May 2006



I had a pretty rough week last week.  Even though I hadn't gotten my Bar results yet, I was becoming familiar with the ins and outs of being a lawyer.  Client meetings, settlement conferences, depositions and motion hearings.  And although all that stuff is interesting and challenging, there's a darker side to being a plaintiff's lawyer.  It's nothing that violates the Professional Rules of Ethics, but it's still hard to deal with.  

So Vegas Sr. decided to take me out to a nice dinner so we could talk things over.  And I laid it out on the table.  I told him it was tough to sleep some nights.  I explained my ambivalence about taking cases with marginal liability.  As I finished by telling him I wasn't sure I was cut out for this field of law, he placed his fork down on his plate and looked at me.  He knew I was hungry for advice.  And this is what he said:

"You know what I like about this place?  The Caesar salad.  You know a place is going to have good food when you enjoy their Caesar salad.  No place has a mediocre entre when the meal begins with a good salad.  Especially a Caesar salad.  And, the thing is, even if the dinner is somehow average (which is basically impossible), you still go home happy because you know the Caesar Salad was great. Yep.  Nothing like it.  What were you saying?"

He returned my blank stare for a few moments, and then resumed happily munching his salad.  Awesome, Dad.  It's not like I was really expecting him to drop some golden nugget of wisdom on me.  Just a crumb…a flake even….of sage advice would've definitely tided me over.  Instead, I'm treated to a dialogue on how crispy romaine lettuce and anchovie-flavored dressing is the greatest achievement in civilized society.  Although, I don't know what I expected.  In undergrad, I once told my father I had lost $4,000 gambling on college football, and Johnny Knockdown said he was "gonna bust my knees up good for me."  The response of my wisened old Pa?

"Son, tomorrow is another day."

Tomorrow is another day? TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY? There wasn't going to be any tomorrow if Mr. Knockdown found me hiding underneath my girlfriend's couch! Didn't he understand? I explained to him the physics of having one's "knees busted for them."  I repeatedly illustrated to my Dad how much I truly loved walking, and my hatred for all things prosthetic.  I even rented "Casino" and showed him that scene where the guy gets his head put in a vice and his eyeball pops out.  And the fruit of my labor?  My father's final say on Icepick's lien on my femur?

"Son, the only thing I can tell you is what my father told me.  Things will always get better, and try not to look backward.  Now let's go get that salad before Knuckles finds you and you have to eat through a straw.  Hey! A Caesar Salad Smoothie! I bet I could make a million off that!"

"Yeah, Dad. That's a real can't-miss proposition you have there.  Banks will be lining up to finance that gem of a startup."

Now, if you'll excuse me….I have to work off this four grand my Dad loaned me by handing out fliers to Salad Julius.  

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Enough small talk. I can't think of a stronger way to start an entry than: 

So I'm with some buddies at a titty bar the other day.

Sparkle walks up to me and asks, "Who's ready for a lapdance?"

I respond by pointing at my friend, because she wasn't that hot.  She proceeds to tell me how rude it is to point at someone else when asked for a lapdance.  Stopping nothing short of scolding me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Thanks for clueing me in.  I didn't realize there was so much etiquette involved in an establishment called 'The Purple Nurple.'  Also it's tough to catch a lecture on manners from a chick wearing smiley-face pasties and a glitter thong. But seriously, thanks."

 I was invited to leave.  Apparently, Sparkle was a little more sensitive to sarcasm than I had given her credit for. 

About two weeks ago, I decided to adopt a dog from the Humane Society.  I've always loved dogs, and I was finally ready to have one of my own.  Plus, this dog had a rough start to life, and needed someone to give her the life she deserved.  And I thought being able to tell girls I rescued a dog from a shelter would help me get laid. So far, the tally reads:

Chicks Scored With Due to Dog: 0    Dumps Taken on Carpet: 7

 So not a well thought out plan on my part.     

I actually did meet a pretty cool chick this past weekend.  I decided to ask her out, so I called her last night.  Here is a brief synopsis of our conversation:

Me: "Look, I'm sure you've been on a million boring-ass 'dinner and a movie' first dates. So I thought maybe we could do something fun like go to Atlanta for the day and go to a Braves game or Six Flags."

Her:"Um, that's really creative. But I hate baseball and theme parks, and I already have a date for Saturday. But definitely give me a call next week."

Me (mumbling): "That's cool. I mean, I'm gonna be busy this weekend, too. Probably for the best. (She's hung up by now) But yeah, I mean, I'll totally call you next week. Cool."

It's good to know after three years of being off the market, I still haven't lost my touch with the ladies.

Fantasy Baseball is ruining my life.  There's no joke here.  Law Firm is a hair away from firing me due to lack of productivity.  This is because rather than write research briefs or negotiate settlements, I am on Yahoo! trying to orchestrate a monster trade to improve my heinous middle relief.  Why? I don't know. I can't explain it.  There's no financial incentive in my fantasy league.  Pride isn't an issue, as that died with ex-fiancee's "never given me an orgasm" bomb months earlier.  So it isn't money, it isn't pride, and yet I spend hours a day trying to find a way to improve my team's "Walks plus Hits divided by Innings Pitched," or WHIP to those of you with real lives.  My ace, Ben Sheets, went on the DL for the second time this season, and it ruined my day.  I'm storming around the office, kicking over trash cans, glaring at my paralegal and muttering under my breath. 

 "Lose a case?"    

 "Um, No."

"Surly insurance adjuster?"  

"Nope." 

"Ben Sheets on the DL again?"   

 "LIKE YOU'D EVEN UNDERSTAND? MY ENTIRE SEASON IS RUINED BECAUSE OF THIS PRIMA DONNA AND……"

After I finished my obsenity laced tirade toward the paralegal, Law Firm gave me something called "involuntary sick leave." I didn't see anything in the employee handbook about it, but I'm sure it's totally legitimate.

These are the things that keep me awake at night.