Tragedy = Hilarity

Every senior class of every high school in america has a tragedy. Either a suicide or a car accident ends up extinguishing that bright light of promise in of your peers. When this happens and you're only 17 and not fully emotionally developed you can do one of two things.

1) Make a self-righteous display of pity over the departed person.
2) Act overly flippant about the whole process as you realize how little it has actually impacted you.

Needless to say when my senior class's tragedy occurred, I chose option # 2.

The tragedy was that some guy died in a car accident. I was even in my first period with the now deceased student. It had made the news, so everyone knew about it. Everyone, that is, but the teacher.

While calling attendance, the teacher actually called the dead kid's name to see if he was there. Having decided to be flippant, I took comedic fortune by the hand and said in an eerie, quavering, ghost-like echo, "He-e-e-e-e-re."

Some kids laughed. Some kids looked at me with scorn. The teacher counted his days until retirement.

Recent Exchange

Russ: It's pretty incredible that BYU is such a good school when it was founded and is controlled today by the Mormons, who are essentially a cult.

Mike: In fairness, they are the best cult.

Adventures in Golfing

When I was in 7th grade, my school decided to start a junior high golf team. Initially I had no interest in it whatsoever, but a few of my friends decided to try out, and they talked me into trying out as well. I had never played golf, aside from a few trips to the driving range with my dad and the occasional round of mini-golf, but I didn't let that deter me. I borrowed my dad's clubs and went to the tryouts.

The tryout was to play nine holes of golf at a local course. As I got on the bus, the coach, Mr. Marshall, gave me a quisitive look. Mr. Marshall was my social studies teacher, and had written me off as a clown (with good reason). "Mike, I didn't know you golfed", he said. "Oh yeah, it's a passion of mine", I replied. We arrived at the course, and Mr. Marshall addressed the 30 or so of us who were trying out. He went through the rules of the course, gave us instructions and the like. At one point, he told us that it would be crowded because the other junior high school in our district, Liberty, would also be holding tryouts. Liberty was our biggest rival, and playing up to this rivalry, I expressed my opinion that Liberty sucks. Mr. Marshall heard this and pulled me aside. "Mike, do you know anyonewho goes to Liberty?", he asked. I said that I did.

"And do they suck?"

"Well, yeah", I replied. Exasperated, Mr. Marshall told me that this was strike two against me. I asked what strike one was. "The fact that you are here is strike one. You are a troublemaker and I won't stand for it. One more slip up and you won't play golf, no matter how good you are." I laughed to myself, because he was apparently under the impression that I was a good golfer.

We divided up into foursomes, and I was with my friends. Everyone gathered around the first tee to start, and my group was the first to tee off. The coaches were busy with something, so all the prospective golfers were gathered around the first tee, talking loudly and goofing off. The first two guys in my group teed off, and then Mr. Marshall came over and shouted for everyone to shut up. He lectured all of us about the ettiquite of golf, and said that the loud talk and horseplay was a breach of that ettiquite. "Now", he said, "lets all be quiet and watch the next person tee off." Of course, I was the next up, and I realized that I suddenly had three dozen people watching me line up for my first ever golf shot. Trying to look like I knew what I was doing, I grabbed a tee and put in in the ground. I put a ball on the tee. I picked a few blades of grass and threw them in the air to test the wind. I grabbed my driver and took a practice swing. I then stepped forward, and trying to replicate the swing I had watched my friend, an experienced golfer, take, I swung hard at the ball and made contact. I turned to watch my shot, and to my surprise it flew high and straight and landed in the middle of the fairway, past where my friend's shot landed. "Excellent Mike, excellent", Mr. Marshall said as the crowd quietly clapped.

