Sunday, July 31, 2005

Typical Sunday Night for Russ

I bought some hot wings for dinner and changed into an appropriate outfit that I wasn't worried about staining.

I was only wearing a bathing suit.

I am not a proud man.

I chased those wings down with a Miller High Life tall can (or 4).

I am not a proud man.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

I recently saw an episode of Friends, from one of the early seasons, where the girls swoon over George Stephanopoulos. Yeah, this show ages well.

Seana Story # 3

Seana eventually had a baby and brought it in to show everyone at the restaurant. When I ran into her, during her visit, she didn't have the baby so I asked her, "Hey Seana, Where's the baby?"

Seana replied glibly, "I sold it for a rock."

One of the waitresses had just taken it out into the dining room to show the others.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Seana Story # 2

As I mentioned earlier in Seana Story # 1, I used to work at a restaurant with a very fould mouthed woman named Seana who was always hilarious.

The restaurant owner's son, who happened to be our manager. The owner's son would often regale me with stories of what a super stud he was in college, etc. Yet, there he was, scooping spaghetti noodles right beside me.

Seana sidled up beside me and said, "I'll tell you his real story. While he was in college he knocked some girl up. His dad had to go over there and bring him home. Meanwhile, rumor has it, the dad paid the girl a million bucks to go away forever. Do you believe that shit? If I was the girl, I'd be on the doorstep two years later, holding the baby going, 'Ding Dong! Remember me, bitch?'"

Ironically, Seana announced her pregnancy later that week. I'll discuss her misadventures as a mother in Seana Story # 3.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Terrorists are Stupid

They chose to bomb England? These morons will be found out soon enough. The country is apparently chock full of sleuths: Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, The woman from Murder She Wrote (isn't she British?), James Bond, and Mr. Belvedere (he discovered all of Wesley's schemes). They should have tried France, where Inspector Clousseau can't even find an oddly colored jungle cat.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Why I Love My Mom

When I was in elementary school, my mother affectionately referred to me as "a handful". Everyone else less affectionately referred to me as "a pain in the ass." I wasn't trying to be this way, but between my ADHD and precocious mind, it just sort of happened. Through the years, I had some teachers who kind of understood me and nurtured my need to be at the center of attention, and under these teachers, I excelled academically. But some teachers, more strict and ridgid, saw me as nothing more than a nuisance and a distraction and treated me as such. The worst of these was my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Harris.

Mrs. Harris was in her 40's when I had her, but was prematurely bitter. She wore her hair in a tight bun with ugly knitted sweaters and had pursed lips, like she sucked on lemons. From the second I saw her I knew she would hate me. I tried my hardest to be quiet, sit still and be a good student, but I could only hold out for so long. When the opportunity to speak out presented itself, I simply couldn't resist making a joke or adding my two cents. I frequently had to stay after school, where she would give me long lectures about proper behavior while I washed the chalkboards.

One day, nearing the end of the school year, Mrs. Harris was in a particularly bad mood. I recognized this and tried really hard not to anger her. But a 10 year old with ADHD has very little control of his impulses, and at one point, I simply had to make my voice heard. I made some joke during class, and she snapped. "Michael, shut up this instant", she screamed. "You are a loser and will never amount to anything in this lifetime."

When I relayed this message to my mother, she was furious. She always stood up for me, and wanted to do so again. But I suspected that Mrs. Harris was giving me lower grades than what I had actually earned, and I didn't want my mom to further incite her wrath. I begged her to leave it alone, which she did. But she fumed about it for a long time.

A few weeks ago, I received the following email from my mom:

You'll never guess who came into the shop today (note: my mother runs her own business). Mrs. Harris!!! Can you believe it?!?! So she came in, and as soon as she saw me, she sort of froze, like she knew exactly who I was but didn't want to talk to me. There was an awkward pause, and then she said hi, and we made small talk for a minute. I started to help her find what she wanted, when she finally asked, in a real snotty voice, "So how is Michael doing?" She asked it like she expected to hear you were a garbage man or something, and it pissed me off! So I told her, "Well, after he graduated Summa Cum Laude with a degree in finance, he went onto law school, where he is ranked near the top of his class." She looked both stunned and embarassed. I just smiled and said, "I guess he did make something out of himself after all."

