Top Ten Signs You Have a Bad Blog

10. One of your links is to "Edit-me."
9. Archeologists recently unearthed your archive.
8. Your only comment is from your mother, and that was by accident.
7. You haven't posted since Kerry ran for President.
6. Your hit counter is running backwards.
5. After running Google ads, you owe them money.
4. Search engines refuse to list you based on principle.
3. You think your use of white text with a yellow background is "cool."
2. The guy who designed your template is threatening a lawsuit.
1. One word- webdings.

Punny

I thought this old chestnut I heard years ago would be a fitting anecdote to share, considering the fact that I received no grades today. Feel free to groan at the end.

Once upon a time there lived a king who hated puns, so he issued an edict that whoever punned would be hung in the town square. Most people (not too fond of puns themselves) obeyed and saved their necks. The jester, however, was a bit different. He had accidentally (or so he swore up and down) punned in front of the king.

The king, true to his word, hauled the jester out to the town square in preparation for the hanging. Since it was the middle ages, people came out in droves to witness the event. He was measured for a casket, the rope placed around his neck, and the crowd grew silent as they anticipated the dreadful event.

The king was about to enter the order when he saw a small child crying. His heart moved, he spoke in a loud and booming voice to the jester.

"Jester, you have defied me, and for that you should die. But this little boy here has changed my mind (kings had to be good politicians, remember) and I will spare your life on one condition."

The jester responded, "What is it?"

"That you never pun again. If I hear you pun, you will surely die, and not even a thousand crying children shall changed my mind? What do you say?"

The crowd, in glorious unison, rose up in cheers and applause.

The King smiled smugly to himself. He had shown his potential toughness, yet also shown mercy. The jester would bow politely and mumble his acquiescence, and the King would be able to go play an early round of croquet. Life was good.

Then, just as before, the crowd grew quiet, not wanting to miss the jester's words. All eyes were on him, with the rope around his neck, mere moments from doom.

"I say," he responded, voice full of power, "That no noose is good news!"

Torts Grade

C+

I have recorded below the internal dialogue that followed this revelation:



ID: Damnit!!! Someone must pay!
EGO: Oh, calm down, Id, it's just one C+. And it's for a two-hour class, so it doesn't hurt as much.
SUPEREGO: I for one think it's perfectly respectable.
ID: Shut up, the both of you, fools! I'm plotting my revenge!
SUPEREGO: Revenge? How inanely boorish... Congratulations to everyone who did better.
EGO: I'm happy for them, but I wish I could have done as well, too.
SUPEREGO: He who is last shall be first, ego- remember that.
ID: After I hatch my plan, you may be right...
EGO: Let's not get arrested over a C+, okay? I've got a future to think about.
ID: A future as a miserable C+ making loser, perhaps? I hear the Taco Bell needs a new burrito wrapper.
SUPEREGO: A fine job- forty hours a week, friendly people- who wouldn't like that?
EGO: Uh, I didn't go to law school to be a burrito wrapper.
SUPEREGO: Perhaps they have some management positions.
ID: HA! Ego, help me find the jumper cables and a screwdriver.
EGO: Jumper cables? Screwdriver? What the hell?
SUPEREGO: Heck. He meant heck.
ID: I know a trick that'll keep the people with better grades from making it to their next test. MWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!
EGO: Do you know you're insane? 'Cause as long as you know it, I'm okay with it.
SUPEREGO: He's no insane, just mentally unstable.
ID: And you're a retard who's going to hell, the both of you. (rummaging) Found 'em. Who's with me?
SUPEREGO: I must go alert the authorities, I'm afraid.
EGO: How 'bout we didn't and just say we did?
ID: LOSERS!
EGO: Look, it's just one C+. It won't hurt my average that much.
ID: Tell it to your loser friends at Taco Bell. You'll probably end up working for the guy who got the B.
SUPEREGO: Wonderful chap, I bet.
EGO: I need a nap.

Thereafter Ego dreams of screwdrivers, burritos, and doing hard time.

Juliet is bleeding

Juliet is bleeding
Plunge the dagger deep.
Over is the pleading,
Onward is the sleep.

