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June 29, 2007
Pile-up on the Brooklyn Bridge!
Dear reader, a question. When August 8 rolls around, should I see a) The Hold Steady at Prospect Park, or b) The Rapture in Keyspan Park, Coney Island?
Posted by rj3 at 2:15 PM | Comments (500) | TrackBack
June 28, 2007
We're on ur case, attackn ur strawmen
Henry Payne of National Review tosses a slow, mushy one right over the plate. He ridicules fuel-efficient cars in France:
My tiny, 4-door, 1.5 liter Renault Clio was powered by “gasol,” the French term meaning “gas oil,” or diesel. About half of French cars now run on diesel. That’s right, even at 42 mpg, France is still heavily dependent on good old foreign oil. Over 95 percent dependent.
If you don't have any oil under your soil and you use any oil at all, you are 100% dependent on imported oil. Is he trying to dupe his readers, or is he just dumb? Dependence on foreign oil has everything to do with domestic production (thus the ANWR fixation) and absolutely nothing to do with how much of your energy needs are taken care of domestically. Stranger on Wikipedia, take it away:
France is also the most energy independent Western country due to heavy investment in nuclear power, which also makes France the smallest producer of carbon dioxide among the seven most industrialised countries in the world. As a result of large investments in nuclear technology, most of the electricity produced in the country is generated by nuclear power plants (78.1% in 2006,[26] up from only 8% in 1973, 24% in 1980, and 75% in 1990).
Since it's easier for utilities and governments to switch large power plants than it is to create new gas stations and make individuals buy new cars, it's a little like comparing apples to oranges. However, imagine an alternate scenario in which a country fulfills 90 percent of its auto fuel needs with biodiesel, but has a few out-of-date gasoline-powered cars on the road. Also imagine that this country switched to biodiesel because it has no domestic oil reserves. Under this Payn'd logic (pun intended), the punchline is that they are completely dependent on foreign oil. This statistic serves one purpose: to encourage depletion of limited domestic resources instead of depletion of limited foreign resources.
Posted by rj3 at 10:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 27, 2007
Blackout!!
And we all know what that means...
OK, the Times is calling it a "power dip," but it did mess up subways on the East Side, which will make it nearly impossible to get around, except on foot. For that inconvenience, I think I deserve a flatscreen, freshly liberated from a store window display.
Posted by rj3 at 3:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 26, 2007
Empty Patch of Polluted Dirt, You Rule!
Everybody and their mother (probably including my mother) hates those big neighborhood-specific ads for Virgin Mobile that have been popping up everywhere. In my 'hood, they say:
"Our deepest apologies for indruding without a formal invitation. We know this message might be keeping you from a therapy session or a benefit for one of you many worthy causes. But we wanted you to know that it is you, Upper East Side, Who still promotes culture and refinement in this city. Why, if it weren't for your patronage of the Arts, those scruffy downtown types would have no idea that their crude expressions are actually attempts to render our collective neo political angst. Speaking of lording power over others, cell phone companies that lock you in to long-term contracts? Unacceptable. Plans without contracts? Classsy, like you."
Sure, it's insulting, but if you're as tired of the fratty/snooty amalgam due east of Central Park as I am, it's a refreshingly concise snapshot of a neighborhood that seems to be dying in place, demographically and culturally. Let's try this formula for some of the other places I've lived:
Charles Village, Baltimore, You Rule!
What makes you so special is that you've found a way to allow everyone to have their crabcake and eat it too. Ditzy sorority girls from Central Jersey can come home with scary stories about living so close to black people without actually having to talk to any. CV Artsy-fartsies can enjoy pinnacles of human artistic achievement at the BMA in the morning and then pass the afternoon away watching a naked Japanese man play a cowbell attached to his genetalia at High Zero. Townies can live in a self-identified college neighborhood while still posessing the wherewithal to complain about the minimal noise generated by the 12 percent of the Hopkins student body that does something other than play World of Warcraft on Saturday nights. Before the next time you reach for the phone to call the cops with another noise complaint (and it will be soon, I'm sure), think about switching to Virgin Mobile.
