Hubris and Hate

Shit

2007-11-13T23:26:00.000-05:00

Today was about shit. Nothing else. Shit. That's it. Shit.

And dead pre-baby babies. Depending where you come down on the whole philosophical debate about pre-baby babies, of course.

Shit and dead pre-baby babies. Entire revolutions have erupted from less.

Hold fast, comrades!

2007-11-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

In the grand tradition of the sectarian Marty Luther, I posted the Averments against Parson Tutu* not with a nail on the Papist's front door, but in a more mundane manner, by hand delivering the Complaint to the offices of the Bishop of Scholars in the early morning hours of All Hallows Eve. It was a bright sunny day with crisp, cool air and the strains of Mick and the Boys singing about Sympathy for a subversive by the name of Lucifer rang in my ears as I sallied forth to complete my task. As the primary author of this accusatory missive, I took it upon myself to also ensure its proper delivery. I took this matter very seriously, and in keeping with the mode of True Religion, I was deliberate about its execution. The original Complaint and a copy were personally presented to the Bishop's clerk, whereupon the appropriate stamps and marks of certification were attached. Further, I presented another copy to the Clerk of Clerics to be delivered directly to Parson Tutu himself. This is where I got into a little trouble.

Upon returning to my domicile I posted messages to by comrades-in-arm sadvising them of the Complaint's delivery to the Bishop of Scholars and the Parson. Within a very short time, my servants returned with urgent letters from a few of my colleagues, alarmed and despondent about the Complaint's delivery to the Parson. It seems they were not clear on my intentions to execute this service and were quite anxious about the effect his receipt of our allegations which questioned the soundness of his pedagogy would have in our sessions on Estates the following week. These peers of mine were worried the Parson might somehow treat us differently, or his mood would be afflicted in some manner which would infect the atmosphere of his seminar with animosity and discord, perhaps directed specifically towards the signatories of the Complaint.

Struggling to maintain my composure, I sought to address these concerns with tact, empathy and patience, all the while absolutely seething underneath the hastily constructed facade of concern and understanding. First, I thought their concerns very misplaced. It was the view of these alarmist that Parson Tutu would become aggressive and decidedly antagonistic upon our next meeting. Second, they were concerned about how this action might in some manner compromise the Administration's ability to respond and react to our claims.

In my opinion, they couldn't have been more wrong. In the first place, by providing the good Parson with notice of our complaints, he would realize that he is now under the microscope, so to speak, and any further conduct which might be even remotely considered questionable would be subject to severe scrutiny. Secondly, it was not an antagonistic move to put him on notice, but rather it provided him the time and opportunity to prepare his own defense. Sort of considerate on our part, I thought. Third, I honestly do not see how the actions of the Bishops would be prejudiced in any way simply by our providing the Parson with a copy of the letter, which he would most assuredly get from the Bishops at some point in this action we've now commenced. And finally, WHAT THE FUCK WAS OUR INTENT AT THE OUTSET?!?!?!??!

We had, as a group, decided that we had had enough. After weeks and weeks of sub-standard instruction and derisive treatment by a faculty member with no tenure and questionable competence, we were compelled to take action, not only on our own behalf, but for other scholars who would follow in our tutelage. After much time and discussion deliberating as to the most appropriate and effective course of action, we, or rather I, drafted the Complaint. Each of my comrades were to have reviewed it thoroughly, and like those famous old men with the breeches and white wigs, we each affixed our mark to the document signifying our unity and commitment to our cause. So my question: Did you not think this all the way through??

Seriously, did you think that somehow the Powers that Be were going to not take some action in response? Did it not occur to you that Parson Tutu would be given a copy of the Complaint to provide his own response? And did you seriously think that there weren't going to be some feathers that got ruffled?? I mean really, pull your head out of your fucking asses and grow some balls! I realize that for the three alarmists, that is anatomically impossible, but at least TRY to demonstrate some courage in the face of adversity. Talk about having the courage of your convictions...

The ironic part: The loudest whiner of the three likes to close her correspondence with this quote: "Well behaved women rarely make history," or some such bullshit. Give me a motherfucking break, you insipid twit.

Well, it's been a week and a day since delivery of the Complaint. In that time, we've attended two sessions of Estates and the Parson's attitude and lesson quality have both significantly improved; none of the comrades have broken ranks (yet), and I just received notice from the Bishop of Scholars confirming receipt of our Complaint, which has been shared with the Archbishop. I don't expect anything formal for the next couple of weeks, but suffice to say, we're not seen the end of this parade yet!

* I know I referred to him as the Bishop of Estates previously, and that is in fact the subject matter he is charged with instructing, but he is hardly worthy of the title Bishop given his tenure and the questions of competence at issue.

PS: A shout out to my boy, The Enabler, who's birthday is today. Schloop, you cock-gobbler!

A Call to Arms.

2007-10-25T23:36:00.000-05:00

"A little rebellion now and then is a good thing. " - T. Jefferson

The conspiracy to depose my latest nemesis is proceeding forward quite nicely. Despite my early trepidation as to whether the members of my cohort would have the stomach for such dangerous and bloody work, I have gathered a sufficient number of comrades-in-arms to form a lean yet stout force to strike out against the draconian rule of my current foe, the vile and ill-met Chaplain of Estates.

For lo these past several weeks, my colleagues and I have been embattled and downtrodden by the machinations of this man who, for reasons incalculable, has achieved a position of some, albeit small stature and notoriety. He has been charged with the tutelage of the ancient and venerable traditions concerning proprietorship of things real and personal. Doctrines and tenets of this nature form the very core of the High Religion and are replete through all other fields of religious study. It is essential to myself and my associates that our education and understanding of these matters run deep and clear as the river waters which cascade from the peaks of my homeland. Unfortunately, under the direction of this neophyte, such is not the case.

The Chaplain is new to his position, having come from various temporary posts throughout the realm, where he performed various research and clerical functions. Born in the frontier which lies north of the Emerald City, where the mountains and tundra come together in a grandiose display of Mother Nature's finest craftsmanship, he was raised a bastard in the outer villages which surround the City of Roses. Despite his northern heritage, he bears a name reminiscent of his likely distant ancestors who rose from the Dark Continent, from which they were taken in bondage. Now several generations have passed and he has made good on the promises offered to all in Land of the Colonials.

From the outset of our association things have been somewhat tense. Having spent the majority of his own training before attending Seminary studying the art and craft of education, the Chaplain has deemed it worthwhile to dispense with the traditional mode of instruction practiced for decades in Seminaries throughout the Republic in favor of a newer, more organic and decidedly laissez-faire approach. This he believes will better serve our training and development in our march toward consecration into the Priesthood.

Initially intrigued and open to new formulas, I, along with my associates have found ourselves thrown into a vast pit of confusion, consternation and outright rage as a result of the Chaplain's ham-handed, ill-conceived and ineffectually executed plan. His lack of preparation and experienced are on blatant display daily through his frequent factual errors, misstatements of doctrine and obnoxious equivocation. The lack of clarity in his instruction is exponentially compounded by his deliberate failure to adequately address or respond to a student's query on a given topic or point of tuition. Never mind the steady stream of sophomoric missteps found in his written material, his obvious reliance on outside sources for aids in the conduction of our twice weekly session and the utter lack of personal work product.

In all honesty, if these complaints were the sounding of a struggling few, even including myself, I would simply chalk it up to the statistical deviation along the learning curve. That is not the case here, however. Without exception, every member of my company has been driven to the edge of madness and melancholia by the Chaplain's methods. When confronted individually and by the group, he simply dismissed our concerns that we were not being adequately prepared in this core curriculum. His disdain apparent, he simply added additional work which required the students teach each other, despite our clear lack of understanding and clarity of the subject matter.

After many weeks of grousing and rabid discontent, a suggestion was made to lodge a formal complaint against the Chaplain. Slowly the notion took hold. Soon, active discussions were had concerning the nature of a formal grievance, the ramifications of such action and the narrow likelihood of remedial action being taken by the powers that be. When it appeared there would be no one courageous enough to stand up for themselves and their brothers, a nucleus of actors pulled together by the sheer gravity of their collective will. The final event which pushed this cadre out of entropy and into a stage of critical mass came from a conversation I had with my sainted patriarch. Expressing my distress about the unwillingness of my compatriots to take the reins in hand and engage in some action which might affirmatively address the intolerable situation, he responded this was more often than not the case with people. When I sadly agreed to his wise observation, he asked in a rather off hand manner, "So are you a leader or not...?"

Several more days have since passed. With pen in hand, I have drafted the complaint and submitted it to the junta for revisions. I expect a concurrence by those members willing and ready to stand up and be heard early next week. At that point, I will submit our Statement of Distress to the Administration. Then I suspect, the fun will really begin.

Once more into the breach, my friends...

The Dirge

2007-10-09T00:03:00.000-05:00

The Ranch had it's yearly roundup and rodeo recently and I was called to make the long trek back to attend. Great!! On top of everything they're throwing at me in Seminary, I've now got to head out overland to play rodeo-clown games with my bosses and colleagues. Like I've really got the time to spare.

The truth be told, these things are usually a pretty good time. Plus, the Honcho always picks up the tab(s). And he's a big fan of quality AND quantity. So sure, I'll take a long weekend back home, see some friends, have a good time...

Well, with all that's been going on at the Ranch this past month, especially my client load literally doubling overnight, I thought some levity would be a good idea. So I get an idea to write a little ditty I could use as a toast at the traditional Friday evening hoe-down. I kicked that idea around for a few days, and over the course of another week, came up with this.

Requiem for the New Guy
By Jacques Roux

There was a fine stronghold
Nestled in the Nor’west,
Who’s honor glowed brightly
With reputation the best.

It’s future was strong,
And full of big dreams.
The staff a stout cadre
Who worked as a team.

The causes were plenty
The revenue did flow.
Expansion was needed
The syndicate must grow.

The inquiry started
The net cast far and wide.
A person good hearted
With valor bona fide.

The applicants assembled
Not quite a brigade,
By audit the list dwindled
Reviewed by parade.

But finally a choice
A decision was made,
A man with experience
Did make the good grade.

A soul mate in arms
We thought we had found.
Too bad his defects
Were so dearly profound.

His staunch work ethic
Did prove to be lacking.
Deceit and inept
We sent him a-packing.

He failed to achieve
Our high, worthy standard.
Asleep on his feet
He frequently pandered.

Chicanery proved
His final undoing.
At once was removed
The lies were accruing.

Stern warnings were clear
Never darken our door,
Gross neglect and defect
We’d suffer no more.

Adieu and goodbye
Farwell and so long,
No tear will we cry
Now that you are gone.

-------
Unfortunately, the whole 'New Guy Affair', as it's come to be called, was far more vast, insidious and repugnant than I was previously aware. As a result, the troops were quite downtrodden and preoccupied, so the comedic payoff was not quite as great as I had hoped.

I should have known better anyway. The New Guy never was that funny to begin with...

Walking Papers

2007-08-28T22:59:00.000-05:00

So I'm back at the grind here in seminary. I know, it's been a long time since I last posted here, but you know what? I don't fucking care. And you know what else? I'm not going to bother with any lame ass, quasi-excuses, especially since no one reads this damn stuff and this is all just an exercise in mental masturbation. Of course, that pretty much sums up a large part of my current lifestyle and living arrangement. But I digress...

So, I'm back at it, the whole studying, working, not drinking near enough booze routine that has become my life of late. Which is good, because let's face it, I signed up for this bullshit, right? Anyway, I sitting here in my cell this past Saturday reading about a bunch of school kids in Kansas who wanted to do away with a little thing called "separate but equal...", or was it some bullshit on the 5 principle functions of punishment? It must've been the latter because I remember thinking that whatever I was reading when I was interupted was something I could really get behind, you know, philosophically. And given my general dislike of humans under the age of consent, I could give two shits about a bunch of Flatlander rugrats crying about their supposed civil rights.... So anyway, I get this call from the head honcho at the Ranch, wanting to know if I've got a few minutes for him on this fine weekend morning.

"You bet!" I reply enthusiastically. He does sign the pay voucher, after all. But, not too enthusiastically, like in a stupid "I'm happy to be alive!" twit sort of way. So grabbing a note pad and ink stick, I set aside the tome currently before me and get ready for what's coming. I've found that when the honcho calls you on the weekend, it means he's got something that's gonna require a note or two. At least.

This time, it took several pages.

"So you'll recall the situation we had discussed when you were last in town, about New Guy, and how he and I and the Major Domo were going to follow up on that...," the Boss says in typical social management doublespeak, which we all use like a suit of vague specificness to maintain decorum.

"Sure I do."

"Well, over the past week, some more things have come to my attention, things beyond what you and I discussed last month, and we've basically laid it out to New Guy that he needs to make a decsion over the weekend...," Essentially, get your shit together, or you're out of here.

Finally! I think to myself. This guy needed to go a long time ago. Like most shitbags, he was proving to be a real cancer in the Ranch's social system, not to mention that he wasn't generating any significant revenue since he'd come aboard over a year ago. I was of the opinion that we got sold a bill of goods when we selected him, and I was ready see him gone before I had even departed for Penn's Forest over a year ago. What's worse, I was a bit embarrased about his substandard performance since I had played a significant part in the decision to hire him.

Adopting a more neutral and formal tone, I reply to the Honch non-commitally, "Okay..."

And then the Honcho goes into a quick summary of yet another instance where New Guy has really dropped the ball in another exapmple of terrible customer service regarding one of our clients. Over the past several months, there have been several such instances of poor conduct and inadequate service, which have progressively gotten worse. And over this time, I've seen the Boss get more and more frustrated with having to handle this personnel problem.

Now I have learned a thing or two about working with Boss. One, he is very effective in dealing with personnel issues, but is very deliberate in making any extreme, sudden changes in this area of business manamgement. Whether it's hiring or firing, he wants to make sure that he hires the right kind of people to surround himself with, and will go to great lengths to develop and retain those who are selected. Two, with that deliberateness comes a preference for facts, rather than subjective opinion when it comes to making most any decision, large or small. Three, given enough time, usually not long, and the best data available, he consistenly makes sound, equitable decisions. So I knew it was only a matter of time for this ass-hat.

Based on these insights into the Honcho's style, I like to wait and see how things develop a little bit before I put my two cents worth in. Now I was well aware of the recent increase in the severity of New Guy's shortcomings. Hell, I was catching complaint calls about on his cases from vendors while I was on Mission thousands of miles away in Botany Bay this summer!! And the things I saw in his files while I was doing a short stint at the Ranch House earlier this year made me shudder!! On more than one occassion I thought to myself, "Wow, I'm glad I'm not on the Ranch brand!" So upon hearing the Boss' moderately agitated state which prompted him to call me on a Saturday morning, I realized that we were finally at a critical point.

That's when I decided to casually drop the bomb, (or rather an IED) and pass along a little information regarding our boy that I had recently uncovered. You see, after he was hired, I quickly became more than a little suspicious of him. There was something about him that put me off in a weird sort of way which told me never to trust him. Besides an instinvtual aversion, his facile way in dealing with people raise serious questions about his sincerity. Lookng back it seems so clear, but then hindsight has the benefit of 20/20. So it was no real surpise when I found what I did.

The truth of it is, I went snooping. I went digging into his electronic employee folder to compare his Yearly Performance Plan with mine. I wanted to see just what the Ranch's expectations of him were, in light of his less than stellar performance. Now this employee folder, and we all have one, is kept and maintained by the individual, not the Ranch itself, and is used to store whatever that person wants to store. Files, pictures, whatever. The presumption is 1) the file is public, and 2) it's to be used for work related stuff. Sure, it might be considered prying, but he has, like each and every one of us, no expectation of privacy regarding these electronic files. And what I found was that he wasn't making any greater percentage off his cases than I was, which satisfied that nagging curiosity and competitive streak. More importantly, I discovered that he'd saved some docs written under his own outfit's brand. Which wouldn't have been that big a deal to me, except that I kept digging.

Now I knew New Guy'd been moonlighting. And I'd suspected that it might be getting in the way of his performance at the Ranch, but that was fine. I figured that with time, he'd take enough rope to hang himself with. Besides, he had a wife and two kids, so he's putting some extra time in elsewhere. Whatever. But the thing is, I discovered he'd not only taken over a prospective client's case after we'd declined her, but he'd used his relationship through the Ranch to get hired by her and was using property proprietary to the Ranch in prosecuting the case. And it wasn't an isolated incident.

