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.<