caligulawyer

FIND ME AT A NEW BLOG SITE

2008-10-16T02:36:00.000-07:00

So Caligulawyer was down so long I decided to let him rest in peace and launch a new blog - legal bandit. see ya there.

http://www.legalbandit.blogspot.com

Paris "fashion" show

2008-03-02T06:57:00.000-08:00

Recently I saw pics from the Paris "fashion" (I use the word loosely) show. The outfits spoke for themselves but I spoke for them anyway.

A few tips for the young chicks

2008-01-28T05:27:00.000-08:00

I forget how old I am sometimes. I wasn't paying attention for like, 10 years so once in a while I remember I've already seen my 40th birthday and am surprised. Apparently, time goes on whether you are paying attention or not. Also, shit changes. Here's my list so far.

1. You may gain a whole bra size. Think that's great? Underwires pinch and your back hurts. This is only partially equaled out by your girlfriend/boyfriend's happy grin. Well, sometimes it's outweighed. How big do they grin?

2. Testosterone. Now you know why young guys drive like they are in a fucking video game and punch each other in bars. About three days each month you are lucky to stay out of jail. It is in everyone's best interest that you not be armed. Seriously.

3. You no longer give a fuck. This is nice. All that worrying about what other people think? Pretty much gone. Others realize they can't push you around anymore. You're likely to hit them in the head with your 4 inch heel - or hiking boot, as the case may be, and tell them to kiss your ass. You will mean it. They will know this. It will be wonderful.

4. All that youthful anxiety about sex? Also pretty much gone. MMMMMM. Straight women, however, have a problem because the older guys are getting lame. Romping about with a young guy who has some stamina may look silly. However, see #3; fortunately, you won't care, and your friends will actually be jealous. "Cradle robber" translates to "lucky bitch." Meanwhile, us lesbians are throwing down with other chicks who have lost their inhibitions. Go ahead, say it: "lucky bitch."

5. Your back wants to go out. This is quite painful. It is also an excuse to eat ice cream and lay on the floor watching "Charmed" for 7 hours straight. MMMMM, Alyssa Milano.

I could go on, but I've got better things to do. Oh, also you get bored with navel-gazing, which gives you a lot more time to do something useful with your time. So, for y'all young chicks,be anxious and enjoy that lower back. It's one of the few things you'll miss when it's gone.

The thrown bra vs. the mortgage

2008-01-18T16:05:00.001-08:00

My friend was helping her mom pick out a wedding dress, which I imagine is an odd experience. Things just aren't as simple as they used to be, are they? Thank God. I'd shoot myself or at least be drunk 24/7 - if I had to live in some "Leave it to Beaver" world. Anyway, my friend was telling me her mom has some specific ideas and has dreamed of her wedding since she was a kid. This interests me. The wedding march has, historically, made my heart freeze with fear and my stomach turn over trying to run like a crackhead with cops behind him.

In short, I've long struggled with a fear of committmment. About a year ago I started realizing I was thinking of my relationship as in it for the long haul, with all the smelly stuff of daily life, had a heart attack and completely freaked out. In the past year, however, I've given this quite a bit of thought.

I've come to the conclusion that there are several types of lesbians. 1.)One is the drama queen who is in love at first bite and wants nothing more than someone to complete her. They carry invisible signs that say "Run! Am freak! Run!!" but not everyone sees those signs, which leads to much drama and sometimes, restraining orders. 2.)Then there are the ones who secretly long to be completed and deep down suspect the right girl will do that for them but will not admit this. These lesbians drink a lot. 3.)Then there are those who attempt to be in control of what happens in their relationships, thinking this will somehow protect them from having their heart broken. These lesbians do a lot of pushups and have the emotional range of a stick. 4.) Then there are those who read a lot of feminist literature and listen to shitty music by chicks who need guitar lessons. These lesbians are not as deep as they seem or wish they were. The list goes on.

There are also those of us who are just afraid of missing out on something and take a long time to realize that it is that very fear that makes us miss out on so much. This is what I be. Eventually, this is the type who feels the fear and commits anyway. OK, so there are lots of flirtations that won't lead to , um, thrown bras and anxious phone calls. But what is that in comparison to making the decision to have a kid together? To finally accepting she won't clean until you make her and noticing she got your favorite fruit at the grocery store? And you still get your bra thrown, but it is in a room you paid the mortgage on together. The terror of letting yourself plan to love someone really is a terror all its own. Year after year, it changes, as the stupid things of daily life get washed and break and get paid and shed and fall and smell and come off of ebay. And as it changes, it gets easier in some ways, and in some ways, becomes a lot harder, because you have to become more and more real with every turn.
As for me, after 3 1/2 years, multiple freakouts, 24 mortgage payments, two new kittens, 12 pairs of socks, 50 pounds of tofu, 126 sushi dinners, 6 colds, 3 years of law school, 8 broken glasses, 4 Christmases and 17 stupid fights later, I am here, making a committment every day to be here tomorrow. It's the best terror I've ever known. I'd recommend it to the drunk and otherwise problematic lesbians. Really, you're worth it, and so is she.

My first day at grownup skool

2008-01-02T14:39:00.001-08:00

So today I started my new job, which is an internship that turns into a grownup job if I pass the bar and otherwise don't completely fuck up a good thing, which is something I am exceptionally talented at. (Hey, it's good to know your strengths.) I also put my bar application in the mail. It was 86 pages. I have, obviously, lived a very full life. I started to include a bottle of Excedrin for the poor schmuck who has to pick through it, but I needed those pills myself after finishing that shit.

I like my new job. Seeing how bad people fuck up their lives makes me feel like less of a screwup. And we get paid, on top of that. So, that works for me. Oh, also you get to argue at work. Who gets away with that? Trial lawyers, that's who! yeah!

The office consists of two rednecks and a yankee. One of the rednecks is an ex stripper with no driver's license. Let me admit it now: my kind o' people. You can take the girl out of the trailer, get her hooked on $16 a pound goat cheese and fresh ground locally roasted coffee, put her in a suit, teach her to flip an omelet and fill her ipod with hip hop but man, you cannot ever take the trailer out of the girl. It's just a fact of life. Must as I love sushi and as many indie movies as I've seen, (many of which left me asking "what the fuck was the point of that miserable shit?"), you know what I want when I get stressed? Corn bread and turnip greens. The ex stripper and I will get along just fine.

