A Rich Man, A Poor Man, A Beggar

The rich are not permitted to come anywhere near the poor. Marie Antoinette may have proclaimed "Let them eat cake," but apparently in America today, the better-off among us are apparently afraid they'll get cooties from those of us who are that much less fortunate.

***

I arrived at LAX the morning of my departure with ample time to make my flight. What with the "no liquids or gels" thing and my paralyzing uncertainty as to how long checking in and security checkpoints would take, I took no chances. I was about two hours in advance of my flight's departure.

I made my way over to the self-serve check-in counter. In days past, I would have simply used a kiosk and gone on my merry way, as I would not have checked any luggage. Given the aforementioned restrictions, however, and the fact that I had just seen my parents (and thus been handed a slew of things to take back with me), I had extra bags that simply had to be checked. No biggie.

Having tagged my luggage, I was advised to take my bags to the security screening area, which was to my right. I dutifully gathered my bags, walked over, and stood in the line where other passengers were clearly checking their bags for security purposes.

Without even asking, the American Airlines employee at the head of the line waved me off and pointed further down the terminal, indicating that I was to go there. Still having no idea why, I grabbed my things and started walking over there, only to realize I had no idea what I was looking for. Finally, still not having found what line I was supposed to be in, I went back to my original line.

The woman in front of me turned and asked me, "Are you in first class?" (I can't even bring myself to capitalize that). "Uh, no," I asked, thinking what a silly and irrelevant question. But I was wrong. It in fact was a relevant question, for I had somehow accidentally deigned to stand in line at the first class baggage screening section. The "poor" peoples' security screening was, as I had been originally told, further down the terminal.

This annoyed me greatly. What, first class passengers pose some quantum different level of security threat that they get different security screeners? (If so, are they greater or lesser threats?) Having read guidelines for when to arrive at the airport, I have never seen an airline suggest different arrival times for first class versus economy passengers. This is because, I presume, usually all passengers will run a fairly equal risk of being screened or held up by security procedures. Apparently, this is not the case at American Airlines at LAX, for first class passengers get not only a dedicated line to retrieve their boarding passes, but also a different (therefore shorter) line to send their bags through security.

***

But wait, there's more!

Having finally handed off my luggage to the kind gentleman at the poor people's security gate, I started making my way to the gate, fully aware that I would have to pass one more security checkpoint along the way. I turned around and saw a sign indicating that my cluster of gates was located upstairs. Fortuitously, there was a set of "up" escalators about 100 feet from me. (Notably, these escalators were only about 40 feet from the first class baggage check-in).

As I approached the escalator, I saw the signs but I couldn't believe it. There was an American Airlines employee standing at the base of the escalator (complete with lanes set off by faux velvet rope, may I add) whose job it was to check boarding passes. Yes, folks, this escalator was reserved for first class passengers. The employee took one look at my boarding pass and pointed me to another set of escalators at the far end of the terminal (past where I had started the process by getting my boarding passes).

This flabbergasts me. A special escalator for first class to get one freaking flight up? Seriously, do these people need their asses wiped for them too?

I made my way to the Untouchables' escalator (about three times farther from the luggage security checkpoint than the Brahmin escalator), went up, and looped around to get to the passenger security checkpoint. Just as I figured, the security checkpoint was the same one for first class as for The Rest of Us. Really, the only thing they did was make us walk farther.

***

I wish I could adequately reproduce a diagram of how retarded this system is and how all it did was fuck us non-trust funders. Instead, I hope this descriptive will help:

First class passengers:
1. Go to check-in line to retrieve boarding pass.
2. Go to baggage security line; leave luggage there for eventual loading on plane.
3. Go up the escalator to gate security.
4. Pass through gate security, proceed to gate, wait for flight.

Non-first class passengers:
1. Go to check-in line to retreive boarding pass.
2. Walk past first-class passenger check-in counters.
3. Walk past first-class baggage security line.
4. Go to ghetto baggage security line; leave luggage there for eventual loading on plane.
5. Walk back past first-class baggage security line.
6. Walk past a perfectly good set of esclators leading to gate security.
7. Walk back past first-class passenger check-in counters.
8. Go up ghettoized escalators.
9. On the upper level, double back one more time (this is the third time covering equivalent ground), passing below you the economy class passenger check-in counters, the first class passenger check-in counters, and the first-class baggage security station.
10. Pass through gate security, proceed to gate, wait for flight.


Man, rants like this make me sound like some kind of Socialist.

Boredom Never Felt So Good

I just got back from my trip to Los Angeles. My parents were there hanging out with my uncle (Mom's brother) -- with his wife and eighth grade kid -- and my other aunt (Mom's sister) was there too. I would call it a mini-family reunion, but there are so freaking many people in my mother's immediate family, this gathering was really just a small tip of the iceberg.

I did nothing at all of any interest during this trip. Nothing at all. Called some friends of mine to chat, but didn't get together with them. Went out to some great ethnic food. Went to hang out with yet another uncle (another of Mom's brothers) who lives about half an hour away. Ate still more. Took a few photos. Shopped a little, which was retarded, but strangely fun because it was with my mother, which I haven't done in a while.

For much of my three days there, I was bored. I had a book (Bushworld by Maureen Dowd) which I read during periods of downtime, and I got through about 150 pages of it. I feel asleep on more occasions than I care to admit. I took random photos with my digital camera. (I did not take it with me to dinner, for fear of it being stolen again). I took other random shots (mostly of cute boys) with my camera phone and sent them off to a friend of mine.

My parents made the obligatory "you've gained weight" comments, which I managed to let slide in between the many many irresistible foods they shoved at me. I had to share a bed with my father, which I haven't done since I used to get nightmares when I was six. The bathroom I used had an entire wall composed of mirrors, which I find retarded.* My uncle burned me several CDs of family photos.