Of course, my luck didn't last. My approach shots went everywhere except the greens, my putts were awful, and none of the rest of my tee shots approached my first one. I stopped keeping score on the second hole, and just wrote down whatever my friend scored. Nearing the end, I had become the comic relief for the other three in my group, a role I was happy to fill. On the ninth and final hole, after a particularly bad shot, I chucked my club fourty feet down the fairway. As I bent to pick it up, Mr. Marshall drove up in a golf cart and said "That's strike three." I tried to protest, but to no avail. He saw me throw the club, and told me I wouldn't make the team. " At least let me finish the hole", I pleaded. He relented and said I could. "By the way, what are you shooting?", he asked. I looked at my scorecard, where I had been writing down my friends score as my own, and said '41' (which was very good for a 13 year old on this course). He shook his head and said, "It's a shame that such a talented golfer doesn't have enough self control to help the team." "Yes sir", I replied. He drove off, and I proceeded to six putt the final hole.

Russ's Family Goes to Quebec

We recently took a family vacation to Quebec. A good time was had by all, but I found my parent's reaction/interraction with Quebec and the Quebecois to be particularly amusing.

My Mother:

Her only experience with Quebec, before this trip, was at a parade in the Western Canadian town of her youth. Someone had built a float in the shape of the province of Quebec. On that float was written, "Float Quebec back to France". She recalled cheering.

Once in Quebec, as a mature adult who understands and appreciates the differences of the human kaleidoscope, my mother refused to speak any of her rudimentary French. She would walk up to complete strangers and say, "Excuse me." The startled Quebecois would then struggle in broken english to answer her question as my mother refused to have her bilingual son do any of the talking (considering the fact that I'm making fun of her on this blog she was probably afraid I would tell a joke about her in French to the stranger).

After each awkward exchange I would say, "Mom, I think it's really important to say, 'Parlez vous Anglais,' before you start speaking in english.

My mother would simply retort, "I said 'Excuse Me,'" As though that were some United Nation's approved international interruption technique.

My Father:

My father proved to be more at home in Quebec. We were walking on St. Catherine's street, Montreal's Rodeo Drive, Michigan Avenue, or 5th Avenue, looking for a restaurant. We also discovered that this street was oddly peppered with adult bookstores and strip clubs, which would be placed comfortably alongside something as inoccuous as "The Foot Locker". While passing a particular store called "Super Sex" my father exclaimed to my mother, "I found a place to eat! You can have the Soup."

The Virtuoso

From 4th to 5th grade it was required that all children learn the flutophone (also called the "recorder" in some parts of the world). Assumably, the government knew something we didn't because there certainly was no market demand for flutophone players, in fact, to this day, I have never seen an adult play a flutophone. My best guess is that satellite photos were taken of thousands of Russian children bleating out "The Internationale" on their flutophones and we had to be prepared for that threat. Or it could be that the flutophone is the only instrument that could be purchased for a $1.50 a piece.

While several of my classmates took to the flutophone like young prodigies, I struggled with it. I take that back, as the word "struggle" implies putting in any effort, which I did not.

I didn't hate the flutophone, I was just bewildered by the entire concept of music. Most musicians claim that they were "surrounded by music while growing up." My home was the opposite, it had as much rhythm flowing through its halls as a tomb. In fact, my mother's primary argument against me getting a Nintendo was that she didn't want to hear any "Beep-Beep-Beeping".

After several embarrassing "Not Satisfactory"s on my 4th grade report card's entry for "Music" we got a new teacher for 5th grade. The new teacher lined us up and asked us to play "Ode to Joy" on our flutophones.

At this point I had two options:

1) admit to the teacher that her predecessor had failed me completely, I was hopeless at the flute and should be given a 4F when the inevitable flutophone wars began.

2) fake my way through it.

I chose option #2 and put the flutophone to my mouth, held my breath, and moved my fingers on beat (but not on the right holes, of course). The teacher said, "Wonderful, kids" and we proceeded on to the next subject.

A few days later she asked us to line up again and play. Again, I mimed my way through the little concert, nervous that I would be caught. I was convinced that she had to know that there was no music coming from my spot in line, so at the end of the song I decided to give an impromptu tooting of the only music I knew, "Shave and a Haircut. Two Bits". The kids laughed and the teacher smiled and said, "Very nice, Russell".

