If Life Hands You Limes
I had sort of a high on Thursday night, that slowly seeped into Friday. Sometime during the weekend, it tapered off. The thing about anxiety -- or maybe just this Bar exam nonsense -- is that it never definitively begins and ends. Along the way, it just becomes a lifestyle. (Heh, beyond the meaning of having taken it a gaggle of times.)
Now I am preoccupied about a whole host of other things, obviously too uninteresting to enumerate. But I will say that I made a bad decision in accessing that blog that Cindy showed me, written by Anonymous Lawyer, who styles her blather as, "Stories from the trenches, by a fictional hiring partner at a large law firm in a major city." I say "her", even though the author's gender is unspecified, because I feel that the venomous bile spewed out on the site is the special sort women have the talent for. Now, I don't know what the deal is with it being a "fictional" partner, and to what degree the site recounts real life. But it's a viewpoint, and a narrative, and it's carried out sequentially.
The latest post was just a mean attack on anybody who doesn't pass the Bar the first time. About how people act like it's OK, but it's really not; and essentially how you must feel compelled to make up for it for the rest of your career, because you are a retarded do-nothing of lazy and hopeless intellect, whose promise in the legal world is bleak, if not non-existent. I don't know if the "major city" she's in is in California, where the only consistent element of the grading rubric is deciding that 47-48% of the applicants will pass. That's a very eerie way to decide that the remaining 52-53% are imbecilic fuck-ups who don't have a chance in life. Usually, it is difficult to truly offend me -- but this characterization, offered by a loser with no identity, was still unsettling. It actually made me angry, with all that I have been through this year.
I will never fault circumstance for my not passing. Obviously, passing is something that is wholly within my hands. But I refuse to have my attitude be anything but one of perseverance and hopefulness. And really, anybody out there who looks down on attorneys who sit for the exam more than once is the reason lawyers get bad raps as being pompous, self-concerned assholes. They are more concerned with using their profession as a calling card of lifestyle and status. And I'll be damned if I'll ever measure the quality of my good life that way.
The irony is, after all that venting, I'm not going to provide a link to the site.
But I will continue to refer to my good life. This weekend, it involved the Arsenal, and a fat party of my best and extended friends. I was definitely more trashed than I ought to have been, but it befitted the occasion. I had excellent Livornese at Sor Tino. I drove down part of the coastline with good music and better company. I was in a boat with a glass of Chianti. I woke up to something nice. I had fantastic noodle soup. I got bamboozled into singing for a bunch of chinks again, and wearing a gown, no less. I had Cecil's barbecue for the first (and undoubtedly, not the last) time. What a difference a week makes.
Goldfinger is on. No better way to close a Sunday.
Serenity Now!
You see, it's almost 1:00 am, but I have been so amped for the last 4 days, that it all just blurs together now. I can't shake this crick in my neck, and there's something oddly unsettling about how fast I am typing right now and my urge to break out in legalese. But whatever, I'm home. Proof is that Dozer promptly got on my Marc Jacobs and took a nap.
I have a dark suspicion that this may not be the last. I constantly fret about the disaster that occurred ca. 10:00 am on July 26, 2005, which we will now refer to as the Property-Contracts-But-it's-Property Disaster of Bar 3. This morning, as I opened up Question 5 of the July 2005 Bar, I saw that we were presented with a contracts/remedies problem. Uh-oh, I realized, I guess on Tuesday, that shit really was property.
Later... after the professional responsibility question... after the South Beach Diet chocolate bar and fried Atlantic cod for lunch... after buying a discounted top at Max Studio... after a lackadaisically written performance test about civil forfeitures... I ambled around Old Town, disoriented. I had a few bags slung on my shoulder, carrying my laptop, my study guides, my shiznit... and the heat beat down, and I wasn't sure what I would do next. I have been a victim of Bar shellshock before. I looked curiously into windows and thought very plaintively, hmm, Pasadena sure has a lot of stuff I ain't never seen. I was entering vegetable mode.
Eventually, looking for a place to check my email, I resigned to go into the office. I mean, it was right there! So the irony is, after the hell that was the Bar, I ended up right back at the law firm. I saw a couple of the attorneys and we made animated small talk, since with all that containment I was starting to be Cheri Oteri on speed.
