Happy in Asheville

My desire to blog has been sapped by the hours spent in front of the computer in my efforts not to flunk the bar, but I would be remiss if I didn't write something about this last weekend.

We were in Asheville, North Carolina for John and Anna's wedding. North Carolina is a state I really like: beautiful beaches, great, evocatively-named mountain ranges and parks, clean and bounteous airports, and familiar-seeming people. Asheville lives up to all of this and adds its own weird element of hippie-dippie granola crunchiness. You look at the skinny bearded people traipsing around downtown with guitars slung over the shoulders and dredlocks springing out of their heads, and you wonder, how did you get to central North Carolina? Did your van break down or something? Because a lot of them were there.

The downtown was this beautiful tangle of art deco buildings -- sidewalk cafes, a great little bookstore, many art galleries, a metalworks shop, knitting supply company, art supply place, and the rest. We stayed in this palatial bed and breakfast with a wraparound porch and cool breezes wafting through the trees. John and Anna's families were staying in a sprawling old house with a backyard deck for grilling and a nice porch where we sat and enjoyed the day on the morning after the wedding.

The wedding itself was absolutely beautiful and very true to J&A. It took place in a vast old feed store with a high, beautiful ceiling. John and Anna walked in together in this short, brilliant moment of such simplicity and beauty, it really did catch my throat. During the ceremony they asked us to bring readings to share, so I read the third verse of LL Cool J's "Love You Better" and it went over very well. After the wedding the forty or so guests in attendance crossed the street to take a group photo, then it was back to the feed store for the reception. We danced, we drank. We went to a wine bar where it all continued. Too much white wine, but done in the name of a good and happy cause.

It was a beautiful weekend. I didn't do bar stuff, which caused me some guilt and heartburn, but it's ok. Our trip home proved to be a nightmare (disagreeable chicken from the Chili's in Charlotte produced its own problems, and then we didn't even get back to new York until 2 in the morning) but those things dissolved quickly in light of the time we shared in Asheville with J&A and their warm, happy families. We were lucky to be there and would not have missed it for the world.

***

PS -- I wanted to put up some photos of the occasion, but I don't like any of them. With the understanding that I am taller than most of my friends, apparently I am a lot beefier too, and my head is clearly bigger, resulting in a situation where I look like I am about to consume them with my giant, ever-expansive face. Maybe it was the alcohol, I don't know. Either way, in these photos I look like a combination of a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon, the late beloved Tim Russert, and that guy from "How I Met Your Mother" -- consequently, no photos. But it was still a great weekend.

L is America's sweetheart

Three things happened today to remind me of how good I have it:

1) At Chipotle yesterday, the nice woman behind the register asked me where my wife has been. I explained that she had to work during the day, so I could afford to eat there. Then today, the woman said, "Did you tell your wife I asked about her? I hope she comes in." But of course.

2) This morning, L and I slept through the weights class we usually attend bright and early at 6:45 on Thursday mornings. The alarm went off, but we were both beat -- ultimately we flipped a coin and decided to sleep in. Well, tonight at the gym I saw our teacher, and he said he missed us in class, and I did my little song and dance about us being tired, the alarm, the coin flip, etc. "Who flipped the coin? Did she flip the coin?" he asked. No, I said, it was me who did it. "Good," he said. "If it was her I would've been disappointed." What? I don't know if I understand, but I think it's something good about my wife.

3) A few days ago we tried a new Chinese place in the neighborhood, and a woman from the gym came up and started talking to us for a little bit. Tonight she came up to me and started gushing: "Your wife is so beautiful! You are so lucky to have her!" (Since apparently my face makes paint curl.)

Well, that's my wife for you. A combination of Mary Tyler Moore (turning the world on with her smile), Jane Fonda (fitness-wise, not with the crazy leftist politics) (well, maybe), and Helen of Troy (beauty-wise). I am indeed a lucky guy.

And tomorrow we're off to Ashville, North Carolina for another love fest: John and Anna's wedding!

Tim Russert

"If it's Sunday, it's Meet the Press." We watch every week, and the best part isn't the main interview Tim Russert conducts for the bulk of the show; it's the political roundtable that follows, when Tim leads his fellow journalists and politicos in a discussion of the week's news. His love of politics, his passion for the process, and his rousing collegiality are in full force. Tim Russert was so obviously having such a great time during those segments, sharing anecdotes and poll data, making quips and digging deep into hypotheticals and possible outcomes. As a viewer, you felt lucky to watch this kind of ef exchange, like you had wandered into an old boys' club that was otherwise off limits.

His love for the game was infectious. His bonhomie and good cheer were endearing. He was someone I wanted to talk to, a voice I always strived to hear to clarify the news of the day. He was always direct and sounded just so damn happy to do what he was doing. It seemed like his professional and personal dreams had been fulfilled in such a wonderful way, to create a special kind of telegenic and Buffalo-bred happiness that you can't find anywhere else.

I saw him at church once in Washington, years ago. He was in the row behind me; ever the gawky teenager, I craned my neck around to look at him. He met my eyes, nodded his head briefly, and returned to his prayer. I have loved seeing him on MTP and on NBC's election coverage for years now; I'm thankful he was able to experience the surreal highs of this campaign season, as well as guide us through its unexpected turns. I feel horrible for his family and colleagues; he was too young, too energetic to simply disappear like this. His death has been unexpectedly difficult to bear.

Tim Russert: Thank you. You will be missed. Go Bills.

I love the New Yorker

One of the things that has propelled me through this week of extreme heat and bar exam hysteria is the current issue of The New Yorker. I love this magazine, a lot, but I want to sing its praises now that the week is drawing to a close.

This is the annual Summer Fiction issue, a double-week behemoth that landed with a thud in the mailbox last Monday. The first thing I do when I get a magazine is rip out all the ads, especially the ones made of cardboard or burlap or whatever material some genius "creative" decided to throw at magazine readers so we can't roll up the magazine or actually carry it around without having to crease those extra-stiff ads they're so enamored with. (You know what I'm saying?) This issue looked great from the start: the cover is by Adrian Tomine, one of my favorite illustrators and someone who is doing New Yorker covers that are as clever and vibrant and beautiful as anybody else these days. (One of his previous covers spent several happy months on our refrigerator a couple years ago.) This cover has grown on me the more I've looked at it.

Inside, there was a newly translated story from Vladimir Nabokov that was eerie and haunting. There was a hilarious review of "Sex and the City" by Anthony Lane, who clearly hated it. There was a great review of Jeff Koons' installation on the roof of the Met, which we saw a couple weeks ago. There was an interesting, surprisingly personal review by James Wood of some new books wrestling with faith, theodicy (whatever that means), and suffering. One of my favorite music critics, Sasha Frere-Jones, had a piece on Auto-Tune, the technology used by T-Pain and others to create many songs I love. There were short reflective pieces by great writers like Tobias Wolff and George Saunders on faith and doubt.

Haruki Murakami, one of my favorite novelists, had an essay on his passion for distance running and how it has impacted his life as a writer. I find him to be so brilliant, yet so accessible -- I was tickled to see the slightest connection between him and me, at least on the running front (although he seems to be a much better runner and writer than me, so what are you gong to do).

Best of all, though was the fiction. The issue lived up to the hype. I stayed at Chipotle for an awkwardly long time to finish up Annie Proulx's story, "Tits-Up in A Ditch." Reader, it was brilliant. It started off as the story of a young girl growing up unloved on a ranch in Wyoming, and went to some unexpected and grueling places. I actually, almost, sort of, got emotional reading the ending, which I was barreling towards relentlessly (and it took me 2 refills from the Chipotle soda fountain to get there, I might add). I've been thinking about this story a lot in the last few days. Please read it -- I wanted to link to it but those savvy dogs at newyorker.com are hoarding it for the print version.

I've saved myself the last major story in the issue, fiction from Mary Gaitskill, for tomorrow. How I have loved carrying this issue around, reading snippets during breaks from lectures or enjoying it over lunch. I love this magazine so passionately, and am such a nerd for it. Sometimes I have dreams where I am reading an article in the magazine, yet the words are being written as I read them -- I see the letters flying onto the page, in the familiar font into their familiar columns -- yet my dream-self is consciously reading and understanding what's being written, and understanding that it's all coming from somewhere deep inside my subconscious. The most striking thing about the dreams, though, is the fact that I'm writing something that's appearing in the New Yorker (my bizarre dream-world New Yorker, but it counts). Sometimes I find myself musing on what it would be like to be published in there. It's definitely a goal for my life.