Adams-Morgan, Washington, You Rule!
Let's face it: the rest of D.C. is wound up too tight. After a day of taking orders from self-important potentates of business, media and politics, it's a wonder that Washingtonians (and a hefty side of Marylanders and Virginians) even bother with the formality of a kickball game before rushing headlong up 18th Street for light beer, hair metal and the chance of physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, accidentally or on purpose. But you, Adams-Morgan, know that a little structure and dicipline is good for the future leaders of America. When Saturday comes around, the boss isn't around to crack the whip, so you force thousands of fresh-faced 18-to-25ers to form neat lines in front of bars and clubs and make them wait for an hour before announcing that nobody with sneakers is allowed inside. Like a good dog trainer, you know to reward "sit" and "stay," so by 3 a.m., you've set up your part of town for a freewheeling miasma of vomited falafel, mouth-scalding pizza sold by the acre, and even the occasional (OK, regular) fight to entertain the masses. You serve the rest of the city by saving it from even more trash and disorder, so you deserve to get something back. How about a good cell phone plan?
Dupont Circle, Washington, You Rule!
The West Village can get to be a rowdy mess - that time you went to the New York City Pride Parade in '97, you nearly had your eyes gouged out when a drag queen strung out on PCP lunged at you with a 7-inch heel in her hand. The weather may be a little nicer in the Castro, but that's no reason to wear assless chaps and a studded choker when going to the store for a quart of milk. You've figured out how to do the Gayborhood thing right - anything too flamboyant and the Republican Congressmen you work for would start cracking down (you can't marry or vote, remember). Just stick to refurbishing houses and eating brunch - break out those immature rainbows and stilettos only for the Drag Races and the Parade. A neighborhood of mature people like yours deserves a grown-up cell phone plan.
Streeterville, Chicago, You Rule!
To the untrained eye, McClurg Court is like a boulevard of broken dreams. Bleary-eyed law and medical students trudge up and down the street at all hours, too tied to library and lab to live anywhere else. Middle-aged divorcees try to start anew in one-bedroom apartments in the sky, only to find that the chicks at the Hange Uppe and Rockit don't care that you were into Jethro Tull before they were cool. But yet you serve a noble purpose: taking one for the team that is greater Chicagoland. The City That Works maintains its friendly demeanor precisely because they don't have to deal with the assorted newbies, sad-sacks and snobs that call you home. So buck up, grab yourself a rubbery calzone at Tutto Pronto and call your friend in Bucktown to see what she's up to. May we suggest doing so with a Virgin Mobile phone?
Lakeview, Chicago, You Rule!
Have you lost weight, Lakeview? Seriously, you must have economized on the food budget after Dominick's on Broadway burned down, because you're smoking hot. Whether it's walking your dog by the lake, enjoying a cup of artisanal coffee or getting down at LBC, you are a true NILF. Yet you stay accessable. It's good to know that Lakeview is the kind of neighborhood that will cover up a perfect body in a baggy Cubs uniform to quaff Old Style at a bar that only gets repainted when a Daley isn't mayor. You're perfect, but not intimidating, which is why lots of people want your number. Save some money on those sheepish calls from your admirers by switching to Virgin Mobile.
Posted by rj3 at 6:01 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
Good Alumni, Bad Alumni
Good Alumni: Justice John Paul "Bong Hits 4 Bowties" Stevens, dissenting in Morse v. Fredrick:
Admittedly, some high school students (including those who use drugs) are dumb. Most students, however, do not shed their brains at the schoolhouse gate, and most students know dumb advocacy when they see it.