So, life is, arguably, pretty good, and there seems to be much corn bread and arguing in my future, which is just fine by me. Happy new year, y'all, and if you start fucking up your life, drop on by. I'll be happy to charge you to feel better about myself.

The twelve days of Law School

2007-12-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

So now that Christmas has come and gone and Santa brought me a bicycle (no really, and it's cool) I thought I'd give you the recap. So, here's the twelve days of Christmas, law school style:

On the first day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
a headache

On the second day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
two parking tickets and a headache

On the third day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the fourth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the fifth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the sixth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the seventh day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the eighth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
eight over perfumed women, seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the ninth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
nine heavy casebooks, eight over perfumed women, seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the tenth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
ten regrets for coming, nine heavy casebooks, eight overperfumed women, seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the eleventh day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
eleven things to rewrite,ten regrets for coming, nine heavy casebooks, eight over perfumed women, seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

On the twelfth day of Xmas my law school gave to me:
twelve rejection letters, eleven things to rewrite,ten regrets for coming, nine heavy casebooks, eight over perfumed women, seven pissy colleages, six library fines,five group assignments,fourth circuit bullshit, three problems registering, two parking tickets and a headache

Happy Holidays until we return! -Caligulawyer

Happy whatever the hell holiday you celebrate

2007-12-24T04:55:00.000-08:00

I like Christmas because it is an excellent excuse to sit on my ass, watch movies and play computer games. Everybody gets to sit on their asses for a few days, and when you're a student, it's like three weeks. That's because professors drink a lot. They want nice, loooong breaks.

So, historically speaking, it redeems Christians a bit. "And now, from the folks who brought you the Crusades, the genocide of Native Americans, the wipeout of the pagans, repression, gay bashing, Pat Robertson, George Bush, yelling men on pulpits, two thousand years of repressing women, and sculptures of a tortured guy nailed to big sticks.... Christmas!" Keep in mind Jesus "is just alright with me", as the Doobie Brothers infamously said (you have no idea who I'm talking about, do you?)- it's his followers who tend to just totally suck ass. Anyway so Christmas looks like a nice little redemption. Only what do we really get?

Ugly ties. Forced comraderie with people we don't like. A Secret Santa gift bought at Big Lots from that weird guy in the next cubicle.Credit card bills. Pressure to buy a lot of crap we can't afford given to people who don't need it.Blow-up dolls of Santa swaying in redneck yards beside their Grand Ams. Regrettable sexual acts with that guy/girl from high school we run into at the liquor store while visiting the folks. I just don't know if this really works out. Only, if it were up to the Jews and the people who invented Kwanzaa like 5 years ago (we are wayyy too late in civilization to be inventing new holidays, people, unless they are random Mondays off to give props to somebody like MLK) we wouldn't get shit for time off because there just aren't enough of those guys.

Anyway, don't strangle yourself with your new tie and happy freakin' holidays. As for me, I'm going to finish this coffee and lumber my ass to the couch until my girlfriend offers to wrap my presents for me because I hate wrapping and she's such a good girlfriend, at which point I'll drag them into the living room, then take a nap. Bills, Big Lots and all, I'm grateful for naps, a good woman and my last three week vacation. Enjoy, my dear readers, and I'll see you back at the whipping post after New Year's Eve.

Take your refrigerator and get out of here

2007-12-09T17:09:00.001-08:00

It's over! Sales and Secured transactions is over! And after having taken that exam, I can now cross "run a marathon" off of my "things to do before I'm sixty" list. It took longer than a marathon and was probably a hell of a lot more painful. Hmm, run 26 miles or three and a half hours of picking through who gets the refrigerator? I'd rather run a real marathon. And I'm out of shape, too. And now that this class is over, I'm going to say it - I simply do NOT care who gets the motherfucking refrigerator. Bury your shit in the snow. Buy a fridge with cash. Just don't come to me. I do NOT care.

Having almost completed law school, I have come to the conclusion that law school is all about who gets the refrigerator, Blackacre and how much tax they pay on them. Three years. Now what can I do? Write a will leaving Blackacre to B, help B sell 100 refrigerators to C, defend C when he trashes D's refrigerator, represent B when his wife cheats on him with E, the refrigerator salesman, because he wants to keep Blackacre, and when B leaves his beloved farm to his ungrateful brat nephew, F, tell F how must tax to pay on his uncles' beloved farm, Blackacre.

It probably takes three years because most of us spend a lot of our class time playing computer games. It's a well kept lawyer secret. Remember that next time you're forking over $2000 for that stupid shit you did. You'll have fun with that.

This came up recently. My girlfriend teaches workshops and taught one at the non-law school part of our university, otherwise known as "parking". Somebody in our class is getting another master's degree (overacheiver of overachievers, we salute you) and was in her workshop. My girl said she figured out who was the law student in like 15 minutes. It was the girl sitting in the back playing the computer games.I told her she'd gotten lucky, we'll play that shit on the front row. So my girl asked me how we learn anything playing computer games all the time. In Sales the next day I looked around and like 80 people were playing games or shopping for shoes. I got a little defensive. I mean, how long can you pay attention to class after class and point after point about who gets the damn refigerator? Why do I need to know what a purchase money security interest is? I am a lot more interested in Mah Jong and getting to be Master Sergeant on "Overkill Apache." I just am. My fridge came with the house, which is not named Blackacre, and I'll read some inherited class outline 14 times the week before the exam and be fine. Damn fridge.

So, one more semester and I get to enter plea agreements for drunk guys who punch cops and throw shit, which really is more interesting than Overkill Apache. And hey, if they live on Blackacre or have any problems involving a fridge, like a repo that went bad, I'll know what to do, man, because it was in that inherited outline from somebody who didn't play computer games. And when I get my check I'll thank God for him. But with you as my witness, I will never, never live on Blackacre.

