This Rogue’s Town . . .

Oh to be young, crestfallen, and wrapped in a daze of Robutussin, Acetomenaphin, and the Restatement 2nd of Contracts(1)! Maybe my whole system is going through mnemonic withdrawal after three entire days without bar review.  Or maybe it’s still letting me have it after yesterday’s thirty laps in pool; it was HOT, people . . . figuratively and literally. 

In any event, I’m crawling back under the covers in the hopes that my dreams will involve something other than Quantum Meruit.  I’ll resurface when I’m feeling little less afflicted/geeky. 

(1)btw,  I’ve tentatively decided that the new blog I’m supposed to be developing (remember that piece?) will be entitled "Frustration of Purpose". 

LORRRRDY!! Was that ever brutal! I mean forget the strike: I live within walking distance of nearly everything critical to my day-to-day life.  Forget holiday shopping too: I was not raised in that tradition of Abrahamic monotheism.  And let’s forget about anything in the yogic or aquatic vein as well because, to paraphrase a former co-worker of mine, I’m seriously "OWNING THE CHUBS" these days. 

This will be my FOURTH consecutive exam-oriented December in as many years.  The critical difference this time around is that I’ve traded the lovely but lofty confines of TOP FIVE(1) for the assorted meeting spaces of the Fashion District: F.I.T. for my evening and supplemental classes (more on that one later) and the Hotel Pennsylvania for my day course all this week.  The symbolism of having to spend so much time in such close proximity to Penn Station (from where I was sheparded to-and spirited away from-New Jersey nearly ever day for three years) has not been lost on me; neither has the fact that there remains nothing to eat in the vicinity of it that’s likely to go easy on my now protruding wasteline.  But, as I was saying to a former (and fellow) classmate earlier this week, "Hey, at least it’s winter and we can afford to let ourselves go".

Still, there’s no comparing Dunkin Donuts with Patisserie Claude, even if the woman who manages the one across from F.I.T. recognizes me from all the time’s I’d have to come into the Christopher Street location. 

"Don’t youuu rememba meee?! I uused to make sausage, egg, and cheese fo youu ev’ry night!!"

Good to see that Lubona Mambwe is moving up in the world faster than myself, and hasn’t forgotten about me on the way up.

The purpose of this week’s day course was to simply go through alot of practice exams and walk you through the answers, rendering the physical act of taking the exams kinda moot.  When given the choice of showing up at nine, verses showing up at noon and budgeting a good hour or so beforehand to review, I will show up-dutifully-at 11:55.  With the strike, I also had to contend with crowd management on a scale not too much unlike the GOP Convention.  And let’s not forget all the slow people. MY GOD, do I hate slow people!(2).

And so it is that I’ve had to bunker down at the Andrew’s Coffee Shop by 34th and 8th every morning this week to attempt double-duty on sustenance and the statute of frauds.  Not helping matters is the trully awful selection of Christmas-themed music videos they play on closed circuit.  Some of them I can tolerate (Mariah Carey, Band Aid, Run-DMC’s "Christmas in Hollis"), but everything else . . . my god, somebody actually made the time to cut a track and record a video for the "Macarena (Holiday Mix)"? Extra cheez can be had in the form of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s badly-looped video for "Christmas to Remember" and then there’s even a video for some obscure ABBA song called "Happy New Year" that looks to be taking place in some sort of weird nordic Studio 54, sans Grace Jones’ glistening bare ass. As you can tell I’ve had alot of time to be distracted by this all this week. 

Alas, we have arrived at Christmas Eve and my only plans for the day and evening are to put in a good 8-9 hours with the CPLR, the UCC, the GOL, and the R2nd.  I’ve even roped a third year friend of mine into preparing my flashcards; the main advantage of keeping good with as many non-observant jews as possible this time of year.  Not exactly, the "springtime feeling in the middle of December" as I’ve heard Kenny and Dolly extol all week, but I’ll deal with Spring when it comes. After February. 

And hey, It’s Christmastime, there’s no need to be afraid . . .

So have a good one, folks.  I promise I won’t hold it against any of you. 

(1) now there’s a sobriquet I haven’t dropped in a while
(2) 3:28:26, folks . . . I’m hardcore

***Your 2005 Song Is***

">Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz
   

"Love forever love is free.
Let’s turn forever you and me."

In 2005, you were loving life and feeling no pain.

