Whirlwind of Opinion

I was perusing MSNBC.com a few moments ago, and saw a few headlines that arounsed responses in me. I thought I would post them here.

1) New Orleans is not going to be moved. I heard people talking about it on the O'Reilly Factor radio show a few days ago, and the whole thing is ludicrous. It's a practical idea, but you have to factor in the human quotient- we're too damned stubborn to let a little thing like logic get in our way. So we'll rebuild, and 100 years from now it'll be destroyed again. You heard it here first.

2) Ray Nagin actually apologized for something? The fact that he was re-elected after Hurricane Katrina really eviscerates the weak underbelly of democracy. It's based on people- sometimes, really stupid ones who vote for stupid reasons.

3) Survivor is dividing up their "tribes" by race this season. Which is a gimmick. Because the creator of Survivor knows that people like their gimmicks in America. Gimmicks equal dollars. Whether it's a good or bad idea- as so many people like to discuss- is moot. People are talking about Survivor. As a result, Jeff Probst can now afford that new jet he's been eyeing. Sigh. Note to self: I really need to train my seal to tap dance to Michael Jackson tunes while riding a llama.

4) I saw a picture of the "mystery" animal on Boston Globe's site. It looked like a weird dog. Kinda wolfish. Some type of dog/wolf combination. I don't think Mendel has a problem with that.

5) Islamic fascists want to kill us. That statement is true. Islamic fascists will try to kill us in Iraq. That statement is true. Islamic fascists will try to kill us in America once we leave. That statement is true, but not as true as the first two. They don't seem to have much of a beef with Australia. But now that we're there, we're a target whether we leave or not. So we shouldn't leave, but we also shouldn't fight with one hand behind our back a la MacArther in the Pacific theatre. Nor should we be building schools and taking manpower away from our armed forces while combatants are killing our troops. We have the technology and the people to turn any country in that region into a parking lot. I'm not saying we should do that, but maybe err on the side of war when it comes to destruction. Politically correct wars are ineffectual wars. We weren't worried about camera angles when we ended Hitler's reign. We can foster goodwill after all the bad guys are rendered harmless.

6) There's some 14-year old boy in Nepal who is 20 inches tall. That's not a misprint. 20. As in Twenty. As in I've eaten sandwiches that were over half his height. My prediction- his dream to be a sherpa is going down the tubes in very short order. Pun intended.

7) Jerry Springer is going to be on Dancing With the Stars. Didn't Orwell write something about this somewhere? Or was it Huxley? I forget. Lesson- start packing up you canned goods.

8) There's a Hurricane threatening Mexico and Ernesto is restrengthening. Since Hurricane Katrina, news organizations get excited when kids play ring-around-the-rosy while the winds blowing. History has taught us the next "big one" will come after all the hype has died down.

9) Apparently Katie Couric is going to host CBS New's flagship news show soon. I don't understand the excitement- a robot could do that job. She's a reporter the same way the real estate agent is on the construction crew. Reporters dig out the truth. People who had cameras at the World Trade Center were reporters. People who showed the footage later are relaters, exhibitors, informers, but not reporters. Blah.

10) Wal-Mart is trying to go upscale, to compete with Target. Wait, Wal-mart already makes more than a gabillion dollars more than Target. So why compete? Cater to your clientele. They'd be wiser to invest in new ways to fit more pickles in a jar, and better barbecue sauces. Because the average Wal-mart customer is not looking for upscale. If they wanted that, they'd go somewhere else- say Target- and gladly pay more money. Wal-mart is for the pennypincher who is one level above thrift stores. Basically, 85% of the general population. Sam Walton is turning over in his grave.

Cracked Up

Today while I was driving my WonderMobile (i.e. the $600 Camry) I noticed the temperature gauge was acting screwy. Thinking that it needed more oil- a constant issue- I poured in a quart. A few minutes later, the gauge continued its crazy trip up and down. It never ran truly "hot", but it gave me a few scares.

Once I got home, I lifted up the hood and quickly found the source of the problem.

A small hairline crack, roughly two inches across, had formed across the top of my radiator. Orangish antifreeze steam was shooting out of it.

The good news is that I've located the source of the problem, and replacement radiators aren't terribly expensive. Aftermarket ones, made of a high-tech plastic, are generally pretty durable. And it'll surely last the remaining life of the car.

The bad news is I need a new radiator.

Oh well. It beats making a car payment every month.

Pop Culture Song

It's hard to really explain how I hear this in my head, but I think it has its most potency if one envisions the following "ditty" behind a sort of Willy Wonkaesque type motif. Also, if you can imagine a chorus of children singing "da dum da dum da dum da dum" after each line in an overly cheery singsong manner, the effect is particularly chilling. One could also envision them acting out each line, but I'll spare you your sanity.


Big Brother bouncing around in my head...
I really ought to think about the bed
But Jon Stewart zings some real good jokes
And Colbert skewers lots of folks
It's easier to just watch TV instead.

You really should visit myspace, they said,
It's a happenin' place where things get read
About parties and people and fabulous places-
Human contact in empty faces!
It's the best way to feel alive when you're mostly dead.

America's got talent, Regis Philbin roars...
He makes his millions, the ratings soar
As far as situations go, it's a win
But David Hasselhoff, again?
I think a need a running start- and a sword.

Pop stars reinvent and make more cash
Sometimes the pan needs a bit more flash
Time's running short, better bank it in
Before the fans' patience runs too thin
Crap still sounds like crap, when it's been rehashed.

Hollywood seems to have it all-
Fancy cars and alcohol
But they can't buy a new movie plot
With Superman dying and James Bond shot
It looks likes sequels will sell a few more dolls.

So people watch the lights each night
Content to watch what feels most right
Entranced by the various stations'
Oppressive and one-sided imaginations-
Living, in entertained ignorance, of their plight.

A Blog's Death

I have little expertise in this area, but it appears to me that the great majority of blogs begin with a spate of flurried posts, and then quickly die unexplained and unexpected deaths.

Why is this, I wonder?

Allow me to humbly posit a few theories on the subject.

1) The New Technology Phenomenon

People like new things. Like prepubescent raccoons, we like to tinker with things for a while and then leave them be when they lose their sparkle. Blogs, and the web in general, are no different. Major technological advances are probably discovered by about 3% of the population. The rest of us just tag along and use the newfound technology to post pictures of ourselves jumping out of windows on YouTube.

I shudder when I think of all the iPods laying around that haven't been used for months, because of exactly this same principle. We are truly the ADD generation. Why is reality TV so popular- because it always changes. If there was a TV show that simply showed random 20-second clips of anything and everything, it would never go off the air. TV execs, take note.

For these people, blogs are never a long-term commitment. Soon they move on to more exotic things to try, like skydiving and crack cocaine. Just kidding- nobody skydives.

2) Sense of Isolation

I suppose, out there somewhere, is a blog that contains a breathtaking truth. Yet the blogger never received a visitor, and the truth still sits out there, waiting to be found.

I'll get on a soapbox about visitor and link whoring all day long, but the truth is that you need at least a few regular visitors each day to give a damn. Without the interaction of others, there's no difference between this whole fiasco and a journal/diary. Or a stick and a cave wall.

Of course, said threshold is relative- some are happy with a few hits and others have visions of delusional grandeur. It is those who are self-assured that their blog will lead to stardom and invites to Paris Hilton parties that are doomed at the start.

So there are those, for whatever reasons, never generate enough feedback and give up out of desperation.