The Student and the Beast

2007-12-04T04:19:00.000-08:00

Law School is hard enough. So, here's the question - why be a bitch? This may appear rhetorical, but we've got some power hungry, petty, antagonistic, crabby wench working in our office in a position where the students have to deal with her, and I want to ask her why she has to be such a grade A fuckhead. The thing about such a question is that it is a query you can never make when you really need to. The very fact that someone is a crabby ass bitch precludes you from asking why they are such a crabby ass bitch. Life's funny that way.

But the question is especially important when you're in an overcrowded building full of insecure overacheivers jacked up on caffeine. More to the point, why send out bitchy emails three times a day then get pissed when people don't read them? Here's a tip: People don't want your shit. They are having a much harder day than your lazy ass. She locks her office, too, so nobody can sneak in and put some desperately needed Prozac in her coffee. But then, what law student can spare Prozac?

Now,in law school, you learn that there are different ways of fighting, and figure out which one works best for you. Last week my friend and I made the scary journey to Ms. Crabbyass' office on an errand. I hoped for strength in numbers. We needed to pick something up she'd had ready the day before. So we get there and she starts being a piss ant and talking about how we needed to work with her and were late and so on, even though what we needed was right on her desk and we caused her no inconvenience whatsoever. So my friend starts fighting back. Hell, somebody needed to, although she stopped short of saying things that really need to be said, like "why are you being such a shit?" and so on. So, this is one way of dealing.
Myself, I have decided that Ms. Crabbyass is out looking for a fight and acts like such a hateful little wench in order to get a rise out of people. So, I have decided my revenge is to deal with her for three years and never give her the fucking satisfaction. No matter how shitty she is, I'm going to utterly ignore it and go about my business as if she were acting like she'd been raised by humans instead of a pack of wolves. What do you think?

Perhaps she deserves some compassion.Maybe when you are raised by wolves and spend your childhood chewing on raw sheep butt and scratching fleas you just don't know how to write a polite email or act like a human being. The question remains why she has this job hassling law students, most of whom would prefer her pack of wolves to Sales & Secured Transactions, instead of working as a bouncer or somewhere else where bitchyness is expected, like a drive thru or as a dominatrix. Maybe she beat the dean into giving her a job. "Lick my boots! Now give me a job beating students!" You know, something like that. We may never know. However, I've got six months left in this little social experiment, and presuming I don't lose it and cram a Sales exam down her throat (worse than raw sheep's butt) I'll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck!

Criminal Haiku

2007-11-13T09:01:00.000-08:00

Doing some criminal law work this semester and living in a city with much sketchiness have inspired me! So, here is some haiku. Enjoy!
---------
On the same corner
Are a ‘ho, pimp and dealer;
ghetto convenience.
---------

Fall in the city
the drunk guy in the park pukes
on crisp, orange leaves
---------

Clicking of handcuffs;
it is time to stop yelling
except for a lawyer.
---------
“Shit! A Doberman!”
Says the panicking burglar.
Forget the TV!
-------
Reading the paper.
There are guns on them buses.
Glad I got a truck.
---------
Dumb ass behind me
Shares his music with the block
He’ll one day be deaf.
------------
Mean little church guy
Damning everyone to hell.
Man, you should get laid!
-----------

Criminal defense
Is a dirty job because
people are crazy!

It's the strange people I love

2007-11-05T18:28:00.000-08:00

First, let me just say that I think being prejudiced is just retarded. Now, with that out of the way, your average whitie sucks. I say this as a southern white chick born in a trailer. But really. When you need someone to help you out with something practical, the clean cut white lady or guy will normally ignore you. They will give to charity but fuck that up close and personal attention. This summer I threw my back out really badly and couldn't stand up straight for like two weeks. I'll never forget dropping something in line at the store and how this stupid white guy just stood there while I struggled and finally the black guy behind him reached around and picked it up. I think the white guy was too stupid to even be embarrassed. I don't think he thought he was going to catch something picking up my goat cheese. I mean, it was still wrapped. I think his head was so far up his ass it didn't even occur to him to bend his idiot self over and help someone or that he looked like a total asshole when the guy behind him in line stepped up to do it. Now that's just lame.

Today I was zooming (OK, you really can't zoom in a '75 Datsun but I like the image) down a country road between court and class and my accellerator cable broke. So, obviously, there was no more zooming of any sort, even pretend. I became concerned when I realized I'd forgotten my phone and didn't have the first wrench on me. So I tried to get things loose with a set of pliers for a while as one after another nice shiny SUV (I mean, what's the point? Especially when you go over speed bumps slower than a wheelchair. Gas sucking vain fathead.) just rolled on by. So who stops? A scruffy, bearded, leathered out biker guy, who let me use his phone and was really nice. This is the kind of guy the shiny SUV whities are afraid of. Strange, right? Then rolls up this really nice black guy with some tools in his truck and we started getting my jury rigged throttle setup loose when the tow truck came. So he's this big muscular black guy that the little shiny SUV whities are afraid of but he stopped to help. And speaking of fear, I'm this little white chick in a suit. I didn't scare the shiny SUV whities. No, they just sucked. Do I just suck? Well, I don't always stop for people on the side of the road but sometimes I do. The determinative question is: can I take this person if I have to? If I think I can kick their ass if they try anything, I'll stop. I am 5'1 though and that doesn't cover a lot of people but folks, I did not look like a threat to anyone. Except to your smelly little right wing perspective which I think belongs in a woodchipper.

Moving on, let's be honest. The law favors the shiny SUV whities. They just get off easier. Buffy does not go go prison. Jamiqu'anel'la goes to prison. But when I am on the side of the road, Buffy might as well be in prison. The dude with the trafficking charge and Hakeem are who will be there.

So, more and more I think I want to be a defense lawyer. These are my people. And someday, we will rise up with our scruffy beards and bald tires and say, "Screw you, Buffy, Muffy and Ted! Go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not bribe $200. May you learn to be useful."