What Hit Song of 2005 Are You?
http://www.blogthings.com/whathitsongof2005areyouquiz/

I had an ephiphany tonight on the way home from class.  About my unauthorized biography and how I imagine this chapter of my life would commence.  It ran something along the lines of:

"Pushed to the brink of madness, Hani would next attempt . . . the unthinkable." 

Okay, that’s more "E! True Holywood Story"(1) than unauthorized bio but believe you me it’s completely on point.  Details to follow. 

(1) anyone want first dibs on the segue voiceover? anyone? anyone?

Welcome to my first free hour in the past four days! Sixty blessid minutes thus far that could’ve been more productively spent polishing up on the Statute of Limitations:

"You working hard?"

"I’ve had the CPLR shoved down my throat the past three days.  You’d be very impressed"

"Good, give this client a call and tell him to cough up that retainer".

Plus ca change . . .

True to any debacle largely of my own making, I’ve had to contend with more than my share of systemic freakout in the past few days.  Sometimes it settles in as I force myself to bed at 11:00.  Othertimes, it occurs incrementally over the course of the day, and can only be assuaged by that dark, pernicious force in the universe known as Su Doku.

I’ve made the gist of my point clear on the left-hand bar, but let me reiterate it once more for posterity . . . People, for the love of god, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM SU DOKU!

I mean, it’s like . . . there’s just so many boxes . . . and so few numbers . . . and rows and columns . . . and GODDAMNIT THERE’S ALREADY A NINE IN THE BOTTOM RIGHT-HAND QUADRANT !!!

Breathe . . .

. . . alright . . . just take it easy . . . remember . . . I play Su Doku because I love . . . to not have to listen to gems like the following. 

Oh, it’s not enough that guy’s last name is "Pieper", but that he had to go there with:

"And four months later I discover I can’t get an erection".

Yes yes yes, it’s a hypothetical.  Everything is. From LSAT prep on through first year all the way to the Bar exam (whichever iteration) onto your first interview with you, client, and Cuckoo Bananas, Esq.  Alas, one can only transpose oneself into every conceivable fact pattern so deftly before things get a little awkward; not that the handle of "So, I go in for surgery around my groin . . . " wasn’t signpost enough. 

Not that I’ve found legal practice up to this point to be any less absurd.  Since shirking the confidentiality of my client relations is SO three years ago (see Effinchamp 2003 Summer Edition: "Baghdad Rayihh Gayhh")(1), I’ll stick with only the public details. Basically, the probative issue primarily concerns Battery, with some Diversity issues sitting out on the periphery.  That is, until . . .

"Do you think he’s gay?"

"Um . . ."

"Well, no, it’s just that I’m wondering if it’s a Gay Soccer League"

"Uh . . . I doubt it"

"Well, I mean . . . "’Coming in Hot?”Queens United?’"(4)

"I . . . uh . . . see your point, but I’m . . . "

"It’s worth finding out . . ."

Sure enough, no dice so far as I can tell.  Manhattan’s alternative soccer league for adults and children.  "Coming in Hot", a reference to an offensive drive. "Queens United" pretty self-explanatory"

"I mean, there’s Manchester United and D.C. United and Westham United . . ."

"So you don’t think they’re gay?"

"Well, I will concede that if I were living in Queens and I wanted to form a gay soccer club, the name ‘Queens United’ would seem pretty fucking brilliant.  That sad, if it were a gay soccer club they would make it clear.  Like Frontrunners, or any other special interest athletic club . . ."

"But did you see the other names like the Slovakian Sausages and the Ballknockers?"

"Still . . ."

"And yes, he says he has a girlfriend, but I did theatre for twenty years and you don’t know how many gay men refer to their partners as their ‘girlfriend’".

"Well . . ."

"I’m just saying it’s worth finding out"

I’m being outpaced in the discovery phase by the paralegal.  Time for some expert testimony. 

"Random Question"

"Shoot"

"If you were involved in a case that had two parties, both soccers teams, one called ‘Coming in Hot’, the other called ‘Queens United’ what conclusion would you dr. . . "

" . . .they’re gay, right?"

"Just on its face, like that?!"

"I dunno, man, it sounds pretty gay"

Somehow, this point is obvious to anyone but me.  But until we get the retainer (which god forbid should come up next week when I’m doubling up on my courseload), we can only speculate.  In the meantime, I’m savoring the next ten to fifteen minutes of complete idleness before I cave in and take on puzzle no. 10 . . . or, god forbid, complete studying. 