So, I'm the kind of person who blogs about a particular issue of a magazine because he loved it so. All I can say is: thank you, David Remnick and the gang, for giving me some beauty and wisdom and brilliance to carry around with me and read for two whole weeks. Can't wait til the new issue on Monday (which will probably include something insanely boring to balance out, like the time they had a major feature on chalk production, which I really struggled with and ultimately abandoned). But that might be the best part of a weekly magazine: no matter what you get this week, hope springs eternal for the new issue coming down the pike.

Gym class hero

Here's what may the best thing that happened during this weekend of sticky, unrelenting heat, besides the discovery of "Alvin & the Chipmunks" versions of my favorite songs on YouTube (be sure to check out "Falsetto"): today I taught a gym class.

I went to the gym as usual this morning, ready and waiting for the strength training class. The teacher, who I really like, was late getting into town and had missed his earlier class, but the gym people said he would arrive in time for this one. As the minutes rolled by he didn't show up. Some people started to trickle out, but one chick wondered aloud, "does anybody know the routine? Maybe someone else could teach it."

You never know what you'll do when duty calls. Do you stand up to meet it? Do you shrink away and hope it doesn't try to make eye contact? "I sort of know it," I mumbled. The girl was direct: "Why don't you do it," she said, pointing at me through the mirror. After a few sheepish rounds of "No, I couldn't....No, it's really not possible...No, I....OK, I'LL DO IT," suddenly the class was lurching forward with me at the helm.

We didn't have any music, which made it difficult to keep everything on a consistent time. The first few minutes were awkward, as I tried to remember what the teacher says and keep a good rhythm going. We did fewer sets than usual, because time was short, but we hit all the exercises in 45 minutes. Mostly I just announced the exercises, kept the count going, and tried to maintain a steady rhythm. It was hard to work out and count out loud at the same time. As I got more comfortable I tried to offer some asides and extra motivating tips, like: "Dig in!" or "I find these push-ups to be the low point of the workout!" or "Bring that squat all the way down!" The crazy thing was, these actually seemed to have an effect, as people would bring their squats to a markedly lower point. I felt like a god.

As we progressed I started feeling really good. The exercises were flowing along nicely, we were doing a good number of sets of each one, and our timing looked to be about right. I started thinking about alternative career paths -- why couldn't I be a gym instructor, too -- I could make some hot mixes, bring in some good hip hop and r&b, keep the people moving, make them laugh a little bit...I felt like Charlie Bucket after Willie Wonka turned over the keys to the chocolate factory.

As the class ended we were all stretched out on the floor, and I wrapped up with our teacher's signature ending: "Aaaaaand, shake it out! Good job guys!" There was some appreciative laughter and applause. On the way out everybody thanked me and told me I did a good job. It was a really remarkable, really good feeling, and not one that I ever expected to have. Is there anything I can't do?

The way we live now

After a couple weeks I have stumbled into my new routine for the summer. Here are the bad parts:

I spend three or four hours, starting at 9 a.m., sitting in a classroom at NYU taking notes from a videotaped lecture about some facet of the law I haven't thought about since first year. I am scribbling alongside other people I don't know, so during the ten minute breaks that come every hour I eat my yogurt very pensively, or read a magazine, or just sit and stare. Or think about how beautiful NYU is, how the sweeping staircase and elegant lighting makes me feel like I attended law school in a subway station. Later in the day, after I wrestle with the obligation to do an additional three or five hours of work, I reach a point where I know there's no way I can accomplish everything I've been assigned to do. I try to work hard until L comes home, then I try to be lively and fun, all the while being nagged by guilt about the work and the studying that isn't happening...After dinner and some TV and conversation I do some more work, but it's never enough, the books and outlines are piled around me yet I never feel like I learn anything. A deadening routine that feels completely unproductive. Beneath the monotony and the boredom there lies a genuine fear, which becomes slightly sharper and more clear each day, as I wonder what would happen, and how things would be, if I failed the bar.

Here, then, are the good parts:

This summer I have more freedom than I have had in many years. I don't go to an office, I'm not riding the subway. I put on my shorts and flips and walk ten minutes to the school, and then by lunchtime I'm free again. I walk around Washington Square Park and up to Chipotle, where they say hi to me every day because they know me. On the way up I set my course through the sunshine and listen to my burgeoning soundtrack for the summer, like the insanely enjoyable "Touch My Body" remix, in which a new, chopped-up synthesizer beat swoops into the last minute of the song, followed by some deeper bass lines that give the song this sense of urgency and intensity -- I can never get enough of it, it only lasts a minute and then fades out, but I always want more, so I'm cranking up the volume to hold on for just a few more moments, dancing in my head and enjoying this 60 seconds of pure music bliss as I soak in my newfound freedom for the afternoon. That's what I'm doing as I walk to Chipotle by the park, with the long languorous summer day stretched before me. I've gotten back into road-running, too, doing a couple races already and getting some respectable times, and with the New York Half Marathon to look forward to in July. If I plan my day right I can get out by the river just as the sun begins to falter, taking in the tones of the water and the brick and glass when the colors are at their fullest. That's what the architecture of my day can look like, if it doesn't always live up to that kind of early-June promise. No matter how the day goes, though, it's hard to ignore the knowledge that this summer, for all of its pleasures and all of its anxieties, will never, ever last.

Nationals Park

Yesterday, L, Hank, Henry, and I went to see the Nationals play the Brewers at Nationals Park, the latest jewel in the crown of Southeast DC. I was very excited to check out the new park, and it did not disappoint. Rather than old-timey brick and wrought iron of Camden Yards and its imitators, this park was spare and basic, a simple limestone-colored structure wrapping around the diamond. Each concourse was open to the field; anywhere inside the building you could see the grass, hear the crowd, feel the breeze. We entered from the Metro and walked towards the main entrance at center field, where you make your way through a lively promenade with plenty of options for food and drink. Between the roving crowds, and the cloudless sky, it felt like a day at the beach.

My favorite part of the experience, though, were the mascots. They had enormously-headed versions of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt blundering all around the stadium. They were taking photos with student groups and making a few little kids burst into tears; at one point they were racing around the outfield, and Abe Lincoln came tearing through to take first place. I found the whole thing funny and irreverent, but not disrespectful; like the new park itself, there is a sense of levity that doesn't detract from the strong sense of history, civic identity, and even some good old Washington pride. There was a surprising number of Washington caps and shirts worn throughout the ballpark; I was really glad I had mine, too.

Wedding dance

You know what was wonderful about Ashesh and Mona's wedding, besides the marriage of two of our favorite people at a beautiful place on a lovely early summer day? The fact that L and I basically burned through the dance floor with our awesomeness.

Many of the guests at this party were Ashesh and Mona's relatives from South Asia, so the music was a carefully calibrated mix of American hip and hop and pop alongside all sorts of south Asian dance tunes. Obviously L and I were out of our seats for the American music, but as the bhangra tracks blared, and all the Indian relatives were storming the dance floor in their suits and saris, we hung around and tried to follow their lead: bouncing our shoulders, dipping our arms, keeping our hands high as we changed the light bulb or shimmied our hips. There was a fine line to walk between respectful imitation and boorish mimicry, but we did all right. Ashesh's sister told us that she had been afraid that the white people would clear the floor when the DJ called out, "Desis, this one's for you!" but she was glad to see us still dancing, and that we were putting her relatives to shame.

As the evening progressed, the DJ returned to American tunes, and he hit upon a gold mine: a sizzling mix of current hip hop and dance tracks. After an imploring look from Ashesh we returned to the dance floor alongside everyone else. Eventually, though, the other guests seemed to have filtered away, and L and I realized: we were the only ones dancing.

Did that stop us? Of course not. The DJ kept earning his money as the songs got better and better -- we were dancing by ourselves, making the most of the space, dipping and spinning and twisting and popping and shuffling and even grinding (they can't get mad at us, we're white and married, is what I thought when I briefly worried about what some of the older, more traditional guests might think). I realized that people were watching us, and even cheering and oohing as we moved around the floor. My eyes were locked with L's. We were hot, sweating. The wedding photographer was all over us, swooping around and squatting and putting himself in our midst like we were Lindsay Lohan. My fear now is that Ashesh and Mona are going to see eight hundred photos of us dancing like fools and mouthing the words to songs, and unfortunately that will be part of the official record of this wedding.

At the end of the night, as the wedding guests had dwindled to about 20 of us, the DJ gave us a special shout-out from his perch and people clapped for us. The photographer complimented us and said we had been very entertaining and a pleasure to shoot. Someone else told us we seemed so happy and carefree out there, and that it looked like L and I had a great relationship, and that we must practice all the time. I thought: actually, we do.

Thoughts on graduating

Today the darnedest thing happened: I graduated from law school. That means I don't go to law school anymore, because I took all the classes and I passed them and now I'm qualified to do new, different things, and those things don't require me to go to law school anymore. See?

