Penguins With Chlamydia

Update: soul sucking in progress.

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Wed, 07 Dec 2005 00:49:00 +0000

I sent this picture, along with some others of my study center, to Fbomb and SlackerP yesterday. That was my low point. I was so out of my gourd from studying that I resorted to taking pictures of my room. It was ugly.

Now I stand on the other side of my torts exam though. Rather than telling you about it, I thought I'd sum it up with some post-exam correspondence between Fbomb and I. This is really how we talk to each other; this is how far down the spiral we are [edit: re-reading this, it actually sounds like it's just me that's down the sprial].

From me to Fbomb right after test:
"done w/ torts for the rest of my life. it was a good first test to have b/c i have no idea how i did. you just spew info for 3 hours. i typed 18 pages. i read none of them. it could be good, or it could be an F. we shall see. "

Fbomb response:
"awesome!! congrats. i'm super jealous. "

Me (apparently so delirious that I sent essentially the same email to her twice)
"no more torts. ever. it's a good exam to have first though. i have no idea how i did b/c there was so much more than you could cover. i have no feelings at all about it, other than that i pray to god i didn't fail."

Me (back in the library now, getting antsy)
"umm...aren't you supposed to be entertaining me?"

Fbomb (in her defense, she sent me gratuitous good luck emails last night)

"i'm sorry i'm in panic mode and i'm jealous that you're on top of everything and know what you're doing and are doing everything the right way and i'm a fucking mess wading through this shit totally blind with no study groups to tell me what i'm supposed to be doing and i'm the most fucking retarded person ever if somebody doesn't tell me exactly what to do and when i will fucking self destruct. off to memorize my 70 page outline for my CLOSED BOOK MOTHER FUCKING EXAM! O#UOFJKSDFU#(OU#$U#U$OUO#(TdslsdkfjKLDjlkjfklsjielrlier!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Me back:
"Asshole,

1) Since this is all about me, as always, this email was quite a buzzkill. Thanks a fucking bunch.

2) You are right, I am "on top of everything," if by "on top of everything" you capable of physically sitting through a 3 hour test. In that regard, I have kicked your ass. For all we know, you can't sit for three hours. Or your fingers will fall off from the info dump that is a torts exam. You won't be at my level until you prove it.

3) As an aside, I do like the last line of the email. It is great that they include Somali in the required coursework. I mean, any foreign language work in law school is kind of rare, but Somali? Great stuff. Kudos, FBomb.

4) As I told you, I'm 90% sure that a guy from my study group posted on XOXO that he was going to fail and was strongly considering dropping out. His analytic ability is definitely going to put me over the edge. What an advantage I have. Dickhead (I mean him). Touche (I mean you).

5) If you want to see self-destruction, you should see what happens when the 90 year old exam proctor gets asked whether or not to name the CD you're burning with your exam on it. (For the record, I was smart enough not to ask this question, another sure sign that I am inherently superior to you - for those of you keeping score: 1) study group full of autistic primates; 2) I know how to burn a cd).

6) 70 page outline? Christ. Did you type up the UCC?

As punishment for this shameful email and my shameful response, I am posting this correspondence on Penguins so that the world can see what law school has done to us. "

Well, I'm a man of my word at least.

Prostates on the top; scalpels on the bottom*

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Sat, 29 Oct 2005 03:23:00 +0000

"Well, I mean, to some extent every man in this room has prostate cancer."

My torts prof said this. I’m still not sure I understand it. I laughed though.

That quote plus those three sentences sum up my law school experience at the Georgetown University Law Factory so far. Teachers saying things. I'm pretending to understand. Then, lots of awkward laughter followed by me staring at my crotch.

If I had to come up with a word to describe my experience so far, it would be manic-depressive. Two words you say? Piss off. MS Word says it’s one when you have a 2,000 word memo due the next morning. Hyphenation is key.

On the manic side, DC is good, I see SlackerP more than I did when I lived in NYC (can you believe she's running a marathon this weekend? Me neither, but I'll let you know if she actually does it), and I have re-entered the blissfully ignorant bubble of life on an urban-but-gated academic campus. When class gets tough I watch Tai Shan;* I might buy his t-shirt, and I fully support his nomination to the bench. When class is [really] easy, I try to picture myself as a licensed lawyer [for what it's worth at this point, before a felony convictions].

On the depressive side, learning the law is hard (if not impossible), the liquor store down the street closes at 9p and has a $10 credit card minimum, and I’ve regressed to my pre-kindergarten reading rate of 3 pages per hour.

So I argue back and forth a lot about whether I’m happy here or oppressed by the inevitable crush that GULC must face in trying to separate/rank 600 law students and then force them back through the meat grinder into respectable jobs (hopefully). I’ve even drafted posts before, but scrapped them when either a) they sound too crabby, or b) too many Viagara adds show up in the comment section after I post them.

In the end, I’m pretty lucky and happy, until I run out of whiskey.

I’ll close how I ended, with a GULC quote:

"If Roe must be aborted to end legal discrimination on the basis of sex in this nation, then hand me the scalpel."

That’s from the student newspaper. I mean, what’s not to love?

*So far, the main lesson of law school has been semi-colons

Postcards from Hell

noreply@blogger.com (fbomb) — Fri, 28 Oct 2005 00:03:00 +0000

Did you ever think that your soul could be completely crushed, pureed, eviscerated- in two months time? In two weasly months, a previously robust, thriving soul is now a limp, lifeless shell of its former self. "Dear me!" you say to yourself. "How can this be?!?!?" Indeed. How can it be?

