Incredible: "Researchers at the University of Calgary have found that nerve cells grown on a microchip can learn and memorize information which can be communicated to the brain."

a different drummer

Last night Priscilla and I were talking about the function of the SA Node, a tiny modulator in our hearts that keeps them pumping rhythmically, and all day I've been wondering about rhythm, how integral its presence is. As the only instrument which will allow me any shred of musical ability is the drum, I've always enjoyed the idea of rhythm, how it is present in the music of virtually every culture on earth. It goes beyond music, though. Rhythm to me is the essence of pattern, which is the essence of organization, the end of chaos. And organization means complexity and intelligence. Rhythm is purpose.

After all, what are these letters you are reading but a series of ones and zeros, patterns of presence (1) and absence (0)? Isn't that what rhythm is? Beat (1) and interval (0). I recently read Contact by Carl Sagan, and found it interesting that the superintelligent alien culture in the book had discovered that the secrets of the universe lay within the infinite numbers of pi, in the patterns of numbers embedded within the equation. The rhythms of the code. Science fiction may not provide the best example, however, so I checked out Mickey Hart's web site to see what he had to say about the idea. Here's an excerpt from his 1999 testimony before the U.S. Senate Committee on Aging:

Everything that exists in time has a rhythm and a pattern. Our bodies are multi-dimensional rhythm machines with everything pulsing in synchrony, from the digesting activity of our intestines to the firing of neurons in the brain. Within the body the main beat is laid down by the cardiovascular system, the heart and the lungs. The heart beats between sixty and eighty times per minute and the lungs fill and empty at about a quarter of that speed, all of which occurs at an unconscious level. As we age, however, these rhythms can fall out of synch. And then, suddenly, there is no more important or crucial issue than regaining that lost rhythm.

What is true for our own bodies is true almost everywhere we look. We are embedded within a rhythmical universe. Everywhere we see rhythm, patterns moving through time. It is there in the cycles of the seasons, in the migration of the birds and animals, in the fruiting and withering of plants, and in the birth, maturation and death of ourselves. Rhythm is at the very center of our lives. By acknowledging this fact and acting on it, our potential for preventing illness and maintaining mental, physical and spiritual well-being is far greater.

As a species, we love to play with rhythm. We deal with it every second of our lives, right to the end. When the rhythms stop, so do we. And this is where music becomes important. According to the late ethnomusicologist John Blacking, music is a mirror that reflects a culture's deepest social and biological rhythms. It is an externalization of the pulses that remain hidden beneath the busy-ness of daily life. Blacking believed that a large part of music's power and pleasure comes from it's ability to reconnect us with the deeper rhythms that we are not conscious of. And it is the connection with these rhythms that gives music the power to heal.

Not too flaky, considering it's coming from the former drummer of The Grateful Dead. There's a lot more here to think about, too. Cycles, revolutions, habits, all of these functions and behaviors are patterns, rhythms played through the music of life. The drum circle starts at my house at 7:00. No patchouli or birkenstocks allowed. Meanwhile, here's some tasty bits.

Justice ... limps along, but it gets there all the same

--Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Funny, I seem to feel that way a lot these days.

on a serious note

You know all those firefighters' stories you heard after 9-11? Like the one about the woman who was walking so slow that firemen had to help her down the stairs of the second WTC building, and as a result all their lives were saved? Those stories can be found here. I really didn't want to to read these, but I did. You should too.

further ruminations on the Romeros, courtesy of Bob Dylan

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweed's wove its strands.
The crashin' waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin' rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new love's breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.

