ΜΥΚΟΝΟΣ

It turns out I was very ambitious in my procrastination stupor, and should have studied The Odyssey as much as my flashcards:

Sirens caught me in their snare!

Mykonos is an idyllic island full of windmills, white buildings, and the clearest, bluest water Poseidon has ever seen. That’s all. Somehow that was enough to make me stay there two extra days. Whoops!

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Check out my Mykonos pictures here. Or view more philfiles posts about Greece and my bar trip.

Why did the goat cross the road?

…to get to the oracle, of course.

Greek livestock has a surprising predilection for human architectural feats; in Delphi, goats crossed the road with gumption. They stared down drivers better than most New Yorkers and romped around one of the most famous mountain slopes in human history.

A few minutes later, we walked into a local restaurant and ate fried goat cheese. It was an awkward moment.

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Check out my Delphi pictures here. Or view more philfiles posts about Greece and my bar trip.

Δελφοί

Apparently the journey to/from the center of the WORLD involves spinal duress and a mismanaged bus system, including a fat hairy man sitting on your lap. But it’s worth it!

Our canine philosophers snuck us out of the Acropolis before noon, evading the barbarians at the gate. And not a moment too soon; locusts of American and Asian tour guides were already feeding on the Propylaea steps.

The trip to Delphi was mostly limbs thrashing and teeth gnashing while a retired Greyhound sputtered and coughed around the Peloponnese. I found it a little disturbing that my pilgrimage to the “navel” (omphalos) of the world was probably more unpleasant than it was 4000 years ago, but I splayed and wriggled on my half cushion until a serene tableau opened before us. tabl-whoa.

History: Man’s Best Friend?

Reader, after traipsing across the Peloponnese today, you may be in for a triple-header.

While ancient Egypt revered cats, modern Greece seems to worship dogs. They’re everywhere!

History is for the dogs, apparently. A particularly learned pair led us up and around the ruins, loafing on limestone while Jerome tinkered with his SLR. They kept a quiet vigil over the ruins, patrolling the paths better than the park guides.

I named one Aristotle, and after he spent ten minutes studying the bugs under a rock, lived up to his name. Apparently “community dogs,” are big in Athens, and although they seemed well-fed at the Acropolis, those seemed to be aristocratic ferals — too many alley dogs had missing limbs and/or diets.

How do you say “Bob Barker emergency!” in Greek?

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Check out my Athens pictures here. Or view more philfiles posts about Greece and my bar trip.

Αθήνα

Well, today was defined mostly by what I could remember from my abortive freshman art history class. And that’s cool. Jerome and I wandered around the cradle of Western Civilization for the better part of the morning, reading tour books and marveling at rotting limestone.

I couldn’t decide what was better for today’s post–history or humor–so I am choosing a combination of the two. The Acropolis is perhaps the most culturally rich hilltop in the world, the most dense outdoor museum on Earth, and there are no dutifully explanatory markers. The Propylaea just exists, unheralded. But one of the few signs on the Acropolis is a litany of rules, etched in stone:

∆ is actually its grade.

It’s been two days since my funeral–also known as the bar exam–and I found myself waking up to…odd french wailings on the Thames?

During my law-induced stupor, I left accommodations to Jerome. This seemed appropriate given his kin’s renowned reservation skills, but Jerome seems to be a black sheep in the family. The resulting bag was thoroughly mixed: an unremarkable Delta flight from New York (perhaps its namesake is also its grade?), pleasant sunny London climes (!)…and a hotel that looked like the Addams Family safari house.

Despite Jerome’s failings, I used this outpost–perched at the edge of Edgware Road–to resurrect haunts from yesteryear. London streets drip with history, especially those from 2005. I spent most of the day vaguely reenacting my antics, weaving around Little Beirut and snagging swigs of pints…taking old paths from new perspectives. Who says you need a Deloreon when you have an Oyster card that kept ten quid active?

I’m outta here.

Purgatory! That’s what these months are going to feel like. At mere mention of the bar exam, my blood quickens and my knees knobble and something in my stomach starts wringing its hands.

So I’m leaving. I’m leaving all my bright blue books, flash cards, and gathering vitamin water bottle graveyard.

