Predictably, the Doc made a strong effort at big-dogging me (since I couldn't find a definition to link to, to "big dog" someone is to attempt to intimidate or push that person around via confidence, size, and/or experience).
As I laid out before, there are certain topics the Doc cannot go into. The main one is the incident that caused the injury. His first real question was: "In 25 words or less, can you tell me what happened?" I made my polite interruption: "Excuse me Doctor, if I may, I believe that was covered in the medical records provided to you by defense counsel." Which, it must be said, is a fairly nice way of saying "you can't fucking ask about that." Doc did not take too kindly to my interruption. He laid the chart down and, mind you we're in a very cramped room, took a full step toward me. It was the kind of body language that would have got a guy glassed if I was a violent man and it was a drinking-in-a-bar situation. In an excited tone, he told me "those records weren't made available to me!" Thinking back, I should have immediately doubted that claim as there was a rubber-banded inch-deep stack of paper sitting underneath the client's chart. Maybe those docs weren't the client's medical records, and maybe I'm a Chinese jet pilot. In any event, he asked pretty much the same question again and I didn't interrupt and the client came through like a champ (my pre-exam briefing didn't hurt I'm sure): "I got hurt. At work. You can't ask me that." Boom. Roasted. Way to go client. The Doctor's oh-so-sensitive retort: "I can ask you that. Counsel can instruct you not to answer, but I can ask it. This is America." Way to go Doctor -- hell of a nice thing to say to our Mexican immigrant client.
Thirty seconds later, the Doctor touches on the second no-no area: "Tell me everything you can remember about your medical history." I interrupt again, and again, the Doc gets real bent out of shape and lectures me about how a medical history as been part of a medical exam going all the way back to Hippocrates, though I'm pretty sure he pull a Bill-and-Ted's-Excellent-Adventure and pronounced it like Hippo-crates. I asked him to verify that the medical records hadn't been provided by defense counsel: "Well, they sent them, but I didn't read them. I didn't want anything poisoning my mind before I made it up for myself." Oh, alright. I get it. The insurance company is only paying you $1,000 bucks to write this exam, which included reading the medical records, but you thought the words of your colleagues would 'poison' you. Good to know that even you doubt ability to remain neutral.
The rest of the exam went on without much tension or interruptions on my part. Perhaps the first two interruptions in the first minute were enough to keep the Doctor from straying off the path again. Perhaps there wasn't anywhere else on the path to stray off.
When I got back to the office, I listened to the tape-recording -- gut-wrenching. I sound way less confident on the tape than I did in my head. That needs to change pronto. I was right, the Doctor was wrong, and I need to carry myself as such when I walk into those rooms. But other than the fact that I sound timid, I'd say the event went pretty well.
I may be making my first court appearance on Tuesday, stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
First Out-in-the-World Lawyer Job
I have my first lawyer task. Tomorrow morning I'll be driving down to Daly City to attend a client's Independent Medical Evaluation. Basically, if your claim involves a physical injury, the defense has the right to submit you to an evaluation by their physician.
Despite the title, the IME Doctor is in no way independent. He is there at the behest of the insurance company. They pick and pay for the IME physician. And his job is to try and trip up the client, or to otherwise provide the insurance company with a seemingly reasonable medical opinion that justifies denying benefits or reducing the eventual settlement amount. The IME does not exist to help the patient in any way. While the Doctor's hippocratic oath prevents him from psychically harming the patient, it certainly doesn't require him to protect the patient's legal interests.
While it would probably be unfair to say that an IME is incapable of neutrality, the reality is that it's insurance company dollars that are keeping the lights on for these folks. So it goes, there's every financial incentive to approach the evaluation through the prism of presumed fraud on the part of the patient.
My job is straight-forward: make sure the Doctor doesn't tread into areas he shouldn't. The defense has a right to a "physical examination." This doesn't include asking the client about the circumstances surrounding the incident. This doesn't include asking the client about any prior injuries either. He gets to ask about the condition of the ankle. That's it. If this strikes you as odd, don't worry, the defense has had plenty of chances to ask all the other questions, including our client's deposition.
The best-case scenario is the Doc sticks to asking the client only about how his ankle is doing, reducing my job to just sitting there and looking pretty. The worst-case scenario is the Doc attempts to abuse the fact that I'm greener than a Berkeley tree-sitter -- including asking impermissible questions or big-dogging me with his years of experience. We'll see how well that goes down.
The name of the game here is Us v. Them. On one side: me, a tape recorder, and our client. On the other side: an M.D. with years of experience and the collective moral support of the entire insurance industry. That's only a slight overstatement.
Despite the title, the IME Doctor is in no way independent. He is there at the behest of the insurance company. They pick and pay for the IME physician. And his job is to try and trip up the client, or to otherwise provide the insurance company with a seemingly reasonable medical opinion that justifies denying benefits or reducing the eventual settlement amount. The IME does not exist to help the patient in any way. While the Doctor's hippocratic oath prevents him from psychically harming the patient, it certainly doesn't require him to protect the patient's legal interests.
While it would probably be unfair to say that an IME is incapable of neutrality, the reality is that it's insurance company dollars that are keeping the lights on for these folks. So it goes, there's every financial incentive to approach the evaluation through the prism of presumed fraud on the part of the patient.