I gazed down in the river's mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

I can't imagine why one might need to do this, but what does your phone number spell? Mine's "meg-o-yam". Whee.

music, yes

The other day, just as Torts class was beginning, I was talking with this fellow Adam who plays banjo and he asked me, "So what's your favorite instrument?" I though about it for a bit and guessed it would have to be the guitar, depending on who is playing it (if it is my roommate Mark in college, I would say the instrument should be permanently banned from society). However, there is now no need to worry about who should play the guitar at any given moment, for it should always be The Romeros.
Last night my new friend Priscilla and I attended one of the more sublime musical experiences I've witnessed. We drove up to to the Toledo Museum of Art, an impressive sprawling neoclassical complex just off highway 75 and watched this Spanish quartet do their thing at the Peristyle, a sort of Roman coliseum-style theater. Very impressive. As we walked in the atmosphere was hushed and alert, the soft, powerful music filling the room. Immediately after sitting down I realized we were in the presence of absoluty vituosity. Rich, complex melodies, evoking nights in Spanish cathedrals or street festivals in Barcelona swept over us. The layers of harmony rolled and swirled through each other, and it was beautiful.
What's cool about this quartet is that they are actually are "The Romeros." The grandfather, Celedonio, started playing many years ago and taught his two sons to play, who in turn taught their sons to play (you can get the chronology here). Watching their styles, the generational differences become apparent. The older fellows played softer, slower tunes, while the kids jammed it out, thumping rhythms on their guitars as they played, kicking it up a notch. The finale was a flamenco "improvisation" that had us nodding our heads and laughing as the sons showed off by playing with one hand, Jimi Hendrix-style. People were yelling "Bravo!" from the audience, and they were right.
As we walked out and were trying to describe how intense the music was I was reminded of the line attributed to Elvis Costello, who said, "Talking about music is like dancing about architecture." And I think someone else once described architecture as "frozen music." So rather than blather on vaguely about why each of you should catch these guys when they come to town, perhaps the best way to describe the unique experience of a Romeros concert is to humbly offer the following image.
Enjoy.

either this is crazy or someone's really good at photoshop

rather humorous

In passing is a funny blog relating random bits of conversation heard by this guy In Berkeley, CA. My favorite:

"Because anything that is not a positive response to the question, 'Do you want eggs?' could safely be considered a negative response."
--A guy at Jupiter

strike a pose

Can you copyright a pose? Interesting story here about a yogi who is calling his particular brand of yoga private property. I think I've decided to get a patent on my hairdo as it appeared this morning when I woke up.

This I gotta see.

Get ye bags. Get ye possibles.

This just in from the official Cormac McCarthy Society Web site:
"Cormac McCarthy is currently at work on a new novel, due Winter 2003 from Alfred A Knopf. No further details about this work in progress can be confirmed."

You may now put the Harry Potter aside and commence waiting. Periodic visits to the bookstore are permitted.

image

Stunning photos of urban australia here.

