Law School Grade Release LIVE BLOG

11:35
I am sitting here at the law library, where grades from first semester may or may not be released at noon. Today could be the day when the proverbial boys become men, and the proverbial slime molds realize their dreams of getting an interview with Sullivan and Cromwell. Interviewing tip: they love if your slimey slug ooze can be used as lubrication, because it may come in handy with the job of screwing pandas/poor people. CORPORATE SYNERGY.

What does it all mean? Don't spend too much time thinking about it.

11:44
The library is 4 stories tall. The bottom floor is silent, and filled with cubicles. If you want to start a discrete puppy-skin assless chaps business, this is the floor. Why puppies? Because the meat is tender (Ed. note: Duh), and using the whole puppy is just environmentally friendly. The second floor is also quiet, but whispering is permitted. If your voice rises above a whisper, however, you will be shushed with nuclear aplomb. FEEL THE WRATH OF MY EXHALATION. The third floor is where I am, thus it is full of annoyed people and smells vaguely of brown bananas. The fourth floor is open and overlooks the third, thus it is the best place to pantomime riding a horse while wearing the assless chaps.

11:54
T-six minutes. Could this be the time? A group of first-years just rolled out. Maybe they have inside information! Maybe they talked to people in the know! Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me! And after all! YOU'RE MY WONDER-WAAAHHHLLL.
/Oasis seizure

11:59
3.....2......1......aaaannnndd nothing. The world hasn't seen an anti-climax like that since my one-man erotic cabaret, Gone in 60 Seconds. The world hasn't seen a bad joke like that since the climax of my one-man erotic cabaret. The world hasn't seen rhetorical redundancy like that since this, which is rhetorically redundant.
/continues convulsing to Wonderwall

12:05
Time for lunch! Back with updates in the future. THE.......FUTURE...

/screen goes whispy, time passes, men grow beards, women all have babies and cankles

Art imitates life.

3:15
Email from the Registrar saying grades will be released by 5:30! Wait...why don't you just release them now?
/goes to office
//Registrar is not finished using baby golden retriever blood to paint his Hosni Mubarak mural on a wall covered with our tests because of recent puppy shortage
///DAMN ASS-LESS CHAPS, WHY DO I LOVE YOU SO?

4:00
Unfortunately, I am not currently at the law school so my creeping ability will be cramped. Ummm....I will describe the atmosphere in my apartment:
Sights: Potential grade scenarios scribbled from floor to ceiling in brown...........crayon
Smells: Like Crayon




4:18
I am realistic about my grades. While I am extremely passionate about trying to make the world a better place, the act of law school is not an end in itself, at least to me. First semester was the best time of my life--I met a perfect girl and made amazing friends....I have never been so alive. So grades do not define me, but they are a part of that whole experience. And no matter what happens today, that is an experience I will always cherish.
/pops another pill I got from Columbia before graduating
//DANCE TIME



4:56
Text message says grades are out.....

4:56, 2 seconds
I see my grades! They are literally right in front of me, right now! On a scale of 1 to Thrusting in the Direction of the Nearest Wood-Chipper JUST TO FEEL SOMETHING DIFFERENT, I am safely away from the edges. Duke has an unwritten rule where we don't talk about grades, so I will leave it at that. My extremities live, unchipped, to fight another day.

5:00
Thanks so much for reading. For my law school friends, you guys (almost universally) really are amazing. And regardless of grades, that is what really matters.

Little River Trail Run 10-Miler Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall/500ish racers. The North Carolina newspaper called me "Shirtless Dave Roche" in their article (quotations included), which is a great nickname for a trail racer, or a horrifying alias for a sexual predator. Unfortunately, my inability to grow adequate facial hair precludes me from sporting the mountain man beard necessary to ever be taken seriously on the trails. Fortunately, that same inability precludes the wispy mustache needed to be legally coerced into introducing myself to everyone in a new neighborhood. MORAL VICTORY.

KILL IT!

Pre-Race:
Life has been really great for 3 reasons:

1. I have an amazing girlfriend who is neither imaginary, nor a leper. And her hunchback is larger than her Adam's Apple, which I guess is better than the other way around.

2. I committed solely to running in September, and I feel my body constantly adapting from the increased mileage. My legs changed shape after starting to go barefoot and focusing on form, allowing me to push harder in races without the same fear of collapse. We'll see--the next few years could be really exciting.

