Mixtape Marathon

2005-09-03T23:05:00.000-05:00

I have gotten a few emails from people inquiring about my wellbeing--thank you. I know very few people even come to this site anymore, but for those who do, I graduated from Tulane in May and happened to be out of New Orleans at the time of this tragedy. I'm living in Ann Arbor, MI now. My extended family who live in New Orleans are all ok in terms of physical wellbeing, though I can't even imagine what it is like for them to go through this. My grandmothers are living with my parents in Florida for the foreseeable future. My cousins are all having to start school somewhere new.

I encourage everyone in the various law school communities to go to the wonderful blog set up by Professor Eric Muller at www.isthatlegal.org/tulanelaw and offer any help with housing, etc., that you can manage to displaced TLS students.

2005-01-12T08:46:00.000-06:00

Going Gentle into that Good Night...

I might change my mind about this later, but right now I'm pretty sure that I've outgrown this blog. It's been just about 2 years, and I think I've hit a little bit of a wall. And it's not fair for me to hold myself out as an active blogger when the truth is I'm just not sure when or if I'll post again on Mixtape Marathon. I do want to keep writing though, so chances are I'll start a new blog pretty soon. Something in a different color, and with a slightly different tone. Maybe something that doesn't rely so heavily on the use of the word "poop." So please stay tuned and don't forget me. (And Annabreviation, enough with the waterworks! This isn't the end; it's the beginning.) So let me contemplate what I'm going to do, and I'll make my new whereabouts known when I figure something out.

2004-12-23T15:37:00.000-06:00

Just resurfacing for a quick update. After a few days of shameless stagnation (which I could get away with because J is out of town and I haven't had to pretend that I'm a motivated and productive "human being" and have instead spent the majority of the past few days in my running clothes, soaking up a good avocado mask and reading The Corrections), I've decided to turn on my computer. Incidentally, I don't pretend to be a human being around J because I feel that I have to; the presence of another person is just generally enough to motivate me to, say, cleanse myself, or get out of bed before 11. I sometimes worry that if I didn't have relationships with other people I would just cease to exist. Because other people are pretty much my reasons for doing anything at all. It seems. Anyway, I also did some shopping, and even remembered to wash the avocado mask off before I left the house--score! Shopping during the holidays is stressful for me because I get pissed off at myself for buying gifts for the sake of having something to give, and not thinking hard enough about what each person would really like. I think it would be so much better if everyone was required to get people a holiday present each year, but they could do it any time during the year when they happened to see something that the person would really want. Ok, yes, I guess people could do that anyway, and save the gifts until the holiday season. But that would be so contrary to our innate tendencies to procrastinate. Anyway, today I'm cleaning the apartment because it's still in finals mode and I can't take it anymore. The Swiffer is beckoning, and so I must leave you.

2004-12-13T16:15:00.000-06:00

Done. It's a little bit like trying to wrap three unweildy presents that you're not really sure were right for the occasion. The wrapping is a little ripped and might not be that pretty, but you think you have at least something inside that the recipient will like. I just hope one of them doesn't turn out to be poop in a box...I don't think they give you good grades for that.

My head hurts and my eyes won't stay open. Later. Much. Later.

2004-12-03T20:00:00.000-06:00

Ernesto

For the past 5 minutes, rather than working on my Trusts & Estates outline, I've been constructing an elaborate back story based around the name I just gave my new computer: Ernesto. Ernesto is an attractive, slender Puerto Rican metrosexual who regularly applies product to make his hair firm and glossy. His jeans have the distressed look (though they cost $300) and his mock turtleneck is ribbed and fitted. He wears cologne, but not too much, and he has just the slightest amount of bling. He dates casually, but has a fear of commitment because he's been burned once before by a lovely young marketing executive named Angelina who has very long fingernails and meticulously plucked eyebrows. He is androgynous, but has a low, sultry voice and a large adam's apple. He listens very carefully when people speak to him, and only speaks once he's thought his words out very carefully. He is up on the latest technological trends, and calls his mother once a week on a videophone (he bought her a matching one for mother's day). He has a pet bulldog named Rocco. That's all I'm sure of for now. More on the life and times of my computer later.

2004-12-03T19:14:00.000-06:00

Exams are Here

Me: (holding up my green tea) See, this is the most economical thing you can get here. You can fill it up with water 2 or 3 more times. See how much tea they pack into the pouch? It's good. It's the best ever. I'm excited. Oh yeah. Rock on.
J: ...I'm in hell.

2004-12-03T13:37:00.000-06:00

Exams looming.

Computer broke.

Got new one because I am one lucky little wench.

Condensed versions of outlines are next on the agenda; then flashcards.

Must workie; no talkie.

No speaka in complete sentences.

Sorry.

Leave happy thoughts.

2004-11-30T16:08:00.000-06:00

Finding a Happy Place...

It's amazing when all the forces of the universe align for one spectacular moment. Like when you don't want to take any of the classes offered by your school, but you wake up at 7:00am to register anyway, at which time your computer decides that it doesn't want you to take any classes offered either and promptly stops working, so then you call the registrar to register over the phone, at which time you realize the school doesn't want you to take any of the classes offered because the entire registration system isn't working. So you've spent over an hour trying to register for classes you don't even like, and now it's too late to go for a run.

I understand that technical issues are impossible to completely control, but it would help if a law school that takes hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars from its students every year could have some accountable person ALIVE and AWAKE during the registration period to do a little bit of damage control. A lot of my friends are really pissed because they couldn't get into classes they wanted to take. I don't really have that problem because the "caring" switch in my brain has been flipped off for the duration of exam time, but I'm outraged on principle, because that's what I do.

Now I'm sitting in a coffeehouse trying to outline and watching a man bathe in front of me. (He disappeared into the bathroom for about 20 minutes, after which period he emerged holding reams of paper towels and sat down in front of me). He is now rubbing said paper towels all over his body. This process results in loud scratching and grunting sounds, but does not result in the cleansing of his person, largely because there is no soap or water involved in this process. Just a lot of grunting and staring at me.

I will miss this city.

2004-11-28T13:26:00.000-06:00

Today's Worries

That the old woman who constantly wanders around my neighborhood picking up leaves and trash out of the gutter will break into my apartment and attack me in my sleep. Morbid, I know, but you haven't seen this lady. She really freaks me out. I had a nightmare about it.

That the recent surge of totally random childhood memories I've been having (coming to me without any provocation or triggering event) is evidence of some evil plot that my subconscious is concocting without my knowledge.

That the new REM album has this gorgeous song with some really beautiful imagery--it's track three if you want to listen--but at the end of it, just when the music should be fading out, rapper Q-Tip makes a most unfortunate appearance for absolutely no reason and ruins everything by making me either laugh, squirm uncomfortably, or, worst of all, fear for Michael Stipe's musical judgment.

That Felicity Huffman may be the one to die tonight on Desperate Housewives. Not that I think the producers would ever pick her to be the one to go, but the option is there and it worries me.

That Morris Bart is going to read my blog and sue me for libel. Note to all: the post below is a joke. Morris Bart was never actually Joe Bob's attorney, and I don't know anything about his professional life. Luckily he is a public figure so I definitely have some leeway under the First Amendment. Side note: I went to the Bartman's website just for fun and discovered that in addition to "One Call, That's All!" he also uses, in the internet context, "One Click, That's It!" Catchy, right? Unfortunately, it doesn't rhyme. I may contact him and tell him that "One Click Does the Trick" would be better. Easier on the ears.

2004-11-25T12:01:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving Day Race Relations

This morning I ran the 5 mile Turkey Day Race with my dad, who is in town for the holidays. (I should make it clear that my dad is an actual runner who used to race quite frequently. His PR for a 5 mile race is 27 minutes. Twenty. Seven. Minutes. That's what you might call obscenely speedy. So needless to say I didn't really run the race with him, so much as in his dust). It was actually very cold this morning and made for great race weather. I was the 91st woman, with a time of 42:38. My dad ran it in 35:42--not bad for an old dude, huh?

The best part of the race was my celebrity encounter. I was running along in mile two, not pushing it too hard, and suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw Morris Bart. For those of you who aren't from around here, Morris Bart is the lawyer who holds the license to the phrase "one call that's all" for this particular area. He has no fees or expenses unless he collects for you. He got Joe Bob $500,000 for the stubbed toe he suffered while robbing your aunt Mae's house. Anyway, I saw him run up next to me and immediately said, "Oh no no...I'm a 3L in law school--I can't let you beat me!" He just laughed and we chatted for about five minutes about where I was from and what kind of law I was interested in, and then he sped up and was gone. He was actually quite nice. Good runner too.

2004-11-24T10:49:00.000-06:00

What I Thought About this Morning on the Drive to Campus to Drop off J's Time Sheets at the Student Employment Office Because He Forgot to Drop them off Before he Left to go home for Thanksgiving and I Am Nice

…I can’t believe I forgot where I parked my car last night after class. Legitimately forgot. I mean, I actually got to the spot where I thought my car was parked and panicked because I just knew it had been stolen and I was standing there for an entire minute before I put it together. Man. It’s not even exam time yet...Maybe I need to take some vitamins or something. Garlique perhaps. Wait, isn't that like Beano? So Echinacea then…or the Flintstones vitamins. Or did they stop selling those in the 80’s? Are the Flintstones even on TV anymore? I can’t remember ever watching the show really, but I definitely took the vitamins because I remember liking the orange ones best….Orange flavored things have a storied history with me. I liked those orange vitamins, but then I went through a period where I hated orange juice, but now I like it, even the pulp, if it's not too chunky....and I think I always liked the orange tootsie roll pops...Hey, nice blinker, ass. Thanks for the warning there. And nice W sticker, too...figures...Yeah, I am really liking this posthumous Elliott Smith album. Track 7 is good. And 3. Some really atmospheric stuff. Poignant. More so because of that article I read that said the coroner ended up ruling his cause of death inconclusive...Everyone just assumed suicide because he was a sad person but there were two stab wounds and although they say that suicide by stabbing often involves hesitation wounds, the angle of these wounds was inconclusive. Creepy…Ugh, why won’t that image of the U2 iPod commercial get out of my head…I don’t get U2 worshippers. I want all of these people to clear their minds and really think about “Vertigo.” The song is mindnumbing. Trite, boring, and loud…I don’t get it. Oh, and they were really gross on SNL the other night—Old Bono gyrating awkwardly and shaking his greasy hair—this is Rock and Roll? Still, they were probably the highlight of the show because it really is almost impossible to watch SNL now. It’s completely reduced to the “let’s take one thing that isn’t funny and do it 50 times in a row” motif...not effective...and Horatio Sanz is still not funny, only fat, and while fatness can sometimes be paired with comedic talent, it is never, ever, indicative of it on its own…oh, and to make things worse, U2 and Macintosh are forming the evilest of the evil corporate conglomerates known to man and it is terrifying…personalized U2 iPods? The world is ending…but I feel guilty because I really want an iPod anyway, just not the U2 one because that is fascist...you know, I think I should have read Madame Bovary at this point in my life, but I haven't…I wonder if it's any good…I don’t read enough. I am stupid, and getting stupider by the day. I can’t have intelligent conversations with people anymore, about Chaucer or Heidegger or Mary Kate's latest struggles and heartaches...Law school is sucking my will to live…I think Tom Wolfe looks a lot like Mr. Burns...I wonder if that's on purpose...not on purpose like Tom Wolfe is trying to look like Mr. Burns...but maybe on purpose like Matt Groening has something against Bonfire of the Vanities...another book I haven't read all the way through...and...yes, it is in fact raining now just in time for me to get out of the car...

2004-11-21T20:00:00.000-06:00

Apology to the Haiku Gods

First let me just say for the record that I was not really trying to compose legitimate poetry about the MPRE. I used the words "poop" and "trench foot" for God's sake. But, to appease the Haiku devotees out there, I will submit this brief statement of evaluation referring to each of Michael Dylan Welch's (what a poetry-drenched name!) 10 tips for writing Haiku:

1. I was wrong to use only the "Western convention" of 3 lines, 5-7-5 separated, 17-syllable formation. It's what I remembered from 4th grade. I think the ones I wrote then were probably better, though equally stifled, choppy, and Westernized I'm sure.

2. I didn't include a reference to the "season or time of year" in any of the "poems," so that's bad. Although they are all about MPRE time, so maybe that counts.

3. Only four out of five of my "poems" were written in the present tense. I now know that, for the sake of immediacy, haiku should always be in the present tense. Thus, the fourth one should read:

A pencil gently taps in autumn
as my brain
explodes

4. I think I might have gotten this one: I wrote about common, everyday events within the context of the MPRE. I never attempted to answer any questions about the meaning of life. But then I never raised any questions about it either. This is a failing.

5. I wrote all of these poems by channeling my personal experience. My personal experience with the MPRE. It doesn't get more viscerally personal than THAT.

6. This rule requires one to present what causes one's emotions, rather than to present the emotions themselves. Let's see...is trench foot an emotion, or the cause of an emotion? How about judges pooping? Hmm. No dice.

7. Haiku are supposed to be made up of two images together creating "harmony or contrast." Ethics and trench foot. Love and poop. Pencils and exploding brains. That's all I've got.

8. A continuation of the previous rule--one image should be in one line, and the other image in two lines (not three separate images). See above, I guess. This is getting a little deep for me right now.

9. No titles or rhyming. Check.

10. No awkward and unnatural line breaks. Yeah, I did some of that. Choppy, unnatural, even unfortunate run-ins with semicolons and question marks.

So, in conclusion, I must admit that none of the five "poems" I wrote is really a haiku. If I had to venture a guess as to which ones might pass for the most haiku-ish of the horrendously bad haiku below, I'd have to say:

Poem #1: Haiku-ish. No punctuation. Some imagery. Contrast. One of the better attempts.
Poem #2: As noted above, love and poop are two images that create an undeniable contrast in one's mind. Although not seasonal, the flow of this haiku is somewhere between distressed and disturbed--a much better effort than some of the others. What is more natural than judges pooping? Haiku-ish.
Poem #3: No imagery, no flow. Just a question that I've often asked myself split up in three lines. Not haiku-ish.
Poem #4: Would probably be somewhat haiku-ish if written in present tense to reflect the immediacy of the exploding brain in nature. See revised #4 above.
Poem #5: Also, just a random 17 syllable musing of mine. No imagery, seasonal emotion, contrast, or flow. Not haiku-ish.

