Monday, June 30, 2008

Inside Looking Out


As I woke this morning and wiped the sleep from my eyes, I gave a stretch, let the dog out, toasted my bagel and drank my V8. Like any other day, I tied my tie, buttoned down my sleeves and prepared for the rigor of the day's work. I slipped on my shades, set the dial to rockin', and pulled out of the drive.
But this morning - this dawn of a glorious new day - I had no idea that I was soon to be inducted into one of the most exclusive and secret societies of our time - no, rather, of all time.
I, like the rest of you downtrodden peasants, experience the stress of a budget straining to fill the tank. The four-dollar-a-gallon prices are not restricted to the poor, working class serfs like yourselves. Nay, even the elite feel pain at the pump. Well, friends, here's one less dude who has to worry about life's little financial hiccups. Its all smooth sailing from here. Downhill, with the wind at my back
Why, you ask? What sets me apart from all the blue-collar drones eeking out a meager living day after day with no hope in sight? What makes me so special? Well...

You're looking at the newest member of The SuperAmerica Speedy Rewards Club.

The Knights of Templar, Skull and Bones, the Illuminati, the Freemasons, the Red Hat Society -all pale in comparison to the Speedy Rewards program. Those trite fraternal orders are merely proletariat compared to this convenience store bourgeoisie.
Sure, those ancient organizations may recruite only the best and brightest for their select rites, but can they get you a buy-6-get-one-free discount on Krispy Kremes?
I think not.
They may influence kings and world leaders, but will they get you jumbo jalepeno and cheeze sausages with a large Dr. Pepper as you play your Scratch-off?
No they won't.
And, of course, membership in those associations may get you a job or get you elected to public office, but will it save you half-off on your individually wrapped turkey sub or brushless car wash?
Again, I don't think so.
And although the top brass at the Speedway on County Line Road won't be too crazy about me sharing this, but being the hard hitting investigative journalist that I am, I feel compelled to share our time-honored traditions.
How's this for clandestine ritual: Free refills on your personalized Big Gulp coffee mugs.
Our signature ceremonial custom isn't a sacred rite. We just ask that if do you borrow the key to get into the bathroom around back, don't take off with it. That's not cool.
Secret password? Leave a penny, take a penny.
I mean, where else can you get a bag of dog food, a box of Camels and a case of toilet seat V.D. all in one place?
So when Hank the cashier (hereinafter 'Brother Hank') scanned my keychain club card and spotted me an initial extra 100 Rewards points, I knew I had found a fraternity where I belonged. And not the kind of fraternity that hazes you as a freshman and requires attendance at phony-baloney philanthropic canned food drives just so you can attend that night's mixer with ZTA house. But rather the kind of fraternity that has a limited selection of groceries and will charge you a minimal fee for money orders.
So the next time you're feeling down-and-out because of a flagging economy, a government that fails us, and a malcontent society, take heart in my rags-to-riches story.
I know you've generally become ashamed of your station in life. Well, look for a better station: a gas station. Sometimes life leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth. Well, I've got some not-so-sour news for you, pal:
Exclusivity tastes sweet.
It tastes like brotherhood.
It tastes like success.
It tastes like blue rasberry ICEEs.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Shella Good

I have an eight-year-old pet turtle. His name is Jenkins. He was named after André Benjamin of the hip-hop duo OutKast. One of André Benjamin's aliases is Possum Aloysius Jenkins. Seriously. He also goes by MC Chamelio Salamander, which would be a much better name for a reptile, but I hadn't yet seen the video for Sleepy Brown's I Can't Wait, so I missed out on that one (*Note to white people: only BET viewers will get these references, so bear with me - we'll get back on track here shortly).
Jenkins isn't gangsta, however. He's not from the hood, but rather a mall pet shop in Ft. Myers when he was no bigger than a quarter. And his skillz on the mike are pretty lame. So why did I name him after one-half of a Grammy winning hip-hop group from the Dirrrty South?
Because naming a turtle Tupac just sounds silly.
I'd like to think my rap days were just a phase, but can you call it a phase if it continues to this day? But I'm the whitest dude you'll ever meet. Trust me. As I'm writing this, I'm wearing a pink polo from the Gap under a cordoroy blazer. And I know it looks ridiculous to see some jive cracker pulling into the local Linens N' Things parking lot with Wu-Tang or NWA blasting from his conservative all-wheel-drive four-door sedan. But I just can't get through the week without hearing Straight Outta Compton at least once.
Bring Da Ruckus, indeed.
Now I know that rap is not without it's critics. In fact, just last Sunday, the preacher man at church centered his entire sermon on the destructive qualities of profane, misogymist lyrics and such. I agree wholeheartedly with him. So as we passed the collection plate, I put in an extra twenty as if it would somehow atone for my playlist. I'm pretty sure there's a special place in Hell for my 8GB iPod Touch and there's a good chance Satan himself would be offended by some of the content.
Yet despite the admonishment of spiritual leaders (and also my wife), will I continue to enjoy the music of African-American felons glorifying criminal culture and violence?
Fo' schizzle.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Glazed and Confused