My job is straight-forward: make sure the Doctor doesn't tread into areas he shouldn't. The defense has a right to a "physical examination." This doesn't include asking the client about the circumstances surrounding the incident. This doesn't include asking the client about any prior injuries either. He gets to ask about the condition of the ankle. That's it. If this strikes you as odd, don't worry, the defense has had plenty of chances to ask all the other questions, including our client's deposition.
The best-case scenario is the Doc sticks to asking the client only about how his ankle is doing, reducing my job to just sitting there and looking pretty. The worst-case scenario is the Doc attempts to abuse the fact that I'm greener than a Berkeley tree-sitter -- including asking impermissible questions or big-dogging me with his years of experience. We'll see how well that goes down.
The name of the game here is Us v. Them. On one side: me, a tape recorder, and our client. On the other side: an M.D. with years of experience and the collective moral support of the entire insurance industry. That's only a slight overstatement.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Paying Rent & Full Windsors Oh My!
I spent almost an hour tonight going over how to tie the most pro looking knot of them all: the Windsor. It's the one that screams, "you best recognize ma' steez or I will seriously go apeshit on your brain."
And the reason I chose tonight to finally figure out how to do a windsor knot is because I again have a reason to be wearing ties: my office has decided to keep me on for at least another 6 months.
They don't have room/need for another full-time attorney right now, so they are keeping me on as a half-lawyer, half-jack-of-all-trades assistant.
The Pros:
- Not begging on the streets for next month's rent money
- Salary bump
- Get to do real lawyer-work alongside some awesome mentors
- Still get to still do some nuts-and-bolts assistant work that teaches me all the admin-side stuff, otherwise known as the shit that not enough attorneys know themselves, thereby making the existence of, and reliance upon, assistants absolutely necessary
The Cons:
- Not a full-time lawyer job still
- No guarantees after 6 months
It's not an ideal situation, but it is so much closer to ideal than the alternative of being out on my ass that it feels silly to even list a "cons" list. 'm incredibly happy to have this opportunity. And the reality is that I'm one of the lucky few from my graduating class that has a paying job in law, so to be anything other than grateful at this point in the market is pissing in the wind, especially if your piss is 100% dumbassness. I had to suppress my idiotic smile for the past 2 days at work so as to not seem surprised at their offer.
Here's to not sleeping on the street.
And the reason I chose tonight to finally figure out how to do a windsor knot is because I again have a reason to be wearing ties: my office has decided to keep me on for at least another 6 months.
They don't have room/need for another full-time attorney right now, so they are keeping me on as a half-lawyer, half-jack-of-all-trades assistant.
The Pros:
- Not begging on the streets for next month's rent money
- Salary bump
- Get to do real lawyer-work alongside some awesome mentors
- Still get to still do some nuts-and-bolts assistant work that teaches me all the admin-side stuff, otherwise known as the shit that not enough attorneys know themselves, thereby making the existence of, and reliance upon, assistants absolutely necessary
The Cons:
- Not a full-time lawyer job still
- No guarantees after 6 months
It's not an ideal situation, but it is so much closer to ideal than the alternative of being out on my ass that it feels silly to even list a "cons" list. 'm incredibly happy to have this opportunity. And the reality is that I'm one of the lucky few from my graduating class that has a paying job in law, so to be anything other than grateful at this point in the market is pissing in the wind, especially if your piss is 100% dumbassness. I had to suppress my idiotic smile for the past 2 days at work so as to not seem surprised at their offer.
Here's to not sleeping on the street.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Living the Dream. ----> should have been posted back in February
I just returned this past Tuesday evening from 5 glorious nights in New Orleans with three of more humorous and good-times-having classmates, courtesy of my school's Dean's Office, and the Office of Career Planning. Much of the time was spent touring Bourbon St. in the evening, much to the chagrin of our livers. We drank all the local flavors: hand grenades, hurricanes, cherry bombs, and abita, all while usually walking along the streets. I couldn't find the wiki for cherry bombs, but in case you're of the persuasion that cherry bombs must involve a typical "bomb" drink, that's not the case in NOLA. NOLA cherry bombs are
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
So it goes.
I should have been arrested.
After spending Christmas Eve through Sunday in L.A., I'm more than convinced that California officers are probably too lenient on drunken white boys. L.A. wasn't the first time I had observed or personally experienced this, but it is probably the first time that I can look back and think, "yea, maybe they should have hauled me off."
I boarded the bus at 9 a.m. on the 24th. We didn't disembark at 7th and Decatur until a little after 6. Suffice to say, that much time on a bus, especially one that won't allow its passengers to turn on their lights for reading, is reason enough to get drunk. I started with my oversized plastic flask while waiting for some sort of public transportation at Wilshire and Hope. The last complete memory I have is trying to shake the hand of some large man that had just beaten my friend at pool, something that was not well-received since my friend and his associate had just told said large man to "fuck off." I'm swiftly walked out of the bar by the chemically enlarged bouncer/bartender wearing a Fear Factory shirt - I'm willing to accept that violations of the Controlled Substances Act occur frequently among members of the bouncer community, but there's no excuse for having shitty taste.
I'm told the next morning that I angrily tried wrestling my friend when we arrived back at his apartment, and that I spent the remainder of the night sobbing in his bedroom. I've cried with increasing frequency since turning 25. On my birthday, the following month in Vegas, two months later in the Fall, and now on Christmas Eve. And not the kind of crying-at-movies that I've always done. We're talking about seemingly irrational and uncontrollable crying, in front of my friends no less, thereby stripping away any dignity there might have been a chance to otherwise salvage. They always ask 'why' the next day, as if there is one particular trauma that can explain away my behavior. But that's not the case. There isn't some huge scar I'm trying to hide and the only thing that all the episodes have in common is that I've been heavily intoxicated every time. "Oh, that's just the booze then, beer tears."