Bad Alumni: Judge Roy "Million Dollar Pants" Pearson
D.C. Superior Court Judge Judith Bartnoff, in an eminently reasonable ruling yesterday, found Mr. Pearson "not entitled to any relief whatsoever." The infamous case started two years ago when Mr. Pearson took his pants to Soo and Jin Chung's Custom Cleaners to be altered. The pants came up missing, and Mr. Pearson sued, citing "mental suffering, inconvenience and discomfort." He argued that under D.C. law, he was the victim of a fraud because the cleaners displayed a "Satisfaction Guaranteed" sign. In effect, Mr. Pearson said that meant a merchant had to do whatever a customer demanded.
Posted by rj3 at 12:14 PM | Comments (411) | TrackBack
June 25, 2007
No Way Out
Yesterday, I had brunch with some law school friends on Hudson Street. To get to brunch, I had to find my way around the Pride Parade, which was nearly impossible and required several turn-backs and the navigation of a maze surrounding the Christopher Street subway station.
After lunch, two members of our brunch party had to catch a flight from JFK back to Chicago, but had trouble finding the car they had called. The car service had trouble finding them. It was a near disaster all around, but they did eventually make it to the airport. As we tried to locate an opening through which we could cross 7th Avenue, I suggested that, if the car didn't make it or left the meet-up location before they found a way to get to it, they could take the LIRR to Jamaica and then the AirTrain down to JFK. I was met with considerable eye-rolling. Summer associates, after all, don't need to take three trains (subway, LIRR, AirTrain) when a nice Sikh man with a CB radio and a large trunk will do it for them for $50. Then again, not everybody has $50 to spend, and when enough people do, it can be bumper-to-bumper town cars and yellow cabs on the Van Wyck.
Then I remembered my trip last weekend to urban northern New Jersey. I thought of the pork wrapped in bacon I had at a Brazillian restaurant in Newark. Mmmm, bacon...
My mind eventually stopped wandering and I got back on point.
The World Trade Center PATH station is being considered as a terminus for an LIRR extension that would run trains from JFK through Jamaica and Flatbush Avenue and under the East River in a new tunnel. Meanwhile, plans have been floated to extend the PATH train to Newark Airport. Just to the east, the MTA is already working on a massive reworking of the Fulton Street Station, Which serves the 2, 3, 4, 5, A, C, J, M, Z, R and W trains. Jurisdictional issues between the Port Authority and MTA aside, how great would it be to have some sort of SuperPATH to allow for a single-seat ride between JFK and Jamaica, Hoboken terminal, Penn Station, Newark Airport, Downtown Brooklyn and the Financial District? How much better would it be to have a subway connection at Fulton Street rather than Penn Station, especially for East Siders and Brooklynites? Why would anyone who lives or stays anywhere near these areas ever take to the roads to get to JFK?
Sadly, there will be no one-seat solution, at least for Jerseyites. The JFK Airtrain uses Bombardier Advanced Rapid Transit technology, by which the train is powered by a central electrified rail. It's better for going around the airport because it has a steerable axle that allows for tighter turns, but it isn't third-rail powered, like PATH, LIRR or the MTA subway. Also, AirTrain cars are 10'6" wide and PATH cars are 9' 2 3/4" wide. Because of this interoperability problem, any scenario short of retrofitting the AirTrain would require either transferring at Jamaica or Howard Beach or laying new ART tracks alongside LIRR tracks all the way to WTC station. MTA proposes getting AirTrains into Manhattan somehow, but they offer few details and several dead links. I've sent an email to the MTA, but I don't anticipate hearing back any time soon.
When Robert Moses proposed a Lower Manhattan Expressway linking New Jersey to Long Island, he did it to ease the traffic burden on downtown New York by allowing people to pass through above local streets, albiet with the probable side-effect of destroying lower Manhattan. Finally, we have a solution in sight that could link several major subway lines with service to two airports all in one place, but the cobbled-together projects have created an expensive solution that is complicated enough to send all but the most hardened skinflints headed for the already-congested highways.
UPDATE: The MTA got back to me, and promptly, too!
