Today was the first day of my last year of law school. Thank God. Entering the building today, with a laptop in my backpack and a $150 textbook in my hands, I felt a wave of such familiar ... boredom. The change was almost tangible as I left the bright summer morning to walk the same old hallways and stairways, from locker to class to library and back again. The rhythms of law school feel so familiar and so uninteresting right now. The same vaguely familiar people drifting through the building. The same long-winded lectures and long minutes eyeing the clock. The same boring litany of websites I read to entertain myself, the same minutia I use as a distraction. It seems especially painful after a summer of working, when I'm chomping at the bit to do real tasks and look things up and learn things the hard way.
Compared to actual working, and actual adulthood, I appreciate the leisurely pace of law school. But something just feels so uninspired about this round of classes. Maybe it's the fact that this is my fifth time at bat here, I have secure employment lined up and my academic performance seems immovable. Hopefully the rest of my classes will perk me up, once we get past the clutter about grades and exams and attendance policies. Why do all professors beat us over the head with that stuff? We're expected to read hundreds of pages of parched case law and gassy academic treatises each semester, but they don't think we can read a four-page syllabus. Maybe they're right, and then maybe that's the problem. I don't know.
There was one bright spot, though. Especially after trudging through the soupy atmosphere of law school all morning, I was shocked by the little bolt of happiness I felt when I saw a bunch of my old friends gathering for lunch. There was the usual core of my good friends from law school, the ones I've known since my very first day at ol' FU, along with a bunch of others whose company I have come to appreciate. It felt great to reconnect after a long summer. Everyone looked fresh and tanned and more freckled than usual, people had sharp haircuts, and for a good hour we shared the buzz of of melancholic 3L excitement and nostalgia for our summer incomes. It was reassuring to see that I do have friends here, that there are other souls in the boat along with me. A few bright lights along these dusty old hallways.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
I love humanity
Hip hop tonight was incredible. There were only about ten of us, so the class was small and cohesive, and we were doing this ridiculous combo that had me working the dance face and strutting like a fool the entire time. The song, "Money in the Bank," by Swizz Beatz, was new to me and awesome. Here is the combo, so you can do it at home:
Dip it, dip it, dip it, dip it, front dip, ahh, turn, shoulder POP! Foot, foot, NO, and back; easy, easy, break it down and up, JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!, Out and back, leg and front, pop it like it's hot, go back and turn, shoulder, arm, down and back! Roll it, work, roll it, work, split and down, go BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! Split and back, KICK and DOWN, JUMP and step, Money in the bank.
As you can see, it's awesome. (Incidentally, it took me about five minutes to compose the preceding paragraph, because it is both accurate and rhythmic, so appreciate that.) On the way out I had a nice chat with the teacher, Russell, who is very cool and is the Obi Wan to my Luke Skywalker, hip hop-wise (The B.I.G. to my Puffy? No, definitely not).
Afterwards I picked up Richard Ford's "A Multitude of Sins" at the bookstore, and then went to Chipotle. I chatted with a couple of the friendly guys behind the counter, who know me as Veggie Burrito, No Fajitas, and one noticed that I was limping slightly, and I explained how I'm a little beat down because I'm training for the marathon. Moments later, the girl ahead of me in line asked for extra guac for her burrito, but when she heard it was a buck-fifty extra, she declined. I thought to myself, this girl held the door open for you as you came in. Be nice. So I ordered a side of guac for my veggie burrito (it was free for me) and I gave it to the girl. She was very appreciative yet she skedaddled out of there very quickly, despite my efforts to flash the wedding ring and make it clear that I wasn't trying to make a move on her, I was just trying to help her out with her guacamole needs. But as she left, thanking me profusely, she said, "and good luck on the marathon," and I felt fantastic.
So then I meandered home, with a bluebird on my shoulder and a spring in my step.
Dip it, dip it, dip it, dip it, front dip, ahh, turn, shoulder POP! Foot, foot, NO, and back; easy, easy, break it down and up, JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!, Out and back, leg and front, pop it like it's hot, go back and turn, shoulder, arm, down and back! Roll it, work, roll it, work, split and down, go BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! Split and back, KICK and DOWN, JUMP and step, Money in the bank.
As you can see, it's awesome. (Incidentally, it took me about five minutes to compose the preceding paragraph, because it is both accurate and rhythmic, so appreciate that.) On the way out I had a nice chat with the teacher, Russell, who is very cool and is the Obi Wan to my Luke Skywalker, hip hop-wise (The B.I.G. to my Puffy? No, definitely not).
Afterwards I picked up Richard Ford's "A Multitude of Sins" at the bookstore, and then went to Chipotle. I chatted with a couple of the friendly guys behind the counter, who know me as Veggie Burrito, No Fajitas, and one noticed that I was limping slightly, and I explained how I'm a little beat down because I'm training for the marathon. Moments later, the girl ahead of me in line asked for extra guac for her burrito, but when she heard it was a buck-fifty extra, she declined. I thought to myself, this girl held the door open for you as you came in. Be nice. So I ordered a side of guac for my veggie burrito (it was free for me) and I gave it to the girl. She was very appreciative yet she skedaddled out of there very quickly, despite my efforts to flash the wedding ring and make it clear that I wasn't trying to make a move on her, I was just trying to help her out with her guacamole needs. But as she left, thanking me profusely, she said, "and good luck on the marathon," and I felt fantastic.
So then I meandered home, with a bluebird on my shoulder and a spring in my step.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Summer winding down
These last couple of weeks have been intensely relaxing. We've been doing a lot of focused activity in order to relax and have fun. As in: "Hurry up, we need to leave the beach so we can get back in time for the JT concert!" Or, "wake up, it's 5:30 and we want Shakespeare in the Park tickets!" It's fun, yet at times it seems more stressful than it needs to be.
My parents and grandparents met L and I at the beach for an afternoon last week. This turned out to be a kind of valedictory lap for my grandparents, who wanted to try each and every kind of snack food anyone has ever eaten at any beach. In the course of a few hours, we had seafood, ice cream, crepes, boardwalk fries, and Grotto's Pizza, the only kind of pizza I would take a bullet for. The funniest moment came when my grandma had just purchased her fries and she was struggling to rip some napkins off the big cylindrical roll. You know how some places have those cheap napkins now, the ones that are single-ply and come on a roll and you have to rip them off yourself? As if decent, regular napkins are just too taxing for restaurateurs to deal with? After battling with this thing, my grandma walked along and said to no one in particular, "that toilet paper's hard to get out," and the rest of us just burst out laughing. She just accepted the fact that this place was offering toilet paper as napkins. I think our grandparents deserve better.
The family fun continued when my sister arrived for a few days to enjoy the city and force us to clean our apartment before her arrival. She and I waited seven hours for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, and she impressed me with her ability to sleep like a rock for four of those hours, a beach towel over her head and snoring rhythmically the entire time. It was just like we had never left the beach, except instead of crashing waves I had my sister sounding like a construction site beside me. We had a blast for the rest of the time as well: checking out the view from the Top of the Rock, strolling around the neighborhood, and watching "Superbad," which some might think would be an awkward movie to see with your little sister, but not me.
But now all our visitors have left, and I'm bracing myself for school again. L is going to Armenia tomorrow for a week, which is depressing and means I will revert to bachelor mode, which is a much more primal and less tidy state of existence. Class starts for me next Monday, which means I actually have homework this weekend. Oh, and we'll be repainting the pink room in our place very soon -- either Celery or Blue Mesa or Cobalt or something similarly named. Etruscan Midnight? Plum Fantasia? Time will tell.
My parents and grandparents met L and I at the beach for an afternoon last week. This turned out to be a kind of valedictory lap for my grandparents, who wanted to try each and every kind of snack food anyone has ever eaten at any beach. In the course of a few hours, we had seafood, ice cream, crepes, boardwalk fries, and Grotto's Pizza, the only kind of pizza I would take a bullet for. The funniest moment came when my grandma had just purchased her fries and she was struggling to rip some napkins off the big cylindrical roll. You know how some places have those cheap napkins now, the ones that are single-ply and come on a roll and you have to rip them off yourself? As if decent, regular napkins are just too taxing for restaurateurs to deal with? After battling with this thing, my grandma walked along and said to no one in particular, "that toilet paper's hard to get out," and the rest of us just burst out laughing. She just accepted the fact that this place was offering toilet paper as napkins. I think our grandparents deserve better.
The family fun continued when my sister arrived for a few days to enjoy the city and force us to clean our apartment before her arrival. She and I waited seven hours for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, and she impressed me with her ability to sleep like a rock for four of those hours, a beach towel over her head and snoring rhythmically the entire time. It was just like we had never left the beach, except instead of crashing waves I had my sister sounding like a construction site beside me. We had a blast for the rest of the time as well: checking out the view from the Top of the Rock, strolling around the neighborhood, and watching "Superbad," which some might think would be an awkward movie to see with your little sister, but not me.
But now all our visitors have left, and I'm bracing myself for school again. L is going to Armenia tomorrow for a week, which is depressing and means I will revert to bachelor mode, which is a much more primal and less tidy state of existence. Class starts for me next Monday, which means I actually have homework this weekend. Oh, and we'll be repainting the pink room in our place very soon -- either Celery or Blue Mesa or Cobalt or something similarly named. Etruscan Midnight? Plum Fantasia? Time will tell.
