and its a story that might bore you,|
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|Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010|
|Today's Fuck That Guy
The guy who stiff-armed me while walking by on the sidewalk.
Yup -- it was dark, and the sidewalk wasn't incredibly wide, but it was definitely wide enough and I gave you a wide berth of at least a foot and a half between our shoulders. Should have been enough. Apparently not. You felt the need to fully extend your arm and shove me further toward the road.
And then you waved and muttered a vague apology as you walked away, even though I called you a "fucking dickhead."
Fuck that guy.
|Sunday, January 31st, 2010|
The world felt a lot better, and still does, when hearing early to mid '90s rap.
|Thursday, January 28th, 2010|
My capacity for cruelty is most bountiful toward those I love. I wish it wasn't that way, but I have a far harder time being a jerk toward complete strangers than people who are near and dear.
On the sidewalk just now, I stood there for 10 minutes while she cried and called me an asshole. She’s probably right. And I still didn’t care, and that was probably the point.
Her two texts immediately after:
1) “You are such a mean and insensitive person. I wish I had never met you.”
2) “Fuck you for always taking me for granted.”
It’s probably not a good sign that all I want to do is text back: “You yelled at me for never responding to your texts. I’m only texting you back now because I love the irony. That is all. Have a good one.”
|Sunday, January 17th, 2010|
|Dealing with the Doctor
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.
|Monday, January 11th, 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.
|Thursday, January 7th, 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.
- 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
- 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.
|Wednesday, January 6th, 2010|
|Today's Person Who Should Be Beaten in the Middle of the Street
Today's Person Who Should Be Beaten in the Middle of the Street is the guy who had to make a triple-illegal pass while someone may have been laying dead in the street.
He ran a red light just after he passed me (1) on the right (2) in the middle of the intersection as I was crossing Market, meaning he (3) used a cross-walk in order make his nifty manuever. He hit the Trifecta.
To complete the picture, traffic was roughly going the speed limit. Now for the unfamiliar, this is strange in California because almost everyone does at least 10 over. Why, you may ask, was traffic going at the appropriate speed limit? Because a small crowd of people were blocking half the intersection. Seeing people blocking traffic in the middle of Market is nothing new, what with the sheer number of shoppers, crackheads, and general rude-ass pedestrians -- but it's a little more understandable when said crowd is huddled around a crumpled mass that just so happens to be a human that was recently dislodged from his scooter.
Yup -- real classy, chief. As my Pa would say, here's hoping someone soon puts the boots to you. Dick.
|Sunday, January 3rd, 2010|
While I've certainly let up on my drinking-days&nights now that law school is done with, I'd be remiss if I didn't share the game I've come to love.
The game: Thunderstruck
The method: Progressive waterwall, whereby drinking-turn passes every time the word "thunder" gets said.
The point: Drinking
The bonus point: Dancing.
It is best-played amongst friends, especially friends who might be prone to shooting beer through their nose if they see you crotch-pumping to classic rock power chords.
Go forth, and play.
: Stop blacking out so muchSuccess
: Not too bad. Not 100%, but closer to that than 0.2010Goal(s)
1) Pay more attention to finances
2) Start writing again/more
3) Try to remember what it was like to give a shit. Success
: To be seen.
I may not have a job in 2.5 weeks. I may have to move back in with my parents by March or April.
I may need to hustle for skrilla like no one's business. Life in the big city ain't cheap.
On the plus side, I just finished the Harry Potter series. God damn, I wish I was a wizard instead of a sometimes-funny loudmouth who can usually handle his hooch.
There's 5-10% chance that I'll be living in Virginia in the not-too-distant future. Yup.
|Sunday, October 18th, 2009|
Have y'all heard of this guy Owl City?
My roommate showed them/him to me today and said: "This is Ben Gibbard's new project."
. But still, it's pretty effin' cool.
If you want to hear someone that sounds just like Gibbard, then you're set. He even has a song called Hello Seattle
. That may be almost borderline imposterism, but he sounds catchy doing it, so whatever.
"Fuck the bullshit."
I don't know where I first heard that line. I know it was a movie, and I know it wasn't the 311 song. Why do I know that? Because I've seen a lot of movies with great lines like the above referenced gem and because I'd rather stab a rusty screwdriver through my eardrum than listen to any 311 song other their cover of Love Song. Seriously, they're lame, and the only people who like 311 are creepsters who never joined a frat only because they didn't go to college or lame teenage girls straining for a connection to black culture without having to listen to black artists. Honestly, nothing makes me giggle more with condescension than white guys doing reggae -- more than shouting or threatening me, it's the fastest way for a bartender to get me to vacate the premises.
