A Moment of Reflection Part 2

Part 1

Part 2 was going to be expansive (and eloquent) dissection of the law school experience. "The Path of the Law" to quote Holmes, and the pitfalls of thinking that getting a JD is the answer to the proverbial question of "What should I do with my life?" These are important questions, and I decided to take some time to fully formulate my point view. If I was billing for the amount of time I thought about this since last Wednesday, I would have no need to take out a private loan next year. There is a lot of time to just think when you spend 11 hours driving in two days. So I was getting ready to espouse brilliance and caution into the blogosphere when . . .

Those bastages over at Barely Legal decide to update their blog for the first time in months over the weekend. Long story short, the lightning that my post was set to ignite, will not have its thunder heard for weeks, or months, or ever. So if you check out that site (as I am sure you all religiously do), you will pretty much get the point of what I was going write here.

However, there are some pretty important distinctions, which I will address now (there is no point in reprinting my entire e-mail to my sis, so I will hit the high points).

The e-mail from my sis stated that she was thinking about attending law school part-time. My response began with this query, To start with, why do you want to go law school?

This is the threshold question. Failure to provide an appropriate response to this, and the inquiry ends. In lawyer terms, for a court to hear a case, there must be a controversy. However, you will never hear a court explicitly state that a controversy exists, unless the decision is based on those grounds, and it is not that it is overlooked, it just becomes implicit. In determining why to go to law school, a prospective student will formulate a reason why, without digging deeper. The why becomes implicit and shoved into the background, to be forgotten until you become a 2L, with a chance to think, "Where are we going?" (or for you latin aficionados, Quo Vadimus).

The same arguments can be advocated for Undergrad. I have no reason for going to college other than it seemed like the next logical step. There is no why, it is just the next step. Law School should never be the next step without a clearly defined goal, whether it is being the next Vincent Bugliosi, Henry Hyde, or Frank Easterbrook (while understanding the road each path takes), or a just the desire to work for Legal Aid. Whatever the goal is, before going to law school, it should be clearly defined.

My sister told me that she had a desire to do something with IP finance, so I wrote to her that there had to be a better way to prepare herself for a career in IP issues without going to law school. Hell, a nice week long seminar could probably sum up the most important issues in IP law, or at least how it relates to what she wants to do.

Other than the poor reason for attending law school, I railed against attending law school part-time. What I did not mention in my e-mail, is possibly the best reason: The fact that when attending full-time you can go out drinking on a Wednesday night, then stay up until 5:30 a.m. arguing all sorts of semantics, and sleep through your nine o'clock class because you still have a couple absences to give. How would want to give this up? What I focused on in my writing to my sis was the burden she would have.

First, it is about five years to graduate i think. That is a lot of shot weekends. Second, with one or two, three hour classes a week, there is going to be a lot of reading. The general rule is for each hour in class, it is three outside of class. At least the first year. So if you take six credits (two classes, I am not sure exactly how many you would take), that is 18 hours (at least), for a total of 24, plus work. 64 hours in toto a week is not too bad.

I harken back to my first year, when I studied my ass off. Reading cases two or three times, and briefing them. That first year is a tough one. I could not imagine the first year lasting two years. The rigors of the first year provide a substantial benefit. You come to understand the process, how to read a case, whether or not you like it, you are learning to think like a lawyer. It becomes easier, but that first year is tough.

I could not imagine working full-time, going to law school part-time, and dealing with all this bullshit for the first time. You got to want it pretty bad. Which brings us full circle, back to the why.

Barely Legal penned a series of bad reasons to attend law school (I am too lazy to find the links, but it is around April '06 (I think), and I generally agree with them. Money, prestige, thinking one man can make a difference, are all too pretentious for but a few of us. Pragmatic reasons grounded in thoughtful decision-making are much more pertinent. Those reasons, are personal to everyone, and I will not bother to make a list.

I suppose now would be the time for me to list my reasons for attending law school, but I do not feel like it. They are still valid, and I still think I made the right decision (though feel free to ask if that holds true a year from now), and I am comfortable with that.

So, as for my moment of reflection, I am not ready to aim that mirror on myself just yet, but I will happily point it in your direction.

A Moment of Reflection Part 1

So, my iPod just crapped out on me. My computer decided that it did not want to transfer songs to it anymore. I blame my computer, because it is a piece of shit, and not my iPod, which fucking rules. So, I had to restore my iPod, which means erasing everything and loading everything back onto it. However, after I erased, iTunes popped up a question that gave me pause.

It asked me to name my iPod.

My iPod already had a name, and now, I had the privilege of deciding whether or not to rename it. I could have stuck with the old name, its original name (though I never refer to it by this name, it has always been "My iPod," which may be a bit derogatory, but since my iPod cannot think, it is not protected by the 14th amendment), or picked a new, more relevant name. For instance, if you have a baby and name it "Stan," that may be perfectly appropriate at the time, but after a month or two, you may think that a better name would be "spit-up monster that just won't shut-up." I suppose it is a good thing that we get only one chance to name our kids.

But since my iPod was never birthed out of something I had intimate contact with, I feel that a name change is possible. Because the first time I plugged my iPod into my computer, I had to name it, so I came up with the thing that was on my mind at the time.

"Donkey Porn"

O.K., that was not it. I have never willingly looked at donkey porn before in my life. No, I bought my iPod back in the summer of aught four, when I was full of promise, my whole life ahead of me, and my head full of chemicals. At some point that summer, I had made the decision to go to law school, come hell or high water (had I known either would be better . . .). So at that time my life was focused on the future. Certainly, it was not on the present. I was working a blue collar job, a night job, where I had some authority, but no real responsibility. Plus a kick ass salary (hey $14+ an hour to surf the web was pretty good pay, as I "supervised" a bunch of guys). Sadly, that was not good enough for me, and I had my heart set on law school. Though it was about three months before I could start applying, I was focused on getting in.

So after the July 4th week, when I had worked 160 hours in two weeks, I decided to splurge, thanks to all of the overtime I had worked. And that resulted in the iPod I currently own, hell, when you are working $400 does not seem like that much money.

So back to the point, I named my iPod "Law School Bitch." I forgot the comma, it was supposed to be "Law School, Bitch" as in, I am going to go to law school in spite of you iPod. See, despite my 153 on the LSAT, I fully intended to make law school my bitch, and thankfully, my lack of any meaningful life experience combined with my inability to sell a damn thing (i.e. my personal statement) resulted in me only being accepted to a handful of schools, none of which has ever produced a Supreme Court justice (and maybe a handful of federal appellate judges) (what I am getting at is that I had a choice between crap #1, crap #2 and crap #3). This however, did enable me to make law school my bitch. I was looking over my transcript tonight, and I was like damn, what the hell am I doing here (the main reason I did not transfer was because I wanted two years on law review, screw what the firms want, that is something that I wanted).

So enough with the self-congratulatory bullshit (what is this, the Oscars?), the point is, I had to decide whether or not to rename my iPod. When I got the damn thing, law school was the goal, but now, I have no clue what my goal is. I could fail every class I still have to take and end up with a C GPA (remember, law school is front-loaded in the first year, and you get no credit when you fail a class, I think, I should check on that). So I know I can do well here, that is no longer a goal. I will be published in my school's law review journal, so that is no longer a goal. The three things I wanted to accomplish when I went to law school have been done (granted getting a good job is not something that really was a goal, I figured 1+2+3=6 figures, but I am not close to that).

Back when I named my iPod, I saw my future. Now, I am not sure what I see. So I regret going to law school? I do not think so, there was not much going on for me when I made the decision to go to law school. But all of that was put into perspective when my older sister e-mailed me saying, " hey brother, I need your advice on law school. do you think I could go part-time and do a good job?"


My response coming, some point in the future

A Kroger Love Story Part 2

Part 1

I heard it moments before the manager called me into his office. Tom had been walking around, and heard the gossip, soon to be confirmed by the manager. He informed me that Bertha and Billy had had a big fight the night before, and Bertha informed Billy that she was in love in with me. SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH ME!!!

I was floored by this revelation. A wet noodle could have knocked me over. A feather duster, a sombrero, a dishrag, hell even a drop of water could have knocked me on my ass. I did not even like this woman. All I did was give her a passing acknowledgment when words passed through her lips. Not to mention the fact that she was a solid 15 years older than me. I would not have given her the time of day had she passed me on the street. I don’t think that I was even that nice to her. I just said the occasional, “yep,” “uh-huh,” or “that’s great.” Was she so starved for attention that this was all she needed to fall in love with someone?

As I said, moments after I found out that I had unwittingly broken up a marriage, the manager called me into his office, and basically confirmed the rumor. Bertha had broken up with Billy because she was in love with me. The manager then proceeded to tell me that what I did on my own time was none of his business, just so long as it did not interfere with work. Had I not been so shell-shocked, I would have made it clear that I never so much as touched Bertha (OK, so maybe I brushed up against her tits once, but it was an accident). Still numb, I left his office with the knowledge that it does not pay to be nice.

The story is not done there though. All this happened within the first two and half hours of my shift. I still had half of it let to go. The rest of the day was filled with Kroger employees from every department casually walking by, peering into the Deli to see who had caused the latest drama. I wanted to hold up a sign saying, “I HATED BERTHA. SHE IS AN IDIOT. I NEVER DID ANYTHING. SHE IS READING INTO THINGS THAT ARE NOT THERE.” I did not get a chance however, as there were a lot of people asking for Lorraine Swiss Cheese that day.

