Consumer Goodwill

Wow. The teahouse near work has added salads to its menu, and I ordered a personal favorite: Insalata Caprese (fresh buffalo mozzarella with basil and roma tomatoes). At about $7 for an entree salad, it's a fair price especially considering that this is in Palo Alto. And they gave me the whole cheese - imported from Italy, basil as strong as I've ever had it, and about 3 Roma tomatoes, flavorful and fresh. Again, wow. Very generous - and practically at cost! I couldn't prepare it at home myself for less (especially after gas).

Mmmmmmmmm good.

Triviality

Filled up to a half tank this morning. One side effect of higher gas prices is that managing a "perfect pump" is considerably harder than it used to be. Back when local prices were around $2.35 a gallon on average, I managed a perfect pump perhaps once out of every two fill-ups. The amount of manual-temporal precision required now that local prices average $3.60 a gallon, however, seems to be beyond my ability. No perfect pumps in the last year. It's not a big deal or anything, but it's just one of the many ways it has managed to make life less fun than it was before.


"Sweet Mother of God, STOP!!"
- M. Mellow, paying for gas and watching the pump meter on the road trip back from San Luis Obispo

Feast and Famine

Having been at my job for almost two years now, I've made it past a few of the professional growing pains. One aspect of becoming acclimated to the work is getting use to - or at least, learning to expect - the feast and famine nature of work as a litigator. The work schedule is driven by the discovery, pretrial, and trial schedules. When it rains, it pours. Nearly any litigator will tell you that the intensity of work has its ups and downs. Harder to convey, however, is just how violent those ups and downs are, and no words quite do it justice. Still, there are some things to be thankful for.

Any year in which the billables stack high during the first half of the year is good. It's better to hit your minimum billables early enough in the year so that Thanksgiving and the winter holidays aren't sullied with the background worry about having enough work. It's the winter season that's more fun - skiing and snowboarding, baked foods, warm tea, family get-togethers - all these are more pleasant without the nagging undercurrent of work stress picking at the seams of a quilt of cozy feelings.

A number of discussions with other associates outside my firm have also confirmed one of Townsend's points of pride - a good, emotionally healthy workplace. Most of my stress comes from the volume of work. Still, I'd have to admit that generally speaking, the heavy hours come with the territory. What I haven't had to suffer through is any real quantity of office drama or politics. Sure, it's there - but on the whole it's not too bad. It's certainly nothing that would drive me to leave the office to seek work at another firm.

I also have this weekend off. No work - I'd forgotten how nice it feels to do absolutely zero hours of work in a 48-hour period. I've caught up on some sleep and had a good day at wushu. I haven't had a weekend like this since the year started, and this has been really nice. I haven't felt human in a while, and it's a relief.

Personal truth for an Enneagram 1:

Why value honesty? Honor? Sincerity? Fairness? Humility? Why value the things that hold you back from taking what you want out of life? Why even indulge in the doomed attempt to live up to an impossible paradigm, a standard which sneers at the inevitable failings of your mortal efforts and so parsimoniously dismisses all appeals to cosmic justice by saying, "virtue must be its own reward"?

Because some things hold value even in the absence of happiness or contentment.

Because if you spend a lot of time alone, you must absolutely be able to live with yourself.

These young'uns, deys funny

Just over a week ago, I was hanging out with some of the current generation Cal Wushu folks. I mostly just sat around and watched their antics, feeling more than a little too old to fully join them in their scarcely post-adolescent youth. They're a funny bunch.

Present: two girls, at least seven guys. Four of the guys are intermittently wrestling each other and acting rather generally gay (I don't use that as a perjorative, I mean that as a descriptive). Including - reaching down each other's pants, assuming suggestive positions, etc.

So much so that one of the girls took it upon herself to interpose herself physically between two guys to keep them apart from one another (on a large leopard-spotted... er, bean bag, for lack of a better understanding of the large and garish piece of... furniture), and the two guys basically rolled right over her to get back to their play wrestling.

