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.

A New Years To Forget

A couple weeks ago I wrote a post lampooning the Gay Games. It was all intended to be in good fun. I (predictably) received no comments on it, but one person told me that it was a little harsh. I am not here to be PC, hold my tongue, or give a crap about others opinions. I am only here to be myself, inform, split sides, bust guts, and make people say "What the fuck?" WTF being, "I never thought about that before" or "Oh my god, this guy is a fucking retard!"

Needless to say, that post about the Gay Games may have been out of bounds (like Lance Armstrong's joke about the Brokeback guy at the ESPYs), but it is all in good fun. One of my favorite sayings is that you have to "Separate the stuff from the stuff." (From the second greatest short-lived sitcom ever, Sports Night)

With that in mind, let me take you back a few years, to Dec. 31st. I was at least 21 at the time, in fact, I think it was my Senior year of college, my first New Years after turning 21 (I am not sure though, it may have been after I graduated, but I don't think so).

Since I lacked friends in my hometown (X-mas break remember) at the time, I called on an old friend to see what he was doing for New Year's. He told me that his girlfriend and him were going into the city to hang out with "Todd" and his friends. I know Todd, I like Todd, and faced with the alternative of sitting in the dark watching the shitty fireworks on Channel Five, I agreed to go into the city to hang out with Todd and his friends.

All told, it was a pretty small gathering. There was my friend and his girlfriend, Todd, Todd's brother (Rod), three other guys, and Todd's new boyfriend. Oh, and the three guys were gay too. Thankfully, they all loved to drink, except for my friend's girlfriend. We spent the early evening sucking down beers (and nothing else) making small talk, and having a pretty good time.

Good time meaning that I got hammered. I do not remember much of what happened while we were at Todd's apartment (in Wrigleyville a.k.a. Boystown, of course), but I do remember that I had an odd conversation with the girlfriend. She was straight as an arrow (like, no drugs, booze, cigarettes, etc) and I proclaimed to her my desire to go shrooming.

Some background. I did not drink until my freshman year of college. Also, my freshman year I was in the hallway of the dorm with an acquaintance, when a funky smell permeated the air, and I asked him, "What is that smell?" He replied, "Pot" with a skeptical look on his face. I did not smoke marijuana until my sophomore year in college, and in total, I probably smoked it no more than ten times in my life. Hell, I did not even smoke my first cigarette until I was 19. Needless to say, I pretty much follow the straight and narrow path too. I have never done any drug harder than pot (is that even hard?) and really never intend to. But I was drunk, and when I try to make conversation with a shy girl I find that when you say something completely absurd it is either hit or miss. It will engage her or completely turn her off. Considering this was my friend's girlfriend, and I follow the rules, she had nothing to gain by brushing me off, and so I went into a lengthy explanation of why it would be fun to do a hallucinogen, but not a really bad hallucinogen like LSD.

So while I was espousing my [fake] desire to go shrooming, the rest of the room was planning the "where do we go from here." The others came to a consensus that we should go to a bar (at some point we cheered the New Year, but personally, I do not really care about that retarded holiday). Todd asked me if I wanted to come along, and I readily agreed. My friend was tired or some bullshit, and was going to crash with his girlfriend at Todd's place.

So, around 12:30 a.m. on the first day of 2003, I headed with six other guys to try to find some action. Unfortunately, it was not the type of action that I am into. Other than myself, the party included Todd, Todd's boyfriend, Rod, and three other guys. At the time, Rod and I were the only straight ones. Rod is an interesting character himself, a guy who lost his virginity to a Mexican hooker, and who would two years after this incident, confirm what we all knew, that he was a homosexual.

I am not here to debate if homosexuality is something you are born with, or a result of societal influence. All I know, is that Rod and Todd's dad is a pretty cool guy. I once went to a Cubs game with him, and had a gay ole time (like the Flintstones) and afterwards we went to the Cubby Bear, and the old man wanted to mack on all the young hot chicks. But who knows, it could have been the divorce, or they were born with the gay gene.