The whispers began around nine this morning.
Hungry, hushed undertones of bated anticipation. Knowing nods exchanged in the florescent lit hallways. Frantic emails peppered among staff members trumpeting the turning point of our workday and, ultimately, our lives.
The day had finally arrived.
The day that would inevitably change everything was here.
The day when what might have been has become the day that is.
The day when Dunkin' Donuts opened on the corner of Pennsylvania and Washington.
Oh happy day!
And what is more? Free giveaways. One free donut. One free coffee.
Oh glorious day!
Although there were 5,541 franchise locations throughout the U.S., not one of them was close to my home or workplace. Until now. The 5,542nd location is within walking distance of my office.
Word came too late, however. I had planned to be first in line. The first to reintroduce myself to the delicious delights of bear claws and bismarks. Munchkins and eclairs. Fritters, crullers and coffee cakes. Pastries, muffins, danishes, bagels, cookies. And Dunkuccinos. Sweet, sweet Dunkuccinos.
Alas, a handful of people beat me to it. As I rushed down the street around 11:00, I could see the line forming a block away. Curses! The word was out. I broke out into a Carl Lewis-like sprint - hurdling over parking meters and trash cans, knocking over homeless people and innocent passers-by. Panic set it. Would I miss out? Would the doughnuts still be there? Would they run out of coffee? Would I be forced to choose between a Chocolate Frosted Cake donut and a Long John when what I really want is a Bavarian Kreme?
When I finally arrived, the store had not yet opened. Like an exclusive velvet rope club, the line wrapped around the corner of the building and spilled out into the street. And they were fat people. And fat people love doughnuts. These people were going to eat my doughnuts. Was there a list? Am I on the list?
Where's my VIP pass?
WHERE'S MY VIP PASS!
And then, like a heavenly chorus of angels opening up the pearly gates, the doors parted and the sugary aroma of baked, deep-fried dough hit my nostrils. They beckoned me in as if to say, Well done, good and faithful doughnut eater. Enjoy your reward. Even the saintly store manager shook my hand.
But I was a junkie in need of a fix. It had been so long. So very, very long since I've eaten a doughnut. Like three-weeks-long. But it had been even longer since I've had a Dunkin' Donut.
We had D.D. franchises in Detroit when I lived there. It was the only good thing about that forsaken city. You see, in Detroit, every other establishment is a doughnut shop. Not Krispy Kreme or Tim Hortons, necessarily, but Ma and Pop pastry shops.
Detroit loves two things: Hockey and doughnuts. Sometimes at the same time. But most of the doughnuts there aren't really doughnuts at all. They call them Pączkis. What are Pączkis? Not doughtnuts, I'll tell you that much. They're imitation pastries made by phonetically challenged Polish immigrants that are ridiculously difficult to pronouce (poonchkeys) and downright impossible to spell. I typed it into Microsoft Word and the paper clip spell check assistant ran and hid.