Friday, August 17, 2007
OMG its Justin Timberlakee !!!
There are several thousand people in Madison Square Garden tonight, and most of them are named Kory or Krystal or Kourtney. They are young, and they are wearing t-shirts they just bought with Justin Timberlake's image on the fronts. These people have endured a lackluster set by the opening act, Good Charlotte, and now they are watching as concert-goers' text messages flash on the screens onstage:
JUSTINN TIMBERLAKEE WUTTTTUPPPP
KRIS N VAL ARE BFL LUV JT
When Justin Timberlake finally rises onto stage this crowd of young women creates an ungodly sound, the scream of a thousand banshees, like witches' spindly fingers ripping through jagged sheets of metal, a relentless shriek with a million mothers that will not fully die down for at least an hour. You have to get accustomed to this sound, and you have to learn to listen to the music on top of it, like how you have to get accustomed to being one of not many men here. The men you have seen here fall into three categories: (1) attending with their women, reluctantly; (2) attending with their women, happily (you fall into this category); (3) attending with their men, happily. There are so few men here that when Justin does the call and response part in "Senorita," you can actually hear your own voice, alone yet uncowed, doing the male part ("it feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"), whereas in the female part ("I don't know but I'm thinking 'bout, really leaving with you") you are confronted with a wall of sound and cries and yelps barreling all around you.
Yet you enjoy this concert. The first thing that makes you turn to your woman and share a smile of happiness is the segue from "Like I Love You" to "My Love," when the choreography is so tight and subtle yet perfectly captures everything about the music. You will share similar moments of amazement and joy during the choreography for "Summer Love," and during Timbaland's guest DJ gig, when he moves seamlessly through recent, random pop hits ("Since You've Been Gone"), to the best songs from your high school years ("Are You That Somebody"), to the best song of the whole summer ("The Way I Are").
Surprisingly, the army of Krystals grows quiet as Justin does some of his older songs, especially a ballad from the "Justified" album that you love. "They never even listened to the whole thing," you cluck to your woman. You have a moment of greater triumph, along with profound disdain for the Krystals, once you see how long it takes them to recognize the songs that are being played. Once you hear a few piano keys, or a guitar lick, or maybe even a backbeat, you know what song he's about to launch into -- yet the Krystals seem to need measure after measure after measure to figure out they're about to hear "Rock Your Body" or "LoveStoned." "They're idiots! They don't even know what they're hearing!" you yell to your woman, confident that the Krystals aren't listening to you, since they just realized "SexyBack" started.
You have a great night, an island of matrimonial masculinity amid this sea of raging young women. The music sounds great, you hear every song you hoped to, and the choreography was truly sick. The staging was creative and ingenious. And the show was being recorded for a broadcast on HBO in a few weeks -- maybe you will see yourself briefly on TV, singing along, dancing as well as you can while standing in place and not jostling elbows with the screaming young women around you. Perhaps you even feel a certain affinity with Justin, or at least a shared love of the same kind of music, and an understanding that you are propelled by the same set of emotions, grooves, and undeniable rhythms. That is what you are singing, standing like an island in the middle of an extremely foreign sea.
"It feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"
JUSTINN TIMBERLAKEE WUTTTTUPPPP
KRIS N VAL ARE BFL LUV JT
When Justin Timberlake finally rises onto stage this crowd of young women creates an ungodly sound, the scream of a thousand banshees, like witches' spindly fingers ripping through jagged sheets of metal, a relentless shriek with a million mothers that will not fully die down for at least an hour. You have to get accustomed to this sound, and you have to learn to listen to the music on top of it, like how you have to get accustomed to being one of not many men here. The men you have seen here fall into three categories: (1) attending with their women, reluctantly; (2) attending with their women, happily (you fall into this category); (3) attending with their men, happily. There are so few men here that when Justin does the call and response part in "Senorita," you can actually hear your own voice, alone yet uncowed, doing the male part ("it feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"), whereas in the female part ("I don't know but I'm thinking 'bout, really leaving with you") you are confronted with a wall of sound and cries and yelps barreling all around you.
Yet you enjoy this concert. The first thing that makes you turn to your woman and share a smile of happiness is the segue from "Like I Love You" to "My Love," when the choreography is so tight and subtle yet perfectly captures everything about the music. You will share similar moments of amazement and joy during the choreography for "Summer Love," and during Timbaland's guest DJ gig, when he moves seamlessly through recent, random pop hits ("Since You've Been Gone"), to the best songs from your high school years ("Are You That Somebody"), to the best song of the whole summer ("The Way I Are").
Surprisingly, the army of Krystals grows quiet as Justin does some of his older songs, especially a ballad from the "Justified" album that you love. "They never even listened to the whole thing," you cluck to your woman. You have a moment of greater triumph, along with profound disdain for the Krystals, once you see how long it takes them to recognize the songs that are being played. Once you hear a few piano keys, or a guitar lick, or maybe even a backbeat, you know what song he's about to launch into -- yet the Krystals seem to need measure after measure after measure to figure out they're about to hear "Rock Your Body" or "LoveStoned." "They're idiots! They don't even know what they're hearing!" you yell to your woman, confident that the Krystals aren't listening to you, since they just realized "SexyBack" started.
You have a great night, an island of matrimonial masculinity amid this sea of raging young women. The music sounds great, you hear every song you hoped to, and the choreography was truly sick. The staging was creative and ingenious. And the show was being recorded for a broadcast on HBO in a few weeks -- maybe you will see yourself briefly on TV, singing along, dancing as well as you can while standing in place and not jostling elbows with the screaming young women around you. Perhaps you even feel a certain affinity with Justin, or at least a shared love of the same kind of music, and an understanding that you are propelled by the same set of emotions, grooves, and undeniable rhythms. That is what you are singing, standing like an island in the middle of an extremely foreign sea.
"It feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"
Saturday, August 11, 2007
One year
A year ago today was the rehearsal dinner. A year ago yesterday was MK-D-Day, the epic bachelor excursion to Charlottesville. And a year ago tomorrow, I got married to L.
I can't believe it's been a whole year since we got married. My grandparents told me that they can remember their wedding like it was yesterday, and maybe I'm starting to understand that -- I feel like I remember that whole series of days (as heady and emotional and unabashedly joyful as they were) as if they just happened. The wedding was the culmination of so many things, but it was obviously just a beginning as well.
In many ways I feel like the exact same person who wriggled into the rental tuxedo and couldn't figure out his cufflinks and then said the vows; the same person who swiftly choked up when he saw his bride at the end of the aisle and then realized that his contact lens had floated away from his left eyeball on a crest of potential tears, so that he couldn't see clearly for about a third of L's trek towards him on her father's arm, so that at the moment he was thinking (1) he was actually missing his bride's walk to the altar and (2) he would have to recalibrate his depth perception in order to successfully kiss her, unless he wanted to go through the ceremony pirate-style with one eye closed. And then, miraculously, as she approached, the contact lens floated perfectly back into place. I remember too how reassured I was when James put his hand on my back as L approached, and how I couldn't help but kiss her when she met me at the altar and then again later on, when we weren't supposed to but when I thought the ceremony was over (and the priest made some joke about it, and I thought, well, maybe you could be more clear with your nonverbal cues, bub).
I still feel like that person. It's as if I haven't read any books, or heard any new music, or met anyone new, or changed one iota since that day -- it still feels so familiar and recent, so much like myself. In the interim I have learned a lot, gone to new places, met some promising new people, and had some exciting changes at school and at work -- but I am still that person.
At this point, with one year in and hopefully many more to go, I am grateful that we did it and thankful that I can return to it in my head and think about what an amazing event it all was. And it's not even over: the wedding was merely the seed for this beautiful, organic marriage of ours.
Our first anniversary: looking back on a day that is my best memory and my present tense.
I can't believe it's been a whole year since we got married. My grandparents told me that they can remember their wedding like it was yesterday, and maybe I'm starting to understand that -- I feel like I remember that whole series of days (as heady and emotional and unabashedly joyful as they were) as if they just happened. The wedding was the culmination of so many things, but it was obviously just a beginning as well.
In many ways I feel like the exact same person who wriggled into the rental tuxedo and couldn't figure out his cufflinks and then said the vows; the same person who swiftly choked up when he saw his bride at the end of the aisle and then realized that his contact lens had floated away from his left eyeball on a crest of potential tears, so that he couldn't see clearly for about a third of L's trek towards him on her father's arm, so that at the moment he was thinking (1) he was actually missing his bride's walk to the altar and (2) he would have to recalibrate his depth perception in order to successfully kiss her, unless he wanted to go through the ceremony pirate-style with one eye closed. And then, miraculously, as she approached, the contact lens floated perfectly back into place. I remember too how reassured I was when James put his hand on my back as L approached, and how I couldn't help but kiss her when she met me at the altar and then again later on, when we weren't supposed to but when I thought the ceremony was over (and the priest made some joke about it, and I thought, well, maybe you could be more clear with your nonverbal cues, bub).
I still feel like that person. It's as if I haven't read any books, or heard any new music, or met anyone new, or changed one iota since that day -- it still feels so familiar and recent, so much like myself. In the interim I have learned a lot, gone to new places, met some promising new people, and had some exciting changes at school and at work -- but I am still that person.
