Quotidian Quotations

When I was using the LM bathroom, a man (I hope it was a man) was seated on the toilet, talking to someone, and padding and pawing at the toilet paper. What I heard was:

"So how much did Dad make when he was my age? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. What about that analysis?"

The entire time, he is pawing at that toilet paper like it's going out of style.

***

A.M. asked The Question. "So, [K.T.], when are you going to become a lawyer? When are you going to practice law?"

Suffice it to say, I'd had enough. "When am I going to become a dancer? When am I going to practice dance? Right now!" And I broke that s*** down like it was 1699. From now on, when I hear the words law and lawyer, I interpret it as dance and dancer.

Thus, I was barred to practice dance in Maryland, I possess a Dancing Doctorate (D.D.), and I do not have a dancer-client relationship with any of you.

***

After dinner with D.G., I went to grab a mint. Figured D.G. could grab one if she wanted one. D.G. looks at the solitary mint, then at the basket full of mints.

D.G.: The least you could have done is grabbed me one.
K.T.: This one is for you.
D.G.: You are such a horrible liar.
K.T.: [cracking up] Yeah, but it got to the point where I couldn't exactly stop speaking. Then, otherwise, it would have been:
[several seconds of silence, mouth agape]
D.G.: You know, that's one of those moments.
On my death bed, I'm going to have three or four moments with captions, and that's going to be one of them.
K.T.: Haha, it's going to be like, "[K.T.], come here."
"[D.G.], what do you need?"
"Remember that time you tried to lie about giving me a mint?"
"You're dying, and that'sw what you remember?"

Blood Money

M.A. told me that I need to think about myself before others. God only knows how it came up, but I know I'd just bought him a Jager Bomb (Red Bull and Jagermeister), which he described as a mix between chewed bubble gum and cotton candy. That Jager Bomb wasn't the impetus for the statement, at least I hope not. Not that this is a particularly original refrain for my life. Plenty of people have told me this self-same idea. What many of them don't realize is that if I followed their advice, when they ask for help, I wouldn't go out of my way to help them. Often times, this means I just wouldn't help, period.

Maybe it's selective memory, but the last few people I can recall telling me this (aside from M.A.) were also the ones soon thereafter asking for help. I'm going to have to give all of them the benefit of the doubt here and say that it really is selective memory. However, one of the other alternatives is that they're thinking about themselves before others, and the whole naivete/stupidity streak won't let me accept that. It's not a bad way to live. Hell, it's probably a better way to live than what I'm going with now.

For so long, I've been doing what other people told me, for better or worse, especially what my parents said. I guess somewhere along the way, it became a warped sense of showing affection, or grabbing attention, or something. To paraphrase Sally Field: "I can't deny the fact that you need me, right now, you need me!" If nothing else, if I'm needed, then I'm not forgotten. And stuck as I am in this rattrap of a commonwealth (for now), I can't stand being forgotten.

What guts me, really just eviscerates me, are those people that exploit that (that I let exploit that). Don't worry, Kind Reader, I've a good handle on who you are, and if I've met you, and you're reading this, you're not one of them. It's a strange split, really. I have a hard time saying "No," and they know this. And I tell myself all the time that I'll be able to say "No" one day. And someday, I'll start believing my own words.

However, I am learning.

M.A.: Look, you've just got to learn to say "No."
K.T.: OK.
[K.T. thinks]
Ask me for something.
M.A.: You have nothing I want.
K.T.: Yes, because my money is like dirt to you, because it was earned from the blood of children.
M.A.: Exactly. See? You're learning.

Entirely true, except for the part that was entirely false. Point was, I was ready to deny him what he didn't really want. Only problem is that M.A. isn't one of those people that drive me crazy. Plus, like he said, I have nothing he wants.

Implication Simplification

What people continue to fail to understand about me is that I am an idiot. I think this perpetuates because people tend to assume I have the book smarts. This may or may not be true; several pieces of paper attest to that truism, but were I truly book smart, the only one of those papers I would have would be the B.A. from UMCP. No, I am an idiot when it comes to the street smarts. What people also assume is that since I can analyze textual interplay, I should be able to read between the lines when it comes to people. No, not even close.

Case in point: I received a text from Z.M. while playing the poker. We were going to hang out with the NCI swing shifters, and she told me she would have no problem if I drove to her place first so we could drive down to "Old Town" together, also making the requisite designated driver comment. I read this as her making a concession for me, and didn't want to impose, so I said it was OK, I'd find my way down on my own.

You cannot float ideas to me, because they will float right over my head. This was her way of saying "Hey, I want to drink. I know you're not. Please drive me?" and of course, that whooshing sound was me not getting it at all. This, of course, came out later when I finally arrived, only forty-five minutes late (stupid, stupid, stupid!). Z.M. casually (causally?) mentioned that she'd found a ride down, but didn't have a ride back.

I look over, my face screwed up. Something along the lines of:

K.T.: Why didn't you ask me for a ride?
Z.M.: I did.
K.T.: No, you didn't.
Z.M.: What did you think that text was?
K.T.: I'm an idiot! You have to ask me directly!

Note the wild gesticulations as I stumbled across the cobbles of Old Town (Gotham? No! Alexandria!), and the borderline screaming. I am the epitome of calm and composed.

Poker Played

I am an above average poker player when there are more than eight people playing. Once it drops to below eight players, I lose all sense of perspective. I don't know how to scale my expectations of good starting hands, thus throwing away hands that I probably should play, and playing hands that still aren't strong enough for a player of my skill level to attempt. No doubt, if you're reading this, already you're plotting a poker game and wanting me to come and throw away my money.

And that's fine by me. For the most part, I enjoy poker more as an excuse to get together with friends, rather than just trying to dominate my fellow (wo)man with my ability to play poker. Do I still like winning? Sure. Would I rather just pay the twenty dollars straight up for the opportunity to be around people whose company I enjoy? Sure. Have I just described a very disturbing derivation of prostitution? Sure. I'm a whore.

Of course, at B.T.'s house on Saturday, when we were playing a no-limit Texas hold 'em tournament, I was doing all right, when I looked down at my watch, stared for a few seconds because I'm losing my ability to read analog watches, and realized I had to be fifty minutes away in half an hour.

Shit.

One of the great things about no-limit Texas hold 'em tournaments is that if you don't want to stick around, and don't care about your money, you can just start pushing all of your chips into the pot on every single hand. One way or the other, it will end quickly, and it will likely be not in your favor. Still, it's kind of thrilling pushing fourteen dollars and eighty cents in on an ace-seven off-suit versus a pair of jacks, and realizing you'll be leaving very very soon when everything but an ace or a seven falls on the board. Of course, I take a little (false) pride in outlasting E.B., J.L.J., and K.C.

I will also note that no quotes will be transcribed, as they are not fit for human consumption. I suppose the implication is a Devo-esque "Are we not men?"

Quiet Consideration

E.B. invoked the dreaded lawyer-client confidentiality on me Saturday afternoon. Granted, it wasn't exactly a lawyer-client scenario, but it was important enough that I felt compelled to obey my psuedo-obligation to E.B. and respect his wishes for me to shut the everloving f*** up.