Law school has claimed another victim. So fucking trite, I know. But I'd like to think that my pain is different. My own personal hell on earth must be unique in some way, right? Otherwise what am I? Miserable, depressed, horrified beyond belief on a daily basis... and a cliche?!? I couldn't bear it.

I wish I could say my pain were different, but I doubt it's the case. But I will say that I can't believe that anybody has ever dreaded a place as much as I dread the hallowed halls of my law school. Entering each morning I consider my options: laying down in the street and being run over by a bus, hanging myself from a streetlamp, throwing myself on the subway tracks. When i leave each evening, I cannot wipe the smile off my face. I literally FROLIC all the way home- the world is a glorious, shining, beautiful place. Each stranger on the street is my friend. The honking horns and bus farts are the sweet melody of life.

And then it's the next morning.

This is my life. Alas. Yes, I'm being dramatic. Yes, I'm being a baby. Yes, I am SURELY not making the best of my situation. BUT... I want to complain. Because pain likes this needs to be vented, otherwise I will implode.

But it's all worth it, right? Shitting away your mid-twenties is TOTALLY worth it, because then I'll get a job I hate and will live happily ever after.

Hee.

E3B has suggested I become an alcoholic, numb my pain, and all will be well. I think he's right. Do you think they'd notice that I had vodka in my WestLaw nalgene bottle instead of water? Mwahahah.

Kisses!!!!

--Fbomb

Black Toenails and Bloody Nipples

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 20:51:00 +0000

This Sunday, I'm finally running the Marine Corps Marathon in DC. I'm heading down tonight.

Please send me good luck thoughts on Sunday morning. Or, better yet, a new set of kneecaps. I have a sneaking suspicion I may need 'em.

Full recap of the race to follow. I'm sure you'll love hearing about chafing and Runner's Trots.

I Touched Him

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Fri, 21 Oct 2005 21:18:00 +0000

Last night I volunteered at the Red Cross ball. My job was to wear a Red Cross teeshirt and smile at rich people. And take their credit card info when they won in the auction. And resist the temptation to run cackling out of the building with said credit card, yelling "I'll show you disaster relief, biiiitcheeeees."

Clinton spoke. Bloomberg posed. A rich old man thought I was funny when I told him we accepted gold bullion.

But the highlight, by far, was Jon Stewart. He was mc'ing the evening. Now, everyone who knows me knows that I want to be the Irish corned beef in a Jon Stewart / Stephen Colbert love sandwich. Last night was my chance.

As the volunteers lined up in the hallway to get instructions for the auction, I noticed Jon off to the side, with his wee handler man. Though I was supposed to be listening to directions, I instead stared at him, and as he started to walk away, I gazed at him from on high (I'm 5'10" in flats, and I was in stellettos, and he's a little man).

Then it happened.

We locked eyes.

I tried to communicate my desire.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi...Jon," I said, displaying my rapier wit.

"Hi," he said again, waiting.

"I'm a huge fan."

"Thank you," he said.

And then he shook my hand [while his little handler dude interrupted us and was trying to get my flow, which annoyed me, and distracted Jon, and broke our moment].

But he touched me.

My right hand. My sacred hand. My hand blessed by the funny. My hand that blesses my own funny, if you know what I mean.

And I think you do.

Breaking "news"

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Wed, 05 Oct 2005 20:53:00 +0000

Nick and Jessica are divorcing, and Katie is going to have Tom's baby (allegedly).

Can't you just see their publicists -- "This Miers chick has stolen the spotlight long enough. Let's get back to real news!"

Poor Harriet. You're going to have to give Condi a lesbi-lapdance if you want any attention.

S.O.S.

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Thu, 29 Sep 2005 19:07:00 +0000

Poor E3B and fbomb have heard many a diatribe about this next hot-button issue, but it's about time I let my voice ring from the electronic mountaintops. Attention all who use computers to relay communication!

Stop with the fucking emoticons.

And, while we're at it, stop with the fucking emotional experience acronyms like J/K and LOL.

"But, but, SlackerP! We *need* emoticons and acronyms! Or else someone might misunderstand my email/text message/instant message."

Here's a tip, kids - if your email requires you to denote in cutesy symbols how the person should interpret what you are saying then YOU AREN'T A VERY GOOD WRITER and perhaps you should go back to the goddamn drawing board and figure out how to communicate without pictures (case in point: would you need me to do a >:( right now to tell that I'm not exactly tickled by these things?). Sarcasm used well is a beautiful thing, and if you are writing to someone that doesn't register sarcasm or whose misinterpretation could, I don't know, offend them or cost you your job then PERHAPS YOU SHOULDN'T BE SARCASTIC in that instance.

Too often, people use emoticons as crutches. Either they are gratuitous (e.g. "Hope you have a happy day! :)") or they are just free passes for saying something not funny and stupidly insulting (e.g. "You suck :)") Rarely do I see an emoticon that serves some purpose other than bugging the shit out of me. "Hmm. I thought she was ambivalent on the subject of slapping babies, but now I see the colon followed by the parenthesis notation and I know she must be seriously frowning at the idea. Thanks, emoticon!"

Along those same lines, quit using J/K (Just kidding!) in emails. Again, if they can't tell you are kidding, then learn how to write a joke. And stop using it, like the emoticons, to excuse some shitty statement (e.g. "You aren't actually my kid. J/K!")