3) Lack of Original Material

I wouldn't even begin to guess, but there are a LOT of blogs out there. They all can't have original material. So the neophyte blogger, having a few good ideas to share, runs into a cognitive stalemate. Faced with either the choice of blogging about things no one wants to read in a bland way or simply walking away, many choose the more noble path.

Of course, there are those who steadfastly refuse to die, and post eighty-four pictures of their pet tortoise. These are the unfortunate ones. They are already dead, yet they do not know it. Only their online shells prance around for the mocking world to see.

They are the jesters of the internet court.

Of course, the problem is aggravated by the fact that the average human has not been instilled with a love of diction, punctuation, or accuracy in writing. In normal life, writing is simply not a prized skill. The meaning is still somewhat important, but the craft of encapsulating it in a presentable skein has largely been lost. Thus it is a frustrating experience to struggle with the written word. Blogs that are not fun to update and simply not updated.

The Difference Between Me and Others

Today I was on the law school campus and I saw a lone foam packing peanut flit gracefully to the ground.

The average person would look at it and say to themselves, "Huh. That's a bit odd," before continuing on their way, the experience forever buried in their minds.

I, however, instantly envisioned a scenario where a top secret government cargo plane had been grievously attacked, and that moments later what was left of a pilot's burning corpse would hit the ground with a sickening thud. (It didn't, by the way.)

The thing is, however, is that it could have.

Karr

Apparently the DNA didn't match with Karr. So the charges were dropped, as expected.

Here's my thing- shouldn't he be (to borrow a Bushism) held to account for his actions? One shouldn't be able to make false statements to authorities, get a free trip to Colorado, tons of publicity, and waste countless law enforcement funds and hours simply because one is a jackass.

I'm fairly sure making false statements to authorities is an indictable offense. Thus, they should bring charges. Maybe they will. If they don't, every cook and crazy is going to come out of the woodwork, just to get their five minutes of fame.

Maybe I'll admit to the Lindbergh kidnapping. Or the Kennedy assassination. Whatever floats my boat. Maybe I stole a CIA computer filled with sensitive data. Who knows? The only limit is my imagination, and after they find out I didn't do it, I'll get a book deal and an interview.

America's strange.

Plastic Golf and Walmart Economics

Yesterday I accompanied my wife to Walmart to buy various household goods and sundries.

Walmart is, if nothing else, an American cultural phenomenon. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before someone blended great thinking and capitalistic fervor to create the "super" store, one in which a person could buy both shoes, iPods, flowers, and Edam cheese in one visit.

In truth, however, one could probably trace the development of Walmart to the old days of the Roman bazaar. Centralization has always been a key component to retail success. When malls were just starting out (in the 50's and 60's) they were basically Walmarts with various owners hawking various goods. Now it's all just owned by one company.

No one can deny that the venture has been an outrageous economic success. But I would be remiss if I didn't raise the point, oft vaunted by its most ardent critics, that it has caused the mom-and-pop stores to disappear. I bemoaned this very point in an earlier post about the death of a small hardware store in the town where I work.

But even while admitting this realization, it is easy to forget that if Walmart hadn't caused this event, some other company selling the same items under a different name would have. It's the nature of capitalism, and business in general. So I think it would be more proper to bear witness to the societal values that existed when one ran to the general store to get flour, than it is to blame Walmart for destroying that culture. After all, Walmart only makes money because people frequent its doors. They service a need society has deemed important. Their job is not to quantify or qualify that need- it is only to meet it. Society is a catalyst for business- the converse is rarely true.

That said, I went to Walmart and found a kid's plastic golf set, complete with three plastic golf balls, flags, and clubs. I was most impressed with the detail to the clubs- there was a driver, a pitching wedge, and a putter. All was conveniently contained in a golf bag- plastic, of course. The price of the set was $4.00. Surely a steal.

So I bought two sets, and me and my wife are going to play golf in our yard. We'll play a hole, count the strokes, and the winner will decide on the next hole layout.

Simple, but quite fun.

Busy Weekend

Things I've done since my last blogging effort:

1) Went to my 2-year old niece's birthday party. It was a nice reminder of a time when being pushed in a plastic car down the road was the highlight of the day.

2) Attended a karaoke party Saturday night with my wife and some of her old high school friends. Met lots of interesting people. The highlight was watching the gathering across the street get bothered by police.

3) Sunday was devoted to working on law school related assignments and watching episodes of MythBusters. There was also time for a brief trip to Walmart, where I picked up a few goodies I'll blog about shortly.

So, the blog is far from dead. But with the first week of law school having recently crashed over the shore of my consciousness, I needed a few days to lay exhausted on the sand.

Don't you just love extended metaphors?

Pluto Not a Planet?

Apparently the tribe of Astroners on the Island known as Earth has spoken- Pluto has been voted off the solar system.

Yep- Pluto, everybody's favorite underdog celestial body, has failed to make the cut.

Apparently, roughly 10 percent of the world's astronomers voted a few days ago to change the definition of the word "planet," and their new definition weeded Pluto out of the bunch. They did so partly because keeping the old definition would mean several dozen new planets would have to be added to the solar register, including Charon, Pluto's satellite, and Ceres, a sizable asteroid near Mars.

So it was either nix Pluto or let a whole new cadre of planets into the procession.

Here's what I think is funny. We have a hard time categorizing the thing we live on.

Trust me, I can't think of a good definition, either, but it's quite humorous to recognize how little we're able to categorize our surroundings. Are planets based on size? Orbit? Presence of satellites? Prettiness? Tradition? If not those, then what?

Regardless of your definition, Pluto will always be a planet in my book. Because that's the way I learned it. Truth, when it comes to something so inconsequential, is irrelevant to the universe as I know it. If Plutonians were to somehow abduct me in my sleep, I certainly wouldn't point out to them that they don't live on a planet. That just seems like a bad idea. On the other hand, if it's a Jeopardy question, I'd go with the astronomers. Truth in this instance, being nebulous, must necessarily change shape relative to the opportunity it presents.

At any rate, our categorization of it changes nothing. We could call it a huffalump, and it would still be what it is- whatever that is. So I find it funny that scientists are arguing over this issue, when they should really be looking for more black holes and aliens. I say "more" because we all know they already landed once in Roswell.

I saw it on TV.

Subpoenas

Yesterday I headed north of Jackson to serve subpoenas. A subpoena is a document which requires your presence in court to testify for a given purpose. These were federal subpoenas, which means you have to supply the subpoenaed person with travel expenses and a per diem fee. Adding even more gravitas to the whole occasion was the fact that I was serving the subpoenas at a federal correctional institution.

I expected to find a man with over-sized glasses and a hound dog, but instead I found modern structures and bland architectural lines. The grass was nice, however- I found it was too perfect to walk on, sign or no sign.

What's neat about subpoenas is how far-reaching their power is. If you just ignore one, the judge might very well issue a bench warrant for your arrest, and the sheriffs will throw you into jail until you feel like complying with the court's demands.

Most people, even if they don't want them, simply accept them because they're not expected. No one thinks, "I bet I get served a federal document today." At least, no one I know does. So when the thing happens, they're so awestruck they take the thing before they get the good sense to run away and hide. Because if you don't accept the subpoena, you don't have notice, which means you're not under the court's power.

I find I'm best able to serve subpoenas when I act like an idiot. People recognize slick behavior from a mile away and let up their guard. However, if you turn on the folksly charm, people let down their defenses and then WHAM! they're served and you're out the door.