Later, I ended up all by my lonesome at the wine bar at Restaurant Halie. Everything had already been so weird that it didn't seem odd that I was sitting there with two old, single men. One had no chin and was already drunk. The other had a fiendish, would-be rapist look in his eyes as he asked me about my Montepulciano. "I just pick an Italian I recognize," I told him dully.
But my dinner companions showed up very quickly. And I turned down my cell phone so that I could have the first bit of repose in what has been an unforgiving, stressful week. Dinner was a quiet affair, of polite conversation and amusing tidbits. I had an aged steak, green beans, and au gratin, even though the menu said I would get cauliflower. There were some wonderfully steamed mussels in a spicy sauce of coconut milk. The waiter was a horrible sycophant. The warm chocolate cake was acceptable, but I privately thought I could do better with half a stick of butter, an egg, and a handful of Nestle Toll House chocolate chips. But all I would do is hold that large wine glass to my lips and then smile to myself. Because I was so, so happy. For now, this is fine.
The drive home was jarring. After a week of being ambulatory, I was paranoid of all the one-eyed vehicles and speeding beams of light on the road. "Negligent tortfeasors," I mumbled under my breath. I put in my Madonna Immaculate Collection, and wailed as if I had leg warmers and a torn t-shirt on.
Most of the time, it seemed like the most solitary thing I have ever gone through. It's hard to convey your anguish and disappointment. A couple of times, I sat in front of the Civic Center crying to myself. I put on my huge Gucci shades, my favorite ones from Bolaffi in Livorno, because they best concealed tear-stained eyes. I always remember what happened after Day 2 of Bar 1, when I was crying in sobs on the phone to my dad. And how I vowed to never cry to them again about it, because it was so silly, especially to parents whose education capped at Taiwanese high schools. My mom said to me a long time ago, "We worry about you. Because you are so emotional. And you may not succeed in the real world because of it." I felt so insulted that I may even have given her a dirty look, not bothering to assure her that I have a steeliness I didn't care to brag about. But that conversation has always stuck with me, that it is obvious to most everybody where my vulnerabilities are. And even if I don't want to appear weak, it is still comforting to know that's why you care.
I realized that it hasn't been the solitary experience I characterize it to be. After all, when I finally checked my phone after dinner, there were 5 missed calls. There were 3 voice-mails. And all the other people I have heard from this week. I do believe now I would do it all over again. (Ha, I may have to!) But I mean, reliving the past year -- the rare sense of fulfillment, accomplishment, and security, that really just comes from all the encouragement, if not a validation by the stupid CalBar website. I know I am corny all too often, but take it just one more time. From the bottom of my heart, really, thank you.
Eight Down, One to Go
... for the Bar exam hattrick!
This morning, I came upon the Pasadena Civic Center, and saw all the students scattered around the steps. And looking at that entryway, I imagined it the other significant time I had been at the same venue, under much different circumstances, at a whole other phase of my life.
We were doing the technical Emmys in 2000. It was a warm summer afternoon on a Saturday, and the place was teeming with tech dudes from the TV industry, all in black tie. Because it was less flashy stuff that still had to be archived for Fox, I got to handle the red carpet. And it was when I got dissed by Tony Danza. He was the only real celebrity to be at the event because they only handed out one acting award, for the Best Actor in a Guest Starring Role. As his career had already tapered, he had
managed to get a guest spot and then
managed to get nominated. Well, oops. So I asked him, "And what brings you here today?"
He turned all red-faced. Asked his assistant or publicist, or whatever, "Who is this kid?" and made this big fuss before charging up the red carpet to be interviewed by somebody who gave a shit about his washed-up status. And then our producer sort of snickered at me, because I was obviously embarrassed and a little stunned, but so grateful that he had a sense of humor at my rookie mistake. I also maintain that we
both thought of Tony Danza as a joke.
Well, that was all very different from my purpose there this morning. It went fine. With the MBEs, it can either feel very easy (which is trouble) or feel very hard (which is accurate). In this damned-if-you-do/don't state of affairs, I resigned that I should just plow through it and ask questions later. Natalia and I spent a lot of time on the phone marveling at the new variations we saw today, that never appeared with BarBri or PMBR.
The level of concentration a brain reaches during the 3 days of the exam is probably one of the most naturally miraculous things I've ever had to personally experience. OK, j., Matthieu, maybe you 2 were right when you said, "Oh, God. If you have A.D.D., then we all do."
I still might. But obviously I can sit still for 18 hours for 3 days.
