A friend introduced me to Taboo sometime during college. In fact, I think he introduced a whole lot of people to Taboo during college. Over time, I noticed its uncanny ability to get a party moving (party of total dorks, that is). When alcohol is added to the equation, things get even more uncannier.

So, imagine my satisfaction when I was at a pot-luck dinner last night and someone busted out a Taboo game. Whole chapters of my college career came flooding forward.

Last night’s Taboo session was a little tamer due to an unfortunate lack of alcohol, but one guy in particular had been drinking and therefore supplied plenty of entertainment. I’m talking about Russell. When the other team was trying to guess words, he would butt in with random explicit comments. For example, for the word ‘cocktail’, the exchange went as follows:

Tracy: why do you go to 6th street [downtown Austin]?
Russell: (suddenly) DICK. COCK.
Tracy: Shutup! Yes, kind of.

Kyle: What’s the Weezer song titled “In The blank”?
Kyle’s team: (dumbfoundedness)
Particleman's internal dialogue: GARAAAAAGE!!!
Kyle: C’mon, you know the song, “In the blank, I feel safe, da da da da da da da”

I have a record player and some random Nirvana 45s. At the time I bought the 45s, I didn’t have the plastic adapter needed to play them, so I just shelved the records for when I got the adapter.

It’s been about four years and I still have not gotten the adapter. About 90% of that time has been wasted forgetting that I even had the 45s. So now I’m finally getting off my ass and looking for an adapter, and it turns out these things are extinct. I called Radio Shack, who referred me to Hermes Music, a local guitar/audio store, who referred me Bjorn’s, a local high-end audio equipment store, who referred me to Electronics Services, an unheard-of local electronics services store. Electronics Services is open 9-5:30 during the week and 9-12 on Saturday.

This basically means that I will never be able to get the adapter. In this day and age, it feels good to support your local music/electronics shop instead of automatically going to the internet, but you know what, the local music/electronics shop has some crappy hours.

Results from the office party last night: the most embarrassment I brought upon myself came in the form of a sad game of darts. I couldn’t hit anything with a number on it. On the bright side, the BBQ was good, the beer was plentiful, and I hit on, or got hit on, by the boss’ girlfriend. Sweet.

also – plans are in motion for particleman to visit Portland, Oregon. Beer will be consumed. Thai food will be inhaled. Geeks will lose glasses at rock shows. World problems will be solved. The Northwest will never recover.

I finally finished Under Western Eyes. I don’t really know why it took me so long… no, wait, I do: too much quality time at the Flying Saucer and other similar establishments. Hey, at least I’m getting out more...

Overall, Under Western Eyes was a good read. The story dragged some in the middle but picked up considerably towards the end. The writing wasn’t particularly complex or overly simple; Conrad found a happy medium. The several extra English Lit courses I took in college have cursed me into a lifetime of overanalyzing everything I read, so with that, here follows some armchair analysis.

I almost wish I hadn’t read Crime and Punishment before reading UWE. The similarities between Raskolnikov (C&P main character) and Razumov (UWE m.c.) kind of impinged on my ability to let Razumov develop as a unique guy, but only because Raskolnikov was such a memorable (read: “whack”) character. The way Conrad painted Razumov helped the reader empathize with his lot in life – no family, no name, no support group, living in a foreign land, and yet, he is thrust into a difficult situation that would be easiest to get through with the help of a family. Though he does associate with a group of peers (Revolutionists), they can hardly be called a ‘support group.’ The reader wants to jump in and help Razumov when he stumbles but he inevitably voices some abhorrent and cocky opinion that turns the reader off. It’s a constant conflict between pity and contempt.

One recurring theme I noticed was Conrad’s use of the words verisimilitude and Mephistophelean. Perhaps it was intentional, perhaps it wasn’t; either way, they are very fitting. UWE is based on the covering up of a lie – or, several lies intertwined. Mephistopheles was “the devil in Faust’s legend to whom Faust sold his soul” (thank you dictionary.com). Verisimilitude, the quality of resembling truth, fits in well devils’ common literary role as antagonist. And if there was one battle that Razumov consistently endured throughout the novel, it was with his demons.

I’m sure finding where these words are used and noting their context would probably add to my point. Feel free to help me out below.

One more thing worth noting is the role of the Chateau Borel, the self-exiled Russian Revolutionists’ tactical and residential headquarters of Geneva. Everything about this supposed safe-haven reeks of death. People who live there are pale and ghost-like (Conrad actually uses the words ghost and ghoul). There is no heat. Time passes unnoticed. The fences, gates, and grounds are dilapidated and in need of maintenance. Concrete statues and steps at the entrance are unwelcoming at the least. What is supposed to be a home feels like a gloomy, deserted, and neglected shack. Leaving it after a pivotal interaction, our main character is washed clean by a thunderstorm. While the cleansing is kind of clichéd, it does work. Much like Raskolnikov in C&P, a man stumbles into inclement weather after a cathartic scene.

If you have an interest in translated Russian novels, you might want to consider giving yourself a ‘warm-up,’ as it were, with Under Western Eyes. It’s less of a time commitment but still provides a good taste of the Russian literary world. And if you’ve already covered the major Russian works, give Conrad a try for a different albeit refreshing point of view. Particularly enjoyable was Conrad’s narrative style, firmly rooted in the voice of an Englishman twice displaced: once for living in Geneva and twice for socializing in Russian circles (not that there’s anything wrong with that). If you’ve ever wanted to read a novel that ‘took’ you someplace but didn’t leave you standing when you arrived, try this book.

If you've gotten this far, I congratulate you. Please let me know if this review is helpful, total gibberish, or gives you the warm fuzzies.

I’m about to meet a friend at a hip coffee house for some reading and conversation. This is very exciting for me as she is one of two people I know within the city limits that reads regularly. The other person is a homebody and never leaves the house.

Not really. He just leaves for beer. And food. And Austin.

I finished Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air a few days ago. It didn’t read like a novel; it read like an account of a natural disaster. Tornado, hurricane, earthquake, failed Everest expedition – take your pick. The only difference here being that climbing Mt Everest isn’t exactly an act of nature. Krakauer noted that this was problematic for some readers. He received many letters chastising him for his behavior when circumstances near the summit forced him to abandon several climbers and retreat to his tent. If frostbite was nipping at my fingers and toes, I was suffering from altitude sickness, and I was dangerously low on oxygen, I wouldn’t venture out into a storm with hurricane speed winds in 70 below zero temps either. It’s plain stupid. But then again, so is climbing Mt Everest…

The writing, though not spectacular, does take the reader right onto the mountain with Krakauer and his team. It is a wild ride of office building-sized ice monoliths, several-thousand foot drops, and football field chasms. By the end of the book, Krakauer’s message came through clearly: the summit attempt was doomed from the start and is generally impossible unless conditions are absolutely perfect. One might as well be on the moon when at 25,000+ feet. Storm or no storm - it’s no place for life.

New books are posted on the right.

Something thing I failed to mention about my trip to Austin last weekend: I scored this sweet Aventinus glass. The fact that it’s also filled with a ½ liter of Aventinus is probably why I felt the way I did later that night.

I’ve been in San Antonio for well over a year and had yet to visit the Botanical Gardens, so I spent a good three hours yesterday baking in the sun and perusing the Garden’s exhibits. Check out the 37 photos here (you’ll need a snapfish account).

and watch his Random Stuff movie. do it now. do not pass GO and do not collect jack shit.

i was going to write a long and drawn-out post about the weekend: about how i went camping at Inks Lake in a far-away place called Burnet, Texas; about how i went mountain biking at the Greenbelt and got my ass kicked by the Hill of Life; about how i got drunk on 4th street on Saturday night and yakked my guts out at the Driskill; and about how i got back to Chris' house and passed out on his driveway.

but instead, i'll just send you to cherz's site.

Maybe it’s just me, but following a night of drinking with a morning of mountain biking seems just plain stupid. So of course I jumped at the chance. I went mountain biking this morning in Austin and paid the price. Is it possible to cough up a lung AND a liver? I think I did. Hikers, joggers, and bikers of the Barton Creek Greenbelt might notice them halfway up the hill at the end of the trail.

Second installment of the “things that happen to you while” series; alternate title: “too many p’s: p-man in p-town”; written after a five-day excursion visiting four bloggers I had never met [in person] with three friends I met at my [now previous] employer.

Note: The links don't actually send you anywhere, they just pop up witty witticisms.

- - - - - -

On the way to Portland, you sit next to a woman speaking a language strangely familiar to you. It’s Russian. You talk with her for the duration of the flight about living in Russia, traveling in Europe, how your Jewish parents are basically the same, how writing code gets old, how lucky her kids are that they get to travel the world by age 10. You exchange information. You have now made a friend in Oakland, California.

After several bumbling mishaps, your friends meet you at the airport and whisk you away to a five-day vacation. Your friends say they’re in an orange car. When you see an orange car carrying your arms-flailing-hands-waving friends, your mind flips when you realize the orange car is a bright orange Mustang convertible. Your friends have rented a speeding ticket waiting to happen.

You and your friends drive like maniacs [safe maniacs]. No tickets happen.

You proceed directly to an establishment called the Kennedy School and wonder how long it’s been since you went anywhere with a name ending in “school.” You are oddly excited because this place apparently serves beer. What a great combination. You meet your blogger friends there and you discover their blogs are accurate representations of who they really are: interesting, cool, witty, fun, and just a little bit saucy. Or is it snarky? Both.

You, a couple of the bloggers, and a roommate continue the drinking at another bar. Upstairs, Sonic Youth is making a racket – a beautiful racket you would love to hear in a venue you would love to see. One of the bloggers happens to be a well-known bartender and musician in the Portland area and gets you and your friends in for free. Sonic Youth slowly gets louder as you climb the staircase and walk into a historical gem of a music venue. It’s a ballroom complete with chandelier, frescoes on the wall, and a spring-loaded wood floor. One of your friends says “Welcome to Portland!” as Kim and Co. do their thing onstage. You wonder why the hell you aren’t already living there.

An afternoon spent wandering the many trails of Washington Park reminds you why you like being outside and how much cube life sucks. You find a bench under a redwood and sit. For a long time.

Sushi Happy hour results in many beers and several rolls of rice, seafood, and vegetables. One of your blogger friends ingests an ungodly amount of wasabi. You laugh. He cries. You laugh more.

You spend the evening at one of Portland’s many brewpubs, Bridgeport. You take pictures of your friend’s simultaneously hideous and glorious parallel parking job. Imagine: right next to the pub’s patio sits a bright orange Mustang convertible with half of its nose sticking out into the street. The patrons gawk in amazement: “who the hell are these people?” You enjoy yet more delicious new beers.

Two of your friends leave the next morning, and with them, the ‘stang. You and the remaining member of the Texan crew rent a Taurus to explore the Gorge. Within thirty minutes of leaving Portland driving on a picturesque highway [only a little more picturesque than I-10 in San Antonio] you arrive at mountains and waterfalls. You ogle the waterfalls, want them to be thirty minutes from your door, wonder if you’d ever get used to them and stop visiting them if you lived in Portland. You pinch yourself and think, “stop daydreaming, asshole. there are waterfalls here that need your attention.” Your friend’s new motto for the trip is “that doesn’t suck.” You agree.

Over the next two days, you continue to consume refreshing beers and visit places like the Pittock Mansion, The Japanese Gardens, and The Chinese Gardens. During those two days, you end up at the Kennedy School once again and wander off the beaten tourist path to a pub called Bonfire.

You spend Monday morning wandering the many stacks of Powell’s Bookstore. At 1, your friend leaves for her flight back to Crap Antonio. You hug and realize this trip basically changed your lives. Now you’re on your own with one more night and no hotel room, you wander the streets of downtown in search for lunch and a good time. You invariably end up back at the bookstore.

Your friend's husband calls you and invites you to the park to see if there is any kickball to be played. Looking down at your feet clad in sandals, you wonder if that’s such a good idea. You say, “Fuck it, worse comes to worse, I can play barefoot.” You meet a lot of cool people and head over to the Portland version of a dive bar called the Triple Nickel for beers and music geek talk.

A show at Dante’s featuring the Short Bus Dub All Stars is waiting, so you head back to the house to change and pick up your friend’s wonderful wife, the one that let you crash on their couch. While the husband plays pool, you and the wife skank to the opening ska band and wait for Short Bus to come on. While the bands are loading/unloading from the stage, a high school-esque drum line entertains the audience with cool beats and crashing cymbals. The crowd starts to pogo; you pogo; everyone is getting into it. For a split second, you wish you were in marching band in high school. Then the next second arrives and you’re glad you weren’t. Jazz band was way cooler.

You end the night at a strip club down the street from your friends’ house that oddly has one dancer that isn’t stripping. It’s late on a Monday night and she’s hanging out and talking to the few patrons left. You aren’t the biggest fan of strip clubs but you like this one. You talk with your friend, the dancer, the bartender, and the patrons till late.

The next morning, you and your friend eat cheese and crackers and watch the best cartoons since Transformers. Imagine the old Hanna Barberra cartoons on crack. And a couple 40s. After a short drive to the airport, you pull up at the departure entrance and tell your friend he and everyone else are always welcome in Texas and to drop you a line if they ever go, but as soon as you say this you realize chances are better that you will end up in Portland before he or his Portland crew will end up in Texas. Lo and behold, he says just that. You agree. You say thanks again, shake hands, and hop out of the car.

On the flight home, you sit next to an elderly nun. There is an empty seat between you and her. You spend the entire flight engrossed in one of the many books you bought at Powell’s and gaze out the window at the black sky, a little fidgety in anticipation of getting home. The nun spends the whole flight motionless – she stares at the seat in front of her blinking for the duration of the flight. Doesn’t move. No book to read, no magazine, no music, no journal to write in. Just sits. You wonder what kind of thoughts she has that keep her entertained or if she needs anything at all to be entertained, or if, more simply, she needs to feel entertained at all. She just is. You wonder why the hell you can’t do that. You look at her and notice you’re staring. She turns her head and smiles. You smile back. You look at your hands and try to think of nothing.

And then all the badass people you met and all the badass things you did in Portland flood your brain. Hey, doesn’t Portland have a law school?

Once upon a time, I was in good shape. I don’t really see much of a reason for staying in good shape except for that it tends to keep this awkward, gangly hunk of junk called my body in proper working order. And once upon a time, I consumed beer on an irregular basis in small quantities. The small quantities of beer did nothing to adversely affect my fitness.

However, while climbing up and down the stairs this morning helping my roommate move his couch and other random things out of the apartment, I noticed I was sweating like a mofo and gasping for air. Then it occurred to me that I have been drinking and getting quite smashed every night since last Monday and have all but ceased my regular physical activity. Voluntary unemployment will do that to you. So I’ve decided to take drastic measures.

I’m going dry. No drinking. For two whole nights. And maybe a couple more thereafter. I might also start waking up early to ride my bike before the sun torches everything south of Dallas. With Lance as my inspiration, I hope to complete at least a few pedal rotations before passing out.

I have officially moved back to Houston. After leaving it six years ago for college in Austin, I never thought I'd return. Funny how things work out.

But six years can make a difference. I can [legally] drink, I know where I can catch all the hip bands, and the museums rock. I know a few people here and will be meeting more in law school.

So I think I'll give Houston a clean slate. No pre-conceived notions, no expectations [aside from the heat, humidity, traffic, yadda yadda].

One thing’s for sure – I’ll stay far away from my old high school. They tore half of it down the year after I graduated for health violation issues. Seriously.

I would have liked to say “anywhere but unemployed” but i figured i ought to not embarass myself so soon in the semester. Here’s approximately what happened.

On the first day of orientation, the Dean gathered the entering class of 350 into an auditorium and gave a “congratulations on getting into law school” speech. Then, with spare mic in hand, he took to the aisles.

So imagine my surprise and slouching posture when the Dean began to discuss his desire to learn about where some of the students went to college, where they saw themselves in 10 years, and what kind of law they wanted to practice. As he spoke, he proceeded directly to ME, an aisle-seat occupant. Yes, it seemed I would be the first student to speak publicly to the entering class. I was thrilled. As he spoke some more about the various fields of law available to us, I prayed and hoped and swore to all that is holy in the world that if I was absolved of this task, I would perform an untold number of community service hours, study my balls off, stop drinking, post more to my website, so on and so forth.

The praying didn’t do shit. Never let anyone tell you praying helps. It doesn’t. He chose me.

The exchange, as best I remember it, follows.

Dean: Mr. [Particleman], tell us where you went to school and what kind of law you see yourself practicing in ten years.
Mr. Particleman: I went to UT Austin -
Audience: [cheers]
Dean: Oh, so we have some UT Grads? How about A&M?
Audience: [hands raise, more cheers]
Mr. P: [mumbles] Put your hands down, people.
UT Grads: [chuckle]
Dean: So, Mr. Particleman, now that we’ve given you some time to come up with a good answer, what do you say?
Mr. P: [internal dialogue: whatever you say will be held against you for the next three years. better make it good.] I’d like to get involved in copyright law dealing with music and the rights of musicians. [man, that was cheesy].
Dean: Ah, were you a music major?
Mr. P: Uh, no, but I play music.
Dean: Interesting... [commentary on the new wave of issues affecting copyright law resulting from the internet].
Every female in the audience: [internal dialogue: hey, he’s a musician, he’s gonna be a music lawyer, and he has cool glasses. i must flirt with him later.]

Overall, orientation so far has been very exciting. I already have plenty of reading and bar-exploring to do. I went out on Saturday night with an old friend and he introduced me to some local bars. And you know what, all that doubting I did earlier was unfounded. Houston has some cool hang-outs. I think I’ll be all right here.

Not what you'd expect.

In other news, do you remember Student Government aka SG? High school had it. College had it. Your job probably has it or an equivalent thereof. I always thought: Why spend more time than necessary on school stuff? Why spend more time than necessary at school?

I was never an SG person. The above questions were relevant to my decision, of course, but there was an underlying theory at work here: laziness. I had a bass and a guitar waiting at home. I sat in class all day anxious to get home and make some noise. School activities just weren’t part of my agenda at the time.

But law school is a new phase in my life. I’m not [quite so] lazy anymore. Law school’s version of Student Government, operating under the clandestine moniker “Student Bar Association,” is a great way to meet people all over the school. I’ve met some of these SBA people and liked them, so I’ll apply to join. From what I understand, SBA involves meeting people, notifying your class of happy hours, and getting plastered on the school’s rooftop terrace. I can do that, I think.

There’s nothing quite like rewarding oneself with a tall glass o’ brew after hours and hours of summarizing Torts cases and figuring out how to write case citations. Fittingly, the first beer the new bottle opener opened was a Loft. Oh yeah. Memories, memories.

I feel compelled to put something new up here but strangely have nothing of substance to say (do I ever?) I spent many hours today in a coffee shop doing homework and continued to spend many hours at home. The best part is that I still didn’t get everything done that I wanted to. You should not end sentences with a preposition. Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue is playing on the stereo. I think I’ll have another beer.

addendum, five minutes later: behold the power of the male bartender.

It’s been a while since I’ve done any drinking so I went out last night and met up with a bunch of school friends. My buddy Paul drove so I started drinking rather quickly. Probably too quickly. I think I had about five pints of Harp, three of Pilsner Urquell, and two of Real Ale. Yes, I was smashed and yes, I wish I didn’t drink that much. My old glory days are obviously long gone. [Old glory days being back when I had a job two months ago and lived across the street from a pub.]

Of course I woke up this morning feeling like a train wreck. Ugh. A classmate is having a house party tonight but I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it. I need to start chugging water if I’m going to make it out of the apartment at all today.

Ugh.

Oh yeah, and Sophia also drank too much and enountered a smack-talking cat. It could happen to you.

It’s become readily apparent law school is having several strange effects on me.

Ashley, one of the instigators who helped prod me to go on the infamous Portland trip, sent me a surprise care package last week. Its contents were: a cd of the pictures she took, a Lifescapes “Sleep” cd, Celestial Seasonings Sleepytime tea, a vanilla candle, and a sweet bottle opener I ogled over when drinking at her house one night. Better yet was the nifty artwork on the package and the purple and green confetti stuff on the inside.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ashley. You are awesome. Friends like you are a rarity. The care package is slowly working its magic and I am starting to get more sleep.

it's too good to be true. aaron has enlightened us to the glory that is They Might Be Downloads. can you believe it? TMBG downloads for $.99/ea. how cool is that? when my broke ass gets some cash, i'll let you know how cool it actually is. at this point, beer trumps music, but only barely.