In any event, a movie is where I first heard the above listed line, and a movie is what I'd like to tell you about. The movie is Sex Drive. I saw that trailer months ago and fucking gagged. It looks awful judging by those two and a half minutes. But let me tell you -- the trailer cannot begin to convey how fucking good the thing is.
Side note: now that I'm working, I spend far less time drinking and going out. Hence, I have much more time to spend at home and watch random shit on HBO and Starz. So yea, Sex Drive was on, I gave it a shot, and I've been thankful all these few days since.
The trailer can't do shit for the movie because the movie is filled with the sort of shit that can't be aired to the mainstream public. Same thing goes for all great vulgar comedies. Plus! Bonus: James Marsden plays the raging homophobic older brother. He's great. I'm so used to seeing that fool play the nice-guy, it was beyond words to finally recognize him in this role.
I can pretty much break the film down for you into a few key words, you'll know if it's for you or not based on this list:
- Jokes about boners
- Road trip
- Jokes about boobs
- Sarcastic Amish people (check!)
So yea, you should see it.
|Sunday, September 27th, 2009|
The reality is that law school sucked almost every creative and sensitive ounce I think I had before I came to SF. In a way, I feel like I no longer have any idea or connection to the person I was four years ago before I was anywhere near leaving everything I had ever known in order to start my new life here.
For the first time in a long time, I've spent the night drinking a tall beer and a few shots, by myself, in the dark, and looking at photos of all the people I once used to spend all my time with when I lived in Washington. It tears me up to realize how good I had it with everyone and how I gave all of that up so hastily for the thrill of trying something new and the eagerness to abandon whatever wounds I permitted to turn into scars as soon as I pulled myself away from Seattle.
I resent myself for missing so much of everyone's lives. For not being there for the few weddings that've happened so far. For not being at the random-get-togethers. For not being there when I should have when someone needed a shoulder to cry on. For hating the fact that I feel like a foreigner in this city because I still don't know the suburb layouts here, because I knew South King County like a 14 year old boy knows the inside of his palm. Literally. I drove around those towns about as often as I jerked off. And I jerked off a lot. So you know, I drove a lot too. For not calling anyone even when I thought it would help (them, me?) to hear my voice. For resenting my friends for not trying to maintain contact with me even though I've made almost no attempts to maintain contact with them. Especially for resenting people for forgetting my birthday when I never remember anyone’s birthday except for my parents. For people growing up outside of my view. For not getting to share the same jokes I share with my friends in SF [“Brasky once date-raped David Bowie”]. For not being around people who understand why I fucking love Washington so much.
You should hear me, I talk of it all the time. Rather, I rub in other peoples' silly faces the fact that they didn't grow up where I did and therefore have not even a slight clue as to how damn awesome it is. And I talk shit. A lot. About their drivers. About their lack of green hills. About their failure to be the home of as-awesome bands or as-monstrously-important corporations or as badass-people (namely, the people I choose to consider friend). And if I see someone with anything Seattle on his/her person while I’m parading around SF, I approach them like a grand inquisitor to insure that they do in fact have a real connection to the place I'll probably always call home no matter how many years I'm away from it. And if they don't, even when I don't say it, even though I usually do, these people are fucking posers and in a perfect world would be compelled to spend an eternity enduring the kind of indignant shit they've inflicted upon others - namely me.
And if they do have a connection, I go über-douche and make them look at my WA-outline tattoo, even if they flinch when they see how my packed-on-pounds have distorted the image to the point of looking like a small-scale map of the Urals -- that's how douche I am, I'm out of shape and I have tattoos that most late 20-somethings think makes me weird -- and I STILL make them look. That's just how.I.roll. I'm pretty sure that's the sort of thing Joyce would have done for Ireland, if he would have had the berries to get that shit stabbed into him with needles and whatnot.
God, I really hate that I'm only now realizing how self-indulgent/obsessed/over-analytical I really was when I was 18-23 , and the hate mainly derives from the fact that I envy that motherfucker I used to be before I ever went to grad school, before I ever came to SF, before I ever left all the people I once would have promised to take a rubber bullet for. I also hate that it only takes a little PBR
and Black Velvet for me to fall back into those psychological tendencies.
Is it weird to spend more than 10 seconds wondering if people you haven’t talked to in 5 years look you up on the internet like you still periodically look them up?
|Sunday, August 9th, 2009|
|Since Last Time.
I graduated in May. I spent the next two months studying for and taking the California Bar, i.e. worst two-thirds of summer ever.
