I was relieved when my first year of law school ended, thrilled when I typed my last exam, happy when I graduated, and ecstatic when I finished the bar.

But man, nothing else in my law school career -- not even getting a scholarship or getting on law review -- beats passing the bar.

Garrison Keillor wrote this great essay on LA in today's Trib:

Midwesterner finds beauty in unlikely place

Published June 13, 2007

It used to be that Los Angelenos were much too cool to express outright pride in their city, feeling that boosterism is for yahoos from the Midwest, but when I was there last week I got an earful about what a good place it is from friends who never said anything like that to me before. They always talked about choking traffic, the unreality of real estate prices, the smog, blah blah blah, and now they were saying, "I couldn't live anyplace else."

The bright burst of civic feeling might have been due to the bad brush fires -- it had been a very dry winter and spring -- with a major blaze a month ago right in Griffith Park in the heart of the city. Eight hundred firefighters put that fire down and immediately became heroes to everybody, and it showed people how much they loved L.A., just like your mother's colon operation jolts you into reality.

Everybody knows the comedy version of L.A.: the celebrity-crazed city of skinny tanned women, cell phones in hand, driving Suburbans the size of personnel carriers at 80 m.p.h. taking a tiny child to the therapist to address self-esteem issues. Those jokes play well out in the flat parts of the country. A Midwesterner goes to L.A. and feels a certain sense of moral disapproval. The squalor, the opulence, the expense of natural resources to support middle-class life in an arid place, the fascination with the misshapen lives of young celebs. It isn't the Canaan it was for our grandparents. We look at it and see a run-down bungalow selling for a half-million and cars inching along the 405 and say, "No thanks."

But it's good to know there's another point of view. The sun does shine there, and people enjoy their lives -- the spirit of "la pura vida," or the love of life for its own sake, the opposite of Calvinist America, as Randy Newman sings:

From the South Bay to the Valley

From the West Side to the East Side

Everybody's very happy

'Cause the sun is shining all the time

Looks like another perfect day

I love L.A.

And then you run into extraordinary young people there who typify California, bright, motivated, disciplined, idealistic women and men who climb the slopes of academe and also surf and swim and play beach volleyball and who love the climate and nature and culture. It is more than ever a city of immigrants, the Europeans diminishing, the Rodriguezes and Jimenezes and Marquezes burgeoning. Immigrant culture isn't so pretty -- you rent a cheap storefront, work 16-hour days, scrimp on landscaping, make your kids toe the mark -- but there is dignity to it.

Unrestricted immigration is a dangerous thing -- look at what happened to the Iroquois. They failed to impose border controls and before they knew it, they were dying of infectious diseases they had no names for. In California, however, it was Spanish before it was English and now it's simply tending back that way.

I met up with a niece from Boston for dinner in L.A. She told me she was there for the first time in her life, so I did my uncle duty, got a car and took her for a spin as the sun was setting. We walked along the beach in the dark, the Santa Monica pier glittering in the distance, and then we cruised some lush streets and headed east on Sunset Boulevard, the sunroof open, traffic bopping around us, and then, looking for Melrose Avenue and the Paramount Studios with the classic front gate from "Sunset Boulevard," I lost my bearings and circled for a while, but it felt good to promote L.A. to an Easterner.

We live in a snarky time, heavy irony clacking everywhere like people walking around in tap shoes, and it's a privilege to speak up for a despised city. Seattle, sit down. New York, shut up. Vermont, this is not about you. You want to hear about New Jersey or North Dakota or Nebraska, just ask.

I like this essay for two reasons. First, I appreciate that someone is writing something nice about LA for a chance. Ever since my first day of New Student Week, I have met numerous people in Chicago who've decided, without spending any significant time in Los Angeles, that they don't like the city. More often than not, these people attribute their displeasure to traffic and superficiality, which I totally understand. But what annoys me is that they overlook the wonderful things that LA has to offer, like the beach, the variety of cultures, the proximity to beautiful and/or fun places (Baja California, Vegas, SF, and everything in between), and everything that Keillor praises in his essay. I'm not saying that everyone should be in love with LA, but they should at least give it a chance. I absolutely hated Chicago during college. It was until about four months before graduation that I even entertained the idea of staying, and when I finally did stay, it was because I realized that Chicago had so much more to offer than Century 12 in Evanston and Old Orchard.