Despite the lack of anything of any substance worth talking about during this trip (some venting about LAX to follow, though), the purpose of this trip was 100% met. They say home is the place you can always go where they have to take you back; I really know what they mean. I had always thought my relationship with my family was a little distant, but it maybe I was wrong.

I don't think I've ever before felt as bored and comfortable at the same time. I'd be much happier if this kind of bubble lasted much, much longer. The insulation is kinda nice.


* I'm sorry, but there are certain things one never needs to see, including the sight of yourself showering in a tiny little stall, or yourself peeing. I deliberately never turned to my left when I was, uh, doing other stuff.

The Ties That Bind

My friend E. and I have this theory: Our parents make us sick. Literally.

Both of us have noticed that whenever we see our families -- or even plan to -- various small inconveniences rise to the surface: our noses start to run, throats start to tickle, hair starts to fall out. Okay, that last one usually actually results from us pulling the hair out.

I love my family, but extended stretches with them aren't my thing. We mutually strain nerves. We get annoyed with each other. We try our best not to get snippy, but we most certainly do. Then we feel bad about it.

I see them and I realize how much I miss them. But between those times, I don't tend to talk to them much. I know they love me and they want the best for me, but somehow it doesn't translate well when I examine their actions. Okay, it may be because I usually filter things through a twisted set of lenses that will inevitably change the instant one of them dies.

My nose is running.

I'm leaving town early tomorrow for a few days to hook up with the 'rents out in the City of Angels. There will be no fun time. There will be no "me" time. I don't plan on catching up with friends who live in the area; I don't plan on hitting up any gay bars; I don't plan on doing anything that doesn't involve my family.

I'm terribly excited, and looking forward to it.

Back on Monday.

Table for One

Okay, so I have once again reaffirmed the notion that being single sucks. I base this conclusion not on the lack of a default sex partner, or frustration of the search for that nebulous and ultimately amorphous concept of "companionship" or "togetherness." I reach this conclusion because, as legions of single people before me have learned and I keep having to re-learn every time I get even remotely ambitious, cooking for one is well nigh impossible.

Well, at least for me.

In theory, cooking for one is not terribly difficult: gather the ingredients for one dish, make it, then save the rest for later. There are, though, several flaws to this idealistic approach.



First: The temptation to eat the entire thing -- whatever it may be -- at one meal is great. Especially for me, because I'm one of those eat-because-I'm-bored kinda people. If I actually get off my ass and make, say, a pasta salad for dinner, the result is that there is a large stash of pasta salad sitting around my kitchen. Which means that after I finish that first bowl, I have a tendency to go back to the kitchen and grab myself a second bowl. Repeat cycle through prime time, and suddenly that huge stash of pasta salad is significantly reduced.

Okay, so no, I don't ever actually eat an entire box of pasta (gussied up with "healthy" additions), but that's usually because of the next reason, which is



Second: If I don't actually eat the whole thing at once, I get bored with it so quickly I really would prefer not to have it again the next day, either for lunch or dinner. No really, when I make pasta salad, it's whole box of pasta, plus stuff. That can last three or four lunches. Have you any idea how boring that is? Especially since, when you bring your lunch into work, you have a little bit less of a reason to set foot outside the office come lunch hour. Which means I usually end up in the office, taking my food out of the fridge, and eating at my desk, which further exacerbates the boredom of eating leftover food to begin with.



Third: Many items required for some recipes aren't sold in single-serve units. Fresh basil, for example. Celery stalks. Lettuce. Asparagus. Seasoned salt. Cuts of meat, poultry or fish. So you end up buying way more than you need just to add it to this one dish you wanted to try, and the rest ends up rotting away. Well, not the seasoned salt; it just sits around waiting for the next time you struggle desperately to find something to put it in. Banana extract? I've had a bottle for three years now. I only ever use maybe six stalks of asparagus at a time (and I use that many just to use them), but still the rest of the bunch ends up going bad. And what's the purpose of buying fresh meats from the butcher counter if half of what you buy ends up in the freezer anyway?



The other day I had the thought that I'd make myself burger(s) for food for a while. Just thinking about it made my head hurt knowing how much I'd waste. I could buy fresh ground meat -- maybe half a pound -- which would make for two quarter-pound burgers. But the buns would come in a pack of six or eight. That's a bit much. Then there's the fixings. I'm not terribly worried about the ketchup, but it's hard to buy just enough lettuce for the top of two burgers. You end up with a lot more than you want. And tomato? Buy one decent sized one, and half of it ends up on the burger while the other half rots in the fridge. Oh, and don't forget about the egg and bread crumbs or onion soup mix or whatever it is one chooses to use to bind the meat before grilling. Grrr.



I once had this idea that I would bake once in a while. Banana bread; peach cobbler; apple pie. Sounds like fun, right? Nah. Takes a bunch of effort, and it is just NOT a good idea for me to have entire pies sitting around my apartment smelling so damn good with me the only person around who could possibly eat them.

Okay, I'll admit that a greater concern for me is that oftentimes I'm simply too lazy to cook at home to begin with. But when I'm not, it's tough. I feel like I need to find some man to settle down with, if for no other reason than we can plan our weekly grocery shopping together then share our meals. Perhaps that way less food would go to waste, and less money would be spent on things never eaten.

Thankfully, I can get bonus miles for using my credit card at certain eating establishments.

Commissions

Appropriately on the heels of my Labor Day post, I went shopping at the erstwhile Hecht's (which is now Macy's at lunch the other day. I needed new shoes, and I had a few gift cards which I needed to use before they started expiring.

