Hawkins and Corey drink $7 cans of Corona all afternoon.
Hawkins plays poker in singlet, plays well but without luck, and is called "trailer trash" at one point. Hawkins plays a second tournament, comes 5th and breaks even for the night. Tries to find Corey. Corey is uncontactably intoxicated.
Corey runs shirtless down the boardwalk, and is turned down by numerous food vendors. Corey is finally given pizza and gatorade; he cannot hide his excitement.
Filthy room has no bathroom, but does have wash basin. Corey falls face first on floor. Begs for help. Corey is angered when Hawkins helps him up; he wanted to stay there. Hawkins drifts off to sleep. Hawkins wakes to Corey smashing plastic cup against wall. Hawkins drifts off to sleep. Hawkins wakes to Corey vomiting in basin.
Hawkins and Corey wake, and take short swim at the beach. There are old people everywhere. There are always old people everywhere in the AC. Hawkins loses money playing poker. Hawkins quits poker forever. Hawkins and Corey spend afternoon drinking. Hawkins and Corey spend evening drinking. Corey offends waitress. Waitress forgives Corey. Milosovic jokes - too soon.
Corey and Hawkins return to filthy hotel room. Corey and Hawkins vow to wake at 6:30am and leave the AC on the first bus.
Hawkins and Corey catch first bus out of AC.
The End.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Road Trip begins
Upstate New York
For the past few weeks, the members of the Hawketc Team had been living in spacious comfort in the family-friendly suburb of Park Slope, Brooklyn. The weather has been kind to us during our time here, and as Angry Dave and myself readied to leave for the last time what had been our home away from home, we expected today to be no different from any other.
Awkwardly balancing backpacks and our daypacks, we stepped outside into what we later realized was a result of New York being on the outer fringes of a hurricane which had been bashing the Caribbean for the past few days. Within seconds we were saturated through, with another ten blocks to walk to the subway. Walking in the rain is fun enough by itself, but when it’s windy, you’re carrying all your possessions on your back, and you cleverly chose to wear shorts and thongs, it makes the experience all the more special.
I collapsed into a seat between two typically thin Americans on the F train, and sat back expecting to get some rest in before we got off at Penn Station to catch the train to Buffalo, which is up near Niagara Falls. Amazingly, we were right on schedule, and were going to make it to Penn Station in plenty of time to get out tickets, buy and snack and get a good seat for the eight hour train ride to Upstate New York. And that’s when the subway train we were on stopped.
It turned out that the train ahead had some minor break problems. I turned to Angry Dave, who had replaced one of the Americans at the last stop in the seat beside me, and questioned whether there was ever such a thing as a ‘minor break problem’. That was when a Subway official came into our carriage and said that we’re better off getting off the train and catching another.
We arrived at Penn Station half an hour late, with little idea of where to head. Of course, the first person I ask for directions was from Sydney, and was looking for the station himself. We actually didn’t end up wasting much time, and found it pretty quickly. As we hurried to our platform, Angry Dave was true to form, and wondered why I was walking so slow. Unfortunately, thongs, slippery sidewalks and wet weather don’t go together so well. With only the occasional controlled slide, we jumped on the train, the last people to get on.
And so now, with Angry Dave gently snoring next to me, I’m writing the latest installment of Hawketc. Angry Dave, frustrated with the leisurely posting-style of the Hawketc Team, has started his own blog, after promises to let him post a guest blog failed to be fulfilled. We’ll put a link somewhere on our site, it seems only fair.
Now being on the, the regularity of new blog postings to Hawketc may be affected somewhat. I’ll try to update where we’re at along the way.
Angry Dave and Corey are outsmarted by the UN
In the past week, I’ve been seeing the sights of New York that I haven’t got around to seeing in the past few weeks I’ve been here. Top on the list includes the Empire State Building, which wasn’t too bad, except that I was in the grip of a terrible cold, and the batteries on my camera were mysteriously flat after having let Hawkins use it the day before. Angry Dave and I also checked out a few other famous sites, Central Park, the New York Public Library and the headquarters of the United Nations.