Final Thought: It just occurred to me that the Law of Haiku may be too rigid in its application. As with Trademark Law, there is no real room for parody, or joking around, or being generally flippant. Any joking haiku-ish things are judged against the same strict statutory requirements as real haiku. This seems a little bit unfair, and a little bit dogmatic. Perhaps if the letter of the law will not pardon me, the Bard Review Board will come up with a remedy in equity?

2004-11-15T19:44:00.000-06:00

Some hastily written, fake haiku-ish rubbish inspired by the MPRE.

It's unethical
To create an ethics test
That's worse than trench foot.

My mother loves me
Even though I'm just not sure
Where a judge may poop.

If the Model Rules
Are printed right in a book,
Why memorize them?

The guy on my right
Started tapping his pencil.
My brain exploded.

It is funny when
Test questions have no answers;
Wait, no it isn't.

2004-11-10T07:40:00.000-06:00

Mental Blocks

One of the most interesting things about human beings is that we can learn from our experiences and change our habits based on new knowledge. But it's so strange to me that there are some things that, no matter how often they happen, always come as a surprise. For example, there's this familiar line of thought: "Wow, my stomach really hurts. Ouch. I don't feel good at all. I'm kind of irritable, and I've been snapping at people a lot. That's just not like me. Also, I've got a little bit of a headache. That's weird. I didn't think I was getting sick. What could this mean? I don't think I've eaten anything funny. Let's see...well, it's the second week of the mon--ah yes, right. Got it." Now, girls will agree with me, many of us go through this line of reasoning every month, despite the fact that we experience these symptoms 12 times a year, pretty much right at the same time. So strange. (Any guys who are offended or grossed out by this need to chill out. It's a beautiful, natural thing).

I was reminded of this phenomenon again yesterday. I strolled into Office Depot to get printer paper and cartridges (in preparation for the mass outline printing that is looming in the not so distant future). While there, I came upon those highlighters WITH THE TABS INSIDE. Glorious miracles of modern science! I picked up a pack. I then went to the coffeehouse to do the reading for my Tuesday night class. As I was doing the reading, I noticed that I was more interested in the material than usual. I was paying close attention to the cases and highlighting thoroughly. I felt slightly motivated (as opposed to overwhelmingly uninterested). I wondered what brought about this sea change in my world view. My gaze fell to the table and I caught a glimpse of the highligher out of the corner of my eye. The highligher! At the end of every semester, I always forget how easy I am to manipulate. All I need to be transformed into a good student is a new batch of school supplies. And still, the fact that tabs and highlighters are the key to my scholastic mental health always ends up surprising me. Very odd.

Ok, that's all. Anyway, people's brains are funny things. Sorry about the random reference to women's troubles.

2004-11-08T19:44:00.000-06:00

Seasonal Survey

I bitch a lot about it, I know, but when the weather is nice in this town there really is nothing like it. Based on the brisk 77 degree weather today, I'm feeling very seasonal. So in the spirit of the season, I'd like to pose a question to you all: What is your favorite thing about fall? Answer promptly and creatively. And no, you can't use "the smell of fireplaces wafting over the tops of red and yellow trees" because it's trite. And because that's my favorite thing, and I get first dibs.

[On a related note, I went for a run today (I'm taking it slow, don't worry) around 11:00a.m. and people were wearing sweatshirts. Sweatshirts. Now, when it is under 80 degrees outside and the breeze is not hot, I would think people would want to actually enjoy that relatively uncommon occurrence by not wearing clothes that turn them into human ovens. Wearing a sweatshirt on a day like this actually makes your experience worse than it would be if you were running in normal New Orleans heat. But, then again, it's not like people in this state are known for making rational choices.]

2004-11-07T10:46:00.000-06:00

On The Election, November 2, 2004

Shall I compare this country to a tree?
We are more flimsy and more changeable.
Rough winds do shake our dear democracy:
And like a leaf we tremble 'neath their pull.
Yet other times we are far too steadfast,
And cannot budge despite the facts at hand,
Even a tree’s fall colors do not last;
For leaves know when to cling, or fall to land.
But maybe this steadfastness helps us too,
For we will plant our feet in protest down,
Americans know well what we must do:
We’ll make a forest on the White House lawn.
The trees will grow and so will Dubya’s fears:
For he will come to know—these trees have ears.

That's not a threat, that's a promise. I love the smell of Democracy in the morning.

2004-11-04T22:00:00.000-06:00

Every Cloud

Today was glorious, weatherwise at least. This morning it was in the low 60's, sun shining, low humidity, birds chirping. A generally perfect day. But I couldn't go for a run because of horribly debilitating shin splints (of the medial tibia persuasion, or something) that have made it painful to even walk since Tuesday morning. I think that 12 mile run might have had something to do with it. It felt great at the time, but my longest run before that had been 10, and I'd been maxing out at 8 for weeks in terms of my long runs, so I think my body rebelled. Anyway, I felt like everywhere I went today I saw people joyfully jogging around with a brisk autumnal bounce in their steps. And I wanted to strangle them all. Because I am just a bundle of roses lately. So there's that.

Has a Silver Lining

But...we all knew that even in the face of bitter defeat we couldn't wallow in humorlessness for long. Here are a few lighthearted sites to bring smiles to those Eeyore frowns.

Marry an American! (thanks, Kate!)

Revised Map (thanks, Eric!)

2004-11-03T22:03:00.000-06:00

Aftermath

I've been on the verge of tears all day. Granted, it's partly because I'm tired. But it's mostly because over the past months I truly came to support and care about John Kerry as a candidate, as opposed throwing myself at the mercy of "anyone but Bush." Kerry's personality really started to come through, and I began to understand what a principled and fundamentally kind person he really is.

I watched part of his concession speech in the law school lobby earlier today, backpack on my shoulders, straps gripped tightly. There was only one other person in the lobby with me; a boy I didn't know passing through on his way to class. We both stood there listening to Kerry's eloquent words and everything started to sink in. My eyes filled up uncontrollably. I looked over at the boy next to me and saw the same look of disappointment and compassion in his eyes. They were glassy too. We stood there in silence for several minutes and then went our separate ways.

It is going to take a lot to pull us out of the rubble and get us to feel optimistic again. I don't think it's a lost cause, but I definitely feel a different mood among Democrats now. Suddenly, when I think of the "You Forgot Poland" website that I jokingly linked only days ago, I can't even crack a smile. Luckily we can rest assured that people tend to see things in black and white, and the pendulum of public opinion that's all the way on the right will have to swing back sometime. It's only a question of when--and how much damage will be done before it heads back our way.

2004-11-03T03:31:00.000-06:00

I am ill. Literally. I don't feel like I know this country at all. After seeing everything that's happened and knowing all that's at stake, people are still willing to have a truly ridiculous person in office--a person with despicable motives that have nothing to do with the welfare of the American people--just so they don't have to worry about "the gays" getting married or about someone taking their guns away. This country is more socially conservative than ever, and the gap between Democrats and Republicans is impossibly wide. I honestly don't know what's going to happen. It's almost 4 in the morning, and I am in complete despair.

Update: I am still in shock. Not in shock about losing necessarily, but in shock because it had never really clicked with me how willfully blind people in America can be. A man can show steadfastness and reason, win every debate he entered, make his opponent look incompetent, and still not get the popular vote for President. This is not the popular vote for the better beer bonger. It's the popular vote for President of the United States. And it went to Bush.

That said, I realize that many Democrats won't like this kind of talk. "Don't mope, mobilize," and whatnot. But this is going to be hard to shake.

2004-11-01T13:41:00.000-06:00

Editorial: Mixtape Marathon Joins Legions of Periodicals Endorsing Senator John Kerry (Gasp!)

At the risk of compromising this publication's dedication to evenhandedness and impartiality, we here at Mixtape Marathon have made the almost laughably easy decision to endorse John Kerry for President. Along with The New York Times, The New Yorker, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, The Chicago Sun-Times, The Gainesville Sun, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Miami Herald, The Detroit Free Press, The Day in New London, CT (hometown of my alma mater) and literally hundreds more newspapers and magazines around the country, I am giving Bush a resounding "hell no."

Why? Because the "one fingered victory salute" scares me (thanks Scott), and that is not what a President should do. Because I don't want a President who I can "relate to" or who is "just like us" or who can sometimes "speak English;" I want a President who is more intelligent, more capable, more articulate, and more informed than the general population. Because I care about the future of women's reproductive rights and, relatedly, about the makeup of the Supreme Court. Because I think gay people are human beings with human rights. Because I don't want a President who considers the elite to be "his base." Because I want those children who aren't left behind to also have money and textbooks and a realistic chance to improve their standardized test scores. Because I want a President who is principled, yet not dogmatic. Because I agree that the President's job is to "win the peace." And mostly because I am not buying the Bush camp's war cry that everything is just fine in America and that Bush's plans are "working."

The discontent in America is thick and only getting thicker. People want a change. Some people are willing to move to Timbuktu if they don't see that change. I personally believe that this country is in dire need of inspiration. This does not inspire me. I am inspired by intelligence, integrity, activism, reason, compassion, idealism, perseverance, dedication, service, and strength. I want to see John Kerry as the next President of the United States.

2004-10-30T09:09:00.000-05:00

Halloween: Can't Stop the Music

So, some of my girlfriends and I are going to be the Village People for Halloween. We've got the construction worker, the cowboy, the person of Native American descent, the policeman, the biker, and me, the army guy. Of course, if you know anything about Halloween customs, you realize that we are obviously going to be feminized variations on the original Village People characters. As we all know, there's no better opportunity to wear knee-high boots than Halloween. I'm excited to see all of the other costumes, and I'm really excited to wear mine. It includes: Black boots, khaki skirt, camo shirt, artillery helmet, and a bullet belt. I don't have a weapon, but I'm hoping to scrounge up a water gun. Or maybe I'll just get a hand grenade in the Quarter (of the drinkable variety). Oh, I kid, I kid.

By the way, I hope people know that I'm dressing up as a specific character and not meaning to offend people who are actually serving in the army and don't wear boots with three inch heels regularly. Although I suppose Halloween is a time when all bets are off in terms of being offensive. I've known someone to be a placenta for god's sake.

Note: If you are panicky and confused because you thought that the Village People included a sailor, please see the following excerpt of an email I recently composed:

I know that some of you were very concerned about whether or not there was in fact a sailor in the original Village People. I did some research on the matter and discovered that the army character, one Alexander Briley, was initially in charge of most of the musical arrangements for the People. Later, the group decided that he needed a costume too. So when the group performed "In the Navy" he was a sailor, but he was an army man the rest of the time. And so, my friends, the mystery of the army/navy guy in the Village People is finally solved. Considering that I have a $17 artillery helmet and lots of bullets, I will be sticking with Alexander's army persona for the evening.

2004-10-25T21:54:00.000-05:00

I've been informed that the post previously occupying this space was offensive to several people of my acquaintance, so I've decided to let it go. No need for comments at all--I'd actually rather that this didn't spark a discussion. Instead, I only hope that in the future people will not interpret my posts as mean-spirited unless they are directed at: the Yankees (or individual players associated with that ball club), Donald Rumsfeld, Carrot Top, that scary blond lady on Court TV with the crazy eyes, or Ashlee Simpson (she's defenseless, I know, but she's rich now so I can say she sucks with impunity). For future reference, I'm hoping that the tone of my posts will hereinafter be seen as "slightly abrasive with a hint of whimsy." Sincere apologies to anyone offended. I'll try to stick to lampooning myself and the aforementioned open targets from now on.

2004-10-21T10:07:00.000-05:00

Are you there God? It's me, Bekah.

God, remember when I told you that I would make the commitment to run through the summer heat because I knew that you would reward me with glorious weather in October? Remember when I justified long, sticky August runs with the thought that soon the air would be clear and crisp and it would all be worth it? I know you remember this, God. So why, on October 21, do you insist on plaguing me with 98% humidity and a projected heat index of 100 degrees?

Is it because I didn't go to services on Yom Kippur? I'm sorry! I atone! I atone! Is it because I had impure thoughts about Johnny Damon? I'm sorry! I can't help that he is wonderful and glorious and largely responsible for the victory in game 7. Is it because I made fun of Curt Schilling when he said the reason he pitched so well in game 6 was that he "became a Christian 7 years ago"? I'm sorry, God, but that was so lame!

Anyway, God, I know you're listening. I know you are teaching New Orleans a valuable lesson by giving it a taste of what it's like to be in the very pit of hell. But let me just assure you: the point is taken. We get it. We know we are all evil, drunken sinners. Now can it please be fall?

2004-10-17T13:00:00.000-05:00

Namecalling

There are two stuffed monkeys in our apartment. The larger one, given to me by my sister, is named Monkey. Apt, don't you think? The other, a smaller monkey wearing a Michigan shirt, is named D'Brickashaw Ferguson. It pains me to admit that I didn't come up with the name D'Brickashaw on my own. The little monkey is actually named after the left tackle for Virginia. Why? Because D'Brickashaw Ferguson is the absolute coolest name in the entire world. (By the by, if you disagree with that assessment I don't recommend telling the original D'Brickashaw--he's 6'5'', 295 lbs. And he's had a lifetime of namecalling on the playground to get worked up about).

My dear friend Costa recently hurt her back very badly and had to stay in the hospital for several days. When she emerged, she was still in a lot of pain. Adding insult to injury, her doctor made it clear that she would not be allowed to lift a backpack for quite some time. So what did darling Costa have to do? She had to buy a rolly bag. I don't know anyone in the world who made more fun of rolly bags than Costa, and it was a sad day when she first rolled into school. I named her bag Eunice. It's the only name that would do. Eunice is also a name that my college friends and I used to refer to our uteruses (uteri?) during certain uncomfortable times of the month. As I've illustrated, the name Eunice is applicable to a variety of circumstances, all of which are annoying and/or uncomfortable.