The coup de grâce came about 20 minutes before closing time. A man and woman walked up to the Deli counter. Trying to put the whole thing behind me and be a cheery Kroger employee, I asked if there was anything I could help them with. They said, “Do you know [lawschoolrules]?” I said that was me. The man said, “Well its nice to see who that bitch left my brother for” and walked away. “Oh Fuck,” was the only thing I could think. That brief exchange taught me a very important lesson.

The next twenty minutes were anxiety ridden. The only thing I could think about was how many guys would be hiding behind my car waiting to break my legs. Would it just be Billy? Billy’s Brother? Both? Does Billy have more friends or brothers or uncles or nephews or bothers-in-law? They knew what I looked like. I had one saving grace though, Tom. I figured Tom would be there to help me out, he was a good guy, he would certainly escort me to my car.

Nope. As soon as the clock hit 10 he was gone. I don’t think he even said goodbye. Just punched out and left. As I wrapped up the corned beef I began thinking about how much a tire iron to the knee would hurt. I wondered if I had the balls to scream, “RAPE!!” But I sucked it up; I left the store with no escort, no gun, no brass knuckles, no nothing but my own fear. I walked out of the automatic doors and saw no one waiting in the shadows. I pressed on, my fists clenched ready to start swinging at anyone who came near. I made it to my car without any trouble, but knew that there was still a chance for violence. I got, started the car up, and drove away without incident. I was relieved, after all it had been the second time in my life I had been presented with the fact that I might get my ass kicked in a parking lot (the first time required sweet talk since the angry people were actually there).

The repercussions of this day were few. I quit shortly thereafter, partly because of this, and partly because of something else, which I cannot talk about (the Bar would have my ass). I occasionally ran into some of my other co-workers (at the time this happened my friend had already quit), and learned that Bertha and Billy had worked things out. So, officially I did not unwittingly break up a marriage, I just nearly unwittingly broke up a marriage. It was close I am sure, but God has plenty of other reasons to send me to Hell. I did see Bertha about a year later. I was doing some late night shopping at the Kroger and she was working the register. She did not acknowledge me, and I did not acknowledge her. But she looked pretty much the same, and it was at that point that I decided to never be nice to anyone ever again.

A Kroger Love Story Part 1

I wrote this a long time ago, and am just posting it now, so do not judge it too harshly.

There are probably several stories from my younger days that are worth telling. However this is the one I want to tell. Just as Mike from Barely Legal Blog worked at Kroger, I did so too. However, I do not have ten stories to tell, just one (though I was wearing the polo that Mike instituted).

It was so long ago, I cannot even remember what year it was. I think it was the fall semester of my sophomore year in college, when I came to be employed by the Kroger in my college town. A friend of mine had recently begun working in the Deli there, and told me it was an easy job and they were hiring. Me needing money to pay those older than me to procure beer for me, decided that the Deli at Kroger’s was the perfect job. I quickly set about filling out an application and was hired (I think there may have been an interview, but who knows). I naively figured that this would be a good chance to hang out with a friend of mine, and getting paid to do so. This assumption turned out to be erroneous quite quickly. We both worked at night, but since we were both part-time, we were generally paired with a full-timer, and thus worked on different nights. Apparently there were some people in town who felt that working in the Deli at the Kroger was a career. After all, there were Union benefits (biting my tongue).

I generally spent my three nights a week working with Bertha. Bertha was a regular townie. She looked the part and acted the part. She was maybe a hair over five feet, but weighed a good 150 lbs. (a solid two ‘poons). She also had a nice pair of coke bottle glasses. In other words, the three-month old honey ham was more appetizing than her. While we worked together, she talked incessantly, not really to me (or so I thought), but at me. I usually grunted a reply, but because I was too nice a guy I could not tell her to shut her hole. She would yammer on, and I would say things like “yup,” “MMM-Hmmm,” “that’s interesting,” “wow,” “huh,” and “cool.”

To this day, I have no idea what she was talking about 90% of the time, but in the three months I was there, she told me one story twice; How she found her husband. From what I could decipher, one day Bertha decided she needed a husband. To accomplish this monumental task, she set up three dates. The details of the first date escape my memory, but it probably involved the guy seeing her, excusing himself from the table, and fleeing through the bathroom window. At the second date, the guy did not show up, even though Bertha was to pick him up at his home. But, as Bertha told me, she had a great time with his parents. Apparently, this guy still lived with his folks, and then skipped out to prevent meeting her, and his parents were forced to deal with her. According to Bertha, they were very nice folks (which I do not dispute, there were some folks around these parts that are salt of the earh), and she proceeded to hang out with them for a few hours.

Fortunately, on the third date Bertha struck gold. She met her soul-mate, Billy. Three dates was all it took to find love. If only that could work for us white-collars. Anyway, when Bertha met Billy sparks flew and they each knew that the other was the one. After all, Bertha worked in the Deli and Billy worked in the Meat Department, both at Kroger. It was a match made in heaven, or at least a recipe from the Kroger Bakery. After what was probably an exciting and eventful courtship, Bertha and Billy got married.

However, shortly after I began working in the Deli with Bertha, they began going through some problems. Unbelievably the marriage began to fall apart. This of course, was completely unknown to me, because I never listen to what people have to say. Had Bertha said something to me, I probably would have grunted. Of course, that may have happened, and Bertha found my grunt to be the sexiest thing ever. Because I came into work one day, and Bertha was scheduled, but no where to be seen.

With Bertha gone, a kid my age, (but not in school, though a cool guy nonetheless) named Tom was forced to stay late and work with me. As I recall, I was scheduled to come in an hour before Bertha, so after about an hour and a half of hard Deli work, the word began to trickle down. Bertha and Billy broke up. They had a huge fight the previous night, and no one knew where Bertha was. I, of course, did not care, I was more concerned about who would help me close up the Deli that night. I spent the better part of an hour convincing Tom to stay and help me close up. I talked him into staying until closing time, though not until closing procedures were completed, but that was good enough for me. Then the bombshell came.

To be continued….

Oblivious of the Past

So I am taking Tax class this semester, which is important I suppose because I will have a tax related job this summer. I was excited to take tax class. I recall one of the 3L’s telling me that [Tax Prof] is a fucking tax god. So you can see why I was excited. I had had [Tax Prof] for a differently similar class my first year, and he spent half of each class talking about the tax code, so I thought that this class would be great.

Of course, two things should have tipped me off. First, I took Federal Income Tax as an undergrad, and it nearly turned me off tax forever. There was a 90 year old guy teaching the class, who did not seem to care about anything. Tenure to the extreme. This class was also held at 8 a.m. on Wednesdays and Fridays. Yeah, this was not a good time for me. I was a sophomore living off campus, in a kick ass house (not a frat house, a normal house) in a town that delivered beer without asking for I.D. Needless to say, sophomore year was when I learned that Thursday was the first day of the weekend. Aside from skipping half of my classes, I learned that Tax did not appeal to my analytical brain.

Oh as an aside, a funny story about tax. There was a kid in my undergrad tax class, let us call him Pete, who skipped class more than I did. I happened to be in class the day that groups were assigned for our big end of the semester group project. We got to pick our groups so I got stuck with the other two kids who had no friends, well they were not that bad, but who am I to complain? Anyway, we set up a time to meet on a Saturday morning to go over the big end of the semester project, which in actuality was the preparation of a tax return according to all the rules, none us learned because the Prof’s false teeth made it difficult for him to enunciate. Anyway, the Friday night before the group meeting, I am out on the town, getting shit-faced and I run into Pete. We start talking about Tax class, and I learn that he has no group. Fucked up as I am, I tell him he should join my group. I tell him we are meeting at 10 am on Saturday, at [Address of this kid in the group]. He says thank you, and I continue on with the over-indulgence. I wake up the next morning to a throbbing in my head, that turns out to be half the hangover and half the alarm that has been going off for 45 minutes. So I throw on the clothes I wore the night before, after all they were at the foot of my bed, and head on out. I get to Steve’s apartment (the kid in my group whose apartment we agreed to meet at), and knock on the door while smoking a cigarette. He answers the door and says that I cannot smoke that inside, I understand, and fling it out into the street and enter the house (he had a little porch). I walk into Kevin’s apartment, and get an immediate sense of déjà vu. This was the first time I realized that all the apartments in the same complex looked exactly the same. Same layout, kitchen, counter, fridge, stove, carpet, and poorly laid out load bearing walls. It made me a bit disoriented, but not as disoriented as when I saw Pete sitting on the couch.

“Whoa, do you live with Kevin?” Was my first thought, that I did not say. Pete could not live with Kevin. What the hell was Pete doing here? I could not figure it out. Surely you can, because you have read this story, but my poor memory combined with enough booze to kill a midget had caused me to forget completely that I had invited him here, and without anyone else in the group even knowing. “You told me to come,” Pete said sensing my confusion. My bloodshot eyes took a glance over at Kevin (I had worked with him on a group project for another class and he knew that I was a bit of a wildcard) and he just kind of shrugged at me, as if to say, three minds are better than two, even if two of the minds are you and Pete.