I spend all of Christmas with a headache and a churning stomach. Friday is a mellow affair and by Saturday night, there is a feeling that redemption is in order. I fail, miserably.
Over the course of roughly 4 hours, I get involved in four testosterone-ridden situations of varying intensity. Employing a particularly vulgar guilt-trip about drug abuse (the irony of which doesn't escape me), I verbally accosted a homeless man to the point that I vaguely remember police officers telling me to walk away. I get into a cash-only cab with no cash. By the end, the driver takes my card, refuses to give it back, and threatens to call the police if I "don't get the fuck out" of his cab. We exchange loud obscenities, and I eventually exit, no debit card to speak of. I go back to the bar with the Fear Factory bouncer, get asked to leave again, and nearly get in a fight with another patron both inside and outside of the bar. According to my friend, the only reason I didn't receive a fist in the face was because the other man's girlfriend disapproved of the idea - thank goodness that women are less often prone to see violence as a solution. Finally, I again tried to wrestle my friend. I suspect that this was the culmination of a night's worth of hostile behavior on my part, but probably the safest alternative for expressing that hostility as I wake up with only a bruise on the inside of my wrist and a sore tail-bone.
In the end, I suppose I'm thankful for not getting beat-up and/or arrested. Those outcomes would have certainly driven home a point, but the point isn't entirely lost just because I managed to escape relatively unscathed. I was out of control. I need to curb my drinking - primarily the amount, but the frequency could use a checking as well. I don't know how to explain its origins, but my level of aggression while drunk was unacceptable and dangerous (mostly to me since I seem to always challenge much larger individuals). And to the extent that I use alcohol as a coping/escapist tool, I need to be more mindful of where I'm mentally at, and be willing to soberly consider what exactly is going on in this head of mine. Maybe then I'll come to some thoughtful explanations for cry-sessions other than blaming the talking of the booze.
As a final note, reading Koren Zailckas' Smashed during this holiday bender was not a good idea. But it has helped me to realize certain things about my social habits and alcohol abuse, and hopefully it (and the lessons of my experiences) will help me to be more responsible and healthy if I decide to drink in the future. I recommend reading it if you ever have any concerns about alcohol abuse, yours or someone you care about, or if you are just interested in the issue of young people drinking. It's not earth-shattering, but it certainly helps to put things in perspective and see someone articulate what are unfortunately common feelings and acts.
After spending Christmas Eve through Sunday in L.A., I'm more than convinced that California officers are probably too lenient on drunken white boys. L.A. wasn't the first time I had observed or personally experienced this, but it is probably the first time that I can look back and think, "yea, maybe they should have hauled me off."
I boarded the bus at 9 a.m. on the 24th. We didn't disembark at 7th and Decatur until a little after 6. Suffice to say, that much time on a bus, especially one that won't allow its passengers to turn on their lights for reading, is reason enough to get drunk. I started with my oversized plastic flask while waiting for some sort of public transportation at Wilshire and Hope. The last complete memory I have is trying to shake the hand of some large man that had just beaten my friend at pool, something that was not well-received since my friend and his associate had just told said large man to "fuck off." I'm swiftly walked out of the bar by the chemically enlarged bouncer/bartender wearing a Fear Factory shirt - I'm willing to accept that violations of the Controlled Substances Act occur frequently among members of the bouncer community, but there's no excuse for having shitty taste.
I'm told the next morning that I angrily tried wrestling my friend when we arrived back at his apartment, and that I spent the remainder of the night sobbing in his bedroom. I've cried with increasing frequency since turning 25. On my birthday, the following month in Vegas, two months later in the Fall, and now on Christmas Eve. And not the kind of crying-at-movies that I've always done. We're talking about seemingly irrational and uncontrollable crying, in front of my friends no less, thereby stripping away any dignity there might have been a chance to otherwise salvage. They always ask 'why' the next day, as if there is one particular trauma that can explain away my behavior. But that's not the case. There isn't some huge scar I'm trying to hide and the only thing that all the episodes have in common is that I've been heavily intoxicated every time. "Oh, that's just the booze then, beer tears."
I spend all of Christmas with a headache and a churning stomach. Friday is a mellow affair and by Saturday night, there is a feeling that redemption is in order. I fail, miserably.
Over the course of roughly 4 hours, I get involved in four testosterone-ridden situations of varying intensity. Employing a particularly vulgar guilt-trip about drug abuse (the irony of which doesn't escape me), I verbally accosted a homeless man to the point that I vaguely remember police officers telling me to walk away. I get into a cash-only cab with no cash. By the end, the driver takes my card, refuses to give it back, and threatens to call the police if I "don't get the fuck out" of his cab. We exchange loud obscenities, and I eventually exit, no debit card to speak of. I go back to the bar with the Fear Factory bouncer, get asked to leave again, and nearly get in a fight with another patron both inside and outside of the bar. According to my friend, the only reason I didn't receive a fist in the face was because the other man's girlfriend disapproved of the idea - thank goodness that women are less often prone to see violence as a solution. Finally, I again tried to wrestle my friend. I suspect that this was the culmination of a night's worth of hostile behavior on my part, but probably the safest alternative for expressing that hostility as I wake up with only a bruise on the inside of my wrist and a sore tail-bone.
