Misery Loves Company Representatives

I actually have nothing to write about specifically, except that I am miserably sick and can't stray to far from my air conditioner for fear that I actually might burst into flames. With all of today's miracle cures and technological advances you would think that a highly regarded institution of higher learning such as this would have a better medical remedy to give one of their aspiring lawyers than aspirin and a vile of table salt. Well, lets not forget the advise that "if your fever gets worse go to the hospital." Enlightening, really.

Of course there was the usual "You must remember to eat and drink plenty of fluids. You should feel better in a few days. If not come back. And remember to watch that fever." unfortunately for me, I have an interview on Thursday. This is going to be interesting.

"What is it about this firm that interests you?"

"Aaa-choo!...Health insurance."

"And what are your strengths?"

" I'm very determined. Obviously, a splitting headache, unbearable fatigue, burning throat, and 102 fever hasn't kept me from meeting with you "

"And what would you consider your weaknesses?"

"At the moment?"

"Yes"

"Did I mention the splitting headache and 102 fever?"

"Yes, Miss Lawlush, you did."

"Oh, then I guess my greatest weakness would be the fact that I actually showed up to this shit."

Main Line Paradise

Okay, this might create a lot of enemies depending on two things: where you think I live and whether anyone actually reads this shit. But as much as I love Manhattan (although I admit to never having lived there- work only), I have to say for the first time in the 5-year stint I've done here, I am truly unbelievably happy to be back in Philly. Sure, New York has more high-rises, bigger parks, better pizza and bagels, and 4am last-call, but the city of brotherly love has a little something of its own. There really isn't a word to describe the greater Philadelphia area and why it is different than any other city, I can't quite put my finger on it.

It might have something to do with the cheese steaks. Or maybe the sports-fanaticism that exists despite the continual close-calls that seem to plague the city. (Not to mention Monday nights teeny little brawl). Perhaps it's the little posh Manhattan-wanna be bar/lounges that I can almost afford to frequent. Maybe just the fact that I can smoke in these bars. Or the row houses and a morning run in Fairmont Park. Wait, who am I kidding? I haven't run farther than the length of the law school parking lot since I've been back. Or maybe it's my shitty-ass apartment, which is slowly imploding on itself. Hey, you try to find an apartment on the Main Line for the pennies I pay in rent.

Maybe it's the complete nonsense plan they call 'liquor control.' For those of you who don't live in the great state of Pennsylvania, they don't have full liquor stores here. Nor do they sell alcohol at gas stations or mini-marts of any sort. Instead, if you want a case or a keg you go to a beer store. This makes sense- beer at a beer store- but no 6 or 12 packs or 40s- no way. If you want liquor or wine you go to the liquor store. But no beer. Okay fine. But what if you want a 6pack or 40? Not the liquor store, or the beer store. Or anywhere else that would make sense to anyone outside of this state. In PA, if we want 6packs or 40s we go to the Pizza Shop. Yes, the pizza shop. The only place in the entire state that you can buy a 6 also serves up stromboli's and chicken cheese steaks. Well, that's a lie. For your left arm or the equivalent, you can purchase a 6 pack at the bar.

This little bit of counterintuitive nonsense was actually quite endearing, until gas prices make it a $52 trip just to stock my apartment. But no worries. The best feature of my little decrepit piece of main line real estate is that it happily sits not more than 30 feet from the nearest beer store. Unfortunately, as I mentioned before, every trip to said beer store results in the purchase of a minimum of 24 bottles for yours truly. Wait, maybe this isn't so unfortunate. And since my roommate and I can never settle on the same brand of beer, we each acquire our own, plus a healthy compromise, and at the moment house no less than 67 bottles of 7 various brands of beer. Ahhh, Philly, I've missed you.