I was confident after going through security at the UN that checking the place out was going to be a breeze. The line had been short, and the checks well organized (unlike the Statute of Liberty, for example). I should have known better. The only way to see the inside of the UN was in a tour, which I wasn’t really interested in, and of course the line to buy tickets for the tour was huge. Angry Dave and I had been waiting in the line for about 15 minutes when we heard an announcement from the ticket desk, “last call for the Japanese Tour”. There was no line for that. With no hesitation from myself, and some from Angry Dave, we had our Japanese tour tickets in hand, and were waiting at the UN tour entrance. It was then I realized that another non-Japanese tour was waiting at the same place, and we lined up in that tour instead. By now the Japanese tour had left, and it was looking like our plan was even more brilliant than I’d first hoped. But the UN is cleverer than that, and we were caught out as we tried to get in. We feigned ignorance, and the Japanese tour was called back for us to join on the back of. Despite not understanding anything said, the tour wasn’t too bad. Our tour guide spoke better English than Japanese, and during photo breaks, answered any questions Angry Dave and I had. As we finished the hour long tour, another group was just starting. I recognized a number of people in the new tour who had been standing in the line in front of us, and I regretted nothing.
One last thing…
You may have noticed that Hawkins didn’t make much of an appearance in the latest adventures. He did most of the New York tourist stuff when he was here this time last year. Hawkins has also decided to head to Miami, rather than coming to Buffalo, New York. We’ll all be joining back up, most likely, in a weeks time in Maine, where we’ll organize a car for the next step of the Exaggerated Adventures of Hawkins and Corey.
For the past few weeks, the members of the Hawketc Team had been living in spacious comfort in the family-friendly suburb of Park Slope, Brooklyn. The weather has been kind to us during our time here, and as Angry Dave and myself readied to leave for the last time what had been our home away from home, we expected today to be no different from any other.Awkwardly balancing backpacks and our daypacks, we stepped outside into what we later realized was a result of New York being on the outer fringes of a hurricane which had been bashing the Caribbean for the past few days. Within seconds we were saturated through, with another ten blocks to walk to the subway. Walking in the rain is fun enough by itself, but when it’s windy, you’re carrying all your possessions on your back, and you cleverly chose to wear shorts and thongs, it makes the experience all the more special.
I collapsed into a seat between two typically thin Americans on the F train, and sat back expecting to get some rest in before we got off at Penn Station to catch the train to Buffalo, which is up near Niagara Falls. Amazingly, we were right on schedule, and were going to make it to Penn Station in plenty of time to get out tickets, buy and snack and get a good seat for the eight hour train ride to Upstate New York. And that’s when the subway train we were on stopped.
It turned out that the train ahead had some minor break problems. I turned to Angry Dave, who had replaced one of the Americans at the last stop in the seat beside me, and questioned whether there was ever such a thing as a ‘minor break problem’. That was when a Subway official came into our carriage and said that we’re better off getting off the train and catching another.
We arrived at Penn Station half an hour late, with little idea of where to head. Of course, the first person I ask for directions was from Sydney, and was looking for the station himself. We actually didn’t end up wasting much time, and found it pretty quickly. As we hurried to our platform, Angry Dave was true to form, and wondered why I was walking so slow. Unfortunately, thongs, slippery sidewalks and wet weather don’t go together so well. With only the occasional controlled slide, we jumped on the train, the last people to get on.
And so now, with Angry Dave gently snoring next to me, I’m writing the latest installment of Hawketc. Angry Dave, frustrated with the leisurely posting-style of the Hawketc Team, has started his own blog, after promises to let him post a guest blog failed to be fulfilled. We’ll put a link somewhere on our site, it seems only fair.
Now being on the, the regularity of new blog postings to Hawketc may be affected somewhat. I’ll try to update where we’re at along the way.
