The Aftermath of the New York Bar Exam

Brooklyn, New York

There’s two things that I learnt from taking the New York Bar Exam. The first is that it’s a lot harder than I thought to learn the entire legal system of another country in only a month. The second, and much more interesting, is that apparently I have a very special skill of making friends with the Irish.

When I was over in Europe this time last year (actually this time last year I was going through the grueling rehabilitation process of learning to walk with no functioning ribs, so shortly after this time last year) I made good pals with a couple of Irish lads in Budapest. We hung out, got kicked out of a few clubs due to Donal’s ridiculous red pants, our terribly bad karaoke and various other reasons, as well as breaking many a young Hungarian lady’s heart. We then went on Bratislava (worst…city…ever) and Vienna (best…Austrian capital…ever), before arriving in Munich for Oktoberfest. But I’ve gone off track. Back to the point of this blog, my power to befriend the Irish.

Further evidence (admissible under the excited utterance exception to hearsay – sorry, law joke) comes from a visit by Hawkins and myself for a quiet drink at a local pub a couple of weeks before the exam. I had left Hawkins to himself for a minute to see to the undertaking of some very important business. After completing my work, I ran into another couple of Irish lads, and long story short, it was not a quiet night after all.

On the Tuesday, the first day of the bar exam, I arrived at Pier 90, alone, as Hawkins was doing his exam at a different venue. Being friendless, I looked around for the nearest attractive chick who looked like she wanted to be friends with an extremely attractive Aussie guy, and failing that, would be happy to settle for me. Alas, any chick who was even a remote possibility was worryingly flicking through notes in last minute revision and so I walked over to a couple of guys just chatting nearby. It turned out that, surely enough, they were Irish. We immediately got on, and hung out over the next two days while I wasted my time attempting the exam.

The Exam itself was tough, real tough. If I studied as much as I had in this last month at any time in my undergraduate degree, I would have dominated, and probably finished off my degree with a year to spare. At no stage in the exam did I have no idea about how to answer a question, but whether my answers were of the 67% quality needed to pass, I’m not so sure. I guess I’ll find out in four months. Unlike law exams at the Australian National University, the New York Bar Exam is not open book, and they test you on the small finicky things, not just broad concepts. Many of the multiple choice questions were situations where the exception to the exception applies.

Hawkins and myself went out for a few drinks after the exam with my new Irish pals, and a guy Hawkins had picked up where he did his exam. It was a quiet night, but it felt good to have the exam behind us, at least for a couple of weeks before we have another Professional Ethics exam here in New York, and then the re-sit in February next year.

Because I know you all like pictures…

A typical day - pre New York Bar Exam

Brooklyn, New York

It’s another late start in the Hawketc household. The alarm on my phone is going off on the floor beside the bed, beeping incessantly, just out of arms reach. I give up and collapse back into my pillow and close my eyes, attempting to get just one more minute of sleep. I’m still so tired, and my mouth feels furry, unusual as I didn’t have anything to drink last night. I haven’t had a sweet delicious sip of beer for over a month now. I try to swallow, but the feeling doesn’t go away, it gets worse. I open my eyes, the harsh light making me instantly regret the decision, and sit up. The white sheets are covered in fur, my pillow is covered in fur, my tongue is covered in fur. There is cat fur everywhere. Missy must have somehow got into my room during the night. I see her then curled up, peacefully sleeping on the floor near the door, the closed door. I must have accidentally shut her in my room when I went to bed. I guess as she couldn’t get out, she’s probably shat somewhere in here too. I’ll worry about that later.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and turn off my alarm. I look to where the pile of clothes I use to show off my excellent fashion sense usually resides. A damp towel, a little too short to be acceptable to change out of boardies at a beach, is all that I see. It’ll have to do. I wrap it around me, the towel stopping half a foot above the knee, and patter over to the bathroom to splash water on myself to wake up. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and consider shaving. I decide against it after realizing that I won’t meet anyone today whose opinion I care enough about.

I wander downstairs and into the dining room, currently cluttered with New York Law textbooks, empty diet Pepsi cans and discarded Bagel-World wrappers. Hawkins mustn’t be up yet, but it’s not surprising, it is only quarter past noon. In the kitchen I find the coffee pot half full, the remains from last night’s midnight study session. There’s no clean mugs in the cupboard, but there’s plenty of dirty wet mugs in the sink. I grab one and clean it out with a tea towel and pour what’s left of the coffee pot into it. Thirty seconds later the microwave beeps and breakfast is served. The coffee is still a little cold, but it’ll do.

Instinctively sipping my coffee, even though it couldn’t possibly burn me, I go in search of clothes. I’d put some in the washing machine last night and asked Hawkins to put them in the dryer when they were done. Clean clothes. I get a little excited at the thought. There’s nothing in the dryer, and so I open up the washing machine. There are my clothes, clumped together in a soggy mess at the bottom of the machine. I drop the lid with a clang and go back into the dining room. I’m not really surprised, just disappointed.

I sit down at the dining table and pull over one of the text books, opening it up to where’d I gotten last night. “Rules of Usury: New York Exceptions to the Federal Rules”. I take another sip of my coffee and begin reading. I’ve got a long fun-filled day of study ahead of me.

Hot dogs, a chestnut, and the pursuit of happiness

4th of July

To Corey and I, a couple of humble (yet proud) Australians, it was just another day. However, from the moment I woke up, I could tell there was something special about this day. There was a peculiar feeling in the air; a feeling of celebration, a feeling of achievement, but most of all, a feeling of independence. Today was a day to sit back and reflect on a time when a nation had the courage to stand on its own two feet and laugh in the face of its English captors. In searching for a place sacred enough to celebrate a day of this magnitude, a few options came to mind; the Washington Monument, Mt Rushmore or maybe even the Lincoln Memorial. Obviously, we chose Coney Island.