I heard that both L and Mom got choked up at graduation, as the procession began and we all marched to our seats in our chunky maroon robes. I was surprised to find myself nonchalant about the whole thing. I did get nervous when we stood to walk across the stage. I didn't want to stumble, or have my scarf thing get twisted, or have some weird hair issues with the silly beret they made us wear. I really enjoyed clapping for people as they received their diplomas: my friends, people who did really well and got honors, people I didn't know but sort of liked anyway, people who made me laugh in class through their humor or pretension or weirdness or utter implacability. I also enjoyed not clapping for the people I didn't like; I felt oddly empowered to be able to deny my applause to those people.

The speakers were uniformly good, and intelligent, and concise. They emphasized the relationships and family dynamics that characterized the law school, and talked about the importance of public service and time with your loved ones amid the hectic practice of law. They seemed actually human, in a profession that can seem bureaucratic and petty beyond belief. It made me hopeful, and it reminded my that my future is a completely blank canvas. There is some fear in that, I guess, but I feel like I have an education and some knowledge and, more importantly, some people I love who are the bedrock of anything I could hope to do with this degree of mine.

I don't know how I feel about graduating. It feels like I outlasted something tenacious and difficult and angry, but somehow I'm the one left standing. I had to be reminded that this graduation is the beginning of something -- if I was on the street tomorrow, and someone asked me what I do, first I would avoid eye contact and try to move away, but if they persisted, I wouldn't know what to say: I'm a law school graduate? I'm going to be a lawyer in a few months? My occupation is studying for the bar?

One thing I really struggled with in law school was the fact that I felt like I was doing worse, and was thus perhaps stupider, than a lot of my classmates. After first year, my grades put me solidly in the middle of the pack, and I was told that firms "would not be fighting over themselves to get to me," which was a grim moment. After spending two years under this cloud, thinking I was worse than everybody else and was missing some element of lawyering that all these other ridiculous people seemed to have, I felt like a puppy that got kicked too much, just cowering and cringing in the corner when other people started talking about legal theory. My summer work showed me that I did indeed have skills that were valuable in the work place and important in real life (social skills, good humor, etc), but that law school didn't seem to acknowledge. I felt like an outlier.

But then, this year, my grades have been pretty darn good. Maybe the professors were being generous, but I worked hard and I was really proud. Perhaps I figured out the system just in time to leave it, which is appropriate -- after all, if you've stopped learning then it's time to move along. At graduation I didn't feel bitter about the people winning Latin honors, which I secretly hoped for but knew were unlikely for me; I knew I finished strong and that I was just as smart and capable as anyone else there. I'm glad I didn't end law school feeling the way I felt for so much of it: stupid, unqualified, unequipped. Looking ahead I don't think I would ever spend three years in a place that made me feel that way. And I don't think I would let something as stupid as grades have so much power over me. Hopefully I am too smart a dude for that.

*****

We have had a very busy weekend. On Saturday, as the day-long block party bustled on the street outside, my grandparents and parents drove in from Virginia and my sister flew in from South Carolina. Before meeting everyone in the morning I ran a 10K, my first run in Central Park since the marathon. Once my family arrived we met them at their hotel near the Flatiron Building, then came down to see the apartment and wander around the kiosks of the fair. L got a necklace with a small gold circle, in which is imprinted a simple "L," and I love it -- it's perfect. We had an early dinner at Stand, and then once my grandparents were safely ensconced in a cab the five of us wandered up through Union Square to Shake Shack, enjoying the early summer air below the cheerful light bulbs in Madison Square Park.

This afternoon after graduation we proceeded directly to a Chipotle in midtown, then returned to the hotel in the rain and made it back down to the apartment. We ate at Fig & Olive in the Meatpacking District and explored the streets for a little while, watching the sky turn pink as the sun sank into the Hudson and the city evening descended before us. Then everyone returned to the hotel, and L and Kels and I came back home.



It has been a great, and exhausting, weekend. I have so much to be thankful for. And I have a lot of things to consider.

Newark odyssey

9:35 am. Depart for Newark, to get fingerprinted for the New Jersey bar application. Random requirement requiring extremely random trip to Jersey. Roll with the punches. Appointment at 11:30, but leave early just to be safe.

10:15 am. Excellent mass transit karma; caught some kind of express train arriving at Newark very quickly. In final moments of the trip, realized that form required for fingerprinting was forgotten at home. No way to get fingerprints done without this form. Shit. Flop sweat begins.

10:17 am. On board train again from Newark to New York. Seem to be on the Rahway Local, chugging along like a children's book character and never getting anyplace. Train overtaken by a glacier mid-ride.

10:50 am. Sprinting outside Madison Square Garden, trying to get taxi without waiting in taxi line. Leisurely taxi driver apparently prefers to drive in the wake of truck or bus. Leg slapped, epithet whispered in frustration when driver actually yields on yellow. Minimal tip given.

10:59 am. Dashing up stairs, into apartment, grabbing form, back out, into new cab. Ask to go back to train station; driver says there must be a rush. Situation explained. Ask the driver if he would drive to Newark (having studied the passengers' bill of rights on the previous ride). He agrees for $50. Realize that he probably comes from a haggling-based culture. Ask him to do it for $40. He says no. Fine. Then he says $50, and he'll pay the tolls. Overcome by natural fear of haggling, proceed to train station. Why so unwilling to play hardball? Question for some other day.

11:28 am. Aboard the next train for Newark. Hopes fading rapidly.

11:55 am. Arrive in Newark, again. Board the Newark subway according to directions supplied by the fingerprinting people.

12:10 pm. Disembark and study bus station map; realize directions were wrong, destination remains more than 10 blocks away. Decide to just walk rather than wait for the cartoonish trolley they call a subway.

12:15 pm. Explore vibrant downtown Newark. Previous plans to perhaps grab a light lunch at a local cafe immediately abandoned. Malaise of city now understood.

12:35 pm. Arrive at fingerprinting facility. Hear one man ask for directions for federal parole office, then head upstairs to find fingerprinting office closed until one. But of course.

1:05 pm. Shuffle into fingerprinting with twenty other felons, parolees, bar applicants, other riff raff. Immediately evident that no one, not a single employee, cares that original appointment was missed. Did not matter in any way.

1:20 pm. Begin fingerprinting process.

1:25 pm. Fingerprinting process completed.

2:00 pm. Back in Manhattan. After additional outing to pick up bib and t-shirt for Saturday's 10K, return home at 3:30. Vow never to leave apartment again.

Filled

Right now I am filled with self-pity. I just got back from the dentist's office, where I had multiple fillings done, after a two-year hiatus of professional dental care. Words cannot express my shame at requiring multiple fillings; that kind of thing happens to other people, not good, floss-conscious people like me.

The left side of my face is numb, if you include the part of your neck down to the adam's apple within the idea of "face." My lip is droopy and heavy, and my words were slurred when I profusely thanked the dentist, like a cretin, for drilling in my mouth and making my saliva spray onto my shirt and glasses. He used a variety of implements today, including: drills, the suction tube that always traps my tongue, a wedge designed to keep my mouth open, an egg beater, a staple gun, and a blow dryer. When he was drilling I could hear the high-pitched whine like a scream coming from someone else inside me. I tried to pretend I was on an airplane, but this was a failure. There wasn't enough anesthetic in my upper teeth, so I could feel the drill in a particularly specific and uncomfortable way. I was gripping the seats of the chair and clenching my butt and flexing all my leg muscles until I couldn't keep it in and grunted for help. So, I got an additional dose, which means I should be able to resume making facial expressions by the weekend.

Once again my dentist was about 14 years old; at one point I swear he said, "hold still, man," although it was hard to tell over the roar of the blow dryer. The important thing is that I'm back on the straight and narrow dental track, and have my next cleaning set up for November. My only hope is that by then I will once again have feeling in my face. Honestly, right now I could be drooling out of the side of my mouth -- what the hell, I probably am -- and I wouldn't even know it.

And then we came to the end

Yesterday I spent the whole day working on my last paper for my last class of law school. After a tiresome weekend gathering notes and rereading sources, I spent Monday sitting at the desk in the study stringing my quotations together and trying to sound coherent. When I really get into the writing process, I find that words come into my head whose meaning or spelling is unclear to me, words like compunctious or inexorable, and I have to look them up to make sure I'm using them in the right way; thankfully I was able to find this groove for much of the day.

I was about halfway finished at ten p.m., when the muscles in my neck and shoulders were tense and knotted, so I decided to stop for the night and settle in with L to watch "The Hills." But as we enjoyed the antics of those golden-haired morons, I felt uneasy. I was unsettled, my mind was racing, and I kept asking myself questions. "Why is Lo being such a bitch to Audrina?" was one question. "What am I going to do about this paper?" was another.