This was unbelievable! I had become the David Lee Roth to my Flutophone class's Van Halen. Despite having no discernable talent, I was receiving all the adulation.

The next time we were called up to play I was feeling cool and confident. I began swaying my body to the music. Tilting the flutophone up in the air during the chorus, like a New Orleans funeral marcher. My fingers were dancing across the holes. I finished by flipping the flutophone around like a baton.

I expected the teacher to throw her underwear at me after that performance but, instead, she had a cross look on her face and said, "Russell, could you please play the song all by yourself."

At this point I had two options:

1) Admit I did not know how to play and that I was only trying to participate in the only way I knew how.

2) Fake my way through it.

Once again, I took the old reliable # 2 as I tried to play a few notes and then stopped to bang my flutophone against my palm as though something was stuck in there.

"I think my flutophone is broken," I said.

"See me after class," the teacher said.

After class she told me that she had since been informed by the old teacher of my inabilty/unwillingness to play the flutophone. Before I even had a chance to concoct a story, she also told me that she had heard that, in the previous year, I had claimed to have had an inner ear problem that prevented me from playing music. She also informed me that the school nurse confirmed the impossibility of such a condition.

That year, I got another "Unsatisfactory" on my report card for Music. Too bad they didn't have grades for Fakery.

The Best Laid Plans

When I was 9 we moved into a new neighborhood. The first few days were hectic, there was no cable and I was so I was just milling around overwhelmed by preteen boredom, too old to play with toys, too young to obsess over girls. My dad must have felt the same way because he sent me out to buy a paper as we had no newspaper service yet.

He gave me a handful of change and told me to walk down the block to the newspaper machine. I strolled over to the machine ready to make what may have been my first non-candy based financial transaction. Once there, I saw that the papers cost 75 cents. I counted the change, I had 65 cents! What was I going to do? If I failed getting a simple paper, Dad would never trust me with my pending Christmas list items: ATVs, guns, and rocket packs (which I was sure were just on the horizon of being invented).

In a stroke of genius, I decided to check the change well for an errant 10 cents. Surely, the last news junky must have been in such a rush to get to his daily Ziggy cartoon that he left some money there. Alas it was empty. I literally felt the inside of the change well to make sure my eyes weren't fooling me (when you recently discover that Santa isn't real and that David Hasselhoff doesn't really ride around the country solving mysteries in a corvette, you develop a habit of double checking everything).

While feeling the inside of the change well, I noticed something. I could actually stick my small little hand up the slot where the change came out. What's more, I could stick my hand into where all the other change gets deposited. I started pulling out handfuls of change with glee. In the middle of my giddy rush, I was struck with self-doubt (this is still a recurring phenomenon) This has got to be wrong, I thought. My mind was spinning, if I took all the change, then the Newspaper conglomerates would realize something was up and start reengineering newspaper machines across the nation, now that their fatal flaw was discovered. I decided to play it cool and take just a little.

I returned home with a paper, some change in my pocket, and fantasies of me saying to my mother, "Dinner's on me tonight," while I emptied a sack full of nickels on the dinner table.

Unfortunately, my scheme was cut short by the fact that little hands often come with short attention spans. I totally forgot about the newspaper machine as I became lost in the dramatic crescendo of that night's episode of "Blossom".

A year later, while beginning to compile a modest comic book collection, it reoccurred to me that I was still a young Croesus at the Herald Tribune's expense. I sauntered on over to the newspaper machine which was conveniently on the way to the drug store that sold the comics, and according to the cashier was also "not a library." Once again, I stuck my hand into the change well only to discover that in a year I had metamorphosed into some giant oaf who couldn't stick his hand through a 2 inch by 2 inch hole.

I was literally, a day late and a dollar short.

He's Bad

A number of people have inquired about where Russ has been for the last week or so. As a big Michael Jackson fan, Russ felt it important to go to California to support his idol. If you look closely, he's one of those cheering fanatics outside the courthouse.

