Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I've been told that one can allay one's fears of failing by looking around the room and picking out the quarter or so of the test-takers who will fail.
The guy sitting next to me had to borrow a pencil. He also lost his admission ticket over lunch.
Conclude from that what you will.
Friday, July 25, 2008
One nap and half an hour of Situation Room later, the coffee is brewing, the books are out of the bag and I'm banging out another blog post about how unproductive I've been.
Ooh, YouTube. Following this weekend's theme brought about by The Wackness, here's a forgotten gem from the golden age of hip-hop, courtesy of Newark's Lords of the Underground:
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Time to chill on the hyperbole for a minute. I've been writing about multiple choice questions and essays a lot lately. Lemmie break the bar down for you underclassmen and non-law school types:
Multistate Performance Test (10%): This is a "closed universe" in which everything you need to know is presented to you and all that remains to be done is a cursory analysis in whatever form they ask you for (memo, client letter, brief, whatever). K thinks this part is a gimmie, and she's probably right.
New York Essays (40%): It turns out that New York is a little like Texas in that it occasionally sees itself as another country. We don't have a law against arson, the right to wear socks is enshrined in the state constitution and it's not considered hearsay if it came from Page Six.
I exaggerate. But it's not the best thing for one's sanity to memorize rules for nearly every corner of the law, then toss them out the next day for a new set of rules that is in many ways completely different. An example: on the portions of the exam that everyone in the country takes, assault and battery are separate crimes. In New York, what we call "assault" is "battery" everywhere else and your "assault" is our "attempted assault." Get it? Also, embezzlement is larceny and there are eight degrees of everything.
But the worst thing is that the sample essay answers give the impression that it's hit or miss as to what issues they actually want you to identify and answer. There are a thousand things that can go wrong with a contract, a will or a search and seizure, but you're somehow supposed to find the three that they actually want, based on nothing but a vague fact pattern. Oh, the time I've wasted explaining why a court has personal jurisdiction when all they want to know is if the divorce decree is valid. Oy.
Multistate Bar Exam (40%): These are the dreaded multiple choice questions. You're really only supposed to get about 60% of these right, and the harder question sets have stated targets in the mid-40s. People who just finished law school aren't used to being happy getting 60% on anything. The MBE is the main reason nearly all of America's best and brightest legal minds are convinced that they're going to fail.
Plus, there is nothing worse than grading some practice questions and finding that the answer you picked is "correct, but choice (B) is more correct." Go to hell.
New York Multiple Choice (10%): All I'll say about these is that I'm glad they only count for 1/10th of my score, because I'm taking more of a dive on these than the Mets in September. Ba-dum-bum.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
[t]he tattoos of today are not minor affairs or miniatures placed on the body where only an intimate or an internist would see them. Today's are gargantuan, inevitably tacky, gauche and ugly. They bear little relationship to the skin that they're on. They don't represent an indelible experience or membership in some sort of group but an assertion that today's whim will be tomorrow's joy. After all, a tattoo cannot be easily removed. It takes a laser -- and some cash.
From an aesthetic perspective, I think tattoos are ugly - like scars or giant birthmarks. That's a personal judgment about which reasonable people will differ. What really confuses me is people who have tattoos they can't cover up. If the ink spills down to your wrist or splashes across your neck, there isn't much chance you can look like a person worthy of a jumbo mortgage or a security clearance. That's all well and good if you want to be a barista or a musician, but wouldn't a sensible person at the very least reserve the right to go into a more lucrative line of work? I suppose it's one way to prevent yourself from selling out.
Perhaps a time will come where having the title of a Black Flag song scrawled across your right hand doesn't make people wonder if your heart is really in investment banking. That day hasn't arrived.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Having never really feared selling out, this routine is very comforting compared with the horrible mornings that follow particularly "interesting" nights. In a way, it's a decent trade-off: lose the bars, the repetitive music they play and the trash that inhabit them and gain Erin Burnett's adorable slight Long Island lilt* on Morning Joe. Life is good. Self-esteem is high. The bus always pulls into the stop just as I too arrive.