So there I was, in front of the counter, when I froze up. Here before me was an embarrassment of donut riches. A veritable smorgasbord of yeasty confection. Torus after torus of heart-clogging, cholesterol-raising, fried batter rings.
And I couldn't decide.
So many choices: cinnamon or powdered sugar, marble frosted or custard filled, blueberry or apple n' spice, sprinkles, no sprinkles, gingerbread, Boston Kreme? I couldn't take it.
Finally, the cashier, who must have seen my wild eyed, literal-kid-in-a-candy-shop, glazed over (pun intended) stare, cleared her throat and smiled the smile that only a peddler of such extravagant gratifications can muster and said, "How about jelly-filled?"
BRILLIANT!
I nearly leapt over the counter and hugged her right in the middle of the store. Of course, jelly-filled, I said. How could I kick-start this beautiful breakfast relationship with anything else? I gladly accepted, took the sack, my small coffee with cream and sugar, and happily bounded back to work.
Halfway back, as I reached into the bag to reap the spoils of my morning plunder, a nagging thought entered my ravenous brain. You're on a diet, said my dasterdly conscience. You can't eat that doughnut.
I paused, hung my head, and admitted defeat. I trudged back to my office and reluctantly acquiesced the doughnut to a grateful co-worker. I watched him take a bite and thank me as he wiped the strawberry jam from his chin with a mirthful grin.
As I slouched at my desk and stared at the computer screen, a familiar voice echoed in my head. "It's time to make the doughnuts", I heard Fred the Baker say.
But not for me, I sadly replied. Not for me.










The Eulogy of an Office Chair (1994-2002)

Dear Model 549-L784,

We lost you on a cold, wintry November afternoon.
While writing a legal brief at the computer, your armrest snapped, spilling me out onto the rug. And as I lie there on the floor - flailing about, arms akimbo, cursing profusely - I knew that no matter how much duct tape I had in the mess drawer, I'd never sit upon you again.
So today you’ve been upgraded to a better model – one with leather padding.
I realize that your 15-year warranty claimed that you possessed “Unsurpassed Seating Comfort for the Home or Workplace”, but, honestly, we both knew better.
'Ergonomics, schmergonomics' was your motto. And with a healthy lumbar region, who was I to quibble? Well now that I'm a little older, and the ol' back isn't what it used to be, frankly it's if you're nothing but a cloth-covered cinder block.
But we've had a heckuva run, haven't we?
Hey, remember that time we had those chair races up and down the halls with the other students in the dorm? Or the time I spun around in your seat as fast as I could until I puked? Or the time I spilled cherry Kool-Aid on your cushion? We both laughed 'til we cried.
Ah, good times.
There are all kinds of reasons you broke down. Maybe you gave out because we both became complacent with our relationship. Maybe it was because it’s weird that your owner personified an office chair. But most likely it’s because I put you together wrong when I got you for Christmas in 1994. But that can hardly be blamed on me – the assembly instructions were all in German or French.
But that’s all behind us.
So thanks to an Office Depot ad in the Sunday paper, I’ve purchased someone else. And she’s good to me.
The specs are all there – Contoured Seat and Back with Lumbar Support, Pneumatic Gas Height Adjustment, Swivel and Tilt Mechanism, Imported Leather with Fire Retardant Foam, and Five-Star Arched Nylon Base with Twin Wheel Casters.
These are things you could not offer, so I decided to put you out of misery. I’m sorry there was no appropriate way to dispose of you. A proper burial was not available and you were too big to flush. And having a rummage sale in this part of town would just get us both mugged and shot.
So I took you to the Dumpster with the rest of the daily garbage. No doubt you will be crushed by a large compactor at the dump. But who knows? Maybe recycling is in your future.
Non scholae, sed vitae discimus: 'We don't learn from school, but from life'. Perhaps if office supplies had graveyards, this is what your headstone epitaph would read. Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur, indeed.
But for now, friend, fare thee well.
Rest In Pieces.


Originally written 11-18-02.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Oh, the Things I Steal