At this point, with one year in and hopefully many more to go, I am grateful that we did it and thankful that I can return to it in my head and think about what an amazing event it all was. And it's not even over: the wedding was merely the seed for this beautiful, organic marriage of ours.
Our first anniversary: looking back on a day that is my best memory and my present tense.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Going to the eye doctor
I went to the eye doctor yesterday to get new prescriptions for glasses and contacts. I'm always struck by the extremely subjective nature of the eye exam. My doctor today was one of those doctors who is very nice but also only about 45 minutes older than me, which is unnerving. We did the usual thing where you read the letters in varying sizes on the wall, and he's busy flipping lenses in front of you and comparing different kinds, asking, "What's better, this or this? How about this? Can you see this one? How do you feel about that? Really? Tell me more," etc. Shouldn't he know the answer? I go to the doctor to rely on medical expertise I don't have, yet the eye doctor seems to take a much more relaxed, "you're the expert in your own body" approach. The entire diagnosis is based on how you respond to these prompts, so I always end up providing more information than he probably needs: "the first is a little better, but not really...this one is almost a negligible difference, but I feel happier looking through it...can you go back to the first one again...uh, which one do most people think is better?" I don't want to screw it up. (You would think they could standardize this easily enough: make a tiny line of type everyone should be able to read, like maybe the preamble of the Constitution, and give people whatever lenses they need to read it. That might be an improvement over this incredibly subjective, lens-flipping, is-it-cheating-if-I-squint system we operate on now.)
The flip side of the touchy-feely conversation-based diagnosis is the insane technology optometrists use. They have all those giant plastic machines (do they travel through time? Are they robots?) where you put your head in a sling, open your eyes as wide as they can go and stare at the vertical beam of light that is presently dipping into your cornea and scrambling it. They had a new one yesterday, a machine that I was told would send two "puffs of air" into my eye to test for glaucoma or lupus or something. When I felt the first "puff" my head jerked back so fast and so hard that on the return trip it knocked the chin brace out of alignment. That was not a puff, it was a horizontal geiser aimed at my eyeball. I could barely brace myself for the next three "puffs," and was giggling nervously, stupidly, in anticipation. When they finally finished attacking my face with the air machine, I asked the technician if she had tried it. "No," she said breezily. "Some people seem to be bothered by it though."
Anyways, I survived the appointment. I need to not wear contacts as much; I'm getting blood vessels in my eyes because they are under-oxidized. And nobody wants to walk down the street hearing other people's whispers about how the whites of your eyes seem over-vesseled. So I will be getting plenty of use out of the cool, hipster-ish new glasses I'll be getting in the coming weeks: something to look forward to.
The flip side of the touchy-feely conversation-based diagnosis is the insane technology optometrists use. They have all those giant plastic machines (do they travel through time? Are they robots?) where you put your head in a sling, open your eyes as wide as they can go and stare at the vertical beam of light that is presently dipping into your cornea and scrambling it. They had a new one yesterday, a machine that I was told would send two "puffs of air" into my eye to test for glaucoma or lupus or something. When I felt the first "puff" my head jerked back so fast and so hard that on the return trip it knocked the chin brace out of alignment. That was not a puff, it was a horizontal geiser aimed at my eyeball. I could barely brace myself for the next three "puffs," and was giggling nervously, stupidly, in anticipation. When they finally finished attacking my face with the air machine, I asked the technician if she had tried it. "No," she said breezily. "Some people seem to be bothered by it though."
Anyways, I survived the appointment. I need to not wear contacts as much; I'm getting blood vessels in my eyes because they are under-oxidized. And nobody wants to walk down the street hearing other people's whispers about how the whites of your eyes seem over-vesseled. So I will be getting plenty of use out of the cool, hipster-ish new glasses I'll be getting in the coming weeks: something to look forward to.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
NYC Half Marathon 2007
Today I woke up at five in the morning, after a hearty four and a half hours of sleep, interrupted only when a flowerpot fell from somebody's fire escape and shattered on the sidewalk, causing me to bolt awake and try to figure out where the inevitable intruder was located in my apartment, to run a half marathon. It was dark when the alarm went off, but I shoved my contacts into my eyes, got into the running clothes I had laid out the night before, and stumbled into a cab to head up to the park.
Three and a half hours later, I was on top of the world. It was a glorious morning for running - warm, clear, with an occasional breeze. I finished this thing in 1:44, a couples minutes speedier than last summer. My goal was to run eight-minute miles, and my average mile-time turned out to be 7:56 (last year's was 8:09). I was so, so happy.
The first eight miles or so was in Central Park, and it felt great. As soon as I began running, I realized that I had to pee, but I managed to keep this situation under control and it was fine for the whole race. I walked through every fluid station (about every two miles initially, then once a mile for the final stretch) whether I felt I needed it or not. My body felt great, even the injured left leg that had me limping/strutting unnaturally all week. (I spent the entire workweek denying that I could possibly have pulled a groin muscle.)
Things went slightly downhill for the last five miles. Running down 7th Avenue was exciting, but I was a little tired, and I developed a stitch in my side. My earphones kept bouncing out, too, which was irritating. During the final four miles on the West Side Highway, my muscles grew fatigued and I became increasingly aware of the unforgiving pavement beneath my feet. During the last mile, it was all I could do to not walk for portions of it (I had no energy left over to sprint and finish strong, which had been my goal -- instead I felt like once I crossed the finish line, I would have to head back a quarter mile or so to gather up my intestines). As a matter of fact, my last mile was done in 7:45, totally respectable; the final 0.1 miles, though, took 52 seconds, which would have put me around the nine- or ten-minute mile mark for a 14th mile. I was beat.
But I was also thrilled. I didn't give up, and I didn't walk, and I came out with a time I'm proud of. I was really nervous about this race because of my injury, but I felt great and I'll take a couple days off now. Random thoughts were meandering through my head as I ran today, including: the realization that me writing a blog comes from the same impulse that makes me go to the New Yorker festival and do road race events: the chance to make solitary activities more communal and shared; and the fact that as I run these events year after year, I really struggle with being too competitive with myself, and always feeling the need to beat my previous times. The pressure is unnecessary, and the relief I feel at beating my previous time is not quite as good as genuine pride in the accomplishment. As you can see, the fancy new digital watch I got for training purposes has not helped this situation, since I'm now recording times for just about every aspect of the race.
They say runners feel a sense of euphoria as they run, as all their endorphins swarm inside them and produce that elusive "runner's high." I don't think I've ever felt it, although maybe I experience a low-grade version that has kept me running for a while now. Still, on days like today the feeling of physical exhaustion and exertion, the pride I feel in running 13.1 ridiculous miles, the astonishment that my body is capable of doing such things without total collapse -- there is definitely something euphoric in that.
(Also, as I walked home from the race, I was gripped by the very real fear that I would possibly go to the bathroom in my pants, an affliction known by many a runner, and I was making numerous contingency plans in my brain for what I would do and how I would avoid a citation -- and I'll have you know, with a certain, different sense of pride, and maybe even a little euphoria, that I successfully made it home without incident.)
Three and a half hours later, I was on top of the world. It was a glorious morning for running - warm, clear, with an occasional breeze. I finished this thing in 1:44, a couples minutes speedier than last summer. My goal was to run eight-minute miles, and my average mile-time turned out to be 7:56 (last year's was 8:09). I was so, so happy.
The first eight miles or so was in Central Park, and it felt great. As soon as I began running, I realized that I had to pee, but I managed to keep this situation under control and it was fine for the whole race. I walked through every fluid station (about every two miles initially, then once a mile for the final stretch) whether I felt I needed it or not. My body felt great, even the injured left leg that had me limping/strutting unnaturally all week. (I spent the entire workweek denying that I could possibly have pulled a groin muscle.)
Things went slightly downhill for the last five miles. Running down 7th Avenue was exciting, but I was a little tired, and I developed a stitch in my side. My earphones kept bouncing out, too, which was irritating. During the final four miles on the West Side Highway, my muscles grew fatigued and I became increasingly aware of the unforgiving pavement beneath my feet. During the last mile, it was all I could do to not walk for portions of it (I had no energy left over to sprint and finish strong, which had been my goal -- instead I felt like once I crossed the finish line, I would have to head back a quarter mile or so to gather up my intestines). As a matter of fact, my last mile was done in 7:45, totally respectable; the final 0.1 miles, though, took 52 seconds, which would have put me around the nine- or ten-minute mile mark for a 14th mile. I was beat.
But I was also thrilled. I didn't give up, and I didn't walk, and I came out with a time I'm proud of. I was really nervous about this race because of my injury, but I felt great and I'll take a couple days off now. Random thoughts were meandering through my head as I ran today, including: the realization that me writing a blog comes from the same impulse that makes me go to the New Yorker festival and do road race events: the chance to make solitary activities more communal and shared; and the fact that as I run these events year after year, I really struggle with being too competitive with myself, and always feeling the need to beat my previous times. The pressure is unnecessary, and the relief I feel at beating my previous time is not quite as good as genuine pride in the accomplishment. As you can see, the fancy new digital watch I got for training purposes has not helped this situation, since I'm now recording times for just about every aspect of the race.