Anyway, the crew went out, 2 hetero's (at the time) and five gays. Take a guess where we went. We jumped on the "L" and headed to a nightclub called "Berlin." My party tried to assure me that it was a cool place for people like me, but once we walked in, I realized I had been had.

It was an experience like none other. There were guys all over, and a lot of them were dancing with their shirt off. The house music was at full volume, and there was men as far as the eye could see. My "friends" first act upon entering the bar was to head to the coatroom, leaving me alone in this bastion of debauchery.

Instinct took over, and I headed straight to the bar. If I learned anything in my three and half years of college it was this, "When in doubt, Drink." So drink I did. I was already pretty hammered, but the 20 minute "L" ride gave my liver enough time to clear some space for more alcohol in my blood.

This was probably the only time in my life that I thanked God that I was not an attractive man. I was able to make it to the bar without anyone offering to buy me a drink. After I placed my order, Bud Light of course (surprising that they had it), I scanned the bar looking for anyone that did not have something hanging between their legs. I saw none. I took my beer and retreated to the darkest corner of the bar, anxiously awaiting my "friends" return from the coatroom.

I spied them, 20 minutes later, acting quite giddy. "Where the fuck were you?" I screamed. "Sorry, long line," Todd answered. Yeah right, for the bathroom. Surrounded by people who would not try to cornhole me, I felt a little safer. I mean, no guy approaches a group of girls and guys to hit on the girls. That would just be stupid.

But I made a horrible mistake. As closing time was nearing, I saw someone that looked that familiar. Like a guy I had gone to high school with. Within the protection of my group, I dropped my guard a bit, and when I was staring at this kid, trying to figure out if I knew him, he made eye contact with me. Just as if this would have happened with a female, I quickly looked away, but could feel his eyes boring a hole in me. They say you should not stare at the sun, but sometimes you just have to check to see if it is really a bad idea.

So I gave him a quick glance, and he smiled. There is something addicting about a smile. I have only experienced this first hand, I have never caused it to happen. When I smile at a girl, they invariably, never smile back. But when someone smiles at me, I cannot help myself. The corners of my mouth creep up ever so slightly, and that is all it takes in a gay bar.

Then, the voice of God proclaimed, "LAST CALL!" I bobbed and weaved my way back to the bar. $20 in hand, I called to the shirtless bartender, "Jack and Coke, light on the Coke!" He was probably expecting that I was trying to gain courage to lose my anal virginity that night, though I had no such designs, and he gave me a double shot, and did not charge me extra. Drink in hand, I headed back to my crew, hoping to have thrown my new "friend" off the path.

My drink was nearly gone before I got back to them. I walked into the middle of a conversation, of which I heard, "Hell yeah, we need some goddamn food." Recently reunited with my group, I threw in my two cents, "Yes, I need some fucking food. I want PANCAKES!"

Maybe I should not have screamed that. But they all agreed, and after I finished my drink two seconds later, we were heading towards the door. Unfortunately, so was everyone else. The bar was closed. Among the throng heading towards the door was my new friend, who was not really a friend at all.

He followed us out of the bar, a calculating two steps behind. I hung close to my friends, in a "Hey look, I am gay with them" manner. But my new friend only had eyes for me. He was watching me. Staying one step behind. And when we entered the morning darkness on the first day of 2004 around 3 a.m., he put his hand on the small of my back and said, "How are you?"

I panicked, I fled, I tried to get away from there as soon as possible. I fled back to my gay friends. And they protected me. Todd, though drunk, had the wherewithal to assess the situation, and understand what was going on. That may have been the only time in my life I did not mind another man touching me.

We headed out, got on the "L", headed to some breakfast place (waited 20 minutes at 4 a.m. WTF), loaded up on a greasy breakfast, headed back to Todd's, and (I at least) passed the fuck out.