right on

the hills

Now that my tent has finally dried out, all of my fingers and toes have thawed and Scout is speaking to me again, I think it’s safe to relate the actual story of our camping misadventures over Christmas break. Let me preface this little tale by saying that it has been a long time since I’ve been camping. A long time. Ohio, for all its pastoral sublimity, is unfortunately a very flat place. I might also add that it is drab, monotonous, and irrepressibly dull and boring. The only campsites within 300 miles of me are RV parks populated infrequently by lost Canadian retirees. So after a semester of hitting the books, I was pining for the mountains again. I envisioned a relaxing jaunt into the snow-covered hills for a few days with some buddies, a weekend of big campfires and even bigger lies told around them, passing a flask and watching the stars in their pale fires wheel across the sky. It’s interesting how selective my memory can be when remembering past jaunts into the woods, however. Though the trip turned out to be a blast, it was no mere spree. Nate, Jim, Adam and I were hoping to head up to the Smokies at noon on Friday, which of course meant we wouldn’t actually leave Birmingham until after dark. I don’t know why it is, but our crew is oddly incapable of getting into the woods before, say, midnight on any given weekend. It’s not really a complaint, but I’ve learned to always bring lots of spare batteries because chances are we’re going to be doing a fair bit of night hiking. The plan of attack was to head up to Davenport Gap and stay in the shelter Friday, then spend a leisurely Saturday hiking the five miles up to Mt. Cammerer, where we would stay in the old fire-watching tower perched atop the cliff at the northern edge of the mountain. Of all my Smokies haunts, this one is probably my favorite. The odd octagonal structure was originally built back in the ‘30s literally on the edge of the ravine, affording spectacular views of all the land around. They rebuilt it just a few years ago. It’s not an officially designated campground, and there’s no water, so one must resort to a little stealth camping unfortunately. But it’s worth it. In the evening the sunsets are always spectacular, and the sunrises are even better. You can relax on the wooden porch, amazed to be on top of the world. So we headed out of Birmingham and made it almost to Chattanooga before Nate’s fancy turbo-charged super Saab threw a belt. Luckily we had two cars, as I was going to do some solo hiking after this trip and brought the trusty Rodeo along. Note to self: Check the belts. Grounded for the night as Autozone was fresh out of relevant parts, we all piled in, found a room at the Best Western and hit the town, seeing what trouble Chattanooga had to offer on a Friday night. Well, we whooped it up. We did manage to avoid interaction with either the authorities or rival gangs, so the night went well, although the guy at the front desk called at 3 a.m. to inform us he’d had a few complaints. I really can’t imagine why. Next day, and we were back on the road. A quick trip to the Cracker Barrel and the Saab dealership (and the local ibuprofen supplier) set us straight. We managed to hit the woods that afternoon and decided to head on up to Mt. Cammerer. We enjoyed a nice stroll up the mountain as the hills wrapped themselves in shadow. Well, maybe “enjoyed” isn’t the best word to use. Not very accurate. In fact, it’s a damned lie. The Appalachian Trail runs from Davenport Gap, the northern end of the Smoky Mountains National Park, directly south and directly UP to Mt. Cammerer, a five mile plod at basically a forty-two degree angle. To make matters worse, we had to carry a few gallons of water with us, which meant carrying eight-pound waterbags in our hands as we walked by moonlight up the winding path. A couple of hours and several bouts of imaginatively profane language later, we all emerged at the top, a little worse for wear but immensely glad to have arrived. Moonlight covered the weathered cliff in a soft, pale glow, rendering flashlights unnecessary. The lights of Pigeon Forge and countless tiny villages spread out through the valley, until they reached the base of the mountain and disappeared into black nothingness. The Smokies here are an anomaly, a massive, silent presence surrounded by literally millions of people. Standing on Mt. Cammerer is like staring out across a city from the highest floor of the highest building in town. Beautiful, but surreal. Anyway, we were beat when we arrived, so we quickly cooked up some black beans and rice with sausage and hit the sack. I stayed up for a while and chatted with a guy from Knoxville about sushi and God. A group of younger kids came in as I was falling asleep and quietly spread out their sleeping bags. It was a nice night, not too windy and not too cold. We all woke up early and ate bagels and watched the sunrise, considering the new light as it filtered through the clouds, filling the valley. It was Jim’s birthday, so we broke out a bottle of champagne Adam had brought in and toasted the day. Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my sham friends.. Then it was time to go. We hiked down the mountain in a silly mood, laughing with the various groups of hikers we met. As everyone had to be back at work on Monday except me, the fellas were going to take my car and leave it in Hot Springs, North Carolina, about forty miles away by trail. I didn’t have to be back at school for another week, so I figured I’d take the opportunity to hike up to Max Patch with Scout, and then on to Hot Springs, where I’d pick up my car and head up to school. Max Patch is a beautiful grass-covered mountain, or bald, about twenty miles south of Hot Springs, with spectacular views. It’s as if they’ve hired a yard man up there. If you can catch it on a nice day, it’s one of the prettiest hikes on the east coast, bar none. That’s if. Which, as Murphy would have it, is exactly what didn’t happen to me. When we hiked up to Mt. Cammerer the weather was beautiful, so as I repacked on Sunday I quite stupidly forgot to pack my gloves or my fleece layers, assuming the weather would be as dandy as I’d need it to be. Well, it was for Sunday. I said farewell to the crew and hiked in about five miles to a campsite I remembered from my 1999 hike and set up camp. The moon was bright, the wind was smooth and the creek beside my tent burbled in easy clinks and chuckles. Then the clouds rolled in. Just as I had finished dinner, washed my dishes and was settling into the ol’ sleeping bag to read my new Carl Sagan book, the rain started. And it rained. I woke and ate my breakfast in the rain. I packed up and set out hiking in the rain. I walked all friggin’ day in the rain, my boots and pack and clothes and food all gloriously soaked to the core, which added several more unwanted pounds to my pack as I walked up and over Snowbird Mountain, not an easy hill. My tent was so wet I’d had to wring it out like a towel that morning, so I didn’t anticipate setting it up again. My only option was to hike the whole fifteen miles to the next shelter. Great. Did I mention that it had gotten cold? Really, really cold? By about 3:00 my hands and face were numb, and I had to keep walking in order to maintain body heat. If I stopped for more than one or two minutes my wet clothes would take over and I’d start shivering uncontrollably. When I did stop, I had to pry my fingers from my hiking stick so I could unbuckle my pack. All I could think about was what an idiot I was. Let’s see, it’s January, I’m hiking in the mountains of North Carolina, and it snowed six inches here two weeks before. Gloves? Warm clothes? Nah. After a long, hard day, I finally rolled into Roaring Fork shelter as the light was failing. I thanked the gods. I then unpacked, feeling more and more miserable as I pulled out each cold, soaking wet bag. But I didn’t start worrying until I felt my sleeping bag. For a second I was sure that during the day my water bag had burst in my pack. I had never truly realized a sleeping bag could get that wet. As I pulled it out, water splashed. It didn’t drip, it splashed, and new curse words came to mind. Sailors worldwide blushed. Andrew Dice Clay wept and called his mother. It was going to be a long, long night. Luckily I’d made good mileage that day, which put me only about sixteen or seventeen miles from Hot Springs. As I cooked my dinner I figured I could maybe make it to Hot Springs the next day if I really busted it out. The more I looked at the water dripping from my sleeping bag, the tougher my resolve became. Finally I decided I would do it, which provided some options. Because I wouldn’t be needing my stove after that night I could crank it up and dry my sleeping bag on it! Hope suddenly broke through the stormclouds. I distinctly heard angels singing. With a new smile I proceeded to wring my sleeping bag out and lay it in a ring around the roaring stove. I had to be careful not to burn it, so I had to hold six-inch portions of the bag to the heat until the moisture steamed away in beautiful little clouds. This took me close to two hours. I couldn’t have cared less. Finally I got the inside of the bag dry enough to hold my body heat, and I crawled in exhausted. Scout curled up by my legs and whined quietly. I must have managed to drift off for a while because when I awoke the rain had stopped. But my joy was only to last for about two seconds until I realized that the silence outside wasn’t just from a lack of rain. It was way too quiet for that. A wet forest just sounds wet, and I wasn’t hearing anything. I poked my head through the saucer-sized opening and immediately felt the bite of frost in the air. Oh no. As my eyes adjusted I realized it had dropped below freezing and was now