In the end, I suppose I'm thankful for not getting beat-up and/or arrested. Those outcomes would have certainly driven home a point, but the point isn't entirely lost just because I managed to escape relatively unscathed. I was out of control. I need to curb my drinking - primarily the amount, but the frequency could use a checking as well. I don't know how to explain its origins, but my level of aggression while drunk was unacceptable and dangerous (mostly to me since I seem to always challenge much larger individuals). And to the extent that I use alcohol as a coping/escapist tool, I need to be more mindful of where I'm mentally at, and be willing to soberly consider what exactly is going on in this head of mine. Maybe then I'll come to some thoughtful explanations for cry-sessions other than blaming the talking of the booze.
As a final note, reading Koren Zailckas' Smashed during this holiday bender was not a good idea. But it has helped me to realize certain things about my social habits and alcohol abuse, and hopefully it (and the lessons of my experiences) will help me to be more responsible and healthy if I decide to drink in the future. I recommend reading it if you ever have any concerns about alcohol abuse, yours or someone you care about, or if you are just interested in the issue of young people drinking. It's not earth-shattering, but it certainly helps to put things in perspective and see someone articulate what are unfortunately common feelings and acts.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Fall Party E-Melee, A Follow-Up.
The reaction to my email regarding the SBA Party was loud and swift. While, to a person, all responding 2Ls and 3Ls thought it a great email, the reaction among 1Ls was almost the exact office. It's a good thing I have a bird right now and am no longer "in the hunt" for 1Ls, as I surely would have hampered my chances. Anyway, so the vitriol among the entering class was so strong that I became convinced that I had to send a second email to clarify the first one, and to mend fences as best I could.
Deciding to mend fences was not the easiest decision to come to. I was torn between that and responding with a long-winded way of saying, "shut the fuck up, you bunch of whiny runny cunts." The c-word probably would not have made the final draft, but the sentiment would have remained the same. In any event, I decided not to contribute to the escalation of animosity any more. Below is the response I formulated between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m. while half-drunk on Black Velvet.
------------------------------
Hello All,
I write today for two primary reasons:
1. Clarify any confusion as to what the SBA Fall Party involves.
2. Clear up any misunderstandings as to my previous email.
First things first, I will do my best to forego the bombastic language so as to avoid any confusion regarding my meaning and my intentions.
1. Explaining the SBA Fall Party
It has come to my attention that there are a few misconceptions regarding what the fall party actually is. It may first be helpful then to tell you what the party is not: it is not a formal dance that requires a date or fancy outfit, and it is not merely a Friday version of bar night.
The fall party is the big social event of the SBA calendar this semester. The SBA is for us, as in the "whole-student-body" us, and consequently the party is for us and our friends. We, the royal we, gather together as many people as are interested in spending time with each other. We talk, we drink, we dance, we drink, and then we repeat these activities in whichever order our individual volitions direct us. No more, no less. If you like your classmates, and you like going out to bars, there truly is no better way to combine these interests – unless you like drinking in class. But if that's the case, we need to have a whole other sort of conversation. Anyways, SBA Fall Party, it's a great time. Please come on out and enjoy.
2. Clarifying the Previous Message
It has also come (more clearly) to my attention that one striking characteristic of a cozy environment like ____ is how fast word can spread, how quickly it can reach interested parties. And through a variety of channels, it has been brought to my attention that my last message did not exactly win everyone over. In fact, I'd venture to say that some people even outright disliked it. Since I actually have that exact sentiment on good authority, it's not too long of a limb to go out on. I'm usually pretty risk averse anyway.
Well then, let me speak in no uncertain terms: it was a joke. Maybe you're thinking to yourself: "But jokes are funny." Fair enough. I thought that shit was hilarious. But then, I often laugh at my own jokes as my conversation-counterparts check out their shoes and figure out the politest way to leave.
Plus I get a big kick out of quoting movies and draping myself in egomaniacal language. So it goes.
Perhaps proper introductions are in order. My name is ____ – I'm the SBA Activities Coordinator. It may also be said that I'm the more nefarious element of the quasi-student group known as ________. I won't bore you with the details of the ________ right now. We have a myspace page, we have a facebook thingy, check it out if you like. The point is, I sometimes write emails. And they're usually long. And they're usually tongue-in-cheek mean. And they are always geared toward rallying a few students for some upcoming event.
And the short version of this is this: I don't want to trigger scuttlebutt. I don't wish to engender rumblings of ill will among the vox populi. It's sorta the exact opposite. I want many many many people to go the Fall Party. I'm a cheerleader for this school – I seriously effin' heart the place, the community, and I want it to thrive. There, I said it.
I did not mean to actually insult anyone. Yes, clearly, I took a few pot shots that could reasonably be interpreted as offensive. Wasn't the goal, wasn't seriously considered, and wasn't even fathomed. And maybe therein lies the problem – I failed to consider my audience. And once more, an introduction is in order: Hello, my name is ____. I am often seen roaming the halls of ____, having potentially inane conversations (ranging from "which Van Damme movies rules the hardest" to "what are the merits of the latest SCOTUS ruling" – realistically, I talk about Van Damme probably just as much as I do the Supreme Court), and I often look in need of a shave and a fashion coach. My humor is in large-part based on being a prick. I list Bill Hicks among my heroes. If you don't know Bill Hicks, and you're not going to the Fall Party, then I sincerely recommend you instead spend tonight downloading Arizona Bay, rocking some big canister-style headphones, and praying your brain doesn't implode from how ridiculously bad ass that album is.