From a Reader...

Why the hell do girls at NY law firms piss on the toilet seat?!

Maybe this seems a bit forward to send, afterall, we've never met. But this question is driving me crazy. I mean, seriously, I understand if it's 2:00AM and you're drunk, and you're hanging out at Siberia down at the Port Authority and you really have to pee, and the toilet seat is gross, so you hover and because you're drunk you get a little pee here, a little there, and because you're drunk you don't wipe it up...But who pisses on a toilet set at a posh New York firm? Who, for that matter, hovers at a posh New York firm? What are they afraid of? Are they afraid that their precious Manhattan heinies will touch a toilet seat that has previously been touched by a Brooklyn paralegal, or worse, a Secretary from Long Island?

If I had to guess, I would say that it is some insecure female attorney's bizarre way to mark her territory and let the clerks know who is boss.

Sometimes Cheating Pays

When I was in the third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Everett, gave the class an assignment: Draw a map of the United States on a piece of poster board. Mrs. Everett gave one simple instruction: “You can look at a map of the U.S. to help you, but I don’t want you to trace it. I want you to draw it by yourselves.”

Later on, I overheard a few of my classmates talking about their maps, and how they were going to trace it. “But you can’t trace it,” I said. “Mrs. Everett said so.” They laughed at me and said that there was no way she would know if you traced it, and besides, everyone was going to trace it. Armed with this new knowledge, I set out to trace my map.

I had my mom buy me a piece of poster board, and I got out an atlas. My plan was rather ingenious for a third grader: I would trace the map in the atlas onto a piece of tracing paper, cut it out, and trace the outline onto the poster board. I was all set to get to work when my mom caught wind of my idea. “You aren’t tracing your map,” my mom said. “But all the other kids are,” I protested. “I don’t care. Mrs. Everett said you couldn’t trace it, so you aren’t going to trace it. If you do, its cheating, and you won’t get anywhere by cheating.” I tried to argue, but to no avail. I resigned to drawing it by hand.

I can’t draw now, and I certainly could not draw then. My first attempt at hand drawing the USA more closely resembled Australia. I had my mom go to the store and buy more poster board. My second attempt looked less like Australia, but still bore no resemblance to the US. My third attempt was better than the first two, but still awful. My fourth was not much better. Finally, on my fifth try, I finally had something that looked like the good ol’ US of A. It still sucked, but if you looked at it, you could sort of tell what it was supposed to be, which was better than could be said for the first four I drew.

The next day, I took my map with me to school. At my bus stop, the sixth graders looked at my drawing and thought it looked like a pregnant basset hound, a really deformed dairy cow, or a legless giraffe. But not the USA. I started to worry that my drawing would be much worse than those of my classmates who had traced it. When I walked into my classroom, my worries were validated. I saw two dozen crisply drawn maps, obviously traced, but none that looked like mine. I was mortified, and quickly rolled up the poster board so no one could see mine.

When time for Social Studies rolled around, we each had to go to the front of the class and present our maps. One by one, my classmates presented their perfectly drawn maps. Mrs. Everett would ask each kid if he or she had traced it, and each one replied, “No Mrs. Everett.” One kid even denied tracing his map, despite the fact that his map was drawn on tracing paper, which he then taped to his poster board.

Finally, I got up there and presented my map. I heard the snickers at my pregnant basset hound before I even reached the front. Feeling the need to justify such a poor drawing, I made up an excuse: “I had a much better map, but my mom spilled coffee all over it and I had to do this one really fast.” They still laughed, and I returned to my seat with my head down.

As the class broke for lunch, Mrs. Everett asked me to stay behind. “Michael, did your mom really spill coffee on your map?” she asked. “No,” I replied, sheepishly. “It’s just that all the other kids traced their maps, and I didn’t because you said we couldn’t, and mine is really bad compared to theirs.” “Michael," she said, "I know that a lot of other students traced their maps, and that was wrong. I am very proud of you for following directions and doing it all by yourself. You shouldn’t feel like you have to make excuses for doing the right thing.” Feeling much better about myself, I took off for lunch. I knew that doing the right thing, following directions while all the other kids cheated would pay off when we got our grades, right?