The schuck of your misdeeds

2007-10-25T16:57:00.001-07:00

So when I was a kid my mother never told me that Santa keeps track of your rotten little actions and that I would get coal at the end of the year if I were bad. I must give her credit for this. However, I am not sure whether she (1) knew that I would be bad anyway and say screw the presents (2) knew I wouldn't believe her (3) didn't want to lose credibility with me, the jury, when Christmas rolled around and my grandparents got me a doll I was afraid of instead of coal, though I would have actually preferred the coal, which writes very nicely on the wall or (4) she just didn't want to frighten me with the idea that some weird invisible fat man was hovering over me watching my every move. Let me say it now, thank you mom.

However, years later, still somewhat afraid of dolls, I have an internship in the District Attorney's office and lo and behold, there are records of your misdeeds, but the district attorney is not fat or invisible. The records are called 'shucks', a nonsensical name for little envelopes that are open on one side. You can see through the front and call people up and then open the shuck and you just never know what you will find. Today I opened one to read that this lady trashed some other lady's fish tank and the property damage included her fish. Now, who fucks up someone else's fish? There's Puddles, swimming around, la la la, "Oh, who's this?" and next thing you know he's on the floor in broken glass dying because some crazy fuck has an anger problem. I mean really. Her fish tank? I have a fish tank, and it was the first thing my girlfriend and I bought together when she moved in (insert "awww" here) and I love my little fishies, who get buried in the yard when they die. Not deep or anything, but we don't flush them. Well, there was that one fish but he was kind of weird. Anyway so I got a little offended. There was this other guy who "beat (some poor jerk) about the head and face with his fists, causing a bloody nose and extreme pain." I checked his record and again, anger issues. Dude, learn to talk, what's up? When I told him he could leave today, I said "hey" and he turned around and I said "Man, quit hitting people!" I doubt this got through to him. Then there was the woman who was in court for the wrong charge. She's got so many she has her court dates mixed up. Open the shucks...and voila! Your ass gets coal for Christmas.

Perhaps, rather than coal, which they would probably go dump in someone's fish tank, we should have a weird fat guy follow them around and make little notes and give them dolls that scare them. Maybe they could be little talking dolls that say "Stop hitting people! Stop hitting people!" or "Sit down! Shut up!" or "You REALLLYYY don't need to drive. Give me the keys. Give me the keys." But until I can have some influence over prison reform, I guess I will continue to read about fish killing drunk driving sewage dumpers whose mother apparently never properly frightened them with the idea that on some level, you pay for your actions. Line up the shucks, Madam clerk, Santa Attorney is coming to town.

love and disaster

2007-10-21T19:03:00.000-07:00

It has been an eventful couple of weeks. So, first I got hit head on by a car riding my scooter. The remarkable thing isn't that someone wasn't paying ATTENTION and made a left right into me, the remarkable thing is that I've been through yet another thing that has killed other people and walked away with a couple of bruises. To date, I've been hit by a car on a scooter, hit by a car on a bicycle, totaled a car hitting a deer, hit another deer in a convertible, totaled another car when someone ran a red light, fallen out of several trees, surfaced after wiping out on a wakeboard and to have the wakeboard come straight down on my head, let's see. . . well, you get the idea. I've never even broken a bone. I think my guardian angel deserves a gold medal, or whatever guardian angels get when they truly rock, like a few years as a human living on a tropical island with Jennifer Lopez. Urgent care put me in a splint for a week for a hand that it turns out wasn't broken. And this is what happens when you go to an online medical school. What I learned, unable to type, is that law school is really fucking boring without Freecell or, in general, the internet.

Now, I don't want to get all 'ooo, brush with death' or whatever, but really, it is how quick we can kick the bucket that gives life meaning, isn't it? I mean, if we lived forever, wouldn't that be boring?

Oh, back to the last couple weeks. I also went to a beautiful wedding last night, especially for straight people, who tend to like these lavish coookie-cutter ho-hums in churches. Can I just say right now: "Bleh"? Anyway, the guy had this gorgeous white suit made in India and the ceremony was well, really cool. Now, back to the meaning theme, I will also say this - besides it's shortness, it's love that gives life meaning. But I don't mean 'marry me' love, though that has it's moments inbetween the laundry and the grocery store; (though hopefully not while driving). I mean something that connects us and makes us real. I just don't think everyone is quite real, sorry; I think you earn it. The more radically in love with the great thing between birth and death you can become, the more real you are. More directly, life can be a pain in the ass; so tell me this - how do you make it worthwhile? If you don't know, try this: shut up, open up, eat up, and wake up. You never know who is going to make that next left turn.

I will make a note on romantic love. To quote a song someone played me yesterday, "a good love is long and boring." Something I have come to appreciate though is that it is mostly right there in front of you, within the boring, that the mystical can be found. It's nothing short of amazing that day after day and year after year someone can get their head out of their own ass and care about someone else. It's right there when I get dressed and go out for ginger ale because my girl's stomach hurts. When she picks up mangos for me because they're my favorite, or is willing to ride the puke ride at the fair with me even though she hates it. When I give up going on the ride because I know it will make her sick. Trust me, that's love, because I LOOOVVVEEE a good fair ride. It's between the fishtank and the coffee beans, the cats and the stupid fights (between us and the cats), right in that spot of stretching ourselves on behalf of someone else. But again, that happens easiest when someone sleeps beside you, but if it happened just a little more between all of us, hey, maybe when that idiot makes that blind left turn, more of us could lie there in the street and say that yes, it was all worthwhile.

All my love to the bus riding hellraisers

2007-09-21T12:45:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I heard about a site online, I can't remember what it's called, like "quiz for people who don't know what to do with themselves" or something. So of course I went there. It asks a bunch of questions about what kind of place you want to live in (fuck no, cold is not OK by me, I don't care about nightlife and there had better be some trees and stuff around) and it gives you places that match up. My number one place, even after changing a couple of maybes, was in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Now, I have never been to Louisiana. I tried to volunteer twice to go down to do free legal work after Hurricane Katrina but the organization couldn't get their shit together enough to find me a placement at all the second time, or the first time until 2 weeks before school started, which I'd give them a break for but the organization wasn't based in Louisana and should have had it together a little more. All I asked for was a building to sleep in once I got there, was that really asking for so much?
At any rate, I had an open mind about Louisiana pretty much until I started reading about this crap going on in Jena. What the fuck year is this? Nooses in a tree? White kids getting away with beating up and terrorizing black kids, but black kids being charged with attempted murder when they fight back? I am completely serious when I ask: What the FUCK?