I spent lunchtime gabbing on the phone with j., and confessing that I had prime rib for lunch for 2 days straight. There
are certain perks to being here.
I will have a special dinner guest tonight, which is refreshing. The prospect of meaningful human interaction!
Tomorrow Is Another Day
(Especially If You Didn't Do Well On The First Day of the Bar Exam)
Listen, if I have to take it again, I will. It's that simple. I hate the process. I hate the 3 days, soon to be 9, that have transpired. But I got both a good laugh, and a good cry, out of today.
It was all sort of anti-climactic. When I was sitting there, I felt like I had been there last week. During the fingerprinting and handwriting sample, while the (fertile) octogenarians were picking up the torn wrappers from the moist towlette proffered to clean your fingertips with, I thought about what I might blog about today. Should I blog about my breakfast in the hotel, and how lucid I was reviewing Section 16(b) and Rule 10(b)5? Should I talk about listening to Whitney Houston's "One Moment in Time" on my iPod on the walk over, and being inspired by the lyrics, "I've laid the plans, now lay the chance here in my hands"? Should I blog about the poor, nervous, sweaty girl two seats down who forgot her external A drive and had to handwrite the whole exam?
I thought I would say this. Bar examiners, thank you very much for handing me community property. I was ready for you. But fuck you very much for handing me property and corporations, the two things everybody predicted we would not see. At first, I thought I had bumbled the third essay because out of four calls addressing, respectively, ultra vires acts, director's board meetings, the corporate opportunity doctrine, and then a lawyer's professional ethics, I only properly addressed two. And that was with law I bullshitted.
So then at lunch, I got on the phone immediately with Cirrus. I bawled a little bit. The sweet girl had run into the bathroom to chat because she anticipated my phone call. At the end of it, her message was this: "But Dozer loves you. So promise me you'll get something really yummy to eat for lunch."
I then called Teresa. She was ready for my call, too. I asked her if I could pass the Bar exam having verifiably bombed one essay, because Teresa claims to have botched the Constitutional law one from July 2004, but then having subsequently passesd (with flying colors). "Absolutely," she said, "and you seem to think my idea of bombing is not your idea of bombing, but it is."
I went back in after lunch, hopped up on caffeine, ready to nail the performance test. It went very smoothly -- but I knew it would be a softball. Like last time, it was a persuasive client letter where two out of the three cases were on point. Blah blah blah.
Afterward, Po and I did the math. "If you get a 70 on a PT, then that's 8 points higher than the 62 average required for each essay to pass, which means if you got a 45 on the essay you bombed, and you add 16 [doubling the weight of the PTs], you get a... 61. Oh." Yeah, numerically, it's hard to beat. Then Po said, "Well, the Bar is like war. Some die, some don't. It's like the Polpot regime. I got out of the Polpot regime." I suppose the Bar examiners are a bit like the Khmer Rouge.
I talked to my dad. Who was amazing. "When this is over, I want you to call me, and forget about the consequences."
I talked to Tony. "I don't want to hear this 'I bombed it' crap. This isn't the same girl who went in and won the car."
And finally, after all day of trying, I talked to Natalia. Who had the worst ordeal of all. Her dramatics were surprisingly uplifting, and in the end I was lying on that king-sized bed there laughing in gales. "Eve was fucking right. It's all about presentation for that asshole who's going to grade my exam. If only I had put 'duty of care' down as a heading and then under it 'xxx' they would still give me a better score."
Only until a little while ago did I realize, that property question, I answered quite incorrectly. I answered it like a contracts question. We're talking offer, acceptance, etc. Catastrophic. 45 coming my way, along with 55 for the corporations one!
So, the theme of it all? Tomorrow is another day. This all matters so little in the grand scheme of things. I'm not saying that I don't care and I don't want to try my bestest and that I don't want to pass. I do, so much. But I will not let this upset me, anymore, even one more day.
Over and Out
Of the 14 subjects on my mind, I may be most concerned about this:
Rome Ending Cobblestone EraI loved those stones. My heels would always get caught between the cracks, teetering between taking the next step and permanent disability. But there was something awfully romantic about treading on the same stones as Julius Caesar, and likely, Cleopatra, when the two of them would head out for a pizza.