Then again, he later sort of blabbed to G.B., but I guess it's OK, as I still didn't say anything.

I've come to realize that that's one of the most vital aspects to being a lawyer, even though I'm not a (practicing) lawyer. Given the nature of people's issues, and the need for as much pertinent information as possible, they need to be able to trust you. Yes, client-lawyer confidentiality is more an evidentiary/procedural construct, but the base reason remains. There has to be some level of trust in there, because they may, they will, tell you things they wouldn't tell to the closest members of their inner circle.

It is strange, and I know it's not helpful to you, Gentle Reader, that I'm speaking (typing) in vague tones here, but when E.B. "gave me the dirt," I felt sick to my stomach. Bad, bad juju.

That brings me to another point. I don't know if this happens to anyone else, but in my relationships with people, there always comes a point where, for whatever reason, I learn something about the other person that shocks/stuns/appalls me. What E.B. told me made me view K.F. in a completely different light. K.F. is now a completely different person to me.

Reminiscent of Iain Banks' novels, wherein a final twist throws the rest of the book into a completely different tone, these moments catch me completely off guard. Time and again, I have to make a choice. I know people aren't perfect. I know that in my head, know this as I know any other intimate truth. Yet, in my heart, I still don't know that. Still believe, like a little kid, that people are infallible, and good, and perfect. And that screws me over.

It's a simple choice, and as all simple choices are, so difficult to make. Do I keep on associating with that person, or not? There's no one right/wrong answer here, and heavily situation-dependent. I've learned relatively minor things that are just enough for me to decide not to have any more to do with that person. I've learned quite harsh things that don't counterbalance the importance of that relationship. In K.F.'s case, if I ever see him, I'll probably attempt to beat the ever-loving s*** out of him.

Homeless; Wedding

I just came to three significant realizations.

1. I don't really have a home anymore.

This apartment is just the place where I keep my stuff, food, and get access to high-speed internet. Seriously, it's just like a big closet at this point. The "decorations" I've put up include a whiteboard with story ideas, and a calendar. And I think that's excessive.

My parents' home is just that, their home. Not mine, not anymore. Hasn't been since I moved out to go to college.

I miss Baltimore, and MD at large, but that's more because it's familiar. It's a home state, but not really home either.

There's no one place that I can go to and feel like, "Hey, this is where I belong." The closest thing is the Lady Surfer, and that's probably why I'm so reluctant to trade her in. Well, that and not having the money to do so.

2. I won't have a home for a long time.

Let's say I were crazy enough to finally purchase a home. I'd do so with the foreknowledge that it would only be flipped land & real estate prices matured to the point where I would realize a significant profit on the sale. Then, that second house would probably be similarly flipped, only to purchase a third, a fourth, an Xth house that keeps getting flipped. Then, nursing home, or Buddhist monastery.

3. I'm ok with being homeless.

What makes a home? For me, it's just the memories, and the security. And it's not that I don't have memories, like a newly constructed robot, or that I feel unsafe. On the contrary, my time in B-more taught me to distrust everyone and everything, which actually makes me feel safe in a roundabout way (since no one can be trusted, I must be ever vigilant. That keeps me from becoming soft and being betrayed).

As for the memories, I carry those in my head, and in my wallet. Well, not really in the wallet anymore, but a lot of memories in the head. Though they rattle around in my head, I tend not to really have any memories of home recently (because I've not had a home recently, see 1). It's an egg chasing chicken issue, but if I don't have a home, I can't miss it. Therefore, it is OK.

***

Notable moments from M.C.'s and W.C.'s wedding:

M.C.'s brother, H.C. was so drunk he kept a beer in his back pocket, until he jumped a couple of times and the beer spilled out. Later, he gave a cringe-worthy speech. Oh, so toasted.

I got a chance to dance with M.C. Broke out some of my favorite 70s moves, including the finger point, the shoe slap, and the 360 spin. Ah, I was on.

Gave my soon-to-be obsolete business cards to everyone I talked to. M.C. actually slipped mine into her cleavage, because she had no pockets (and really, don't you think it's about five hours too late for that?).

During the ceremony itself (a Catholic mass), I attempted to sing the responses in my most sonorous, deepest bass voice. Why C.S. found this funny, I will never know.

None of us had eaten for a long while, so when we finally got our food, myself, C.S., and M.N. all set into the food like wildebeests (and I gotta say, M.N.'s all right. Any woman that can set into food when she's hungry like a wildebeest gets a thumbs up in my book.). Of course, someone tried to ask me questions to make conversation, and I answered as tersely as possible, in order to cram more food into the gullet. I mentioned this to C.S. later, and he concurred that was his goal while eating also.

The best man made several references to World of Warcraft in his speech. I may well have been the only person in the room besides W.C. to know that BWL is an abbreviation for BlackWing Lair, and Nefarian is the name of the end boss which the best man alluded to several times.

There was an attempt to consume alcohol on my part. The red wine was so sour, I poured in a sugar packet. This somehow made it even more sour. (Disclaimer: It was probably really good wine. I just can't get past that personal "death taste" I get whenever I consume alcohol.)

In the taped messages to the married couple, I was buzzing a bit, so I think I started off by saying "Hey guys, I was actually headed to the bathroom to take a piss, but I saw this and had to say something."

I walked about a mile in a suit from the metro to the church on one of the hottest days of the year. Smelled like a goat in heat.

M.C.'s mother stands around five feet tall, maybe less. One of the groomsmen was almost exactly her height. He danced with her several times in the night, and this also included some grinding up against her, crotch to crotch. Wow.

Same groomsmen also caught the garter, and when he placed it on the bouquet catcher's leg, he pushed his hands up so far, I thought he was going to punch her in the crotch. He also made a big show of wiggling it back and forth under her dress, so you could see the outline of his hands undulating beneath.

There was a particularly fashionable man, standing perhaps six feet four inches tall, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred and seventy pounds, with blonde highlights, a boiled lobster-red tan, and the whitest three piece suit you ever saw. Shiniest, whitest shoes, too. Think used car salesman heaven, if used car salesmen actually go to heaven. I walked up to him and asked him where he got his suit, saying "It looks really awesome." Ah, functional lies. He told me that Men's Wearhouse crafted this wonder, and that he wanted to stand out. I was thinking about buying a new suit, and am now convinced that it will not be from Men's Wearhouse. This jacket is actually the closest I can find. Now imagine that with the same white pants, and a cream-colored vest, and a normal button down white shirt. (Note: I am not responsible if you go blind.)

In a similar vein, C.S. was convinced one of the guests was a "tranny." However, her hands were normal, and there was no Adam's apple. He was just not a fan of her face, and also felt her boyfriend was "pretty effeminate." This I cannot argue with.

During the cocktail hours, from 1700 to 1900, they cut off the open bar around 1745. Given that there was also a mariachi band, we were all going a little batty. Boy, was the mariachi band pissed when they couldn't get free drinks.

Our (wedding favor? wedding gift? party favor?) was "savon extra-doux soap," "soin hydratant," and "creme de douche." Yes, I really just wanted to type "douche."

The toilet was so powerful, when I flushed it, I felt it in my feet.

The server took away my plate while I was still eating. Worse, that was the second time that week that happened, and both times, I was too shocked to say anything.