Angry Dave and Corey are outsmarted by the UN
In the past week, I’ve been seeing the sights of New York that I haven’t got around to seeing in the past few weeks I’ve been here. Top on the list includes the Empire State Building, which wasn’t too bad, except that I was in the grip of a terrible cold, and the batteries on my camera were mysteriously flat after having let Hawkins use it the day before. Angry Dave and I also checked out a few other famous sites, Central Park, the New York Public Library and the headquarters of the United Nations.I was confident after going through security at the UN that checking the place out was going to be a breeze. The line had been short, and the checks well organized (unlike the Statute of Liberty, for example). I should have known better. The only way to see the inside of the UN was in a tour, which I wasn’t really interested in, and of course the line to buy tickets for the tour was huge. Angry Dave and I had been waiting in the line for about 15 minutes when we heard an announcement from the ticket desk, “last call for the Japanese Tour”. There was no line for that. With no hesitation from myself, and some from Angry Dave, we had our Japanese tour tickets in hand, and were waiting at the UN tour entrance. It was then I realized that another non-Japanese tour was waiting at the same place, and we lined up in that tour instead. By now the Japanese tour had left, and it was looking like our plan was even more brilliant than I’d first hoped. But the UN is cleverer than that, and we were caught out as we tried to get in. We feigned ignorance, and the Japanese tour was called back for us to join on the back of. Despite not understanding anything said, the tour wasn’t too bad. Our tour guide spoke better English than Japanese, and during photo breaks, answered any questions Angry Dave and I had. As we finished the hour long tour, another group was just starting. I recognized a number of people in the new tour who had been standing in the line in front of us, and I regretted nothing.
One last thing…
You may have noticed that Hawkins didn’t make much of an appearance in the latest adventures. He did most of the New York tourist stuff when he was here this time last year. Hawkins has also decided to head to Miami, rather than coming to Buffalo, New York. We’ll all be joining back up, most likely, in a weeks time in Maine, where we’ll organize a car for the next step of the Exaggerated Adventures of Hawkins and Corey.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Corey and Michael double-team a 151 foot chick
New York
Once we had finished studying for the exam we had always planned to add an element of adventure to our lives here in New York. I’d been living in Brooklyn, within view of the Manhattan skyline, for five weeks now but hadn’t seen anything of note in New York, except for a brief visit to Times Square. After another week of procrastinating and sleeping in, it was decided a trip to the Statue of Liberty was in order.
Visiting Liberty Island, home of the statue, is a simple matter of buying a ferry ticket at Battery Point, lining up for an hour in the humid, hundred degree weather before getting on the ferry, waiting another half hour until the ferry fills up so much that the other large annoying sweaty tourists are forced to press up against you, and then a short 10 minute ride to disembark at Liberty Island dock.
This is where most people come unstuck. A little-advertised fact about visiting the Statue is that to go up to the base, you need a ticket, which is ordered online at least two days in advance. Hawkins and I had done our research, and felt superior to the other furious tourists yelling at the guard as we strolled into the large white security tent at the entrance to the base. That was where our feeling of superiority dissipated.
The air in the tent was thick; thick with waiting. A lonely fan turned in the middle of the tent, cooling the air for the small percentage of the dozens of people who were lucky enough to wait under it. For the rest of us, it was a torturous wait, worse than any previous wait we’d had during the day. After what seemed like an hour and a half, but was closer to an eternity, we went though the final set of metal detectors and penetrated the lady of liberty.
For what it is worth, I’d say it was worthwhile. It was a great view, and now I can stay I’ve been there. For Hawkins, who had been struggling with the lack of adequate facilities, it wasn’t quite as pleasant, but we both decided it was worth it.
On our way out, we saw that where there was once lines stretching back into the distance, there was nothing but bored security guards. My advice for anyone wanting to visit New York’s most famous landmark, do it after three in the afternoon, you’ll stroll straight in.