So we sat around for a while, actually waiting for the fourth member of the group, who was not so much of a fuck-up as he was stupider than a pile of manure. However, it was a great excuse to put off getting started on the work. So I went out to smoke, and Kevin, not a smoker, came out too. I am not sure why Kevin came out, maybe so I would not burn his plants. But anyway, I get halfway through my smoke when the fourth member of the motley crew shows up. Realizing that it is time to get to work, I flick the half-smoked cig into the street, or at least I thought so. As we head inside, we hear this chick yell, “The Cigarette Is Burning the Shrubs.” What, I think. Who cares, there is fucking snow on the ground, and it will not burn shit. But Kevin gets a little paranoid, and heads back out the door. The girl yells out again, “It is still burning!!” Whatever I think, but look into the shrubbery to see if anything is burning. I see nothing. Suddenly a girl appears, and stamps out my cigarette as it lies in the street burning next to the sewer drain I had aimed for. I am tempted to yell out something about how she is a hippie, but alas, I am too hung-overly drunk to be witty. After all, it is tax time.

So we go through the problem, finish it, and turn it in. A few classes later, the old man hobbles up to the front of the room to let us know how we did. Every group, there was probably ten, had come up with a different answer. And only one group got the “right” answer. It was not my group. I was pissed. What the fuck kind of law is this shit where 45 different college educated students could get a different answer based on the same fact pattern? And more importantly, how could I have not gotten the right answer? To be fair, our groups Gross Income was less than the correct answer, and based on the frequency of IRS audits (<1%) I would say that my group’s answer, while not right, was the better answer.

And then I took the final, and apparently the old man did not agree with me about having a better answer than the right answer. I got a B-, the second worst grade I had ever received in my life (Once I figure out the difference between macro and micro economics I will tell you why I got a C (including an F on the midterm) for one and a B+ (because I got nothing less than a 92% on any exam, but I skipped so many classes that it drove my grade down so far that the Prof said that if I got a 95% on the final, I could get an A. I decided it was not worth it) for the other).

So if undergrad is the first reason I should I have been apprehensive, the second reason is the sheer size of the Tax class in law school. I was pretty much the last person eligible to register for any class this semester and I got into it. Needless to say, Tax is a popular class. There are 200 people in there if there is one (didn’t I learn anything about this cliché?). The sheer enormity of it makes it impossible to care. When the Prof is willing to cater to the lowest common denominator, then there is not much to do but surf the web in class.

I may have gotten a B- in undergrad tax class, but I still know the basic concepts. And Law Tax is based solely around basic concepts. Because you do not have to be an accountant to get tax law. You have to be a lawyer. All that tax class has become is a guide through the code and the regs. The only thing I am learning is where to find the particular law. It is pathetic. I was so excited about this class. I had hoped it would change my life; reinvigorate my interest in accounting (which was my major), but it has utterly failed to do so.

But on the bright side, well . . . I do not know, fuck the bright side. I am a pessimist. Once I get an A in the class I will worry about whether or not I learned anything.

Of course, the Prof is always pointing out that his accounting students never do as well as they think they will. This sounds like a challenge to me. Ahhh, if only I cared.

Back, maybe

I was debating whether or not to post here ever again. I am still in law school and still have one year left, after I finish this semester. So I should still have at least 18 months of interesting stuff to tell (at least in theory). The problem was, would I tell it? It has been almost two months since my last post. I do not know where to go with that, it is just fact. No genuine issue there. I could easily just forget about this blog and all the irrelevant things I have had to say to the people that never read this thing. So the question is, have I lost my desire to write? The answer is a resounding no. Shit, I have spent the last two months writing (and editing and revising and researching and editing and writing and checking my galleys and reading and then reading some more and then doing more research and then writing some more and then editing a little bit followed by editing some more, though it really was not much editing; my wirting is perfect as is).

But it is not just my public that has been neglected. I looked through my cell phone. My last out-call before today was to the Chinese place for food delivery on Jan. 25. Before that (minus some calls to my parents about some legal troubles (fyi my troubles), stay tuned) was a call to accept a job offer on Dec. 29. That is pretty pathetic even for me. But on the plus side, I did write a kick ass comment for law review. So I got that going for me.

So why did I start writing again? (bear in mind, this is one entry and further entries are not guaranteed). I don’t know. Call it a compulsion. Call it nothing better to do now. Call it now that I am done with my comment, I have no idea what to do with myself and I need a reason to get out of bed because going to class just ain’t cutting it anymore (though I am fond of cutting class, though they do not really call it that anymore).

I do have some trepidations though. I do not want to shut down for a few months again. It seems that ever since my third semester started, I stopped writing. There was a post here, and another one over there, but never as regularly as when I first started. So just know, I am not guaranteeing any number of posts a week, but hopefully, it will be regularly.

So, enough with the boring disclaimer, let us get to what you all came for. Stories about me being a retard. So without further ado:

You may recall my last post. I think it said something about how it was the last day of finals and debauchery would soon ensue. I have said some prophetic things in my day, but that probably takes the cake. I wrote that post just before I went out for the night (I had internet in my house then, stolen or borrowed, whatever, I had it).

So I went to this party. I am not the most social person, but when I have had a few I can interact with most people, so long as I do not have to talk to them for too long and I can take a break every now and then. So the party was going along swimmingly, there was a keg, which is nice, and then suddenly, a bunch of cop cars show up outside. There was 8 if there was a dozen (hmm, bad cliché, there was maybe five or six cop cars). They just sat there, and we continued to have a good time. And of course, good times mean loud times. Add 20 minutes and several more beers equals louder times.

From what I can gather, cops do not like noise, even though they have those sirens on their cars. Apparently, the cops stormed the porch, and people stampeded inside, leaving a few unfortunate souls outside to deal with them. I was inside at the time, and quite inebriated. I got the gist of what was going on when the host said, “Shut up and get inside everyone, the cops are here. Be Quiet!” I asked the esteemed drunken host what the hell was going on, and I can only assume that he gave me an unsatisfactory answer.

Had I received a satisfactory answer, I surely would not have done what I did next.

Pissed off that some ornery cops would ruin the good time of a bunch of law students who had just suffered through two weeks of hell (first semester of second year still means something, I suppose), I decided to figure out what the hell was going on. I first tried the front door, but it was locked from the inside, and when I unlocked it, a cop on the porch told me to go back inside. This, of course, infuriated me. Why did it infuriate me? Probably for the same reason that I felt the need to defend my fellow students who were being subjected to the tyranny of the city police. I was drunk. There is no rational reason. In retrospect, I should have stayed inside, after all, the meek will inherit the Earth. Right? No, even now I would do the same thing that I was about to do. Was it a bad idea? Sure it was. I do not deny that. Were those folks on the porch capable of standing up for themselves? Probably, but even Mike Tyson had people in his corner when he boxed in the Olympics. Can you turn a blind eye to injustice? Most of the people at that party did, but I did not (or they were not so fucked up that they did not see an injustice or conversely, they were so fucked up they did not see an injustice).

So, because I am so damn altruistic (this is not the word I want to use, I need a word that says I believe that there is good in everyone (even Darth Vader, but I do not think believing in the force helps with the vocab situation going on here), help please), I figured that once I got on the porch and explained everything to the cops, they would see that they were being unreasonable and leave us the hell alone. But the front door was blocked, so I needed an alternate route. Thankfully, I had spent much of the party wandering around the house getting to know the lay of the land (people do not bother you much when you are walking around during a party if you look like you know where you are going). From my wanderings, I knew that I could exit out the back door, head around the house, and climb up onto the porch. So I did, and with a full cup of beer. Here is what happened (as best I can recall):

ME: What is going on here?
Cop#1: We have it taken care of.
ME: No, I want to know what is going on out here.
Cop#1: Just go back inside, this does not concern you.
ME: No, look, I am just curious what is going on out here, I want to figure this out. Ok, Ok, I know, wait, let me just do this.

[I pour my beer out over the porch railing into the shrubs]

ME: Ok, can we have a dialogue here now?
Cop#1: Go. Back. Inside.

[I see a cop in an intense conversation with a law student on the porch. The student looks upset]

ME: Are you charging anyone with anything here?
Cop#2: [gives me a look of contempt] Yes, public intoxication.
ME: What?
Cop#2: Public Intox.
ME: Are you kidding me?
Cop#2: What?

[I give Cop#2 a mixed look of pity and contempt for not understanding the law]

ME: Public Intox? They are on a porch.
Cop#2: Yeah . . .
ME: This is private property.
Cop#2: See that house over there [points across the street]. They can see you. That
makes it public.
ME: Are you serious? [I have lost all composure] We are on a porch. So wait, you are telling me, that if the people across the street . . . [I point to a window bordering the porch] If the shades were up on this window, and the people across the street could see me . . .
Cop#2: [Icy cold stare]
ME: inside the house and I was drunk, that would be a public intox? That does not make sense. There are . . .

[Cop#2 springs into action. He takes two steps, spins me around, and puts my hands behind my back. Smooth to, he must have practiced. He pushes (not really pushes, I do not know how to describe it because he is leading me, but he is behind me, guides maybe?) me down the stairs. My mind starts racing, more so than before. “He has not read me my Miranda Rights, so he cannot be arresting, but he is surely restricting my free movement. Actually, he does not need to read me my rights, because if he is right and I can be publicly intoxicated on a porch, then he has all the evidence he needs, except for a breathalyzer to prove I am in fact drunk, though I know I am.”