Anyway, back to the point. Many of you don't know who I am. Consequently, I probably just seem like some useless jackass who writes preposterously long messages about parties (case in point). That might make me a douche, that might make me lame or immature, that might even make me a fratbag asshole.
Nevertheless, I sought to attract Party Participants and the irony is that I may have turned people off of the idea of coming to the Fall Party, despite my best intentions. Well that just sucks, especially since, you know, that's like the exact opposite goal I had in mind, hence the aforementioned irony. The first among us to discover the ability to time travel should go back to 1996 and tell Alanis Morissette that this situation is much more apropos for a hook.
So yea, I don't think I knew my audience. Mistake one. And I assumed my audience knew me. Mistake two. If this applies to you, it can all be changed by attending the Fall Party! Confront me. Call me out. Share a drink and a conversation. It'll be easy to spot me – I'll be the ugly-mugged douche in a burgundy suit drinking Canadian whisky like it's going out of style and making my mark on the night by mixing up self-congratulatory flattery with self-deprecating honesty, and laughing and smiling the entire time.
If you have any concerns regarding the _______, my emails, or anything else really, feel free to personally contact me. ______@gmail.com. I am more than happy to directly engage you on any of these matters, and truth be told, I'd prefer that to the back channels. In the words of another hero of mine, Tupac Amaru Shakur, "holla at me."
Once more, hope to see you all tonight! If not, have a great weekend. And again, it's late, apologies for any typos or errors. That is all.
B3.
Deciding to mend fences was not the easiest decision to come to. I was torn between that and responding with a long-winded way of saying, "shut the fuck up, you bunch of whiny runny cunts." The c-word probably would not have made the final draft, but the sentiment would have remained the same. In any event, I decided not to contribute to the escalation of animosity any more. Below is the response I formulated between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m. while half-drunk on Black Velvet.
------------------------------
Hello All,
I write today for two primary reasons:
1. Clarify any confusion as to what the SBA Fall Party involves.
2. Clear up any misunderstandings as to my previous email.
First things first, I will do my best to forego the bombastic language so as to avoid any confusion regarding my meaning and my intentions.
1. Explaining the SBA Fall Party
It has come to my attention that there are a few misconceptions regarding what the fall party actually is. It may first be helpful then to tell you what the party is not: it is not a formal dance that requires a date or fancy outfit, and it is not merely a Friday version of bar night.
The fall party is the big social event of the SBA calendar this semester. The SBA is for us, as in the "whole-student-body" us, and consequently the party is for us and our friends. We, the royal we, gather together as many people as are interested in spending time with each other. We talk, we drink, we dance, we drink, and then we repeat these activities in whichever order our individual volitions direct us. No more, no less. If you like your classmates, and you like going out to bars, there truly is no better way to combine these interests – unless you like drinking in class. But if that's the case, we need to have a whole other sort of conversation. Anyways, SBA Fall Party, it's a great time. Please come on out and enjoy.
2. Clarifying the Previous Message
It has also come (more clearly) to my attention that one striking characteristic of a cozy environment like ____ is how fast word can spread, how quickly it can reach interested parties. And through a variety of channels, it has been brought to my attention that my last message did not exactly win everyone over. In fact, I'd venture to say that some people even outright disliked it. Since I actually have that exact sentiment on good authority, it's not too long of a limb to go out on. I'm usually pretty risk averse anyway.
Well then, let me speak in no uncertain terms: it was a joke. Maybe you're thinking to yourself: "But jokes are funny." Fair enough. I thought that shit was hilarious. But then, I often laugh at my own jokes as my conversation-counterparts check out their shoes and figure out the politest way to leave.
Plus I get a big kick out of quoting movies and draping myself in egomaniacal language. So it goes.
Perhaps proper introductions are in order. My name is ____ – I'm the SBA Activities Coordinator. It may also be said that I'm the more nefarious element of the quasi-student group known as ________. I won't bore you with the details of the ________ right now. We have a myspace page, we have a facebook thingy, check it out if you like. The point is, I sometimes write emails. And they're usually long. And they're usually tongue-in-cheek mean. And they are always geared toward rallying a few students for some upcoming event.
And the short version of this is this: I don't want to trigger scuttlebutt. I don't wish to engender rumblings of ill will among the vox populi. It's sorta the exact opposite. I want many many many people to go the Fall Party. I'm a cheerleader for this school – I seriously effin' heart the place, the community, and I want it to thrive. There, I said it.
I did not mean to actually insult anyone. Yes, clearly, I took a few pot shots that could reasonably be interpreted as offensive. Wasn't the goal, wasn't seriously considered, and wasn't even fathomed. And maybe therein lies the problem – I failed to consider my audience. And once more, an introduction is in order: Hello, my name is ____. I am often seen roaming the halls of ____, having potentially inane conversations (ranging from "which Van Damme movies rules the hardest" to "what are the merits of the latest SCOTUS ruling" – realistically, I talk about Van Damme probably just as much as I do the Supreme Court), and I often look in need of a shave and a fashion coach. My humor is in large-part based on being a prick. I list Bill Hicks among my heroes. If you don't know Bill Hicks, and you're not going to the Fall Party, then I sincerely recommend you instead spend tonight downloading Arizona Bay, rocking some big canister-style headphones, and praying your brain doesn't implode from how ridiculously bad ass that album is.