I've gone and lost (temporarily) the sheet I was taking notes on all night, due to the great passport/social security card search of '07, so we'll end this here.

***

Do the (legitimately) homeless get married? I just looked at the title I typed. There might be a short story in there, homeless drunk preacher bringing together two homeless, in front of their friends and family, fires in fifty-five-gallon drums lighting the ceremony, tossing bits of paper, a battered bible the celebrant's only sign of legitimacy... Someone give me a heads up on this to do some work on this. This might have legs.

Write On

Hope is not a plan. - B.M.

***

List of favorite authors/works. All-time personal favorites carry an asterisk:

Playwrights: Tom Stoppard (Arcadia, The Invention of Love, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead*), Arthur Miller (Death of a Salesman*), Neil Simon (The Odd Couple), William Shakespeare (Hamlet*), Tony Kushner (Angels in America, parts I and II), Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Godot)

Fiction: Iain Banks (Complicity), Kazuo Ishiguro (The Remains of the Day*, Never Let Me Go), Iris Murdoch (The Black Prince), John Kennedy O’Toole (A Confederacy of Dunces), Koushun Takami (Battle Royale), Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club, Survivor, Guts), Stephen King (Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption*, The Stand), Ian McEwan (Saturday)

Science Fiction: Iain M. Banks (Use of Weapons*, The Player of Games, The Algebraist), Harlan Ellison (I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore, The Paladin of the Lost Hour), Orson Scott Card (Ender’s Game), Neal Stephenson (Snow Crash*, Diamond Age), Frank Herbert (Dune)

Fantasy: Terry Pratchett (Night Watch*, The Thief of Time, Good Omens*), Neil Gaiman (Good Omens*), J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), Stephen King (The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass*)

Graphic Novels: Alan Moore (Watchmen*, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol. I), Frank Miller (The Dark Knight Returns, Sin City: Hell and Back) Dr. Seuss (Oh, The Places You’ll Go, The Cat in the Hat) Shel Silverstein (The Giving Tree), Art Spiegelman (Maus Vol. I and II), Craig Thompson (Blankets), Bill Watterson (Calvin and Hobbes)

Non-fiction: John McPhee (Oranges, Looking for a Ship*, A Sense of Where You Are), Tom Wolfe (The Right Stuff), Bill Russell (The Russell Rules), Sylvia Nasar (A Beautiful Mind), Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius), Malcolm Gladwell (The Tipping Point*)

Poetry: Dylan Thomas (Do not go gentle into that good night*)

Sports Columnists: Bill Simmons, Ralph Wiley (his article comparing Tracy McGrady to Paul Atreides, the Kwisatz Haderach, was genius), Michael Wilbon, Tony Kornheiser, Chuck Klosterman, Gregg Easterbrook

I’m also a fan of the writing styles of J.L.H. and Z.M. J.L.H.’s writing reminds me of a bejeweled Faberge egg. It’s so intricate, ornate, yet at the same time, mildly understated. Like a breath of pure oxygen, followed up by a spark from a match. Z.M.’s writing just flows naturally, conversationally, from a viewpoint vastly different from mine. I like to think of it as sweetwater, especially after slogging through hours of e-mail refuse and otherwise busted English.

There’s a fair slant towards the Brit Lit (I’m an anglophile), and a heavy slant towards the men (and I don’t know why). A lot of the stuff on here is fairly violent, and maybe that’s part of it.

New Direction, part three

I was going to give my two weeks' notice in about a week for a subtle variety of reasons we need not delve into, as they tend to dull the senses and quelch the desires. So it was that I headed into the office, uncaring, a little free even. What I hadn't realized was that for much of my tenure at L.M., it felt like my wings were broken. (No, I don't literally have wings. I'm not that cool. I'm talking about my metaphorical wings, that lifting sensation keeping my head perpetually cloud-surrounded.) That Friday, I walked with a bounce in my step. It would be sad since E.B.'s final day was that day, but also good, as he was moving on to the always-welcome Bigger and Better.

Then, M.M. came into my office, told me they'd gotten me out of the meetings, and wanted to talk with me later about the new opportunities they had planned for me. He just wanted to get coffee and a bagel first. Understandable, the sun had only risen an hour or two before. Have I mentioned too little, too late any time recently?

I went into his office, and he described that I was loosed from those meetings, and they would start putting me on other projects. This was when I had to stop him and reveal my hand. It felt pretty bad, like when you have a royal flush, and you know for sure the guy across from you has a straight flush, and he's just pushed all his chips in, hands shaking, smile hardly suppressed. You push, show your hand, and leave him trapped in shocked wonderment. You don't mean to hurt, you just gotta do what you gotta do. That's the nature of the game.

M.M. took it very well. I'm not sure he was taken aback entirely. He knew everyone on the project was miserable with their role, their responsibility, etc. From that point, it started to assume the feel of an exit interview, but M.M. was doing his best to try to convince me not to quit. He even told me that if this position wouldn't work out, he would help me find another one. "Why burn a bridge?" was his response. I'll admit, it was shocking, and refreshing, and probably unnecessary, as all that is left for me is the formality of accepting the position at T.S.

I even mentioned the earlier incident of not being assigned to gather requirements. He winced a bit and said "Yeah, that's frustrating." Given that he was there in the meeting, I think he was also kicking himself for not realizing what happened. Wingbreak. I just wanted a chance to try. Over the past six months, I got one opportunity to gather requirements, but was really just there to take notes, and the assignment I was working on was only tangentially related to the project proper (a rider tacked on just before the contract was signed).

In the end, it was about expectations. They set me up for one set of roles, then gave me another. That's what got me in the end. You can do it to people for a while, but they just get frustrated, then they quit on you. Basic expectations. What a waste.

New Direction, part two

That had been probably the most frustrating day at work ever. After the meeting, I decided that I was never going back into another meeting. I told a couple of people, and they reminded me that I should at least tell one of my superiors of this decision. A good idea, because I was pretty incensed. So, I went to K.H. and told him what was up. He told me that they were having an internal meeting later, and he and M.M. would talk with A.S. about getting me out. A nice gesture, but also felt too little too late. They all knew how dissatisfied I was for a long while now, months. Why couldn't anything have happened before?

When I left that day, the internal meeting raged on, and raged until 1800 that night. Didn't really give a damn, as I'd had a second meeting at T.S., scheduled for after work because I could not take that long a lunch during the meeting. In retrospect, I should've just taken the lunch and not returned to work.

Being after five, the office was nearly abandoned by the time I arrived. P.G. had stayed a little later so we could meet. And meet we did. I was (again) taken aback at the dressing down (still always caught up in the perpetual mindset of l-school and lawyers and all sorts of other loathsome l-words, like lesbians in lace), as well as the fairly casual nature of the interview. There wasn't even a desk between us, unlike my interview at L.M., where a desk separated us, as well as the great divide of what the hell to do with me.

I.S., when he interviewed me, gave me a fairly standard answer as to what my job responsibilities would be. Those didn't materialize (until recently, but we'll get to that in a second). P.G., as well as everyone else I talked with, gave me a standard answer as to what my job responsibilities would be. P.G., however, also told me the general expectation for now and the future. There is no way the future expectation can happen unless I am tasked to do that which they tell me I should.