For those unaware, Coney Island, on the 4th of July, is home to the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. This was my first exposure to the sport of competitive eating. Obviously, every sport has its detractors, and competitive eating is no different. Some people claim it glorifies gluttony, whereas others suggest that it promotes excessive and inhumane consumption of animal products. I ignored these protestors, peddling their narrow-minded and ill-informed propaganda, and settled in to appreciate the spectacle that was about to unfold. Not only is competitive eating an exploration into willpower, determination and the human spirit, but it’s a sport for us all. Who hasn’t, in their time, tested their intestinal fortitude, by cramming in that extra morsel when it seemed impossible, gone back for thirds when seconds was more than enough, or laughed in the face of one whose eating skills paled in comparison to their own? I know I have.

So there I was, crammed in amongst 50,000 passionate fans, jostling for position in the desperate hope of catching a glimpse at even one of the world-class athletes that were assembled before us; the best the world had to offer in the only truly universal sport. However, in a field of worthy contenders, only two men had captured the hearts and minds of the crowd. Takeru Kobayashi, hailing from Japan, had won the last 6 titles, and was considered by many to be the best eater of them all. His only recent defeat was at the hands of an Alaskan Kodiak bear; and while a strong competitor, the bear was noticeably shaken when confronted with the icy stare of this Japanese eating machine. Today, however, was the 4th of July; America’s day. If ever the USA needed a patriot, it was now. This man was Joey Chestnut. Chestnut moved across the stage with an air of confidence, and this confidence quickly spread amongst the crowd, and, via ESPN, throughout a nation. The stage was set, and the atmosphere was thick with anticipation, the aroma of hot dogs, and most of all, a sense of destiny.

A hotdog eating competition goes for 12 minutes. For 12 minutes, not a murmur could be heard in a crowd that was 50,000 strong. For 12 minutes, not a breath was taken. Without disrespect to the calibre of athletes present, it was, from the outset, a battle of two men. Within a minute, Chestnut and Kobayashi had each eaten more than 10 hotdogs, with buns. Upon seeing the prowess of these two men; the jaw strength, the finely honed hand-to-mouth coordination and the mental strength to keep eating when it didn’t seem humanly possible, even the staunchest animal-rights protestor was soon converted. Shouts of ‘no more meat’ quickly turned to impassioned cries of ‘eat, Joey, eat!’ For 12 minutes, time seemed to stand still, and a nation dared to hope.

‘5…4…3…2…1!’ The crowd counted down. The scores were tied. The commentator announced that a plate count would be necessary. Both athletes appeared to have eaten 63 hotdogs. On recount, and by virtue of a Kobayashi ‘reversal’ (a competitive eating term used to describe vomiting), the official score of 66 hotdogs for Chestnut and 63 for Kobayashi was announced. The ‘Mustard yellow belt’ was returning home to the shores of Coney Island. One man had carried the hopes and appetites of a nation on his shoulders, and triumphed against the best in the world. Names like Neil Armstrong, Lance Armstrong and Louie Armstrong faded into obscurity, buried in the annals of forgotten history. America had a new hero. Joey Chestnut stood tall and proud, the Stars and Stripes draped across his shoulders. He took the microphone, and yelled words that echoed the sentiments of each and every red-blooded, hot-dog eating American; ‘I feel pretty freaking good.”

The Hawketc Team reunite

22 June to 3rd July: Brooklyn, New York

Without major incident I arrived at a three-story brownstone house in the nicer part of Brooklyn, New York which was to be the home of the Hawketc Team for the next two months. It has been a half hour walk with my pack, an hour and a half subway ride, and a sleepless eight hour flight from Calgary. I always struggle sleeping on planes, especially with such quality movies like ‘Wild Hogs’ and ‘Speed 2’ tempting me to stay awake. But I was finally here. New York, according to the tag line of the David Letterman show, the greatest city in the world.

Hawkins, who had arrived the day before gave me a quick tour of the house and introduced me to our third housemate, who has turned out to be more trouble than you’d think for her small stature, Missi.




I spend the first day sleeping and then checking out a local bar which sells only imported or homebrewed beers that night. Since then, I’m afraid to say, little has happened of note. Hawkins and I joined a gym, discovered a great place for bagels near the gym for a post-workout meal, and studied.

It has been nothing but study since I got here. I suppose with the New York Bar Exam being less than a month away and it being the primary reason for this caper, it makes sense that I should be doing nothing but studying. It is the hardest exam in the world. But I haven’t even seen the Statue of Liberty yet.

A brief break
Last Friday night Hawkins and I decided that a night off from the study was well deserved. We arranged to meet up in SeaPort with a friend of Hawkins and a few of her friends. A few outdoor beers, some music from a local band, the Ra Ra Riots, and the night quickly went down the path of shenanigans.

From SeaPort we went to a pub in the Financial District. The gang had a table reserved, and Ilana, a member of the gang, had a company credit card. Expensive foreign beers and shots followed. I tried to remember the ingredients to the Gladiator shot which I’d had a week earlier at Cowboys in Calgary over three or four rounds. For the record, I didn’t come close – the answer was half a shot of Amaretto, half a shot of Southern Comfort, depth charged into half lemonade half OJ.

From there we hit the karaoke scene. Hawkins and myself dazzled in usual style, putting the Americans to shame with our soulful rendition of Bryan Adam’s Summer of ’69. I made some friends with some locals impressed with my work, and headed home, another successful night on the town.

And then back to the study
Since then, it’s been back to the study. July 4 is coming up, and so Team Hawketc may take the afternoon off to bask in American Patriotism. We’ll have to see.