Lost for love forever
But never truly dead-
Torn apart together
For precious words unsaid;

Better to die as one
Than live, unspent, alone
Better warm blood run
Than cold hearts stumble on.

Romeo is bleeding
Plunge the dagger deep.
Over is the pleading,
Onward is the sleep.

Bag and Tag

Last year at about this time I was surfing the internet and looking for fellow students who would be accompanying me to law school. I found Mark Lyon, who is arguably the flagship of our little blogging community at our particular school. I also met goodluckfox, who entered those hallways the same year I did. There are others, but I digress- the purpose for this post is to allow the up and coming students the chance to find a student who has traveled that path before. Hopefully, by doing so, they will ease their anxiety and gain some insight into the process.

(Those uninterested, please ignore the last paragraph- it's just a string of random words to attract those looking for me to my website.)

Mississippi College School of Law, student blog, 1L, One-L, MCSOL blog, first-year law student, Jackson Mississippi blog law school, Mississippi College blawg, J.D. degree, Jackson Mississippi College Law School blog.

Artist and the Art Created

Tom Cruise and the Dixie Chicks have got me thinking...

Both made social faux pas that have led to society shunning their creative works.

My question is why?

Why do we judge the art created by the artist who made it? Are the two irrevocably linked? Does the Dixie Chick's statements about the war against terrorism influence their songs? Does Tom Cruise's belief in Scientology influence his ability to act?

Let's stretch the circumstances- say there's a serial killer who is also a gifted sculptor. Let's also imagine that he sculpts his victims before he kills them. After he is caught and arrested, the sculptures are used as evidence at trial. But what happens next?

Who would want the sculptures? Even if they were brilliantly crafted, would the stain of their creation lead them to be destroyed? Or would they be seen as works of beauty that stand independent of the circumstances in which they were created?

I just don't know.

But I do know that with passing time, the artist becomes less important and the object created becomes more so. That is the artist's gift, that his works can outlive him by centuries, perhaps even longer. For all I know, Leonardo Da Vinci was a thief and a liar- but his works of art are still breathtaking. I don't care what type of person he was, for I'm admiring his works, not his moral bearing.

Contemporary artists have it harder, however- their blood and words, still flowing, intermingle with their creations. Thus any criticism the artist is heaped with falls onto the object.

The sculpture mentioned above, if found centuries later in storage, would be hailed as a great work of art. But today, our knowledge of its origins shades our view of it.

I think we have lost the ability to bifurcate human behavior- men can not be categorized by simply giving them white or black hats. Things are more complicated than that. People can be both good and evil, all at the same time. The murderer can create beautiful works of art, and the preacher can lead his flock to God while secretly turning to sin.

I, for one, think that the Dixie Chicks songs pre-comment are too good to cast aside simply because I disagree with their opinions; I do not have to reject their artistic gifts simply because I disagree with what they think.

As for Tom Cruise, I was never crazy about his movies anyway.

Me v. Big Firm

I'm currently working on a case that we picked up about a month ago. Well, my boss has pretty much assigned me this case, since the stakes are somewhat small and it's a good learning process. (He looks over everything I turn in, makes a few suggestions, but it's largely my show.)

The opposing counsel is from BIG FIRM, perhaps the biggest in the state. At this point we're wrangling over a particular point of law. I have to submit something to a judge who will decide the issue after reviewing both motions.

I've put three hours into my motion so far, and I think I've got him pretty good. Of course, that's for the judge to decide. It is exciting, however, to know that you're doing in law school exactly the type of stuff you'll be doing once you're an actual lawyer.

Win or lose, I'm learning a lot.

Life

I see a lot of blogs nowadays that attempt to deal with major topics and hot button issues like immigration, abortion, and terrorism.

I understand the appeal of such decisions, but I rarely go down that path on this blog.

The faithful few to visit this site know that I've posted rarely on such subjects, and that most of this blog concerns random events, poems I've written, and autobiographical cannon fodder.

Most of the big issues in life we choose for one reason or another and never change our beliefs. They're instilled and crystallized over years and years of pattern and acceptance. If we're lucky, we've chosen correctly. If not, no matter, the belief is still as real as if it were.

