re: the New Yorker Article that everyone and their mom is reading (my mom included)

Je t'aime L. Lessig (not that I know him personally)

and happy Bloomsday day (er, Daedelus day) to you.

M.I.A.

i'm off to philly to take some fingerprints for the NJ bar.

world cup update:

England v. Trinidad-Tobago...No Crouch bot!

Gattaca-Revisted :: "They reject the term 'designer babies.'"

"It's not like we want some 6-foot-tall, blue-eyed Brad Pitt lookalike," Robert said. "I naturally have something and my wife naturally has something and it's taken out of our bodies and then you're getting a doctor to mix it together and put it back in. ... We're not messing around with God the creator."

i'm tired from packing (moving installment 1 of 3) so I haven't fully developed my thoughts on this.

Tech nerd!

For those of you who use pandora (i hope it's all!!), did you know that all of pandora's music is actually saved as mp3s on your computer (sorry if you already did, i just found out last night). Yeah, you have all of those mp3s of that awesome recommended music. You didn't know? You probably didn't check your temporary folder.

Anyway, if you want a "more advanced" program to save those mp3s (complete with tags of artists/album covers) you can also download Pandora's Jar

enjoy!

online lectures

streaming and password protection can't stop me.

lectures meet my iPod. iPod meet lectures.

finally!

and to think, studying for the bar also made me flex my technology muscle (or reach out to people who can flex!)

Daddy's Wisdom

I will admit, on most things, my dad is right.

if any of you know my dad (and by this i mean, really know my dad), you will know that he has a split personality. Good cop, bad cop. (wait, is bi-polar hereditary? (kidding)).

My dad is self-contradictory. He talks like Buddha or, more appropriately, like his self-help guru Wayne Dyer, who says things like:



then screams like, like, like, oh i don't know, like someone with tourette's? In public, of course, he is totally normal. In fact, he has great bedside manner (he is a doctor).

Maybe it's because he was a bad kid - flipping out in public, stealing - who was also careful to iron his only pair of pants everyday he went home because he was embarrassed of being poor. He is self-motivated but didn't go to college. He went to the army and signed up for extra time. He took college classes, skipped one of his finals (in English class!) and said he wasn't educational. Then, it turned out that his English professor at the local community college took pity on the local army base students. He had a solid C average, he skipped the final, he ended up with a B. With a newfound sense of confidence, he went home where he found his friends smoking pot in Atlantic City and unswayed with his determination, he went to college on the GI Bill & then went to medical school. Not until the third year that he applied was he accepted (talk about persistence!). This was when med schools discriminated against older students. (my dad also refused to "bribe" someone to get him in - i guess this was a usual custom, back in the day). My dad didn't even start college until he was 23. I have a law degree at 24. My dad, by definition, has fulfilled the American dream. He is a great doctor and a wonderful father.

Despite his own personal setbacks, he never expects anything less than perfect from his kids. (except for my brother, his only son, who my dad can't help but recklessly indulge). He believed in physical punishment with us until my younger sister. She never got a black eye her senior year of high school. He uses words like "typical" (i still flinch when i hear that phrase. context - i'm late. i'm always late. "typical"). He always tells me that I am afraid because I don't assert myself enough yet he never answers the phone when he is the only one home.

I once wrote a story about my dad. Of course, I changed the names and places. Here is an excerpt:

