I Can't Do It On My Own . . .

Non-Married Blonde Lawyer looks like the taller sister of the blonde doctor on Scrubs. She lingered around when I was talking to UCLA Contract Lawyer about my second novel. She had a smile that was all teeth when she said to me the other morning. Buuuuuuuuut on the other hand, no pupil dilation when we talk plus I think she said she had a boyfriend (I was talking with UCLA Contract Lawyer so I only heard Non-Married Blonde Lawyer with half an ear). Oh, and she works in the same office. Geez, do I never learn?

Soul Sauce (Fila Brazilla Remix)

Internal Monologue shortly before and after news of potential merger:

OK Marty, don't be the cheesy guy who asks about the office chicas a week into the gig. Don't be the cheesy guy who asks about the office chicas into the gig. Don't be the cheesy guy who asks about the office chicas a week into the gig. What, the office may merge/close?

"Hey, so what's the story of Non-Married Blonde Lawyer?"

That's it. I'm outta here. You're on your own Marty. And you wonder why Ballet Chick never wrote back.

I've Never Been Back to Georgia

That clop you hear? That's the sound of the other shoe dropping on the hardwood floor. ContractGig By The Ocean is supposedly in talks to merge with a BigLaw. If the merger happens, no more ContractGig By The Ocean for me. No worries though since shoo monnay, no matter how temporary, is still shoo monnay. Also, merger talks take a long while as firms do that nervous tango, checking each other out to make sure one won't trip up and land flat on its ass on the dance floor. Who this really sucks for are the two new junior associates who just did a stint at BigLaw. Sucks to be them if the merger goes through.

Climbing Up The Walls (Zero 7 Mix)

OK, a week into the new gig and no one has thrown anything at me. So that should be a plus. I talked with the chick who was a year behind me in law school and who started at the same firm right outta law school (different office though). She mentioned that almost everyone she knew from law school is doing this contract thing instead of going down the partnership track. It's nice to know that a lot of folk are in legal purgatory with me. She also mentioned her boyfriend--women like her are born with boyfriends so it wasn't a surprise. And also, office flings, gotta stay away from them. C'mon, that whole sitch at Phuqued Firm (OK, to narrow it down, that whole Certain Someone Sitch) was bad spelled with a capital FUCKED UP.

As for Anthropology Chick, well, I was off match.com since Ballet Chick responded last Wednesday. When I logged on today and looked at Anthropology Chick's picture, I didn't feel any attraction. I hope things turn out differently with Ballet Chick. She actually took the time to respond to me and let me know she was going to be out of town for a week and to try to reconnect when she got back (according to match.com, she got back today). On Thursday, I wrote my second e-mail to her wishing her a good trip/hoping she had a good trip (depending on whether she read it before or after she got back), blah blah blah, so I'm in yet another limbo. I know I shouldn't write to her and the ball is in her court, so I'm doing my best to just chill. Ah what the hell, I know I'll be writing, it's just a question of when. Singledom sucks ass.

Girl From Mars

One walks out, another walks in.

I Waited For The Joke, It Never Did Arrive

I know. We never met. We e-mailed only a few times. But why does a part of me always feel like a scrawny five-year-old locked in the basement, huddled in the corner for heat and waiting for someone to arrive? Time to move on.

Swim Out Past The Breakers

First day of contract gig wasn't too bad. OK, so I don't have my own office and they use Lexis instead of Westlaw (for those not in the know, it's like using Mozilla instead of Explorer to surf the web), but ContractGig is paying $20 more per hour than Phuqued Firm, the office doesn't look like a dental suite, and I've been told not to work more than 35 hours per week. So far, I'm just doing research and writing which is the lowest key you can get as a lawyer. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A Dream Unthreatened by the Morning Light

For the past couple of years, I've been having airport dreams off and on. I'm late for flight. I'm waiting for a flight. I'm rushing to get to a flight. Thursday night/Friday morning, I'm still rushing to catch a flight. My dad passes me looking pissed because I'm late. I think I know the gate number, but I realize as I pass security I have no idea where I'm going. Out of sheer luck, I find the gate. I get on the plane which is mostly full. I have an aisle seat, which I'm not too happy about. I love the window seats although aisle seats are safer--I just love the view. The flight is about to leave and I realize there's no one filling the window seat. Outside, the sun is setting beneath the mountains. The engines start.