So much so that the one openly gay male in the room, who was watching the antics but not participating, shook his head and pronounced, with mock gravity tinged with a shade of deadpan, "I feel straight around you guys."

On the way back, one of the guys asked me, "Are you ok? I hope you weren't freaked out." To which I could only say, "No, it was just... unexpected. I had a consumingly academic undergrad, and basically missed out on a normal college experience, so I'm just wondering whether this is the sort of stuff that I missed out on, way back then. I have no point of reference."

On another note

Big Oil sucks unwashed barbarian butt.

I make good money, yeah. But after mortgage payments and gas, I'm half-tempted to mug the derelicts on University Avenue for the change in their paper cups.

Okay, I would never do that, please excuse the hyperbole. It's just that I'm sure most people's apprehension of what life as an attorney is like doesn't include subsisting on instant oatmeal and saltines three days out of four. It's nice to be a homeowner, I guess... but where would be the justice in working seventy hours a week and not being able to afford one? It's nice to have a bed and a roof to go along with the five hours of sleep I get per night.

We invent things. Karma. Destiny. Fate. Luck. Divine provenance. All to explain the things we can't control, as though the existence of some explanation, any explanation, makes it all easier to bear somehow. It's easier when it's not your fault. It's easier when you don't have to bear the responsibility.

Does it fix things? No. But not everything can be fixed. Sometimes, it seems easier not to care, but when you stop caring, part of you dies, and it's something everyone notices - you, your friends, your family, your enemies, and perhaps worst of all, even the new people you meet. Sometimes, it seems like people unconsciously smell emotional trauma in others. I've forced myself not to care about a lot of people anymore, and I tell myself that it's out of necessity, just pure survival. Part of me dies every time, and I can feel it. Should I be happy, then, that there's still plenty of me left to lose?

When I was twenty, I had hoped the next ten years would be better. In many ways, they have been. Not because any of it got better on its own - because I went out and made it that way. I managed to change everything, except the one thing that pained me the most.

I hope the next ten years will be better still. More than that, I hope I find the wisdom I need to shore up the worst of these wounds, but time has not healed them in the least. Some experiences do not age like fine wine. They sour like the most acid of vinegars, until their sharpness threatens to split the skin from within and pour you out onto the earth, to sink into the ground, lost forever, no more than a poor stain, mixed thick with dust.

What have I done with my life? It's a success by so many measures, isn't it? I have a fine job, with excellent pay. I have my health. I have an education. Maybe two or three educations. I have a few small talents. I have a home. I have friends who think well of me - not just of my accomplishments or my abilities - they think well of my soul. I carry the well-wishes of others with me. Any generosity I have shown in my life has been returned to me twofold. So why the discontent? Would I trade everything I have, for the one thing that I don't?

No. Perhaps not. If I did, I would no longer really be me. And then, in my mind, I would no longer deserve what I want. Then, I could no longer live with myself, which, truth be known, is something I can do. In the end, I would rather be able to live with myself, even if only with unease. I can at least look at myself in the mirror, flaws, scars, and all, and not flinch. I don't think I could have done that ten years ago. It must mean there is hope.

Driving with tongue in cheek

The Friday morning commute placed me behind two fun specimens: a bright red Hummer H1 with Greenpeace and "Save the Whales" bumper stickers, and a baby blue Prius with I <3 OPEC vanity plates.

Fromage

Excerpts from conversation (approximate):

"American cheese barely qualifies as cheese. Some American cheeses barely qualify as a diary product. It's mostly vegetable oil with some food coloring and a little skim milk. I'm not even sure it's cultured."

"Not to mention the lack of culture. It's bland, unmemorable, decidedly plasticky in texture..."

"It's essentially a condiment. Unlike real cheeses, like brie, cheddar, cambozola, manchego... there's really not much point in eating American cheese on its own. The closest I can come up with for a bona fide American cheese dish is macaroni and cheese."