In an anxious attempt towards complete oblivion, Henry decided to call the 610 WIP sports radio program. He was ten minutes down the road from Storybook Land. As always, this stretch of the Black Horse Pike to the convenience store on the right side of the road, the one surrounded by billboards advertising nearby naked women, led him to fidgeting in the driver’s seat. He had no desire to reach the women, but he also had no desire to see his wife and his kids, who awaited his return home. To Henry, it seemed the billboard had been placed there merely to have the naked women ridicule him, seductively licking their lips and flaunting their honesty to him as he passed.
¶ Once he arrived at the convenience store, he knew was only forty minutes away from the Walt Whitman Bridge, his entryway to Philadelphia. Forty minutes back to his life. He was inching his way closer to the last mile of his inevitable fate, imprisonment by his family and their expectations of him. He was to be the reserved and supportive father who simply provided them an impressive lifestyle, directing them from a distance. Slowly, he tortured himself as he pressed down on the accelerator.
¶ The Black Horse Pike, half highway, half country back road, offered more for him to look at than the congested Atlantic City Expressway with its median and three-lane structure, cars honking, and passing only to be done on the left. The roadside of the Black Horse Pike offered trailer parks, derelict houses, and restaurants that must be delicious, if they managed to stay open in spite of this isolated location. Looking at the environment through his car window made him recognize how fortunate he was; he wished his kids could see this and realize the same. His kids though usually drove with his wife. She took the expressway.
¶ Either way, the total drive from his summerhouse at the Jersey shore to his home in the upper class Main Line, a western suburb of Philadelphia, equaled about ninety-six minutes, with his car’s gas mileage not quite a half tank, doubled for round trip purposes. He knew this because recently the trip had become habitual while he compulsively checked on the progress of an addition he was building to his shore house. It was a costly investment but his budget would only be tight for a short period. The completed shore house would increase his assets to well over one-million dollars. He would no longer be the poor white boy from Overbrook Park. He could give his already-spoiled kids everything he never had when he was younger and everything they expected to get.
¶ Suddenly, Henry, so frighteningly familiar with the ride and the scenery, was no longer able to endure the trip in silence. Decidedly, he turned on Howard Eskin and Mike Missanelli’s Friday afternoon radio program, willing to call in with comments to whatever their discussion to let his mind drift. He clutched the steering wheel with both hands and quickly looked for the button to turn on the cruise control mechanism. He knew the button was on his steering wheel and that when he reached his desired speed he would have to press the button next to it to set the miles per hour. That was what made his car a luxury car; everything was in its correct place, and followed instructions. Just the way Henry liked it. If only everything would be as well behaved as his silver BMW sport-ut with black leather interior, and wood paneling. If only.

But, when my dad is on, he's on. Under the surface of everything, he is so worried/anxious/such a perfectionist/a misogynist/a "flipper-outer" because he cares. He has the utmost duty of loyalty and expects for himself to provide the utmost duty of care (...er, sorry, i still haven't reviewed corporations or partnerships).

His voice is calming and he has a wealth of inspirational stories and motivation.

So who did I call when I was selling books and wanted to quit everyday? my dad.
Who did I sell books for to show that I am a strong individual, willing to talk to strangers and assert myself? my dad.

how about law school? same thing.

my dad (at least his life story) is the reason that I needed to get a law job without my parents' lawyer connections. I waited until I saw a blind posting on an internet site for a firm that I truly had interest in. (Turns out later that my mom's friend's in-laws' child works there, the attorney refers cases (back and forth) with my neighbor, and knows another neighbor from high school, college & law school). but, this knowledge was acquired "after-the-fact."

about self-esteem issues? i call my dad.

the bar? you know the answer.

who would i rely on to save my life? my dad. he is calm and kind and a pillar of support.

So why this homage to my favorite redhead?

I remember I once asked my dad why he is never in Philadelphia's list of top doctors. There is an inside joke within my family that when I'm mad at my dad (who has given me everything I ever want in life), I always make fun of the fact that "he's only a D.O." (he's not an M.D.)...that "he's not a real doctor." He used to fight with me and try to explain that D.O.s are just as recognized in the medical community and showed me all of the famous D.O.s. He continued to explain that there is a misconception that they are more like chiropractors, etc. My dad is damn successful and good at what he does (and, yes, it does worry me that there is a good chance that I will be among the first generation (& first one, b/c of my first born status) in my family not to make as much money as my parents). As a bratty child, though, I had to bring up my parents "flaws."

My dad told me that the magazine article was a popularity contest. Sometimes the choices are merited but other times it's a coin-toss. It's whose name is hot. Later, (an older and wiser man/father), he simply dismissed the issue and said that he could only be as good as he could be. He worked hard and that's all he could hope to do. And he was happy with his success. And, how he's thankful for everything he was and is able to give to me. (damn, damn, damn, damn, damn - how can I fight with that sort of logic!).