To make a long story short, I was able to serve the subpoenas and make a little bit of money for my efforts.

Sorry this post isn't more exciting. Every day, however, can't be a parade of memorable dreams and rosy-cheeked cherubs. Sometimes it's just a day.

BlogLines

I've known about this for a while but I aways forget about it before I can use it. Which is ironic, because the whole point of it is to instantly remind you of things. Odd. Anyway, it's a neat idea. You subscribe to blogs and I assume you get an e-mail whenever they post something. That way you're not (as I tend to do) constantly updating various websites.

It's a free service, and seems pretty useful. And I honestly wouldn't recommend it if I wasn't about to try it out myself. Later I'll post my opinions and/or reviews of the service for the curious. Here's the link if you're feeling adventurous.

EDIT: I'm trying it out now. I was able to find every blog I generally read, which is good. It'll take a while to figure out how useful it is, but it should save time. It appears you go to their site and they import the information, as opposed to them e-mailing it to you. The verdict's still out, however. I'll render a final decision later.

Synopsis

Spruced up the ol' site a bit today. I think they're mostly good changes.

Today's events are a good encapsulation of what my life will be like for the next semester, so I'll repeat them once now, instead of ad nauseum for the next four months.

I woke up and headed to my 8:00 class. Business Associations I. Surprisingly, the teacher seems humanlike (as opposed to most professors) and started off the class by showing the movie/documentary "Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room." Very entertaining. I just hope the rest of the class doesn't take this as license to act like morons the rest of the semester. There is still a streak of the high school student extant here; if the teacher would allow it, some of them would act like animals. Despite the fact that they're paying thousands of dollars to learn, they'd still push the limits as far as they could. It's sad, but true, that most people are only constrained as much as external, and not internal, forces dictate.

After that, I ran off to work for a few hours at the law office. I think I'm actually more productive when I work in short bursts- I know what I need to do, do it, and then leave. Tomorrow I'm not even going to work- I'm leaving between class to serve federal subpoenas.

After work, I went to my 2:30 class. It's two hours long yet appears interesting.

At one point in the class, the teacher paused for a bit in order to let us explore a website. After a while, she began talking again. Everyone instantly stopped talking except for one person who continued to talk. She didn't say anything but I was silently aghast. It's a very small class and the student was maybe ten feet away from her. Yet he/she was oblivious. At what point does your radar not pick up the fact that maybe you should stop talking? Sorry- it's just a pet peeve. I did used to teach, after all.

Then I come home and, hopefully, study a bit.

So that's it- class, work, class, and study.

I can feel your jealously from here.

Blogger Data

According to Statcounter, I received roughly 30 hits today. Most of those were from unique visitors- nine or so had never before been to the site.

30 is an incomprehensible number to me. I understand it's miniscule compared to the millions of people who frequent YouTube, but 30 people a day are coming here just to view the things I write. Weird. Weird indeed.

Apparently -probably due to lisahutch-I'm developing a small Canadian following. Canadians, let me say this- I've always thought you to be our quieter, more civilized cousin. When the bombs drop over here (from one of the dozens of countries that hate us- that is not in any way a political statement, just a sobering reality) I would appreciate an invitation to your country. I've heard Vancouver is beautiful, and I even know a little French if that would help.

The Eastern Seaboard, by and large, seems to like my blog a bit. When I pull up a map of geographic hits, it looks like a target map from Hitler's war room. Whether that means I'm decidedly liberal (I'm not; just a balanced thinker) or humorous in an effete fashion escapes me. Meanwhile, the Pacific Northwest seems to hate me. That's fine- I hate them too. Just kidding. It's only an utter disdain at this point.

It's weird to ponder the ramifications of this blog. People I've never met (and probably never will) know more about me than mere strangers should. But I don't care. And what of this, for those who follow The Twilight Zone's crazy logic. Suppose someone took an extra few minutes to read a post, and I thereby spared them a grisly death on the interstate? Suppose, on the other side of the coin, a death was caused because someone lingered too long? Perhaps a jilted lover finds the object of his hatred glued to the computer screen, reading one of my missives?

That's a strange thought, indeed.

Regardless, thanks for visiting. I love Canada and the Eastern seaboard, and hope I don't accidentally cause a heat-of-passion murder.

First Day Down

First day of my second year of law school is over.

Blah.

It was interesting, but it's no match for the frantic, fuel-inspired event that is the first day of law school as a 1L. You could feel the anxiety amoung the 1Ls. Some of them were buying half the bookstore, emptying it of its stock of study aides and outlines. Hilarious. Others, smug in their brilliance, sat around and daydreamed about how they were going to change the world into a place where everyone sits around and plays hopscotch- when they weren't telling everyone else who would listen how important they were. Here's a tip I've picked up from experience: If you have to tell people how awesome you are, you're probably not. Sorry.

One was also able to observe the ritualistic 1L mating frenzy, as marriage-obsessed females dressed with the decorum of drunk flappers and sniffed out eligible bachelors. That parade will continue until about October, when cold weather and unrealized dreams will sequester their objectives until the next year.

But for me, it's just another day, albeit one where I have to get up and sit in a classroom.

Appellate Advocacy appears as if it will be a ton of work. Not looking forward to that one much.

Evidence should be interesting- my professor appears to know what he's talking about. He should, after all, he's a Court of Appeals Judge.

Con law is highly philosophical- thus I find it terribly exciting. Not very practical, mind you, but nothing exciting usually is. Except for, maybe, fire. And cars. And laser beams.

Never mind, that was obviously a mistaken belief the more I think about it.

The good thing is that since my wife is working at the law library, we will be able to carpool three out of five days a week. Take that, ExxonMobil! The other two days we'll have to take separate cars, as I'll be working part-time out of town. Today we went out for lunch at Wendy's. Apparently there's a Vanilla Frosty now. Must be tasted soon.

In other news, my plan of not using a laptop seemed to work well. I paid attention for the most part. Toward the end of Constitutional Law (my last class- a full two hours!) I turned my Coke bottle top into a wheel by taking the little plastic ring it attaches to when unopened and slipping it over (with some difficulty) the narrow end of the cap, thereby making a rudimentary wheel. It's always bothered me how the cap rolls in circles in its natural state, since one end is bigger than the other. It reminds me a little too much of a one legged duck.

Other than that, I took notes and followed along. Short summary: Hamilton liked the idea of a government bank- Madison didn't. Washington wanted a bank so he accepted Hamilton's interpretation. Next up- the court case that affirmed it. Oh, the intrigue!

Tomorrow, I have Business Associations I (it's as boring as it sounds, I hear; God only knows why they have a Business Associations II) and Electronic Research Seminar.

Electronic Research Seminar will likely be my favorite class. It's small (it's not exactly a sexy legal topic), interesting, and will be somewhat helpful if I decide to go the law librarian route after graduation.

After all, I likes to keep my options open.

Headline

According to MSNBC.com and various other news outlets, roughly 20 Shiite pilgrims were killed by snipers as they marched in Baghdad in commemoration of a saint's death.

I have trouble reading the news for precisely this reason- my brain takes the sanitzed heading from the page and gives it an unbearable flesh that makes me gasp. When I read that, this is what I actually see.

A man or woman walking for his faith in the unbearable midday sun. He or she is lost in the throng, hundreds of thousands strong. There will be no glory here for this person. No one will notice that he made the pilgrimage; no one would notice had he stayed home, as perhaps he was tempted to do, instead of make the trek. But something- faith, a sense of cultured duty, the desire to be a part of something larger than himself- bade he or she to make the walk.