After the show ended I had an epiphany: I had to finish that paper. Tonight. Right now. As L went to bed, I kept pecking away at my computer in the dark study, listening to Coldplay on my headphones, and finished my paper around one in the morning.

Five hours later we were awake to go to the gym, and my mind was immediately alert and engaged, thinking about the paper and the slight changes I wanted to make. It was odd to be awake so early and yet feel so attentive -- like a fighter pilot or something. After the gym I read the paper one more time and was pleased with myself; it's definitely not the worst 31 pages I've ever written (sadly, that title probably goes to the short story I wrote about Star Trek: The Next Generation in eighth grade).

Then I went up to school, printed it out, and submitted it. I sold back three of the novels we had read for the class for a grand total of ten dollars. I cleaned out my locker. I bought a diploma frame. Then I came home and went to Chipotle and bought myself lunch with the ten-dollar bill I had received for my books.

And now here I am, finished with law school coursework, sitting in my sunny apartment as the sun shines and the birds chirp nearby. There may be a nap in my future, maybe some reading for pleasure. Right now I'm not thinking long-term.

Three for three

Today I finished my third and final law school exam! Then I came home and discovered that L had all these balloons waiting for me in the kitchen! After my heart started beating again, and my brain realized that it wasn't an intruder waiting to bludgeon me in my own home, but in fact a festive display of congratulatory balloons, I was really happy!

Thank you, L. One more paper and law school is a wrap, and then I can focus on what really matters: preparing for the bar, and getting over my new balloon terror.

One down...

Two to go. I just finished my first exam and have two more, tomorrow and the next day. Today I had New York Practice, and it was fine. Whenever I take exams my brain always puts on music in the background, so as I'm flipping through my outlines or trying to make an argument there's a part of my brain listening to Danity Kane singing about taking me to ecstasy. Today I found myself going back to Mariah's new album ("Touch My Body", "O.O.C.", "Migrate"). I was trying really hard to find my notes on the relation-back doctrine and the difference between impleader and interpleader, but the only thing I could think about was:

If there's a camera up in here it's gonna leave with me when I doooo!
If there's a camera up in here I best not catch this flick on You-TUUUUBE!

The oddest part, though, was when my brain started singing "Fields of Gold," by Sting. Where did that come from? I don't have or know that song; I can't remember when I last heard it. But I definitely took time out of my exam to think about the fact that my brain was singing it, while I'm trying to graduate law school.

Now I am back home, about to go eat lunch with my best friend and confidante, The New Yorker, before the studying continues. Wish me luck. Touch My BODY!

Last day of class

Today was my last day of law school class, ever. I knew it would be a good day when the guy sitting next to me on the subway this morning took out a sheaf of clean white papers and started sketching a guy standing nearby. He used a Sharpie, drafting quick dark lines as his eyes darted back and forth from the guy to his papers. I had been slogging through a dullish New Yorker article but quickly dropped any pretense of reading and just watched him sketch. When he decided he was finished, with a drawing of this random guy covering two sheets of paper, he turned to me to see what I thought, and I nodded appreciatively. Then he reshuffled his papers and started sketching the disheveled old man sitting across the way. "The mustache," he said loudly as he drew the man's mustache, causing him to look up from his newspaper at his portraitist. I wished him a good day and went to school.

In my first class, the professor had lunch for us and we talked about the class. It was her first semester teaching here, and she told us we were a great introduction to the school -- we were smart, energetic, and fun. No gunners among us. She sounded genuinely appreciative of being able to teach us (obviously this was a completely new idea to us), and at the end we all clapped and smiled warmly at ourselves. I thanked her for a great semester as I left, and although we shook hands, I swear that I think she almost went in for the hug. Almost.

My second class of the day -- my last class, ever -- was as mind-numbing as it's been all semester. Yet when the professor began wishing us well, and told us how he'd try to get us special treatment at the courthouse when they swear us in as attorneys in a few months, the class melted. It was like everyone sighed, and clucked, and were filled with a bizarre kind of warm, lawyerly love. Then, when he put a pile of his business cards on the table and invited us to stay in touch and let him know if we ever needed anything -- it happened again! The sighing, the clucking, the surging of good will. At the end of class, there was thunderous applause. I was amazed. This class was horrible! I wanted to yell. What are you people doing? "Loved you, hated your class," seemed to be the message.

I came home to find a jubilant L waiting on the steps to welcome me home after three long years of law school coursework. We went for a walk. I got myself a cupcake. I went for a really glorious run by the river. And now L's coming home, and we're going out to dinner with some new friends in a few minutes.

Classes are over, and although I have some finals to knock out, now I'm on my own time. I wore my Fordham Law t-shirt today, even though it fits weird (too short, sleeves too high, neck too wide) because I felt a surprising wave of nostalgia this morning. And it seemed like a number of people were rocking their Fordham gear today, which was nice to see. As the day progressed, as we all said our goodbyes and thank yous and looked back on one last semester of reading and lectures and talking and boredom and learning -- I began to feel happiness, and even some pride, after this seemingly endless sojourn up at Fordham.

Not us

At the restaurant with the best of intentions. The waitress has seen this before, she knows immediately from their posture, their averted eyes. They speak to her with false good cheer, unusually chipper voices as they promise that their meal and everything else is fine. But when she passes their table, bringing other people plates or shuttling empty glasses to the kitchen, she sees them sitting quietly, with blank faces, as the silence grows between them.

She feels sympathetic, though -- she herself has been in their shoes countless times, occasions with boyfriends or parents. When their own good intentions couldn't overcome the worry and the fear that they dragged in the door behind them.

It was her professional opinion, of course, that sometimes people felt a certain unspoken need to be in public, to face each other across a table even when they did not know or understand what was to be said. It was the sight of other, happier people that reminded them of how, or who, they usually were. A part of them hoped this reminder would be enough to pull them out of the morass, and some nights, maybe it could be.

She felt for them as she worked nearby. They ate quickly, without speaking, as the restaurant whirled around them. Yet their good cheer was unflagging when she offered more drinks, and they insisted that the food was delicious.

Later she bid them good night as they left, quick smiles dissolving below down-turned eyes as they walked back into the night. Yet as they left he put his hand on her shoulder, drawing her in, and from the brightly lit center of the restaurant the waitress could only hope that some kind of change had passed.

It's coming

I picked up my cap and gown today. Three more days of class. Three exams. One paper. Then, freedom.

("Freedom," of course, means eleven weeks of intensive bar exam preparation, propelled by the butt-clenching fear of failure and the prospect of professional humiliation. But then after the bar we're going to Asia for a month, so I'm not complaining.)

MKD Hot Mix 2001

Remember back in 2001? Not the terrorist attack and our ongoing national existential crisis, but before then. It was a frivolous time -- we had our jovially incompetent new president, and we were all worried about Gary Condit and shark attacks. Back then, the internet was basically nothing more than a computer hooked up to a clock radio. As a college student, I had downloaded a few songs from the internet, but I ended up asking my tech-savvy friend James to gather me a certain set of songs for a mix I wanted to create -- a mix known then and now as the MKD Hot Mix 2001.

I was thinking about the Hot Mix on Saturday, when I was half-heartedly studying and looking up old songs on YouTube. After enjoying a couple Lucy Pearl and En Vogue songs, I decided to go digging through my cd collection to unearth the Hot Mix. I found it and was once again blown away. This was definitely one of my favorite mix cd's and I think time has borne out the strength of most of these songs (ok, maybe not Da Brat) (but Shaggy? Come on). So here, for your own enjoyment, is the carefully selected playlist of my 21-year old self:

1. 112, "It's Over Now"
2. Jennifer Lopez, "Love Don't Cost a Thing"
3. Ja Rule and Lil' Mo, "Put It On Me"
4. Shaggy, "It Wasn't Me" (note: I karaoked the shit out of this song in Myrtle Beach once)
5. Da Brat and Tyrese, "What U Like"
6. Chante Moore, "Straight Up"
7. OutKast, "Ms. Jackson"
8. Common and Macy Gray, "Ghetto Heaven"
9. Koffee Brown, "After Party"
10. Madonna, "Don't Tell Me"
11. Lucy Pearl, "La La"
12. Tamia, "Stranger in My House"
13. Erykah Badu, "Didn't Cha Know"
14. Carl Thomas, "Emotional"

Spring fever

Since L got ferociously sick on Thursday, my normal husbandly duties have been replaced by my efforts in my new role as a home health aide. Is she comfortable? Does she need a blanket? Would she like a sad little peanut butter sandwich made of one piece of bread? Should I discreetly move into the other room while she yaks into the toilet?