So when the Boss got done laying it all out about how he and New Guy were going to meet on Tuesday, and how he'd see what the ass-bag had to say about staying and working, or moving on, I took the advantage.

"Well, Boss, I think I'd better let you in on some things I've come across..." I told him what I'd found, and beamed copies of the docs over to him to review, and let the magic happen. Now the Boss is not the kind of dude to blow his cool, or beome easily rattled. On the contrary. But after hearing my summary and listening to the Honcho's initial reacation, it was clear to me that things had escalated several notched. After giving full disclosure to the Boss about my investigation, I bid the Honcho adieu and waited to hear more for him early in the week.

The next morning, even earlier, I get another call. It's the Boss. He informs me that he's spoken with Major Domo, and based on a review of the documents I'd uncovered, a further search of New Guy's files, and in light of his downward spiraling performance, there was no need to allow him a final option.

Instead, Boss and Major Domo met New Guy at 9:00 the next morning and handed him his walking papers. In the manual, there are 11 violations for which a person may be summarily dismissed. New Guy was in violation of 6.

Happy trails, you shit bag!!

I thought this would be more like law school...

2007-02-22T14:44:00.000-05:00

Sadly though, it's not. It's more reminiscent of high school. Now I realize that I was duly warned of this phenomena by one of my BT/DT (been there, done that) buddies, but holy Christ-on-a-Cross, I never realized just how sophomoric things could get!!!

I admit it, I'm a bit of a geek when it comes to this whole education thing. I've always considered education, specifcally higer education, to be a privilege, and something to fully engage oneself. If not purely for the intellectual benefits, then definitely for the worldly benefits (read: monitary) one may reap upon completion. With the significant investment of money, time and energy required in post-graduate level work, especially law school, doesn't it seem reasonable that you would want to get the best return possible? Sadly that doesn't appear to be the case with many of my colleagues. They seem more than happy, hell, even dedicated to doing the least amount required of them in order to get by.

The first in my litany of current frustrations is the seeming inability of most of my peers to make themselves heard. And I'm referring to the most basic meaning of the word. For those of you who don't know me, I'm a talker. A LOUD talker. My voice "carries," as they say. Like about 93 million miles. And that's just at my normal speaking volume. It's one of the reasons I got into acting so many years ago. I figured I might as well make the most of this asset, and the job of "carnival barker" just didn't have the same sex appeal as the notion of hanging around after school with a bunch of repressed gay boys and neurotic girls. But I digress... suffice to say, people rarely have a hard time hearing me when I speak. Which is frequently, and ususally ad nauseam.

My issue is this: several of those in my cohort can't seem to muster up the cajones or wherewithal to make themselves heard when called upon in class. Granted there are only between 20 and 35 of us in a given class, usually seated in a lecture hall big enough to seat up to 120 people, but fuck, let's make an effort here. The accoustics in the room are not that bad. You would think that after being asked repeatedly to "Please speak louder, I can't hear you," and "Could you speak up for those in the back who couldn't hear you?" you'd get the idea. Especially you, little Miss Becky*, who has been chastised on a regular basis by each and every professor for a semester and a half because you can't be heard past the person seated in front of you. I realize that you're very cute and demure, and that sweet ass of yours just slays me, but throw me a bone here! How about getting with the program here? In class discussions are so much more rewarding, and informative, if I can hear both sides of the dialogue.

Now as I've said before, I'm a talker. Class participation is not a problem for me. Talking things through, dialoguing with my professors, mentors, peers, or four walls of my shitty little apartment, is one of the most effective ways I learn. And I realize that this method is not for everyone. But in case you, my dear colleagues, haven't figured it out yet, they're trying to teach us to not only "think like lawyers," but also "act" and therefore "perform like lawyers." WhileI recognize that not every one of us is going to be a litigator, each and every one of us will have clients, and opponents, with whom we will be required to speak to intelligently. Even if you never step foot inside a court room, you are going to have to learn how to represent yourself and your client through verbal communicaiton. You will need to be persuasive and compelling in your dialogues. And if you think that comes from simply "knowing the law," you are sadly, sadly mistaken. You better get used to "standing tall before the man," and speaking in front of people you barely know, or else you're going to have a bunch of people who are supposed to be paying your fee very pissed off at you.

So how about giving it a shot? Instead of letting the 3 or 4 of us who always participate in class discussions, while you sit there acting like you know what the fuck is going on, how about you step up to the plate and take a swing. Because I'll tell you something, I am no smarter, or have any clearer idea of what's going on than you. I'm just better than you at facing and overcoming my fear of failure or looking a little foolish in front of others. And guess what, I only got this good by practice. Lots and lots of practice. So you might as well practice now, while the training wheels are still on, before this shit gets "real."

Second, I never thought it would happen again, but I was actually held after class so the prof could have a "word with me." Not quite detention, but pretty friggin' close. Long story short (if that's actually possible for me), my Methods class has been divided into two groups, representing both sides in a hypothetical law suit. We'll be using this hypo and the class split for the entire semester, culminating in actual oral arguments before real-life judges for our final class project.

(I can't wait for this. Did I mention I'm a talker...?)

Anyway, one day in class, we're bouncing arguments back and forth between the two groups, sort of testing them out and proving to the prof that we're actually doing the research and analysis required to work through the project. Personally, I think it defeats the purpose of the oral args, but who am I to question the instructor's methods. So, I'm just sitting there taking notes on what my opponents have to offer, so I can prepare my rebuttals down the road. During this exchange one of the guys on the opposing side, Mr. (Orange) Roughy, offered up one of his thoughts. Now I considered this guy one a friend of sorts, (we'd crammed together for finals last semester, but more on that later) and so I made a wise crack in response. Specifically, I yawned in a slightly exaggerated manner and said, under my breath, "What a yawner..." Now this cat is close enough to hear me (he is in the same state, afterall), and he turns, looks at me, and shoots me a grin, as if to say "Yeah, I know. But the Professor Fussypants called on me and I didn't have anything new to offer that hasn't already been said." In other words, he took it for the smart-assed comment that it was. Okay, no harm, no foul. There were some chuckles around the room, and we moved on.

The next class, however, began with a general announcement from Professor Fussypants to the effect that she hoped nobody was offended from the proceedings in the previous class, that she sought to maintain a truly professional atmosphere and would not tolerate any deviations otherwise. During this brief speech, I look around and notice the rest of my peers are just as confused as I. But it occurs to me that she may be referencing my brief bit of jocularity the week before. Having had her say, class proceeds. And sure enough, after we had been excused are are packing up our respective tidbits of scholastica, Professor Fussypants says "Mr. Roux and Mr. Roughy, may I please have a word with you?"

Right then, I knew it was on.

So the two of us oblige. And I listen. Without interruption, which is no small feat for me, being a talker and all. She asked if there was any animosity between the two of us, given the exchange in the last class. We both looked at each other and laughed, reassuring her that no, there was no bad blood, it was all just a joke. She went on to state that she was concerned about us, and she'd worried all weekend about it, and she wanted us to act like professionals, and how she tried to maintain a less formal environment that the other professors, and blah, blah, blah.... That's about the time I checked out, my eyes probably even glazed over a little. Well, once it sounded like she had wound herself down, I informed her, with all due respect of course, that if she was so concerned, she might have approached the two of us outside of class, before making the vague, general announcement to the entire class, which was perhaps not the best way to handle this concern of hers.

And I think that was around the time she checked out. Because her reply was just a wee bit agitated, and something along the lines of how she was doing us a "favor," because if any of the judges, either in our final class project, or the real life ones were to ever witness such an exchange, or catch so much as a sidelong glance between counsel, we would get "slapped down." I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and actually kept my mouth shut until I was finally excused.

It probably would have done me no good to inform Fussypants that 1) she was the only one of our professors who insisted on calling us by "Mr." or "Ms." So-and-so; 2) she was the only prof. who actually kept track of "professionalism points" as part of our overall grade, she was not really maintaining a "less formal atmosphere"; and given the fact that 3) Mr. Roughy and I were both the same approximate age as she, and 4) both had prior professional careers (he a teacher, and I a rodeo champion), that a) we were most likely able to distinguish the differences between a classroom discussion and a proceeding before a judge, and b) therefore were able to act accordingly. So I let it slide.

All in all, the episdoe was not such a big deal, but when considered with other factors, it helps prove my initial thesis.

Third, the overall maturity of my peers. Granted, almost all members of my cohort have been out of school for at least a few years, have part- or full-time jobs which they attend during the day, and most have a spouse and/or children as well. Therefore they are much more "grown up" than the Regular Division tots who are fresh out of undergrad and counting on their parents/trust fund/professor-student sex to foot the tuition bills. But that apparently only goes so far.

Recently, there was some discussion between myself and two other colleagues about forming up a study group in preparation for exams in May. The three of us (Mr. Roughy and Kid Rock, the youngest of the Extended Division), plus one other (Mr. Big), had linked up to review a particularly troublesome course late last semester, and we thought it might be a good idea to get cracking earlier this term, to afford us the opportunity to cover all three major subject areas, rather than just the one. There was some exchange of thoughts and ideas about what to cover and how to go about it in a brief conversation between lectures, and it was uniformly expressed that we would keep the group small, just the 3 of us, so as to make the highest and best use of our time. While the fourth member was certainly a well-liked guy, it was my thought that he hadn't really contributed much or significantly advanced our discussions last semester. It seemed pretty clear, especially upon direct questioning, that the other two were in agreement with me.

Now being a that I am a bit of a control freak, which I freely admitted to Mr. Roughy and Kid Rock, and a pretty capable organizer, I volunteered to put a preliminary plan together and submit to the others for review and consideration. In doing so, I clearly stated that I would welcome and expect any and all input; that I wasn't trying to assume any control of the group, but simply wanted to get the ball rolling to ensure that we moved forward in as effective and efficient manner as possible. They both asserted their understanding and concurrence. OK, so far, so good.

A few days later, I drafted my email outlining my thoughts and recommendations as to the composition, scope, agenda and scheduling of our little study club. It was quite comprehensive. Did I mention that I'm a talker, and a planner...?

Now I have read the books and anecdotes and heard the warnings regarding the pitfalls of study groups in law school. I've seen The Paper Chase. And after all these years of dealing with thespians, clients, claimants, attorneys and being a student of social politics, I was pretty sure I knew what I was getting into. But apparently, I'm not as wise as I think. Funny, isn't that usually the case?

Anyway, in the email, I raise the issue of how to deal with Mr. Big, (the fourth of our quartet from last semester) if and when he gets wind that we're getting together to cram. As I indicated before, ours is a small section, and the four of us, plus a few others, are pretty chummy with each other. The fact that the three of us are studying together this semester without Mr. Big is bound to come to his attention at some point. This could create a tricky situation, if the three of us are not on the same page. I'm the kind of guy who doesn't enjoy tricky social situations unnecessarily. If I don't like someone, or they have angered or offended someone who I value more, then I might engage in a Machiavelin machination at their expense. But if it's simply an issue where certain dynamics are not congurent in a given social situation, there's no need to cause any unnecesary harm. I gave that up in high school. So I addressed this potential issue, asking that Kid Rock and Mr. Roughy put their two bits in on how best to handle such a situation. I did make it clear that I wasn't suggesting that we completely exlude Mr. Big, but that it was my impression from our conversation that we do so.

Further, I laid out some thoughts and suggestions on how often we meet, how to approach our coverage of the material and other such logistics. Again, I was sure to insert the caveat that these were only suggestions, and to please chime in with their respective ideas.

Then I pressed 'Send.'

I wish I could relate to you some sort of climactic episode, but I can't. You see, much like the Phil Collins song, I received no reply at all. Sure, Kid Rock indicated he "got" my email when we were in class again, two days later, but that was it. I received no other response from either of my colleagues, verbally or electronically. And it's not like they didn't have the opportunity. We were all together in class, 3 nights that week. Hell, Mr. Roughy and I had a five minute conversation, just the two of us, while walking between buildings one evening after the dispatch of my missive. But the subject never came up.

The most disconcerting, and frustrating factor was that, not four days after I sent out the email, I overheard Kid Rock, Mr. Roughy and Mr. Big discussing plans on getting together over Spring Break to review for a mid-term we have in three weeks.

If Mr. Roughy and the Kid didn't like what I had to say, or for some reason had decided they simply didn't want to study with me, fine. I can respect that. But I don't think the courtesy of a response is too much to ask. Simply not responding, and acting like nothing ever happened is childish and cowardly, as far as I'm concerned.

I guess my point is this: If you are going to be offended, or put off by a colleague who has enough foresight and courage to raise issues for consideration, and make suggestions and recommendations to promote the betterment of the group, then you are going to have a real tough time making it as an attorney and advocate in the "real world" which everyone keeps warning us about.

Finally, I will admit that I did voluntarily choose to enroll and attend this (mickey-mouse) school, but it most definitely was not my first choice. Or second. Or third, fourth or fifth. Unfortunately, as a very near and dear friend of mine put it just prior to my departure from the Emerald City, "it's too bad your aren't smart enough to get into a 'real' school." Too bad, indeed. While I recognize the fact that these types of behaviors and attitudes are likely prevalent, regardless of what institution I'm attending, it would be nice if I were in the company of some similarly minded, and motivated individuals. And that simply doesn't appear to be the case here.

Who knew this would be so much like high school?

* Names have been changed to protect the victims.

A post by any other name, is still a post.

2006-09-15T20:28:00.000-05:00

As you will recall, I recently departed the Land of Java, Heroin-sheik, Emerald Green Mountains and the Evil Empire (Microsoft, for you outlanders) and transplanted myself here in the sylvan lands of Penn, replete with humidity from hell, dipshit drivers and sub-par eateries in order that I may drink from the fountain of wisdom at the modest commuter school for young (and in my case, not so young) lawyer wannabes. In order to get from there to here, I packed up all my worldly possessions and trucked them and myself all the way across this great land of ours. Thankfully, I was not alone. One of my dear friends provided much needed driving assistance and company on the 3100 mile trek. And while we made our way over the golden mountains majesty and through the amber waves of grain, my comrade documented our travels. Upon his return to the City at the Ends of the Earth (as my padre calls it), he compiled this little ditty

I am forever thankful for his company and assistance along the way. And I promise, when I return, I won't be bringing that friggin' desk back with me...

Enjoy!

WWJD?

2006-08-25T17:15:00.000-05:00

So, first off, let me apologize to both of my readers for the lack of posts recently. I realize you're both used to this, as I don't typically post on here that much, but it's been an exceptionally long time since I last submitted. I know you've been writhing in absolute agony at my absence.

Now for the one who may not know it, I've been quite busy with a few things these past two months. Namely, getting accepted to law school (or 'Seminary', as I like to call it, because Law is truly the highest calling, and most noble of professions...), and then packing my shit up and moving away from my beloved Emerald City to begin the mental boot camp experience that is Seminary.

You see, Friends and Neighbors, I have spent the past two years attempting to gain access to the esteemed Monastery (the private one, not the public one- when it comes to this endeavor, I can't be bothered to rub elbows with the common folk) in the Java City. Unfortunately, the Abbots of Acceptance and Approval at that particular institution were not completely convinced that I could pass muster at their little abbey, so I was placed on the so called "Wait List," a literal Purgatory for plebes like myself who are eager and willing to do just about anything to drink from the Well of Knowledge present within the innermost sanctums of those hallowed halls. I was placed on the List two years running, and realizing that my time, patience and chances were quickly running out on me, I took the only opportunity open to me, and moved (according to MSN's 'Streets and Trips') 3058 miles away to the burg of Harris, nestled in the wooded hills and dales of one of the original Thirteen Colonies, in order to join the ranks of like minded Acolytes to pursue the studies of the esteemed Preisthood.

The irony is my hidden agenda in making such a choice. You see, I fully intend to kick some fucking academic ass out here on the Eastern seaboard so that I might re-apply to the Castle on the Hill on the Western shores next year. And if everything goes as planned, I'll be packing my shit up, and driving back across this wide and variegated land, to resume my studies nearer to the Ranch, and those dearest to my heart.

