dead blogs tell no tales

"My phone won't let me text. Sometimes it decides not to ring when someone is calling. It doesn't even tell me if I missed a call."

I pause. The phone's disabilities embarrass me. Hearing myself, I realize that the description sounds vaguely similar to"there is a monster under my bed. It won't let me get up in the morning. It also ate my homework." I'm embarrassed by me.

Madge, the surly Verizon tech support person, finds me ridiculous. Interspersed between her futile attempts to exorcise the mobile terror are unoriginal wails of "ugh! It just froze again... did I mention [insert previously unmentioned complaint]." Madge is determined. Determined to stop the pathetic whining. It took me three months to get frustrated enough to call tech support; Madge is beside herself in fifteen minutes, perseveres, and eventually emerges triumphant.

A friend conspiratorially whispers, "don't tell your Mom. Don't tell anyone."

I vigorously nod my agreement. This story goes no further. The secret is safe. A reader-less neglected blog tells no tales.

Ironically, it was a picture-message of my thigh that froze the phone. Just wasn't enough memory for something that size.

Spark Tips

10 ways to figure out if you are a 1L at GMUSL (in case you are in doubt).

1. I say black -- you say dictionary
2. Speed (hump) signs make you giggle
3. Your significant other says "I love you" (for the first time) & you ask them to repeat the question
4. You found 22 "good" letters in the alphabet (hint: L,R,W, & A aren't included)
5. Affirming remarks from a professor are a triple-shot of espresso for thy self-esteem
6. Drunken sailors & haunted houses are the highlight of a week
7. Dune buggies should cease to exist
8. Last friday night/saturday morning you unwisely & inadvertently mumbled something about promissory estoppel to your date
9. You realize that some multiple-choice exams may require 33 essay answers
10. You aren't sure what a tort is -- but you know Ybarra is wrong

*New Classes* Spring Session 2008

ADMN 069 4units Prof. IE
Immigration and Passport Compliance

ARC 210 3 units Prof. AJ
Unearthing the Past: Digging up Private Information in an Electronic Era

FASH 212 3 units Prof. NN
Intro to High Fashion w/ royal Obsessional Clothing Descriptions

FASH 308 3 units Prof. AJ
Maritime Fashion: Navy, Merchant Marine, & Commercial

FASH/ECON 461 4 units Profs. SS & TT
Shopping on the Margin: the Marginal Analysis of Fabulous

KAN 113 2 units Profs. AJ & NN
All Things Canadia: A Succinct Synthesis of Why Canada is Superior

INABTPGITB 313 6 units Prof. TT *graduate course*
Intellectual Property Rights & the Dibs System

INABTPGITB 327 6 units Prof. AJ & TT *graduate course*
Motorcycles and Speed Limits: Is Twenty Plenty?

Saturday Workshops: Limited Space

*Library Research Prof. SS

*Basics to Stunning Touristry Prof. NN

*Word and Whiskey guest lecturer D. McD

*Tweed and Aviators guest lecturer D. McD

billable words

"The water was impacted by his rod, whereupon a polluting effect was achieved. The consequent toxification reduced the conditions necessary for the sustenance of the indigenous population of aquatic vertebrates below the level of viability. Olfactory discomfort standards were substantially exceeded, and potability declined. Social, economic, and political disorientation were experienced to an unprecedented degree."

Exodus7:20-21 New Law Student Translation

El pollo peanuts

Caddycorner to Dudley Morehead Hall is a slimey, cramped, greasy student eatery. The food is cheap, the beer cheaper, and ketchup is abundantly available. The french toast may kill you --- but what doesn't kill you will probably kill you eventually (it takes more than one visit to this fab spot to irrevocably clog those arteries). And for $3.15, this anytime breakfast is a much cheaper silent killer than cigarettes. [For non-SJSU econ readers, the name of this lovely idyllic spot is Peanuts.]

For SJSU alums there is something about Peanuts that sheds an aura of insurpassibility. In light of this, the following is clearly heretical and treacherous and should in fairness be treated as such.