1) "back and forth" in Arabic, or "Ray-Jay"(2) if you’ve had your tongue cut out
2) "you can call him Ray, and you can call him Jay, and you can call him Ray-Jay, but you don’t have to . . .(3)"
(3)"i’m sick of him already"
(4) yes, these are team names

4:30am.  The Dunkin Donuts at 2nd and 33rd . . .

hK: "uh . . . ya, i’ll get sausage, egg, and cheese on a croissant . . ."

Talkudar: "how are you, sir? you’re here late"

hK: "heh . . . yes I am"

Talkudar: "how come your eyes are so red?"

hK: "Oh, my contacts.  I need to change them.  The . . . uh . . .prescription is almost up"(1)

Talkudar: "heh, really" (something inaudible in what might have been Urdu, then giggles)

Other guy behind counter: "So . . . eh . . . what’s your prescription?"

hK: "My prescription? They’re supposed to be two-weeks but I don’t take them out quite that often"

OGBC: "Why not?"

hK: "I don’t know"

(To self: jesus christ, I am way too drunk to have to discuss ocular hygeine with a donutmonger!)

THIRD Guy Behind Counter: "Oh ya? What’s the lens strength?"

(To self: oh ya? where’s my sausage, egg, and cheese?)

hK: "The lens strength?"

(To self: will I have to touch my nose with my index finger next?)

hK: "It’s -2.50 in my right eye, -3.00 in my left"

(To self: HA! I am NOT high . . . eat shit!)

Talkudar: "Okay sir, here’s your sandwich!" (they talk in Urdu, then laugh)

(1) for the record, this really is why they were red . . . for once. 

Jury Duty?! January 11, 2006?!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!!! That shit is being POST-PONED!!!

I’ve been spending much of the day trying to erect some verbal monument for this, the 100th posting here at Rogue’s Town, but last night being Thomas’ birthday (read the testimonial) I figured it better to lay off any intellectual heavy-lifting today. 

And then I decided to finish The Muqaddimah once and for all.  This is one of those books that I try to avoid telling just about anyone that I’m reading because it bores even me to talk about it.  Here, we have a 600-year old work of sociology, really the first of its kind ever written, and a brilliant translation too.  But really, how many people am I gonna come across in real life that a) enjoy talking about core-periphery dynamics and b) who I wouldn’t be bored to tears with myself.  So, books like this I try to keep to myself: but tending to be long and somewhat difficult to hide they usually wind requiring some public accounting. 

There was the one date who found a copy of Ulysses Grant’s Personal Memoirs hiding beneath my bedspread.  It didn’t ruin the mood anyany, but it was a good minute and a half that, in that context, did not need to spent explaining what interests me about the Battle of Vicksburg(1).  And then, of course, there are exchanges like the following:

Many many moons ago.  12:20am.  A Monday.  Ring-ring . ..

"Watcha doin?"

"Heh. Nothing, just lying here reading . . . King Richard the Third"

"You need to start reading things that are a little less intense.  Can I come over?"

Other interactions are a little less selacious, like with the recruiter I spoke with earlier this week. 

"Oooh, what book is that?"

"Oh, um . . . it’s called "The Muqadimmah", it was really first known work of sociology ever written.  Kinda dry, I know . . . "

"Sounds fascinating.  Tell me more about it . . . "

I’m all for witty banter and such but people, please . . . brass tacks (2). 

Somehow I darted out of bed at 9:15am this morning, this in spite of less than five hours of sleep and the almost ruthless succession of hard liquor that preceded it.  I’m closing in on big, bad 120 . . . as in 120 more pages to go; mostly of Ibn Khaldun talking about "The Means of Making a Living"(3). 

Perhaps I could give this one the US Grant treatment and just skim the hell out of it, but you need only read a few pages of troop columns before getting to the point: ground war really sucks.  A survey of all the crafts and trades known to man at the height of the Islamic Caliphate could . . . could . . . oh, who the fuck am I kidding? Maybe I just have some kind of weird boredom wish.  That at least would explain the whole "becomine a lawyer" piece, wouldn’t it?

(1) absolutely nothing, it turned out . . .
(2) I can’t go on working for a deranged lunatic forever, even if it will nodoubt make a brilliant screenplay. 
(3) Seems like I need the " . . . for Dummies" version . . . OH SNAP!(4)
(4) wait a minute, did I just diss myself?