I spent a little time walking around the shoe department visually inspecting the display shoes. I eventually selected one or two that I was interested in trying on, asked the salesperson to bring out some in my sizes, and started trying them on.

My salesperson was named Rodney, and he was very nice. I had selected two pairs of lace-less black shoes (I have a thing for shoes I can just slip into but which look decent with either dress pants or jeans), and he brought out for me both the lace and non-lace version of the shoes. I gave him thoughtfulness points for that, even though it wasn't what I wanted.

Because I was using gift cards, I wasn't terribly worried about cash. Sure, I didn't intend to buy obscenely expensive shoes and intended to stick to stuff labelled "SALE," but I had a little more flexibility knowing my credit card wouldn't take a hit. In the end I tried on two pairs of Steve Maddens and a few Kenneth Coles, each of which were in the $70 to $90 range. During those times I was waiting for Rodney to get me new shoes, I wandered into the nearby men's clothing section and managed to snag a pair of shorts too.

Eventually, having tried on some six pairs of shoes, I settled on two pairs for purchase. (Normally I would have just bought one pair, but again, gift card in use.) I walked back to the register with both boxes and the pair of shorts I had picked, and waited for Rodney to ring me up.

"Have you decided?" Rodney asked upon his return to the register.

"Sure," I told him. "I'll take both of these pair, please." (That sentence looks and sounds awkward for some reason.)

The total for both shoes came out to something like $160. The look on Rodney's face, however, would have had you believe I was purchasing $3,000 of shoes. "Thank you!" he said. "Thank you!"

"Uhh... you were very helpful, and I appreciate your patience while I tried on all those shoes," I said. Although it sounded like I purchased the shoes just to make him a bigger commission, that wasn't the case -- I just wanted both pair.

"No problem, sir," Rodney responded.

But the look on his face was unchanged. It was as though the commission he was earning off of these shoes were going to pay his rent for the next few months. He seemed very excited about what I thought to be a relatively low-key sale.

I couldn't help feeling bad for him. He was clearly remarkably dependent on the commissions. And unlike a waiter, he really didn't have many options with respect to upselling: how does one steer a customer toward higher-ticket shoes when shoes are so much a matter of personal (and generally inflexible) tastes?

He gave me his card and shook my hand (with both hands!) after the transaction was completed. Perhaps I was his biggest sale of the day. Heck, perhaps I was his first sale of the day. In any event, he was very grateful for the sale and it showed.

Really, for a job like that, I don't think anyone should be so beholden to the whims of the customer. I was going to buy what I was going to buy, and frankly I can't imagine what a kind of help he would have been. The same with clothes or, frankly, almost any sale at that store. The people there are helpful, sure, but they're not going to really influence my decisions. Their compensation is so strongly tied to the whims of the customer, and those whims are so completely out of the salesperson's control. It's really the luck of the draw how much money these guys make.

There's got to be a better way.

Gay Men vs. Straight Men?

Craigslist, for all its faults and foibles, can be a wonderful place in terms of sociological experimentation.

First it was the Abercrombie Wars. The debate raged between "young" gays who still have their youth, generally accusing "older" gays of age-inappropriate dress, and the "older" gays (apparently thirty- or forty-something is "older") who say if you still got it, body-hugging sleeveless shirts are perfectly fine. I take no position on this, the most pressing gay issue of our time.

***

Recently, a new post made its way to the Missed Connections board. It hasn't stirred up the public controversy that the A&F posts have, but it did get me thinking.

Here's the original post:

To the guy I gave a blow job to on the Metro - w4m - 23

Date: 2006-09-01, 8:21PM EDT

It was really late, the last train back toward Franconia/Springfield. I was sitting in the very back of the car. When you got on the train, I couldn't take my eyes off of you. You didn't know it, but I was watching you long before I caught you staring at me.

I loved the look on your face when I pulled my skirt up, showing you I wasn't wearing any panties.

When you came over to sit next to me, my heart was pounding! You were so sweet, and hot too!

I can't believe I gave you a blow job right there on the train! But it was so exciting, wondering if at the next stop someone would see us!

I swear, I've never done anything like that before, I was just soooo drunk. (I know you were, too)

If you see this, I really want to meet you again. You're awesome!

Among various responses, one saying merely "YUK" and another apparently finding it hot, was this:

And people say that gays and lesbians do not deserve equal rights because they think we all act like this whore! HA!!!!

The guy makes a decent point. People who don't particularly care for gay people (for some reason animosity seems greater against gay men than against lesbians) -- for instance, opponents of gay marriage -- frequently cite sexual promiscuity as one of the reasons homosexuals should be treated differently. It defiles the institution of marriage, they proclaim, because these guys are clearly driven only by sexual urges and therefore can neither be trusted nor expected to create a stable relationship.

And yet, this heterosexual couple on the train seemed driven purely by primal sexual urges. Ergo, it's not like sexual compulsiveness is unique to gay people.

I agree with the poster, but I think his choice of forum to make this argument seems inappropriate. Unfortunately, Craigslist itself contains sufficient evidence which could damage his point. The "m4m" personals section is prefaced with a disclaimer that doesn't exist in either of the straight personals sections, nor even in the "w4w" section. Gay men on Craigslist are looking for nothing but sex. Men posting for women are either much more subtle about it, or they are actually looking for dates. Those guys know how to get a woman: act like you're not looking for sex. (This approach does not seem to work for men.)

***

Meanwhile, another debate has started up on a wholly different topic which, unfortunately, seems to add further fuel to the fire.