I've never really known anyone to change their opinion regarding abortion, immigration (legal or otherwise) or terrorism. I'm sure there are people who change, but such changes only come about through sheer acts of history or internal dialogue. Discussions on the internet won't really effect a major shift in perception- our very nature defies it.

Take abortion for instance. Some people think one way- others think differently. Let's assume, for discussion's sake, that the split is fairly even. Is one side totally crazy and the other side completely right? I refuse to take such little stock in humanity. Perhaps both sides are "right", simply right in a different way.

It's hard to see the other side because we can't truly step outside ourselves, even if we wanted to. Half the time we can't even see the things that cripple our perspective, much less know how to push them out of the way. Put it this way- how often do you think about your eyes? Most times, you don't. But you constantly use them. Often, if your eyesight fails bit by bit over time, you don't notice it until it's quite far gone- having no clear vision to compare it with, you don't know your vision has deteriorated. It's the same thing with cultural, psychological, and emotional fuzziness.

Even Jesus couldn't convince us He were Jesus unless we really wanted to believe it. Even after witnessing countless miracles with his own eyes, Judas still betrayed him. We are the same way, regardless of what the subject matter is. Same with Buddha or Confucious or any other deity you care to name. Faith in what we believe in comes from within- neither parting seas or falling towers can change that for more than a passing moment.

Most people of even limited intelligence like to tell themselves that they are a genius- that within their undiscovered mind lay vast and storied truths, simply waiting to be divulged. Our faded memories of Socrates tell us that yes, we can change people if we can only get within- few people have ever breached that Minoan circuit at all, much less manipulated it with any sort of effectiveness. Most of us, whether we want to admit it or not, fall far short of the genius we suspect we are. Our minds are facile and sharp, but lack the preeminent strength of thought that falls on genius- that tearing of the intellectual curtain, so to speak.

So persuasion is largely futile. People believe what they believe, vote what they vote, and determine their lifes as they see them fit to be determined.

Voice your beliefs, and if they are true enough people will accept them over time. But no part of cajoling or forcing or pontificating will do otherwise.

Talk of light things- lemonade, lazy days, fishing, friends, and slow stretches of time.

Life is too short to speak too often of things that cannot or will not change.

At least on a blog.

Yesterday I Gave A Ride to a Random Pregnant Asian Med Student

I'm just sayin'.

I pulled into the gas station to fill up before heading to work (my fuel gauge is busted so I'm forced to enter into a maddening guessing game at times- how often did I run the air? Cruise control? Are the tires at optimal air pressure?) when I saw a small Asian woman wandering about the gas pumps looking at me inquisitively. In her hands she clutched a small manila envelope and a packet of white paper. Her outfit was distinctively medical- white pants and white overcoat.

Then she walked up and asked for help.

My first thought was she wanted my opinions for a survey. I hate surveys, so I was slightly gruff.

Then she told me that her friend's car had broken down, at which point she gestured toward the road. Sure enough, there were five or six people of Asian descent standing next to a car that was being tended to by a tow truck.

She had called a cab, but they had told her it would be 30 minutes. She had to be at the place on the directions (roughly 25 miles away) by 8:00 A.M. It was 7:27 A.M. Apparently she had an examination to gain her certification to practice medicine in the state of Mississippi. Due to this, she was noticeably upset and distressed.

Then and there I made a quick calculation- she is no threat to my person or my property. Either this was the greatest con job ever, and they were hellbent on stealing my $600 ride, or this was the real deal. Hell, if they went to all this trouble to get my car they can have it. I told her to get in (being somewhat sympathetic to exam takers) and bypassed getting gas, figuring I would make it. She mumbled something appreciative and ran off to grab something, quicky returning with a cooler that either contained, I surmise, a ham sandwich or a pancreas. It was that type of cooler.

So we get in and drive off, passing the other people who are standing by the car. I kinda half-heartedly wave, and realize that they're all crazy. Who lets a tiny Asian woman get in a car alone with a guy who could pass for a convict? (I'm currently sporting an antagonistic goatee and somewhat unruly hair.) She was quite lucky that she didn't pick the wrong car.