I get to the school library five minutes after it opens and find half of the floor filled with LLMs. Note to LLMs: just because we can't understand what you're saying doesn't mean we can't hear you. Be quieter.
One question set: done. Two question sets: done. One essay: done. One re-read of a section of my notes: done. Friends filter in and I get the kick of beating them to the library, even if I'll inevitably leave before.
Lunch rolls around. Nothing too heavy, but still, now is not the time to deny myself one of the few pleasures still available to me. An unacknowledged fact: just because you eat at your desk doesn't mean that you'll be doing anything productive while you're eating. Go eat outside and soak up some Vitamin D and UV rays.
All of a sudden, it's 2 p.m. and I've been screwing around for an hour and a half. Back to work. One essay. Two essays. One problem set. Some more review.
Inevitably, there comes some discrete task you've set out for yourself where you realize that your skull is nothing more than an upside-down bowl full of cottage cheese. Yesterday, I read a multiple choice question and the only thing that came to mind was "jeez, this question is a lot of lines long." Not exaggerating, I couldn't even count the number of lines, let alone read it.
Sometimes, the wall arrives during an essay. Read the prompt, think about the subject, then plot out the answer. Can lawyers be beneficiaries in a will they wrote? Well, lawyers are people, and people can be beneficiaries in a will. But aren't they interested? If I was getting money from a will, I'd be interested. Answering an essay question once you've hit a wall is like asking for legal advice from your snarky stoner friend.
My clean-living days, after such promising starts, go in reverse. All throughout college and law school, the Sunday hangover required immediate ameliorative attention (read: eggs and coffee) but my brain never really got into gear until after sunset. I'd start out moving around like an arthritic patient and unable to form sentences but end working furiously in anticipation for Monday. Now, I start out with vim and vigor and end in a bar-imposed haze. Seems to me like Erin Burnett and the time to do an extra problem set or two isn't worth it.
Around 6, it's time to head home. I stagger down the street, watching the purposeful commuters in soft-focus as I zig-zag in the general direction of my apartment.
Once home, the malaise really starts. Like the terminal patient who longs for death, I count the hours until it's time for bed - if I conk out at 7, it'll most likely be a nap, so I need to hold out at least until 10. TV is all reruns, my roommates are nowhere to be found. Dinner comes from a frozen box (I don't have the motivation to go to the supermarket). Sans sex, television, booze, energy or company, what's left to do for those three or so hours?
As uplifted as I was in the morning, the evening sees me sinking to a hazy, lazy low. And what are we going to do tomorrow? The same thing we do every day, Pinky. Study for the bar.
* UPDATE: Erin Burnett is apparently from Maryland's Eastern Shore. Whoa.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
It was the golden age of hip-hop. Two months prior, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), A Tribe Called Quest's Midnight Marauders dropped on the same day and Nas' Illmatic came out in the spring. That fall, Notorious B.I.G. released Ready to Die. Illmatic, Ready to Die and Enter the Wu-Tang are pretty much the only three hip-hop albums everyone needs to own (there's s strong case for ATCQ's Low-end Theory as #4). Since then, very few hip-hop singles have reached the charts that don't convey the messages that (i) I have a lot of sex; (ii) I own a lot of expensive things; or (iii) I have a propensity toward violence without a hint of nuance or irony.
It was Rudy Giuliani's first year as mayor and a city weary from years of decay seemed happy to see the squeegee men rounded up. The Rangers won the Stanley Cup for the first time since 1940. The Knicks got to the NBA finals since 1973, only to be preempted by the O.J. chase. Revs and Cost posted up their inscrutable stickers on the back of every Walk/Don't Walk sign. The premier of Friends was supposed to mark the re-emergence of New York as a place twentysomethings would want to live.
