Showing posts with label stupidity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupidity. Show all posts
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Hoaxes, Performance Art, and Crazy Liberals
A news article was recently making the rounds on the Internet. The news article concerned a senior undergraduate at Yale University who majored in art and who apparently has a penchant for causing a scene. You see, my friend Jacob forwarded the article from the Yale Daily News to myself and to a few other college friends with the following disclaimer: "I'm really embarrassed that she is one of my peeps, and possibly a distant relation to [ Matt ]."
By that, Jacob meant that this woman was Jewish, and that her last name was an iteration of my last name, [ last name deleted for Google purposes ]. I read the following article with disgust. The headline: "For Senior, Abortion a Medium for Art, Political Discourse." The article went on to discuss a girl whose senior art project was "a documentation of a nine-month process during which she artificially inseminated herself 'as often as possible' while periodically taking abortifacient drugs to induce miscarriages. Her exhibition will feature video recordings of these of forced miscarriages as well as preserved collections of the blood from the process."
Of course, I was absolutely disgusted and mortified that anyone would do this. I remembered from my undergraduate days that there are some fairly crazy, wacky liberals out there, but this absolutely took the cake. My friend Ryan fired back a reply: "I don't know what to say. That may well be one of the worst things I've ever heard. I think she's a vile human being, unfit for -- and undeserving of -- that title."
I responded as well: "I almost cried when I read that article. I cannot believe such a person exists -- and I hesitate to even dignify her with classification as a person."
I forwarded the article around to other friends, and the expression of disgust was universal. Liberal or conservative, nobody could believe that she would do this, or that Yale University would allow a public exhibition of the project, as the newspaper article stated.
The Drudge Report picked up the student newspaper article, and from there it spread like wildfire. The Washington Post, CNN, the London Times, every major news outlet throughout the world picked it up. And so the shock and outrage spread internationally.
But something didn't quite sit right with me. After my initial emotion fueled sadness and shock and anger, my rational side kicked in, and I sent the following e-mail to my friends:
That said, Ms. Shvarts is still a vile human being. Not quite as vile as she was, but anyone who would purposely try to mislead the world about such a sensitive and delicate matter, and be so cavalier about the whole thing, all in the name of "her art," deserves only marginally more respect than one who would purposely and repeatedly impregnate and abort.
Moreover, I am dismayed that the Yale University office of public affairs is so quick to defend this woman, under the flimsy rationale that "she is an artist" and she has "the right to express herself through performance art." Calling oneself an artist does not give a free pass to act as irresponsibly and insensitively as one desires, all in the name of art. It does not free one from the bounds of civility and decency that characterize a healthy society.
I am all for artistic expression, but pulling a massive hoax and calling it "performance art" meant to "draw attention" to the function of a woman's body is disgusting, and reminds me why I joined the conservative student newspaper while at college. Academia is a crazy place, and they believe some messed up things inside those ivory towers. I am glad to no longer be a part of that, but dismayed that the insanity continues.
By that, Jacob meant that this woman was Jewish, and that her last name was an iteration of my last name, [ last name deleted for Google purposes ]. I read the following article with disgust. The headline: "For Senior, Abortion a Medium for Art, Political Discourse." The article went on to discuss a girl whose senior art project was "a documentation of a nine-month process during which she artificially inseminated herself 'as often as possible' while periodically taking abortifacient drugs to induce miscarriages. Her exhibition will feature video recordings of these of forced miscarriages as well as preserved collections of the blood from the process."
Of course, I was absolutely disgusted and mortified that anyone would do this. I remembered from my undergraduate days that there are some fairly crazy, wacky liberals out there, but this absolutely took the cake. My friend Ryan fired back a reply: "I don't know what to say. That may well be one of the worst things I've ever heard. I think she's a vile human being, unfit for -- and undeserving of -- that title."
I responded as well: "I almost cried when I read that article. I cannot believe such a person exists -- and I hesitate to even dignify her with classification as a person."
I forwarded the article around to other friends, and the expression of disgust was universal. Liberal or conservative, nobody could believe that she would do this, or that Yale University would allow a public exhibition of the project, as the newspaper article stated.
The Drudge Report picked up the student newspaper article, and from there it spread like wildfire. The Washington Post, CNN, the London Times, every major news outlet throughout the world picked it up. And so the shock and outrage spread internationally.
But something didn't quite sit right with me. After my initial emotion fueled sadness and shock and anger, my rational side kicked in, and I sent the following e-mail to my friends:
I was thinking, and I cannot imagine this is real. This has to be a hoax. I cannot believe even Yale would okay a public installation of her blood and videos of her miscarriages. And I find it very hard to believe that she could successfully pull off these miscarriages (come on, let's call them what they are, abortion) multiple times with herbs, without either being unable to abort the child, or without causing major damage to herself.Well, my friends, it appears my Bullshit Detector is functioning properly. Yale University later released a statement:
"The to pull off a hoax, all she really had to do was trick the Yale student paper. From there all the other media would pick it up and it would take off with very little additional verification. She'd simply get some cohorts to corroborate it via e-mail, and Yale would be silent for a while as they tried to figure out what the truth was. If you look at the original Yale article, they weren't even able to talk to her adviser.