What disturbs me almost as much as the behavior is that the law is signing off on it. The law is a very powerful tool and to quote Spiderman, (it's been a long time since I was an English major, give me a break) "with great power comes great responsibility." We're not just talking about swinging around on webs here, folks, we're talking about the power to ruin people's lives. I guess I'm still an idealistic student, but I think that those of us with the law in our hands are just plan morally required to do the right thing, even if some of us are prejudiced assholes.

Our school sent buses and I feel pretty crappy about not riding down to the protest. I was trying to arrange things so I could go when I realized that the school had an attorney on call and my semi redneck ass very well might get pissed off and arrested, which is not something I need to explain to the bar, since, as we've already discussed, I have my misspent youth and 20s and half of my misspent 30's (I learn slow) to explain already. Really though, that's no excuse and I still feel like a bum. However, here's to you thousands of people who did go down there and raise some hell on behalf of doing the right thing. People heard you and even if you didn't change much, at least you let those fuckers know what the rest of us think of them. Thanks.

---------To learn more about the events in Louisana, go to: http://www.colorofchange.org/

Sniff*

2007-09-17T06:55:00.000-07:00

So I went to a dinner party at my oldest and dearest friend's house this weekend. Her boyfriend came out with a long stemmed rose and a ring and got one one knee and proposed. He even waited until after dinner so nobody cried in their raspberry tarts. Sniff! What a great guy. His teenage kids came out with him carrying roses too, which I thought was the act of a good father. It was totally cool.

It isn't just that she's getting married, though. It's that I've known her for 20 years and haven't approved of a single one of the bumbling idiots she's dated in all this time until him. Now granted, this guy actually mentioned burps and farts in his proposal, but I have to hand it to him, he pulled it off and still had almost every girl there sniffing. He also beats out all of her ex boyfriends, for starters, because he's employed and self supporting. That's a good thing in a mate, says the broke ass law student whose girlfriend has to buy the groceries. But I am cute. I don't think I could pull off talking about burps and farts in a proposal though, so my hat's off to Phil.

Now one of the things that is interesting is that all the girls there were sniffing except my girlfriend. "Sigh, I'm not a girl" she said when we talked about it later. It's funny because everyone thinks I'm 'the guy', I guess because I like to work on cars and am almost never seen in a skirt. Some lesbians are that simple. Neither of us are, though. She wears skirts and won't cry at a wedding proposal. I get lost and dreamy in the Sears tools department and am totally excited about shopping for a cool maid of honor dress, since my friend said I can wear what I want and I am going to look absolutely fabulous in something emerald green and not TOO slinky. I change clothes four times before I go out and wear lacy underwear but still show up in hiking shoes and a t shirt. My girlfriend has long hair and pretty eyes but bless her heart, she's got the decorating sense of a 14 year old boy. Umm, the list goes on.

It works, though. The question is, if we are going to have a committment ceremony - (since we're not allowed to get married, a legal contract any drunk 'ho and coke dealer can make at a moment's notice in Las Vegas then dissolve when the drugs run out), who will propose? And would she know to show up with a long-handled ratchet and a ring with inset stones so I won't knock them off in an exhaust manifold? Would I be pissed if she says "yeah, sure" and doesn't cry? (You're damn right I would!) Would I be able to find a fabulous dress and make her wear one too, when I'm sure she doesn't really want to? Could we get Phil to be ordained online at the Holy Drive through Jesus Barn of Apostolic Lambs and do the ceremony and work in 'burp' and 'fart'? So many questions, so much time since we'd be doing it for the hell of it anyway (fuck you, Republicans!) but at least one thing I do know, my pal found a good one, and I couldn't be happier. Three cheers for love, folks, and for things that make your chick friends cry.

The Wizard of Bar

2007-09-06T18:38:00.000-07:00

I saw this movie once, "Clean and Sober" with Michael Keaton, who is probably neither, but that's beside the point. He plays this alcoholic guy who is getting his life together and there is a set of scenes where he's arduously writing down all of his past wrongs and, running out of breath, reading the extensive list to his sponsor. Filling out your bar application is like this. They want everything down to the spitball incident in third grade. There are all these cloaked suggestions that they will find out about the spitball incident and every other wrong thing you've ever done and you'd better have written it down, too.

And now, to completely mix metaphors and movies, having written down all of your wrongs and read them out Michael Keaton style - who, dammit, was NOT a good Batman!! - the whole application process starts to look like going to see the wizard. Switch channels with me, folks. We're all kicking around our dirt farms in Kansas or Wilmington or whatever and got swept up in this idea of going to law school and next thing we knew, were following what seemed to be the yellow brick road of law school, reading cases about the guy with no heart and defending the scared lion in a mock trial, assuming the yellow bricks were gold which we'd pick up with these phat jobs at the end of the road, meanwhile sweaty and exhausted and living off of corn chips with the wicked witches of exams harassing us. But then, at the end, haha! You have to go before what seem to be these cloaked figures with mind reading powers who can mine all of your secrets and imply they will find out absolutely everything because they are the wizards and are secretly hooked up with the FBI. Whoa! Where is my dirt farm? Well, either you get a pass and then get to sit for the bar, a mental obstacle course fraught with swamps of reason then go wherever you can get a job writing memos in a corner 80 hours per week, or (b) you get dragged before a hearing, which means you have to ask your friends to come vouch for you, but that you have to let your friends listen to you defend all the stupid, embarrassing things you've ever done, which means they'd beter be true friends, then either (a) or (b), you get kicked back to the dirt farm with an expensive degree unable to practice law because the wizard says you smell.

This, my dear fans, is called taking the bar. Look out, sports fans! (We've changed channels again, keep up!) Will she be able to jump the bar or fall on her ass? Only the wizard knows for sure! Now, those of you who haven't applied to law school yet, well, now you know. So take a close look at that dirt farm, man, because it might not be so bad.