So we're driving, and she gets on her phone and starts talking. This is what I hear:

DOING DOW SHOW KAH BEEYOOONNNG DA DOW

For the next twenty-five minutes.

When this isn't happening, she conversates quite fluently with me in English. She offers to buy my gas but I turn her down, saying it was on the way- which wasn't quite true. Then she tells me she's pregnant and her husband is back in his home country.

The whole time I think to myself, "If we get in a car wreck and die, my wife is gonna think I'm having an affair with an Asian woman at 7:45 in the morning."

Brilliant.

Anyway, I drop her off and I'm quite sure I'll never see her again. But the experience reaffirmed the belief that life is what happens when you least expect it.

Civil Procedure Grade

B+

I can live with it.

Oddly, enough, it's the first B+ I've ever received in law school. I have a tendency, it appears, to either run hot or cold. It's nice to see the stability a B+ represents.

Property Grade

I'm divulging grades for this semester because I feel like it, and (a) since last semester's grades were never made public, any guess as to my standing will only be conjecture. Also, (b) I thought it would be kinda neat to finally round out the year.

Course: Property
Grade: A

This is good. This is very good.

What will always irk me, however, is if I received a B+ and got a bump for asking a question he didn't know the answer to, or if I earned it pure and simple.

Some things are best left unknown.

Miscellany

Still no grades. At this point I just want to know- whether it's good or bad is (for the time being) inconsequential.

Pumpkin, a cat we gave away, is currently stuck in her new home's attic. We drove up there yesterday in a failed attempt to rescue her, but she hid in one of the many nooks and crannies. They're enlisting the help of a live trap- I'm hoping that'll do the trick.

Today at work was the first day I didn't have to ask the lawyer a question every ten minutes. I compiled everything I'd done, he made notes next to each one, and I spent most of the day in blissful independence. It was a good feeling.

Put another quart of oil in the Camry. Since I've switched to the heavier grade oil, the leaking has been reduced to a manageable level (roughly one quart every 2 weeks). Since she gets 34-38 miles per gallon, I don't mind spending money on oil. It really makes me wonder why people spend money on hybrids, since small cars with four-cylinders are reliable and quite fuel-efficient.

Along the same vein, me and my Dad switched out the starter last week. Ninety-nine dollars well-spent, it appears.

Took our dog Dakota to the vet this morning to start his heartworm treatment. Apparently, they still use arsenic as a type of quasi-chemo. The poison is strong enough to kill the heartworms but not strong enough to kill the dog- at least that's the theory. He'll have to be placed in a confined area for the next three months, because if he gets too excited he could die.

If I have the time and inclination, I might head over to the neighboring field and see if the blackberries are ready. I've never seen so many blackberry bushes. I need to learn how to make jelly. But if I don't hurry, the snakes will get them before I do- they have the advantage of living next to them twenty-four hours a day, whereas I have to work the trips around my schedule.

Upkeep

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us.

- Marianne Williamson


I find much sense in this statement, especially in present day. The media has forced us closer to our dark selves than in any other time in American history. We are comfortable with the concept of evil. There's no shock, no dismay, no bile in the gut when we watch murder and pain and betrayal on TV. Catharsis doesn't exist because our emotional dam burst long ago, and whatever trickles out during a performance isn't worth mentioning.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, one of my favorite authors, wrote a novel entitled The Idiot. It's about a guy who is actually decent, and what happens when he encounters the universally hypocritical society around him.

We can't handle true goodness anymore- it's an alien concept, like unadulterated evil used to be before it showed its face one too many times.

Their must be a balance. When we have no relief with which to contrast evil deeds, we lose the ability to recognize it as evil. Instead, we only see varying shades of gray and fail to sound the alarm when true danger passes in our midst.

I am especially guilty of this. My guard has been systematically lowered over the years- my moral filter too old and torn to collect the new clumps which head my way.

In other words, I need a change.

What do I and a Mountainside Subdivision Developer both Desperately Need?