Thank you for your query about the Lower Manhattan-Jamaica/JFK Transportation Project. As part of this study, the project staff is evaluating opportunities to link the proposed new rail line to the existing AirTrain system at Jamaica. The AirTrain was built to the same design profile as the NYC subway systems, and uses a similar power system. However, "hybrid" cars fully compatible with both systems may need to be designed and procured.
Fair enough. They will either have to retrofit or scrap the existing AirTrain fleet, but this expansion is so far in the future that they should be worn out by then anyway.
Posted by rj3 at 1:41 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
June 23, 2007
A little severe, no?
Whatever happened to towing?
Posted by rj3 at 3:28 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 22, 2007
Sunny afternoon, summertime, etc etc.
It's alternating between relaxing and frustrating: I've handed in several projects and am awaiting additional instructions. In the meantime, I'm wary of taking on a new project for fear that everything will fall on my head at once, keeping me in late on a Friday.
How does an idle summer associate fill the hours between lunch and happy hour without straying too far afield?
- Grade journal submissions
- try all the different flavors of coffee pods (they all suck)
- Use the iTunes network to discover new music (not a huge fan of the new Apples in Stereo, as it turns out)
- Read the tabs (still writing about the Sopranos, now available in Clinton flavor!)
- Organize your rubber bands by size (see above)
2 hours left.
Posted by rj3 at 2:32 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 20, 2007
If only!
I would vote for Mike Bloomberg if he ran for President and I thought he had a snowball's chance in Fallujah of winning. I think the federal government is in desperate need of a managerial type who will root out the flunkies, mission-from-Godders and industry hacks that the agencies have been stuffed with over the last six and a half years. As many people have pointed out, when people who don't believe in government are put in charge of one, they tend to do a bad job of it - it's a self-fullfilling prophecy. A Bloomberg administration would focus on making basic things work.
There won't be a Bloomberg administration. He may be able, after millions and millions of dollars in advertising, to sway some Democratic voters, but when it comes to Republicans, he's toast. Forget about the gun thing and the smoking thing - he's a bad prophet for a party completely enthralled by empty images. Take Rudy Giuliani: he's a huge star in the party because he was in the right place at the right time. Did he save any lives on 9/11? Did his planning for the event help mitigate the damege? Did he warn people about it? Nope. All he did was make TV appearances while the President was jetting from place to place. Most likely, if New York City had a jet for the Mayor, he would have been on it. Hilzoy at Obsidian Wings gets it:
First, a number of the Republican candidates for President are running on their appearance of toughness on national security, not on any actual national security credentials. Giuliani is the most obvious case: as I said when I noted the first of these stories in comments, a guy who pushes Bernard Kerik for Secretary of Homeland Security years after being briefed that Kerik is connected to the mob is really not someone you want to elect in order to keep us safe. He just isn't.When someone is running on an appearance that has no basis in fact, you can expect stories like the one about the Iraq study group, stories that show that given a choice between performing a real service to his country and its security on the one hand, and self-interest on the other, he chooses self-interest.
Mike Bloomberg doesn't talk tough, he just keeps the gears well-oiled. If he runs, he will be a spoiler who hurts Democrats exclusively.
Republicans want to hear about 9/11, not 311.
Posted by rj3 at 12:27 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The bus should be seen, not heard.
There was a new technological marvel on the bus I take to work this morning. The M31 now announces, in a quasi-pleasant but slightly insistent voice, the intersection of the next stop and whenever anyone requests a stop. Chicago buses all have these "features," but after a month away, I realized how annoying the announcements are. Granted, it may be useful for tourists (who must be incapable of looking out of the window) to know where they are. But tourists never take the bus - the alphanumeric route designations send them running for the trains, where they inevitably spend hours at Union Square asking anyone who looks like they may stop where to find the "green line."
The bottom line: Last night, I sent an awful lot of booze to land on not all that much finger food. As a result, my tolerance for hearing the voice of what sounds like a constipated customer service operator say "stop requested" was reached about 3 minutes into the trip.