Please, no more m4m in the gym locker rooms - m4w - 35

Date: 2006-09-04, 9:58AM EDT

Seriously, I'm not homophobic. I'm even flattered if a gay man hits on me, (to a point). And if I think I'm the subject of ANY missed connection, m4w, m4m, whatever, I'll tell my friends. BUT, m4m in the showers at the gym is CREEPY! If a woman was somehow scoping me out in the showers, it would still be CREEPY!!!
If I were gay, and you were quietly scoping me out as I changed and showered, then posted an anonymous note, you would still be very, very CREEPY!!!!

* this is in or around WSC

I can't provide links, but posts about gay men hooking up at the gym -- either actually having sex in the sauna or seriously staring in the locker rooms -- are not unheard of. Among the responses were someone who lays down some laws for gay men in the gym:

Gym locker rooms and m4m - m4m - 32

Date: 2006-09-04, 1:16PM EDT

As a gay man, I find the concept of cruising and ogling guys in the locker room to be tasteless. Does a guy have a right to do it? I guess. It just means he has very poor taste and judgment.

In the interest of common decency, I propose the following principles for cruising cute guys without making your fellow (straight) gym goers uncomfortable:

1 - The Gym is not Halo or JR's. Eye contact or a simple nod does not mean that a guy is gay, or hot for you, or remotely interested. Once you assume that it does, any guy loses all incentive to be even remotely nice - and the gym becomes a less friendly place to be.

2- If a guy is gay and is interested, he will usually glance at you repeatedly or might even approach you. But there will usually be a clear signal. Learn to read them properly. It will separate you from the garden variety stalker.

3- Since you're in a mixed gay/straight setting, the best approach for chatting up a cute guy is (brace yourself) honest and direct conversation - on the main gym floor. Ask him about his workout or how he's doing today, or something no decent person could be offended at. You'll know within a minute if he has the least bit of interest in talking to you. If he doesn't, let it go, man.

4- While it's human nature to want to glance at hot guys in the locker room, or follow them around, or take pics of them with your cell phone camera, or blow them in the sauna, it's just plain wrong and tasteless. First, it's against the rules and you know it. Second, it makes others uncomfortable - they paid for their membership too. Why should they be weirded out and avoid the locker rooms because you have no self-control?

How can we honestly insist that the Armed Forces be made open to gay and lesbian people with this kind of behavior at your local gym? Are we all animals?

Let's keep it decent, people.

This guy makes a point similar to the first guy: we gay men can behave atrociously in our quest for sex. If we can't be expected to carry ourselves decently (the second poster argues), how can we be expected to be taken seriously in our quest to marry and/or serve in the military?

Then again, straight men can be atricious in their search for sex too. Granted, they don't usually have the chance to see the objects of their sexual desire parading around naked (I know of no co-ed locker rooms in gyms), so they have less of an opportunity to leer over their sex objects and thus less of a chance to put up posts about their lusty escapades.

***

But in the end, the questions remain:

1: We gay people are denied some of the rights society bestows upon heterosexuals. Are we obliged to act differently from our straight counterparts before we gain those rights? We could make concerted efforts to keep our sexual urges in check, but would that really help anything? I don't think our sexual urges differ much from straight men's sexual urges -- see military (straight) sex scandals serve as specific examples (which directly dispute the notion that gays can't be in the military because of their sexual predelictions).

So where does that leave us?

2: Are we gay people obliged to treat each other with more compassion because of our shared discrimination? Let's face it, gay men seem to thrive on being judgmental and rude about it. We make fun of women's dresses and bodies; why shouldn't we be equally catty about our fellow gay man? Along those lines, see this post in response to this one.

I have no answers, only questions. I need a cocktail, but I don't think the gay men at Duplex or JR's would want me there.

Five Years Later

Everyone in the blogosphere is talking about this fifth-year anniversary, so I won't belabor too much about my personal reactions and reflections beyond bullet points:

-- There are still people out there who believe that what we're doing in Iraq is directly related to what happened to us on September 11. These people need to get educated.

-- This amorphous "war on terror" which hit fever pitch following 9/11 is becoming far too much of a get-out-of-jail-free card for anything the Administration wants to do, like detain people indefinitely, wiretap private phone calls without probable cause, and invade foreign governments with faulty justification. Funny, Republicans claim to have no faith in The Government when it comes to regulation of the environment, or the economy, or the workplace; but we should blindly trust everything The Government does in the name of "fighting the war on terror."

-- These things are so unbelievably tacky and tasteless they make me sick. Those people buying them would make me sicker, except thankfully I don't know anyone who would. (Side anecdote: at some point after the attacks, I walked past a store that was selling a candle. It was shaped like the Twin Towers and bore the inscription "We shall never forget" across the bottom. There were two wicks in the top of the candle and I couldn't help thinking that if one used the candle the way it was meant to be used, you'd end up seeing the Towers burn to the ground again! Someone didn't think that idea through very well.)


We should never forget the attack, but above that, we should never let those attacks destroy the foundation of freedom that this country represents.

Sick and Twisted

Don Hertzfeldt is cool. Completely warped, but soooo freakin' cool.







Yikes.

** UPDATE (9/11/06): I replaced the third video (apparently removed by YouTube) with another one (which will likely be soon removed as well). Longer. Grosser. Yay.

E-Security Has Its Limits

I recently decided to change my passcode to my online banking account. I duly logged into my account, followed the appropriate prompts, then submitted a new password. I was greeted with the screen that congratulated me for successfully changing my password, and I was off on my way with my whole new password.

A few hours later, I logged in to my email account, where I found a nice little email from said bank:

Subject: Alert: Passcode Reset

ONLINE BANKING ALERT
PASSCODE RESET

To: Dennis!

Your Online Banking Account Passcode was reset on 09/04/06.

We care about your security so, for your protection we are proactively notifying you of this activity.

If you did not reset your Passcode, please sign in to www.banksite.com and review your account (s) for any irregular activity and then contact us immediately at 1.800.XXX.XXXX.

