Monday, October 29, 2007

|And honey as far as I'm concerned, the tables have turned...|

Law students grading law firms, because that's just how we roll.

And for those of you wondering, my own firm did not do so well, particularly in the Black, Hispanic and LGBT categories. It's just that ol' white shoe magic.

All the pushin' away and puttin' down
Can't you see you're gettin' the run around?


promulgated by SWS2.1 at 15:39.
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Friday, October 26, 2007

|Neither the Rain nor the Bossa Nova. Nope. The Market.|

I don't think that prior to law school I ever used words like "lodestar" or "dispositive" or "res ipsa loquitor." And I especially never referred to "the market."

I think at best I may have said, "store" or "grocery store" or "marketing" or even "hypermarché," but only because it's one of the coolest words the French have.

But now, as a law student, having been brow-beaten into submission by Coase, Posner and Epstein squibs, everything I think of is cognified (not a word) in terms of the "MARKET." Yes, in my head, that omniscient, omnipotent, omni-omni, allegedly self-correcting beast is responsible for everything: grade distribution, first-year associate salaries (and their increases), why service is often iffy (smiles don't make my cold chocolate into a hot one) at Tiny Cup, housing prices, and homophobia/homophilia on network television, to name a few, along with the easy things (land reform in China, punitive damages, and, of course, the market).

Why had I never heard or thought of this market before? Where had it been all my life? How would I think the world works had I not gone to law school (and also hadn't gone into I-banking like pretty much all the other Columbia grads who don't go to law school)? And, most importantly, is there a market in Heaven?

(And as I type that, I realize Heaven must be on a market system [just probably not a very effficient one]. Yom Kippur, Catholic Intercession, Brahman Nergunawhat are those if not ways of regulating the supply and demand of souls?!!!?!??!?!!?!)

(I don't pretend to be any kind of economist or to have any idea of what I'm talking about. I'm just a blogger.)


promulgated by SWS2.1 at 16:54.
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Friday, October 19, 2007

|The Misplaced Hubris of the Hypocritical Vagabond|

"I've always considered myself a vagabond, living by my own wits," he said, as he pulled his brass-colored crochet hook through another set of loops.

I noticed him as soon as he walked into Tiny Cup (my awesome neighborhood cafe). Tall and lean, with dark buzz cut hair and crazy blue eyes. He wore a ratty looking union local tee shirt and jeans. He asked if he could share my table. He sat down across from me, sipped his coffee and read the Fortune magazine that was already on the table. As he made quasi-crazy comments outloud to himself about what he was reading regarding international fiscal (ir)responsibility, I couldn't help but come to the conclusion that he was probably gay.

At some point he pulled out his own paper and his own tobacco, rolled a cigarette and then stepped outside to smoke it. When he returned, from out of his crumpled yellow plastic shopping bag, he pulled a crocheted hat full of balls of yarn. From out of his pocket he retrieved a crochet hook, and he started to craft.

Here was my chance, I thought—my in. I wasn't about to let another "in" pass me by (last week this really hot guy was looking through a stack of job posting print-outs for adjunct Sociology professorships and I said nothing). I watched him work for a bit. Mesmerized by the sinews that undulated back and forth in his muscular forearms as he maneuvered the brass tool. After some time I engaged him in conversation. Friendly enough, "Have you been crocheting long?" At first he seemed perturbed (which I didn't mind because when I'm knitting in public I don't always want to talk about it or anything else, for that matter) and I backed off, but then he started talking and didn't stop.

The conversation moved in what would from the outside appear smoothly to what from the inside appeared schizophrenic from the differences between knitting and crochet (he respects one for being more "utilitarian"—you only get two guesses as to which one) to how one should live one's life to what horrors he thought were visited upon society by magazines such as "Interview" and "Details" and "GQ" (the magazines that were on the window sill next to us), with banners questioning, "Are you satisfying your wife?" What kind of question is that? He asked. Why bring that negativity into the world? I nodded. More facially intellectual but significantly superficial and pretentious observations poured forth from his beautiful lips as he railed against many of the trappings of modern life (cellular phones, laptops, etc.). He finds his peace in Japanese fencing, and does not necessarily begrudge others the peace they may find in Details and Vanity Fair magazines, though he still thinks Details and Vanity Fair are secretly openly ruining society.

