This Rogue’s Town . . .

In case you had any doubt, BESTIALITY does not count for Adultery as grounds for divorce in New York State . . .

. . . ORAL SEX, on the other hand, is still fair game. 

I’d mentioned a few posts back about how unbelievably depressing Petals of Blood  by Ngugi wa Thiong’o is.  What I also didn’t realize is that it’s the very rare novel capable of somehow killing the very conversations it starts.  Case in point, yesterday at Ciao for Now:

Swedish Barrista chick: Oh, you’re reading Thiong’o?

Me: Ya, it hasn’t been easy.  It’s really depressing . . .

Swedish Barrista chick: Ya, he’s very political

Me: Have you read any of his other stuff?

Swedish Barrista chick: I’m sorry, I have to work.

Suffice it to say, this hasn’t inspired me to once-and-for-all finish the thing.  I’ve only got about 50 pages left and they mainly seem to involve brutal third world police interrogations.  Three times in the span of ten pages, the Police Inspector gaudily orders one of the characters to be "sent to the red chamber".  Suffice it to say, it’s not the most subtle work out there; Thiong’o got thrown in prison for writing it.  The prose is also very dense and dolorous, and he really hits you upside the head with such knee-slapping themes as depraved feminity, emasculated manhood, and relentless, soul-crushing poverty.  Adding to the subtelty, is the division of the novel into four sections entitled Part One: Walking . . . , Part Two: Towards Bethlehem . . . , Part Three: To Be Born . . . , Part Four: Again . . . La Luta Continua!

Okay, you know what, Ngugi, I respect you alot and believe you a credit to global literature.  Your Nobel Prize is long past due and you are a true hero to your nation, but I gotta admit, after so many stabs at trying to finish your book, I’ve begun asking myself (and praying for the time) when La Luta will termina . . . and I ain’t talkin about no Bandung Conference here! 

Actually, just my neck . . . though, I suspect my back will soon follow suit.  My neck is usually a pretty nominal player in the daily physical hazard of being Hani, so I’m left wondering what it was I did to it.  Know any good accupuncturists? Or shall I just wander into the first open door I see on 32nd Street. 

Quite surprisingly, Cipriani Sweet Annies and Prosecco provide just the perfect conduit for absorbing CPLR 3211. 

Returning my towel today at the gym . . .

Behind the Counter: Last name?

Me: Khalil . . . spelled . . . K-H-A . . .

Behind the Counter: Got it . . . let’s see, K-H . . . K-H . . . it’s K-H-A, you said?

Me: Ya, if you can’t find it under K, then it’s probably under "O" for my middle initial.  They always misread my I.D. like that

Behind the Counter: O . . . O . . . hmm, nothing here . . . do you know who took the card when you first came in?

Me: Um . . . YOU did . . .

Behind the Counter: I did? Hey, Derren . . . do you know where this guy’s card is?

Derren: Ya, it’s under O . . . he’s O’Khalil

Behind the Counter: Oh here it is.  Thank you, Mr. O’Khalil. 

Yesterday’s Friendster horoscope admonished me to go out and be productive and playful . . . kinda like in The Ruba’iyat i figured. Except there was no bathing in wine to be had today, this in spite of the fact that it was the last sunday in june; yes, that last sunday in June, when most of the city becomes an inpenetrable (okay, bad choice of words) mess of rainbow flags, heavy beats, and gyrating crotches.  Oh, and that’s also when they stage the Gay Pride Parade. 

I gave my two cents to pride Saturday morning, when I wiped the 102nd street transverse clean with the entrails of dashed expectations that I may be lapped on the final approach.  Even for a 5-miler, this run was brutal.  I was caught in a dog fight with this one guy for about three miles there too.  My better instinct would’ve been to just let him pass.  My lesser, and generally more productive, instinct got the better of me and determined that I must destroy him.  And that I did, so much so that he was out of my site turning into the final sprint, where I saw this one other guy collapse right in front of me.  I would’ve followed suit, if not for the enterprising post-race provisions of Front Runners New York, the only racing team that seams to understand that sometimes bagels and bananas (as opposed to, say, ICE POPS !) don’t really cut it after a long, hard intense race. 