But...

The fact is that Peanuts has been surpassed. Caddycorner to Hazel Hall is a clean, open, bustling, charbroiled chickenry. 1/4 lb of utterly delicious chicken (choice of white or dark meat) for $4. And if you go easy on the coleslaw & fries your arteries will need to look elsewhere for clogging.

In short, El Pollo Rico totally rAwks...by comparison, everything else is just peanuts.

1 liners anony

The credits for tonight's Emmys just flashed by and somewhere after director and and key grip there was overall smarty pants. No joke! Its just peachy that people like me are finally getting a wee bit of recognition for all our effort.

Note: I only turned on the Emmys after finishing up my assignment for legal writing. And you thought that I was the stereotypical procrastinating grad student. Goes to show what you know! (Oh, Shoot! Just remembered that I have 50 pages of reading for Torts tomorrow. Actually, I am joking... I've known all day that I had to read those pages.)

elevator troubles

Riding in an elevator is a simple enough task. If you want to go up you push the up arrow, to go down the down arrow. True, some individuals are genuinely convinced that if you want to go up you should push the down button since you want the elevator to come down to you. But aside from this tiny fragment of the population, humans seem to understand that the elevator process is beyond relatively simple. Which makes me wonder why, at least once a day, I feel obliged to push the 5 button when I get in at the 5th floor... or in some cases the L button when I just walked in from the lobby. One time would be funny but this daily ritual is worrying... primarily because it is becoming a ritual. (Fast forward 40 years and I may not even notice that the elevator car isn't moving.)

Reasonable explanations for this mindless behaviour are nonexistent. But if a conclusion needs to be drawn it would be this: I can kiss goodbye any shot at a spot in the hormonally-charged GA elevator

decisions wanted

Gone are the days of the baby blue jersey and shorts. Genuinely happy about that. But now I have to pick my goalie jersey and this is difficult. My team wears green otherwise I would have chosen this (it brings out my eyes). Yellow is fantabulous except for my whole terrified-of-bees reality. Blues, reds, pinks, oranges, browns, greys don't do much for me. Perhaps I'll need to just stick with black ala zorro!!! At least it wouldn't conflict with my green/white gloves and blue nike boots.

Why does looking pretty in goal have to be so hard?

keeping it together

Some weeks it seems that I just can't keep up with my split ends. Millions of strands of curly, kinky, and often-as-not frizzy hair isn't always easy to manage. And when certain individuals are not in close enough proximity to ensure that the hair is sufficiently tidy before I leave my flat... well, you can imagine!!! Still, when all hair issues have been overcome, a good hair day can pay for itself, regardless if the cost is measured in time, money, or homework-not-completed.

It is surprising how much split ends and split infinitives have in common. Its particularly easy to convince oneself that the split sounds "better" or less "arrogant," just like it can be relatively simple to self-soothe with false assurances that messy, frizzy, unbrushed hair is nearly the new "it" look.

Condition, keep the infinitive together, condition... repeat... Voila! Amazing hair and strong sentences. Its enough to make a girl grrrrr like a raptor!

and this was a good idea... how?

Because sometimes you throw yourself under the bus...

"In Sindle v New York City Transit Authority, the defendant operated a school bus carrying between 65 and 70 junior high school students, including the plaintiff. Some of the other students became rowdy, committed acts of vandalism, and remained abusive even when warned by the driver. The driver abandoned his ordinary route, passed several stops, and drove to the police station. On the way, the plaintiff, who had not behaved improperly, jumped out of the side window, only to be run over by bus's back wheels." (taken from my Torts textbook)

Needless to say, the plaintiff sued... for false imprisonment. And won! This was reversed on appeal.

Moral of the story: if you must throw yourself under the bus, try to avoid the wheels!

chew toys

Alright! Admittedly it is a wee bit sad that ciabatta bread is the highlight of my day. In my defense, redhead replacement is a slow, arduous, arguably impossible project. As is finding fabulous people who enjoy bossing me around. Though I do appreciate the remote effort a certain dan-the-man made during the wee hours. (In rachel-land 8:30am is painfully bright and shiny.)