Back From the Dead...Well, Not Quite

So, so, so very sorry to everybody (and thanks to anyone who happens to keep checking for new posts in vain). Well, this is the story. It should come as no surprise to anyone that the evil computer bubble finally burst. That is, my bitch of a computer quit being intermittently annoying and went completely Emily Rose on my sorry ass. I took it down to the local computer exorcist (aka CompUSA) for, what I thought would be, final termination as my personal hell-demon, but guess again. They shipped it off to places unknown for a complete overhaul, and when it returned (still flaunting the cracked screen and burnt pixels I had sent it off with), boasted of the spanking new motherboard that was supposed to end this craziness.

Ha! New motherboard my ass! As soon as I got the bastard home it acted up again. Reluctance to turn on, refusal to find the operating system, and spontaneous transitions into safe mode (which, if you ask me, isn't very safe at all considering the computer shuts itself off after a few fleeting minutes in this supposedly safe state, destroying without mercy any and all material I have been working on).

What to do? Can't take it back and wait another 3 weeks, what with the ensuing carpal tunnel disfiguring my right wrist (you try hand-writing notes in law school and just wait to see how crooked your right arm gets after 4 strait hours of tax, conlaw and evidence). Also, with the evil compulsory moot-court competition brief due in like five and a half minutes, I cannot give this thing up!

So I start making phone calls. It takes me about 30 seconds to discover that the end of the world lies at the CompUSA corporate offices. The store told me to call customer service, customer service told me to call the corporate office, and the corporate office told me to call (wait for it) the store!! After riding this rollercoaster for the better half of my Friday afternoon, I was threatening better business and death of first borns to all who would hear me...of course to no avail.

And with my tail between my legs, I returned once again to the store, and was once again ready to slay children for the sake of my uncooperative PC, when the virility of human kindness screwed it all up! The tech guy was the same wonderful, helpful and down right soothing man who took my computer the first time. I couldn't yell at him. So I asked for a manager. The manager hears my pleas with a smirk on his face, which at first pisses me off royally, but then he says that one of the people I had been on the phone with had made a few calls and secured me with a temporary computer to take as a loaner while mine was sent back. They took my piece of shit, replaced it with a beautiful HP, even installed office so I wouldn't have to. Now, I know this is all because any red-blooded human being would be shooting smoke out their ears and foaming at the mouth in my position, and any company would want to do their best to please, but still, I have to thank the wonderful people at CompUSA and the one nice guy over the phone, even if I still hate with a passion the ones who have neglected to repair my computer for the 3rd time and the couple of raging bitches that snapped at me over the phone. So thank you, few nice people left in the world, who go out of your way, you have made life for a struggling almost-homicidal law student that much easier...at least until my computer returns, head spinning and talking in tongues, as I still have no doubt that it will.

Okay, so school starts again tomorrow. I apologize to all both of my readers for not posting, but moving back into an apartment is actually more of a project than one might think. Especially when you are making every effort to drink as many beers as humanly possible before the evil that is law school envelops you once again. And knowing what is to come, I have made quite a commendable effort.
Anyway, right now I'm taking a break from the ridiculousness they call 'first day assignments.' Although in theory this is a good idea. It can be rationalized by arguing that professors assign readings to make the most of the first day and not waste precious hours as is the norm in undergraduate education. However, this is a load of crap. Of course I never want to do any of my assignments, but first day assignments take the cake for things I really really would rather not waste time on. For up and coming law students, this is how it goes, you get a relatively short reading assignment, which you spend a great deal of time on anyway because it is the first and the fatigue has not yet sank in, and in your mind you think "I am going to try my hardest this semester, blah blah blah." But what ends up happening the first day is one of three things. Your professor yaps about him or herself for the whole time and then wonders where the class went. The first day reading is then glossed over in the next class which makes it useless as anything other than the beginning of a game of catch-up to be played for the next 3 months. Or, the professor tries to scare you by picking on some poor soul who has done the reading just as thoroughly as anyone else, but will not be able to answer the inhumanely difficult questions thrown at him/her for the teachers personal amusement. The third option is that the professor wants to show how wonderful they are by asking questions that a monkey could answer. Any of these circumstances reach the same conclusion: first day assignments are useless as a classroom tool and you will never be tested on any of this crap.
So, in an attempt to make this less painful, I created a game. I have to finish a beer before I finish any one part of an assignment. Four classes, two to four parts to each assignment. This might be fun. And for extra credit I'll have to drink one for posting. It's a start. And while I might not remember any of this, we all know that is okay, (because what have we learned class?) thats right, first day assignments are about as useful as a bottle-opener at an AA meeting.