"She will probably justify the whole thing as performance art, or ' hoax art in cyberspace' or something.
"Then again I could just be rationalizing all this because I don't want to believe anyone is that evil."
"Ms. Shvarts is engaged in performance art. Her art project includes visual representations, a press release and other narrative materials. She stated to three senior Yale University officials today, including two deans, that she did not impregnate herself and that she did not induce any miscarriages. the entire project is an art piece, a creative fiction designed to draw attention to the ambiguities surrounding form and function of a woman's body. She is an artist and has the right to express herself through performance art. Had these acts been a real, they would have violated basic ethical standards and raised serious mental and physical health concerns."I am glad that I was right. It brings some level of satisfaction and even some vindication among friends who claimed that as much as they wished it were a hoax, they feared it was real. It also makes me feel relieved that such a horrible, heinous person does not exist in reality.
That said, Ms. Shvarts is still a vile human being. Not quite as vile as she was, but anyone who would purposely try to mislead the world about such a sensitive and delicate matter, and be so cavalier about the whole thing, all in the name of "her art," deserves only marginally more respect than one who would purposely and repeatedly impregnate and abort.
Moreover, I am dismayed that the Yale University office of public affairs is so quick to defend this woman, under the flimsy rationale that "she is an artist" and she has "the right to express herself through performance art." Calling oneself an artist does not give a free pass to act as irresponsibly and insensitively as one desires, all in the name of art. It does not free one from the bounds of civility and decency that characterize a healthy society.
I am all for artistic expression, but pulling a massive hoax and calling it "performance art" meant to "draw attention" to the function of a woman's body is disgusting, and reminds me why I joined the conservative student newspaper while at college. Academia is a crazy place, and they believe some messed up things inside those ivory towers. I am glad to no longer be a part of that, but dismayed that the insanity continues.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
We'll Be Right Back
BeforeISleep.net had a wonderful vacation, is currently getting into the swing of 2008, and will be back soon!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Overstock.com employees: helpful but not accurate
Welcome to Overstock.com, you are now chatting with 'Tony'
Ahh, so close Tony! In fact, so close that upon a cursory glance, I just assumed you had gotten it right because you used the magic word "reflected." Indeed, something is reflecting, but it is not water droplets.
According to my fuzzy memory of Mr. Wizard and other infotainment, the sky is blue because... um... something about the light being scattered... DAMMIT. Um, Google?
"The blue color of the sky is due to Rayleigh scattering. As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through. Little of the red, orange and yellow light is affected by the air.
However, much of the shorter wavelength light is absorbed by the gas molecules. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky. Whichever direction you look, some of this scattered blue light reaches you. Since you see the blue light from everywhere overhead, the sky looks blue." --http://www.sciencemadesimple.com/sky_blue.html
And there you have it! What have we learned today? 1) The sky is blue because of scattering. 2) When bored, a fun way of passing the time is chatting with Overstock.com online help and asking them science questions.
Tony: Thanks for visiting Overstock.com, this is Tony, how can I help you?
Matt: I was wondering if you could tell me why the sky is blue.
Tony: I do not have the exact information on that, however, I personally feel that the water color gets reflected on to the sky that's why its blue in color.
Ahh, so close Tony! In fact, so close that upon a cursory glance, I just assumed you had gotten it right because you used the magic word "reflected." Indeed, something is reflecting, but it is not water droplets.
According to my fuzzy memory of Mr. Wizard and other infotainment, the sky is blue because... um... something about the light being scattered... DAMMIT. Um, Google?
"The blue color of the sky is due to Rayleigh scattering. As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through. Little of the red, orange and yellow light is affected by the air.
However, much of the shorter wavelength light is absorbed by the gas molecules. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky. Whichever direction you look, some of this scattered blue light reaches you. Since you see the blue light from everywhere overhead, the sky looks blue." --http://www.sciencemadesimple.com/sky_blue.html
And there you have it! What have we learned today? 1) The sky is blue because of scattering. 2) When bored, a fun way of passing the time is chatting with Overstock.com online help and asking them science questions.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Segregation Now, Segregation Tomorrow -- But Not Forever? A Discussion.