Angry Dave arrives in Brooklyn, wakes Corey up
The Tuesday after our adventure in Atlantic City (see Hawkins’ blog), I was have a pleasant morning lie in when I was awakened by a furious knocking on the door. Angry Dave had arrived from Australia, ten hours later than planned. He was saying he was furious, as his plane had been delayed in Los Angeles, or something like that. I was only half listening, as I was looking for something to substitute for pants. Maybe it’s unusual, but I feel uncomfortable talking to a guy while pantless.
We went to our local café for breakfast, afterwards Angry Dave passed out on my bed.
Four hours later, Hawkins and I had decided Angry Dave had slept enough, and that he needed alcohol. We bundled him into a shower while we sipped a couple of eighty cent Coronas from our local supermarket. Once we was done, we headed off to Lombardi’s pizza restaurant in Little Italy.
As usual, there was a wait at Lombardi’s, even after nine on a Tuesday night. We sat at the bar, having a refreshing beer, when a group of four came in asking for a table. Angry Dave and Hawkins both kept looking over at the group waiting nearby, while I sneakily poured the rest of the pitcher of beer into my glass.
Angry Dave: Is that who I think it is?
Hawkins: I’m pretty sure that’s Kirsten Dunst!
I was dubious, but after a couple of subtle (but obvious) stares, I had to agree with the boys. Our table was then called, and as our waitress led us away, Kirsten and her crew took our seats at the bar. I’m pretty sure she deliberately took my stool.
Lines such as “When else are you going to get a chance to bone Kirsten Dunst?”, “I hear she loves Aussie guys,” and “Just go say something to her,” were constantly thrown at me during the meal, which was delicious by the way. It would be nice to have friends that either didn’t rely on me for laying the groundwork with the ladies, or once I had done all the lead in work, then didn’t proceed to cut me down in front of them. There was little incentive to go through the whole process again, this time with a celebrity. Finally I said I would, but stalled for time by going to the bathroom, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make me sound retarded. Unfortunately, I didn’t come up with anything, and decided to wing it. We walked through the main room of the restaurant, looking for Kirsten, but alas, they had gone.
And that was the time I almost shagged Kirsten Dunst.
Once we had finished studying for the exam we had always planned to add an element of adventure to our lives here in New York. I’d been living in Brooklyn, within view of the Manhattan skyline, for five weeks now but hadn’t seen anything of note in New York, except for a brief visit to Times Square. After another week of procrastinating and sleeping in, it was decided a trip to the Statue of Liberty was in order.
Visiting Liberty Island, home of the statue, is a simple matter of buying a ferry ticket at Battery Point, lining up for an hour in the humid, hundred degree weather before getting on the ferry, waiting another half hour until the ferry fills up so much that the other large annoying sweaty tourists are forced to press up against you, and then a short 10 minute ride to disembark at Liberty Island dock.This is where most people come unstuck. A little-advertised fact about visiting the Statue is that to go up to the base, you need a ticket, which is ordered online at least two days in advance. Hawkins and I had done our research, and felt superior to the other furious tourists yelling at the guard as we strolled into the large white security tent at the entrance to the base. That was where our feeling of superiority dissipated.
The air in the tent was thick; thick with waiting. A lonely fan turned in the middle of the tent, cooling the air for the small percentage of the dozens of people who were lucky enough to wait under it. For the rest of us, it was a torturous wait, worse than any previous wait we’d had during the day. After what seemed like an hour and a half, but was closer to an eternity, we went though the final set of metal detectors and penetrated the lady of liberty.For what it is worth, I’d say it was worthwhile. It was a great view, and now I can stay I’ve been there. For Hawkins, who had been struggling with the lack of adequate facilities, it wasn’t quite as pleasant, but we both decided it was worth it.
On our way out, we saw that where there was once lines stretching back into the distance, there was nothing but bored security guards. My advice for anyone wanting to visit New York’s most famous landmark, do it after three in the afternoon, you’ll stroll straight in.