My car's name is Franny, sometimes Fran. J's car's name is Oscar. Elliot's car's name is Oliver. J's old car's name is Ferdinand (he was a metrosexual). My old car's name was Elliott. My computer's name is Legolas. I named all of these things. I like to name things. Now I want to know all of your car/stuffed animal/assorted inanimate object names. Tell them to me. They better be good.

2004-10-16T11:58:00.000-05:00

Maternal Moments

There is some sort of baby invasion happening in this coffeehouse right now, and I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed. There's a little indie/hardcore kid with black low-top Chucks holding an adorable baby girl in a pink bonnet. Next to me is a gay couple with their baby, who's just babbling away like a mountain stream. Also, a small angelic girl is running around the place smiling at everyone and saying hello. In an environment like this, my biological clock stops ticking and instead starts pounding in my brain like a sledgehammer.

I'm usually pretty hesitant to concede to things like a maternal instinct (for obvious social and political reasons) but it is hard to deny the feeling I get in my stomach when I see babies now. Also, I saw that cheesy show on ABC where they build new houses for families who are dealing with some sort of tragic circumstance, and at the part where the mom was crying and talking about how her daughter who's allergic to the sun can now live and swim on their property safely I started crying because she loved her daughter so much. As I wiped away the tears, J was looking at me with an expression that can only be described as horror mixed with panic and disgust. He was already disturbed enough by the fact that I was watching this show, but to cry? To cry? It was too much. I don't know. For some reason I am as emotionally manipulatable as a child.

Things to Do Soon:

1. See Team America: World Police.
2. Start/finish outlines.
3. Send in absentee ballot.
4. Decide whether buying a "Fuck Bush" button would be (1) really cool, (2) Too edgy and more than slightly offensive, or (3) Too 70's. Incidentally, I've been wearing several political buttons on my jean jacket lately, and I think I look like my mom must have looked in the 70's. Except my buttons say things like "Kerry/Edwards: Vote Sexy" (over pink silhouettes) and "Mad Cowboy Disease" (over W.'s fat face).
5. Finish Jane Eyre. (I've been "almost done" for about 5 months...)

2004-10-11T21:00:00.000-05:00

Homecoming Weekend

J and I went to Ann Arbor for homecoming last weekend (his, not mine) and enjoyed some glorious weather and some seriously pants-pooping football (in a good way). We visited with J's friends and were reminded that somewhere in the world it is below 80 degrees in mid-October. I got to go for fantastic, hilly runs in lovely 55 degree weather with the sun shining the whole time. I was spoiled. The Homecoming game was great too--such a nailbiter. We went to a tailgate before the game where there was more deep fried "fill in the the blank" than I've ever seen. Mushrooms, french fries, pirogis, tortilla chips, and even a duck all went into the frier. No Twinkies though. It was pretty gross, but really cool at the same time. It's good to see people so dedicated to a cause--so completely invested in what they're doing. Even if it does involve frying everything but their boots.

During the game I was mostly fine with the student section, but my experience was slightly tarnished by one obnoxious Neanderthal behind me. Toward the end, I turned around to check out the scoreboard and this kid randomly complemented my Kerry-Edwards sticker. I smiled and said thanks, thinking I'd found a kindred spirit (Ann Arbor is supposed to be liberal, right?), but instead he gave me a thumbs up/thumbs down combo while sticking out his tongue (Adam Sandler style), and proceeded to tell me that I might as well cheer for Minnesota if I'm going to wear a dumbass sticker like that. I just kind of stood there, stupefied, much like his fearless leader tends to do whenever he's forced to formulate a sentence without one of his oft-rehearsed catch phrases. What is wrong with people? Do we seriously need to resort to sticking our tongues out at each other? Blaaah, you forgot Poland! Blaaah! Neener. Jeez.

Anyway, it was a fun weekend, and I'm not excited to be back, and I am not excited that the semester is half over. Oh, and I got another rejection letter, but with a fun twist: this firm rejected my application for a job I didn't even ask for! They regretted to tell me that there was no place in their summer internship program. Which is fine, except I asked them for full time employment upon my graduation. To my mind, this signifies a serious loophole. As J mused, "So you're sayin' there's a chance..."

2004-10-04T10:49:00.000-05:00

This Weekend's Top 5

5. Hooray for the Underdogs: Wildcats win with brains and brawn! I love a good underdog story. And because I'm associated with a big Michigan fan, I know that when an underdog story involves upsetting the dreaded Ohio State buckeyes, victory is even sweeter. Congratulations to Northwestern, beating OSU for the first time since 1971 in one of the most exciting games I've seen this year.

4. Desperate Housewives: Sunday Night Lives Post X Files! I was intrigued by the previews, and was even more impressed with the premiere. Mystery! Scandal! Voyeurism! That lady from Sports Night! And some of the dialogue was pretty intelligent too. I'll definitely tune in next week.

3. Race for the Cure: Running is great, but what's up with Yoplait liquid yogurt in a bottle? Eew. The Race for the Cure is such a good event. This was the second time I've run it. Unfortunately, it was the first time I ran it in this godforsaken, festering city. The heat index was around 93 and the first mile and a half was in direct sunlight. Also, the road was absolutely packed. It turned out fine, but I was frustrated because as soon as I crossed the finish line I knew I could have gone faster. 5ks are hard for me because I'm used to running long and relatively slow, so I can't convince my body to speed up even when I know I don't have that far to go. It's like I'm programmed to save up energy, even when I'm not going to need it. Do any runners have some suggestions on forcing yourself to speed up when you need to?

2. The Loch Ness Monster and Polite Rejection Letters: One of them actually does exist! Friday I got the nicest rejection letter in the world. Seriously. The guy cordially and politely said that they'd had a very successful summer and were full for right now, but that they'd keep my info on file and would let me know if their needs change. He also said he wished he could give me better news because my credentials are very impressive and he would otherwise be very interested. (Emphasis added to illustrate the stark contrast with the evil rejection letter described below). So I did something crazy and wrote a thank-you note for the rejection letter. I don't care if that was the firm's stock letter. The point is that it didn't make me want to jump out of a window, and for this I am grateful.

1. Shaun of the Dead: Bloody Brilliant! This movie was even better than I expected. I loved Shaun and his dopey roommate and his girlfriend. There were some of the funniest moments and facial expressions in that movie. Not to mention the fact that, despite what Ebert and Roeper had to say on the matter, I thought the social commentary was pretty dead on. I mean, drunk people and cashiers often do seem like zombies. Oh, and when the zombies ate that guy's entrails while he was still alive and screaming, it was effing hilarious! Good stuff.

2004-09-28T13:57:00.000-05:00

Fan Mail

Yesterday I got a nice little letter from a prominent law firm informing me coldly and condescendingly that there is simply not a place for me in their Firm Family. One line hissed, "Your background and credentials appear impressive." I like that choice of words. It's like they're making a thinly veiled accusation that I somehow fabricated or misrepresented my background and credentials. Like I actually suck, but I sneakily concocted a resume that makes me appear moderately qualified on paper. Well, I can see right through their sleazy lawyer talk, and I'm not going to let it get me down. And to prove it, I'm going to apply to lots more law firms where I'm guaranteed more letters of this type, just to show how well I can take rejection. It will be a fun little demonstration of the toughness of the human psyche.

Sniff.

2004-09-24T13:01:00.000-05:00

Monosyllabic Assessments

1. Silver City: Bad
2. Jon Stewart: Stud
3. Time at which I'll likely purchase America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction: Now
4. Loud cell phone talker in coffeehouse: Douche
5. Outline progress thus far: Slight
6. Run this morning: Blech
7. Saturday classes due to Ivan: Poop
8. Last night's bizarre, Salem-style witch hunt on The Apprentice: *%&@#?
9. Football tomorrow: Blue!
10. Confidence in getting a clerkship interview: None

2004-09-20T08:09:00.000-05:00

Festival Diary

I'm back from my Hurricane Vacation, and I'm definitely not excited about starting school again. Austin was great--J and I both loved the city and everything associated with it. We couldn't get over how clean and organized everything is there, and how well-run the festival was. We were so upset that we had to miss the last day of the festival to get back home (No Elvis Costello or Cake, sadness!), but we're already making plans to go back sometime soon. And next time we'll go at a time where a 8-9 hour drive won't take us 25 hours because of inept and ridiculous evacuation gridlock. I'm not going to go into the details of that drive, because I think J and I are permanently scarred. A little piece of our sanity and a large portion of our dignity were lost somewhere in that 9th hour when we'd only gone about 50 miles. So instead of dwelling on that disaster, I'm going to give a quick rundown of all the bands we saw/heard at the festival. Keep in mind that this list is only 2 days worth--if we had the means, we could have seen a lot more.

First, a quick note about the festival itself. The mechanics of it were very well thought out (shuttles to the park, easily accessible food area, maps of the grounds and stages), but the sheer volume of people (between 70 and 100,000 per day) made things a little bumpy sometimes. There were a lot of port-o-potties too, but J and I never had to use them. Not even once. We must have drunk 60 ounces of water each every day, and we still never had to pee. This is because it was 100 degrees and sunny and between the hours of 11:00am and 9pm everyone was covered with a film of sticky Texas sweat that trickled relentlessly down backs and shins and fingers. Men were drenched. Women were horrified that their cute little tank tops were getting soaked. The heat forced some of the most impressive beer guts I've ever seen to come out and enjoy the sunshine. J and I just rubbed coagulated sunscreen on ourselves every few hours and tried to find a little shade when we could.

And now, the music:

Tucker Livingston: Folksy stuff; we sat for a while before we got our bearings on Friday.
Louque: Interesting New Orleans musician mixing funk and blues and a little hip-hop. We liked it, but were on our way somewhere else.
The Killers: Now, I love The Killers. J does not love The Killers, but we went anyway. And as fun as I think their music is, I had to agree with J that the live show was just nothing special. The lead singer had the stage presence of a corpse (although I must give him props for not sacrificing fashion in the face of extreme heat: he kept his indie shirt/vest combo ON baby), and he churned out "Somebody Told Me" like a death rattle. But I still think the cd is awesome.
Electric Church: Some sort of crappy organ-infused dance/gospel/reggae spritual music that made me want to laugh and then cry. We left.
Bob Schneider: Eh, ok. It's hot--want to go get something to eat before Blind Boys?
Blind Boys of Alabama: Highlight of the day. These guys have been playing together since June 10, 1944 and they were amazing. Great gospel/blues, and if you don't think a cute little 80-year old blind man jumping around on stage and then being led through the crowd is a wonderful thing, you don't have a soul.
Neko Case: Nice voice. Where are the New Pornographers?
Sloan: J likes these guys. I think they sound like bad Classic Rock. We didn't stay long.
Broken Social Scene: Fun indie jam band--lots of energy. They put on a good show.
Ryan Adams: I'm sorry, I love Whiskeytown and some of his solo stuff, but this guy is an asshole. He was condescending and annoying and didn't take anything remotely seriously. He played "La Cienega Just Smiled" and messed it all up. I know it's his song and he can do what he wants, but that song is important to me and he ruined it by being obnoxious. Ass.
Franz Ferdinand: Heard like one song. I don't know what the fuss is about.
Mason Jennings: Heard a little on Saturday morning. Sounded good.
Slightly Stoopid: Not just a clever name.
Cat Power: Beautiful voice. Serves as a nice complement to snoring. Ah, I kid...she was good. Just a little...down...tempo...
Josh Rouse: Waiting for Old 97's so only heard from far away, but sounded good.
Old 97's: Best ever. Rhett Miller was like the anti-Ryan Adams. He was so appreciative of the fans and the festival and Austin and the music. He was so excited to be performing, and he put on a great show. Plus, he's dreamy.
The Gourds: Only heard a little, wasn't too excited about it. No "Gin and Juice" while we were there.
Modest Mouse: Good show. Lots of new stuff, which I actually liked. J thought there should have been a wider selection from their portfolio, but all in all it was a good time.
G-Love & Special Sauce: Heard that one song, the "she got sauce" song on the way to The Pixies. That's about all I needed.
Walter "Wolfman" Washington: Heard the end of the show. Sounded awesome.
Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown: Tie with Old 97's for favorite show of the day. Little 80 year old black man with long skinny fingers rockin' out on his guitar and fiddle. He was so adorable and great. Sang a lot about women treating him wrong. I wanted to hug him.
The Pixies: We saw THE PIXIES! We weren't very close to the stage, but we heard everything perfectly. Great show, great set, fun way to end the festival.
Wilco (At after-festival concert): This was almost a disaster for us. By the time The Pixies' show ended, we were already late to the concert and the shuttle line was over 2 hours long. So we speed-walked to one of the main streets praying for a miracle, and we somehow found what must have been the only cab in town that wasn't at the festival. Got to the show and only missed 5 minutes of Wilco. Great show. Lots of Summerteeth and lots of new stuff (still need that album). Two encores, and the second one included Mermaid Ave. songs, "Jesus Christ for President" and "California Stars." Hooray!

And now I'm waking up from this glorious dream to the harsh reality of 3L. Better to have loved and lost, I suppose. Gotta go to school.

2004-09-14T11:12:00.000-05:00

Emergency Evacuation to the City Limits!

J and I are fleeing Ivan. And by fleeing Ivan, I mean we are driving to Austin for Austin City Limits this weekend! Classes are cancelled for the rest of this week, so there's just no reason to stay even if the hurricane does miss us. Basically it's an excuse to make a fun trip, so we're packing up now and then getting on the road as soon as we can. Then there will only be The Pixies and Ryan Adams and Old 97's and The Killers and Modest Mouse and Cake and Wilco and Spoon and Neko Case and Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown and Elvis Costello and so very much more. If anyone knows Austin or will be in Austin or can give me any fun advice, please email! Ok, time to go West! So long, suckers!