I made the mistake today of finally checking up that one blog that Jason showed me, from the girl in San Francisco who has been blogging the whole Bar exam experience. It's her first time, and from what I read, undoubtedly her last and only. Her level of preparation is daunting and evokes all kinds of nausea and fear for a veteran like me. I suppose, across three attempts ("substantial step that goes beyond mere preparation"), I have done as much as her, and probably more. But I don't know. It all feels like a big blur at this point. I know I logged in many cold, lonely hours sitting at the most deserted parts of the library. Across San Diego and Los Angeles, no less. But those moments have fizzled into the air, in absentia, as the Bar exam has the unique ability to make time well spent, no time spent at all.
But you know, here we go, and it's OK. Today, I did a precious lot. Managed to get to the UCLA library pretty early and knock out a few MBEs. Took the bus around Westwood and had some Hawaiian at Ono. Packed it all up, said bye to Dozie, and crept along the 405, 101, and 134 until I was checked in here on Fair Oaks Avenue. Then laid by the pool, weighing whether or not I should waste another second preparing for the performance tests, with checklists in hand. (Natalia: "I decided the time I would use studying for PTs was better spent getting my hair done.") Meandered around Pasadena, just to do the dry-run walk to the testing center, and charted out tomorrow morning's path, stopping for a little Indian on the way back. Reviewed enough criminal procedure until I was bored to tears, and then brought corporations down to the hot tub to soak with me. Bar examiners, if you present me with a trusts question tomorrow, I will meet you in February 2006.
Anyway, I've tarried too long here, but I really wanted to say
mille grazie for the calls, texts, IMs, and emails. One email was actually a personal story in disguise -- you know who you are, and I thought about your kindness for quite awhile. Everything
will be OK. It's that simple, and thank goodness you pointed that out.
OK, ciao for now.
Bar Prayer
Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum,
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
Et benedictus fructus ventris tuae, Jesus.
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in ora mortis nostrae, Amen.Once, awhile back, Van and I were shooting the shit late at night in our hotel room in San Francisco. We couldn't get to sleep and sort of laid awake in our beds talking about clinical depression, our childhoods, the things you take with you when you move place to place, a real smorgasbord of topics. Then we were bored so we began singing: first, the libretto from
Les Miserables, and then I think I sang
O mio babbino caro, too, for shits and giggles. Months later, she had told one of our friends at school, who was getting married, that I could sing in a certain range. That friend was looking for someone to sing
Ave Maria at her ceremony. At that time, I didn't think that I had the balls to go ruin somebody's wedding with my voice. But I liked the idea and warmed up to the challenge. And I learned how to sing
Ave Maria, having practiced a lot in my car, and having gone to Stella's too, to get her technical feedback.
But that was going down around Bar 1, and then right after that I moved immediately to LA. And then we sort of fell out of touch, and it seemed silly to track down the friend for the sake of showing off my falsetto range. So my version of
Ave maria never found an audience, for probably better than worse.
But I am always glad that I learned to sing it and faithfully committed the lyrics to memory. Because it's beautiful and calming and I can recite it in my own secular way. Which I will do quickly on Tuesday morning. (Not the thrift store.)
Just Say No
Very strong coffee in the morning always takes me back to certain memories of Italy. I think of the Autogrills by the highways, where we so often pulled over from some crack-of-dawn drive to another town, another airport. The roads and bars were pretty empty, and it made the aroma of a cappuccino that much more potent. Maybe I'd also have a bombolone (custard-filled doughnut), or, to my Italian companion's chagrin, a panino. "We do not eat salty things for breakfast," he or she would inform me. Tell that to Denny's.
I decided this morning that I would proceed with the remainder of my Bar foray sans medicinal aid. Those study, er, vitamins were fun for a couple of days, but around 7:00 or 8:00 pm I felt like my eyes were bugging out and my limbs were unnervingly tingly. The two hours where the caffeine and modafinil were working in concert were fabulously mood-enhancing, but why do I need to feel like a chipmunk on steroids? No need to take the Bar exam feeling as if I were Robert Downey, Jr., or Sam Kinison, or Tony Little (the blond guy with the ponytail who peddles the Gazelle, no pun intended). Caffeine, you've been good to me these many years, and along with lovely memories of Italian mornings, you're all I will need next week.
This has been a good week -- for some reason, I think that it carries a feeling or mood I will always remember and refer back to. I would be lying if I said I didn't have a few private, nervous breakdowns, but unlike the past, they were ones I could contain and address quickly and neatly. Being by myself so much, with earplugs constantly tacked in, has helped me develop a new appreciation for silence.