Posted by rj3 at 9:08 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 18, 2007
Justify my HBO subscription until The Wire returns
Flight of the Conchords may make my $10 monthly expenditure worthwhile. The secret: moving to New York and trying to be sufficiently cool, Eugene Mirman and laugh-out-loud-even-though-I'm-alone writing. I'm very predictable in my tastes.
Posted by rj3 at 8:48 PM | Comments (351) | TrackBack
Is the Machine gun Bobby gave to Tony for sale?
If they're dumping that huge firearm at The Sopranos Yard Sale tomorrow, I may just have something new to snuggle up with at night.
However, I don't think this will be anything other than a huge clusterf*ck of an event. It starts at 10 near the show's Long Island City studio, which isn't too far from my office as the crow flies, but given the publicity this event has garnered, I expect a line around the block if I skip out for an early lunch.
What would you get at The Sopranos yard sale?
Posted by rj3 at 4:08 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 16, 2007
The reason 8 million people live here
Complain all you like about the rents, the traffic, or the dirty air - there is a reason why people from all around the world flock to this place. On an unplanned Friday night, this is what happens:
7 pm: Yankee game. Friend of a friend has tickets to the subway series game. I hate interleague play as a concept, but if it has to happen, Mets v. Yankees is a worthwhile justification.
10 pm: Random small Morningside Heights bar. Find friends from elementary school are in one corner, summer associates from another firm in another corner. One knows the MC for a karaoke night downtown, promises a spot in the lineup without a wait.
12 am: Highly underrated SNL castmember Horatio Sanz is at the bar. He's big enough (in more ways than one) to recognize him, but sufficiently unknown to not have an entourage.
1 am: Horatio sings "Toxic," does well enough to get everyone on the dance floor. Pat him on the back. You're too cool to be an annoying fan who recites his favorite lines.
1:15 am: Everyone is ready for your signature jam. Mask bad vocal skills with enough acting to "sell" the song.
2:30 am: The cabbie on the way home is playing New Order. WKTU redeems itself in a clutch moment, unlike the Yankees.
3 am: Blog about it.
"
Posted by rj3 at 1:58 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 15, 2007
Captain Obvious Rides Again!
"btw newark is one of the shittiest towns i have been to"
- Law school chum, first time living in NYC, blackberrying from EWR.
Posted by rj3 at 4:22 PM | Comments (390) | TrackBack
June 14, 2007
So.... what do you think of these new bendy buses?
This morning, I took the crosstown bus to the train to change up my routine from the geriatric caravan I usually take to work. Bus-wise, the crosstown is awful: crowded, slow and generally not much of an improvement over walking the four long avenue blocks to the train.
What made this trip unique, other than the route, was the fact that I ran into someone I went to high school with and haven't seen since. He sat in the back with his girlfriend. We made "do I know you?" squints as he and the girl carefully munched on carrot and cranberry bran muffins (alums of my school are known for excellent digestive health).
"Hey." he said.
"Hey, [name redacted]," I responded, fishing for something to say. I know he went to [Ivy League university] and almost got engaged to someone another long-lost friend dated in 12th Grade, but beyond that, I had no clue how he had kept himself busy over the course of this century.
He's getting his MBA in the fall. He's taking a class at Columbia. He used to work for a law firm I've never heard of.
"Have you heard from X?"
"No, have you?"
"Nope. What about Y?"
"Sorry, nope."
"Well, I'm getting off here. Good to see you. Keep in touch."
With that, I left the bus, glad to stop my descent into that empty conversation vacuum. Since I've been back in town, I've been spared a lot of these; the long-losts I've seen have all been anticipated and under the influence of alcohol. However, the longer I spend here, the more of these awkward moments I'm going to have to deal with.
Editor's note: This post started out really well, then ended with a whimper. I realize that. Sorry. Traditional plot arcs will return tomorrow.