I’ve been dating the same girl since last September. She’s very pretty and smart and forthright in her opinions. She’s very nice and thoughtful and we talk to each other in baby voices. We have pet names. It’s pretty disgusting. But I’m happy. So there it is.
I spent the last week at her parents’ beach house in North Carolina. Yes, they’re fortunate enough to have the resources to own two homes – it’s strange to me too.
Tomorrow I leave for Thailand. I’ll be there for a month. It’s probably one of the least financially wise decisions I’ve ever made. But my job doesn’t start until mid-September, and it’s cheaper to live in Thailand than San Francisco. So there you have it.
I have no idea where I’ll be living when I get back – week-to-week hotel combined with craigslist until something clicks probably.
My “job” is not the most impressive thing ever – I’ll be covering the maternity leave for the woman in charge of workers’ comp cases at the firm I interned for during my last semester. But it will mean money, and it will mean a chance to use my boss’ connections to my every advantage for my next gig.
My future is a blank-paged book waiting to be filled. I want to practice law, I want to brew beer, and I want to get back to putting my thoughts on paper (or some facsimile thereof).
I miss Seattle, and have no clue when I’ll be returning again. I miss my friends dearly, even if I never talk to you, trust me when I say you’re never far from my thoughts, and I hope everyone is doing well.
|Thursday, July 2nd, 2009|
|Friday, October 31st, 2008|
|Tuesday, October 14th, 2008|
|On The Off Chance Doug Compliemented Me:
I thought it would be nice to give you 4 people that still read my LJ how I am doing.
Flag football is 3 weeks deep, the team is 3-0. That record is deceptive - while it's true that we would probably be undefeated even if full teams showed up, they don't, so we're undefeated through forfeits by teams who don't take the league seriously. Whatever. I took an elbow in the chest a couple of weeks ago. There is no visible damage, but it still hurts in certain situations, like getting in and out of bed for example. I've never experienced something quite like it, so I'm not sure what to suspect.
But with the fact that it now is mildly painful to move around while laying down, well, it makes 'the sexing' a lot less enjoyable to say the least. Truth be told, the girl and I haven't exactly moved on to humping per se, but it's definitely been discussed as a goes-without-saying idea that is supposed to have happened already. But my constant grimaces and repeated "aah fuck"s don't exactly set the proper mood, as you may be able to imagine. I sound and feel a bit like an old man being asked to perform a task meant for a young buck. While the pain hasn't been so severe that I was seriously thinking about tapping my medical insurance, the inconvenience on my sex-life is something that I'm becoming increasingly convinced is not something I should allow.
In other news, the economy rollercoasters and I feign to have a mild understanding as to why, but I'm probably just fooling myself and maybe others.
|Sunday, September 28th, 2008|
1. I quit my job a little over a week ago. I was quickly falling behind in all of my classes. Felt a bit like drowning, and it was making me depressed. So off she went. It was smooth, no big deal.
2. As mentioned above, I'm behind in my classes. Desperately so. I haven't gone out all weekend just to make sure I don't get too drunk and put more time toward the books.
3. I'm somewhat seeing a girl. She's a 3L. She's fun, pretty, and artsy-sensitive. She is from Virginia and has the longest eye-lashes I've ever seen. She has been told be a couple of people that she should not be seeing me. The reasons vary from me being "a bastard" toward women, being "a douche" in general, to someone actually telling her "you can do better than him." Bear in mind that these few people saying the shit are supposedly my friends. Yea, pretty lame, but whatever. She's not too phased about what she hears, says she is going to let our interactions determine her thoughts about me. I'm satisfied with that.
4. Flag football season starts today. Awesome.
That is all.
|Saturday, August 23rd, 2008|
|A Glaring Indictment of my Ignorance Regarding All Things Finance.
From my corporations textbook:
This raises an obvious question: How do the market prices of publicly traded stocks relate to possible estimates of stock value based on discounting their expected dividends?
I know I'm not offering much in the way of context, but suffice to say, that question is far from "obvious" to me.
|Saturday, August 16th, 2008|
|Tuesday, August 5th, 2008|
So I stoned up, asked The Wee One if she wanted to go out some time.
Side note: I had to do this via gchat since I don't have her number and didn't want to get it through our mutual friend, that's just lazy pool. By the by, Dirty Pool is one of the phrases I've picked up from The Boss this summer.
Anyway, fucking yippy! She said yeah.
I know it's kinda pathetic that I'm a 25 year old "man" that still gets pretty damn stoked when I soberly ask a girl out and she says "yes." But the reality of it is that I've only straight-up asked out a handful of girls in my life, so I still feel like a rook at it. Sucks. Big time. Oh well. I'm dealing. Later.