snowing. My water bottle was a solid block of ice. As I moved in the sleeping bag shards of ice showered onto Scout, whose fur had unfortunately frozen. Poor girl, she was shivering nonstop. I was too. I tried to go back to sleep for a while, but it was hopeless. The moment my eyes would close my body would shiver so hard it hurt my back. Unfortunately, the only way I could warm up now would be to start hiking. At roughly 4:00 a.m. I pulled the frozen sleeping bag off and started packing my gear. My pack was so stiff I had to beat it on the ground until it would open. By this time my situation was so ridiculously miserable that I was laughing out loud, cracking up each time I found another piece of gear frozen into some bizarre shape, covered in ice crystals. After packing each item I had to put my hands in my crotch for four minutes to get feeling back. But the worst part, the absolute most terrifically worst part of the whole episode was when I tried to put on my boots. You see, in 1999 I learned never to wear hiking boots because they are heavy, unwieldy, and generally pointless. Trail hiking shoes are infinitely lighter and more efficient (unless you’re carrying an 80-pound pack). If you’re hiking in the winter this is especially important because frozen shoes are easier to put on than frozen boots, which are basically . . . impossible. My bag was packed, Scout was ready to go, but I couldn’t get my feet into my damn boots. They were soaked when I went to bed and were now pure blocks of ice, the laces themselves frozen into amusing hieroglyphics. My only choice was to put my feet as far into them as I could and start walking. It was like wearing high heels. Frozen high heels. But I was able to hobble around, so I began circling the shelter, singing out loud the Rolling Stones song that was stuck in my head, slowly warming up my boots. Even Scout looked at me a little oddly. I think I circled the shelter fifteen times before my right foot finally slid into the boot, and the left joined shortly thereafter. With a whoop and a holler I stuffed the icy laces into my socks, grabbed my pack and bounded up the trail. As miserable as I was, the trail was stunning. During the night the soaked forest had frozen over completely, with each twig, branch and leaf sheathed in smooth glittering ice. Unbroken snow covered the ground. Stormgusts had piled ice into the trees on the tops of the mountain, shaping the icy surfaces into small windward angles. The forest was utterly quiet, insulated, broken only be the crunch of my boots on the trail. Scout was of course overjoyed to be in motion again and ran through the drifts recklessly. She chased anything remotely resembling a squirrel, often running so far away I lost sight of her, but then she’d come zooming by a few minutes later. After about an hour of this I had warmed up considerably and began enjoying myself. For once, everything was going to be alright. The rest of the hike was glorious but grueling, a sixteen-mile tramp into Hot Springs, most of it downhill. The sun came out and it was beautiful watching the shimmering ice-glazed mountains. But I was tired, cold, and hungry. I saw noone. My knees were killing me and I needed a beer. I didn’t roll into town until 2:00 that afternoon, having hiked almost nine hours. The first thing I did was to head to the Smoky Mountain Diner, where I had three cups of hot chocolate and a heaping plate of chicken-fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw and a generous portion of apple cobbler. I caught the other patrons watching me eat, so I toned my gusto down a bit. After all, I didn’t want to look ravenous. I went to my car and turned on the heat and sat there for a long time. Thus ended one of my least-enjoyable hiking fiascos ever. As I drove out of Hot Springs toward Asheville, where I was going to spend a few days with Daniel, I of course resolved to never suffer like that again. Ever. But because and in spite of that suffering, this will be a lesson I will forget in less than a year. As I’m sitting in the Pettit College of Law library one afternoon, agonizing over unilateral contracts, I’ll think back and remember the glow of sunlight through the ice-covered trees, the starlight above a canopy of silhouetted trees, that delicious first sip of hot chocolate. I’ll remember singing to Scout, cooking up a steaming pot of black beans and rice, and reading a good book by flashlight. My memory will carefully filter out the throbbing knees, the painfully cold fingers, the ice-covered underwear. Those annoyingly negative images will drift away, supplanted by the ones that tend to justify my enjoyment of the outdoors, the images that remain. And before long I’ll be out there again, cruising along in cold or in pain, in joy and existing, moment by moment, in the presence of a truly original and unfettered experience. Just one thing: remind me to bring my gloves.