In all honesty, this was a great experience for me. I do not regret it. In fact, maybe every straight guy should go to a gay bar at some point in his early 20's. Just to know what it is like.

[Note: There are a lot of things I could have talked about, but Tucker Max also had an experience going to a gay bar in Chicago, and he writes better than I do, so you can read his account here (it really starts with Part 2). His story is one of the reasons I was reluctant to write this, but que sera, sera right. Also, there are some other stories with Todd, so stay tuned, I may write them up.]

A Little Light Summer Reading

I generally try to avoid non-fiction books while on vacation. Slow reader that I am, an endless stream of facts slows me down even more. I prefer a light, breezy fiction work, that I can steam through at a torrid pace. Then, when vacation is done, I can gloat and say I read five books in five days. But after reading a terrible book by some guy who went to UC Berkley's Boalt School of Law, I had to read something that would be worthwhile.

So, I picked up a biography of Vince Lombardi, When Pride Still Mattered by David Maraniss. The one thing that annoyed me about this book was that the author felt compelled to show off his vocabulary. I am good with words, right? Anyone who can use the word "didactic" in sentence, please raise your hand. There was a multitude of octosyllabic words, which slowed me down even more (and I did not have my dictionary with me). The author's . . . uhm . . . big vocabulary just bothered me because this is a football book. I am sure plenty of football fans read the first ten pages, then put it down, never to pick it up again.

Anyway, I do not want to rant about my limited vocabulary, just wanted to make a point about knowing your audience (and yes, I understand that his audience may be more business big shots and politicians than Freddie the butcher).

Which is the perfect segue to the most interesting fact that I extracted from this book. Granted, the fact took up a mere four sentences in the 500 page book, but it is easy to see why it caught my eye.

Vince is most remembered for his belief in winning being the only thing that matters (I am paraphrasing). Seems to me, the guy would have made a great corporate lawyer. Always going for the jugular, not accepting anything less than the complete and total submission of the opponent. However, Vince was not cut out for the legal career, but it is not as though he did not try. The Great Vince Lombardi went to law school for a semester. And then dropped out.

Apparently, great men learn early on that going to law school is not the correct path for achieving greatness (Sorry Holmes).

Second Thoughts

At some point in my life, I decided that I wanted to be a Lawyer. Only time will tell if I was correct, or completely misjudged myself. However, I recently learned things that make me think I made the wrong decision.

I have tried to avoid one thing like it was the plague in my life, and no, it is not a meaningful relationship with another human being. Apparently, when you pass the Bar, you get fingerprinted. This is not good. My whole life I have successfully avoided being fingerprinted, and now it is only a matter of time. Even the time the cop took me downtown, I was able to avoid touching the ink pad.

The printing will occur in two years, meaning that the Statute of Limitations will not have run yet for most of the fun crimes. Not that I ever plan on committing any crimes, but it was nice to have that option available.

Oh well, guess from now on, I will always wear latex gloves. Or at least I can procure one of those devices from Men In Black.

Gay Games? Really?

Apparantly there is something called the Gay Games being held in Chicago. Like you, I at first thought that this would involve contests such as who can deep-throat the longest Italian sausage or who can find the most dimes in the 1970's style shag carpeting with her mouth.

It really is just a festival type thing. I couldn't care less about it. But I was wondering if after the championship softball game, if they play "Big Girls Don't Cry"?

Ok enough of that. I am starting something new for the next couple of weeks. A totally gay idea (as in stupid, moronic). It will be my own Gay Games. This is what I am going to try. Short Posts. A couple of jokes, and I am out. I am not sure if I can do it, but I will give it my best.

Monkeys in a Monkeyhouse

Have you ever gone to the Zoo? Of course, everyone has gone to the Zoo. Have you ever stopped by the monkey house? Of course you have, everyone looks at the monkeys. And I bet that for 95% of you, when you saw them, you thought they were pretty boring. They were just sitting around, eating, shiting, and sleeping. Everyone is disappointed by the monkey house. We were brought up on Curious George, and these monkeys in captivity have gotten lazy.