My school is holding its 2nd annual softball tournament along with two other local law schools and several law firms tomorrow. As a member of the student government-like Student Bar Association, I was originally drafted to play on the SBA Team. But at the last minute, a prominent law firm that donated a nice chunk of cash bumped us, so we’re not playing.

Instead, we get to do something much cooler: hang out and drink beer. All day. This is all well and good for me because I haven’t swung a bat in at least 12 years. Hey, I’m an endurance athlete. I don’t adapt well to sports requiring competent levels of hand-eye coordination. And by endurance athlete, I mean that I was an athlete about 6 years ago. I don’t even think I can endure anymore.

Hence, the beer. Or is it: hence, as a result of, the beer.

You know that the world is right and gravity is doing its job when your dark beer is contently resting on top of your light beer, all in the same glass.

...
The keen reader will notice that my posts have been reduced to ogre-like short sentences and snippets of speech. To whence did those treatises on music and novels go? The crazy stories of jumping out of airplanes and sampling every beer brewed in Oregon?

I don't know either, but maybe the answer is in the bottom of this bag of pretzels...

Finals are over. My first semester of law school has come to a screeching halt and I’m left with piles of laundry that need to be folded/ironed, a car that is aching for a wash, and guitar strings that are on the verge of rusting. So much to do. Where to start? At the bar, of course.

After Monday’s final ended at 9:00 pm, I headed straight to a TexMex restaurant with my classmates and had fajitas and four margaritas. After that, we proceeded to a bar where I took several shots (the recount is still pending) and had a few beers. Everything was fine until I couldn’t stand up anymore, so I sat on a couch and waited for the room to stop spinning. It didn’t. Thankfully, a classmate came to the rescue and drove me home. Once home, I puked my guts out college-freshman style. It was clutch.

I woke up with a hangover from hell that is only fading now (two days later). I guess I can’t party like I used to…the years add up, don’t they? But I still went out last night with my classmates again and shook my arse as well as any skinny white boy can. Word. I did not, however, drink more than half of a beer. Self-preservation is a funny thing…

Not yet, at least. Give me a couple of weeks and I’m sure that will change. The registrar’s office is closed till the 4th, which equates to no grade postings until, like, the 15th. Chances are I’ll keep checking grades anyway cuz, you know, someone might have felt the urge to go into work and post a grade or two. Right?...right?

Based on the majority of my posts, it probably seems like I have a drinking problem. I promise I don’t. I just have a party-like-a-mofo-until-school-starts problem, and I think I’m completely entitled to it. Last night, I met up with a bunch of my law school peeps and had a great time. Once again, some strange shots made their way into the mix (how does that always happen?) We did a round of a coconut-flavored concoction and my buddy Matt was so riled by the taste he demanded an immediate refill of his beer to counteract the coconut-ness. He apparently doesn’t like coconut. Sorry man. But when the shots show up, you gotta take ‘em. Thems the rules.

Oh yeah, and this was the bar we went to, which, by the way, had COMPLETELY OVERPRICED PITCHERS of Coors Light.

One of my classmates made the wise decision of living at home and forgoing that whole “paying rent” thing. I applaud her. Personally, I couldn’t do it. I’d rather amass more debt than live at home. But anyway, I digress. Her parents went out of town for the weekend and she invited the whole class over for a house party. Granted, it wasn’t quite as rowdy as a high school keg party, but it was pretty darn close, especially considering most of us were still exhausted from the week and were dreading having to spend all day today studying.

The highlight of the night was (for me) yanking a dollar bill out of her friend’s spaghetti-strap top WITH MY TEETH, and her boyfriend was supposedly in the room.

See? High school.

www.patentlysilly.com:

Each week there are thousands of new patents issued by the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Every week I sort through them and to find new ones to put on the site. The patents I pick are usually a) really weird, b) really cool, c)really scary.

In other news, I spent the weekend in Austin hanging out with various friends, drinking various beers and mixed drinks, and eating lots of Mexican food. It was like San Antonio, but cooler (sorry San Antonians – you know you love Austin). And for some reason, I always take my digital camera on these weekend excursions and leave it in my bag for the duration of the trip. I have no idea how that fits into the train of thought. All I know is that I would really, REALLY love to find a summer gig in Austin. Man, I miss that place.

Before I start ogling over Austin, however, I must face the fact that school starts tomorrow. I’ve gotten through some of my readings, but by ‘gotten through,’ I really mean that I read the words and understood a fraction of the information. It’s hard to get my brain back in gear after weeks of idle dawdling.

But I’m excited to see everyone again. I’ve gotten to hang out with a few of my classmates over the break, but for the most part, it’s been five weeks since I’ve seen any of the people I just got through spending five months with every day. And let me tell you, getting us all in a room again will make quite the family reunion.

I’ve spent the past four weeks of my winter break compensating for the previous four months’ lack of partying, reading, bike-riding, and binge-eating. It’s been great, and I have seven more days of freedom left to party, read, bike, and eat. School resumes on Tuesday the 18th, and, oddly enough, I’m looking forward to it. As much of a cluster-fuck as the previous semester turned out to be, I’m ready for more. More pressure, more reading, more ridiculous papers. I guess I’m a little masochistic in that sense, but then again, I think all law students are to some degree. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be where we are.

So, tomorrow, I plan to start my readings for next week.

But right now, I’m meeting some classmates for margaritas. C’mon, have some faith in me. If I’m going to start reading ahead for school, I’m going to need a hangover of some sort. I try to keep things as close to real-semester conditions as possible.

After some initial confusion, my new years ended up at The Continental Club, which featured a wild and crazy band and, a rarity on new years for any club, no cover. I met up with a law school friend and one of her friends. One of the highlights of the night was watching a bunch of college-aged girls shake their tuchuses on stage when the band exploded into an impassioned version of “Secret Agent Man.” What can I say, I’m easy to please. I don't think the club invested much in the champagne because I (and everyone else i saw) made the most horrible face when we drank it. Ugh. Cheap champagne is something to be avoided.

Instant Messenger conversation I had with a friend. Names have been changed and content has been edited to protect us (from ourselves). Things you should know: heb = H.E.B. = a grocery chain in Texas; he lives in Austin and I live in Houston and we have never been roommates.

Other Guy: i'm going to heb... you need anything?
ParticleMan: yeah
Other Guy: keep it under $10
ParticleMan: a bottle of 151.
Other Guy: they don't sell that there dude
Other Guy: and don't ask me for toilet paper cause i bought it last time asshole
ParticleMan: 1 5 1
Other Guy: they don't sell it there damnit
ParticleMan: PLEASE
Other Guy: will you settle for some listerine?
ParticleMan: ok.
Other Guy: that has alcohol in it
ParticleMan: ok.
Other Guy: iight
ParticleMan: cool.
Other Guy: cool mint or peppermint?
ParticleMan: the blue one.
Other Guy: cool mint
Other Guy: i like that one too
ParticleMan: sweet

Last night was pretty cool aside from one small detail to be explained in just a minute. I started drinking at five at the Front Porch and a bunch of my law school peoples came out. We haven’t had an official, pre-planned “happy hour” in a couple weeks, so the other class reps and I threw something together at the last minute, which basically means we told everyone where to go and when to get there. Some people that have never come to one of the “official” happy hours came out and I was really glad to see them. And it wasn’t only people in my class, but people from the other classes also made an appearance. I finally got to meet a bunch of people that I’ve been passing in the hallways for months.

But then, something crappy happened. My car got towed. I’ve been to this particular pub many times, but I always get there after 8:00 pm, the time after which it’s ok to park in the parking lot next door. But yesterday, I got there at 5:00, and didn’t even read the “No Parking until 8:00 pm” signs. So, having already planned to eat Greek food with some classmates, I walk out to my car with my friend and notice it’s no longer there. My car had vanished. Up and left – and without me in it. And for some reason, I didn’t get pissed. I called the number, got the information I needed to get my car back, and my friend drove us to the Greek restaurant. We ate, hung out, and had a good time. Then, after we were all ready to go, I caught a ride to the tow truck’s lot, begrudgingly paid the ridiculous sum of money to get my car back, and went home.

All told, it was a fun night, but it was also expensive, so I probably won’t be doing a whole lot in the way of going out for a while. Or at least I won’t be buying drinks or food. Which is ok, because as I learned in Garden State, you don’t need stuff or money to be happy, you just need Natalie Portman.

What? Did I just say that? Andrew, I hope that was stream of consciousness enough for you.

PS: I never mention any of my classmates’ names (Andrew) on this website out of respect for privacy (Andrew), but this time, I think it was warranted. (Andrew).

You might be wondering what the deal is with all those links at the top of the page, and specifically why there’s one called “bikes” when I never really talk about bikes. Well, it’s there for days like today, days when I actually get off my ass, tear myself away from my books (emphasis on the ‘tear’), and go for a ride. Clicking one of the links up there will sort every post I’ve ever written by that category. Neat, huh? Damn straight. And it wasn’t even my idea.

I woke up today at 9 am. I don’t know why, of course. I have no school, and yet, I’m up at 9. Whatever. I resolved to do something useful with myself that involved being outside. So I went mountain biking at Memorial Park. When I got there, the cop hanging out at the entrance told me I couldn’t park in the park because everything was closed off for an Art Festival. Art Festival? Fuck that, I wanna go mountain biking. I’m finding a way in.

So I park across the street where all the joggers and whatnot park and stealthily rode past the cop. OK, it wasn’t stealthy at all. There were other cyclists riding past too. All he said was that I couldn’t park there, not that I couldn’t ride the bike trails. This park has three or four main bike trails, so I hit my usual warm-up trail for a while and felt good, so I tried to go to the longer, more challenging trail towards the back of the park and encountered an obstacle: the Art Festival, and more cops, and buses, and lots of touristy looking people waiting in line to pay $8. Eight dollars? Fuck that, I’m not paying $8. I head across the street to ride the “secret” trail (it’s unmarked) and got lost in there for a while. After I found my way out (via a detour through the Arboretum), I decided to give the other trail another try. I tried to haggle with the guard and said that I just wanted to ride through and get to the trail in the back. He said no, but mentioned he’d seen other cyclists heading towards an entrance at the back of the park… and that’s when I remembered the entrance in the back of the park that I’ve used a million times. Wow, all that drinking is taking its toll on my number of available brain cells.

I ride the trail and, by the time I was done, had logged about two hours of riding for the day and was spent. I look at my bike and notice it’s slathered in mud. I’m satisfied and leave for home. Unfortunately, the Art Festival resulted in several road closures and detours and I get totally lost. I end up downtown somehow and get back on 288. Weird.

Below are my rear brakes.

Buried beneath all that crud is a set of these:

This has been a crazy weekend so far and everything I wanted to get done hasn’t gotten done yet, but I still have 24 hours.

Friday was the usual happy hour at Front Porch. I managed to avoid getting towed this time, but my friend didn’t. Bummer. I feel his pain. I left around 7 to meet up with a couple other classmates to see a sweet bluegrass band, The Greencards. They consisted of a violist, mandolist, bassist, and guitarist, and they all shredded. Well, maybe except the bassist, but her vocals were excellent. If you get a chance to see them, do so. They played a great two-hour set complete with encore.

Aside from random cleaning up around the apartment, which you don’t wanna hear about anyway, I spent most of today working on/thinking about a paper and taking pictures at school. More on the pictures thing later. I don’t want to jinx myself.

I’m going to see Sophia for the first time in six (?) months tomorrow. She and her man will be in town for lunch on their way to Austin, and we’re getting together with another UT friend at La Strada. I’m psyched. I haven’t seen them in ages.

After that, I’ll try to get outside at least a little bit and enjoy the weather. But I’ll most likely end up at my desk working on that paper that’s due Tuesday, which coincidentally won’t get done Monday night because I’m going to see Steve Miller Band! Can you believe it? I never thought I’d get a chance to see SMB. My only memories of SMB revolve around high school and its various questionable activities at house parties and/or riding around in someone’s car. I don’t really listen to SMB anymore, but I know all the songs on that greatest hits album everyone has.

Law School Prom is this Saturday. Well, it’s technically called a Banquet, but it’s affectionately known as the Prom. People dress up, eat at big tables, drink mixed drinks, dance horribly to a band, and drink mixed drinks. Did I mentioned they drink?

Drink. Mixed drinks.

I’m very excited. Apparently, a good number of the teachers go and actually stay for the band (and the drinks). I’m extra-excited for that. I’d like to see my profs throw a few back.

But before I can revel in the glory that is law school prom, I must wallow in the misery that is my appellate brief. Oh yes. I’m about ready to pull out my eyelashes one by one (seems worse and more original than “poking my eyes out”).

E’s sister lives in Austin (smart girl) and throws an annual crawfish boil boat party. She and a bunch of friends rent the equivalent of a floating platform with an engine, invite tons of people, buy tons of beer, and spend the day floating around Lake Travis eating crawfish. I was probably the only person on the boat that didn’t eat the crawfish and didn’t drink the beer – I don’t like crawfish and I brought my own beer (see the 6-pack of Blue Star below).

Eating crawfish is an entirely uneconomical activity. You stand around a table of crawfish (which, by the way, aren’t even fish) and pull these creatures apart, covering your hands in their intestines and various bodily excretions in order to get to a small morsel of meat. Why all that work? Yeah yeah, supposedly it’s fun and facilitates “hanging out,” though I’d rather forgo the crawfish eating, which would fail any basic cost-benefit analysis test, and hang out while eating chicken or beef. So, I brought my own chicken and grilled it on the on-board BBQ grill. After I had a piece, it became all the rage, and the rest of the chicken disappeared in minutes flat. Go figure.

The water in the lake was pretty much perfect. Lots of people went for a swim, jumped off the top level – oh yeah, this was a double-decker boat – and / or slid down the slide.

Some important info about this slide.

The slide was deceptively wet. Before one attempts to slide down the slide, one should ensure it is sufficiently wetted so as not to burn one’s hips or tuchus on the way down. E (poor thing) was the first person to attempt the slide, and did so quite valiantly. However, she was also the first (and last) person to get their hips burnt. I was in the water during the unfortunate event and it sounded like a car coming to a screeching halt. It sounded like it hurt. A lot. The resulting red mark looks no less painful than the initial injury. We should all send waves of sympathy her way.

Please commence waves of sympathy now. Thank you.

And as for all those people jumping off the boat, I also neglected to mention they jumped right after I took my shirt off. I’m not saying there’s necessarily a causal connection there, but I’m not ruling it out either.

OK, maybe I’m exaggerating. They didn’t all jump off when my shirt came off. Just lots of them.

Dinner Saturday night was spent at Z Tejas on Lake Austin Blvd. E and I relaxed and took a walk around the block afterwards, noting the Amy’s Ice Cream down the street and the homeless guy mumbling things I couldn’t understand. We fulfilled our official Austin duty and had ice cream there on Sunday.

My dad happens to be a fan of Kerbey Lane’s pancakes, so I took the cash he gave me and presented it to the hostess: “Hi, I need to get as many bags of gingerbread pancake mix that $50 will buy.” She looked at me like I was an alien. My dad was ecstatic when I gave him the eight bags of pancake mix. That should hold him for a while.

Pictures from the weekend are forthcoming.

It’s time for a brief hiatus. My first final is Monday and the last is next Tuesday. No posts till then. I’m much too busy studying and worrying about studying, though I’m better at the worrying part. In fact, I’ll be happy to worry for you for tests you plan on taking. Or, if you have no tests planned, I can retroactively worry for tests you’ve taken in the past but perhaps didn’t worry enough for. I prefer non-mathematical tests, but I’m flexible. Let me know in advance if calculators are allowed during the exam. I also don’t do Taylor Series. Sorry.

So with that, bye. You probably won’t hear from me till after the 17th. That is, unless you see a headline on CNN, BBC, or a similarly large news site with the headline:

DUMBASS LAW STUDENT FINISHES FIRST YEAR OF LAW SCHOOL, GOES APESHIT, EMBARRASSES SELF AND OTHERS

late-night breaking news: my site apparently got hacked. (fuckin A). nothing bad happens in Firefox, but in IE, a prompt to download software shows up. spyware attacked sam's computer and he's still dealing with it (sorry sam). the people who host my site told me delete the offending page (this one) and upload a fresh copy, and that solved the problem for me. let me know if it's still buggy for you.

just in time for my last final, i developed a stye on my left lower eyelid. it was only partially annoying as i probably wouldn't have done any better even if my eye didn't feel like a toothpick was stuck in it. at either rate, i didn't pull a repeat of last semester after the final. i'm saving that for the school-wide party tomorrow night. let's hope i make it past 11:30 this time around.

enjoy!

there's a new sheriff in particlemantown.

goes by the name of skorloff. i'll be posting here until p-man gets over the kissing disease, or until he just feels like taking his blog back.

except for using curse words, i’ve been given no guidelines for posting. i probably wasn’t going to cuss anyway, but now i'm extra tempted.

• law? nope.
• bikes? nope.
• stuff? what does that even mean?
• music? sure, but not what p-man usually posts about, then again, maybe a little.
• books? prolly, although i don’t read a lot of inscrutable freshman lit-type stuff. in most cases, i'll likely substitute movies for books.
• beer? almost certainly, but i may use that category to discuss other alcohol-based vices.

so there you have it, alcohol, movies, music and whatever "stuff" means.

p.s. i think it would be wise and diplomatic of me to apologize, in advance, to p-man’s immediate family, ancestors and future kin. i’m incorrigible and p-man should have known better.

-s

Third installment of the “things that happen to you while” series.

You end up sitting next to a judicial clerk on the plane. Them lawyers just never leave you alone.

Your gf is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND when you get to the bus stop where she said she’d be. She shows up two minutes later and practically tackles you.

You eat delicious Greek food in an area of town known as Greek Town. Fancy that. The Walgreen’s “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign is also in Greek. Once at the restaurant, you watch as waiter after waiter serves guests an appetizer known as souvlaki that basically amounts to a slab of soft cheese lit on fire and placed on the table as the flames subside. The waiter lets out an “opah!” as he lights the cheese on fire. You wonder how it feels to say “opah!” every time someone orders that dish. You also wonder why every waiter is a waiter and there are no waitresses.

You proceed to an Irish Pub for a pint of Guinness. The place is packed and you’re greeted by a throng of guys singing drinking songs with glasses raised. You swear your flight took you to Chicago, not Ireland. GF leads you upstairs where a band of older guys in Hawaiian shirts plays a mix of Irish music and, you suspect, bluegrass. You smile and shake your tuchus with GF.

GF falls asleep on your shoulder on the bus ride home and spontaneously wakes up at precisely the right time because you had no idea where you were going and would have missed the stop.

Breakfast at a bagel shop leads you to run into a guy in a Longhorn cap waiting at the front. He’s with two girls. While walking past, you see the hat, realize he must have gone to UT, and say, “Whoa Hey” mid-stride. One of the girls turns around and gives you an unsavory look assuming you directed your comment to her. In the split second you realize what just transpired in her head, you seize on the opportunity and give her a nod through the window as you leave the restaurant. GF laughs.

You go to your first Cubs game and first game at Wrigley Field and stand in awe at this historical monument of American sports. This is the first professional sporting event you’ve seen in a traditional open-roof structure. Actually, it’s basically just a field with seats – some covered. There is no jumbotron. A 10-year-old girl in the seat next to you is wearing a Cubs hat and a Cubs jacket. She’s keeping track of the game with a pencil and a scorecard complete with player’s numbers, the plays, errors, and other details. She’s engrossed in the game, deep in concentration. Dad returns shortly and she updates him on the latest happenings. You notice that homes across the street from the field have bleachers built on the roofs. The two or three story narrow duplex-like homes common in Chicago make perfect perches from which to watch a game over Wrigley Field’s short walls. The Cubs win. Everyone screams. Earlier that week, they beat your Houston Astros two out of three games. You’re not too happy about that, but today’s game against the Rockies posed no problems of allegiance. You see someone else in a Longhorn hat. Go Horns.

On the way to the Aquarium, GF realizes the Blue Man Group performs in a venue nearby. Turns out not only do they have tickets for that afternoon’s show, but they’re in Row G (ie, 7) and you bust out the Student ID to get half-price tickets. BMG put on an amazing show beyond your expectations. It’s a conglomeration of music, wit, physical comedy, and creative audience participation. Toilet paper is utilized. Twinkies are cut with hand-held power saws and consumed. Paint is poured on the skins of tall bongo-like drums that are played. Said paint flies into the air with each strike of the drum and eventually ends up on a canvas. Viola, painting.