2004-09-13T19:48:00.000-05:00

Ivan Schmivan?

Hurricanes are the great equalizer. People try to act all hard and claim they're not ever leaving, but then all the public schools close and that little voice in their head starts chiming in every so often with a "You really should make sure you have flashlights just in case..." or a "Having no water would definitely suck, right?" I mean, on the one hand, you don't want to stick it out and end up like that redneck on the Weather channel in rolled-up Huck Finn pants standing in the lake that is his front yard using a battered flamingo yard ornament to fish out the remnants of Aunt Mae's Thomas Kinkaid Spiritual Snow Globe collection. On the other hand, you don't want to look like an ass for stocking up on plywood and canned corn if the hurricane ends up going 300 miles east. It's a real issue of pride.

J and I were having our own little conversation this afternoon about people overreacting, just as we passed several gas stations full to the brim with cars and slightly frazzled people. We were quiet for a second and then both decided that, even though it was definitely ridiculous and clearly overly cautious, we should probably fill up just because you never really know, you know?

Ah, we are all such sheepish sheep at heart. Anyway, if and when my school buckles under the pressure of the city counsel, I'm going to make my way West, you know, the way of Horatio Alger and Davy Crockett...the Donner Party...various other barrages of imagery...

2004-09-12T13:41:00.000-05:00

More Weird Baby-Having Dreams

My friend Josh just sent me the following email:

Your recent post about the Emma Thompson baby reminded me of a recent dream [M] told me about that I thought you would derive amusement from. Her story went something like this: “Last night I dreamed that [my sister] had triplets, but after a few days the babies turned into puppies. The worst part of the dream was that I thought two of the puppies were really ugly.”

2004-09-12T11:56:00.000-05:00

Some Self-Indulgent Self-Pity (even though I realize things could be much worse, and that people who are being ravaged by hurricanes and various other atrocities will probably want to kill me for my unjustified whining, but I'm a law student and I'm allowed to have a little bit of exaggerated self pity because I am emotionally abused by my professors and I don't have a job and the first and only letter I've gotten acknowledging receipt of my clerkship application was addressed "Dear Mr. Nowack")

This weekend has been interesting. Not interesting like the safe word you would use to describe a remotely compelling article you read in the paper or US Weekly. That kind of blandly interesting weekend would have been welcomed with open arms. No, this weekend has been interesting like the word you would use as a kindergarten teacher to describe little Tommy's crude rendition of the decapitated bodies of all of his classmates buried under his front porch. Oh, how interesting Tommy. Do you happen know your Mommy or Daddy's office number?

It started out on Friday morning with a really exciting heat rash that made a grand appearance on my hands and arms and caused those body parts to feel itchy and tingly and awful until a very nice and pretty young doctor gave me a shot of cortisone in my "hip" (why do doctors always say "hip" when they're giving you a shot in the ass?) and some lovely and not too smelly prescription cream. J had a lot of fun taking advantage of my insecurity in that leprous state. I had this rash that I thought was totally disgusting, and the shot that was supposed to make me better initially made me jittery and paranoid and even more worried about looking like a freak. To make matters worse, I haven't been able to run for three days because of the possibility of aggravating the rash, so I am feeling very unfulfilled and lazy, not to mention the fact that my Jewish grandmother of a conscience is very very disappointed in me.

Then on Saturday we had some people over to watch football and grill. Things started out ok until the fridge stopped being cold. We made a frantic trip to the gas station to get bags of ice for the bath tub so we could save our precious Miller Lite and Icehouse, and upon completion of that task the fridge started working again. Then, just for kicks, the AC gave out. People noticed that it was "getting a little warm" in the house just as Michigan started getting completely killed by Notre Dame. By the third quarter, emotions were high and the temperature in the apartment was a cozy 95 degrees. We were sweaty and pissed off: we had an unbelievably pathetic Michigan loss and about 5,000 pounds of extra meat that no one felt like eating. And my hands were itching again. So we had to spend the night at our friends' apartment. On our way back home this morning to get books for today's coffeehouse expedition, I saw a homeless man pushing a shopping cart. And then I felt even shittier for thinking that being put out of my apartment for 2 days was the end of the world.

It's funny, but I think I'm writing so vehemently about all of this mostly because I've been neglecting my blog lately. When I actually think about everything rationally, I know that I'm not even that annoyed or upset. I'm just too tired and resigned to care about heat rashes and broken air conditioners that much. I really just want to go for a run, so hopefully I'll be able to do that this afternoon. And then take a nice cold shower.

2004-09-01T08:46:00.000-05:00

The Telepathic Method

Law professors all have different teaching styles, and I think I've been exposed to most of them. I've had professors who like to just lecture, and then sometimes call on a few eager students who like to throw their two cents in. I've had professors who run down the class list, call on students in alphabetical order, ask one terse question, answer it themselves, and move on. And I've had professors who employ that thing we like to call the Socratic Method, which basically involves speaking only in questions and trying to squeeze answers out of students like dirty water from a mop. I promise, it's even more fun than it sounds. But I've never had a professor quite like the one I have now, who has developed his own version of the Socratic Method which involves the expectation of telepathy.

This is what happens. The Professor asks a question--a broad question, with many possible interpretations--and about 14 students raise their hand to answer. Then, one by one, he picks off their answers with "Weeell, not exactly," or "hmm, I suppose that's one way to look at it...anyone else?" This goes on for a painfully long time--like a movie where there are like 5 plausible ways to end it, but it keeps going and going until you forget what the plot was to begin with. And the end of this period of questioning is always the same: no one gives him a satisfactory answer, and he finally lets everyone know what he's driving at...but only after making a few people feel like asses along the way.

You may recognize this method as a variation on "hiding the ball"--a teaching tool that law professors use as part of the Socratic Method to make the students come up with the answer on their own. Except he doesn't "hide the ball," he buries the ball 6 feet under and then lets students set off land mines by trying to dig for it. I wanted to raise my hand and ask, "What color am I thinking of right now?" Or better yet, "There are 37 yellow monkeys dancing in my head--what song are they dancing to?" I mean, come on! If you are a law professor, the students already know that you are a brilliant person. You don't appear more brilliant when you concoct elaborate questions with answers so specific and nuanced that only your brain could come up with them. The only good part about it is that some poor annoying bastards in the class keep stepping up to bat like 6 or 7 times a class, only to be shot down each time. Maybe I'm a sick person, but sometimes that makes me feel good.

2004-08-29T20:20:00.000-05:00

Come Together

You know that part of the movie where the main character is walking around and suddenly there is only silence and everything around him starts moving very slowly and there's just this look of blankness and helplessness on his face as the world soundlessly goes on around him? I've been feeling like that a lot lately. In the halls, I kind of float up above myself and watch as I bump into a roaming pack of 1Ls or have a conversation with a professor about letters of recommendation, nodding and smiling away. I tried to go out a few times this weekend, but I consistently ended up feeling too detached to function in a social setting.

That person who is in her last year of law school and who is going to classes and revising a Comment that she wrote and who is applying for clerkships and everything--that person is me. And yet, I can't seem to actually convince myself that I am her and she is me and we are all together, etc. It's like I'm applying for fake jobs and going to fake classes, and soon I'm going to wake up and be 11 again, eating peanut butter crackers and watching a horrendously edited version of The Breakfast Club on TBS not understanding a goddamn thing anyone is saying and waiting for my friend to come over and catch crawfish in the creek behind my house. And when I tell myself that those thoughts are ridiculous, and that real life has to start sometime and I can't hide behind my novels or philosophy books or law books forever, I get angry and then I get sad. The world is a really fucking hard place to live in! I just want to be able to hide from it some more.

2004-08-26T16:43:00.000-05:00

"I had a dream that I had a baby. Except I wasn't me, I was Emma Thompson." -Me, halfway between a nap and awakeness

2004-08-25T22:17:00.000-05:00

A Week of Firsts:

1. First week of living with someone who is not a girl and is more than a friend. Some people make shorthand reference to this scenario as "in sin." I like to think of it as a personal victory over George Bush and his ilk, as well as a condemnation of various antiquated social mores. Also, it's fun.
2. First week of actually feeling like a real person in my apartment. There's central air! There's fresh mozzarella and zucchini in the fridge! It's scary dude.
3. First week of having someone actually say to me, "Hot enough for you?" as a greeting on the street. Who does that? Silence is so much more preferable. Especially when your skin is dripping and your face is on fire. I said no, just to be an ass.
4. First week of voluntarily participating in a seminar course that involves public speaking. I'm feeling particularly masochistic this week, I guess.
5. First week of consistently speaking in Napoleon Dynomitish. It's a new language, and it's taking over the world. Dang! Quit being a freakin' idiot!

2004-08-20T09:49:00.000-05:00

The Aesthetic and Moral Virtues of New School Supplies: A Treatise

Countless volumes in this blog have been devoted to espousing the glories of new school supplies--their smell, their touch, their physical perfection. Yet none of my writing has truly encapsulated the essence of the Platonic goodness of a new notebook, or the childish innocence of a new pen. It is this goal that I will now attempt to achieve.

Imagine that you are a seasoned, somewhat jaded law student. (If you are anything like me, this will be a relatively simple exercise). You've reached the end of the year, and your notebooks are torn and tattered. Your pens are out of ink, chewed up, or lost altogether, floating in that mysterious chasm in the universe where all of the car keys and left socks go to relax on the beach and tell old war stories. You are bruised, battered, and fed up. You hate your life and what it has become. You want nothing to do with school ever again.

But then, a new semester begins, and suddenly something in your brain wipes the slate clean. Everything is new again. You've forgotten some of the pain of exams, and you've become intrigued by the prospect of one or two interesting classes or a new professor. You begin to organize your schedule and plan your semester. And then, the school supplies begin their siren song...

A new notebook represents all that is good and virtuous about the academic experience. There is so much potential stored up in those pages. So much promise in every line! Aristotle thought that everything has a potential that can and should be actualized. A new notebook is pure, tangible potential. So many ideas and and theories can fit between the covers, bringing the innocent and pure notebook to life! The empty pages scream, "Feed me, for I am hungry for knowledge! Sully my pristine pages with your furious scribbling so that I may actualize myself!" A new pen is virtuous as well, as it is the implement for actualizing the new notebook's limitless potential. It's like an Olympic athlete who is ready to win the gold, but has to finish the race to make that potential a reality. The new notebook sits at that precarious and dramatic position--it knows what it can do, but only has to do it! Fantastic!

I wasn't going to do this, but I've decided that it's only fair. Now, gentle reader, I am going to fill you in on my current school supply situation. Please, contain your excitement! I initially thought I should keep my methods top secret, lest someone steal my brilliant plans and piggyback their way to school supply perfection. But I've decided that something this wonderful should be shared with the world. So here it is. I have four classes, and I have decided to use two binders, one for my Tuesday/Thursday classes, and one for my Monday/Wednesday classes. Each binder contains two three-hole-punched legal pads. These legal pads, however, have a special feature: the margin line is farther to the right than usual. This way, I can take notes on the right side, and use the left side to make any changes or additions I might need later. I can remove the legal pads from the binder while I'm taking notes, and I can remove the pages from the legal pads to organize my notes sequentially with any class handouts.

I realize that if you are a law student or any kind of student you probably want to kill me right now. Or at least throw notebooks at my head. But I will not apologize for my feelings. School supplies are the only things that keep me going at this time of year, and my love for them will never die. If you truly embrace the new notebook, I am sure that you too will find meaning in your life. Just give in to it. It will heal your soul.

2004-08-18T09:29:00.000-05:00

The Beginning of the End

School is about to start again, and I'm having all of the usual feelings. Excitement. Anticipation. A slight, tugging dread in the pit of my stomach. Even though it's extremely gratifying to know that soon I will be getting new notebooks and planners and pens and highlighters, I've been in school long enough to understand that the giddiness accompanying the beginning of the law school semester gets stomped out within a few weeks. That's not to say that this year won't be different in a lot of important ways. I'm taking some good classes and my schedule is glorious and free of Friday classes. Third year, man! I'm a senior! Let's trash some freshmen and spike the punch at the prom! Except at the end of this senior year, I have to worry about a lot more than just having a prom date. Damn. Can't I just go back to college?

The next few days are going to be busy. First of all, I'm moving. It was an unexpected development that came about when my landlord graciously told me that she and her family were moving to Santa Fe (seriously), and that I would need to be out of the apartment, the sooner the better. So that was fun. I also need to start sending out some job applications. I'm going to start with clerkships and see where that leads me. And then I need to get my books and assignments and finalize my schedule. So I'll be busy. But I'll also be getting a lot of good material for this little blog, which has been gathering some dust lately. It will happen. The Marathon will rise again.

2004-08-03T10:17:00.000-05:00

Guilty Conscience

Sometimes I really think I have a Jewish grandmother for a conscience. You know that little angel or devil who's supposed to appear on your shoulder to influence you to do good or evil? I don't get those. I get a Jewish grandmother who manipulates and nags until she gets her way. (I also have a real Bubby who is wonderful and doesn't fit the stereotype at all; unfortunately, she's not the one constantly screaming and kvetching inside my brain). My alarm went off at 6:15 this morning for my run, at which time I promptly turned it off and reset it for 7:45. Happy at the prospect of continuing my dream, I lay back down and curled up under the sheets. This lasted about 30 seconds, until I heard my little Jewish grandmother saying "Bekalah. You know you will feel guilty all day if you go back to sleep. How could you do this to us? You want you should get a few measly minutes of sleep? And for what? To become a liar and a hypocrite? Your body is a temple, Bekalah. Now get up and run or there will be no matzo ball soup for you!" How can you argue with that, I ask you? You can't. So I got my ass up and ran 7 miles. She's a stern taskmaster, but that lady gets results!