Wrong. The bitch gave me a C.

The Rising 3L's Dilemma

The other day, I ran into a new neighbor who just moved into my apartment complex. She is going to be a 1L at my school. When I told her I was going to be a 3L, she began peppering me with questions about law school, from classes, professors, the workload and more. She ended her questioning with this: "Be honest with me: What is law school really like?"

I am the absolute wrong person to answer questions about law school, especially that last one, and I told her as much. But she insisted, and a dilemma rose before me. Should I lay it all out there, from the asshole professors to the ridiculous classmates, from the pressure of your first year grades to the difficulty in finding a paying job, from the overwhelming feelings of hopelessness to the overwhelming feelings of regret? Should I sugarcoat it, tell her it's not that bad, she'll be fine, no worries? Or should I just refer her to this blog?

She seemed so enthusiastic about it, I didn't want to crush her gentle spirit. (There will be plenty of time for that once she actually starts school). So I told her this: "Law school sucks. That's all I can say. You'll see why in a few months. No matter what I tell you now, you won't fully believe me until you are actually neck deep in it. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."

As she left back for her apartment, she told me she was actually looking forward to it. My mind immediately flashed to the scene in Billy Madison when the fat kid tells Billy he "can't wait for hikes school", and Billy grabs him by his cheeks and tells him never to say that. But I didn't grab her cheeks. I wouldn't want to ruin her surprise.

The Mustache Man

This past Thanksgiving break, I made plans to meet up with a group of friends from high school at a bar in my hometown. I arrived at the same time as two of my friends, and we grabbed a table. A few minutes later, a couple of other guys arrived, neither of whom I had seen in years. As they approached our table, my initial excitement to see them turned into surprise, then confusion, and finally, embarrassment. Why? Because one of them, “Dave”, had a mustache.

Aside from relief pitchers, only men over forty have a license to wear a mustache. In fact, my father wears a mustache and has for more than thirty years. On these men, mustaches look stylish and even dignified. This is because they brought the mustache with them from a previous era where that was the style. It’s a Grandfather Clause for mustaches, really. However, for younger men, particularly those in their twenties, a mustache without a beard or goatee is a grooming faux pas of the highest order.

To his credit, Dave had a good mustache. It was neatly groomed, extending from one corner of his lip to the other. It was fully grown in, unlike the weak “crustaches” that you see on 18 year old kids that barely show up. But that being said, he looked ridiculous. Dave has a youthful looking face and light brown hair. It would be as if Ashton Kutcher grew a mustache. It just didn’t fit. For me and the two friends who were already there, it immediately became an elephant in the room.

As we drank pitchers of beer and talked about the good old high school days, I became more and more obsessed with his mustache. He never said anything about it, or gave any sort of explanation. I stopped paying attention to the conversation as my mind raced about his mustache. I did hear enough to learn that Dave was in a dry spell with women. ‘I wonder why’, I thought sarcastically. Eventually Dave got up to go to the bathroom, and immediately I asked, “What is up with the mustache?” We all began discussing it, and all agreed it looked ridiculous on him. ‘Should we say something’, we wondered. It was decided that if the right moment came up, I would inquire about the mustache.

A few pitchers later, with my inhibitions lowered, there was a lull in the conversation. The two friends who I arrived with looked at me, and I said, as politely as possible, “So Dave, I see you’re sporting the ‘stache.”

“Oh yeah, this”, he said as he started to rub it. “I grew it almost a year ago. I wanted something different. What do you think?”

At this moment, there are three possible ways to answer the questions: First, I could spare his feeling and say something like “I like it. Looks good on you”. Second, I could be supportive but non-committal and say something like “Whatever floats your boat”. Third, I could be honest. I chose number three.