He pushes me off the stairs and towards the direction of a cop car. He leans me against the trunk, and frisks me. “Is this a Terry stop? No it is not, he has probable cause to frisk me, so I cannot argue that in court,” I think to myself. He takes my phone and my wallet, and opens the back door of the cop car and asks me to get in. I do. “Ahhh, you cold hard plastic seats, it has been six years since I felt your cold emotionless essence on my ass. By the way, you seats are very uncomfortable,” I say to the seats after Cop#2 closes the door.

So there I am, in the back of a cop car, again. My mind starts racing through what I learned from Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure. Unfortunately, none of the cases focused on Public Intox on a porch. I think to what is “public.” Curtilage comes to mind, but I think that cops can search it if they have probable cause. Nothing like a crisis to fuck up the head. Hell, I got my second worst grade in Crim. Pro. and now here I am. Fuck Karma. Two deep breaths, I am not going anywhere for a while, make the most of it. I take out my pack of cigarettes and rip off the top. I pull out my pen, the cop did not take that, and start making notes on the cigarette box top. “Porch, Public? Look Into. Intox? No proof. Breathalyzer—not yet. Porch, not public area. § 1983, unlawful detainment. Lost Liberty. No Movement. Stuck in Cop Car for ___ min. Sue the Fuckers.”

After I finished my notes, roughly ten minutes or so after I was denied my freedom, I spied another officer walking by the car. I started to knock on the window.]

ME: [knock, knock, knock]
Cop#3: [opens the door] Do NOT pound on the window.
ME: But I was just . . .

[Cop#3 slams door shut]

ME: wondering if I was under arrest. Asshole. I will have your badge. You cannot hear me, but you know you are fucking up as we speak. You cannot arrest me for this shit. I did nothing wrong. A porch is not a public place fucker. Your actions have just confirmed that I am under arrest. You know what that means right asshole? Section 1983. My rights have been violated and they will be vindicated by a court allowing me taking your badge and shove it up your ass. You think you know what you are dealing with? Fucker you don’t have a clue. This will be the end of you. [Yes, I am a little drunk.

Now, I am stewing on the hard plastic seats. It does not seem so romantic anymore. I start investigating the cop car. There is a shotgun in the front seat, but alas, the plastic guard is closed, besides it would be a bad idea to take the gun. A very bad idea. Like you will end up dead bad idea. I check out his computer. Seriously, I have been here 20 minutes and the fucker has no screen saver? Even flying toasters would bring a smile to my face right now. I check back seat, nothing here but a receipt. That is not exciting, but makes me wonder who else has been in this back seat. Was an alleged murderer here before me? Would that receipt prove that he did not do it? I fucking hope not, because it is lost now.

Cop#2 enters the car. I try to look contrite. I am failing.]

Cop#2: I am writing you a ticket for public intoxication.
ME: Yes Sir. [“Now is not the time.”]
Cop#2: [writing, writing, writing] So what did you learn from this?
ME: [That cops are dicks. That cops do not know the law. That I will be a millionaire once I sue this fucking city] Ummmm . . .
Cop#2: Don’t butt in when the cops are dealing with a situation.
ME: Yes Sir.
Cop#2: Here you go, any questions?
ME: Is your badge number on that?
Cop#2: Yes it is. [overtly smug]
ME: Ok, great.

[Cop#2 lets me out of the car. I head back inside the house where the party was held, and find it mostly deserted. Apparently, a lot went down when I was locked up in the cop car. Not really though, most people just left. If only I was that smart.]

Coda:

So, that is pretty much the end of the interesting part of the story. The rest of it confirms my retardedness.

So you are probably wondering what happened? Did I fight the law and win? Did I file my § 1983 action and receive damages for my unlawful detainment? I am sorry to say, I did none of the above. Public Intox is a criminal misdemeanor, on par with driving without a seatbelt, and a lesser offense than driving under 20 mph over the speed limit (at least according to the fines).

So I did nothing, the ticket did not require a court appearance, though I could have appeared in court on Jan. 2. I spent my winter break in the Chicago area, and had plans after the 2nd, so it would have cost me more to go back to [law school town] to appear in court, when I would just have to head back to Chicago. I did not even take the chance to plead nolo contendre. So I paid the $70 fine by mail. And possibly fucked myself in the process.

The other kids that got tickets that night all appeared in court and plead not guilty. The prosecuting attorney dismissed (or refused to prosecute really) all the cases, saying something to the effect of “are these those damn porch cases again?”

The funny thing (at least to me), is that in my cost benefit analysis of showing in court, I researched the law in this state, and found two cases from state appellate courts explicitly stating that a porch could be a public area, as well as a United States Supreme Court decision implicitly stating that a porch could be public (I will not get into the specifics, but the state court decisions seemed pretty definitive in regards to my situation, and they were appellate decisions, not State Supreme Court, and I do not know what district I am in, so if the court had to follow those decisions is something I will never know). However, it appears that the DAs in this town do not consider a porch to be a public place. That is good to know. Or would have been good to know anyway.

So to reframe Cop#2’s question, what did I learn from this? Eh, probably nothing.

Sans Cable

You may be surprised to learn, that as someone who watched more TV over the summer than all but 1% of the population, I have gone the last month without cable. Hell, I did not even have network TV except for a grainy NBC (Hooray for Conan) until two days ago when I bought an antenna. My TV had actually been in storage for the first month that I was back in town, until I realized that I would have to pay another months rent ($40), and got it the hell out of there. All it cost me was a beer. Its good to know people.

Over the summer, my schedule was pretty rigid. I would wake up around 2, and get online, with something on the TV. It did not really matter, I was not paying attention. Usually it was Strongman competitions on ESPN. But, it did not matter, the first two hours of my day were spent surfing, reading a bunch of ultimately worthless shit (much like you will view this post in about two minutes). I made no attempt to keep up on the news, unless it was sports related. So after two hours reading every article on ESPN, it was time for the talking heads, Around the Horn (I know, the show sucks, but I am a glutton for punishment, besides it always made), followed by PTI (so much better). Then came syndication bi-hour (Simpsons, Seinfeld, That 70s Show). Followed by whatever sporting event was on that particular night.

Late night was The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Conan, and infomercials. Various other shows would be interspersed throughout the day and evening, but the point is, summer was spent on my ass watching TV.

And now, I do not have it. And honestly, I love it. I am no longer a slave to being home at 5:30 to watch PTI, or making sure that I watch and episode of The Simpsons for the 47th time. I really do not miss TV. I used to feel like Homer, who once opined about TV, "Teacher, mother, secret lover."

I know think of all those hours wasted watching TV and, well, I do not regret it. I am overloaded with work right now, that it is really just the distraction of TV that I do not miss. Because waking up with a hangover on Sat/Sun and not being able to lie in bed or on the couch and watch football is a little emasculating. Thankfully, the antenna has rectified that situation.

However, it is not that I have not compensated. You may or may not be aware that you can buy television shows on iTunes. And not just single episodes, you can buy entire seasons. I love technology. So one boring night, I was going through the iTunes catalog, and found what I wanted, purchased it, and let the download begin.

FYI, it takes forever to download an hour long episode (especially when you are using pilfered internet). Thankfully, it was about ten minutes less than a full length episode, so once you get the first one, you are good to go.

But I did not stop at just the first season, I bought the second season too. Unfortunately, the third season is not yet up on iTunes, but I found a loophole in the system one day during class.

With wireless internet, you can pretty much screw around on the internet the entire time that the Prof. is up on his soapbox. Games, IM, or blogs, he or she will never know, as long as you keep the sound muted. Its not like they will expend the effort to walk around class and try to interact with the students beyond asking them probing and insightful questions about the case at issue (well unless they do not have tenure yet). So during one particular unilluminating soliloquy by a Prof. (about something completely unrelated to anything, I assure you, I usually pay attention in class, but this went on for about 20 minutes), I decide to check out a site I have heard a lot about, but never, ever utilized.

Oh, behold the glory that is eBay. How have I never been there before? It has all this stuff, and you bid on it. Whatever, the thing that I have always hated about eBay was that you had to schedule yourself to be on the computer when the auction was ending so that you could bid up the price with 20 seconds left. What the hell? Why not just put high figure to start with? Of course, when I tried that in the past it never worked, but then, I never really cared. I do not need someone else's worthless crap. Until that fateful day in class.

There it was, Season 3. And the auction was ending in 9 minutes. There was still 15 minutes left in class. Oh yeah, I bid, and I won, and I did not even have to do that crappy raising your bid in the last minute to win. I was a little disappointed by that. So now I have Season 1 and 2 downloaded on my computer (does anyone have a DVR?) and Season 3 of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on DVD. Yep, Buffy. I might be a little bit of a nerd, but if I was a huge nerd, wouldn't I have all seven seasons by now? Yeah that is what I thought. Give me three months, and I will have them. Along with the five of Angel.

So the question is, do I really miss cable and am over compensating by buying Buffy (I have already watched season 1 twice, and am halfway through my second viewing of season 2), or do I really love Buffy and not need cable?

Only time will tell I guess. But what I do know is that sometimes class is boooooring.