This is the first airport dream I've had in which I've made it to the flight.

AM 180

By themselves, not so weird. Together, freaky. Things that happened today:

1. The heat wave has definitely broken.

2. I received a response from Anthropology Chick from an e-mail I wrote before our IM sesssion.

3. Technically the first day of contract gig (in a building by the ocean, oooooooh, purty). I was asked to come in at 2:00 p.m. This woman I had a brief crush on in law school is also there as a contract attorney. We also started at the same firm out of law school (me in the Silicon Valley office, her in the L.A. office). My first assignment is to do some research on misrepresentation issues in North Carolina and South Carolina law. I went to college in North Carolina.

Today had a very everything old is new again feel to it.

From Rusholme With Love

I have an interview for a contract gig on Thursday. I IM'd with Anthropology Chick for an hour tonight (oh my God she is way way snarky). I have the advice from my wise-beyond-her-years younger sister ringing in my ears: "Marty, don't fuck it up."

Airbag / How Am I Driving?

Random thoughts on a Sunday afternoon:

1. My memory is showing its age. The first woman I dated when I moved back to L.A. was not a professor of anthropology, but of archaeology. Apparently, my friend's memories are showing their ages too. Their first comment when I mentioned anthropology chick: "Hey, wasn't that first woman you dated when you moved back here an anthropology chick too?"

2. OK, in the last 2 days since anthropology chick wrote me, I've gotten 35 new hits on my match.com profile.

3. I wrote back anthropology chick on Friday. Haven't heard back yet. If I don't hear back on Tuesday, as David Grohl would say, "DONE, DONE, ON TO THE NEXT ONE!"

4. Waking up around noon is not good for coherent thoughts. It is really good for making you sound like a fifteen-year-old geek pining after Kiki on the Cheerleading Squad. Pppphhhhhht.

5. A shout out to Alex in Cornell. Yo brutha, looks like the tribe of Cute Borders Chicks all ovah the United States have heard the drumbeats telling them to move on. Unfortunately, as a yellow brutha, I don't have the option of Whiteboy Rap. I'm all for bustin' stereotypes yo, but the yellow bruthas can't rap. We be all sounding like Elmer Fudd channeling Jackie Chan when we rap. Yellow brutha rap all be like "My Jade Princess got Beeg Spoilah, don’t mean on her Honda. I got beeg rims for her pleasure, my chassis so low to da ground.”

So Damn Beautiful (Chris Coco Mix)

I wrote a lot yesterday. Unfortunately, it wasn't on the novel. I spent a while on my l'il political rant, then spent a good three hours writing and revising two single-spaced pages worth of comments on Dubois' screenplay (wow, don't I sound all Hollywood). But maybe the karma points I accumulated helping out Dubois got a cute blond chick to write back to me on match.com. Hmmmm, she's blond, studying anthropology and the first woman I dated (albeit very briefly) when I moved back to L.A. was blond, a professor in anthropology . . . Aaaaaaaaaaaagh! What's up with me and blond anthropology chicks!

2+2=5

I've avoided writing about politics on the blog. The problem with most blog political entries is that either they preach to the choir or they piss people off, and nothing in between. Anyone who believes that all Republicans are fundamentalist Christian pro-corporate non-thinking tree-cutting racist white men who beat their wives on a regular basis is not going to be open to other views. Anywone who believes that all Democrats are Commie Jew-loving tree-hugging crypto-anarchist baby-killing secular humanists who love sodomy is not going to be open to other views. Neither of those aforementioned folk are going to put forth informed, intelligent arguments but are more likely mistake virulent hate-filled crapola for discussion. (For the record, I'm a moderate Asian blond-loving recycle-when-I-can spiritual-but-not-religious Democrat.)