From: Gweepay
Subject: Re: friends in Richmond
Date: August 28, 2007 9:06:18 PM GMT-04:00
To: BeforeISleep.net
As Matt pointed out in a recent email to me, now that Sweetie, Gweepay, and Matt the Red are all in different States(!), we are likely all experiencing a dearth of friendships. When I first arrived, I was given false hope when, on my first Friday at work, lo and behold, one of my coworkers suggested we go grab some beers for happy hour. Little did I know this would be a two-time occurrence, and would cease and desist just as soon as his fiance moved in and took over his life. Since then, I've been doing lots of staring at stationary objects, just like Matt, who reportedly stares at the wall. For me, it's the ceiling, as I prefer to lay. So I figure I should try and find a girlfriend, because that way I won't need friends AND I get sex AND...well, there has to be some other benefit to all of that.
One possibility is Stacy, this girl at work that I was originally sitting next to on my first project. At first she didn't like me. I could tell because she looked annoyed whenever I asked questions. In fact, I think she was generally annoyed to be sitting next to me. But eventually, Stockholm Syndrome set in and she began to actually smile and converse and all the other things people do when they cease to dislike someone. I often suggested that we go grab a bite when the clock struck twelve and that bird-thing from the Flintstones squawked, indicating that it was lunch time. T'wasn't much longer until Stacy gave me her number, and by "gave me," I mean that SHE offered it to me. As in, I never even asked. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, coding documents, not really bothering anybody, when Stacy, who was feeling quite ill that day, began to pack up to leave early. At that point, she asked me for a pen. I obliged, expecting her to jot down a recipe or some other domestic communique to herself. To my astonishment, she returned the pen with a piece of paper donning her cell number. She informed me that this was in case she was dying and never came back to work. Mission accomplished, she left for the day.
Here's the thing, though. There are two potential downsides to Stacy, or at least to a Gweepay/Stacy dating situation. And no, it has nothing to do with looks. She's cute. Very nice hips and all that. But there may be some cultural differences. And that, of course, is code for the fact that Stacy's lineage began far from the region where the Anglos met the Saxons. She is, in fact, black. This means that my Racist Grandparents, all four of them, would have not one, but two grandsons dating, oh, how do they put it, outside "the race," and that may just be too much for the lot of them. And that's not the half of it. As Chris Rock so aptly points out, the most racist people in the world are old black people, because they were the ones who bore the brunt of all the racism in their day. I can just imagine what HER family would think. Holidays would be horrible. I can envision her grandmother, staring me down across the table, making jokes about white meat and dark meat, and forgetting that she had made the same joke for the past five years. And everyone would laugh, because everyone always laughs.
The other issue is temperamental. Stacy is best described as a good listener. She's not the sort of person who carries the conversation. This is problematic, because I, also a good listener, never can think of anything to talk about. I still don't know what people are always talking about as I pass them in public. What could possibly be so interesting to so many people at all times? As such, I often find myself bringing up inane topics with her such as my various theories as to why I get headaches on the weekends but not on weekdays.
In any case, if any confirmation was needed that she is "interested," it came two weekends ago when I asked her to see the Bourne movie with me, and she showed up with her hair done and dressed as if she was going to a fancy restaurant, while I had on khakis and my "popcorn eating" shirt, i.e., one that I care little about, as there is a 100 percent chance that buttery popcorn will make contact with it several times throughout the night.
So the question is, now what?
NOW WHAT, dear Gweepay? Now what, indeed. I invite my readers to weigh in. (Ha! Get it? Weigh! Because we're all so fat.) By the way, in the absence of companionship, I don't just spend my time staring at the wall (preferring to sit). I also spend my time surfing over to CampusFood.com, which has Gweepay's credit card number saved! So not only am I getting lonely, I'm getting fat. As the following video portends:
Subject: Re: friends in Richmond
Date: August 28, 2007 9:06:18 PM GMT-04:00
To: BeforeISleep.net
As Matt pointed out in a recent email to me, now that Sweetie, Gweepay, and Matt the Red are all in different States(!), we are likely all experiencing a dearth of friendships. When I first arrived, I was given false hope when, on my first Friday at work, lo and behold, one of my coworkers suggested we go grab some beers for happy hour. Little did I know this would be a two-time occurrence, and would cease and desist just as soon as his fiance moved in and took over his life. Since then, I've been doing lots of staring at stationary objects, just like Matt, who reportedly stares at the wall. For me, it's the ceiling, as I prefer to lay. So I figure I should try and find a girlfriend, because that way I won't need friends AND I get sex AND...well, there has to be some other benefit to all of that.
One possibility is Stacy, this girl at work that I was originally sitting next to on my first project. At first she didn't like me. I could tell because she looked annoyed whenever I asked questions. In fact, I think she was generally annoyed to be sitting next to me. But eventually, Stockholm Syndrome set in and she began to actually smile and converse and all the other things people do when they cease to dislike someone. I often suggested that we go grab a bite when the clock struck twelve and that bird-thing from the Flintstones squawked, indicating that it was lunch time. T'wasn't much longer until Stacy gave me her number, and by "gave me," I mean that SHE offered it to me. As in, I never even asked. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, coding documents, not really bothering anybody, when Stacy, who was feeling quite ill that day, began to pack up to leave early. At that point, she asked me for a pen. I obliged, expecting her to jot down a recipe or some other domestic communique to herself. To my astonishment, she returned the pen with a piece of paper donning her cell number. She informed me that this was in case she was dying and never came back to work. Mission accomplished, she left for the day.