Anyway, back to the point. Many of you don't know who I am. Consequently, I probably just seem like some useless jackass who writes preposterously long messages about parties (case in point). That might make me a douche, that might make me lame or immature, that might even make me a fratbag asshole.
Nevertheless, I sought to attract Party Participants and the irony is that I may have turned people off of the idea of coming to the Fall Party, despite my best intentions. Well that just sucks, especially since, you know, that's like the exact opposite goal I had in mind, hence the aforementioned irony. The first among us to discover the ability to time travel should go back to 1996 and tell Alanis Morissette that this situation is much more apropos for a hook.
So yea, I don't think I knew my audience. Mistake one. And I assumed my audience knew me. Mistake two. If this applies to you, it can all be changed by attending the Fall Party! Confront me. Call me out. Share a drink and a conversation. It'll be easy to spot me – I'll be the ugly-mugged douche in a burgundy suit drinking Canadian whisky like it's going out of style and making my mark on the night by mixing up self-congratulatory flattery with self-deprecating honesty, and laughing and smiling the entire time.
If you have any concerns regarding the _______, my emails, or anything else really, feel free to personally contact me. ______@gmail.com. I am more than happy to directly engage you on any of these matters, and truth be told, I'd prefer that to the back channels. In the words of another hero of mine, Tupac Amaru Shakur, "holla at me."
Once more, hope to see you all tonight! If not, have a great weekend. And again, it's late, apologies for any typos or errors. That is all.
B3.
Fall Party E-Melee.
So once a semester, the Student Bar Association throws a massive party. It is usually at a semi-upscale locale, costs $25, and comes with 3 drink tickets. This year, ticket sales to me lagging dramatically, especially among the 1L class. Accordingly, I was called into action by the SBA President and Vice-President to write an email to the student body that would elicit a response likely to result in increased ticket sales. The following is the first of two emails I ended up sending.
----------------------------------------
Hello All,
If you are incapable of reading more than a few sentences, then I will offer a synopsis now: Go to the SBA Fall Party this Friday. If fun was quantifiable, it will be a ginormous amount of that stuff. 250 people went last year. I guarantee you will never go to a school event that can match that number. Buy your ticket in the student boulevard. $25 is really not that much if you've ever actually had a drink in this town. In short, the SBA will be putting on a clinic this Friday. What sort of clinic? How about a "good-times" clinic? How about a "rock your face off" clinic? That's the brief overview. Now, if you wish to tickle your frontal lobe, I encourage you to allow your eyes to saunter through the rest of this epic email.
I write to apprise you, in the most flowery way I can, of the awesomeness of the social interaction opportunity that confronts you on the final day of this week - a week thus far marked by great weather as we serenely transition into a growing sense and appearance of Autumn. Some people don't capitalize Autumn, that's really silly.
For the unfamiliar, I am one of your faithful correspondents from the benevolent organization known as __________. We've been markedly silent thus far in the semester, an unfortunate consequence of a few elements coalescing in such a way as to prevent us from sharing with you our pearls of wisdom, our summaries of skullduggery, and our wrap-ups of weekend warriordom. Namely, we're, like, really busy and shit.
But the time has come where our collective voice must be heard. Cover your eyes if your mind cannot handle some serious bad ass literatus. Yea – I just slant rhymed literatus – deal with it.
The event alluded to above (see: reference to awesomeness) is the SBA Fall Party this Friday at ______. in ______.
First: If you have somehow managed to escape all the fliers and people barking at you in the student boulevard, I can only conclude that you've been playing hooky for the past week and a half and you should seriously consider coming back to class.
Second: To the entering class of 2008: Lock it up.
For better or worse, this latest batch of aspiring J.D.-hunters have developed a reputation as an assortment of various shapes and sizes of Debbie and Donny Downers. I say "for better or worse" just to be polite. There is nothing "better" about being a downer. That leaves "worse" and I don't know what you're actually "worse" than. I just know it's rarely a good thing to be worse than someone at anything, unless it's "how to not be awesome." But if that was the case, then the class is doing a great job at being "better." You either get the drift or lost the plot.
The point I'm driving at is that somehow or another, the message has not been impressed enough upon the entering class that this event might quite literally rock collective socks off. I lost a sock* last year, best night of my life. As a self-anointed arbiter of awesome, I feel a certain amount of responsibility for this failure to impress. I hope to some day come to terms with this burden. I'll take it one at a time though, don't worry about me.
1Ls, I'm worried about you. I'm a cynic – I'm not sure you can be swayed at this point. But I want to be proven wrong. I want so many 1Ls at the Fall Party that I eventually have to kick myself in the ass (the cynic's version of a pat on the back) for being so damn witty and enticing in my emails. I want to be surrounded by so many 1Ls that I have synergetic flashbacks to Tarasoff factors. I want to meet so many 1Ls that it becomes really awkward next week when I can't remember your names and you swear to me that "we had the best conversation ever."
Third: For those of you concerned about the $25 price-tag, there is one incredibly obvious retort. Seriously, have you ever gone drinking in San Francisco? It's expensive all over. And happening places often have covers. Go anywhere semi-swank in this town and try to get in the door and back out, with 3 drinks under your belt, for under $25. Not going to happen.
