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January 26, 2005

And so it begins

One night at dinner about a year and a half ago, my mother confessed to me that she was pleased and intrigued by the way my dad and I had started talking to each other, now that I was well into my legal studies and could talk intelligently with him about his profession and my future career. I can't recall the exact phrasing--it is, after all, 1:30am and I'm writing rather than getting some time in the rack--but I seem to remember a vague swell of pride in her voice as she recounted as much to me. I'm fairly certain that, after tonight's conversation, with me on speakerphone and my folks at home, that she's going to regret having not more thoroughly dissuaded me from following the likes of the Justices and the Judges. Aside from the serendipitous fact that dad and I were dealing with precisely the same legal issue today#[legal], I think my mom was getting a bit peeved by the fact that we were arguing with each other over just which provision of the Delaware General Corporate Law it was governing transfers, rather than continuances, into other states. I am, apparently, my father's son. [legal]: moving a domestic company from Delaware into a foreign jurisdiction, like the Cayman Islands. Needless to say, when I'm a giant corporation, I plan on using that damn knowledge.

This was Law , and it appeared on January 26, 2005 1:25 AM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

January 19, 2005

Love Song to S. Esser Prufrock

It happened this weekend. While I could say that I had a realization about the legal profession and its propriety for me--and I did--that's not it. No even though I spent the holiday weekend working, rather than spinning the MLK top or doing...whatever the traditional Dr. King holiday celebration is...I was filled with a certainty. I love S. As I sat there pondering annoying legalisms and vaguely loathing a client I've not met, my need to leave wasn't based in a hatred of the job or a desire to do “something else.�. It was that I wanted to spend time with S, doing whatever. And sure, she was there for me when I had my crisis of legal faith on Sunday night, and yeah, she gave an amazingly decompressing backrub when my back felt like tectonic plates, and she's generally 18,000 times cooler than the other side of the pillow, but this was a need coming from within me. I didn't just want the things she provides; I wanted--and need--her.

This was Love , and it appeared on January 19, 2005 10:30 AM. | Comments (2) | TrackBack

January 18, 2005

Zzzzz....Wha?

Dear higher-ups, bosses, co-workers, and the like: When you say "Rest up tonight; you won't get much sleep in a couple of days"? Yeah, that's not so restful.

This was Law , and it appeared on January 18, 2005 11:25 PM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Dance!

He is there on the subway platform, twitching just perceptibly and quickly to music unheard. Yet his pattern seems to match the amateur fingerpicking I'm doing on my imaginary guitar along with Dave Matthews' “Trouble�. In fact as I see more and more white headphones out there, I imagine us all suddenly breaking into synchronized motion, like Rockettes on low-dose stimulants. The subway busker may be providing actual backup music, but we are fed by our technological, external wellsprings of music that prevents the accusation of insanity by reason of dancing to unheard music.

This was Musical Musing , and it appeared on January 18, 2005 10:24 AM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 7, 2005

Bienvenido a Miami

So it is possible, if not likely, that in the next week, I will be traveling to warmer--if not actually sunny--Miami for business. This is a bit odd. My first professional business trip. For my previous life, a business trip was down to J&R to get some competitors' CDs or around the corner for a Starbucks. Once I took a contract to a fairly well-known band and was the ultra-preppy geek waking up some very smoky and hungover indie rock cool guys. That was fun. So really, the only business trip one can say I ever took was to Woodstock. And let's face it, sleeping in a damp, mildewy basement, or between two tables while CDs were sold over your head, and running from flaming riots probably doesn't constitute "business trip." So I guess this means that, if not growing up, I'm at least getting older.

This was Law , and it appeared on January 7, 2005 12:42 AM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

6 o'clock in the Morning, You're the Last To Hear the Warning

These are the days you learn to loathe. Not how to loathe another person, place, thing, or other entity, but how to loathe the day. The dark-rising. The precipitation that is too heavy to ignore, that keeps getting in your eyes, mouth and ears, yet is too light to use an umbrella against, because who wants to look like that idiot holding an umbrella against nothing? The precipitation that is just warm enough to not be cute, comforting, peaceful or cheery, but is cold enough to seep into every pore, every joint in your body, and indeed, it seems, into your brain and very soul, weighing things down so that you feel you need a hair dryer just to make it through the day. There is, of course, the looming work, the lack of sleep, and the general worry about career, life, etc., but for the moment, that just takes a full back seat to the awful press of the alarm against your ears, Death Cab For Cutie playing or no.

This was New York , and it appeared on January 7, 2005 12:32 AM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack

January 2, 2005

Resolute

See, here's the thing: asking a blogger to write more often is a difficult thing. More often than not, the blogger in question wants to write more, more often, and better. Although the requests are directly in line with what they want to do, other things, other responsibilities, other distractions often intervene. Particularly if the blogger in question doesn't consider themselves writers. I would love to consider myself a writer. But I don't. I don't think that it's my calling anymore than going to the gym is a calling. I go to the gym regularly because I know that it's crucial to my mental and physical health. Yet while I believe that writing is a good form of catharsis, a good way of flexing my literary ability, and a way of keeping some people I care deeply about happy--including myself--I don't think that I need the writing the way I need the gym. And since I don't call myself a fitness enthusiast, I can't very likely call myself a writer. In fact, I don't call myself a lawyer. Not simply because I haven't yet been admitted to the bar, a qualification that drives everyone, including S, absolutely batty. Actually, it's because that's what I do, and in some ways, it will undoubtedly be who I become, I know that I've got aspirations beyond being a lawyer. Maybe it will come when I get married, or when I have a child--then maybe the first words of self-description will be: I'm a husband; I'm a father. The closest I can come to something resembling such a thing is to say that I'm a New Yorker, but even that is something I've wrestled with. My heart has always been here, but my body spent a good bit of time in Texas, and sometimes it's advantageous to tell people I'm from there.#[jimmy] But the truth is that I am from here, I percieve my career to be here, and my family homes in on this city like boomerangs. [jimmy]: Like when I go to Brother Jimmy's here in the City, and they have discounts for Southerners, or where it helps in rapport with someone else. Sometimes a day burns in my head, forces me out of bed and over to the computer; sometimes I am walking on the street, swearing I'll remember some jaunty little piece for later and don't; sometimes I find myself wanting to write so desperately that it burns a bit in my mind, but I can't find the time. Sadly, these days, sleep is too precious a commodity, work too strong a whip, and my desire to see S too powerful a compulsion to sit in front of the computer and pontificate on something meaningful or meaningless. But what that all means is that to call myself a writer would be a step beyond what would be politely described as stretching the definition. I am a blogger, and a hardly-prodigious one at that. That said, I do enjoy writing, and I do enjoy getting readers, and I know that for better or worse, this is a hobby I don't intend to lose soon. Maybe I'll carve out an hour each weekend day, maybe I'll start keeping a scrapbook of ideas for rough publication, maybe I'll just start emailing tidbits each day, but this is my new resolution: I will do whatever I can to keep writing regularly. No promises on quality or quantity, but I recognize that I need this outlet every little once in a while, and I do so enjoy it.

This was Wordplay , and it appeared on January 2, 2005 7:37 PM. | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 1, 2005

New Year's Eve

You might think that if you had a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, that you would have the best holiday party ever. But I'm here to tell you, folks, that at 3:30 this morning, not all lights were alight atop the skyscrapers surrounding my apartment. I so deserve one of those places.

This was Perspective , and it appeared on January 1, 2005 3:42 AM. | Comments (0) | TrackBack