CBGBs, Studio 54 and the Son of Sam it wasn't. But still, there was something afoot, even if Biggie was replaced by Puffy and "quality of life" morphed into "let's make New York look like all those other towns people fled to live here." After a strong start, the promise faltered like the Knicks' defense.
I was in Middle School at the time and like anyone else of that age, I was peripherally aware of what was going on all around me. O.J., hip-hop, Giuliani - the names were familiar but the consequences weren't. More than anything else, remember that June was a scorcher - that unique blend of hot, humid and grimy that makes you want to take a shower after you leave your air-conditioned room during halftime to dash to the boiling kitchen for a glass of orange juice. The kind of hot that makes that shower seem futile the second you get out.
In 1994, a few of my friends had older brothers who towered above us, smelled like something earthy and smoky and always had headphones around their necks. They listened to WFMU and complained about how Washington Square Park was becoming a "police state," whatever that meant.
Those guys probably knew a real-life equivalent of Luke Shapiro, the aimless Upper East Side pot dealer in The Wackness. In a way, it's a period piece for 1994 like The Wedding Singer was to the mid-80s: the soundtrack is carefully constructed, period slang is sprinkled in everywhere (remember when you could say "dope" unironically?) and every major current-events item gets a reference. But it isn't just VH1-style premature nostalgia.
Like the vastly underrated Summer of Sam, The Wackness uses the larger context to clarify its characters' motivations. Shapiro (Josh Peck) finds himself fresh out of high school, with all the promise it entails. It's summer, the music is good, business is booming and he has a love interest (Olivia Thirlby as Stephanie). Yet there's something lacking: a point. Luke wants to get laid, save his family and figure out why he's seemingly the only friendless drug dealer in the world.
To that end, he engages a shrink (Ben Kingsley) who represents a dying era of stubbornness, wanton drug use and endearing abrasiveness. Both have an inkling that their dreams are simultaneously doomed and as yet unformed.
If 1994 fails to go down in history as a turning-point year, it will be because the cultural ferment was aimless and the political trends were, in retrospect, inevitable. Just like the plot arc of this smart little film.
Nas said it best way back then:
Yet I'm the mild, money gettin style, rollin foul
The versatile, honey stickin wild, golden child
Dwellin in the Rotten Apple, you get tackled
Or caught by the devil's lasso, shit is a hassle.
A hassle indeed.
Friday, July 18, 2008
SOMEONE must sing a proper song of farewell for Shea Stadium, the nice try of a coliseum in Queens, as its dismantling draws near and a new ballpark rises just yards away. But that someone must be able to convey emotions specific to the place, emotions beyond the sadness of many lost Mets summers and the euphoria of two World Series championships. There is so much more.
In fact, "nice try" is a pretty good description for Shea. It's a Robert Moses project and, like his other civic disasters (the Cross-Bronx Expressway and huge tracts of public housing high-rises come to mind) it was built in the high hopes that great public works from on high would prepare New York City for a new era of progress.
Fittingly, it shares a lot of problems with the other Robert Moses projects of the postwar era.
As the Cross-Bronx tore a gigantic trench through neighborhoods without the least bit of consideration to pedestrians and neighbors, Moses stuck Shea under a flight path near LaGuardia Airport without any consideration to the fans who would have to sit through endless jet engine drone to watch a game.
As housing projects rose from blighted but human-scale blocks to the goals of Le Corbusier's desire for order and sterile spacial proportions at the expense of the comfort of people actually living in them, Shea was built as a pleasingly regular circle at the expense of shade and views.
A lot of people have great memories from the times they spent at Shea - myself included. But the stadium itself should be preserved, or at least left standing, as an example of an entire era of crummy stadia. The Vet and the old Busch Stadium are gone and the Astrodome may not be saved by preservationists, but there should be at least one example of how wrong we went in the sixties.
But back to the Amazins:
The romantic idealism and the yeah-right realism. The quickness to mock and to take offense. The need to prove oneself better than any Upper East Side twit and the guilt from having conceived such a hollow ambition. The restlessness, angst and ache of the striver. The Long Island of it all.