Fourth: I understand that some of you have concerns about studies, or have other engagements in mind. I'm not here to hassle about the pros and cons of spending your Friday night studying when it's not even November. And I'm not going to quibble over the pros and cons of hanging out with a crap-ton (term of art) of cool people at a nice bar. You can throw your wall of excuses at me all you wish, I'll merely respond with the words a wise man once whispered in my ear, "Rule #76: no excuses, play like a champion." It might not have been a whisper, I may have had my ear pressed to a television that was showing Wedding Crashers. Nevertheless, truer words (insert dramatic pause) never spoken.
Fifth: Finally, I've devoted way too much time to this damn email. So it goes. If you made it this far, then you should know, I'm from Washington. Not many people know that. By virtue of hailing from the Pacific Northwest (Alaska is suspended from the club until further notice), I'm pretty sweet. Besides the wicked sweetness that I'll be bringing to the table, I have four of my back-home-crew rolling into town this weekend. I don't know if ______ will be able to handle that much awesome in one building, but we'll certainly test its limits. There's a good chance that they'll consume much of what passes for beer in _____ over the new few days, and that they will no longer be on speaking terms with their livers by the time they leave, but it's going to be so much fun that it won't really matter. I'm offering you yet another incentive to come to the Fall Party – come enjoy my friends, they're ridiculous and great.
It's late, I've never been a fan of proofreading. Apologies for any typos, grammar errors, or any semblance of jackassery that may have slipped through the cracks during the construction of this message.
Hope to see you all this Friday. That is all.
Until next time,
B3
* "Lost a sock" is the latest and greatest euphemism. It roughly translates to "got schmasted and had a glorious time. Dig it."
----------------------------------------
Hello All,
If you are incapable of reading more than a few sentences, then I will offer a synopsis now: Go to the SBA Fall Party this Friday. If fun was quantifiable, it will be a ginormous amount of that stuff. 250 people went last year. I guarantee you will never go to a school event that can match that number. Buy your ticket in the student boulevard. $25 is really not that much if you've ever actually had a drink in this town. In short, the SBA will be putting on a clinic this Friday. What sort of clinic? How about a "good-times" clinic? How about a "rock your face off" clinic? That's the brief overview. Now, if you wish to tickle your frontal lobe, I encourage you to allow your eyes to saunter through the rest of this epic email.
I write to apprise you, in the most flowery way I can, of the awesomeness of the social interaction opportunity that confronts you on the final day of this week - a week thus far marked by great weather as we serenely transition into a growing sense and appearance of Autumn. Some people don't capitalize Autumn, that's really silly.
For the unfamiliar, I am one of your faithful correspondents from the benevolent organization known as __________. We've been markedly silent thus far in the semester, an unfortunate consequence of a few elements coalescing in such a way as to prevent us from sharing with you our pearls of wisdom, our summaries of skullduggery, and our wrap-ups of weekend warriordom. Namely, we're, like, really busy and shit.
But the time has come where our collective voice must be heard. Cover your eyes if your mind cannot handle some serious bad ass literatus. Yea – I just slant rhymed literatus – deal with it.
The event alluded to above (see: reference to awesomeness) is the SBA Fall Party this Friday at ______. in ______.
First: If you have somehow managed to escape all the fliers and people barking at you in the student boulevard, I can only conclude that you've been playing hooky for the past week and a half and you should seriously consider coming back to class.
Second: To the entering class of 2008: Lock it up.
For better or worse, this latest batch of aspiring J.D.-hunters have developed a reputation as an assortment of various shapes and sizes of Debbie and Donny Downers. I say "for better or worse" just to be polite. There is nothing "better" about being a downer. That leaves "worse" and I don't know what you're actually "worse" than. I just know it's rarely a good thing to be worse than someone at anything, unless it's "how to not be awesome." But if that was the case, then the class is doing a great job at being "better." You either get the drift or lost the plot.
The point I'm driving at is that somehow or another, the message has not been impressed enough upon the entering class that this event might quite literally rock collective socks off. I lost a sock* last year, best night of my life. As a self-anointed arbiter of awesome, I feel a certain amount of responsibility for this failure to impress. I hope to some day come to terms with this burden. I'll take it one at a time though, don't worry about me.
1Ls, I'm worried about you. I'm a cynic – I'm not sure you can be swayed at this point. But I want to be proven wrong. I want so many 1Ls at the Fall Party that I eventually have to kick myself in the ass (the cynic's version of a pat on the back) for being so damn witty and enticing in my emails. I want to be surrounded by so many 1Ls that I have synergetic flashbacks to Tarasoff factors. I want to meet so many 1Ls that it becomes really awkward next week when I can't remember your names and you swear to me that "we had the best conversation ever."
Third: For those of you concerned about the $25 price-tag, there is one incredibly obvious retort. Seriously, have you ever gone drinking in San Francisco? It's expensive all over. And happening places often have covers. Go anywhere semi-swank in this town and try to get in the door and back out, with 3 drinks under your belt, for under $25. Not going to happen.
Fourth: I understand that some of you have concerns about studies, or have other engagements in mind. I'm not here to hassle about the pros and cons of spending your Friday night studying when it's not even November. And I'm not going to quibble over the pros and cons of hanging out with a crap-ton (term of art) of cool people at a nice bar. You can throw your wall of excuses at me all you wish, I'll merely respond with the words a wise man once whispered in my ear, "Rule #76: no excuses, play like a champion." It might not have been a whisper, I may have had my ear pressed to a television that was showing Wedding Crashers. Nevertheless, truer words (insert dramatic pause) never spoken.