In any event, that left me mostly prided out today: when my only plan was to find a place to study for New York Conflicts of Law.  Then, Friendster Thomas gave me a ring and asked if I cared to join him poolside up at Lasker.  Then, he called back a half-hour later and withdrew the invitation.  Then I biked down to Madison Square to study outside and watch the parade go by.  Then I fell asleep in the heat and was woken up an hour later to the sound of an especially half-assed drag queen rendition of "My Love is Your Love" .  Then I went home, somehow losing my biking gloves along the way and now, criminy, were clear into Monday and already I’ve completely forgotten what General Interest Analysis involves. 

With the inevitable 2-3 more hours of up time on my hands, I could take a stab at that, or I could finally finish off Petals of Blood (without a doubt, the most depressing book I’ve ever read; it’s 400 pages of nothing good happening to any one in the story.  They oughta just retitle it Things Fall Apart Episode IV: Thing’s Broke and it Ain’t Gonna Be Fixed ), but I have a feeling I will have exhausted my appetite for file sharing (currently on the search for the LIVE Joe Cocker version of "She Came in through the Bathroom Window", thus the title of this entry) before that happens. 

Post-race at the Dunkin . . .

Filipina behind the counter: Do you run? Oh wait, it says Road Runners . . . so you’re like the Cable Company?"

Me: Nope . . . not the Cable Company

I did the doublest of double-takes on this PMBR torts example on private arrests:

X read in the newspaper that Y, a young Asian male with a tattoo on his left arm, robbed the First National Bank in Libertyville.  Two days later X observes Z, who resembles Y’s physical description and has a tattoo on his left arm, and arrests him in Libertyville.  Since X had reasonable grounds to believe that Z committed the crime, X is privileged to make the arrest.

That’s right, my little hometown in Illinois (and my PARENTS’ BANK, no less*) is the setting for a mutlistate bar example.  It’s not like we had a shortage of Asians in Libertyville, but I doubt many of them had tattoos, at least in high school.  I mean, I often got seated next to Hannah Kang, but I don’t know if she had any tattoos.  Then, of course, there was Ellen Cho of Real World/Road Rules fame.  I don’t know if she had any tattoos either, but she did once have a belly button ring; made a big production out of it when it got infected.  Also, I don’t think she robbed any banks. Alicia Moreale (sp?) had a tattoo of a butterfly on her belly, which she bragged would expand with her belly once she (inevitably) got pregnant.  But, alas, not Asian, ergo no reasonable suspicion and no private arrest. 

*this was, of course, before several subsequent mergers.  When we moved there, it was First National Bank of Libertyville, then American National Bank of Libertyville, then First Chicago/American National Bank of Libertyville, then Bank One/American National Bank, now plain old Bank One.

. . . dude, I have completely (utterly, pathetically, practically every-single-adverb-you-can-toss-out-ly) lost my bar exam mojo for the day . . . possibly for the rest of the week.  I’m not sure whether to stick this to the past eight days of Property and Contracts, my extreme disdain for the law of Evidence (curse you, Ally MacBeal, half the things your firm does are illegal!), or last night’s particularly necessary (though terribly bad-ass, if I do say so myself) nine-mile run.  But for now, the most likely culprit seems to be the heat, which my vertical fan/ionizer doesn’t seem at all warm to the task (a pun!) of eliminating.  Perhaps this is the final indication that I need to shell out for an a/c after all these years in my apartment, but I’m standing firm in my belief that 1) all the sweat keeps me skinny and 2) I’ve been spared the sweat genes from my dad’s side of the family.  I suppose those two cancel each other out, but DAMMIT I have my principles!!

Did Friendster whore your profile out to Pepsi Lime too? What gives? I feel like I’ve been slimed . . . per Ghostbusters . . . or You Can’t Do That on Television . . .