"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: mmbekah@yahoo.com

 
Culinary Karma

A few days ago J left to go to New York for a week, and the night before he left we went to dinner at one of our favorite local places. One of our friends from law school has a friend who works there who we've met a few times at gatherings for sports events and whatnot. As we were being seated, we saw him and, though he wasn't our waiter, he hunched down over our table for a while to give us all of his personal recommendations. I beamed up at him obnoxiously as he spoke, like a teacher's pet in kindergarten.

The food was wonderful: corn bread, salad with pine nuts and goat cheese and tomatoes, and some sort of meat thingy for J (this vegetarian is the wrong person to ask, but I think it was beef tips (tips of what? eew) and brie and portobella mushrooms. I know J loved it because when he's really blown away by the food he's eating he shakes his head in disbelief, huffs, and makes this face at the food like, "Goddamn, how can you taste that good you uppity little piece of shit! Your audacity is embarrassing."). I finished my salad and looked up to see the waiter setting down a huge bowl of gazpacho with mangos on top, casually saying, "Will wants you guys to try this." I smiled because I knew we were both thinking, "Oh, well, far be it from us to disappoint Will..." We savored the green goodness, even more pleased with our special treatment than we were with the gazpacho. J put down his spoon and said with a smile, "Bekah, we're people who know people." I'm not ashamed to say that at that moment I felt a little bit like a grown up.

After the meal, we ordered coffee and it wasn't long before we heard the waiter saying, "Will wants you guys to try this too." This time it was two huge chocolate chip cookies drenched in fudge with vanilla ice cream between them. Simply put, it was glory glory hallelujah in edible form. We savored the sweetness of having connections in the restaurant world--connections which, we concluded, provide much more opportunity for instant gratification than legal connections. When the bill came, there were not 10, not 20, but 27 dollars missing from our ticket. We'd gotten all of our drinks for free too. Will took care of us. We tipped accordingly. And for once, I felt that the world was harmonious.

posted by Bekah at 3:12 PM :: |

 
Work Week One

So far, working life is what I expected. I feel stupid a lot; when I look at files and see police reports and statements and pleadings I get all panicky because I don't know what anything is. I blank on simple and practical things, and feel supremely incompetent most of the time. But I'm starting to realize that such things just go with the territory. Today was actually kind of fun, because I got to transcribe some taped witness statements. I got to use one of those cool machines with the little tapes and the pedal on the floor that lets you play and rewind while you type. Ok, it's not exactly something to throw a party over, but it made the hands on the clock move a little bit faster, and that was a blessing. (Side note: I can't write on my blog at work because my computer faces my boss's office, and something tells me this isn't what she pays me for).

My belief that feeling stupid and panicky and helpless is just part of the job got solidified today by a trip to a local court. One of the associates had to go "walk through" a motion with a judge and I was invited along. But when we got to the court, the judge was in session. So we waited. When he came out, the scorn with which he addressed us made me want to cry. His eyes indicated his belief that we were two pieces of dog poop stuck to the bottom of his shoe that must be removed at all costs. He refused to even talk to us; he was late for a meeting. So we proceeded to run all around the courthouse trying to find a judge who could sign a writ so that the client wouldn't miss the deadline. Everywhere we turned, there was another pasty, khaki-clad secretary with mall hair telling us that we were doing everything all wrong. Oh, the unbelievable egos in this world! Note to people in menial positions of authority: The fact that you sit behind a counter and hold a clipboard or preside over a royal file cabinet does not give you permission to be a completely uncivilized monster to other people. I got a huge dose of bureaucracy today, and it left a really bad taste in my mouth.

As we were leaving, I told the associate that I would have cried about five separate times today if I had been in her position. She laughed and said I'd have to have skin a little bit thicker than that if I'm going to do this for a living. That's what I was afraid of.

posted by Bekah at 7:29 PM :: |

 
Concert Consternation

On Saturday night, J and I went to a show at the venue above the House of Blues. Well, to be completely honest, we went to see the show on Friday night, bought the tickets, tried to get in, became thoroughly confused after being rebuffed by the doorman, asked at the ticket office whether Beulah was playing upstairs or what, and ultimately cringed as the doorman replied with a brutally sardonic "Yes, they are. Tomorrow." Oh yeah, Mr. Smart Doorman? Mr. "I spend my life selling Nickelback tickets to teenagers and Doctor John tickets to belligerent tourists from Skokie"? Well, we're in law school. And stuff. Yeah...it was dumb.