Posted by rj3 at 11:18 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 13, 2007
Meadow Soprano's Parent Trap
I thought it could be a little late to blog about the Sopranos finale, but three days later, the chatter is still a deafening roar across office and Internet. People can think whatever they want about whether Tony died - I happen to think that he didn't, at least right there - but I have a major quibble with the standard line on Meadow, voiced in the form of righty agitprop by Josh Trevino on National Review Online:
A.J. was always something of a comedic character, a Tony without the will to power or the physical strength. Daughter Meadow was different: the hope of the family, and, in the early run of the series, the ostensible moral voice when morality was flouted. Yet by the end, she is more profoundly corrupted even than her brother. He simply repeats rhetoric and is bought off with toys; her fall is more profound. Her chosen course in life is predicated on a fundamental lie, and in this, she is more like her father than anyone else. Explaining to him her decision to abandon medical school and enter law, she says, “The state can crush the people — the government, specifically the Federal government. . . . You know what really turned me? Seeing the way Italians are treated. It’s like mom says, and if we can have our rights trampled like that, imagine what it’s like for recent arrivals. . . . If I hadn’t seen you dragged away all those times by the FBI, then I’d probably be a boring suburban doctor.”
Conveniently, Trevino omits the best punchline of the episode - when Tony follows "The state can crush the people" with "New Jersey?" It sets the tone for the whole conversation - Meadow is attempting to placate her father, who isn't too excited about Meadow abandoning her dreams of being a doctor. After all, Tony can't be a big fan of lawyers, in the same way that some people don't like doctors, since you see them when times are bad, they often fix the problem incompletely and they charge an arm and a leg for having done so. Meadow isn't sharing, she's selling. Trevino misses this completely.
Incredibly, she believes her father a victim — perhaps influenced by her mother, Carmela, who long ago wailed at FBI agents visiting Tony in the hospital, “When will you stop persecuting him?” Even Tony Soprano, a man who could rationalize any crime, and justify any action to sate any desire, is reduced to speechlessness at his daughter’s proclamation. Meadow Soprano is a thoroughly ordinary leftist professional, convinced of her crusade to save the downtrodden from the institutions of her own country, and utterly oblivious to the reality before her.
Forget for a minute the description of a $170,000 New York lawyer as a "thoroughly ordinary leftist professional" and get down to the crux of Trevino's misunderstanding. There is no way that Meadow is "convinced of her crusade" to help Italian-Americans. Between her childhood memories of daddy getting led down their winding Essex County driveway in handcuffs and her decision to go to law school, she has learned a lot about how Tony puts food on the table. In one of my favorite episodes, "The Happy Wanderer," Tony collects on a gambling debt from sporting goods store owner and old high school buddy Davey Scantino in the form of Scantino's son's SUV. When Tony turns it into a gift for the then-high school-aged Meadow, she lashes out at him for taking away her boyfriends' car. Meadow knows the score. She may take advantage of the creature comforts that being a mobster's little princess provides, but she doesn't particularly admire the dirty work that goes into it.
So why does she act like she thinks Tony is being persecuted? She plays the Italian-American card like a true pro because she knows what her father wants to hear. I find it hard to imagine any person who was ever financially dependant on their parents who hasn't used one of these lines:
"I need a car so I can stay late at school and work on (some academically worthy project)"
"I want to go to (far-away college) because it's a good school. It has nothing to do with moving away."
"We're all going to go to X's house to study together over the weekend."
...and so on. Call them white lies, call them an unbalanced highlighting of legitimate priorities, call them what you like. Simply put, Meadow was selling her dad on an image and attitude calculated to make him feel good about her decision. It's like when a presidential candidate buys a hardscrabble Texas ranch right before declaring his candidacy so he can have a place to be photographed clearing brush and generally looking like the opposite of the teetotaling, private school-educated New Englander he really is.
Posted by rj3 at 3:45 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 12, 2007
My authoritah?