I'm going to Cedars-Sinai tonight to see my cousin's new baby boy. I'm just an infinitesimal speck in the scheme of life swirling around me. Perspective is everything.
L'amicizia
To be cared for, and cared about, and to care yourself, is a glorious thing.
I have been humming this song for years. Yes, it's definitely lost in translation, but I tried my best.
E non avere mai paura perché
Sta sicuro che avrò cura di te.
In ogni istante e in ogni momento,
Tu sei il centro, il punto di riferimento.
E giuro che non ti darò nessun dolore,
No, non ti darò mai un dispiacere,
Perché più passa il tempo,
E più ti voglio bene.
Se c'è qualcosa dopo il mondo,
Ci troveremo ancora insieme.
- Syria
And don't ever fear,
And be sure that I'll take care of you.
In every instant and in every moment,
You're the center, the point of reference.
I swear that I'll never give you a bit of pain,
No, nor ever one displeasure,
Because as time passes by,
The more I love you.
And if there's something beyond this world,
We'll still find ourselves together.
(Sort of, that's what it is.)
La Nascita
I'm trying to get the murders and manslaughters straight in my head; trying to remember those defenses to equitable servitudes; trying to sort out the hearsay exemptions. But really, all I can focus on is: whence came this headache?
I took, ahem, shall we say, a study vitamin this morning. It is purely experimental, just one-third of what a doctor would ordinarily prescribe a narcoleptic or one who suffers from sleep apnea. I'll say that the bulk of the day flew by and I was even inordinately happy for a solid two hours of it. But this headache now -- is it worth it?
Unless... the headache is from the indomitable scent coming from my bathroom, drifting from the damn Glade 3-in-1 toilet bowl tablet I hung on the rim of the bowl yesterday. It's some "fresh rainshower" crap and it is killing me softly. It smells like the bathroom of Fry's; I don't need this kind of industrial strength in my little boudoir.
Unless... the headache is coming from having used too much perfume this morning, which continues to nauseate me. On a lark, I decided to use the old Estee Lauder Pleasures collecting dust in the corner of the vanity. Mistake. Should have left that stuff back in the 11th grade, because the muskiness is simply too much.
But the
good news is that I found my Fiona Apple
When the Pawn CD, and it's breathing wonderful late-night life into my study routine. Now if I only I could find my U2
All That You Can't Leave Behind, I will be golden.
The following two passages mark the mood for the conversations I have had tonight.
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. ... A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things."
- H.D. Thoreau
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills,
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up.
I got to fold, 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold.
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love.
- F. Apple
Le Mort
Sometimes it's not obvious what I'm talking about here, sometimes it's too obvious. Sometimes I'm really trying to convey something, and sometimes I'm really just trying to put it down so that a couple years later I can click back and see what was up, back then.
Today was the day I became really certain about something. I don't know if I like this feeling. You reserve a lot for the unknown because it contributes to your spontaneity and joie de vivre. Prescience is scary, and many sci-fi movies tell us that there is little we can do to alter the inevitable result. "A hundred times I could do it differently, and it all would have ended the same way."
I was at the Hotel Figueroa last night for our office's pre-merge happy hour. (It's nice to get your own boss's endorsement to leave the books for a little bit.) It came to my attention that my new colleagues employ the common and useful practice of Googling others. OK, so if you've found me here, congratulations and sorry, and I leave it at that. Hope it can help you goof off, but this will never be a work blog. Except to say: the happy hour itself was warm, welcoming, and such a great motivator for the next two weeks.
Two other very memorable things last night. We were walking to my car and then we saw a man walking by pulling a large piece of luggage on wheels, only there was a hole in there where he had put his tiny white dog. The white dog stuck half its body out, staring at the world around him as he was being hauled through the streets of West Los Angeles. At first, I thought the sight was bizarre. Then I couldn't stop cooing about how cute it was, with that sweet little puppy, so devoted to his obviously discombobulated owner. So Ramon imitated the dog travelling across the sidewalk, and I doubled over right there in hysterics.
Then, having a conversation in Italian with a Luxembourgan dude named Olaf. Then there was this Moroccan guy, and then another girl of unidentified nationality, and we all spoke Italian. What are the odds? Olaf said it was weird to see the words coming out of an Asian girl. I was glad to fill the niche.