They say runners feel a sense of euphoria as they run, as all their endorphins swarm inside them and produce that elusive "runner's high." I don't think I've ever felt it, although maybe I experience a low-grade version that has kept me running for a while now. Still, on days like today the feeling of physical exhaustion and exertion, the pride I feel in running 13.1 ridiculous miles, the astonishment that my body is capable of doing such things without total collapse -- there is definitely something euphoric in that.
(Also, as I walked home from the race, I was gripped by the very real fear that I would possibly go to the bathroom in my pants, an affliction known by many a runner, and I was making numerous contingency plans in my brain for what I would do and how I would avoid a citation -- and I'll have you know, with a certain, different sense of pride, and maybe even a little euphoria, that I successfully made it home without incident.)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Good reads
Always eager to expand my web presence, I recently gave in to the pressure of my friends and joined Goodreads. This is a website where you list the books you've read or are reading, and you rate things based on a five-star system, and you can peruse other people's reading lists and rank the books they've read and compare your impressions. I was pretty reluctant to join because the last thing I need is another website to maintain (Ol' Clarity causes enough stress when I see the same entry staring me in the face for days on end, as I watch whatever intelligence and humor I tried to create become stale and really uninteresting, even to me) but it seemed simple enough. I've been keeping a list of the books I read for fun since 2000, and it's one of the smartest things I did that year -- now I can really punctuate the seasons and what I was doing in life by the books I read and what I thought of them. I'm not trying to reproduce the list on Goodreads, but it is interesting to see what other people like to check out. My friends were right: it's not about you listing your own books for your benefit, it's about other people checking you out (literarily, that is).
In the first 72 hours I've been a member, I've been updating and checking my little profile incessantly, seeing what other people are doing and adding my own stars to the books we've mutually read. I need to chill out a bit with this, but for now it's pretty fun. Like the New Yorker festival -- a way to make the individual experience of reading something shared and communal, which is always great to find.
If you want to join goodreads and be my friend, let me know.
In the first 72 hours I've been a member, I've been updating and checking my little profile incessantly, seeing what other people are doing and adding my own stars to the books we've mutually read. I need to chill out a bit with this, but for now it's pretty fun. Like the New Yorker festival -- a way to make the individual experience of reading something shared and communal, which is always great to find.
If you want to join goodreads and be my friend, let me know.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Marathon training update: week 4, day 6
Today was the first long run that actually felt long: nine whole miles. Until this point, the "long runs" have not been too far removed from pretty standard distances I might cover in an ambitious weekend. But nine miles -- nobody runs nine miles for fun. It's just too darn long. At nine miles, you're either taking a subway or staying home.
I had a good plan for the run: one full loop around Central Park, as well as two laps around the Reservoir. I made a conscious effort to go slow ("slow and steady" was my mantra), as my training programs instructs. The first several miles felt great: legs felt warm, easy breathing, heart was under control. When I got to the Reservoir, though, my body kind of wigged out. I had a weird time on the unpaved path, there were too many other people around, and it was unforgivingly hot. There was no nice breeze rippling over the water and cooling me off: it was just hot like hell, with many other people hustling beside me and behind me and ahead of me.
The final couple of miles, back on the smooth newly-laid asphalt, felt great. I finished pretty strong and ended up at exactly 9 minutes per mile, which I was very pleased with, considering: (1) I was trying to go slow, shooting for between 8:30 and 9:00, and (2) I had a couple walking breaks in the middle, around that stupid Reservoir, when I just sort of lost interest in running.
I am pleased with how today went. The long runs will be morphing into unpleasant runs as the weeks progress, but I feel good having nine under my belt, since anything over 6-7 gets me a little anxious. Two more notes from today: I passed this little old black lady twice, as she was lumbering up and down the great hill (I guess she had turned around at some point), and the second time, she called out to me, "I saw you on the way down, too! Whew!" And we both cracked up mid-stride. And finally, on the train back home, I looked like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest because of the voluminous amount of sweat I produced and the gossamer-like cotton shirt I was wearing. Very little was left to the imagination, but I held my head up high, dammit, because I jut ran nine miles.
In sum, training is going well. I have a few weird aches and pains, and I am constantly tired and hungry, but morale is high. Only about 13 weeks left until my mission is fulfilled!
I had a good plan for the run: one full loop around Central Park, as well as two laps around the Reservoir. I made a conscious effort to go slow ("slow and steady" was my mantra), as my training programs instructs. The first several miles felt great: legs felt warm, easy breathing, heart was under control. When I got to the Reservoir, though, my body kind of wigged out. I had a weird time on the unpaved path, there were too many other people around, and it was unforgivingly hot. There was no nice breeze rippling over the water and cooling me off: it was just hot like hell, with many other people hustling beside me and behind me and ahead of me.
The final couple of miles, back on the smooth newly-laid asphalt, felt great. I finished pretty strong and ended up at exactly 9 minutes per mile, which I was very pleased with, considering: (1) I was trying to go slow, shooting for between 8:30 and 9:00, and (2) I had a couple walking breaks in the middle, around that stupid Reservoir, when I just sort of lost interest in running.
I am pleased with how today went. The long runs will be morphing into unpleasant runs as the weeks progress, but I feel good having nine under my belt, since anything over 6-7 gets me a little anxious. Two more notes from today: I passed this little old black lady twice, as she was lumbering up and down the great hill (I guess she had turned around at some point), and the second time, she called out to me, "I saw you on the way down, too! Whew!" And we both cracked up mid-stride. And finally, on the train back home, I looked like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest because of the voluminous amount of sweat I produced and the gossamer-like cotton shirt I was wearing. Very little was left to the imagination, but I held my head up high, dammit, because I jut ran nine miles.
In sum, training is going well. I have a few weird aches and pains, and I am constantly tired and hungry, but morale is high. Only about 13 weeks left until my mission is fulfilled!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Get tested
Last night we learned that L is not pregnant, and, equally important, neither am I. For surprisingly uninteresting reasons, we ended up with a couple of home pregnancy tests in the apartment last night. Obviously, we had to try them out. And I came to the conclusion that a home pregnancy test is like a gun in a couple of ways.
First, if you have one around, you're going to use it. After L told me we had an extra one, I obviously dropped whatever I was doing to try it out. I was impressed with its light weight and comfortable grip. I decided it would be easier to use if I sat down, but I quickly began to worry about how much time you had to spend peeing on the stick to get an accurate sample. As a result, when I was finished I held the test at an awkward angle, lest a flood of unnecessary urine rush past the sample area, window panels, and out onto my hand. Fortunately this didn't happen, but there was a tense moment where the liquid (which somehow turned blue) seemed to meander through the whole thing, revealing both a control stripe and the results panel, which indicated that I am ... not pregnant. Damn. Kind of bittersweet.
The second way a home pregnancy test is like a gun is that practice makes you more comfortable using it. What happened last night, with me liberally peeing on a stick while yelling through the door to my wife, is like a trip to the firing range. I got to know the home pregnancy test, to understand it, to feel comfortable with it. So that when the real moment arrives, if and when we ever have occasion to use one -- like (God forbid) the day I need to shoot an assailant or a wild boar to protect myself and my loved ones -- I will be ready to go (and not freeze up or get confused, ending up peeing on my assailant, or throwing a home pregnancy test at the boar).
Here's to a great, non-pregnant weekend -- sushi and beers for everybody.
First, if you have one around, you're going to use it. After L told me we had an extra one, I obviously dropped whatever I was doing to try it out. I was impressed with its light weight and comfortable grip. I decided it would be easier to use if I sat down, but I quickly began to worry about how much time you had to spend peeing on the stick to get an accurate sample. As a result, when I was finished I held the test at an awkward angle, lest a flood of unnecessary urine rush past the sample area, window panels, and out onto my hand. Fortunately this didn't happen, but there was a tense moment where the liquid (which somehow turned blue) seemed to meander through the whole thing, revealing both a control stripe and the results panel, which indicated that I am ... not pregnant. Damn. Kind of bittersweet.
The second way a home pregnancy test is like a gun is that practice makes you more comfortable using it. What happened last night, with me liberally peeing on a stick while yelling through the door to my wife, is like a trip to the firing range. I got to know the home pregnancy test, to understand it, to feel comfortable with it. So that when the real moment arrives, if and when we ever have occasion to use one -- like (God forbid) the day I need to shoot an assailant or a wild boar to protect myself and my loved ones -- I will be ready to go (and not freeze up or get confused, ending up peeing on my assailant, or throwing a home pregnancy test at the boar).
Here's to a great, non-pregnant weekend -- sushi and beers for everybody.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Marathon training update: week 3, day 1
Today is a rest day, which means I don't have to exercise. I cling to these rest days like Leonardo DiCaprio, clutching that old piece of boat he held onto before he drowned in the water and old-lady Kate Winslet started throwing jewelry at him. You remember.
It's only been two solid weeks of my marathon training schedule (short runs Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, long run on Saturday, cross-training Sunday, and resting Monday and Friday) but I feel like it's going well. I have violently upended my natural clock, getting up early in the mornings and exercising before work. One potential problem is that I have not cut back on my regular exercise routine; instead I'm just adding more stuff. I'm realizing that this is not a sustainable course of action, though. You should see me in strength training, trying to lift weights as my legs shake violently underneath me. There is some sort of diminishing return happening, I think. In the next couple weeks I want to focus on running more, running a lot, and cutting back on the cross-training and lifting.