Get over yourself, man. There are plenty of UES twits who like the Mets. Even more twits liked them in the late '80s-early '90s when the Yankees had Don Mattingly, Dave Winfield and a string of losing seasons. Every summer, big law firms load up million-dollar partners and Nobu-fed summer associates into black Town Cars bound for luxury boxes at Shea. Mets Nation is jealous, but they're by no means a particularly working-class bunch.
As for the losing thing, there are plenty of fans who wish their teams had it as good as the Mets. Since 1962, the Mets have won two World Series, one division title, two NL pennants and two wild card berths. Ask a fan of the Phillies, the Royals, Mariners, Indians, Tigers, Astros or Rangers if they wouldn't mind trading the records of the last 37 1/2 seasons with the Mets.
Yes, the inferiority complex started right off the bat in 1962, when the Mets came into this world as a piss-poor substitute for the Dodgers and Giants and proceeded to rack up the worst record in the history of the modern game.
Yes, they weren't favored in 1969.
No, that doesn't mean that the Kennedy-era hair shirt looks good on a fan of the team with the second-highest payroll in the league.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Q: How is bar studying going?
A: It's like trying to pile two gallons of jello into a one-gallon Tupperware container. You can balance a little cherry-flavored Evidence on the top, but the Choice of Law with the slice of pineapple in it just falls off the other side of the pile, so you go to pick that up and all your equal protection pudding slides off.
As for the long answer, I'm in hell and I can't find a way out. My final bar review substantive class was yesterday; the topic was Domestic Relations. I attempted an essay on Domestic Relations with a side of Commercial Paper this morning, only to find that not a single one of the issues in the essay was covered in our class or in the gigantic "mini" outline they gave us.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
The money benefits aren't too bad either. Since I've been in law school, I haven't driven all that much, but I still fill up about once every 3 weeks. That's about $75 a month. Insurance is $100. My Chicago Sticker, neighborhood parking permit and registration come out to about $25 a month. Even without scheduled work like brakes, oil changes and the like, I'm $200 richer every month, which means I can take a cab to the supermarket every time I go and I still save money.
On the subject of cabs, even when I was driving, I had to take them a fair amount. Drinking and driving is a no-no, as is any form of airport parking.
But yet, there's always a caveat. This is the first time since the middle of college that I don't have a car. "Freedom of the open road" and all that. Where exactly is that open road? In college, I could get to an uncongested interstate in short order. My ancient station wagon was pretty much impervious to police radar guns, probably because no right minded trooper could imagine that 16-year-old clunker could even reach the speed limit, let alone exceed it. It was great to roll down the windows and crank the stereo all the way to the Pennsylvania state line and beyond. Here in Chicago, there is no open road. Fight your way to any interstate and it's more likely than not at any hour of the day to be congested. Even when there is some freedom to gain a little momentum, there's probably a toll booth. As for speed, those troopers had no trouble believing that my most recent car could go very fast - so I made sure it didn't.
Does not having my car make me less of an American, less of a man? Maybe, but if so, it makes me a far more relaxed commie-sissy.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A beacon to the peoples of the world.
I had the interesting experience of spending my Fourth of July with, among others, about a half-dozen Europeans in the States for work. We ate corn on the cob, grilled burgers and brats, listened to violent, misogynist rap music and generally had an all-American afternoon.
But one thing really caught the attention of the Continentals: the red Solo cups. Very excited at the sight of disposable drinkware, the Yanks at this BBQ did the cultural exchange thing: we taught them flip cup.
Apparently, they don't sell large, brightly colored plastic cups in Europe, making them very noticeable in certain American college movies. Think about it: whenever anyone on an American college campus is having fun in the movies or on TV, they are surrounded by a sea of red or blue Solo cups. It turns out that the "red cup," as they call it, is a minor cultural touchstone.