Angry Dave arrives in Brooklyn, wakes Corey up
The Tuesday after our adventure in Atlantic City (see Hawkins’ blog), I was have a pleasant morning lie in when I was awakened by a furious knocking on the door. Angry Dave had arrived from Australia, ten hours later than planned. He was saying he was furious, as his plane had been delayed in Los Angeles, or something like that. I was only half listening, as I was looking for something to substitute for pants. Maybe it’s unusual, but I feel uncomfortable talking to a guy while pantless.
We went to our local café for breakfast, afterwards Angry Dave passed out on my bed.
Four hours later, Hawkins and I had decided Angry Dave had slept enough, and that he needed alcohol. We bundled him into a shower while we sipped a couple of eighty cent Coronas from our local supermarket. Once we was done, we headed off to Lombardi’s pizza restaurant in Little Italy.
As usual, there was a wait at Lombardi’s, even after nine on a Tuesday night. We sat at the bar, having a refreshing beer, when a group of four came in asking for a table. Angry Dave and Hawkins both kept looking over at the group waiting nearby, while I sneakily poured the rest of the pitcher of beer into my glass.
Angry Dave: Is that who I think it is?
Hawkins: I’m pretty sure that’s Kirsten Dunst!
I was dubious, but after a couple of subtle (but obvious) stares, I had to agree with the boys. Our table was then called, and as our waitress led us away, Kirsten and her crew took our seats at the bar. I’m pretty sure she deliberately took my stool.
Lines such as “When else are you going to get a chance to bone Kirsten Dunst?”, “I hear she loves Aussie guys,” and “Just go say something to her,” were constantly thrown at me during the meal, which was delicious by the way. It would be nice to have friends that either didn’t rely on me for laying the groundwork with the ladies, or once I had done all the lead in work, then didn’t proceed to cut me down in front of them. There was little incentive to go through the whole process again, this time with a celebrity. Finally I said I would, but stalled for time by going to the bathroom, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make me sound retarded. Unfortunately, I didn’t come up with anything, and decided to wing it. We walked through the main room of the restaurant, looking for Kirsten, but alas, they had gone.And that was the time I almost shagged Kirsten Dunst.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
The AC - Part 1
Over the years, I had heard stories about a magical city. The stories told of a place where everyone is welcome, and where most would leave with fond memories, as well as tales of excitement, adventure, romance and great riches. While some cities are nothing more than the buildings which they encompass, this is a place with a heart and soul that is inextricably entwined with the rich tapestry of human history upon which its foundations are set. I had a feeling that any sentiments I had for London, New York, Vienna, or even Sydney would soon pale into insignificance; I was going to Atlantic City.
It was a particularly hot Friday in August, and minutes of meticulous planning were about to come to fruition as Corey and I each packed a change of clothes and strolled out of the house towards the subway station. To the casual onlooker, we may have looked our jovial selves, loudly and sporadically singing snippets of ‘White Stripes’ songs, but we were also somewhat humbled by the thought that in a few short hours we would be in the AC.
We reached the Port Authority bus terminal at about 12:25pm. After finding a timetable, we worked out that the next bus was due to leave at 12:30pm. At 12:29pm we had tickets, and set about running, in thongs (flip-flops), to the next building and up two flights of stairs to our bus’s departure gate. Luck was on our side, and we reached the bus with a very comfortable 5 or 10 seconds to spare.
Once on the bus, we realised that the chance of us sitting together was slim, and the people already seated were not nearly so slim. At least they realised this:
Corey: Excuse me mate? Mind if I sit here?
Large Gentleman: Are you kidding? I’ve got to be the biggest guy on this f^&king bus!
Eventually, we found a couple of seats, and settled in for the bus ride.
About 15 minutes into the journey, I had a startling realisation:
Michael: Hey Corey, I don’t want to alarm you, but we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. Should I tell the driver?
As it turns out, everyone in the USA drives on the wrong side of the road, and so with the chance of imminent death somewhat reduced, I relaxed and listened to some music.
There was only one short stop in the trip, at a place called Tom’s River. I would be lying if I said I saw any redeeming quality about this place. However, I was obviously in the minority, because once we boarded the bus again, there was only about 3 other passengers continuing through to AC. The attraction of Tom’s River will forever remain a mystery.