The other reason I really like this essay is this line: We live in a snarky time, heavy irony clacking everywhere like people walking around in tap shoes. Since I tend to study in cafes and don't talk to anyone in my bar classes, I overhear many conversations everyday. Out of every 10 conversations,8 centers on complaining about other people -- neighbors, friends, family, co-workers. I know this is how people bond; I'm just as guilty of it anyone. What bothers me is that most of those complaints are delivered with a tone of disdain, as if each person being complained of has to be a complete idiot for not conforming to the complainer's world order. I've never had a good way to describe this. To myself, I identified it as the Seinfeld phenomenon because it seems like so many people have adopted the somewhat arrogant tone that the Seinfeld foursome assumed. Keillor's line, however, more precisely describes how I see these complaint-laden interactions.

can you say "needle in a haystack"?

Some of you know about how my ring become, um, less than complete earlier this year. I recently had to explain the situation to a friend by email, so I thought I'd post the story for those of you who were out of the loop:

No no, I still have the ring. A while back, maybe at the beginning of February, one of the little diamonds on the side just up and left. I didn't realize that it was gone until I was on the phone with Gary, admiring my ring, when all of a sudden I noticed a big gap, like a kid who lost her front teeth. I gasped, Gary asked what was wrong, and I told him that a diamond was missing. At that point, he said, "WHAT DIAMOND?!?" Because I have a bad history with jewelry (having lost my aunt's engagement ring when she stupidly gave it to me when I was 11), he assumed the worst. He was mad for a second -- until I got all indignant and explained how it was totally and completely not my fault. So then he calmed down and told me not to worry about it because we could just replace it at the jeweler, probably for free.

But I was not about to lose a diamond and not try to look for it. So I got on my hands and knees, put my face up near the carpet, and sifted through the carpet with my fingers, hoping that a little diamond would pop out. Then I went to my car and did the same thing. I knew I probably wouldn't find it, but I couldn't help but think about how some little African boy worked long days to find that little thing and how pissed he would be if I didn't at least look. "C'mon, woman, you can at least try!" Needless to say, I didn't find it. I still have no idea where it is. We brought the ring back to the jeweler, who replaced the diamond but never gave me a satisfactory explanation about how a diamond could fall out. He ensured me that it wouldn't happen again, but you still see me, every few hours, checking my ring to make sure everything's there :)

Just for the record, that story is 100% true, no embellishment. This engagement is full of hi jinks. Just wait 'til you hear the full story about the proposal.

Oh, and by the way, only 24 hours of law school left, suckas!

friday night lights

Having cable and Tivo this year has meant that I watch too much TV. I watch so much TV that I would kick major ass at any game that required me to identify actors acting in different shows at the same time. For example, Peter Petrelli's wife in Heroes is Jack Bauer's sister-in-law/former flame in 24; the former mistress in Brothers and Sisters is the president of the United States in Prison Break; the seamstress in Ugly Betty is Ricky Gervais' lady friend in Extras; Charlie from Ugly Betty is Charlie from Heroes; and I could go on. It's sort of a sick skill that I'm not particularly proud of, but I'm a third year, dammit, and I can rot my brain if I want to.

If I had to give up all my TV shows only to watch one, there's no question about which show I would pick: Friday Night Lights. It is, without a doubt, the absolute best show on TV today, better than Heroes or Lost or Grey's Anatomy or 24 or any other popular show. At the beginning of the season, I had no intention of watch a drama involving (1) football, (2) teenagers, and (3) Texas. But Gary had seen the pilot on a flight, and he was really pushing for me to watch it when it aired on television. Within a few episodes, I was hooked. Now, not only do I look forward to new episodes every Wednesday, but I also re-play each episode to savor each nuanced moment for a second and sometimes third time.

What explains this devotion? First, the show's not really about football. Of course, football provides an important backdrop to the stories, and part of the drama comes from wondering whether the football team will win the state championships, but to say that Friday Night Light is about football is like saying that Brokeback Mountain was about ranching. This appeals to me because, no matter how much Gary tries to sway me, I do not really enjoy football. I don't hate it, but I definitely won't derive pleasure from watching a show all about it.