How the other half lives it up

And by 'other half' I mean post-college relatively-well-off twenty something non-law students who therefore did not watch their summers quickly slip away into the world of over-stuffed file cabinets and instant coffee makers of slave labor internships. Instead these lucky souls spent their summers in a frat house-esque, almost beach-front abode, sleeping late, lounging on the beach and/or porch and partying into the wee hours of the morning on a daily basis. Okay, so I am a little jealous, but I was also lucky enough to be invited to spend a day in this fabulous wonderful place they call a shore house. A couple more days like this and my summer would be complete.

We spent the day on this one kid's speedboat, anchored in the bay, in the water, sitting on life jackets and drinking beers from (get this) a raft/floaty thing for coolers. This is the greatest invention of all time. It lets you float a cooler of beer (or your drink of choice) in the water so you can just swim around as long as your little heart desires, with an unlimited supply of alcohol. Well that is a lie. The supply was obviously limited, if it wasn't I would still be there. But that doesn't change the fact that it was a very enjoyable pastime. And I think that if I ever make enough money I might just grab a few friends, run away to a tropical island, buy a boat, and repeat the aforementioned activities every day for the rest of my natural life. You are all invited.

There isn't enough aloe in the world...

Ouch. Finally made it to the beach. Of course it was the most white-trash beach in New Jersey outside of Seaside Heights, but no bother, there was still sand and sun. Lots of sun. Unfortunately I have to meet my internship supervisor for lunch in the city tomorrow and, after a quick trip to relocate some of my clothing to my apartment in a different city, I only left myself with one suit. A pant suit. I cannot think of anything more painful than my fuscia ass sitting on a cramped bus for 45 minutes in a 50/50 polyester-rayon blend. As it is right now I can't bring myself to put on anything other than a satin robe. This might sound good to some, but I assure you it is anything but attractive considering my continual application of medicated aloe gunk and the new way I've taken to walking without bending my knees. (I know a certain ex-co-worker that feels my pain, except she had the foresight to make certain a skirt was handy). Of course, in my infinite practicality, I've just made plans to return to the beach on Friday. Brilliant, I never learn. This time, however, I will be prepared with a remedy much greater than aloe vera. That's right, there is going to be a night of drunken debauchery to follow, hence the sunburn might appear ugly, but I won't know the damn difference.

True happiness: the upper-deck and mass drunkenness

Since there is a few more weeks of limbo this summer (time between working my little ass off and going back to the sixth circle of hell), I've been attempting to live it up- hence no posts during the seventy-some-odd-hour binge I've been on. But I have to rave about something tonight. I love sports. I love sports fans. I love going to sporting events and getting drunk with other sports fans while watching sports. Good times.

What brought this utter happiness on? Well, randomly went to Chacon's first game with the Bombers tonight. Absolutely fabulous game (even though we lost). But it doesn't get any better than Yankee Stadium on a warm summer night with all the fans and the love of the game. It's amazing how a few thousand New Yorkers can be bound together, cheering in unison, and for a few hours forget to be angry and in a rush. Well, maybe with the exception of the idiot two rows up rooting for the White Sox. As someone nearby aptly put it "welcome to the Bronx, Bitch."

A few jumbo $8.50 Miller Lite's and two or three hot dogs in, there is nothing wrong with the world. The 1-nothing score and perpetual nose-bleed from the upper-deck does not bother me in the least. A close game is a good game, plus kudos to Chacon for handling the pressure extremely well. Most entertaining moment? Overzealous fan who climbed the netting behind home plate and actually made it to the top. Don't see that every game. Lastly, I love you to the random asian guy behind us who drove all the way from Seattle to see his first Yankee's game. That is awesome.