That person is probably tired and has probably known people, perhaps relatives, who have been killed in the violence. Yet, instead of taking up arms, he marches, without weapons, into the heart of Iraq.

As they pass buildings and a cemetery- as they have so many times before already- they hear gunshots. At first there is no leap of the heart or excruciating terror of the chest. Gunshots, after all, are common here. But then a woman, wearing a black robe, falls beside him.

At first, no one notices, so large is the crowd. He is transfixed, unable to move. Then others see the woman, bullets fire again, and full-on panic grips the crowd.

He feels a burning in his shoulder- reaches up and feels the heat of his blood on his fingers. He would fear the death which is sure to come but the onslaught of thousands of pilgrims fleeing knock him over, the upstart sand choking out the fears as he tries in vain to breathe.

His last vision is that of dust and sky and pain and people screaming around him. He thinks of his daughter, his wife dead now a year, and the fact that he'll never complete the trip. Then his misery is ended as a panicked pilgrim, so packed in as to not even see the ground, accidentally crushes his throat.

Later, a reporter will view the scene and readers halfway around the world will read, "20 Shiite Muslims killed by snipers on pilgrimage in Iraq." And we'll read it and leave it in a few minutes time. For the news only gives us the facts. They can't give us (nor do we ask for) the truth.

Sans Laptop

I think I might abandon my laptop for a while, at least as far as school is concerned.

The thing is, I get distracted too easily. The Internet is just too much of a temptation when I'm trying to learn about Constitutional rifts and the intricacies of Limited Liability Corporations. Or so I assume.

Last year a few of my more distracted moments included;

1) Painting a picture of Abraham Lincoln with a program called ArtRage.

2) Making a glue type substance out of artificial sweetener and Dr. Pepper, which I then used to glue the bottle top on.

3) Making a paper football game by keeping score with where I hit the side of my Property textbook.

4) Sculpting out of paper a cowboy, complete with hat and bucking bronco.

5) Drawing and painting (with coffee) a picture of my hand.

Yes, the computer is just too much. When you're so easily distracted that a fly ruins your concentration for days, one would probably do best to avoid technology in an academic setting.

So I'll just be taking my books, a notebook, and a pencil. A very bland pencil. One that elicits no impulse or burst of creativity. It can't be too short or too long or too sharp or too dull. The eraser must be worn down in a most average way. Preferably perfectly round with an unassuming color to boot. I'll have to sand off any writing on the side.

I'd better get started.

Principle

Today, in preparation for my grand adventure tomorrow, I went to buy a spare tire. I had been driving around for a while without one- mainly because there's no where I desperately need to be if I do get a flat- but I decided it was time.

On my way to drop off the flat tire, I saw something curious. First, I need to back up.

There's a gas station on the way to the tire place. It's actually a combination gas station/restaurant. A while back the restaurant closed and a Sprint store moved in. I'm not sure when all this happened because I wasn't here, but happened it did.

For as long as I can remember, this particular gas station has always displayed the Ten Commandments near the road. They are set on a metal post and face out to the passing traffic. I always admired it, mostly because it takes courage to believe in anything in this society. I would have felt the same admiration had it been a Buddha statue or Koran or yin-yang symbol. I might not have believed it myself, but I would have upheld the choice. This is America, after all.

Anyway, today Sprint was having a "Free Phone" sale. Which means a lot of bright, yellow signs. And a medium-sized tent. And a banner. Nothing out of the place there.

However, the banner was attached to the tent and the... wait for it... the Ten Commandments. Not only was the banner attached to the pole that supported them, but the other tether was placed over Them.

Someone saw a display that serves as the basis for Judaism and a large part of Christianity and decided it would make a good anchor for a banner. I'm not the most religious person by any means, but that doesn't mean I would use an altar to tie my shoe or a synagogue to sell my wares. There just must be certain limits of decency in society.

After thinking for a moment and debating with myself, I slowed down.

I pulled in and walked into the Sprint store. There was a young man and woman in the store. One instantly leapt to attention and said, "How may I help you, sir?"

I paused for a moment, because I really hadn't prepared a speech, then began:

"I don't mean to cause a stir or anything, but I just think it's in bad taste to use the Ten Commandments to support a free phone banner. I know it won't change anything, but I just felt like I had to say something."

I was greeted by utter silence. Blank and unblinking faces.

So, like an idiot, I continued.

"Like I said, I know it won't change anything, but I had to say something or I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. Well, have a good day."

I took one more look at their blank faces and then headed out the door.

I'm pretty sure it'll stay there until the sale is over, but I stated my opinion.

And America is nothing if not a place where we can voice those.

Freak Show

How about this for a law? If you walk around and look like this guy, you get your basement searched. Immediately.

Make a constitutional exception or a new amendment. "If you look this creepy, due process shall not apply to thee."

I see about one or two people a week that just have this look, so to speak. There faces are void and emotionless. And it's not because they're tired or worn out- they're just nuts. They could break a person's neck the same as ordering a pizza.

Their moral compass is shattered. Right and wrong? What's that? They simply do things because there minds imagine them, and they can.

If you've been living under a rock, the man to the right is John Mark Karr. He allegedly admitted to the killing of JonBenet Ramsey in a botched kidnapping attempt. For years, her parents were hounded by the police and press.

From the little I've read, it appears this is a pretty solid connection. The Ramseys' lawyer has stated that Karr lived near them for a time in Georgia. He reportedly thought he was in love with the girl after seeing her in beauty pageants.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

Dr. Scholl's Footwear Victim of Intense Shellin', No Longer Gellin', Reports Say

Mainstream media has taken a heavy lashing over its inaccuracies in portraying the recent Israeli-Lebanese conflict, but most damning is its complete ignorance of the horrific footwear devestation.

Bloggers, determined to get to the source, have uncovered evidence that a Dr. Scholl's plant near the Litani River has suffered severe damage due to Israeli shelling.

"The whole thing just went up in flames," said one worker who asked to remain anonymous. "We didn't even have time to grab any insoles. Needless to say, we were running to save our lives in mild discomfort. Most of us, after all, have bunions."



The insoles, developed out of a space-age technology similar to that which created Jello, has long been a target for the Israelis. The Lebanese have used the factory in the past as a propaganda point, as proven in this excerpt of a recent rallying speech:

"Friends, we cannot let the infidels take our lands and run us into the sea! They will take our women, convert our children, and worst of all- take our beloved foot care products and prance around as if they are walking on clouds! Do you dare stand for this? I think not."

Apparently, one partially intact insole has been found at the site of the blast. It was instantly rushed to a major Beirut hospital in an attempt to repair it. At that moment, it became more than just a weird gel inside a plastic shoe-filled sleeve- it was a symbol of Lebanese hope. Doctors and cobblers worked throughout the night, but the outlook is grim.

"As of right now it's in critical condition. It's really touch and go at this point, to be honest." After a slight hesitation and a catch in his voice, he said, "There's a chance it'll never gel again," before leaving in a panicked hurry down the hall.

Self-Portrait

This would be an accurate representation of me if (a) I was related to Popeye, and (b) I was able to somehow devolve by 300,000 years. Other than that, it's pretty close. But give me a break, It's Microsoft Paint.

Adam's Eve

Hated death!
A dearth of thread
To heat the hearth
Of heart and head.

A catered creator
Traced a reactor
(A darted terror?)
Retarded horror

Now there's shrapnel
Parsed and blown here.
Perhaps the field
Of defiled devils
Will live, filed
And sharpened-
Evil, deep, and vile.

