thanksgiving

totally related to nothing, but a friend of mine yesterday mentioned how her law student friend's facebook feed solely revolves around law school. can you imagine the dullardity? aren't you shuddering and yawning simultaneously? indeed.

anyway, then we realized how grateful we were that facebook wasn't as popular and twatter was just a figment in some idiot's mind in 2003-2006. as if we already didn't know everything about everyone. just think of all of the exciting status updates...

"outlining!"

"re-outlining!"

"16 callbacks!"

"i have a job and you don't!"

aren't you so relieved? happy belated thanksgiving y'all!

Lumberjack Hires Dumbass

"Ben has never sexually assaulted anyone; especially Andrea McNulty." -- David Cornwell, attorney for accused rapist/Super Bowl hero Ben Roethilsberger

Look, I didn't go to fancy pants lawyering school. I went to blog school, after dabbling in a few culinary classes and clown college, but still, I know this: If you're going to craft a press release proclaiming your client's innocence, maybe you should neuter of it language that says, well, he especially did not rape so-and-so, thereby suggesting that in non-special situations, you know, shit happens, who's to say. Douche bags will be douche bags!

The Slow Descent

Tomorrow or the next day, I will addend this post with photographs, but for now I will try to say with words what corporate carnage mine eyes have beheld these last several days.

October 15, 2007 -- My first day of work.

October 15, 2008 -- I am now officially the senior ranking attorney on my floor. A law firm in dissolution may still be a law firm, but a law firm in dissolution without attorneys is something else altogether. Virtually everyone else has left for greener pastures -- all pastures are greener than the barren slate gray of capitalism's unvacuumed carpets. Some of us have no pastures to leave for.

On Monday, I returned from my trip back east to find that my neighbor no longer exists, at least, no longer exists in the form that I knew her to. We were friendly, but a post-it note attached to the boxes sitting outside her door and mine informs me that she has accepted a position at another law firm.

Today, the vendors in charge of coffee seized the coffee machines. They took with them the cups. The packets of sugar. Apparently, also the hand soap. The fridge remains stocked with unopen half-gallons of milk, but the expiration dates are marked for Friday. Perilously close, and I am lactose intolerant.

Yesterday, other vendors seized the printers. I sent documents to be printed, but the request dissipated into ether(net).

At noon today, our key cards stopped working, along with the elevators, and we were all seized with panic. When you've finally made peace with being locked out, it's a little funny to find yourself locked in. A few minutes later the cards started working again and so did the elevators. We noted the dark humor of all this.

I took a walk just now around the deserted landscape of the 32nd floor. Through the windows of the corner offices that were once everyone's envy the clouds burned amber over the Golden Gate Bridge, sailboats lolled in the Bay behind the TransAmerica Building. Things I thought to be immutable--furniture bolted to the walls, for instance--have been removed. In their wake are massive holes in the dry wall. Many offices are strewn with detritus. Many more are empty, save for an orphaned plant. Their leaves fulvous and forlorn. All were once occupied by people; in their place now are their identification cards, turned face up, beaming and full of hope, turned face up on curt letters of resignation, addressed to partners who also no longer work here.

I happened upon the office of one particulary malapert attorney. Her office decor, amusingly orientalist, replete with smiling Buddha, has given way to the hollow left behind by movers. On her desk, a resignation letter, her identification badge, and her business card, inverted with the following words inscribed in green, yes, but inscribed in a sad and unsteady hand:

"To whom much is given, much is expected." -- Luke, 12:48

separated at birth - the genocide edition

aw fuck it, i can't get the formatting right. you get my drift.

things i learn from the gym

no, it's not how to do sit ups properly or exercise. i think my primary motivation for joining the local y was to watch the many tv channels it offers. i know, how can i not own a tv? surprisingly, i actually don't watch it much anymore and i even cancelled my netflix subscription. that shit just piled up and made me feel bad. turns out i'd rather watch "40 year old virgin" for the nth time than the greatest works of fellini. netflix E is quite highbrow and cultured, whereas everyday E just wants to hear steve carrell talk about making egg salad sandwiches. and bags of sand. that's a good one.

anyway! a few weeks ago i watched this episode of my super sweet 16. is this show supposed to make kids feel better or worse about themselves? i can't tell and all these obnoxious kids and their enabler parents are a little much. nonetheless, when this misguided canadian girl proclaimed that she's going to have a better party than all americans (btw - would any american ever claim this? even teenage canadians have an inferiority complex. it's more canadian than our pronunciation of "regina"), of course i had to gawk at her moulin rouge-themed disaster of a party. good times.

i also recently caught an episode of american gladiators on espn classic, which reminded me of the congressional inquisition on steroid use. i needn't state the obvious, but foreal: why is this hearing even happening? just take a look at roger clemens. the dude is almost 50 and he's twice as wide as joe perry! that ain't just fat. it's so beyond obvious that it pains me to know this is what all these congressmen and women decided to prioritize. mission accomplished?

The Old Dominion

When I was in high school I got two reckless driving tickets for driving in excess of 20 miles per hour over the speed limit. I got these tickets within a couple of months of each other--in the same speed trap on Route 123 in Virginia. Just over Chain Bridge, the 45 mph limit turns to 35, and then for a brief stretch it's 25. Totally bullshit. Anyway, I got some fine and was sent to traffic school, where the instructor went around the room asking random "students" why they were there. One girl ran a red, and caused a multi-car collision; another and her friends piled into her VW like it was a clown car and caused a multi-car collision. When the guy called on me, I was surly and said I didn't have a goddamn clue, and couldn't understand why I was surrounded by such an outrageous collection of incompetents. I probably called him Gestapo and quoted Joy Division lyrics, while painting my nails black. I'm murky on the details when it comes to this time in my life.

Anyway, there aren't enough dumbasses like me (and the rest of the kids in that class) to generate enough revenue to make up for erstwhile delusional Presidential candidate Jim Gilmore's sense-defying elimination of the car tax, which to this day apparently continues to plague the Commonwealth (like its concealed handgun laws, but that's a separate rant about some Californian-Frenchman former governor who denies his Jewish heritage, thinks he's a cowboy--even though we don't have cowboys in Virginia--and uses esoteric racial slurs.)

The point is this: Virginia--now the home of the $1050 reckless driving ticket.