To be fair, my Jewish grandmother of a conscience only gets me out of bed and out the door. Fulfillment of the actual run depends on a variety of factors, including heat, my shins, my toenail, nausea, the amount of poop stink in the air, and my general level of mental and physical comfort on any given day. But as I realized today, it also depends on who I'm with and where I am. I'm definitely a loop runner, as opposed to a there-and-back runner. On there and back runs, I usually get bored, punk out, and turn around early. I also run much better and easier if I'm running with someone. I ran into my friend Michelle today as I was finishing my fourth mile, and seeing her gave me the energy to do the next three with her. I wasn't tired at all, and the conversation kept me from getting bored. If I'd done that run by myself, I would have been miserable. Or I wouldn't have done it at all. Yay for running friends and imaginary Bubbies!

2004-07-29T09:29:00.000-05:00

Unmentionables

In order to better equip myself for all the running I'm doing, I went to Target to get some tank tops and sports bras, etc. (A frightening aside: my list actually included "hair bands" and "wifebeaters," which may be considered mutually exclusive in some respects, and shouldn't really be things one voluntarily attempts to procure). J was with me, and as we entered the underwear section I could see him start to freak out. I was looking at some bras and made him hold my basket. A few seconds later I heard, "Um...Bekah...please don't make me hold these unmentionables...please..." Soon the sheepishness ended, though, giving way to J throwing granny panties at my head and being generally obnoxious. Nice illustration of the progression of male coping mechanisms for public encounters with lingerie. Boys are silly.

Running Log

So after a few weeks of running, I'm feeling just as dedicated as ever. My mileage will never be up to 40 miles a week again, but I'm shooting to reach 30-35. I even got one of those cheap arm band radios, which I know makes me look like a douchebag, but I don't care. I've had bad experiences with tripping and throwing walkmen into bushes from whence they never return. The only thing holding me back now is a little bit of a toenail issue. (Caution: the following account may be considered "disgusting" or "vomit-inducing" by the average person; continue at the risk of being grossed out). One of my toenails is really loose, and I have a recurring blister directly underneath it. Now, I know that's gross, but at the same time I think it's kind of cool. It's not black or anything yet, and it makes my toe feel funny. I'll keep you updated on my general foot health as more events unfold.

My main running gripe (aside from the heat which is just unbearable, did I mention that?), is that I haven't found a good, big loop to run around here. I often end up running in the park, which has a loop that's just under 2 miles and increases to 3 if you run the extension by the river. It's a nice run, but I don't like having to do the same thing twice. Also, this park is right next to a zoo, so there's a good half mile where all you smell is rotting animal poop (a stench which, hovering oppressively in the humid air, is enough to make you lose your breakfast). The other day I ran past the animal poop as fast as I could, only to notice another odor of the poop variety as soon as I got to the main area of the park. See, lots of mommies and daddies like to take babies to the park. And while there's nothing I find more adorable than a cute daddy running with a little baby in a stroller, I do wish these mommies and daddies would change junior's diapers every once in a while, because goddamn, that dirty diaper stink is almost more pungent and primal than giraffe dung. Add the baby poo smell to the stinky dog crap that gets tracked all over the road, and you've got a real symphony of feces on your hands. So, who wants to go for a run this afternoon?

2004-07-26T12:57:00.000-05:00

Adventures in Santa Barbara!

I visited my college girlfriends in Santa Barbara last week, and despite the latent skepticism about California I’ve irrationally harbored all my life, I determined that it’s actually not objectionable to me in any significant way. Quite the contrary: it is almost utopian. There are craggy mountains and cliff-lined beaches. There is a cool breeze instead of stagnant, hot, moist, dripping, oven-air. The days are warm and sunny, but the mornings and evenings are jacket weather (in July!). The highways are scenic. The food is delicious (and calorie free!). The people are affluent. Ah yes, the people…there’s the rub. The people I personally spent time with—my friends and my friend’s family—were lovely and wonderful. The people who made up the dappled contours of the greater Santa Barbara area, however, were a bit more questionable. Oh, the Botox and the collagen and the Von Deutch tanks…the ill-fitting capris and the brittle bleached hair…the hairy chests and the bling bling…it was all pretty horrifying. The people-scenery wasn’t nearly as clean and kempt as I expected. I thought everyone in California was beautiful and perfect and classily accessorized. Good to know that even though that may be what they’re going for, those Californians still have their share of dumpy asses and mall hair. But nobody’s perfect.

Running Routine Resurrected!

You know those people who dwell on their glory days? Like the uncle in Napoleon Dynamite (such a good movie by the way; more on that later) who lives in his 1982 football prime? Well, I think it could be said that I am a little bit obnoxious about my running glory days during my senior year of college. That perfect year when I ran 40-45 miles a week, rain or shine, sickness or health, deadline or no deadline. That perfect year that came to an abrupt halt when law school began and violently ripped my life away from me. I know my friends still get a little annoyed when I mention the glory days. I talk about “that year when I used to run everyday” or “the time when I would do a 12 mile run every weekend” or whatever. I’m sure they just think, “Uh, ok Bekah, you ran a lot before. Who cares?”

Well, in acknowledgement of how pathetic my attempts to live in the past have been, I’ve decided to make the past the present. Or something. Meaning that I’m going to run NOW in real life, not in 2002 in my mind. The whole law school thing isn’t really an obstacle now because it doesn’t scare me anymore. The whole stifling heat and humidity thing is an obstacle, but I’m going to work through it. Besides, by the time the cool weather rolls around (um, December? Maybe?) I’ll be so used to the heat that my winter runs will be a breeze. So there you have it. No more talking about the glory days for me. I’m getting my glory now! But sorry, there won’t be any thrilling rendition of “Eye of the Tiger.” Just lots of running. So, yeah, exciting stuff for you.

More Still to Come!

2004-07-21T11:04:00.000-05:00

Curb Your Enthusiasm

Me: I was thinking that tonight after work I could go to the grocery and then I could cook dinner for us.
J: [no response]
Me: Or I could just poop in a hat and give it to you. Whatever you want.

Coming Soon(ish):
Adventures in Santa Barbara!
Running Routine Resurrected!
Novel Ideas!
Job Search Revelations!
Music/Movie Reviews!
Overuse of Exclamation Points vs. Overuse of Quotation Marks on the "Supreme Irritation and Annoyance Scale"!
More!

2004-07-12T14:49:00.000-05:00

Putting Greens and White Trash

After a heated, hyperbolic argument that resulted in our being pretty pissed at each other for a while (am I allowed to write that? I guess I'll find out...), J and I reconciled last night by heading to the suburbs for a few friendly rounds of Putt-Putt. I hadn't played for a long time, and it showed. My sister and I used to play all the time in the summers. At the conclusion of an emotional 18-holes, we'd climb back up to the mountain house, one of us gleefully holding the score card, the other silent, red-faced and frustrated, both of us ready for our quest for the best Jelly Belly combination recipe to recommence. In a few days, we'd forget any ill-feelings caused by the last game and go back for more.

Putt-Putt is actually a pretty good judge of character. There are people who throw the club if the game isn't going their way. There are those who curse and stomp. There are those who are a little too proud of their putting skills. And there are those, like me, who remain optimistic and egomaniacal in the face of serious suckage ("This is just the warm-up round--I'm going to demolish you next time"). I did not do very well. Though I did get a hole in one once. J kept telling me that I was "lipping out" so much because I was hitting the ball too hard. My aim was good; I just couldn't tone the swing down enough to succeed on such a flattened out putting green. I'm just too intense a person for such a muted, low-key game. Or I guess it's possible that J may possibly be slightly better than I am, at least in the conventional sense.

The best part of Putt-Putt wasn't actually playing. The best part was, as is so often the case, the people-watching. A group of teenagers in front of us were so bored of the game it was ludicrous that they were even there. The girl, carrying a huge plastic purse the whole time, held the putter like it was a dead animal. Her swing was of the obnoxiously apathetic one-handed variety; she drug and prodded the ball around the green about twelve or thirteen times before each hard-won victory. When the ball finally went in the hole, she would sigh, pick it up, and drag her feet to the nearest bench to count the minutes until she had to putt again. The guys she was with were equally moronic, but their voices weren't quite as irritating so they didn't offend me so much.

The best sight was a little boy having a temper tantrum. The kid's face was flushed, and his hair was stuck to his forehead with perspiration. He was doing that stressed-out kid hyperventilation number--he'd worked himself up so much that he had to take breaths in forced, painful gulps. The kid was sitting on the ground, freaking out about his dad and sister "cheating." Then, without warning, he screamed at his dad, "You're meaner than the DEVIL!" It was awesome. I feel bad though, because I don't think his parents read to him enough, and as a result he's probably going to have to start taking a cocktail of ritalin and horse sedatives to fix his inappropriate behavior quickly and efficiently.

So yeah, Putt-Putt was fun. I've also been reading the most recent McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, the comics edition, which is simply wonderful. I recommend purchasing a copy, because it is only $24 and I've never seen a more meticulously crafted and beautifully organized book. I've also been doing some watercolors and watching The Sopranos and The Office. And I've been going to work and visiting with old friends who were in town for the weekend. If anyone has suggestions for other activities to occupy my summer, I'm all ears. And don't say writing more on the blog, because it's better not to force these things, and I'm just going a little slow for a few months to regain my blogging energy. I promise, once I'm rested, things will go back to normal.

2004-07-04T09:01:00.000-05:00

Movin' On Up...and Up...and Up...

Yesterday we moved J into his incredible new apartment. Open and airy living space, great lighting and windows, gorgeous and high latticed ceilings, huge island in the kitchen, beautiful bathroom, separate laundry room, etc. It's one of four apartments in an old mansion with a wrought iron gate in front and a pool in the back and quaint patios and decks on every floor. At night it kind of looks like a haunted house, but in a good way. The landlord is retired and is spending all of his time restoring and renovating the house and grounds. So cool.

When we went to look at the apartment for the first time, I was absolutely floored at the perfect condition everything was in and how new all of the appliances and fixtures were. Whenever the landlord would turn around to show something else, I would grab J's arm and stare at him with looks of utter disbelief at what we were seeing. J had to fill out an application, and when it was accepted, I'm ashamed to say that I actually got a little mad at J for being so lucky. I was happy for him, but I was jealous too. I did a lot of pouting. When we came back to visit again, I wandered around the apartment in a daze, caressing the countertops and staring up at the ceiling as if hearing a heavenly choir.

Unfortunately, the new apartment has one drawback that we didn't really think too much about until yesterday. This beautiful, incredible, spacious apartment is at the very tip top of the mansion. In order to get to it, one has to climb four flights of stairs. Four. Flights. Of stairs. The first time we visited, I said things like, "Oh, look how high up we are! It's so beautiful up here!" and "You're so secluded--you'll never have to worry about flooding or street noise!" After moving yesterday, it's a miracle that I even tolerate the apartment at all.

J doesn't have that much stuff. And still, moving was a serious bitch. It was about 1200 degrees, it was blindingly sunny, and climbing those stairs felt a little bit like ascending a volcano while holding loads and loads of crap. Our faces were like shiny, boiled tomatoes. Our limbs were wobbly and glazed with sweat. We were looking good. It was not pleasant.

But now that everything is moved in, the bad feelings are kind of fading and the good ones are starting to creep back. Like when you're a camp counselor and you go through all the bureaucratic stuff and all of the crying children and adolescent angst, and by the end of the summer you're just done with it all, but then over the weeks and months that follow, you start to forget all of the negative things about camp and only remember your friends and that one heart to heart you had with a troubled camper on the swingset when you really think you got through to her and helped improve her life and you're suddenly ready to go back. That kind of thing. J has to unpack still, but the worst is over now. The beauty of the apartment is starting to shine through again. All of the trouble we went to was worth it. Especially because of the free wireless internet that we get to borrow from the people downstairs. Sweet.

Note: I was going to put "borrow" in quotes, but then I figured the point would be made without them. I'm a little sensitive about quotes now; I wouldn't want to overuse them.

2004-06-30T13:56:00.000-05:00

What the "hell" is "up" with "misuse" of "quotation marks"?

When did it become ok to put quotes around anything and everything for no apparent reason? In elementary school, I learned that we generally use quotation marks when recording a statement by another. This allows a writer to set off someone else's words from the rest of her piece of writing. Like if I wanted to report to everyone what Owen Wilson said when we met, I would organize it something like this: Sighing wistfully, Owen murmured, "I can't believe I've found the woman of my dreams already--right here in the poetry section of the neighborhood bookstore. Luke is going to be so jealous." As you can see, I used the quotes in that situation because that's what Owen actually said. There is also the equally acceptable ironic use of quotation marks. That would be something like: Freshman girls at this school wear clothes that don't fit them and drink a lot of "happy juice" on Thursday nights. See, "happy juice" is in quotes, because Freshman girls don't actually drink happy juice; they actually drink lots and lots of booze and then go do "laundry" with their "friends" at the frat house. Thus, the ironic use of quotes usually comes in handy when you're describing something metaphorically or with some other associational method.

The problem is that this ironic use of quotes is being severely abused. I think it's because people don't understand what irony actually is. When you have a takeout menu that says sandwiches "to go," you are misusing quotation marks. Quotation marks are not meant to place emphasis. That is what italics are for. I think part of the reason that misuse of quotation marks has reached epidemic proportions is the growing prevalence of air quotes. People just throw air quotes around without any thought. It's quote overload. Someone came to a party last year and said he brought three kinds of ice cream: vanilla, coffee, and "chocolate" (in air quotes). But you see my friends, the ice cream was in fact chocolate! Stop with the air quotes! They're "pissing" me the "hell" "off"!

I'm hoping that most establishments that use quotes on the menu are simply mistaken as to these grammatical fundamentals. Otherwise going to a Chinese restaurant that serves "mixed vegetables" will be much more disturbing than I'm prepared to deal with.

2004-06-19T16:49:00.000-05:00

Control Freak

Working in a small firm this summer (and by small I mean 4 lawyers, not 57; this is not New York) has taught me a few things about myself, and all of them boil down to one basic conclusion: I hate not being in control. In this post, I'm going to try to explain the feelings I've been having at work, but I should warn you now that the words may not come out right and I may come off slightly more obsessive/psychotic than I actually am. So bear with me.