Nuts and Bolts

I feel inclined to introduce a new blog entitled Cache of Reason. I do so because I personally know the author, and also because it appears it will contain lots of informational nuggets for those applying and/or entering law school in the fall.

Along that same vein, I feel that the title of my blog is a misnomer. I haven't really posted about law school in a while, and as of right now I have no desire whatsoever to change that habit.

I don't really care. I probably should care more, but I can't. Believe me, I've tried. A lot.

I enjoy learning about the law, but I also enjoy working crossword puzzles. And walking outside. And learning how to juggle and watching TV.

But none of those things define me. I'm not a law student or crossword fanatic or walker or juggler or TV watcher. I'm all those things and more.

For that reason, I'm changing the name of this Blog, so as not to mislead people. It's slightly unfair to have someone look at "Musings of a 2L" and instead find a sermon on the evils of mortgages.

I hope you like the new title- what it lacks in originality it makes up for with accuracy.

The Mortgage Trap

Mortgages, I believe, are largely the work of the devil.

A house that costs $70,000 to build is sold by the developer for $90,000. Then it is sold by a realtor for $120,000. By the time you pay off a thirty-year mortgage, you've paid over three times the value of the house- roughly 300k- to the bank. So everyone gets a profit- except for the homeowner.

If you have a mortgage, multiply your monthly payment by the number of months of the mortgage and you'll find the "true" price tag.

Since the average American can't afford to buy your ordinary house outright, I suggest that we all participate in a minor housing revolution. At the very least, I will.

The house you see above costs slightly over $10,000. It is 800 square feet in total. It comes in a kit that can be constructed by two people in a little over two weeks. It's all steel frame makes it durable and basically maintenance free, at least for the exterior. You can visit the website here, if you're interested.

Of course, the kit doesn't come with plumbing, electrical, insulation, or anything else you'd find in a house- it's just a shell.

But it's a start.

I refuse to live under a mortgage. I know people who are making LOTS of money a year, and yet have nothing to show for it. Their monthly bills often match or exceed their income, and they've basically become wage slaves. Most importantly, the mortgage payment takes 33% or more of their income every month, most of which is interest. If they were sick and had to be out for more than two or three months, their financial life would be in shambles.

Thoreau once said that a man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone. A rich man who cannot drop everything at a moment's notice to pursue life is not really rich at all. His money controls him- not the other way around.

I know it will be difficult- I've heard enough people tell me how hard it will be, how it'll cost more than you think, etc. To them, the traditional way is the safe way, the right way. I understand their viewpoint.

That said, I'm going to do it anyway.

As Americans, one of our chief weaknesses is our short sense of history. We forget that one hundred years ago, the average American house was built by its owner. Some built shacks; others built houses that are still standing today. But they built them. My grandfather converted an old chicken house into a home that shielded multiple children from the rain and served him well most of his life. It did its job well. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Secondly, there will always be naysayers. It is easier to stand aside and simply say, "It can't be done" than it is to actually try it and risk ridicule. And if the naysayers are loud enough, no one tries, and their prediction becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I estimate that it will cost roughly $30,000 to complete the project. Luckily, I currently have a place to live, so I can work on it at my leisure. It's not necessary that I have it ready to move into for a while. So I'll take my time, and hopefully prove all the naysayers wrong.

Eventually, when I finish it, I'll buy another and stick them together, and slowly complete the second half, thereby having a 1600 square foot house. But that's further down the road.

Wish me luck.

Holy Strife

Yesterdayish I noticed my hits to the blog were spiking unexplainably. Generally Sundays are doldrum days, yet I was over 45 hits by 3:00 in the afternnoon. Which is unbelievably high for such a tiny effort. Most of my viewers are either people I personally know or like-minded souls who stumbled across my site by accident.

After a little bit of research, I found the answer- a blog named Divine Angst had linked to me in an article.

I was, and still am, dumbfounded. Someone read something I wrote and felt the desire to mention it to others? Cannot compute. Must lie down and return to reruns of MacGyver.

Yesterday, MacGyver saved a woman and child, beat up two bad guys, had them arrested, and still managed to save a golden eagle and three golden eagle eggs. For the last stunt, he flew in a hang glider. It was breathtaking.

One last note, because I'm too tired to make another post.

Darts is not a sport. Sorry. It's a game. Anything that's traditionally done while drinking beer is not a sport.

I only say this because ESPN2 was hosting the "World Series of Darts" yesterday. One of the guys (I kid you not) walked down to the dart board to the song "Eye of the Tiger." Even more amazingly, his giant beer gut swayed in time with the music.

Then him and his competitor had a warm-up round. You know, because sometimes throwing a dart can strain a muscle. Can't cramp up during the big game. I almost expected them to start drinking Gatorade about halfway through.

I finally turned it when I realized that one of the competitors had a bad back, and the announcers were amazed that he was able to "play through the pain." Part of me died then and there. I'm no back doctor, but maybe the pain has to do with the fact that he's fifty pounds overweight, and not the fact that he has to stand for ten minutes? But that's just me.

Likewise, poker is a game. Anything that a former Hollywood talent agent or Tennessee accountant can win the world series of is a game. There are professionals who have more talent at said game, but in the end, it comes down to statistics and dumb luck.

If me and the best poker player in the world played 100 hands of poker, I could win so many just by being there. However, I doubt I would fare so well against Michael Jordan one-on-one.

Sorry- long post. Thanks for the link, MacGyver rocks, and sports should make one sweat, or at least lose some weight.

Waterfall

Today I was bumming around geocaching.com and discovered a geocache near my new place.

(For the uninitiated, Geocaching is an activity where you hide stuff, post the coordinate online, and then people find them with satellite-informed GPS devices. Some of the better devices can be honed in down to a few square feet of where the item is hid. Generally, the items are hidden in neat little out of the way spots, so the actual geocache is just an excuse to go out and do stuff. Fairly clever, no?)

The geocache was near one of the old timber bridges that cross near the Pearl. One of the comments mentioned a waterfall. This excited me to no end, because I had no idea there was a waterfall near the bridge. The combination of irkiness I felt at not knowing something about the area, combined with my curiosity, led me to check the place out.

I arrived at the bridge and quickly found the waterfall right where the creek empties into the Pearl. I had looked at it every time I crossed the bridge, yet never seen it. From the bridge's angle, it looks like a manmade concrete structure. Once you climb down the ravine and actually face the thing, however, one sees this:

(Having trouble getting picture to post- probably due to bandwidth concerns on the site- you can view it at the link below if interested.)

http://img.geocaching.com/cache/log/3b6b6f82-808a-4d14-9faa-68b083be0d56.jpg

It's a huge sandstone ledge, with large chunks of rock that have broken off. I imagine in the past various people have used it as an impromptu shelter- hunters, Native Americans, Civil War soldiers.

After admiring the view, I proceeded to pull out of the creek bed three metal cattle gates for my father-in-law. They had been down there for at least four months, so I didn't feel bad about taking them. Had I waited any longer, they would have been washed to the bottom of the Pearl. The first one went up with no problem. The second two gave me fits, and I had to stop and take frequent breaks. I had to climb up a 65 degree angle or so while balancing the thing or either pulling it from behind. Since it weighed a bit, it wanted to pull me back down the ravine into the flowing creek. It's a wonder I pulled them out, or didn't drown in the process.

That said, I can't wait to go back and figure out just what else I don't know about the area.