These are the questions that haunt you, as a home health aide. Poor L has been convalescing on the couch for multiple days now, sleeping fitfully on the bed and in the living room, watching VH1 marathons and trying not to do anything that hurts (like swallowing, moving, or breathing). They say it's a virus, and in my expert opinion, it's disgusting. L made me look in her throat, twice, and there is quite a battle raging down there. Her gland is really swollen and is protruding from her neck. Although she has been on antibiotics for a couple days, there is not much improvement going on. So like any happy newlywed couple in Manhattan, we thought we'd spend this Sunday afternoon at the ER!

Going to the emergency room really puts things in perspective. L has been a trooper during this whole process, trying to stay out of the way and heal and put up a strong front. For almost three hours today we watched the ER buzz around us, as the IV dripped fluid into L to rehydrate her. We saw some guy come in for a cocaine-related issue. We saw a woman come in who was so tanked on drinks or drugs that the doctor was threatening to have her stomach pumped (which I was secretly hoping for, since it would have been more interesting that figuring out how many milliliters of fluid L had received). We heard all about an old man's rectal temperature. We heard another old man yell forlornly from behind his curtain, "Hello! Is anybody here?" to which no one ever responded. We saw one very large woman shuffling around in multiple hospital gowns, draped around her front and back like a sandwich board. And we heard a lady have a frank discussion with her doctor about her stools and their qualities (she also discussed her extensive list of medical woes, her menopausal state and her active sex life). And, in a moment that made me want to strangle myself with the IV tube, we heard a nurse ask an old man: "sir, are you trying to urinate or defecate right now?"

Indeed. After they discharged us we hustled out of there as fast as L's withered legs could go. We went to Tasti D, then picked up more supplies at CVS, and now we're home, so L can convalesce in peace and I can return to my nursing responsibilities.

Wednesday night

A really good night -- I'm tired of complaining about law school, so I want to note some good things that just happened tonight.

I went to an event sponsored by Fordham called "The Law Reporters: America's Next Top American Legal Journalists" or something like that. I don't know, I'm not a details person. But at this event were: Adam Liptak of the New York Times, Jan Crawford Greenburg of ABC News, the peppy and wonderfully named Dahlia Lithwick of Slate, and Jack Ford of what used to be Court TV. They all talked about being lawyers and journalists, and writing about the law, and helping people understand what the law means. This was the first time in a little while that I was happy to be entering (this phrase sounds incredibly lame, but it's how I feel, and feelings can't be wrong) the community of lawyers. I'm excited to have this body of knowledge and experience, to know these things and to be able to share it. Since the idea of writing about the law for a more general audience is definitely one of my secret career plans, I thought this event was very encouraging. And it was at a swanky lounge at Time Warner, which I studied intensely as I sipped white wine at the pre-event cocktail party and talked to no one, since everyone was about forty years older than me.

Then I came home to discover that L made brownies from scratch. They were fantastic.

And John and Anna came over and we watched a wonderful episode of "Top Chef," and in the last five minutes about eight contestants got into a big argument, and they were cussing and stalking around and kicking over chairs, and because it was edited in that bizarre reality TV style, where people's statements seem to be taken out of context and strung together in a life-like but not quite realistic way, it was all a hilarious disaster, and that's what I look for in television shows.

And now we're on the brink of Thursday, the best day of the week. I have to get up at 6:15 to get to the gym and I could not be happier about it. Goodnight.

Always on a Sunday

Tonight we ate lavishly -- L made fettucine alfredo with some spinach pasta we bought at the farmers' market yesterday, and she made the cream sauce herself, from scratch. She made a salad with thick carrots and cucumbers and yellow bell peppers (all from the farmers' market) and that bitter kind of lettuce, the purple kind. She steamed up some beets, too, which we picked at with forks while their dark purple juices stained the bowl.

I have been feeling full and distended all night after this meal -- maybe it was my inability to not eat all the pasta in front of me, or the excessive amounts of dairy I consumed (you don't really need milk to complement your alfredo sauce, I've learned). We just came in from a stroll around the neighborhood and I felt unusually jumpy and anxious -- every passerby was a threat, every dark storefront a sight to be avoided. Usually I'm not like this, usually I embrace the nighttime and the natural rhythms of the city, taking note of the restaurants winding down and the busboys taking out the trash and the drinkers stumbling into cabs, but not tonight.

The reason why, besides the pasta and the milk sloshing around my belly, is because it's Sunday and we're on the brink of another week. I'm really struggling to get through these last few weeks of law school, and I don't want to go to class. I try to come up with reasons to skip class, but it's never worth it, so I end up going and I hate it. I want to remember what this feels like, this feeling of hating what you do during the day, so I can never get stuck with a job that feels like this again. Although "dread" feels like it shouldn't be the right word, I guess it is -- that sense of knowing you have to do something very unpleasant, and although you know you're going to do it, you still fight it tooth and nail, in your utterly useless state of petulance and stubbornness. I'm trying to maintain a positive attitude, and really soak in these last hours of academic learning, but it's not working very well. This is no way to get a graduate degree.

Wisdom of age

Recently I learned that John Krasinski, one of the stars of "The Office," is my age, 28. This is dispiriting news. Like many people I've always assumed I was a child prodigy, or at least some kind of genius, and if my obvious talent hadn't emerged by now, well, I'm still young enough for some kind of brilliance to come tumbling out of me any moment now. Yet as I continue my voyage through my twenties, more and more people are starting to appear in our culture who are remarkably talented, intelligent, successful, charismatic, gifted, and younger than me.

I always tend to assume people on tv, and the writers I read, and the doctors I see, and government officials, and musical artists, are all at least two or three years older than me, which somehow perfectly explains the fact that they are where they are. Obviously I will be there too in a couple years. Unfortunately, this already shaky world view can't quite handle people like John Krasinski, who is my age yet is somehow also on my favorite tv show and apparently funny and decent. The worst thing of all, of course, is the people who are younger than me: Many R&B artists. Most Olympians. Everyone Diddy picked for "Making the Band." Those kids from "High School Musical." And the list goes on. Sometimes I think about Justin Timberlake, and the fact that I've actually had even more time on earth than he has, extra time when I could have been establishing my own wildly fantastic musical success, and it makes me want to puke a little bit. And I'm not sure if this situation is going to improve.

Men about town

True, we may be old and married and sporadically boring, but we're not dead yet! Last night, in honor of their impending marriages, Ashesh, John, and I set out for a night on the town.

I knew I looked excellent: I was wearing this cool new blazer I got recently, and my shirt had a nice crisp collar just waiting to be popped. Ashesh and John were dressed to kill, as usual; we were like a gang of multicultural yuppies on the prowl. We started out at Miyagi, this sushi place on 13th street; then we made our way to Otheroom, a nice little bar on Perry, which happened to be full of exotic beers and unfortunately homely women; then we went to APT, which was the big hotspot in the meatpacking district about five years ago, which means it's now just ripe for our attendance; then we had some burgers at Five Guys, where the cashier told me I had nice teeth and gave John his drink for free; then we met up with the ladies (who were no shrinking violets themselves, having drunk their way through several night spots and even fallen on the floor of a lesbian bar) at Wogie's for a final, completely unnecessary beer; then we went home and hit the sack at 3:30.

It was good to feel young and rich and carefree, although we sort of aren't any of those things. There was an amusing sense of panic as we worried about getting into bars, since we were three dudes wandering the village on a Friday night with no ladies among us. It was fun to act the part of three single guys setting their sights on the nightlife ("D-bags on the town," perhaps) before retreating to the familiar spots and the women we love. A very good night.

Choose your own adventure

Well, we bought the guidebook, so it looks like it's settled. The other day I went to an information session on the bar exam and exactly how unpleasant the preparation process would be. They told us we could have some semblance of a life in May and June, but that once July hit we would be studying as much as possible. They told us we would be driven by nothing less than the fear of God. They said we need to be selfish and take care of ourselves. They said if we were in a bad relationship, just break up now, rather than then. It's that serious.

Yet they also said that after the exam ends, we should go on the best vacation of our entire lives. Thinking about the multi-week trip we will be taking in August (we're taking three to four weeks here, really), L and I have been bouncing around a few ideas: a road trip through Latin America, hiking Kilimanjaro. Asia has always been in the back of our minds, but I was deterred by the fear of running into law school classmates on the beaches of Phuket or something (Does Phuket have beaches? Time will tell). At some point, though, I told L that southeast Asia was the most exotic place I could imagine: a completely new culture, beautiful beaches, mountains, non-western religious sites and architecture, food I am not entirely comfortable with. Bodies of water I've never seen or touched. L's excitement for an Asia trip sealed the deal.