While I'm quite pleased that my bank is concerned enough about my security that it would let me know when some substantial change like this has happened with my account, this email is a bit nonsensical. It tells me that the passcode has been changed... then it says if I didn't change it, to log in to my account! If I wasn't the one to change the password, how was I supposed to log back on to check for fraud?

Happy Labor Day

Happy Labor Day.

The Department of Labor explains that this day is "a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."

In name, at least, we exalt this day "the American worker" -- the hands-on, day to day people whose hard work makes is really what makes this country as productive and great as it is. Without those men and women taking care of the nuts and bolts and daily ins and outs of the industry, we would never be able to have what we do in this great country of ours.

In legislation signed by President Clinton in 1996, the federal minimum wage was raised to $5.15 per hour effective September 1, 1997. This minimum wage has not been raised since. (A current Department of Labor webpage still instructs that $5.15 is the minimum.) Each state is, of course, permitted to mandate still higher minimum wages in its borders. (For more information of workers' minimum wage issues, check this page.)

Meanwhile, CEOs of large corporations "routinely are paid 400 to 600 times more than the assembly line worker." The guy working his fingers to the bone to put together the products we use every day is earning up to 600 times less than the fat cat in a windowed office who does nothing more than make sure those assembly lines keep moving. Moreover, the average CEO earned 13% more in 2004 than in 2003, while the average nonsupervisory worker saw a pay increase of 2.2%.

Democrats have been trying for the past nine years to raise the minimum wage past $5.15, but haven't yet succeeded. (Efforts have failed eleven times to raise it to $7.25.)

Almost every year for the past 10 years, Congress gives itself a nice pay raise -- an increase of $31,600 since 1997. Congressional leaders currently earn close to $170,000 a year; minimum wage workers who only work one job make $10,700 per year. Yet Congress refuses to mandate pay increases for those among us who truly keep the cogs of this country turning. (In 2006, Democrats vowed that it would not permit Congress to raise its own pay until federal minimum wage was upped.)

Click here for some other tidbits regarding American minimum wages.



So, Happy Labor Day. More than a federal day off and the end of the summer beach season, we need to give our federal workers more income so the American dream doesn't have to involve overtime, second and third jobs, and crushing debt.

More Venting

Okay, I don't really want to pile on, but I kinda have to get this off my chest and this seems like the most innocuous place to do it. Here is another list of things that annoy me about my office mates:

1. Waaaaay Too Anal.

Okay, I know we're lawyers and we're supposed to strive for a level of accuracy in what we present to decisionmakers, but sometimes my office gets ridiculous about it. I've already blogged about one incident that annoyed the bejeezus out of me. What's one month?

Today, a second incident had me rolling my eyes. We were preparing a Complaint for filing in the courthouse. One of the allegations we wanted to make was that something happened to my client while a bunch of people were heading to a convention out of town. The point being, of course, that something happened. That something that happened? The basis for the lawsuit. Where they were heading? Not so important. And yet my assistant insisted on holding things up just that much longer by editing the document again: she wasn't on her way to a "conference," it was more of a "seminar." Who the hell cares?, I wanted to scream, but I just let her obsess over this stupid little unimportant detail, rolled my eyes, and let her explain to the client why the document wasn't quite ready when she came in to sign it.

2. No Organizational Skills.

Okay, so I know I'm not the most organized person in the world, but frankly, that's what law firm subordinates usually can help you take care of. Not mine. Need to find an Order? We're not sure where it is. What about that motion? It should be filed under there... but it's not.

In addition, the computer files are a mess and a half. Sure, we have a nice folder called "Clients" under which we have subdirectories for each client name. After that, it's rather a jumble. "Pleadings" contains anything that could even resemble a court filing, even if it's much more appropriately filed in "discovery." Not noticing what directories have already been created, I often see a folder for "Pretrial" and another one for "Pre-trial." Motions in Limine, which are by definition pretrial motions, aren't found "Pretrial" or even in "Discovery", but in some random third directory. "Memos" usually only contains one file, placed there by the person who created the directory, while other memos are scattered all over the place. File names are also wildly inconsistent; some have dates in front of them, others don't; some are just called "letter" and others are (appropriately) named with much more detail.

Once I wanted to locate the computer version of a motion to compel (I would consider this a discovery motion thus properly filed under "discovery"), and couldn't find it. I had to ask an assistant where it was, and she told me, "Try the document called 'Amended Complaint.'" Huh, I responded. Go fig. Makes perfect sense. The motion to compel is saved as an 'amended complaint.'"

3. Copier paper.

I have no earthly idea why anyone would ever not just put an entire ream of paper into an empty copier tray. The trays are designed to hold exactly one ream of paper. Literally, a ream of paper fits precisely into the tray. Thus, when the copier indicates that both trays are empty, why is it so difficult to put a full ream of paper in each tray? Why would anyone open up a ream and put just a part of it into the tray? Why does that make any sense at all?

4. General Retardedness.

From time to time, we have to file certain documents in the courthouse. The wording for these documents is fairly standard and is set forth pretty expressly in a court rule. For as long as I can remember, I've been putting together these documents with a minimum of fuss. Then, for some reason, after literally five years of my having put these things together, suddenly a memo appears on my desk. It purports to advise just how these documents should be put together, and what words should be used. It even cites the court rule and attaches a copy of that rule. What's the big deal? you ask? The "correct format" that the memo outlines is exactly what I've been doing for the past five years. You're seriously sending me a memo to tell me how to properly do something I've been doing all this time?

I love my office mates, I really do. On balance, they're great people. But sometimes, working with them requires a hell of a lot of tolerance for some really stupid stuff.

Notice!

This feature just might end up making a semi-regular appearance here.