What I like about the show, oddly enough, is that it's about teenagers in Texas. The high school thing, I admit, has been done to death on television, but none of the shows that come to mind (90210, Dawson's Creek, The OC) manage to portray teenagers in such a nuanced way. One story, for example, centers on an offensive comment made by an assistant coach. In an interview, the coach referred to his black players as "junkyard dogs" and suggested that the quarterbacks tend to be white because of their mental agility. Black players became outraged and threatened to walk out if that coach was not fired. Fearing a loss that would cost them the state championship, the white players suggest that the black players just drop the issue. On most shows, the head coach would either side with his players by firing the assistant coach or side with the coach by keeping him on board. This show, however, went beyond a superficial resolution and managed to accomplish a grey-area ending that I never saw coming. Can you think of what that ending could be? Chances are you can't, which is why you should be watching this show.

There's another reason why I like the show: when I grow up, I want to be Coach Taylor. This may seem ironic because Coach Taylor is a man and his wife is an admirably strong, confident, and outspoken woman. But I know who I am, and try as I might, I'm not an extrovert who can win people over with charm and a smile. I don't really like talking too much, but Coach Taylor shows that you can be a person of few words and still stand up against people and fight for what you believe in. I know that sounds cheesy, but those traits really are what I love best about that character. And they're played out impressively by Kyle Chandler, who is so much more than "that guy who got blown up in Grey's Anatomy."

If you're at all curious about the show, Bravo will run Friday Night Lights marathons every Friday and Saturday during March and April. That way, you can start from the very beginning. If you make your way through the season, then you can watch the last three episodes of the season on Wednesdays at 8PST/7CST. And if you want to see all the other critics and viewers who love love love this show, see the Fight for Lights website. No, I'm not getting a commission from NBC for this pitch, but I am hoping that more people will watch the show so that it comes back next season. Chances seem slim, but I really don't want Friday Night Lights to be the next Freaks and Geeks.

the perfect monday

Like gas prices, temperatures in Southern California are on the rise. Yesterday, LA broke records, which my friends and I could feel all too well on our downtown LA campus. So, like any self-respecting student in her last year of law school, I cajoled my friends to ditch their afternoon class and spend the day with me at the beach. We arrived at 2, ate lunch on the pier, set our towels down at 3, and laid there -- talking, making fun of other beach-goers, pretending to read, laughing -- until sunset (7pm, courtesy of daylight savings!). After a nice dinner at P.F. Chang's, we ended the day very exhausted yet very happy by the amount of sun we absorbed and the amount of food we ate. Days like this are numbered for me because (1) my future employer probably won't look kindly upon me taking off on a Monday afternoon, and (2) I don't know when I'll ever live in LA after this year. So if you ever try calling me on a Monday from now until June and I don't pick up, you'll know why.

jammin'

Last night, to celebrate my friend's birthday, some girls and I surprised her with tickets to a concert featuring The Roots at the Gibson Amphitheatre. Originally, we told her that we were taking her to the night zoo, a lame but sufficiently plausible idea that threw her off our scent, especially given how gullible she is. To get to the amphitheatre, we had to walk through University Citywalk, a tacky combination of Las Vegas and Times Square. The whole time, she kept asking me where the zoo was, and I just told her to keep walking until we hit the end of the citywalk. My friend is so gullible that when we were steps away from the entrance, she thought to herself, "Man, there sure are a lot of black people at the zoo tonight." Thoughts like these are why we love her.

The concert itself was fantastic, which isn't surprising because I love live music. In the hierarchy of things enjoyed, I place concerts above five-star restaurants, fancy clothes, massages, and maybe boat rides. What I love most is the sense of being in a crowd of fans who appreciate the music. If the concert is big and it's really good (e.g., Kanye West at Lollapalooza), I feel like the audience is one giant entity, which makes me feel oddly free. If the concert is small and it's really good (e.g., Alexi Murdoch at Schubas), I feel like it's just me and the artist. Either way, a good concert allows me to let loose in a way that I can't really replicate anywhere else.

Akon opened the show with about twenty minutes worth of songs. Apparently, he usually does longer sets, but he had to get his beauty rest for the Grammys tonight. Whenever I hear Akon's songs on the radio, I like hearing his voice but I always lament on how stupid his lyrics are ("smack that?" really?). Luckily, he sang songs from his first album, which came out in several years ago before he went to jail, and those songs are actually much better (i.e., less commercial).