Of course, this whole educational process is designed to rip out whatever heart I might actually posses, cast it upon the charred earth and grind it into ash under the jack boots of my scholars. But that's a another tale for another day.

So after driving hell bent for leather to arrive in this fair hamlet (and receiving only one speeding ticket along the way), I have completed my first week of classes. And while I realize it's VERY early in the whole process, I have to say: I fucking LOVE it!! Finally, I get to engage in scholarly argumentation and debate with people in a purely ACADEMIC context; rather than listen to my clients, Adversaries, and even my peers and superiors at the Ranch, piss and moan about their "Real Life" problems.... Belch. I realize that this will most likely begin to pale pretty quickly as the work load grows exponentially, and the competition amongst the plebes becomes ever more cut throat, but for the time being, I am finally realizing the goals and dreams I have worked so hard for over the past few years. I have finally set foot upon that path that Mr. Frost spoke so lovingly of, and I am almost ecstatic at the thought. That is, until I look over the pile of reading and writing I have before me which must be completed in the next 36 hours.

And unbelievable as it may sound, I have not set foot inside a bar in over three weeks... Un-BUCKING-believable!!

But all this is merely a preamble to my first Seminary anecdote, which follows. And while I will strive to contribute to this folio on a more frequent basis, I must adopt the mantra of my chosen profession, and state clearly: I make no promises.

--------------------

"What Would Jacques Do?"

I ended up being made an example of on the first night of class, and I'm pretty sure that my entire section now knows my name. The Civil Procedure (Civ Pro)prof decided to run us through a "hypo" (hypothetical question/problem) regarding the "Horrible Neighbor", of which I was the subject. She took a poll to see who was from out of town, called on me and upon hearing I was from so far away, directed the group to "adopt and take pity on me, because I was going to need a social network." In the hypo, I had come home from class to discover that my neighbor had broken into my apartment, stolen all my beer, my "expensive stereo," taken my Civ Pro class notes and left my refrigerator open, thereby spoiling all my food. The first question to the class was: What was Jacques going to do in response to the violation and damage? I promptly raised my hand and answered that I would first go to the store to replenish my supply of beer, then go next door and break my neighbor's kneecaps...
The discussion continued for about an hour, where we broke up into small groups to decide "what should Jacques do..."

Yes, I think I'm making friends quickly...

Serf's UP!!

2006-07-14T12:53:00.000-05:00

Happy Bastille Day, mother fuckers!! Here's a little hisory lesson for all you folks unfortunate enough to have recieved a U.S. education. We've also got some more info here. I particularly like the Bastille Day Fruit Salad recipe on that site. And before any of you go off on me for being an ungrateful, unpatriotic American, I am simply exercising my First Amendment rights and my innate, God-given sense of Hate and ridicule for all things pedestrian. Such as you.

And while the peasants were successful in overthrowing the tyrannical government of the day, those pussy-assed Frogs didn't do so well against the quasi-fascist Italian in the World Cup this year. Oh well, blame it on the illegal immigrant problem they've been dealing with recently.

Vive la France!

Victory is MINE!!! (at long last...)

2006-06-29T18:35:00.000-05:00

As the ever so astute MissuzJ has observed, it's been a while since I posted last. Admittedly, I am not the most prolific underpantser. But this time, (as opposed to previous entries) I actually have real, honest to god, groundshattering (to me) news to relate. Sorry, no witty story or lame ass attempt to attain some sort of psuedo-intellectual insight here. Simply the news:

I have finally succeeded in my years-long siege to gain entry to the hallowed halls of Seminary!! As of last Friday, I was informed that someone, somewhere in the ivory towers of higher learning has deigned me worthy to enter unto their most holy sanctuary, so that I might drink deep from the well of knowledge. And long have I thirsted, friends and neighbors, and long have I labored in this endeavor Truly a triumph of tenacity this has been.

And yet, this glorious victory, like all conquests, is bittersweet and comes at a steep cost. In order to join the ranks of the newly annointed acolytes, I must depart this fair land of coffee and clouds, and journey far to the East, where swollen rivers rage with torrents of trash and kind, simple folk travel the concrete thoroughfares in horse driven carriages. I must yield my claims in the beautiful mountains of green for lands unseen. But the deepest cut most surely comes from the fact that I must say "Hail" and "Farewell" to my dear friends (who over these many years have truly become more Kin than Kith) and my sweet FC. But I remain confident, as I have in the past, that the bonds formed here in this glorious city of grungers, slackers, technocrats and hot Asian chicks will survive the strains that time and distance will impose.

And so, in less time than it takes for the Moon to pass through her phases, I shall sojourn to the next stage of my humble life's journey. I wonder what all awaits me around this next turn....

Suffice to say, I am giddy with anxious anticipation. And to all those fuckwads who didn't think I my application was "strong" enough: Go fuck yourselves!

The Aye's have it.

2006-06-15T18:26:00.000-05:00

Freudian Inventory Results

Oral (36%) you appear to be stubbornly and irrationally against receiving help even when it might be the more intelligent option.
Anal (36%) you appear to be overly lacking in self control and organization, and possibly have a compulsive need to defy authority. If you are too scatterbrained, you will not develop much as a person as you will habitually switch paths before you ever learn anything.
Phallic (10%) you appear to have negative issues regarding sexuality and/or have an uncertain sexual identity.
Latency (16%) you appear to be overly practical; don't undervalue abstract learning, abstract learning increases your ability to make good decisions (and predictions) in the real world so it would be 'impractical' to shun it.
Genital (53%) you appear to be somewhere between a progressive/openminded and regressive/closeminded outlook on life.

Take Free Freudian Inventory Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

You see what a little mouldy bread and a violent revolution will do to you?

A lesson on Hubris

2006-05-29T22:32:00.000-05:00

From websters-online-dictionary:

Hubris
Noun
1. Overbearing pride or presumption.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

Hubris or hybris (Greek ‛′Υβρις), according to its modern usage, is exaggerated pride or self-confidence, often resulting in fatal retribution. In Ancient Greek, however, hubris referred to a reckless disregard for the rights of another person resulting in social degradation for the victim.[1]

Aristotle defined hubris as follows:

Hubris consists in doing or saying things that cause shame to the victim, not in order that anything may happen to you, nor because anything has happened to you, but merely for your own gratification. Hubris is not the requital of past injuries; this is revenge. As for the pleasure in hubris, its cause is this: men think that by ill-treating others they make their own superiority the greater... a hubristic act is one that inflicts undeserved shame on the victim for the gratification of the perpetrator.

In its modern usage, hubris denotes overconfident pride and arrogance; it is often associated with a lack of knowledge, interest in, and exploration of history, combined with a lack of humility. An accusation of hubris often implies that suffering or punishment will follow, and the proverb "pride goes before a fall" is thought to sum up the modern definition of hubris.

[more here]

==========================

Okay, we've taken care of the academic part...

I've recently taken up martial arts training again after a long hiatus, specifically kung-fu. Several years ago..., well okay, two decades ago, I studied tae kwon do, a Korean form of karate. I eventually earned my black belt while in high school, then slowly dropped out of practice, spending more time in theatre. The parties were much better.

My freshman year of college I was required to take a number of general education courses to ensure I had a "broad-based" education. One such requirement entailed a phys. ed-type course. Since I wasn't about to take ballroom dancing or play any 'real' sports, I signed up for the only obvious choice: shotokan karate. When I advised the class instructor that I had studied karate for several years, he made me his teaching assistant. Probably the easiest 'A' I ever earned, and likely the only 'A' I earned that year...

The thing is, with the exception of breaking up a few bar fights and tossing a number of drunk, stoned or coked-up individuals from whatever drinkery I was working at, I've lost pretty much every "fight" I've ever been in. It's not that I didn't know my shit. Hell I had to spar two black belts and a red belt for over three minutes as just one part of my black belt test. And let me tell you, folks, that's a real muthafucka!

So I knew my shit, I could easily land a side kick on a 6 ft tall guy's chin and follow it up with a jump back turn inside crescent kick. I had skilz. It's just that none of those few actual fights were serious enough to break out the ol' whoop-ass on my opponent. I just was never in a life-or-death situation. It just wasn't ever that important. And I'm not trying to brag here. In fact, just the opposite.

See, the real benefit, the knowledge I gained, the 'thing' I took away from all that training and hard work wasn't so much about the physical aspects of martial arts, but rather the mental. It was more about the self-disclipline, self confidence and self awareness that came with the training. The mental focus, clarity and inner drive that I developed during those years in the do-chang continue to serve me to this day. And when asked whether I still remember any of my training (i.e., "Can you still kick ass?" -that sort of thing), I usually respond,

"It wasn't about learning to kick ass, it's about learning how to avoid and stay out of the fight in the first place."

More often than not, they just get this odd, blank look on their face, and move on.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I was in class at my new school, and on this particular evening, Guro (pronounced 'guru') was leading the class through some ground fighting exercises. This evening was notable because up until then, I had never attended a class led by Guro. Rather, the classes I had attended so far were led by sihing, one of the secondary instructors. That's promounced see-hing. Now sihing is a pretty cool cat, he's several years younger than I, but he's down with old school arcade games (Double Dragon, Defender, that sort of thing) and likes to rock out with some heavy metal during the workout (Black Sabbath, Metallica, etc.). Anyway, he's the one who ran me through the introductory sessions before I was accepted into the school, and since that time, I'd say we've bonded on a basic, guy-type level. Nothing big, but good times.

Anyway, Guro's been working us pretty hard and stops the exercise to give us a few pointers. While listening and watching, I take the moment to catch my breath. Suddenly and subtly, like a small blip on the radar, Guro slides something odd in to her instructions:

"...and then after the roundkick, you can swing your leg over to the outside of his leg, then bring yourself up off the ground- sihing, fix that please. Now once you're back up, you step back up agaisnt your opponent, since he's off balance, and plant an elbow into the throat.

Jacques, when I'm speaking, I want you to hold your hands together in front of you. Sihing, I asked you to fix that, now drop and give my 100 push ups."

Suddenly, looking around the room, I realize that I'm standing with my hands on my hips, rather than clasped in front of my in a traditional, Eastern "at-ease" stance. Oh shit...

Guro continues the brief lecture, finishing out the next three moves of the routine while the students regain their breath. This literally took maybe three minutes. And as she's winding down, sihing jumps up from the floor, obviously winded, but still able to thank guro with a smile on his face.

Meanwhile, I stood next to him, feeling a bit like Gomer Pyly from "Full Metal Jacket."

Later that same session, I was working through the routine with sihing, and threw a forward kick from the ground. I felt it connect with sihing, but didn't actually see the hit- we were both on the ground wraped up pretty tight, and I couldn't see. It wasn't hard, or terribly fast, and I didn't sense much of a reaction from my partner, so I continued on. A moment later, guro calls another break in the action and starts giving another pointer to a pair in the center of the room. She glances down toward my end of the gym and stops.

"You all right sihing?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You're bleeding," Guro points out. I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, looks like I bloodied sihing's nose with that kick. After a couple of seconds, sihing realizes the flow's a bit heavier than he first thought. So he jogs off to the back room to get a towel.

Guro finishes the example, and starts the class back up again. Sihing isn't back yet, so I stand, at ease with my hands properly clasped, and watch my peers as they exercise.

I swear to God, I was oozing the ineptness of Vincent D'Onofrio's bumbling private in Mr. Kurbrick's seminal Vietnam War film.

Once sihing returned with the bleeding stopped and several antiseptic wipes in hand, guro called us all to attention to finish the evening's session. After we bowed out, I stepped over to sihing and helped him clean up his blood from the floor. I apologized, of course, and he said it was no big deal. Which was cool of him, but really the only way he could respond.

Because it wasn't the injury sustained, but rather the lesson learned...

---------

Next time, I'll try to remember my brevity, and leave the fortune cooking wisdom at home.

Fuck 'em all.

2006-05-16T14:26:00.000-05:00

That's right, bitches. FUCK THEM ALL!!!!!

After over two years, the wait is over. I will not be allowed to participate in the great fuck fest that is Seminary. Not at my fifth place choice. Not at my fourth place choice, or my third place, or even second place choices. And CERTAINLY not my first place choice.

I know this for a fact because I just got done meeting with the Bishop in charge of reviewing applications at said 1st choice institution, and was told, albeit through a contrived dance of semantics and legerdemain, that there was NO WAY IN HELL I would be allowed to join their fancy club. Not without first elevating my particular application to a "whole new realm." And while the Bishop was certainly courteous and respectful, there was a point in the interview where said Bishop's body language clearly conveyed the prevarication being foisted on me in the name of good manners and decorum. May as well have worn a sandwhich board which proclaimed exactly how fucking unworthy I had been deemed.

Bad form, Bishop.

Soooooooooo.... now I get to figure out some other pursuit and life/career goal to throw myself in to. Let's hope the next one proves less frustrating and more fruitfull than this one did.

How about the cocaine trade. I did pretty good at that oh so many moons ago. And now that I don't even use, I won't 'blow' all my profit margin. I could make a killing at it!

AAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

(fuckers)

A lesson on Hate

2006-04-22T16:36:00.000-05:00

Perhaps you've wondered why I've entitled my little corner of cyberspace "Hubris and Hate." Or perhaps you haven't. I don't really give a fuck one way or the other. If you knew me, you wouldn't have wondered about such trivial, mundane things, because they would be readily apparent from my personality (if you can call it that) and general demeanor. If you've been a reader of these pages (and I know there's at least two), then it should be apparent from the content. But if you're just stopping by for the first (and likely your last) time, then I think a quick lesson might be just the thing. So let's start off with our foundation and define the lovely and insouciant little word hate:

Hate: noun 1-a. intense hostility and aversion, usuallyderiving from fear, anger, or sense of injury. b. extreme dislike or antipathy. 2. an Object of hatred.

Hate: verb 1. to feel extreme hostility toward. 2. to have a strong aversion to, find very distasteful, to express or feel extreme enmity or active hostility.

-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary

Hate or hatred is an emotion of intense revulsion, distaste, enmity, or antipathy for a person, thing, or phenomenon; a desire to avoid, restrict, remove, or destroy its object. The emotion is often stigmatized; yet it serves an important purpose, as does love. Just as love signals attachment, hatred signals detachment.

Hatred can be based on fear of its object, justified or unjustified, or past negative consequences of dealing with that object. Hatred is often described as the opposite of love or friendship; others, such as Elie Wiesel, consider the opposite of love to be indifferent. See love-hate relationship.

Often "hate" is used casually to describe things one merely dislikes, such as a particular style of architecture, a certain climate, one's job, or some particular food.

"Hate" or "hatred" is also used to describe feelings of prejudice, bigotry or condemnation (see shunning) against a person, or a group of people, such as racism, and intense religious or political prejudice. The term hate crime is used to designate crimes committed out of hatred in this sense.

Sometimes people, when harmed by a member of an ethnic or religious group, will come to hate that entire group. The opposite situation occurs too, where an entire group hates a single person (see shunning). Some consider this to be socially unacceptable--Western culture, for example, frowns on collective punishment and insists that people be treated as individuals rather than members of groups. Others view such generalizing behavior as rational and indeed, necessary in order to ensure group survival in the face of competing groups or individuals who often have differing points of view.

Hate is often a precursor to violence. Before a war, a populace is sometimes trained via political propaganda to hate some nation or political regime. Hatred remains a major motive behind armed conflicts such as war and terrorism. Hate is not necessarily logical and it can be counterproductive and self-perpetuating.

In The Color of Magic Terry Pratchett said that hate, like love, is an attraction. The word he used was loathe.

-Wikipedia

Synonyms:
(noun) abhorrence, abomination, anathema, animosity, animus, antagonism, antipathy, aversion, bete noire, black beast, bother, bugbear, destination, detestation, disgust, dislike, dog-eye, enmity, execration, frost, grievance, gripe, hatred, horror, hostility, ill will, irritant, loathing, malevolence, malignity, mislike, nasty look, nuisance, objection, odium, pain, rancor, rankling, repugnance, repulsion, resentment, revenge, revulsion, scorn, shudders, spite, trouble, venom

(verb)abhor, abominate, allergic to, anathematize, be loath, be reluctant, be sorry, can't stand, condemn, curse, deprecate, deride, despise, detest, disapprove, disdain, disfavor, dislike, disparage, down on, execrate, loathe, nauseate, object to, recoil from, scorn, shudder at, shun, spit upon, spurn

-Thesaurus.com
---------------------------------------------------

Okay, so we've got some of the scholarly stuff out of the way, now let's get more to the heart of the matter. Why I hate.