“Dave, no offense, but it doesn’t look too good, man. It doesn’t really suit you; you are too young to wear a mustache.” My friends all nodded in agreement. He looked surprised to hear that, but then said, “But girls dig it.”

“Do they?” I asked. He thought about it for a minute, and then conceded that it might be a little out of place on him. “When you get home, shave it off,” I said. “Try that out for a month. Then grow it back if you want.” He said that he would. We soon left, and as we shook hands he said “Thanks for being honest, Mike.” “No problem”, I said.

Epilogue: Dave emailed me the following week and said he shaved his mustache. I hadn’t heard from him until a few weeks ago when I ran into him while I was at my parent’s house. He has since met a girl and is dating her seriously. He also received a promotion at work. I like to think that this recent upswing in his life is due to the loss of his mustache.

Email Exchange # 2

Mike: I really admire people who transcend their upbringing, like someone from a racist family who realizes that racism is wrong, or the kid who was raised in the projects that realizes that personal responsibility is the key to success. I think it takes a special sort of innate self awareness to be able to realize at a young age that something isn't right with your enviornment, and actively seek out a solution.

Russ: I agree. You should read Malcolm X's autobiography. He describes how he was totally immoral before he went to prison and realized that morality and education were the only exit from poverty. In fact, he describes how he read the dictionary cover to cover after he realized that he only had a 500 word vocabulary.

Mike: Sounds good. I'll put it on my "to-read" list.

Russ: You should. It's an easy read.

Mike: Well I hope so. If he only had a 500 word vocabulary, he couldn't have progressed that far.

Not too long ago...

...I ran into a professor at the grocery store. We exchanged an awkward hello as he seemed to pretend to not recognize me. Maybe he thought it was like I was catching a super hero in their secret identity. In truth, the experience was anti-climactic for me. Now I know that he likes Federalism, Tax Policy Journals, cute girls in the front row, Cheetos, Pop Tarts, and something called "cheeseburger fingers." I'll tell you where I wish I had caught him while he ran his daily errands: The adult bookstore.

I Went To The Bookstore Today...

...and noticed a section called "Christian Fiction". Isn't this a bit redundant?

The 9/11 Story We Didn't Hear

Note: We posted this a while back, right after we started the blog. We have both been busy lately and haven't had time to write much, so I reposted this for the benefit of new readers. Just like every sitcom does a clip show, we might repost something old from time to time for people who haven't delved into our archives.

After the families of the victims and residents of New York, who were the people most affected by the attacks on the actual day of the tragedy? The stoners who slept until 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Most people watched as it all happened, minute by minute. While still very troubling, you at least had time to digest what was going on. These stoners had no such luxary. Think about it...Tuesday afternoon, the stoner awakes after a long night of partying with a headache. He lights a cigarette, pours a bowl of Captain Crunch, and turns on the Cartoon Network to catch the last 15 minutes of Sponge Bob. While flipping through the channels, he happens past CNN, and stops, thinking he is watching some Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Slowly in dawns upon him that Paula Zahn never appeared in a Jerry Bruckheimer film. CNN begins it's recap of the events at the bottom of the hour. Stoner is shocked. Plane hits tower. Second plane hits other tower. Plane hits Pentagon. Plane suspiciuosly crashes in Pennslyvania. Towers collapse. Stoner went to bed at 4:30 am after a wicked party over at his buddy's house. Now, the world is ending. Because of his heightend state of paranoia due to his excessive pot smoking, Stoner is unable to handle the situation. His mind races. To calm himself, he takes a couple of the valiums he swiped from his ex girlfriend before she bolted. Stoner sits in a sullen state, watching CNN for hours until his friend stops by. Friend had to work today, so he processed the information as it happened. He is unprepared for Stoner's mood. Stoner launches into a Dennis-Hopper-in-Apocolypse-Now stream of consciousness monologue about what it all means. Stoner takes a few more valium and hits the sack. He awakes the next day, still shaken about the events of the previous 24 hours, and vows to change his life, make something of himself. A week later, Stoner has accepted what has happened and moved on. He has not changed a bit. But that sure was a scary 72 hours.