After a short break, the Roots came out, and they really rocked the house. They mostly did songs from their newest albums, but they also did a great cover of a song by Bob Dylan named "Masters of War." I had never heard this song before, so it was really powerful to watch them perform each stanza. It's much better to hear these words rather than read them, but I'll post the lyrics anyway:

Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks You that never done nothin' But build to destroy You play with my world Like it's your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain You fasten the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion As young people's blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud You've thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain't worth the blood That runs in your veins How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I'm young You might say I'm unlearned But there's one thing I know Though I'm younger than you Even Jesus would never Forgive what you do Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand o'er your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead

That song was written over forty years ago.

Perhaps to lighten the mood, the Roots then went into a long string of random songs that had the house on its feet. It was like being a club when the DJ plays an especially great set, except that the band was performing it right then and there. The only songs I can distinctly remember is Justin Timberlake's "Sexyback" and that "world tour" song that all good clubs play but whose name I can't remember. Halfway through the seven or eight song set, they started playing one of Talib Kweli's songs, and two seconds in, who comes running onto the stage but Talib Kweli himself! The whole crowd erupted, and I thought my friend was going to hurl me across the amphitheatre because she was so excited. Apparently, cameos like this are common in LA shows because everyone lives around here.

As exciting as that was, I think the best cameo came at the end of the night. My friends and I sat toward the back of the amphitheatre, so I couldn't quite make out faces or anything. The concert was reaching its end, so the band formed two parallel lines and did the old Soul Train walkouts. Everyone's doing their dancing when all of a sudden, I notice a tall, skinny black guy with distinctive dancing moves sporting jeans and brown hoodie. I turned to my friend and said, "Hey, is that Dave Chappelle?" and sure enough, the Roots announced Dave Chappelle! Seeing him was the best way to end the night, even if he didn't tell a joke or two. To celebrate Valentine's Day, my friends and I are going to see Common, so hopefully we'll see the same, if not more, familar faces then too.

In other music-related news, I found a website that has a link to Ray Lamontagne's cover of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." I first heard the original version on KCRW around March 2006. Back then, it was such a cool song because it had this old yet funky element that I had never heard on the radio before. But within two short months, it went from KCRW to KROQ to Star to KIIS (an indie-to-pop progression that Angelenos will understand), and I couldn't really listen to it anymore. But then KCRW started playing Ray Lamontagne's cover probably about six months ago, and I've been looking for a way to buy it ever since. It's acoustic, meaning of course that it's completely different from the original. Not better, just different. Unfortunately, it's not really being sold anywhere, but luckily, I found a blog that plays the song. Listen and enjoy.

out

On Saturday night, I went out. Not out to a twenty-something dinner party or out to a showing of Dreamgirls at the local cineplex, but out to an actual club where people dance and drink. This may not seem like a big deal if you knew me circa 2002, but since I've been in law school, I've never gone out with my friends in LA, not even for the post-finals "everybody-who's-anybody-goes" celebrations. So yes, it's such a big deal that I'll say it again: I went out.

Despite being a momentous event personally, the night itself was refreshingly chill. My friends and I went to the Echo, an LA club whose basement-like interior was only slightly upgraded by a few strategically-placed strands of multicolor Christmas lights. Behind the bar were unadorned shelves of liquor, which were served by bartenders wearing the same attire as their patrons -- t-shirts, athletic jackets and hoodies, jeans, and sneakers with the occasional high heel. The understated environment kept the focus on the music, a great dance-able mix of underground hip-hop and neo-soul, topped by the completely out-of-place theme song from Greatest American Hero ("Believe it or not, I'm walkin' on air...").

Going out reminded me how much I love dancing. When I'm in Chicago, we usually end up at a lounge or bar where I sit while everyone else drinks, and when I was in San Francisco, we usually went to the all-Asian meat markets where the music is usually just truncated versions of hip-pop songs. Even in my early clubbing days, my dancing was more about meeting people and making impressions rather than pure love for dancing. On Saturday night, however, it was really just about me. I wasn't looking for a man or a one-night-stand, so I wasn't out to impress anyone, as evidenced by my lack of make-up and earrings, my ponytail, and my un-sexy robot t-shirt. I just wanted to dance -- and dance I did for three straight hours. Of course, I spent one of those hours swaying and pushing my heavy eyelids open and wondering how I would possibly drive 25 miles back to my house (I can now sympathize with Flo for all those times she bailed early to go back to Northbrook!). But I did get my second wind 2/3s into the night and managed to stay up until 2am, just shy of Eddy's old goal of 2:30am. I paid for it the next day when I had to be back in LA 8:30am for a all-day production day for law review, but the aches and slowed motor skills were well worth it.