Seabiscuit

I have recently realized, much to my chagrin, that the old analogy Jennifer and I use re: motivation in life has, over the years, become the most apt. 

We agree that the two of us are much like Seabiscuit.  For those of you who don't know, Seabiscuit, as depicted in the 2003 movie "Seabiscuit," only "ran" when there was a challenge.

This, dear pantsless Jenifers, we can distill into multiple areas of life, for me personally:

• Romance: I am commonly attracted to (and pursue) people who present me with a challenge (i.e. they aren't interested, they have some sort of emotional issue, they smell oddly like chicken, they have appalling manners, or they are kind of mean -- plenty of other examples are available, just ask me -- usually these people end up being just like I am (except for the chicken smell -- I smell like a big cigarette) -- it's shocking!).
• Fitness: I really only exercise when I notice how fat I am.
• Responsibility: I get things done at the last minute (my drivers license expires in about ten days -- need to nip that in the bud, will probably wait until next week).
• Work ethic: I test myself with very little sleep coupled with too much fun (going to work on a Sunday at 5:30am after a Saturday night out until 4am, for example).
• Personal upkeep: I buy underwear and socks only when they fall apart.
• Et cetera: The list goes on... but gets more vindictive (at times), quirky (most times) and peculiar (at all times)...

While somewhat too illuminating, I feel like that list (and its multiple omissions) pretty much sums up my life at the moment.  I only run when there is a challenge.  And when I run, I win -- but I don't run much, mainly because I'm lazy, kind of like how I'm too lazy to end a sentence, so I operate mainly off of lists and run-on sentences and multiple sentence fragments.  I suppose the take-away from the above is that life must present some sort of challenge to remain interesting -- and when nothing terribly compelling happens, one has to create these challenges -- even if it's as stupid as not grocery shopping until I'm too broke to afford both ramen and diet coke (and choose diet coke every time). 

To tie into another favorite metaphor, life lately is just a Samuel Beckett play that Beckett wasn't up to writing.  It's absurdity found in day-to-day normalcy.  As absurd as finding a feather sticking out on a wingtip from a Wal*Mart fried chicken 8-piece family pack.  As absurd as a dog costume on a human.  Absurd as lighting the filter tip of a cigarette and taking a drag, as watching Christine give her rat a bath, as getting all dressed up and good-smelling to go to the gas station, as meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife... wait, that's ironic.

Anyway.

The Last Minute

This semester I'm taking a class on Immigration Law.  Roughly February 10th, 15th, some time, who the f knows...we were assigned our final project.  This project was to be a 10-13 page research paper on some super provocative immigration law topic.  I decided to undertake the option entitled "Immigration Reform for Political Junkies" because I like to consider myself one sometimes.  Actually, I'm probably more like that person who just does it occasionally...you know, like at parties and stuff.  I'm not a junkie.  Anyway, this project description sat in a binder until tonight at about 10:30.  Said project is due tomorrow.  

The fact that I have waited until the last minute to do EVERYTHING I've ever had to do has started to make me crazy.  I can't change.  People don't.  Anyone who tells you that people change is a liar (or is dating someone that cheated on them).  Now, it's 3 in the morning and I'm reading this crap I just wrote and am being forced to beat off the guilt with a stick.  

I will never be a "productive" person, I will never be "organized" or "prepared" or "interested in the stuff I'm doing", but dammit it will get finished at the last minute.  Even if I have to sit here until the Professor comes to find me tomorrow morning, this shit will get done.

Now, who wants to give me a job?  I'm graduating in May. 

Tom Harkin, IA (D)

Today, I completely embarrassed myself in front of a United States' Senator. This event, unfortunately, is not singular, as I have had the opportunity to embarrass myself in front of quite a few distinguished guests over the last seven months, and I have rarely underpreformed.

Usually, these sorts of things involve me asking a question and then continuing to ask the question in multiple ways, in a verbal diarrhea downward spiral until I peter out and the speaker answers the query. This evening was particularly wonderful as I have not slept a whole lot in the last few days, and Tom Harkin makes me go gooey under the best of circumstances.

So there we are, Senator Harkin telling us how the New Deal was not a failure and answering questions about the farm bill and talking about the "new" civil rights... and I'm hooked. I love this man. Deeply. A committed public servant. Who loves popcorn. So he finishes. And the handlers are trying to get him out the door. So of course I run up to him, and get in line behind the other policy nerds who want to shake his hand and say something completely asinine. I should probably mention that, at this point, I'm shifting from foot to foot, trying to organize my thoughts, mostly making awkward noises when I think it might be about my turn to be next in line. He shoots me a glance at this point--it makes it worse. THEN, my turn. I roll up to him, hand outstretched.

