Leviticus 18:22.

One of the partners that I work extensively for has often called in from outside of the office, explaining that he was in "Dore County," and that X had to be done by Y because of his travel schedule. For the first three months that I worked for Dore County Partner, I was under the misapprehension that "Dore County" was a judicial county somewhere in southern Illinois. I had never heard of it before, but there are many back water judicial courthouses in the non-Chicago parts of this state, too many for me to keep track of. I learned a couple of weeks ago that "Dore County" is actually where the partner's vacation home is located. That revelation really chapped my ass, because I distinctly recall having frequently said, "good luck" to him in the past on the presumption that he was on his way to litigate something--thus accepting his tightened deadlines because hey, he's busy too. But he wasn't. He was vacationing. Grrrr.

I left work early today because the staff had left at 3, and because I am lazy. Dore County Partner calls me at home, and we have a two hour conference on a motion to dismiss that I've written. When I write things, I tend to believe they are perfect as written--it takes me a long time to write, because I take great care with my first draft. I don't believe in seconds. But Dore County Partner is notorious for multiple re-writes, and this case was no different. So instead of chilling out, surfing the internet for porno, and listening to my Kanye West cd, I spent the remainder of my afternoon and early evening going back and forth with him on why my first draft is perfectly acceptable. I now have until noon tomorrow to produce a draft which incorporates his input.

Sometimes I wonder what Pat Robertson's internal monologue is like. Do you think he really buys into all of the crazy shit he says? Are there moments of solitary contemplation where he thinks, "Hey, I can spew the most putrid, hateful, invective I can think of in the name of God and millions of evangelical Christians will reflexively yelp an 'Amen!' in return. Neat."

My parents are moving back to Singapore, where my Dad has accepted a position as director of fundraising for an international missionary organization. In many ways, this is heartening news to me because my Dad is too young to be retired, and in any case, he lacks the mental constitution for repose. He gets bored easily and is a very goal-oriented person. Goals are hard to come by if you're involuntarily retired. So this is good. He gets to schmooze with the uber-rich, in the hope that they will hedge their bets for the afterlife by turning over a small portion of their wordly wealth for the Lord's work. On the other hand, it feels strange to be--in a loose sense of the term--a missionary's son. After college, I discarded most of my faith. It was very psychologically liberating. I had a problem with guilt as an adolescent. Embracing, among other things, my sexual perversion, lack of empathy for others, and substance abuse was a relief. I no longer cared if I fell short of conventional standards of morality. This made me a saner human being. It also had the unfortunate side-effect of turning me into 47% asshole. At the time, I rationalized that there would be a point in my life where I turned things around. That point would ideally coincide with my final transition into adulthood because I did not want my children to be raised by a 47% asshole. I take my dad's new calling in life as a signal that now's the time to begin a gradual reduction of my asshole quotient, while concurrently increasing my man of God factor. If I hate gays a year from now, we'll all know I've made substantial progress.