Grading.

(Insert groan here.)

A Dream I Had A Few Days Ago.

I don't usually post my dreams on this site, if only because the lion's share of them are random, seemingly pointless, and quite dull. This one, however, has left an indelible impression on my mind. I tell it in the form of a short story- it has only been imaginatively modified in some places to help with transitions and such. Since imagination is probably the child of our unconscious, I feel comfortable with the choice.

I'm in a corn field. It's either late evening or early morning; the sun hanging low above the horizon doesn't give much of a clue either way. After all, I wasn't here a moment ago- I was asleep, in bed, darkness about me. Now I'm in a corn field.

Perhaps field isn't the right word after all. I'm actually, come to think of it (the cobwebs of recollection brush aside the misnomers with surprising and relative ease) on an old tractor trail next to the corn field. Deep ruts run through the hardened clay, forcing me to change the strike of my foot with each step.

The corn is tall- tall as I remember as a child. Maybe eight feet high, perhaps higher. Measurements like breadth and depth lose focus and meaning in dreams- suffice it to say they were tall, as I determined "tall" to be.

The sun (remember, hanging low) cast shadows over the rutted trailer path and into the dark yet familiar woods beyond. This is an important point, for some reason (my brain screams); I'm not frightened of the woods. They are familiar, yet never once do I turn to them. I am stuck on the path as I walk next to the cornfield and down the rutted path.

So be it. I walk hunched over with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, though it is not cold. I look over my shoulders every now and then and see nothing but the path I have already walked.

Then I look over my shoulder and see a man walking towards me (I'm still walking as well.) He is large, with stunted arms and legs and a squarish head that reminds me of an ogre. He gives me no reason to fear him, but I am instantly filled with apprehension over his presence. Something is not right- even in the dream, this alarm goes off at the sight of the man on the rutted path.

I walk a bit faster and, for a while at least, refuse to look back. Then, after a bit, I turn around and he is closer. Close enough where the muted values of his face begain to gain a bit of detail. Yet his pace has not changed. Had he ran while I wasn't looking, I would have heard his feet hit the rutted path. He had not ran.

I say something to him- something protective and threatening all at the same time. He mumbles something in return but I don't hear it. But I do turn and half walk, half jog towards some unknown destination.

After a while, I turn around, and he is still closer, yet his pace has remained the same. As I said, something is not right here. He is maybe ten to fifteen feet from me know, yet I was moving faster. I tell him go "Go away!" with as much force as I can muster (my voice bounces off the corn) and he responds, "I'm not going to hurt you." His voice is childlike and clumsly, like an oafs. It has an innocence to it that is potentially disarming. I refuse to fall for the trap.

Now I am at a full sprint. Running and running as fast as I can down the rutted path next to the cornfield while the sun hangs low. It is definitely setting, for the shadows on the path are growing longer and longer, now barely touching the beginning of the dark yet familiar woods. I turn around- he is just out of arm's reach when he screams. Loud. Guttural. Piercing. As he screams, he raises his stunted arms and moves them back and forth and closes the gap quickly.

I turn and stop to face him- and scream back. Matching his intensity, I will his body to disappear. He does so, losing dimensionality solely because I chose for it to happen. The best non-dream word to describe it would be smoke- he turned into a fine dark smoke that slowly dissipated into the setting sun.

Then I am alone in the cornfield, for a moment- and then the intensity of the experience pulls me from it and I awake in my bed clad in cold sweat.

3:41 A.M. The dream is gone along with the man, but the memory he instilled, walking there next to the cornfield on the rutted path at the edge of the woods as the sun set will be forever with me.

If you see him tonight, tell him hello.

Boo Hoo Hoo...

ABC is so liberal it makes me vomit.

Their story choices, their diction, their inflection harbors their unadulterated adoration of everything left-wing. They don't even try to hide it anymore.

The funny thing is, this is coming from someone's whose political viewpoint has become more liberal over the past few years. That's not the point.

I don't care what they think. I want to know what they know. And I want to know all the information pertinent to a topic, so that I can form my own opinion.

Case in point- they just bashed Bush for not finding Osama.

