Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard

If you want to be underemployed, Lalaland is the place to be. Well, it is compared to Silicon Valley, sheesh. I don't feel like so much of a schmuck out here at 2:00 p.m. with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It has everything to do with the proverbial company you keep.

The typical underemployed male in Silicon Valley was most likely a dot-commer, has clunky square frame glasses, bad sneakers and considers Izod polo shirts formal wear. He's involuntarily underemployed, and has no other skills than code-writing and an immense knowledge of Babylon 5. He may have a girlfriend (probably a bit chunky, also wears glasses, may have her own loom -- but if they love each other, then more power to them). But, given the heinous ratio of men to women (if there's a 2:1 ratio at the local bar in Sunnyvale, begin kissing the feet of whatever goddess that hath provided), he probably doesn't. He may spend Tuesday afternoon at the local Kinko's faxing out his resume with his fellow underemployed males (by the by, next to the Los Angeles Superior Court - Stanley Mosk Courthouse and East Palo Alto laundromats, the Sunnyvale Kinko's on a Tuesday afternoon is the most depressing place to be).

The typical underemployed male in Lalaland is, well, actually, there's no real typical underemployed male in Lalaland. But even odds on the underemployment being somewhat voluntary. I mean, the typical underemployed male in Lalaland wasn't pushed out by a right-sizing. In all likelihood, he's underemployed because he's chasing a dream and that dream hasn't quite panned out yet - he wants to be an actor, a screenwriter, a photographer, a musician, a filmmaker. He may not be totally happy, but at least he's pursuing what he wants to do (unlike the Silicon Valley guys who, I'm sorry, but I don't know a single guy who thinks coding and server processing is "the dream"). Oh, and the typical underemployed male in Lalaland tends to have better fashion sense.

Bit of snobbery on my part. Well d'uh. But I don't feel like so much of a jackhole out and about at 2:00 p.m. running errands knowing there are plenty of folks doing the exact same thing. Oh, plus the eye candy at 2:00 p.m. in Lalaland is of a much higher quality than that of Silicon Valley. Helloooooooo Nurse!

But I Ain't Ever Going Back . . .

So I had an interview for this contracting gig which further confirmed that the lot of a full-time lawyer is a stress-filled tiresome one. The partner with whom I interviewed was a young dood, well, young from the the point of view of lawyers - he graduated law school three years before me, which puts him in his early thirties. The offices were decent - not the dentist office decor of my prior SmallLaw, but rather bright white lighting and walls contrasting with dark wooden desks and black ergonomic chairs. This firm, although also a SmallLaw, was a step above prior SmallLaw (hmmmm, I guess I need new names before it gets confusing - I guess I'll call interviewing SmallLaw the Trial Boutique and the other SmallLaw Phuqued Firm).

Tired Young Partner seemed stressed and out of it. There was no social chit chat - it was straight to the "what I need" and "what can you do" portion of the interview. The reason why he was interviewing was because he had too many balls in the air to deal with the day to day minutiae, which was perfectly understandable. A captain of a ship can't attend to the rusty gears in the engines, the delivery of the mail, and the vegatables in the stew while at the same time making sure the ship travels from Paris to New York - there's just not enough time in the day. What they needed was someone who wouldn't need training (not enough time), and do what needed to be done to get the case moving forward - research, law and motion, maybe some depos, getting everything prepared for trial.

So I can forgive Tired Young Partner his lack of social chit chat, and I'd rather have directness rather than 30 minutes worth of forcing myself to smile and gettin' bupkiss. Then the Big Red Flag appeared. There was a knock on the door halfway through the interview. An equally tired but really pissed looking secretary came in. She was a slender, petite Latina woman with a fistfull of pleadings in her hands and a big ol' scowl on her face.

"Hmmm, can we get this in Word?" Tired Young Partner said.

"It would change the format," Pissed Secretary replied in a very terse manner.

"Well, she says she can't open it by e-mail. How can we send it to her so that everything is the same format?"

"We would have to retype everything," she said through gritted teeth.

"Fax? Can we fax? But then how can we deal with revisions."

"Why don't you just leave blanks for her to fill in."

"OK. I'll do that."

Pissed Secretary leaves without a word.

I've been around to recognize that terseness of the voice -- this wasn't a one-off bad day Pissed Secretary was having. No, that terseness, that scowl, it comes from years and years of too much work, too much stress, too many fire drills. It was taking all of Pissed Secretary's effort not to reach over and throttle Tired Young Partner.

OK, lawyers stressed out - par for the course. The support staff, who every lawyer worth his salt knows is the backbone of the operation, who you have to keep happy or else you're going to be doing all the phone calls, copying, faxing yourself in addition to the law and motion, discovery, trial work, if the support staff is pissed - whoooooo boy. Now this isn't to say that if they offer me the gig that I won't take it, but I won't be losing sleep if I they pass on me.