And now we get to my favorite - LOL. LOL supposedly means "laugh out loud" and variations include LMAO ("laughing my ass off"), ROTFL ("rolling on the floor laughing"), which then combine to make the Super Acronym ROTFLMAO ("rolling on the floor laughing my ass off"). If you use these acronyms regularly, are you actually doing these things?! Are you actually in danger of your ass detaching from your body because of some joke you just got forwarded about how men are like lint catchers? Are you really rolling around on the floor, cavorting with dust buffalo and crappy carpet, because that picture of a cat in a bucket was just so funny? If you aren't actually doing those things, why the hell are you including it?!

Now I have a dear friend, who I love, who uses LOL all the time in emails. If you took her scribblings at face value, then you would think that this girl sits at her computer cackling like a banchee to the point that she should be locked up. Like say you invite her out. She might write you back with "Thanks for the invitation LOL." Do you really think that she's guffawing when you suggest dinner?

Once, with a different friend, he wrote LLLLLOOOOOOLLLLL. What the fuck does that mean? Is this an acronym for someone who stutters?

Some of you may think I'm being irrational about this. Perhaps. But all I gots to say to that is F.U.

P.S. To those of you who use :P as representative of your current state, keep your goddamn tongue in your mouth where it belongs or else someone may mistake you for a child that needs a helmet and a seat on the short bus.

No, Seriously?

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Tue, 27 Sep 2005 21:21:00 +0000

Gawker is reporting that OK! Magazine allegedly paid $2 million for this photo of "Britney Spear's baby."

So I've got a plan, kids. I'm going to dye my hair, stop showering, dress like white trash, and then carry around a gourd with some yarn on top. One of you takes a picture of me, preferably from a long distance away and while shaking the camera, and then you and I will split the check.

Screw law school.

Go Sox

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Tue, 27 Sep 2005 18:02:00 +0000

I just secured two tickets to Game 1 of the playoffs in Boston on the optimistic hope that the Sox make it to the playoffs. Keep your fingers crossed. Me drunk at Fenway waving a foam finger and blending in among a group of idiots is long overdue.

In other sports news, how 'bout them Browns? Cough.

Disturbing Tidbit o' the Day

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Fri, 23 Sep 2005 20:15:00 +0000

I had a naked dream featuring Ben Affleck last night. Discuss amongst yourselves.

[ed. note to E3B, Stranded P, and fbomb: this is what happens when you let me take control of the blog]

Having it All

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Tue, 20 Sep 2005 18:02:00 +0000

The NYTimes ran an article today about women at "elite" colleges choosing to become stay-at-home moms. Or at least planning to become. Women who, though highly educated and ambitious, intend to drop their careers to raise a family. The accompanying photo shows a grinning Yale student, positioned on a rocking chair as to show off her legs. One of the guys interviewed says "I think that's sexy" when asked about women staying at home.

Sigh.

Yet again, we are rehashing the tired debate - should mothers stay home? or work? can women do both? have it all?

I just got back from LSAT teacher training and we spent a fair amount of time on "assumptions." There are plenty here to choose from here.

First, the women assume they will marry well enough that they can just up and leave their jobs but maintain their lifestyle. Women in the lower economic bracket really don't have a choice, unless they decide not to eat for a while.

Second, and more disturbing, this article doesn't address (nor do the girls seem to consider) that perhaps the husband could stay home or, at least, be considered in this equation beyond Provider of Paycheck. The work, not-to-work parenting debate is *still* framed in terms of women. It's a problem for women to figure out and negotiate. It's not a couple problem.

Both in the article, and in the discussions that I have participated in afterwards, they talk about women discovering, post-feminism, that having it all wasn't possible. Very often, the job, the children, and/or the marriage suffered when women tried to overextend themselves. As an attorney I know said "You can have it all. You just can't have it all at once."

But again, why is this solely on the mother here? Why is it her job to figure out the best way to preserve the marriage, the kids' mental health, and her job success? Where is the partnership aspect of this all?

Some male friends of mine, in discussing this article, snarkily commented that the women were wasting time and taking up space in these elite schools, and that they should just spend their time learning how to care for the home. But these same men would probably throw a fit if their wife said to them "yeah, I want a career. If you want these kids raised by a parent, then I guess you are staying home." If they were forced with the choice, what would they do? And would the same judgment be thrust upon them either way?

I wish this post were more coherent and my arguments clearer. But I'm tired. I'm tired of hearing the same old debate and the same old arguments and the same old pronoun attached to it all.

She.

Thus endth my rant.

Sorry

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Tue, 06 Sep 2005 20:14:00 +0000

Sorry that we haven't posted much. Katrina has made it hard to focus on anything else, much less be funny.

By the way, the Red Cross needs Call Center volunteers in Manhattan. If you are based in NYC, call (212) 875-2349 to set up a time to train. It's a two-hour class, and then you are qualified to man the phones.

Oh

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Thu, 25 Aug 2005 19:11:00 +0000

And just in case you were wondering, the answer to your question is "yes," if your question is, in fact, "Did SlackerP kill all the other posters on this site so she could dominate the board with her surprisingly bitter observations?"

R.I.P. E3B, StrandedP, and fbomb. Sorry to have used a spatula, but it just seemed funny at the time.

Does Your Week Sound Like This?

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Thu, 25 Aug 2005 18:46:00 +0000

MONDAY: "How am I doing? Well, it's Monday...*sigh*"

TUESDAY: "At least it's not Monday."

WEDNESDAY: "Mid-week! Hump day! Just gotta get through today!"

THURSDAY: "Almost there to the big F-day!"

FRIDAY: "Thank God it's Friday, huh?"