I also had a great surprise today when Cirrus scooped me up at the UCLA library. We went to ISO (thanks for the milk tea, bella) and it felt like old times, different city. Ever the fan of all things Hamptonsesque white, she saw the hoodie in my backpack and patted it gently, smiling in approval.
Things will be better, the other thing I am certain of. With all that I have, it's hard to not be optimistic.
The Post
In today's mail, a pink plastic Lizzie McGuire watch taped onto a white piece of paper with an accompanying note:
Hey Karen!
This is the watch I used for the Bar and I said if I passed then it would be my lucky watch. Hopefully it'll bring you the same luck! Kick that Bar Exam's ass!
Jason
It's those little things (that you might send me) that send me.* JDub, you're just adorable. I was so curious about the package and I was incredibly pleased. Thank you so, so much.
* Yes, that includes Natalia's and Po's packages, as well.
The Mix
Please don't go crazy, if I tell you the truth...
Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride.Stories from the Bar tour, we're at T minus 12 now.
On Richard Marx. He's just a regular soft rock juggernaut. This week's People tells me that Richard Marx co-wrote Luther Vandross's "Dance With My Father." Oddly, he also wrote N Sync's "This I Promise You." When I think of Richard's rockin' early 90's mullet, I do throw up a little, but these are both songs I have absolutely no problem with. Realistically, these songs are just different versions of "Right Here Waiting," and I'm sure the sheet music would look like the same notes in different permutations.
On Saint-Saens. Whenever I think of my "happy place," they are playing "The Swan" from the Carnival of the Animals.
On Tamara Mellon. Thanks to this month's Vanity Fair, I can read about Martha and Jimmy Choos. Sorry she married such a cokehead, but man, do the shoes rock, and is she skinny and posh. So, I have to correct myself, and to those I might have misinformed. Jimmy Choo is indeed a British company and brand, but the original dude was a Malaysian cobbler with a small shop on London's East End. It's legit, as good as Manolo's.
On the Big Blue Bus. There was a trannie on board today. No feather boas or lucite heels, but unmistakably, a trannie. He/she looked at me as the accelerating bus flung me into a nearby seat, as I hoped inertia would still me and my big backpack. I pretended to focus on my iPod, but I could see this trannie's eyes fixed on me. And out of my peripheral vision I could see the smoothness and roundness of his/her face from cheek and chin implants, the shaved eyebrows, the unnatural fibers of his/her hair extensions, the angular jaw. I saw the jutting out of that part of his/her hands, between his/her inner wrist and thumbs, and I saw the squarishness of his/her shoulders and scapula. He/she had tattoos in parts where flesh was exposed. I saw him/her opening her mouth to speak to me, so I politely paused my iPod.
"That looks gooood," he/she said, pointing to my Peet's Iced Mocha.
It was wrapped with a sleeve and I covered the bottom of my drink with a napkin so that it wouldn't moisten my hand. I didn't know how he/she knew what the hell it was, much less that it was appetizing, since it was all covered up. "Mm, yeah? I got it at Peet's." I pointed carelessly into the air, sort of motioning east, north, since there were two in Westwood anyway.
"Oh, I looove it, in the mornings I get an iced one, and then in the afternoon I get a caramel one," he/she purred.
"Um, yes." The bus rattled a bit, moving past Santa Monica Boulevard. "I just have the one, I can't handle all that caffeine." My eyes raked the lumpiness of his/her collagen-infused face, trying to puzzle out how an eyelift would create that kind of cat-like effect.
He/she smiled at me. Kindly. Sort of as if he/she were looking for something else to talk about. I sort of raised my eyebrows, bit my lip, and deliberately unpaused the iPod.
Fun With Mnemonics
At last! A blogging post that will teach you a little sumpin' sumpin'. In honor of my (continued) commitment to the pursuit of a legal license, I will share here some of my best and most treasured mnemonics for the upcoming California Bar exam. Feel free to use them, in ridiculously burdensome testing situations or to not impress friends at parties.
So, this is how my mind learns things. In desperation.