Well, the Smallville season premiere starts momentarily, time for me to run, errr, sit.

Looks Good . . . On Paper

If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight,
If you must return it you can send it here,
But I need a break,
And I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

--Paperback Writer—The Beatles

I am the paper candidate.

I look good on paper. Well, at least when I am not writing a story about my drunken idiocy anyway. But I digress. I have fairly good credentials. I have the proper class rank, one of the two MVEC (Most Valuable Extra-Circulars), too many CALI’s, and even a scholarship (just got that one). I have two years of experience in the business world, where I supervised 20 other people. I have solved problems and fired people (sometimes solving a problem by firing someone). I even did some consulting for a small business.

All this looks nice, when it is written in my usual eloquent style, dressed up with pretty bullet points and dashes, as well as some right justification. Yeah, my resume is pretty sweet. Combine that with some bond paper, and you begin to crack at a smile at my awesomeness. Throw in a dash of cover letter and a transcript, and you may begin to drool. Add in my writing sample, and you will go into full blown Cujo mode.

It seems like every year, for at least the past five, at the beginning of the baseball season, all the beat writers are in agreement. The Yankees are the best team. On Paper. All the talent in the world. No one could ever beat them in RBI Baseball. And because of this, for the past five years, 90% of the writers pick the Yanks to be in The Series. But there is a reason they play the games. Guys get hurt. Randy Johnson suddenly looks old for the first half of the year. Giambi is on the Cream and the Clear. Sheffield too probably. A-Rod does not get along with his teammates, probably because the answers the hotel door at 1 a.m. wearing a pressed shirt, suit and tie. Mike Mussina is getting too old. They have no closer. Jeter is . . . well, Jeter (oh wait, dating Mariah Carey, I just thought of that).

You get the idea. You see your team on paper, and get excited. Then they do not come through. The Yanks have not done shit the last five years (excluding this year, where they are probably winning the division as I type). Take my team for instance, the Cubbies. I thought they would take the world by storm this year. Wood, Prior, Lee, Barrett, Walker, Murton, Pierre, Dumpster (I mean Dempster), and a couple other guys. Lee had his breakout year last year, Barrett was poised to have his this year (which he did, until he suffered internal bleeding in his scrotum. Seriously). On paper, the Cubs looked good. But right now, they are the worst team in the National League. I feel like the Cubs.

As much as I love to write (do not be fooled by the lack of updates the past week), I hate to talk. And I really hate talking about myself. Oh, I can write about myself. That is easy, maybe because I can revise things. But I have never been one to tell stories, or be the life of the party, or engage a person I have never met before. Socializing is not my bag.

Add in having to talk to people I have never met about my greatness, and make it seem like I am actually that great (which I am not), and then seem like I genuinely am interested to learn more about their firm, when all I want to say is, “Give me a fucking job, and you will not be disappointed.” I am sick of the dance. I was actually sick of it before I had my first one.

But because I am the paper candidate, I have plenty of opportunities to make a fool of myself, as I mumble along, trying to make sense of things that really do not make sense. For instance, when an interviewer asks me, “What did you do last summer?” what am I supposed to say? “I worked a shitty job for two months, before I got hammered one night and decided to quit. My goal was to read 40 books over the summer, but I only read about 20. I did drink a great deal, which lead to some pretty good posts on my blog.” Actually, I think I will say that in my interview tomorrow if they ask. But that is not what they want to hear. They want a legitimate excuse for why I had no legal job, when I clearly had the qualifications to get one. Of course, by the end of the interview, they are not wondering that anymore.

This is not a total rag on myself. I will admit that I am doing head and shoulders above what I did last year, but it still is no where near where it should be. I suppose that it is all just practice.

See, the grand confession is that I have never, ever (well, at least since I worked at a Deli in college) gotten a job that I had a face to face interview for. My job in the business world was a phone interview. The other ones, I kind of lucked into, or they were so desperate, I walked in and was hired.

Actually, tomorrow I am going to go in to my interview with my laptop and pretend that I am deaf. That way, I can just type out all of my answers. I like this plan. (Plus it adds the threat of a lawsuit.)

Note: It is not that I am fooling myself. I know that my interviewers do not look at my resume until about one minute before they meet me

The First Week In Review [Part 1]

For most law students, there is nothing less memorable than the first week in law school. I have no idea what happened my first week as a 1L. I am pretty sure that I went to all my classes, and I know for a fact I was never called on to explain a case in that first week. Regardless, the nervousness, anxiety, and general "what the fuck is going on" pervades that first ever week in law school. By Wednesday, the 1L is wondering to himself, "Who the hell is Socratic?"

I have lived through my first week as a 1L, so I can make jokes, but this is the first time I have gone through the first week of classes as a 2L. Here is what transpired:

When you take a final exam, you are expected to study for hours on end, but the most important factor in doing well on a test is getting a good night's sleep. If you have read this blog from the beginning, you know that me and a good night's sleep is like trying to stick two positively charged magnets together. It is just not going to happen. This is the perfect lead in to the two things I learned this, my first week of being a 2L.

1) Get some sleep before a job interview.

Not only was Tuesday the first day of class, but it was also my first interview for a summer associate position. Yeah, summer is 9 months away, but I guess they want to get in early while the pickings are still good. Besides, it was just an OCI, a more extensive interview is to be expected in October, assuming you do not suck in the initial interview like I do.

On Monday, I knew I Tuesday would be a big day. I had a class at 8:30 a.m., an interview, and a couple more classes. I actually had all my first day assignments done early, so I went to bed early. Really early, at least for me. I was in the sack by 10 p.m. Unfortunately being in bed does not translate to sleeping. I laid in that bed (my new mattress) for eight hours trying to fall asleep. But it was just not happening. By the time 6 a.m. rolled around (just as I had been rolling around in bed trying to fall asleep), I said fuck it, got up, took a shower, and began brewing the coffee. Caffeine was the only possible solution to the day I was about to endure.

So I went to my classes, and was successful in not being called upon (I love being non-descript). I think that it is impressive that I was able to remain non-descript even though I was one of three or four other kids in my classes (of about 70 in the largest) wearing a suit.

My interview that day was with a very blue-blooded firm that is quite prestigious within the state my law school is located. The interview was at 10 a.m. At this point I had been up for 22 straight hours. Yeah, I was a little tired. Needless to say, the interview did not go well. Her first question was, "So, what did you do this summer?"

I figured "went bowling and got drunk everynight of the week" was not the best answer, though it was the true answer, so I replied, "I enjoyed the summer. I read some books. Did a lot of nothing, and enjoyed it." OK, that is not exactly what I said, but I am pretty sure that is what she heard. She asked me two more questions and clammed up when I tried to ask her questions about the firm. It was not that her first question caught me off guard, it was just that I was so tired I did not care, and that it is really a stupid question. If I did something over the summer it would be on the resume [expletive].

But that was not the worst part of the first day. I am fairly certain that hell would have to freeze over before that firm would offer me a position (that is a dig against the firm and myself. I would never fit in there. I know this, but like a morphine addict chases the dragon, I chase the green).

The worst part was that I had a class at 2:30. Thankfully it was only the first day, where nothing important happens. I mean who cares about Copyright history? I have been there, done that (bear with me, at least until tomorrow). So when I finally got back to my house at 4 p.m. I had been up for 28 straight hours. Thank god for cherry coke. That is the only thing that kept me going throughout the schoolday.

But the return home meant that there was homework to be completed for Wednesday. Had I been smart I would have punched out all my first class assignments over the weekend. But I am not smart, so I did the best I could.

I had three classes on Wednesday, and another interview. Take a guess as to what took priority.

2) The Future Is Now

[First week conclusion on Sat. And I am not going to do this every week. The first week gets special treatment.]

The Night I Quit My Crappy Job

I have been to two tattoo parties in my life, and both were great fucking times. EagleMan threw both parties. The first was several years ago. It was a sobering event, even with the copious amount of alcohol that was drunken by all. EagleMan's father had just passed, and as a tribute to him, we threw a big party in his now empty apartment. Well, empty except for all the alcohol. It was a night for remembrance, a night for anecdotes, and a night to get so blitzed that we tried to forget why we were there. But it was still in the back of all of our minds, and we knew that the pain we felt upon entering the empty apartment would return again, along with a massive headache, in the morning. But for a few hours we could celebrate life, and take away the pain of loss, and that is what we did. Holy shit that is what we did.

The second tattoo party was only a couple weeks ago. EagleMan has thrown quite a few in his day, but I was usually out of the state when they were thrown (I made a special trip into town for the first one for obvious reasons). I was in town for this one, so of course I attended. You know my feelings on my job, and as luck would have it, I had to work the next day, which was a Sunday. This hardly pleased me, as it never does, but I vowed to myself to stop drinking and head home at 10. When I arrived, I was shoved towards the keg of Bud Light. The night went uphill from there.

So what is a tattoo party? It is a simple concept. A person throws a party. Among others, he invites a tattoo artist, not to party, but to do his thing. The artist can easily make close to a grand tattooing people in rapid succession, as the hum of house music penetrates the walls around him. Pretty damn good for a nights work. Everyone who comes to the party knows that there will be a tattoo artist there, so most of the people who attend want a tattoo. And they know that they will get a good deal. There is far more business at one tattoo party than there is during a regular day at a tattoo shop. At least per hour anyway. EagleMan always gets a tattoo during these parties, and he usually gets a huge discount, merely because he brought in a shit-load of business for the artist. [Note: this article is interesting but the tattoo artist here is a professional, and everything was extremely safe, hence the ten minutes (at least) between tattoos to change out his equipment.]

