Changes and the missing head

So I'm taking trial practice, which is cool, although personally I think those of us who have been on two trial teams should get out of it but whatever, it isn't like law school is here to make sense. We have to do a mock trial and I'm representing an insurance company who doesn't want to pay half a million dollars to the wife of this crooked judge who blew the top of his own head off with a shotgun. At first I was pretty pissed I had to represent an insurance company, because let's face it, they are evil by nature. By which I mean, fuck them. Now, here is where I get to how law school is scaring me. I'm taking business associations and have gotten hold of the fact that when a company pays out, it comes out of the pockets of the shareholders. So, OK, they are probably snotty rich fucks anyway so screw them for the most part, but you know, I just can't look at a company as faceless anymore. Now, as I've said before, I was born in a trailer in the sticks and well, where I'm from, you learn to shoot before you learn to do fractions or put your own bra on right. So I'm looking at this cool gory picture of this guy with the top of his head several feet away from the rest of his head and checking out the blood and the shotgun and it becomes very clear to me that this guy's death was a faked accident suicide by some crooked, embezzling liar who is trying to rip off this company that I can no longer call faceless. So I'm actually into representing the company now.

The moral? Law school changes you. I was thinking about this the other day: I really do feel like a different person than about 2 or 3 years ago. I guess that happens anyway if you are paying attention. Once in a while I feel like I'm looking at my life from the outside and like not all of it is sticking to the new me. The existential question? So how many fucking people do you have to be in a lifetime? How do you ever decide anything when you don't know whether future you is going to be on board or not? 27 year old leaky ceiling hungover longhaired hippie me is, quite frankly, shocked that 41 year old, sober, law student me is writing this closing argument defending an insurance company. It leaves open the question whether 64 year old whatever me will approve of what I'm doing today. But then, I guess that's the big question for all of us. For now, I guess I just have to answer this one - how did the top of this guy's head get all the way across the room like that? And for the moment at least, that's pretty cool.

Next: Judge Crackhead tells Candi to pay her bills

So I was watching TV the other day - well, actually, I just had it on while I was doing like three other things because I'm ADD and that's sort of how it goes. A promo came on for some other show and this really serious guy, in his deep, worried announcer voice, says something to the effect of "Mrs. Smith struggles - her Yorkie is ill. Next: the fight for Yappy." I had no idea what to do with the fact that someone's idea of journalism is to chronicle the puking of a yippy lap dog, and y'all, I still don't. I can say I was so discombobulated that I immediately turned the fucking idiot box off after that and broke out some Joni Mitchell records. Yes, records. But back to TV: what does this say, that a sick dog is journalism, and by the way, why haven't any of them come over when one of my cats was sick? "Lesbian law student struggles - one-eyed cat loses another tooth and apparently, has worms. Next: the fight to feed Stella." Stupid dog.

Perhaps we just have too many channels and it's getting that hard to find something to put on them. The result is that we have shitting dogs on camera and, of course, a plethora of court TV shows with semi literate drama queens being yelled at by judges with personality disorders because they used up all of their roomate's hairspray and then moved out without paying the cable bill. The result is that us upcoming lawyers have to contend with a mass of citizens who think they know something about the law or how courtroom drama plays out from watching Law & Order after Judge Crackhead. Yes, Jack McCoy probably would have gotten up from behind his table and made incisive personal comments that left the witness stammering, such that the trial was over after a commercial break where we learned how Tide can magically remove butter stains, but it's not like that in real life, and no, I'm not going to yell at the witness and the judge is not going to stop the trial and dramatically annouce how you have been wronged, thus vindicating your search for justice over the way Candi stole your husband. I mean, damn, y'all, isn't the law hard enough?

But maybe our jobs as lawyers are to provide some sense of perspective - in which case, I should have saved myself the trouble of going to law school and kept my counseling job. It could be worse, though. I could be the host of an afternoon TV show holding the mike for Mrs. Smith while she holds her puking Yorkie on her lap, having to look serious while I'm thinking the fucking dog looks like the result of combing carpet. Well, that's me keeping things in perspective. Until next time, take care of your pets and for God's sake, don't sue Candi on "Judge Crackhead" - I will NOT represent you.

and now, for something completely different

for a little change of pace, here's a poem i wrote today about the war when i didn't feel like studying for business. it ain't revised, because i don't feel like doing that either, but hell, here it is:

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perhaps the drums i hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war.
they scatter under dishonest stars
toward houses which no longer recognize them,
dodging SUVs full of blind people
with little flags along the road.

perhaps the thunder i hear at night
is the newly dead coming back from the war
dropping their drums around the white house.
perhaps the silence i hear at night
is them stopping, and slowly beginning to pity the president,
who eats his shame for a midnight snack
while gently petting the little dog inside him,
who constantly barks out, ‘you’re a failure.’
perhaps they realize
he cannot help but stumble around pushing things;
he blusters because he was never taught to count,
and now must spend the rest of his days
not listening to the deafening voices of the world
saying, “you are a stupid man.”

perhaps the rustling I hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war,
pushing around in the leaves i never raked last fall
in search of a kiss buried, or a hatchet
with which to stage a rebellion. Perhaps the voices
i hear at night are the voices of the newly dead
coming back from the war, calling out to the living
in their red, white and blue surprises,
talking about that day on the seesaw, that night in the kitchen,
the blood in the moonlight by the waterfront,
with only a little time, pressed for forgiveness.

Here's to Scooter, a dumb, true believer

In the news: Scooter Libby found guilty. Well, duh. And not just because he was obviously lying; but because this was his job; to take the bullet for some horrible fucker and, in the process, to perhaps inspire some measure of odd respect for his loyalty. History is full of people like him. But then, what would it have sounded like if he had told the truth, anyway? "So, did Cheney want Valerie Plame outed?" "Oh, you mean Satan? yeah, sure," "So, it is your testimony that Cheney is Satan?" "Yeah, everybody thinks its Karl Rove, but he's just the front man. Karl's an evil fucker though, don't get me wrong." And so on.

Hey, we all need somebody. Reagan needed Oliver North. Cheney needed Scooter Libby. You need somebody. I need somebody. It's a matter of who we need, and that's a measure of who we are. Cheney is a sneaky, evil shit; he needed some sucker to take the fall for him. I can barely count and need someone who will make sure the mortgage gets paid. The guy at the taco stand needs people who don't get horrible gas from beans, or better, who don't care. It's always something; and so, it's always someone.

But what does it mean to be the one who got needed? Making paper airplanes while your girlfriend writes the mortgage check? Rich? In prison? Left on the curb wondering what the fuck just happened? I have to wonder if Scooter will lie in prison in the middle of the night, listening to the rats feet on the linoleum, thinking "Scooter, you stupid son of a bitch." "Why didn't you just stay home and run that hardware store, Scooter?" "Why didn't you just open that moped dealership, Scooter?" "You just had to work for Satan, didn't you, Scooter?" Or whatever a guy named Scooter thinks in prison in the middle of the night while the rats scrabble and Cheney farts after an overpriced dinner of steak and scotch, and blames it on somebody else.

And yet, I somehow respect the guy, because as stupid as I think he is, at least he was really dedicated to someone, and to something. And beyond what we need, what we can and cannot commit to might really be the measure of who we are. Here's to you, Scooter Libby; you're a dumb fucker, but at least you believe in something. Maybe we could all learn a little something from you.