They fail to mention the following:
1. No major terrorist attack has occurred in America since 9/11.
2. Terrorists want to terrorize us.
3. They haven't stopped because we asked nicely.
4. An incapacitated Osama is just as good as an imprisoned Osama.
5. Pakistan refuses to let us search in their country.
6. This being the case, Osama is probably in Pakistan.

And they state it like Bush isn't trying hard enough. Sometimes a lack of effort, or more of it, isn't the source or solution to a problem. They picture him sitting at a table, eating something fancy, when a white house aide whispers in his ear, "Sir, we've found Osama but he's twenty miles away from the nearest group of soldiers." Bush thinks for a moment while chewing his food and says, "We'll get him next time. Twenty miles is pretty far."

Whether Republican or Democrat, we're all Americans. And everyone from Pat Buchanan to Russ Feingold felt that instinctive, visceral reaction to 9/11- Bush included. Anyone who says he doesn't want Osama is an idiot. And anybody who thinks they could do a better job, go for it.

Aren't reporters supposed to go where the story is? Why haven't they snuck into Pakistan and went out on a camel ride through the desert and mountains with a trusty camel and a video recorder? My guess is because it's awfully hard to criticize someone after your head's cut off.

(Once again, this isn't an attack on liberalism- it's a complaint about the lack of perspective in news reporting. The same argument could be made using something said on a conservative station as well.

But to recap- Bush hasn't found Osama, so exactly nothing good or honorable has come out of this whole, sad affair.

Pass it on.

I Hate The Local News.

Here's a list of stories my local news is covering tonight:

1. Death of Sonny Montgomery, influential senator from Mississippi.
2. Suicide attack in Iraq that killed 19 people.
3. Man's emotional reaction after viewing new 9/11 security tape.
4. Moving of Jackson Police Precinct 3.
5. New shopping mall in Ridgeland.
6. Man charged with sexual assault in Byram.


Guess which story they ran first? No. 3. The only story that didn't contain "hard" news of any sort whatsoever. I thought the job of news agencies was to deliver information to the masses. Apparently it's unimportant that a dangerous man was stalking a city, a famous state politician died, or that a large amount of people disappeared and died in the blink of an eye. At least, not as important as a man watching a tape from over four years ago.

Note: I'm in no way belittling the man's emotions- but a news station is not the appropriate vehicle for this situation. I believe Oprah or other such fare would be more appropriate. (One doesn't expect Oprah to deliver a five-minute news update, do we?)

They could have spent those few opening minutes covering the other stories in greater detail, and the average viewer would have been better served.

My guess is that news stations used to consistently deliver the news. However, in order to gain an edge, they started rolling out "human interest" or "puff" pieces to be digested by the sympathetic public. Pretty soon everyone else followed suit, and hard news fell by the wayside.

I wish a news station around here would reverse the trend and start investigating and digging into the old-fashioned truth for a change, instead of focusing on individual reactions and quirky snippets that do little to inform their audience. That station would gain an edge.

A Look Back

This was originally posted exactly one year ago. It gives me perspective on how far I've come in twelve short months. Back then, I was a stressed educator counting down the days to freedom. Now I've got a year of law school behind me and a great summer job that's challenging and rewarding. All we can judge the present by is the past- if that is true, I'm quite happy with the present.


Just when I thought I'd seen it all...
My students generally bring food into the classroom. I used to try and fight it, but I quickly gave up. Since the school has roughly twenty Coke machines, multiple snack machines, and sells chicken biscuits in the morning to make money, I have a sinking suspicion that food in the classroom isn't really that big of a deal.

Normally it doesn't bother me. I don't care if someone wants to sip a beverage or eat a little as they learn- as long as they're learning.

Last week, however, one of my students in first period walked in with nothing less than a plate full of ravioli. Ravioli. The kind that comes out of a can. Now mind you, this is taking place at 8:40 in the morning, which is not when the thought of pasta in a heavy red sauce really appeals to me.

I started to say something to her, and then stopped.