I hate because:
-I can.

-it's fun. Especially when the hatee doesn't even know they're being hated.

-it's good for the complexion. You can't keep all that vitriol bottled up inside and not expect to get a zit or two.

-I'm fucking GOOD at it!

-there are so many fuckers on this piddly little planet worthy of being hated.

-I like it. It gives me something to do while reloading.

-You have to work VERY hard to be a good hater. So many people are way to pedestrian in their hating, it gauls me.

-Only a very few people have ever achieved greatness historically with their hate: Atilla, the Jews (circa 30 AD), William the Conqueor, the Christians (specifically Catholics, circa the Dark Ages, i.e The Crusades), Robespierre, Napoleon Bonaparte, Hitler, Chairman Mao, Mr. Stalin, Joseph McCarthy, Pol Pot, David Duke, Ted Bundy, Slobadon Milosevic, Khaddafi, Gary Ridgeway, and the Republican Party, to name but a few...

-it can increase sexually performance and orgasm enjoyability (cf. the "Grudge-Fuck"). Sometimes, I get a hardon just thinking about my hate!

-it helps keep my sinuses clear.

-it's better than coffee to get you started in the morning, and better than exercise to leave you feeling exhausted at the end of the day.

-despite what some monkeys would have you believe, it is NOT the opposite of love, antipathy is. Hate, is simply love, turned on its side.

-it doesn't requite I leave the seat up on the toilet. In fact, it demands I don't!

-it's wonderfully versatile: I can do it by myself, with a friend or even in a large group of strangers. I can do it in a car sitting in traffic, in a bar after 10 shots of vodka, talking to loved ones on the phone, or while helping the retarded kid up off the floor.

-it's my superpower. And I use it when ever, where ever and how ever I fucking want.

-it's a hobby AND a vocation.

-it goes well with Hubris.

-it keeps me warm at night while it digests my internal organs and speeds up the aging process.

-it's a useful device in the evolutionary process. There's no better tool for effecting political, cultural, economic or intellectual change.

-it fits better than a $1,000.00 hand made Italian suit.

-it washes away the pain and ignominiousness of failure or defeat.

-when passed on to others effectively, it makes a great dietary supplement and works wonderfully as motivator of both men and women.

-if nurtered and cared for properly, you never have to worry about it cheating on you, stealing your money or washing down the drain.

-you don't have to worry about it getting confiscated at the airport or while crossing international borders.

-it's really easy to borrow someone else's hate if you leave yours on the nightstand.

Actually, I could go on for another 27.38 hours in this vein, but I need to save up my daily allotment of juicy hatey-ness for some social activities later this evening. Suffice to say, these are just a few of the reasons why I love hate so much.

Not that you asked. And not that I care.

I should have been a plumber.

2006-04-07T16:11:00.000-05:00

So the New Guy comes in to my cell here at the Ranch this morning with this interesting question:

"So what do you think the significance is when a doctor mentions his patient has a 'prominent cervix' twice in his records?"

Well, luckily he caught me pretty early in the day, before I'd had to dance with any of my Adversaries, so I was only mildly irritated at the interruption. As a result, I took advantage of the "training opportunity" to educate this good intentioned underling.

Now the kind of work we do here at the Ranch doesn't often involve the tasty tidbits of the female of the species, so I was wondering what the point was in the first place. I mean, other than sharing this observation in a juvenile form or male bonding, he should have seen the references, read them, and then moved on. These particular notes have no real bearing on the task I had assigned him. But here he was, and I was obligated to provide a thoughtful and considerate response.

So I pulled out the heftiest medical tome I have sitting handy. It's quite a nice resource, what with a great amount of information presented and a copious number of detailed drawings and diagrams of various parts of the human body and its various parts for further clarification. And I looked up "cervix" to see if there was any mention of the significance of a "prominent cervix."

Well, there was the standard definition which described this particular piece of anatomy one would expect in a resource such as this. But in addition, there was a very detailed drawing which showed, in great detail, the cross section of a female's anatomy from about mid-belly down to mid-thigh, and which provided a very clear representation of the location, size and function of said cervix. I pointed this out to the New Guy, and he observed, while pointing to the diagram with his finger:

"So that's where the eggs float down."

Now, a little background for you Friends and Neighbors: This guy is a married man in his mid 30's with a 5 year old son, and another baby on the way. So I'm thinking he should know better. But, I take it easy on him. Remember, I haven't had to go to war yet this morning. So I explain (trying not to sound condescending, which is pretty much impossible for me):

"No, the cervix is the opening to the uterus that the sperm swim through after being deposited into the vaginal canal. The egg "floats" down the Fallopian tube to the uterus where it gets fertilized by the sperm. Once fertilized, it attaches to the uterine lining and grows into happy, healthy baby."

"Oh," he says. "I see." He seems to actually have learned something here...

"Didn't you ever go to your sex ed class, New Guy?" I asked playfully?

"No, not really. Or I wasn't paying enough attention, I guess. Thanks."

And as he's walking out of my cell, I make one last comment:

"Well, when you spend as much time as I have, face first in all that goodness, it pays to know what's going on with the plumbing. You might want to keep that in mind if you want to keep that good looking wife of yours happy for the next 20 years."

I can't wait to meet his wife at the Ranch's next function...

Nothing to see here, please move along...

2006-04-04T21:21:00.000-05:00

As the title suggests, there's nothing to see here. I've been so completely and thoroughly fucked lately, that I haven't had the time or inclination to fuck around wasting my time here. There has been so much shit going on that I can assure you, without the slightest bit of doubt, the cauldron of Hate is close, oh so veeeerrrrrryyyyyy close to reaching the boiling point. And trust me when I say this Friends and Neighbors, when it does finally reach critical mass, there will be some serious purging the likes of which few have ever seen before in history.

Now don't get me wrong: I'm not talking about a "purge" in the sense that my friends Mr. Stalin or Chairman Mao would approve. Nor am I making some sort of quasi-vieled reference to pulling a "Huff," (as in: Kyle Huff, Seattle's most recent favorite son). No, I'm talking about...

Actually, I don't really know what the fuck I'm talking about. I just know that I don't want my previous post to be at the top of my "underpants" in the event I don't get back here again soon.

That just would not sit well with closest and dearest companion, Hubris. And let me tell you, Hubris is a cruel master who has been whipping me pretty severely, lately.

Fucking prick.

Thank you sir, may I have another.

2006-03-21T02:31:00.000-05:00

I was overdue, I admit. I realized back in late November that if I didn't get on it soon, I wouldn't be able to make it in by the end of January. And now here it was, mid February, and I had without question, failed to comply with my own self-imposed regimen of yearly "check-ups" with my chosen physician. Regimen to the extent that I had, over the past decade, at least tried to get in to the doctor's office once a year for a check under the hood, whether I need it or not. Recognizing this would be a habit that could easily be missed for a few years without due diligence, I made a mental note to drop in during birthday season--late January. A fairly easy mental Post-It note, if you will, that should be easy to keep track of. Now the importance of these annual visits were reinforced doubly by 1) the content of my daily work and my appreciation of their intrinsic preventative value, and 2) my awareness of my own mortality and the limited amount of time I may have on this festering globe to exercise the fullest extent of my Hubris and Hate.

(OK, a bit overboard with the shameless plug...)

My point is, I try to be a conscientious and diligent patient. And I suppose that given the fact that I had successfully quit smoking cigarettes after 20 years at my current physician's urging almost 14 months ago, it's safe to say that I was feeling a bit cocky. But the reality is, I'm a human male. And we never like to admit that we may be weak or infirm. And in order to avoid any unnecessary potential confusion regarding our virility, we tend to avoid doctorrs of any sort, like the plague. (Can I get a rim-shot, here?)

Now I like my doc; he's a capable, intelligent and professional clinician who performs his job with just the right blend of casual affability and dispassionate efficiency that I find comforting. When I'm talking about my health, I want someone who can give the me shit-- straight up without dancing around "delicate" issues, but with some decent customer service skills thrown in for good measure.

So I was particularly pleased this morning when I underwent my yearly (give or take) physical. Upon arrival, I was quickly ushered in from the front waiting room to the first exam room, and within fairly short order, put through all the paces: height and weight recorded; bone density, EKG, lung capacity and blood pressure all measured, then the obligatory blood draw and urine sample, all done in relatively smooth, conveyor-like fashion. While being run through the various stations, I had pleasant tete-a-tetes with the medical assistant who was completing her externship and on her way out to Kansas (for fuck's sake!!) while her fiance' finishes radiology school as well as the phlebotomist responsible for the collection of bodily fluids who was clearly not ready for someone as talkative and bantering as myself on a Monday morning. Perhaps she was out late singing Karaoke at Vito's with Claudio the night before.

So finally, after I've been appropriately poked, prodded and drained, I'm moved into the last exam room where I'll finally get to meet my preferred witch doctor for our annual chat about my slow, irreversible decline into worm food. Now I like this guy, really. I am a professional, and I realize that he is extremely busy, seeing who knows how many patients in various states of deterioration and trauma every day, so I really try to be considerate patient and keep my shit brief and to the point. And I get the impression he appreciates this because of the casual, almost fraternal manner in which we interact during the history and physical exam. It's a job: he's the doctor, and I'm the patient.

And so we go through the standard stuff: any problems with headaches, vision disturbances, dry skin, frequent urination, constipation, diarrhea, swollen glands, numbness or tingling in the extremities, changes in family history, sudden appearance of alien heads sprouting from the back of my skull,.... you get the picture. Then we do the ol' once over, where he visually inspects, and palpates if appropriate, every region, joint and appendage of my body. But since he's a professional, and I'm a patient, it's all kosher. (It helps that he's Jewish, by the way.) And eventually, he makes the never-spoken-of, but clearly-understood transition into the "hernia check." Again, very professional. He's the doctor <"cough">, and I'm the <"Cough"> patient. So it's all cool. But then comes:

-Well, you're 35 this year, and that's when I start doing the prostate exam.

-Yeah, I figured as much.

And this is where my doc gets serious points on the "bedside manner" scale:

Well, I'm sorry about this but I'm going to have to do a rectal. The good news is, I have small hands.

We share a good chuckle while he pulls on the surgical gloves, thankfully applying copious amounts of "surgical lubricant" before instructing me to turn around and grab the exam table. He tosses a box of Kleenex onto the exam table by my face and then began a quick lecture on the anatomy of the prostate, presumably to distract me mentally from the anal incursion which happened with the speed and precision of a bunker buster in the First Gulf War (remember that one, kids!?):

Do you know about the prostate (yeah, sorry about that). Well, it's an almond sized organ that is (push) normal,(poke) normal and (cuurrrl)normal.

And we're done. (And suddenly I don't have to piss quite so badly)

And so, because he's a professional, and I'm a patient, I stand back up, collect myself, and without thinking I grab a handful of Kleenex, hike my left leg up on the exam table and commence to wiping my ass clean of the slimey goo coating my nether region while confirming with Dr. Finger that I should schedule my follow up with the front desk.

In no time at all, he's stripped off the latex gloves sodden with my waste and petroleum jelly, tossed them in the garbage like some much dead skin sluffed off a snake in springtime and exited the room without another word. It was then, standing in the cool, sterile room with my surgical robe wadded up like a prom dress and tossed on the crinkled butcher's paper covering the pleather padding of the exam table, my leg cocked up leg a dog spraying a fire hydrant while I wiped my ass clean of K-Y Jelly, that I realized two things:

1) I think I finally knew what it felt like to be Catholic, and

2) I couldn't wait to call my good friend, the queer one who's had a crush on me since the first time we meet 9 years ago, and inform him that I've decided to start playing for the "other team."

...

...

...

Oh shit, what am I going to tell FC???

Rant #2

2006-03-17T18:43:00.000-05:00

If you're a resturant and you serve food and beverages to citizens who pay some of their hard earned money to consume said food and beverages, please do me a favor: Be sure to insist on serving food the proper temperature and beverages in a timely fashion, especially if the citizens are dining gratis due to the fact that on their previous visit, their food was not served at the requisite temperature, and their drinks did not arrive in a timely fashion. Because if you fail to serve hot food, hot, and cold food, cold, all while failing to procure drinks in a timely manner twice, in sucession, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that these citizens will NOT return to your establishment, or any other of the vast chain of locations EVER AGAIN!!!!!

How can anybody drop the fucking ball in such an egregious manner?

Three Rants (abridged)

2006-03-01T20:07:00.000-05:00

OK, as I am sure you are all aware, I love the sound of my own voice. Therefore, I talk. A lot. Usually about nothing that interests you whatsoever. But being a good little monkey, you listen attentively, nod and make verbal affirmations in the appropriate places and generally put up with my endless diatribe of bullshit and blather.

And I thank you for that. Really, I do. I know enough that constantly talking about myself would bore the absolute fuck out of you, so I do try to keep that down to a barely tolerable level, but as far as the rest of my mind-numbing ramblings go... well let's just say I believe you have the patience of a saint. You smell like 3 day old fecal matter, but your saintliness is guaranteed based solely on your willingness to subject yourself to my excessive verbosity, or in this case, test-osity.

Which brings me to my point. My love of my own aural tones and ceaseless amusement with my personal mental meanderings tend to get in the way of any real productive work. Or in this case, timely entries to this little writing "exercise" of mine.

Exercise in mental masturbation, is more the case. But whatever... it makes me feel good, and that's good enough for me.

So, for the (however brief) time being, I pledge to get right to the heart of the matter and quit fucking around with the extraneous linguistic foreplay. So with that, I give you:

THREE RANTS

Dear New Guy:

When we hired you late last year to replace me here at the Ranch, we were looking for a top-notch employee who we (the Ranch, that is) could invest in heavily for the long term. We went through an exhaustive search, interviewed many applicants, asked and answered hundreds of questions, provided a thorough job description, clearly outlined our expectations of our ideal candidate, explained the benefits package and finally settled on you. When our decision had been made by committee (never an easy proposition in an operation like the Ranch), we extended our offer of employment with a very generous compensation package.* You did the obligatory dickering and took the appropriate time in responding to demonstrate you weren't too eager to come across the street.** But you finally accepted and began working for us just over 6 weeks ago.

So I hope you'll understand when I tell you that I more than just a little disappointed in your "performance" to date. See, we thought we had a knowledgable, skilled and motivated worker on our hands when we took you on. You indicated quite clearly that you were a high performer, with over ten years in the business, essentially doing exactly what you were hired for.

After you came aboard, I was tasked with your training and assimilation into the fold here at the Ranch. And I was very up front with you that I took this duty very seriously, as you represented my legacy here when I left later this year for Seminary. I conveyed to you clearly how important this was to me, and I was going to make it my highest priority to get you up to speed with the work practices and overall guiding philosophy here at the Ranch as soon as possible so you could start executing like the high-performer you presented yourself to be.

So why is it that within your first three days, I have to literally hunt you down for meeting with the Patriarch?!?! You're a friggin' adult, why do I suddenly have to babysit your ass? Oh right, because you had to take your ass out to the Golden Arches for mid-morning/afternoon snack. Or you were taking care of personal business on the Ranch's time!!

Now you may get away with that kind of shit in a year or two, but you have to earn those priviledges, motherfucker! Trust me, as long as I am around, your shit does NOT stink, and you will always be the low man on the totem pole.

Oh, and for someone who's got so much experience under your belt, why does it take you so fucking long to rope a calf, or even brand a cow? This is basic stuff, partner!! Oh, you had plebes to delegate the real work to at your last ranch?? Well I got news for you, we run a lean and efficient machine here. And when it comes down to bonus time, you'll understand why. But in the meantime, you'd best buckle the fuck down and learn how to work smart AND hard, until you've got the basics under control. Because right now, you clearly don't have a fucking clue on how to even ride a goddamn horse!