It started out with little things. I don't like not having my very own desk, organized the way I like it, with my own clients and my own case files color-coded and numbered in my own way. I don't like having to use a system I'm not comfortable with or having to roam around the office like a nomad, using a hole-puncher here, a phone there, and a computer in the back. I don't like doing piecemeal work either: drafting a motion for one client here, making a trip to court for another client there. None of it lets me follow something through to its conclusion. I don't feel invested in any of it. I understand exactly what Karl Marx meant when he described people as feeling alienated because of their assembly-line jobs. The result of their work has nothing to do with them, and it makes them sad and distanced from their lives. It's the opposite of the farmer who gets to sit down to dinner and enjoy the fruits of his own labor.

But my biggest work gripe is something much simpler. In school, I've always been used to working at my own pace on my own time. I have always hated study groups of any kind. I never wanted to do peer reviews of essays; I simply didn't care what the other students thought of my work. The only time I liked working with others was in math class, because I could just ride on my friend J.D.'s coattails and pretend I knew what was going on. Now, when I need to study for exams, I make my own schedule and sit by myself, away from any scrutiny by the professor or other students, and I figure things out on my own. In the law firm, I have to figure things out right before the lawyers' eyes, and that's just not natural for me. I hate learning under pressure. I get intimidated and nervous, and common sense goes right out the window. And that lack of common sense carries over into other daily tasks at work. Once, a woman came by to pick up a huge ink cartridge for the copy machine, and I retrieved one of the firms return-address stamps for her instead. What? It looked cartridge-like to me...

So in analyzing all of these feelings over the past few weeks, I've finally decided that this basically means that I don't like to share. When I think about possibly practicing law, the only thing that appeals to me is a situation where I'm in constant control. Where I'm in charge of my very own clients, and I make all the organizational and legal decisions for myself. The scary part is, these conclusions are not based on any feeling of analytical or administrative prowess on my part. I think I could benefit from collaborative efforts. So maybe I just need to be in a situation where I feel completely invested in what I'm doing, and who I'm doing it with. Anyway, it's stuff to ponder. Is anyone else who's working in a firm for the first time experiencing any of this?

2004-06-16T16:47:00.000-05:00

The Envelope, Please

Ok, this was an extremely tough decision, and I have to say that I tossed and turned, pondered and cogitated, mused and meditated, for close to seven whole minutes to finally make my selection. No, seriously, I thought hard about this, and I'm pleased with my choice. To all who entered the contest: thank you very much for your suggestions, most of them didn't suck. Oh, I kid, I kid!

And so, without further ado, I present to you the winner of the BIG FANCY EXCITING CONTEST. And the winner is...Steve, for his suggestion of "All Medicated Geniuses" by Pretty Girls Make Graves. Contrary to various indie-overload warnings, I think the choice adds a needed female voice to the mix, and, even more important, it fits very nicely in the spot suggested (between New Pornographers and Jayhawks). So CONGRATULATIONS Steve! Gimme your address and you'll get a copy...eventually.

More posts to come, I promise.

2004-06-09T15:15:00.000-05:00

Non-Celebrity Playlist

Alright, I've finally compiled a new mix that I'm pleased with. Yes, it is predictable in some ways, and no, it is not by any means completely representative of my musical tastes. It is not a "best of" or a comprehensive list of favorites. But it's what sounds perfect to me at this particular moment, and that's good enough for me. Hope you enjoy. Be gentle.

The Walkmen: Wake Up
The Postal Service: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight
Guided by Voices: Drinker’s Peace
The Shins: Saint Simon
Built to Spill: The Weather
Jackson Browne: The Pretender
The New Pornographers: Ballad of a Comeback Kid
The Jayhawks: All the Right Reasons
REO Speedwagon: Keep on Loving You
Elliott: Calvary Song
The Pixies: Here Comes Your Man
The Stills: Lola Stars and Stripes
Wilco: Kamera
Mae: Embers and Envelopes
David Bowie: Rebel, Rebel
The Wrens: Hopeless
Belle & Sebastian: Stay Loose (It’s a record we’ve been listening to and enjoying, Barry.)
Beulah: Wipe Those Prints and Run
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: We Came Along This Road

You'll notice that there are only 19 songs. Most cds can hold 20 or 21. This leads me to make the following proposition: I am, today, starting right now, going to hold a BIG FANCY EXCITING CONTEST open to all readers of the Marathon, new and old. Here's the deal. I am opening the phone lines (and by phone lines, I mean my yahoo email box or comments function) to all suggestions for the last song to be added to my mix. You must tell me the following pieces of information: 1) The song's title, 2) The artist, 3) The album/albums on which it appears, 4) Where on my mix it should be placed (Note: do not say first, second, or last; you will lose. Those places were very meticulously filled by me, and it would hurt my feelings), and 5) Any other information that may be pertinent/entertaining. The winner of the BIG FANCY EXCITING CONTEST will receive (drumroll please) a brand new copy of this very mix, mailed to them by me. When I told J my idea, he said, "What if they don't want a copy of your cd?" The answer to that, my friends is this: If you don't want a copy of my cd, don't enter my stupid contest!

Good luck and godspeed. And if any little comedian suggests Hey-Yah, I will not be amused.

2004-06-09T10:59:00.000-05:00

Game Two Blues

Me: I hate Kobe Bryant. Even if he is great and wonderful and everything. Big deal. No one should be playing that well if he's on trial for rape. He's pure evil.
Dad: Don't playuh hate.
Me: Ha!

2004-06-07T11:07:00.000-05:00

The Day The Music Died

Today is a black day. Nothing will ever be the same for me again.

My Dad, after kindly informing me that I was "starting to piss him off" by not blogging enough lately, told me that I should check out the iTunes celebrity playlists and comment on them. I thought, "Hmm, those could be fun to look at. I'll give it a shot." Instead, looking at those playlists was the worst thing I could have done. (Or maybe the best, in that right now I'm about to spew forth a serious rant for your reading pleasure/pain).

Celebrities in all of their various incarnations are like gods, whether we want to admit it or not. They are either seemingly flawless, or glorious and fascinating because of their flaws. For me, musicians that I like can very rarely do wrong. Yes, there are some albums I like more than others, but if I like an artist, I'm invested in him and generally approve of all of his work on some level. (This infuriates my sister, among others, but I can't change who I am: an unconditional lover). In addition to this general acceptance of all of my musicians' original works or attempts at greatness, I used to have a sort of naive appreciation of their respective musical tastes. I had this vision of Michael Stipe sitting around listening to Neutral Milk Hotel, or Weezer bopping around to the Wrens. Because I loved them, I just knew that they loved the music I loved.

I am now painfully aware of how mistaken I was. The playlists weren't just disappointing or bland or predictable; they were actually depressing. I'm trying to pinpoint my exact emotional response, and the best I can come up with is that I feel equally horrified and betrayed. My horror comes from artists who I didn't really care about anyway, and whose musical taste doesn't actually surprise me, but annoys me anyway. For example, Avril Lavigne puts "Rape Me" by Nirvana out there (such a rebel), but tops it off with Hey-Ya and Wonderwall. Chunks...rising...

Here are a few examples of my betrayal:

1. Susanne Vega. She has a John Mayer song first on this list. Dear god, that is so depressing to me. God. I can never listen to Solitude Standing in the same way again.

2. Michael Stipe. Um, I don't really know what to say here. I know he's friends with Cameron Diaz, so that might excuse the Justin Timberlake song (and I can excuse that anyway; I've been known to throw a little Justin into my mixes from time to time). But to choose "Beautiful Day" if you really have to pick a U2 song? And "Thank U" by Alanis? If you ask me, no song that Michael Stipe chooses should have teenagers' internet abbreviations in the title. (Although didn't Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U" have the same thing? Then I can let that part slide, I guess...that's a good song). Michael's also got DMX "Who We Be" which is just blatantly trying too hard, and t.A.T.u's "All The Things She Said" which is just inexplicable...and Mary J. Blige...I just don't know.

3. Liz Phair and John Cusack (who have a list together, how nausiatingly pretentious--Liz opines in her "notes" on the list about she and John sitting around shooting the shit). To be fair, Liz Phair's betrayal occurred long before this (read: the "Extraordinary" load of crap that was her latest album. Hey! I guess that's an example of a time when I actually did hate an album by an artist I used to love. Even I can't deal with selling out when it's done in such a terribly predictable and embarrassing way...) Anyway, Liz and John's collaborative mix is just unimpressive. It's 18 songs long, and filled with doubles (two songs by the same artist in a row). Basically, John is reliving the High Fidelity soundtrack with a few unremarkable changes. What, you can't think of 18 separate artists who might actually allow you to achieve the goal of a MIX tape, in that you are supposed to have some sort of variety? Geez.

So, that's that. I can't bring myself to write any more, or to look at any more celebrity playlists. Stay tuned either today or tomorrow for a mix from ME filled with music that I think I would like. I've been wanting to make a new mix for a long time, and now is the perfect opportunity. I'll get on that...

Note: If anyone after reading this post just wants to say, "Screw you, Bekah, let people like what they like and stop trying to be an irritating music snob when you really don't know anything about anything, not to mention the fact that you couldn't even play 'Free Fallin' on the guitar to save your life you miserable talentless wretch" that's fine. You're probably right. But I can't help the way I feel.

Small Update: The playlist by Ryan Miller of Guster is actually really good...for the most part. It's also like 40 songs long. Let's keep things realistic people...

2004-05-30T14:28:00.000-05:00

Christmas in June

Guess what happens on June 22nd? That's right, Bad Santa, the best movie ever comes out on video. I am so excited about this. J and I saw it during exams in December, and we were both hysterical the whole time. Now, J thinks that we might have only thought it was so great because we were experiencing exam delirium, and anything that wasn't about equitable distribution or attempted monopolization would have had us rolling in the aisles. But I will stand firm: Bad Santa is objectively hilarious; not just diverting during exam period (By the way, I hate it when someone says a movie was "diverting," meaning "it wasn't the meaning of life, but it held my attention for 2 hours." It's so condescending). There's this one scene where Marcus (the little person) is wearing a tiny snowman outfit and he's running and he dives down the metal ramp between the up escalator and the down escalator. I laughed so hard at this point that I couldn't breathe, and I didn't really ever recover. I'm just glad we weren't at home, because I would have rewound that part like 40 times, and then I would have made J watch it backwards and in slow motion. So yeah, see Bad Santa when it comes out. It's wonderfully, perfectly, and gloriously diverting.

2004-05-28T15:12:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-05-27T19:29:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-05-26T08:46:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-05-23T15:58:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-05-23T15:45:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-05-14T23:04:00.000-05:00

I'm writing for the first time in a while to announce that I won't be writing for a while. Yeah. I'm sorry for the lack of posts lately--things have been hectic--but as soon as I get back from my short vacation in North Carolina I will resume posting pretty regularly. I'll be out of town and away from the internet until next Saturday, so please don't forget me before then. I'll have lots of book reports when I get back, because sleeping and reading novels is all I'm going to be doing. So try not to implode with excitement before then. Peace. Seacrest out.

2004-05-10T19:52:00.000-05:00

Oh, It’s Such a Perfect Day!

Sitting here, studying for my last exam, I’ve decided not to wallow in the doldrums. Instead, I’ve been fantasizing about The Perfect Day. The Perfect Day exists, in various forms, in everyone’s psyche. Although the Day can never actually be realized, it is important for us all to construct a cast of characters, an activity schedule, and an elaborate menu in our minds, so that we will always know what to shoot for. Here is my Perfect Day, in its current incarnation:

9:00 a.m. Wake up naturally (no alarm), sprawled out on a poofy-mattressed canopy bed, complete with T-shirt sheets and a million pillows, my eyes gradually adjusting to the gorgeous brushstroke of sunlight beaming onto my pillow. My hair looks amazing. I revel for a few moments in the glory of the morning. The breeze blowing through the open window rustling the curtains indicates that it’s a temperate 68 degrees and sunny outside.

9:30 a.m. Roll out of bed and take a scalding hot shower with ridiculously good water pressure (it feels like pins and needles, but in a good way), using the brand new assortment of designer products lining the shelves in my bathroom. Think about shaving my legs, but realize that there’s no need—I must have forgotten that I had electrolysis, and will never have to shave my legs again. Silly me! Also, I realize that I’ve had that special Japanese procedure done to my hair, and I don’t have to ever blow dry or straighten it again—it’s silky smooth and straight as soon as it air dries.

10:00 a.m. As my hair air dries, I put on The Shins’ latest cd and get dressed in my favorite jeans, t-shirt, and flip flops. (Ok, that’s every day. But some things don’t have to change). Notice that the jeans feel a little looser than I remembered. And there’s a $20 bill in the pocket that I’d forgotten about. Hot.

10:30 a.m. Go to brunch with J at a restaurant with outdoor seating and a balcony with a wrought iron fence. I’m pretty sure the building is brick, and there is lots of ivy on it. And there are flower boxes in front of all the windows, with tulips in them. And there are tiny flowers on the tables in blown-glass vases from Venice. And I have a big Belgian Waffle (the kind actually from Belgium; they ship it to me because I said so, or maybe I’m actually in Belgium, but just for brunch) with whipped cream, and a big glass of pineapple-orange juice. The breeze is cool, and there’s Mendelssohn playing. Also Johnny Depp is sitting at the next table, and he is very nice to the waitress and tips her well. Then he kisses his baby daughter on the forehead and smiles at me knowingly. I call my parents and sister and tell them I love them.

12:00 p.m. I hop in my 1989 convertible Mercedes (it’s not obnoxious because it’s old and stuff), and drive to the mountains (which, today, happen to be a scant hour away). J and my friends are all in the car, but everyone understands and observes the no talking rule. There is only music of my choosing, and if it were today it would probably involve some Bob Dylan and some Stills and some Walkmen and some Death Cab, since I’m feeling shamelessly—pathetically—indie. Soon, the air starts to get cooler, and the smell of honeysuckle and overnight rain fills our nostrils. I reach out and touch the flowering plants jutting into the mountain road. I point to the baby fox peeking out of the foliage, and then we’re there.