My imaginary friend

2007-08-31T16:07:00.000-07:00

It's hard to stay in touch with people in law school, at least for me, especially when you don't drink, because that's what most people go out and do. People in school are sort of wrapping things up and planning to go their own separate ways by now, and it's hard to catch up with people out of school who still remember me, since I'm busy and terrified of the bar and in advanced tax until 8 and shit like that. Besides, I'm fucking cranky at the end of the day and really just want to kick back on the couch and watch "Charmed" just as often as not.
It's too bad I'm not religious, I'd hang out with church folk, they generally tend to hang out and not drink, but all that blood stuff totally creeps me out. Singing about bloody lambs and guys nailed to sticks is just not how I want to spend my Sunday mornings, God forgive me. I do go to the zen temple, but the plan there is NOT to talk, which makes it rather difficult to get to know people. I do, however, know how a lot of people breathe, if they have allergies or not and if they've memorized some chants in Japanese that, as far as we know, could actually translate to "butter, butter, chicken, monkey, butter, melon, monkey, butter, chicken, chicken, chicken butter, train, plane, pan."
Painted into a bit of a lonely corner here, I've invented an imaginary friend, caligu-buddy. Sad, right? Here's the warning if you are thinking about going to law school - it fucks everything up, including your social life, especially when you don't get fucked up, which is really rather ironic since this character and fitness stuff seems to be quite concerned with whether you have substance abuse problems. Well, I'm sober, but have lots to explain nevertheless. I imagine, among other things, I will have to take my socks off and show that I do not, in fact, have a lead foot, which is too bad, because it would explain a lot.
Well, caligu-buddy went to the store to get strawberries and tofu an hour ago and hasn't gotten back yet, so I guess I'll go call. She probably won't pick up the phone. I'm so burned out even my imaginary friends aren't reliable! Fortunately, she's replaceable, and even I can afford an imagination.

Until later,

caligulawyer and caligubuddy
your imaginative friends

how to answer an interview question

2007-08-29T16:54:00.000-07:00

Today I interviewed for an internship for the semester. I wouldn't get paid, or course credit. Just the satisfaction of being overworked and abused. As a proper law student, this makes me happy. I fear, deep down, if I have a life then the bar will somehow find out and deny me admission. "You did what? You grocery shopped? You should have been subsisting on corn chips from the vending machine! Why do you think the building smells that way? Because everyone else knew better! Damn plum-eating, lazy ass, too-good-for-corn-chips buddhist hippie. DENIED!"

Speaking of lives, the guy today said something about assuming I'd scheduled free Friday afternoons for a reason. Then he asked what my home life was like. Interviews are strange situations. What do you say? "Well, my living room is painted bright green. I have a one-eyed cat who is also missing most of her teeth. Another one is going around with his head tilted all the time, slightly off balance, and the vet can't figure it out. We've taken to calling him "Wobbly" and "Slanty Claws", which will be funnier come Christmas. We watch a lot of "Charmed" and I haven't mowed the yard in so long there weeds so big we can tell they are mini maple trees. In fact, maybe I'll stop mowing altogether and we'll have some more shade around here. Oh, we have three fish named Stella. And I drive a 1975 Datsun that is yellow/rust on one side and grey on the other. I'm gay and practice zen meditation. " Somehow, that doesn't strike me as what I should have said.

See, there is truth and there is truth. "Uh, I've lived with someone for three years and have a little house with cats and fish and a garden" is also true; it just paints less of a picture. When I'm interviewing law students, I'll hire the one with the balls to tell me a good story. Juries are more likely to be swayed by yellow/rust/gray trucks and the Wobbly cat than pat stories about fish and gardens anyway. But until then, I have to get a job, so fish and gardens it is.

Shutup. I'm back.

2007-08-26T13:35:00.001-07:00

Due to popular demand, which means people who want me to distract them from their miserable lives, I'm back. I don't know how much there is to say. My life has gotten stable, or should we say boring? As I write, the fish swim peacefully and my girlfriend is beside me in a thrift shop easy chair doing a cross stitch, whatever the fuck that is, and my raggedy one eyed cat is curled up at her feet. I used to spend Sunday afternoons sweating out Saturday nights and mourning the loss of my new underwear. Now my Pale Ale and panties budget is spent on plums and pencils, not to be used at the same time. OK, well sometimes when I'm really, really bored. This is what age and a good woman does for you I guess, so those of you who still buy underwear in packs and are expected at the local saloon, watch out.

I've taken to listening to a lot of Johnny Cash. I think because I'm in my third year of law school and he had a penchant for singing to prisoners. For some asinine reason the administration, who I suspect simply can't count, let in so many first year students that the third years have to grab one under each arm and use them as battlerams to get through the crowds. They don't like it but fuck them, they need a beating, it will toughen them up, and we've been through enough - or so you'd think. I'm stuck several hours a week in an 80 person classroon (where 83 people sit) with a temperature approximating the 5th circle of hell that stinks of corn chips and flop sweat. I think the first years ought to have to come in and scrub it out, then stand at each end holding fans for the second and third years stuck in there and be grateful for the privilege. Those who don't want to participate could enter the first-year-fight-it-out program where they barefist box and the loser has to go to community college to be a paralegal that the rest of us can abuse when we graduate. That ought to thin the herd a little.

In the meantime, I'll crank up the Johnny Cash and ask my girlfriend what the fuck a cross stitch is. If I like it, maybe I'll let a 1L make one for me.

Changes and the missing head

2007-03-29T07:48:00.001-07:00

So I'm taking trial practice, which is cool, although personally I think those of us who have been on two trial teams should get out of it but whatever, it isn't like law school is here to make sense. We have to do a mock trial and I'm representing an insurance company who doesn't want to pay half a million dollars to the wife of this crooked judge who blew the top of his own head off with a shotgun. At first I was pretty pissed I had to represent an insurance company, because let's face it, they are evil by nature. By which I mean, fuck them. Now, here is where I get to how law school is scaring me. I'm taking business associations and have gotten hold of the fact that when a company pays out, it comes out of the pockets of the shareholders. So, OK, they are probably snotty rich fucks anyway so screw them for the most part, but you know, I just can't look at a company as faceless anymore. Now, as I've said before, I was born in a trailer in the sticks and well, where I'm from, you learn to shoot before you learn to do fractions or put your own bra on right. So I'm looking at this cool gory picture of this guy with the top of his head several feet away from the rest of his head and checking out the blood and the shotgun and it becomes very clear to me that this guy's death was a faked accident suicide by some crooked, embezzling liar who is trying to rip off this company that I can no longer call faceless. So I'm actually into representing the company now.