snow, redux

We've got a foot of snow up here, which means that this weekend I get to indulge in my latest physically abusive sport, snowboarding. Over Christmas break I got a chance to learn how to snowboard bust my butt on hard ice over and over again, and boy I can't wait to get out there and do it again. Fun? You bet. Painful? You bet. But once you get it, I mean really get it, and manage to stay up and execute a turn or two, oh yeah. I used to look on the snowboarders as object of scorn and ridicule, watching these young kids fly by within inches of my ski poles, doing these punk little jumps and then wrecking tragically. Snowboarders tend to be younger guys with attitudes, the one who can actually look bored while streaking down a black diamond slope at 50+ mph. How do they do this? Anyway, I promise not to be one of these annoying punks in the lift line. But I fully plan on doing this one day, if it kills me. It probably will, come to think of it, but at least I won't look bored when I go..

swamped

Just writing to say that I haven't been writing much at all lately, which should be obvious if you've stopped by in, say, the last 6 months or so. I'm really busy this semester, especially since I didn't do as well as I wanted to last semester. I think I did well enough to get a job somewhere this summer, but this semester I am taking no prisoners. Things are well here otherwise, except for the bitter, bitter cold wind that greets me every morning as I mount my frozen bicycle. You know, the one so cold that neither the brakes or gears work at all. If you were on the verge of rushing up here for a surprise visit, you may want to wait for it to warm up a bit..

Good interview with Leo Kottke here.

alas, sala

The Crook children rang it in in style this year, attending a small party hosted by friends of friends, wherin there was a bonfire and cheer all around. I knew the party was going to be a special occasion when our host, Jeremy, a youth minister at nearby St. James Methodist church, went to light the bonfire. A formidable teepee of old furniture, some logs and a christmas tree had been erected in his spacious backyard, and he proceeded to dump a large quantity of gasoline on the wood. I seem to remember glancing around uneasily as he walked up to the well-doused wood with his lighter, but I could be mistaken. The first log lit immediately, and the fire began spreading around the base. But just as Jeremy took one step back, the fire hit the gasoline and BOOM -- erupted in a ball of flame. Luckily the flames barely touched Jeremy, but the concussion was decidedly impressive enough to make us all jump back in fear of our lives. And then we all fell out laughing. 'Ol Jeremy's lucky he didn't lose his hairdo on that one. After a while we indulged in the usual bottle rocket mayhem, during which most everyone quietly went back inside to the snack table and safety. As no injuries were reported, the evening, I suppose, was a success. Happy New Year indeed. Now Jim and I are heading up to the Smokies with Adam and Nate for a weekend of pastoral delight, after which I am going to continue hiking north on the AT for about 50 miles or so with Scout. Then back to Ohio. If I didn't see you over break, I'll see you next time I'm home, which shouldn't be long, as I've got to fly back in a few weeks for summer internship interviews in Birmingham and Montgomery. Wish me luck, and I'll catch you soon.

Merry Christmas, errybody

Ah, the balmy days of an Alabama winter. Our family just got back from Christmas in Tampa, Florida, where we attended my cousin Charlie Gage's wedding, a delightful affair in perfect weather. It never gets below 50 degrees in Tampa, in case you were wondering. Things are nice here in Montgomery, too; I wear shorts in the morning when I jog, and short sleeves all day. Yesterday my sister and I had to turn on the air conditioning in her car as we drove around town. So far the break has been warm, relaxing, and restful, so no worries here. Hope all of you are enjoying the same.

So is this a contract?

"As a small token of your friendship Sauron asks this," he said: "that you should find this thief," such was his word, "and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your good will. Find it, and three rings that the Dwarf-sires possessed of old shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours for ever. Find only news of the thief, whether he still lives and where, and you shall have great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?" --The Fellowship of the Ring, in "The Council of Elrond" Heidi Bond's blog cracked me up today, via mefi. She takes this "offer" and analyzes it according to Contracts law, which I just finished studying a semester of. A great glimpse into the pervasive, surreal and mind-numbing nature of legal thought today.

Twas the Night Before Christmas in Brooklyn

Twas the night before Christmas,
Da whole house was mella,
Not a creature was stirrin',
Cuz I had a gun unda da pilla.
When up on da roof
I heard somethin' pound
I sprung to da window,
To scream, "YO! Keep it down!"
When what to my
Wanderin' eyes should appear,
But da Don of all elfs,
And eight friggin' reindeer!
Wit' slicked back black hair,
And a silk red suit,
don Christopher wuz here,
And he brought da loot!
Wit' a slap to dare snouts,
And a yank on dare manes,
He cursed and he shouted,
And he called dem by name.
"Yo Tony, Yo Frankie,
Yo Vinny, Yo Vito,
Ay Joey, Ay Paulie,
Ay Pepe, Ay Guido!"
As I drew out my gun
And hid by da bed,
He flew troo da winda
And slapped me 'side da head.
"What da hell you doin'
Pullin' a gun on da Don?
Now all you're gettin' is coal,
You friggin' moron!"
Den pointin' a fat finga
Right unda my nose,
He twisted his pinky ring,
And up da chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh,
Obscenities screamin',
Away dey all flew, Before he troo dem a beatin'.
Den I heard him yell out,
What I did least expect,
"Merry Friggin' Christmas to all,
And yous better show some respect!"