Here's the thing, though. There are two potential downsides to Stacy, or at least to a Gweepay/Stacy dating situation. And no, it has nothing to do with looks. She's cute. Very nice hips and all that. But there may be some cultural differences. And that, of course, is code for the fact that Stacy's lineage began far from the region where the Anglos met the Saxons. She is, in fact, black. This means that my Racist Grandparents, all four of them, would have not one, but two grandsons dating, oh, how do they put it, outside "the race," and that may just be too much for the lot of them. And that's not the half of it. As Chris Rock so aptly points out, the most racist people in the world are old black people, because they were the ones who bore the brunt of all the racism in their day. I can just imagine what HER family would think. Holidays would be horrible. I can envision her grandmother, staring me down across the table, making jokes about white meat and dark meat, and forgetting that she had made the same joke for the past five years. And everyone would laugh, because everyone always laughs.
The other issue is temperamental. Stacy is best described as a good listener. She's not the sort of person who carries the conversation. This is problematic, because I, also a good listener, never can think of anything to talk about. I still don't know what people are always talking about as I pass them in public. What could possibly be so interesting to so many people at all times? As such, I often find myself bringing up inane topics with her such as my various theories as to why I get headaches on the weekends but not on weekdays.
In any case, if any confirmation was needed that she is "interested," it came two weekends ago when I asked her to see the Bourne movie with me, and she showed up with her hair done and dressed as if she was going to a fancy restaurant, while I had on khakis and my "popcorn eating" shirt, i.e., one that I care little about, as there is a 100 percent chance that buttery popcorn will make contact with it several times throughout the night.
So the question is, now what?
NOW WHAT, dear Gweepay? Now what, indeed. I invite my readers to weigh in. (Ha! Get it? Weigh! Because we're all so fat.) By the way, in the absence of companionship, I don't just spend my time staring at the wall (preferring to sit). I also spend my time surfing over to CampusFood.com, which has Gweepay's credit card number saved! So not only am I getting lonely, I'm getting fat. As the following video portends:
Monday, August 20, 2007
Thunder kills local attorney; coal miners rejoice! News at eleven.
(Don't worry about the coal miner thing -- inside joke.)
So, a little story about stupid I am: there was a big bolt of lightning, and I, not wanting to be electrocuted, got up and stood in the middle of the room, away from the window and wires. It was only after a minute, when I heard the resultant thunder, that I realized the lightning had already struck. I was now hiding from thunder.
I am the intellectual equivalent of a frightened puppy.
Speaking of puppies, here is a video of Mickey, my 8-year-old bichon, super-excited to see me when I returned home to Michigan for a vacation. Please excuse the mess. Enjoy! :-)
So, a little story about stupid I am: there was a big bolt of lightning, and I, not wanting to be electrocuted, got up and stood in the middle of the room, away from the window and wires. It was only after a minute, when I heard the resultant thunder, that I realized the lightning had already struck. I was now hiding from thunder.
I am the intellectual equivalent of a frightened puppy.
Speaking of puppies, here is a video of Mickey, my 8-year-old bichon, super-excited to see me when I returned home to Michigan for a vacation. Please excuse the mess. Enjoy! :-)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Some animals deserve to die. Especially DemonSpiders (TM).
I am normally a big fan of all furry creatures. One might go so far as to say I love them. However, my love does not extend to furry creatures who are also spiders.So you can imagine my shock when I read a newspaper article relating the heartwarming tale of a man and his beloved pet spider, for whom he could no longer care appropriately. It seems that this spider is what is known as an "ornate golden baboon spider" -- or, affectionately, "Mr. Fuzzy." According to animal control "this is the kind of spider that nightmares are made of. " What a wonderful pet!
But wait, it gets better: Not only is this spider big and hairy (reason enough to hate it), but according to the article, the spider is moody, aggressive, jumps three feet at a time, has venomous fangs, and bites without warning. According to the animal control guy, who clearly does not get paid enough for his job, "This spider is so aggressive, it will bite you just to bite you." Bite you just to bite you, huh? Sounds like a woman I once met at speed dating.
Now, up until this point, I can at least understand the mentality of everyone involved. Johnny Owner, an adventurous soul, purchased the DemonSpider when it was young and cute and adorable. When it got too big and scary, he wanted to get rid of it. This, I understand. What I don't understand is what happened next:
The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals saved the spider. It was taken to a "sanctuary" for reptiles and "other animals." Apparently, in this context, "other animals" encompasses Hell creatures who have somehow escaped the bowels of the earth, making it onto our plane of existence, where they are now free to leap from person to person, shrieking and hissing and biting at will and without provocation. Now -- thank God -- Mr. Fuzzy will be free to laugh and jump and play and shriek and bite on a resort somewhere. Some luxurious paradise. Probably with a piña colada in his hand. One of his many hands.
