Don't touch me.

I have attention span issues. It’s hard for me to work efficiently unless I’m under the gun; otherwise, my mind can’t help but wander. Sometimes, that process leads to absurd results. I often get very angry about trivial, but nonetheless unresolved, things that have happened to me in the past. For instance, I just thought of how my last three girlfriends have all punched me in their sleep. Their excuse was that they had dreamed that I was perpetrating some sort of emotional indignity on them, and physical violence was appropriate. That really pissed me off just now. First, I didn’t actually do shit. I’m not responsible for your subconscious ideas of who I actually am. Second, it’s not fun to get hit when you’re sound asleep. It’s startling, and I don’t like it. Third, I hate it that women generally think they can get away with punching their boyfriends. Don’t fucking hit me. If you lay your hands on me again, I will jack you in the face. Stupid girls.

Kickboxing...sport of the future.

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed... or buy anything sold or processed... or process anything sold, bought or processed... or repair anything sold, bought or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

At some point last month, my copy of High Fidelity migrated to my toilet and since then, I’ve been picking it up to read assorted passages while I do my business. I also got drunk and watched Cusack’s movie adaptation of the book a couple of weeks ago. As a result, I’ve been revisiting my circa-1997 to 1999 affection for Lloyd Dobler, Martin Blank, and Rob Gordon, characters who are too precious/unabashedly idealistic/complicated to live your standard-issue life of compromise. One of my most disheartening personal changes over the latter half of my twenties has been my loss of idealism. Early on in our relationship, I pulled out my old school ASB t-shirt to go to bed in and Claire was surprised that I had ever gone, probably because she’s only known me as a craven and heartless social striver. I was offended—yes, I used to care about poor people (purely in the abstract, of course), why would that surprise you? But in the end, her reaction was certainly appropriate. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt obligated to make someone else’s life better.

As a lawyer, I have a professional responsibility to devote some of my time and energy towards pro bono work. Positive pr externalities aside, I don’t know why lawyers, of all people, should have to do shit for free. You don’t see contractors building homes for free, or doctors administering chemotherapy for free. Yet we’re the ones that are held in low esteem by society. If you couldn’t tell, I really hate doctors, despite the fact that I’m friends with a number of them. Last month, I was staffed on a pro bono case when one of my colleagues left the firm. I had earlier agreed to “help her out.” She had designs on a new job (which she neglected to tell me), and when her plans came to fruition, I got a big, fat federal criminal appeals case dumped on my lap. Since then, I’ve probably devoted 80% of my time to this case. If we were charging for my work, our bill would be upwards of thirty grand. But we’re not, and since we’re not, this case is seriously affecting my bottom line. My annual bonus is billable hours based.

I originally agreed to help out because the case is somewhat sexy. The client was convicted during a high profile federal prosecution in the 90’s. Although it scares me to death, the chance at arguing a case before the 7th Circuit would bolster my resume. My initial impressions weren’t wrong, but this has really become a bitch of a case. The client is difficult. What’s more, he’s no Rolando Cruz. In other words, my client’s no angel.

I’ve never really been a crime and punishment kind of guy. As a younger man, I strongly believed in the procedural integrity of the criminal process—meaning that leaving actual culpability aside, no one should be convicted of a crime unless the government dots all of its i’s and crosses each and every one of its t’s. I drove four hours to visit my guy at his home in federal penitentiary on Friday. He was polite enough. Our meeting went well and although we disagreed on some points, he didn’t threaten my life or anything like that. Even so, I’m becoming more and more troubled by the social utility of my work. I understand that our drug laws are fucked up—you get the same jail time for selling a minimal amount of crack that you would get for dealing 100 times as much powder cocaine. That’s racist. But at the end of the day, if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison on five concurrent life sentences, don’t participate in a large-scale conspiracy to distribute drugs. Whether or not you’ve been unconstitutionally sentenced under a procedural technicality occasioned by a new Supreme Court case doesn’t change the truth of that.

This bothers me. With each and every passing day, I find myself becoming more of a pitiless cynic. The only reason I took this case was to burnish my credentials and, in the miniscule chance that we’re successful, find my way into the trade papers. I’d be hard-pressed to credibly explain that I did it out of some notion of justice, or for the good of society.

What the hell is your problem? Why don't you grow!

On Friday, I attended my brother's commencement. Earlier that morning, I was pleased to learn that John McCain was giving the commencement address. McCain delivered as advertised, and gave a decent speech about the necessity for a human rights oriented foreign policy, both as a justification for Iraq and as a plea for intervention in Darfur. While I disagree with foreign policy idealism--in short, it's not practical or even workable--McCain's speech was pretty neat. I later figured out, however, that McCain had given the identical address one month earlier at the University of Arizona's graduation. That's a little chintzy.

I also sat behind a fairly annoying group of white people. They were loud, bejeweled, and unnaturally orange. The woman immediately in front of me kept flipping her hair back onto my program, which was gross because it was dry and overly dyed. An hour into the ceremony, I realized that she was really, really, short. She was a little big for a dwarf, but certainly close enough. Having made this realization, her physicality started to freak me out. I couldn't stop looking at her grubby little hands and when she looked back, I was unsettled by her small, down syndrome-ish face. At that point, I started to feel bad because I suspected that she was retarded. But I later figured that she wasn't, because she was responding appropriately, etc., with her family. I suppose I now understand why tall people unaccountably loathe short people. I've dated a lot of short girls, which is nice, because you can throw them around in the sack. But since I'm never around people that are substantially shorter than me, my experience with pseudo-dwarf woman was unnerving.

Nickel and Dimed.

Our firm aspires to be a top-notch national practice. Leaving aside the fact that we lack offices in at least two major markets, the clearest proof that we’re not is the way our summer associate program has been administered. One word. Cheap. I hate getting calls from our recruiting coordinator about entertainment expenses, and I don’t think there would be the same hullabaloo if I were at Kirkland, or Sidley, or whatever. There’s no real point to it—she bitches a bit, I mumble something in my defense, and they end up reimbursing me for the bill all the same. There’s actually a “no shots” policy. Ridiculous. A handful of weeks ago, one of the junior associates got a little out of hand at Rockit and ordered three rounds of Patron for our sizeable group. He did that because he “knew” our waitress, and she was smoking hot. To top it all off, this associate left a $250 tip. Now we can’t expense shots. Dumbass. Which begs the following question: How are we supposed to have sex with the interns—I use the pronoun “we” loosely, this is actually not a personal concern—if we have no carte blanche authority to buy them lots of alcohol and fancy food? Isn’t that the whole point of the summer?

Charlie! you fucking BITCH-let's work it out!

One of my favorite movie lines.

Think of all the exes you have who have some emotional significance to you. Do you still know them? I don't. I wouldn't even know how to find them. I wish I had the option of showing up unannounced: "Hey. No hard feelings. Let's hug it out, bitch.". That would be nice.