The bar exam is over. I'm 88 percent sure it went just fine. God willing, that will be the last time I ever have to figure out who owns Blackacre. It's been real, Blackacre. xo.

I wanted to share this wonderful song/ video with you. I saw Liam Finn at Schubas a few months ago, and this has been playing in my head ever since. If this were my song, it would be 14 minutes long and I'd sing the chorus 85 times.

So I just looked at Pitchfork for the first time in a week, and I am genuinely confused about their review of The Black Kids' album. (The review, if you'll stay here with me, is a 3.3 rating with nothing but a picture of two pugs looking cute and the caption "sorry;-/")

I experienced so many levels of out-of-touchness when I saw this review.

First, I am confused about this new internet trope of "ROFL cats." Mary J. introduced me to the concept when she was here visiting, but it never really sank in. How does one use a ROFL cat? What does a ROFL cat convey? Sarcasm? Is it just cute? Is it one of those things that's so ironic you can't get it until you do it yourself? Can a ROFL cat be a dog? How can I break into the ROFL cat marketplace? Is this going to turn out to be like the time I didn't know what a "podcast" was and felt really ripped off when I found out it was just a downloadable mp3? I feel uneasy about ROFL cats. Very uneasy.


Second, I saw The Black Kids do their song "I'm not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you" on Letterman the other night, and I thought it was just great. I would have gone BONKERS for these kids back in college. I'm not really seeing what makes this band particularly worthy of being singled out for mockery -- especially if you're down with Los Campensinos and their ilk. Am I right? Did something occur while I had my head in my books that made cute pop music unpopular?

Finally, I have no idea what's going on inside indie rock/hipster/whatever culture that made people get sick of this band before their first album even came out. There must have been some giant hype machine going for these kids. I had vaguely heard some mention of their name, but I didn't know anything about them. Where is everyone else getting their insider information?

Am I getting old?

An Open Letter to Katy Perry.

Dear Katy Perry,

You are terrible.

In People magazine, you said "I'm like a skinnier Lily Allen. Or a fatter Amy Winehouse." Don't flatter yourself. Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse are at least somewhat talented and at least somewhat sincere. You, on the other hand, are just a vacuous, no-talent bimbo who thinks you can get away with it by singing lyrics that some record executive must have told you were funny, shocking or clever. They are none of the above. Spring-break bisexuality does not make you interesting. Kindly remove yourself from the public eye before I put my head through a wall.

THANX,

A.

Did you know that if your spouse sleeps with a third party you can sue that third party for the hilarious tort of "criminal conversation"? It's not a crime. And it's not a conversation.

Also, did you know that in states that don't have no-fault divorce, insanity can be both a grounds for divorce and a defense to divorce?? Picture this:

Wife: I want to divorce my husband. He thinks he is the pope. He is insane.
Husband: I am the pope!! But my wife is insane too. She thinks she's the queen mother.
Wife: I am the queen mother!
The court: I'm sorry. But you two will have to stay together. There are no grounds for me to grant a divorce.

I could go on. But wills are much less funny than divorce.

This is how I feel today:

Here is a picture of my awesome geraniums. My mother gave them performance enhancing drugs.



I'm going into solitary confinement for the rest of the week -- finally, my life is like The Paper Chase! I'll see you all when I get back.

wtf is chattel paper?

Some of my friends have been emailing each other to find out whether we're assigned to the same testing locations for the bar exam. One reply:

"I think ibaby rule # 1.I.amd.2.123.IXL.wtf prohibits disclosure of your testing location to any living creature other than your dog, provided said dog is not using his own pen OR wearing sunglasses."

I love the Fourth of July.

When I was growing up in Binghamton, NY, it was a family tradition for my dad to take my brother, sister and I to see the fireworks display at Highland Park in Endicott each year on the Fourth. It couldn't have been much fun for him. He'd load the three of us into the car, drive through bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour, walk several miles to find somewhere for us to sit, only to settle down on a damp patch of grass on a blanket between some Nascar fans smoking cigarettes and some teenagers drinking beers while we kids complained about being hot, cold, hungry, or needing to use the bathroom. Typical small town family stuff; you all know what that's like.

But one particular Highland Park fireworks stands out in my mind -- the fireworks where I saw the teenagers making out. The year was (I'd surmise) 1994. I was 11 years old. Shuffling back towards our car through the throngs of people at the end of the show, we saw them. They rolled over on the grass, kissing, his arms around her waist. She was wearing a red, white and blue striped sweatshirt. Crowds of people tried to steer clear of them, some stepping over their entwined bodies. They were completely unphased by the spectacle they were creating. Maybe they weren't even aware that people were staring and stepping over them.

I regarded these teenagers with grave respect. I was awed.

The image of those teenagers would often come back to me in my preteen years. That, I thought, is what it must be like to be a teenager. From that point forward, the Fourth of July was imbued with a certain kind of romance and mystery for me. It became a night that might turn out to be just like the advertisements for American Eagle Outfitters that I found so intriguing when I was in middle school. On the Fourth, I might suddenly find myself independent, confident and happy, sitting around a campfire with my attractive friends, exchanging flirtatious glances with the cute guy in the plaid shirt. I might even, someday, find myself making out on the grass, carefree as can be, while parents with their preteen children stepped over me.

For better or worse, my teenage years turned out to be nothing at all like an American Eagle Outfitters advertisement, nor did I ever have the opportunity to make out at the Highland Park fireworks. Still, even into my 20s, I feel a little surge of excitement when the Fourth of July comes around.

I almost stayed home and studied this year. Luckily, Mark talked me into taking a quick bike ride to Montrose Beach to see if we could watch one of the fireworks displays that were going on further down the lake front.

The lakefront swarmed with people, cars and activity. Groups of teenagers hung around vans with the doors open, listening to music. Families cooked corn on the cob over makeshift grills. Kids ran around kicking soccer balls. And people everywhere were blowing shit up.

Dauntless, we wove our bicycles through the chaos and low hanging haze of smoke towards the lake. Mark spread out a blanket on one of the stone embankments that lead down to the beach. Next to us, two teenage girls talked and laughed with their heads close together, trying to ignore the little brother who was persistently trying to get their attention. A young couple -- a boy with long, curly hair and a girl wearing a spiked belt and low-top chucks -- cuddled a few feet away from us. Naked people splashed in the lake.

Mark and I lay on our backs with our arms entwined, watching illegal fireworks explode too close overhead while the lake breeze blew over us.

I love this city.

I thought I'd share the hysterical message I just received from my alma mater (with colors and fonts intact). By "hysterical" I mean "panicked" although the alternate meaning also applies to some extent.

This came in response to an announcement yesterday from the Board of Bar Examiners that bar examinees are not permitted to bring their own pens or pencils to the July test:


I KEEP STRESSING THAT YOU NEED TO PRACTICE WRITING OUT ESSAYS TO GET YOUR HAND IN SHAPE FOR THE EXAM. NOW IT IS EVEN MORE IMPORTANT BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW WHAT KIND OF PEN THEY WILL GIVE YOU. IT MAY NOT BE VERY COMFORTABLE AND YOU WILL NEED TO HAVE YOUR HAND PREPARED TO WEATHER THE DISCOMFORT FOR 6 HOURS ON JULY 29.


DON’T FREAK OUT OVER THIS. YOU HOLD THE INFORMATION YOU NEED TO PASS IN YOUR HEAD, NOT IN YOUR PEN OR PENCIL!!!! YOU CAN KICK THE BAR IN THE BUTT!!!

I give them credit for caring so much, although I doubt that many of my classmates are the type who lose their minds over what type of pen they have to use.