"But cuisine is still the richer for the existence of American cheese. American cheese melts well, and while it isn't an ingredient in what you might call high-culture food, think about the everyday pleasures, the comfort foods - cheeseburgers, the aforementioned mac & cheese, on top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed."

"Life wouldn't be complete without the humble, the simple, the unpretentious. A childhood without mac & cheese might be a little healthier, but for what? One less denizen of the comfort food roster, one less inhabitant of the domain of soul foods. A rich-tasting, inexpensive slice of popular culture, as ubiquitous and relatable as any other treat in the shared memory of the collective consciousness, nestled snugly within fond and common memories of legos and otter pops, trading cards and pillow fights. As we grow older, some of us enter the ranks of the cultured, or leave behind the simple pleasures of the past for the trappings of the elite. But highborn or lowborn, rich or poor, no one is denied the universally accessible pleasure of movie theater nachos, tender bits of elbow macaroni bathed in the glistening yellow of school buses and infant playthings, or a slice of the unassuming, mass-produced processed cheese food draped over a well-done burger, a finishing touch so perfect that it always commands its own modest premium."

"Oft maligned, but even more loved. Life wouldn't be the same without it."

Cynic's-Eye View on

Teenage angst:

"What's the rush? Give it a few years, you'll have real reasons to be cynical soon enough."

Brayne-faht

Hope is like oxygen. Without it, you're as good as dead. Too much of it makes you stupid, then sends you into conniptions. If you're lucky, your friends will take enough of it away for you to regain your senses and your health. And because you're out of your mind, you won't appreciate it until after you've stopped being giddy, defensive, and hostile. (Don't forget to thank them afterwards. Loyal friends aren't to be taken for granted.)

If you're alone, you better damn well learn to regulate your own hopes. Keep your expectations realistic, even cynical, but don't lose it all, especially if you've ever experienced suicidal thoughts. Stay away from those extremes. It's harder than it sounds, because you can never really be sure that the internal diagnostics are properly calibrated.

Really, sometimes I don't know how the hell any of us can keep it all together on our own.

More Wisdom from the Storied Mr./Ms. Anonymous

"This life is mine to lead. However sad, tragic, or lonely it might turn out to be, it's too good a story not to tell."

- Anonymous

Moonbow

It hadn't been the longest day at work, but it had been long enough. I'm driving home from work at 10pm, the open sunroof shearing a wisp of spring breeze from the rushing air to blow lightly through the cabin, which ruffles my hair amidst the soft glow of dash lights and picture-perfect moonlight. We crest the top of the hill and I take my foot off the gas, coasting the last half-mile home. It's late, and I'm tired, but it's a beautiful spring night.

I turn left into the driveway and get out to open the gate, and as I swing the iron frames clear of the driveway I cast a glance skywards and the sight stops me cold in my tracks.

It is a beautiful night. Unusually so, and this one's worth sharing before I go to bed. I pull into the garage, pull the key, and step into the house. "Hey, everyone - it's a nice moon tonight. Come out and have a look!"

Shining stars and motes of mist gather in audience. A formal audience in the celestial court is an unexpected event full of anticipation and trepidation. Through the eons, the greater denizens of the heavens have been known for their constancy of manner, tracing solemn, dignified paths through the sky. The Queen in her full radiance would dominate the sky, but as is her habit, she changes the strength of her presence night by night. Queen she may be, but the sky is for stars, and as often as not, she leaves the serene night to the sound of their voices. But a formal audience requires a fullness of bearing, and tonight, she shines brightly indeed.

My brother and parents wander past the yawning garage door and tilt their heads toward the sky, bathed in the brightness of a full moon. It's a misty evening, but there's so much light that we can see all the trees and foliage in the yard surrounding the driveway, make out the edges of individual maple leaves and the profile of individual needles of home-grown rosemary. The darkness of night holds few mysteries tonight, as the light makes even the sides of the hills surrounding our house distinct and discernible.