So like I said, on Saturday night, J and I actually went to the show. The opening band was great (and by great I mean that the lead singer was ridiculously good looking), and the place wasn't too smoky. I was feeling good. But then, disaster struck. As the tides of the crowd shifted, J and I found ourselves positioned directly behind a small cluster of frat-tastic high schoolers. At first I thought that the group would merely serve as an amusing addition to the night's people-watching activities; I noted the soccer shoes and Birkenstocks, the front-tucked T-shirts with the fashionably frayed khaki shorts and ribbon belts, the poofy hair sprouting out beneath baseball hats with the predictably emblazoned state school insignias heralding their wearers' future dreams and aspirations. The music started, and, in unison, as if on cue, they started doing that dance. You know, the one where the eyes are closed and the feet don't move, but the torso jerks forward systematically while the head bobs just enough to ever so gently rustle the curls of the frat-fro? The one where you can almost smell the pot and hear Redemption Song?

That's how it started. But then one boy started adding some new, more invasive movements. He began thrashing spasmodically, twisting and jerking his arms in a perverse jogging motion. The other boys, taking signals from the leader, began adding a few of the new moves into their regularly scheduled jerk and bob, but none of them was as adventurous as this one kid: the one standing directly in front of me. He was so close that his elbow once came close to poking my eye out. I looked at J in disbelief. He just laughed and tried to ignore it, focusing on the music. But I became fascinated. I watched the boy's movements at first with wonder, but then with concern. There were some crazy strobe lights in the show...could this be an epileptic fit? Once this kid in my youth group had a seizure at the bowling alley from playing video games. These things happen. But despite the arguable validity of my concern, it quickly gave way to supreme irritation. I suddenly grabbed J's arm and pulled him to the other side of the room, where the view was much better, in that it was a view of the stage rather than the gyrating wonder. The rest of the concert was very enjoyable, once I got my seething under control.

On the way home, I started to regret my annoyance a little bit. So the kid was a little overzealous with the dancing. At least he liked the music and was enjoying himself. At least he wasn't booing the band or puking on my shoes. But despite this second-guessing, I still feel that what that kid was doing deserves my scorn. You can't go to a public concert and act in a way that prevents other people from enjoying themselves. If you want to dance with the butterflies and twirl like a princess, go to an empty area in the room. This kid stepped on my feet about 5 times and wasn't fazed. It was rude and insulting! The hoodlum's behavior was unacceptable! And I am clearly getting old.

posted by Bekah at 8:46 AM :: |

 
Book Reports

Ok, quick rundown on the books I read. It’s a short list this year, since one of the books turned out to be a lot longer and a lot less exciting than I was hoping. (I’m one of those sad people who have to finish a book once they've started it). First I read Galapagos, which was good, but not my favorite Vonnegut by a long shot. I have to say that I’m honestly not sure if I really got the whole thing. Kind of fell a little flat for me--and wasn’t as funny as the others. I prefer Mother Night and Sirens of Titan. And Cat’s Cradle. And basically every other Vonnegut I’ve read. Oh well.

I also read Of Human Bondage, by the esteemed old, dead, white, and British W. Somerset Maugham. I found the book to be, if I’m being kind, tedious, dated, and badly written. I read the Introduction to try to get an idea of the author, and the critic said that Maugham always thought it most important to find “a story interesting in itself, apart from the telling.” At the time, I was happy to see such frankness in a writer, and thought that it was a great insight; unfortunately, the realization of that insight was completely lost in Maugham’s case, considering that the story was played and the telling was dull and ponderous.