3. Law school has begun! The people are great and Duke is amazing. I love the south because it is the type of place where you can say hi to strangers. Though through a recent epiphany that came in the form of extreme awkwardness, I now know that this tendency should probably not be extended inside the men's bathroom. I mean, he was carrying a briefcase and was wearing cuff-links--obviously he could use a hand. I JUST TURNED ON THE FAUCET TO GIVE YOU THE IMPRESSION THAT I WASH MY HANDS EVEN THOUGH I DIDN'T. In my defense, this process makes me metaphysically clean through the perspective of Armani Suit Guy. And that is all that really matters, because Goldman Sachs is VERY PRESTIGIOUS.

Their hiring partner made an awesome entrance during On Campus Interviews. Puppy blood burns in such interesting patterns!

So I felt wonderful heading to Little River, the biggest trail race in the area. There was snow all over the place, which in addition to making things a bit more technical, also provides a good excuse because on dry days my dandruff accumulates 3-6 inches. Dipsea Tral Race winner and sub-15 5k'er Alex Varner was also lined up, so after 20 minutes of getting warm, I went to the start line to do some psyching out. "If I fall down on the ice, don't wait for me." Implied meaning: I am uncoordinated, and a stray elbow might knock the handsome right off your face. BEWARE MY AWKWARDNESS. Took off the shirt, toed the line, AND THEY'RE OFF!

Whoever finishes last gets fed to his faster brothers.

Race:
The gun sounded, launching the racers down a half-mile on gravel roads. I started slowly, but felt a small gap forming. Looking back, Alex looked relaxed. Too relaxed. That one glance changed everything--any plans were gone, flying out the window and falling lifelessly to the gravel as I stepped on the pedal. Opening up my hips and pumping my arms, I was off, down the path onto the single-track, trying to get out of sight. Hitting the ice in the first mile with the racers in the rear-view rapidly retreating, I realized that this moment could be decisive. Commit! Commit! Commit! Screaming across every neuron and permeating every synapse, that mantra meant adrenaline...which meant fearlessness...which meant speed. At mile 4, a long set of stairs switched back over skid marks made moments before, and out of the chaos emerged a new emotion---peace. I was out of sight.

Suddenly, the dim, dilated dreams obscured by exertion were replaced by the crystal clarity of relaxed exploration. Trail runners of all abilities understand the feeling--it can only happen on beautiful, happy trails. We see one of these happy trails, and we just want to explore every contour, and follow every inch to see where it leads. Wait, why are you laughing?? THIS IS A SERIOUSLY ARTISTIC RACE REPORT.

Other authors have gone to extreme lengths after being misunderstood.

The trail snaked erratically, causing countless stops to avoid the venom of a fall. In each icy step, however, was an opportunity. Where the trail cleared, even for just a second, opportunistic urgency would extend the gap. Each step oscillated between aggressive thoughts where I was the predator, pursuing each mile with ferocity, and passive introspection where I was the prey, scurrying from a formidable hunter. Combined with thoughts of Megan, and her beauty somewhere on those same twisty trails, a wholly new emotion mixed ubiquitous euphoria with adrenalized apprehension. And that new emotion made me feel invincible. Out there on the trail, the paradigm shifted.

Crossing the line in 1:02:54, the race director excitedly announced a 3-minute course record. The fuse-delayed fatigue hit immediately, and my eyes were barely open to see Alex cross 3:30 later. A few minutes later, seeing Megan at the finish (after twisting her ankle while on her way to a huge CR), it was clear that epiphanies of inspiration aren't limited to art or poetry--a muse acts in every facet of life. And that universal inspiration...well, that is enough to make a person feel invincible.

Mouth-vomit returns! Anyway, I met a few blog-readers at the race, and it is always amazing how great you guys are. So thanks for that :) Later in the week, my email inbox was filled with comments by professors about the newspaper article, with many comments on running shirtless in sub-freezing conditions. They clearly do not understand my life maxim, "Let your nipples lead the way." While good for trail-racing, it is works slightly less well in job interviews that don't involve floor-to-ceiling poles. Thanks again, and I hope things are absolutely perfect!