The Queen speaks softly in a voice full of power. Her words fly to the ends of heaven and earth, commanding attention with gentle authority. Whereas the light of the daytime King, glorious but domineering, claims the entire firmament for himself, the queen's voice is not so opaque. Hers allows all to be seen, whilst still allowing all to be heard. When the King holds court, the stars have no voice. The Queen, being a better listener, finds that a clearer, calmer brilliance suits her needs better. The court gathers around her, settling with dignity and decorum. In a quiet ceremony blessed with order and dignity, the shining mists and the lordly stars gather in attendance at a deferential distance about the Queen, forming a perfect circle of twinkling light, unmoving, yet breathing deeply with life.

A thin fog hangs in the air high above our heads, drifting across the sky at a pace vigorous enough to see with night-adapted eyes. Too thin to form true clouds, it flows like a slow current of steam across the sky at a pace somewhere between lazy and daydreamy. Most striking, however, is the perfect circle of glowing light hovering about moon like an enormous halo stretching halfway across the sky. At first it just seems to hang suspended in the heavens just beneath the moon, still and unmoving. As our eyes continue to adapt to the night sky, we start to see that the glowing haze, appearing motionless at first, actually seems to cast off slow curls of vapor, almost like wafting across dry ice. Though the rest of the sky glows faintly with starlight and drifting, moon-brushed fog, the sky within the halo is a deep expanse of perfect, crystalline darkness, interrupted only by the blazing moon in perfect relief at its exact center. Even the stars within shine less brightly than those outside the halo. Mom coos with delight while my brother purses his lips in amused puzzlement. My dad glances back at me with a knowing smile, probably wondering if my hazy recollection of physics has figured out where the enormous, dazzling halo is coming from.

The exciteable, miniscule sprites drift and coast about with great relative speed in a great crowd huddled around the Queen's forum. Caught up in the regal spectacle of the event, they roil about with nervous energy, straining to catch every word, see every motion. Most of the stars, the lesser lords of the sky, hover in their usual places, fully capable and content to participate from their own serene perches. A few stars move within the forum, whispering to the Queen and amongst themselves, keeping order, and briefing the Queen and one another on tonight's agenda. They also maintain the peace; for all her love and understanding, the Queen's forum remains a sacred space and the stars ensure that it remains orderly and clear.

"It's a rainbow." Dad smiles and nods. "Uh-huh. A rainbow can appear as a perfect circle of refracted light; we usually only see part of it but if all the suspended moisture that's creating it is in view, you can see that the diffracted light come in from all angles. That's why you can see a full circle in the spray of a garden hose or from the window of an airplane. It looks like tonight, the moon is bright enough and fog in the air just right to catch and diffract the moonlight into, well, a moonbow." "And the sky inside the moonbow is darker than the sky outside, just like a rainbow. The white light that gets diffracted into a rainbow has had its path diverted from elsewhere in the sky; the thick band of light has to come from somewhere, so the part of the sky inside a rainbow seems darker because some of the light from within the rainbow is being bent away and concentrated into the rainbow."

"And that's why, if you look closely enough, you can see that the halo isn't perfectly white. One edge is just a tiny bit pink, and the other is just a tiny bit blue."

As the scene settles into focus, millions of small voices gather in chorus, singing and chanting their cares to the Queen. Kept civil and orderly by stars many times their brightness, they observe the decorum but begin to separate into bands of differing viewpoints, different concerns. White, worshipful throngs of vapors sing the skies’ praises as they rejoice in the grandeur of the audience itself. Millions more of skybound sprites cast billowing ripples of reddish light as they air grievances, urgent requests, or counterpoised defenses. They restrain their agitation in the presence of the Queen and the ever-watchful elder stars but cannot fully contain their anxiety and intensity, pushing their way to the edges of the forum’s halo in an effort to be heard. While each voice is too small to see, collectively their efforts ruffle the outer edge of the halo with the energy of a billion murmuring debates. The Queen stands in the center, observing them all as the throngs outside drift past in quiet observation. And we, standing on terra firma, gaze upward as the forum opens a great portal allowing us to peer far past the dome of the sky. It is as though heaven itself drew back a curtain of nebulae and light to reveal an expanse of dark, beautiful infinity, a vast and inverted chasm of crystal clear blackness. The sight beckons your perspective up and out of your body, soaring skyward to revel in unfettered freedom.