Groove Is On

I was trying to think of something pithy and deep to say about my first day of freedom, but, fuggit, I just came back from a greasy lunch of a hamburger topped with a fried egg over at Dee's Diner in Santa Monica and some consumer spending. I haven't felt this human in a long while. However, just I'm catching my breath from the long spring at SmallLaw, I get a call for a contract gig at another SmallLaw - indeterminate lenght, just law and motion stuff, 35 hours a week. No rest for the wicked, I guess.

So I was really thinking about writing something on May 15th, my year anniversary of returning to L.A., no really. But that was the second-to-last-day at SmallLaw so I'd figured I'd wait until the 16th. The 16th passes without much hullaballoo plus I was out that night to see Matrix:Reloaded ("Neo, you've already made a choice - now you have to figure out why you made the choice" - oh puh-lease, if I wanted to hear this dialogue, I would've stuck it out in the college epistimology course, bleah). Certain Someone was out sick, which seemed apropos. And Transactional Associate gave notice. In the "When it rains it pours" category, Minnesota Chick from match.com wrote back to me for a second time and Bee's Knees left me a message at home (unfortunately, I've heard from neither since then, sigh).

Why didn't I write anything during the weekend? Because I was tired, so pppphhhhhhtt!

Apres Moi . . .

"Show, don't tell." That was the numero uno rule from every creative writing class I took, whether it was the high school creative writing class most students took because it was the easy A, or the ones at Duke which only accepted 15 students out of 300 applications (yes, I'm tootin' my own horn there - wanna make sumthin' of it?).

So, instead of saying "SmallLaw is so fucked," I'll show:

SmallLaw has twelve attorneys including yours truly. For the past three years, SmallLaw has gone through eight attorneys, mostly in litigation. The week I started in SmallLaw almost a year ago was the last week for another litigation associate. Three months later, an associate joined, only to see another associate leave - see the pattern?

I gave notice on May 5th, the same day Newbie started (I was told not to speak with her, but I'll save that for a later entry).

There's another associate who'll be leaving by the end of the month -- SmallLaw has had problems with her hours and reliability, which is somewhat understandable (for a while, she'd e-mail she'd be in the office late morning but never show up), but at the same time, SmallLaw made her life a living hell -- everything was a fire drill, she had to drop projects to work on pressing ones, only to have the projects she dropped turn into fire drills too.

And yesterday, I found out that the transactional associate might be giving notice in the next week.

That's 3 associates leaving a 12-attorney firm in a single month.

Now, 2 associates joined SmallLaw in the last four weeks - but the one who started a month ago already hates it there, and the other received just a taste of Mr. Profanity on her first day, giving her a glimpse of the path to hell she shall tread if she chooses to stay.

"Instant Karma's gonna getcha . . . "

Up in Smoke and Gone

I just deleted bee's knees number from my cell. Weeeeeeeee.

I Miss The Way You Lie

I have to remember that she did hurt me, and that if we kept it going, all we'd do is hurt each other. I'd like to think I learned an ABC Afterschool Special moral out of this (that there's a difference between wanting to be with someone, and whether or not it's good for you - hell, I'm sure a smackhead wants his next fix, but it ain't gonna do much for his complexion). I'd like to think I was a turning point in her life, but I was disheartened to find out that maybe I wasn't, and all she'll do is hit the same wall over and over again. I still think that she's the bee's knees, but I can't do anymore for her.

And I have to remember that all this has done is made me write really maudlin sentimental crap. Sheesh.

OK, season finale is May 16th. Hopefully, the writers will get back to basics and retool for next season.

Everything Is Alright

I finally gave notice to that soul-sucking vortex of misery of a SmallLaw, and boy does it feel right. The turning point was a couple of weeks ago, when a friend of mine who was always the pragmatic "just go in, do your work and find yourself a new job because a paycheck is a paycheck" sort of person, finally said, "Marty, you need to quit that place." For the next several days, all the dreams I could remember were ones of me traveling somewhere, a beach or a new home. When that 90% of the brain you don't use is telling you to escape, what choice does the 10% that you do use have?

As soon as I gave notice, the new associate starting today came into the partner's office. I felt like breaking out into "Circle of Life" in my giddiness, but I kept it in check.

So I lose the girl and I lose the job, and though I still miss the girl, everything finally is fine.

Catch the Sun

So Marty Stark is going through a bit of a redo right now. The network executives think that Marty has been going through a bit of a rut lately, and lost sight of the original programming. The network executives have axed the potential new love interest (though I know if you read the rags, her agents will say it was mutual) and have told the writers to get him outta the law gig.

Meeting In The Aisle

We talked and I think everything is OK. But I I don't know if when she says she doesn't know if she's available to go out Friday is a true statement or a signal to a blow off. The OCD part of me just gets sad thinking that the next entry might be an it's over entry.

And then there's work. I was frank with the attorney I work with about me potentially giving notice. How does he try to convince me to stay? The legal version of "Marty, you're a worthless slut and only I can make you happy 'cuz no one else is going to put up with your shit."