The moral? Law school changes you. I was thinking about this the other day: I really do feel like a different person than about 2 or 3 years ago. I guess that happens anyway if you are paying attention. Once in a while I feel like I'm looking at my life from the outside and like not all of it is sticking to the new me. The existential question? So how many fucking people do you have to be in a lifetime? How do you ever decide anything when you don't know whether future you is going to be on board or not? 27 year old leaky ceiling hungover longhaired hippie me is, quite frankly, shocked that 41 year old, sober, law student me is writing this closing argument defending an insurance company. It leaves open the question whether 64 year old whatever me will approve of what I'm doing today. But then, I guess that's the big question for all of us. For now, I guess I just have to answer this one - how did the top of this guy's head get all the way across the room like that? And for the moment at least, that's pretty cool.

Next: Judge Crackhead tells Candi to pay her bills

2007-03-23T05:04:00.000-07:00

So I was watching TV the other day - well, actually, I just had it on while I was doing like three other things because I'm ADD and that's sort of how it goes. A promo came on for some other show and this really serious guy, in his deep, worried announcer voice, says something to the effect of "Mrs. Smith struggles - her Yorkie is ill. Next: the fight for Yappy." I had no idea what to do with the fact that someone's idea of journalism is to chronicle the puking of a yippy lap dog, and y'all, I still don't. I can say I was so discombobulated that I immediately turned the fucking idiot box off after that and broke out some Joni Mitchell records. Yes, records. But back to TV: what does this say, that a sick dog is journalism, and by the way, why haven't any of them come over when one of my cats was sick? "Lesbian law student struggles - one-eyed cat loses another tooth and apparently, has worms. Next: the fight to feed Stella." Stupid dog.

Perhaps we just have too many channels and it's getting that hard to find something to put on them. The result is that we have shitting dogs on camera and, of course, a plethora of court TV shows with semi literate drama queens being yelled at by judges with personality disorders because they used up all of their roomate's hairspray and then moved out without paying the cable bill. The result is that us upcoming lawyers have to contend with a mass of citizens who think they know something about the law or how courtroom drama plays out from watching Law & Order after Judge Crackhead. Yes, Jack McCoy probably would have gotten up from behind his table and made incisive personal comments that left the witness stammering, such that the trial was over after a commercial break where we learned how Tide can magically remove butter stains, but it's not like that in real life, and no, I'm not going to yell at the witness and the judge is not going to stop the trial and dramatically annouce how you have been wronged, thus vindicating your search for justice over the way Candi stole your husband. I mean, damn, y'all, isn't the law hard enough?

But maybe our jobs as lawyers are to provide some sense of perspective - in which case, I should have saved myself the trouble of going to law school and kept my counseling job. It could be worse, though. I could be the host of an afternoon TV show holding the mike for Mrs. Smith while she holds her puking Yorkie on her lap, having to look serious while I'm thinking the fucking dog looks like the result of combing carpet. Well, that's me keeping things in perspective. Until next time, take care of your pets and for God's sake, don't sue Candi on "Judge Crackhead" - I will NOT represent you.

and now, for something completely different

2007-03-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

for a little change of pace, here's a poem i wrote today about the war when i didn't feel like studying for business. it ain't revised, because i don't feel like doing that either, but hell, here it is:

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

perhaps the drums i hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war.
they scatter under dishonest stars
toward houses which no longer recognize them,
dodging SUVs full of blind people
with little flags along the road.

perhaps the thunder i hear at night
is the newly dead coming back from the war
dropping their drums around the white house.
perhaps the silence i hear at night
is them stopping, and slowly beginning to pity the president,
who eats his shame for a midnight snack
while gently petting the little dog inside him,
who constantly barks out, ‘you’re a failure.’
perhaps they realize
he cannot help but stumble around pushing things;
he blusters because he was never taught to count,
and now must spend the rest of his days
not listening to the deafening voices of the world
saying, “you are a stupid man.”

perhaps the rustling I hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war,
pushing around in the leaves i never raked last fall
in search of a kiss buried, or a hatchet
with which to stage a rebellion. Perhaps the voices
i hear at night are the voices of the newly dead
coming back from the war, calling out to the living
in their red, white and blue surprises,
talking about that day on the seesaw, that night in the kitchen,
the blood in the moonlight by the waterfront,
with only a little time, pressed for forgiveness.

Here's to Scooter, a dumb, true believer

2007-03-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

In the news: Scooter Libby found guilty. Well, duh. And not just because he was obviously lying; but because this was his job; to take the bullet for some horrible fucker and, in the process, to perhaps inspire some measure of odd respect for his loyalty. History is full of people like him. But then, what would it have sounded like if he had told the truth, anyway? "So, did Cheney want Valerie Plame outed?" "Oh, you mean Satan? yeah, sure," "So, it is your testimony that Cheney is Satan?" "Yeah, everybody thinks its Karl Rove, but he's just the front man. Karl's an evil fucker though, don't get me wrong." And so on.

Hey, we all need somebody. Reagan needed Oliver North. Cheney needed Scooter Libby. You need somebody. I need somebody. It's a matter of who we need, and that's a measure of who we are. Cheney is a sneaky, evil shit; he needed some sucker to take the fall for him. I can barely count and need someone who will make sure the mortgage gets paid. The guy at the taco stand needs people who don't get horrible gas from beans, or better, who don't care. It's always something; and so, it's always someone.