There Is Wisdom In His Foolishness

Not too long ago I was at home, and went out to eat with my parents. At the restaurant, on the way to the restroom, I saw a former high school classmate waiting tables. I was never really friends with this guy, but we knew each other well enough that I had to acknowledge him. Meetings like this are always awkward, especially when the other person asks what I am doing, and I have to reveal I am in law school. I approached carefully, hoping to get out with just an exchange of 'hellos'. But he seemed to be in the mood to chat, and I was stuck.

He asked what I was doing these days, and I sheepishly replied that I am in law school. "Wow, that great", he said. "I really wish I had done things differently in college and done something like that. You know, make a lot of money. That would be sweet." I informed him that it isn't that great, and that, in fact, it sucks. I then inquired what he was up to. "Right now, just waiting tables, saving cash. Then this Fall, I'm moving to Colorado to become a ski instructor. It's something I always wanted to do." I told him that sounded great, wished him luck, excused myself and continued to the restroom. Along the way, I realized that this guy has it together much more than I do. He knows what he wants to do and is doing it, while I hate what I am doing. He seemed envious of me being in law school, and I am just as envious of him and his quixotic life plans.

I find it ironic that this guy sees law school as a path to personal success, and thus, happiness, while I, having just finished my second year of law school, consider dropping it all, moving to Colorado and becoming a ski instructor a path to personal happiness and thus, success.

Rejection Letter Madness

Almost every law student experiences a healthy dose of rejection when they are searching for a summer job. Since I am not ranked in the top 10% at a top 10 school, nor do I have close family connections to set me up with a nice summer clerkship, finding a job requires a little more effort. In addition to checking the job postings at the CSO, this means sending out lots of resumes. This, in turn, means that I have received my fair share of rejection letters. But not all rejection letters are the same. Here are a few examples of what I received.

Dear [Mike],
The position which you interviewed for has been filled.


This one is short and sweet and to the point, which I can appreciate. The only problem is that they used an entire piece of company letterhead to send one sentence. If this is their standard rejection letter, they should get company postcards printed up. It would be cheaper.

Dear [Mike],

At this time we are not hiring a law clerk. We will keep your resume on file if our needs change.

Interpretation: We might hire a summer law clerk, if the nephew of our founding partner needs a job. Your resume is in the trash. Thanks for writing.

Dear [Mike],
Thank you for your resume. Your qualifications were very impressive, but at this time, we have no plans to hire a summer clerk. I am fully confident that a person with your qualifications will have no problem finding summer employment. Best of luck.

This is by far my favorite. I received several like this. They build you up as they reject you. This is the equivalent of a girl saying: ‘Mike, you are a great guy who will make some girl very happy. But I’m just not looking for a relationship right now’. Even though you suspect you are being bullshitted, it’s just too nice to get angry with.

Dear [Mike],
Thank you for your interest in the summer clerk position with the University’s Legal Services Office. Unfortunately, you are not one of the applicants chosen for an interview. We felt that your qualifications did not match those of the ideal candidate.

When I first received this, I thought I misread it. It is harsh and vague. I’m not sure what qualifications they were looking for, since my GPA and class rank were well within the parameters specified within the job posting, and they didn’t require any special skills or experience. But this one is nice compared to the worst one I got:

Dear [Mike],
We received your cover letter and resume indicating an interest in a summer clerkship. We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for an interview. Your qualifications did not match up to some of the other applicants, or to the high standards we impose upon our summer clerks. Good luck with the rest of law school.

Interpretation: Dear Mike: Fuck you. Who do you think you are? Did you actually think a prestigious law firm like ours would hire someone like you? You and your non-Ivy league law school make me sick. I hate myself and my life, so I’m taking it out on you. Thanks for playing, asshole.