And then a painter walked in. Other than the medium length blond hair, they could have been twins. The painter was tall and lean and muscular and young, wearing paint bespeckled jeans and splotched workboots, and carrying a long roller (and tracking paint in on the floor that I don't think the owner has yet to notice, but I'm sure soon will). Mid-conversation the vagabond, staring at the painter says with no degree of subtlety or discretion, "Woo! I like him." He continued to talk to me, but stared at the painter the whole time. He was forming a plan—I could tell he was forming a plan, but I was unsure what the plan was. Soon he'd put away his crochet, taken out his cigarette making supplies again, and, in short order, had abandoned me to go speak to the tall, good looking svelte painter outside while they smoked.

And soon they were both gone. Together? Apart? I don't know.

If only I were wearing my "i [heart] irony" tee-shirt.


promulgated by SWS2.1 at 13:54.
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Thursday, October 18, 2007

|Of Urinal Cakes and Secret Rooms|

I stopped by the bathroom on my way to my journal for office hours and, as I was peeing and becoming upset with the splash-back from the urinal cake, it occurred to me that women don't have to deal with splash-back. Then I thought, "Do women even ever see urinal cakes?"

So I asked the first woman I saw, K1, on my journal. Yes, she's seen urinal cakes. Unisex and co-ed bathrooms, of course! Though she admitted it was years before she knew what she was seeing was.

She then asked me if I'd seen tampon disposal boxes before. I, of course, had. And then as we explored more the difference between our two worlds, she revealed to me something amazing: in the women's restroom on the second floor of the main law school building is a secret room. Well, secret to those who don't use (or clean) women's restrooms: a nursing room.

How could this be? The women's and men's rooms are on opposite sides of the building, but the floors are, for the most part, symmetrical. I asked K1 how big the space was, but she couldn't say. K1 has never actually been in the room, not having recently had a baby and all. Yes, I was surprised as you surely must be that sheer curiousity would not have driven her into the minimally plush space (sofas and lamps and a table, oh my!) (not to wax sexist, but I think this is a general divide between the XX's and the XY's -- I think most guys would have wanted to experience life in the innerinnersanctum). We also came to the conclusion that there are probably the same number of stalls in each room. So, again, where's the space? Then enter K2, looking for a book. She has also never been in the room. As she put it, "It's all the way at the end, and I never need to go down that far."

Eureka! At the far end of our bathroom are the urinals (and I also never go down that far 'cause when you gotta go you gotta go -- why walk several extra feet to a urinal when there is a toilet right here at the front). So, in place of the urinals, they have a baby boobie buffet.

And had I not had this conversation with K1, I would have gone on with law school, graduated, worked at a law firm, made oodles, died intestate 'cause I can't get married and won't have kids and so what do I care what happens to my shizzle and bizzle, never having known of the secret room for ladies in the room for ladies.

I think it's safe to say that the course of events of my life has been altered completely.


promulgated by SWS2.1 at 15:08.
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Wednesday, October 17, 2007

|Back in Action|

I have not written in a while. I have been feeling less motivated (partially) and less creative (mostly). But, I dunno, my life was in the duldroms (too lazy to spellcheck that) for a tit-bit, but now I feel as though I'm on the cusp of an upswing.

It's a whole new Jan Brady.


promulgated by SWS2.1 at 16:35.
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|Septimus Warren Smith 2.1|

I went to an Ivy League undergrad.
I go to a top NYC law school.
I date men (well...).
I live in Bed-Stuy.
I don't need more to say,
just more room to say it.
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