So please, do us all a favor: Quit disappearing without notifying the proper authorities, learn how to pull your own (rather abundant) wieght and quit making me look bad in my few remaining months here at the BEST JOB I'VE EVER HAD.

*For the record, our offer was more generous than the offer I ultimately negotiated for myself four years ago. You are welcome for profiting on my hard work.

** Yep, we recruited this clown from a high-volume ranch no more than two blocks away, a mere two weeks after recruiting another employee from the same competitor. How do you them apples, Asshat!

(stay tuned for Rants #2 and #3.)

Okay (Deep breath...

2006-02-14T00:07:00.000-05:00

So, clearly it's been a while. And I'd like to hopefully get a couple of things taken care of here, but we'll see.

First off, just to get started again, I'll pick up where Rob left off, tagging me:

4 jobs I've had:
-Field Hand, commercial hog farm: I learned very quickly that I would rather make my living with my head, rather than my back.
-Foodservice: dishwasher, salads and bread, line cook, sous chef, Asst. Chef, waiter/server, bar-back, bartender, doorman, even BOUNCER for crying out loud!!!! Anyway, I've had them all. Not a bad way to get through high school and college.
-Car Rental Agency, Branch Manager: No, really. Only not for Enterpirse, though. So just get that "We'll pick you up!!" bullshit out of your head.
-Pyramid Huckster: Umm, yeah. That lasted about a day. But I've got to come clean and get it out there.

4 Movies I would watch over and over again:
-Apocalpse Now. Since I've had to answer this question so many freakin' times, I have to have a #1.
-The Shining. Can anyone say "Lonliness is a bitch?!?!?"
-The Hunt for Red October If only for the fact that I've already watched it over and over, while laying on the couch over lazy weekends.
-Heat. Because I want to be Neal (Robt. DeNiro), ...only not die.

4 Places I've lived:
-220 E. M. A large 5 bedroom, two story prairie house. Hardwood floors and 10' high ceilings.
-913 N. P. My folks bought the pool. The house just happened to come with it.
-1041 7 A. A four-plex. My next door neighbor (& fellow bartender) and I would see who could make their girlfriend come loudest on any given night, then compare notes the next day.
-523 E 44 B. My current abode. Too bad I don't own it, because it's got some real potential.

4 TV Shows I Like:
-West Wing, although I've only watched up throught the 3rd or 4th season.
-South Park, becasue it's insolent
-The Colbert Report. The man has figured out how to work both sides of the aisle.
-Law and Order (the original) It's the US legal system in bite-sized, easily digestable portions. Nothing whatsoever what the REAL system is like. Or is it?

4 Favorite Books:
-The Stand-Unabridged, Stephen King. Same with Movies above, I've got my stock answer.
-A Sense of Direction, William Ball. An afirmation that I truly did know what I was doing, arriving at just the right time to be effective.
-It's A Magical World-A Calvin and Hobbes Collection, Bill Watterson. Yep!
-Never the Sinner, John Logan. Never has a piece of literature moved and compelled me as this play did.

4 Places I've Vacationed:
-Washington, DC
-Playa del Carmen, Mexico
-Nassau, Bahamas
-New York City, NY

4 Websites I visit daily:
-The Facts
-The Local Canon
-A True Believer
-Mary Tyler Moore

4 Favorite Foods:
-A great steak, cooked to order.
-A properly prepared pasta.
-A frresh, energetic and receptive yanni.
-A well-crafted cocktail or well-aged wine.

Tick, tock...

2006-01-24T11:15:00.000-05:00

"It's my birthday, and I'll work 'cuz I have to, work 'cuz I have to."

Even with planning weeks ahead and doing my best to keep my calendar free of non-personal obligations and other bogus bullshit (i.e. activities that do NOT include drinking, whoring or otherwise over-indulging)for today and tomorrow, I stll find myself staring into this monitor with a To Do list longer than Dirk Digler's claim to fame, and bunch of bitchy-assed clients that would make an all pre-menstrual Oprah studio audience look like a barrel full of fluffy stuffed animals.

I think it's absolutely un-American to have to forestall your yearly dive headlong into a vat of your favorite vodka until the weekend because of some stupid occupational obligations.

Aw, well...fuck it. (There, got my dose of Hate out of the way for today.)

Ho-hum

2006-01-21T20:53:00.000-05:00

I really try to avoid the mundane when posting here. Which is kinda tough, because so much of what goes on in one's life (anyone's really, just ask them) is pretty mundane. And nobody really likes to hear or read about the boring stupid shit. Nope, we want the REAL stuff. I read an editorial today that kind of summed it up well:

"Today our national narrative follows this big dramatic arc. Gossip reporting relies on it unfailinigly. It can never be that a Hollywood couple woke up one morning, like normal people, and decided they could no longer bear to hear one another chew. It must be that he was tortured by the success of her career, that she has been rocking the trailer on location with her leading man. It cannot be that they are just like us...

Of course, the more humdrum aspects of life do not make for gripping reading. To render them compelling, a writer must describe the universal in eloquent and evocative prose."*

I understand this notion completely. Hell, I once considerd myself a reasonably capable stage director. You know- live theatre. That wonderful, once vibrant art form that entertained the nobilty and the masses equally for thousands (yes THOUSANDS) of years. That art form which has unfortunately succumbed to the banality and idiocy of Hollywood, fallen victim to the "reality" cult and been crushed under the jackboot of coroporate capitalism and mass market media...

Excuse me, but that's a story/rant for another day.

What I'm trying to say is, if I learned one thing after all those years of "formal" education and training, followed by years of coaxing life out of the written word, it's the simple fact that REAL LIFE is fucking boring. And the only way to make it interesting to anyone other than yourself, is to add a little spice, a little flavor in order to get the juices flowing. Like one of those teeny-tiny, innocent looking red peppers that comes in your Mongolian beef. You know, the one that you bite into thinking, this little bitty pepper is kinda cute, I wonder what he tastes like......

HOLYFUCKINGCHRIST,
WHATISTHISRAGINGFIREINMYMOUTH!!!!!
PUTITOUTITOUT,PUTITIOUT,PITIOUT!!!!!

You know the ones I'm talking about.

Anyway, I try to keep the dull down to a minimum. But sometimes the dull just gets a little overpowering.

So at the end of a fairly light week (45 hours) at the Ranch, I get home from an all-day training convocation last night and am pretty much wiped out, I guess. I mean, I must have been, because after sorting throught the mail and chowing down on some reasonable Italian take-out, I realize that I'm nodding off on the couch, watching bad stand-up on Comedy Central. At NINE o'clock in the evening!

OK, this is cool, I think remotely. I had that demand package I wanted to work on this weekend sitting on my desk. I'll just get up early and crank some stuff out.

So I force myself to stay up for a couple more hours and eventually get to bed early for once. I awoke to the alarm, but allowed myself an extra hour to snooze, just for weekend's sake. Then proceeded to give the domicile a good cleaning. Mind you, I did not say a thorough cleaning (it's not Spring Cleaning time quite yet), but a good one. And admittedly, it needed it.

Next, I jet up to the local merchant sector known pragmatically as The Yoke to complete some transactions, pick up a few goods and utilize some services, then I'm back to the hideout where I put the final touches on an client abstract. Not the big one which I've been putting off for the past three weeks and intended to hammer on this morning when I was nodding off last night, but at least I'm out of distractions. I have to do the demand now.

So now that I've accomplished a good deal of what I intended for the day, I'm at a bit of a loss. I just spoke with FC, and she's apparently got a nasty case of food poisoning. Been throwing up since 10:00 last night, so I guess we're not going to get together as previously planned.

OK...

I'm going to see the boys tomorrow for football and poker, so they're all either with their respective FC's, working, or already cruising temporary FC's. And I don't feel like rolling as the 3rd-, 5th- or any other odd-numbered Wheel this evening. So where does that leave me?

Well, there's always the rest of that take-out in the fridge. I could warm that up and go back to work for a few more hours-rationalizing that I'm "preparing" myself for The Canons with all of this extra dedication and labor. Or I could crank up the X-box for some good ol' fraggin' fun!! Maybe I could read one of these five books I've set aside or purchased in the past month. There's always the new Netflix sitting on the idiot-box...

...

...

...(Sound FX: crickets)...

Boy, I'm really fucking lame.

Finally, there's always heading on out, "Lone Wolf style", as J-Catz the barman once called it, and seeing what kind of action I can find. While I am no stranger to this particular modus operendi, lately I've found that it's often more trouble then it's really worth. But hey, maybe I'll have one of those nights that makes for interesting reading on the blog, adds a little spice to get the ol' jucies flowing again, and thus elevate my out of this mundanity.

One thing's for sure: That leftover pasta is calling my name.

"Real Life, No Police Chases," by Anna Quindlen, Newsweek, Jan. 23, 2006

OK, I'll play along.

2006-01-10T23:34:00.000-05:00

A blog game from Birdie:

Two Parts of Your Heritage
1. Passive-aggressive personality with a predilection for addiction (specifically alcohol and, well let's just say I've conquered a few demons. Thanks, Mom.
2. A penchant for scathing sarcasm and condescension. I'd like to give a big shout-out to Dad!

Two Things That Scare You
1. Being wrong/incorrect, ever.
2. Being embarrassed.

Two fears you overcame
1. Being wrong/incorrect. I've come to accept the fact that I am, more often than not. And learning from your mistakes is so much more rewarding once you get over it.
2. Being embarrassed. Pride is such a dangerous, cumbersome thing... alright, let's be honest. I still haven't gotten over this one.

Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. Integrity
2. A bong hit or two at the end of the day, it's my Prozac.

Two things you are Wearing Right Now
1. sweats (it's laundry night)
2. leather teddy (because I look so damn SEXY in it)

Two things you wore too much this year
1. Underwear, which gets in the way of sex
2. My ego on my sleeve

This year's Favorite Bands or Musical Artists
1. Beastie Boys (I actually tried to sing a B-Boys rap at karaoke with my boy Rob, what a friggin' abortion that was.
2. Rolling Stones- last year, this year, every freakin' year!!

Two Things You Want in a Relationship
1. Another person...
2. who's female

Two of your favorite Movies of the Year
1. Crash
2. Sideways

Best movies of all time
1. Apocalypse Now (Saigon. Shit...)
2. Caddyshack (How 'bout a Fresca!?!)

Two things You hate
1. Stupidity
2. Apathy

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Talking, or in this case, writing about my self. Hell, you're reading it
2. Cunnilingus

Two things you learned this year
1. I CAN quit smoking cigarettes. Even after 20 freakin' years.
2. ... how much more I don't know.

Two Accomplishments You are Proud of
1. Settlements in the 'K v State' and "M v City' matters. I really sharpened some skills on those two.
2. The Hamm Project

Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. Acceptance to and entry in 'seminary'.
2. That is two things.

Two places you went this year.
1. Mexico, to clear my head and gain some focus. An interesting experience.
2. Canada, to meet FC's parents at Christmas. An interesting experience.

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation
1. Italy
2. Belize

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. Live long,
2. and prosper.

Two Ways that you are a Stereotypical Example of your Gender
1. Sex and food make me happy, don't they you?
2. I really do not need to be engaged in conversation, every minute of the day. So if I'm not talking, it may be because I have nothing to say. But believe me, when I do, I will be sure to let you know.

Two things that make you stand out.
1. My laugh.
2. My... what, "presence"? Nah, my ego. For some reason, I can piss someone off just by sitting next to them at a bar.

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit
1. I miss one night-stands.
2. Sometimes I do miss Illinois.

Two Goals for the New Year
1. Onward,
2. and upward.

Cheers!!

Am I coming through loud and clear?

2006-01-05T23:28:00.000-05:00

First off, let me apologize to my massive readership (all 1.5 of you. You know who you are). I am sorry I have been so remiss in posting over the past month. I can't really use the excuse that I had a bunch of Christmas shopping or other holiday related bullshit to do, because I don't really participate in that crap.

Except for the drinking part. I DO particpate in that wholeheartedly. But the rest of the Ho Ho Hoopla... well, I pretty much take a pass on that stuff.

This not to say that I've been ignoring you, dear Constant Reader(s). Quite the contrary, I've had a number of things worthy of jotting down in my little electronic notebook over the past few weeks, but with all of the year-end shit to do at the Ranch (particularly the few insufferable clients I have), the holiday binge drinking and gladhanding fuck-fests as well as the demands on my time and attention made by FC (not necessarily a negative thing), I just haven't been able to maintain the proper focus to rant properly. But now the all of that crap is past us for another year or so, and I can get back on my high fucking horse and start dishing out the shit my little sector of the world so richly deserves.

And so, with that, I give you:

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!?

I'll dispense with the set-up on this one, because 1) you should be smart enough to figure it out on your own, you mental-fucking-midget, and 2) it would ruin the story if I spoon fed you everything.

So, here is the letter I wanted to send:

Dear Bitch,

I have had it. I have had just about enough of the constant fucking noise which emanates from your floor, through my ceiling and in to my domicile. This shit has been going on now for TWO FUCKING YEARS and I am just about to go postal on your haughty little ass!

You're old enough to remember where the term "postal" comes from, right? Well, I tell you what, bitch, I've got my twelve gauge loaded and ready to go. Given the fact that the door to your apartment isn't strong enough to withstand an elephant's fart, I won't even need to waste a shell on the deadbolt in order to gain access to your bungalow a mere 6 feet above me. Nope, I'll just walk right upstairs, and with a good solid kick, be inside taking care of business like the governor of California in one of those robot movies.

And it's a good thing I've got a weapon and ammo that pack some punch, because I'll definitely need all the power I can get, taking care of that herd of buffalo you must have housed up there. I know they look like children, but from where I sit, those are obnoxious rug rats of yours make more noise than the extras on a Kevin Costner set.

EVERY morning and EVERY fucking evening, I am subjected to the endless thumping, thudding, banging and booming as those mouthy little shit monsters of yours run and jump throughout your apartment. And this has been going on now since you moved in back in November of 2003. Seriously. Two years, I have been patient. Two years I have been understanding. But my patience has reached its end, honey, and I am about to give you a little reality check.

I know, I know. Things are tough for you, being a single mother of two children under the age of 10. You made sure to point that out to me on one of the occasions when I knocked on your door to complain about the noise. And I think I've given you quite a bit of latitude because of your single-motherness. But that shit don't fly now, especially since you've some dude shakin' up with you full time. Besides, I've got two fucking words for you, the erstwhile single mother. BIRTH CONTROL!!! If you can't handle 'em, don't fucking breed 'em. Oh, your marriage didn't work out?? Well join the fucking parade. No fucking wonder, given your charming personality. And if you fucked your former husband like you fuck your new biker husband, it's no wonder he left you. The most action I've heard coming from your boudoir is 1 minute's worth of half-hearted pumping, and then your off to the bathroom to wash up. Granted, your boy may have a hair-trigger, but that's probably because he just wants to get it the fuck over with. I imagine you bitching and nagging all the way through the intercourse, and he's lucky to even maintain an erection long enough to blow his load. Hopefully, he's got his jimmy on, or he's fixed. I'd hate for anyone to suffer through another pregnancy with you.

Your lack of consideration is what bothers me the most. I've been up to your door a number of times this past year, complaining about the noise your ankle-biters make. Everytime you've got some lame ass excuse. I've banged my fist against my ceiling to let you know that I'm a wee bit pissed on even more occasions. But yet, nothing resembiling an honest effort to quell the rampaging herd. In fact, as I write this at 9:30 PM, I can still hear your little fucktards cavorting like satyrs in the pasture. This shit begins every morning at 6:30 AM and continues until 9-10 at night.

You know what really cracks me up, you slack-cunted, mongoloid hausfrau*? The reaction I got when I finally called the resident manager to inform her that I was sending in a letter of complaint. She stated, and I do quote: "It's funny you should be the one to register a complaint against her. Normally when somebody calls me with a complaint such as yours, I'm groaning at the unreasonableness of it, and trying to find a way to resolve the issue without creating any further commotion. But in this case, I'm looking forward to receiving your letter, because she has NO problem in lodging complaints against everyone else in the complex. So you just send your letter right on in, and we'll deal with it as necessary."