Thanks, Mom.

How I Personally Reconciled the 1846-1848 Mexican-American War.,

A few years ago, while vacationing in Mexico, I brought along a little traveling ironing board. At the end of the trip, I did not have enough space left to bring it back home with me. I decided to leave it on the bed for whichever Mexican employee wanted it.

While getting into my cab to the airport, the hotel manager and the maid chased after me, flailing their arms. The manager said to me in heavily accented English, "Sir, you cannot leave anything behind without giving written permission for the maids to keep it." The maid, her nametag said "Maria", stood quietly listening to us babble in our ugly northern language that she, clearly did not know a word of. I could tell she waited anxiously, afraid that she might have or may get into trouble.

"No problem," I said as I wrote a quick note for the maid. It read as follows:

Dear Maria,

Happy Ironing!

Love,

Russell.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Foot in Mouth Disease Strikes Again

Last fall every law student started every conversation with another law student the exact same way: "What did you do this summer?" What follows is generally an embellished account of how reorganizing a near senile judge's files was the equivalent of being second chair at the OJ Simpson trial.

While drinking at a bar, I started a conversation with a classmate of mine, that very same way and it went as follows....

Russ: So what did you do this summer?

Classmate: I worked for a record company.

Russ: Cool! Did you meet anyone famous?

Classmate: Well, you probably wouldn't know them.

Russ: Why's that?

Classmate: I worked for a record company that mainly publishes Christian Rock.

Russ: Oh.

(Now, I don't believe in any absolute truths. This makes me uneasy about the subject of religion. I don't think any religion has a monopoly on the truth but I can't exactly say that any religion is 100% wrong because that would require an alternative truth to rebut that religion's claims.)

Classmate: Yeah it was great. I met a lot of cool people.

Russ: Really???

(Every secular humanist, such as myself, is bewildered when they discover that someone they meet has deeply held religious beliefs. How could someone so smart believe in that stuff? But then again, I usually say "why do the biggest morons usually have to be knee-jerk liberals)

Classmate: Yeah, but I'm really worried about a lot of my old coworkers. The company is based out of Mobile, Alabama and Hurricane Ivan is currently battering the Gulf Coast.

(Now, I should have said, "I hope everyone stays safe" or even said something that touched on the faith of her and her coworkers but instead I said the first thing that came to my agnostic mind)

Russ: Ha Ha! Where's your God, now?

Classmate: (Laughs Politely and changes subject)

The next day I felt like such an ass and sent an email apology. My classmate was gracious enough to accept it. Thank God she belonged to a religion that emphasizes forgiveness!

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

An Actual Legal Post

Getting ready for work today, I was struggling with delinting my suit, picking out a tie, washing the stain out of a white shirt, and finding my hard leather shoes. It occurred to me, I should have been a lifeguard.

But as a law student, the wheels of my brain kept turning. Why couldn't I be a lifeguard and an attorney. I check for the little mail symbol every 30 seconds while I do legal research. Why couldn't I also scan the pool every 30 seconds while I do legal research? If some kid struggled underwater for 30 seconds while I determined that another of the 99% of all paragraphs are irrelevant, the kid would build character.

But as a cynical law student, the wheels of my brain kept on turning and I imagined this scenario:

Partner #1: Russ, you've done excellent work. You've billed over 2600 hours. You're on track to do big things around here.

Partner #2: Um, my colleague, must be mistaken. In the process of racking up those hours you managed to ignore my colleague's drowning son. Sometimes there are things more important than billable hours.

Partner #1: Hrmph. There may be an opening for Partner very soon.

Russ: Plenty more sons where those came from, sir. Right?

Partner #1: Ha, Ha, Ha. It's so funny you say that, my 4th wife is pregnant.