I’m going to Greece! They don’t seem to have too many laws there, so this trip should work nicely. Besides, where better to celebrate vanquishing the Socratic method than in Athens?

Let’s see if you can keep up. As you can see, one of my travel companions is already packed up. First, I’ll be leapfrogging through a familiar town along the way.

See you there; cheerio!

View more philfiles posts about the New York state bar examination and the glorious trip I am taking after.

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655 West 34th Street

As a reflection of the profession we vied to enter, the New York bar exam was plagued with an elaborate set of rules that were at once both trivial and REQUIRED. Tickets must be printed in advance. IDs must be government-issued. Snacks and supplies must be contained in a transparent ziploc bag no larger than one gallon. Hats and hoods cannot be worn. Snacks must be quiet.

Like our futures, the location of the exam itself sat on a precipice. The convention center crouched at the edge of Manhattan, past an unlucky strip of warehouses, mail depots, and haphazard construction projects. The examiners must have intended to not only test us on every tort action, but to have us walk through them as well.

factum est.

It is done.

It turns out, God does not play dice. Bar examiners do.

Bar Brains

You know you’ve been studying too hard when you coax a friend by saying, “come on…be a reasonably prudent person.” Which is worse — that I said it, or that it worked?

July 28 and 29 is (finally!) the bar exam, where I am allowed a non-programmable clock and any “quiet snack” that may be placed in a transparent, gallon ziploc. The NY rules seem like an unholy hybrid of airport security and checking into a mental hospital — which seems rather appropriate.

See you on the other side, reader! Ignorantia legis non excusat. This is going to be a wild ride.

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Bar Exam Study Tips

The world is my oyster library!

When you tell people that you are studying for the New York state bar exam, they tend to offer conflicting advice:

take breaks; never stop studying.

don’t forget to eat; don’t stress eat.

don’t forget to sleep; don’t forget to wake up.

make flash cards; make outlines.

study alone; study in groups.

All good. In fact, I took Mother Nature’s (questionable) advice today and studied in Washington Square Park. But perhaps the best arrived in a letter today from my 10 year old sister:

1. Don’t sweat.
2. Chillax.
3. Bring a Number 2 pencil.
4. Study with a teddy bear.
5. Say a prayer.

Someone should really tell Bar/BRI; that’s best five-step strategy I’ve ever heard.

View more philfiles posts about the New York state bar examination.

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Flash Dance

mock bar. real fear.

This month, your favorite lawyer-fetus is entering a FINAL gestation phase…with (hopeful?) BIRTH during the New York bar examination on July 28-29!

So far, this pregnancy has been painful. And unfortunately, they haven’t figured out a Caesarian-analog to attorney-birth, so I am burdened with the Herculean and unrelenting weight of the legal profession for the duration. Gummy bear cravings are common.

I have decided to gird myself for such a descent towards legalistic bliss(?) by converting my room into a flash card sweatshop. So far, productivity is anemic and labor unrest is common.

Here’s hoping I don’t get late-term aborted.

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View more posts about the New York state bar examination.

Independence: 25 Days Later

With the sort of frenzied, desperate joviality that only bar examinees can muster, the BBQ atop our easement appurtenant on Dean street was a wild success.

Despite the fact that Henry Hudson reached beyond the grave to foil our whimsical fireworks display, guests sparkled in their best red, white, blue — and even green — based on their favorite revolutionary movements. It was the type of revelry that would astound even Ben Franklin, the Founding Father of attending parties when there’s legal work afoot.

My law school friends were nice enough to attend this final party before hiding in their undisclosed locations to whittle away at that hideous hydra of wills, property, trusts, con law, criminal law, criminal procedure, contracts, secured transactions, domestic relations, torts, evidence, new york practice, corporations, federal jurisdiction, agency, conflicts of laws, and professional responsibility. They even controlled their unruly friends who crashed the party: exhaustion, stress, and desperation.

Independence Day proved memorable, if misnomed. True independence will arrive 25 days later.

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View more philfiles posts about the New York state bar examination.

Frailty, thy name is Macintosh!

The casualty rate during my preparation for the bar exam is soaring: first my social life, then my computer?