You meet GF’s friends for sushi and stuff your face full of rice and fish. It is quite possibly the first time you have eaten sushi in a group setting in which all the sushi ordered was actually eaten – there were no leftovers. The group congratulates itself on ordering exactly the right amount of sushi.

You proceed to a local bar. You encounter the first friendly bouncer of your entire life. He asks where you’d like to sit. Inside or out? Shall he get you a table? Have a menu brought over? You say “inside, thanks.” On the way inside, the owner greets you and immediately offers a table.

While walking to bar #2, your old knee injury starts acting up. Riding a bike for 180 miles when you were 19 was kind of a dumb idea, especially when you stubbornly rode the last 10 miles in excruciating pain. You’re paying for it now, six years later. You go home and nurse the bum knee.

The next morning, knee feeling better, you have brunch with more friends of the GF. This time, an Orthodox Jewish couple. You are not to hug GF. You may not kiss GF. In fact, do not even touch GF. Also, do not touch the wife. The couple is exceedingly warm and friendly and are very, very happy to have guests. They don’t get out much. There is enough food on the table to serve a family of 10. After much interesting conversation, the couple is kind enough to give you and GF a ride to the Aquarium (which you skipped to watch BMG) in the husbands new Honda Civic Hybrid. When stopped, the engine basically turns off and you swear he stalled the manual transmission.

There is a huge line at the aquarium but since GF is a member, you WALK PAST ALL THE POOR SAPS IN LINE AND GET IN FOR FREE. You think to yourself, “ Wow, gf is pretty handy to have around. Excellent job.” The beluga whales are fun and make cool sounds. The dolphin show is impressive but would have been better if you had come an hour earlier and actually gotten seats.

There is no skydiving on this trip, but you do go to the top (95th floor) of a skyscraper and share a glass of wine with gf in the lounge. The views are phenomenal.

For dinner, you have one of the best filet mignons you’ve ever had. It really is an exciting restaurant. Afterwards, you head to a small jazz club and watch a quartet do their thing onstage from the upstairs bar. The singer, female, takes requests from the audience. All you gotta do is scream out an artist’s name. I scream “Ray Charles!” and she obliges, though I’m not sure she got to him before we left. The band is tight and the singer is right on key. She looks good sporting her dance moves. You make a mental check mark next to the “see jazz or blues in Chicago” check box on the “Things You Must Do One Day” list. Mission accomplished.

Brunch the next morning with more of gf’s friends leads you to a tapas restaurant. You gorge on seafood, veggies, chicken, bread, and sangria. There’s nothing quite like an afternoon buzz. You realize the last time you had sangria must have been when you were in Spain. That’s way, way too long.

You catch a ride to the museum and gf, the one without the watch, realizes you have like an hour before it’s time to leave for the airport. You speed through a series of paintings that reads like an art history course lecture. The heavyweights are all in effect: Renoir, Degas, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Gaugain, Seraut, Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, Chagall, Kandinsky, and on and on. Remember that painting of the old couple with the farmer holding the pitchfork? Yeah, that was there too. As was the painting of a few lonely people having a late-night cup of coffee in a diner.

Then gf, in a blaze of glory, puts the both of you on the wrong bus back to her friend’s apartment at which you’ve been crashing. You’re several miles away from your luggage and the apartment. In a rush, you find an ATM, get some cash for a cab back to the apartment, and cunningly leave your debit card in the ATM machine. Lucky for you, this little morsel of information occurs to you only at the airport. After smacking your forehead until you feel better, you proceed to the plane and continue a nifty game you and the gf have been playing since your weekend in Austin.

Back in Houston, you’re greeted by highways 10 billion lanes wide and wonder what the hell went wrong in this city. Haven’t they heard of public transportation? Oh, not that kind. That kind.

And that, in a nutshell, is pretty much what happens when you go to Chicago. I promise. Identical results not guaranteed.

but i know exactly where you need to be on the weekend of july 22nd-24th. lousiville, kentucky. before you scoff, here's why.

please pick me up a poster while you're there.

Just kidding. You’ll only get mono if you click the back button.

I’ve spent the past three weeks not doing a whole lot. I have been going to work, but I’m only logging five hours per day and I take naps when I get home. I’ve been drinking plenty of water and getting plenty of rest. In short, despite your wishes, you terrible person you, I have been taking care of myself.

Which brings us to now. Skorloff, for whom we are all very thankful for enlightening us with that mumbo-jumbo about wine and movies and bathrooms, mentioned that I’d be regaling you with stories of my “past present and future,” all without the commas. He’s right. I’ve been working on some stories about my past, cloaked in mystery as it is, but for right now, I’m here to tell you about my future (the present is oh so boring).

1. My last day at the firm was yesterday. I’ll be starting a clerkship with a judge that will last six weeks. The plan is that I’m to return to the firm after the clerkship, i.e., when school starts. Let’s hope everything pans out.

2. My roommate and I were hanging out at a bike shop for no reason whatsoever the other day and saw one of these:

It’s the Schwinn Sting-Ray. I decided I had to have it, but it wasn’t for sale. So, both of us resolved that we each have to buy one because they’re so freaking cool. I mean, look at that thing, it screams cool. And since I need as much help as I can get, I’m down with it. We’re scowering ebay for vintage (old) models from the late 60’s to late 70’s that are either in near-perfect shape or restorable shape. The tentative plan is to buy Sting-Rays for cheap, restore them as best we can with what limited skill we have, and sell them off. Failing that, we’ll just buy one for ourselves. If you know anyone looking to sell an old Sting-Ray (not a Sting-Ray Junior) drop me a line.

With that, I leave you to enjoy your July 4th weekend. Eat, drink, get sun, drink more, and don’t drive.

For those of you too lazy to click the comments, the answer to the riddle is:

Which road would your brother say is the right one?

If you ask the liar, he will lie and tell you the opposite of what his honest brother would say, so you do the opposite of what he says. If you ask the honest brother, he would tell you what his lying brother would say, so you do the opposite. With this setup, you always do the opposite of whatever answer you get from whichever brother. You don’t need to know which brother you’re asking.

I hope you liked the riddle. It’s basically my only riddle, so now I’m out and I have nothing else to talk about.

Of course not, I can always talk. I’m in law school, gimme a break. Today was my last day at the court. It was an amazing experience and I encourage every law student out there to work for a trial court for at least half of a summer. It is an invaluable experience. You get an understanding of what goes on behind the doors of the court. You learn what the clerks do, what the court coordinator does, and how the judge thinks. You get a bird’s eye view of a smattering of lawyers from all walks of life. Some are good, some are great, and some are well, lawyers. Now that I’ve worked for a trial court, I’d like to work for an appellate court to see what happens at the next level, but I don’t know if I’ll get a chance. I’d like to work at law firms next summer, but we’ll see how things turn out.

School starts Monday. This summer has gone by way too fast. But at least I got to do a lot of cool stuff. I went to Chicago, Austin, and Little Rock (to see my sister) with E. I got to spend time with old friends. I got to work for a law firm and a judge. I got to read a few books. I got a roommate and a cool apartment. I also got mono (damnit) and therefore did not get enough beers. And by not enough, I mean like two. Yeah, two, and then my sore throat came back a couple days later. Relation? Who knows. But now I’m not drinking again until Doctor says so. But as a result of the mono, I also got a pinch-blogger. The verdict is still out on how cool that was.

In short, it’s been a pretty badass summer. I just wish I could fast forward to December, post-finals. That would be nice.

Whatever parts of the hurricane we were to see have moved on. The storm we saw was no stronger than a serious summer thunderstorm. Winds topped out at 50 mph and there was no flooding. Lots of people lost power, but we got lucky. My parents’ house a few miles away did lose power. I rode my bike around the neighborhood and the extent of the damage is limited to tree limbs lying in the street. Not too bad.

This flashlight my dad Frankensteined together was thankfully not needed. He rewired a desk lamp of some sort to a UPS battery, which is usually used a backup power source for computers. It’s nice having an electrical engineer for a dad.

We also didn’t need this trashcan full of tap water, which took a long time to fill even by the bucketful.

Eastern Texas and western Louisiana got hit pretty hard though. My thoughts go out to those who got the brunt of the storm. Even at category three, it was nasty enough to tear buildings and homes apart and blow out windows. And this is certainly the last thing the people of Louisiana needed. Flooding will soon be an issue off of the Trinity River as one of the dams is under threat.

On the bright side, I discovered that there are some really cool and dependable people on my street. They introduced me to a local pub hidden away from the crowds of Rice Village. The husband has a library so extensive it’s doing damage to the foundation. Several thousand pounds of books can be problematic for a home built in the late 1930’s. I’m sure I’ll be browsing his bookshelves quite a bit in the future. School starts Wednesday, so I’ve got a couple days to get back into the swing of things. Until then, the name of the game is cleaning up around the house and drinking beer.

Fourth installment of the “things that happen to you while” series.

Your gf tells you to chug water like nobody’s business the day before you get to Quito and on the flight as well, because if you don’t, you’ll get altitude sickness. You do as she says and end up having to climb over the person in the aisle seat about three hundred and eighty two times to go to the bathroom. Your gf also tell you to get some altitude sickness pills and start taking them the day before you get to Quito, because if you don’t, you’ll get altitude sickness. You get to Quito, and within 12 hours, your body goes into shock after realizing, lo and behold, there is absolutely no oxygen in the air.

When you land in Quito and walk into the arrivals hall, you spot your gf, who you haven’t seen in a month, and make a bee-line for her completely oblivious to anything or anyone else in the room and wrap your arms around her and squeeze her and breathe in her shampoo.

The taxi ride to the apartment is a whirlwind. You gaze at your gf. You stare at the surroundings. You gaze at your gf. You notice a Ford Explorer and ask, “What the hell, it’s bad enough we make these things for ourselves, we have to export them too?”

You wake up Saturday morning unable to do much because there is no air at 3000 meters. You have to spend the day in bed. Which, after a long week at school, turns out to be a good thing.

That evening, you and the gf head to a café recommended by her flatmates. It is known only by the name “Café Guapulo.” Gf doesn’t know where it is, but the cabbie thinks he does, so he radios his buddies and figures out where to go. The café is cute and quaint and is perched on a hillside overlooking a church and much of the city. It is relatively empty and you sit and talk with sassy music in the background. You talk and share “Crepes de Pollo” which turns out to be chicken baked with dough in a tiny pan. After spending a month talking on the phone and the computer, talking in person is a whole lot better.

You have more energy Sunday morning and you head off to the equator. As every other site on the equator is much less accessible because it’s either on a mountain, in the jungle, or in the water, this part of the equator is considered the middle of the world; hence the name “Mitad Del Mundo.”

After spending a good two hours wandering the city for the right bus to take – aka taking the scenic route – you find the right bus and come to a strange realization: you are a giant in this land. At 6’2”, you’re almost twice as tall as many of the locals. You feel like a walking circus.

You get to the Mitad Del Mundo and notice there are two equators. After lengthy analysis conducted in your head and out of the earshot of your gf, you decide two equators are not possible. One must be a fraud. Which one it is remains to be determined. You eagerly anticipate the collection of evidence to disprove the validity of one of the equators.

The sign for the outdoor equator museum, Inti-Nan (path of the sun), says “LAT. 00? 00’ 00” CALCULATED WITH G.P.S.” and you are satisfied that that must be the real equator. And lo, the tour guide demonstrates that this is indeed the true middle. She fills a bucket of water on the equator and drains it. The water drains straight down. She moves the bucket three feet to the north and the water drains counter-clockwise. She moves the bucket three feet into the southern hemisphere and it drains clockwise. You stand flabbergasted.

Afterwards, you decide to head to Plaza Grande in Old Town. On the way, however, you take the sage advice of a semi-local that turns out to be not sage at all. While Old Town lies towards the center of the city in the valley, the bus you’re urged to take sends you into the hills, where the streets are eerily deserted. Thankfully, you get on a bus that takes you back down into the city center and get to the Plaza Grande.

Plaza Grande turns out to be a little on the bland side. It’s basically a big statue in the middle of a plaza. What is interesting, however, is a police car parked on the edge of the plaza. Policemen are inside the car. Instead of watching out for shady characters waiting to take advantage of unsuspecting tourists (hi), they’re texting each other and playing games on their cell phones. Ecuadorian tax dollars hard at work.

For dinner, you had to the Mariscal district, also known as Gringolandia (Land Of White People). It’s a little on the touristy side. You eat dinner at a tapas restaurant and drink sangria. Whatwith the higher altitude, one glass gives you a nice buzz. Your suspicious that you are a cheap date are confirmed.

The next day, gf wants to go climb a mountain. You say, “cool,” especially since there’s a cable car that takes you up there. The mountain overlooks Quito in the valley lying below. You’re at an altitude of about 4000 meters, so it’s much colder there. The clouds appear to be within arm’s reach. Off in the distance is Cotopaxi, the volcano overlooking Quito. Gf was there just the week before.

After you return to the city, you and the GF run some errands around town. After stopping in nearly every toy and knickknack shop in the city looking for dice, you finally find some in a mall. She plans to use them to play English games with her students. You wonder what kind of shady operation the school is running, anyway. Since you’re in South America, you figure you ought to score yourself a nice Panama hat. You buy a cool one from a street vendor for $8, which seems reasonable considering some stores sell them for $30 (up to $300).

Then, you and the gf attack the grocery store. You pick up food to make for dinner and have a great time in the kitchen as the other flatmates cook too. One of the flatmates is making an alfredo sauce and notices it’s taking longer than normal to cook. Upon closer inspection, gf notices her mushrooms and onions aren’t sautéing very quickly either. Upon yet closer inspection, we all notice the gas burners are off, resulting in the lack of heating being applied to the pans. Turns out the gas canister hidden in the cupboard next to the stove ran out of gas. The flatmate cooking the alfredo sauce proceeds to grab a spare canister of gas and hooks it up to the stove. Viola, instant gas stove.

One of the flatmates’ friends, an Ecuadorian, is leaving the country, so they invite him and some other people over for dinner. Not only do they cook for everyone, but they also write him a rap song. And then perform it. It’s possibly the most entertaining musical and theatrical performance you’ve ever seen. Three Canadian girls rapping with their pants and hats on backwards is a sight to be seen.

The next morning, you’re on a plane back to real life, where books and alarm clocks and construction on Highway 59 await. The next time you’ll see your gf is on December 20th. Until then, you patiently wait for her, and think of the good times you’ve shared.

I’m skipping class Friday to fly to Little Rock. The bris is at 10:30 and I land at 9:12, so I’ll get there just in the nick of time (no pun intended). I’d go Thursday, but I invited a judge to come speak at my school Thursday afternoon, and I don’t want to put myself at risk of either having to leave my own function early or miss a flight. If you’re in my class and you’re reading this, please take good notes, I might be asking you for a copy (ahem, Sam).

I also went to a wedding this past weekend in the Texas Hill Country - in a small town called Concan, to be exact. It was a beautiful outdoor wedding on the river. One of my best buds from college was the groom. We used to go mountain biking a lot and took a road trip to Arizona to meet up with other mountain bikers and check out the trails there. So it was really cool to see a guy I’ve known for seven years - partied with, drank with, been to shows with, and generally been stupid with - tie the knot. They grow up so fast! Congrats bud.

I went to a classmate’s costume party last night and had a great time. My liver, on the other hand, did not. It had a horrible time. It’s still bitching, actually, and it’s taking the rest of my major organs and bodily systems with it. They’re all on strike. Picketing. Lobbying. Staging sit-ins. Rallies. Having union meetings. The muscles (what few remain after a year of non-use) are particularly stubborn and achy. Things from the neck up are also not functioning properly. In short, drinking large quantities of cheap rum with coke will make you hurt. Ow.

On the bright side, there were some cool costumes: sumo wrestler guy, Wonder Woman, Superman, female cop with handcuffs, pirate, Strawberry Shortcake, 70s Dude, goth people, fighter pilot, box of tissues (Blow Me), angel, nun and priest, belly dancer, firewoman (with ax), and more I’m sure I’m forgetting. My friend wore a hella cute Hawaiian dress complete with lei around her neck and flower in her hair.

Me? I rolled 70s style. Blue and white pinstripe pants, shirt unbuttoned half-way down, with a bling-bling Star of David resting in the natural rug that lives on my chest. I bet you’re wishing you hadn’t read that last sentence right now.

I needed a break from the onslaught of studying I’ve been putting myself through, so I went to a local pub last night with the roommate and his buddy. Five pints of Paulaner and Belhaven later, we struck up a conversation with a gaggle of girls - one of whom started bragging about her two-year-old nephew. I chimed in that I have a two-year-old niece. Within seconds, we were claiming that our respective sibling’s child could beat up the other’s respective sibling’s child.

Score 1 for the maturity squad. My niece can kick the crap out of anyone’s nephew. Hey, and I’ll have one more pint of Belhaven please.

My third set of law school finals start the 30th and the last day of class is tomorrow, so I must leave you for a few weeks as I duke it out with studying. But fear not. Your favorite pinch-blogger Skorloff will make an appearance once again. The last time you heard from him, I was battling it out with the infamous ‘kissing disease.’ I’m sure he’s traveled far and wide and amassed a great amount of stories to regale you with since he was last here. For all I know, however, he might just talk about dishwashers and the odd bottle of wine.

With that, I leave you to Skorloff’s devices (vices?). Enjoy. I shall return circa December 13th.

Before I go, I must say Thanks to Tarfia and JB for swinging by and saving me from more studying. They drove in from Austin for a belated birthday visit and we went out for sushi, beer, wine, and more beer. Much Belhaven was had by all. Belhaven is now the official beer of the Fall 2005 Semester. Hooray! Tarfia also brought her laptop and we performed a massive musical exchange, which sounds a little dirty but was totally kosher. I promise. Just don't tell the RIAA (bastards). Later!

Thankfully the kissing disease didn’t get me this time. Neither did any other ailment. Instead, I had five law school finals to contend with, and Skorloff was brave (and kind) enough to take on the blogging responsibilities of this here vessel. For that I am very thankful. We all learned a lot from Skoroloff. For instance, I didn’t know that “no self-respecting list of post-modern soundtracks would be complete without a quentin tarantino movie.” I also didn’t know that “we feed them every day which keeps them from starving and has cut down on the number of dead bird parts we find in the yard.” Neither did I know that “then i got old.” I’ll be damned.

What I do know is that I’m getting the hell out of dodge. My dad and I plan to take a road trip of sorts this weekend to somewhere in central Texas. Probably a state park. Someplace where we can canoe, hike, smell clean air, look at stars, and otherwise act like the rugged guys we really aren’t. Then E comes back on Tuesday and the wait will be over.

But before that, I’ve got a list of things to do:

Well, looks like computer won this fight. But it hasn’t won the battle. Once I got all my files off of the hard drive and onto my dad’s computer, I realized that not only is the “resource” cd the computer came with lacking a copy of XP, but my backup image of the factory setup is also gone. So I have nothing to install even if I can swipe the drive. What I will do, though, is buy a legit copy of XP (groan) at a reduced price thanks to my friend who is a student at an unnamed university here in town.

Also, that road trip I talked about? Yeah, not gonna happen. The weather in central Texas is going to turn hellish this weekend. Cold, I can handle. Rain and cold I cannot handle. I’m not that manly (and neither is 56-year-old dad). So looks like pops and I are just gonna kick it here in town. He needs a new light jacket, so we went to to REI and got him a cool fleece top. Then we saw Aeon Flux, which has gotten terrible reviews, but at matinee price, I don’t mind watching Charlize Theron frolic around the screen in that smokin’ hot outfit. Yes, I’m easy to please. The movie was pretty good if you're looking for a sci-fi action flic to kill some time. It was definitely a guy movie: sci-fi plot with some social commentary stirred in, topped with enough action sequences to keep most any male happy. Damn the reviewers, we liked it.

Tonight was Heather’s birthday party, so I got to hang with her and Andrew at Rudyard’s, a new (to me) dive. Her landlord’s band was an opening act and they were pretty good, so I’m looking forward to seeing them again.

Fifth installment of the "things that happen to you while" series.

You wake up the morning of the flight with the beginnings of a sinus infection. You are thankful it’s not anything serious that could make flying difficult, like stuffed sinuses or ear issues. Oh, yeah, it’s a sinus infection, so you have stuffed sinuses and ear issues. You call GF at 5:50 am and explain the situation. She says, “Talk to my dad.” Dad is a doctor. Doctor Dad says I’m sending daughter over to your house with drugs. Take the drugs.