I also felt more at ease here than when I was interviewing at L.M. I.S. wanted to stump me. He wanted to trip me up, and he did so a lot. For all of his questions about databases and testing programs and so forth, not a single one actually related to the job as it became. So, his interview proved I could do someone else's job, but didn't really confirm that I could do my own. P.G., on the other hand, put me at ease (though I will always be slightly nervous when it comes to people and interviews and the like). We just talked.

At the end of it, I received an unofficial offer (and over the weekend, I have received an actual offer letter). I told him that I would require a couple of days to think about it, because I don't ever want to jump into a decision such as a job immediately, ever again. Sadly, this decision had been made, perhaps for the last couple of months, that I could no longer work at L.M. The only reason I'm waiting for Monday to accept is because I had a busy weekend, and no one works over the weekend... right? I wanted desperately to say yes, but I had to slow it down.

New Direction, part one

Congratulations to M.C. (nee M.R.) and W.C. on their marriage! Woo!

***

Two incidents caused me to wholly give up on L.M. The first occurred on Tuesday, during an internal team meeting. It turned out that there was a proposal (read: demand) for a new system within the project, which meant, at its heart, that the software development life cycle would spin anew, and we would start at the beginning of the painful birthing process. It happened all of a sudden, but I was kind of shocked and surprised when it finally came to light. This meant that, for once, I could actually do something which I wanted to, requirements documentation.

Yes, gathering requirements and synthesizing easy to digest requirements for the development team is rather boring from an objective viewpoint, but from a subjective viewpoint, I think it might be kind of exciting. "Might be," because I have yet to experience the process. The nature of translating what is essentially business-speak to technical-speak excites me. I'm translating, I'm interpreting, and in a very vague, yet very firm manner, I'm teaching, that which I always wanted to. Oh, baby. Baby, baby, baby.

Our esteemed program manager told us she would be going to the client site on Friday to gather requirements. This excited me. Finally, a chance to be utilized in the manner in which I thought I would be. Then, someone turned to the lead developer and told him he should go along with her. Not a single person looked at me, and the meeting continued on. I just sat there, a little dumbfounded, a little hurt, a little stunned. That activity was part of my job description. This is what they hired me for, and now, with the perfect opportunity staring them right in the face, they didn't even give me a thought.

Not that I minded, because E.B.'s last day was Friday, and I would've missed his farewell lunch. Still, if given the chance, I would've gone to the client site and talked requirements. Would it have sucked to not be able to send him off properly? Sure. Still, I'm there to work. And there I was, slouching through yet another user manual. The fourth? The fifth? Don't really care much anymore, I had a chance to do something different, and was denied. Could I have spoken up? Sure, but it should have never gotten to that level of frustration.

If this were the only incident that week, maybe it wouldn't have stung so much. But, as always, we had our esteemed Thursday meetings, wherein I act as note taker. Not that I'm knocking the act of note taking in general. Notes are important, and someone's got to do it. Still, given the continual improper utilization of myself as a technical writer, plus the fact that this was sprung on me like a steel trap, well.

It is nice to have a wide breadth of knowledge about the inner workings of my project, no doubt. What would be even nicer is if I were writing documentation for any other aspect of it, which I was not. Thus, all that knowledge was more or less going to waste. I'd learned what I needed to know for the user manuals from a combination of trial-and-error and the extant documentation. There was nothing in those meetings for me, save the two minutes at the end when we would discuss the current status of the user manual drafts. At the end of the meeting. These meetings busted so much of my time, it was ridiculous. That, and they either strayed off topic for forty minutes at a time, or argued the same point for forty minutes at a time.

At around 1000 that morning, roughly forty-five minutes after we started, I couldn't take the empty words, the mindless threats, the general idiocy of the meeting. Stood up, walked to the door, opened it, stepped out, and closed it again. I think I instant messaged some people, then walked to E.B.'s office to try and calm down. He later told me that he thought I was going to cry when I stepped into his office. For fifteen minutes, I stayed in E.B.'s office, or risked going back in and yelling obscenities at the client.

The best part was returning to the meeting, and finding out they were discussing the same exact topic that they were fifteen minutes ago. What a waste of my time, as well as everyone else's. Now, not only were they taking me away from their work they wanted done, they were also killing my joy. Jackassery of the highest order. In traditional passive-aggressive fashion, I just sat there and mentally doodled, taking notes down almost in a haphazard fashion. It turned out when I reviewed them that, as usual, I'd caught most of the relevant points. We could've had these meetings in an hour, hour and a half tops, not all day.

Move On

Wednesday, October 22, 2003. 10:48 P.M. 621 W. Lombard, Womb 425. Dark.

I had a dream a few nights ago, which might be worth relating.

I was in the law school, sitting in LAWR I. We were about to have a trust exercise, where we’d be blindfolded, then pushed around in chairs with casters, I think. I was about to be blindfolded, but the blindfold slipped to my mouth, I believe. Either that, or I was to be gagged, but the blindfold went around my eyes. Telling either way.

Soon thereafter, the school was surrounded by police cars, and it suddenly became a police state. I was running through the bowels of the school to escape my captors. Finally, after a long chase, I emerged from a staircase into a long hallway with lockers, and students were pulling their books out. I tried to calmly walk out, but behind me some faceless teachers yelled, “Shoot him, he’s a Jew.” (no I don’t know why they yelled that).

Suddenly, everyone around me pulls guns and starts firing. I run for the door, and as I step outside, I’m shot in the right calf. I wake up completely confused.

[Wow. How screwed up was I? –K]

***

There were a few scattered remaining entries left in my journal, but nothing special. And I've come to realize that the reason I've been thinking so much about L-school is because I've been going through the journal and reliving it. My mental Vietnam. My scarred battleground. Posting my journal was a mistake. I've been catching myself smiling at random during the day. Then, I return to the blog, read an entry, and it brings me down. Still need to find a way to hide the degree, as I hide so many things.

***

Driving past a golden car, I glanced at it for a few seconds. Here are the details I saw from behind:

American flag popping up from door
Support our troops ribbon on rear trunk, RWB
Golden paint, chipped/flaking near the rear bumper
boat-ish type car, big and squared angles
I was passing it, so it was probably going around 50-55 mph
tinted windows
couldn't see driver, but i could see a baseball cap/trucker's mesh hat

And this is the overwhelming sensation I got from all that:

War veteran in 60s, Korea? Maybe Vietnam
Caucasian
face rounded from years of bounty after years of torment
pudgy eyes, the better to attempt to unsee what can't be unseen
buttoned-down plaid shirt
khakis that came up above the belly button
maroon velour interior to car
Driving alone (couldn't see the passenger's side), dead wife
Probably lot of compatriots dead by this point

***

More changes in store, stay tuned faithful reader.

Random Ranting about L-School, version 193.2

Those of you tired of my ranting and raving about L-school, please redirect your browser window. I know I haven't been as funny as I should be as of late, and one of the big reasons is because of your friend, not mine, L-school memories.

***

Friday, October 10, 2003. 12:15 P.M. Nathan Patz Law Center, room 3321. Relatively nice outside.