But have you ever gone to the zoo and stayed in the monkeyhouse for six hours, watching the same pen of monkeys? Pretty much no one ever has. After all, you miss the llamas and zebras and elephants and lions and tigers if you watch one boring animal for the entire day. But you watch them for the whole day, and you get the good with bad. Sure, there is a lot of downtime, but them monkeys like to play too. You watch that long, you are sure to see some tail pulling, feces throwing, chasing, screeching, upside down hanging going on with all the monkeys. And if you are really lucky, you might see a full fledged fight. Not a couple of prepubescent wannabe alpha males tussling, but a full fledged fight. You never know, but if there is a ever a day when you have absolutely nothing to do, and no idea what to do, head down to the zoo, go into the monkey house, and stake out some monkeys for the entire day. But bring a book.

Of course, there is a reason that I am bringing this up now. Yep, you know the reason, Hockey. Game 7 of the Stanley Cup final starts at 8:15 pm Eastern (on Monday June, 17). It is game seven, this one is for all the marbles. This is what sports is all about. Maybe I should have saved the story for something better, but I am using it now. It is not enough to just flip to the game every now and then, you should watch the whole thing (FYI, Intermission is 20 minutes). If you just flip to it, its a bunch of guys skating around, up and down the ice, but if you watch the whole game, you will several unbelievable things. Like this from last nights game:



It is a little hard to see, but the goalie made the save. I was out of my chair screaming when I saw that (Go 'Canes). The goalie, Cam Ward, has made some unbelievable saves in the playoffs, and whoever said you need a lot of scoring for a game to be exciting is a moron (US v. Italy, great game, though it was a tie, only 2 goals, and the US really did not score).

So for the last, hear my plea, watch some hockey. It is on NBC on Monday, and the puck drops at 8:15 pm Eastern. (Note: The ratings are still abysmal, From SI this week, The series telecast switched from OLN to NBC for Game 3 and "Game 3 last Saturday posted a 1.7 overnight rating, among the lowest ever for a prime-time network broadcast . . . .")

Overtime? Hell No!

For the first time since my first job (golf caddie, approx. 11 years ago), I have refused to work extra hours at my job (I am NOT working a legal job. If I were, things would be different). Being a caddie sucked, but since then, my eye has been on the prize. Even if it was working an extra hour a week for seven bucks, over the course of a year, it added up to $364. That is some nice bank (course nowadays, it does not cover the bills for a month, but I digress). Working an extra hour here and there was easy for me to rationalize. I was always up for more work. In truth, I do not mind working, after all, at least I am being productive. What else am I going to do with that hour? Watch TV, drink some beer, and rub one out? Sure that is all well and good, but I would rather make some money.

So today, when my boss came and asked me if I could stay late, I refused, without hesitation. Then, my other boss came by and asked me again, and my reply was a terse, "Nah." Thankfully, none of my other six bosses came by to ask, I may have given in, just to get them off my back (I got the damn memo). Granted, refusing to work OT is one of the perks of being hourly, but why did I refuse now, when I never did in the last 10 years? The answer is simple.

Law School.

(Bet you saw that one coming.) I have finally reached a point in my life where I have a modicum of direction, whether or not I want to be a lawyer or not, the needle is still pointed in that direction. Because of this, my future is beginning to take shape. My psychic powers show me forty-five years of 80-90 hour work weeks, partly because I want to succeed, partly because I am perfectionist, and partly because I cannot trust others, and mostly because that is what it takes to make Partner, and once you make Partner, well, that is not the time to start slacking off. Granted, I may not get a job at a prestigious firm, but any lawyer who has clients is on call 24/7. Whether you are a criminal defense attorney showing up on a Saturday for an arraignment, or a divorce attorney being called up because the wife took the dog, or a regular run of the mill attorney being called up at 9 p.m. by a small local business because they have a big order to fill by 8 a.m. the next morning, and their supplier has not yet shipped the boxes (yeah, they call the lawyer last), there really is no freedom from the oppression of the job. Maybe that is why Lady Justice's scales are permanently out of balance.