I'm sorry, but this spider deserves to be shot. Even if it hasn't bitten anyone yet, it is going to someday, and what will you get then for all your mercy, Mr. Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Demon Spiders? Would you get a thank you? No! You would get a fatal spider bite. And it would serve you right.
Let it be known throughout the land: I, Matthew S. [last name removed for Google purposes], hereby offer to kill, maim, destroy, and otherwise dispose of any further giant DemonSpiders that may exist in the household of any Before I Sleep visitor! (Provided, of course, I am supplied with the appropriate equipment and protective gear, including but not limited to a gun, a knife, a big can of Raid, a protective suit not unlike those worn by the virus guys at the Center for Disease Control, a gas mask, and an unlimited supply of hard liquor for soothing my nerves afterward.)
Saturday, August 18, 2007
How many pizzas does it take to fill my existential void?
Every now and then something I do reminds me that I am, without a doubt, the biggest fatty on the planet. That "something I do "is almost always binge eating. It happens when I don't have a lot of structure, and I wander through the day, with no routine to guide me, and I am bored, and my friends are out of town, and I have nothing to do, and before I know it, I have eaten an entire medium meat lovers pizza.
The extremely bad part is that yesterday I did essentially the same thing. It wasn't meat lovers, but it was half ground beef and have pepperoni, and that makes me a whole pig.
Today wasn't entirely lost. I did go to the gym earlier today, and work my muscles almost to failure... and I hardly ate anything else the rest of the day. Ultimately, though, that is the problem. When I go the entire day with out eating every two or three hours, like I am supposed to, like body for life tells me to, then I have pretty much guaranteed that I will lose the eating war for the day. My body, not having received nourishment for eight or 10 hours, will rebel. "I need a pizza! " It will tell me. Why do you needed ate pizza, I will ask. "Because I am bored and I want a pizza!" Okay, body, you win.
The really you really bad part is that I was not even hungry. That's right to, I ate an entire meat lovers pizza with out any appetite. My appetite was in a state of non existence. And when I started eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full; when I finished eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full either. I consumed at least 2000 calories of fat-laden goodness, and my appetite level did not change: it was simply there, ever present, like the wind.
The only way to prevent myself from going on destructive rampages like this is to have a plan. And not just have a plan, but stick to it too. It would not have been hard today. Had I planned things out before hand, I would have known that I would have several free hours, and I would have planned my meals accordingly. Instead, though, I simply woke up around 10:00a.m., spent a couple of hours in front of the computer, had a few diet pink lemonades, headed off to Starbucks, where I had an iced chai tea... and then ate nothing for the next several hours. And had no plans, for friends or for meals. I had nothing to do. I wasn't even hungry. And yet, I decided to call pizza hut. Why? For the love God, why?!
My sister, Katherine, says that she also goes on these kinds of destructive binges. I think it probably runs in our family. It probably runs in a lot of families. Katherine says it means that I am missing something. I am eating to fill a void. Now, I don't want to give a lot of credence to Dr. Phil, but I think Katherine might be onto something. My best friends are all out of town, it seems indefinitely. I am currently between full-time jobs. I have nothing to do. I am wandering. There is a void. There is a void and I am filling it with pizza. admittedly, it is very tasty pizza, don't get me wrong. But I wonder, how much pizza it does it take to fill a big, giant hole? A big giant existential hole.
Hmmm...... I really don't know why I bare my soul like this on the Internet. It has gotten me into trouble before. It is this damn voice recognition software. I spent a billion dollars on it, and I am determined to get my money's worth. so you, dear reader, get to read three exciting blog entries in one day. And I, dear blogger, get to reveal my innermost thoughts, all because I am in love with the sound of my own voice and can't stop speaking.
Well, enjoy it while it lasts!
The extremely bad part is that yesterday I did essentially the same thing. It wasn't meat lovers, but it was half ground beef and have pepperoni, and that makes me a whole pig.
Today wasn't entirely lost. I did go to the gym earlier today, and work my muscles almost to failure... and I hardly ate anything else the rest of the day. Ultimately, though, that is the problem. When I go the entire day with out eating every two or three hours, like I am supposed to, like body for life tells me to, then I have pretty much guaranteed that I will lose the eating war for the day. My body, not having received nourishment for eight or 10 hours, will rebel. "I need a pizza! " It will tell me. Why do you needed ate pizza, I will ask. "Because I am bored and I want a pizza!" Okay, body, you win.
The really you really bad part is that I was not even hungry. That's right to, I ate an entire meat lovers pizza with out any appetite. My appetite was in a state of non existence. And when I started eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full; when I finished eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full either. I consumed at least 2000 calories of fat-laden goodness, and my appetite level did not change: it was simply there, ever present, like the wind.