My trip to the gym

Well it's summer so I started going back to the gym after a month's hiatus during finals. I started to notice that the gym has some stereotypical members, which I decided to list below:

The owner: He’s hip. He’s cool. He owns a warehouse full of heavy weights. Whatever pubescent issue he’s trying to resolve lets just thank the Good Lord that he didn’t, instead, open up one of those record stores that stink of incense, hemp, and pretension.

The Fat Guy/Girl: The journey of a 1000 miles begins with a single step. No one said that step wouldn’t be supported by a bloated ankle covered in sweat. I really admire these people because it’s got to be hard wearing a sweatpants and a sweatshirt in the only place where wearing a unitard is acceptable.

The Skinny Kid: I used to be one of these really painfully thin kids who the school nurse would take aside and ask what my parents fed me the night before. I eventually got a normal metabolism but there are still plenty of Arnold Schwarzeneggers out there trapped in Mohatma Gandhi’s body. Such is life, for every lithe Kate Moss, there is a scrawny Topher Grace. I have to say that I find it comical to see a 120 lbs guy struggle with a 20 lbs of weight but there’s probably a guy who’s like 250 who laughs at me.

The Gay Guy: If you keep meeting your goals at the gym and don’t fall off the wagon (like I always do) there are two people that you will hope to become, the steroid monkey guy, who’s neck is bigger than his head, or that guy who seems to manage that delicate balance between size and tone. Wait a minute! Why does that guy have his hair done while he works out? Why is he wearing designer work out clothes? Why have I seen him in the real world working at Express for Men?

The Hot Girl: She’s willing to wear spandex in public! There is no greater vote of confidence in one’s body. Oh, to be one of those machines she works out on! But don’t try and make eye contact or even dare a smile, she’ll look right through you. You may think she’s being a jerk. But, when you’re that hot, your body is probably your livelihood and, therefore, you’re workout should be all business. Don’t think ill of her, just enjoy the view and dismiss her dismissal. After all, as the song says, “Baby, you’ve got to be cruel to be kind”

The Roid-Monkey: This guy kills me. Actually, if he wanted to, he could physically kill me. But, No matter how big this guy gets, no matter how much his veins bulge, no matter how many things he eats or drinks that end in the suffix “plex,” I will always be, at 6’3”, at least 6 inches taller than this guy. These guys are always short and trying to resolve some self-esteem problem. In his quest for physical “perfection” the Roid-Monkey will always be Icarus: too far from being the bird, his vision of ideal masculinity, and too close to the sun, testicular cancer.

High School Memory

In high school there were always a couple kids who seemed kind of...damaged. They'd walk around school with their shoulders drooping, a big sour puss face, wearing a dirty black T-shirt. Pre-Columbine, you could flick tightly-wrapped paper footballs at them in class and they would pretend not to notice. At the time, I was way too young to wonder why they acted that way, I just chalked it up to being "weird."

Well one day, I got a little more insight than I wanted.

In chemistry class we started off really slow, learning what a mole is. The teacher even played a song about it which I remember to this day, "A mole is a unit or have you heard, six times two to the twenty third." Then we all had to submit a drawing of a mole doing something that involved the word mole (if it's not clear, yet, I went to a really bad high school)

I submitted a picture of a mole in a bowl of chips and called it, "GuacaMOLE." I remember my buddy doing a picture of a mole with a golf club titled, "MOLE in one."

The weird kid gave the teacher a picture of a little mole with a nervous look on his face. Behind the little mole was a bigger mole who had his hand on the little mole's shoulder. He titled it, "MOLEst".

Addendum: Of course, this got around the school and the kid said he wasn't molested. He was just making a concerted effort to be weird.

Nicknames

I was watching GoodFellas yesterday for the first time in years. In one scene, they go around the room, introducing all the gangters in that crew. These guys usually had colorful nicknames based on some characteristic of theirs. Freddy No Nose had a very small nose. Fat Andy was really fat. Jimmy Two Times said everything twice. One of the guys was named Frankie the Wop. Which makes me wonder just how big of a wop he would have to be to gain that nickname amongst all those guys.