Do any other biglaw summers out there have issues dealing with their secretary/administrative assistant? I've never had anyone under me at a paid job. In my extracurricular ventures, I usually get the underclassmen to work for me by a combination of cajoling, begging, convincing them it's going to be fun and the occasional baseless threat. Now, there's a person nearly twice my age whose job it is to fill out my FedEx slips, get my cab rides reimbursed and generally do the gruntwork that has been the substance of my office experiences before this gig.
She does it with a smile, I thank her, and she goes back to surfing eBay. I can't be the only one with all sorts of class consciousness issues about this whole setup.
Posted by rj3 at 3:07 PM | Comments (477) | TrackBack
June 11, 2007
The mystery borough
It felt like a coed and slightly lower-budget version of Sex and the City: three friends mulling over a fourth's New York-specific romantic dilemma. At issue was the dateability of a very nice, attractive guy with one possibly fatal problem.
He lives in Staten Island.
The reaction, from all of us (2 male, one female) was the same. Staten Island is a dealbreaker. It's only accessable from the rest of the city by one boat and one bridge - and that bridge goes to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn! A trip between uptown Manhattan and this guy's house could take upward of three hours and would involve a subway, a boat, a bus and possibly sherpas. It would be better if he lived in L.A., since there isn't an expectation of regular visitation. It would be better if he lived in Jersey, since you can get there on public transit without risk of striking an iceberg or getting plundered by pirates.
Needless to say, the advice recipient was a little nonplussed, although I get the feeling that she assumed we would say as much, if not with as much vigor. What was surprising is that between four people raised in New York City, none of us knew anything about Staten Island, other than the fact that it's accessable by boat and that there is a big dump in the middle. I offered my little nugget of knowledge: most of the Wu-Tang Clan is from Staten Island, which they called "Shaolin." Someone helpfully added that a lot of cops live there.
Nobody could name S.I.'s main street, although the Bronxite among us speculated that it's probably "Main Street, or Broadway, or something small town-y."
As it turns out, Staten Island is one of New York City's five boroughs, has its own rail line, a minor league baseball team and as many people living on it as live in Cleveland. Who knew?
Posted by rj3 at 1:09 PM | Comments (364) | TrackBack
June 8, 2007
Freak Scene
I saw Dinosaur Jr. at Irving Plaza last night. The usual concert observations apply: hipster parents with 6-year-olds at shows are annoying, dancing couples who take far more space than everyone else are annoying, the band was pretty good but obviously past their prime, etc. I'll just leave you with an old music video:
Dinosaur Jr., "Feel the Pain"
Posted by rj3 at 9:22 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 7, 2007
How I manage to accomplish anything is a mystery
Most of the buildings in my neighborhood are gray, brown or ugly white brick dulled to the color of marble, without the shine. Around my office, the buildings are similarly dour. Yet getting to work this morning, all I saw was an riot of color. Taxis exploded with brilliant yellows. Flags fluttered in the wind, assaulting me with piercing red bars and crazy psychadelic white stars swirling in a field of blue.
And it isn't just sight. It's sound, too. Waiting for my bacon, egg and cheese breakafst sandwich at the deli, it seemed as if the disco music was blaring so very very loud for that hour of the day. A side note: I love listening to disco at New York delis more than just about anywhere else, including in discos. Just as I find country music palatable only at divey honkey-tonks, the hum of activity and the general cheeriness of everyone in your average deli makes Donna Summer, KC and the Sunshine Band, Chic and their ilk sound like they were singing for the express purpose of accompanying sandwich preperation.
Why all the sensory overload? This is apparently what a hangover is like without the headache from loud music, the poisoned feeling from drinking well alcohol or the bloated feeling from having too much light beer. Drinking top shelf all night on someone else's dime leaves me feeling far better than the usual swill on special at bar review. Still, I'm not well rested (I had to check my phone's outgoing call log to get an idea of how late I was out) and I'm a total space-cadet when it comes to work.