Where do you take what might be the best vacation of your entire life? In the most exotic place you can imagine. I can't wait.

Sweet sweet Virginia

Yesterday I got back from a really pleasant weekend home. The temperature seemed to be a good fifteen degrees warmer the whole time. I ate like a starving person the entire weekend. On Friday night my parents and I were enjoying one of my favorite meals (pecan-crusted trout) at Artie's. My mom asked me about something, so I launched into an extremely detailed and interesting explanation of, say, the bar exam, and then my mom interrupted me to say: "You have little ears! Aren't his ears small," she said, turning to my dad. I think this kind of weird attention to bodily detail is the kind of thing you only get with parental love. And you know what, I appreciated it.

On Saturday L and I met her new first cousin, once removed: the consonantly named Lacy Day, daughter of Kristin and Ryan. Lacy was a delight, and is quickly moving from the Yoda stage of infancy (where babies are three parts adorable and one part raisin) to the stage of cherubic cuteness. The fact that the three of them are moving to San Francisco is sort of depressing, since they are the kind we need on the East Coast and especially at in-law gatherings (Ryan being one of the few to fully comprehend the joy and wonder of entering the Lacy clan mid-stream).

That night we went out with Trish and Matt to a wine bar in Clarendon, where we ogled the cheap prices of everything and basked in the presence of other Virginians. There is just something about how people dress and act and carry themselves -- it's different from New York, and it feels completely familiar and reassuring. For the girls, it's a certain way of wearing the hair, and maybe some make-up combination, I don't know, but I call it "Virginia-cute," and it was good to see again.

Sunday we ate like pigs at a trough at an extremely classy brunch place. After we dropped off L to return to the city I went to join the Easter festivities at Kateri's, and later on we drove to one of the few Noodles outposts open on Easter night, just so I could get one last fix -- that's how good my parents were to me.

It was a lovely spring weekend. I was happy to be home and spend some time with my parents. Callie, the older dog, is getting extremely old, but she is still as regal and proud as ever. The other funny moment with my mom occurred as we were driving around and L mentioned seeing those "1/20/09" bumper stickers people have to celebrate the end of the Bush administration. My mom is a die-hard W. fan, but she was initially unclear on the stickers, so when L mentioned them my mom started pumping her fist in the air joyfully and crowing, "Go! Goooo!" We explained that the stickers are for people happy he'll be leaving office. My mom didn't miss a beat: "Oh," she said, with her fist still raised. "Bad! Baaad!"

"How you gonna fix it, fix it, fix it?"

MTV has worked its magic on me yet again. This song, "Damaged," is by Danity Kane, one of Diddy's groups on "Making the Band." After watching the show on Monday I downloaded this track on Tuesday morning, and right now I can't get enough of it. It's the kind of song that I repeat as soon as it ends, stabbing the back button on my ipod to not waste a precious second.

Why is my appetite for this song momentarily insatiable? Let's break it down. The first thing that got me was the electronic stutter in the verses. Then the background vocals are harmonious yet dissonant, driving you to unexpected places. Yet with all the sophistication of the arrangement and the future-is-now production, the call and response of the chorus (repeating "Damaged" a million times) reminds you that this is nothing more or less than classic girl-group pop. Then, moving into the last minute of the song, the beat drops back, adding perhaps a note of poignancy (maybe I'm reaching here), along with Diddy's sort of philosophical, sort of unnecessary mutterings. I love it. The last segment really reminds me of "Last Night," Diddy's smash last year with Keysha Cole, and I like to sing the chorus of that song over the last thirty seconds of "Damaged" -- believe me, it can work.

Visually, of course, what more could you want? They look extremely good. I love the fact that they go from metallic pink sex goddesses in their funky spaceship, dancing up a storm and arching their backs in their pods, to pretending to be the staff of an operating room. Way to keep it literal! And plausible! Although I think some of the dancing is not as sharp as it could be, there are some transcendent moments, especially from my girl Dawn (the black girl with the long hair). And I like how the girl singing the second verse sings out of the side of her mouth. Work with that.

Also: the woman's voice at the end of the video says "Stereotypes" because that's the genius who produced this song, and the note at the end of the video reads "Tired of the damage - DK." And really, who isn't? What a great song.

Above and beyond

From today's New York Times:

Mr. Bush singled out Treasury Secretary Henry M. Paulson Jr. for praise... "I want to thank you, Mr. Secretary, for working over the weekend," Mr. Bush said.

Dental damn 2

The shitstorm continues! I had an appointment today to see a dentist at 1:00. I arrived at the offices, way up in Washington Heights, at 12:50. I waited patiently until 1:30 -- half an hour after my appointment -- as the entire population of the waiting area changed as everyone went to go see their doctor. I watched numerous people look at my file and then put it back down and walk away. I got back in line to ask if or when I would be seeing someone. The receptionist was sympathetic and thanked me for coming up. She paged a doctor. Fifteen minutes later a cute little student dentist walked over to me. "Are you Michael?" Yes. "I'm not your dentist," she chirped. "But I have your dentist on the phone." She handed me her cell phone; the dentist was very apologetic and said there had been a scheduling error, and he hadn't known he had a patient. He asked if we could reschedule. I asked if I could just see someone who was there, but that was obviously impossible. So now I'm going back there, to that bureaucratic shithole, that dental sweatshop on 168th Street, on Thursday at 3 pm.

When I left I was so angry and frustrated I could barely talk. What a waste of my time. How can they run a medical center that way? Do they have any respect for their patients?

Fuming, I went down to Columbia to pick up a coursepack for one of L's grad school classes. I had to go to the same copy center, Village Copier, on Broadway and 112th, that we used to frequent when I worked at Columbia. To my surprise, the guy at the counter recognized me from those years and we chatted a bit. He handed me the coursepack, and as I pulled out my wallet, he said, "Don't worry about it." I tried to pay, but he insisted. It was very nice of him, and it turned my mood around. It all balances out, I guess.

Dental damn

This story is sad, frustrating, and gross. Obviously, then, it involves dentistry, my own hypochondria, and health insurance.

Thursday night after a great evening at the gym I was eating a burrito, and had food stuck in my teeth. Ever the gentleman, I ultimately was poking around there with my finger, and found a bump on my gums, near the back, below that ridge where the teeth seem to rest. When I came home I had L look at it and she said, "why don't you go to the dentist tomorrow." What she should have said was, "Oh, everyone has those bumps! They're good luck!" In any event, the night was shot -- I was stressed and trying to not freak out.

I turned to my trusty friend the internet and was horrified by the dental nightmares I was reading about: pus-filled lumps...too painful to close the jaws...broken teeth falling out...Awful stuff. One of my common dreams is having my teeth fall out, tinkling down into my lap like little crystals; my teeth are a locus of my stress. And of course out of procrastination I haven't seen the dentist in a couple years. But finally, my trip through the Internet Dental Hall of Nightmares led me to something that seemed accurate: something called a Tori (really?), a bump on your gum that doesn't hurt and seems to be like a bone protrusion or something. This was kind of reassuring, but not really. It's like growing a knuckle in your mouth.

The next day I got up early to head to 168th Street, to take advantage of the dental insurance I had on L's Columbia student plan. She had armed me with a barrage of phrases ("optional student plan," "Columbia basic") that would help me navigate the system. I spent over an hour in the hospital, repeating these words like a moron, so someone would believe I had insurance and help me figure out what to do. I went to several offices on several floors, trying to register and/or get a card and/or a file number and/or an appointment, at times returning to the same irritated person after calling L for moral support, when she would tell me new words and phrases to say, like an incantation or a prayer.

Ultimately then, in complete disregard of the hundreds of dollars in insurance we paid months ago, I ended up at the clinic for self-paid people -- people who no insurance -- and paid $85 so that someone would see me. That someone, of course, turned out to be the third-year dental students who run the clinic. That means they were people my age, people who are too young to have expertise and are clearly my peers. With all the young docs and x-ray technicians I dealt with, our conversations consisted of bitching about grad school exams and reminiscing about the mid-90s.

Anyways, the guy I saw told me that: (a) my blood pressure was a little high that day (which was bullshit because I was freaking out and stressed from spending over an hour tying to prove that I had dental insurance); (b) the bump was probably indeed a Tori, and it's not oral cancer, because oral cancer grows on soft flesh and besides, my glands were all fine; (c) but he also passingly mentioned bone cancer, which made me pee my pants a little bit; (d) I didn't need a biopsy because it's fine; (e) I have excellent oral hygiene (hell yes); (f) I have a very bright future, which was sort of touching.