Story

I post this merely for posterity's sake- I wrote this story in 2002, and just recently found a copy of it while moving to my new place. With my luck, it'll be lost again in a few weeks, so I thought I would recreate it here. It's fairly long, but somewhat humorous- feel free to ignore if uninterested. It's primary purpose is archival oriented self-edification.

The Great American Novel

It has been duly noted over the centuries that the Great American Novel has yet to be written. But I, even though admittedly innocent when it comes to literary pursuits, must beg to differ. But considering that the average critic knows nothing of a certain Harry T. Belfunk, it is a charge most understandable.

For, you will see, I have met a man named Belfunk and his work. Now I'll be the first to admit that almost all of his literary efforts were a great waste of time and ink. However, it happened one day that Mr. Belfunk wrote what had to be...

But look at me. I delve immediately into the meat of the story.

One autumn day I was busy arranging my Sunday ties according to size and color. The largest went to the right and the smallest to the left. Anyway, I was so engrossed by my organizing that I didn't hear the sound of Harry's rather large feet slapping the cobblestone road. What I did hear, however, was the knock on the door.

For those who have never heard Belfunk's knock, a bit of explanation is in order. His knocks may not awaken the dead, but I am certain that they rattle the elderly. And since I knew the price of new oak doors (they aren't cheap), I decided against acting as if I wasn't there. So with a smile one usually reserves for the deaf and dumb child, I opened the door.

Harry simply marched in, paced around a few times, and said, "I need capital."

A few more words concerning Harry: he was never one to mince words, seeing anything superfluous as wasteful. Furthermore, it was understood among his friends that he wasn't exactly of the same financial breed as they were, and I always thought that this made him slightly insecure. But for one reason or another, Harry was always busy cooking up get-rich quick schemes.

Of course, I did what any noble man would do- I turned my pockets inside out to show him I was in no danger of sinking in a river, were I to be pushed.

But with a wave of his hand he canceled my offer, stating, "No man, I need real capital. Something to live off of, not pocket change. What I need from you is a plan."

"Sure thing, Harry. But why?"

"I'm in love. And it would..."

"Say no more," I interrupted, "For now I see your plight. You need money to marry the girl, for she says she needs security."

"You couldn't be more wrong, old chap," Harry countered, "You see, I truly think that she is the most wonderful dame in the world. She never asks for anything, and that's what breaks my heart the most. I want to buy her things, put her in a nice house. I have too much pride to ask her hand in marriage before I've earned a living."

At that moment, I could predict me and Harry staying up all night, drinking tea and formulating a suitable plan. But I always love an opportunity to tease him whenever I can, and it would seem this time that Fate wasn't about to allow me to forego my future.

"The answer is simple," I declared, waving my hands emphatically, like a circus announcer. "Just sit down at a desk and write the Great American Novel."

There are seasoned veterans who have found glory on the battlefield who cannot stomach the sight of Harry's mug catching onto an idea. He starts to sweat profusely, his eyes grow to hideous proportions, and saliva escapes freely from his open mouth. In fact, he closely resembles Secretariat coming down the home stretch.

If there were one good thing that could be said about Harry, it would be this- that he always follows through with an idea, once it has caught his eye.

This one had obviously caught his eye. For a moment, I debated whether or not to call the carpet cleaners, so great was the flow of saliva, but I quickly decided Harry was more important. So I said what I thought I had to say.

"Harry, you can't. It's preposterous! Okay, I concede that in a couple of years maybe..."

"I have three weeks," Harry announced quietly and solemnly, his eyes now glazed over, the rusty wheels starting to turn in his head.

And with a glance, I could tell he was no longer paying attention. He was lost. So with a heavy heart, I decided to let Father Time teach him a worthy lesson.

Without even a word of parting, Harry was gone.

Three weeks later, I was organizing my pots and pans according to their respective sizes and uses when I once again heard the booming sound of Belfunk's knock upon my door. As I started to let him in, I could almost picture the look of disappointment on his face. But what I actually saw touched my heart and broke my soul.

Looking back at me was a man changed forever. His eyes were the blackest black, his hair whiter than lightning, and his face heavy with unshaven hair. His clothes were filthy, and in his ink-stained hands he carried a large parchment, which I assumed to be his Great American Novel.

I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, letting this awesome sight sink in. But I quickly came to my senses and ushered him inside. Without a word, he walked over to the fireplace, and tossed the papers into the blazing fire. I was speechless, as was he.

He watched the fire for a few moments, turned to me, and said, "It's finished."

Dying with curiosity, I fixed a pot of coffee and begged him to share his story. He acquiesced and began.

Immediately after leaving your house, I headed straight for my home, intent on writing the story. I gathered up some paper and some quills (everyone knows you must use authentic goose quills if you're attempting to write anything great). And there I sat.

I don't know if you've ever tried to write anything but your name, but let me tell you, it's a lot harder than it looks. After staring at a blank piece of paper for two straight hours, you're not exactly brimming with confidence. I decided I needed something to write about.

And then it hit me- I would write about my love for Sylvia! And with a brush of my hand the ink started to flow. I must have written over thirty pages the first hour alone! What I wrote was pure, and honest. Whereas my predecessors had materialistic motives, I wrote for another. Shakespeare's greatest works are sonnets- sonnets about love for another. And so it was with me.

Love is a liquor that produces varied emotions- some men fear ardor; others practically swoon at the notion. However, love mixed with madness is the greatest catalyst known to man. Money and power, when all is said and done, fall far short.

Yet love is also a fleeting thing, to be sure. So, I had to act fast. I ignored both the telephone and the doorbell, my ears simply refusing to hear that which would halt my writing. For days at a time I went without the company of food, only allowing myself a boiled egg and toast twice a week. And when I didn't write, I slept; but that was from only the greatest physical exhaustion. I contend that only Atlas himself could bear my weight on his shoulders.

But perseverance always pays off. Exactly twenty days after we met, I finished my novel. It was a masterpiece of construction. Every sentence had a meaning, every word a certain nuance. I tell you, man, it had words that would move the hardest heart, entrance a man to move the stars, or even make men forget their lesser gods... I knew this would gain me Sylvia's love, for if it didn't, nothing would.

The instant I put down my quill, I marched over to Bumbleman's printing company, threw open the door to his office, and placed the manuscript before his hands. From somewhere deep within, I heard myself utter a terse phrase.

"Pay me."

Bumbleman is the type of man who could pass a child dying in the street and check his pockets for loose change. His heart was last seen being traded in for gold bouillon on the common market. But then again, you get the idea.

To this day I know not whether it was the wild look of poets in my eye or the fierce consternation of a novelist, but something greater than the both of us forced him to read my tale. You may ask why he didn't throw me out on the spot, casting my papers and me in the gutter. But you must think the whole thing through. Publishers don't get rich without some sort of sixth sense, some sort of gut feeling. He also knew, in his own corrupted way, that passion inscribed on paper equals dollars. Perhaps he learned it from me.

So he read it. And he paid.

After a brief stop at the bank, I set off for Sylvia's. Knocking on the door, I was so excited I almost knocked it off the hinges. Her door slowly opened, inch by excruciating inch. Instead of a hug and a kiss, I received a magnificent slap to the face, and her tears to boot.

I'm sure stars have fallen from heaven and crashed into the hissing sea, but no one could have felt worse than I did right then. After I picked up my heart and dusted it off, I considered joining a circus troupe far, far away. Perhaps the chimpanzees and lions would appreciate my love more...