So guess what, you uptight, self-righteous cunt. (yep, I used the 'c' word) I've got my eyes on you. You have no idea who you've pissed off. But from here on out, I plan on making your fucking insignificant, inconsiderate life even more miserable than it obviously already is. I've got the time, the energy and the wherewithall, and you've finally given me an excuse.

Sincerely,

Jaques Roux

(* this phrase copyrighted by some guy named Rob)

Now here's the letter I actually sent:
--------------------
Jaques Roux
123 Sesame Street, Unit #1
Anytown USA

January 5, 2006

Nancy, Resident Manager
Happy Homes Apartments
Anytown USA

RE: Nuisance Complaint

Dear Ms. Nancy:

I write to you at this time to advise you of what has become I consider a long-term, chronic problem. It is my intent to notify you of this nuisance in order to effect a positive and amicable solution.

Over the past two-plus years, I have endured what I consider to be an unrealistic amount of noise emanating from the residents in Unit #21. This noise is being caused by what sounds to be the heavy foot traffic of the two young children and (at least) one adult resident. I consider the frequency and severity over such a long term time has elevated this annoyance to a more acute level.

On almost every morning of the week for the past two years, I have distinctly heard the ”thumps”,” thuds”, “bangs” and “booms” of the two young children and they run, jump and play throughout their apartment. This noise will often continue throughout the day while I am present during the weekends or home on holidays or personal leave from work. Almost every evening when I return home, the noise continues until approximately 9:00 PM. The sounds of the residents as they walk, run and jump, resonate throughout my apartment, often rattling and shaking pictures and glassware and other objects within my apartment.

Now I would like to consider myself a fairly reasonable person. I understand that I live in an apartment complex with many other residents. As a result of our close proximity, we must often exercise tolerance and patience with each other as our personal lives overlap. This is the very idea which makes society “civilized”. I believe that I have exercised and demonstrated the kind of patience and restraint which should be expected from any reasonable person .

My upstairs neighbors have not, in my opinion, upheld their part of this social contract. I have notified Ms. Bitchface directly and in advance when I would be hosting small gatherings in an effort to avoid any inconvenience to her and her family. I have voiced my complaints regarding the noise directly to Ms. Bitchface on more than one occasion over the past year, but still the racket persists.

This noise intrusion is especially bothersome in the fact that I am frequently required to work from home well past “normal” business hours. I will often continue with job-related tasks during week-day evenings as well as over most weekends. Compound this with the fact that I will soon be attending graduate school, and this chronic noise will become quite unbearable.

I have carefully reviewed the language within my rental agreement with Tracy Ann Apartments as well as the Landlord-Tenant Acts and other applicable RCW’s dealing with laws and regulations involving apartment residency. Upon review, I note the following stipulations contained within the rental agreement itself:

· Quite hours are from 10:00 PM to 8:00 AM daily. Please refrain from doing laundry, vacuuming or any other activity that may disturb your neighbors. [Emphasis added]

· Noise from television [sic] and stereos should be maintained to a level which stays within the walls of the apartment. [Emphasis added]

· Tenant is obligated to not permit a nuisance (substantial interference with other tenants’ use of their property). [Emphasis added]

It is my position that due to the severity, frequency and duration of the noise emanating from Unit #2 into my dwelling (Unit #1), as well as the conditions set forth above pursuant to RCW 59.18, the residents of HappyHomes Apartments, Unit #2 (Ms. Bitchface and family) have violated the terms of the rental agreement by creating a nuisance and, after notification, have allowed said nuisance to persist for an unreasonable time.

Please accept this correspondence as constructive notice regarding my complaint and be advised that from henceforth, I will be documenting each and every occurrence of noise which I consider invasive, intrusive and otherwise unreasonable. Furthermore, I will contact the Resident Manager to notify them of each instance as they occur. If my notification of this nuisance fails to result in a significant behavior modification and reduction in noise, or if I experience any deleterious impact to my person or property as a consequence of my complaints, I will be forced to proceed with further, more significant action.

Finally, let me please state that I bring this matter to your attention not to create strife or discord within the Happy Homes Apartment community. I enjoy living here a great deal and harbor no malice or ill-will towards the residents of Unit #2. But I believe that I have been more than tolerant with respect to this matter. My patience has reached its end.

If you would like to discuss this matter further, please feel free to contact me at (000) 555-1212, or at work, (000) 555-1313. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation in this matter.

Respectfully,

Jaques Roux

cc: Ms. Pissy Bitchface

-------------------------
I dropped my love notes in the outgoing mail at the Ranch today. I expect that they will reach their intended recipients by tomorrow eveing. I suspect that should get a rise out of someone...

Take THAT!!!!

2005-12-15T23:45:00.000-05:00

Yeah, muthafucka, take THAT SHIT!!!! That's what I'm TALKIN' about!!

HAH!!

.....

...

OK, now that I've got THAT off my chest, lemme just say, FINALLY!

So, I've been having a bit of a rough time. Perhaps like Missuzj, I've got a moderate dose of the ol' SAD. I think most of it is just burn-out. For the past two months, I've been dealing with cranky, whiny-assed clients, who are bitching more than ususal; rude(r than ususal) Adversaries; and idiotic (again, more than usual) admin. monkeys. I've been busting my ass hard and heavy for the past couple of months, trying to close the books on as many accounts as possible, while keeping the "humps" as happy as possible. All the while, I'm always looking forward to the Year End and the Manna (read: cash) which the Noel Season always brings here at the Ranch.

In addition to the work grind, I've been dragging my heels quite a bit on getting my applications for acceptance to Seminary submitted. At this point, I'm approximately one-and-a-half months behind my previously set deadline for submission. And while I can complain about a certain setback in gathering some kick ass supplemental materials for my appy, I've truly got nobody but myself and a certain, hulking, oppressive lethargia to blame for my tardiness.

So, suffice to say, I've been in a pretty shitty mood over the past couple of weeks.

But that changed today.

For today, I made my Adversary my Bitch.

Actaully, not just one Adversary, but two Adversaries, and their respective Priorys. Now granted, I had been laying the groundwork for these particular victories for the past 2 to 4 months, but all that time and energy spent becomes insignificant compared to the brief moment of exhilaration when you realize that you've won.

That moment when you've bested your opponenet and succeeded in overcoming their arguments and forced them to act according to your will, your demand. You've overtaken their position with a certain deft and precision which your Opponent is probably not even consciously aware. That near orgasmic moment of bliss and victory truly is the sweetest.

But you've done so in a manner befitting a true Priest of the highest and noblest order. That is, with honor, integrity, and always with the best interest of your client in mind. Never forget that. As my pal would say: Der Kleint, uber alles (where is that damn umlaut???).

And in addition to absolutely bitch-slapping two of my counterparts near the frenzied height of the Christmas SpazFest, I also collected on a couple of pricks who I've been haggling with for the past 6 friggin' months. That's right, friends and negibors, six months of seduction and tyranny in a date-rape dance of negotiations on behalf of my client. In this case, two clients who have been nagging me about some $25 charge they don't under-fucking-stand or some other petty, inconsequential matter and never realize or comprehend the amount of shit I've been slogging through on their behalf. (Ungrateful fucksticks)

But more pleasing than the fact that I had finally collected on these back alley guttersluts was the realization that my efforts would not go unrewarded. Because I received notifcation from the Beancounters that the proceeds collected will go towards that year end tithe I am so looking forward to. Which was quite a pleasant surprise, as tomorrow is my annual review at the Ranch. And everyone knows, it's best to go in for your review with strong production numbers in your back pocket. Well, let's just say Samson ain't got SHIT on my number, boy!

...I'm looking forward to the conference with my Abbott tomorrow.

So, there's your dose of Hubris, with a small side of Hate for today.

PS, for thos of you keeping track, I've worked things out with FC. And while she does have some "issues" that present certian challenges (hell, WHO DOESN'T???), some open and honest communication can do wonders.

Another one bites the dust.

2005-12-06T15:46:00.000-05:00

OK, so Female Companion and I were supposed to get together and go out this past Saturday night. No big plans or anything, just an evening out, but for some unknown reason, she decided to cancel on me at (sort of) the last minute. And while I was a little pissed off about such a last minute cancellation, I went pretty easy on her. I mean, I'm as flexible and "spontaneous" as the next guy (girls always seem to want a guy who's "spontaneous"), but calling to cancel plans without reasonable cause is, well, a little unreasonable. Well, since it's still fairly early on in the whole "relationship" thing, and since I'm trying to be a good boy and not "sweat the small stuff", I let it slide without making a big stink. What the hell, this could serve as a "Get Out of Jail Free" card for me sometime in the future, right?

Yeah, right...

So, I want to go out. I had stayed in with FC the previous night and had laid pretty low during the week preceding, so it was time to get a little of the old "groove" on. But my original plans with FC had been tossed by the wayside with a singal phone call. No biggie, I'm "flexible" and "spontaneous", right? Fortunately, my pal, The Enabler called to tell me about not one, but TWO parties transpiring that very evening. The first was being hosted by some associates of ours in the Entertainment industry and would likely be full of such industry types; a few of who I knew I would know. (How do you like that one?) Unfortunately, the host and hostess lived so far north, it may as well have been in the Yukon Territory. And I had just sold my dogsled to my black neighbor downstairs. What she wanted with it, I'll never know. I mean, are there ANY black folk who live north of DETROIT?? I didn't think so.

The invitation to the second fete came from a friend of Enabler's. Well, since I had recently lost some of my hard earned ducats to Enabler's friend, I guess I could call him a friend of mine, as well. Anyway, this guy is also in the Entertainment biz, and so this party would most likely be populated more of the same ilk. This party, however, was located in a much more condusive locale, even if it was nearby the Den of Ill Repute.

So, after rendezvousing with The Enabler and his friend, and our friend's darling girlfriend, we headed over to the party on Q.A. Drinks were slurrped, snacks were gnoshed, chit-chat was converesed, carols were sung and a good time was generally had by all. Even though I was still a bit miffed, distracted and confused by FC's abrupt change in plans, I did my best to quell my concerns and focus on the immediate. I chose not to discuss these troubles with my comrades or other party-goers, because it's none of their business, and I didn't want to impart any negativity upon anybody's festivites. And while I was a bit hesitant about going to either party (for whatever reason) I plunged forward, knowing that "laughter is the best medicine" and all that. And when I beheld all of the glorious and radiant beauties in attendance at this little suarez, I was distracted enough to have a pleasant and enjoyable time for myself. In fact, it took a certain amount of restraint not to busy myself chatting up one or two of these beautiful babies in an attempt to get them alone and seperated from their apparel so as to indulge in a little pleasure that the flesh doth surely hold. No, friends and neighbors, I took the high road, because I didn't want to jeopardize things with FC.

So I mingled, circulated, drank and engaged in meaningless small talk and tried very hard not to spill anything or otherwise make a social pariah out of myself. And after having consumed enough malted and distilled beverages to provide me with a decent enough intoxicant factor, I decided that I had had enough banality. I said my goodbyes and made my way to the door.

Out into the cool, wet darkness of the pre-Midnight evening I ventured. My buggy was parked about a block away, around the corner. And while I made my way to the corner, I can't even recall what I was pondering. But it must have been something good, because I clearly wasn't paying attention to where attention should have been paid. Because at one moment, I was striding effortlessly toward the corner of the block, and the next I was falling gracelessly backward as my left foot jumped out ahead of me, seemingly on its own accord.

And as my two hands involuntarily reached out behind me to catch falling body, I thought to myself "oh, shh......". For that was as far as my addled brain got. Because in the space of one second, I heard the un-opened bottle of beer I had stashed in my coat pocket for the drive home slap the concrete of the sidewalk I was plummeting towards, AND I felt/heard the snap of a tendon in my right ankle, with the immediate clarion call of my nervous system hastily advising me that something was most definitely WRONG with what I had just asked my body to do.

Apparently, my ankle doesn't like to "bend over backwards" for me. And really, I should have known this already. This insubordinate joint structure had previously let me down in a most egregious manner almost 20 years ago when I snuck out of my parents' house to go meet a girl. (Ohh, Angela. The magic we could have made that night had my ankle held up to that 1 1/2 story jump.)

I guess the friction coefficient between my boot and the wet pavement was not sufficient enough to maintain the appropriate amount of "grip", and I went ass-over-teakettle. While the pain in my seditious ankle was significant, I retained enough composure to ascertain the integrity of the bottled beverage in my jacket pocket. I mean, if I'm going to have to crawl back to the party or drive myself either home or to the hospital, I don't want to have a pocket full of shattered glass and beer running down the side of my pants while I do it.

Luckily, the beer bottle was intact. I wish I could have said the same for my lower appendage articulator.

So, I pulled myself back up to my feet and determined quickly that I was still mobile, in a manner of speaking. With the sound of amused laughter sounding a block away (in the opposite direction of the party, so I know they were laughing at me!), I hobbled my way to my auto. Surprisiningly, my injury did not impair my ability to operate the Go Juice pedal, so I started up the jalopy, cracked open the barley pop and nosed my way back home.

I arrived home, safe and sound. Except for the ankle, of course. I lurched my way into the domicile, stripped off the footware, with now exquisite pain, grabbed a bag of frozen vegetables (California Mix, whatever that means) and made my way to the couch. I placed my now throbbing ankle in an evelvated position, gently laid the bag o' veggies on the offending joint, and medicated myself with some of British Columbia's finest export, besides the girls, that is.

The following day I awoke, and noting the continued presence of redness and swelling, I called upon another comrade to deliver me to the nearest emergent care facility in the City. Now I could go on and on about the great fun Fuzzybutt and I had, hanging out with the junkies, drunks and indigent folks at the County ER, I don't have time for that right now. Becuase I work for a living. ($500 phone calls) Suffice to say, my worst fears were assuaged, I did not break my ankle again, and I was discharged without further incident.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of my woes. You see, when I had last spoken with FC, I figured we would be discussing whatever the "issue" was which prompted her to cancel our rendezvous of the previous evening sometime on Sunday. When I returned home after the three-and-a-half hour foray into Insane-Sick Land, nary a meesage was found on either the portable or fixed telecommunication devices. OK, fine, she wants to take this at her own speed, I can relate and groove with that. Remember, I'm not going to sweat the small stuff?

It wasn't until the following day (yesterday) that I did actually speak with FC, who did a failry ham-handed job of avoiding the topic, stating that she didn't want to discuss it over the phone. OK, cool. I don't like discussing important personal stuff by phone either.

- So come on over to my place, I'm handicapped and not going anywhere.
- OK (she says), I'll give you a call later this afternoon, when I'm on my way over.
- Sounds good. See you then.

That was yesterday at 12:40 PM. Haven't heard from her since.

Now I don't want to be Mr. McNegativity because I really like this woman, but it looks like this affair is about to join all of the (too numerous) other failed relationships on the "Scrap Heap of Love..."

Ah well. I'll take consolation in the fact that I really did try with this one.

Thanksgiving

2005-11-29T01:23:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was great, for a number of reasons, none of which are your business. But it was also a little sad.

This is where your business comes in.

Female Companion (FC) and I went out to dinner for the holiday. I have no family within half a continent, and she's from a different planet where they do things a little differently for the Grand GorgeFest. So we went out for dinner. I should also mention that we decided to get out of the City to one of the resort and recreation zones nearby for a long weekend. But that's not any of your business either.

Suffice to say, we went out for Thanksgiving Dinner.

We arrived at the designated time to the well-appointed and intimate dining area of our tastefully upscale lodge. We were pleasantly greeted by the concierge, who remarked that we both looked "very nice, all dressed up. No one else this evening has really bothered." Dressed up?? I didn't even have a tie on, but OK.

Surprised, Female Companion and I shared a look and followed the concierge to our table. A quick glance around the room confirmed what I had hoped would not be the case as I put my jacket on in the room some 20 minute earlier. Jeans, untucked shirts, sweatsuits for Chrissake!! Oh well...

So FC in her modest earth-tone sweater, black skirt and boots, and I in my jacket and open collared shirt take our seats and after a bit of small talk, begin to peruse the menu of the evening.

Soon thereafter, a sultry woman with brunette curls approaches and politely intrudes into our sphere, obviously our server for the evening. I smile up at her and greet her, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving.