We arrived at AC at about 3pm, and set about getting checked in to our accommodation. Lots of people who visit AC choose to stay in the elaborately decorated themed hotels that dot the boardwalk alongside the beach. Corey and I had considered that option, but instead had elected for a more rustic AC experience. After getting some directions, we headed off towards the “Inn of the Irish Pub”, our home away from home for the next two days.
Before seeing our room, we ventured into the Irish Pub itself. I’m not sure what exactly made the pub Irish, unless Ireland is always dark and smells really bad, in which case it was very authentic. After seeing the pub, we had high hopes for the quality of our room, and we weren’t disappointed. It was everything we could have asked for; warm, unventilated, damp and with a faint odour that was hard to describe, yet nonetheless unpleasant. Our two single beds were fully equipped with ill-fitting sheets, uncomfortable mattresses as well as ever-important plastic mattress protectors. Now was not the time to explore whether our shared bathroom facilities would match the plush decadence of our room, so we left our bags, and walked very briskly away from the Irish Pub. With sleeping out of the question, we had just added a few valuable hours to our AC time.
It was a particularly hot Friday in August, and minutes of meticulous planning were about to come to fruition as Corey and I each packed a change of clothes and strolled out of the house towards the subway station. To the casual onlooker, we may have looked our jovial selves, loudly and sporadically singing snippets of ‘White Stripes’ songs, but we were also somewhat humbled by the thought that in a few short hours we would be in the AC.
We reached the Port Authority bus terminal at about 12:25pm. After finding a timetable, we worked out that the next bus was due to leave at 12:30pm. At 12:29pm we had tickets, and set about running, in thongs (flip-flops), to the next building and up two flights of stairs to our bus’s departure gate. Luck was on our side, and we reached the bus with a very comfortable 5 or 10 seconds to spare.
Once on the bus, we realised that the chance of us sitting together was slim, and the people already seated were not nearly so slim. At least they realised this:
Corey: Excuse me mate? Mind if I sit here?
Large Gentleman: Are you kidding? I’ve got to be the biggest guy on this f^&king bus!
Eventually, we found a couple of seats, and settled in for the bus ride.
About 15 minutes into the journey, I had a startling realisation:
Michael: Hey Corey, I don’t want to alarm you, but we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. Should I tell the driver?
As it turns out, everyone in the USA drives on the wrong side of the road, and so with the chance of imminent death somewhat reduced, I relaxed and listened to some music.
There was only one short stop in the trip, at a place called Tom’s River. I would be lying if I said I saw any redeeming quality about this place. However, I was obviously in the minority, because once we boarded the bus again, there was only about 3 other passengers continuing through to AC. The attraction of Tom’s River will forever remain a mystery.
We arrived at AC at about 3pm, and set about getting checked in to our accommodation. Lots of people who visit AC choose to stay in the elaborately decorated themed hotels that dot the boardwalk alongside the beach. Corey and I had considered that option, but instead had elected for a more rustic AC experience. After getting some directions, we headed off towards the “Inn of the Irish Pub”, our home away from home for the next two days.
Before seeing our room, we ventured into the Irish Pub itself. I’m not sure what exactly made the pub Irish, unless Ireland is always dark and smells really bad, in which case it was very authentic. After seeing the pub, we had high hopes for the quality of our room, and we weren’t disappointed. It was everything we could have asked for; warm, unventilated, damp and with a faint odour that was hard to describe, yet nonetheless unpleasant. Our two single beds were fully equipped with ill-fitting sheets, uncomfortable mattresses as well as ever-important plastic mattress protectors. Now was not the time to explore whether our shared bathroom facilities would match the plush decadence of our room, so we left our bags, and walked very briskly away from the Irish Pub. With sleeping out of the question, we had just added a few valuable hours to our AC time.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
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…
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…
Friday, July 20, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 6, 2007
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.”
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.”
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