I went through x-rays, and got a referral to a dentist, so now I'm going in on Tuesday for a cleaning and general check-up. I am learning to live with my new lil' Tori, and am looking forward to getting a second opinion on it, just in case. Even though the doctor and all my internet research indicate that everything is fine, it will be nice to show it to someone who is both a full-blown dentist and older than me.

But here's the kicker to the story: What the hell is wrong with our health care system? I am someone with a lot of cultural capital as well as an advanced degree, I can read and speak English fluently, yet I couldn't navigate the insurance requirements of Columbia and ended up paying entirely out of pocket. I defer a lot of medical and insurance decisions to L, since she bogglingly decided to work in the health field professionally, but the four hours -- four hours -- I spent yesterday trying to grapple with this stuff was incredibly frustrating. When I go back on Tuesday I will be armed with every document and insurance card I can get my hands on.

I was discombobulated all day afterwards. I self-medicated with soda and an Italian BMT from Subway. The dental clinic was grim and cramped, the guy in the chair next to me was begging to have two teeth pulled because they hurt so bad, the young interns were constantly being admonished by the attending for missing steps of their protocols, and it seemed that many of the patients couldn't understand English well enough to comprehend what these hotshot twenty-something dentists were telling them.

No wonder people don't go to the doctor's. The doctor who told me all those helpful things about high blood pressure, bone cancer, and my glaringly bright future also complimented me on being vigilant about my oral health, since I came in immediately after discovering something strange. But that kind of vigilance is easy to drop in light of the gauntlet that separates you, the patient, from actually seeing a doctor, in a room, where the doctor can check you out and tell you what's happening and send you on your merry way. Who wants to head in to see the doctor when you have to first make your way through an army of insurance company hand-wringers, hospital bureaucrats, inept administrators, and well-meaning but not fully formed med students? I mean, is there a mid-wife or a witch doctor I could see? Or a gypsy or something? Come on. Who has the luxury to spend half a day in a hospital complex?

Thanks for reading all this way, if you made it through.

New kicks

BAM! These are my new sneaks. I got them over the weekend, and let me tell you, they are cool. I've been searching for some decent sneakers for a very long time, and made a lot of mistakes on my journey: the Pumas that were so tight on my feet they felt like ballet shoes, or some kind of foot-condom, and those unfortunate red shoes that became known as "the ruby slippers." In desperation I was relying on old running shoes, which developed a gaping hole in the side that made my socks get wet and dirty. Something had to be done.

But now! Check me out. These shoes make me feel nimble, quick, agile. True, I'm not a soccer guy, but I am a cool person. And these shoes make me feel great as I strut down the street, bobbing and weaving past everybody else, and they are certainly rocking the dance hour. So when you see me out on the town, check out my shoes. That's what I'll be doing.

End of the week

This weekend my brother-in-law Henry came into town. We had a very good time, despite being homebound for most of Saturday due to torrential rainfall. Other people might have been discouraged by the prospect of sitting in a small apartment, staring at each other as the rain pours and as we wait for our damp jeans to dry on top of the radiator, but not us!

On Friday Henry and I went to Chipotle for a late lunch. Massive lines of people waiting for their burritos. We went to the one on Varick, which is like a ghost town when I go at night for dinner; the lunchtimes hordes were kind of shocking. Later, like any two normal dudes, we went up to McNulty's on Christopher Street to buy some tea. That night we went to John's Pizza for dinner, where we had a great time until Henry felt something brush against his foot and it turned out to be a mouse. We were standing up, preparing to exit the place after our meal, and there was the lumpy brown mouse sitting perfectly still. Was it dead? Was it cowering? L was uncharacteristically shocked by the grossness and wasn't moving. I tried to steer her to the side, and then a restaurant guy swooped in and covered the mouse with his foot, and I thought OH SHIT DO NOT CRUSH THE MOUSE, so at that point I darted away to the side to miss the carnage, nimbly dodging tables until I met up with L and Henry at the front of the restaurant. Delicious pizza, though. Four stars, all the way.

Saturday we woke up to the driving rain. It was coming down in sheets, pounding the pavement and turning the air white. No one was outside. We spent a lot of time reading, doing homework, trying to find something new on the internet, staring at each other blankly. During a lull in the storm in the afternoon we ventured to Five Guys for some burgers and complimentary peanuts (I always eat too many peanuts, end up feeling sick later on) and went up to Three Lives to check out the new books. Five Guys, Three Lives. Hmm. As the rain picked up again we headed home.

Around six o'clock it seemed to let up once more, so I decided to go for a run by the river. (During those horrible witching hours of 5-7 pm, for some reason, I get so antsy and just can't be cooped up in the apartment -- I have to get out). As I ran along the river the clouds were billowing up into the sky, creating a broad gray band dividing the lapping water below and the surprisingly clear night sky above. Quite pretty. Two thirds of the way through it started raining again, cold flecks hitting the t-shirt on my back. A few minutes later the hard rain had returned, soaking through my clothes into my skin. I could feel the soppy weight of my pants against my calves as I ran. I sprinted for the last couple miles, whooping with cold as I tried to get home as quickly as possible. When I finally made it I was drenched and shivering, stripping in the kitchen and heading directly to the shower. Another great run!

That night we headed up to Rickshaw for dinner, after the rain finally abated around 8:30. Went to the Strand, and I got Raymond Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." Excellent short stories, very spare and sharp and whittled down. I can definitely see the line connecting him to Richard Ford, one of my favorites. Henry met up with some friends so L and I watched a surprisingly good SNL with Ashesh and Mona.

Today I got up and spent a couple hours at the gym. As we left my teacher told me that I was getting stronger, since I was making it through the full set of push-ups. Humiliating compliment to receive. I immediately tried explaining how we don't do push-ups until near the end, when we've done a lot of upper body work already, how we do them extremely slow, how I'm focusing on form, etc. After Chipotle, where I was stuck in line behind some clueless Europeans who were mystified by the idea of selecting from a menu of salsas, I met everybody to head up to Union Square for various shopping and browsing adventures. We also ate lunch at the saddest Subway ever, which we should have recognized immediately based on the sign in the window advertising "FRE COFEE." Ultimately we made it home exhausted and Henry headed for the bus.

Despite the weather, it was an excellent weekend. I was glad Henry made it up, and he was a really good sport about our limited range of activities (hampered by the rain and our own weird proclivities -- three bookstores in two days? Really?). He is one of those people who I just wish would live up here, nearby. That list is distressingly long.

Democratic party

I had a weird week last week: I totally swayed over to the Hillary side of things. The SNL/Tina Fey endorsement was a factor. L convinced me that her health care plan is better (Hillary's, not L's) (although I'm sure L's would be spectacular) and pointed out some of the insidious ways that sexism and misogyny have permeated coverage of her campaign. L has done this, I might add, with the righteous fury that only third-wave feminism can bestow.

Hillary seemed to be extremely tough, and her plans had a little more meat on the bone than Obama's, and she was just so darn competent. Obama seemed to be getting a little cocky, a little too reliant on these evanescent ideals and aspirations.

Then Hillary won Ohio and Texas, guaranteeing that this process will continue. That's when I immediately snapped back to the Obama side. It's time to pull the plug.

I read about her victory speech, when she said something like (and I'm quoting loosely here): "If you've ever been knocked down and gotten back up, if you have ever taken a hit and stayed in the ring, if you've ever gotten punched in the kidneys, if you had scoliosis as a kid and you still can't brings your hands together above your head, if you never went to the prom, THEN THIS ONE'S FOR YOU!" It was a brilliant line. But when I actually heard her deliver it on tv, it was horrible. Her flat midwestern vowels stomped the life and rhythm out of the phrasing, she stepped on her own words and awkwardly bumped into her applause. That seemed to sum it all up: looks good on paper, but for me it's just not clicking.

Hillary is tenacious. She is hurling everything she can at her opponent and the electorate to see what sticks. She is Hillary the Fighter, Hillary the Misty-Eyed Dreamer, Hillary that Cynical Realist Who Eats Hope for Breakfast, or Hillary the Pant-suited Ballbuster. But I'm looking at the clock and wondering: why is Hillary still trying to figure out an effective narrative against Obama? How does she actually expect to win, without subverting the will of the people? And why can't Obama just win this thing? Can he focus less on these tiny shitkicker states and start pulling in the big ones? What's the holdup?

McCain is a decent guy, and I will be all right if he wins the presidency. But as things stand now, Obama offers a starker contrast and a more compelling alternative than Hillary. I would still love to see a joint ticket. I just hope that the main players consider the good of the country and the good of the party, in addition to their own ambitions and agendas. Either one will be fine by me, but looking forward, I still think Obama has the better shot.

