Caught By The River

Recently, I've been getting the "Are you happy with the practice of law?" question frequently from partners at SmallLaw. Of course, I respond yes. And of course, I respond yes the way a five-year-old has to say yes when he's forced to wear his pink bunny slippers his Aunt Myrna got him for his birthday when Aunt Myrna, with her big mole and all, comes for a visit, pinches his cheeks, and says, "Oh, doesn't Marty look so dapper in his pink bunny slippers?" OK, so a difference is that I'm not saying yes for fear of a big whuppin' from pop if I tell Aunt Myrna, "Dapper? With pink bunny slippers? What, do you see me wearing a skirt, you mad cow?" I'm saying yes for a much better reason - that being the fear of not getting a paycheck.

Wait, I still have enough in my account that I have a net worth. Hmmmmmmm.

Sigh. So as you can probably tell, I'm feeling trapped again - you know, the feeling that there has to be something better than wake up, work, watch a bit of porn, sleep and if you didn't have a job, you could figure it all out (well, 'cept for that no job, no money thing, but I got some money, and, aw hell, yeah I hate work). Man, I need some good dreams.

Hey, Ho, Let's Go!

I've officially made it into my thirties. I guess I'm using the term "made" in the same way a first time parachuter with a terrible fear of heights would say he "made" the jump from an airplane - sure he "made" the jump, but after a size thirteen boot kicked his screechy little ass out the plane screaming all the way down even after the parachute opened up, briefly jerking his body from 9.8 m/s squared acceleration to a soft as a feather fall onto terra firma. To belabour the imagery, yeah, the size thirteen boot would be that of ol' father time. Like the parachuter, I didn't have much say once I was out of the airplane, so to speak. OK, OK, fine, horse dead, stop kicking it.

Hmmmm, any changes? Well, I get full after just two pints of mass-produced "microbrewery" marzen when just five years ago I would've been chugging enough Guiness to make an army of dwarves (I don't mean the little people you un-p.c. insensitive bastards, I mean the bad ass living under mountains forging the Hammer of Big Death and whatnot mythical folk) say, "No, really, one more sip and I'll just fucking boot." My short term memory is, um, hmmmm, you know, I like vanilla a lot. What? Oh yeah, my short term memory is getting worse. I'm getting a big ol' buddha belly. I'm older than almost all the main character of the lager novels I used to identify with (yeah, I see the dangling participle, screw it, I've earned the right to use grammatical errors for effect, sonny).

I guess one thing hasn't changed, and that's I'm a right snarky bastard still.

Instant Karma

My faith in karma was restored on Friday.

I'd been really pissed that with all the crap that came out of Former Associate's middle school behavior (see 9/9/2002), Former Associate seemed to have been living the life. He had new job, new car, and what I thought was a new girlfriend. Before he left, Former Associate kept yapping about how Accountant Chick was totally into him - flirtatious glances, giggles, looks of interest when he mentioned he broke up with his girlfriend, etc. And it was clear that Former Associate was into Accountant Chick.

Being the suave guy he thought he was, Former Associate asked Accountant Chick out by e-mail on his last day at the firm. (For those of you sarcasm impaired, mucho sarcasm alert ahead.) Yeah, Former Associate was so uber-suave about his e-mail: he sent her e-mail regarding accounting issues, and then when Accountant Chick asked why he was leaving, Former Associate e-mailed "Well, why don't I tell you over some drinks?" That sharp warm feeling in your gut is probably the same type of internal organ hemorhaging I had when Former Associate practically forced me to read the e-mail. Surprisingly, Accountant Chick agreed to drinks. Plus she asked him during his farewell party if they were still on for drinks.

So, despite the Degrassi High sitch he started with me, Former Associate was going to go out with Accountant Chick even though he used a technique that would get your head stomped in with a pair of Doc Martins (and rightfully so) in most industrialized nations. You can see why my faith in karma was waning.

Then, I finally got Accountant Chick's side of the story. According to Secretary X, Accountant Chick was weirded out by the e-mails, but she didn't know how to respond and she wanted to be nice. Over the weekend, Former Associate called Accountant Chick at home and left her a message. Accountant Chick never responded.