My thoughts were banished at the sight of Bumbleman's little, bald head popping up over Sylvia's shoulder. He looked surprised- because of me, or the vicious right hook I threw, I don't know. So it ended up with Bumbleman and me wrestling on the veranda, Sylvia all the meanwhile beating me unmercifully with a wicker broom. Wicker brooms hurt. I made a solemn oath that day never to sweep a rug again with rage in my heart.

For the record, my ambition was to make Bumbleman eat dirt and yell "Uncle!" which is quite hard to do at the same time, I would soon realize.

Finally- I'm not quite sure when- we quit wrestling, dead tired on the front walk. For a long period afterward, we were all silent, too busy sucking air. But eventually, I had to speak.

"Why, Sylvia, why?"

"Why?! I'll tell you why! For three weeks, you don't call, don't visit! You don't even answer your door, even when I begged and cried. And worse yet, I knew you were in there. I could hear you munching on your toast, with more than moderate delectation."

"But Sylvia..." I tried to stand, my legs threatening to buckle at any moment.

"Whack!"

The wicker broom bade me sit back down, and I obeyed before I knew it.

Meanwhile, Bumbleman had finally removed most of the dirt from his mouth, and he opened it as if he wanted to speak, but no words would come.

I also tried to speak, but Sylvia, who was now on the verge of tears, wouldn't hear of it.

"Go, Mr. Harry T. Belfunk. I shan't have anything else to do with you. There is no reason for your absence. Mr. Bumbleman has shared the whole story, and the idea makes me nauseous to a frightening degree. If it is truly love you seek, Mr. Belfunk, I suggest you stain the pages of your novel with the moisture of your lips. In any event, you will find your novel more receptive of your attention."

I knew then all was lost. Bumbleman would get the girl, Sylvia would get the love, and I would get paper cuts in cumbersome places.

Resigning myself to my fate, I stood up, dusted myself off, and walked out away. I shed no tears, spurted no words of bitter remorse (though my poetic should was tempted), but simply strode away, with all the dignity a broken heart can hold.

I did, however, suffer myself one glance back. I saw Sylvia, blessed Sylvia, helping up Mr. Bumbleman. I also saw love. I think it was then my hair turned white. A meager recorder of fervid dreams was never supposed to be a witness to true love. The only thing that spared my life from such an awesome sight was the intense burning in my heart.

So I walked to Bumbleman's company. I gave back all the money owed, and his secretary gave me back my manuscript. Mr. Bumbleman is a gentleman, I'll grant him that- he knew how to win gracefully. My next stop was here. And so you now know the story...

At that point, the exhausted Belfunk lapsed into a deep sleep. I watched the light from the fireplace turn cartwheels upon his sunken face. What price had love paid to buy a man's work of art? I slowly shook my head, letting it all sink in. And then I smiled. I suppose it is fitting that his sacrifice should warm him, at least for a while.

My curiosity assuaged, I let him snooze, for there are only two temporary cures for a broken heart- unconsciousness and love. The man who can drink while he sleeps never regrets falling in love.

Things that Have Fallen Off My Car

1. Window Handle
2. Sun Visor
3. Parking Light
4. One Tire (pulled off after going flat)
5. Gas Door
6. Alternator (pulled off after going bad)

So far, I've only replaced numbers #4 and #6, since they actually make the car go. I'm tinkering with the idea of stripping my car down to just a "dune buggy" type device, to make it as light as possible. I've have to check with the local laws. However, if motorcycles are legal, I don't think I'd need doors and such. Probably just seatbelts. I could also take out the whole trunk.

Just a thought.

Gas Math

My car holds approximately 15.9 gallons, if my manual is to be believed.

Right now, gas costs about $3.02 where I live, I reckon.

If my car was bone dry, it would cost roughly $48 to fill up.

I bought it for $600.

That's 8 percent of the value of my car.

Since I fill up basically once a week, that means I've paid for my car in gas in about 12.5 weeks.

In a year's time, that's $2600- which is over four times the value of my car.

I understand the fact that I'm driving a cheap rustbucket, but it seems to me that the fuel should be less expensive than the actual vehicle. And I definitely shouldn't be spending almost 10 percent of my car's value everytime I fill up. It's absurd.

Those who buy $20,000 vehicles should actually factor in the $10,000 or more cost of actually fueling the thing for five years.

I hope the car companies wise up and either build electric cars that actually accelerate, or small one-passenger automobiles that zip around and sip gas. There's got to be a better answer.

I leave you for the night with a quote my English teacher told me, and one I'll never forget: "If we all still rode horses, everything would be a lot closer together."

Late Night Missive

Found out by e-mail that I didn't make Law Review.

I won't say much more about it, because it would just seem like sour grapes.

Congratulations to everyone who made it.

Whores of Blogalon and Loose Ends

This post wil be directed to (for lack of a better term) blogger whores.

These are the people who beg and plead and for links or viewers or comments. Generally, these are also the same people who consistently blog about nothing.

"Please world read about how many socks I own," they post, never realizing that the average human is in no way concerned about the status of their fashioned feet.

The people, bedazzled by celebrity, feel the ever-growing need to force a sprint out of a lame horse. It's amusing to watch at first, but quickly the delicate heart turns to disgust.

Here's my official position, as far as this blog is concerned.

1) I'll link to your sight if I'm impressed by the writing and/or viewpoints. That's the criteria. No where in said criteria is the number of times a person has asked me. I have no interest in increasing my own largesse, much less anyone else's. By the same token, link to me if you feel you want to. But please, leave the third-grade inspired link exchange idea in the schoolhouse where it was born- I can almost see the tattered note that says "Link Exchange? Circle Yes or No."

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

2) As far as viewers go, I'd be perfectly happy if it never increased. I feel I have an intelligent audience, and feel no need nor desire to dumb it down by inviting in mass quantities the unwashed populace. Those that want to read my blog will find it just fine on their own. People find what they want, if given enough time. Just ask any crack dealer. I doubt they're listed on Google, but people find them. And they don't really advertise, I'd imagine. Conversely, those who always advertise (look how awesome my blog is!) usually neglect to mention that the advertisement is more spectacular than the product. They are the used car salesmen of the blogosphere.

I can clearly taste the bile.

3) Comments are grand, and I'm always excited when I click the link and read one. To be honest, I'd rather have five people visit and comment everyday than one hundred visit and no one comment. That said, I don't cry if there's no comments. I don't wander around, trying to figure out how to get them. Instead, I work and eat and sleep and breathe, and occasionally I'll post on the blog. So comment if you like, whether you agree with me or not. I'm perfectly capable of comprehending the fact that intelligent people can hold opposing viewpoints, I promise. In the same vein, I don't regularly post on other people's blogs, so I understand when I go commentless. Zero happens. Suck it up and move on.

Purge complete- rant over.

That said, here's a few things I wanted to post about but didn't have the time.

A. Went to the Delta with my boss and had a great time at trial.
B. Landis is a cheater- I'd bet the farm on it. Synthetic testosterone? Come on.
C. MythBusters is a great show, and I fear I'm addicted to it.

Smudge

Today my cat Smudge, a dark grey tabby with a raccoon tail, was killed by a few of my dogs.

We'd let them out of the fence for a few minutes while we were feeding them, as usual. It's a fairly large fence (3000 square feet or so) but we still like to let them run on occasion.

Moments later, my wife heard a commotion and found her laying prone on the ground, with a nasty cut on her side.