Lately, I've been dreaming about being on vacation, about travelling to a beach.

I'm Losing You

She tells me. She tells me about how, a couple of years ago, someone did terrible things to her, horrible things - things that make me shake with anger, things that have taken away her ability to see herself for the funny, intelligent, sexy woman that she is. And she tells me how everytime she tries to communicate with me, she feels like she's doing something wrong. She tells me that she thinks all she does is make me feel sad. She tells me that she feels uncomfortable because she's beginning to discover the type of woman that I like, and she thinks she can't be her. She tells me I need to find someone who deserves me, someone normal, more put together.

And I try to make her realize that she hasn't done anything wrong, that everytime I've thought about her I smile, that she is the type of woman that I like. I write to her that what she told me doesn't change anything, that my gut reaction is to hold her and try to make her feel better.

She says she thinks I'm great, and that she really likes hanging out with me. I love how when we hold hands she bursts into a wide, child-like grin. If I lose her because she thinks I'm a jerk, or she hates my music tastes, I can accept that. But if I lose her because she thinks I need someone better, because she thinks she's somehow unworthy, I still have to accept her decision, but it will be . . . well . . . I've been worthless at work these last few days. I've been breaking down at random times.

After e-mails and confusion, I realized what I had to do. I told her again that I still want to see her because she really is great, but that I'll let her have some space to think. I told her that whatever she decides, I hope that we could still remain friends, and that she could talk to me anytime. I told her I only want to be something supportive in her life.

So now I just wait.

Fighting For My Love

One of the worst things about being in the beginning of the relationship is sounding melodramatic, I mean Degrassi High melodramatic. Melodrama does not good writing make. (So when in the entire history of this blog has good writing ever mattered to you? - OK, shut up from the peanut gallery).

So everything has kinda stabilized, though I think we have taken a couple of steps back and a breather or two -- we might have pushed it a bit too fast too early.

Anyway, I'm back to this do I write about her / do I not write about her dilemna. She's told me she has / wanted to write a blog, and truthfully, I felt a little weirded out about the thought of her writing about me with her own pseudonym for me. Yet here I am writing about her. Bit hypocritical, aren't I?

Gotta think about this some more.

. . . But Events Conspired

I received the "I'm confused" e-mail, so I send her the "I'm there for you" response. Now, I wait and hope she doesn't give me the "It's not you, it's me" or "I just have a lot of issues in my life" call. So, . . .

so fuck being rational. I hate this waiting, this uncertainty. I hate going from 100 to 0 in less than two weeks. I'm putting up this, "Hey, it's not a big deal, we only went on four dates" front with everyone. But what I hate the most is that I really like her, and I can do absolutely nothing to make her feel better right now. Nothing except for giving her space, and hope she decides that she likes me back and wants to keep me in her life.

Northern Sky

I've been on three dates with Bee's Knees and I haven't been this happy in a long time. She's funny, intelligent, cute, has such a sweet voice that I feel like kissing her each time she talks (which would then prevent her from using that sweet voice -- hmmmm, quite a conundrum). Oh, and most importantly, she thinks I'm swell.

And in the meantime, work just keeps getting worse and worse. How can I be so happy and so miserable at the same time?

Also, at the risk of being a downer, Bee's Knees presents a bit of a problem blogging. How would she feel knowing that I'm writing about her? I haven't told her about the blog just yet, though she has the same quirky sense of humor (and writing) that I have. There's a part of me that's just not ready to let her know all my quirks and insecurities for fear of massively creeping her out. And independent of that is the whole privacy issue - how will she react to being written about? Oh, then there's the whole reader / writer concern - if she doesn't mind being written about, will she ask for edits? So for now, this will be the only entry about Bee's Knees.

Burn Baby Burn

"I'm hard on you because I hope you learn something." Don't you just love folks who attempt to justify their craptastic behavior by treating it as mentoring? When I was eight, my dad used to beat my ass with a 2 by 4 until I got the multiplication table right. I learned fast, I took calculus by the time I was in tenth grade, but I can tell you to this day, I hate math.

Don't Say It's A Comeback

Yeah yeah yeah. It's been a while. Let's recap what's happened since I've been out in the real world:
1) There's a cute chica down in Irvine from match.com who thinks I'm just swell, and I think she's the bee's knees, but we still haven't met face to face;
2) Another MidLaw has passed, and SmallLaw is beginning to feel more and more like a prison, and;
3) After spending 30 hours in the office on the weekend (and cancelling the first date with bee's knees due to work), I get this nasty cold, get told my work isn't up to snuff on that Monday (but then get told on Tuesday to ignore what was said on Monday), take tha Wednesday off because I'm coughing up a lung, and find out that a partner was bitching that I took a day and a half off.

Hmmm, to summarize - chica: good. Work: Fucking nasty vortex of misery.