Fifth: Finally, I've devoted way too much time to this damn email. So it goes. If you made it this far, then you should know, I'm from Washington. Not many people know that. By virtue of hailing from the Pacific Northwest (Alaska is suspended from the club until further notice), I'm pretty sweet. Besides the wicked sweetness that I'll be bringing to the table, I have four of my back-home-crew rolling into town this weekend. I don't know if ______ will be able to handle that much awesome in one building, but we'll certainly test its limits. There's a good chance that they'll consume much of what passes for beer in _____ over the new few days, and that they will no longer be on speaking terms with their livers by the time they leave, but it's going to be so much fun that it won't really matter. I'm offering you yet another incentive to come to the Fall Party – come enjoy my friends, they're ridiculous and great.
It's late, I've never been a fan of proofreading. Apologies for any typos, grammar errors, or any semblance of jackassery that may have slipped through the cracks during the construction of this message.
Hope to see you all this Friday. That is all.
Until next time,
B3
* "Lost a sock" is the latest and greatest euphemism. It roughly translates to "got schmasted and had a glorious time. Dig it."
Monday, October 6, 2008
Chickens Come Home to Roost.
I've been "preparing" for a few weeks the arguments that I had to make over this previous weekend. By preparing, I mean that I pulled an all-nighter when completing the brief, and all-nighter putting together my oral argument materials. Instead of doing the reading, I opted to spend my school nights watching Heroes, Entourage, Sons of Anarchy, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. And now that Dexter and Californication are back on, there surely was no chance that I was going to devote a reasonable amount of time on the material.
Add on top of that entertainment goodness that I've been enjoying spending weekend afternoon lying around naked with a pretty girl, and a recipe for moot court disaster was bound to happen.
"Disaster" may be an overstatement - I argued twice, lost once. However, given how much shit I had talked to just about anyone who was within earshot at any given moment, I certainly fell short of my own and I'm assuming (hopefully) others' expectations.
So yes, I ended up losing to a kid who has almost no moot court experience and didn't fully grasp the arguments and the questions asked by the judges (not claiming I did), and doesn't speak English as his primary language. Yup. Not sure how that impacted the judges' analysis, but hard to believe it didn't have one effect one way or the other. So it goes. Sucks that I screwed the pooch, doesn't suck that I spent afternoons lying around naked with a pretty girl. You win some, you lose some.
Add on top of that entertainment goodness that I've been enjoying spending weekend afternoon lying around naked with a pretty girl, and a recipe for moot court disaster was bound to happen.
"Disaster" may be an overstatement - I argued twice, lost once. However, given how much shit I had talked to just about anyone who was within earshot at any given moment, I certainly fell short of my own and I'm assuming (hopefully) others' expectations.
So yes, I ended up losing to a kid who has almost no moot court experience and didn't fully grasp the arguments and the questions asked by the judges (not claiming I did), and doesn't speak English as his primary language. Yup. Not sure how that impacted the judges' analysis, but hard to believe it didn't have one effect one way or the other. So it goes. Sucks that I screwed the pooch, doesn't suck that I spent afternoons lying around naked with a pretty girl. You win some, you lose some.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Simply Beautiful.
From a CNN article:
In an interview with CNN this summer, Forester did not hide her distaste for eventual Democratic presidential nominee Barack Obama.
“This is a hard decision for me personally because frankly I don't like him,” she said of Obama in an interview with CNN’s Joe Johns. “I feel like he is an elitist. I feel like he has not given me reason to trust him.”
Forester is the CEO of EL Rothschild, a holding company with businesses around the world. She is married to international banker Sir Evelyn de Rothschild. Forester is a member of the DNC’s Democrats Abroad chapter and splits her time living in London and New York.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Moving On.
I think I'm going to quit The Job tomorrow.
With 14 units and extracurriculars, I'm putting in more time than I did first year. And since I lack the fear, and the drive, to actually put in the time and effort to stay on top of my reading. I've already fallen close to a collective hundred pages behind. As my friend put it, "I'm declaring reading bankruptcy" and just cutting my losses. So, I'm cutting my losses. I just hope it doesn't fuck my reference, that'd be weak x 10. The Boss just hired two other law clerks last week, so I'm hoping he actually lets me quit clean-break tomorrow, no 2-week notice or any of that. I'm crossing the fingers.
I mean, not only do I have classes to read for, I have beers I want to drink, a girl I'd like to make out with, and a jog I'd like to take every now and then.
Do you know what I've gotten from law school so far? 2 years of education, 16 tattoos, and 25 pounds. Fuck. Yes, I need a jog.
With 14 units and extracurriculars, I'm putting in more time than I did first year. And since I lack the fear, and the drive, to actually put in the time and effort to stay on top of my reading. I've already fallen close to a collective hundred pages behind. As my friend put it, "I'm declaring reading bankruptcy" and just cutting my losses. So, I'm cutting my losses. I just hope it doesn't fuck my reference, that'd be weak x 10. The Boss just hired two other law clerks last week, so I'm hoping he actually lets me quit clean-break tomorrow, no 2-week notice or any of that. I'm crossing the fingers.
I mean, not only do I have classes to read for, I have beers I want to drink, a girl I'd like to make out with, and a jog I'd like to take every now and then.
Do you know what I've gotten from law school so far? 2 years of education, 16 tattoos, and 25 pounds. Fuck. Yes, I need a jog.
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