Billiards Etiquette and Polygamy

Sorry for the cheesy cartoon, but it's all I could find. Okay, so last night was a little interesting, not so much that there is a funny drunken story to tell (but be patient, those will come in time) but because there was a very odd occurrence at the bar.

Although that will have to wait because I would just love some feedback on The Boyfriend's valiant efforts at including another girl in our relationship. Having thoroughly upset him with the concept that I would spend all his money in vain last night, his logical way to get me not to do that was to spend his money himself. I love The Boyfriend's logic sometimes because reverse psychology works so well. Rather than buy beer and play online poker, he showed up with beer (some things never change) and flowers (some things do), and proceeded to take me out to dinner. Really not that romantic, we went to the bar and got burgers. Anyway, while at the bar, The Boyfriend decides that he is a Mormon and should we ever get married, he would have to be able to get another wife. (Note: I apologize for any misconceptions he has about the Mormon faith). The following is our conversation:

Putting insecurities aside, I counter "that is fine so long as our relationship remains an equal partnership and I get a second husband."

"No, no, no," he says, "You're looking at it all wrong. This should not be gender-based. That would be sexist. I only want to include another person in our eternal happiness and bliss."

"Okay," I tell him, "so I get two husbands."

"No, no, no," he says, "You're still not getting it. Because I love you so dearly, I can never handle seeing you with another man and I might feel inferior. It has to be a woman."

"But I don't like women in that way."

His response is that everyone is bi-sexual to some level.

"Hmmm, so I can have a second husband?"

"I told you why you can't"

"But you said you are bi, wouldn't that be good for you too?"

"Well think of it this way, you and the other woman would be bi, I would therefore be bi-by-association."

Jerk.

Anyway, shameless attempts at a threesome aside, we then observed some very strange behavior on the part of a fellow patron. We are sitting, quite contently, at a table next to the pool tables. Place settings, steak sauce and everything. We decide, while we wait for our Mexican-American Cheese Burgers (I'm not trying to be PC, that is actually what they were called) we should play a game of pool. While we are playing (and I am visibly getting my ass kicked) some random guy has silently maneuvered his way across the (empty) bar and put his drink down on our table. Remember, the table is set so that any normally socialized human being would recognize a dinner coming on. He stalks us from about 15 feet away as we play our game. I notice the guy jingling change in his pocket, and purposefully hang all over The Boyfriend in order to dispel any uncertainty of whether we are just out for pool playing or on a real date, not to be disturbed. Random Guy doesn't take the hint, and when there are three or four balls left on the table, he slowly makes his way over and asks to play winner. Does anyone see the problem with this? This guy is trying to butt in on my date (and actual dates for me and The Boyfriend are few and far between, so this is no good). Unfortunately, I have no balls and let him play. During their game our food is served. Not to be rude, I wait for the game to end, thinking, this guy must be good because shitty pool players shouldn't just go around interrupting dates in order to get a game on. Not so. And The Boyfriend feels bad for him, so purposely misses shots. Ugh. The game lasts forever! With our Mexican-American Cheese Burgers plainly chilling on the table. The worst part of this whole thing is, that after the game does finally end (more because The Boyfriend is hungry than from actual pocketing of the balls by Random Guy) we eat, and within moments of our last bites, before me and The Boyfriend can commence our own game of pool, Random Guy appears magically from behind a huge wooden beam and requests a rematch!. The Boyfriend politely asks if I would rather take this guy on (knowing full well I would whoop his sorry ass and he would be conveniently demasculinated by a girl at billiards). I politely decline, and watch The Boyfriend proceed to let the man win by inconspicuously scratching on the eight ball. As we leave, I can see The Boyfriend is thoroughly please with himself, having proved to me that staying home and gambling online while polishing off a case of Natty is far more romantic than being taken out to dinner.

Asshole.