August 26, 2008

Second Time's (Still) Not a Charm

Nary three weeks after announcing the continuation of my much-touted romantic quest (to ruin my life), and hardly a year after finding—and losing—a potential soulmate, I once again found myself on a flight, this time from Orange County, Calif., to Chicago, Ill., seated next to an (attractive) woman and engrossed in conversation. As the flight lifted off, and as the brief initial exchange with the passenger in the window seat gave way to a conversation interesting enough such that I was persuaded to put down the (obviously pretentious) book in my hand, my thoughts immediately turned to that fateful trip last year and the opportunity I had let pass me by. Determined not to let the pitch sail by yet again, I steadied myself for the swing. The second time would be the charm, I assured myself.

Alas, if only it were so. Unfortunately, as much as I would like to report to you, dear readers, that my second foray into meeting potential soulmates on airplanes was more successful than my first, I cannot. This is, after all, the Realm, a place of little happiness and less success, a place where there are no happy endings, only soul-crushing disappointments and heart-wrenching failures.

August 21, 2008

Rohit Reviews: In Cold Blood

Considering that my taste in books in recent years has tended towards dense and depressing, I thought I would take a break this summer for some lighter reading. Truman Capote's In Cold Blood was probably not the best way to accomplish my goal.

The novel, which incidentally was the subject of the 2005 film Capote, is often described as a masterpiece. I would not necessarily go as far, but I do not know that I can articulate why. Certainly, it was good, and after a slow start, I got so into it that I finished it in one marathon sitting this past Sunday. And as all reviews are want to do, I too can (and briefly will) gush on how it paints a vivid portrait of the men who perpetrated a senseless crime that ended the lives of four very sympathetic people. The manner in which Capote portrays the killers—without condemnation, almost sympathetically—is truly a masterful accomplishment.

So why the hesitation at describing it as a masterpiece? I think, in the end, it is not a reflection on this novel, but only that I have read others which I found to be better. That said, I would still recommend it to all but the most squeamish. It is well-written, quickly read, and if nothing else, brings to life a horrific true story from forty years past. Four stars of five.

August 19, 2008

New York, It's Been Real

For those following along, my awesome (and awesomely dysfunctional!) bum-filled, bridge-and-tunnel supported summer in New York, N.Y., has finally wound to a close. As I fought unusually strong suicidal impulses upon arriving in much-loathed Hyde Park and prepared for another year of dodging bullets and avoiding vagabonds, marauders, and socially inept undergrads, I could not help but miss New York, despite having spent only a few short months there.

But enough of that sentimental shit. This ain't a site about gushing about the past; it is a blog about inadequacy, failure, self-loathing, and suicide. Why talk about love when one can speak of hate? Why engage in nostalgia when one can revel in anger? Without further adieu, I present some of the things I will not miss about New York, and round out the post with some things I still hate about Chicago/Hyde Park.

August 10, 2008

The Other One: Confessions of an Unapologetic Adulterer

News that former presidential candidate John Edwards lied about an extramarital affair got me thinking about my own licentious ways and especially the torrid—and tawdry!—affair that I have been carrying on for past few years. Since it has transitioned from the realm of mere physical attraction to that of true emotional attachment, I can no longer keep it a secret. And unlike Messr. Edwards, who in a race to the bottom justified his affair on the basis that his wife's cancer was in remission, I will not attempt to effect disingenuous contrition; I stand proud and unapologetic over my adulterous ways.

August 08, 2008

My Romantic Quest: From Cynicism to Nihilism (Part 2)

Almost three years ago in a seminal entry commemorating the fourth anniversary of the venerable Realm, I set forth this site's (and consequently, my own) life plan for the decade to come. Invoking both Faulkner and Byron, I reasoned that the only way to move beyond the petulant and aimless attacks upon Berkeley bums that dominated this site was to embrace a path of unchecked self-destruction, in turn becoming a better writer. And how exactly was I going to destroy my life? Simple: meet the woman of my dreams, fall madly in love, be overwhelmed by hope and joy, and then have the said woman break my heart beyond repair, leaving me in a state of ever-worsening despair, unable to find love or happiness ever again (emphasis original).