But, this whole California recall has been sticking in my craw. I'm not a fan of Gray Davis. I would've voted for Richard Riordan had the California Repos not shot themselves in the foot by nominating Bill Simon. But I wonder how many of those folks who support the recall actually voted in November 2002. When the idiot local newsman interviews the idiot local man on the streets, he never follows up with, "Did you vote in 2002?" Only 45% of California's registered voters turned out for the November 2002 election. There's something wrong about calling do-over in a game you haven't even played.

The standard line you hear about recalling Gray Davis is that, under his watch, California's largest budget surplus became California's largest budget deficit. Gosh, if that's a valid reason, Dubya should be shaking in his boots come 2004. Dubya inherited the nation's largest surplus, and, quel surprise, we now have the nation's largest deficit. Yet I doubt the same folks screaming for Davis' blood are going to be calling for Dubya's head in 2004.

I heard someone defending the cost of the recall (currently estimated at $35 million) say that would only be $1 per Californian. See, cheap when ya think about it, right? Well, wouldn't you rather have that dollar go to, ummm, I dunno, fixing California's crap ass public education system? Priorities, people, priorities.

I get pissed off at the stupidity of this recall, but what scares me is the implications for future elections. Let's spend $35 million each time someone out there with too much money and too much time on his hands decides he doesn't like the outcome of a vote! Yay! Know that in lovely sunny California, your vote doesn't mean shit if some asshole decides he doesn't like how you voted.

OK, sheesh, I have to admit, some parts of the recall reinforce my belief in karma. Let's begin with Darrell Issa. OK, so technically, maybe Issa didn't lie about his background. Right, just like I technically get a handjob if a woman waves at me. Issa clearly funded the recall for his own political aspirations instead of from any grass roots anger. He clearly thought the Republican party was going to reward him by endorsing him for governor if the recall vote went forward. Then Ah-nuld comes in and blows Issa's dream outta the water. You know someone spoke to Issa and told him not to run. Told him very forcefully and in no uncertain terms. As Nelson Muntz would say, "Haa haaa!"

Plus, if the recall goes through and Ah-nuld gets elected, California basically gets a Democrat in office - pro-choice, pro-gun control, gay friendly. Not exactly what Issa or many neo-cons were envisioning when they hijacked the process. Jackasses.

OK, that was the first (and hopefully last ever) political post from Marty Stark.

You've Been Drifting For A Long Long Time . . .

I got massively sick of sitting in the hot, stagnant air trying to write, so I decided to head down to Santa Monica for lunch at my favorite diner. Lo and behold, the diner was closed--after 28 years, the owners decided to retire. Crap. The sign that informed me that the diner was closed also stated that the menu would be transferred over to the British pub next door.

I headed over to the pub and no, the menu wasn't transferred over. But there was a nice breeze, the first I've felt for the last week. You could almost believe that there was no heat wave. Anyway, bottom line, I decided to stay for lunch. I ordered the fish and chips plus a pint of Guinness. Someone plonked in a couple of quarters in the jukebox, and "Driftwood" by Travis came on.

Next thing I know, it's a Friday in August 1999. I'm having lunch outside with my BigLaw buddies--fellow associates and the litigation paralegals--at the British Banker's Club in Menlo Park. This is one of the few times I was actually relaxed while at BigLaw. For a couple of hours, I wasn't thinking about coming in during the weekend to finish up any reply briefs or worried about discovery issues.

OK, so I'm not exactly Proust, but I sorta get what he was trying to do.

Obscene, Filthy, Dirty, Immoral . . .

INT. MARTY STARK'S APT. IN WESTWOOD. DAY.

At a dining room table cluttered by wires and books, Marty is hunched over a laptop. He is rapidly clicking a mouse and muttering to himself.

Someone pounds on the door. Marty does not look up.