Drugs given to you by GF’s dad work. You fly on the big airplane and eat the breakfast of cereal and a banana. You are happy and sleep on GF’s shoulder.

Instead of having to pay money to stay at a hotel, GF’s cousins are kind enough to open their home to you and GF. They also open their fridge, which is a blessing. They also lend you a car, which is blessing upon blessing. You are very thankful for GF’s cousins. Thank you thank you thank you GF’s cousins.

You spend the night and following day recovering from the sinus infection and pop Advil Cold & Sinus like Reese’s Pieces. You are a useless lump of boy during this time. You drink so much water your bladder effectively becomes the size of a pea.

After the worst of the infection passes, you gather your strength to meet the GF’s family for Chinese food. Only part of the family of is present, which equates to about 10 people. You are particularly impressed by an 80-year-old member of the family named Bob who eats more than you, and takes longer doing it. He, like you, is thin as a rail. He, like you, stores the food in his hollow legs. The table marvels at the amount of food this man can put away.

You and GF decide it is your duty to find an In-N-Out Burger and purchase hamburgers for lunch. You do so. The burgers are good and you are happy. Mission accomplished.

GF goes with dad to Tijuana, Mexico to have a look around. You rest at the house and pray they come back safe. They come back and you expect wild and crazy stories of ligers and four-toed sloths. They say, “People tried to sell us stuff. It was kind of crowded. Sort of boring, actually.” Your heart sinks.

You and GF make an attempt at visiting the famous San Diego Zoo to no avail. By the time you get there, you only have an hour because you have to be somewhere else very soon to get ready for another Important Family Event. Instead of spending one hour at the zoo (and paying lots of money to get in) you opt to look at the seals on the beaches of La Jolla. They are fun and cute and smelly. You wish you were a seal so you could hang around all day and bask in the sun on the beach and be protected by national gaming laws.

You head to GF’s Parents’ hotel room to shower and get ready for the next Important Family Event, which happens to be the most important Important Family Event of the trip. One of GF’s cousins is getting married.

The wedding ceremony is beautiful and goes off without a hitch. GF even has a part in it, reading an English translation of some meaningful Hebrew passages whose meaning you have since forgotten. Thankfully, you got pictures of it, so it’s all good.

After the ceremony, it’s time to dance the Hora, the traditional Jewish dance originating in Europe. The Hora normally consists of a circle of people dancing around other people in the middle of the circle. Those other people in the middle could have their own circle or could simply be dancing with one or two partners arm-in-arm. Since only five people at the wedding actually know who you are, you feel compelled to make yourself known by throwing yourself in the throng of Hora-dancers. You work up a sweat and, satisfied you sufficiently contributed to the dancing, seek out the food.

The food must wait. First come the toasts.

The Bride’s parents and sisters toast the newlyweds as do the Groom’s father and sister. The final speaker, the Bride’s grandfather, gives a moving and witty speech on how the Bride and Groom met. The grandfather forms the speech in Biblical language – that is, for example, “Sam met Amy, and Amy was a comely young woman, and Sam was smitten, and Sam wed Amy, and it was good.” Etc etc. His speech steals the show and there is a flood of applause.

Afterward comes the food. You feast on salmon and mahi-mahi and pasta and salad and potato, and it is good. You and GF score margaritas, and they are good. Your bellies are happy.

You once again find yourself on the dance floor. The Deejay is playing music to which everyone can dance. Namely: disco, R&B, and Motown. You manage to avoid stepping on GF’s toes and, to you, this constitutes a successful dancing evening. You close the place down and are in bed by midnight.

You and GF and hop in the car and make another attempt at the zoo, this time allotting about two hours for yourselves. You take the guided bus tour to see as much as possible in the short time you have. Your favorites include the polar bears, the elephants, the Alaskan brown bear, and, of course, the Pandas.

You then head to the Bride’s parents’ house for a quick brunch before you leave for the airport and the flight back home.

The sinus infection is all but a memory and you reflect on all the amazing people you met and the fun you had.

Once upon a time, a fellow by the name Particleman lived in San Antonio. The year was 2003. His friend, Skorloff, informed him of a most interesting sale taking place at the Central Market, a purveyor of fine foods and libations. Central Market had made the business decision to rid itself of all forms of liquor with an alcohol content above a certain amount. Such a move would allow Central Market to legally serve samples of other wines to customers.

Particleman took heed of Skorloff’s words and visited a Central Market when he was in Austin for the weekend. Particleman roamed and roamed the store until he came upon the rack of liquors to be liquidated.

“Hark,” Particleman exclaimed, “I have found the booty, and it is good.”

Particleman aimed to buy the whole lot. Alas, his willpower held him in check and he resolved to choose one – just one – bottle of port wine. He browsed, he compared, he analyzed, and finally settled on one bottle.

Vowing to save the bottle for a special occasion, he returned to San Antonio and to his hum-drum existence at the massive EnormoCo at which he labored.

Months passed, and still no worthy occasion rose to motivate Particleman to open the bottle. Particleman’s sister had a daughter, and still, he was not moved to open the bottle. He was accepted to law school, but still, he left the bottle to collect dust.

The years went by, and the existence of the bottle passed into distant memory.

Then, something surprising and not at all expected happened. Just last night, Particleman was out to dinner with a friend, and he suggested he and the friend return to Particleman’s abode to relax, drink wine, and converse with the roommate. The roommate was not present upon their arrival, but presently entered grasping his own bottle of newly-purchased wine.

Soon the three were drinking from the roommate’s wine and having grand old time. It was then, at this very juncture, that Particleman sought out the long-forgotten bottle of port wine and presented it to the group. They were awed by its age and mystery.

“Open it,” they implored. Particleman obliged. They drank from the wine, and were happy.

By the end of the night, the roommate’s bottle was nearly empty, and the bottle of port – the bottle that had waited all these years – had finally tasted fresh air. It now lies in wait for the next such occasion.

Waco, TX is essentially BFE with a Wal-Mart. And a highway. According to my tour guides, there are a couple bars. There is a university. And there is crime. Not just any crime, but really stupid crime. My friend’s girlfriend had her car stolen from her old apartment complex. The car was later recovered with various drugs and drug paraphernalia strewn about the interior. An extra special bonus party favor with the items recovered was a picture of the thieves posing with the car. The full extent of the thieves’ stupidity became apparent upon arrest. The story goes that the car was stolen and sold to a drug dealer for $20 in cocaine. TWENTY DOLLARS. IN COCAINE. A CAR. SOLD. $20.

Kee-riste.

Otherwise, the place is not all-together offensive or anything. Yeah, every other car has a Bush or “W” sticker on the bumper. But they still have NPR radio (to which my friend’s girlfriend is an avid listener). And apparently Baylor is crawling with hot Baptist blond girls with rich dads. I oughtta move to Baylor and set up a net to catch all the hotties. Hey mom and dad, look what I found in Waco! Her name is Whitney! Or Britney. I mean Tiffany. Shit.

My buddy and I made fajitas and watched the superbowl while his girlfriend went to a prep class to learn how to kick the crap out of the GRE. She came home and schooled us on fractions. Did you know that to divide fractions, you flip them and multiply? It’s the damndest thing.

I saw the Baylor law school and realized how lame my school is. Our classroom chairs are hard plastic contraptions bolted to long desks on a swiveling hinge. At Baylor, each seat has its own independent office chair. You know, like the kind you get at Office Max or something. On the other hand, Baylor makes their students stand up for recitation… for every teacher. I’ve only had three teachers do that in four semesters. I think the Baylor administration has issues.

Buddy’s girlfriend and I spent a couple hours studying in the library (which was beautiful) while buddy went to class and slept through his Business Organizations course. Yeah, I know he slept because that’s what I did in my Biz Org class last semester.

One thing I envy about my buddy and his girlfriend living in Waco is that they can see stars. The night sky is full of them. Here in Houston, our glorious pollution (chemical, light, and otherwise) drains out all starlight.

When it comes down to it though, Waco is still BFE with a Wal-Mart. And an HEB.

Thanks again to buddy and his girlfriend for hosting me. Next time I come visit, we gotta see about setting up that net.

It’s a rarity, but every now and then, we at particleman.org have to bitch and moan about certain things that require bitching and moaning. This is one of those things.

If you’ve ever lived in Austin, you almost automatically groan when SXSW rolls around. The city explodes with people cramming into downtown trying to figure out who the cool new band is going to be, to see the hip new films, and to sit in on panels where people talk about the sociological impact of blogs on our day-to-day interactions. Fascinating stuff.

I’m a little bitter about SXSW. I lived in Austin for four and a half years and had to deal with four SXSWs. SXSW clogs the streets and highways (which are already choked) with lost tourists. You can’t get a seat at restaurants. You can’t get into bars or pubs. You can’t park your car anywhere near downtown, which during SXSW, extends to all of central Austin. You can’t see any shows because everyone knows someone who got them a band, and you can’t afford a band because you’re a broke student and can’t muster the $300+ fee.

If you know where to go, there are lots of anti-sxsw shows outside of downtown. If you know where to go, there are tons of great restaurants and pubs to go to outside of downtown. But meanwhile, all the bands you ever wanted to see are in one place for one week, and you can’t get in…

Granted, I know SXSW is a tradition. It might even be a necessity. And it can be a great way to meet like-minded people. It’s a cultural orgy.

But for people on the outside looking in, SXSW is fucking annoying.

Last night was a doozy. I drank. I laughed. I took my shirt off and wandered around Midtown at midnight.

It all started when a friend, let’s call her L, scored six free passes to the Laff Stop. We arrived at the club after a quick pre-party at her place and proceeded to laugh and drink our hearts away. I drank a couple Crowns – my liquor of choice. The headlining comic was Darren Carter (the party starter), a very confused redheaded Irishman with no accent. “I like my women like I like my socks – in pairs…??? You kinda had to be there.

Our next stop was a pub to celebrate a friend’s 30th birthday. Let’s call him M (or MostStupidHaterAlive, his sometimes online persona). Before the birthday stop we had to stop at L’s place to pick up my car so I could drive myself home at a respectable hour and get some sleep before my 8:40 class. Upon pulling out onto Montrose I spotted something rectangular and hard-looking in the middle of the road and tried to avoid it. I didn’t. It caught both of my left side wheels. It didn’t sound good.

I had a sinking feeling that I flatted both of the tires, and when we got to the pub, I confirmed that my left rear tire was indeed toast. This is when the shirt came off. If I’m gonna change a tire, I sure as hell aint gonna ruin a nice shirt (don’t freak, I was wearing an undershirt). L, the sweetheart she is, volunteered to call AAA to get them to change the tire. Alas, I was a stubborn male. I’d rather get it over with and change it myself.

But wait – why is my spare tire flat? A flat spare is no spare at all. This is not good.

L asked AAA to also bring an air pump. Problem solved.

But wait – where is my jack? I can’t get this car off the ground without a jack. Shit.

Enter another friend, B, who extricated himself from the birthday festivities to borrow the jack of another friend, S. S’s jack worked like a charm. After some more digging, B found my jack in a side-compartment of the trunk. Oh well. I am an imbecile.

We then try to borrow S’s spare tire because she also drives a Honda, albeit a Civic. The spare is too small. No dice. We return the spare to its rightful home.

The plan then hatched by myself and B was to mount the spare, slowly drive to a gas station, and fill it with air. Then get back to partying with M, the birthday boy. In the process of changing the tires we were approached by a strange guy - let’s call him Crackhead #1 – who insisted he help us even though he didn’t want any money.

After hanging around a few minutes, trying to change my tire for me, and dispensing lots of advice, Crackhead #1 asked for a dollar to buy a 40. At least he was honest.

We drive to the gas station. The spare will not take any air for some reason. Enter Crackhead #2. He removes his full-ear headphones and says he can solve our tire problem. He then reaches for his belt and starts to remove it. Before I see any more, I recoil in shock and look away, focusing on getting air into my tire. B, standing behind the crackhead, suspects we’re about to get carjacked and prepares to throw down. Crackhead #2 then asks for my belt because he says the tire isn’t seated on the rim, and if we use the two belts to squeeze the tire more tightly around the rim, it will fill with air.

I concede – almost at my wits end by this point – and hand over the belt. He ties the belts around the wheel and… nothing. My belt breaks. The tire takes no air. We leave Crackhead #2 with his headphones and his belt and slowly roll off in my semi-driveable vehicle.

Enter another friend, J, who has bailed me out in the past. J lives two blocks from the gas station in question. He also drives a Honda Accord, though newer than mine. I call J and ask if I can borrow his spare. He’s naturally confused as to why someone would want to borrow a spare, so I explain about the flat and the crackheads and the belt. He obliges. We meet in his parking garage to pick up the spare and I notice his Honda wheels are five-bolt. Mine are four-bolt. Can you say worst luck ever?

J has to reach through the rolling gates of his parking garage and wave his magnetic card in front of the card-reading doohickey to let us out. The gate begins to roll - taking Js arm with it – as it heads for a concrete pillar. J deftly removes his arm from the gates of pain just before the concrete pillar causes any damage.

By this time, B and I are fed up with the whole situation and he wisely suggests I leave the car parked on the street and return the following morning with my roommate to take care of the flat, and he points out that there is an NTB down the street. I note the NTB and agree with his idea. We head back to the pub.

After another hour or so of retelling our story to everyone I call a cab and head home. I have no cash, so I plan on telling the cabbie to stop at a nearby drive-through bank so I can pulse some cash to pay the fare. We stop at one bank. The ATM says “THANK YOU” but does absolutely nothing for me. Bastard. We go to a gas station but the guy inside won’t open the doors – it’s passed midnight. Then I ask the cabbie, “You don’t take credit cards, do you?”

“Yeah.”

Internal dialogue: “Well thanks for fucking telling me that before we drove around looking for a fucking ATM, fucker. Since when do cabbies take credit cards?”

I get home at 1:30, leave a note for my roommate telling him the story and how I need a ride at 6:30 am before he goes to work. And then I crash.

And all that on a Wednesday night.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to L, B, S, J, and roommate for everything. I owe you all a drink. Or two. Lesson learned? Make sure your spare has air. And avoid crackheads at all costs.

n.b.: turns out Crackhead #2 was right. the tire filled with air once the guy at NTB seated it properly.

I figure you may be wondering about the wave of bike posts the past few weeks. During my first year of law school, I maybe rode my bike a grand total of two times. Things got a little better the following summer. Things returned to their status quo of non-riding in my third semester. So what’s the deal with this semester? Well, first of all, I’m taking two less hours than I usually do and the classes aren’t quite as intensive. Call it a much needed “break” from law school, though I’m somehow still in school…

There is another reason, though. I was going to wait till the very last minute to spill the beans, but what the hell, I have zero willpower.

I’m going to visit my friend (posts here as ‘carrico’) and his wife in Denver in two weeks. I’ve known this joker known as Carrico since I was a college freshman. He rides mountain bikes and all sorts of other wheeled things – and he is much better at it than I am. He taught me a thing or two about how to not crash and burn on mountain bike trails.

Denver is basically located in the stratosphere compared to Houston, so there will be less air for me to breathe, and since I’ve been a slacker for almost two years, I need to get my ass into shape. Thus, the recent spate of mountain bike rides and cycling-related posts.

I’m flying up on a Friday and coming back on Tuesday. While I’m there, I’ll stop by and harass Heatherfeather. How could I come to Denver and not raise hell with Heather? Carrico, Mrs. Carrico, Heatherfeather, and the rest of Denver are totally unprepared for what is about to hit them in two weeks. The last time I visited a blogger I had never met in person it resulted in copious beer-consumption, wild music fests, late nights in strange places, barefoot kickball with punk-rock people with various piercings and colorful tattoos, sushi happy hours complete with funny hats, and an orange mustang convertible, among other things.

Sixth installment of the “things that happen to you while” series.

Day 1

Your trouble with the law begins before you even get on the plane. The small folding allen wrench you packed into your Camelbak that you packed into your larger bag has piqued the security peoples’ interest. Piquing their interest is not something you want to do. A security person tears apart your bag, fishes out the Camelbak, and runs it through the x-ray machine again. She then pulls out the offending allen wrench and asks the supervisor, “Is this ok?” Yes, my friendly security-obsessed airport employee, it’s a freaking allen wrench. You might want to watch out for the guy with golf clubs, though. Those look painful.

You arrive in sunny Denver and it’s a glorious 50 degrees. You couldn’t be happier. Mr. Carrico (let’s call him C) picks you up and you speed off immediately to what you’re told is an Engineer Party. You see, C is an engineer of sorts – an engineer that designs poo treatment plants. As such, it figures that these people need to party quite a bit to maintain their level of sanity (sounds like lawyers). Hence, the engineer party you’re going to in Golden, about a half-hour drive from Denver, is first on the list of attractions.

The party is held at the house of one of the engineers (let’s call him J). It turns out that no one is home when you and C get to the house. You have beer on the mind and are feeling impatient, so C does the sensible thing and calls J to see how to get into the house. And now your troubles with the law escalate to what we in law school call “breaking and entering” or “trespass.” That is, C reached his arm up through the cat flap in the back door and manages to unlock the deadbolt (he has long arms) thus gaining entry. Mission accomplished. One tort and perhaps one crime are committed on your vacation. And you’ve only been in the state forty-five minutes.

After you help ourselves to some beer (thanks, J) more of the engineer crew and their significant others show up and the party grows to nine strong. You meet Mrs. Carrico (MC) for the second time and hope you might finally get to know her. You only met her at the wedding and didn’t get much of a chance to talk.

Now would be a good time to mention the fireworks display that you’ll later get to see at the Colorado School of Mines. Yes. A bunch of miners are going to blow shit up and it’s going to be awesome.

Before the fireworks, however, there’s something you have to see. You kick off the fireworks party in the college’s ‘lab’ as it were – a place where they store all their mining devices and whatnot. J asks you, “You wanna see a big drill?” Do I? He walks you over to what looks like something out of Star Wars. Or Robocop. Or Wyle E. Cayote’s stash of tools that catch the Roadrunner. This drill is as big as a moving truck. The ‘bit’ is the size of a Honda. You stand under the drill and wonder to yourself that your old jobs playing with computers all day were really pointless.

The fireworks are held in the college’s football field. You and the engineer crew get the best seats – on top of the announcer’s box high above the field. The fireworks are phenomenally loud and close. You can smell the chemicals. The crowd of chants “BLOW THE FUCKER UP… BLOW THE FUCKER UP… BLOW THE FUCKER UP…” Your jaw drops, and you join in. For the grand finale, a man – assumedly crazy – runs out to a string a fireworks mounted across the field and attempts to ignite them by hand. It rained the night before and the fireworks are not lighting in succession as planned. He has no choice but to keep going back to light the fireworks when the fuse runs out. He appears to be wearing protective ear-coverings but you see no other signs of protection. He injures his leg the last time he goes back to light the fireworks – perhaps some shrapnel got him. Firemen and EMS show up.

You’re more than satisfied with the day’s events, but the party hasn’t even started.

The festivities end up back at J’s, the scene of the original crime. J proposes a neat trick to the group. A drunken stupid human trick, if you will. Fold a dollar so that it can stand on the floor by itself. Supporting yourself on only one foot, find a way to pick the dollar up with your mouth. Your hands cannot touch the ground. It quickly became clear that this was a great way to get people to do stupid things for a dollar – or just to do them. To up the ante, someone put a $20 bill on the floor. To up it further, you put your wallet on the floor, which was in fact not an “up the ante” because you’re broke. Though many had gotten close and you managed to fall and hurt your knee in an effort to retrieve the dollar, J was the first and last to successfully perform the trick. Bravo J.

Your hosts’ cat apparently discovered the air mattress, and well, that was that. You and C try to find the holes in the air mattress and find one. C seals it with a bicycle tube patch kit and it works like magic. For several hours. By morning, your back is on the ground and your legs are in the air. You end up on the couch cursing your long legs.

Day 2

You and C start the day at Green Mountain. Your lungs are still stuck at sea level so you have a hard time getting up the mountain, or as natives call them, foothills. Anyone from Houston calls them mountains, though. You have to walk half of the final climb and on the way got passed by a runner going up, who then passed you going down, who then passes you going up again, all before you reach the top. When you do finally reach the top, you see him again, and he turns around again. That’s called meshuggah where you come from. You hit Red Rocks after grabbing some power bars and ride another two or three hours there.