Is this the life I want? Maybe, probably, and because of this, forget working overtime. In the past, it was really all about the money. Today, it is about the summer of [Lawschoolrules]. The Summer of [Lawschoolrules]!! Fuck if I am going to bust my ass when I have the rest of my life for that shit.

Or maybe it was because Game Five of the Stanley Cup final was tonight. The damn Oilers won in Overtime.

Drunken Fun

I went down to the southside tonight to take in a Sox game. They put up a good fight, down by eight heading into the bottom of the Ninth, and proceeded to score six runs. Not quite enough, but still exciting. They almost came back.

However, the fun really started after I got back to mny Best Friends house, who took me to the game. He is just getting out of a long term relationship, and is looking for something different, so he posted a profile on Match.com. anyway, I was at his place, and he got an e-mail from some girl on the site. While he was making himself some ribs, I decided to to compose a reply to the e-mail that was sent. He decided not to use it, but laughed several times while he read it, so I will now share it with you.

Hey, thanks for the response. Do not worry about the smoking though, as my philosophy in life is smoke them if you got them. However, I do understand that your career choice might frown upon smoking. After all, the last time that I went to get a massage, I dropped fifty bucks for the happy ending and it was totally ruined by her skanky breath. But hell, at least she swallowed. Hopefully you will do the same.

I love going to concerts. Two years ago, I had my own PR by going to 34 shows. It was ubeleivable. I cannot hear shit anymore, which will be nice since I will not have to hear you bable on about some stupid ass shit, but concerts are still loud enough that I can still hear the bass line! So as long as you are not looking to go see Yo Yo Ma, I think we could have a good time. As luck would have it, I have an extra ticket to Warped Tour on July 30th. Maybe you could come with us. It would be a rocking good time. I dont drink, so I can keep my asshole friends' hands off of you. However, after Zebrahead takes the stage, we will all probably be so ramped up that we will gang bang you in the Port-A-Potty.

And as for my tatoos, they defy description. I actually had my pubes removed by means of a laser, and I have a very nice message tatooed above my woman pleaser. Of course, I would be happy to show this to you, and my other 11 tatoos, but only after you show me your strategically placed tatoo, and are down on your knees. If you are a more conservative girl, and do not want to jump right in, I would be happy to show you my perice nipples, so long as I get to play with your nipples for five minutes first.

Thanks for sending me an e-mail. I hope to hear from you soon.

Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom--

[My Buddy's Name]

54th Post Extravaganza!!! Part Deux

a.k.a. The 55th Post Espectacular!!!

After ranting for several paragraphs about not knowing a thing about women, I concluded with this.

The inspiration for this post happened a few days ago. A girl came to class wearing a white t-shirt. Just a regular normal t-shirt. Unfortunately it was not a V-Neck, but it was a plain old white t-shirt. I have never seen anything hotter in my life. I was half-stocked the entire class. I do not know what it was, maybe it was the fact that she is stacked and the shirt was a little tight and the classroom was a little cold, but I do not think that any of those factors are conclusive. She was not particularly made up that day, I think her hair was in a ponytail, and she might have been wearing flip-flops, but the plain white shirt made my head spin. She may have noticed the drool coming out of my mouth, as in the class we had an hour later she was wearing a sweatshirt, but it could have been because it was a little chilly in the classrooms.

Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend. But, I think that may have been what did it for me. She was wearing a T-shirt that probably belonged to a guy. Personally, I cannot think of anything hotter than a girl wearing one of my shirts and nothing else.


I was going to write a list of reasons why law school is like second grade, but I only got through one before I passed out. I should have come back to this, but never did.

Lack of Self-Monitoring--In Second Grade you felt the complete freedom to ask whatever you wanted to, whenever you wanted to. Say you were learning subtraction (2-1=?) and someone would raise his hand and ask, "Teacher, why is the grass green?" Sometimes it seems like that in class. Second-graders can blame short attention spans though.


