it would be poor timing and come off utterly pompus. He agreed with me, I went back to my seat and life went on. Later that day I shat a two more proverbial bricks, one actual brick and then layed a faberge egg.
Filed under: Ramblings & Observations
One thing that can certainly test our limits on when to behave tactfully is, kind of obviously, necessity. More specifically, our need to eat dictates how we feel and how we act accordingly. When we’re hungry, we’re cranky. When we’re full, we’re at least not hungry and usually not cranky. When I’m hungry most rules of social grace go directly out of the window (and then somehow come back inside once I’m fed, I suppose?)
This morning I had the pleasure of driving and accompanying my roommate to a doctor’s appointment/procedure. The policy of the office is to have the driver stay for the length of the visit, which not unlike some kind of bizarre house arrest. The require a driver because patients are way too doped up afterwards to drive themselves home (and this is an understatement for how out of it my roommate really was – the wonders/my envy of those on painkillers are fascinating enough for a post of it’s own – but I digress.)
Enter utter disregard: It was my intention the night before to go to sleep a little earlier, and naturally, I opted for a night of hard drinking instead. I woke up, and like most mornings, found myself at the mercy of a hangover and hunger pains bordering on starvation (best described as an emptiness in the bottom of my stomach which could just have easily been confused for feelings of general disenfranchisement on behalf of Sarah Palin, or what one might imagine that would feel like.) I dropped my roommate off, asked for permission from the receptionist to step out and grab a bite to eat and returned moments later with a small picnic. My roommate made quick work of reminding me that I was eating breakfast in a room full of people whom at least 50% of hadn’t tasted solid food in over 24 hours, and 100% of whom were eyeing me down as if I had started cooking a spoonful of crack atop a burning bible (ridiculous to imagine, I know, since it wasn’t even noon yet.) Fuck it – for all of the reasons they may have felt miserable for not eating, and even worse for watching me stuff my face with a bagel, the bottom line is that I was hungry and come hell or high water nothing would stand in my way of eating.
Initially, it hadn’t occurred to me that I was doing anything unacceptable, but I took my cue when I felt welcomed as warmly as if I’d stumbled into a Weight Watchers meeting with a birthday cake in tow. On my way home I considered stumbling into a Weight Watchers meeting with a birthday cake, but then I realized that (a) it wasn’t my birthday and (b) fat people love cake, and the irony might be lost (and, as one might infer, one thing I will not risk is gambling with the integrity of an ironic and potentially delicious situation.)
Filed under: Ramblings & Observations
One thing I have never been good at is getting mail-in rebates in on time. I like to think that most people are just as terrible about keeping up with these kinds of things as I am. I say “these kinds of things,” as if by generalizing something so specific (and utterly ungeneralizable, might I add) as mailing in a rebate will somehow make me feel better about myself. The logic behind this is that it’s not as bad if I can convince myself that I’m not alone in being forgetful, and that a legitimate, marginalized collective of lazy assholes like myself exists.
Enter dissonance: When you have headphones on, and you’re listening to a great song, it’s so easy to convince yourself that the entire world is also hearing the same music you are. Well, no… I take that back. But it *is* easy to convince yourself that the entire world *should* be listening to the same music you are. The world at large would be better off, at least auditorally, at the melodiously, tyrannical mercy of a jukebox on your terms.
Filed under: Law School
Adjusting to graduate school is a peculiar move. There is less hand-holding then there was with the high school-to-college move. There are higher expectations with, arguably, fewer safety nets, and rightfully so; its serious, now, and everything about the experience is reflecting as such.
Enter adaptation: It is nothing short of refreshing to realize that raw anxiety can be fostered and churned into driven, focused productivity. I can’t remember the last time I felt this passionately about learning. Some classes in undergrad were more enjoyable (or less painful, rather) than others, but never before have I appreciated the actual, full scope of studying subject matter. Law is intrinsically dynamic. Everything is open to interpretation. Everything on the menu is available for consumption and for digestion. “It is this very flexibility of interpretation…that provides the opportunity for advocacy” (Linda Edwards.) Maybe for that reason alone it lends itself to the kind of unique consideration that almost forces me to be so eagerly appreciative.
Sometimes I feel like Dick York’s character in the Twilight Zone episode, “A Penny for Your Thoughts.” York plays a businessman who is granted a mind-reading power after he tosses a coin that lands on its side. Eventually the coin is knocked over and the businessman’s mind-reading ability fades, for better or for worse. How many times have you felt suddenly empowered, enough that there is something consciously out of character to note? It feels great to notice your own improvement, even if you’re not entirely certain of how it came about.
Enter self-discovery: I’m hoping to keep my coin on its side for as long as possible. I imagine it’ll teeter and sway, but I rather avoid a collapse for at least the next three years.