"Hi," I say, "thankyouforcomingtospeakwithussenator,you'reoneofthetrulygreatpublicservantso
fourtimeIwenttoGrinnellCollege,I'msohonoredtomeetyou,I'minterestedinhealthpolicy
andalsofoodpolicyandIthinkwhatyoutriedtodoontheFarmBillandtheHighwayBillareso
commendable,IvotedforyouandI'msogladIdid..."

And then he puts his hand on my shoulder, and asks me my name. And I blank. And I know that I've just blown my chance to work for a U.S. Senator that I know and love.

And I bet you're all wondering what the hell this has to do with text messaging... nothing, other than if this had been a textversation, it would have gone like this:

SenatorHarkin: Hey
NoviceWonk: Hey
SenatorHarkin: How're you?
NoviceWonk: Good. Thnx for coming today. It was great.
SenatorHarkin: No problm. Enjoyed it. LBJ library = awesome.
NoviceWonk: Seriously. Also, loved the FarmBill.
SenatorHarkin: ??
NoviceWonk: The way you blended maternal/child health and subsidies. Awes.
SenatorHarkin: Word. Make sure you vote.
NoviceWonk: Will do.

I've got your number

Tonight, after just a few beers, I was discussing one of my two favorite topics with my drinking partner (the second being Law and Order... all versions... even Criminal Intent. Talk about controversial). After about 5 minutes, he mentioned a mutual friend. "HE," I announced, "IS A SERIAL TEXTER!"

I understand that not everyone will share my concern. That's fine. Allow me to elaborate... especially for you nubile, young ladies out there:

The Serial Texter
I'd be willing to conjecture that we all know a few Serial Texters. At the meta-level, the Serial Texter is not a bad person. In fact, there's nothing wrong with texting all the time... and multiple people. As I've mentioned before, the beauty of texting is that you can do it, and no one but the receiver knows. The Serial Texter exploits this facet of the text message. Now, most social Serial Texters have at least couple of partners. The partners likely don't know eachother well, and are ideally located in different cities (from eachother and said texter). This arrangement implicitly establishes social trust. Both parties know that the other could be texting other people, and there's no assumption of exclusivity. A relationship on this level builds social capital and should be considered positive.

But now we turn to the pathological Serial Texter. The pathological Serial Texter cannot abide by the different city rule. He or she (but usually, he) has multiple textees in the same city. The worst have them in the same neighborhood or friend group. Again, this is not a bad person, but perhaps someone with poor impulse control. Texting multiple people in the same area code? Really? You're texting one person for what? Sex? Then you text someone else to hedge your bets? Texting is not the market, my friend. This crossover in one specific geographic area tells me one thing: you text for the simple knowledge that someone you have regular contact with will text you back.

You, pathological serial texter, cannot live without the rush of the "blocks away" text message. "She wants me," you think. And yeah, probably she does, if she responds. So why not settle? Do it. Enjoy it. You found her fit-to-text, why not co-mingle and see if you can't make a go of it? Because you, pathological Serial Texter, cannot have one night stands and you cannot commit. You're "on-the-fence-guy" and you're bringing us all down with you.

So take my advice: if you choose to text more than one person "in that way" in the same zip code, be prepared for a revolution. This will not stand. We're onto you and we're prepared to erase you from our Contacts.

Teddy the Trash Gypsy

During the summer of 2003, I lived in the small Iowa town where I attended college. While I imagine there will be a stream of posts about what I like to refer to as the"Failed at Life" period of my existence thus far, I would first like to highlight one of the characters in the tragedy that was my life that summer: Teddy the Trash Gypsy.

I believe the first time I laid eyes on Teddy was at Rabbitt's, where Jenn tended bar that summer. Between her tavern wenching and my cash register operating at the corner grocery store, we would grow to know the majority of the personalities that haunted the streets of Grinnell, IA, far outside the liberal arts-centered realm we lived in during the school year.

Actually, that is a lie. The first time I ever saw Teddy was on High Street, an eyesore of slum houses populated by college students and the center of my universe that summer of 2003. While my friends had jobs in the science department at the college chopping up rat brains or playing with C. Elegans, I spent the majority of my time selling Diet Mountain Dew to tweakers and wine and cheese to college professors.