I think my goal in my professional life will be to find a job that doesn't require me to have this, or any version of this, conversation with anyone anymore. Impossible dream? Perhaps. But it's either that or gouge out my eyeballs using a spork.

Adventures in Advertising

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Tue, 23 Aug 2005 18:39:00 +0000

In order to raise money for Running Strong for Indian Youth, the marathon charity that got me into the race, I've been trying to get creative. Since I can't exactly have a bake sale in the middle of Chinatown, I have been forced to think of other angles. I did the obligatory group email but, of course, most of my friends are in similar financial situations to myself [read: broke ass poor]. So today I decided to try posting on Craigslist in the community section, politely asking people to donate for a good cause.

So far, I've received one response.
"Subject: Face $it
Hi I am very interested, can u please get back with some infor, and tell me how u look, is it your b/f or husband who is going to get sat on? Please get back, I am ready now."

Took me a couple reads, but I think that my post about supporting a cause that helps tribes become more self-sufficient is actually code for "Pay me money and I'll sit on a guy's face."

I've got nothing against sitting on faces, provided there is no suffocation or muskrats involved. But who knew there was a market for this kind of thing? Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like this person (we'll name her "Laura") is willing to hand over cold hard cash to watch me sit on my significant other's face (is the price more for the husband or for the "b/f," I wonder?). And not only will she pay me, but she doesn't even need to be convinced- she is "ready now."

Wow.

All this time, I was looking for money-making opportunities in the so-called "legitimate" fields while I was unknowingly sitting on a gold mine.

Chick [Sh]it

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Wed, 10 Aug 2005 17:28:00 +0000

A co-worker lent me a book that she thought I would like called "The Perfect Manhattan." It's about a girl who graduates college and decides to bartend in NYC while waiting for her writing career to take off. "I know you don't like chick lit," she said "But you'll like this."

I hate chick lit. I hate the pink flowy poorly written books that focus on relationships and fashion as the center of the universe. I tried to read a chick lit book in college called Mr. Maybe. A friend lent it to me, saying it would "speak to me." It did speak to me - in a grating, high-register, sorority voice that said "like" and "omigod" every other word. I couldn't even get past chapter one.

For some reason, this kind of drivel pisses me off to a nearly irrational level. Is there a market for this kind of thing? Most of the women I know are intelligent and enjoy books with actual plots and craft. Who is buying these crap fests?

Here's an example of a passage from this latest Estrogen Stereotyping Du Jour:
"'Love your lip gloss, cutie pie...It's Nars Baby Doll, isn't it?'...'And your bronzer!' the other man exclaimed, bubbling with excitement. 'Don't tell me - Laura Mercier! I love her products. You know what they say, bronzer's all fun and games until you look like you've been hit in the head with a pumpkin!'"

Has anyone ever had a conversation like this? Ever? And with a guy? I never have and I have a fair amount of gay friends.

Or try this:
"The other line looked like the typical Spark clientele: girls in Jimmy Choo stilettos, short Chip and Pepper skirts, and brightly colored Dior tanks, guys in the standard male uniform of Hickey Freeman or Ascot Chang button-downs rolled 'casually' to the sleeves, and Cole Haan or Gucci loafers."

What? Who gives a shit? And this isn't an anomaly. In the first 10 pages, she drops the brand name of clothes or shoes 4 times. Think about that. I don't care that your shoes are Dolce and Gabbana and that your jeans are Citizens for Humanity. What type of audience does? Does this mean something to someone?

Let's not even get into the ridiculous proposition that a girl who bartends out of college can afford designer clothes, an apartment in the West Village, and yoga classes. Where is *this* Manhattan? I want to live there.

As far as I can tell, the plot is about working at a bar and then working for a summer in the Hamptons. And there are boys or something. The authors (yes, plural. It took more than one person to create a pile of shit this deep) were bartenders at a Manhattan bar called Oneils - which is obviously the bar they are basing their fictional "Finton's" joint on (they even give the same address and interior details) - and at a place in the Hamptons. Whoa! What range! But it's not autobiographical. Oh no. I'm sure the hair products are different.

I just cannot fathom that someone would write this crap, get it published, and get read by anyone. But someone must be buying these books. And as long as people pay for it, then publishers will continue to think that this is the shit that all women care about.

26.2 Craziness

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Thu, 04 Aug 2005 15:42:00 +0000

In 2003, I ran the Chicago Marathon. E3B affectionately refers to it as the Marathon of Vengeance, because my motivation for training, and running, was an asshole ex-boyfriend. He was a marathon runner, and once told me that I would probably never be able to run a marathon because I didn't have a "runner's build." So after we broke up, I decided a better use of my time than crying my eyes out and listening to emo rock was to train.

Though it certainly was difficult at times (like, say, when two of my toenails fell off), the training instilled in me a real love of running, and an intimate knowledge of Central Park. In October of that year, I joined 40,000 other runners on a warm day in Chicago, and I did what I had long thought impossible - I consumed my weight in Gatorade. I also crossed the finish line at 3:59:06, which is technically less than four hours (in the same way a tomato is technically a fruit).

This year, my friend and I have decided to run the Marine Corps Marathon in DC on October 30 with the Running Strong for Indian Youth team. So training begins again. To make my transition from recreational runner to marathoner easier, God has decided to slam NYC with another oppressive heatwave and kill the air conditioning and water supply at my Ghetto Gym. He also had a conversation with the guy who likes to run on the treadmill next to me about the evils of deoderant on one's gentle underarms.