Make your own here. [Thanks to Ryan for the link.]

"Even If It Resulted in a Cure for AIDS...."

===== 1 =====





===== 2 =====

"The Rev. Jerry Falwell, citing his belief that life begins at conception, said he opposes stem cell research even though it shows great medical promise." -- Washington Post


Talk amongst yourselves.

Photo Finish

A recent email exchange between me and my friend Jessica, who has recently returned from a trip to Iceland:

=== 1 ===

From: Jessica
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 3:30 PM
To: Dennis!
Subject: are we on for tonite?

=== 2 ===

From: Dennis!
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 3:46 PM
To: Jessica
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

dinner tonight? sure. where and what time? i have to meet someone for drinks at around 9.

=== 3 ===

From: Jessica
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 3:47 PM
To: Dennis!
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

6:30 -- don't care where -- any suggestions?

=== 4 ===

From: Dennis!
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 3:53 PM
To: Jessica
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

Did you like Sala Thai? Cloud had some decent tapas. And, though it's not as fancy, I am becoming a fan of Baja Fresh.

=== 5 ===

From: Jessica
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 4:22 PM
To: Dennis!
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

i could eat thai -- you know that i don't think tapas is enough food. i do love baja -- but let's go for better atmosphere.

=== 6 ===

From: Dennis!
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 4:37 PM
To: Jessica
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

let's go with sala thai then. 6.30. see you there. bring pictures.

=== 7 ===

From: Jessica
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 4:38 PM
To: Dennis!
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

cool. don't have pictures at work -- you have to ask in advance!

=== 8 ===

From: Dennis!
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 4:54 PM
To: Jessica
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

isn't that how this dinner date came about in the first place?

me: "oh my god, you totally have to show me pictures!"
you: "oh, we can have dinner and i can show you pictures. i have TONS of pictures."
me: "okay, sounds great. i'm SO jealous. can't wait to see the pictures! i'm sure they're beautiful!"

=== 9 ===

From: Jessica
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2006 5:02 PM
To: Dennis!
Subject: RE: are we on for tonite?

i have no memory lately. do you still want to have dinner? i can describe the pictures.


Dinner went fine, even without the pictures, or even descriptions of them.

Pot, Kettle

The whole "pot calling the kettle black" thing would kinda fit here, except that it's too racist given the context.

As I walked home from the other day, I passed a well-dressed black man on the street outside one of the newly-constructed buildings on the block. He was yelling something in a very thick West African accent.

"Go back to Guatemala or Salvador or wherever!" he yelled, "You don't talk me like that!"

It was a little ironic that the guy with the thick African accent -- presumably, therefore, not born in this country -- was telling someone else who (presumably) was not born in this country to "go home."

I guess the height of assimilation would be when you feel comfortable enough to tell others to "go home," huh?

Hamster in a Cage

Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin'...
-- Journey


My parents own their own business back home. They're up before the ass-crack of dawn every single morning preparing for the day. The space they share isn't private (they have a vendor area in a large enclosed market space); they're usually the first to show up at their spot.

There's some food prep involved, so they need to be sure there's a sufficient supply to last the day well before the doors open to the public. Of course, this also means that the place needs to be cleaned, and cleaned well, at the close of business.

Officially, the market housing my parents' stall is open to the public from 6:00 a.m. to (I think) 4:00 p.m. I say "I think" because everyone in there knows that traffic dies down by 2:30 -- even on weekends -- so most people pack it in much earlier.

Instead of planning ahead and cleaning up earlier, my parents leave the cleaning to the last minute, insisting on keeping their store open for as late as possible. Despite the fact that they complain that traffic is so slow, and it's boring when no customers are around, and they really just ought to pack it in for the day already, invariably they'll just sit around (after everyone else is gone) to finally start the process of packing it in.

Cleaning is a long and arduous task for my parents. It involves hosing down the floor grates and sometimes even the area in front of the vendor area. It involves washing the kitchenware that was used to prep the food. It involves taking out the trash, tidying up the counter, tallying up the till for the day, and doing light adjusting for the next day.

Every time I go back to visit my parents, I invariably have to spend some time with them at this store. And I hate it.

The part that irks me most is when they tell me to pick them up. Usually, they'll tell me to swing by at 3:00. Yet when I do, they're never done with what they have to do. "Oh, just another fifteen minutes," they'll tell me.

But it's never "just" another fifteen minutes. My mother, having hosed down the floor, will stop, move a few items around on the counter... then re-commence the act of hosing down the floor. "Uh, didn't you just finish doing that?" I'll say. My mother will wordlessly nod her head at me in way that conveys the thought: "Yes, I know I just did it, but I'm doing it again. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

This will suck up an additional half an hour of my time.

Not that I think the place should be left filthy, but when I'm expecting to leave and they're diddling around with what look like pointless additional tasks, my patience wears thin.

<><><><><>

I'm working on a document for and with my boss. It's a trial brief; we're supposed to outline all the issues which may come up in trial and advise the judge how we want things done. (The judge will review this and decide whether we get what we ask for.) My boss and I both know that 9 times out of 10, the stuff we ask for will either be denied, or substantially tinkered with at the pre-trial conference.

This doesn't stop my boss from offering up perfectionism at its finest -- thereby driving me absoltely batshit.

"We need to provide a jury instruction for this proposition," he tells me, indicating Count IV of our Complaint. I draw one up for him, but of course, it takes six drafts before he's satisfied with it. Never mind that the judge will have something to say about it too, meaning what I've just finished will not be what the jury hears. And never mind that the instruction that I wrote may be perceived as too biased in favor of my client (duh!) and it will likely be changed accordingly. No, we must submit something that would only be used in a utopian world.