I hate law school.

[This was the entire entry. –K]

***

I was sitting there, trying to think of a perfect defense for our esteemed president Bush, after spending the last three minutes lambasting him. As I do not agree with his viewpoints, this was rather difficult. There was probably a far off look on my face as I pondered the possibilities. A.A. called me out about fifteen seconds in, for thinking like a lawyer. And he was absolutely right, I approached the argument as if I was defending him in a court (of public opinion).

It just happened, as if I were spirited away for a few minutes, and replaced by a barrister of my own (un)doing. It happens a lot, and it's kind of scary sometimes. Like flipping a light switch, all the humor and personality drains away from me, leaves through the soles of my feet, puddles beneath me (though not like urine, you bastards). Replaced with a mini-mentat, if you will, an attempt to create the perfect human calculator, via the law.

Think of multiple personality syndrome. I'm afflicted (and the only cure is MORE COWBELL). And the worst part? It ties into my whole theory of helping people. Well, not a theory, so much as a credo: Help people. Not all problems can be fixed, but if someone comes with a legal-related question, then I think I can at least make headway, for the most part.

They changed me. They really, absolutely, truly changed me.

***

I dream (a lot) about going back and changing myself, by getting on the plane and going to China and joining the Peace Corps. Yes, a stop-gap solution, but also me attempting to live my life. A way to avoid the past 5 years. And as of late, I've been wishing real hard about this, and thinking about whether or not it would be so bad. Think "It's a Wonderful Life," but for the better. Really, all the great things I've done, the people I helped bring together, the lives I've saved (all stories none of you will hear unless I get raging drunk), all of it happened before L-school.

(Yes, I will admit there is a slight possibility that I have done good for people as of late, but I don't see it. I think everyone that I've met since 2002 would be more or less the same without me in their lives, with two exceptions that I will discuss later on).

It comes down to this, over and over again: Is there anyone you've met that you would regret never having met? And for the most part, the answer is a flat out "No." Not that I mind meeting these people, just that it isn't enough to counterbalance the legal education. Most of them just don't mean enough to me to hold on to this unhappiness. (And I really should let go, except at this moment in time, this exact moment, I feel so rudderless and so regretful for everything that's happened since. I described the law degree to E.B. as a personality flaw, and he laughed, and I cried a little.)

However...

I won't even initialize these people, as doing so would embarrass them and me. I don't know if they know how much they've meant to me, how much they've come to mean to me, and I don't know if I could even tell them how they've improved my existence, brought a little (a lot of) light into the coarse darkness. Maybe someday, I will, but for right now, there are things that can go unsaid. Are they the only people I give a damn about? No, just the only ones I've met since my life went and diverged from the intended path.

Time and again, they pass the test. I couldn't stand to have never met them. Are they better people than everyone else? No. Are they better than the mass of people I've met? Hell yes. What is it that makes them special? Don't know for sure. They're both pretty different people. One of them, can't pinpoint an exact moment when the relationship shifted from acquaintance to friend. The other, I have an exact moment in mind. We've all gone in different directions. And I would beat the ever-loving shit out of anyone if they asked it of me.

I realize that those of you that I've met after 2002 that are reading this may feel offended. Please, don't be. I like all of you just fine. Just not enough to choose you over law school, should the choice ever come again. I'd sell you out like a two-for-one bag deal at a Gucci store.

Here's the fun thing: I'm not entirely sure how they view me. After a certain point, doesn't even matter. With them, so long as they don't hate me outright, I'm still their friend to the end. Naive and foolish? Probably, but this is how it goes. Hell, I'm not even sure if they're reading this. If the two of you are, thank you. Thank you for saving me.

Insurance Fury

Monday, October 06, 2003. 5:55 P.M. 621 W. Lombard, womb 425. Chilly, not quite so bad as a few days ago.

Right now, it seems like my goal is to be the stupidest in class. I’m right on my way. It hit me (I’d been avoiding it) that I am rather depressed here. Bad enough that I don’t want to do this, now I have to face that I’m also hating myself for being here. And, its getting to the point where I don’t give a fuck about anyone else’s problems. Someone starts talking, and I just want to shut them up with the back of my hand.

Law school is changing me. It’s making me less empathetic. All these cases, especially in torts, of people dying, or in contracts, of surrogacy contracts, and where does the child go, and I’ve been reading so much of it, they cease being people, and start being plaintiffs. Nameless faceless plaintiffs, bunch of random characters in a horrible play that I wanted to stop watching about a month and a half ago.

I’ll be screwing half of them over anyway, if I cannot avoid the onrush. I know, I know, I know so desperately that this is not what I want to do, if the first 6 weeks are any indication. I desperately do not want to become one of them. Hell, it seems like I am fundamentally different from the rest of them, because even personality wise, they do things I do not understand, and vice versa.

…Worst thing is, I want to tell all this to someone RIGHT NOW, but I don’t want to be that guy who keeps coming to me and sobbing over shit. So, as usual, I turn to the words on the page. It is for the best that there’s not a class this semester that boots you out if you’re not prepared, because at this point, I’m not really sure if I could (would) keep up with it.

Somewhere in my soul, there’s a list to sign up on, for the priorities in my life. And on that list are a bunch of different requests, reshuffled according to various levels of importance. There are my relatives hopes, written in Chinese I can’t read, asking me to train to become a lawyer, because I’m currently the last in the [K.T.] line, because I need to be able to support a family, because my mother won’t live long enough to see me do anything else. There’s also all my friends’ hopes, written in English that hurts to read, asking me to train to become a lawyer, because it is what they would do if they had the chance, because I owe it to myself to become “the best [K.T.] that I can be,” because what else am I going to do? Write?

And somewhere at the bottom, in tiny, almost childish, handwriting, I have written down, “Enjoy your life. Live it as you want to. Do what would make you happy.” Really, that is the question I overlooked. Forever, it was, are you failing everyone else, when I should have asked, are you failing yourself?

[Sigh. –K]

***

Got a voice mail from Mom. This isn't particularly out of the ordinary, as I was driving and keep the phone on perma-vibrate, a holdover from my L-school days. I figure it can't be that important.

"Hi, [K.T.], the insurance company says they're about to cancel my health insurance. Please call me, this is very urgent."

Crap.

As I was picking up some clothing from the dry cleaners, this made me quite antsy, especially while I had to wait for the large man in the blue plaid shirt (very wrinkled back) and blue khakis (also wrinkled) unball the six shirts and five pants he brought, then take the undershirt with him. Then he paid by credit card. Then I had to wait for the giant clothes hanging machine to bring my suit around. Ever notice how everything takes forever when you don't have enough time?

Rush back to the apartment, fling myself into my seat, and check out fedex.com. Sure enough, they delivered the papers about a month ago. This freaks me out, because then it falls on my head. I screwed it up.

Twitchy thumb to scroll down to my Mom's cell phone. Then a dial. Each ring taking about thirty seconds. Thoughts of having to support my mom's insurance on my meager salary start dancing in my head. Poor mom suddenly needing surgery or more medicine.

Yeah, it turned out she read the confirmation letter wrong. As her English ain't so great, she starts spelling out the longer words, like "recertification." As I was already a bit frustrated, I launch into my mini-joke tirade. I can hear her laughing as I go into this.

K.T.: OK, I can't read everything for you guys, especially when I'm in Virginia. I can do a lot, but I need you guys to do some things for me. I can't do everything. So, from now on, here's what I need you to do. Before you call me about anything like this, read it twice, OK? You had me all worried and freaked out. Just read it twice, then call me. OK?

There's a lot of chest-slapping and fist-pounding during this rant. I'm also walking around the dining room table and (un-)fairly screaming at everything in sight. Ah, parents.

Hand Check

Thursday, October 02, 2003. 10:43 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, Womb 425. Dark. Winter Chilly.

The final test will be, can I avoid becoming a lawyer? It may well come down to that. God help me if I am found wanting.

[And ultimately, I was not found wanting. –K]

***

I'm a lot less invulnerable than I think I am. Witness when I got concussed. If I was smart, I could've avoided it by staying down when I got thrown down. Witness that I played tackle football with people much larger and stronger than me, and always attempted to take them down. Witness that I'm like the yappy little Yorkshire Terrier, all bark, no bite.

I think I'm going somewhere with this.

In order to challenge my mental acuity, I swapped my watch out from my left wrist to my right. If you've never done this, go ahead and try it for a day. So strange feeling the slight weight on the wrong wrist, and checking the wrong wrist for the time. This purportedly keeps your mind off-balance, thereby strengthening it. Kind of like how beer kills off the weaker brain cells, leaving the stronger to thrive. (Not that I drink too often. I can't afford to lose even the weak brain cells.)

This actually threw me off pretty bad, to the point where I cantered off to the right when walking down the hall while going to the bathroom. Every time I used a mouse, my watchband clicked against the desktop. Same with typing on the keyboard and the laptop. Couldn't even walk with my hands in my pockets, though I should stop with the slouchy eight-year old walk.

While on the elevator going down, leaving for the day, it stopped at floor five, and a woman stepped on. She depressed the "four," which saddened me, as she could've just walked down one flight of stairs. (Oh man, I'm a pot, and I'm calling her black. I could easily walk down from floor six to floor one, but I'm also a lazy m-----f-----.) Thing is, I've called her out on this before, but she's not going to remember me. I've one of those gentle faces that blends into the background, nothing very notable about it. Really wanted say something this time, too.

However, just as I was about to speak up, a suited man with a laptop satchel strode towards the elevator, and we stared at each other as the doors started to close. One of those pregnant moments, filled with potential, as those doors slid shut. And really, since I've gotten older, the instinct kicked in, but just so much slower.

For those of you that never rode an elevator with me at UMD, know that I often would thrust my right arm into the gap to pop the doors back open. Hurt like dry ice, but I really do think I'm more invincible than I really am.

And so it was that I thrust my arm into the gap. My right arm, with my watch. My business formal watch. Normally, it goes all the way into the forearm, and the ulna and radius take the brunt of the smash. This time, because of how slow I was, my knuckles were poised just between the doors, and I managed to stop just before it crushed the watch, instead giving up my poor hand and fingers.

I heard two gasps, one to my left, the other just beyond those doors. I also snorted, a despicable, hateful sound. The doors creaked back open, after almost slamming completely shut (if not for the veins on the back of my hands, they would be considered almost girlish). They were just amazed/shocked/appalled at my behavior. I keep forgetting that this is the real world, and I'm supposed to act as everyone else does. Then again, I can't be hurt, until I am, so it doesn't matter much.

Modified Machinery

Wednesday, October 1, 2003. 10:31 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, Womb 425. Dark. Slightly breezy, but chill as of 2 hours ago.

When I’m journalizing, I don’t even attempt to be scholarly, and just try to type as I would normally speak. That’s good, because at least it’s semi lucid. I feel bad about it though, as I should be trying to effectuate some sort of elevated diction for posterity’s sake. Goodness, should someone hailing from the far-flung future read this missive, what might they think of me? Some sort of pseudo-technological Neanderthal, clumsily slapping his hairy-knuckled digits across the physical keyboard, voiding worthless ideas from the bowels of his mind.

Yeah, let’s save the pretension for when necessary. I’m just a kid from the suburbs who happens to like reading so much I studied it in college. Yay.

[A lot of thoughts devoted to my legacy, it seems like. –K]

***

R.Y.: You shall meet your maker soon. Oh, I mean, meet your match.

I haven't been threatened with death this much in a weekend in a long time.

***

I swear the Honda Accord was going to blow up. The loud, ratcheting humming heralded its arrival long before I saw it. Like a beehive on wheels, loud and uncontrollable and random. Turned my head back and to the right, and there it came up on me, raised a few inches to accommodate the gigantic wheels, almost touching the wheel wells. Cherry red, wholly obnoxious.

It pulled in front of me, slightly vibrating, and the taillight package resembled a deep-sea dive lighting system. About seven lights on either side of the license plate, squeezed onto the trunk itself. Cars all around it were edging over the lane markers, trying to edge away. I don't think that they were afraid of the occupants, several Hispanic men with the stereotypical hard-assed facial expression. I think they were afraid the damn thing would just up and explode and throw shards everywhere.

I never understood why, when people are modifying their cars, they insist on making them as loud as possible. If anything, wouldn't you want a car that operates quietly, perhaps as a sign that your modifications have improved its operation? Yes, attention is good, but broadcasting to people around you that you have enough money to take an old Accord and make it gaudy is not the best type of attention. Couldn't you just have bought a new car? You'd have looked just as badass rolling around in an Acura.

Cat Killer

Monday, September 29, 2003. 7:40 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, womb 425. Darker. Still sick.

So, I should be typing up tort(urous) briefs, but the past few days, and the conversation I just had with the guy directly across from me, sort of beg for another entry. Ah, to be back in those days when I thought this might have some social impact, or actually help people going into law school.

The guy across from me (Let’s call him Tom.) is rather bitter and cynical. Tom has had his heart broken, and now that he is in his pathology program with a bunch of guys, rather lonely. One day, Tom came and talked to me for about three hours about how he got his heart broken. Suffice to say, it helped him more than it helped me, as I fell behind. Note how callous I’m starting to become, when, rather than sit and listen to a fellow human being, I’d rather do work. But I digress.

Tom’s basic message of hope (despair?) is to find a woman, and find a woman now. As much as I’d like to, here it is starting out much like undergrad (save the exception of not having gotten to know any psychotic women [I think]). On the one hand, I don’t care. On the other hand, I’m lonely.

As another unrelated side note, Tom and I just had a quick discussion about how I hate law school, and how he can’t understand how I don’t understand this is the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me, because money is everything. I suppose the environment I’m in fosters such an attitude, but damn.

[Tom’s real name is Ram. He doesn’t deserve pseudo-anonymity. He turned out to be an absolute fuck. –K]

***

"The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question, 'How can we eat?' The second by the question, 'Why do we eat?' And the third by the question, 'Where shall we do lunch?'" -Douglas Adams

***

J.L.J. described me as the most curious person he knows. I never considered myself that curious, and expressed surprise at his statement. He then asked me who among our shared friends was more curious. No one. Then I started running through all the people I knew, and I'm sure I missed someone, I had to (and I'm sorry. Memory is a funny thing, we only remember what we want, or need, to). For the most part, the only people that jumped out in my mind as more curious than me were the young'uns, and I at least would be able to give them a run for their money.

In my oh-so-naive way, I've overestimated humanity again. Am I really that blind in believing that curiosity is more widespread than it seems, that we all ask "Why?" more often than not? What is it about our shared experiences that leeches the curiosity from us? We came to the tentative conclusion that the school system did it, that it was all about following the accepted processes, rather than stretching out and looking for new and unexpected methods.

If that's the case, then that's incredibly depressing. Even if it's not, I still suffered from that all-too-common malady of assuming everyone is like me. I know I keep harping on it, but we are all just quanta of potential, utter possibility, unbridled "What if?" As such, we should also explore the mights, the coulds. We should revel in these moments. Instead, we trudge past these modern miracles, in a constant hurry to make it to work, or school, or a date, or an appointment, or to a Starbucks, or whereever. Just because we are so easily nourished physically doesn't mean we should ignore our intellectual starvation.

Then again, a lot of people don't realize that they're hungry. What to do...

Joking Around

Friday, September 19, 2003. 7:27 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Darkly hazy, yet concertingly clear sunset.

I could have entered the Peace Corps instead of coming to law school. If I’d done that, I’d only know how to get to my educational center, the place where I parked my bike, the local sporting venues, various restaurants and bars, and how to get to the city. Instead, in Baltimore, I know how to get to the law school, the parking garage directly behind me, Camden Yards and M&T Bank (Ravens) Stadium because I can see them, the pubs close to school, only because they are on the way to the Inner Harbor, which is a straight shot from my dorm.

I could be in China right now, in an intensive crash course learning Mandarin Chinese, as well as being trained in how to teach English to people that might not have necessarily wanted to learn it, but were there only as a prerequisite for bigger and better things. Instead, I am in law school, in an intensive crash course learning Torts, Property, and Contract laws, as well as being trained in how to counsel people in their legal difficulties, even though they might not want to hear the truth, that they cannot collect.

I could be hating my classes with a passion, damn the eight hour days of training. In addition, I’d be bonding with a few of my classmates through our united hatred of the training, as well as the simple fact that we are in a foreign land, and have no one else save each other. Instead, I hate my classes with a passion, damn the (what feel like) eight hour days of Socratic method. In addition, I am bonding with a few of my classmates through our united hatred of the whole law process, as well as the simple fact that we are in a foreign environment, and have no one else who would understand, save each other.

I could be stuck living in a cinderblocked tiny dorm room, cooking for myself, which would mean cold rice, canned soup, maybe a Chinese sausage now and again. No internet access in my room, no television, no means of diversion, save the leisure books I brought with me, and my Game Boy. Instead, I am stuck living in a cinderblocked tiny dorm room, cooking for myself, which means cold sandwiches, canned soup, and maybe a hot dog now and again. No internet access in my room, no television, no means of diversion, save the leisure books I brought with me, and my Game Boy.

I could’ve completely lost track of United States affairs, and indeed, the affairs of my world at large (which consists of the latest television shows, the greatest internet hoaxes, and football). Instead, I’ve completely lost track of U.S. affairs, and indeed, most of the affairs of my world (damned if I give up football.).

For once, I would’ve appeared like everyone else externally, and would probably have felt like a trespasser on their land. Instead, for all intents and purposes, within the constraints of the law school within the City, I look like a law student (non-black, sad to say) to everyone else in the city. I still feel like I’m trespassing on City land.

I could’ve joined the Peace Corps, and at night, when I’m working while everyone else is taking a break, I could look up at the stars, and pretend that I recognize them, even though the only times I really look up at them is when I feel alone, lonely, away from where I belong. Instead, I entered the U of Maryland Law School, and at night, when I’m working while everyone else is taking a break, I look up at the stars, and find that I’m slowly starting to recognize them.

[The saddest words of all? “What might have been.” –K]

***

Cute Waitress (C.W.): I moved away from Virginia Beach. It will drive you crazy if you're liberal and have half a brain.
R.: What if you have two-thirds of a brain?

I'd been there for five minutes, and R. was hitting on C.W. pretty heavily. There's nothing wrong with hitting on a waitress, so long as you do it respectfully, which R. was doing. However (and yes, I know I am far from the first person able to critique without getting critiqued myself), once R. said this, there was an awkward five second pause, before C.W. turned to me again and asked what, if anything, I wanted.

I know inherently what is funny. Many of us do. When pressed, few of us can determine what makes something funny. I wish I could have, to prevent situations like that. R. was possessed of the intellectual-type wit, that which, while clever, is also best suited for after-dinner sherry, not a sports bar. This is one of those things that really screws people up, not knowing the audience.

And we've all fallen prey to this mistake. How many times have you told a joke that met with a cone of silence, not because it was unfunny, but because it was inappropriate for the crowd? I wouldn't tell the "I'm a little teapot" joke the same way to kids that I would to adults (less cursing. And if you've never heard the joke from me, call me out on it the next time you see me. I swear it's funny.).

That's one of the crazy things about humor. It might be about you, but it isn't for you. Ultimately, it's for the person you're telling the joke to, the person you're (trying to) make laugh. This is another failing I've seen in people, when they make themselves laugh so hard that they exclude the other person from the joke. Damn it, man, you can laugh later. Tell the damned joke!

Profession Mislaid

Thursday, September 18, 2003. 4:38 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Wet, almost hurricane Isabel-ish.

Today, I am a law student.

So much for prayer involving Torts cancellation. [D.G.] showed bright and early at 9 on the dot. Had I seen what was coming, I would’ve gone home.

Two minutes in, we pick up on the case we discussed last time (the case I didn’t look at). Mr. [K.T.], can you tell me blahblahblah?

Shit, bullseye on my forehead. I give him one answer out of the three he wanted. Not bad, not great. Up and down. Good, I’m done.

WRONG.

After we get done, we talk about the jury/judge duties in deciding negligence, and he asks me. And proceeds to ask me for something which feels like the next three years. (they say it was ten to fifteen minutes). And keeps asking me. And somehow, I stumble on the right answers. Miracle, done.

WRONG.

Mr. [K.T.], give us the facts of the next case.

No clue, fucked them up so badly he had no choice but to move on. Done, finally.

WRONG.

Mr. [K.T.], there is a basis for the liability of the water company here. What is it?

I don’t fucking know, stop asking me questions! So I half ass my way through some more questions. Done.

WRONG.

He asked me one more damn thing right before the hour break. I don’t fucking remember what it was, don’t remember if I even gave a coherent answer. At this point, I give up on thinking “Done,” because there’s a-whole-nother hour to class. Thankfully, I miss the bullet on the second hour.

But HE KNOWS MY NAME NOW.

Last time he asked someone that many questions, it was because they kept getting them right. I kept getting them wrong, yet he kept coming back to me.

Now I’ve been called on in every class, with varying results. I am the average law student. I get some questions right, I get some wrong. I try, fail, try again, fail again. Occasionally, I guess right.

Yes, I AM A LAW STUDENT.

[I was also pretty sick as I recall, if this is what I was thinking of. –K]

***

I'd had the opportunity to talk to/taunt C.T. the other day. It was good seeing him, but even better talking about Super Smash Bros.: Melee, and my utter domination over him. We were discussing employment, and our future options. C.T. said he always thought I'd be a good professor, because I was a great writer.

I had to ask if I'd ever edited one of his papers, because that is generally how most people come to the conclusion I'm a great writer. He answered in the affirmative; I'd forgotten when I was living with him, I'd edited one of his papers. Further, my response was to cross out large sections of the paper with the accompanying comment "This doesn't work." Yes, I'm fairly proficient at editing, but I'm unfairly an asshole when it comes to editing.

***

You ever read "Death of a Salesman" by Arthur Miller? It's my absolute favorite play, for fairly obvious reasons (and one I need to reread soon, for the details dim in my mind). Willie Loman lived his whole life as a salesman, when he should have been a carpenter. He died having never truly realized what he was, or who he should have been. I identify deeply with him.

***

I told R.Y. recently that in order to become an English professor, I would need my Ph.D. in Literature. He realized this not at all, and believed the J.D. sufficed. It does not. He thought that I could go ahead and become a professor with that. When he found this out, he was kind of down. Thought that avenue remained open to me. So I hoped. So I hope.

***

How many of you wonder why I'm not a lawyer, and still don't understand why I refuse to give it a try?

How many of you wonder why I'm not a professor, and still don't understand why I refuse to give it a try?

How many, if any, of you, raised your hands for both questions?

***

I have never formally taught anyone, but I love trying to explain things. The key is to draw parallels to concepts the student understands. Since I draw similes and metaphors all the time, it gets a lot easier (and also a lot harder) to draw these parallels. You connect with the person, you create a rapport (pronounced rap-port because I intentionally dumb myself down in order to not drive myself crazy). You create a rapport, then you teach them. Fuck the mindless spouting off of information. Talk, interact, don't belittle (unless wholly deserved).

***

Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.

I can't.

Fruity Carbonation

Saturday, September 13, 2003. 8:19 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Dark. Oddly loud, with a peculiar booming in the background.

Something I’d like to mention before I go back to reading. In the rain a week, week and a half ago. I stared at the puddle on the ground, nestled in a deep recess in the crimson brick. The rain droplets pounded harder, faster into the water. It looked just like a starfield wavering in the dark sky, changing faster than fire flickering. Stars above us, stars below us. Maybe that means there are stars among us. Whereever you stars are, please please please, make yourselves known to me. I need to meet all the stars that I can.

[Unspeakable hope. –K]

***

Why in the name of all that is good would you carbonate fruit? Maybe I've just got issues with the need to make fruit more resemble soda/Pop Rocks in order to get kids to eat it. What does that say about our society? Is it any wonder that we're turning ourselves into lackadaisical lumps, weak, slothful? (Lest you try to call me a hypocrite, let me head you off at the pass by saying that yes, I drink a lot of soda and energy drinks to buoy myself through any given work day.)

***

Yes, I have not enough time for everyone. Writ's going to be the first to get short shrift.

Spin Move

Tuesday, September 09, 2003. 10:39 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Dark. Cool, but not chilly.

Tell me, why do they have SBA elections two weeks in? (Student ?Bar? Association) I can barely tell you the names of the people I see every day, much less these crazy bastards taking it seriously. Is it wrong that I voted no confidence on every line of the ballot? No, I’m taking my stand damnit. They wanted us to vote for who we wanted, and I voted how I felt.

Scary thought: Two most hated professions in my life: lawyer and politician. Does this mean I might actually develop political aspirations someday and run for office at some level? Should this happen, implement plan B on myself at earliest convenience, hopefully with someone else pulling the trigger.

For those of you who don’t know, Plan B is a plan I created (stole) some time ago. I realized that, to date, there is almost no one that I know that I would trust in a position of power. Sadly, the few people I would trust have no such political hopes. The rest of those bastards however scare the fuck out of me, not only for their charisma, but also for their (as I perceive it) inability to do things right. So, should anyone on the Plan B short list get into a position where I hear about their run for X position, then I consider buying a rifle with a scope. I think those of you reading this can connect the dots.

Thus far, Plan B lies dormant. Lucky them. Lucky me.

Does student government actually get anything done? Yes, it provides a practice environment for others (God forbid they should go in with an idea of what they’re doing). At the same time, it seems like a sham. Do they actually help? I don’t know.

I think what pisses me off about them is that they’re spamming my email inbox. If I didn’t ask for your email, that means I didn’t want it. I don’t need more Viagra. If anything, I need less, because I’m not using the supply I’ve got right now. But, fuck, we’ve been here two weeks. If I don’t know you now, do you think an email is going to make things better? I almost voted for the girl named [B.G.] just because her name was [B.G.]. Damn, not one of you has proven yourselves capable in my eyes. You just send out witty emails and hope that will be enough. Yeah, if I wipe my ass with canned air, that will get everything clean. Sometimes, you got to dig down to the dirt firsthand.

Well, if nothing else, I’m getting the old anger back. Hey, go me. Check plus for this entry.

[That my birthday was two days prior this certainly did not dull my anger. –K]

***

R.B. stood betwixt me and the goal line. His fresh short-sleeved shirt, newly purchased an hour before, bore patchwork sweat stains, soaking through the long-sleeved shirt beneath. His body tensed, ready to lunge, his sweat-glazed face calm, almost placed.

Across him, and closing the gap ever quicker, I cam rushing through, legs scissoring, arms pumping, face locked into a fearful grimace ("they" tell me when I play football, I sport a rather becoming death rictus). My t-shirt, probably worth a dollar or so, clung to me, rounded inverted sweat triangle greying the front.

I had the football cradled in my right arm, gentle babe in my charge. It belonged just beyond that goal, and I was convinced I could bear it across. Besides, who am I to deny a child? No, I wanted to deny R.B. my flag, which he desired with the fury of a thousand suns. I had two seconds to make my choice.

I sped downfield parallel to the left sideline, and R.B. stood poised just a couple of feet away, so I couldn't cut outside. Instead, and I'm not sure what I was thinking, about a step away from R.B., I planted with my right foot, threw the left half of my body back, pivoted like a center in the paint, and launched myself away towards the center of the field, leaving R.B. grasping at air. Shooting away, I heard shocked yells and cries behind me. Left R.B. behind.

And I guess the reason I'm writing about this is because, as of late, it seems like this is how I deal with all the problems in my life. Rather than rush right into them, chinfirst and with beauteous abandon, I stop just before, dance out of the way, and try to go around it. The only problem is that, just like real life, it is a temporary solution. The next offensive series, R.B. was still waiting for me. The next couple of days, my problem will still be there.

It is so easy to pretend that my problems don't exist by slip sliding away, but that only takes me so far. And here is where the metaphor breaks down. I can't run over R.B. in the context of the game, because it is against the rules, and I have not the physical prowess to run him over. I can at least acknowledge the issues in my life, and say "Hey, Problem. Let's deal." As a matter of course, in alignment with the narrow path my life follows, it is always easier to say what should be, rather than execute to bring that about.