I promised myself I wouldn’t blog about this again (especially after Candice’s riposte to my previous blog on the subject), but after just sitting through the umpteen-millionth viewing of JCPenney’s truly disturbing "Giving Thing" ad campaign (anchored around the ELO classic "Livin Thing"), I felt some clarity was in order. 

Per Candice: I am aware that ELO doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to everyone but, as such, I’m known to walk around the Mannahatta wearing this -earning me the adulation of server and served alike(1)-thus drawing me into sartorial proximity with said jingle.  To wit: JCPenney, in the spirit of making people love you more this holiday season by buying stuff for them, has built its entire ad campaign around a completely redacted version of the ELO classic.  To your typical viewer (who, like most individuals, is either unaware of ELO or is at best ambivalent about them/him/it), the adboard plays out as follows:

A giftwrapped JCPenney box opens to the violin chords of Living Thing, seguing immediately into . . . oh, I can’t remember . . . a happy couple exchanges gifts and foreplay on a hibernal friendship bridge accompanied by the opening lyrics:

Sailing away on a crest of a waive
it’s like magic
Oh rolling and riding and slipping and sliding
it’s magic

So far, so good.  But before I proceed any further, let me be crystal clear that my adoration of ELO, though totally un-ironic, is not blind to the fact that Jeff Lynne is one of the most inane lyricists in the history of rock.  Most of his work is either patronizingly simple (see "Evil Woman") or just ambiguous schlock . . . like "Livin Thing".  His forte is digital novocaine with all the bells and whistles.  So, why the fuss over a song even I will readily acknowledge is crap? Watch and learn.

After a few quick montages of gift giving and activities related thereto, the soundtrack jumps a few bars.  Strikethroughed are the portions that do not make it in, with a few additional alterations in bold red:

But you and your sweet desires
You took me . . . Higher and Higher, Baby
It’s a livin thing, it’s a terrible thing to lose
It’s a giveInG thing, what a terrible thing to lose

The ad concludess with the JCPenney logo and tag line: "It’s all inside". 

In all frankness, who the hell knows what Jeff Lynne was trying to convey with this song. Subsequent lyrics make several references to "takin a dive" and "making believe this what you could see from your worst day".  Not exactly the stuff of Christmas, unless you suffer from seasonal affective disorder, but that too is
beside     the point.

"It’s a given thing" conveys something completely different from "It’s a giving thing".  Now, if this were some parody version sung by someone else then I’d understand, but . . . for fucksake, THAT’S NOT WHAT THE SONG SAYS! You can’t just cut and edit your way around a lyric until it sounds completely different (2).  And of course, the viewer (again, either unawares or ambivalent) won’t notice this because 1) they’re caught up in so many quick cutaways of Holiday Trees, turtlenecks, and hot yuletide loving and 2) as befitting the lyrical prowess of Jeff Lynne, the word "living" doesn’t really rhyme with "given". 

Honestly, I can’t blame JCPenney for trying to market to-by my best guess-myself, and certainly they’re not the first to try to work "Livin Thing" into a promotional campaign.  It last appeared in ABC’s promos for "Desperate Housewives" before it premiered last season and that, indeed, caught my attention.  "ELO and the career revival of Nicolette Sheridan?", I thought, "All in one place?!".  And, of course, that tie-in worked out just fine for ABC.  Then again, the target product was an instant tv classic about lawnboy-humping and other lost tales of suburbia, NOT this Saturday’s Bonus Sale at Queens Center.  Same goes for the Boogie Nights soundtrack, where I believe "Living Thing" accompanied the closing credits.  Again, porn and aesthetic schlongs, or 30-60% on select Arizona Jeans products? 

You decide.  Takin a dive, all the same . . .

(1) ah, my hipster maitre d’ days down on Ludlow Street, almost brings a tear . .
(2) i’m speaking normatively here . . .

Sorry to have been so uncharacteristically garbo this past week (no, the preceeding posts about black toe and 1996 do not count) , but I had this really disturbing dream a few nights back involving myself, two former co-workers, and an impromptu lip-synched rendition of "Love Machine" by the Miracles that has left me seriously questioning my present direction in life.  I promise to revert to my usual multiloquence, just as soon as I . . . I . . . ah-ah-ah . . . chroist, here we go again! This may take awhile . . .