ANYWAY, at the end of the school year, students load all of their random crap that has accumulated over the year on the sidewalks for the trash company to come and collect. This, of course, is a hey day for Teddy the Trash Gypsy. He's a trash gypsy, so he comes and weeds through all of the leftover stuff. After all, one person's trash is another person's treasure. I would understand him doing this if he was strapped for cash. However, Teddy lived in a nice house just a few blocks away. I would later discover Teddy made his personal fortune from dealing meth. But the real question is what he did with all of the leftover junk he collected.

I think that this is an appropriate time to now mention that Teddy the Trash Gypsy is perhaps the scariest looking man I have ever seen. He stood about 6'0",was fairly thin, and walked with a minor limp. He had a crazy, curly, snow white mullet with matching white handle bar mustache and a couple of rings in his ears. I estimate his age to be between 40 and 50, but I don't think anyone really knew how old he actually was. He looked like he was straight from an episode of COPS. He even drove a rusty old AstroStar, filled to the brim with old white Hanes t-shirts and rusty beer cans.

I would observe Teddy for the rest of the summer from afar, mostly because he scared me so much I could barely make eye contact with him. But he knew everyone in town. EVERYONE. Whether he was on a marathon shopping trip at the grocery store (I would always take a convenient break if I thought there was any chance of him approaching my aisle) or selling illegal substances at the local grog shop, I determined by the end of the summer that Teddy pretty much ran that town. His son, who was 19 at the time, had been drinking underage at the bar for years. He popped up everywhere, like in some sort of nightmare. That being said, he always stayed in town where he belonged, and I figured I would see less of him once the school year began and I moved back on campus.

WRONG. One spring morning my senior year of college when I was leaving the bathroom in my dorm, I looked to my right, and there stood Teddy, lurking in a corner staring at me. My worlds had converged. No one else was in the hall. As if he had heard me gossiping about him and had come to take me to meet my maker. All I could think about for that brief moment was that he was going to cut me up into pieces and store my remains in the shed behind his house. I mean, no one would find me there. It's not like anyone had guts to go anywhere within a 100 foot radius of his house. Also, how had he entered the dorms?! We were under 24 hours lockdown, and one needed an electronic card to enter.

I fled to my room, locked the door, waited for a bit, looked out the peep hole until he disappeared, and fled upstairs to my friend Ellen's room to inform her of what had just happened.

S: "Ellen, Teddy the Trash Gypsy is IN OUR DORM."
E: "Wait, what exactly does he look like?"
S: "Um, huge curly white mullet. Moustache. That is all you need to know."
E: "Ohmygod. I let him in. I thought he was a janitor or something."

That's right, my BFF Ellen, had let a murderer into our dorm on her OWN WILL. What sort of person lets a man with HIS APPEARANCE into a locked dorm full of college students?! Oh that's right, Ellen. Of course. She could have been the one to be blamed for my death at such an innocent, young age and I would have never been able to download all those John Tesh church cuts on her Ipod. Because I would be chopped up.

Luckily, it turns out, Teddy had not come to take me away and avenge my loud mouth, but most likely to hustle meth to one of the cleaning ladies and I was able to go about my business carefree for the rest of the semester. Moral of the story: Teddy was frightening and never trust Ellen with your personal safety.

The View from the Gutter

So for the past few days I have been trapped at home as an invalid sick with one of those end of winter virus things. After pretending to read a book and waiting for Netflix to arrive became too much I decided to review the last bastion of culture in western civilization: daytime tv. Most people have mixed feelings about daytime TV; they tend to have had their ideas about it formed during the most traumatic parts of their lives such as being a young child, high school and college. I remember daytime TV being very confusing as a child and during college felt that it signified failure and disgrace (interestingly enough this rule seemed to end after 4 pm as god knows how many hours I could have studied more instead of watching pimp my ride, real world austin, and next. ) Anyway here are some highlights I’ve discovered:

THE STEVE WILKOS SHOW: Steve from the Jerry Springer days has his own show now. Imagine a version of Springer that was less funny and more tragic, funny but not haha funny. That’s pretty much what it is. Rather than the humorous antics of “how hill billies hump” or “tranny’s get even” or even “I’ve got a secret” we have big steve confronting a woman for AN HOUR about how her response to her 12 year olds allegations of rape against her new step father was not handled in a timely and responsible manner. Its pretty much Steve screaming at some white trash house wife until she is a quivering mass a gelatin and tears on the floor. Then it’s on to steve’s mailbag where he tells his detractors to go to hell and sends out t shirts in response to fan mail.