You would think that, after two months of trying to cram as much law into my head as I can, I would learn my lesson. However, my enlightenment hasn't kept me from committing one of the most basic of crimes – larceny.
Actually, if you want to get technical about it, it’s not called larceny. In common law it’s called ‘trespass to chattels.’
Now the word ‘chattel’ reminds me of something you’d find in a toilet after a large meal. Exempli gratia: “Excuse me while I go take a chattel”, or "Who left the chattel floater?"
But for the purposes of our discussion, a chattel is a piece of property.
I have plenty of property. I have accumulated several chattels over the years. Most of them outside the toilet. I have a computer, lots of CDs, a television, microwave, guitars, etc. All of them chattels. But I have this compulsive habit of taking other's chattels.
For example, I grocery shop at K-Mart. K-Mart provides its shoppers with konvenient baskets with handles instead of their larger, wheeled karts. I am part of the 13-Item-Or-Less Klub, so I take advantage of using one of these K-Baskets every time I shop there. But these baskets are so konvenient, that instead of emptying the groceries into my trunk or backseat and returning the basket to the korral, I take it with me to my apartment so I can use it when karrying my parcels up to 13-G.
Then I then use the K-Basket around the house until my next shopping trip. I use only one basket. I justify it by saying that I’m just recycling the basket and not stealing it.
But when it comes down to it, I’m really just a krook. With kleptomania.
A chattel (snickering, thinking of toilets) also encompasses intellectual property. Therefore music and computer software are also chattels. Thus they are prey to my thievery. The Internet provides me the perfect opportunity to freely and anonymously take chattels whenever I get that old familiar itch to rob someone of their wealth.
I use a program called ‘Kazaa’. It is a file-sharing program similar to the now-defunct Napster that allows one to download music, movies and software.Trust me, I pirate so much stuff off Kazaa that I should start wearing an eye patch and a peg leg when I go online.*
Now various recording artists such have been extremely public about the pirating of their music and have gone as far as testifying in front of Congress. And I totally understand that every time I download a song or program that I’m robbing the industry and keeping the rich from getting richer, but that parrot on my should keeps egging me on.
But I also steal cable thanks to a billing discrepancy – free HBO, Cinemax and ESPN Classic.
And I have figured out a glitch in the computer printing system at school that credits our copy card account with 20 dollars at a time. Now what I'm going to do with $242 worth is anyone's guess, but if they ever accept copy card credit as currency, I'll make it rain, baby.
Furthermore (and my most profitable endeavor), when I return from visits home, I turn in out-of-state aluminum cans for a 10 cent reward at recycling locations.
So do these things make me a bandit, a criminal, an outlaw – a trespasser of chattels? Have I become so jaded to the law after eight weeks of study that I continue to break it on a consistent basis? Do I think that I’m above the law because of my knowledge of its workings? I live in virtual poverty as a struggling student and the little bit of reprieve from oppressive government student loan debt is downloading a free Metallica B-side that they don't sell anywhere in stores anyway. Does this make me a federal felon? I guess only my conscience can answer those questions.
But I can’t ponder those questions here. I have to go take a chattel.
(Snicker.)


Originally written 10-21-02.
*Please note the statute of limitations for copyright infringement is three (and at the most five) years after the commencement of the crime. All files have been deleted and none were shared further. It was only a couple Everclear albums and a Ben Affleck movie and no one likes them anymore anyway.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Of Comet and Scrubbing Bubbles

In law school, when the preparation and study really begin to kick in, something as seemingly insignificant as tidying up can become woefully neglected. This, in a chronological nutshell, is the progression (regression?) of the state of my apartment during the month of October.


October 1st - Apartment is clean. Surfaces wiped down. The smell of Formula 501 with a hint of Orange-scented Endust has never been so euphorically intoxicating. Carpet is vacuumed. Dishes are done, clothing is ironed and hung in closet. Bed is made and one could bounce quarter off the taut bedspread. Is that an Air Wick? But of course.

October 4th - Coat is on the couch. Bottles and cans beginning to collect in recycling bin. Post-its and wadded shreds of perforated dot matrix paper strips litter desktop. Toilet lid open, but water remains clear. Rumpled bed is made, but sheets conspicuously hangs down beneath comforter. Can't find bed skirt.


October 7th - Single slipper left on living room rug. One or two dishes visible, but food on said dishes has not yet spoiled. Razor is dulled and slightly rusted, and bits of beard stubble line drain. Scope bottle very nearly empty. Wet towel hung from bathroom doorknob. Empty reed diffuser tipped over on top of the armoir.


October 10th - Three socks and a pair of boxers can be found on recliner. The fourth sock is in the microwave. Evidence of last night's dinner (Chili Frito Pie) stain the carpet. Two meal’s worth of dishes are in the sink, unwashed. Sour cream in fridge expires tomorrow. No rotting food. Yet. Trash can nearing full.