Hearsay Exceptions (Declarant Unavailable)Fox Sports Did Fuck UpFormer Testimony
Statements Against Interest
Dying Declaration
Family or Personal History Statements
Unavailability of Declarant Procured by Party-Opponent
General Warranty Deed (courtesy of Po)
FECESFurther Assurances
Encumbrances
Convey
Enjoyment
Seisin
Promissory EstoppelPour Reyna a Cup of Iced teaPromise (express or implied)
Reliance intentionally induced
Changed position by plaintiff in reasonable reliance
Injustice results without estoppel by court
AttemptI Fucked Brad PittIntent to do act or bring about consequences
Furtherance which goes
Beyond mere
Preparation
LarcenyTCP-IPTrespassory taking or
Carrying away of
Property with the
Intent to
Permanently deprive
Spouse's Separate PropertyGreat Britain's Dear Diana Rest in Peace EternallyGift
Bequest
Devise
Descent
Rents
Iissues
Profits of separate property acquired before marriage, and in
Exchange for separate property
Terms of a ContractPeter Parker Started The QuestParties
Price
Subject matter
Time of performance
Quantity
Corporate Officer's PowersHepburn Played SABRInaHeld oneself out as
Possessing certain authority, or by:
Statute
Articles of incorporation
By-laws
Resolution by the board of directors
Implied
Fraud in WillsRegal Michelle Kwan, Princess of the IceRepresentation of
Material fact
Known by wrongdoer to be false for
Purpose of inducing action/inaction and
In fact, induces
Now take these, and multiply it by, oh, a few hundred. Hey, we all do what we gotta do. For me, I think about old movies, ice skating, Brad Pitt, IT, even my friend Reyna. Whatever it takes, man.
Boundlessness
j. put it best, "Do I want you to read this or don't I." I sort of know who my audience is, which is what prompted the last post. But Po pointed out today that my tone lately has been one of serenity (now!), and while, hey, can't argue with positivity, this hasn't been very "juicy," and I've been a lot more vague and conceptual.
It's true. I have been reining in details and reactions, sanitized things somewhat. I don't always tell the full story anymore. And then j. put the idea in my head, that this is all awkward because it's some kind of "quasi-confessional," so there's a certain element of voyeurism here. I always defended blogging as a means of getting it all out without forcing it on anybody in particular.
And then another pointed out last night that we have all had our blogging nightmares, and, uh, God knows I have. Now, this is just a sunny place of e-prattle, where in my erstwhile stressful, often contemplative moments, I steal away and see my thoughts in pale and vibrant HTML. It's as self-promoting as wearing too-high heels and extra eye makeup (other tactics I commonly utilize).
Well, last night I finally had that Bandera dessert again that I have been trying to hunt down since Denver. It was right near Wahoo's on Wilshire, which disappointed Ramon because he wanted more car-time to tell his story. Then we had quite a pickle looking for parking, only seeing red areas that looked deceptively available.
"If I were a bull, then I would have no trouble parking," he said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Because bulls can only see red."
So then we launched into another inane discussion about how it is more likely a learned response to seeing gore and carnage as the possibility of a meal than any physiological ocular peculiarity. And then, the reality that if you were a bull, driving with hooves would present a far greater impediment that outweighed the advantage of red-sensitive eyes.
Eventually we were sitting there with all that top lighting, making jokes about the fortyish crowd, and how hard it was to fight ordering prime rib if ever it was on the menu. Prime rib didn't go with Oreo cookies but we were like, what the hell. We talked about insecurities and little victories. He told me something uplifting, how he noticed during the law school years I always "brought it," and I thought back fondly to the phase I had been going through. It occurred to me, that phase was over.
He told me how the truth was, he was a good-looking guy, and I sort of cocked my eyebrow at him in the usual sardonicism that marks our dynamic. He told me how I could afford to take it down a notch, because the real me was much cuter than the outer me. I told him that in recent years I have shed much of the brassiness he used to associate with me. He gave me good advice about how to fix my car alarm remote -- to go find those small parts at a watch repair shop. He told me that times were not good for him, and I told him that everything would be OK. That we both had the same amount -- at least numerically -- on the line.
He told Reyna once, he thinks of me as, "The Tragedy of 2001." The way things are these days, I remember less what made it a tragedy. I know it happened and that it was ultimately a good thing, and after that, I was never happier. That's one story I usually file under "Irony."
Anyway, he didn't like the ice cream as much as I did. I told him the Denver version was better. As we left, he smiled and was giddy because a certain somebody kept trying to reach him on his cell, and he had the right opportunity to let it go to voice-mail. It took everything in him to do that, he said.