Law School Sexy Remix

As the new semester begins, Hope springs eternal. In an unfortunate maxim mix-up, Hope is the name of a local legless stripper with two slinkys for prosthetics. Her shows are eternally sexy as long as the stage has no stairs.

That statement is rescinded if MC Escher designed the stage, and Pour Some Sugar on Me can be played on endless loop.

And so law school continues its inexorable grind through bone and sinew before expelling the distilled, now fully uninteresting collections of bodily fluid from the sausage-maker of a legal education into the wood-chipper of the legal profession.*

*statement only applies to those looking to work at big law firms. Other options include:

1. The public interest, where you fight against the most uninteresting of the expelled intellectual sausage, all while having fewer resources than the big firms and the time-consuming commitment of maintaining an unsold soul.

2. Small firms. These are usually in small Montana towns where the best prospect for finding a mate is a willingness to look past udders. Also, you may still have to sell your soul, but the going rate is significantly less.

3. Street corners. You primarily just make sure the drivers that pass in their 1964 Camaro at midnight have a good time. So I guess this is a type of public interest, in the same way that a New Jersey Turnpike stall could be considered a public bathroom.

When shown this picture, number 1 sees a fascinating visual representation of a black hole, number 2 sees the legal job market, and number 3 sees a potentially viable orifice.

In reality, law school is awesome. Also in reality, prairie dogs control the media through their underground volcano-dens, but we don't go around blogging about it. Hmmm...this semester may be off to a delusion-filled start, primarily because I made the mistake of buying gummy vitamins. Either having 190 times the recommended dose of Vitamin D has negative consequences, or the prairie dogs are commanding me to write that a paranoid schizophrenic who murders innocent victims is actually motivated by political rhetoric. Because that last part would be absolutely crazy (not to mention irresponsibly lazy), I will assume that I am suffering from Gummy Vitamin toxicity, and may need to have my stomach pumped.

Bear: You eat gummy representations of me, I will "play" with your children.

Now that law school is off the board in Hating Things Jeopardy, I need to find new categories to pick. Ummm....I will take Southern Drivers for 400 Alex. Ummmm, Alex?....ALEX? OH DEAR GOD ALEX, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Of all the possible weapons to use in a murder/suicide, two adorable puppies as nunchucks shows a particularly driven depravity. Though I understand if North Carolina drivers drove Mr. Trebek down such a furry/bloody highway.*

*get it? DO YOU FUCKING GET THE WORDPLAY?

On a good day, southern drivers approach a speed bump with the same reckless abandon that pandas take to procreation. But even constant visualization of panda-humping (Environmentalist's Viagra) cannot prepare you for southerners in snow. Imagine a snail. Then imagine a Senate Filibuster. Then imagine a Senate Filibuster in the snail Congress. That is the current traffic situation.

The slug representative, Mr. McCain, says Don't Ask, Don't Shell.

Anyway, things are really great. The people here are awesome, the area is amazing, and the strippers have surprising dexterity, given what they've been through. Thanks so much for reading, hope your week is off to a perfect start!

New Year's Midnight Run Race Report

Executive Summary:

1st overall/200+ racers. Megan won the overall women's title, because she is amazing. Her dress, meanwhile, won the award for "Most Likely to Work Part-Time Spinning above a Disco Dance Floor."

Staying Alive spontaneously plays every time the dress turns towards the light.

Pre-Race:

On New Year's Eve, I drove to the Philadelphia area to visit a girl (non-inflatable variety). Before driving to her home, I was nervous. Now, I am not the type to get nervous. I am as cool as a cucumber, if the cucumber's humorously phallic shape and puke green coloration prevented it from taking itself very seriously. The nervous caterpillars became full-blown flop-sweat butterflies when I walked into the door. Two steps later, all of the apprehension vanished when I saw Megan's radiant glow backlit by her Mom's welcoming smile. Luckily, I did not turn that sentiment into words, because it is less romantic to hug someone when they are vomiting in their own mouth. Kissing, however, can become a source of nutritious sustenance, depending on the status of the person's previous meal. COME ON THOROUGHLY CHEWED!
/crosses fingers
//spins wheel
///wheel lands on Raw, Swallowed Asparagus

In Soviet Russia, regurgitated asparagus swallows YOU.