Of Human Bondage is one of those coming of age stories about the life and education of a boy who goes through ups and downs and meets various friends and enemies and evil, life-ruining whores along the way. Basically, I didn’t really like the main character (based loosely on Maugham himself, fancy that!), and I thought Maugham's writing was not only boring, but surprisingly repetitive. Kind of like a sledgehammer with the symbolism too. It's actually ridiculous how many times the same adjectives, metaphors, and ideas crop up all over this 625 page monster. I would venture to say that the word “grotesque” shows up about 800 times. My favorite line from the book is this gem: “It’s rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman and a baby make very good decoration in a room.” Women, potted plants--I mean really, what's the difference?

Don’t get me wrong—-I can take a little bit of sexism and anti-Semitism and whatnot thrown into a novel as a product of its time. But the problem with Of Human Bondage is that there was nothing remarkable or even memorable to make the rest of the novel worthwhile—the characters were lame and badly developed, the storylines were roundabout, and when I finished the book I had an overwhelming feeling of pointlessness. The central character's big revelation is that life is meaningless, and that understanding that meaninglessness is the key to beauty and happiness. As evidenced by a Persian rug given to him by an old drunk poet. Uh…thanks?

At the end of the day, what I got from the book was a strong desire to make up dialogue like this: I say, old man, you look terribly out of sorts. The whole town knows she was an ill-mannered slut—a damned painted hussy! And yet, you were nothing but a brick to her all the same. A right brick! In any case...it’s frightfully pleasant out, old chap! Shall we stroll to the public-house, while the missus (simple wench—god love her!) fixes up some mincemeats for tea? I’m simply dying to discuss art and beauty and life and other pretentious and amorphous things with you over a frothy pint or some absinthe. Oy.

On my last night at the house, I read Animal Farm, one of those books that I somehow graduated from high school without reading. I loved it. The prose was perfect and well-formed and crisp, like a shiny red apple. And the humor--so dry! So subtle! It was a needed reminder that a good number of the old dead white guys' works are worth keeping around. I learned from the Introduction that Orwell's real name was Eric Blair. How cool is that? He sounds like a porn star! But I also read that he died when he was just 43 or something. Does anyone know the story behind that? Please fill me in. And now, I'm off to prepare for my first full day of work. More on that soon.


posted by Bekah at 3:58 PM :: |

 
Back From the Dead

I’m back from my yearly trip to North Carolina, and, as usual, very little has changed at the mountain house. The same natural artifacts and specimens sit on the bookshelves—snakeskins and pressed butterflies and chunks of mica. Under the artifacts are the same field guides about mushrooms and wildflowers, old Nancy Drew hardbacks with brittle, flaking covers, and hundreds of great works by Proust, Dickens, Wordsworth, and the rest. Massive historical volumes line the bottom shelves, and millions of old paperback mysteries and thrillers fill in the gaps. The old footed bathtub is in the upstairs bathroom, the firewood is by the fireplace as usual, and the stone porch looks out on the same mountain sunset I saw when I was little.

It shouldn’t be so surprising that everything is always the same at the house—the pipes aren’t winterized, so my family and cousins only visit in the summer. But it’s disconcerting that no matter how much I think I’ve grown, or how many changes happen in my life, everything feels the same at the house. The place is like a time warp: the physical house doesn’t change at all, and, when I go there, I get a strange feeling that I haven’t changed either. Even if I only stay there for a few days, it feels like I’ve been there for ages. All of the years of my life run together, and I can’t remember if I’m in law school or high school—if I need to do my seventh grade summer reading or study for the LSAT...or even think about where I’m going to take the Bar.

I was only there for a short time this year, but I definitely got my fix. It was a hard life, waking up in the middle of the day, going for a walk down the mountain, curling up on the couch to read, taking a bubble bath, and reading till bedtime. I’m pretty worn out from the exertion. It’s actually funny--when I got to the house, all I wanted to do was sleep and read and sleep more. I resented the idea of ever again having to do actual work or having to go to the trouble of even existing in a world where I had to dry my hair and put on uncomfortable shoes day after day. I was burnt out. But when it got to be time to go home, I was somehow ready for everything again. Now I’m anxious to start my job, and I’m anxious to do lots of reading and writing and enjoying life this summer with J and my friends around, and without school to worry about. This is officially my last summer as a student, and I’m willing to dodge the inevitable punch in the face I’m going to get from the real world as long as I can.

posted by Bekah at 3:45 PM :: |