The only way to prevent myself from going on destructive rampages like this is to have a plan. And not just have a plan, but stick to it too. It would not have been hard today. Had I planned things out before hand, I would have known that I would have several free hours, and I would have planned my meals accordingly. Instead, though, I simply woke up around 10:00a.m., spent a couple of hours in front of the computer, had a few diet pink lemonades, headed off to Starbucks, where I had an iced chai tea... and then ate nothing for the next several hours. And had no plans, for friends or for meals. I had nothing to do. I wasn't even hungry. And yet, I decided to call pizza hut. Why? For the love God, why?!
My sister, Katherine, says that she also goes on these kinds of destructive binges. I think it probably runs in our family. It probably runs in a lot of families. Katherine says it means that I am missing something. I am eating to fill a void. Now, I don't want to give a lot of credence to Dr. Phil, but I think Katherine might be onto something. My best friends are all out of town, it seems indefinitely. I am currently between full-time jobs. I have nothing to do. I am wandering. There is a void. There is a void and I am filling it with pizza. admittedly, it is very tasty pizza, don't get me wrong. But I wonder, how much pizza it does it take to fill a big, giant hole? A big giant existential hole.
Hmmm...... I really don't know why I bare my soul like this on the Internet. It has gotten me into trouble before. It is this damn voice recognition software. I spent a billion dollars on it, and I am determined to get my money's worth. so you, dear reader, get to read three exciting blog entries in one day. And I, dear blogger, get to reveal my innermost thoughts, all because I am in love with the sound of my own voice and can't stop speaking.
Well, enjoy it while it lasts!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Look, ma! I’m a real lawyer!
Years of intense studying and grueling tests paid off today, as I represented my first client in court! Well, almost. Let me rephrase: Years of intense studying and grueling tests paid off today, as I went down to the local clerk’s office with one task in mind: try to get my mom out of a traffic ticket! Here’s how it all went down.
Apparently, back in June, my mom got a traffic ticket for turning in the wrong direction at the wrong time. My first knowledge of this occurred yesterday morning, when my dad told me I would be representing my mom. My reaction? SHOCK AND PANIC. I know I graduated from a Big Ticket law school, and I know I passed the bar, and I know I took a little oath and was sworn in, but I’m not a real lawyer… I mean, I know there’s a bar card in my pocket with an official P-number and everything, but, come on, me? Defending a traffic ticket? They never taught us how to do that at Georgetown! I learned about due process and equal protection and theories of punishment and the legal frontier that is Cyberspace! I never learned how to drive down to the courthouse and file an appearance – I don’t even know what an “appearance” is, let alone how to file one, or what filing one actually signifies! I don’t know how to argue a traffic ticket!
But my dad told me I had to file an appearance – and not knowing anything about a subject has never stopped me before. I was worried that the clerks would be surly and gruff like the ones at the D.C. court, but these two clerks were actually quite pleasant. They looked to be in their 50s and 60s, and had a very motherly air about them. So I did what I always do when I don’t know how to do something: I played the Naiveté Card.
“Can I help you?” a clerk asked when she saw me wandering around aimlessly.
“Uh, yes. I am here to” – I paused to recall the exact words my father told me – “file an appearance for my client.” I smiled, pleased with myself for remembering all those words.
“Oh, okay.”
At this point, I realized that I had no idea what came next. I decided it was time to come clean.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m not really sure what to do. This is my first case ever since I passed the bar.”
The two women smiled. The bailiff, hanging around near the filing cabinets, applauded. “Congratulations!” they all said.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” I said. I decided to come even more clean. “And, actually, the client… is my mother.”
They laughed, and the bailiff said, “I hope you got paid up front!”
“Actually, she’s taking me to Panera.” I am in love with Panera iced chai teas. It’s a good deal.
So the clerks, seeing that I was new, led me through the whole process. They gave me the right forms and walked me through everything and that was that. I didn’t even need to show them my license or bar card. And there’s more:
“Are you interested in doing some criminal defense work?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Would you like to be added to the court-appointed attorneys list?”
“Absolutely!”
She handed me a notepad. “Just write a love letter to the judge, and I’ll make sure he puts you on the list.”
Wow! Visions of me arguing forcefully before a jury danced in my head. For the first time, it sunk in that maybe I really am a real lawyer – or at least, I could be if I wanted to. (I decided to hold off on the “love letter” because I’m not sure when I’ll be in Michigan again, and I would hate to get a letter telling me to appear in court two weeks from now on Tuesday, when two weeks from now on Tuesday I’ll be rehearsing with the Choral Arts Society of Washington at the church by my apartment in DC!)
I finished filling out the form letting me “file” the “appearance,” thanked them for their help, and walked out the door to my mommy’s waiting car. I still didn’t know what an appearance was, but I had just filed one! I am a real attorney! Time to buy a new suit.