Today during class, it is possible that my mind began to wander. And if this indeed happened as perhaps the text messages to any phone number in my address book within the United States (consciously excluding Canadia seeing as that great nation is a distinct country and not within any nation-wide mobile plan) might indicate, one might argue that I wasn't paying quite as much attention as was warranted. This I cannot deny. I will not even use the fabled "but its a friday afternoon" defense in light of my glaswegian spring semester where I had approximately 6hrs of friday class. (Some observers might note my irregular attendance on these days... this is obviously and utterly immaterial.)

Seeing as this post has begun to wander most alarmingly, I'll return to my point.

Which is... I must start bringing my favorite chew toy, ie. wooden pencil, with me to classes. Without this incredible representation of markets, I have no decent way to keep from fidgeting. As the chairs are slightly swivelly and squeaky, my inability to sit still is annoying to my neighbors-in-law. For those of you who have never witnessed me in a classroom ( or a golf course for that matter... though in that instance I generally substituted a wooden tee) the pencil is literally a chew toy. Note to reader: don't ever ask me for a pencil... or at the very least have a can of lysol on hand.

Without this toy I struggle to concentrate on my creative non-curricular-activities-during-classtime. As a result, no imaginary makeovers have been attempted, no poetry composed, no random lists of inappropriate-things-to-say-that-might-make-people-think-you-are-totally-bonkers written, no mobile dart games played, no discussions as to the imaginary details of imaginary boyfriends commenced (perhaps more alarmingly, no imaginary boyfriends have yet been fabricated), and no clean pieces of paper have been desecrated with any unnecessary stray ink markings. Yes, you read that correctly... if one were to flip through any of my notebooks, not one malnourished stick-person drawing would be found!

Clearly, the stars are out of alignment and things are not as they ought to be. And if that ain't something to chew about, I don't know what is.

free to chew

It occurred to me this afternoon that "gum-only" food is no longer required. As exciting and obvious as this all was, I couldn't entirely remember the food groups that involved biting (or why I would in any way want to imbibe from such categories). But as lovely as yoghurt truly is (and it be lovaly), its constant consumption is just not as appetizing as one might imagine. By contrast a thick sandwich filled with slices of juicy tomato, baby spinach, and turkey bacon was an undeniable, blissful, chewy wrinkle-in-time.

nuts, belts, elbows, forks, and yoghurt

Sometimes things don't go quite as planned.

Understatement? Most certainly.

Disaster? If one is fortunate... not at all.

Inconvenient? Embarrassing? Slightly amusing? Well, if we are speaking of yours truly no doubt you already know the answer! And as you might have divined there is (as always) a protracted story here.

It is often difficult to know exactly where to commence one's tale... after all, it may have been that Colonel Mustard was in the conservatory with a spanner because Mrs. White was staking out the library with the rope. Events are rarely isolated happenstance. Which makes me wonder: ought I to begin my wee fiction of unfortunate events with the first power outage or the second? With the busy sunday morning or the lazy wee hours of Monday? Perhaps I should merely focus on proximate cause...

Monday morning found me riding big red up the not as gentle-as-I-would-like slope near the intersection of US 50 and George Mason Dr. With a half-hearted lift I stood up in the saddle and expended just a bit more effort to keep from coming to a grinding halt. All of a sudden the handle bar came loose. Not entirely sure why and not having any tools in my pack, I carried on to the campus where I parked, locked, and left red. My schedule was too full to immediately fix the problem (a missing nut)... but one thing was certain: riding red the four predominantly downhill miles home wasn't a safe plan.

Which brings us to today.