So I showed up at 8:30 with the best of intentions. Hangout for a while, drink a couple of beers, watch a couple of tattoos being done, and take off so I could get my beauty rest for my killer workday. Then, I was told about the keg. I quickly found a cup, and headed out to garage was the keg was resting. It was a glorious site. I cannot remember the last time I went to a kegger. I pumped, flipped the switch, and watched the golden liquid flow out the faucet. My dear friend Bud Light and I were about to take our relationship to the next level.

After filling my cup, I returned inside, and surveyed the scene. "I should go into Criminal Defense," I thought to myself. Of the 25 people there, there was probably an accumulated total of jail time served near my age. The tattoo artist had just gotten out of the joint, and it was not his first stint there. EagleMan's younger brother has probably spent close to three years in stir. I did not really know much about the other people there, but they did not seem to me to be straight-edge. The tattoo artist was even wearing a shirt with a picture of a guy holding a briefcase that said, "Jack Schitt, Esq." Yeah, these are my kind of people.

Nothing too terribly exciting actually happened at the party. At one point I began offering discounts on legal fees for anyone who mentioned EagleMan's name. So if the that is the highlight, it was a pretty boring party. Except for all the tattoos of course. I stationed myself close to the tattoo artist to watch him work. I love watching people draw, mainly because it is a skill that I do not have. People who can draw a straight line without sweat forming on their forehead piss me off, yet never fails to leave me amazed. The tattoo artist is pretty damn good too. He has done most of EagleMan's tats, the ones the tattoo artist has not done (because he was in jail), are clearly of inferior quality. This guy makes it look so easy, yeah, I am a little jealous.

I was not there to get a tattoo myself (I have none and do not plan on ever getting one). I went for the free beer. I certainly got my money's worth. Ten o'clock soon turned into eleven, which suddenly became midnight. Around midnight I began bitching to anyone who was next to me about how I hated my job, and I should just fucking quit it. Had I been sober, I would have realized that rationalizing things when you are hammered is not the best idea. But I was drunk, and by one I began to think that quitting was the best idea since college football.

Around 1:30 I was having trouble staying upright, and began wondering to myself why the hell I was still there. I had to get up at six for work, and the way things were going, each sip made that less and less likely. Then it hit me. I knew when I could leave. EagleMan still had not gotten his tattoo yet. "I have to stay to watch that," I drunkenly slurred to whoever was standing next to me at the time. That person quickly moved away. I went to get another beer.

By the time the tattoo artist finally began EagleMan's tattoo (on his right pec, what a stud), I was shitfaced. It is a damn good thing I only live two blocks from his house. The tattoo would take an hour to complete, and I was unable to stay for the whole thing. At 2:30, I finally had a rational thought that said, "You have to go home and go to bed RIGHT NOW!" I stumbled and swayed back to my house, spent two minutes trying to find the right key to unlock the door, wandered around for a while looking for my bed, found it, and crashed.

Lucky for me, I had the presence of mind to set my alarm clocks before I went out. And at 5:45 I was shocked awake. I flopped like a dolphin off my bed, five feet into the air if it was an inch. I reached blindly out into the dark room trying to figure out how to turn off my alarm clock, and finally succeeded. You should know that this is no ordinary alarm clock. This one does not make any noise at all.

All my life I have searched for a cartoon alarm clock, one that has a mallet come out and bash you on the head when it is time to wake up. My search has, thus far, been futile, so I settled on the next best thing. A vibrating alarm clock. It is a normal clock, but it comes with a pad that you put into your pillow case. When the alarm is tripped, your head begins shaking like it is the only part of your body in a 7.0 earthquake. And when your head starts shaking and you are still drunk, it is enough to wake you up so violently, that your heart begins beating 200 times a minute.

I got out of bed, and stood up, or tried too, I was a little wobbly. I really, really did not want to go to work, but I really only had to stick it out for two more weeks, then I would have a nice cushion of cash, such that I would not have to worry about money while waiting for my refund check from the Law School. I braced myself, and took a step. The room began to spin. I took a deep breath, and ventured to put my left foot in front of the right. I nearly vomited. I sat down on my bed, and thought about what to do.

This would not be the first time that I had driven to this job drunk. But it would be the first time I would be drunk at work and it was over 90 degrees outside. I decided that I should suck it up, and go to work. It wouldn't really be that bad. In 13 hours all this would be over. Sometime around nine, I would start to feel hungover, and the dehydration would hit, and probably last until one, and then there would only be six hours of work left.

At that last thought I said that is it. Fuck it. I could have called in sick, or called to tell them that I would not be coming in, but Fuck it. All the drinking on work nights was just me acting out my misery. Why should I continue? My drunken mind thought that to be brilliant reasoning. So I went back to bed. And slept. Until noon. It was transcendent.

A Wasp's Tale

Because it was so nice out, sunny but with a nice breeze, I decided to read outside. I packed up all my gear, book, smokes, lighter, iPod, coffee, and a glass of water, and headed out onto the back porch. Upon opening the screen door, I immediately saw my nemesis.

A wasp was having a grand old time hanging out on my chair. He was walking up and down the back like he owned the fucking thing. This wasp needed to be taught a lesson by another WASP. I calmly, and with as little movement as possible put down my reading gear, while the wasp continued his exercise, walking up and down the curvature at the top of the lawn chair.

Once I had dropped the dead weight, I beat a hasty retreat back into the house, seeking out the nearest magazine. I quickly found a two-month old double issue of SI. Perfect. I rolled it, and snuck back out. The wasp was where I left him, continuing his journey to nowhere. Summoning all of my Native American heritage (which is probably none), I quietly snuck up behind him, and delivered a mighty THWACK.

When I removed the magazine from the point of impact, the wasp was no where to be seen. He was not attached to the magazine nor the chair. Confused, I crouched down to see where his flattened body had landed. I did not see it anywhere. I looked high and low, but the wasp was gone. I quickly retreated into the house.

Once safely behind the impenetrable fortress that is my screen door, I evaluated my options. All my stuff was outside, including the book I wanted to read, as well as a possible super-wasp, who could not be killed by an ordinary strategically aimed magazine. But, one day I will be a lawyer. I am sure that I will walk into many situations where I will eventually be stung (though in the pocketbook, or at least the client's pocketbook), and sucked it up and headed back out to continue my search. I figured my search would be fruitless, and I could go ahead with reading my book, keeping one eye on the words and one eye to the sky.

I saw him almost at once. He was four feet from where I attempted to murder him, hidden underneath a table. Half of his body had been smashed, and he could no longer fly. He was pulling himself along the ground like the Terminator at the end of The Terminator. Only two of his legs worked, and he looked pissed. I pulled my magazine out its sheath, and proceeded to pummel the half dead wasp. He had no chance. I was left with a highly dead wasp on my back-porch, his stinger halfway out. Not wanting to touch him, I used my magazine like a putter to get him to the nearest patch of land that would not have any foot traffic.

Once I succeeded, I was able to settle into my chair, and start enjoying my book.

About ten minutes later, two additional wasps buzzed my head. I freaked out and immediately grabbed for my sword, err, magazine, but by the time I was in my Gladiator position, they were twenty feet away. They kept buzzing around, a safe distance from me, and I went back to reading, keeping one eye on them. Soon, there was no activity, but I kept alert.

Then, one of the wasps returned, and landed on the porch about two feet from me. And he brought me a present. Secured in his arms was the wasp that I had killed, and putted into the dirt. For a second it looked like the second wasp was trying to slap his dead brethren back to life, but he quickly gave up, flew away and left the dead wasp lying on the ground, two feet from my bare feet.

His threat could not have been more subtle had he left a horse's head in my bed. I fled back to the safety of my bunker.

Warped Tour

You say this ain't the end to me
Fall down, pull the rug under me
Feels like I'm falling but I tell you
I'm not going down

      Zebrahead--Over The Edge

Last weekend I went to the Warped Tour. If you do not know what the Warped Tour is, then shame on you. Basically, it is a bunch of bands touring in a festival-like atmosphere. I dropped $35 of EagleMan's hard earned money to buy myself a ticket to see one band. One of my favorite bands has decided to abstain from touring in any city remotely close to where I am, and therefore, I had to see them at Warped Tour.

Warped Tour is filled with 30 minute sets of many semi-popular bands. The good bands take up 3 stages, while all the crappy bands fill up the remaining 5. I was interested in seeing only one band, but to fill time between my arrival, the best band of all-time, and my departure, I checked out some other acts. Thursday was great, as was Less Than Jake. Armor For Sleep was a bit of a disappointment, as they play a lot of mellow songs and it did not translate well into a parking lot stage. NOFX sucked. I hate them. Unfortunately, I missed The Academy Is . . ., but at least I saw Motion City Soundtrack (oh, wait, I left halfway through their set to get a beer). Senses Fail looked pretty damn good from a mile away though.