1:00 p.m. We pack healthy snacks like dried banana chips and granola, put on some running shoes, and hike up one of the smaller mountains. This takes about an hour. On the way to the top I bend down and pick up some shiny rocks and put them in my pocket the way Amelie would. (I forget about them until next month when I find them in the drier with the lint and remember the Perfect Day).

2:00 p.m. At the top, everyone splits up to explore on their own. I find a huge, loveseat-shaped rock with an impeccable view of the mountains and countryside below. I take in the view for a while, watching the falcons swoop around over the checkerboard of farms and trees and lakes, and suddenly feel that sharp pang of sublime fear that is terrifying but reassuring too. Eventually, I pick up the book I brought—who knows which book, but after today it will be my favorite—and read in the sun for several hours before hiking back down.

5:00 p.m. Head to the lake for a sundown picnic. All of my friends and family are there, including friends from high school and college and law school and camp, and so is my 7th grade science teacher, who my friends and I attempted to drive slowly insane all those years ago, and to whom I am finally able to apologize. He’s very kind and assures me that he’s not mad. At the picnic there are little mini quiches and other tiny appetizers, including torts and chocolate covered strawberries. Also, lots of frozen margaritas and beer. And there are cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese, and deviled eggs, and latkes and matzo ball soup made by my mom, and grilled cheese sandwiches fit for a queen. And we all eat and then lie on our backs in the grass, which is suspiciously devoid of any bugs of the biting or stinging variety, stare up at the sky, and comment on the moon and the stars, and it isn’t trite at all. It’s sincere. And then we play on the go-karts and splash around in the lake, and sing Nightswimming unbelievably out of tune. And the mist around the moon is moving fast. That means it might rain soon.

8:00 p.m. Everyone takes a moonlight drive back home to the communal mansion (my Mercedes holds about 25; everyone else drives on their own), and when we get there we put up the convertible top just in time to beat the monstrous thunderstorm that doesn’t even start with individual raindrops—it’s just sheets of rain. We all run inside, but it’s too late—we’re soaked and cold. So we all put on flannel pajamas and build a fire and curl up on the fluffy white carpet and give each other back rubs and talk about when we were kids. Then we read the paper and do crosswords together, and drink hot chocolate, and make brownies, and listen to the rain clink on the roof, which is suddenly and conveniently made of tin and makes the rain sound like music. The lightning outside is the kind that makes the entire sky glow, and it’s white and pink and yellow. We eventually fall asleep watching brat pack movies and Mystery Science Theater (which Comedy Central is inexplicably playing again, all the time). I dream about basketball players hugging each other, and sleep all the way through the night, without any worries about adhesion contracts or rape shield statutes.

So that’s my Perfect Day. It may not involve Virginia Vennett in white lingerie, or a little person on a unicycle, but it’s mine. What’s yours?

2004-05-06T11:14:00.000-05:00

One More.

Hi, I'm Bekah. You might remember me from such after school specials as, "Mommy Why Can't I Take Speed During My Evidence Final" and "Blood in the Computer Room: The Loud-Typer Massacre."

So, hi. I am still alive, but confused. I'm not quite sure what happened to me this week, but I have a distant recollection of somehow taking three exams. I remember typing pages and pages for hours at a time, but I couldn't really tell you where one day ended and the next began. It was, put simply, a seamless stretch of torture. I can't be sure, but I think I may have written about Title VII on my Evidence exam, tried to make a hearsay objection on my First Amendment exam, and described in great detail the Central Hudson test for commercial speech on my Law and Gender exam. Added up, that is 10.5 hours of typing some seriously convoluted shit. So feel special, because now I'm typing again. For you. I do it all for you.

Unfortunately, I don't really have anything to say right now. I need to start studying for my last exam, and I should probably do that before I lose what little momentum I still have. When something does come to me in the natural course of events, I will definitely write about it. Sorry for the lack of content. Content neutral regulation. Time Place Manner test. Secondary effects. For the love of GOD I need to get out of here.

Before I go, I'd like everyone to take a moment of silence for George Huff, the most adorable American Idol contestant ever, who was shut out of the competition last night. George, you will be missed. But maybe you can make me an omelet sometime.

2004-05-02T10:10:00.000-05:00

Penned In

I had a dream last night that I was locked in a car with a rabid dog. I found it sleeping and hurt on the side of the road, so I put it in my car to take it to the vet. On the way, it woke up and attempted to maul me. The locks on my car wouldn't work at all. There was a lot of bleeding and screaming. I woke up pulling my own hair.

This morning I attempted to get all of my study materials together for my last full day before the three-in-a-row. Everything was fine, outlines in order, tabs in place, but then I noticed that my pen was gone. My amazing, magical blue Pilot EasyTouch pen. It may look ghetto, but it is hands down the best pen I've ever had. So light, so smooth, so crisp. (If you're planning to act on this endorsement, note this: the EasyTouch variety of pen is only good in blue; the black is not nearly as smooth, and the ink seems different--thinner, almost. Like it's trying too hard). I couldn't find the pen anywhere, and I immediately concluded that the loss of my pen, coupled with being mauled by a rabid Doberman in my sleep, did not a good start to the day make. Things were not looking good.

But when I went to get one last book out of my car before walking to the coffeehouse, I saw my blue pen lying, fortuitously, on the ground next to my car. So, the moral of the story is: Life sucks right now, but at least I have a good pen. I guess it could be worse.

2004-04-28T14:34:00.000-05:00

Wah.

My hair hurts.

Although some professors at other law schools seem to take my memos to heart, my own professors take pleasure in blatantly ignoring them, or even reveling embarrassingly in complete disregard of their contents. We covered public forum law in 14 minutes this morning. Literally. 14. Minutes.

This semester, I have three exams in a row, starting with the first day of exams. That day is Monday. This Monday. I still have class today. I certainly hope I get to learn something new.

Please accept my apologies for not writing much lately, but I think anything I write (other than straight up whiny complaints) would be illegal threats of some kind, and I really don't have much time for jail at the moment.

At least the air conditioner in my car sounds like gravel in a blender, and I can't find my phone.

For those of you suffering similarly in the bowels of law school, take solace in the before and after shots below. They're all I've got to go on today.

BEFORE:

sheep.bmp (Thanks Eric)

AFTER:

sheep2.bmp (Thanks Lisa)

The pictures are actually pretty timely, since several guys are rocking some similar exam beards right about now...

2004-04-24T19:36:00.000-05:00

Your Aura is Purple

There are moments in my life when I truly think I'm on Candid Camera. Tonight J and I went to dinner, and the waiter was stalking us. Although he did refrain from using binoculars or making notes in a composition book, he definitely took "attentiveness" to a whole new level. The really weird thing about it was that he looked like such a stoner, we initially thought that we'd never see him again. He has one of those faces that is only capable of one expression. But he turned out to be quite overzealous as waiters go. After he asked how everything was going for the fifth time, I turned to J and said, "It's like he's eating dinner with us. Should we pull up a chair?"

We returned to the coffeehouse after dinner for a few more hours of Saturday night studying (par-tay!) and, to my chagrin, those candid cameras weren't far behind. We sat down next to two men, one of whom was dressed in elaborate robes. They were speaking about auras and spatial awareness in low, measured tones and making flailing, grand gestures. They were being completely serious.

At this point, because we are 5 years old, J and I proceeded to IM each other from across the table.

J: Nice robe.
J: ASS.
Me: "consciously focus your eyes on the space around things"
Me: I wonder if they know how much they suck
Me: Are they focusing on that?
J: I think so
J: I just farted. Let's see them focus on that.
J: It smells.
J: Bad.

And then, ridiculous, sleep-deprived laughter ensued for a good 10 minutes until J said, "You know you're going to have to--"

"I'm already writing about it."

The robe guy and his freaky-ass protege are gone now, so it's back to Evidence. [I'm creating the most comprehensive Evidence study guide ever conceived. It incorporates: All of the Rules we've covered (in plain language when possible), my class notes, notes from the Understanding Evidence treatise, and notes from the Law in a Flash flashcards. It's written on a meticulously tabbed spiral-bound yellow legal pad, organized by rule. It is a thing of beauty, and I guard it with my life. Note: Because of this horrifyingly meticulous preparation and all of the time involved, Evidence will inevitably be my lowest grade. It's that thought that gives me the warm, fuzzy feeling that carries me through exams.]

2004-04-24T11:39:00.000-05:00

Monkey Business

When you hear a new phrase that you’ve managed to go your entire life without hearing (despite your expensive liberal arts education and grudging completion of nearly half of law school), it never fails that you immediately start to hear that phrase everywhere you go. And, if you’re like me, you start to wonder how you could have lived in the world so long without hearing it. Did you happen to always leave the room just before someone said it? Did you accidentally flip by the page of every novel where the authors used it? After the fact, it appears that you’ve done some pretty fancy maneuvers to have so long avoided this phrase that now seems horrendously overused.

A few weeks ago, J and I were watching ESPN and J said something like, “It’s time for Phil Mickelson to finally win a major. He needs to get that monkey off his back.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked incredulously. “A monkey? Who is this monkey you speak of?”

“Uh, Bekah,” J said tiredly, “It’s an expression. You’ve never heard it?”

“Um…no,” I responded brusquely, “I certainly haven’t. I don’t believe that such a ridiculous phrase exists. I think you made it up. Or maybe it’s some weird Midwestern thing. Like ‘Coney Island’ diners.”

Needless to say, I’ve been encountering that freaking monkey every day since I first heard the phrase. Everybody’s got a monkey on their back. It’s like there’s been an invasion of the goddamn flying attack monkeys from the Wizard of Oz. Perhaps the most unfortunate effect of all of this is that King Kong has recently set up shop on my back, and will continue to hang around until exams are over. I think I would have been happier not knowing he was there.

2004-04-22T11:06:00.000-05:00

Mmyeeaahh...I Think They Got the Memo

At this time I would like to give everyone an update on the unexpected effects of my April 19th memo to law professors.

1. My Dad dispersed the memo to the faculty at his law school, to favorable reviews. Some profs completely agreed with my sentiment, opining that perhaps there should be a reading week at the end of the semester. Some commented that the memo was "funny" but that they would "still present new material today." (Kind of an "up yours" from the more ambitious law profs, whose syllabi will bow to no man). Dad forgot his book in the hall this morning, and was rushing back to his class when he passed another prof in the hall who inquired as to the reason for his hurry. After Dad explained, the prof retorted, "But Bill, they DON'T CARE." See, they're learning!

2. My Dad read the memo to his class, and it seems that the students responded favorably to my views, voicing their support through a laughter not often heard in law school classrooms. They laughed, you see, because they too feel my pain. And because they're sleep deprived and slightly loopy. So that was good times. The problem is that, mere moments after reading the memo, my Dad covered a completely new topic in 30 minutes. But, he stammered, he "was apologetic about it..."

3. Despite the kind words from a few profs, and the laughs from a few students, I have to say that the most wondrous effect of the memo is as follows. One of the law profs at my Dad's law school--an esteemed presence; well-loved and venerable--also read my memo to his students. He read the memo, and then he cancelled class.

This is nothing less than a revolution, people. The voice of the students will be heard. Change is imminent.

2004-04-21T15:29:00.000-05:00

Can I Get My Certificate in Retail?

Disgruntled Student: It's so frustrating. After law school, we'll be over-prepared for so many jobs, yet still under-prepared for so many other ones. We just fall into the gap...

J: No, we really do fall into the Gap. All we can do is sell chinos.

2004-04-21T09:15:00.000-05:00

Thoughts I've Had This Morning

1. It's funny that there's a Bush/Cheney trucker hat because it's so fitting. Trucker hats are so five minutes ago. (Thanks to Scott)

2. If you're ever at a red light and start to get tired of waiting, try to put your hair in a ponytail. The light will inevitably turn green in the middle of that operation.

3. Last night on American Idol, the unthinkable happened: John Stevens made a Barry Manilow song more boring than the original. I used to like that kid, but now I just want to punch him in the face.

4. If you're in law school and are feeling overwhelmed by the ensuing exam season, go buy legal pads, index cards, and tabs. The mere possession of these materials has stopped my heart from exploding in my chest.

5. My friend Elliot told me to do this game, but not "until you are home and your law books are away from you. It would be really tragic if you did it in the law library or something":

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

So I went home and did it (making a concerted effort not to cheat and dig through my bookcase for a "cool" book like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or something--but that one is in my car anyway, where J left it after promising to read it), and the first book I picked up was Far From the Madding Crowd. But the sentence was something about Bathsheba thrusting her head into a bush if she was put in a lowcut dress, and that didn't seem right. So then I picked up Jane Austen's Persuasion, but that sentence was something about how "Admirals" sound much more distinguished than "Misters," and how Misters always need some sort of explanation in society. But that sucked too. So I gave up on the game. Until I was in First Amendment, where I tried it again. So it's probably cheating, and it still sucks, but here it goes:

"Thus the accused is to be punished, not for attempt, incitement, or conspiracy, but for a step in preparation, which, if it threatens the public order at all, does so only remotely." The First Amendment, by Steven H. Shiffrin and Jesse H. Choper

Man, that's deep.

2004-04-19T20:22:00.000-05:00

Memo #4

To: Law Professors
From: The 2L Community
Re: Friendly Advice

Dear Law Professors:

Greetings! It has been a while since last we corresponded, and, to be honest, I've been feeling a little guilty about the terseness of my prior communications. Let me begin by saying that I owe you an apology for those early memoranda; when I told you to stop making asinine jokes on exams ("Exams aren't funny. Chances are neither are you."), I was simply unable to see the big picture. I was too caught up in the stress of 1L year to see that many of you take pride in making exam hypos based on original topics like "Ben and Jen's unmarried cohabitant property distribution (complete with a determination of the fate of the pink engagement ring)" or "confidentiality issues surrounding insane kidnapper who buries girl in desert and then attempts to convert his lawyer to Christianity through scripture-infused ransom notes." I can see now that law professors have to get their kicks somehow, and I can't fault you for trying to do that at the expense of tired, pissy, sleep-deprived law students--especially 1Ls. They are so fun to torture, aren't they? I try to trip them in the hall whenever I get the chance.