Who's not billing until after lunch? It's me! It's me!
Posted by rj3 at 9:44 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
June 6, 2007
Silence is golden
When 3Ls come back from their summer jobs, they talk about the steak and the top-shelf bottle service at the hottest club in town. Absent from their glowing reviews is any discussion of actual work. After two years of listening to tales of luxury beyond our wildest dreams, I've arrived in the belly of the free lunch beast.
It turns out that there is work to do. Not so much that I have to sleep under my desk, but enough to keep me here past when we're rounded up for cocktails somewhere. This makes the workday (and sometimes a few hours on the weekend) a mad dash to get work done. Some of it is interesting, a good deal of it isn't, but that's what the law is - the hundreds of hours of doc review that pave the way to a brilliant cross-examination.
A little bitching and moaning at happy hour may make the daily dash a little easier. However, the firm is paying you hand over fist for work they probably won't even bill out to clients, feeding you the best food the city has to offer and soaking you in expensive booze. There are public interest interns out there eating ramen for lunch and typing memos on PCJrs.
Let's face it: no matter how great a job is (and summering at a law firm is among the best), there must be griping. Yet here, we have to be as grateful at all times, no matter what. Life outside the firm may be complicated and generally nutso and the work itself may cause the occasional drowning feeling, but nobody wants to take off the happy face.
I suppose that's what shrinks are for. As an added plus, as Dr. Melfi learned last week, therapy helps sociopaths be better liars. What more could an aspiring lawyer ask for?
Posted by rj3 at 3:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 5, 2007
I don't have to eat from a sidewalk cart
... but when it's as good as the food from the cart closest to my office, it's hard to resist. You're looking at "Chicken and Rice With White Sauce." The chicken is fresh and juicy, the rice is gently seasoned and the cook is far nicer than your average Midtown sommelier. C&RWWS costs all of $4, which is less than the venti iced latte I start out most days with. In fact, you could buy two of these, or two gyros, for the cost of one top-shelf draft beer in many Manhattan bars.
Posted by rj3 at 12:30 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 4, 2007
Demography of the M31
When I get on the CTA's route 143 at 8:45 a.m., I know that I'll be riding with "consultants" in their early 20s, attractive department store sales girls and the odd law student. The 151 at 9:30 takes on waiters in Lakeview, the mom-with-stroller crowd in Lincoln Park and the excruciatingly slow elderly in Gold Coast, many of whom you'll see on the 3 p.m. 151 going in the other direction, shopping bags in hand.
My new bus is the M31. It goes from the expensive 1980s-era apartment buildings on York Avenue, down the quiet end of the Upper East Side, past the Cornell Medical Center and then across Midtown on 57th Street. When I get on, the crowd is roughly as follows:
10% elementary school kids and their parents or Caribbean nannies
30% professionals, mostly in their mid-thirties and mostly staring at BlackBerries.
60% Seniors
Needless to say, this bus is painfully slow. There isn't that much traffic on York, but a combination of double-parked delivery vans, slow walkers and errant children makes it only slightly faster than a brisk walker. I've seen it a few times: I pass someone walking down the street at a medium-to-quick clip, we pass him, then I see him again while a 65-year-old woman with tightly tied up dyed-blonde hair argues with the driver about whether she could fit in wedged against the windshield instead of having to wait for the three other buses bunched up two blocks behind our bus.
Another interesting note about the people I ride to work with every day: some of them read the New York Sun. I've never seen anyone read that five-day-a-week neocon fantasy rag since outside the M31. That's not much of a surprise, since it sells about 13,000 copies a day, dumping an additional 85,000 copies on the doorsteps of unsuspecting rich white people (much like the Washington Examiner). This means that I've found a very elusive creature: the New York republican. Once thought only to exist only as grumpy outer borough racists, former trotskyites and their nepotistic aftermath, there is another breed along the route of my bus. Noblesse without the oblige, you might say.
Posted by rj3 at 9:22 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack