"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: email@example.com
February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 September 2005
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Thank You Jesus
I finished PHASE ONE of my Sub & Cite today. The best part about turning in my Sub & Cite is that it comes right back to me the next day! And then my partner and I get to check everything again, but this time together. Why we're not allowed to check everything together the first time is one of the many great mysteries of life that law school has slowly and methodically made me too tired and apathetic to solve. Sub & Cite. Yay. Yipee.
Given my experiences with Microfiche (the student worker who helped me was reading Plato and taking meticulous notes in the margins with a real pencil, a virtuous one, not the mechanical kind; I wanted to hug him and tell him to never, ever go to law school, ever, but he smelled bad so I resisted the urge) and quote-highlighting today, it is a miracle that I still have friends. I managed to carry my storm cloud with me all over the school, drenching everyone with my ickiness.
The point of this post (if I can even pretend to have one) is that I read one (ONE!) thing today that made me crack a smile, and I would like to thank the person who did this for me. So Michael of Wings & Vodka, thank you. And thank you Jesus:
"...my little brother saw [The Passion of the Christ] and seemed moved by the graphic violence. I asked him if it made him want to be a Christian. He said no, but it 'made me want them to stop whipping Jesus.'"
Oh my GOD that is FUNNY. I mean, oh my goodness. Whatever.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Population of the reading room, as of 4:08 p.m. on Friday, March 26, 2004:
1. Blonde girl in far corner, twirling her hair and playing with her glasses. Types a few words and then stares off into space for hours at a time.
2. Girl with huge laptop, drinking a Diet Coke and smiling at the screen. Probably internally chuckling over a politically-themed email forward. No books in sight.
3. Guy in polo shirt drinking out of a bike water bottle. Reading for what looks like a seminar and playing brick attack on his cell phone. Thinking about calling it a day.
4. Really diligent girl to my left who is actually doing work. Reading intently, outlining intently, not noticing the blueness of the sky or the futility of her existence. Simultaneously admirable and pathetic.
5. Dude next to me. Lots of books and highlighters, none of which have moved in three hours. Probably reading ESPN. Intimidates me anyway because the books are for one of my classes, and he looks like he's really up on things. Makes me hate myself for falling behind.
6. Girl behind me. Also really doing work and constructing beautiful, handwritten case briefs on pristine yellow legal pads. I hate her with an indescribable passion, but also want to be her friend.
7. Me. Sitting under a pile of Westlaw printouts, trying to avoid looking out the window, filling with more and more resentment as the day goes on, feeling my back and neck start to tense up to the point of paralysis, wishing I could be at a crawfish boil, even though I don't eat crawfish, and their little black googly eyes scare me a lot, and so does their poop, but I would eat them anyway if I could just leave this godforsaken place.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Last fall, I wrote about the scarring experience of waking up to find a crude rendition of a phallus sprayed on my car (without my permission!). Now, I have to report something else car-related that is less obscene, but perhaps a little creepier.
First, a little bit of background. I have a lot of band stickers on my car. I refrain from applying political bumper stickers (“REGIME CHANGE BEGINS AT HOME”), or stickers with asinine moral directives (“Have You Talked to the LORD Lately?”), or stickers with cheesy statements of opinion (“MEAN PEOPLE SUCK”). But I am a fan of the band sticker, because I like bands, and I like people to know what bands I like because then they can observe my impeccable musical taste in all of its glory (hmm…that doesn’t sound right…). In all seriousness, I like to give my favorite bands credit and recognition, and I like to make my car less plain, and putting band stickers on my car achieves both ends. Some of the stickers are more mainstream (Radiohead); some are more “emo” (The Promise Ring); some are more indie (The New Amsterdams); all are freaking KICKASS.
So back to my story. When I got home from school a few days ago, I noticed that something seemed off about my bumper. As I moved closer, I noticed that there, centered perfectly beneath my beautiful “Elliot” sticker (thanks Brian), was a new sticker. It was small and white, but it was there. It said, in small orange letters, “Year Future.”
My first reaction was, “Goddamn you people, stop screwing with my car! First the penis, then my side mirror, now you’re putting stickers everywhere! Jesus, leave me alone!” I thought about scraping the sticker off then and there. But then, I reconsidered. I observed the extreme precision used in aligning the sticker—the obvious respect for my sense of symmetry and order in bumper sticker application. I thought about the undeniable care and planning that went into the entire procedure. And I was flattered. But then…I was scared.
“Oh man,” exclaimed Elliot upon hearing my story, “You have an indie rock stalker!” And the more I think about it, the more right Elliot’s assessment seems. Think about it. Someone saw my car several times in the same place, made a mental note of the stickers, thought about adding one, made sure to bring the sticker the next time he/she came by, and surreptitiously placed the sticker on my bumper under cover of darkness. It is all a little bit disturbing.
After making this revelation, my next thought was that Year Future is a local band, and that one of the band members had decided to do a little self promotion via my car. But then I looked up Year Future’s website, and found out that they are actually from LA. So, my powers of deductive reasoning led me to the conclusion that the sticker was likely placed by a fan. A freaky stalker-like fan. Who appears to have good taste in music (the band actually looks really cool), but who has chosen to exhibit that taste by committing a trespass to chattels. It’s so…so...PUNK ROCK!
I’m a little bit conflicted about it all, but for the time being, the sticker stays. It looks nice. And who knows. Maybe I’ll buy the album and become their biggest fan.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Life Imitates Video Games
The night before last, I dreamt that I invented a mechanism that allowed you to you rotate all four of your car tires 180 degrees to make them perpendicular to the curb, at which time you could insert your car into a parallel parking spot like a Tetris block. I clearly need to lay off the crack. Or maybe just the Tetris.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
J has promised to be very helpful and supportive throughout the course of this Sub & Cite, and I know he will. That's because he has time to be helpful and supportive. He has made it very clear that his three priorities in life right now (other than being helpful and supportive to me) are basketball, basketball, and--most importantly--basketball.
You see, J, like many basketball fans, has constructed something known as a "bracket" for the NCAA tournament. Actually, he's constructed three brackets. Brackets are a fun way for basketball fans to test their ability to predict winners; plus, they provide a little bit of personal incentive that makes the tournament more exciting. But as I understand it, what these "brackets" really do is create a ridiculous amount of stress in the lives of people who have no reason to care about the teams in the tournament. Suddenly J's happiness rides on the fates of east-ass teams like "Pacific" and "Monmouth"? How is that fun? I don't even know what the hell these schools are! I've been told that if I made my own bracket I would feel differently, and I know that's true. If I had a bracket, I would live and die by Western North Dakota Community College at Miami, Boulder too. But it just seems a little bit arbitrary and self-destructive for people to put themselves through an emotional rollercoaster just because they happen to have Providence going deep.
Side note: I watched a little basketball yesterday, and noticed something disturbing. Most team mascots are plural, so that a single player can be described as the singular version of that mascot. Examples include: Wolverines (Wolverine), Bulldogs (Bulldog), Commodores (Commodore). So you can say, so and so player is "a Wolverine." But NC State is "The Wolfpack" Um, what do you call one NC State player? Look at that member of the Wolfpack? Wolf? Wolf-packer? It just doesn't seem right. Alabama's Crimson Tide and other wave-oriented mascots don't work either. I think it's a huge problem, and something should be done.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death (Also Known as the Library)
I walked into work yesterday and my boss said, "What are you doing here? Do you see how nice it is outside? You're only young once--go outside and play." As it turns out, I'm very good at taking orders from superiors.
Unfortunately, playing outside must now defer to Sub & Cite hell (which explains why I am 1) awake, and 2) at school this early on a Saturday). My partner and I are working today until we get through at least 100 footnotes (of the 250 in the article). To give you an idea of how long that might take, we worked for 7 hours on Thursday and got through 28. Let's hope things pick up a little.
For some more insight into what exactly a Sub & Cite entails (dear God, why?), please see the following diatribes about my experience last semester:
Psychological Study: The Effects of a Sub & Cite on a Previously Normal Girl
Library Angst Part II
I was a little angry then. I've since been beaten into submission.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Email from Dad:
I went to Wilbert's this morning, and Steve, the proprietor, told me a depressing story. A student had come in earlier looking for study aids for antitrust. Steve asked him who his professor was. The student squinted, and said "he's tall, wears glasses, and always dresses real nice."
Poor Dad. Poor, underappreciated law profs. I may sometimes momentarily forget what classes I’m taking, or walk into the wrong room in the morning, but I would never forget my professors’ names! Really not cool.
Did I Mention that I Love My Job?
Wednesday night, I went out for St. Patrick's Day. I intended to make an appearance (so people would see that I was putting forth the requisite festive effort), have a green beer, and call it a night. But when I walked into the bar, the first people I saw were two of the associates from my firm. Associate A immediately said, "Oh damn, now we can't drink!" And I quickly retorted, "Please. Surely you jest." I chatted a little longer, told them to have a good time, and went to sit with my friends. About 10 minutes later, Associate B came over to my table with a shot of whiskey "from Associate A and me." I don't want to say that she forced me to do anything, but she is a lawyer, and she was very persuasive. And I didn't want to look like a wimp in front of my superiors. I downed it. Associate B walked off, and I continued chatting with my friends. But I saw the associates again a little later. Associate B looked at her watch and said, "Oops, it's been half an hour. My turn to buy!" She disappeared, and returned with vodka. After the vodka came the SoCo. It was nothing less than hazing, and I definitely held my own. The cliche is kind of fun: work hard, play hard. I could get used to this.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
This is a Test
OK. I am going to perform an experiment today. I am going to add a comment function to my blog. Lots of people have been telling me to do this for a while. Other people have warned me against it. After some deliberation, I've decided to try it out. As J says, I've succumbed to "blog pressure." But I'm pretty conflicted about it for several reasons:
1. My blog is supposed to be a way for me to write. I don't want it to get too "internetty" or too much like a conversation. I want this site to be by me, and I want to have complete control over it. CONTROL, OK! THAT'S WHAT I WANT! That's a problem.
2. At the same time, I want people to feel like they can respond to what I say. Writers should always be receptive to feedback. And nice feedback would make me very happy. People who have written me emails before have made me very happy, and maybe that happiness will happen more often if I have comments. Mmm...nice people.
3. My blog isn't usually particularly academic or political, so commenting isn't likely to turn into a huge discussion or debate, which is good I think. But then again, I'm not sure if my posts really lend themselves to comments very well. I don't want to write a post about how much I love flip-flops and have 15 mean people tell me it was stupid. [Side note about that: am I a red-headed stepchild when it comes to law blogs? I'm sorry if I don't always write about the election or the latest Supreme Court case. It doesn't make me any less of a law student! And besides, the fact that I'm a law student doesn't mean I only care about legal stuff. In fact, that's probably what I want to write about least of all! I am a law student, and I have a blog, but "law student" isn't all I am! Can't you people see that? Isn't that good enough for you??]
4. I'm scared of mean people.
Despite all of these things, I'm giving it a shot. My dear blog-friend AI is setting them up for me some time in the near future. He is very good to me, and has helped me in the past with my internet ineptitude. So look for comments soon. And be nice.
Does Not Compute
This morning, my computer had a nervous breakdown. They keyboard simply stopped working. As an illustration, please observe my notes from First Amendment:
hn itll my cmutr tart t rk
my cmutr is scrd
I hat my cmutr
When will my computer start to work?
My computer is screwed
I hate my computer
So, after overreacting in my usual style, choking back irrational tears and anticipating the loss of all of my notes, I drove out to the Gateway store. The guy at the Gateway store hates his life. He hates everything about his dreary, complaint-ridden existence. But he was still pretty cool to me. My computer wasn't under warranty, so I had two options. I could send it in for the "fixed rate" of $299 plus tax, plus $59 for a box to ship it in, and get it back in 10 days. Or I could go to Target and get a can of $6 compressed air to see if "blowing it out" would fix the problem.
In the parking lot of Target, I removed one of the keys from my keyboard and prepared to blow out the few small dust particles that might be lurking there. But when I looked down, I did not see dust particles. I saw hair. Eyelashes, yes. But also long brown hairs, from my head. My keyboard chamber is apparently where my hair goes to die. Well, hair is already dead, so it's apparently where it goes to die again. Hairs were curled around all of the keys, completely debilitating them. But I came to the rescue. I sprayed that shit so hard that the can almost froze off my hand, but when I turned the computer back on, all was well again.
And the good news is, I can continue to work on my Comment! Talk about silver lining!
Monday, March 15, 2004
1. 64 pages of Comment DONE. Maybe 10-15 more to go.
2. After good dinner with J's parents, invited to lunch on Sunday which was also good. No mention of Vietnam; stuck to easy task of embarrassing J in front of his parents.
3. Cleaned entire apartment, including sink, toilet bowl, and floor; removed disgusting dead cockroach from under bed.
4. Got new shampoo.
5. Saves the Day tonight. Met J at Saves the Day concert last year; cute anniversary-type thing; not at all vomit-inducing for others, I hope.
Impending and/or Current Doom
1. 10-15 pages of Comment to write + Bluebook hell + revisions + meeting with advisor.
2. Sub & Cite has been resurrected.
3. Humidity outside makes walking = swimming in hot, stagnant marshland.
4. J's excitement about "Two words: TOURNAMENT BRACKET." For the love of God.
5. The harsh reality evidenced by this conversation:
Dad: So, with all this writing, have you been keeping up with your coursework?
Me: (long silence, sporting an expression not seen on my face since I was a surly 13-year-old) What do you think?
Saturday, March 13, 2004
The Wrong Child
Come play with me I whispered to my new-found friend
Tell me what it's like to go outside
I've never been
Tell me what it's like to just go outside
I've never been
And I never will
And I never will
I'm not supposed to be like this, but it's OK...
Michael Stipe must be acutely aware of the plight of the law student. Freaky.
Thinking of this song right now reminds me of when, as a child, I was convinced that the music my parents played on road trips directly corresponded to events occurring outside of my car window. Dire Straits' "Walk of Life" was about the guy ambling on the side of the road; Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car," was about the lady in the green Taurus; Neil Young's "Unknown Legend" was about anyone who happened to be riding a motorcycle. Every song happened in tandem with my perceptions of what was going on around me. So I guess now Michael Stipe has provided a perfect soundtrack to this pathetic Saturday--the ideal musical accompaniment for smooshing my face against the coffeehouse window, attempting to enjoy some part of a sunny-but-not-humid 75 degree day when I have no choice but to write my Comment. Sucks.
Note: Don't worry, I'm not actually talking to imaginary friends. Yet.
Dinner went really well. No awkward silence, no terribly tense moments. There was one little bit of conversation that I thought might be questionable, but J assures me that it was fine:
J's Dad: I really enjoy Hemingway...Existentialism...but there were other things I had to do when I was younger.
Me: Well, you can do it in your spare time now.
J's Dad: What, the killing?
Me: Ha, no! The Hemingway! (Pause) Yeah, I really miss college.
J's Dad: You miss Hemingway?
Me: No, the killing. I miss the killing in college...Haha...No, I meant I miss Philosophy classes...
Note to self: Vietnam is not funny. Vietnam is not funny. Vietnam is not funny. Eep. Joshie, why didn't you list "killing" as one of your terms to avoid?!
Incidentally, Secret Window was good, even though I figured it out after about 15 minutes. Johnny Depp was wonderful, and very funny. Some good one-liners there, which I consider to be a dying art form. Alright, back to work.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Advice from Joshie about dinner with J's parents: "I would avoid the following terms in your conversations with the old man: national socialism, premarital intercourse, gook, male pattern baldness, pacifism."
Duly noted. I will also heed Marc's advice that "a guy's parents only care about two things: that you're friendly, and that you care about their son." Check and check. The pep-talks I got from my girlfriends along the lines of "you have absolutely nothing to worry about; you're adorable" and "you're perfect, they will love you" may be slightly biased, but it was still very lovely to hear. Thanks ladies!
Later tonight, after the deed is done, Costa and I are going to go see Secret Window. Hopefully dinner won't be quite as scary as the movie.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Meet the Parents (Hopefully Minus Cat-Milking Demonstrations)
J’s parents are coming to town this weekend and we’re doing the whole dinner and drinks thing. Although I’ve never actually met J’s parents, I’ve heard a lot about them. J is an only child, and his parents are—according to him—“like his siblings.” His much older siblings, one of whom was a platoon leader in Vietnam. Right. I’m feeling filial already.
In all seriousness, I’m not too nervous about it—I’m sure everything will be fine as soon as the night gets going. But I’m still a little worried about getting myself into one of my patented foot-in-mouth imbroglios. For example, I’m dreading a conversation like the following: [Note: This entirely fictional conversation is intended to be a hyperbolic illustration of my irrational fears. I know that J’s parents (and J for that matter) are really nothing like this]
J: …and that’s why I think the Cuban Missile Crisis was so fascinating.
J’s Dad: (Beaming with fatherly pride) That’s a good point, son.
Me: (Nervous laughter) Yeah, I totally agree. (Pause) Hey J, did you see that kid driving the white Camaro yesterday? What an idiot! Blasting Jason Mraz. Jesus! I mean, who drives Camaros?
J’s Mom: I drive a Camaro.
Me: I know...that’s because only really cool people drive Camaros. Cool people like you and your husband.
J’s Dad: I have my own car.
Me: Of course you do, sir. I didn’t mean to imply…
J: I didn’t spend a year in Vietnam to be accused of sharing a car with my wife.
J's Mom: Maybe we should get going, honey.
J: Come on, guys--
J's Mom: It's ok dear, we'll see you tomorrow. (Whispering to J's Dad on the way out) Not so pretty, is she?
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
It's Funny Because It's True
Me: Wait, you're observing Lent?
A: Yeah man.
Me: Really? What are you giving up?
A: Uh...being Jewish?
Me: Oh, right. Ha.
Monday, March 08, 2004
An English Major in Law School
To my great displeasure, writing this Comment is proving to be much harder than writing my college thesis. Senior year, I wrote my thesis on Thomas Hardy. I always liked Hardy, and I thought it would be interesting to sit down with three of his novels and write about some theme or other (I ultimately chose “Victimization”). I did struggle with my argument at first because it’s hard to find something new in literary criticism, especially when your author is a canonical dead white guy. But there was one special ingredient that made that thesis possible: Bullshit. It is a well known fact that the ability to bullshit is vital in writing a thesis. Despite the term’s negative connotations, I would venture to say that bullshitting is even more valuable than making actual sense. You see, to bullshit, you must be creative and enterprising. You must be able to mold the unsuspecting text to your will. If you are a skilled bullshitter, you can perform a “close reading” of any passage of a novel or stanza of a poem and make it mean anything you want. A swordfight means sex. The sword is obviously a phallus, and the light reflecting off of it represents the blinding experience of falling in love. The snapping of quails’ necks represents empathy with all of the suffering of the universe. A pig’s bladder represents the stark contrast between the visceral, rustic lifestyle and the life of the ephemeral scholar. The name "Boldwood" is indicative of a stuffy and stiff "wooden" personality. Whatever.
Writing a Comment is different because bullshitting is so much harder. This is not to say that it’s not possible to bullshit in a legal setting, but there’s that pesky thing called precedent that really makes it hard to head into right field. Everything has to be so annoyingly practical. And these legal scholars are so freaking pathetic—if you think you have a new idea, it only takes a few minutes on Westlaw to realize that someone at the University of Akron is an expert in the field and has written three treatises that make your exact point, only in much greater detail. I just feel like legal writing gives the student so much less to go on. My bullshitting ability is wasting away. If I could just write about dying sheep or the loss of a young country girl’s virginity I might be able to get somewhere...
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Thoughts I've Had While Attempting to Write My Comment Today
- "Poop deck" is a funny term. Ha. Poop.
- Donald Trump styles his hair like that to make sure people talk about him constantly. The more we make fun of it, the more we encourage him and feed into his plot of world domination. In conclusion, we should ignore Donald Trump's hair.
- Babies are small people...weird.
- I wish I had a camera phone. They're pointless, and I enjoy pointless things.
- Writing this Comment is pointless, and I don't enjoy it. Therefore, I do not enjoy all pointless things.
- I think I had another dream about the Quizno's creatures last night. They were singing to me. I wonder if there will be another commercial with the creatures. If I knew there was going to be another such commercial, I might be more excited about waking up tomorrow.
- I want a beer. No. I really want a beer. Preferably a Modelo Especial. A margarita would be good too. Maybe I should just move to Mexico. But it's really hot there. But it's insanely hot here, and humid too. But water is expensive there. But beer is expensive here, and it's supposed to be really cheap there. Shit, Westlaw just timed out.
- I am going to scream if I find another article with what appears to be my exact thesis.
- I wish I hadn't said I would scream; I am in public, and it was embarrassing.
- It's a really good thing this is in Courier New.
- I want my Mommy.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Update on Sub & Cite/Comment
My Sub & Cite has been postponed. Get this: the higher-ups on the Review actually determined that the article was not in good enough condition to merit a Sub & Cite at this juncture. Keep in mind that I and my fellow junior members have had to edit articles that 1) are in Afrikaans, 2) are in some language other than English that is not even discernible, 3) completely lack pinpoint citations, and/or 4) contain propositions based on a source that can only be found at the bottom of an underwater cave in the Baltic Sea, but that we have to produce and scrutinize regardless. This article was bad. Hopefully when I get it again things will have improved a little. Taking advantage of the calm before the storm, I've been working on my Comment and have managed to do a good bit of preparation and writing. But that is boring, and you don't care.
Update on Condition of Neck/Back
Good news on this front--I can turn my head! You'll remember that last Wednesday I commented that my back hurt. Well, that was the understatement of the year. The situation got progressively worse, and by the end of the day on Thursday I could barely move. I was walking around with my shoulders hunched to my ears, wincing with every step. Whenever the pain got particularly bad, I insisted to anyone who would listen that I obviously had meningitis or some other life-threatening illness. When they suggested that I go to the doctor, I said I didn't feel like it. (So Bekah, you're dying, but you don't feel like going to the doctor?) I was a blast to be around, let me tell you. I think that since I'm not dead today it can't be meningitis, and was probably a combination of stress, sleeping funny, and hunching over this wretched computer too much. Whatever the reason, it sucks and I'm old.
Update on Work
I love my job. For starters, my boss's husband calls me "little Becky Becky Bek Bek" or some variant thereof, which might be offensive in any other context, but in his case is pretty hilarious. I spent my first full afternoon there on Thursday. When I got there, I had the following conversation.
Associate #1: Hey, we're heading out to pick up lunch. Do you want anything?
Me: (being polite) Oh, no thank you.
Associate #2: What, you don't eat?
Me: Um...no, I eat. I just...uh...had breakfast recently.
Associate #1: Alright then. Hey, are you ok? Does your back hurt or something?
Me: Yeah, I can't really move my neck so much lately...
Associate #2: Ha, you're getting old!
Associate #1: Poor thing! Do you want me to bring you a cookie?
Me: (with a pout) Yes.
Awesome. Also, I don't know if this is everyone's experience when they start working, but I feel like law school really sets some ridiculous standards for us. All I've done so far is a little research and answered some phones and I'm doing an "amazing job." Wow, other law clerks they've had must have been total morons if that's true!
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Today is not a good day. 8:30 class was cancelled, but only after I was out of bed and on the way to school. My back hurts. It's disgustingly humid, so my hair is trying to do it's best Slash impression. I went to breakfast where I tried to make a joke about a Constitutional Amendment with respect to cockfighting (Cockfighting will be between one cock and another cock, the two cocks may not get married, they may only fight...and, uh...and then I stabbed someone). Yeah, it didn't really translate from brain to words so well. And in a few minutes, I'm going to be sucked in by the undertow of a Sub & Cite. I may or may not be able to come up for air/blogging. Be excellent to each other while I'm gone.
Monday, March 01, 2004
It's an Ass Clown! It's a Douchebag! No, it's both...it's...TWEEDMAN!
I realize that there are some things that I shouldn't post details about. There are boundaries that blogs can easily overstep and social norms of which blogs can easily run afoul. But I can confidently say that I have absolutely no qualms about describing every perceivable detail about Tweed man. It is my civic duty to do so. If I do not describe him more fully, there is a possibility that he will terrorize more innocent coffeehouse patrons, small children, or fuzzy bunnies. Please know that I'm not going on memory here; I am actually typing this as I look at him, looking at me looking at him. The levels of voyeurism in this undertaking are quite fascinating.
Anyway, beware if you see the following person:
A short man, a shade under five feet tall, slightly resembling Bilbo Baggins at the moment when he tries to steal the ring back from Frodo and his face contorts into a horrifying amalgamation of vampire and gremlin. As his name indicates, Tweedman often wears tweed, coupled with douche-tastic khaki pants--tapered, of course--and a collared shirt with sleeves that are far too short. Boat shoes are a necessity, and may be the source of all his evil powers. Test this theory by stomping his feet at any opportunity. Tweedman enjoys sitting several yards away from students, muttering and trying to blow up their computers with mind bullets. The appropriate response to this tactic is to stare back; he often grumbles and turns away for short time, giving you a brief respite from his furor. His hair is of a sandy, toupe-like consistency, and his eyes are as red as the pits of hell. He has a fairly distinctive gait, moving as though he has something large and awkwardly shaped stuck up his ass. It may or may not be my computer cord.
Beware the Ides of March
There is no other way to put it: This month is going to blow. I have a 60-90 page Comment to write by the beginning of April, I just got new research to do for my job, classes are starting to reach that "ok, I'm pretty far into the semester and still don't really understand what's going on; this could be a problem" stage, and I arrived at school today to find a nice, thick Sub & Cite in my mailbox. Along with the Sub & Cite, I got an email informing me that there would be "special problems" with my article, about which I would have to speak to the Editor in Chief. I immediately got supremely pissed off and launched myself into an unfortunate fit of self-pity and bitchiness. When I knocked on the editor's door to inquire about my article's so-called "special problems," I learned that the citations would be kind of tricky because the footnotes are in really bad shape. [The original version of this post explained why the footnotes were so thorny, but I've been advised that it might not be a good idea to post the details on my blog. Suffice it to say that the article is rough for good reason.] And so, as I said before, March is going to seriously blow. Or maybe it will just suck. Either way, it's not good. But at least I should be done with the Sub & Cite before St. Patrick's day.