I ran a solid 10K on Saturday, yet I was a little discouraged - my breathing seemed a little raggedy, I had that weird loping gait like a marionette for the first couple of miles, and I had to go to the bathroom the entire length of the run. It was not ideal. I'm trying to run slow, as I'm supposed to on these longer weekend runs, but it's hard for me to run slow. When I first began running (7 years ago!) I honestly didn't realize that "jogging" means "don't sprint." I would run as fast as I could for as long as I could, then marvel at all the other normal joggers passing me by as I clutched my side and minced back home. A similar learning process needs to occur here -- I need to get a better sense of my timing (I can't not a run mile between 7:20-7:40, it seems) and let it slide, just a bit.
Overall, it's an exciting couple of weeks. Two weeks down, sixteen to go. I want to use this space to keep a record of my training, both to mark my progress and any obstacles that arise, and to keep myself accountable to this process by posting a public record. This is exciting! Hit the streets!
It's only been two solid weeks of my marathon training schedule (short runs Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, long run on Saturday, cross-training Sunday, and resting Monday and Friday) but I feel like it's going well. I have violently upended my natural clock, getting up early in the mornings and exercising before work. One potential problem is that I have not cut back on my regular exercise routine; instead I'm just adding more stuff. I'm realizing that this is not a sustainable course of action, though. You should see me in strength training, trying to lift weights as my legs shake violently underneath me. There is some sort of diminishing return happening, I think. In the next couple weeks I want to focus on running more, running a lot, and cutting back on the cross-training and lifting.
I ran a solid 10K on Saturday, yet I was a little discouraged - my breathing seemed a little raggedy, I had that weird loping gait like a marionette for the first couple of miles, and I had to go to the bathroom the entire length of the run. It was not ideal. I'm trying to run slow, as I'm supposed to on these longer weekend runs, but it's hard for me to run slow. When I first began running (7 years ago!) I honestly didn't realize that "jogging" means "don't sprint." I would run as fast as I could for as long as I could, then marvel at all the other normal joggers passing me by as I clutched my side and minced back home. A similar learning process needs to occur here -- I need to get a better sense of my timing (I can't not a run mile between 7:20-7:40, it seems) and let it slide, just a bit.
Overall, it's an exciting couple of weeks. Two weeks down, sixteen to go. I want to use this space to keep a record of my training, both to mark my progress and any obstacles that arise, and to keep myself accountable to this process by posting a public record. This is exciting! Hit the streets!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Abraham Lincoln: Believe the hype
A few days ago I finished Doris Kearns Goodwin's massive cinderblock of a book, "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln." A biography of Lincoln, it also explores the lives of his main rivals for the 1860 Republican presidential nomination, and then moves into a study of how Lincoln included these intelligent, ambitious men in his Cabinet, shrewdly managing their skills and egos to create a strong presidency fueled by intelligence, compassion, rivalry, and, ultimately, loyalty. I don't know if I've ever written a sentence with nine commas before, but Lincoln is worth it.
One of the remarkable things about this book for me was that it truly humanized Lincoln. He was no longer the marble deity in Washington, or the severe portrait on our currency; Goodwin portrayed him as a real man, who suffered loss in his life yet found strength through his own self-confidence and natural abilities. When he was young he would listen intently to his father telling stories to other adults, and then he would ponder these stories and figure out how to relay them to his young friends, and later enthrall them with his anecdotes and humor. This knack for language and narrative remained with him his entire life and prepared him to be an amazing orator, someone who would use analogies, simple language, and folksy humor to convey profound ideas about freedom, the Constitution, the importance of liberty.
He was truly a self-taught man, studying the Bible and learning Shakespeare to make up for the elite education he never received. He lost his mother, his sister, his first love. Yet from age 23 he knew he wanted to leave his mark on the world -- although he was ambitious, he was never corrupted by the lure of power. He spoke of his political enemies with respect, and was honored by his peers for his wisdom and patience. He did not act impulsively, or out of anger.
To me one of his most remarkable characteristics was his reliance on humor. The few bawdy jokes Goodwin reproduced in the book were slightly crass, slightly tasteless, and surprisingly funny. Even in the darkest days of the Civil War, he would begin meetings with jokes and funny stories. Although some of his colleagues frowned on this, he needed to laugh in order to face the seemingly impossible tasks ahead of him.
And here's the thing: even when he was president, Americans knew that they were in the presence of a truly great man. His reputation of honesty was well-forged by the time he entered the White House. His Cabinet members constantly remarked on his wisdom and gifts as a leader, and many writers pointed out that the nation was lucky to have him at the helm during those violent years.
Can you imagine a president renowned in his own time for his wisdom, patience, compassion, humor, and conciliatory nature? A self-taught man, a brilliant orator, a man who could rise to the nearly impossible challenges of his day. People used to say that someday Lincoln would join the pantheon of great American leaders, and that his reputation may someday surpass that of even Washington. In a very small way, despite the anger and lack of charity in our political culture today, I feel proud to live in an America that honors Lincoln as the leader and statesman he aspired to be. He would not bask in the praise and glory our country has draped around his name -- around the very idea of Abraham Lincoln -- but he certainly earned it.
One of the remarkable things about this book for me was that it truly humanized Lincoln. He was no longer the marble deity in Washington, or the severe portrait on our currency; Goodwin portrayed him as a real man, who suffered loss in his life yet found strength through his own self-confidence and natural abilities. When he was young he would listen intently to his father telling stories to other adults, and then he would ponder these stories and figure out how to relay them to his young friends, and later enthrall them with his anecdotes and humor. This knack for language and narrative remained with him his entire life and prepared him to be an amazing orator, someone who would use analogies, simple language, and folksy humor to convey profound ideas about freedom, the Constitution, the importance of liberty.
He was truly a self-taught man, studying the Bible and learning Shakespeare to make up for the elite education he never received. He lost his mother, his sister, his first love. Yet from age 23 he knew he wanted to leave his mark on the world -- although he was ambitious, he was never corrupted by the lure of power. He spoke of his political enemies with respect, and was honored by his peers for his wisdom and patience. He did not act impulsively, or out of anger.
To me one of his most remarkable characteristics was his reliance on humor. The few bawdy jokes Goodwin reproduced in the book were slightly crass, slightly tasteless, and surprisingly funny. Even in the darkest days of the Civil War, he would begin meetings with jokes and funny stories. Although some of his colleagues frowned on this, he needed to laugh in order to face the seemingly impossible tasks ahead of him.
And here's the thing: even when he was president, Americans knew that they were in the presence of a truly great man. His reputation of honesty was well-forged by the time he entered the White House. His Cabinet members constantly remarked on his wisdom and gifts as a leader, and many writers pointed out that the nation was lucky to have him at the helm during those violent years.
Can you imagine a president renowned in his own time for his wisdom, patience, compassion, humor, and conciliatory nature? A self-taught man, a brilliant orator, a man who could rise to the nearly impossible challenges of his day. People used to say that someday Lincoln would join the pantheon of great American leaders, and that his reputation may someday surpass that of even Washington. In a very small way, despite the anger and lack of charity in our political culture today, I feel proud to live in an America that honors Lincoln as the leader and statesman he aspired to be. He would not bask in the praise and glory our country has draped around his name -- around the very idea of Abraham Lincoln -- but he certainly earned it.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Rite of summer
Yesterday L and I did one of my favorite New York activities of the whole year, an event that marks the brilliance of summer as much as the sunniest weekend or the coldest fountain Coke: we went to see Shakespeare in the Park. This year's first selection is Romeo and Juliet. We woke up at 5:30 am and dragged ourselves, armed with blankets, books, and an assortment of healthy snacks, up to the Delacorte Theater to try to get tickets. These tickets are free, and passed out at 1 pm each day, so the crowds form very early (the first people usually camp overnight, or get there around 4 am). Each year I feel a unique stress as we hustle out of the house, and then, in the most horrifying moments of all, try to run in flip-flops past the already-formed line with an increasing sense of dread, until you throw down your blanket and stake your claim in line.
We were there by 6 am, so we settled in for a solid seven hours of reading and napping. You always make friends with the people around you; the two girls behind us in line were friendly grad students who had interesting stories and good choices in reading material. People in this line approach the task with the intensity and organizational focus that is characteristic of this city. Everyone listens intently as the line monitors explain the process, and people are vigilant to kick out would-be line cutters. We did not wake up at 5:30 am, and we are not spending most of the day bumming around in the park, for nothing.
So the great news was that we did get tickets, after many snacks, several trips to the public bathrooms (which, given their location in a municipal park, could be a lot grosser), and 250 pages of my Lincoln biography. Of course, a couple hundred people behind us were turned away, many of whom were only a half hour or so behind us -- we were very fortunate to get tickets, so we spent some time high-fiving, which is somewhat rare in our marriage. Anyways, here's how I spent the rest of the day: I did my first long run of marathon training (6 miles), I got a haircut (including the mandatory moment of ghastliness when my hair is soaked and the guy does this thing with the comb that makes me look tragically bald, which may or may not be true), took a nap, when to Chipeezley, and then came home for dinner, then went back up to the Park for the play.