So training is going awesomely! Thanks for asking!

Provided I don't die from some sort of random heat related ailment or from my kneecaps spontaneously combusting, I'll provide occasional updates to Penguins about my progress. I will try to remember that the average person doesn't find posts on bleeding nipples and running-related intestinal distress that compelling, and thus keep it short.

In the meantime, if you feel like taking some beer money and throwing it towards some great programs, please donate to my fundraising page. I, and my blisters, thank you for your support.

North Country Visit

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Mon, 01 Aug 2005 14:48:00 +0000

Pic 020
Originally uploaded by E3B.

As of last Wednesday, I’m no longer a paralegal. It feels pretty good for the most part, although I wish I could get paid to do nothing at home the same way I did at work for the last six weeks. I'm moving to DC on 8/13, so I have a lot of packing to do, but I made time this weekend for a big visit to the residence(s) of my best friend from college, aka billy d. blogger.

The above picture of the hanging moose (notice the feet coming out of the ceiling) is from one of my favorite bars in his area – I think it’s called the Pine Tree. One reason I like the place is that they used to have this little, umm, we'll call him eccentric, bartender named Walter. He was always worth a good laugh, but got fired recently when some cash came up missing from the register, possibly to feed his coke habit. It is my sincere hope that Walter gets back on the wagon and is employed up there in time for billy’s wedding in the fall of 2006.

Moving on, this is the itinerary billy left me in the comments section. With the exception of the two shots of Jager in the truck (I try to observe open container laws for some reason) and the “possible nap” from 11:30 – 4 (guess what we did instead), we were pretty faithful to his agenda.

For a small taste of the weekend, we’ll have a little trivia: which of the following vehicles did I drive during my trip?

A)

Pic 002
Originally uploaded by E3B.

B)

Pic 005
Originally uploaded by E3B.

C)

Pic 046
Originally uploaded by E3B.

D) All of the above.

If you selected D) All of the above, and are a resident of New York State outside the 5 boroughs, you just won an invite to billy's wedding. As far as I can tell, the rest of the State is invited anyway.

BBQ recap

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 16:26:00 +0000

I hosted the final Sunset Park BBQ yesterday before my girlfriend and I move to DC. They used to be called “Mr. Beer BBQs,” but I lost the brewing equipment. This BBQ featured a variety of commercially prepared brews. Anyway, I read a bunch of Tucker Max on Sunday morning, so here is the recount of the BBQ in his timeline style.

SATURDAY
10:00 AM – go to Costco to buy a lot of burgers, plus mango salsa, which is very popular with penguins and paralegals alike.

10:15 AM – leave Costco with 50 lbs of food I didn’t intend on buying. This wouldn’t be a big deal, except I have no car and had to walk to the subway.

10:48 AM – pause on 3rd Avenue and 37th Street to set down the bag with the 10 lbs of potatoes (and the rest of the 50 lbs of groceries) that just ripped my shoulder out of the joint.

11:01 AM – sweating profusely, board R train.

11:39 AM – consider calling ambulance; I can’t feel my hands. I go to Subway instead, I like the Italian BMT. It’s good, then I go to sleep.

4:00 PM – do basic prep work for the BBQ with my girlfriend; marinades, salads, etc.

9:37 PM – fall asleep on the couch on Saturday night like a loser.

SUNDAY
6:18 AM – I can’t sleep. I went to bed too early and I’m excited about the BBQ.

6:19 AM – girlfriend punches me in the face because she can sleep, and she wants to.

10:02 AM – I boil the aforementioned 10 lbs of potatoes. My arms are sore, but my revenge is sweet.

10:55 AM – I start to feel some remorse as I cut the boiled potatoes. Then I remember they’re frigging vegetables and stop caring. I consider starting drinking, but decide that’s not a good idea.

11:05 AM – 10 minutes wiser, I open a Brooklyn Lager.

12:37 PM – 1st guest, StrandedP, shows up. I am 2.5 beers deep (pacing myself). She brings a 6 pack. The guy at the deli hit on her. He gave her his number by writing his name on the receipt and drawing an arrow to the store’s phone. Smooth move Oscar, play on playa.

1:15 PM – other people show up. They have a lot of beer. I am happy.

1:30 PM – we all go outside to my backyard. The direct sun pains me, but girls like it. I suffer.

1:31 – 3:30 PM – many people show up. We have about 20 in the backyard. I’m drunk, and loving it. I give a few tours of my apartment. Towards the end of this period, words feel like bricks that need to be thrown out of my mouth with much labor.

3:45 PM – people are eating. I don’t like to eat too much though at these things -- I focus on the beer, as if that’s the healthy choice.

3:58 PM – photographic evidence reveals that I’ve drank my eyes shut.

4:36 PM – we move out front to the stoop. More pictures are taken. People start leaving. StrandedP is also drunk, so at least I have a partner.

5:00 PM – cutoff point for my memory of the day. The rest is inferences I’ve drawn from others’ stories.

5:17 PM -- the remaining group walks to the actual Sunset Park. Wind, water, Midtown. Nice view. We sit on the benches. I wanted to lay down, but my girlfriend decides against it. I now realize I’m whipped. I should’ve taken a nap.

5:45 PM -- some friends get on the subway home. Others have a designated driver. As the designated drinkier, I walk back to the apartment and invite my neighbors down for beers in back yard.

6:22 PM – I realize we have almost no beer left, and revise invitation to “a beer in the back yard.”

6:24 PM – I'm more ready for nap than at the park, neighbors overstaying their welcome.