Ahh, never underestimate the power of karma.

Labyrinth

On a random note (what else is there in this blog?), I saw Jennifer Connellyat Dee's Diner today. She was with her beau (if a guy in a bad navy blue striped jacket can get Jennifer Connelly, that gives me hope) and her son. She was giggling like a little school girl all through out lunch. She looks as beautiful, if not more, in real life than she does on the screen.

I could've gone up to her and told her I thought she was great in Requiem for a Dream, but she probably gets bugged enough as it is. Anyway, it would've blown my whole trying to be an average joe reading the newspaper and having a burger in a diner mood I was going for. It was rather cool to be doing a Hopper-esque sort of scene in a diner with an Oscar winner a booth away.

Last of the International Playboys

While I was doing the Marty Stark version of zen meditation today (a jaunt to the Third Street Promenade, lunch at Dee's Diner while reading the New York Times, hang out at Hennessey + Ingall's bookstore, and shop for a leather jacket), it hit me. I wish I could say what hit me was enlightment, but instead it was a realization -- I'm the last out of the Mira Hershey Hall Krewe as well as my fantasy football league to be non-coupled. I'll be the third/fifth/odd wheel in every get together.

Now, this can be the jumping point for many a digression of things that piss me off -- that folks in the office ask me why my friends don't set me up ('cuz my friends tend to think my best match is a chunky girl who wears sensible shoes, and they don't dare set me up with folks they consider normal), or that my karma is so bad it's almost cliche (moving to Pittsburgh three months after meeting my first girlfriend in Ellicott City, Maryland, the one I thought was the love of my life before law school telling me I'm just like a brother, living in Silicon Valley when meeting LA Chick then LA Chick having a boyfriend when I finally move down to Lalaland, and let's not forget the Degrassi High sitch in the office).

It's enough to drive me to pack up my stuff in my car and just drive out into the desert.

Look, I know love comes when you're not looking for it. So if I were to take a pragmatic view of things, I need to stop looking. I need to take a break from myself. The question is how.

I guess I need to distract myself, figure out the things that make me chill, which means I need to get back to writing things that don't end with a signature page that reads "Marty Stark, Attorneys for [Insert Cheap Ass Client Here]," which means I need to start chilling out at the crib listening to music while reading some good lit and maybe some architecture books so my mind doesn't rot.

Dusk You & Me

I was watching the season premiere of West Wing, and it hit me: I miss writing. I miss everything that I did to make myself a better writer: reading novels to immerse myself in language and character, watching TV and movies to get an ear for dialogue and to get a sense of pace, listening to music to get a feel for mood. I miss creating something new rather than analyzing something old.

Night falls earlier and earlier this time of year.

Same As It Ever Was

OK, the whole Degrassi High sitch has been resolved. About two weeks ago, I had to get Secretary X to talk to a Certain Someone, and let her know that Marty Stark is not going to ask her out and that he had nothing to do with this. I'd rather have done this myself, but a Certain Someone was still all freaked out around me. Supposedly, a Certain Someone had no clue, but whatever, I know fuck off body language when I see it. So why haven't been doing the blog thing lately if things have calmed down? I'm just tired. Oh, plus I got the X-Box this weekend.

I haven't been getting much sleep lately, so the serotonin levels are way down (and low serotonin levels a cranky lawyer makes). Plus I've been drinking 3 cups of coffee and 3 diet cokes a day, so there goes the dopamine levels. My brain is a mixed up chemical cocktail. And yeah, I still have a crush on a Certain Someone. Even worse, my muse has fled again.

I know, I gotta try to be more positive. At least Arsenal is number one in the Premier League whereas Man. U. is still stuck below fifth, and Juventus is number two in the Serie A.

Liar

So Associate Who Is Now Gone, Formerly Associate About To Leave? He's a big stinkin' liar. I talked to Secretary X because things are getting weird with a Certain Someone, and she told me Associate asked her if a Certain Someone was interested in me (not the other way around). Also, a Certain Someone brought it up with Secretary X because she thought Associate was trying to set me and her up earlier. So, a Certain Someone wasn't showing interest.