Similarly, when I got mostly Bs one quarter in high school (usually, i had mostly As), he was let down because he thought I was "hanging with the wrong crowd." Most of my friends then were in all standard classes as opposed to my honors classes friends from previous years. My new friends were in "resource" (a class dedicated to extra time taking if you had a learning disability). They looked up to me like I was a genius in comparison to my other friends who were the top ten in the class. I was comfortable. I was elated to not have to live up to expectations around these friends. I was the quintessential big fish in a small pond. Plus, I was taking all honors classes. I worked hard. All Bs one *quarter* (not final grades) didn't really matter. Gosh, why did my dad have to be so hard on me? Didn't he realize that this was high school and I had my reputation at stake. Plus, again, mostly Bs in honors classes. These were tough classes. Bs aren't Cs or Ds or Fs. My brother (his XY love) usually got Cs and sometimes Ds. He didn't care. Still, my dad was disappointed. Then, he took a deep breath and said to me, "As long as you can look yourself in the mirror and know that you worked as hard as you could and tried as hard as you could, that's all I want from you." He looked me straight in the face and there was no longer disappointment. "If you worked as hard as you can, then, I'm proud." (damn, damn, damn, damn, damn - again, I couldn't fight with that sort of logic!).

So why all this? It seems to come back to Slate. (anyone picking up on who is my BFF during bar exams?)

A Few Good Doctors
Don't look for them on a magazine top-10 list.
By Kent Sepkowitz

About this time every year, doctors across New York City begin to cast a wary eye at local newsstands. When the bundle of New York magazine's "Best Doctors" issue drops onto the pavement, torture commences for the city's prim and laconic physician class. (Other cities get their chance at other times of year.) It's high school all over again, a life lived at the mercy of cruel arbiters of who is up and who is down.

What's so bad about this sort of thing? After all, Who's Who and its progeny operate a similar scam. I would argue, though, that by adopting the guidebook approach, Best Doctors (or Best Lawyers or Best Dentists) fails the public by making a false promise. The real problem at hand—how do you find a reliable professional whose services you very much need—can't be solved as readily as picking a restaurant or health club. You can't run a Zagat-style survey and get worthwhile results. Nor can you pay people to crash the car and then rate the product. The Best Doctors approach—asking other doctors to name the colleagues they trust enough to send a family member to—sounds like it ought to work. But it doesn't.

To begin with, the list is heavily influenced by backslapping, back-stabbing, and old-fashioned old-boyism. Powerful medical departments are too generously represented while oddball offices or people are gone with the wind. Even if that weren't the case, however, the list would be mostly useless.

The doctor-patient relationship is just that, a relationship, full of all the nonsense and idiosyncrasy that defines the genre. It's why good doctoring has a magic quality, like a good friendship. The intricacy of this symbiosis also is why a "best doctor" can't be determined by asking a bunch of professors whom they might send their brother-in-law to.

To my favorite doctor, my dad, you have always made my top ten list :-)

World Cup #2

are you ready for it, USA?

ps/ i changed my posting name. like it?

what's in a name (Brand)?

i've said it before & i'll say it again. although it is among my five "let down" grades in law school, international business transactions is one of the most helpful classes i've ever taken. especially for the bar (we're talking - contracts, civil procedure, constitutional law...)

trite but true: i think that learning international law is so helpful in remembering and understanding US law.

professor brand is by far one of the best professors at the law school. even if he is super scary and a harsh grader.

As if Philadelphia doesn't have enough language problems

Situated in a South Philadelphia immigrant neighborhood, Geno's — which together with its chief rival, Pat's King of Steaks, forms the epicenter of an area described as "ground zero for cheesesteaks" — has posted small signs telling customers, "This Is AMERICA: WHEN ORDERING `SPEAK ENGLISH.'"

"They don't know how lucky they are. All we're asking them to do is learn the English language," said Geno's owner Joseph Vento, 66. "We're out to help these people, but they've got to help themselves, too."

Vento, whose grandparents struggled to learn English after immigrating from Sicily in the 1920s, said he posted the sign about six months ago amid concerns over immigration reform and the increasing number of customers who could not order in English when they wanted Philly's gooey, greasy specialty — fried steak, sliced or chopped, in a long roll, with cheese and fried onions.

Of course, it's not as if native Philadelphians speak the King's English either. A Philadelphian might order a cheesesteak by saying something like, "Yo, gimme a cheesesteak wit, will youse?" ("Wit," or "with," means with fried onions.) To which the counterman might reply: "Youse want fries widdat?"

The rest of the article.