Because I realized something. Her mom has to know she did this. She had a plate and a fork, for cryin' out loud! Chances are, her mom gave it to her on purpose. What parent sends their child to school with a can of ravioli to eat for breakfast? Secondly, how am I supposed to convince her that this in unacceptable when apparently her family thinks otherwise? If I was her, there's no way I'd accept some goofy white man's opinion over that of her mother. No way. So I kept my mouth shut and watched in amazement (and a little bit of horror) as she sat there, stuffing piece after piece into her mouth.

I need a long vacation.

Country Lawyerin'

I'm working in a small town.

Small, as in there are no traffic lights.

Small, as in you can count the number of places to eat on one hand.

Small, as in three gas stations.

Small, as in chickens run about the parking lot behind my law office.

It's nice, though, working somewhere that resembles Mayberry. Yesterday, I had to get a key made to the office, so I walked the short distance to the hardware store. Once I passed through the door, I could have easily stepped back in time twenty-five years.

The man working there was helping an old man get seeds for his garden. Instead of selling them in prepackaged amounts, the man pulled out the appropriate drawer from a huge piece of wooden furniture, scooped out a certain amount, and then packaged it. The old man checked out with three bulging bags of seeds. (One was lima and the other was turnip greens- I'm not sure about the third one.) Total price? Five dollars.

While waiting for my key to get made, my eyes wandered about the store. The most interesting item for sale was a 14-foot bamboo fishing pole for $6.95. I didn't have any cash at the time, but I hope to pick one up the next time I do. Everybody should catch at least one fish with a bamboo pole before they die, if only to prove it can be done.

I'm doing a lot of work at the office- filing complaints, answering complaints, replying to counterclaims, sending interrogatories, entering judgments, etc. It's not as glamorous as the big firm jobs, but the experience is invaluable. As of right now, I could probably do a decent job of bluffing my way through the initial stages of a lawsuit- pleading, discovery, everything up until the moment I would actually have to set foot in a courtroom. Then I'd be lost.

Luckily, I have two more years before I have to worry about that.

Grades...

Are now officially being posted.

No news yet- but they should be here soon.

Over and Out

Finished-

No more casebooks, classes or outlines until August.

Still in a state of shock- my body, tense with anxiety due to exams, has yet to relax.

After my final exam today, people were crying (or damn close to it) because of the test's difficulty. The material in civil procedure is greater in depth and breadth than all the other classes put together. The test reflected this, almost a little too well.

But the good news is, it's over.

I get the weekend off to recuperate before starting work.

Posts should start back more regularly now that I'm back on earth.

Gone Fishin'

On my way to school and back again, I pass a part of the highway that runs perfectly straight for the better part of a mile. As this section is close to a major river, it is only natural that the asphalt of the road gives way to several bridges while traversing this span. Most of the streams are small- mere residuaries for the marsh that takes over when the waters rise and subsequently flood the lowlands.

Not a day goes by that I don't see a truck or car parked off the shoulder and next to one of those bridges. The person actually fishing is so far down that I can't usually see them, but they're down there. Once I saw two women standing on one of the banks, poles in hand. It shocked my schema quite a bit, as I had subconsciously relegated fishing as a predominately male activity.

One must be psychologically stable to fish, I'm willing to bet. It takes a patience, dedication, and a willingness to be perfectly content with our surroundings that our society seems to disdain. Perhaps if ol' John Wilkes Booth had taken up the habit, Lincoln would have got to see the whole play that night.

The point is this- everyday I drive to school and work. And everyday I pass a car (during the middle of the day) parked on the side of the road near one of the creeks.

Who's smarter, me or the person who has nothing better to do with their day than go fishing? Which one of us has the better life? Which one is truly happier and more content? Three decades from now, even if I live in a mansion, will the answers to those questions change? What if the person fishing lives in a hovel? Any change there?

I'll not push the issue further, for I fear I know the answer, and I'd rather wish I didn't.

Halfway Home

Two exams down, two to go.

Contracts was a fiasco- I have no idea how I did.
Property went well, I think. But then again, who knows.

The good news is that now I have a good solid weekend to study for Torts and Civil Procedure.

Now that I have time, I'll try to post more often.