Epilogue: According to my dad, “filing an appearance” means just what it sounds like. If someone wants to hire a lawyer to contest a traffic ticket, the lawyer goes down to the court and signs a form stating that he is representing his client in the matter. As I understand it, this simple act of showing up at the clerk’s office is the appearance, and filling out the form is “filing” part. Thus, “filing an appearance.” Now, the clerk gives me whatever paperwork there is on the ticket, and a pre-hearing date will be scheduled for sometime next month where I can meet with a city attorney to discuss this little matter of turning left during rush hour. Come on, 3 points? Really? For my mom, who is so nice and sweet and has a perfectly clean driving record? Surely we can work out a deal. Maybe instead of “improper turn” for 3 points, we can knock it down to “impeding traffic” for 1 point. Eh? Eh? Sound good? Whaddya say?
(Oh, also according to my dad, if you tell the clerks you are representing a family member, they always say they hope you got paid up front!)
This lawyering stuff ain’t so hard once you get the hang of it. But I still don’t see why they didn’t teach me any of this in school. Sure, studying constitutional history is fun and all, but it doesn't actually lead to many practical skills.....
Apparently, back in June, my mom got a traffic ticket for turning in the wrong direction at the wrong time. My first knowledge of this occurred yesterday morning, when my dad told me I would be representing my mom. My reaction? SHOCK AND PANIC. I know I graduated from a Big Ticket law school, and I know I passed the bar, and I know I took a little oath and was sworn in, but I’m not a real lawyer… I mean, I know there’s a bar card in my pocket with an official P-number and everything, but, come on, me? Defending a traffic ticket? They never taught us how to do that at Georgetown! I learned about due process and equal protection and theories of punishment and the legal frontier that is Cyberspace! I never learned how to drive down to the courthouse and file an appearance – I don’t even know what an “appearance” is, let alone how to file one, or what filing one actually signifies! I don’t know how to argue a traffic ticket!
But my dad told me I had to file an appearance – and not knowing anything about a subject has never stopped me before. I was worried that the clerks would be surly and gruff like the ones at the D.C. court, but these two clerks were actually quite pleasant. They looked to be in their 50s and 60s, and had a very motherly air about them. So I did what I always do when I don’t know how to do something: I played the Naiveté Card.
“Can I help you?” a clerk asked when she saw me wandering around aimlessly.
“Uh, yes. I am here to” – I paused to recall the exact words my father told me – “file an appearance for my client.” I smiled, pleased with myself for remembering all those words.
“Oh, okay.”
At this point, I realized that I had no idea what came next. I decided it was time to come clean.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m not really sure what to do. This is my first case ever since I passed the bar.”
The two women smiled. The bailiff, hanging around near the filing cabinets, applauded. “Congratulations!” they all said.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” I said. I decided to come even more clean. “And, actually, the client… is my mother.”
They laughed, and the bailiff said, “I hope you got paid up front!”
“Actually, she’s taking me to Panera.” I am in love with Panera iced chai teas. It’s a good deal.
So the clerks, seeing that I was new, led me through the whole process. They gave me the right forms and walked me through everything and that was that. I didn’t even need to show them my license or bar card. And there’s more:
“Are you interested in doing some criminal defense work?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Would you like to be added to the court-appointed attorneys list?”
“Absolutely!”
She handed me a notepad. “Just write a love letter to the judge, and I’ll make sure he puts you on the list.”
Wow! Visions of me arguing forcefully before a jury danced in my head. For the first time, it sunk in that maybe I really am a real lawyer – or at least, I could be if I wanted to. (I decided to hold off on the “love letter” because I’m not sure when I’ll be in Michigan again, and I would hate to get a letter telling me to appear in court two weeks from now on Tuesday, when two weeks from now on Tuesday I’ll be rehearsing with the Choral Arts Society of Washington at the church by my apartment in DC!)
I finished filling out the form letting me “file” the “appearance,” thanked them for their help, and walked out the door to my mommy’s waiting car. I still didn’t know what an appearance was, but I had just filed one! I am a real attorney! Time to buy a new suit.
Epilogue: According to my dad, “filing an appearance” means just what it sounds like. If someone wants to hire a lawyer to contest a traffic ticket, the lawyer goes down to the court and signs a form stating that he is representing his client in the matter. As I understand it, this simple act of showing up at the clerk’s office is the appearance, and filling out the form is “filing” part. Thus, “filing an appearance.” Now, the clerk gives me whatever paperwork there is on the ticket, and a pre-hearing date will be scheduled for sometime next month where I can meet with a city attorney to discuss this little matter of turning left during rush hour. Come on, 3 points? Really? For my mom, who is so nice and sweet and has a perfectly clean driving record? Surely we can work out a deal. Maybe instead of “improper turn” for 3 points, we can knock it down to “impeding traffic” for 1 point. Eh? Eh? Sound good? Whaddya say?