But my glorious savior, beer, was hard to come by that day. Not only was it 100 degrees outside, but a large beer cost me $7.50. Motherfucking highway robbery. Who the hell would pay that for a beer? I mean other than an unabashed alcoholic like myself? Yeah, so I drank a few. Of course, they did not start selling until 2 p.m., and I was jonesing for a beer around 12:30 (which incidentally was a little after we arrived).

I was smart though, I brought in an unopened bottle of water (if opened it would be confiscated upon entry). I was able to refill this bottle several times ($3.75 for a bottle of water? Fuck You!), and alternate beer and water so I would not pass out from dehydration.

But the entire day was going through the motions until Zebrahead took the stage at 5:15. I saved my energy for this performance. For all the others I hung back, tapping my toes like a 90 year old at a jazz bar. But when Zebrahead took the stage, I went off. They are one of my favorite bands, and it has been two years since I last saw them. Last time, I was 23, still a respectable age for going fucking nuts at a concert, but now I am 25, and a future lawyer, one day to be a pillar of the community.

Once they hit the first chord of Playmate of the Year, I forgot all that shit. I went nuts. Jumping around, helping kids get up to crowd surf, shit I was even a mosh pit for a couple seconds.

It was my release. Better than ejaculation. Everybody experiences music a different way, and when you are two yards from the band, surrounded by people you have never met, but know you share a sacred common interest, you can act how you want. You let the music dictate what you do, and the music compels each person differently. If you want to jump, then by all means, jump. If you want to throw horns in the air and bob your head, go forth. If spinning around in circles is your bag, then do it, no one cares. We are all here for the same reason.

But at the same time, we are all lemmings. If you watched the World Cup like I did, because you have nothing better to do (like work), you would see each country had cheers, long exhaustive cheers. In the US, our cheers are things like "Go, Go, Go!" or "*clap* *clap* *CLAP*" We suck at cheers. We need a Jumbotron or organist to tell us what to do.

The same is true with bands. Sometimes they feel the need to tell us when and how to clap, what lyrics to recite, or what actions to take. Personally, I feel that is insulting. The band is telling us that we are too stupid to know how to react to the music they play. And for the most part, they are right. Americans are stupid. But I transcend those people, and refuse to play along. I never follow along with the Simon Says that the band espouses.

Unless Zebrahead is on the stage. They could tell me to commit mass murder, and I would have to think twice before deciding against it. So when the lead singer for Zebrahead called out for a circle pit during their second-to-last song, I gleefully complied. A circle pit is basically the audience running around in a circle. It seems pretty stupid, and it is, but when the band tells you to do it, you think it is the best idea since DC*.

So they launched into their song, and I started running. I was pretty drunk at this point, despite the oppressive heat, and soon learned that a bunch of people running in a circle was a death trap. Some people ran too slow, some too fast, and I bit it hard because I could not find the happy medium. I tripped and fell not once, not twice, but thrice (they did not play (Thrice is a band)). Yeah, I kept going even though I knew it was a death trap. I was feeling the music, or something like that. Maybe I was just shithoused. I ripped my pants and ripped my knee open. The wound proceeded to bleed through the next song, and ten minutes afterwards before I noticed it. By the time I noticed, my pants were drenched in blood.

I felt so cool. I had a battle wound. A Zebrahead battle wound.

I am going to wear the blood soaked, ripped pants on the first day of classes. Everyone is going to ask me what the hell happened, and I am going to say, "Never ever fucking sue Wal-Mart. Those guys play for keeps."

*Yes, Direct Current did not work out in the end. An Edison failure, but when it was introduced it was the main ideal. It took a couple of years for AC to take over, but at first people thought DC was the greatest thing ever. Then they were introduced to AC.

A Normal Thursday Part 2

Part 1

It is a little harsh to describe her as the GOTW. EagleMan just ended a long relationship, and is getting back into the dating scene (as I described before). He is a romantic at heart, and falls pretty quickly. This was no exception. GOTW was an affable enough girl, more outgoing than the last one, but she fell pretty hard too. He had been seeing this girl for about a week, and at one point during the ball game, while EagleMan was away, she asked me what I thought she should do for his birthday. His birthday was over two months away. I hemmed and hawed as much as I could, but I was pretty uncomfortable, even though I knew he liked her. However, in a moment, I was about to be much more uncomfortable.

With GOTW talking to the older woman, I took my turn to bowl, focusing on not falling down. Throwing it down the right arrow was secondary. This scene would repeat itself 70 more times (I got no strikes that night). I was getting a little buzzed. I am not a fan of Budweiser. I managed to avoid the gutter with both rolls, and returned to the table, seeing the older woman putting on shoes.

"This is my mother," GOTW cheerily slurred. Her fucking mother? After a week? Holy hell. EagleMan did not look shocked, so he must have known that this coming. He neglected to give me a heads up. I have enough trouble interacting in social situations with my best friends, and now, out of the blue, the GOTW's mother shows up. The least I could have gotten was a heads up from EagleMan. I am very regimented, routine oriented, and I do not like things happening unexpectedly. Unless I am hammered. I was not there yet.

I quickly excused myself to go get another beer. Head still spinning, I walked up to the bar. However, I had enough sense to see if lovely honey was still around, but alas, she was gone. "Bud?" the bartender asked. "Uhmm, no, Bud Light actually." A look of confusion briefly wafted across the bartender's face, then dissipated. "I knew there was someone that ordered Bud Light's on Thursdays. Why did you let me give you a Bud last time?" Because I am a sadist. I grabbed my beer and returned to the table.

"You know, I setup a tab, just put your beers on that," GOTW's mother greeted me. Oh great, now I have her offering to pay for my bad habits. Could this get any worse?

"You know mom, he is in law school," GOTW said. "You should check out environmental law," the mother rapidly replied.

It just got worse. Now I am bowling with a hippie. "It is interesting, but I think I am going to have make more than $30,000 a year to pay off my hundred grand in student loans." "Well just think about it." Sure, no problem, I will think about it. When I get rejected by the public defenders office.

I was able to maintain a modicum of socialability with the GOTW and her mother. EagleMan is a social fiend. He can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. He was having no such problems. But, then GOTW and the mother got up for another round, and EagleMan turns to me and says, "I have been talking to the Ex."

And I am down for the count.

I am not Superman. Now I have to talk to the GOTW and her mother, while knowing that EagleMan has been talking to his Ex, and wants to get back together with her. I was not built to deal with such things. It of course is complicated by the fact that I liked GOTW more after a week than I ever like the Ex after a year. And I am not receptive to meeting new people.

Whatever, I decided to put all this shit out of my mind and focus on bowling and drinking. No more talking for me. I really don't have anything interesting to say anyway (but plenty of interesting things to write, I hope). This caused a chorus of "What's wrong?" from the GOTW. I replied that I was fine, as I do have a tendency to seriously introvert myself. I eventually relaxed (read: was drunk) around 11, and was able to be my slightly sociable self for the rest of the night. The beer flowed freely, in and out, and when the alley closed at midnight, my pump had been primed enough that I could have bowled for another three hours. Unfortunately, it was time to go home.

EagleMan dropped me off at my place at 12:30. At this point, I was faced with two decisions, go to bed or drink a beer and check my e-mail. My alarm clock was poised to go off in four and half hours, and I had to be out of bed in five and half. But going to bed meant that my next conscious thought would be the realization that I had to go to work for 12 hours. I turned on the computer and cracked a beer.

For the next three hours I was lost in the world of cyberspace and alcohol. I kept drinking, proclaiming each beer to be my last, and always finding a new webpage to look at, where I would be halfway through reading an article when my beer went empty, causing me to go grab another. Or, finding that I had to write some irrelevant comment on someone's blog. This could have gone on in perpetuity, but by the time 3:30 am rolled around, I realized that I was fucked.

I am not exactly sure what I did in those three hours on the worldwide web. I know I did a couple stupid things, but I do not think I spent any money, which is always good. Regardless, I absolve myself of responsibility for anything I did. I was in another world. A world fueled by hatred of work, alcohol, and the knowledge that I am who I am. I was able to break my bond with that hell, and reconnect with reality, and stagger to bed and pass out. An hour and a half before my alarm would start going off.

The sounds of staticky country music suddenly filled my ears. I was shocked awake, ripped from my drunken slumber. I looked at the clock. 30 past the hour. Fuck. It takes about 25 minutes to get to work. I hauled myself out of bed. Thankfully, in my drunken stupor I had the sense to pass out fully clothed, so all I had to do was grab all the change in my ashtray (vending machine lunch), and head out the door. Yes, I was still a little (a lot) drunk. I do not advocate drunk driving, and personally have only done it a couple times (and not in a long, long time), but at this time of the morning, with it being the only way for me to get to work, the rules are bent. In short, I was fine to drive. I had to be.

I turned on the car, and was immediately shocked by the radio. I expected Mike & Mike, the morning drive show on ESPNRadio, to come blaring through the speakers. But I heard two guys I never heard. Fuck it, I am drunk and I have to get work. I put the car in gear, and headed out. About five minutes into the drive, the two dumbfucks on the radio mentioned that they were filling in for Mike & Mike. Thank God, I thought, I have not gone crazy. But, five minutes later I looked at the clock.