It’s midnight, Saturday night. I’ve been at my desk studying for my civil procedure exam since 6:30, so long my posterior is complaining (inaudibly). I don’t mind, though, as I’ve got jurisdiction down cold. A few minutes ago a car went past slowly, sounding odd, muffled. Scout got nervous and ran to the door, the usual indication of either a needed pee or a stranger’s presence, so I went downstairs to let her out and it was so quiet and so completely white I walked outside in the absolutely silent snow, falling like thousands of tiny paper diamonds. So new nothing had disturbed its smooth blanket anywhere, only the one set of tire tracks through what was once the street in front of my house. Seriously, four inches in as many hours. This is Ada’s second snow, but this one is nicer, dry and cleaner than the deluge we got two weeks ago, where it got warm the day after and everything was soon just cold mud. Tonight it is well below freezing, and the snow stays frozen in your glove, on your jacket. It is perfect for snowballs, as Scout discovered much to her bewilderment, then dismay, then triumph. I am frequently reminded by my friends who are amused by the fact I am from Alabama that this is normal. Last year they got eighteen inches in two days, yada yada. But I don’t care. There is something so strange about snow that it’s like sunrises or fettuccini alfredo, cranking the music up when I drive. I hope it never gets old. I just wish there were some hills around here. Anyway, final exams are halfway over and sanity is with us, which is good. On campus the mood can go from jubilation to despair in about four seconds flat, then back again, although since we don’t know how we’ve done on our tests so far it’s hard to really relax. These are by far the hardest I’ve ever taken. But it’s the same for everybody, so all you can do, ironically, is hope your friends did worse than you did. I reckon we’ll see. The career services department has started cooking food every day after some students reported they had foregone cooking (and eating?) in order to study, which I thought was a bit ridiculous, but the free chili is nice. I would say as a general proposition that giving out free granola bars is the sort of behavior we should encourage. (Justices O'Connor, Rehnquist, Powell, Scalia, concurring. Justices Brennan, White, and Marshall dissenting on grounds of failure to prove intestinal jurisdiction.) I’ll be home on the 20th. I can’t wait to see yall.

Ouch

Just emerged from my Property final exam, three and a half hours of grueling analytical mayhem. I couldn't sleep very well last night because my study group stayed at the library late and I had a lot running through my head when I finally hit the sack at 11:00 pm. So a group of us are heading to the Beagle for a commiseratory beer and then I'm heading to the casa for a well-deserved nap. Please excuse me, my brain is slap wore out.

hubba hubba

So there I was perusing the date ads when I ran across the girl of my dreams..

um

I know blogs are pointless, often self-aggrandizing bouts of senseless twaddle, but I hope mine isn't this bad.

good article

Calvin and Hobbes, we hardly knew you.

help a brother out

Well Matt has decided to do the right thing even if, in the end, his posterior may disagree. He'll be cruising over 500 miles on a bike as part of an AIDS/LifeCycle ride in June, and he needs help ponying up the requisite pledge money. Go here for some info and go here to make a donation. If you've never perched in the saddle for a long period of time, trust me - it takes dedication.

Good stuff on Saturday: Set 1: Wilson Cars Trucks Buses Limb By Limb Dirt Seven Below Divided Sky Fast Enough For You Julius Set 2: Twist > Simple Taste Makisupa Policeman Buffalo Bill* David Bowie Strange Design Character Zero Encore: Friday * w/ Tom Marshall