Similarly, I work up a proposed verdict form. In most cases, it's not too difficult: "Do you find for Plaintiff or Defendant?" followed by "If Plaintiff, how much do you award?" It's never that easy with my boss. We go into backs and forths about how much needs to be in there, what the jury needs to find, how the words need to be tweaked, how the words need to be consistent. Again, I am 98% certain that the form we submit will not survive unscathed before it reaches a jury. If we're lucky, it'll serve as a starting point for the butchering process that the judge will undertake. And if opposing counsel has anything to say about it, still more butchering will take place.

Yes, it's good and fine to have a decent product at the get-go... but oftentimes I feel like I'm spinning my wheels in the ultimate search for a wholly unattainable goal. The day that I walk into a pretrial conference and have the judge accept without question every single word I've committed to paper is the day I sprout wings and fly off into the horizon.

***

Ever notice how the Flintstones characters always hover for just a moment before they dash off at high speed? They're in the air, legs working away, but they're not moving. Sometimes they even have the time to get in several parts of a conversation before they achieve critical velocity and take off.

Sometimes I feel like I'm perpetually in that early startup stage. Are we going anywhere yet? No, let's keep talking while you hover there and work your legs.

Perfection in a Smelly Package

Maybe it's just my particular friends, but I've noticed that a vast majority of the women whose homes I have the opportunity to visit are exceedingly clean. On top of that, women just seem to have this innate need -- and, more importantly, ability -- to ensure that things are clean and neat and orderly.

For example, whenever there's a party at someone's house, there generally seems to be a female guest who compulsively makes sure things are clean along the way -- picking up stray cups and bottles, and removing bits of trash like wadded paper towels and empty paper plates. I don't mean to sound sexist, but that just seems to be the case. Men don't give a crap. Empty bottles and wadded up napkins just remain where they are, to be tidied up later when the room magically returns to a state Martha Stewart would be proud of.

Women just seem to have this gift for making sure things look good. I mean, some ladies I know can almost literally just throw some pieces of tissue paper together with minimal effort and come up with a wonderful decorative effect. Others don't seem to have to work very hard to make their apartments tastefully and neatly decorated. Men, on the other hand: slobs. There's some merit to the notion that a bachelor's apartment "could use a woman's touch."

Why, one might even surmise that some women can even make throwing up an art form.

Well whaddya know? (What a segue!)

The other night, some friends and I went out for drinks after work. Drinks turned to, well, several drinks, after which we decided to stop off for some food. We dined al fresco in a wonderful patio area at a Thai restaurant downtown. After some scintillating conversation and several tasty curry dishes, rice, and drunken noodles plates* (ordered by various people, not all by me), my friend Lily calmly stated, "I have to go now."

[* I should say, ordering drunken noodles after a night of heavy drinking was quite genius.]

The bill had not yet arrived, nor had we actually ordered dessert yet as we had planned. It was unclear why she suddenly had to leave.

The lack of clarity lasted for only about a minute.

Lily made her way to a piece of shrubbery about ten paces up the sidewalk and, unable to control herself any longer, bent over and began emptying the contents of her stomach. Her boyfriend, thankfully, had picked up on her several hints before she got up, dropped some cash on the table, and had followed her. Here was his very own "hold her hair" moment.

[Aside: This is the same girl who once picked up a cute boy at Dewey and actually brought him back to the house we were all staying at... where she started the reverse peristalsis process in the upstairs bathroom. Embarrassed, she refused to let anyone into the bathroom to help her or even rub her back or whatever people do. Left to deal with the cute boy she had brought home, I asked what he wanted to do given the circumstances. "I don't think she's going to let you in while she's, uh, unloading," I told him. "It's okay," he responded, "she's so cute even when booting I'd hold her hair any day." It was strangely sweet. I felt bad for the poor guy. I eventually got him into a cab, even though he was planning on spending the night. Part of me would have offered to share a bed with him and make some advances on him, but I don't think that would have been cool.]

Lily and her boyfriend left after that, and the rest of us stayed behind (we all knew that Lily would not have wanted us to help her out -- she gets quite embarrassed by this, which is odd, because despite her embarrassment it does seem to happen a lot). We had dessert, chatted some more, paid the bill, and headed out.

On the way out, I couldn't help stopping at the shrubbery Lily had so recently encamped herself at. I even mocked her a bit by bending over (at the waist, to make sure I didn't get too close) and saying to my friends, "Hey, look! Who am I? Who am I?" At first, I couldn't spot her deposit at all... until I realized that I was looking right at it. (Three guesses as to what gave it away, and the first two don't count). It was a perfectly hemispheric mound; the only thing setting it apart from the rest of the area was the fact that it was a different color. Otherwise, I kid you not, it looked like a mini pitcher's mound. Nicely rounded. No spatter. No uneven edges. (A very very small) Charlie Brown could have tried to pitch from it. It could have been a giant piece of flan. It looked as if someone had taken a bowl of oatmeal, turned it over in the dirt, and removed the bowl, leaving a perfect shape.

Yes, my friend Lily even puked into a perfectly neat little pile that betrayed no hint of the messiness that one normally finds inherent in the act of upchucking.

It was a marvel to behold.

MeetGene

Dear Tony,

I was surfing around on WaPo's site today, checking out the Live Online discussions were that taking place (and which ones I missed), I noticed that Gene Simmons was scheduled to come on to hawk his new reality show.

And I thought of you.

And a part of me wanted to email you to tell you about it, because I knew you'd be incredibly excited about a KISS-related reality television show. Your love of KISS was unrivaled.

A part of me thought maybe calling you would be faster, to make sure you got to a computer to read the chat. Or at least to tell you that the show was making its way to the airwaves.