As usual, I have a theory. By the time most Americans reach 21, they have been drinking for years at house parties, in dorm rooms or in dank frat basements. Once bars and clubs admit us, our drinking habits have largely been formed. Europeans, on the other hand, can go out to drink at a far younger age and thus never get the chance to entertain themselves with beer pong, flip cup and everything else that goes with drinking semi-incognito. That's why twentysomething Europeans are always impressed with our house parties and we're generally impressed with European bars and clubs.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Why can't I do it to the max? What can the flagging bar review student do?
Aside from some rough patches here and there (clinic comes to mind), these last two years of law school haven't been all that tough. Yes, I studied diligently enough when finals came around, but mine were all self-scheduled, so I could work all day, but still get home at a reasonable hour. Before law school, my main job didn't require any all-nighters. My second job, as a tutor, involved a lot of driving, but after a while, not much thinking.
As for college, I was a Political Science major. And an Economics minor.
In fact, the last time I've really busted my balls is during my Junior year of high school, in 1997-8. Around April, things hit their apex. I was competing for an editorial board position on my high school newspaper (it was a weekly paper - a big deal, not to mention a time-sucker), studying for a bunch of AP tests, competing in a debate tournament. The month before, I was engrossed in the SATs. Add to that the fact that I was your average reckless teenager looking for a good time.
For three months, I got to school at 8:15 and worked until 12 or 1 a.m. When I wasn't in class, I was working in something or other. To be fair, there were a few half-hours now and then when I could hang out in the cafeteria and act like an idiot. But that was my right.
What did I do differently back then that allowed total immersion into what needed to be done?
- Caffeine. Back then, it was Pepsi. Lots of it. I started each day with a Big Gulp (I don't think they even make those any more), re-upped at lunch, took another pick-me-up after the last class and then sporadically as the evening wore on. Soda of any kind wasn't allowed at home, so I usually hid Pepsi in my room and drank it warm if I couldn't get to the kitchen for ice without any questions as to why I had no liquid in my glass. I may have been a bit hard to handle when I was really buzzed on the coffee and sugar, but it meant no after-class naps.
These days, I'm more of a coffee person, but like any real grown-up, I can't drink any after a certain hour without my sleep suffering. After months of advertising bombardment, I've tried 5 Hour Energy (less of a drink, more like a sip!). It's good for partying (remember partying?) but doesn't seem to keep me going during the day.
There's always trucker speed.
- Diet and Exercise. I'm miles ahead of 16-year-old me. I go to the gym regularly and, to a large extent, watch what I eat. Back then, lunch was usually a huge sandwich from an Italian deli, a giant slice of pizza (if I felt ambitious, Sicilian with extra cheese) or mozzarella sticks from the cafeteria. Unlike your average sandwich chain, those sandwiches had huge quantities of meat not weighed out on a scale and would now leave me passed out in my chair an hour after eating one. I could try eating like a pig for the next month and not exercising, but common sense leads me to believe that I could eat more a decade ago with less resulting sluggishness and unsightly wait gain.
- Variety. This morning, I was studying for the bar. This afternoon, I'll be studying for the bar. Tonight, ditto. Back then, I had five subjects in school and two big extracurriculars. Get bored with one? Try another until you get bored of that - there would be plenty of everything else to work on. Unless I treat Torts and Criminal Procedure as completely different subjects, I'm outta luck here.
- The Internet. Back then, there were no blogs, no social networking and no Flickr - the only non-static sites were newspapers and sports sites. Going from link to link on static pages gets old a lot faster than checking up on your 23 favorite blogs. Maybe I should resolve to only visit sites in existence back then. Hamster Dance anyone?
- I needed to get into a college. I already have a firm job to set up - the bar is just a condition precedent that almost 100% of my school passes. The urgency, while very much here, isn't the same kind of "if I don't completely rock everything, I'm going to be making minimum wage until the day I die from a stray bullet walking to my tiny cold water flat in a horrible neighborhood" way.
- Conclusion. It's clear that I need to return to high school levels of productivity, but I can't do it by being a high schooler. A degree of maturity is required. Which means I'm screwed.