And Finally, sometimes I write strange things in my notes, so I figured that while I was making outlines, I would post all the funny things in my notes. Turns out most of them are not funny. Regardless, after finishing my second exam, I started freaking out (actually, I just got lazy), so I did not record things from all my notes, but here are the best ones I got.

• What the hell is someone doing with $19,000 worth of jewelry at a Wal-Mart in the Ghetto?
• If tavern owners are supposed to stop serving drunks, why have I been escorted out of bars by cops?
• Do not assume that the most apparent meaning is the correct meaning. Stay Loose (slut).
• 48% of statistics are made up, including this one.
• Three Kinds of Lies in this society: Lies, Damnable Lies, and Statistics.
• To permit the railroad to choose something. Whoops, too much Free Cell.
• It is very nice and concise and has cherries on top.
• Biggest Lies—Checks in the Mail, and the Second on is—“I am from the government and I am here to help you"
• To a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
• The court leads off with the negative implication rule. And it starts by saying, That class is over!
• Some dude invented the case method of legal education. Asshole.
• Judge Traynor is a hippie. But a smart hippie.
• Whoa, I have tuned out the last ten minutes or so
• If the facts favor your client hammer on the facts, if the law favors your client hammer on the law. If neither favors your client, hammer on the opposing counsel.
• I don’t know what the hell he said. Stop playing solitaire.
• What the hell what is the point of this? I should have stayed at home and taken a nap.

54th Post Extravaganza!!!

a.k.a. The Shit I Did Not Finish.

Over the course of the time since I started writing my blog, I have written several things that I either never finished, or thought sucked.

So here is the best of the crap that did not make the cut.

Fake Conversation

Sometimes I imagine conversations that could have been, in my head.

Today, I brought the wrong book to one of my classes, and though I still brief my cases, I envisoned this as the conversation that would have ensued had the Prof. called on me:

Prof: So, [Lawschoolrules], how about Long?
Me: I brought the wrong book, but I will give it a shot.
Prof: (incredously) You brought the wrong book?
Me: Yeah, it looks just like the Torts book. Sometimes I am a dumbass.
Prof: Well you got in here didn't you?
Me: We will just have to see if I am here next year.
Prof: I heard you were getting some award though?
Me: They are always trying to give me something. It's a conspiracy to get me to socialize.


This is a portion of an AIM conversation I had with an ex-co-worker several months ago

XCW: what the hell do you have going for you?

me: in two and half years i will be making $100,000

me: that’s about it

XCW: 100,000....and what are you going to spend all that money on?

me: calf implants

[Do not give me the third degree about making $100,000 a year. I know the odds. With my luck, I probably will not even be able to catch a job as a public defender.]

This one is a bit dated, but I am sure you have seen the commercial

If you are like me and watch Oprah religiously, I am sure that you have seen the commercial for Yoplait Light that includes the song Yellow Polka Dot Bikini. There are two reasons that I love this song. One is that because every time I hear it, I think of a hot girl wearing a bikini that barely covers her. Ahhh....behold the power of imagination. The second is that this is one of the few songs that I can play on the piano. I would need the sheet music since I haven't played the piano in quite a few years, but I am sure that today, I could play it well enough that you could recognize it.

However, there are some serious problems with the commercial. It is all a problem of semantics. When someone says, "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" what do you think of? Build the mental picture in your mind. I have got the time, if you have got the wine.

I always pictured some primary color bikini with polka dots. The polka dots are Yellow. The "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" is a bikini of some color that is covered with yellow polka dots. However, the commercial has the bikini as being solid yellow, with red polka dots. If anyone read this blog and I knew how to put in a poll, I would like to know what everyone pictured when they hear "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini."

All I know for sure is that I am now boycotting Yoplait Light until they make the polka dots yellow.

That is enough for now. Part 2 Coming tomorrow.