I wanted to hear the 30-year-old man/child-like excitement in your voice at the prospect of getting to see your idol strutting stuff and showing off his obscenely long tongue on TV. I remembered how much you love Detroit Rock City, and how I teased you endlessly for that even though I've never seen it. Perhaps we would have started debating the relative merits of Gene's upcoming show to Ozzy Osbourne's. If I were really lucky, I would have been the one to tell you about the show, and you would have heard it first from me, and your excitement would be just this close to orgasmic.

But no email will reach you. You are nowhere near a working telephone. And you are certainly not reading this blog. No matter how much I would want to talk to you or communicate with you, I'm not able to. Because shortly after I wrote this post back in November, you lost your fight with cancer. The last time I saw you was in the hospital bed, thinner than I've ever seen you, a shell of your former self, barely a hint of the jovial, friendly guy I used to work with.

I don't even have a freaking picture of you to upload to this post.

Even though we lost touch after I left that job, I still miss you, my friend.

Fondly,
Dennis!

Office Vents

I almost blew up at a colleague at work this evening. Not fair, I know; I was just being a little -- okay, a lot -- grumpy. But several issues started taking their toll on me.

What happened tonight? I had taken pretty much four whole days to finish a particular motion. It was due today and really, I just wanted it done and out of my hair. I knew there were likely some mistakes in it, but by this point (it was getting close to 9 pm) I really just wanted it done.

Besides, we had both spent all day on this project on administrative shit. Basically we had to manually reformat a large document to attach as an exhibit. It went much faster for me than for her, for some reason -- part of my frustration with this office is some of my administrative staff simply isn't as good at secretarial stuff as I am. It had taken her all day to get her part of this document finished. I guess a part of it was also that I had kinda wanted to bail early from work to meet some people, and that was basically tossed out the window because this damn proejct was taking so long (and it shouldn't have).

As the requisite copies were coming off the copier, my colleague started reading through the document. Usually this is a good thing, but like I said, I was in a bad mood for some reason I don't know. "Oops, a typo," she says. "It says 'Plaintiff has no received no consideration.'" Of course, she's right. And there's no way I could just let that go. Thankfully the document was thick enough that I wasn't stapling them anyway, and the change was small enough that I just had to substitute that one page.

Then she started nitpicking more substantive stuff, and for some reason this just got to me. "You say here that the documentation goes back to April, but don't we have stuff dating back to February?" she asks.

"I don't think so," I tell her, but a part of me just doesn't care anymore. The combination of her question and my own perfectionism started to frustrate me. I checked the documentation, and it turns out we had paperwork starting in March, not February or April.

"Well then, shouldn't it say March?" she suggested. She's a little passive aggressive sometimes; she'll phrase things in the form of questions like "wouldn't it be better if...?" and "but don't you think we should...?" to suggest her way, and if you say no, you feel the need to justify it and she'll still give you a look that screams, "I'm worried about not doing it the way I suggest...."

"It doesn't make a huge difference if it says March or April," I told her. "The point is the same; 'several months' is 'several months' whether it begins in March or April."

"But it could be seen as misleading," she goes on.

"How is that materially misleading?" I'm ready to scream at her, but I don't; I just ask the question in a clearly annoyed way.

"Maybe not materially, but still, it's not 100% accurate. Do you really want this judge to sieze on that?"

"The point of that paragraph is that there's several months covered there. Which specific months are irrelevant. Can you really see the judge saying to himself, 'You were wrong by a matter of one month in "several months," so I'm going to deny you the relief you want'?"

I didn't actually say that last paragraph, though I thought it. Instead I made the change to accurately reflect the paperwork we had (even though it was immaterial), and did the page swap again. I had to make certain that the change I made didn't impact on the pagination of the 40-page document.

She could tell I was annoyed, and I genuinely felt bad for that. She apologized: "Don't be mad. Sorry. Okay, I'll stop reading now." Technically this is a bad idea, since, of course, I'd rather have the mistakes corrected than not, but I really just wanted to go home. So I let her stop reading.

Eventually, everything got assembled and was sent off to the courthouse, and I peeled off and went home.

I'm gonna have to apologize to her tomorrow. I do feel bad for snapping.

Political Support

I stepped out of my apartment building (take note: apartment building, i.e., multi-unit dwelling) yesterday afternoon and saw something somewhat surprising: a Linda Cropp for Mayor sign.

Wha?

How did we come to conclusion that my entire building, en masse, has decided to support Linda Cropp?, I wondered. Actually, I didn't really wonder that, because I knew there was no way that was possible. The sign was inappropriate to the extent that it implied that an entire apartment building full of people supported one mayoral candidate for the office.

I asked the woman at the front desk when that sign made it up there, and got an even more fascinating story in response. "I saw some people getting out of their van," she told me, "and I guess they put it up. I wish I had seen that they were doing that, because I would have told them it was inappropriate, but then they took off after putting it up."

Woah.

So according to this woman -- whom I have no reason to distrust -- Linda Cropp's supporters are busy running around town putting signs up on private property to make it look like people are supporting her? Without the permission of the property owners? Are you kidding me?

This afternoon I went with a friend up to Rockville to run some errands, cutting through parts of northwest DC along the way. From time to time, I spotted Linda Cropp signs in the ample yards of these large homes, and I couldn't help wondering whether the homeowners themselves actually put them up. At one house, for example, the sign was conspicuously placed pretty far from the front door and far from any path that leads to the door. Instead, it was placed near a tree closest to the street corner, where conceivably people -- for example, I dunno, people who jump out of vans putting up signs on lawns without permission -- would be able to put them up quickly. Could it be, I wondered, that the supporters planted that sign there too? Could it be that the people in that house don't necessarily support Linda Cropp at all?

I guess now I'll never really be sure.