But what does it mean to be the one who got needed? Making paper airplanes while your girlfriend writes the mortgage check? Rich? In prison? Left on the curb wondering what the fuck just happened? I have to wonder if Scooter will lie in prison in the middle of the night, listening to the rats feet on the linoleum, thinking "Scooter, you stupid son of a bitch." "Why didn't you just stay home and run that hardware store, Scooter?" "Why didn't you just open that moped dealership, Scooter?" "You just had to work for Satan, didn't you, Scooter?" Or whatever a guy named Scooter thinks in prison in the middle of the night while the rats scrabble and Cheney farts after an overpriced dinner of steak and scotch, and blames it on somebody else.

And yet, I somehow respect the guy, because as stupid as I think he is, at least he was really dedicated to someone, and to something. And beyond what we need, what we can and cannot commit to might really be the measure of who we are. Here's to you, Scooter Libby; you're a dumb fucker, but at least you believe in something. Maybe we could all learn a little something from you.

Ain't love grand?

2007-02-20T16:58:00.000-08:00

And now, a belated Valentine's day address! Last year I bought my girl a ring but made it clear to all of you it had NOTHING to do with some bullshit holiday cooked up by bored marketers out to sell crap. I just happened to be in the mall with $20 I found in the dryer. Ahem. This year I maintain that Valentines' is a cooked up ass holiday but OK, here's the admission at last: I'm a hopeless romantic. Yep. It's true. I secretly want to be all Wuthering Heights and gusty emotions on windy nights and candles and poetry - but good poetry, not that insipid crap that passes for poems most of the time, especially with lesbians. Shit with some imagination and some guts to it. I want to cry "Heathcliff!" toward the castle in the rain, except in my case it would be "Heather!" or something, because, you know, Heathcliff was a guy.

That said, I don't live on the moors, I live in a little house in Durham with a cat that's been throwing up a lot and I haven't done my Tax homework. Sigh. Life and literature don't cross that often. The question remains how to be romantic between the out of town flights and sick cats and laundry and mortgage and the coffee table which seems to have some magical ability to collect crap, like some hellish magnet in the middle of the living room. Further, I've never been with anyone stable before and the dramatic fights and makeups just aren't here for that crying at the castle feeling, you know? NOT that the stomachaches were worth it. And as for stability and settling down - well, it has a lot of benefits; but then, you never get that first kiss again - or do you?

This year, I made my girl a CD with multiple levels of themes (yeah, I'm creative like that.) and tried to musically trace the development of our relationship. It wasn't as corny as it sounds. Shutup. In thinking about that process, it has occurred to me that every relationship has lots of mini-relationships within it, and you kind of do get that first kiss again, because things change so much, and people do, too. There was that monumental first kiss, and boy, this one I'll never forget. Then there was that day I realized I might as well quit trying to stay single because she had me hook, line and windy moor. The first time I cried in front of her. The day she moved in. The first time we split a vet bill. Signing the mortgage. The first vacation. The second vacation. The day I realized I have a tan line on my ring finger. The first time I told her I loved her. The time I told her I love her today.

Relationships take work, though, and I wonder if what happens a lot of times is people forgetting to stop and take a fresh look at that face you see every day and remembering why you wanted to see it every day in the first place. It can be hard to see through the fog of tax homework and the table's detritus. Sometimes a new face can offer promises of clean coffee tables and candles in the castle but soon, you know, they all become surrounded by socks on the floor and bills. So I think the trick is to put down the homework and pick up the socks, or not, and break out that first smile when you sneak home for a nooner; to start building new castles. Then, if they're castles made of sand, so much the better, y'all, because when they wash away, you can go kiss your girl in the ocean and build that castle all over again. Happy Valentine's, cause love is grand, socks, tax, coffee tables and all.

Muffies and a request for some advice, but not from Muffies

2007-02-17T09:57:00.000-08:00

Well, trial team is over, and overall I'm glad to get back to my life. Of course my first act was to take a sick cat to the vet and wait to get worked in and charged $250, but we've already established life just doesn't fucking stop, then, haven't we? At any rate, I'm rather discouraged, not really because my team didn't make it to the next round but because of some of the really shitty behavior I saw and in realizing I've got a lot to learn about not letting people get under my skin. Our first round we beat a pretty tough team, then got something called a 'buy' for the next round which I think means you get a technical win but obviously means you don't get to go make your points then faced this team that cheated so badly it truly disgusted me. Knowing that 'outside the record' isn't an objection and that the judges hadn't read the materials, they abused the witnesses - first year students who were giving up their time to help out - and stretched the facts in ways I couldn't believe they could sleep over. It didn't help that the chick on the other side looked like one of those upturned nose, overprivileged, Muffy types who push maids around buy lap dogs that piss everywhere. You know, my antithesis. I was born in a trailer, have worked on a farm, am not sure what all a maid actually does and have a 14 year old, one eyed tabby cat who is missing several teeth. I just can't resist the urge to want to kick the shit out of a Muffy type when she tries to shove me around. Sigh. It's something I've got to work on.

So two things here. One, it's disturbing to me to see so close up how lawyers get the reputation of sleaziness. It was also disturbing to have to spend most of my energy trying to figure out how to work around their crap and thus having a harder time actually scoring points. Don't get me wrong. We had them on the ropes and called them on their crap a few times, and it was totally sweet. But the other, and really more important thing: as my coach said, I need to learn how to not kick people when I get them down, which to be honest, I really really want to do. I figure if you are going to do something, do it all the way, but apparently that isn't proper. And I need to not let people piss me off so much and to let them dig their own holes. For instance, I just had to add "we would not object to opposing counsel refreshing the witness' memory with something that is ACTUALLY ON THE DEPOSITION" to point out some cheating and one of the judges totally missed my point and told me not to tell the opposing side how to cure their mistakes. It looks like by this time in life I'd learn that when I try to fuck someone else up I only fuck up myself, and to let people fuck themselves up when they try to fuck me up instead of fucking up and getting involved. Does that make any sense? Well it shouldn't! When I'm right, I'm right, dammit! Right? Um.... or not so right after all?

Anyway, I've got some things to learn. I can swing with the best of them but you know, that isn't the whole game. Anyway, I'd sure like a note or two from some practicing lawyers out there, since a recent comment has assured me that not every lawyer, in fact, works 100 hours a week (thank you, whoever you are!) so maybe one of you have time. Oh, and Muffy, if you're reading this, I hope your little dog pees on you.