Winter of our discontent

Today, for the first time in many, many days, it's not disgusting outside. It's in the mid-50s, and the sun is shining. Winter, which began about eight or nine months ago, has taken a momentary pause to remind us that it doesn't always have to be cold, dreary, and gross. When I stepped outside today I was immediately blinded by the sun, squinting and pathetically shielding my face with my arm, like a vampire with a Jansport backpack. As I got used to this so-called "sun-light," and as my pale, nearly translucent body absorbed the Vitamin D it has desperately craved, I found the sensation to be a pleasant one. Gradually I lowered my arm, my pupils dilated appropriately, and I was a happy camper. Now I'm sitting here at school clad in a Polo, with my fleece and my long underwear safe and unnecessary back at home.

This is a huge change from the weekend: on Saturday afternoon I was walking around and found that even though it was chilly outside, in the sunshine it was warm. As I returned home from the Strand I knew I should go for a run while it was still relatively pleasant. So I pulled on a long-sleeve t-shirt and some shorts and headed outside around three o'clock. But as soon as I stepped outside, it was evident that something had changed: the sky had darkened, and there was a thick, low bank of clouds covering the city like steel wool. Undaunted, I started jogging towards the piers. The wind was buffeting me through the side streets and a wet fleck hit me square in the eye -- it was snow. Soon I could see it flurrying all around me, the snowflakes flying crazily through the air as the cold wind bounced around the buildings and streets.

I couldn't turn around because I had only gone about 200 feet. What was I going to do, come home and just change back into my clothes? So, in the inexplicable midday darkness of this hellish, completely unromantic urban winter, I was jogging along Hudson River Park, through the snow, in my shorts. You are an idiot, I thought. Thankfully I saw a few other guys in shorts who were running too, with their legs looking red and chapped. No one looked that happy, yet I felt we all shared a mutual sense of sheepishness, of miscalculation. Not a great run by any means.

But today, unlike Saturday, there is no snow, and no darkness. Today you could actually believe that winter might someday end.

Birthday karaoke

Caveat: I am drunk right now. With that in mind, here we go.

Tonight we went to a karaoke place in Koreatown to belatedly celebrate my 28th birthday, which is really the cusp of solid adulthood -- no more pretense of young adulthood or quarterlife crises, now -- you are a grown-ass man, basically. Here are the great things:

1. It was an awesome time. Truly epic. There was a bat-phone in the room, where you picked it up and placed a drink order, and lo and behold, several minutes later the drinks appeared in your room. Miraculous.

2. Songs that were sung: many, many. "More than words," "I need you tonight," "Drop it like it's hot," "Not ready to make nice," "Before he cheats," "Tonight I wanna cry," "Ice box," "The way I are," "Shawty is a 10," "Stronger," "Good life," "Flashing lights," 'Sexyback," "Welcome to the jungle," "Oops I did it again," "Because of you," "I want it that way," "Inside out," "Can't get enough of your love babe," "Deja vu," "Separate worlds," "Faith," "Umbrella," and many more.

3. John and Anna and Ashesh were on fire the entire night. We were singing, we were dividing up the parts, we were doing rounds, we were doing falsetto, we were ordering drinks, we were passing the mic and sounding great.

4. L was at her bold and unabashed best: belting out the country hits, being the Beyonce to my Jay-Z, being social and wonderful and reminding me why she is the best.

5. I did pretty good too, getting my rap on, singing out "Shawty is a 10," working the tambourine, and letting my sensitive side show with "When can I see you again," which earned me a "You were actually pretty good" from one of the people there who can really sing.

6. I felt a huge swell of happiness, perhaps facilitated by alcohol, having such a fun time with my friends -- rocking out to the music, laughing, making up stupid ad-libs and jokes to cover for the lyrics we didn't know and the songs we misjudged -- there's nothing like picking a song thinking it will be a hit and then realizing nobody knows it but you. That's when you press 'SKIP' on the huge remote control and keep pressing forward.

Ok, and here are the shitty things, and let's keep it real:

1. [Redacted, now that it's the next day and I'm mostly sober. No need to find things to complain about! Buck up! Be happy and thankful, not least of all for the fact that you're not as hung over as you could have been, and probably deserve to be]


All that plus a tambourine. It was a very good night. A very good night.

August: Osage County

L took me out to see a play tonight, "August: Osage County." The play is about this big Oklahoma family that reunites after the patriarch goes missing. Even though it deals with such uplifting themes as suicide, drug abuse, incest, and general family hatred and resentment, the play was hilarious. It was a long one -- three hours, with two intermissions -- but I devoured all of it and wanted even more.

Coming from a family that isn't afraid to do a little yelling in order to work through problems and concerns, some of the dynamics felt very familiar. It was great to see people screaming at each other, cussing, stomping around, and throwing plates, in the kind of cathartic moments that never really happen but perhaps sometimes should. Yet the play hit all the other, more subtle notes, too -- the sense of loyalty, camaraderie, a shared history that is known to only the precious few.

The funniest part, to me, was when one old biddy was telling her niece about a scandalous family secret: that her cousin was actually her brother. As the old aunt is in the process of explaining this, two of their other clueless relatives come wandering in, blithely asking what's new, and the niece suddenly goes jumping over the back of the sofa, waving her hands at the newcomers and yelling, "Go back! Go back!" to make them scurry away so the story won't be interrupted. It was really funny; I guess you had to be there.

Anyways, it was a great night. In classic fashion we had the cheapest possible tickets, which meant we were in the extreme last row of the theater, literally against the wall. But because most attendees of the dramatic theater are richer than us, our area was fairly deserted, so we could spread our coats out, stretch our arms, and crinkle our bags of Skittles and M&Ms with impunity. It was a great night and I was very happy to be there -- so thank you, wife of mine.

Twenty-eight

Today is my 28th birthday! On my favorite radio station back home, they used to do this sing-songy thing in the morning when people would call in with birthday wishes for their friends and family. It would go, "Hey yo MIKE!...Starquisha called, and said, ahhhh IT'S! YOUR BIRTHDAY!" I have had this little ditty bouncing around my head all day, because, as I mentioned before, it's my birthday.

Because it's my birthday, this morning I departed from my standard all-Cheerios breakfast regime and indulged in one of my favorite forbidden passions, Lucky Charms. They're delicious and turn your milk gray. After class I hustled over to the movie theater and caught an afternoon show of "No Country for Old Men," since it had been validated by the Academy, and actually enjoyed it since I could figure out when to look down to avoid seeing a variety of Texans get air-pistoled. It was nice to catch a movie by myself, surrounded by maybe a dozen old people or others with some unexpected weekday freedom. In a little while a few of our friends are coming over for dinner, and later on this week we're going out for some karaoke. It's a very pleasant day.

And I'm ready for a new year to start, too. Twenty-seven was getting a little thin, a little ragged around the edges. The evenness of 28, its divisibility by so many numbers, is a good sign. And it's a pretty inconspicuous number, as far as ages go; just another lap around the track, something to note as you pass by on your way to something new or familiar or unexpected or utterly predictable. I'm ready for some renewal. And today it begins.

Western violence

Do you have Oscar fever? I really don't. I don't know why, I'm just not feeling it right now. Usually I enjoy the Oscars, since L and I are movie freaks and have seen the nominated movies by the time the awards roll around. (Our friends always assume we have seen everything already, in the theaters, since we usually have; but this often gets communicated to us in the same disdainful tone you use when you talk to chain-smokers or felons, as if seeing movies in the theater is a giant character flaw. Well, excuse me if I like the whole movie-going experience: the overpriced snacks, the embarrassingly large sodas, the previews; that kind of excess is part of our birthright as Americans.)

The problem this year is that the dominant theme in the movies right now seems to be: Western Violence. Between "There Will Be Blood" and "No Country for Old Men," if your movie doesn't involve taciturn men beating the shit out of other, mostly clueless people, you're going home empty-handed. I saw "There Will Be Blood" and really liked it until the last twenty minutes, when Daniel-Day-Lewis started mauling on people with bowling pins and yelling out random phrases like a crazy person. During that scene I started wondering about how heavy bowling pins are, and if they would really be an effective weapon. I stupidly assumed they were hollow. What if you carried one in each hand? Would that be more useful?

I didn't see "No Country for Old Men," but I read the book and that was enough. Although now I sort of want to see the movie. In recent years, though, I have tried to move away from the extreme violence and horror; I just don't need to see it. In the meantime, though, it is interesting to note how these movies have gained such prominence now. Are they a reflection of our national mood? Definitely. I read something about how western movies always make a resurgence in times of war; the lawlessness and wanton violence of the frontier west is a useful metaphor in times of national conflict and agitation.

Maybe next year things will be a little different, and we won't be looking to the same kinds of movies to reflect and symbolize the year in film. I hope that is the case. In the meantime, though, tonight I will be pulling for "Juno."