- Oh well, thank you. You're actually the first person to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving tonight, and you're my last table of the evening.

WTF!?!?!?

Now listen, I am no Cheery McFuzzypants. I tend to be sarcastic and cynical by nature. And I definitely do not go Ga-Ga over the holidays, but come on people, give me a fucking BREAK!!

You're going out for Thanksgiving Dinner. You're not cooking it. You're not cleaning up after your done eating it. Chances are, you're not even PAYING for it. You've got someone else schlepping your drinks, butter patties and filthy plates. Someone who is WORKING while you stuff your fat pig face, when they'd rather be home with THEIR family stuffing their fat pig face, or down at the tavern drinking cheap beer and Yukon Jack with the other familial nomads. Whatever, all you have to do is sit, perhaps verbalize a few times and eat what they put in front of you.

What's more, this isn't Denny's!! If you're the one footing the bill, you're paying a nice chunk of change for the four courses with the 2oz wine parings. So would it really fucking kill you to take a shower, clean you ass crack, and put some decent clothes on before heading out to dinner?

And by the way, when you sit your ass down to the feeding trough, take a minute to greet the person who's waiting on you with a kind word or two. Or, heaven forbid, wish them a happy holiday. You know, the whole reason you're out having dinner in the first place?

Grow up, take some responsibility.

'Tis the Season? You bet your ass, it is!

2005-11-28T22:54:00.000-05:00

I love this time of year. Really, I do. And not because of all the good cheer, holiday festivities and all that happy horseshit. At least, that's not why I'm writing "I love this time of year."

Because I do. I do love all the holiday festivities, what with the indulgent eating, drinking and shit-eating grinning that goes on, come Winter. But that's not why I'm here right now.

No, I love this time of year because of the easy money.

So I'm back at the Ranch after taking a much needed and well-deserved long weekend off. And one of my top agenda items for the day is to call on one of my Adversaries concerning a particular client's case we had been negotiating on for a short time. Now this is not the first, second, or even third issue I had negotiated with this particular Adversary. We have had more than a few cases together over the past few years. In fact, I had recently pummeled her with a barrage of demands on several, very old cases in the past few months. Now I was once in her shoes, and having been there, I can say that, as a result of these "retro" claims (what really amounts to big fishing expedition),I probably held a position of some distinction and honor on her shit list. But, we're both professionals, so we have continued to maintain a very amicable, even gracious dialogue up to this point.

Now when we had last spoken, just over two weeks ago, she had extended an offer of settlement in the amount of x. At that time I advised her that I would take the offer back to my client, talk it over with him and get back to her. Pretty typical stuff, really.

So, I thought about her offer. In my opinion, her offer of x was really an adequate, if not solid offer to resolve my client's issue at hand. I mean, I had already done extremely well on the first two issues of this client's case. Better, in fact, than I had originally thought when I was given the case to begin with. This was an offer that satisfied all of the goals put in place when the Ranch was hired over a year and a half ago. I had already gone the distance, and then some, for his girlfriend's companion case. A girlfriend, who poetically enough, dumped his sorry ass shortly after I concluded her case, and was a humongous pain in my NUTS!! (Hey, at least she had a great ass!!) So I thought it was a pretty good offer.

So I'm thinking, do I call the client and get him to accept the offer? Because at this point, I've already made this non-English speaking, non-contributing to the economy, cultural-divide punk more money on this case than he ever expected, so he's going to do pretty much whatever I tell him. It's just that by calling him, I'm going to lose at least an hour or two of productivity on clients who are more grateful, and who's cases are worth much more. And I'd rather not waste anymore time than I have to.

So I thought about it for a few days. I turned it over in my head every morning on my way along the Viaduct. Hell, I thought about over dinner one evening with the Female Companion. (Between the steamed mussels in a garlic and tomato sauce and the main course, if you were wondering.) Do I accept the offer as is, perhaps build a little stock and good grace with my counterpart by not being a pain in her ass which could be used in the future? Or do I do what she's expecting me to do and come back with my hand out for more. And while she did not say "this is my best offer, take it or leave it," or anything else like that, she was pretty firm about her offer. I mean, really, I could just take it and be done with this already time consuming case and moderately aggravating and needy citizen, or I could step up, take a shot, go the extra mile and hopefully do some good for our client.

Well, I decided to call my Opponent back, ultimately undecided about my course of action when I picked up the phone to dial (never a good thing to do).

Once the phone has rung the obligatory number of times, her voice mail picks up. Again, pretty typical stuff. Only this time, her message states that she's out of the office until after the GorgeFest of T-giving.

OK, fine, I'm not going to leave her a message that she won't get to for another 10 days and hence never return. I'm going to call her back on upon her return. This will give me a few more days to further ponder my plan of action.

It's at this point that I call Mr. Client up and tell him about the x offer, answer his questions, tell him my thoughts and recommend that he accept the offer. Which of course, he does. So cool, I've covered my bases, I can put this back into my subconscious and let it rumble around for a while. Now don't get me wrong, it wasn't all peaches and cream. He did have to call back at least two more times that afternoon to pester me with bullshit questions, but it wasn't too bad. And within a day or two more, I had a basic strategy mentally in place.

So fast forward to the appointed day (today). I call Adversary up and to my surprise, I get a live person!

- Hi Adversary, this is JR calling from the Ranch on Mr. Fussypants. How are you today?

- I'm good, yourself?

- Great, thanks. How was your vacation last week?

- Oh, it was great thanks. Ate too much, of course, but I got to sleep all day yesterday, which was really nice.

- Yeah, I took off out of town for a long weekend myself. Had a great time, got some rest.

- (Laughs) Yeah, sometimes a little break from this work will do wonders for you.

- Indeed. Listen, I wanted to get back to you on Mr. Fussypants. Now when we last spoke your offer was for x, in response to our demand for 4x. I took your offer back to the client and discussed it with him. He's rejected it and given me authority to come down to 2x, but I'm pretty sure I can get this done at 1.5x. And would you look at that, I just bid against myself!! (A big no-no, and probable sign of weakness in my world.)

- Why yes you did. And as a matter of fact, I have authority for 1.5x, so if you can get it done for that, we've got a deal.

- Why don't you go ahead and send the check on over. We'll get this wrapped up right now.

Now you might want to bust my chops for "caving" too easily. I mean, I went from 4x to 1.5x in two quick breaths. But remember, I thought that x was more than the case was actually worth in the first place. So not only did I get another 50% on top of what the client thinks he's getting, but it only took me one phone call.

And here's my point. Because it's the end of the year, folks are getting into that "giving" mood. They're worn out from the year before and getting kind of tired of the fight. There's a sense of closure with the end of the year, and as a result, people want to clear off as much of the crap on their desk as possible. And I'm here, ready to pick up any crumb you may overlook.

More importantly, though, because I've kicked so much ass throughout the past 11 months, that one 5 minute telephone call put another $500.00 directly in my pocket!!! This is over and above my regular salary that I make whether I'm actually closing cases, or banging the cute new receptionist. And we're talking 5 small after the Big Boss at the Ranch has taken his cut.

So let's see, $500 for a 5 minute phone call. What's that break down too? Well, that's $6,000 per hour, $48,000 per day, $336,00 per week or $17,472,000 per year. It's no Ken Griffey Jr. income, but it 'ain't bad for a white boy', as my Pappy used to say. (Pappy was bitter about a lot of things.)

My real point is this: For all you sorry sacks who like to take shots at me and my colleagues in the priesthood for being connivers, cheats, swindlers and sharks, I say:

Go fuck yourself!!

Because believe it or not. I do take the high road. Even for ungrateful ass munches who I wouldn't go out of my way to piss on, if they hadn't signed on the dotted line. Because once you do, I'm your bitch, 'til the very fucking end. But that service doesn't come cheap.

And yes, I sleep just fine at night, thankyouverymuch.

Egotistical?? You bet your ass I am.

And if you think this rant is bad, wait until I'm in a bad mood...

Hey Blue!!! Pick on somebody your own size!!!

2005-11-22T12:23:00.000-05:00

On my way into work today, I saw one of those things that was both dumbfounding and frustrating. Granted, I see/hear/experience a lot of shit that I find aggravating and bewildering these days, but this one was... well, at least somewhat noteworthy. And even if it's not, I don't care. I find you aggravating and frustrating as well.

So as I said, I was on my way to the Ranch for my daily dose of Hubris and Hate (I know you were wondering when I was going to bring that in, weren't you?), when I happened upon a curious sight. As I was winding my way through a medium commerical district on the Rock, the neighborhood where I live, on my way towards the freeway which will take me into the City, I noted that traffic was a bit heavier, moving a bit slower than the previous day. This is notable only in that yesterday's traffic had been incredibly light. I mean, I was truly blessed by the Traffic Gods (who must really despise my fair City, based on their usual daily dosage of pain and despair) yesterday. In fact, I enjoyed a generous helping of conveyance karma by hitting a green light on EVERY TRAFFIC SIGNAL between my hacienda and the Ranch. I mean, we're talking easily 12 traffic control lights. And every one of them GREEN!!! Now I realize that this being a holiday week, the normally congested highways and byways of this metropolis, which usually flows like the blood in a 5 cheeseburger-a-day-eatin', no exercising, corpulant couch potato, is actually going to move smoother than a constipated bowel with a double dose of ExLax. But ALL GREENS?!?!?! Well, it was just too good to be true.

And it was. For as I swung through the last intersection seperating the humble residential sector from the low brow, slightly dingy string of fast food resturants, chiropractic offices and dry cleaners, the traffic flow noticably slowed, in comparision to the previous day. Nothing like it normally is when some fuck-tard has decided to smear himself and perhaps one or two other innocent motorists all over the jersey barrier and blacktop of the Bridge, but still slower than Monday. And when you have a day with nothing but green lights, well, you hope for a repeat.

So, as I slowed my buggy to the less than optimal speed of those commuters around me, I could see ahead in the distance, perhaps four or five blocks ahead, the tell-tale flashing lights of our city's finest in law enforcement, swirling with verve and vigor atop the battle cruiser. I could tell that the "police activity" was just this side of the main entrance to the Rock, so I was pleased that I would at least get a look at whatever human passion play was unraveling before hitting the highway. Regardless of my mild aggravation at the slight delay in my journey, I so do love glimpsing into the drama, pain and suffering that flavors the human existence.

But as I drew near, I became a bit confused, bewildered if you will. When I was within a block and a half of the soap opera, I could discern not one, not two, not even three, but FIVE sector cars, all parked at various angles incongruent with the prescribed traffic patterns and geographical features of the block. That's right, FIVE cop cars, all seemingly centered on and oriented around one focal point.

Well, I finally got my chance at the brief glimpse into what was "really going on", and that was the moment that I became.....

Outraged? No, this was not quite egregious.

Incensed? Perhaps, but most likely not for the reasons that you would initially guess.

Overcome with the injustice of it all? Umm, no. I think you have the wrong (underpants).

Frustrated with the obvious absurdity? You bet yer ASS!!!

Because, Friends and Neighbors, what I beheld, as I passed that little After-School-Special dramatization of Real Life on this particular Tuesday, was at least seven (7!!!) uniformed City Police Officers handling a single, unkempt man in his early 40's. A man, who by casual observence from a distance of perhaps 8 meters, was seated on the curb, obviously confused and disoriented, and in need of some proper grooming.

And while I think it very important that every city's transient population maintain a city dignity, there is no excuse for such aggressive enforcement of the "Bum Code of Ethics."

This guy wasn't doing anything wrong that I could see. Sure, he was acting a little manic, but hey, wouldn't you if you were told to sit on the curb of a busy street while a whole battalion of Seattle Super Stazi circled around you like so many sharks in the ocean, just waiting for a chance to go "Rodney King" on your ass? Sure you would.

And it's not like he was COMPLETELY filthy, or anything. He had the requisite amount of dirt and grime buildup, but he seemed like a respectable enough street dude.

The sad truth is, this guy is probably one of those cats that is in dire need of some drug rehab or mental health care and unfortunately, just isn't quite needy or far-gone enough to merit some decent social services from a local, state or federal program. So he's been put out on his own, and with no supportive social network out there to help him along, he's left to his own devices.

Which puts him square in the laps of those folks who are least equipped and least responsible for him. Those underpaid, righteous frontline defenders of post-modern society and civilization as a whole.

The humble stormtrooper.

So I say, leave the trippy cat alone and move along. There's nothing to see here.

Post: The subject in question, was seen the very next day, on the opposite side of the street, ranting and raving about something as the morning commuters whizzed buy in their UAV's (urban assault vehicles), sipping their pre-work dosage of caffien and Rush Limbaugh/Al Franken (depending on who's bumper sticker they've plastered on their vehicle), completely unencumbered with the social constraints of the Metro Polcie Squad.

Post post: Sorry 'bout the delay. I've been having some of that writer's block that Missus J was describing a few days back.

Thanks, Ass Neck

2005-11-04T15:09:00.000-05:00

I drink. A lot. Because I can.

So it’s not that unusual for me to hit a bar, tavern, pub, club, what have you, for a drink or 5. And I have had my fair share of interesting, invigorating and insipid experiences. You get to meet a lot of “unique” and “diverse” people when sitting alone at a bar.

But for some reason, last night’s encounter is really starting to piss me off. I just can’t seem to shake it, and that is what really pisses me off.

So I decide to head in to some fancy “lounge” downtown near my office for a cocktail (double Citron, on the rocks, with a lime) after work. You know the type of place I’m talking about: it’s got the minimalist name (which also happens to be their mailing address) and is dimly lit with warm, dark earth-toned interior where the hipsters and young nouveau-riche try so hard to act all grown up, but can barely hide the fact that they faked their way through college and are deathly afraid their facade will be dispelled with the slightest misstep.

Now I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I am by no means a “regular”. Or even a “familiar”. So I really don’t expect any kind of special treatment or anything. But a little fucking respect is certainly not beyond reason.

So I wonder in to this joint around 10:30 PM and see that it’s doing a brisk business, most of the table are taken, and the bar is pretty full, except for the far end. So I make my way down to the end of the bar and because I’m not really looking AT the bar as I pull the chair out and begin to shed my jacket, I don’t really notice the three table settings with ice waters set out on the bar. Instead, I’m eyeballing one of the bevy of beauties seated at the table behind where I’m about to sit. After I’ve got a good take on the dear lovely, I turn my attention to the two hep-cat dudes holding court behind the bar. With a warm greeting, I flash them a smile. I always like to set a good tone with an unfamiliar barman, it helps to insure the quality of service I have come to expect from a real professional. And this is the kind of place I expect to have a professional mixologist on staff.

So as my ass is about to settle comfortably on to the bar stool, Ass Neck (honestly, I did not know him to be an ass neck at the time, that would come later), says that he’s doing well, thank you. “But those seats are reserved.”

Ah, the plates, eating utensils, napkins and tall glasses full of water, with ice cubes half-melted. Yes, these seats are indeed “reserved”.

“Oh, so sorry about that. I didn’t notice. I will just sit over here then.” I cheerfully reply. No harm, no foul.

So I move three seats to the left and take my spot next to a young attractive couple. At least I think they’re a couple. But from the few snatches of conversation I overhear, it sounds as if they may have recently met. She seems to be the more confident, aggressor-type in this particular social dynamic. Which is totally cool by me. I pay little attention to them, as I’m thinking about my beverage, which I have been longing for. So I order.

“A Citron on the rocks, with a lime, please.”

The barman turns to begin making my drink and after about 5 seconds he asks:

“Are you sure you don’t want a lemon instead?”

I’m sorry, but take a look at me, punk. Do I look like I don’t know what I want to drink? Is there something in my professional dress, styled hair and calm, confident demeanor that would suggest I don’t know how to order a fucking drink? I didn’t think so. Fix my drink bitch.

“Yes, I’m sure, thank you,” I pleasantly respond. Got to be nice to the guy with the booze.

So without further ado, he brings me a short glass of nectar, which I raise to my mouth, only to have my nose come abruptly in contact with a large cube of ice. Ass Neck (he’s starting to earn his title) has filled the glass so full with large ice cubes, that it’s nearly impossible to get any liquid onto my parched tongue without have the ice shower down my pressed shirt.