RACHEL RAY: Pretty much every Oprah related spin off hurts my brain to watch so I had to limit my exposure to 5 minute blocks. Basically all I took is that the goal to life is to cook food and then eat it (that is kind of the zen of the caveman I guess) and I don’t know why that belongs on nation wide tv. Also her mmm-mm’s after eating food are a little to house wife risqué, take that as you will, I have included a link to prove my intelligence.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0grpE8Qp6sE

(If you really wanted to be impressed by the troglodytic nature of the American you tuber read the comments on that video.)

Like I'm the Problem

So, a loud sexy law school colleague of mine suggested that our blog, although funny, was lacking commentary about societal problems. I have decided that I will do my best to address the current economic problems in the US via a comment on a recent Cosmo article.

A while ago, my friend Phil (a recent U of Chicago Law grad with a bright future and even brighter bank account) told me that I, by listening to songs like "This is the way I live" and other new hot rap soon-to-be-classics, was contributing to social degeneration. I thought he might have a small point until I read this article in Cosmo and realized guzzling Busch Light while listening to rap music might actually be making things better, not worse. I digress, anyway, the article appears in the March 2008 issue of Cosmo and is titled "How I Bought It."

Before you get the wrong idea, let me preface this rant by telling you, dear readers, that I love Cosmo. I'll admit that when my subscription runs out I haul my carcass to WalMart like a crackhead headed to a dark alley to pay $4.00 to read the exact same stuff over and over again. I can't get enough of it. Cosmo has taught me how to please my non-existent man, keep my skin glowing (even when I'm hungover!), and showed me the finer purses and coats that I can't afford. Where would I be without it? I would probably be a sadder shell of myself with dry skin and wouldn't be able to say things to suitors like, "Oh, that, yeah that's Cosmo Sutra from 2006...you like that?"

Anyway, given the state of the economy, the war, and the Bush "presidency" this article pushed me over the edge. It featured young employed upper middle class women and how they accomplished ridiculous money-related "goals". "I Took A Sexy Vacation" tells the emotional struggle of how one woman made her dream of going to Tahiti with her boyfriend a reality. "I Threw My Dream Wedding" tells us that if you substitute cupcakes for an actual wedding cake you'll have more money for fancy food, photos, and flowers. I'm sure that marriage will last since it's built on a strong foundation of financial planning and sacrifice. Three years from now tell me that this chick isn't going to flip out, leave this guy, and then sit around with her girlfriends being like "You remember when that cheap son-of-a-bitch wouldn't even pay for a wedding cake?!?!?!" That will clearly be met with a chorus of, "that's when we should have known, girl."

The piece de resistance, however, was, "I Scored An Amazing Designer Piece". I actually died a little inside when I read this. It painted the picture of a PR Exec. who altered her spending to afford a Louis Vuitton dress. A leopard Louis Vuitton dress (leopard print, though I'm sure in some parts of Africa you could buy a real leopard for what it cost). This is the quote that put the final nail in my proverbial coffin: "Over the next six weeks , I checked sample sales and clearance racks just to make sure there wasn't any other leopard-print piece out there of such high quality at a lower price. Then, I curtailed my normal shopping trips, cut back on nice dinners out, and budgeted a small percentage from each paycheck that I normally put aside to open a Roth IRA [an account similar to a 401(k) that self-employed people can set up] strictly for this purchase."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? This woman opened a Roth IRA to save for a dress and Cosmo had to explain to people what a Roth IRA is??? If you want to point fingers about who is contributing to the degeneration of society I think maybe we should start with this "Katie, 27" who reordered her life to afford what I think might be the ugliest piece of clothing I have ever seen. If the world is falling apart so much that people are opening IRA's to be able to afford CLOTHES then I really have no chance. None whatsoever.

Once when I was still attending Grinnell I took some cans back to the local grocery store (where Helgie was employed) so I could get the refund to buy a 40 oz Busch Light. A lady who worked for the college financial aid office was running the check stand and I said hi to her and we chatted and she ended up buying the 40 for me and telling me to keep my $1.89 in change. It was a financial irresponsibility wake up call for me. I thought, wow, you need to get this shit together if you're going to make it as an adult.

Screw it, I'm calling "Katie, 27" and having her help me set up my Roth IRA so I can use the interest to buy my 40 ouncers because apparently it's acceptable to be SUPER irrational.

You'll also be happy to know that things with the dress really worked out for Katie, 27. "And it paid off in other ways: The first night I wore it, I got noticed by a guy who eventually became my boyfriend. More than a year later, it's still worth every penny!" OMG.