Partner # 2 (Scowling and thinking): I wonder if there's a law school that needs a legal writing professor.

Seana Story #1

I like to think that I have a pretty sophisticated ear for humor, as this blog hopefully can attest to. The funniest person I have ever met in my life is not myself, Mike, or any of my other preppy white fratboy friends. It was a petitte black woman who I worked alongside with at a minimum wage job, her name was Seana.

In college, I worked in the kitchen at a low-end Italian restaurant (you know, the kind that mostly does take out). I was the only college student working there and at least 50% of the employees were on work release (a program where you are released from prison early so you can live in a half-way house and work in the hottest and noisiest of jobs).

For me, it was like living two lives that never intersected. For example,

College Friend: My dad won't sign off on a disbursement from my trust fund. Doesn't he know how important spring break is?

Restaurant Friend: Medicaid won't cover prescription pain relievers so everyday I'm in constant agony. I guess it's for the best because my sponsor says the pain relievers might trigger a relapse.

Anyways, my fellow employees were severely damaged people whose company I sincerely enjoyed. None, more so, than Seana. While she barely cracked 5'0" and 100 lbs she constantly cracked me up as she employed the foulest language I have ever heard.

Management had put up a sheet where we had to request time off and give an excuse for that time off. Looking at it, I noticed that Seana wrote, "Tuesday, May 17: Because I damn well said I needed time off," followed by, "Wednesday, May 18: Religious Revival."

I later walked up to Seana and said, "How was the religious revival?"

Seana rolled her eyes and said, "Do you believe that shit? We gotta say why we need the damn time off! Next time I'm going to tell them that I need the day off so I can swing from the chandelier and shit on the dining room table!"

Friday, July 01, 2005

Fourth of July is my least favorite holiday, not because I am unpatriotic, but because I hate fireworks. Actually, I don't mind professionally done fireworks displays, but I hate people who set off their own around the clock. I always have, but even more so the last few years, because every time somebody sets one off, there is a good chance that my dog will freak out and relieve himself on the carpet, couch, bed, or anywhere else he happens to be laying.

This year it is even worse, because since the 4th falls on a Monday, there is a full weekend in which idiots can bring meaning to their otherwise pathetic lives by playing with explosives. So for all those who dislike people who set off their own fireworks, have a safe and happy holiday weekend. For those of you who do like to set off your own fireworks, I hope you blow your fucking hand off.

Rebel without a Cause

In high school, I was in JROTC. For those of you that don't know, that's a class where you dress up like you're in the army and learn army stuff (only the dull army stuff that didn't involve guns or killing).

JROTC, didn't even have a teacher, it had a Lieutenant Colonel from the army. They guy who taught the class had been in Vietnam. He had probably killed people! Anyways, he commanded a little more respect than the average teacher.

Attending JROTC with me was a very good friend of mine, a guy named Ron. Ron was a very charismatic guy who had such a problem with authority that his parents made him join JROTC, hoping it would do something to keep him out of trouble. It didn't.

One day in JROTC, "The Colonel" was delivering a lecture and was in a foul mood after Ron had sang a version of a Pink Floyd song with the apt lyrics, "Colonels, just leave us Cadets alone".

During the lecture, Ron started to get shiftless so he pulled out some blank note cards. Ron layed two of those blank note cards in front of him and said, "Hmmm. A six and a four, that's ten. Hit me!" Ron then layed down another blank note card and said, "Yes, an ace! Blackjack." Ron then dealt himself two more blank playing cards and continued to narrarate his imaginary blackjack game, "Fifteen. I'll stay."

Pretty soon, everyone in the class started to pay attention to Ron and his invisible casino. Once the Colonel realized no one was paying attention to him anymore, The Colonel shouted at Ron, "Ron, if you lay down one more card I'm going to call the security guard and have you taken to the principal's office."

Ron had two blank note cards layed out in front of him and one in his hand, poised and ready to be dealt. Ron stared straight into the Colonel's eyes, layed down the card and said with confident condescension, "Hit me."

At age 15, it was the coolest thing I had ever seen.