October 13th - Can't find car keys. Shower curtain beginning to mildew. Clotted toothpaste dots the sink. Bathroom mirror covered in water spots. Pot of half-eaten Kraft dinner sits on the bare mattress. Bathrobe is now bathmat. Water rings on desk from three-day-old coffee mug.


October 16th - Dust-covered gummy bears are scattered on the floor under desk. Pizza box on table has an ant or two. Brown apple core on nightstand. For some reason there's dried yogurt on the remote control. Contents of chemistry set bought on Ebay spilled on carpet. Smell of curry is noticeable in every corner of the house.


October 19th - Girlfriend won’t visit under any circumstances. Congealed sludge that was was chocolate milk is at the bottom of most drinking glasses. Fourteen feral cats have nested in hall closet. Lots of popcorn kernels fill kitchen sink. Greasy pillowcase doubles as welcome mat. Lou Reed record on broken turntable sk-sk-sk-skips but power cord is maddingly out of reach.


October 22nd - Rent notice is taped on door. Mexican hitchhiker sleeping on floor. This explains the Piñata. DVD player stuffed with toast. Lampshades are missing. Moths flutter around flickering halogen bulb. Thermostat does not work and is coated in dried blackberry jam. Bathtub now home of sick pet turtle. Barbells of weight set covered in mustard and feathers.

October 25th - Bathroom now off limits. Water turned off and toilet is filled with TidyCat. Small grease fire burning in oven. Attempt to clean kitchen results in scabies. Rodents have adversely possessed pantry. Refrigerator overturned, filled with reeking laundry. Scrambled eggs and rusty bits of steel wool in busted blender. Is that a dead goat in the entryway?


October 31st - Family of nomadic squatters in living room. Trick-or-treaters don't even bother. Scabies has spread to other tenants who shout threatening obscenities throughout the night. Pages of law books used to soak up blood in kitchen. Opossum and nomadic squatters fight constantly. Always itching. Television works, but stuck on Canal de Venezuela Vivos. Fridge houses mangy cur. Can't. Quite. Focussssss.....



Originally written 10-31-02.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Sandwiched! (Update)

Many of you will remember earlier this year when I wrote about an opposing employee relations litigant that I referred to as the sandwich lady. I pulled the post because it may have identified her and that's not cool, but Sandwich will be forever remembered in the hearts and minds of those who read it.
Ed. note: See link for edited re-post tortfeezor.blogspot.com/2008/02/sandwiched.html
Anyhow, I've put together an opening argument because the trial is this week. Here are some delicious excerpts:

"This employee was demoted because she chose to loaf at her workstation and refused to do her assigned tasks."

"Instead, she chose to ham it up with co-workers and peppered her conversation with salty language."

"You’ll hear plenty of arguments from the petitioner – some will be made with great zeal and relish - but it’s all a bunch of bologna - those kinds of excuses just don't cut the mustard."

"It looks like Ms. ___________ has gotten herself into a pickle."

"We all have a steak in this, so I won’t make any cheesy arguments or try to bake new bread."

"I know this is a lot to chew on. I'll go slowly so you all can all ketchup."

"In conclusion, it's time to wrap this up. So lettuce begin."

Monday, June 2, 2008

Welcome to Detroit, Charlie Brown

Quick story. Not so funny as sad, pathetic.
Walking to school. Waiting at crosswalk.
Raining: cats, dogs, hippopotami.
Wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No coat, jacket or poncho. Carrying books. Standing near curb. Stupid.
Bus approaching. Watching it approach. Why am I not getting out of way?
Large puddle: Erie-sized.
Bus hitting puddle. Water spraying. All in slow motion.
Wave splashing. So much water. Not believing this is happening. Still not getting out of way.
Futilely attempting to shield body with ridiculously expensive law textbooks.
So. Much. Water.
Wet. So wet. Unbelievably wet. Watching bus drive off.
Cursing.
Defeated, walking into building. Shoes squishing. Jeans dripping. Hair sopping. T-shirt soaking.
Bathroom? Hand dryer? No.
Desperately wringing. Paper toweling.
So much water.
Five minutes. Skip class?
Fine. I’ll go.
Entering classroom.
Everyone laughing.
Except me.


Originally written (soaking wet) 9-27-02.