6:28 PM – finish beer as well as SlackerP’s bottle of Riesling (who brings Riesling to a BBQ?). Politely invite neighbors to go home.

6:45 PM – eat leftovers. Mourn loss of about 80 bottles of beer.

7:25 PM – start watching “Waterboy” on TBS. One of my favorites outside Van Damme.

8:15 PM – Pass out for good this time.

Monday
3:00 AM – wake up in bed. Girlfriend slaps me in the face again (see Sunday morning).

9:00 AM – show up at work hungover. Only 3 days left.

I Heart Old People

noreply@blogger.com (fbomb) — Sat, 23 Jul 2005 13:18:00 +0000

Growing up, my mom used to tell me that the only time she saw evidence that I had a soul was when I was interacting with old people and dogs. This may sound harsh, but luckily my self esteem as a child was not rooted in the belief that I was a genuinely good person. And besides that, she was right.

As a kid, the first movie that ever made me cry was Coccoon, when the old people leave their old people friends and beam up to the mother ship to achieve eternal youth. I blubbered like baby. Maybe it was Wilford Brimley's heartfelt performance, maybe it was the realistic turd-like coccoons incubating in the indoor swimming pool- whatever it was, something pulled at my heartstrings that day.

The past two weeks I have been in Austria visiting my grandmother at this hotel in the Alps that she stays at every summer. She grew up in Vienna, speaks fluent German, and goes over there each year to escape the blistering Florida heat and get back to her roots. The hotel was largely inhabited by Viennese expat Floridians doing exactly the same thing. Any guest there that was under 80 (a handful) didn't speak English, so I found myself trying like a desperate high school outcast to integrate myself into the English speaking clicks and try and make friends with the octogenarian widows (there was only one husband out of about 8 women who was still alive an able to make the journey-he was adorable I had a little crush).

Why do I heart old people? Many reasons.

1.) They make you feel active and youthful and glowing even if you normally don't feel that way.

Old Lady: You're going for a walk?

Me: Yeah.

Old Lady: I used to like to walk when I was YOUNG. I can't walk anymore, I get tired.

Me: Oh yeah, I like to walk.

In fact, I don't really like to walk that much. But, in relation to this woman's plight, walking took on a whole new meaning. It was a blessing, a gift. I was lucky to be able to walk. Walking made me young and powerful and omnipotent. My afternoon stroll was now a completely different animal. I was ACTIVE! ATHLETIC! VIBRANT!

2.) They're fucking adorable.

If there was a Real World: Boca Raton, it would be absolutely out of this world. My old man crush made my heart melt whenever I would see him. Pants pulled up mid chest, belted, white dockers grazing the very tops of his shoes. The harem of women surrounding him couldn't get enough; he was the life of the party. He was the shit, and he knew it.

Something that's big in the Alpine sporting word is something they call "Nordic walking" where people go out with two ski-pole type sticks used for support in hiking, scaling mountains, etc. While these implements were mainly designed for use in extreme sporting situations (I'd assume), the old people used them just to jaunt around town. One adorable woman would come bounding into town with her nordic walking sticks.

Me: Hello Mrs. Stern!

Mrs. Stern: Hello! Look at me, I'm sporty! Look at my sticks! [waves sticks]

Me: Yes! Look at those! Those are great!

Mrs. Stern: Aren't they? [Bolts away full speed].

3.) They care.

Mrs. Gross: You're wearing those shoes in Salzburg?

Me: [Looking down at my open-toed sandals, probably not ideal for marathon running, but certainly sufficient for a 2 hour snail's pace stroll through Salzburg with my grandmother]. Yeah, I was going to wear these.

Mrs. Gross: You really, really shouldn't wear those shoes. You are going to be walking a lot!!! You might get something caught in your foot! There are COBBLESTONES in Salzburg! You can't walk on COBBLESTONES in THOSE shoes!!!!

Me: Hmm. Good point. [I ponder the thought of going upstairs to change... decide she'd have to pay me first]. I think I am going to wear them though.

Mrs. Gross: Fine. Well you'll come back and tell me I was right.

Mrs. Gross was sweet, Mrs. Gross cared about the fate of my feet. I rarely get this sort of profound concern about my well-being from a complete stranger. At the end of my stay, Mrs. Gross gave me her "card," w/ contact information in case I'm ever in need of "a Jewish Grandmother in NYC."

Ok, I'm going to go pitch CBS my Real World: Boca Raton idea.

Love and Dentures,

Fbomb.

Straight-Up

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Fri, 22 Jul 2005 14:26:00 +0000

About two weeks ago, I "graduated" from a 16-hour bartending class at the New York Bartending School. Over the course of a weekend, I listened attentively while a jovial guy who looks like he just came from MTV Spring Break Miami explained the art of making a buttery nipple and what exactly goes into a 1-900-FUK-MEUP. I was partnered with an earnest Israeli, who wanted to get out of the moving business by bartending. He didn't really have mastery over the whole "reading English" thing ("Maker's Mark. No, not Tanqueray. Maker's Mark. No, that's still Tanqueray. It starts with M. Top shelf. Starts with M. The brown one. The brown one!"), but he was sweet and we made a very good team.

The day that I graduated, I went to the receptionist and asked her about the "lifetime job placement."

"Oh," she said, adjusting her trucker hat and tugging at her tiny shirt that read "Everyone loves a blonde." "That's only for the 40-hour-a-week students. Good luck!"

I stalked out of the school, deciding that the philosophy on her shirt might still be true if only natural blondes qualified.