I took the bus to campus laden with my cycle-jeans, wrenches, and my packed lunch. In addition I wore slightly more sheveled clothes than normal figuring that I could leave them in the locker as my future emergency supply. At the end of the first class of the day, I dug into my grilled cheese sandwich, tomatoes, and jo-jo's; saving the best, ie. vanilla yoghurt for last. Just after I peeled back the foil lid I discovered, much to my immediate distress, that the plastic cutlery I'd quickly thrown into the bag this morning didn't include a spoon. "Ah! I've got a fork... that'll be fine" I assured myself.

And, undoubtedly it would have been if I hadn't been distracted. (I believe at around this point I began to lecture my classmates on the proper pronunciation of Glasgow and perhaps the finer points of Brad Pitt's pikey accent.) Eventually, I stopped blathern' long enough to discover that I had spilled yoghurt onto both the blue and black shirts I had on... quite the feat even for one eating such a slippery substance with a porous instrument. "Ah! Dang!" I thought, "emergency clothes aren't supposed to have giant yoghurt stains!" (I'll skip the longer-than-strictly-necessary speculation that my classmates began on how a girl who eats yoghurt with a fork got into law school.) And not that it is particularly relevant, but I did happen to have an extra t-shirt in the locker which allowed me to be stain free the rest of the day, albeit shivering from the excessive air-conditioning.

When the studying and the classes were over, I prepared to leave. This meant, among other things, changing into my cycle-jeans. Said jeans have been mentioned in a previous post and as mentioned they really fit most appallingly. However, the increasingly inconvenient roomy nature makes them ideal for riding red, which almost compensates for the ice-cream cone illusion they produce. So you can imagine my dilemma when I realized that I hadn't brought a belt. "Hmmm," I thought, "this will be challenging to walk with but I'll manage. How ever could I forget a belt?" With trepidation, shorter stride, and a wee dose of courage I walked toward the bathroom exit. With thumbs tucked into my backpack straps and elbows jauntily angled outward I turned the corner... to catch the wall plumb on my elbow!

I'm not entirely sure why they call it a "funny-bone"... what exactly is so funny about feeling electric-type shocks up one's arm for ten minutes? But I can tell you this; when supposedly stationary walls play their pranks on you... you won't be laughing!

twisty turns of fates

Sometimes the most logical and reasonable of events are a direct result of thoroughly absurd circumstances. The almost ridiculous nature of causality should harbour little surprise among the mortals. After all, if a kangaroo sneezing in Australia alters the weather in Detroit can anything be genuinely wacky? By extension, is it actually peculiar that the very existence of my legal career is the result of the synergistic interplay of 1 cubano, 1 russian-jew, 1 failed standardized test, a pair of comedically nosy americanos, and 3 weeks of unending passionate chess? Predictably, the answer is "it depends!"

Some learning mechanisms are more effective for certain individuals than other equally valid techniques. For better and for worse, being the center of attention works well for me. Often embarrassing, occasionally humiliating, it is still far better than the alternative... namely, not comprehending spherically the material. True, many students are able to achieve this without the full energy of their classmates and professor behind them but, in the end, what counts is the ability to concurrently apply a formation defense and performance excuse in one's own life. Which is not to malign the process, arguably the the most causal element of all!

A vital part of the "process" is professor feedback.. Take for example this relatively faithful partial transcript of an actual exam response regarding formation defense; examiner comments in red. (For the readers' well being, comments related to the examinee's better suitedness to comedic writing than economic analysis, sociopathic personality, and general inability to follow direction have been edited.)

Basic conditions that need to exist for a contract to be considered valid are: 1) the parties must be rational, 2) informed (both sides), 3) both sides acting on free-will, 4) and the service contracted for must cause no net harm on others. What about the consideration requirement? Since these conditions must be met for a contract to be bindable, basic formative defenses will argue that one or more of these conditions were violated. Because of 1) children and lunatics are not bound by contracts they enter into...the court has expanded this concept of "irrationality" to include individuals who enter into a contract that "no sane person" would accept. including temporary incapacity like being drunk.