MARTY: Go the fuck away!

KARMA POLICE #1: Open up! We know what you're doing!

MARTY: I'm surfin' the web for porn, now leave me alone!

KARMA POLICE #1: C'mon Mr. Stark, we know that's not what you're doin'. You're looking at match.com profiles. Just let us in so we can have a talk.

MARTY: Fuck off!

KARMA POLICE #1: Look, you have a problem. This just isn't right, looking at all those profiles at three in the afternoon on a workday. We just want to help. Open the door and let's talk.

MARTY: You don't know me! You don't know me! Go take a Hoover to yourself and have it suck on you, fascists!

KARMA POLICE #1: Aw fuck this noise. Barry, got the other end of the battering ram? OK. Mr. Stark, you have given us no other choice!

The sound of three slow booms come from the door, which is buckling with each pounding. The door breaks at the fourth boom.

Two men in black riot suits burst in, guns drawn.

KARMA POLICE #1: Move away from the laptop Mr. Stark! Now!

MARTY: OK, OK. See I'm lifting my hands from the laptop and I'm . . . damnit, just let me check who's online now! The next one could be the one!

One of the men tackles Marty off his seat. Marty continues to squirm.

MARTY: Let me up you asshole! Let me up! I have to see if SchoolTeacher777 is into Asians! Aaaaaaaaaagh.

KARMA POLICE #2: You will calm down, Mr. Stark. All I have to do is twist my hand to the right and I have a new pair of dice for my windshield.

KARMA POLICE #1: Barry'll do it too. So just calm down.

MARTY: Eep.

KARMA POLICE #1: OK, let's take a look. Fuck, Mr. Stark, have you even written any of these women?

MARTY: I'm gonna get around to it.

KARMA POLICE #1: And a couple of chicks have winked at you. Why don't you write them back?

MARTY: Fer Christsakes, they're either FOBs or Fatties!

KARMA POLICE #2: Man in your position can't be too choosey.

MARTY: Screw you. Eeep.

KARMA POLICE #2: Hand must've slipped.

KARMA POLICE #1: OK. I've seen enough here. By the powers that be and all that she hath created, yadda yadda yadda, access to match.com and all other internet dating services shall be denied to you. Access to your account shall be granted to Janos Wanoski, 55 year old recent Polish immigrant residing in Secaucus, New Jersey . . .

KARMA POLICE #2: He likes 'em really curvey. Loves those white trash chicks with the folds of fat hanging out between the tube tops and the low rider jeans. Reminds him of badly packed bratwurst.

MARTY: Noooooooooo!

KARMA POLICE #1: . . . and to Wah "Erwin" Chang, 28 year old seventh-year applied statistics grad student at U.C. Irvine, originally from the Fujian province, recent born-again Christian and huge fan of the TV show Coach.

MARTY: Gaaaaaah!

KARMA POLICE #2: Yup, he likes his women FOB-ish and subservient. The worse the grammar, the better for l'il Erwin, if you catch my drift.

MARTY: Why? Why are you doing this to me?

KARMA POLICE #1: Pphhht. You know why. You have a novel to write.

KARMA POLICE #2: Plus you keep forgetting that match.com is just one tool in your belt, partner. C'mon, just talk to Borders chick or comic book chick. What's the worst that can happen? So what, you may get kicked out, but there's other Borders.

MARTY: Thanks for the vote of confidence. Ummmm, you mind letting go of my nuts?

KARMA POLICE #2: Whoa, sorry there. So, you're going to be good, right? OK, I'll let you up . . . Hey!

MARTY: Just let me check if HOTCHEMIST999 has logged on.

KARMA POLICE #1 tasers Marty. Marty shakes like an epileptic crack addict and falls to the floor.

KARMA POLICE #1: See, that's why Marty is single again. Man.

KARMA POLICE #2: I say we dump him naked at Borders, then get some chili cheese burritos.

KARMA POLICE #1: Chili cheese burritos are good. Sounds like a plan.