Thus began my job search, and a series of interviews where I pretended that a certificate and previous experience as a golf course cart girl qualified me to handle a hopping New York bar.

Eventually, a relatively upscale restaurant/bar in the area (and where I've been embarrassingly drunk with a group of co-workers before) decided to give me a chance. After two interviews, they asked me to come in for an "observation session." They didn't tell me what I had to do, how long it would last, or whether or not I could take home some vodka in a to-go cup. Despite my misgivings, I went in last night to be observed, and to see if I could fit a bottle of wine into my purse without anyone noticing.

One of the managers (who liked to call himself a Partner) met me and lead me into the bowels of the restaurant. He was impeciably dressed in a suit and Euro-glasses, and spoke with an accent that was either Eastern European or German. Pick which one is funnier and go with that.

"Heeer ees your shurt," he said, tossing a stiff black buttondown at me. "Put thees on. I need you at ze bar for at leest several hours, okay? Und tie your hair back becaze of ze health department."

I dutifully did what he asked, and went upstairs to sit at a staff meeting before the shift started.
Angsty German "Partner" gave what he thought was an impassioned speech to the jaded group: "Look around. Zees is zee restaurant. Look at zee peectures. I am proud to be at zee restaurant. I spend moor time herr zan wit my family. If you do not have pride in zee restaurant, you don't belong here. Eets about the guest. Eets about the salt shakers. Leeeve notes for the chef to say Gut Morning. Don't make mee yeel at you. All for one, and one for all, okay? You understand me Ahmed? Carry zee trays. Live zee dream."

After the speech, he lead me to the front bar. He introduced me to the bartender, and then sent me behind the bar with him, with no instructions and no indication of what they expected me to do, besides get in the way.

The bartender, who was only on his third day at Zee Restaurant, seemed hesitant at first. After I told him that I really didn't have any experience, but I did go to bartending school, he decided a new approach. He began explaining all the parts of the bar, the cash register, the taps, etc., but he would pepper his helpful descriptions with "Well, did they teach you about glasses in bartending school?" and "Did they teach you about cocktails and menus in bartending school?" I managed to be polite until he said "Did they teach you about accountability in bartending school?" at which point I smashed an empty bottle on the bar, waved it in his face, and hissed "I'll cut you. I'll cut you for real." [ed note: not actually true].

As he's explaining the bar, the place begins to fill up, and stern faced business men begin looking at me expectedly. I tried to avoid eye contact until the last possible moment, and even then I would use the "I'm a trainee! I can't touch anything" line. But as business began picking up, and the waiters and waitresses would huff at the side of the bar, waiting for their tables' drinks, I decided to jump in. Suddenly, I'm pouring beers, cutting lemons and making twists, loading the fridge, refilling the chips, and making drinks like "Stoli Orange with soda, splash of oj, and a fresh orange slice." The bartender now begins to show me a bit more respect as I'm covering his ass, and the well-suited managers observe from the side. After four hours of working the bar, Angsty German "Partner" calls me to the side.

"Vat ees your availabilitee for training?"

"What are my options?"

He huffs. "I neet you to train. Thees was an observation."

"Okay, well, I work until 5:30, at least for the next two weeks."

"Come weeth me."

He leads me down to the bowels again, pausing only once to scream at some poor guy who's filling a water pitcher. "Fasteeer! FASTEER!"

Once we make it to the basement, he turns on his heel.

"Look. I neet you to train. You haav no expeerence, no? But you weer hired for your greet personality" he spits the last two words as if they were "genital warts."
"My bar oppens at 4! Soo you caul me tomoorow, and we work out zee training. Zis is ZEE RESTAURANT." and he marches off in a huff.

It's only then that it fully hits me - after working the bar for four hours, making martinis, putting up with Anal Waitress ("Don't let Chef see you touching the olives!"), and letting business men scowl at me, I'm not getting paid. I'm not getting a dime. I'm getting only the privilege of being in Zee Restaurant.

Apparently, "observation session" means "do a bunch of shit for free."

So I folded up my black shirt, left it on the corner of a random table, and I fled into the early evening, scripting the conversation that I plan on having later today.

Angsty German "Partner": You haave called about zee training?
Me: No, I'm calling to let you know that you can...how you say?...keees my pale white ass.

*By the way, bonus prize for the first person to post in the comment section the recipe for a 1-900-FUK-MEUP. Don't ever say we penguins aren't interactive.

Bridging the gap between church, state & adult films

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Tue, 19 Jul 2005 00:58:00 +0000

First, please notice the addition of the Evil Penguin logo. (Can't miss it I guess - it's huge.). I have no clue what I'm doing with html, it's all trial by error and borronw source code from other blogs.

Second props to a blog I like: Nixie. Don’t be offended Marshall, but it is a rare blog featured on JD2B.com that I’ve enjoyed. This is one of them, for what it’s worth, at least in part because she’s in our class year and has already started school in UMich’s summer start.

Third, and more on point with today’s post, featured funny blog: Law & Alcoholism, “Getting Through the University of Wisconsin Law School, one beer at a time.” (See his treatise on The Tort of Cockblocking).

…which brings me to this weekend.

Q: Where can you find a priest, a pornstar, and a judge drinking from a keg together?

A: The party SlackerP and I were at this weekend.

Things have worked out pretty well for me lately, so I decided to attend a charity event. Perhaps tangentially (and perhaps not), said event included all you can eat and drink from the hours of 2pm until everyone passed out or jumped off the roof of the building.