I never meant to be a lawyer, law school was for "those people, and rules were as well. But there is no denying the fatalistic force of putting 1 cubano, 1 russian-jew, a pair of comedically nosy americanos, and one idiotic bet altogether in a small room. Out of this mayhem came something remarkable... where else can a torturedly-reasoned formation defense leave everyone on the floor, tears in their eyes, hysterically laughing?

bicycle chatter

Authors note: If you can't stand the thought of reading yet another post about my bicycle, I encourage you not to continue reading. Take the opportunity to go outside, get some fresh air, take your bicycle for a spin around the neighborhood... but remember to wear a helmet (unless you want to become an active organ donor).

Bicycles ought not to be ridden on sidewalks. Especially when said sidewalks are narrow. It is dangerous for pedestrians and cyclists alike to share such a narrow strip of concrete. Exacerbating an already tight fit are the street lamps, street signs, overgrown hedges, overgrown trees which further diminish the amount of usable pavement.

Cyclists belong on the road, not the sidewalk!

But here in lovely Arlington there aren't bike lanes and drivers make it abundantly clear that they are thoroughly uninterested in sharing their road. And before certain individuals start complaining about how annoying cyclists are on twisty, curvy mountain roads... Columbia Pike and George Mason Dr. are emphatically not twisty, curvy, mountainous, or even narrow. Especially when compared to the British roads (cart paths) where drivers have no difficulty not running over or flipping off cyclists.

So here is the rub -- cyclists endanger themselves and pedestrians when they ride on the sidewalk, but Arlington drivers are unwilling to make any room for them on the street. As dangerous a bicycle is for a pedestrian it pales in comparison to the dangers that Cadillacs, Hummers, and arrogant self-consumed drivers pose to those of us who are happy to get by on our own sweat.

on the reddish hues of magic

"The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end."
benjamin disraeli

At times, the power of knowledge to break spells and shatter enchantments is unforgivable. To love, to leave, to suffer through right choices, and to shrug the wrong decisions... Yet, the extraordinary resiliency to reimagine and rethink is as easy as riding a bike.

Despite leaving my first love in an enchanted land where the sunshine is mainly liquid and despite suffering the inevitable pathos of separation, I have not lost my ability to open my heart to an inanimate object with two wheels, handlebars, and pedals. Nor have I merely replaced ol' squeaks with a trophy bike.

Though this new love/bicycle is younger than the venerable Dr. Seuss bike -- circa perhaps 1977 it is vintage without being a prototype of something Foyle rode- this was genuinely coincidental. And, yes... it is RED! Apples are on occasion red and noone thinks them less substantive for it.

Red doesn't squeak (as of this afternoon), but to suppose that everything is utterly perfect would be a mistaken thought. Especially in light of how my inability to get red's seat at the proper height nearly was very painful. Still, not hearing squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak-thump-squeak- thump-squeak... is really something else. Really!!! (To grasp the sense of how "really" say the squeak-thumps really fast.)

As the proverb says, we always return to our first loves... but often only in essence. And for all the differences, squeaks and red aren't so very different. They roll, you place feet on pedals to propel them, they have one gear, they creep up hills, they are jauntily clownish, and most importantly both made me a bargain I couldn't refuse (ie. free).

Of course these are just details.

Which is exactly where the magic is to be found.

reinventions welcome

Near as I can recall, the activities of August 17 2006 involved shopping, more shopping, and sopping up ice cream with a pb&j sandwich. Much has changed though admittedly some tendencies persist. The gastric-harmony that is ice cream + peanut butter remains a truly blissful experience. But, well...its been awhile.

As to shopping I can't say much. I desperately need to take time for a solitary safari-like expedition... but it is so lonely without the girls on hand that undoubtedly it will be less pleasure and more ordeal. Besides, sinking my teeth into books has severely exacerbated my penury circumstances.

(I find myself rather ashamed of my girlish cravings for companionship but there really is nothing like knowing your girls have your back in a foxhole.... I mean, fitting room. After all, they are your girls and know the right answer to the old "does this make my *#^ look small?")