OK, no problem, so they’re tightwad with the pours at this place. It’s to be expected, I guess. We are in L.Q.A., and some of the places in this neigborhood take themselves a little too seriously. Like this place, for instance.

So I swirl the glass around and let thermodynamics do their thing. It’s not long before I have that sharp, yet tasteless fluid slide down my throat and feel the cooling numbness that is good vodka creep over my skull. All is now right with the world.

It’s not long before the couple seated next to me cash out and journey off in to the night, to what I am quite confident with be an episode of sexual intercourse. For some reason, I am left with the impression that she is likely a pro, and the deal has been sealed. Now they’re off to complete the transaction and exchange of bodily fluids. Don’t ask me why I know this, but I do. I like to think that I’m somewhat empathic and will occasionally pick up impressions off of people I encounter. I also suspect that whatever the nature of their relationship is, tonight’s sexual congress will leave one of them disappointed. And I don’t think it’s going to be him.

“Sorry, babe,” I think to myself. “You were kinda sexy, and I hate to see you waste another night of lust with an unfulfilling partner.”

So I let my mind wander, as it usually does when I’m alone at a bar. I think about work, I think about women (there a few cuties here tonight), I think about school, I think about work again, then school again, then the ladies. It’s all pretty much cyclical at this stage of the evening. And usually, I am fortunate enough to experience an insight or inspiration on some case or client issue I’ve got going on. This sort of free-wheeling problems solving is often beneficial and soothing for me.

So enough time has passed that I’ve finished the few ounces of liquid in my glass and am pondering as to whether or not I’m going to order another, when Ass Neck’s visage comes into view and, looking me straight in the eye (unheard of here in Passive/Aggressive Land), says very pointedly:

“Here, this is for you,” as he slides my tab across the wooden bar.

I am jolted out of my reverie by his tone and almost let speechless. While I recover my footing, I pull out my card and slide it back to him. I fumble for a moment as he turns away from me to run my card though the machine and ask,

“Were you trying to say something, there?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, turning partially around to face me again.

“Was that some sort of message you were giving me?” I inquire again, still maintaining a pleasant tone.

“Yes, a subliminal one,” he says, crossing back to me with the signature slip, which he places on the counter before me and then walks breezily away.

At this point, I am truly taken aback. I have done nothing wrong, I have spoken to nobody, and I haven’t spilled, dropped or broken anything. Now I use to be a professional barman myself, and I know the “warning signs” one must be on the lookout for, lest a problem from an unruly or intoxicated patron arise. And I am without sin this evening.

So, as Mr. Neck is walking past my location, I ask, with all humility,

“If I may inquire, what in particular seems to be the problem?”

He stops abruptly, and turns his goateed face to me, leans in and says:

“Well, it’s when you closed your eyes and about nodded off at the bar. That’s when I decided it was time for you to go,” with just enough insolence and condescension that my hackles start to raise. He holds his position, barely intruding into my personal space comfort zone for a moment and then walks off to finish what he was doing.

“Ah, I see.”

I look down at my bill, tip him 50% (it was only one drink, for fuck’s sake), calmly rise from my seat, lift my coat off the back of the stool and while shrugging into it, I can feel the eyes of the two pricks behind the bar watching me closer than a Marine on the “Wire” at Guantanamo Bay. I make my exit into the cold, windy evening without further incident in search of friendlier grounds.

Now I realize that he was just doing his job, and I won’t take Ass Neck to task for that. But what the fuck?!?! I realize he is no mind reader and could not possibly know that I just got off from a 13 hour day, the third this week. And that when I “closed” my eyes, I was in deep thought about the latest round discussions in a case I’ve been negotiating on for four months. Or perhaps I was pondering my strategy for getting my ass back in to school, which has been an 18 month undertaking so far, or maybe I was remembering a particularly flexible and enthusiastic young woman I knew from a few years back.

Whatever the case, Ass Neck and his employer can count on my never darkening the door of their shitty little lounge again. You see, I vote with my feet and my wallet. And if you think you can pass judgement on me based on an unfounded assumption, you might as well piss in your own Wheaties.

Unfortunately, this little transgression has lingered in my mind, twisting and turning and mutating into a thing so black and evil, Darth Vader would be proud. So I guess now it’s time to go take a big dump on a few of my adversaries. Sorry guys, I know it’s Friday and all, but you see, I got kicked out of a bar by Ass Neck.

A fun new game!

2005-10-27T19:58:00.000-05:00

So a dear colleague of mine at the Ranch come up with a great new game to play. He suggested it as a great way to kill time at those pesky monthly staff meetings we have here. And I have to agree with him, it sounds like great fun. Here's how it works:

Think Bingo. You know, that great game enjoyed by geriatrics, shut-ins and backwoods religious zealots throughout this fair land. You've got your score card with the letter-number combos laid out in a neat and tidy grid pattern, an absolute testament to the beauty of organization and order. You've got your score markers, whether they are plastic, wood or metal; round or square, it doesn't matter. Just so long as you have a sufficient supply to play however many score cards you happen to be playing without having to get up mid-game to collect more in order to keep playing. A bingo novice makes the mistake of not gathering enough score markers once, and once only. And finally, you've got your MC, or barker, whatever you want to call him. He's (I'm using this pronoun in a gender-neutral, non-judgmental sort of way, ladies) the guy (c.f. prev. note) who stands on the stage in front of the assembled Depends-wearing, White trash/Christ loving, welfare/SSI drawing throng, calling out "B-10", "G-32", "N-5" and the like off the dirty, finger grease smeared ping-pong balls which he pulls out of the... what the hell do they call that machine that bounces those balls around like a carnival ride for tiny plastic planets? Anyway, he's up there for hours on end, usually drinking a bottomless cup of coffee and smoking and endless supply of shitty, second rate smokes while the wheezing, burping and bawling crowd happily while away their Thursday nights trying to win back their "pin money" so they can buy more formula for the latest baby, beer for the husband, or prescription drugs which aren't covered by Medicare.

You get the picture. Bingo.

Now that you've got that image firmly implanted in your mental picture show, shift gears to the board room with its shiny glass topped soccer field of a conference table, the comfy leather upholstered ergonomically correct chairs and replete with bookshelves full of important looking tomes, 3-D anatomical models of organs, bones and joints and the sleek computer terminal in the corner. Seated around this table are important looking men and not-so important looking women (sorry gals, in cyberspace, I'm an even bigger dick than I am in real life, but that's another story...), all with important looking papers and various office-type supplies and tools close at hand.

Now for those of you who have actually worked a real job (one job that requires you bathe BEFORE arriving to the "job site", a job whose dress code requires a pressed collar and pants in good condition) for longer than the two days it took to steal all the pens and legal pad you could pilfer from the supply room in your shitty little backpack, then you will be intimately familiar with the pithy words, slogans and catch phrases that dominate the corporate workplace. You know the one's:

- Thinking outside of the box
- Win/Win solution
- paradigm change
- begin with the end in mind
- Awareness wheel

Anyway, you get the idea.

So here's how the game works:

The next time you're stuck in a boring staff meeting, listening to your peers and superiors drone on and on about things the sound important, but really aren't. You're sitting there either thinking about what a waste of time this whole exercise is, and how much REAL work you could be doing if you weren't stuck in this meeting. Or thinking about the dynamic sex you had with that cute (and drunk) blonde the previous night (how DID she get her legs to do that?!?!). Or more likely, you're struggling through the third hangover of the week, and it's only Monday. Whatever the case, take out a piece of paper and, acting like you're taking notes about the important new "process improvement" that is being discussed in detail, draw out your very own Bingo score card. Instead of filling in the squares with "B-13", or "O-7", you complete the card with all of those new age-y corporate slogans designed to get you motivated and jazzed about your crappy job.

Now once you've got your score card, you can't ask the two clowns sitting next to you for their paper clips and sticky notes without raising suspicion, so what do you do about the score counters? Well, since you're playing by yourself, you can simply cross out the appropriate box whenever a given term or phrase is uttered aloud. So whenever that incompetent monkey across the table from you whose mastery of the English language would make Thai whore blush from embarrassment, says something along the lines of "I think we need to rethink our 'action plan' and revise our whole 'customer service paradigm',"; well that's when you cross off the appropriate box.

Now hear comes the really fun part. When you've finally got complete line on your score card crossed out, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, whatever. Well once you've drawn a line through that last box, and you've taken a moment to double check you card to be sure you've got that "bingo", you jump to your feet, draw in a full breathe of air, and shout at the top of your lungs:

"BULLSHIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!"

And before anyone can actually recover from your unexpected intrusion into the stuporous banality of the proceedings, you decisively turn on your heel, and quickly exit the room.

While you're up, you may as well go clean out your desk, because you're going to be out on the streets looking for a job quicker than Courtney Love will have her next fix when she leaves rehab (again).

I'm sure Parker Bros. will want a piece of this action.

This is going to be one for the record books...

2005-10-22T12:11:00.000-05:00

So it's 9:30 on a Saturday morning, and I can already tell that this is going to be one of those truly memorable and most likley, miserable days.

First off, it's 9:30 and I'm not only awake, but out of bed and posting an entry on my blog, which I ultimately think is not the best use of my time or energy. I'm a bit of a "numbers guy" (like my boss), and while I am known for over-indulgence and suprefluous action, I like to rationalize my wasteful activities by fooling myself that there is some redemptive aspect which will validate my poor choices. But so be it. I'm going to give this thing a fair shake and see what comes of it.

So yeah, I'm up early on a day off. After what proved to be a rather wierd, awkward, and slightly uncomfortable evening with this woman I've recently started seeing (dare we use the word "dating"?), I had to get up bright and early to take my car in to the shop for service. And it's not just your typical oil change and tire rotation we're talking here. No sir. No, we're taking my less than impressive, typically utilitarian and innocuous compact car (read: Honda) back into the neighborhood grease monkeys yet again. For an issue that has been plaguing me for over a year now.

So I'm pissed off because I know this is going to cost me some real coin, but mostly I'm pissed because, in my opinion, after three visits for the same problem in about a year, I think this issue should be resolved. I mean, this IS THEIR FUCKING JOB, right? In my line of work, you do NOT get three chances to NOT solve a problem for a client. You get one, maybe two, if the oversight isn't too friggin' egregious. Then it's a toss-up between losing the client and getting a serious browbeating from the managing partner, or better yet, a malpractic claim and possible termination of employment. Immediate, and without a severance package. Luckily, I've got one of those bosses that doesn't hastily jump to conclusions or act out of emotion. But I can't say that for the rest of my colleagues. So, I have very little tolerance for ineptitude. Willful ignorance, incompetence and apathy are three of the most disgusting and rancorous attributes in my fellow human kind, and I've got to tell you, friends and neighbors. I am fucking surrounded by it, and I can't stand it.

So, I drag my ass (and my pesky car) to the shop at the appointed early morning hour, and I engage in yet another customer service encounter that further degrades my trust in this particular service facility. I walk in and there's a new "counter person", who happens to be a very sexy young woman of Asian/Pacific Islander decent. Now I'm always up for hot chicks, but I'm not real impressed with this young thing's ability to listen and respond appropriately. You see, I've been going to the same place for car service for well over 6 years. I always call to make an appointment and discuss the issue at hand. I always arrive on time. I am diligent taking my car in for regular maintenance. These people have a file with my history. So why is it that when I go in today, I have to explain, once again, the recurrent issue that I am in for. And when she has to ask me a question, which I have ALREADY ANSWERED NOT 20 SECONDS PRIOR, I come very close to losing my cool. However, realizing that this will not a) solve the car problem, b) she's probably fairly new to the job/industry, and c) my patience is already running out, I chose to refrain from unloading a modest dose of vitriol and attitude, and make haste my departure. You see, I know I'm going to have to deal with someone who has more authority and discretion when they make the "good news/bad news" call. I think I'll just save that pent up aggression for a more appropriate time.

Upon returning to domicile, I begin the work for the day which I have laid out for myself. Namely laundry and a stack of shit I brought home from The Ranch. Alright, I've sorted out the clothes into appropriate categories and have those machines a-humming, when I log on to the Ranch's network. Lo, and behold, but what should I find sitting in my inbox, but a notice from a national testing agency with the results of a VERY IMPROTANT EXAMINATION that I took a few weeks ago. Now mind you, this is the second time I have taken this exam, and obviously the results were not sufficient for my needs a year ago. So therefore, I subjected myself to its rigors once again. Well, well, well. Surprise, surprise! I did not expect to have the scores back quite so soon. They weren't due until the 25th, and here it is, the 22nd.

A little backstory: This exam, this significant bane to my current personal and professional exisitence, this monkey on my back that has more power than the finest China White in all the shooting galleries of Seattle, New York and San Fransisco combined, has me wrapped up like a pretzel worse than TomKat. To me, it's the gateway to a bigger and better life. And a daunting hurdle that must be overcome before I can continue my persoanl evolution into that which I desire for myself.

In other words, it's kind of important to me.

I realize that this is mostly a matter of my own personal hang ups and I shouldn't invest so much, emotionally, into a standardized test. A test, which once taken (and adequate results acheived, of course), has little to no meaning for the rest of eternity. It's simply a gateway. A test for test's sake. And that, friends and neighbors, burns my ass to no end.

So, with some trepidation, I move the mouse and place my cursor over the emblazoned email title which informs me that my "Result Are In". Upon clicking, I look upon the information ensconced within the electronic missive with the eager anticipation of a 14 year old who gets his first real live look at a woman's Most Holy of Holies; and the dread of Galileo brought before the Spanish Inquisition. And what do I see?

152.

152? Wha- (the fuck?)

152!! Christ on a cross.

You mean, I waited a full year, subjected myself to a "prep" class taught by some twit who is 7 years younger than I, who doesn't seem able to respond to even the most direct questioning reagrding the material that she is supposed to be teaching. At a modest $700 price tag. Not to mention the hefty speeding ticket I got on the way to the airport to get back to Seattle to take the damn test. Or the fact that, be it right or wrong, in my mind's eye, this test will set the tone for the next 3-5 years of my petty, insignificant existence.

And for what? 1 point. 1 measly fucking point increase from last year's score. In other words, kids, all that effort, time, energy, worry and money. All for ONE FUCKING POINT!!!!

Fuck.

Or as my buddy Rob likes to mock: "god DAMmit!"

So yeah, it's going to be one of those days.... And I won't even get into the "good news/bad news" call I got from the head grease monkey while typing this rant. Suffice to say, the gentleman had NO IDEA what he was walking into when he picked up that phone.

So, with that. Let the drinking begin. And by the way, where DID I put my shotgun...?

Don't look a gift horse in the ass

2005-10-21T13:13:00.000-05:00

So I get this email from my boss today advising the staff of the central office that he's spring for pizza for everyone for lunch. Which is nice. Now my boss is a pretty cool cat, and I dig working for him. And he's pretty generous, when he wants to be. Which isn't often when it comes to money or expenses. This is not to say that he's any miserly Scrooge, or tightfisted bastard, even though he IS an attorney. Au contrare, he'll spend the dough when it's merited. But he's a bit of a numbers guy, and he does expect some form of return on his investment, (Remember, he's an attorney).

But you see, the thing is, he's not even in the office today. He's SUPPOSED to be in another town across the state visiting his youngest (hot) duaghter with his wife and eldest (SUPER HOT, HOT, HOT) daughter. He's supposed to be enjoying some time away from the office and the stacks of work that he has, and bonding with his daughters who are in their 1st and 2nd year of colllege (dDid I mention how gorgeous these little birds are?). He is NOT supposed to be in front of a computer, sending out emails to his hard working staff about friggin' pizza lunches.

Now this man can literally move mountains. I've seen him do it myself. And he's certainly dedicated to his work, but come on dude, take a break. Enjoy the sunshine, and forget about us drones for a day or two.

Yep, I've succumbed

2005-10-19T12:18:00.000-05:00

That's right, bitches. I've finally given up all resistance and decided to join the club and start posting my own rants, raves, observations and errata in the Ether.

And just so there's no misunderstandings, I titled my very onw blog with the two aspects which denote my persona the best.

This is going to be the best writing exercise and waste of time I have ever been involved in.