"Oh, I know what that's like," I told him. It was nice to be on the same page again.
My Good Humor
Where has it gone? The day has dragged on and on, and only at this point, two-thirds through my day, do I feel a little bit normal at all. I wonder where my good mood went. I took some St. John's Wort in search of it, I went on a jog hoping to find it around the neighborhood, I had two cups of coffee to encourage its return. I sorely need my good humor back.
It has been hard, this Bar stuff. I am constantly reminding myself what it's all for and the promise of wonderful things to come. I do believe it, and I tell myself 100 times a day, you must refuse to give up. I think of my dad squeezing my shoulders, sometime in the middle of this week. It was before I was going to go up to sing in front of a bunch of Chinese veterans. He asked, "How's the studying?" and laughed nervously, as he always does. Then, "We're going to do it this time." Then he left suddenly and I was going onstage.
It was quick and probably not too premeditated, but those words stuck with me all week. Because it was my dad, and all that. This isn't the forum to discuss my habitual bouts with guilt and how that has shaped me to be the positive and sunny patsy I now am today. But you've known me awhile, you know the whole story, and you know my soft spots. And I am so glad for that -- that you know me. That's one of those things that will bring my good humor back.
Angeleno Independence Post-Script (or Superscript)This required documentation:
We were at a house in the Hollywood hills (courtesy yet again of JM), another barbecue in a splendid house, sort of tucked away between winding roads and canyons. The house and yard looked accidental in its layout, as if trying to accomodate the odds and ends of space left after years of evolving urban planning. As a result, the patch of sky available to us was cordoned off by sharp slanting roofs and wide walls of canyon. But what sky was there, was very blue. And then out of nowhere, we could see the stark streaks of sky-writing as the buzzing plane wove a circle around the sky. We were all riveted wondering what it would turn out to be.
"It's the Mercedes sign!"
"No, it's peace, you dork."
"Uh, I was
kidding."
The plane cut right across the diameter, ruling out anyway the possibility of peace or Mercedes love. It was all kind of inscrutable, what it was supposed to be.
Finally, one dude I've always regarded as fairly sharp, said, "It's FANTASTIC FOUR!"
Very exciting. Movie marketing, taking all new heights. (Pun intended.) In my mind, a classic hallmark of an Angeleno holiday weekend. As the little plane sped away, back to a hangar to meet account executives, the smoke dissolved just enough to channel flames of fire. I smiled a great deal at this.
Angeleno Independence
I was thinking last night, as a group of us fled towards the pier, on foot and mass exodus-style, that this Fourth of July was unlike the ones spent in the last 3 years, and that there were significant aspects of it that I would eventually remember well in comparing memories. I thought last night about how the last 3 had gone: last year spent mainly in my room on Third Ave. watching holiday programming and doing MBEs; the year before that, cavorting around New York fighting humidity; and the year before that, celebrating it eating Mexican food, with our former captors, in Londontown. This year, I felt that it was nice to be home, doing something for real. The only way to demonstrate your patriotism, after all, is with barbecue and beer.
Interesting that this blog tracks back those moments pretty easily. Funny how long I've been at this. When I read back to those posts, I think mostly of the stories I didn't tell on that same day. Everything here is all meant to trigger something else later on... everything we write, to ourselves and each other, is all a sort of code. But I'll be pretty literal this year.
I will want to remember Reyna, Jose, and Tammy. How Jose and I will say one or two things to each other that aren't really funny but will send the other into stitches because we know each other's motiviation too well. How Reyna and I invariably run off into a corner to swap girly stories. How Tammy, Reyna, and I will still be able to steal a moment away and recreate the 209 dynamic.
I will want to remember what it means to live by the beach. How the sand felt under my feet and how the wind felt on my skin, and how the fog diffused the sparkling lights of fireworks in the distance. In a way, they were all around us, and there was something very appealing about the look-left, look-right of it all.
I will want to remember being there for others. How kind my mother's friends were to me, and their endless encouragement.
I will want to remember long talks, and polite conversations, and things said in passing. How some things make you elated, and how other things, a little lower.
As if Angelenos needed to be any more independent... but I hope we all had enough beer and brats to make our Founding Fathers proud.
Da Sola
Sometimes I wish I never listened to love songs.
They put ideas in my head, they just kill me. I wish we would all admit to each other how dependent we are on them.