However! While I may not be buying the pair of jeans so desperately needed, I am most certainly compulsively acquiring my share of books... including some decidedly not needed. I suppose it has something to do with the whole moratorium on book purchases over the last couple years... or perhaps, more specifically (and we all know how much I like my technicalities), it has something to do with the lifting of that book-buying embargo. (I think I just said the same thing twice!) At any rate, now I need to buy a bookshelf.

Which brings me to my point. I may be wearing the same jeans that I had on last August 17 (and I must say they really do fit horribly-- which I suppose means that they don't fit), but I'm also carrying a pink-plaid purse. How alarming! Not only is there a purse... but it is pink! But really, not everything that differs between time-periods is cause for frenzic concern. Only 9 years ago I refused to bathe and well, look at me now! If showering at least twice a day could make one bright and shiny... alright, so it can't do that, but it will make you smell all nice and fresh.

And to utilize more than just my own experience: some people ate their boogers when they were 4 but by the time they were 6 no longer looked for nutrition to grow out of their face; some people dated wildly inappropriate individuals but now acknowledge the potential merit of changing their utility functions in the future; some people used to think that they were practically perfect in every way and now know that they are definitionally perfect from all angles.

See! Change is possible.

As I put off for just another minute my required participation in law school orientation activities, I appreciate that unlike the last orientation I suffered through, I'm not profusely sweating-out last night's curry. And ain't that somethn'?!?

enablers all

I've been very fortunate this summer to have had two wonderful friends intern in the northern Virginia/Washington DC. region. Over the past weeks, we watched movies, enjoyed jazz, shared good food, played softball, lost teeth, rooted ourselves to porches, and experienced zero-gravity tennis. We stayed up to all hours talking nonsense. We stayed up to all hours thinking we were talking sense. We stayed up to all hours doing nothing at all. And occasionally we just sat on a couch... and giggled.

Now these two are moving on to better things than managing and ensuring my constant entertainment. While I'll sorely miss them, it is but fact that summer-living cannot and should not continue perpetually. (The Irish have a cautionary tale as to the dire consequences of wishing for a month of Saturdays.) Before I relapse into my favorite abandonment complex, which while endearing is perhaps not exactly factually accurate -- though I would remind certain individuals (who shall remain nameless) in Los Gatos, Mountain View, and Glasgow that not following me around the country and/or world is a very serious form of abandonment -- I would like to thank both Felix and Rachel for their role in making this a lovely summer.

And to assure them both... I forgive you for leaving me in this cold and heartless manner...

things that need to be faced

One fateful summer afternoon, under the shadow of the Washington Monument, many adults (and soon to be adults) grasped at remnants of childhood pleasures and happily played softball before the fast approaching dusk. During this idyllic time of day, off a sublimely bad hop, a second base-person took a softball to the face and lost a tooth (and a wee bit of dignity).

Today is the day I challenge my fear of softballs and rejoin the pastime of recreational leagues. My teeth hurt just contemplating this event. With a heat index in triple digits I wonder if I can use the weather to excuse myself from the play of the day. Or perhaps I can cite academic commitments to explain my absence. Or perhaps I'll emphatically pull my chin up, stick my face out, and play ball.

myself the fool

According to the man who figured out electricity, "experience is a dear teacher." Of course, quite on the heels of this reassuring statement is the reminder that "fools learn at no other." It makes one think, if I apply the first part to my circumstance am I declaring myself a fool??? In general, that isn't the self-projection of first-choice.

So what? So what if we are fools?

To be a fool and to learn from a mistake is infinitely preferable to a state of unchangeable, folly-ridden, de facto perfection in all one's regaled wisdom. Have not the heralded wise been sufficiently consumed with their philosophy that experience is redefined to parallel their accepted wisdom?

When we know better, we can choose to do better. But on occasion, to know better is preceded by an unpleasant self-confession: "I've been such a fool" or worse, "I am the fool." For there is not enough room in life's classroom for all of our prideful conceits and experience has something to teach.