5:45. The motherfucking clock said 5:45. I was a fucking hour early. Fuck. The only thing I could think was Fuck. I turned around and came home, made a lunch, and went back to bed. And woke up at 6:35. For the second time that day, I hauled my drunk ass out of bed, and left home. I started my car again, and for the second time that day, heard two guys I had never heard before. What the fuck is going on. The local affiliate had pulled the national fill-ins and put in some local fill ins. I figured this out later, but I was horribly confused at the time. On the second drive to work I checked the clock every ten seconds to reassure myself that I was leaving when I was supposed to. I safely got to work at 7 am and began my 12 hour workday.

That is my life. Want to trade?

A Normal Thursday Part 1

I have already mentioned in this space that my summer job decided to make overtime mandatory. You can explore my entries to see the exact specs of my job (except for what I do of course). The company's idea of mandatory overtime is to come in for an entire extra 12 hour shift. This particular week, my normal schedule was to be off on Thursday and Friday, and work Saturday, Sunday and Monday. With mandatory OT in effect, I was forced to work on Friday. This did not please me. This did not please me at all.

Thursday became my favorite day of the week during Undergrad. Going out on a Thursday was infinitely better than going out on the weekend for several reasons. First, Freshman do not learn until Sophomore year that you can get away with going out on Thursdays. They do it occasionally, but they are still naive and do not want to make a habit of it. Thus, the 18+ bars are not packed with a bunch of idiots, sober idiots. Secondly, once you turn 21 you reach the point where you know where you stand. By this I mean you know how much effort and how many classes you have to attend to get the grade you want. At this point, the guys with the 2.0 GPA know that there is not much they can do to improve it, so they just want to have a good time. These are the guys you want to hang out with. They fucking know how to party, and when you go out with them, you never know where the hell you are going to end up.

However, major reason that Thursday became my favorite day of the week is because I could go out. At this time, I had no idea that I would end up going to Law School. This was before the downfall of Enron and Arthur Anderson, and I had every confidence in myself and society, that I could half A's and half B's and get a job as an auditor with one of the Big Five. I had no need to go to class on Friday, and even if I could haul my usually still drunk ass out of bed, all I had to do was take some notes. Easy Peasy, Japanesey.

I should mention, that I tried to change myself. After suffering through the worst grades of my life Sophomore year, I decided I had to curb the partying during the week. My feeble minded solution to this was to schedule a class that met only on Wednesdays and Fridays at 8 a.m., and lasted two hours. The rationale was, it only meets twice per week, so I have to go on Fridays, so I cannot go out on Thursdays. It was a good plan, for about a week. The lure of the best night to go out was too much for me. Halfway through the semester I had used up my six absence allowance. Yet, I continued to go out on Thursdays, I just tried to make sure that when the bars closed at 2 a.m., I went home. It worked, I got a B, probably because of the pounding headaches while trying to take notes. For two fucking hours.

This summer, Thursday still holds a special place in my heart. I bowl on Thursdays (you cannot beat dollar games and $3 Bud Lights). This particular Thursday contained a twist. Before going to the bowling alley, my friend (this guy really needs a nickname. From now on, I dub he EagleMan (and if you live in Chicago, it is ten times funnier)), his girl of the week, and I went to see the local minor league baseball team.

As you know, I love my baseball. As you know, I love my beer. Combining the two, well that is my Field of Dreams. However, the evil specter of Friday work was the thunderstorm on my field. I took it easy. I was sober enough to realize that I would be getting home three hours after my bedtime. I had to take it easy. I had maybe four beers during the game, a new record. It should have been five, which would have tied the old record, but that was not to be.

After the top of the eighth, I went to the concession stand to pick up two beers for the last inning and a half. The transaction was completed without a hitch, and when I returned to my seat, I handed one of the beers to the girl of the week, saying, "Hey, I bought you a beer." Up to this point, she had not had one beer. In fact, the two other times I saw her, she did not drink. In my head, I was making a joke. She, however, readily accepted the beer, and took a sip. Ahh, well, it's not like I needed it anyway. After she finished half the beer, it became apparent that she does not drink too often. Half a beer, and she was slurring her words. Whoops. EagleMan is my full time designated driver, he does not drink at all, for the poor guy is allergic to wheat and such things. Drinking may kill him. It actually almost killed him. He used to drink more than me, then one day, Bam!, his throat swells up and he cannot drink anymore. But, he is a good guy, and is more than happy (well, maybe not happy, willing is a better word) to put up with my drunkass. I was not sure if he was willing to put up with his new girl's drunk ass though.

The Mudville 9 lost that day, but our spirits were high as we headed off to a night of bowling. Dollar bowling starts at 9 p.m., and we arrived at 9:30. Plenty of time. After picking up my shoes, I headed to the bar. The bartender knows me, in the customer sense of the phrase. She looked at me, and said, "Bud?" I had been staring at a lovely honey across the bar, and that snapped me back to attention. "Uhh, Yeah," I replied, and went back to my ogling.

Then, the lovely honey calls out to me, "You went to [Undergrad]?" For a second, I was horribly confused. I have no idea who this is, should I know who she is? I am terrible with faces. Even worse with faces when I am thirsty. Then I realized I was wearing a hat with my Undergrad's name emblazoned upon it. "Yeah," I said. I am smoother than sandpaper. "I graduated two years ago, did you go there?" I asked. "Yeah, but I just graduated," she replied. "That's cool." No, I am smoother than silk. The bartender suddenly appeared, blocking my line of sight to the lovely honey. The lovely honey was there with a bunch of guys, so I probably had no shot with her, and I was thirsty and wanted to bowl, so I took my beer and skedaddled. It's ok. You can tell me, I know. I am a social retard.

I returned to my lane, and put on my shoes. I took a sip of my beer. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Fuck. It was a Budweiser, not a Bud Light. That bitch of a bartender fucked up my order. No wait, I fucked up my order, thinking with the wrong head, and not paying attention to what was going on around me. Whatever, it is time to fucking bowl.

The girl of the week sat down, beer in hand, and we began to bowl. We were in the fifth frame when the GOTW jumped out of her seat like she had been shocked with a cattle prod, and ran up to an older woman who had just entered the alley. EagleMan was bowling, leaving me to think to myself, who the fuck is that?

[Part 2 Tomorrow]

Cheating

Ahhh, the Honor Code. Is there anything that is more conflicting? I want to preserve the sanctity of the education process, and report any violators of the Honor Code, but I also do not want a blind Al Pacino coming around the corner whacking me with his cane screaming, "You are not a Baird Man! Hoo-Wah!"

Thankfully, this is something I do not have to concern myself with right now. That is definitely a bridge I will cross when I come to it.

But I have a confession to make. I cheated. It was not my best moment, but I was trapped by competing pressures, and there was only one way out of the situation. I had to cheat.

It happened in the sixth grade. Junior High had just started, and I was in a whole new world. All around me, the girls who had towered over me in elementary school were suddenly getting shorter, but like me, they were growing, just in a different place. With all those hormones, how could someone be expected to focus on something that suddenly became so trivial in the face of thousands of years of evolution and natural human instinct.

The triviality was a spelling test. This was in the days when spelling still mattered. Back then, we spelled it "you" not "u" and "for sure" not "fo' shizzle." If you want more examples, spend two minutes on Myspace. At this time, no one had heard of Spell Check. My typing class was conducted on an Apple IIe. I got an A when I was able to type 14 wpm with no errors. There was no instant messaging, and the internet was an abstract concept that neither Al Gore nor WarGames could help to explain. Needless to say, at this point in history, spelling mattered.

But this was not an ordinary spelling test. The phrase "Spelling Test" conjures images of the Spelling Bee, words that are impossible to say, and even more impossible to use in a sentence. The test in question was the exact opposite. It was one hundred of the most commonly words used in the English language. Words such as "that," "this," "and" "the." Everyone had to pass the exam. We took it once a day until everyone passed. Once you passed, you got to take a ten-minute nap while the slower students tried to figure it out.

Given my thoughts on studying, this was not a test I bothered to study for. But after a week without passing it, I began to get worried. The other kids in the class who were about as smart as me had already passed (all two of them), and I felt myself slipping behind. The birth of Ego.

After a week, I had 99 words right. I just could not get that last one. For some reason, I either thought there was an "E" on the end or could not remember if the second letter was an "H" or an "I." I was not at all confused by the homonym, even though it was a homonym with a different spelling. It was just, that while taking the test, I would begin to confuse myself. "How did I spell it last time? Did I use the e? Maybe I did not use the e? There has to be the e right? If there was not an e, the word would be too easy. Wait, what is the second letter? Is there an h or isn't there an h?"

So there I went, screwing myself into the ground, unable to pass this damn test.

So did the only thing I could think of. I cheated. The second week of the test, when that bastard word came up, I snuck a peek at my neighbors paper. He was a friend of mine, but I did not tell him, I just caught a quick glance. He spelled it without the "E" and "H" as the second letter. There was that moment of, "maybe he is spelling it wrong" but I got passed that, went with his answer, and passed the exam, relieved that I passed before 80% of the class.

This would haunt me for years. Since it is one of the one hundred most common words, I think about it every time I use it. It eats away at me, my moment of weakness, where I gave into temptation. OK, it's not that dramatic, I don't really care, but it happened, I cheated. I hope they don't ask about cheating in job interviews.

Oh, and what was the word? I will not tell you which word it was or which words it wasn't, but not counting this sentence, I was able to refrain from using it.