In order to fully demonstrate our dedication to the cause, we started pregaming with a few beers at 12:30 in the afternoon. Upon arriving at 2, we started with an Italian ice and vodka before moving into the beers. Without being too specific, the food was racing-friendly (before it was cooked), which provided ample entertainment for a simple-minded fellow like myself. If you were on a tour bus in Soho between 2:30 pm and 5 pm, and somebody saluted you with a beer from a rooftop as you passed, please don’t post the pictures anyplace before emailing me one of them.

Anyway, apparently we were drinking the kind of beer that doesn’t have any suntan lotion additive, so I’m a nice lobster red at the moment. Disappointingly, the fear of my skin melting off my face and my inability to sustain the drinking pace forced me to retire at about 9pm. I spent yesterday in bed shielding myself from the oppressive humidity and wondering if I’ll be able to cool it in August long enough to study.

The Law Firm

noreply@blogger.com (E3B) — Fri, 15 Jul 2005 16:16:00 +0000

The Law Firm Banner
Originally uploaded by E3B.
NBC has a show coming out called The Law Firm, which has obvious relevance to our work. Apparently the casting process was based mostly on peoples’ willingness to say that the most common misconception about lawyers is that they are unethical. Jason says it best:

“Most people think that lawyers are a puss-filled boil on the body of society. “

I don’t know if the ABA made them say that, but you’d think that one of them would point out some of the other “misconceptions” about lawyers as well, specifically, that they are profane, philandering drunks. Anyway, they’ve assembled an impressive cast of people who purport to be attorneys – here are some of my early picks to dominate the show, and by “dominate” I mean provide a lot of fodder for future blog posts:

Anika
“ ‘Sass and ass’ - that's how I've been described. The ’sass’ part is obvious. I am feisty, quick thinking, articulate, and have that in-your-face savvy. In my professional and personal life, I always stand up for myself, fight to the death, and am not squeamish about critiquing colleagues. The ‘ass’ - well it's not what you think! That part describes my good looks…”

Does anyone else understand the distinction she’s making between “what you think” ass means in that context and her definition (“that part describes my good looks”)? Her ability to distinguish thoughts and arguments like that should carry her a long way (on this blog).

Elizabeth
“Why do you think you are a better lawyer than the other associates?
I try not to compare myself to others - it's not very productive. We all have our own strengths and weaknesses.”

Objection, your honor, non-responsive. It was nice of NBC to edit the “uhs,” “likes” and “whatevers” out of her initial answer though.

Jason
“Why do you think you are a better lawyer than the other associates?
I am taller than the other associates.”

That will be handy during the intramural basketball portion of the show, moron. This guy appears to be at least as likely to fix my leaking ceiling as he is to win a trial. (For the record, a leaking ceiling is no laughing matter – fixing mine is def. in the best interest of justice)

Barret, saving the best for last.
“Why do you think you are a better lawyer than the other associates?
I am charmed.

What's your verdict on reality TV?
Guilty but insane.”

My above “moron” comment notwithstanding, I try to refrain from bashing someone personally on this site, so I’m going to let those answers stand. Barret is very likely to be doing an interview with Katie Couric on the morning after she gets kicked off the first episode.

The Law Firm-Profile-StrandedP

noreply@blogger.com (strandedp) — Fri, 15 Jul 2005 16:00:00 +0000

Name: strandedp

Hometown: madison CT

Educational Background: In elementary school I received an honorable mention for my clay sculpture thingamajig. That was just the beginning. Other highlights include my certificate in a babysitting course, at, can you believe it, the age of 12. It was these small steps that put me on the right path, leading up to a junior scuba licence, and eventual a BA in psychology from NYU. While I have not taken classes beyond my BA, I’m happy to say that even without a college level course on the topic I’m was able to master the art of the copy machine without having ever taken a course in it. How bout them apples.

Specialty: eavesdropping on Ellen’s conversations

Planned departure from current job: yes

Why do you think you'll be a better lawyer than the other competitors? I don’t have to be a better lawyer- I just have to make the audience love me... ‘win the crowd Maximus and you will have your freedom.’ Reality TV isn’t any different

What, in your opinion, is the biggest misconception people have about lawyers and why is it a misconception? That they don’t still call home to mom when their name is in the paper.

Because NBC worded that question so poorly, here's a softball - favorite drink? Favorite shot: Buttery nipple; Favorite wine: reisling; Favorite drink that comes with an umbrella: Strawberry banana daiquiri; Favorite way to get drunk when you only have $3.50 to your name: six pack of PBR.

The Law Firm Applicant Profile - SlackerP

noreply@blogger.com (Slacker P) — Fri, 15 Jul 2005 15:00:00 +0000

Name: SlackerP
Hometown: Born in Cincinnati, Kicking it in NYC
Educational Background: AB in Psychology, Certificate from New York Bartending School
Specialty: Da Butt dance
Planned departure from current job: Molotov cocktail
Why do you think you'll be a better lawyer than the other competitors? Because odds are low that any of them have ever killed a man using only a mechanical lollypop twister and a shoehorn.
What, in your opinion, is the biggest misconception people have about lawyers and why is it a misconception? People seem to think that all lawyers are egotistical alcoholics. This is wrong. They are also boring.
Because NBC worded that question so poorly, here's a softball - favorite drink? Depends on the context. Post-work? A good stout. Post-dinner? A nice Riesling. Pre-Party? Diet Coke and Vanilla Stolis. Pre-rehab? Rubbing alcohol.
Litigator you look up to? My Grandpa, who left law to become a band leader. True story.