The play. Here's the thing. We've gone to Shakespeare in the Park for four years now, and every year I think it's the best one ever, and this time was no exception. But for all the familiarity of Romeo and Juliet, I was so surprised and enthralled by this production. Lauren Ambrose as Juliet was stunning. She brought a sense of youth, intensity, and passion to her role. This was the first time I ever considered how young Romeo and Juliet are, and Ambrose infused her role with the enthusiasm and slightly spastic quality of teenage love. During the balcony scene, when the two are furtively flirting and kissing and generally mooning over each other, I was reminded of those long ago nights in high school, when a football stadium or a parking lot or a school dance created all of the romance and privacy you could possibly fathom, and this was more than you could ever dream of while it also fell flaggingly short -- the play brought back all of those dizzying emotions.
I guess while the play is about romance and tragedy and thwarted love, it's also about the the impetuousness of youth, and the utter faith you have in your own choices and destiny and view of the world, a faith that may be battered as the years move along. This play was passionate, and sexy, and funny, and gripping.
The set itself was utterly beautiful -- there was a huge, round shallow pool in the center of the stage, with only an additional structure of scaffolding to create the public squares, balconies, ballrooms, and crypts of the setting. The characters would glide or wade or stomp or fight through the water, lights would reflect and characters would become their own doubles. It was almost magical, especially as the sun set and the birds flew above us and the few stars emerged into the sky.
Basically it was an amazing night, one that fully justified my excitement and fondness for Shakespeare in the Park. The second production this summer is "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and I'm already planning on another trip when my sis is in town. Another day in the Park, lazing the morning away beneath the canopy of trees and making unexpected friends, then returning at night to be moved and surprised and reminded of how lucky you are to be here -- what more could anyone ask of a summer day?
We were there by 6 am, so we settled in for a solid seven hours of reading and napping. You always make friends with the people around you; the two girls behind us in line were friendly grad students who had interesting stories and good choices in reading material. People in this line approach the task with the intensity and organizational focus that is characteristic of this city. Everyone listens intently as the line monitors explain the process, and people are vigilant to kick out would-be line cutters. We did not wake up at 5:30 am, and we are not spending most of the day bumming around in the park, for nothing.So the great news was that we did get tickets, after many snacks, several trips to the public bathrooms (which, given their location in a municipal park, could be a lot grosser), and 250 pages of my Lincoln biography. Of course, a couple hundred people behind us were turned away, many of whom were only a half hour or so behind us -- we were very fortunate to get tickets, so we spent some time high-fiving, which is somewhat rare in our marriage. Anyways, here's how I spent the rest of the day: I did my first long run of marathon training (6 miles), I got a haircut (including the mandatory moment of ghastliness when my hair is soaked and the guy does this thing with the comb that makes me look tragically bald, which may or may not be true), took a nap, when to Chipeezley, and then came home for dinner, then went back up to the Park for the play.
The play. Here's the thing. We've gone to Shakespeare in the Park for four years now, and every year I think it's the best one ever, and this time was no exception. But for all the familiarity of Romeo and Juliet, I was so surprised and enthralled by this production. Lauren Ambrose as Juliet was stunning. She brought a sense of youth, intensity, and passion to her role. This was the first time I ever considered how young Romeo and Juliet are, and Ambrose infused her role with the enthusiasm and slightly spastic quality of teenage love. During the balcony scene, when the two are furtively flirting and kissing and generally mooning over each other, I was reminded of those long ago nights in high school, when a football stadium or a parking lot or a school dance created all of the romance and privacy you could possibly fathom, and this was more than you could ever dream of while it also fell flaggingly short -- the play brought back all of those dizzying emotions.
I guess while the play is about romance and tragedy and thwarted love, it's also about the the impetuousness of youth, and the utter faith you have in your own choices and destiny and view of the world, a faith that may be battered as the years move along. This play was passionate, and sexy, and funny, and gripping.
The set itself was utterly beautiful -- there was a huge, round shallow pool in the center of the stage, with only an additional structure of scaffolding to create the public squares, balconies, ballrooms, and crypts of the setting. The characters would glide or wade or stomp or fight through the water, lights would reflect and characters would become their own doubles. It was almost magical, especially as the sun set and the birds flew above us and the few stars emerged into the sky.
Basically it was an amazing night, one that fully justified my excitement and fondness for Shakespeare in the Park. The second production this summer is "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and I'm already planning on another trip when my sis is in town. Another day in the Park, lazing the morning away beneath the canopy of trees and making unexpected friends, then returning at night to be moved and surprised and reminded of how lucky you are to be here -- what more could anyone ask of a summer day?
Sunday, June 24, 2007
State update: California
Well, I'm back from two and a half weeks in California. Although I was very busy at work, which sufficiently filled my days and cumulated in a bizarre anti-climax (kind of like the "Sopranos" finale), I had enough time to experience Los Angeles and get to know my temporary host city.
And here's what I learned: L.A. is awful. We were staying at a particularly trendy hotel, swishy and swanky to a ridiculous degree, with a chic rooftop pool and hallways that smelled like pot. Pot was officially the aroma of the trip. At first, I thought maybe the hotel used a very particular kind of carpet cleaner or something, but no, it was pot. Everywhere in the hotel. Pot, and a too-cool pool, and me. Welcome to Los Angeles.
We did a lot of people-watching, seeing girls dressed like Paris Hilton with their fake boobs perky and perhaps slightly askew, accompanied by Jersey-like guys in their uniforms of untucked button-downs and carefully distressed jeans. I felt like an utter yokel in our hotel, especially the first night, as my New York friends and I swam in the pool as the socialite types glowered and strutted around us. (I think that in an urban environment, you can either project hipness by genuinely being hip, or being familiar enough with your environment to fake it. In New York, I can fake it. In LA, I was irredeemably uncool, like I was wearing the same pair of overalls the whole time.)
We stayed in the downtown area, a desolate district of high-rise office buildings and restaurants that close early and don't open on the weekends. It's a very commuter-centric area, where one can spend 40 minutes on a Sunday morning searching for a New York Times (the sign of a true Manhattanite, according to our friend at the bookstore) before one discovers the lone Starbucks that is open. Nobody walks in LA, and nobody reads.
Good things about LA: Dodger Stadium, which is small and disheveled like a beloved old person; hiking in the San Gabriel mountains, to be in an environment utterly unlike anything back east; seeing the Hollywood sign through the haze from our office window; the variety of R&B radio stations, which let me enjoy dance hour in the purest way, the way I did in high school; the ocean breeze you can feel from the PCH; karaoke in Koreatown.
It was an interesting trip. L came to see me for a weekend, which was exactly what I needed to pull through. Not only could she laugh at the ridiculousness of it all with me and charm the hell out of my colleagues, but she brought me the books and magazines and news of our culture that is completely ignored out there. In the midst of our trendy, spare hotel, with the ironic carpet and wall art and lack of comfortable seating, I missed our little apartment with the old furniture and the plants and the street noise.
And to arrive home -- I came home to find the city in the full explosion of summertime. The leaves on the trees were thick and mature, there was warm sun and a breeze, people eating on sidewalk tables and walking in pairs or with their kids. We wandered around to bookstores and movie theaters, through parks, enjoying the afternoon light that softened into night as the streetlights flicked on to signal a new phase in the urban day. Nothing was closing, nothing was ending. For a very brief moment, the night, like the summer, seemed endless.
And here's what I learned: L.A. is awful. We were staying at a particularly trendy hotel, swishy and swanky to a ridiculous degree, with a chic rooftop pool and hallways that smelled like pot. Pot was officially the aroma of the trip. At first, I thought maybe the hotel used a very particular kind of carpet cleaner or something, but no, it was pot. Everywhere in the hotel. Pot, and a too-cool pool, and me. Welcome to Los Angeles.
We did a lot of people-watching, seeing girls dressed like Paris Hilton with their fake boobs perky and perhaps slightly askew, accompanied by Jersey-like guys in their uniforms of untucked button-downs and carefully distressed jeans. I felt like an utter yokel in our hotel, especially the first night, as my New York friends and I swam in the pool as the socialite types glowered and strutted around us. (I think that in an urban environment, you can either project hipness by genuinely being hip, or being familiar enough with your environment to fake it. In New York, I can fake it. In LA, I was irredeemably uncool, like I was wearing the same pair of overalls the whole time.)
We stayed in the downtown area, a desolate district of high-rise office buildings and restaurants that close early and don't open on the weekends. It's a very commuter-centric area, where one can spend 40 minutes on a Sunday morning searching for a New York Times (the sign of a true Manhattanite, according to our friend at the bookstore) before one discovers the lone Starbucks that is open. Nobody walks in LA, and nobody reads.
Good things about LA: Dodger Stadium, which is small and disheveled like a beloved old person; hiking in the San Gabriel mountains, to be in an environment utterly unlike anything back east; seeing the Hollywood sign through the haze from our office window; the variety of R&B radio stations, which let me enjoy dance hour in the purest way, the way I did in high school; the ocean breeze you can feel from the PCH; karaoke in Koreatown.
It was an interesting trip. L came to see me for a weekend, which was exactly what I needed to pull through. Not only could she laugh at the ridiculousness of it all with me and charm the hell out of my colleagues, but she brought me the books and magazines and news of our culture that is completely ignored out there. In the midst of our trendy, spare hotel, with the ironic carpet and wall art and lack of comfortable seating, I missed our little apartment with the old furniture and the plants and the street noise.