So, why do I bring any of this up on this day of all days? Well, today is August 8, 2008, which means I only have a little over four years in which to get married. Needless to say, shit has gotten real.

August 06, 2008

On Being an Addict

Discussions of personal inadequacy on this blog often take a grandiose scope, naturally reflecting the undeniable seas of mediocrity and existential angst upon which the author (yours truly) is perennially adrift. Inadequacy need not be defined solely by weighty subjects such as existential failure, however, as HFK pointed out, to be relevant; what failures of no consequence want for in magnitude, they make up for in frequency. One such inconsequential inadequacy (of many, rest assured) is the subject of today's post: a habit—nay, an addiction—so severe that I have struggled much of my adult life to rid myself of it, always to no avail.

What is this addiction of which I speak, concerned readers (hi, Mom) are no doubt asking themselves? Alcohol?¹ Drugs?² Sex?³ Porn?!⁴ If only it were so. Unfortunately, the answer is far more insidious than that.

July 29, 2008

The Folly of Intellectual Abstinence

As it has been some time since I last expressed disillusionment with anything but my own woeful inadequacy, I thought I might take the opportunity to disabuse cherished readers of the notion that I have abandoned the contempt in which I hold most of society to pursue hating myself full time. Nothing could be further from the truth, and today, I turn to a topic that never fails to dole out soul-crushing disillusionment to any who seek it: politics. Tomorrow's Times (brought to me today by the magic of the internets) features an interesting article on Senator (and presumptive Democratic presidential nominee) Obama's twelve years as a professor at The University of Chicago Law School, and I highly recommend a read. While the piece covers a lot of ground, I would like to focus on one point in particular that is brought to the forefront: Obama never published a single piece of scholarly work while a faculty member at Chicago. My first thoughts: seriously? How is that possible?

July 28, 2008

Photographic Rejuvenation

Back in the joyous days of '06 (relatively speaking, anyway), I documented my top five most underutilized purchases, or in other words (if you strip the God-awful consulting jargon), the five most worthless purchases of my adult life, at least from a materialistic perspective. (Holistically, the most worthless purchase of my adult life has been health insurance, as purchasing anything that serves to extend my wretched existence is merely throwing good money after bad, but that's quite besides the point.) A couple objects that did not make the list in 2006, but easily could have would have been my not one, but two SLR cameras (one digital, one film—obviously!).

July 19, 2008

Reflections on Life, Law, and the UNIX Command Line

With grades from the last quarter of my 1L year (finally) in, the dreadful journal competition (finally) complete, and the summer winding down faster than it began, I was already left poised this week for reflection (as though I need any help with that!). Surprisingly, however, it was a minor calamity involving my photo server (the noble autocrat.rohitsrealm.com) that ended up providing the catalyzing spark necessary for me to contemplate the perennial question that has come to define not only me, but more importantly, this blog: what am I doing with my life (and why have I not yet killed myself)?

July 12, 2008

The Jungle

Since arriving in New York some four weeks ago, I have often heard the lament that Manhattan has lost its soul in the past ten years, becoming in the process some sort of amusement park for tourists and the nouveau riche (those woe-begotten hedgefund-managing speculators). Indeed, it seems to be the gripe du jour amongst New Yorkers new and old alike. The veracity of such sentiments I cannot confirm, for this is the first time I have spent any time in the Big Apple, but if the soul of which they speak has migrated to Williamsburg, I fret that it all might be a farce—and a fedora-laden ironic one at that. What I can attest to, however, is that at least in some parts of New York City, the amusement park complaint is by no means misplaced, as my first—and hopefully, last—foray into the Jungle last night made all too clear.