Entitlement


http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/Movies/07/03/christian.movie.rating.ap/index.html

"House Majority Whip Roy Blunt and other lawmakers are demanding explanations after hearing complaints that the movie "Facing the Giants" was rated PG instead of G due to religious content.

"This incident raises the disquieting possibility that the MPAA considers exposure to Christian themes more dangerous for children than exposure to gratuitous sex and violence," Blunt said in a letter to MPAA Chairman and Chief Executive Officer Dan Glickman."


Christian themes? Or Christian dogma? Now, I don't know much about the movie itself. It really might be wholesome and innocuous and deserve a G rating. What bothers me is the sense of entitlement these congressional advocates seem to be bringing to the topic. Religion is powerful. Ideologically weighty. Religion is no less powerful a force in this world than nuclear weaponry. Can faith move mountains? Maybe. We know they can level them, that's for sure, and it disturbs me that people entrusted with such great responsibility seem to think that it's proper and desirable to wield the force of religion recklessly.

It seems to me that religion or lack thereof is an issue of deep significance in psychological and attitudinal development. It has to be a choice, if not by the adopter then by someone, somewhere, usually the one doing the childrearing. If it were truly the natural state of things then we'd be born religious and indoctrination (as opposed to education) of any kind would be redundant. And the manner in which a Christian is introduced to Christianity seems to have a lot of influence on how that person treats the rest of humanity. So yes, I'd say that religious themes *are* PG subject matter. No, more than that - there are religious themes that are undoubtedly R subject matter.

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon thee!"

Uh. Rated G? The line was made famous to the country, not by a priest or scholar, but by an on-screen, fictional contract killer in the process of committing murder (who proceeded thereafter to wax contemplative about religious themes and his own life, not to mention Caine and Kung Fu *wince*). If the manner of introduction helps determine whether one uses religion to motivate performing acts of philanthropy or to rationalize the shooting of a medical practitioner with a high powered rifle through the window of his own house, then no shit - religious issues should not have carte blanche for a G rating! Religion is not harmless! It's *full* of power. Exposure to gratuitous sex and violence can shape an impressionable kid into a callous philanderer or wifebeater. Exposure to outrageous dogma can turn an impressionable kid into a cold-blooded terrorist, too. People wield guns and declare wars in the name of religion. Should "Left Behind" be rated G? Of course not. Oh, wait - it's because of the death and violence, right? Right. Like there wasn't any sex or violence - or murder, or betrayal, or idolatry, or incest, pillaging, plundering, invasion, slavery, conquering, warfare, or genocide - perpetrated by the protagonists and inheritors of the sacred books of the Old Testament.

Please, people. Religious themes include many mature subjects, and religions are as obsessed about the imposition of death, preservation of life, sex, and procreation as any other topic out there. Probably moreso. Every religion I can think of had plenty to say - nay, demand - about who could mate with whom, how, when, and where, and under what circumstances. So act like grownups, people, and be responsible enough to wear the label. Not that I necessarily think *this* movie demands a PG rating, but automatic entitlement to a G rating seems misplaced. The quoted Congressmen seem upset that the rating might prevent people from being exposed to Christian values. Oh, what, is there a First Amendment violation in assigning a movie a PG rating? It would be the first time I've heard anything about it. I've never known a PG rating to prevent anyone from seeing a movie. This is PG we're talking about! Not even PG-13! If anything, a PG rating respects the gravity of the issue, and how it should not be taught carelessly. To put it crudely, this is life-changing, life-shaping shit we're talking about. At least one family friend joined the Jehovah's Witnesses in college a few years after being introduced to Christianity by a well-meaning elder. She and the elder have had discussions since about how following the Jehovah's Witnesses is "not what she meant" by being a good Christian, and how "they don't teach God's word the way it's meant to be taught." The discussions, as far as I can tell, have been to no effect. The kid's still a Jehovah's Witness, and devotes all her time to that sect, and seems to think that all secular entertainment and any outward expression of joy - or even association with non-Christians - is a sin against God.