And to arrive home -- I came home to find the city in the full explosion of summertime. The leaves on the trees were thick and mature, there was warm sun and a breeze, people eating on sidewalk tables and walking in pairs or with their kids. We wandered around to bookstores and movie theaters, through parks, enjoying the afternoon light that softened into night as the streetlights flicked on to signal a new phase in the urban day. Nothing was closing, nothing was ending. For a very brief moment, the night, like the summer, seemed endless.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Professional class
I have had a really busy few weeks, but I have been conspicuously quiet about everything, blog-wise. I started working at the big ol' law firm, and the corridors of the professional world are lined with too many pikes decorated with the heads of loose-lipped bloggers for me to even think about sharing my work escapades here. But it's hard to not say anything -- my life this summer is remarkably different than it has ever been, really. I've joined the mobs of sharply-dressed twenty-something guys. Waiting for the subway today I counted ten other young men, about my age, wearing similar khaki pants and the same business-casual shirts, sans ties. We all carried umbrellas, ipods. Some had bags, I had a book. It's strange to join this throng of commuters, and I wonder if it's an avoidable part of adulthood -- I think it is a part of New York adulthood, if you've been in school for many years and are aiming for the professional class, rather than a hipsterish plastic-black-frames lifestyle, which just looks silly as people get farther from thirty. I'm taking the professional route.
Anyways, all this to say that work is going well. I feel challenged, and I'm striving to be smart, and I'm also turning on the charm and professionalism and collegiality as much as I can. Every sentence is punctuated by numerous thank yous, even when the other person and I both know that I have nothing to thank them for -- it's just good business. It's worked for me so far, at least. I've even started going to the gym early, at 6:45 am, to make up for some of the classes I'm missing, now that my workdays bleed into the evening. But usually I have time to go for a run by the river as the sun sets, or at least have a nice meal or a stroll around the block with L. It's a very different summer than I'm used to, but it is undeniably summer.
On Thursday this law firm is sending me to Los Angeles, California for a couple weeks -- I'll be back June 23rd. Wish me luck.
Anyways, all this to say that work is going well. I feel challenged, and I'm striving to be smart, and I'm also turning on the charm and professionalism and collegiality as much as I can. Every sentence is punctuated by numerous thank yous, even when the other person and I both know that I have nothing to thank them for -- it's just good business. It's worked for me so far, at least. I've even started going to the gym early, at 6:45 am, to make up for some of the classes I'm missing, now that my workdays bleed into the evening. But usually I have time to go for a run by the river as the sun sets, or at least have a nice meal or a stroll around the block with L. It's a very different summer than I'm used to, but it is undeniably summer.
On Thursday this law firm is sending me to Los Angeles, California for a couple weeks -- I'll be back June 23rd. Wish me luck.
Monday, May 28, 2007
On shampoo
Today I realized that I finally finished up the bottles of shampoo and conditioner that I purchased in Hawaii lo those many months ago. Back in late December, as the honeymoon began so promisingly, we bought standard-sized bottles of Suave shampoo and conditioner, and we carried them around with us from Oahu to Hawaii to Oahu again, and then back to New York. They were exotic; they were Hawaiian; they were souvenirs. And now, five months later, I finally finished them (L having her own well-established haircare regime which sadly does not involve Suave products, but somehow involves 14 other bottles in our shower).
Call me crazy, but I feel that five months is a really long time to nurse the same bottle of shampoo. Of course, maybe I'm doing some showering at the gym that would otherwise occur at home, but this is unlikely, since I shower at the gym at nine o'clock at night. Since my hair has been fairly short, maybe I'm applying smaller dollops than usual. But if this is actually the case, then over the course of my lifetime I've only used about 65 bottles of shampoo. As a pampered American who has been on this planet for 27 years, obviously I feel a bit shortchanged by my consumption here. Have I been underwashing? Is 65 bottles even a whole crate or pallet or shipment of shampoo? What the hell?
This is what I think about in the shower every day, mindful of the exotic curves of the Hawaii Suave bottles, and the remnants of the price stickers on the plastic. Years ago I heard that it takes six weeks for all of your skins cells to flake off and be replaced, to leave you with a completely new outer layer, so I would always think that for six weeks after I returned from anyplace, I still wore some of the same skin that had been far away and experienced different breezes or water or sand or light. I guess I can add the five-month shampoo yardstick as another measurement of time and distance. It will be mildly sad to toss out those two bottles -- not many of my toiletries are native Hawaiian.
Call me crazy, but I feel that five months is a really long time to nurse the same bottle of shampoo. Of course, maybe I'm doing some showering at the gym that would otherwise occur at home, but this is unlikely, since I shower at the gym at nine o'clock at night. Since my hair has been fairly short, maybe I'm applying smaller dollops than usual. But if this is actually the case, then over the course of my lifetime I've only used about 65 bottles of shampoo. As a pampered American who has been on this planet for 27 years, obviously I feel a bit shortchanged by my consumption here. Have I been underwashing? Is 65 bottles even a whole crate or pallet or shipment of shampoo? What the hell?
This is what I think about in the shower every day, mindful of the exotic curves of the Hawaii Suave bottles, and the remnants of the price stickers on the plastic. Years ago I heard that it takes six weeks for all of your skins cells to flake off and be replaced, to leave you with a completely new outer layer, so I would always think that for six weeks after I returned from anyplace, I still wore some of the same skin that had been far away and experienced different breezes or water or sand or light. I guess I can add the five-month shampoo yardstick as another measurement of time and distance. It will be mildly sad to toss out those two bottles -- not many of my toiletries are native Hawaiian.
Monday, May 21, 2007
State update: Montana
"Big Sky Country" is such a simple phrase that it can be hard to grasp the grand, literal truth of the statement. As soon as you arrive in Montana you are confronted with the vast dome of sky above you, clear, uninterrupted, blurry on the edges with rolling hills or snowy peaks or the lurching tips of pine trees. There are no tall buidings here; there are none of the smudgy east coast afternoons to which you are accustomed.
We spent most of our time in Missoula, a college town with a modest downtown area and the rebellious streak that comes from a constantly moving student population. The Clark Fork river meanders through town; once we took a break from a bike ride to watch a beaver work on his dam and meander through the snowmelt river. Cycling is the preferred mode of transportation here; we would ride our bikes along the dirt path alongside the river, park our bikes next to the college bookstore or the brewery or the pizza place, and eventually coast back home. Once we hit the paved streets of the neighborhood we would ride bikes with the freedom of kids on a summer evening, loping along in wide turns punctuated by the occasional sprinted race. Missoula was an oasis, an extremely peaceable valley.
In Glacier National Park we ogled at the remarkably clear reflections of the mountains in McDonald Lake. Since we arrived before the beginning of the season, the park was ours: empty roads, quiet trails. The mountains seemed almost protective of their tranquil lakes, each one ice-cold and fed by countless tributaries tumbling down the slopes. We could follow the progression of each waterfall with our eyes, watching the streams gain power as pale mountain goats hobbled along the rocky cliffs above.
On our last day in Glacier we went on a ten-mile hike, aiming to get up to a glacier. We didn't make it, though; we passed the snow line, and were tromping along the banks in shorts and t-shirts and sneakers, but the sun had already peaked and we had a long way to go. We made it back to McDonald with wet feet and sunburnt faces, with a distinct sense of satisfaction and acute exhaustion. On the drive back to Missoula we honored our accomplishments with sandwiches and tall glasses of Pepsi, and another feast awaited us in town.
Montana was a dream, an alternative to the life we've chosen in New York. The whole trip was such a ridiculously clear Country Mouse/City Mouse comparison; we replaced our city walks and media consumption and cosmopolitan poses with early evenings and bike rides and an utter lack of awareness of the world beyond the mountain range on any side of us. It was a great sojourn, but I was happy to come home. One more photo: the latest in my genre of awesome, one-handed self-portraiture.
We spent most of our time in Missoula, a college town with a modest downtown area and the rebellious streak that comes from a constantly moving student population. The Clark Fork river meanders through town; once we took a break from a bike ride to watch a beaver work on his dam and meander through the snowmelt river. Cycling is the preferred mode of transportation here; we would ride our bikes along the dirt path alongside the river, park our bikes next to the college bookstore or the brewery or the pizza place, and eventually coast back home. Once we hit the paved streets of the neighborhood we would ride bikes with the freedom of kids on a summer evening, loping along in wide turns punctuated by the occasional sprinted race. Missoula was an oasis, an extremely peaceable valley.
In Glacier National Park we ogled at the remarkably clear reflections of the mountains in McDonald Lake. Since we arrived before the beginning of the season, the park was ours: empty roads, quiet trails. The mountains seemed almost protective of their tranquil lakes, each one ice-cold and fed by countless tributaries tumbling down the slopes. We could follow the progression of each waterfall with our eyes, watching the streams gain power as pale mountain goats hobbled along the rocky cliffs above. 