The more I think about it, the more pissed I get for a multitude of reasons. Yeah, I know Associate meant well, but he did such an inept job at trying to get us set up. This is not high school behavior, it truly is middle school behavior. Plus, in addition to messing with my heart and all that jazz, this is in a small office situation. We're talking about potential sexual harrassment issues if things got totally sideways. What the fuck was Associate thinking?

So now I have to have a talk with a Certain Someone to clear the air and deal with the whole dashed hope thing.

Up, Down, Turn Around, Please Don't Let Me Hit The Ground

Conversation that took place after I left work last Friday:

Associate About To Leave: "Hey Secretary X, has there ever been any interoffice dating here?"
Secretary X: "Why do you ask? Is Marty interested in a Certain Someone?"

Jay-zus.

And although Associate About To Leave swears up and down that Certain Someone is just shy, I realized today why I have doubts. Back in law school, I fell for someone who didn't reciprocate (good thing she didn't -- she's more twigged out than a schizo on a crank bender). When she found out I was interested, things got weird as they say. She wouldn't make eye contact. Her body language was absolutely rigid. She could barely put together two words around me. And this is the same exact behavior Certain Someone has when she's around me.

Girl Afraid

On a lighter note, we've definitely hit middle school dance type awkwardness at work. On Friday when the office was having lunch, she never looked at me once -- well, at least not when I was looking at her. An associate claims, though, that when I wasn't looking at her, she was looking at me.

Les Nuits

In the last month, three of my good friends have found out they're pregnant and one of my good friends found out he has the big C. These events speak for themselves.

Why Does My Sorrow Make Me Feel So Glad

I just don't see it -- really. She always avoids eye contact when I'm around. She's very stand-offish. In my experience, what this means is "Fuck off. You creep me out, freak show." My gut reaction about these things has been 100% bang on. But all my pals keep telling me that she's just shy. I wish my life wasn't straight from an episode of Degrassi High.

Falling Down

There are unconfirmed reports that someone in my office acts differently when she's around me and has started dressing better. Frankly, I don't see it, but an unidentified source says she's just shy. Then there was a first hand account of "The Long Gaze Incident" forty-eight hours ago, only to be replaced the next day by the "Hours of the Cold Shoulder." Several pundits advise "don't eat where you shit," while others advise a more flexible but careful strategy.

Crap.

I'm So Dizzy My Head Is Spinning

Spin a top on a table, and after a while it will settle in one area. Shake the table, the top will wobble in a random, unpredictable path. Maybe the path will take it off the table. Maybe not. You won't know until the top stabilizes into its new area.

My table has been shaken.

Blame It On The Rain

How To Drink All Night And Not End Up Puking All Over The Craps Table:
1. Drink a shot of JD and/or a beer, or your alcoholic beverage (pronounced bev ar AJ 'cuz it sounds snooty) of choice.
2. Immediately afterward, drink water, or even better, those dandy flavored-water chock full of vitamins nature never intended water to have.
3. Repeat step one.
4. Repeat step two.
5. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
And voila! You're buzzed with no worries of hurling the contents of that $15 buffet over the hot leggy blonde in the skimpy black number over by the blackjack table! (Well, you would have no worries of hurling the contents of that $15 buffet over the hot leggy blonde in the skimpy black number over by the blackjack table if you were to actually talk to her, you chickenbutt.)

How To Ensure That You'll Be Heading To The Las Vegas Hard Rock Cafe Urinals Every 10 Minutes:
1. Drink a shot of JD and/or a beer, or your alcoholic beverage (pronounced bev ar AJ 'cuz it sounds snooty) of choice.
2. Immediately afterward, drink water, or even better, those dandy flavored-water chock full of vitamins nature never intended water to have.
3. Repeat step one.
4. Repeat step two.
5. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
And voila! You'll be in the john so much you start naming the urinals!