But as long as I'm being honest, I just have to level with you: Anything you attempt to teach during the last week and a half of the semester is virtually impossible for students to take seriously. All we want to do at this point is to come up with some semblance of an understanding of your course as a whole. No. No, strike that. I'll be even more frank. All we want to do is figure out how to do well on your exam. We have no interest in starting a new unit; we have no interest in careful reading or understanding of new topics; and we certainly have no interest in attempting to read ahead when we know that your ridiculously optimistic projections about syllabus coverage will inevitably fall short.

I'll be blunt: A week and a half before exams, just stop trying to teach us anything. Any knowledge you attempt to impart to us will bounce off our ears like contestants bouncing off the walls on Spike TV's Extreme Elimination Challenge (best show ever). There is simply no more room in the brains of law students at this point in the semester. And even if that wasn't the case--even if we did have endless amounts of empty brain space in which to store your last, flailing efforts to cover every inch of the subject matter--the plain fact of the matter is that we just don't care anymore. We don't care that imparting knowledge is your life. We don't care that you spend day and night curled up with the Federal Rules of Evidence writing love letters to the Advisory Committee. We. Don't. Care. We love you--you are good people--but we don't care. Sorry. You're pretty.

Pleasant exam writing,

The 2L Community

2004-04-17T12:36:00.000-05:00

Blockbuster Ballbuster

J and I went to Blockbuster last night in an attempt to dull the pain of a day of outlining. We were browsing the movies (in our usual meticulous, alphabetical fashion, making our usual sarcastic comments about whether or not we should rent Rodentz or Under the Tuscan Sun, in that order), when we heard the Blockbuster guy at the front of the store say in a very loud voice, "We do not have Kill Bill. No Kill Bill in stock. Again, we do not have Kill Bill." He sounded pretty pissed. After a depressing scan of the selection, we grabbed Owning Mahoney as a last ditch effort (which, incidentally, turned out to be really boring), and got in line.

When we handed the Blockbuster guy the movie, I noticed the tension veins poking obtrusively out of his forehead as he stared at the computer. I saw the twitch in his tired eyes, and became acutely aware of what had to be done. I took a moment to prepare, and then, I said it.

"Hey, do you have Kill Bill?"

I've never seen such a range of emotions come over one person in such a brief amount of time. A split second after I said the dreaded words, he looked up with a flash of the most intense annoyance and hatred imaginable. In the next moment, however, upon seeing the gleam in my eye and J's obvious amusement, he let out a sigh of relief followed immediately by unexpected laughter. "Oh, that's a good one," he admitted. "That's very good." The security guard was loving it too. I think he was glad I was kidding, because if I hadn't been, he might have had a murder on his hands. Anyway, I like to think I saved that poor boy's sanity last night. And he dropped our late fee in exchange, so I guess we're even.

2004-04-13T19:28:00.000-05:00

Notes from the (Evidentiary) Underground (nods to Evan and the 1Ls)

Today I did something totally unprecedented for me (though totally unremarkable for most) and overslept. It was awful and great at the same time. Keep in mind that I almost never miss class, and when I do it is almost always for good reason. I think it's mostly a respect thing--my parents being professors and all. But today I slept through Evidence, and there was nothing I could do about it. At that point I realized that I wouldn't be able to make my next class either. So I impulsively decided to go for a run for the first time in a while, and it was brilliant. An uncharacteristically cool and breezy morning. People out with their babies. Bakery smells wafting into the park. Me being able to reserve a small portion of my day strictly for moving and breathing and watching kids feed ducks.

When I got to work and checked my email, I found notes from both of the classes I missed waiting for me. (I can only attribute this phenomenon to the fact that I have the best friends in the entire world). I've been going over Elliot's Evidence notes, and I just have to share some excerpts. Because I think they may be entertaining to students and slightly informative to professors. Here are some highlights:

These rules are the first that came directly from Congress, w/o going thru advisory committee, etc. Here we have the only example of Congress unilaterally changing shit, though they have this power.

There are no comments obviously, just some legislative materials. It is “breathtaking” apparently.

Constitutional challenges to 413 et seq have all failed. Poor rapists.

We have a rule that bars character evidence, but then we are faced with rule on habit and routine practice. [Prof Evidence] waxes for minute after minute about the nuances of his personal habits.

I think I should miss class more often if it will get me more documentation like this. (Just kidding Dad).

2004-04-13T18:08:00.000-05:00

Feed Me

Ok, RSS has been fed, I think. I clicked a few buttons in the "Settings" department, and it looks right to me. Professor Smith, let me know if this is adequate.

2004-04-12T15:47:00.000-05:00

Fun With Instant Messenger

My friend Micah and I just had a conversation that, though brief, managed to cover a variety of important topics. I regret to inform you that none of the topics was even remotely law-related, so consider yourself forewarned if you’re legally-inclined and are planning on reading what follows. It should also be noted that there was a little bit of adult content involved in the actual conversation, but I’ve tried to make my recap as tame as possible. I mean, some of my former campers read this stuff, and lord knows they are sweet and innocent children who know nothing of prurient interests…

On to the recap. First, Micah and I established that we both consider Chris Parnell to be the least funny SNL cast member ever, only barely surpassing Horatio Sanz, who may be fat, but is not funny because of or in spite of that fact.

Second, we discussed our various tastes in “older” actors and actresses. Micah contended that Rene Russo, Kelly Preston, and Susan Sarandon were the hottest among the ladies. I explained that Dennis Quaid would always be the love of my life, and that, while Johnny Depp and John Cusack are of course included in the “love of my life” category, they probably wouldn’t be considered “old” by male Hollywood standards. I stifled the urge to rant about that.

Third, we determined that the one interesting thing we took away from the movie 21 Grams was that there is definitely something strange about Naomi Watts. I don’t feel comfortable writing about it, but if you’ve seen the movie, there is no way you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Our Naomi Watts determination finally led to a discussion of nudity, and how the female body is inherently more aesthetically pleasing than the male body (which, let’s face it, is a little bizarre). I concurred in this generalization; I do think that straight men fantasize more about the female body as a whole, whereas in my experience straight women generally find specific aspects of the male body appealing (like, oh, I don’t know, basketball players’ arms).

I told Micah that, for me personally, hands are very important. The conversation then continued as follows:

Micah: Just so I’m clear on this—you fantasize about hands?
Me: Not fantasize, but they’re important.
Micah: I picture you picturing John Cusack taking off a glove very slowly…

And then I almost spit Diet Coke all over my keyboard. In fact, it’s been almost an hour and I still can’t stop laughing. The image is so ridiculously glorious. Provocative glove removal. That is hot.

2004-04-12T14:57:00.000-05:00

And Janet Jackson's breast was damaging to the poor, unadulterated children? Jesus Christ!

Thanks to Josh.

2004-04-09T10:18:00.000-05:00

This is an Automated Response

Thank you for contacting me. I am committed to serving you to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond my control, I am forced to be out of the office for the weekend. I will be somewhere cold, somewhere shaped like a hand-warming garment--somewhere where I may be able to take part in all of my "favorite things" listed on the sidebar. If all goes well, I will be up and running again on Monday. Of course, by that point finals will be around the corner. But it is Friday morning, I have a plane to catch, and Monday is light years away.

P.S. I will spend my plane ride contemplating whether or not to hug J's parents at the airport. I'm an affectionate person, but still. Too weird? Tough call.

2004-04-08T11:08:00.000-05:00

Quote of the Day

"'We're trying to explain how things are going, and they are going as they are going,' he said, adding: 'Some things are going well and some things obviously are not going well. You're going to have good days and bad days.' On the road to democracy, this 'is one moment, and there will be other moments. And there will be good moments and there will be less good moments.'"

--Maureen Dowd, quoting Donald Rumsfeld's glistening press conference oration

Rumsfeld concluded, "Zippedy doo-dah; One fish, two fish, red fish, George Bush...Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. "

Gah.

2004-04-08T08:59:00.000-05:00

A Call to Arms

A little birdy just informed me that there is a blog contest going down over at venturpreneur. Apparently some other blog is stealing the show, and I need your help! Tinkerbell will disappear without your clapping, so if you're so inclined, go here and cast your vote.

Man, I feel dirty now.

2004-04-07T18:24:00.000-05:00

A Tale Told By an Idiot

Last week, I had a little bit of a breakdown. I guess it wasn't so much a breakdown as an epiphany (although that sounds too dramatic; maybe "feeling of ickiness" is more technically accurate). Anyway, the terminology is irrelevant. All that matters is that I realized, in one terrible flash of self-awareness, that I couldn't remember what I'd done the day before. Or three days before. Or the week before. It scared me. I thought, "If my memory is failing me this drastically at the age of 24, it must mean that there is nothing worth remembering." Since then, I've started getting generally panicky. My stomach hurts a lot, and my back and neck are starting to get tense again. I feel like my entire life has become a blur of going to class, eating, fulfilling mindnumbing tasks for law review, trying frantically to maintain connections with the people who are important to me, and sleeping (theoretically). (Even now I can tell that writing about this stuff makes it sound much more dramatic and troubling than it is. I am not having fainting spells, or hiding in the dark scribbling by candlelight into some scary journal, or staring at the wallpaper waiting for it to come to life. I'm just having a slightly not-OK time right now).

I understand that these are hardly novel feelings. It's normal for people my age (especially those of us in law school) to have thoughts like this. I've heard all the pep talks (law school is a rite of passage, it gets better, you're moving toward a goal, suck it up and make sacrifices now so you can be happy later), and yes, they helped at first. They lulled me into believing that studying 12 hours a day or more during exams was really no big deal in the grand scheme of things. But they just don't do it for me anymore. Because sometimes I feel like I'm fulfilling a rite of passage for entry into a place I don't even want to be. I don't have the love of the law that some people have. Or the drive. Or the desire to "make it" as a lawyer who spends her life in the same cycle I'm stuck in right now.

I know that at this point it's too late to back out. A good deal of time and money and pride is at stake. But I think it's just wrong to tell people in my position that what we're doing right now is important preparation, that we should suffer through it, grin and bear it, in order to succeed in the future. MY LIFE IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, AND I'M NOT EVEN AWARE OF IT. THAT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT SHOULD JUST BE OK FOR ME. In the next few weeks, I'm going to have to start putting lots of energy into studying. But to get through that ordeal I'm going to have to use most of my energy to combat the resentment I feel for having to read Evidence when I want to be writing or reading real books or being. This is not the first time I've felt or written about this kind of thing. This is also not healthy. But what can I do?

When I was trying to articulate all of this to my dad this afternoon, he quoted Macbeth. I should have remembered that, even when I have what I think is an epiphany, Shakespeare will have always said it best:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Now Shakespeare and I will be in the corner, sulking. But I'm sure I'll be back soon. After all, I won't remember any of this tomorrow.

2004-04-02T10:21:00.000-06:00

Random Law School Dean's Message #1

Dear students:

It is my distinct pleasure to inform you that U.S. News and World Reports has ranked our school 10 points higher this year than last! This sudden ascention can only be the result of the hard work and amazing accomplishments of our students, faculty, staff, and dean. All of the money that I put into shrubbery around the law school and bulking up our "Law and the Fast Food Industry" curriculum turned out to be a great investment. No one really seemed to notice that our percentage of students with jobs 9 months after graduation is precipitously low (that will be our little secret)! I would like to emphasize the importance of this jump for everyone involved with our esteemed institution. Alumni should be especially pleased with their enduring legacy; entering students should be thrilled at the opportunity to become part of our high ranking family. U.S. News and World Reports, God of Gods, we salute you!

Yours in excellence,

Dean U. S. Newsrocks

Random Law School Dean's Message #2

Dear students:

Congratulations on being a part of one of the best and most underappreciated law schools in the country. U.S. News and World Reports, an evil corporation without any understanding of what it means to be a good law school, ranked us 10 points lower this year than last. As we all know, U.S. News Rankings are completely meaningless, comprised of statistical blips and unfair assessments which are only marginal indicators of the quality of any given institution. Even though this is the case, we remain shocked and outraged at this year's rankings, and will put lots of money into organizing a task force to help us understand why we took such a plunge. I know one thing: it has nothing to do with any actual identifiable problems in my, I mean our, faultless law school. This year is an unfortunate statistical aberration; it is nothing that a little bit of number crunching and bribery won't fix. For now, relax and enjoy being underappreciated, much like Van Gogh was underappreciated during his lifetime.

Yours in shared incredulousness,

Dean U. S. Newssucks

2004-03-30T20:35:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-26T16:20:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-25T09:37:00.000-06:00

Sticker Stalker

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.

2004-03-23T09:38:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-20T09:04:00.000-06:00

Bracket Breakdown

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.

2004-03-20T08:29:00.000-06:00

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
Library Angst Part II

I was a little angry then. I've since been beaten into submission.

2004-03-19T08:55:00.000-06:00

Unintentional Anonymity

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.

2004-03-19T08:54:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-17T14:16:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-17T13:49:00.000-06:00

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

Translation:

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!

2004-03-15T11:03:00.000-06:00

Good Stuff

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?

2004-03-13T13:17:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-13T08:47:00.000-06:00

Recap

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.

2004-03-12T14:51:00.000-06:00

Pre-Gaming

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.

2004-03-11T09:32:00.000-06:00

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?

Yikes.

2004-03-09T08:50:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-08T15:16:00.000-06:00

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...

2004-03-07T19:04:00.000-06:00

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.

2004-03-06T16:19:00.000-06:00

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!
Me: Nooo...
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!

2004-03-03T09:38:00.000-06:00

Poop.

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.

2004-03-01T20:33:00.000-06:00

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.