When it comes to learning about God, it's not all the same. It would be incorrect and unfair to paint all Christians with a single broad brush. I know my aunt and Pat Robertson are not on the same page. She tries to convert everyone she meets, sure, but my aunt would pray for the protection of all of God's children, devout or not, saved or not. She certainly doesn't invite God to destroy entire cities or states for the laws that they pass or strike down. Robertson wishes more death, suffering, and harm on the living, breathing, hard-working - even devout - citizens of the United States than Al Qaeda has ever managed to inflict on us to date, and that's already thousands upon thousands of murders. The same ideological underpinnings can give rise to an extraordinary range of beliefs - and subsequent actions and consequences - ranging from saintly benevolence to repugnant spite.

So if a movie purported to tell your child what he or she should understand about religious faith and values, shouldn't you be concerned? Newsflash for Congressman Blunt: PG stands for Parental Guidance, not "don't let the kids see it." Did you forget that? Wouldn't you like some input? Wouldn't you like the option to hope that the ratings system and theater administrators, even with all their faults and vacuous logic, might give you the chance to advise your kid what you think a relationship with God is all about? If Robertson, Osama bin Laden, Jesse Jackson, George Bush, Cotton Mather, King Henry VIII, David Duke, Pope Benedict, Oral Roberts, Jimmy Baker, King Saul, Ann Coulter, Mother Teresa, David Koresh, or Ayatollah Khomeni, brimming with charisma, authority, power, or fame, walked up to your child with a fistful of promises and lure of eternal life in the Kingdom of God, wouldn't you like the chance to tell your child what you thought of that person, good or bad, before he or she started talking?

"Johnny Walker Lindh, come here this instant! This is not how I raised you!"

Too late.



PostScript: Yes, I know there's an argument for the other side. We don't enforce G vs. PG ratings on books, even though I'm sure there are people out there who say we should. But nobody's going to stop a 7-year old from walking into a bookstore and buying a copy of the Bible, The Prince, Mein Kampf, or Neitschze's Finest Quotations. Making that observation, of course, opens up a whole new can of worms. But making the argument that a movie should never be rated PG for the mere fact that it discusses religious subjects seems as misguided as saying that a television show that depicts fantasy violence is more harmful than a religious text that explains why it's ok - or historically acceptable - to perpetrate actual violence on real people who aren't members of your religion. Which, of course, includes the Torah, the Bible, and the Quran. I'll also say that I've never personally known a PG rating to ever prevent anyone from buying a ticket and watching a movie. Maybe parents have more control in other states.

Ping

There has been a lot to talk about but no time to write about it. A lot's happened with wushu and with work, which is also to say that not much else has happened elsewhere life for lack of time. But there are two blips on the radar that merit mention, if only briefly, because they insisted on resonating somehow, even with the mind weary and preoccupied with work.

Two different women in whom I'd been interested, years and years past (and years apart, mind you - wasn't interested in them at the same point in time) are both getting engaged. Does this mean anything to me? I'm not sure. Not sure what does, anymore.

I'm looking at my desk, strewn wildly with papers, pens and highlighters, post-it-notes, half-full teacups and fallen, now crisp and dry, flower petals. The pursuit of law and order itself creates entropy.

Tomorrow now begins.

I passed the Bar Exam. Results came back today, in all their starkly dispassionate minimality.

My relief is inchoate; I think it'll finally hit me tomorrow.

Great Friends, & One Varmint

I drove to the teahouse yesterday, to catch up with my beloved law school support group. An evening of pure joy, spent catching up with lots of younger friends who kept me going through my years at Boalt. Many smiles, much laughter, & warm hugs. You know it's a comfortable group when even the guy-guy hugs aren't awkward.