On our last day in Glacier we went on a ten-mile hike, aiming to get up to a glacier. We didn't make it, though; we passed the snow line, and were tromping along the banks in shorts and t-shirts and sneakers, but the sun had already peaked and we had a long way to go. We made it back to McDonald with wet feet and sunburnt faces, with a distinct sense of satisfaction and acute exhaustion. On the drive back to Missoula we honored our accomplishments with sandwiches and tall glasses of Pepsi, and another feast awaited us in town. Montana was a dream, an alternative to the life we've chosen in New York. The whole trip was such a ridiculously clear Country Mouse/City Mouse comparison; we replaced our city walks and media consumption and cosmopolitan poses with early evenings and bike rides and an utter lack of awareness of the world beyond the mountain range on any side of us. It was a great sojourn, but I was happy to come home. One more photo: the latest in my genre of awesome, one-handed self-portraiture.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Charlottesville is my home planet
I had a startling realization today, as L and I made a mad dash to Charlottesville and back for a baptism and lunch at Take It Away: my home planet is this town. I look at myself, and I look at everyone else around here, and I realize that they are me.
The proof came when L and I got dressed to head down for the baptism, a pleasant, classy affair with some easygoing parents and their occasionally cranky baby. I was rocking a bright polo and some cargo shorts, and L was wearing a really pretty sun dress. She was like the hottest chick at the Kentucky Derby. Anyways, when we made it into town and went in to get our sandwiches, we looked around and quickly noticed that everyone looked exactly like us. All of the young men wore their polo shirts (what a spectrum of pastel bright colors, my own cerulean shirt effortlessly joining the parade!) untucked over khaki shorts or pants, ratty old flip flops beating the brick sidewalk; all of the women and coeds wore pretty sundresses or skirts with the same flips as L. Everyone was more tan than us, but their hair was the same length and color as ours. All of us were scrubbed, earnest, open-faced, and well-dressed, carrying ourselves with a certain confidence and easy happiness that comes from an elite education and a distinct familiarity with affluence. What a day to be young and alive! Khakis for everyone!
I have to admit, it felt good in a way. These were the good, decent, Polo-wearing white folk of Charlottesville! We saw nary a poor person. Nary a person of color. It was nothing like New York, nothing like real life. But to some degree it explained a lot about me and how I present myself and how I think things should be, for whatever that's worth.
Charlottesville is my home planet; Charlottesville is my Krypton. But New York is my home. A marriage between those two worlds may be impossible, but it's nice to visit your past in order to better appreciate your present. It will be good to return home in a little while.
Tomorrow we're flying out to Montana. More to come in a week.
The proof came when L and I got dressed to head down for the baptism, a pleasant, classy affair with some easygoing parents and their occasionally cranky baby. I was rocking a bright polo and some cargo shorts, and L was wearing a really pretty sun dress. She was like the hottest chick at the Kentucky Derby. Anyways, when we made it into town and went in to get our sandwiches, we looked around and quickly noticed that everyone looked exactly like us. All of the young men wore their polo shirts (what a spectrum of pastel bright colors, my own cerulean shirt effortlessly joining the parade!) untucked over khaki shorts or pants, ratty old flip flops beating the brick sidewalk; all of the women and coeds wore pretty sundresses or skirts with the same flips as L. Everyone was more tan than us, but their hair was the same length and color as ours. All of us were scrubbed, earnest, open-faced, and well-dressed, carrying ourselves with a certain confidence and easy happiness that comes from an elite education and a distinct familiarity with affluence. What a day to be young and alive! Khakis for everyone!
I have to admit, it felt good in a way. These were the good, decent, Polo-wearing white folk of Charlottesville! We saw nary a poor person. Nary a person of color. It was nothing like New York, nothing like real life. But to some degree it explained a lot about me and how I present myself and how I think things should be, for whatever that's worth.
Charlottesville is my home planet; Charlottesville is my Krypton. But New York is my home. A marriage between those two worlds may be impossible, but it's nice to visit your past in order to better appreciate your present. It will be good to return home in a little while.
Tomorrow we're flying out to Montana. More to come in a week.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Look the part
Today L and I went on a shopping extravaganza to buy me work clothes for my new job, which starts in a couple weeks. We walked into Macy's this morning armed with nothing more than a set of extremely specific guidelines to help define "business casual," as well as moxie in abundance, and we left the store two hours later carrying two bags apiece and beaming with a glow of triumph. Here is what I purchased, starting at the top and working down:
3 dress shirts, two white and one blue (and slim fit, no less) (hubba hubba) (thanks James)
4 extremely cool neckties, none of them paisley and none of them from the Donald J. Trump collection
4 pairs of premium Dockers (khaki, olive, navy, black), all with a special sheen of quality
12 new pairs of socks, with extra-stay protection, to make sure they cling to my calves in a most flattering way
2 pairs of shoes, kind of dressy, kind of orthopedic, in black and brown.
This amount of clothes, which could dress an entire Somalian village for a summer internship at a law firm, cost me about $575. But I saved a total of about $197 on all of my purchases, thanks to the one-day sale we unknowingly stumbled into.
All in all, this was an extremely successful shopping adventure, and even L was impressed with our efficiency. Special thanks to Ashesh for his sartorial guidance, since no one rocks the young professional look quite like he does. Sweater vests for everyone!
3 dress shirts, two white and one blue (and slim fit, no less) (hubba hubba) (thanks James)
4 extremely cool neckties, none of them paisley and none of them from the Donald J. Trump collection
4 pairs of premium Dockers (khaki, olive, navy, black), all with a special sheen of quality
12 new pairs of socks, with extra-stay protection, to make sure they cling to my calves in a most flattering way
2 pairs of shoes, kind of dressy, kind of orthopedic, in black and brown.
This amount of clothes, which could dress an entire Somalian village for a summer internship at a law firm, cost me about $575. But I saved a total of about $197 on all of my purchases, thanks to the one-day sale we unknowingly stumbled into.
All in all, this was an extremely successful shopping adventure, and even L was impressed with our efficiency. Special thanks to Ashesh for his sartorial guidance, since no one rocks the young professional look quite like he does. Sweater vests for everyone!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Sweet surrender
So, I guess this is summer. Exams are over, feet are bare, shorts are worn on the street. It was such a relief yesterday to take my last exam and walk away from school, knowing I don't have to go back there for several months. Here's the final wrap-up:
Professional Responsibility: Harder than I thought it would be. Am I an unethical person, after all? The essay turned weirdly personal: "Well, if I was in that situation I guess I would just follow my heart, you know? Like Jiminy Cricket? Always let your conscience by your guide, unless prohibited by statute?"
Income Tax: An utter fiasco. Apparently some people were in tears as they left the exam; at least I kept it all in. I guessed on the multiple choice section. On the essay I tried to spit out whatever statements of fact I could cobble together, hoping something would be mildly relevant. Discouraging.
Entertainment Law: I actually felt all right during this one, although I basically finished the three-hour exam in an hour and a half. Everyone was clattering on the keyboards furiously as I squirmed in my seat and tried to wring some additional knowledge from my brain. I made myself sit for an additional hour, occasionally tinkering with a sentence or adding another clause here or there, but I knew I was finished. Moseyed to the bathroom, came back. Anything else to say? No? Ok, I guess we're done then.
And that's how the semester ended - prematurely. I went to the bookstore and got $40 back for two textbooks that cost about $100 apiece, then I used my hard-won earnings to buy a school t-shirt (my first one ever -- the school's weird purple-burgundy color, with "Fordham Law" in white -- I guess I'm ready to publicly acknowledge my attendance, now that I'm 2/3 finished) and lunch. I now have a few days of relaxation before a quick trip to Charlottesville, then Montana, then back here again for work, my first regular income source since 2005.
So this is summer. What a relief! I'm glad the school year is over. By the time I have to go back I'll be ready to return for another round, but for now I surrender myself to some days of indolence. "The life I Ieft behind me is a cold room."
Professional Responsibility: Harder than I thought it would be. Am I an unethical person, after all? The essay turned weirdly personal: "Well, if I was in that situation I guess I would just follow my heart, you know? Like Jiminy Cricket? Always let your conscience by your guide, unless prohibited by statute?"
Income Tax: An utter fiasco. Apparently some people were in tears as they left the exam; at least I kept it all in. I guessed on the multiple choice section. On the essay I tried to spit out whatever statements of fact I could cobble together, hoping something would be mildly relevant. Discouraging.
Entertainment Law: I actually felt all right during this one, although I basically finished the three-hour exam in an hour and a half. Everyone was clattering on the keyboards furiously as I squirmed in my seat and tried to wring some additional knowledge from my brain. I made myself sit for an additional hour, occasionally tinkering with a sentence or adding another clause here or there, but I knew I was finished. Moseyed to the bathroom, came back. Anything else to say? No? Ok, I guess we're done then.
And that's how the semester ended - prematurely. I went to the bookstore and got $40 back for two textbooks that cost about $100 apiece, then I used my hard-won earnings to buy a school t-shirt (my first one ever -- the school's weird purple-burgundy color, with "Fordham Law" in white -- I guess I'm ready to publicly acknowledge my attendance, now that I'm 2/3 finished) and lunch. I now have a few days of relaxation before a quick trip to Charlottesville, then Montana, then back here again for work, my first regular income source since 2005.
So this is summer. What a relief! I'm glad the school year is over. By the time I have to go back I'll be ready to return for another round, but for now I surrender myself to some days of indolence. "The life I Ieft behind me is a cold room."
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