The entire family is amazing. Megan's mom, dad, and sister are all uniquely empathetic and intelligent, and treated me with a genuine kindness for which I will always be grateful. Therefore, I will use part of the proceeds from selling their loosely guarded family heirlooms to buy a very tasteful, yet chuckle-inducing thank-you card. Seeing her mom at Whole Foods (where we shopped for dinner), calling every worker by name when stopping to chat about their lives, showed me how a person embodies the type of life I hope to live. I will never forget those moments in the grocery store. And trust me, with the massive quantities of hallucinogenic mushrooms I put into the casserole that night, if I haven't forgotten it yet, it's likely sticking around. Along with these mutant geese that are just outside my door. WHY WON'T THEY TAKE THEIR MACHETES AND FLY AWAY?

Being a New Year's Midnight Race, it came with a twist...the fastest runners in eveningwear would win cash prizes. Megan came down the stairs after dinner in slow motion looking stunningly gorgeous in her dress. I wore a bowtie and suit. It all came adorned with a Cummer-Bund, which I was not aware existed. Though based on the name, I now want to know what a Bund is, and whether I can buy it on Amazon.com.

We left for the race at 10:30, which is usually a time when I am reading, flying, or peeing, depending on where I am in the sleep cycle. Sitting with her family at the bar/race staging area, everything took on a surreal quality, like reading a book of your life's most cherished memories from within an ear-marked page. Looking to the right at my racing partner, it was clear that alongside those stories are astonishingly beautiful illustrations. And, after the last line, astonishingly large amounts of mouth-vomit. Keep your jaw clenched and we can hopefully keep it off the page!

Race:
After a five-minute suited-up warm-up, the countdown began. Looking side-to-side at the start line vista, at suits and dresses accompanied by trainers and flats, I smiled at Megan. She smiled back until 5, when she gave me a stare that promised a murder with a heat of passion defense if I went in for a kiss when the clock struck midnight. 3......2.......1.......AND THEY'RE OFF!

At the back of the pack, some racers had too much to drink at the pre-race open bar.

I immediately bounded to the front, the euphoria of the moment shooting caffeinated chills into my legs. Glancing back, a runner appeared in tights and an Under-Armour, the proverbial pajamas at a naked party. I slowed to speak to him and see what type of effort was necessary. He responded with a confident smile that can only come from race experience, or 4 pre-race loosening-up beers. A half-mile in, I strided away to test which it was, and he responded as we hit the mile together in 5:01. Forgetting my outfit, and the hour, each step became a percussive beat punctuated by the twang of dueting exhales. Suddenly, a loud bang. BANG!*

*Redundant Onomatopoeia, in addition to being an underutilized rhetorical device, will be the name of my heavy metal garage band that only needs three cords to MELT YOUR FREAKING FACE OFF

Yoda Stalin is a fan. Why? DON'T DOUBT THE POWER OF REDUNDANT ONOMATOPOEIA.

The sound was a cacophony of fireworks. Fueled by the sudden realization that this wasn't a normal race, or a normal moment, I accelerated further. Running alone now, I passed the 2-mile in 10:13. Lapping fellow racers on the 3-lap course, we exchanged New Year's greetings, and a race became a celebration. One kind fellow gift-wrapped what looked like his lunch, dinner, and internal organs, which was too much. Really, it was too much. I could have used his large intestine as a climbing rope.

Crossing the line in 16 minutes after a relaxed third mile, I ran back to the finishing chute. Staring into the distance, a bouncing figure rapidly appeared. I look back at the clock...17:41...17:42...it couldn't be! She is a field hockey player coming off of an injury, no one is that amazing. As the resolution became clearer, I first saw her legs pumping, then her beautiful smile, and finally her glowing eyes. Well, I guess technically I first saw her disco-ball dress, but that thing can be seen from particularly distant galaxies. The amazing girl crossed the finish line first, winning the overall and eveningwear titles. Looking into her eyes and sharing a sweaty embrace, I realized that what I won that night had nothing to do with a race.

P.S. Her mom finished third in the 30+ masters category and her dad did great, which makes sense because awesomeness is genetic. You, the reader, finished first in mouth-vomit. And raw, swallowed asparagus went on to star in it's own sitcom, Two and a Half Men. Thanks so much for reading, hope your New Year is off to a perfect start!