(Oh, also according to my dad, if you tell the clerks you are representing a family member, they always say they hope you got paid up front!)
This lawyering stuff ain’t so hard once you get the hang of it. But I still don’t see why they didn’t teach me any of this in school. Sure, studying constitutional history is fun and all, but it doesn't actually lead to many practical skills.....
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Sick Day
| I wasn't going to make this public, but... due to critical acclaim by the few I forwarded the link to, I have changed my mind. May I present: "Sick Day." (Music provided courtesy of XM 82.) | |
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Sunday, July 22, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
On Stupidity
A. Half the world is in the bottom 50% of intelligence.
I was watching "1 vs. 100" the other day -- that NBC show in which... well, because I'm too lazy to type the description out, I will paste in what Wikipedia has to say about it: "a single player (the 1) goes up against 100 other contestants (the mob). The 1 gains money for each mob member eliminated, but loses all winnings with an incorrect answer at any point. The host is actor-comedian Bob Saget, and the top prize is $1,000,000 US."
Okay. So the first question in these types of shows is always insanely easy, and the broadcast I was watching was no exception. The question was: "Which of these life forms has the fewest number of cells?" The choices:
1. Eastern Grey Squirrel
2. Calista Flockhart
3. Amoeba
Now, any reasonably intelligent person would laugh at how ludicrously easy that question is. An amoeba is, after all, a one-celled organism. We all learned that back in elementary school. Imagine my shock, then, when the "1" had to use one of her lifelines (or "helps," or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days), in this case choosing to "Poll the Mob." Of course, the most popular answer was the amoeba.
But that's not all: they revealed how many people got the question right versus wrong... and of the 100 people, 89 got it right.
This means ELEVEN GOT IT WRONG. You read that correctly: 11 people out of 100 did not know that an amoeba has fewer cells than a squirrel or a skinny actress. Granted, said actress only has 100 cells, but that's stillan order two orders of magnitude greater than one. I just wanted to strangle them all, but I contented myself with the knowledge that they will soon likely weed their genes out of existence through natural selection.
B. The District of Columbia Street Signage Department
Parking around my building is usually quite plentiful, except late at night. As I am a veritable Party Animal, routinely rocking the house in Adams Morgan until the wee hours of the morning, I often have to search for an open space. I recently discovered a treasure trove of spaces just half a block down the street, with a street that indicated Zone 3 parking from 7 am - 8:30 pm! Awesome! But then I noticed the sign just above:
Which is it?! And can someone please tell me which Civil Sadist gave the go ahead to install these two contradictory signs right next to each other? And what do I do? One friend told me I should park there and, if I get ticketed, show them this picture. Another said that I can't park there because the negative sign supersedes the positive sign. Yet another said that I can't park there because red signs are legally superior to blue signs.
Someone please help. I cannot cope with all the idiocy.
I was watching "1 vs. 100" the other day -- that NBC show in which... well, because I'm too lazy to type the description out, I will paste in what Wikipedia has to say about it: "a single player (the 1) goes up against 100 other contestants (the mob). The 1 gains money for each mob member eliminated, but loses all winnings with an incorrect answer at any point. The host is actor-comedian Bob Saget, and the top prize is $1,000,000 US."
Okay. So the first question in these types of shows is always insanely easy, and the broadcast I was watching was no exception. The question was: "Which of these life forms has the fewest number of cells?" The choices:
1. Eastern Grey Squirrel
2. Calista Flockhart
3. Amoeba
Now, any reasonably intelligent person would laugh at how ludicrously easy that question is. An amoeba is, after all, a one-celled organism. We all learned that back in elementary school. Imagine my shock, then, when the "1" had to use one of her lifelines (or "helps," or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days), in this case choosing to "Poll the Mob." Of course, the most popular answer was the amoeba.
But that's not all: they revealed how many people got the question right versus wrong... and of the 100 people, 89 got it right.
This means ELEVEN GOT IT WRONG. You read that correctly: 11 people out of 100 did not know that an amoeba has fewer cells than a squirrel or a skinny actress. Granted, said actress only has 100 cells, but that's still
B. The District of Columbia Street Signage Department
Parking around my building is usually quite plentiful, except late at night. As I am a veritable Party Animal, routinely rocking the house in Adams Morgan until the wee hours of the morning, I often have to search for an open space. I recently discovered a treasure trove of spaces just half a block down the street, with a street that indicated Zone 3 parking from 7 am - 8:30 pm! Awesome! But then I noticed the sign just above:
Which is it?! And can someone please tell me which Civil Sadist gave the go ahead to install these two contradictory signs right next to each other? And what do I do? One friend told me I should park there and, if I get ticketed, show them this picture. Another said that I can't park there because the negative sign supersedes the positive sign. Yet another said that I can't park there because red signs are legally superior to blue signs.
Someone please help. I cannot cope with all the idiocy.
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