We rushed her to the emergency vet, but they had broken her back, so she had to be put down. We buried her in the corner, beneath a hickory tree. The dirt was hard with the lack of rain, but it was no match for my desire to give her a burial.

The thing is, I never saw this coming. It's not so much the actual death (anyone who has pets, especially as many as we do, learns to deal with this part of it) but instead how she died that disturbs me.

The dogs that killed her are the same dogs that spent years with her, sitting side by side in the same house. They knew her, and had never made a move to harm her, or any cat we own. I don't know what triggered them.

They're just mutts, as well- strays we picked up off the road- not Pit Bulls or Rottweilers or any other breed that (although this is certainly debatable) might be bent towards aggression. It just doesn't make sense.

My only theory is that they thought they were toying with her, and accidentally broke her back. But I just don't know. Or perhaps it was a fleeting mob mentality that took over, if only for a second.

What I do know is that my wife just recently cried herself to sleep, and there's a fresh grave around back with the heaviest log I could carry sitting on top. Also, the dogs will never be allowed access to the cats again. They've lost that chance forever.

When I get the time, I'm going to make a small headstone, I think. She deserves something. I think I'll write this:

Here lies a good cat.

$1.52 Gasoline

That's how much the old station on the corner is selling gas for. Of course, it's got old pumps, and the manufacturer of said pumps never foresaw gas at $3.00 a gallon, so you can't set 'em that high.

As a result, it's set for $1.52, with a big sign on the pump that says "Price per half-gallon."

Rural Observations

A stop sign, bent and rusted from shotgun blasts
Stands guard at a corner littered with cigarette butts
That point to a manicured yard of closely-cropped blades
And an empty porch full of mysterious dreams.

There's the drug store there, white brick on a corner
Just across from the courthouse lawn
Which sits next to city hall
Beside the water tower that serves as the square.

They're chopping it up- the square, that is-
Intent on making their great past greater
New bricks will capture the past better than
the old, they think- Or at least better capture
what the past is in the minds of those coming
To see it, and toss a few coins.

There's a local restaurant there beneath
The tower's shadow; serving up country fare
To those willing to eat it.
Been there for a while- saw a success where
Others saw derelict structures beyond saving.
Now that their Solomon wisdom has borne
itself out, the Pharisees wish to take part-
Yet, as Pharisees, they must take the truth
And pull it into a taffy that cannot bear the
Weight of its own nature- thus they destroy
That which made the idea visionary to begin with.

The rent will go so high, that the old restaurant
will close, move on, never serve the town again.
But there will be more shops, more restaurants,
More things, I'm told, and we won't remember
That little ol' thing.

Small towns are like unicorns- unique and skittish.
Since we are so different, so bold and so brash,
Their relative innocence excites us and leads us
to soil their beliefs until they resemble us.
We cannot leave well enough alone.

There is a fine line here, and I can't see it,
But I know well enough when we've fallen off.
We'd be best advised to grope for the pier
Instead of wading out into the listless sea.

Twist

I'm tired of how people twist and corrupt what other people say. In my opinion, that's ten times worse than merely ignoring an individual.

We read into other's statements that which we want to hear, as opposed to what they're actually saying.

Just recently, a client was advised by the attorney to do something. I was there. I heard it. I'm not crazy.

Today, the client wanders in and says to the secretary, "Hey, I need to know this so I can do this so the attorney can do this for me- that's what he said to do."

The attorney said no such thing. He told the client to do it. But the guy hears what he wants.

It's almost as if everything he hears is instantly converted to the most advantageous statement possible, as far as he's concerned.

Me: Hey, you're house is on fire.

Crazy Person: Why thanks for offering to put it out and pay for the damages! You're a great friend!

Is this a mental illness? Have we become so adept at not hearing other people that we've simply replaced their statements with replies of our own? Is conversation nothing more than a parlor trick, when in fact we're actually just talking to ourselves? Is discourse nothing more than simply giving ourselves a chance to hear our own voice?

Beginnings

Yesterday I headed out to a burgeoning Military Park on my way home from work and did a little exploring. It's not much, yet- just a few cannons and a one-mile trail that loops around the whole thing- but it's nice.

I was mostly interested in the trail, and the fact that half of the trail is really the "old" Highway 18. A concrete bridge crosses a small creek, probably a bridge that's over one hundred years old. I've always loved old abandoned roads and bridges, for unknown reasons. I suppose it's the sense of history, the semblance of decay, the untold stories buried in the past.

Also, they're just neat. It's interesting to see how things fall apart over time.

The Park is quite pertinent, as it's on the site of a battle that served as the precursor to the Siege of Vicksburg, which is one of the turning points of the Civil War. Part of the trail runs next to Fourteenmile Creek, the place of the heaviest fighting. It was easy to imagine the old Blue and Grey traipsing across that field under a hail of artillery and gunfire.

The other side of the loop was made from an old railroad line, and as a result the path was straight and narrow, cutting a shadowed tunnel through the dense woods. Two wooden bridges were at either end, newly fashioned ones that traversed Fourteenmile Creek and another, smaller tributary.

Even though it was sweltering and I was still wearing jeans from work (my job is pretty casual) I jogged about a mile. Simply because I hadn't done it in a while. It sucked, but I enjoyed it. It felt good to force the body to do something.

I would like to register for a 5K sometime in the near future, for maybe February or March. I need a tangible goal to focus on, if I'm to keep this thing up.

The Day Before Extraordinary

I wonder when the difference between my goals and reality will coalesce into a perfect harmony.

They're not magnificent goals, by any stretch- start running regularly, eating healthy, and writing for a while everyday- but my actions never bear them out.

I've watched TV for over two hours today, and now I'm hunkered down in front of the computer, writing these words. Continuously attached to a technological tether, it appears.

I think I'll like being a lawyer- it's interesting, and all- but it's not, in a perfect world, what I would want to do with the rest of my life. A tragedy, to be sure, but not a unique one. I doubt 90% of the population ever really does what they truly want to do. Lives of quiet desperation, and all that. At some point in life the door opens and the light of reality sends our childhood dreams scuttling away into the back recesses of our minds.

There's a part of me that wants to do nothing more than write, yet I never pick up the pen and sit in silence for hours honing my craft. There's a part that wants to paint, yet I rarely dabble in that field anymore. There's a part that wants to build Adirondack chairs, but the idea's been stillborn in my head for months. The desire is there, no doubt- but it's either not strong enough to change the growing tide or being outweighed by another force, one that's had the benefit of running deep grooves in the landscape of my being.

I often wonder if I'll ever snap out of this mode of existence and actually pursue my dreams. And then I wonder what the day before that day would be like- would it be just another day, or one that pushed me to try something new?

The change itself wouldn't even be that dramatic- I'd still go to law school and work as a clerk, etc. However, I would be a writer who is attending law school. The attitude and outlook would change, not the actual behavior.

In truth, we've fooled ourselves. We've created lifestyles that we can only afford by (for the large part) taking high-paying jobs we really don't want. We seem to forget the other option- living simply and actually doing what the hell we want with the rest of our lives. The poor man who can fish at 2:00 in the afternoon seems to have a better schedule than I do. I have money, but so what? Does that buy me time to fish? Hardly. It only makes me tired, and pushes me to the bed that much earlier.

We've become slaves who lounge on leather sofas and eat the finest grapes, and forgotten our ancestors who slept on the ground, yet directed their fates like kings.

I miss the ground.

I wonder when that sentiment will take form and shape in my life- and what the day before it will be like.