For dinner, you and your generous hosts planned on going out but somehow the party ended up at home. You head to Whole Foods, score some chicken, and start a BBQ. Others show up with more goodies to throw on the grill and Heathfeather and her friend also join the party.

It’s not long before the stupid human trick from last night emerges. Except this time, instead of setting doing the trick on a wood floor in a house, it’s on a brick patio in a back yard. Brick hurts a lot more than wood when succumbing to gravity. Needless to say, you abstain, having sufficiently embarrassed yourself the night before. Other stupid human tricks emerge as well. MC introduces the group to a trick wherein you cross your arms in front of you and twist them around so that you end up with your fingers on your nose. Note that says on your nose, not in, but that might be interesting too.

The last stupid human trick is proposed by J (the stupid human trick expert?). This trick calls for two people. One person stands, legs apart, preferably on a soft substance like grass. Person 2, preferably limber, jumps on Person 1’s back, crawls over their shoulders, down their torso, through their legs, and back up to Person 1’s back. J volunteers to be Person 2. Heatherfeather volunteers to be the standing Person 1, claiming to have served a stint in a circus. Que pasa? Circus? Then she reminds you that she knows how to ride a unicycle, but not a bicycle. Oh, right. Unicycle. You realize your hosts have like six bikes, none of which are unicycles. Too bad. Heatherfeather is unfortunately too short or not strong enough to support J. C, as it turns out, is about 6'4" and strong enough to support the weight of another grown man (man that sounds weird). J hops on C’s back, crawls over his shoulders, down his torso, through his legs, and scrambles up his back. You really had to see it. Oh wait, YOU CAN*.

You round out the night at a bar called The Funky Buddha.

Day 3

Your back is a little sore from the previous night spent on the couch. Thankfully, one of your hosts’ friends who we’ll call G graciously swung by with his full suspension mountain bike for you to borrow, so any back pain should be rendered moot once on the trail. Otherwise, this morning starts out quite the same as the previous, meaning that a bike ride is in order.

You and C hop in the car and drive to Boulder for a ride at Walker Ranch, deep in the foothills just west of the city. The trail is breathtaking and you wonder why people live anywhere else. Things like law school come to mind. Bummer. After the ride you head to a local brewpub, Southern Sun Pub & Brewery, for nourishment of the liquid and solid variety.

You take it easy for dinner and order Thai food. The free movie channel is playing Donnie Brasco and you watch Johnny Depp turn into a Wise Guy.

Before crashing you and C resolve to find the other holes in the air mattress. Or rather, MC issues a directive that it needs to be fixed. You locate two more holes and seal them. It does the trick. You sleep soundly on a bed of air.

Day 4

Your hosts go off to their respective office lives designing poop treatment plants and whatnot. With five final exams rearing their ugly heads in a matter of weeks, you set your sights on the nearest hipster café and ride a ridiculously small BMX bike to Devil’s Food Bakery. It’s closed. In fact, everything is closed. It seems Denver sleeps in on Mondays. You hang your head in shame and head to Starbucks. A city of full of nifty cafes and all you have at your disposal is a national chain... For shame.

Several hours later, Heatherfeather rescues your vacation from becoming a corporate-coffee-shop-law-school-study-fest and takes you to the Crazy Asian Café for lunch. You chat about the UN, Connie Rice, and They Might Be Giants (naturally). Agreeing you should at least make an effort at studying, you head to Stella’s, a café that is actually open. After an hour of conversation interrupted by occasional bouts of studying you face the facts and call off the charade. The Denver Folklore Center down the street sells all kinds of cool instruments and the allure is just too much.

You noodle with guitars, banjos, mandolins, mandolinas, basses, and other stringed devices. Heatherfeather gives you a sample of her sublime voice and guitar skills. You wish you could put a digital soundboard in front of her and record what you’re hearing.

Heatherfeather drops you off at your (er, C’s BMX) bike at Starbucks and you ride home. Your hosts arrive soon after and you head to Sushi Boat with C, MC, and their friend, who we’ll also call G (different than the earlier G). After stuffing your faces full of sushi, seaweed salad, and miso soup, you decide on the perfect follow-up for desert: Bonnie Brae Ice Cream. It hits the spot.

Day 5

Has it really been five days? Feels like two. Your hosts probably think it feels like 10.

Your flight is at noon. But before your hosts can unload you, you get to accompany them to a very special occasion: the inspection of their newly bought home. It was built in 1906 but is somehow in better shape than most newer homes. You follow the inspector around and carefully watch (from a distance) what he does. One day you’ll have to buy a house. Or at least you hope to buy a house, maybe in Denver.

OK I can’t write in passive present tense or whatever it’s called anymore, it kind of hurts my brain. Much, much thanks to Mr. and Mrs. C for having me, to J and G (the first one) for lending me their bikes, to Heatherfeather for wasting her afternoon with me, and to the house cat for not accosting me too much.

All of you are welcome in Houston any time. Except the cat. Sorry.

* it’s a little dark, so if anyone has video editing software and is willing to help, contact me via the link at the bottom of this page.

they should be at the top of the list, but you mighht have to sift through some others.

Finished my last final last night, and it took me THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES. And i wasn't even the first to finish. Then i partied. Now i have a plane to catch in two and a half hours to Midland, TX for a wedding. As far as i can tell, there's not much to do in Midland except drink and wed, so it's gonna be a party. Be good and i'll see you in three days.

Dallas proper is actually smaller than Houston. I’ve spent one day here and I already feel like I have a solid feel of how to get around. I live down the street from every business establishment I could possibly need. Central Market. Bike shop. Haircut place. CVS. A plethora of restaurants. I could and probably will ride my bike or walk to these places whenever possible. A rail station is also down the street so I can take the train to work and save money on gas.

I met up with some old UT friends that I haven’t seen in ages last night and saw the Al Gore movie. My conclusion is that I would have rather read an academic paper or seen the actual lecture instead of sitting through two hours of what was essentially bits of the Al Gore slideshow interspersed with Al Gore autobiographical background. His message was meaningful and heartfelt though, and backed by solid data, so it gets my overall approval. See it. Be prepared for lots of charts and graphs. Al likes charts and graphs.

Today I also hung out with another UT friend that’s been in Dallas a few years. We’re going to watch the Mavericks game at a pub with some of her friends. I don’t know a damn thing about the Mavs or the basketball season in general, so I’m mainly going to hang out and meet people. And drink lots of beer of course. Tomorrow morning we’re going for a bike ride around White Rock Lake with a couple of her biker friends. Ride time is set at 9 am. Cross your fingers and pray I actually make it.

Oh yeah, and the apartment. I’m subletting from a law student who is spending the summer in DC. She cleaned the place up and left all of her furniture here. It’s a nice place. And did I mention clean? I feel obligated to keep it tidy while she’s gone.

Work starts Monday and I’m psyched. Happy Saturday night!

Went out Tuesday night to celebrate my friend’s last week in Dallas. He’s going to another law firm for the rest of the summer back in his home town of Baird, Texas (aka BFE). His older sister came along and she basically knows everyone. We started out at a sushi restaurant and she knew the bartender. I had three (or four?) long island ice teas. I was feeling quite happy. The sushi was great as was the people-watching. After that we went to another chi-chi bar that specialized in tequila. Before I can say “in over my head” my friend’s older sister is talking to a guy in a blazer who turns out to be one of the owners. They’re friends. So I get another long island, this one on the house. Then we see Don Nelson, former Mavericks coach. He’s totally sloshed. The next hit is some bar I can’t remember by now. I tried to drink a 7 and 7 but it wasn’t happening, so water became the beverage of choice. Then we run into Tim Cowlishaw, who my friend claims is a sportswriter for the Dallas Morning News and sometimes-guest on ESPN. My friend ogles Tim. I ogle the flashy-looking girls walking around.

Went out again last night but kept things in check. Two beers, no celebrities, just a safe Jewish happy hour. I was home by 11.

The firm is throwing a happy hour tonight and ANOTHER tomorrow night. So that will make it four nights in a row of going out. After this run I may have to go on a dry spell to make sure my liver and I are still on good terms.

And now it's 8:00 am and I gotta run to work.

The floor below ours is undergoing remodeling and we think the workers flipped the wrong switch today. The lights went out in half of the office and the internet went down. So what happens then? Everyone congregates at the receptionist's desk, shrugs, and someone inevitably says, "Since we can’t work, we might as well make ourselves drinks."

Unfortunately, the lights came on a couple of minutes later and the internet followed soon thereafter. Impromptu happy hour at work averted. Damn.

It’s not just the work. Or the new city I get to explore. Or all the cool people I’m meeting. There have been many moments when I knew that I found the right bunch of people, but there is one that stands out.

The other intern and I were hanging out in our corner of the office and the main attorney we work for came over to chat. The movie Napoleon Dynamite came up in conversation and before you can say ughhhh the attorney and I are exchanging one-liners from the movie. We basically reproduced the entire script right there on the spot. I even busted out my butterfly move.

If they get me drunk enough I might even have to break dance.

My friend (let’s call her O) and I skipped the Mavs game and opted for sushi and then beer with the Jew Crew. One of the girls was celebrating her last weekend in Dallas and the result was a Jewtastic party at a local bar. I had my introduction to the Dallas Jew scene, and I must say, there are lots of them and they travel in packs.

The bike ride this morning was awesome. It’s 9-mile loop around a beautiful lake complete with sailboats. It’s pretty flat but sufficiently twisty to keep things interesting. After one lap with O and her friends, I rode one more lap alone when they left to play softball. I then went to Richardson Bike Mart to scope the bikes they carry. I asked if they carry Lemond, and the salesman guy smiled. Apparently, Greg Lemond talked smack about Lance Armstrong using drugs to stay competitive. Since Richardson Bike Mart is where Lance got his start in cycling, Richardson isn’t crazy about selling Lemond bikes anymore. The Richardson owner called Trek (parent company of Lemond) and bitched. Hence, the salesmen said he could probably get me a Lemond, but there sure are lots of other bikes to look at…

Then I spent the whole afternoon catching up on season one of 24 (the tv show).

Sorry if these posts are starting to read like play-by-plays of my life.

Oh yeah, and then I made spaghetti with ground turkey for dinner. Now you have a complete play-by-play of my weekend. Come back tomorrow for details about my first day of work.

if this post looks familiar, that's because it is. translation courtesy of gizoogle.
boilerplate disclaimer: i don't actually talk like this, i don't condone the use of some of the terms used, and no one calls me the black folks' president.

Wizzle out Tuesday night ta celebrate mah friend's last week in Dallas. He's going ta gangsta law fizzy fo` tha riznest of tha summa back in his home ghetto of Baird, Texas (izzy Bizzy n' shit). His olda pusha came along n she basically knows everyone. Snoop heffner mixed with a little bit of doggy flint. We started out at a sushi restaurant n she knew tha bartenda. I had three (or four?) long island ice teas. I was feel'n quite happy. The sushi was bootylicious as was tha people-watch'n cuz I'm fresh out the pen. Playa tizzy we wizzy ta anotha chi-chi bar that specialized in tequila. Before I can say "in over mah heezee" mah friend's killa sista is rapping ta a homey in a blaza who turns out ta be one of tha owna. They call me tha black folks president. They're friends n' shit. So I git anotha long island, this one on tha house. I'm crazy, you can't phase me. Tizzle we see Don Nelson, forma Mavericks coach. Tru niggaz do niggaz. He's totally sloshed. Wussup to all my niggaz in the house. The next hit is some bar I ciznan't rememba by now. I tried ta drizzink a 7 n 7 but it wasn't happen'n, so killa became tha beverage of choice ta help you tap dat ass. Then we run into Tim Cowlishaw, who mah nigga claims is a brotha fo` tha Dallas Steppin' News n sometimizzles on ESPN mah nizzle. My nigga ogles Tim. I ogle tha flashy-look'n bitchez walk'n around thats off tha hook yo.

Wizzle out again last night but kizzle mackin' in check spittin' that real shit. Two baller no celebrizzle jiznust a safe Jewish stoked hizzle ridin' in mah double R. I was home by 11.

The firm is throw'n a stoked hour tonight n ANOTHER tomorrow night. So thizzat will makes it four nights in a row of going out. Motherfucka this run I may have ta go on a dry spizzell ta makes sure mah killa n I is S-T-to-tha-izzill on good terms.

And now it's 8:00 am n I gots`ta run ta wizzy.

I went to a house-warming party/BBQ yesterday from 3 pm till 11 pm. Which means I drank for eight hours with plans to wake up early and ride my bike at 8 am the next day. I was responsible and made sure to be in bed by 11:30. I woke up at 7:30, made it to the lake at 7:45, stretched, and set out to ride a 10-mile lap in 30 minutes.

For the first fifteen minutes I was on a pace to finish the lap in less than my projected 30-minute estimation. My average was just above 20 miles per hour.

And then… and then. I hit the wall. Call it a bonk. Call it dehydration. Call it freaking stupid. I came up on a very gradual incline and my heart felt like it was about to bust out of my chest, and I started getting the dreaded cramp in my side. Instead of trying to be the badass and ride through the pain, I pulled over and stopped to catch my breath.

I felt like I might throw up. Woozy, light-headed, generally not good. The high-point of this experience was when an older woman on a cruiser rolled by and said “Hey, you ok?” Um, yeah, thanks. Just trying to sweat out the beer over here. I nodded yes and smiled a painful smile.

But it gets better. A cop pulled up, rolled down his window, and, head tilted, said “You ok son?” This time I managed to verbalize a response: “Yeah, thanks, just a little winded.” He smiled and drove off. Seems the punk on the second-hand $4000 bike isn’t quite up to his bike’s potential.

Moral? You can’t act like your 19 when you’re 26. Your body will make sure you suffer.

We had an end-of-quarter party at work last Friday and I have to tell you about this drink one of the attorneys concocted. Since part of what this law firm does is software piracy defense, we had to make Pirate’s Punch (it’s funny, you know it). It was green. It was good. And it was spiked with a BOTTLE of Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay Rum. Hoo boy.

News broke today that Floyd Landis, the comeback king in the 2006 Tour de France, tested positive for levels of testosterone above the officially acceptable limit. I personally just think it means he has bigger balls than the average Tour de France rider, but the people in charge think otherwise. It’s important not to jump to conclusions here. He failed one test. There is a second test, called the B-sample, that can either prove that the first test was false or that the higher levels of testosterone occurred naturally. This can come about because, as reported, Landis takes cortisone shots for his hip injury and he drank a beer before the day he was tested. Both the cortisone and the beer can raise testosterone, as can just being an athlete performing at the limits of his or her endurance.

Before we throw our hands up and declare the sport of cycling totally corrupt and strip Landis of his yellow jersey, let’s wait for the B-sample results to come back. Think of it this way: after every stage, two riders automatically are tested for drugs – the stage winner and the overall Tour leader. Why would Landis, planning a comeback in stage 17, take drugs to help him win only to face a drug test after winning and risk throwing away his career? It doesn’t add up.

I’d also like to call attention to a total faithless whiner who happens to be the first great American cyclist. Of all people, Greg Lemond, two-time Tour winner and comeback kid himself, should give Landis his say and wait for the B-sample to come back. Instead, Lemond denounces Landis and laments the state of cycling. It’s also worth noting that Lemond recently slammed Lance Armstrong and is known for not being much of an Armstrong fan. I just think Lemond wishes he could have won six Tours. I have much respect for the guy that opened the doors of professional road racing to the US and who came back to win the Tour after a freak hunting accident, but seriously, that’s some lame shit.

There’s a small town north of Dallas called Addison that had fireworks last night. Well, they had a limited version of their usual fireworks show because of a sudden rain that, strangely, pretty much everyone figured would hit. And just our luck, the rain directly coincided with the fireworks. After the fireworks, the rain stopped. Perfect. Since I had come straight from work and was still wearing my dress shirt (with undershirt) I took off the dress shirt to try to shield the rain for a couple friends and myself. It worked well enough but also meant I was left wearing slacks and a v-neck undershirt. For any of you that know me well enough, or those of you who have for some reason had the misfortune of seeing me without a shirt on, me in a v-neck is not a pretty sight. Chest hair abounds. I might as well have hung a bling Star of David around my neck and started swaggering around to the ladies saying, “Hey baby, you lookin’ sexy tonight, what you say we go hit club down street, eh?” This is what we call an “arse” in Israel.

After the rain we ended up in a crowded bar. I didn’t do much dancing because I wasn’t digging the music and most people were just hanging out. But when a couple good songs came on I had to break it down on the dance floor. Watch out people – wet, almost shirtless Jew gyrating to the beats.

Then, in total high school fashion, we went to IHOP at 1:30 am. I was in bed at 3. So have a happy fourth, be safe, and keep a spare shirt in the car.

I moved to a new apartment down the street from the old one this weekend and I’m still waiting on internet service. I get the shakes every now and then from the lack of connectivity. I’m the first person to live in this apartment and there’s no cable jack, and the cable people are not sure they can even provide cable service to the unit, so I might have to go the DSL route, which I don’t want to do because that means I have to get a phone line. So for now, I’m writing to you from my old apartment where my roommate still lives.

My reasons for moving are three-fold: 1) Crazy lady upstairs. Enough said. 2) Living directly on a busy street makes for constant traffic noise in the apartment. 3) I need to live alone if I’m going to study for and pass the Bar next year, so I had to move out now. The apartment is actually a garage apartment that was completely gutted and redone from the inside out. It’s basically a studio – just a big room. It’s cozy and simple. And it’s quiet because it’s behind a house and the driveway has a gate with a big steel covering on it to keep out even the slightest road noise from people driving down the street.

School starts Monday and I’m getting really excited.

I hope you didn’t believe that. This last year is going to be a drag. Everyone tells me, “But dude, isn’t the last year a joke?” Yes, it’s a joke if you make it a joke and take joke classes. But if you’re me, and you want to make sure you pass the Bar, you don’t take joke classes. You take Bar classes. Classes like Marital Property, Pretrial Procedure, Criminal Procedure, and Secured Transactions. Some of these are this semester, some will come next semester, but they all have one thing in common: they’re going to be a pain in the ass. They might be interesting, but definitely not for four months, and definitely not during my last year.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, it really is good to be back. I’m happy to see my friends again and have many a happy hour on Friday afternoon. But there’s one thing I can’t get used to, even after 26 years. This damn Houston humidity. Can we ever get a break? It’s raining even when it’s not raining.

I still don’t have internet at my new apartment. Time Warner is being obnoxious and I’m almost at my wits end calling them every week. Whatever. I’m managing. I actually kind of like not having internet so far. I’m more productive at home and it forces me to get out of the house and find a place to chill to get wireless. It also saves money, but of course that money gets earmarked for beer, so it’s a wash.

Unfortunately, it also means I’m behind in the news and I have no idea what’s going on in the world right now. I think Israel and Hezbollah finally have a cease fire and the UN has shoehorned itself into the middle, and I think England is making progress on finding the wankers who tried to bomb all those planes, and I’m pretty sure Dubya is still president, but I can’t guarantee any of this.

Classes this semester are shaping up to as exciting as ever. I look forward to each and every day. Not so much.

I did get a part-time job working for the 1st Court of Appeals, but if you ask me about anything work-related, I’m required to artfully dodge the question and comment on the weather, or the news, or what have you. Since I don’t know squat about the news, and the weather sucks anyway, I’ll probably just give you a blank stare. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

In a first-time event for this blog, the author was prevented from seeing a show because it sold out. I had big plans to see Bloc Party, a great band from the UK, but my big plans to buy a ticket at the door the night of the show didn’t pan out too well. I’ve seen bands at this same venue on weekday nights and bought tickets at the door with no problem. I mean, come on, it’s a Wednesday night. Who sees concerts on a Wednesday? Lots of people, apparently. So many that they couldn’t fit me and my two friends. How lame.

So what did we do instead? Why, drink, of course.

On today’s agenda: clean old apartment, go to dentist for routine cleaning, sulk about Bloc Party. They better come back.

I saw:

• Gomez
  
• Thievery Corporation (only a few minutes)
  
• Gnarls Barkley (only a few minutes)
  
• Wolf Parade (only a few minutes)
  
• John Mayer (only a few minutes) (ugh)
  
• Ben Kweller (only a few minutes)
  
• Nada Surf (only a few minutes)
  
• The Shins
  
• The Raconteurs
  
• Massive Attack
  
• Ween
  
• The New Pornographers (only a few minutes)
  
• The Greencards
  
• Muse
  
• Tom Petty (only a few minutes)

My top picks were Muse, Massive Attack, The Raconteurs, and Gomez. Three of those bands happen to be from the UK and they happen to be bands I’ve been waiting to see for three years, so this ACL was kind of a big deal to me. These bands don’t come to the US often.