It seems that the presence of ten telephonesque BAR/BRI books and an unyielding sense of doom cripples even the most inanimate of human companions. I suppose my laptop really misses things like non-recycled air and parks. On the flipside, there are certain matchless joys here, like my burgeoning Vitamin Water graveyard and the steady consumption of Office Maxxxxx supplies.

But alas (and perhaps alack), I must once again pack for my near-annual journey to that technological Mecca in SoHo, characterized by long-lines and neon geniuses. One of whom I — unfortunately — dated. Let’s hope that professionalism prevails over yesteryear’s fumbled rejection. My digitally encrypted memories hang in the balance!

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The Iranian (S)election

Iran is an essentially conservative country. As a result, it should not be surprising that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would be re-elected in a landslide victory. What is surprising — and utterly riveting — is widespread belief that he had to resort to fraud in order to win it.

We will never know whether the ostensible election this week represents the true desires of an Iranian public, but we do now that an accurate tally has not been taken. The results defy all logic, polls, and common sense…and my deepest hopes for a combustible region.

My heart is breaking over the election in Iran. Hope feels like it’s suffocating. But even in this dark hour (light in Tehran?), it is surviving. After all, the millions who voted still made a difference. Their actions — waiting in line for hours, demanding a voice — forced the issue. They forced Ahmadinejad to resort to cheating. If they had never voted, he would have “won” anyways. But now that they did, they know, for a fact, that he didn’t deserve it.

Philfiles fans say…stay in school!

Look! Longtime philfiles reader Molly has become the POSTER GIRL of her all-girls alma mater! See, philfiles takes you places.

So spaketh our fan Molly, of Indianashires: “We [at Saint Mary's] have small classes and personal attention from professors, but we also have so many clubs…” and opportunities to read philfiles for hours on end. Congrats Molly!

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ex silentio

Also: is Twitter making philfiles obsolete?

Apologies for the neglect. In a flurry of packing tape and bubble wrap, my blogging muse was carelessly tossed in an unlabeled box; it sat squirming somewhere between my rosary and Catcher in the Rye. I blame the movers.

But excuses are boring. What’s not boring is my account of moving out. Under my couch I found varied and sundry items: jelly beans, a federal court brief, a beer bottle, and congealed salsa-like substances … which together seems like an excellent metaphor for my year in Chelsea.

After nearly five years (already?), my blogging muse is nothing if not resilient, resisting an avalanche of finals, graduation, a cross-borough ford to the scrappy shores of Brooklyn, NY. It has been surviving, defiantly, in 140 characters or less. Like salsa, you can’t get rid of it (apparently). It just takes different forms.

What you see waiting for the C

When I slipped below West Fourth street, an offhand piano recital gave rise to the best possible symbol of my New York:

The piano — mysteriously rolled(?) into the underground urban network — heaved a whimsical rendition of Mozart that soared above the rails, dancing along the subway tracks. The piano keys popped like whack-a-mole, rattling with oncoming trains like chattering teeth.

Normally frenetic passengers stood motionless, frozen like statues by the absurdity of the scene. “Oh!” and old woman squealed, as she leaned on her cane and snapped pictures: “This will look perfect on my Facebook!” The musician stopped for the surprisingly hip grandma. He gave her a peace sign as the symbol of his internet celebrity. The serenade resumed.

Philfiles Censored!

I guess I’m doing something right.

Avid philfiles reader — and apologist! — Molly L., while PRODUCTIVELY educating young minds at Woodside Middle School, was blocked from accessing philfiles.net today! What makes this site such a pollutant for young minds? Was it the moderately irreligious spring break jokes? The expositions on the sexual proclivities of gnomes? Bob Costas jokes?

No one messes with Bob, I suppose. But either way, I am one step closer to becoming the Socrates/Holden Caulfield/Harry Potter of the Internet, and for that, I couldn’t be more proud/misunderstood/charmed.

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head west my sun

Of all the memorable moments on our trip west, the most striking came daily as our hybrid hurdled west, chasing the sun as it effortlessly dipped into the horizon. We were grateful to have sunsets as our guide, leading us to the edge of the world.