Muse was phenomenal.* Everything was there – musical accuracy, stage antics, variety of song choice, and sound quality. They must have a great sound guy. I was concerned they’d have a hard time translating the complexity of their studio recordings into a live performance but they seem to have a good handle on it. In fact, the same goes for Massive Attack. I didn’t know what to expect with them. I wasn’t even sure they’d have a full band, but they did. They had two drummers. I pegged them as more of an electronic outfit with various keyboards and synths doing all the work. I was also happy to see they toured with the two extra vocalists featured on their studio tracks. Massive Attack are experts at gradual builds and they pulled it off well in the live performance. The light show was also impressive. The main vocalist made a few comments about our buddy W, and on the next song, the light display behind the band scrolled factoids about the Iraq war: the number of Americans killed, the number of Iraqis killed, the cost of the war to American taxpayers, the number of displaced Iraqi civilians, so on and so forth. It was sobering.

The Raconteurs, Jack White’s new band, were insane. That guy is possessed. I saw The White Stripes a long time ago at Emo’s in Austin and I thought he was nuts then. He’s only more crazy now. If you get the chance, definitely check this band out. They will not disappoint.

Gomez was a little more reserved than I had hoped for. They didn’t really let loose and kept to the more mellow tracks. There was one song in particular I wanted to hear with a (surprise) distorted bass part, but they didn’t do it. What really bugged me was that the bass player hung back the whole show and stood by his amp. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bass player who hides behind the band, musically or physically. Otherwise, they played some good songs and had a good time on stage.

What about Tom Petty? Yeah, there were about 50 million people standing between me and Tom Petty. Tom had already started by the time the Muse show ended. I walked for a while towards his stage and there was still at least a half-mile of people in front of me. There was no way I was going to get closer to see or hear anything. No amount of wattage could have moved the sound to where I and thousands of other people were. So I heard traces of a few songs and left with a couple friends. We ate at Magnolia, they went back to the hotel, and I hit the road to get home in time to sleep a few hours and be at work at 9.

Just my luck, I ran into a torrential downpour on I-71 that brought me down to 30 miles per hour. My sight was limited to 10 feet in front of me. Thankfully I finally got away from the rainstorm and cruised the rest of the way, getting home at 2 am. Seven hours later, I was at my desk, ears ringing and head groggy.

Pictures i lifted from flickr:

Muse:

Massive Attack:

The light towers:

The Raconteurs:

Jack White screaming his head off:

Gomez:

*Addendum: My only complaint about Muse was that ACL pulled the plug on them too early. They were supposed to have a forty-five minute set (which was already too short), but since Tom Petty had started playing, the singer said, "We'd love to keep playing but the people running show are going to pull the power on us because Tom Petty has started." Hence, some of my ambivalence towards seeing Tom Petty.

Last year at about this time I did a bike ride called the Moonlight Ramble with my friend Kevin. We decided to make an annual event and did it again this year, though I had to forego a big law school party that all of my friends hassled me about skipping. Sorry guys, I’m a cyclist first and drunk second!

The night actually did start out with some partying. It is Halloween, of course, and there’s nothing better than riding your bike on a few beers (don’t tell the State Bar I said that). I live in a garage apartment and the people that live in the duplex in front of me threw a Halloween party. They’re a young, recently married couple and we get along well, so I was happy to represent. I got suited up in a Hebrew Hammer outfit and John went the “Jiffy Lube Mechanic” route. Somehow there are no pictures of us which is a shame. Someone thought I was Matisyahu…

Kevin showed up at 1:00 and we left for the bike ride, after which I heard John took control of the stereo at the party and rocked everyone’s world.

The bike ride was a lot more crowded than I remember. A staffer told me there were 2,000 people. That’s quite a few crazies on their bikes at two o’clock in the morning. And again, there were some people in costumes. Pirates, clowns, knights, and a husband-wife “The Incredibles” duo. The weather was perfect – 54 and clear.

I’ll be in Dallas this time next year, but I’m definitely driving down to do this ride again. Good times.

Flickr photos here.

I just realized that the contact form at the bottom of this page and on the about page doesn’t work. You can enter your name, email, and message, and press the button, but I never get your message. I tested it out twice last night and, while it’s supposed to send me an email, I didn’t get anything. No email. No message. Apologies to those of you who tried to use it in the past and never got a response from me. I promise I’m not an asshole. I didn’t ignore you. The form (along with my comments) broke when I changed servers in May. Let’s see if can’t fix it.

In other news, I took one of the Danish exchange students out to get sushi with Heather last night, and then we got beers with my old roomie. She had a great time. I’m so glad my friends came out. I think the best part was when Heather and I asked her how she and the rest of Denmark feel about W. She was a little hesitant at first but came clean when Heather and I told her she was probably with the two best people with which to discuss W’s shortcomings. Good times.

And then at the pub, former roomie and I got the true story of how one Danish motorcycle gang fired a rocket at a rival motorcycle gang. Not a pistol. Not some semi-automatic thing. Not even a grenade. (Do gangs use grenades?) And how many years did the guy who fired the rocket get? Sixteen. Sixteen years for firing a rocket at people!!!

addendum: i found a news clipping. the end of this article says:

In Denmark, Sweden and Norway, the two sides deployed rocket-propelled anti-tank grenades and AK-47 assault rifles in their battles.

How to celebrate Thanksgiving in 10 steps, Particleman-style:

1. Get together with a small group of friends and order food from Boston Market.
2. Rent a few movies.
3. Stock the apartment with a wide array of wines and beers.
4. Start drinking at 3 pm.
5. Start eating at 4 pm.
6. Keep drinking.
7. Keep drinking.
8. Keep drinking.
9. Keep drinking.
10. Throw up in the bushes and pass out at 10:30.

Context: conversation with a friend about studying habits. I intend to say that it’s hard for me to get started studying for finals, but once I get started, I’m ok.

Particleman: You see, I have a problem –
Friend: “A” problem?? “A” problem”?! Honey, if only we all had “a” problem. I have more than I can count.
P: Good point. I probably have more than one problem.

Last night was my first foray into the world of gypsy punk rock, and I’ve emerged a completely changed man. Ok, maybe not completely changed, but at the very least recently entertained and to some degree hard of hearing.

The venue for last night’s show was the Gothic Theatre, one of many old Denver theatres (technically the Gothic is in Englewood {which you may recall is always up to no good}) renovated to be a live music venue. I’m a big fan of these types of venues. There’s a good sized area in front of the stage for group gyrations and a balcony where my vertically challenged wife can watch the proceedings: everybody wins.

J and G from the last post were scheduled to be in attendance as well, but J bowed out due to a claim of oncoming sickness. Something having to do with weakening his immune system over the weekend. Pretty lame excuse if you ask me. G was on board though, which was a nice surprise because she’s not much into the punk (or folk punk, or Ukranian folk punk for that matter) scene, but still very open-minded. Her previous experiences at the Gothic had consisted of filming for some death metal acts (also not her scene but you gotta pay the bills), so I applaud her for even returning after that.

We went to Genarro’s Lounge for pre-show activities. This place is awesome: great cheap Italian food, even cheaper beer, and a bunch of sociable regulars playing sad country songs on the jukebox. I can’t figure out why its not packed all the time.

We showed up for the show around 8:45 expecting to catch the two opening acts (advertisement said doors at 7 and show at 8:30). The place was already packed and I had no problem selling J’s extra ticket at a hefty profit of $0.75. I think I have a future as a scalper. To our surprise, the second act, Valiant Thor, was already winding down their set. As I had already seen them once it was no big deal (they really aren’t very good minus the schtick), but this had to be the first time in history that a punk act was actually going on early. Gogol Bordello showed up on stage around 9:30.

So… I can’t provide a set list since I am completely unfamiliar with any of their material. As such, the fact that I was totally blown away by them is all the more impressive. The lead singer exuded energy from the very beginning. After the first chord the floor exploded into an energetic (but surprisingly conscientious) pit. Immediately, I was pushed into the crowd and flailing to the beat with everyone else. Good times, great times in fact. The lead singer kept egging the crowd on and they kept responding with more energy. Overall, the band’s stage presence was impressive.

Musically, they reminded me of a Ukranian version of Flogging Molly, which isn’t a bad thing. The fact that folk tunes have had people dancing for hundreds of years is no coincidence, and the addition of a few electric guitars and an insane front man can only help things. The lead singer was really animated and involved in the show, even when he wasn’t playing or singing, and his dialogues with the crowd were funny. The Bordello girls weren’t really all that impressive. Personally, I still prefer Satan’s cheerleaders. And there were no Elijah Wood sightings. For a minute there I thought maybe a little rapper dude that came out was him, but no such luck.

The radio DJ who introduced them said all the new people at the show should prepare to have their “minds warped” during the show. I think they should avoid his introductions in the future. That’s just a tough billing to live up to. If Bordello girls dancing around in funny costumes and a lead singer banging a bucket on top of a microphone is mind-warping, then perhaps he was right. But I just didn’t see it. But I still had an awesome time and left mind fully intact.

Besides me, both G and my wife, neither of whom are into punk, also had a great time by all accounts. I can highly recommend Gogol Bordello should they be in your town. They definitely bring a lot of energy and in Denver they had a big group of loyal fans, which I think always helps the atmosphere. No mind warpage needed.

MPB

Hey particlefans. I’m back. Didja miss me? I hope you enjoyed the ravings of MPB. He’s quite the kidder, he is.

After partying till the wee hours of the morning last night (4 am by my recollection), I was on my bike six hours later cranking out the miles in the beautiful December air. It was a brisk 70 degrees, and windy as hell. I might as well have been riding up hill most of the time. I started getting this weird pain on either side of my lower back and I think it was my kidneys screaming at me. My liver probably put a few words in there too.

Where was I riding? No, not in Houston. I’m in Dallas. I got a phone call from my boss last Saturday and she said, "Hey, wanna come up to Dallas for three weeks?" I said Yes, of course, and relayed the news to one of my Dallas friends who I had previously told I would only be in town for a few days. He was planning on going to Europe for three weeks so he said, "Wanna house-sit?"

So here I am. Apartment-sitting in Dallas. Oh, and this friend? He has a 2000 BMW 540i with a V8. Watch out, Dallas. I like fast cars and I’m not very good at driving manual transmission.

it's been a wild year. lots happened but i;m too drunk to talk about it. so instead:

album of the year: arctic monkeys
song of the year: way out by yeah yeah yeahs. if that link does not work, go here.
movie of the year: the departed

It seems I forgot to post the requisite and obligatory well-wishes holiday post. Oops. Consider this your retroactive happy/merry whatever you feel like celebrating post. I forget what I was doing at the time I should have made these posts. I may have been finishing up finals. I may have been contending with the tantrums of a three- and one-year old. I may have been (ahem) hungover. Who knows. Either way, I hope you had a good time.

I was at a bar and someone in my group said, “that tastes like fermented curry!”

In other news, my three-week stint at the firm is over and I head back to Houston on Monday, but not before causing a little more damage this weekend. I’ve also rediscovered the awesomeness of Fish and Chips. If you’re ever at a pub and feel like something other than standard tex-mex or chicken strips, try the Fish and Chips. It’s really good and will give you horrible breath. You’ll be a favorite at the table.

I’ll miss zipping around in my friend’s BMW. Yes, I have gotten better at driving manual, but I’m still no expert. I either over-rev the engine or kill it when getting into first, and shifting to second will give you whiplash. After that, I’m golden, but most driving takes place in gears one through three (though this car is a six-speed, so I spend most of my time in fourth).

The cool part is that my friend is thinking of moving to Europe for a while after he gets back from his vacation there. He’s thinking Munich. That sounds good to me, because I can continue to “watch over” his car while he’s gone. I can’t wait to call my insurance company and say, “Hi, I’d like add a monstrosity of a BMW with a V8 to my plan. And oh yeah, I’m male, single, and have no kids. How much will that run me?”

My friend gets back sometime tomorrow so I better start cleaning this place up. Ironically, it was messier before I got here; I vacuumed and cleaned the kitchen floor as soon as I arrived, which are things I don’t think he’s ever done. But in the meantime, stuff has managed to pile up everywhere. So I might spend today in cleaning mode. Cross your fingers.

Do you ever get that feeling that you’ll be out drinking for the unforeseeable future? This always happens when you’re about to move out of one place and into another, or when friends are moving out of one place and into another. For me, all of those things are happening, which means I’ll be getting ‘see you soon’ drinks, ‘welcome back’ drinks, and ‘it was fun’ drinks for someone who is leaving Houston. Not that I’m complaining. I just feel like the bartenders at some of these bars are starting to recognize me. And that is a scary thought.

Seventh installment of the “things that happen to you while” series.

For those not wise to Texas talk, The Valley refers to the Rio Grande Valley, or more generally, the area around the border. My friend Ricardo is from Edinburg, a smallish town in The Valley with about 50,000 people. I’ve known this guy for almost 10 years and I have yet to visit him in The Valley, so I figured it was about time I made the trip. So I hopped on a plane to McAllen (the closest airport) to spend four days exploring the bosom of the Rio Grande Valley.

I’m hoping you picked up on the bosom reference above. I’ll give you one hint: a coffee can and the pacific ocean.

Large quantities of beer were consumed and some excellent Tex-Mex was had. Note, however, that not all the tex-mex was good. Proximity to Mexico does not automatically result in higher quality levels of tex-mex. There is no correlation. Case in point: the first restaurant we went to served some pretty lame tex-mex. My mom makes better tex-mex, and she’s basically Polish. No matter. The rest of the tex-mex we had was good.

We managed to make a trip to Mexico, or rather the tourist area for buying souvenirs and whatnot called Nuevo Progreso just across the river. I have never seen so much useless shit for sale. I have also never seen such amazing prices on alcohol. Bottles and bottles of liquor at ridiculous prices. Otherwise, it reminded me of my time in Russia: children hawking all kinds of knick-knacks, low air quality, overcrowding, etc. It was not a pleasant sight. Kind of depressing actually. Keep in mind we only saw the shops on the tourist strip. I can’t imagine what it was like off the main road.

After Mexico, we stopped by South Padre Island. It was my first time there. Yeah, I know. What took me so long. I don’t know. I just never made it down there. It was kind of deserted since we were there in the off-season. It was kind of a ghost town. We did have some good seafood though. Or, actually, my fish po-boy was good. Ric’s shrimp platter was not that great. He wasn’t too keen on eating “shrimp poo.” The shrimp were not de-veined. Sorry bud.

To my surprise, minor league hockey is huge in The Valley. We saw the Rio Grande Valley Killer Bees battle the Amarillo Gorillas and beat them in overtime. It was pretty cool. I haven’t seen a hockey game since I was a kid and this game reminded me how much fun hockey is to watch. It’s like football on ice, but the players are allowed to fight until one guy falls down. And the overtime shootouts are awesome.

Ric also has a small radio-controlled helicopter that totally mesmerized us every minute that we were at home. This thing is incredible. I have to get one. You can only use it indoors because it’s made of Styrofoam and any wind will blow it clear across your yard into someone else’s yard, or a tree, or a street, or who knows what.

We also watched a lot of movies, one of which was Nacho Libre with Jack Black. You have to be a Jack Black fan to like this movie. It is absurd and over-the-top in a way only Jack Black can pull off. He plays a Luchador, a Mexican wrestler. I took to calling him Luchador Grande because, well, Jack’s a tubby guy. Ric happens to have a little dog named Chato who liked to bark at me at every opportunity. He was a sprite little guy who could have been a wrestler if he were a person. So I started calling him Chato Grande in honor of his wrestling potential.

And that’s my Valley story. Hope you enjoyed it. Actually, I don’t care. I’m a Luchador and I’ll do an eagle jump off the ropes and take you out.

I’ve been living life like a first-year law student lately, except for the whole reading thing. My friends have instituted a mandatory happy hour every Friday at 4, and I usually last till about 8 or 9 before giving up and going home. There’s only so much partying I can handle. My late twenties feel different than my early twenties. That difference in feeling is what you might call “hangover.”

One of my friends, a girl who has thus far managed to hide her true party-girl ways, found herself dancing on top of a pool table at one of these happy hours a couple weeks ago. I was so proud. As for me, well, I did my part. I’m not much of a tequila guy but I had my share of margaritas. I got one girl to show me her yoga skills (wow) and then a guy decided to the same (ugh). What amazes me is that this weeks’ happy hour was already planned on Tuesday. TUESDAY. We really are back in first year.

It's the holiday when Jews typically spend a week remembering how the Jews were freed from slavery in Egypt and escaped Pharaoh's grasp by the hand of God. Part of that remembering involves giving up all foods resembling bread, which includes anything with yeast. Passover is also the holiday when Particleman drinks a lot of beer, eats a lot of pasta, and enjoys many sandwiches. With bread. Thankfully, Judaism contains no concept of Hell, and neither does Particlemanism.

The eighth installment of the series.

1. You are forced to steal your own car because the alarm has malfunctioned and locked the ignition
2. Your alarm goes off while driving, so you rip out the lead wire to the siren
3. Once in Dallas, the alarm drains your battery while you’re out partying at bars
4. You wake up at 6:30 on Saturday morning to attend a 5K run your law firm is sponsoring
5. It’s 35 degrees. You don’t run . Instead, you get the best 20-minute massage of your life.
6. It snows.
7. Later that day, you and your boss’ brother manage to jump your car and bypass the alarm by ripping apart the rest of the alarm assembly. Wires dangle from under your steering wheel.
8. You play your friend’s Nintendo Wii. You want a Wii too.
9. You almost bust a lung laughing at all the rabbits you’re shooting with plungers. Rabbits don’t like plungers and you have a plunger gun. Life is good.
10. You eat Mediterranean food with friends on Saturday night. One of the guests just happens to be the law student from whom you sublet an apartment last summer.
11. You can’t remember how well you cleaned the apartment when you moved out but you hope it was good enough, because she’s sitting right there.
12. Hennessey mixed with Grand Marnier becomes your new favorite drink when your friend insists you try it later that night.
13. You nickname one of your friends "Roshanda Bangkok Nigeria Horowitz."
14. You and your friends eat lunch the next morning in the part of town affectionately termed “The Gayborhood.” You might have been checked out, but you’re not sure. Your waiter is wearing bunny ears and a bunny tail (hello, it’s Easter).
15. You play more Nintendo and take the record for fastest rabbit runner, but running in Nintendo has nothing to do with feet.

Remember that ethics test I took last semester? Well, I flunked it. You need to get a "scaled" score of at least 85 (out of 150) to pass, and I only got a 75. Pretty bad, I know. I retook the test last month and my score came back today. I got a 120. I kicked the crap out of that test. I am truly an ethical person. So what am I gonna do now? Drink. There's a happy hour down the street with my name on it.

Mexico won the contest. It's close, it's cheap, and I've never been. I am going to Riviera Maya with two of my Dallas friends for seven days. The itinerary will go something like this:

1. Locate beach with white sand and crystal blue water
2. Secure alcoholic beverage
3. Claim easy chair or hammock
4. Decompress

Repeat repeatedly. Other activities may include:

1. Snorkeling, sailing, etc.
2. Visiting ancient ruins
3. Hopping to nearby islands for day-trips
4. Renting a moped and riding around
5. See four items above

Thanks everyone for playing. One day, I will visit all of the other places. One day...

I know it kind of makes me seem like an alchie to be posting about a "new favorite drink," but this is too good to keep to myself. I'm not much of a liqour guy - I like me some beer. But one of my friends in Dallas introduced me to a wonderful concoction called a French Connection. It's cognac (Hennessey, in my case) mixed with amaretto (Grand Marnier), with a couple ice cubes to cool it off. It's kind of a fru-fru drink, I know. But it's really good, and a couple of them will give you a nice buzz for the rest of the night.

Via onotob. Sorry, but you kind of have to be a nerd to know what this means. Non-nerds will have to do the best they can.

var particleman = everyone.getPerson['Particleman'];
var myPerspective = {evil:'Having to take the Bar exam',good:'Riding bikes, drinking beer, reading books, and traveling'};
for (var personId in everyone)
{
var p = everyone[personId];
p.desiresNoBarExam = true;
p.proactive = true;
p.perspective = myPerspective;
p.send (particleman,p.assets.getAssetType('cash').getAmount(1,'dollar'));
}

Thanks Lee.

Contents of my fridge:

• salsa
• milk
• juice
• shredded cheese
• tortillas
• ketchup
• old root beer
• one bottle of sam adams
• strawberry jam
• eggs
• mayo
• butter
• parmesan cheese
• old phili cream cheese, possibly now rock-solid

And that's more than it usually has. I wonder what I can make using only those items.

Today was my last day of school, forever. Of course I still have finals and the bar to look forward to, so I'm no where near "done." And to make things more fun, my school decides to start the spring semester later than other Texas schools, thus making the semester end later. Pretty much everyone takes a course to prepare us for the bar. While students from other schools have a week off between graduation and the prep course which I shall not name, we get a whopping 36 hours to relax before we're plunged right back into class. A day and a half. Did we really need a five-week winter break? Four would have been plenty.

But wait - there's more!! There's a supplemental prep course that focuses on a certain area of the bar that some people - including me - opt to take. That course is one week and runs concurrently with the first week of the normal prep course. So the week after finals and graduation, I will be in class for seven hours a day.

I know you're thinking. It's one of two things:

1. Dude, that sucks.
2. Stop your bitching. You did it to yourself, remember? You're the one that went to law school.

I respond:

1. No kidding. Tell me about it.
2. Go to hell. When I'm defending your sorry ass for copyright infringement you'll change your tune.*

*note: i spent all afternoon studying for finals. i'm feeling a little punchy. i need a beer.

This is MPB, (Mr. Pinch Blogger), once again I am stepping in temporarily to help out Mr. P-man in his time of need. I have decided to continue with this ridiculous nom de guerre on this blog for a few reasons: 1. I have a complete and utter lack of creativity when it comes to these things. 2. I have a sad attachment to acronyms stemming from the symptoms detailed in reason #1. This weekend I went to the Kentucky Derby, which seemed post worthy, so now you are all subjected to associated musings on the topic. Part 1 of ?

Part #1 - Morning of the Derby

Backstory: My extended family is from Louisville, so the Derby is a big deal to them. I'd never been before, mainly because it always falls on the first Saturday in May, which for me is traditionally reserved for either cramming for finals, taking finals, or having just taken finals and erasing the memory of them in a local bar. Now that my long and illustrious college career has (sadly) come to an end, I can go to the Derby. So there I went.

One of the first things I noticed on approaching the Derby is that Churchhill Downs is not exactly in the nicest part of town. It was an interesting juxtaposition to see stretch limo after stretch limo roll through streets lined with falling-down houses, littered with trash. The occupants of the limo seemed indifferent (if not a little scared) by the locals, which isn't all that surprising. We parked and made our way to the entrance.

Since drinks at the Derby are famously expensive, we made arrangements to bring in our own liquor to save some $$$. We hid a fifth of Jim Beam in a "floppy flask" - its alot like a Camelback bladder with a waist belt - on my younger brother, who happens to be wearing a hard neck collar due to a broken neck sustained snowboarding (perhaps another post topic?). The plan worked, and we arrived on the grounds JB in tow.

Immediately after entering, it became apparent that Derby attendees fall into two categories - drunks in normal clothes, and drunks in fancy clothes. We were striving for the latter category, me in a suit and the wife in a silk dress & Derby hat. We made our way to our seats, and started drinking whiskey & cokes (me) and mint juleps (the wife) ASAP.

To be continued....

The story continues....

So, after arriving at the Derby, we set off on our noble mission to achieve an appropriate level of intoxication for the affair - plastered. The JB was well utilized to this task. Sidebar: If you are going to try to smuggle illicit materials into such a venue, I highly recommend having someone with a serious injury to plant it on. It really works like a charm.

The day of the Derby includes 12 races, and the big show is #10. We arrived at race #4, by about race #6, we were all pretty well sloshed. The drinking certainly wasn't helping the gambling. I was making more exotic bets, sure I would hit the big payday eventually. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. I lost all my bets on the Derby itself, about $50 worth.

By this point, my mom (like I said, this was a family affair) was starting to get a little worried about little brother in the neck brace. He had apparently found the favor of one of the female bartenders, and she was making all his gin and tonics doubles at no extra charge. Which brings up another sidebar: there's nothing like a neck brace to get you some sympathy. The double gin and tonics, combined with the heat and humidity (it was like 85 degrees & 100% humidity), were beginning to take their toll on little brother. He's about 6' 5" tall, which only exaggerated the swaying motion. Luckily, he was coerced to sit down and made it out without incident.

After the big race, my older bro and I took a walk over to the Derby infield to check out the carnage. The derby infield is more like the bastard lovechild of a Nascar race and Mardi Gras than a horse race. The place is filthy, the grounds turned into one giant mud pit, with the walking wounded staggering around half clothed and fully drunk, often covered head to toe in mud. The Port-a-potties were overflowing in some places. It was just gross. Somehow, I think Queen Elizabeth skipped this tour.

We came upon a huge crowd of men circled around some figure, presumably some drunk chick about to flash. Apparently she was reluctant, because there was alot of booing and the crowd quickly dispersed. After about five minutes we decided we'd seen enough and headed back to the betting window over by our seats.

This is where the true genius of having 2 extra races after the Derby comes in. The betting windows were packed. All the winners were trying to parlay their success, while all the losers were making a last effort to break even. I fell into the latter category. My brother and I decided to place a wheels trifecta bet on race 12. essentialy, all of the following were neccessary for us to win: horse 7 had to win, either horse 3 or 5 had to get second, and any of the other horses could get third. Our minimum bet cost us $10. We went back to our seat and race 11 was starting. i looked down and noticed that our bet was actually for race #11, and not #12 like we thought. Then I looked up and saw that our bet was falling into place. Watching the horses come down the final stretch was pretty fun. As it turns out, we won, with a pretty nice payout. In the end, I won back all I lost plus a little extra. all betting on the wrong race.

by the time we got home, we were pretty tired from the sun and booze. we had grandiose plans to go out that never materialized. the older part of the group blamed it on their age, those of us with wives blamed it on our wives, and little brother with the neck brace just vanished into his room. in the end we were all in bed about 10 PM sleeping off the 12 hours of gambling and booze.

Much has happened recently. I went to my last law school class of all time. I've taken three final exams. I went to Austin for a wedding and got very drunk and danced up a storm. I rode my bike a few times. And I have enlisted the help of another pinch-blogger. Or rather, she volunteered. Her name is Pajama Grrl and she likes pajamas.

Tonight is my very last final exam of law school, EVAR. I am very excited. I graduate on Saturday and I plan on having a drink in my hand for the entire period in between.

I saw Pirates 3 and Spiderman 3. They were both lame. I know, I know. You're saying, "We could have told you that before you spend $9 each on them." Thankfully: 1) Dad spent the $9 for me and 2) I knew they would suck. The problem with these movies is the same problem every other 3rd edition of a movie has - too much of what you don't want, and not enough of what you do - namely, fresh ideas. These guys are running on empty. Can't think of a good plot? Add more bad guys. Can't think of any more cool twists? Make the story more confusing and hope it looks like a twist. Ugh. At least Kirsten Dunst and Keira Knightley are hot.

I also saw 28 Weeks Later, which scared the shit out of me. I don't see scary movies. I don't like them. I don't like gore. It's not the violence that bothers me, it's the cutting-off-of-body-parts and heart-stopping screams and general twisted story-lines that make me squirm. Case in point: the last "scary" move I saw was Stephen King's "It" when I was 14. I didn't sleep for weeks and I have a permanent dislike of clowns.

For 28 Weeks Later, I sat in the back row and drank the beer that my friend and I snuck into the theater, and I still couldn't handle the movie. I basically buried my face in her shoulder. She called me all kinds of names. I deserved it. Whatever. That movie was messed up. I'm never going to think of London in the same way.

This is the ninth edition of the "things that happen to you while" series.

Things that happen to you while on route to, at, and on route back from a wedding in Abilene, TX:

1. You drive through a bunch of small towns inhabited by people that probably consider a "home" to consist of no less than 100 acres.

2. You decide you should give up city life and get yourself some la-yand out in the country. It really does look like a nice lifestyle. Sure beats the hell out of sitting on 59 every day.

3. You meet (or re-meet) the groom's childhood friends who were an excellent group of people who you had a great time with.

4. With the groom present, you trade stories about the groom with said group of friends about his various and sundry exploits with women over the years. The groom turns red and buries his face in his hands. Only then do the really good stories come out. Almost every story starts with, "HEY, oh yeah, remember that time he..."

5. You watch one of said friends attach a ball and chain to the groom's ankle and give the key to the bride.

6. You drink a lot of beer. A lot. A really really lot. But somehow you don't get drunk, which could be a good or bad sign depending on your point of view.

7. One of the friends bought the bride and groom a Sony Playstation with a game called Guitar Hero. You try it out, and marvel at how much more difficult it is pretending to play guitar than actually playing guitar. You also marvel at the zen-like state of concentration exhibited by two of the groom's and bride's friends who are Guitar Hero experts.

8. You run into one of the groom's friends who you met when you lived in San Antonio and worked at "that company." You discuss all the crazy and stupid things the company did, and he updates you on all the crazy and stupid things the company is still doing. You're glad there is consistency in the universe.

9. You get to see your friend who you convinced to go to law school when you lived in San Antonio get married to a girl who went to law school with him, and you wonder what would have happened if he had gone to the school you advised him to go to instead of the school he actually went to. He probably wouldn't have met that girl, and he probably wouldn't have gotten married this weekend, and he probably wouldn't have looked like he was about to pass out for the thirty-six hours before the ceremony. "Dude, you're sweatin' like a mofo. Stand under this vent and have this beer. You need it."

10. As your friend is standing at the altar saying his vows, you silently pray and hope that he and his wife enjoy a lifetime of happiness and success. L'Chaim!!

10.5. You also pray and hope that he doesn't start using the excuse, "I'm married and boring now" to get out of trips to the bar and whatnot. It's not gonna fly. Like any good relationship, ours was founded while drinking, and it's important that we adhere to that standard.

I've been studying at Rice University on and off since I started law school three years ago. But never did I know that they were hiding not one, but TWO pubs on campus. One is easy to find. It's in the basement of the student center and is intended to be the "undergrad" hangout.

The other pub, however, took more work to find. I had only heard rumors of it from a friend, who only heard rumors of it from a friend on his Ultimate Frisbee league. This other pub was named Valhalla, which brought to mind Norse mythology, Vikings, horns, swords, plunder, blond women, gigantic ships, and beer. When one of my study-mates mentioned that we should grab a beer after studying at Rice one day, I remembered that infamous "other" pub. We set out to find this mysterious Valhalla.

Guided only by instructions from a Rice student and our keen second-sense of alcohol, the three of us searched for the pub. We were told to look for a building that looks like a lecture hall (um, this is a university campus) by a bus stop with stairs leading up to the entrance. Except that we're not supposed to take the stairs. We're supposed to proceed around to the side of the building and locate a door leading down into the basement of the lecture hall. There, so said the Rice student, is where we will find Valhalla - the "grad student" pub. I liked it already. Grad students. People who were as jaded about education as were are.

We expected to need a password, maybe a special saying, like at a speak-easy, to gain admittance to the pub. You know - knock twice, scratch three times, pound with your fist. Maybe we'd have to bring booty from our last voyage.

Valhalla was exactly where it was supposed to be, and it looked exactly how I had imagined. It was kind of dark, it smelled of old building, beer, and maybe some BO. It was small, there were pictures on the wall of various Valhalla partiers and Rice events dating back to the 19-teens, including photos of JFK's famous moon speech at Rice Stadium and the G7 Summit. And there was, of course, a Viking helmet displayed in a glass case at one end of the room. The curved ceiling and old piano in the corner buried beneath various board games and knick-knacks completed the experience. We had found it - Valhalla was ours.

Not really. But it was fun. The beer selection was excellent, as were the prices. $1.25 for St. Arnold draft? Done. $2 for Blue Moon? Deal. I handed the proprietress a credit card. She looked at it, looked at me, and said, "Oh, this is Valhalla. Cash only." Of course. Let me go find some gold coins I picked up in Newfoundland.

While there, my friend struck up a conversation with an older couple sitting at the end of the bar by themselves. We got to talking, and turns out they had been Valhalla patrons for 25 years, and had owned Shakespeare's Pub in Houston for 16, having recently sold it.

Go on - check out Valhalla for yourself. If you can find it.

I spend a lot of time complaining about how hard it is to meet interesting new people. I spend even more time complaining about how they all seem to get married and have kids and get lost in the land of "I hope you find someone so you can be as happy as I am" right before I never hear from them again until one day they want me to go to their kid's second birthday party even though they forgot me for the first birthday and forgot to call me for my own; not that I am bitter or anything.

Last weekend I went to True Colors, a concert promoting gay rights, with a straight friend and two lesbian couples I had not met. Aside from getting to see Erasure, Cyndi Lauper, and a 30-something overweight guy in a mesh shirt and hot pants with a wedgie, I also discovered lesbians. Not the ones in porn or confused college girls with broken hearts and seeking alternatives to evil men, but honest to goodness girls that prefer girls. One in particular is a Doctor, has 6 cars and a motorcycle, she likes beer, she likes to check out girls, and she is generally the perfect guy friend I've always wanted. The best thing about her is that her girlfriend won't change her and I doubt she will be having kids any time soon! We exchanged numbers and I hope that this relationship will flourish into something fabulous, but I wont get ahead of myself.

-Evil I

Hey, if you had to study a book called "The Texas Procedure/Evidence Workshop," you'd need a beer too. Especially one with an alcohol content of 7.2%, which technically makes it "Malt Liquor."

I'm in Isla Mujeres off the coast of Cancun with Pajama Grrl and Evil I and we're having a blast. the water really is as blue as the pictures. We rented mo-peds to ride around the island yesterday and it resulted in a spectacular crash by yours truly. I clearly have no concept of how to regulate speed on a motorized two wheeled vehicle. I'm not even that great at regulating speed on a non-motorized two wheeled vehicle, to be honest.

The first problem was that my scooter kept stalling on me, so they gave me a new one. By the time the new one was fueled up and ready to go, my friends had already ridden off, so i hauled ass to catch up with them, found myself on a sandy road and accidentally gunned the throttle instead of pulling the brakes. You see, i have a habit of twisting the grips on my bike when riding, so when i twisted the grips on the scooter, it did exactly the opposite of what i wanted it to do. When i realized i had speed up and thay i was heading right for a parked go-kart, i turned the wheel and slammed on the brakes, thus causing the rear wheel to depart from its normal course and slide away from beneath me, sending me right-shoulder first to the ground.

It was glorious. Yes, i was wearing a helmet. But I was also wearing shorts and sandals, so my leg and toes are pretty torn up. Thankfully, i didn't lose a toenail.

But now that i have gotten the hang of riding motorized two wheeled vehicles, i kind of want a motorcycle...

Next on the agenda: more beer, more beach, more Mexican food, and more Neosporin to help my cuts heal.

I'm taking a vacation from my vacation. I forgot how totally exhausting vacations can be. Well, this was one wasn't that exhausting. I did log a good 30 hours of beach time, which basically equates to sitting under an umbrella sipping on mojitos. It was good. Much needed. I also turned into something of a tri-color version of myself. Some was my usual pasty white, some was burned, some was tan. I'm not telling you which part was which.

As for retelling the story of the vacation, so much happened during the course of those seven days that I can't really remember it all and I'm having a hard time figuring out how to recount the trip.

Ok, the real reason I can't remember it all is that the sun or the alcohol beat all memory capability out of me. We all got kind of loopy after a while. I do remember a few things though.

- The seafood was excellent. I spent the whole week eating fish and shrimp.
- Mexicans like their mojitos really sweet. There was a cache of sugar at the bottom of every one (more so than usual).
- My tolerance for alcohol has sadly gone up.
- Mexican women are gorgeous. I think I want one.
- Aussies, Israelis, Brits, Italians, and Germans love Mexico. They were everywhere.
- Restaurant owners assumed my friends and I were Israeli, and first spoke to us in Hebrew instead of English. Evil I does look kind of Israeli (he's brown). Thankfully, Evil I and I do speak Hebrew, so we were able to correct the mistaken restauranteurs.
- When I spoke to members of the public, a mix of English, Spanish, and Hebrew came out.
- In case you forgot, "C" on the shower knob stands for "calor," not cold.
- If you get a Mexican cabbie on coke, hold on tight. Try closing your eyes for extra fun.
- Seat belts are kind of pointless because you'd probably rather die in the accident than get sent to a hospital.
- Bus drivers drive like they're in a small compact car.
- Taking a bus is always more fun than taking a cab.
- It helps to know the CEO of a nightclub on the Cancun strip.
- White sand and turquoise water are intoxicating.

More memories may trickle in over the coming days. Who knows what's rolling around up there.

I start the job on Monday. I'm excited. My boss will apparently be out of town for my whole first week, so that should make things interesting. Oh yeah, and some fun facts about my apartment (a duplex): When we arrived, there were no numbers on the house, so I wandered around for 20 minutes before I found the place. The dishwasher did not work. The previous occupant felt a minimal need to clean before moving out. The back door did not lock. My shower drain did not drain. The smoke detectors were simply decoration. But everything is slowly getting fixed and our landlord is great, and the apartment itself is spacious and nice. Pajama Grrl and I are happy. No, PJ and I are not dating. Get those dirty ideas out of your head.

I'm going to Boston for work for a couple days. It's only my second time in Boston and I'm really excited. I had a great time last time I was there.

In other news, I went to an 80's party on Saturday night and I have great pictures of my outfit. Or rather, Evil I has pictures. I think. Someone took pictures of me in that sweet turquoise blazer...

I'm back from my trip. Turns out we didn't go to Boston. We went to Cambridge, which is close enough if you ask me. It was essentially a trade show combined with seminars given by experts in the field. And by trade show, I mean that I sat at a booth with a marketing person from my firm and met all kinds of intelligent and interesting people, some of whom are on the cutting edge of the industry. The industry I'm talking about is the information security and privacy industry, i.e., the protection of your personal information as it is held by financial institutions and other companies that might get access to your personal info.

I met computer security professors from George Washington University, law professors from the John Marshall School Of Law, VPs from AIG, directors from Shell, attorneys from USAA, security people from Microsoft, so on and so forth. It was incredible. I had a really good time.

Now for the weird stuff. I went to a pub with my colleague and bought us beer at the counter. I made a motion to sit at a table, and the bartender said, "You can't sit at a table if you buy beer at the counter." What? What kind of stupid-ass rule is that? Aren't I spending money regardless? I offer to buy food at the table, and the bartender acquiesces. My colleague and I pick a table which could seat four or five people. There are only two of us, however. Right after we sit down, a waitress approaches us and says, "If it's just the two of you, you can't sit there, you have to sit at a smaller table." What the &#%@!!! Can we please drink our beers in peace! Fine. We go to a smaller table for two.

After a while, I get word from my boss that she's coming by to have a drink with us. Her client meeting had ended. I drag an empty table over to ours to make room for her, at which point our new waitress says, "Why did you do that, do you have more people coming?" No, I just like having extra space for my imaginary friends. Can't you see them? YES, more people are coming. She asks how many. Ugh! "Two," I tell her. Turns out it was only one, but screw it, I don't give a damn by this point. Oh yeah, and I didn't think much of their quesadillas either, but that was to be expected. Hell, we were in Massachusetts. I will not name this particular pub to save it from any embarrassment. If you want to know, post a comment and leave your email address.

That was the not-so-great service experience. The good service experience came from a burger joint called Charlies Kitchen (no, it doesn't have an apostrophe before the 's'). Our waitress was 78 years old and had worked there for 45 years. She was a sweetheart and totally entertaining, but unfortunately their iced tea was not that sweet. In fact, it tasted a little like cough syrup. But my colleague and I bought T-shirts nonetheless. For the record, we got the signature double cheeseburger. Get it. The fries are good too.

Overall, I found the trip a success. We met some great people, possibly got some new clients, learned a lot about the industry, and gained more exposure for our firm. Mission accomplished.

To pre-empt some questions: no, I did not have any chowder. No, I did not pick up a Boston accent. Yes, I did visit Harvard but was not that impressed (sorry, the grounds were kind of lame). Yes, I did go to the Harvard Co-op, which they strangely call The Coop. Those crazy New Englanders.

It's been a long time since I've been to San Antonio. I promised my friends there many times I would come visit, but alas, law school and work continually got in the way. Well, last weekend, I finally made good on my promise. I caught a flight down to San Antonio (aka SA aka Saytown) on Friday and hung out with all my old friends.

Friday found us at Blue Star Brewery for First Friday, which is a monthly art, music, and food extravaganza held in South Town, an area of San Antonio south of Downtown. After beer and dinner at Blue Star, we stumbled over to Beethoven's for Oktoberfest, where my friend consumed yet more beer and I got to play DD, which was fine by me because I wanted to see her have a good time (read: get drunk... friends are always funnier when drunk). Her friends also met us at Blue Star and were thoroughly entertaining. They tried to use my lawyering skills to sue each other. I got to explain the difference between assault and battery. I hope I got it right.

On Saturday, we had lunch with the infamous Skorloff and his Girl at Liberty Bar, which is really half-bar, half-restaurant. We got to learn about British toast soldiers and humpty dumpty, and Skorloff and I had Guinness for lunch. Good times. After that, we visited the Skorloff-Girl residence and I marveled at all the progress he's made on the house in the last three years. I think it mostly has to do with the addition of Girl, and the contractor Skorloff hired.

Then we went to a football party to watch the Texas Longhorns lose a great football game. Good job guys! I forgot that the object of football is turn the ball over to the other team as many times as possible. I'm glad you cleared that up for us.

After loafing around for a while, we got off our collective asses and went bowling with some other folks I hadn't seen since I left SA in 2004. They reassured me nothing had changed since I left. That was good to know. So, when are you moving???

I discovered two important and profound things while bowling that night. First: bowling with a beer in one hand will improve your performance. Second: bowling with your non-dominant hand will also improve your performance. Net result? If you're right-handed, hold a beer in your right hand and bowl with your left. I promise your score will go up.

Everyone slept in Sunday morning and we ate lunch at Twin Sister's, which is kind of like Liberty Bar, except with less alcohol and more breakfast. I caught a three o'clock flight and was sped off back to Dallas just in time to chill out at home for a little while and head to band practice at six.

It was a fun and crazy weekend and I had a great time. Thanks again to the coolest girls in San Antonio for driving me around and playing host for a weekend. You are both welcome in Dallas any time.

Thank you, Evil I. Yes, I did pass my silly lawyer test. And thank goodness. It was kind of important, and yes, I was drunk most of the weekend.

In other news, I turned 28 last week. Almost forgot to tell you. The past couple weeks have been a little nuts whatwith my birthday and the whole silly lawyer test results things.

And guess who's going to see Regina Spektor on Thursday? Me and Girl, who we will call G, because her name happens to start with G, which is convenient. I wanted to propose to Regina at the concert, but that might not be the best idea since G will be there and all. She would probably put the kaibosh* on that. Either way, I'm really excited. I'm hoping Regina plays Dusseldorf. It's become my favorite song of hers. I also managed to hook some people at work on Regina and they are going to the show as well. I think Regina should move to Dallas so we can start a band. A punk band. Can you see it? I can. I bet she'd be all about a punk band.

* More info here.

It's always fun when you have a party and people bring over alcohol and leave it in your fridge/freezer/bathroom. Take, for instance, the bottle of Becherovka liqour from the Czech Republic I found in my freezer. I had no idea what it was when I found it. It looked like vodka, but I wasn't brave enough to take a swig of a bottle with writing I couldn't read. Turns out it's a general mixer and herbal recipe with an alcohol content of 38%. I have no idea who brought it or what they drank it with (if anything). All I know is that there is a green bottle of this stuff in my freezer and I'm going to give it a try tonight. Hooray for party favors.

In other news, it seems The Evil I will be leaving us. Well, not really. He'll be working in Mexico for his same company for two months. He'll still have an internet connection so I hope he will grace us with his presence and tell us about his new life. I'm sure it will involve a lot of the same things it does now, except without the BMW, the condo, or the having to sit in an office. I think it's a good trade-off.

I almost forgot to wish you all a Happy Happy Chanukkah. Tonight is the sixth night, so don't forget to light your candles (if you are so inclined).

In other news, I have been the sad victim of yet another one of my infamous neck strains. I seem to have a habit of pulling the muscles that connect my neck, shoulders, and back together all at once. It normally happens when I get stressed out over something and crane my neck in the shower because the shower head is too low. It happened during finals last semester. It happened while I was studying for the bar too. Just ask my classmates. I walked around like I was wearing an imaginary neck brace. The strain makes it painful for my to tilt my head upwards. Most of the pain is in my right shoulder and the right side of my neck. Just lifting up a drink with my right hand causes pain. Thankfully, I also have a left hand, so I can still drink.

Tonight I am very excited to lie down on my heating pad. My parents have had it since the 70s (and you can tell). It's awesome. I lay it on the pillow and rest the sore part of my neck on the heating pad. It's almost as good as a massage.

That I am posting about neck pains and heating pads is testament to how lame my life has become. For those of you wondering how Particleman is fairing in his newly adopted city, you now have the scoop. Neck pain, heating pads, and drinking. And Chanukkah.

Oh wait - one more thing. Remember that Beatles band I talked about a few months ago? We finally recruited a lead guitarist and drummer. Our first show is January 14th at a comedy club. We're an opening act. We're playing some old stuff and newer stuff.

Does blogging from a blackberry on public transportation in Guanajuato make me a douche?

I had a crazy weekend. Maybe not crazy according to Evil I's standards though, because he brushes his teeth with Mexican tap water and goes out with 22 year old girls. That's what I call crazy!

I hauled ass to Houston right after work on Friday and got in around 10 and went to straight to a bar, where I met up with some law school friends and John (he gets special mention becasue he's not "law school"). I then proceeded to get drunk. It's amazing what four pints of Harp will do when you have an empty stomach and you just sat in a car for four hours. Good times. After the hangover wore off Saturday morning, I realized I was completely congested and couldn't breathe. It seems I'm allergic to Houston.

After stopping by my parents' house to pick up a few things, my friend Megan and I went to a Jewish dining staple in Houston - the New York Hot Bagels Coffee Shop. I had bagels and lox (what else could I order?) and she had some kind of tuna salad thing. Megan is Catholic and loves learning about my Jewish-ness, so I had to show her a little bit of Jewish Houston. After that, we ran some thrilling errands - Bed, Bath, & Beyond and Target. I bought a new shower head and new towels. They rock. I had no idea towel-buying was so intense. Racks and racks of towels with varying degrees of softness. I'm happy with my purchase. My towels are amply soft, yet stylish.

I had dinner with a couple law school buddies at Barnaby's, which was fun. Then I went to another law school friend's party and schmoozed till 1 am - a truly late night indeed. I woke up this morning with that funny feeling you get when you're getting sick. I think I may be coming down with a sinus infection. Lucky me! Just in time for New Years Eve! With any luck I'll be hacking up gobs of gooeyiness in no time. Sorry for the unnecessary detail. I guess it's too late now though.

Getting back to the title of this post, I am about to leave town and head back to Dallas so i can catch the Ghostland Observatory show tonight with one of my workmates. I'm totally psyched. I saw this band at ACL and they were awesome. Totally unexpectedly good.

However, if I find any 22-year olds at the show, I may ask them out so I can live on the edge like Evil I. Details to come.

Once upon a time, I lived in San Antonio. I lived across the street from a great little pub called The Flying Saucer. I went to The Flying Saucer a few times per week. The waitresses at The Flying Saucer were generally kind of cute. As such, my friends and I made sure to hit on as many of these waitresses as we could. I even went out with one of them. Good times. Long story, that. Anyway, moving on.

Last week, I went digging in the pockets of a jacket I don't wear very often and I pulled out this receipt, almost exactly four years after I received it. After looking at the name, I realized that I have no recollection of Jillian-Marie, which means she may be the only Saucer waitress my friends and I didn't hit on. She was a lucky girl.

I therefore present you with this fossil, this ancient record, this snapshot into the life of a 24-year-old Particleman. On Monday, February 16, 2004, Particleman was likely recovering from a weekend of drunken nothingness and decided to go to the Saucer with his fellow apathetic workmates. He dined on chips and queso, Franzniskaner, and Young's Double Chocolate stout. Particleman then likely returned to his abode, having stumbled across the "street" separating his apartment complex from the pub, located his bed, and fell on it, waking up the next day in the same business casual attire he wore the day before. After a shower, and maybe a shave if he could bring himself to it, he dragged himself back to his cubicle, where he diligently worked on documenting the software documents and running the document website at the Massive Insurance Company.

This concludes our exploration of Particleman's social life, circa early 2004.

Happy St. Patrick's day. My blog automatically qualifies as St. Paddy's day-friendly because it has green on it. All of the time. Every day. This was not planned.

I spent yesterday at the Greenville (no pun intended) Parade. Greenville is a street that runs north-south through Dallas. The city closes off a mile or so of Greenville every St. Patrick's day Saturday and holds a parade. There is also a concert. This year, Ghostland Observatory was the main act. I bought two tickets a few weeks but thereafter decided not to go. I just didn't feel like it. But my band's guitar player had also bought a ticket, and I really needed the fresh air, so I invited my singer and the three of us had band-bonding-day out in the sun.

Off we went traipsing through a sea of drunk green-clad partiers. The three of us were completely sober the whole time, so we got to laugh at all the drunkies falling all over the place. For some reason, there is something about me that compels strangers to ask me for directions, or advice, or guidance, on what the hell they should do and where they should be going. I'm certainly happy to oblige, but I get the feeling I'm always the guy people ask, "Hey, is this the right way to __________?"

The concert was good and we were all sufficiently sunburned. Especially me. It's mostly my face. When I wrinkle my forehead, it hurts. When I smile, it hurts. It's not pleasant.

I ended the night drinking Guinness with Evil I. I couldn't go through St. Paddy's day without having at least one pint of Guinness, so I figured three was a nice round number. Evil I and I talked about tables, music, engineering, lawyering, paint, traveling, sinks, and home-ownership. You shoulda been there.

Now that St. Paddy's is over, I don't want to see another green shirt for the rest of my life. Please. No more green. Anything that is green kind of annoys me now. The little Skype icon in my computer's tray is green. It annoys me. The forward and back buttons in Firefox are green. They annoy me. My website is kinda green. It annoys me. I think I just OD'd on green. Give me some time. I'll get over it.

All the necessary food groups in one convenient, tasty package. Cheese: protein. Crackers: carbs. Wine: alcohol.

One of my friends had two extra tickets to a Jimmy Buffet concert last night so I called Evil I and drove out to Frisco, TX to meet up with her and her boyfriend. Just so you know, Frisco is the closest I have ever been to Oklahoma without flying over it. I found that rather fascinating for some reason.

She mentioned to me that they were hanging out in their friend's RV in a huge parking lot full of other RVs. I didn't know what to expect. It was a little bit like a Grateful Dead concert experience, or at least what I imagine what one would have been like. And it was also a little bit like your average concert experience, except the fans were a lot older and wearing goofy Hawaiian shirts. Such is apparently the dress code at a Jimmy Buffet concert.

Evil I and I made the trek from our parking space to the stadium and along the way passed through a grassy field temporarily modified into a RV/SUV/whatever you're driving party extravaganza. We passed one guy who said, with a very thick Texas accent, "I pulled that sucker right off and painted it myself," referring to the silver Chevy emblem on the grill of his Chevy truck. At that moment, I could have gone home happy and content. Mission accomplished. I had experienced something unique and entertaining. Regardless, we pressed on for the stadium, which was actually a soccer field for Dallas' soccer team.

Once in line, Evil I and I were treated with more walking comedy: a roaming bachelor party. Who knows where these guys had started their weekend, but as for now, they were all wearing custom-made yellow shirts with various lewd and quirky proclamations. Each guy apparently had his nickname emblazoned on the back of his shirt. One guy called himself "The Canadian Schlonghorn." Again, I could have gone home happy at that point. But we pressed on.

We finally met up with my friend and her boyfriend and entered the stadium. We were greeted with a massive throng of aging hippies and bored executives trying to let loose. It was quite a sight. While walking to our seats, a mid-40s woman and her friend (both drunk) offered Evil I and I a piece of their pink cotton candy. This is not a euphemism. They asserted that pink cotton candy was the better kind. I'm sure.

Once in our seats, we were able to enjoy the Jimmy Buffet concert experience. Basically, imagine sitting on a beach and listening to lazy songs about drinking, sitting, and screwing. Except that we were sitting in plastic seats with 20,000 other people, and there was no beach, which really made me want to take a vacation to a beach. So at that moment, my friend said we should pick a weekend in June and all go to Cancun or something. Sounds good to me. I need a vacation.

My favorite part of the show is that Jimmy Buffet has managed to find what may be the perfect career. He flies around the world filming himself having a good time in various far-off places. He spends a few months out of the year touring and showing videos of these vacations on massive screens at concerts while he stands around and sings a few songs to a bunch of drunk and/or stoned suburbanites. I obviously need to reevaluate my career choice.

After the concert, the four of us went to my friend's friend's RV and hung out and walked around the parking lot. People have apparently driven from all over the Southern US to Frisco for this concert. We saw a Tennessee license plate. People set up party pads next to their RV complete with imported sand to simulate a beach, beach chairs, kiddie pool, PA system playing laid-back tunes, a makeshift bar, mannequin pirate things, so on and so forth. One person built an actual pirate ship on a full length trailer. I'll wait for Evil I to upload the picture. It was impressive.

All in all, it was an unforgettable experience. And fun. I can check off that line item now. I've seen Jimmy Buffet and experienced the Jimmy Buffet concert experience. Even if you don't want to go to a Jimmy Buffet concert, you should take a trip the nearest parking lot or four adjacent to the stadium where Jimmy is platying. It's a free show of drunken hilarity. And you might see a pirate ship on wheels.

I'm in Israel visiting my family in Hertzliah. My cousin and I are about to go out to a "dance bar" with his friends. Apparently it's a bar with different kinds of music in different rooms. I think these things exist in Dallas, but I wouldn't know, because I keep going to pubs.

I got here yesterday afternoon and we went straight to the beach after I landed. It was awesome.

The rest of the week will consist of more beach, more bars, and some traveling around the country to go hiking, kayaking, and maybe camping. I haven't been in Israel since 2002 (I think) so it's nice to be back and see everyone.

More to come...

I went to New York for the July 4th weekend to hang out with one of my friends. It was a great time. I'm trying to recall everything we did but it's only coming back in pieces (as usual), so here is a jumbled list of what we did:

1. Saw Sonic Youth at a free outdoor concert at Battery Park
2. Waited in line to see Sonic Youth only to get turned away, but found a way to watch the show anyway with a bunch of people that were also turned away
3. Drank too much beer at a pub in Brooklyn, a bar in Brooklyn, and a Belgian bar in the West Village. The Belgian bar only served Belgian beer.
4. Ate street pizza in Brooklyn, and the West Village.
5. Convinced my friend's friend to propose to a girl in the subway with a quarter and a ring box I found attached to fake plastic Christmas tree branches wrapped around a light pole in Brooklyn. (she said no)
6. Went to the New Museum.
7. Went to Chelsea Pier and slept on the grass.
8. Went to Brooklyn Bridge.
9. Walked a lot.
10. Ate a lot of good food.
11. Watched a bartender spank a customer with a belt. He asked for it. So did a lot of other guys. They took pictures. She liked it too.

Thank you Jess for an awesome weekend.

I went to Israel in July to see family and hang out with my cousin. My cousin, a 28-year old computer engineer, managed to get all 10 days of my trip off from work. We did a lot of random stuff, so I'll just list everything out in completely nonsensical and unchronological order, as usual.

1. Went to Haifa to see the Bahaii Gardens and ride a cablecar. The gardens are on the side of a hill and are the most lush gardens I have ever seen.
2. Ate a lot of shawarma. A lot as in every other day. The shawarma in Dallas just isn’t the same.
3. Went hiking somewhere outside Jerusalem after the trail closed but also after my cousin was able to convince the guard to let us in anyway.
4. Manage to not get blown up (it’s not really not as bad as the media makes it seem. Don’t believe the hype. The country isn’t self-destructing).
5. Went to a lot of bars and pubs. Drank and danced.
6. Went to Hertzliyah beach twice and Tel Aviv beach twice.
7. Got completely sunburned at Tel Aviv beach. But not the time I stripped down to my boxers and jumped in the sea without sunscreen. I got burned when I wore sunscreen.
8. Avoided Jerusalem.
9. Discovered that lawyers have a worse reputation in Israel than they do in the US.
10. Met a lot of amazing people.
11. BBQ'd hamburgers, hot dogs, and shishkabobs in a park.
12. Went to Yafo, one of the oldest port cities in the world.
13. Embarrassed myself with my broken Hebrew on a daily basis.
14. Was informed my glasses were out of style and that I ought to get some new ones (I did. Once back at home. They’re cool).
15. At my uncle’s home-made falafel.
16. Gorged on humus.
17. Did I mention that I ate a lot?

I went to Las Vegas for the first time. For a bachelor party. And I lost some money at a variety of establishments in and around the strip. I will not comment where I left my money and how I left it, but let it be known that Las Vegas is a money pit. A wild, crazy, and fun money pit. And it just so happens that I'm going back for Valentine's Day. The Girlfriend's birthday is February 13, so we're flying to Vegas to see Billy Joel and the Beatles Love show and to generally lose money together. Because losing money with your special someone is much better than losing money with a bunch of strangers.

Maybe this time the blackjack gods won't curse me hand after hand.

Here at particleman.org, we never make excuses for not posting regularly. Even when "not posting regularly" means not posting for three months. Oops.

Quite a few notable things have happened since we last spoke. My Beatles band finished a recording a demo, which was a lengthy and challenging experience, mostly because I was the one that did the recording. Let me tell you folks, recording a band is no simple feat, especially when recording with limited equipment and recording knowledge. We succeeded, however, and the demo is complete.

I decided to buy a house. I guess that makes me "responsible" and "adult" and "fucking broke." I had no idea buying a house was such massively costly ordeal. I'm not complaining, though, because the market is so favorable for buyers right now that my interest rate is ridiculously low, the gentlemen who owned the house sold it to me for less than market value because he was older and "wanted to help a young fella out," and Obama is going to give me $8,000, or so he says. I'll believe it when i see it.

Where is the house, you ask? In the cool part of town, of course. But not the cool part of town where everything is new and Europe-esque and completely overcrowded and overpriced (not that there's anything wrong with that - if that's what you like, hey, more power to you). My house is in the cool part of town where the houses were built in the 1950s, where someone's grandma and grandpa likely still live in their first house, where not three minutes away is a funky street lined with bars, cool restaurants, and a kick ass music venue, where literally across the street is a lake with a 10-mile bike path, and most importantly, where the land value will create a long-term investment for me.

Now, let's be realistic. A 1950s home? Wouldn't an older home be a slightly different owning experience than, say, a new home? Yes. Resoundingly yes. This house needs work. Quite a bit of work. But I'm determined to bring this house from 1955 to, at least, 1995. Maybe one day I can bring it to 2005. That shit gets expensive though, so I may hang out at 1995 for a while. Anyone have some nice used appliances they can sell me? I kid. Not really.

Consistent with that authentic particleman flavor of posting pictures of dishwashers, I will take a picture of the dishwasher in this house and post it for your amusement. It's a piece of American history. It should be in the Smithsonian. Or National Geographic. It will probably end up on Craigslist.

Other cool things that happened recently: As the previous post indicates, I went to Vegas, again, but this time with my special someone. We saw Billy Joel and the Beatles Love show and lost money at the craps table. Yay! I went to my girlfriend's parents' birthday party in San Antonio and spotted an older gentlemen reminiscing about the old days walking around with an oregano joint. I managed to not ride my bikes for two months (lame). I accidentally got really drunk last night at my friend's wedding rehearsal dinner after-party, and I woke up and wrote this blog post. My head still hurts. I'm going back to bed.

CK and I are in Aspen for a few days visiting her parents, who come to Aspen every summer for one to two weeks. So far, we've walked around the town and looked at a lot of things and eaten a lot of food, which I've found is extremely taxing and has alerted me to the low oxygen levels at this altitude. CK and I found several cool pubs frequented by what appear to be locals and 20-somethings with nothing better to do than drink.

Today, our plan is to go white water rafting. Depending on how beat we are, CK and I may also rent cruisers and ride around town, or maybe go for a hike with her folks.

Other planned activities include: nothing at all, more cycling, more walking, more eating, and more drinking. It will prove to be a difficult and challenging few days. I'll keep you posted on our progress.