I felt a little silly calling ahead before driving up, but it would have been really sad to take the trip and, by happenstance, not manage to run into anyone. Even so, it was a slightly self-conscious endeavor - rather like being the class drama queen with delusions of grandeur. "M. Mellow's visiting! Everyone drop what you're doing and come visit moi!"

And so I got to chill with the regulars, and had a few chance meetings with other friends and personages over the course of the 7-hour visit. No laptop, no books, no cramming for me... I did bring my backpack, which made WiseYouth suspicious. "I demand to see what you have in there. There better not be any books."

Out comes the pineapple. WiseYouth manages not to let on surprise, if indeed he is surprised at all. But we agree at least that it was random and unanticipated. The pineapple was an extra left over from ZLS's going-away party. These hawaiian gold pineapples are really yummy, though, so I brought it to share at the teahouse.

The one downer of the evening? Well, to even write about it grants it unwarranted dignity. DeltaFarce picked a fight with me! No, really, what an exhibitionist nincompoop. The guy has an internet fan club on the one hand, detractors on the other, and serious mental issues. He makes a spectacle of himself on a daily basis (the source of his rep, bad or good) and then decides that he doesn't like the bad rep that he has with the regulars. And then he apparently decides it's all my fault and that he can rehabilitate his rep by beating me into submission in front of the whole crew of regulars. I'll admit I don't like him, his mannerisms, and his affected arrogance, but he's not what I'd call an evil person. He's at once very self-absorbed and insecure... it's just sad more than anything else. Especially sad that he means to cure a bad rep by beating up the oldest man in the bunch, as though I were the source of it all. Have I voiced negative opinions of him? Sure. I don't claim I haven't. There's a lot about the guy that's just wrong.

No, we didn't fight. I wasn't interested, and DeltaFarce's eagerness to throw down struck me as absurd. Bandannaboy and Languidgenius stepped in, waved me off, and eventually talked DeltaFarce into leaving. And after that, we headed out for our midnight snack.

On the one hand, that put a downer into the evening. Pure and preposterous crap that nobody should have had to deal with. On the other hand, with DeltaFarce inches from my face and itching for a fight, threatening to "fuck with me" in a transparently indirect tough-guy way, I felt something I haven't felt for most of my life. Perhaps I never deserved it before. But emanating unseen, past the field of my peripheral vision was a unfamiliar but comforting sense:

We've got your back

It was past closing time, so only the regulars and the crew were still there. Eight in all. I felt completely safe. Even had I been physically helpless, I would have been in no danger at all. Of course I feel that my good friends have my back, this was just a context it hasn't had to face before. Languidgenius spent five minutes explaining to a thick head that threatening customers with physical violence is a good way to get permanently banned from a restaurant. Bandannaboy, who has a friendlier relationship with DeltaFarce, walked the big lug outside and eventually, amazingly, got him to leave voluntarily.

I don't think DeltaFarce quite appreciated just what he had done to himself. Maybe he wanted to make a big show of publicly picking a fight with me in order to scare the other regulars. That's his usual modus operandi in everything, anyway. Maybe as far as he was concerned, this was just between him and me, and didn't believe that anyone would want to intercede between me and his ridiculous muscles. But if he had a bad rep before, it's really in the hole now.

I think I've said before that often you don't quite know how deep a friendship runs until it's been tested, and the sad reality is that often, such tests involve bad circumstances. But a midnight snack and two hours after the fact, the day ended on a fine note. Just me, my friends, and a fond farewell to Hawaii.

Frivolity

I gotta say, I love BoA. Yes, she could easily be singled out as a singular exemplar of manufactured, formulaic Kpop. Yes, she's been called the Britney Spears of Asian pop. (I disagree; she's much more tasteful. She wears clothes. I can't say the same for Britney.) Yes, her stuff is really peppy and sugary and too cute for some people to stand.

But it fills a niche. I need peppy, sugary, excessively cute music sometimes. I spend enough time in the mists of melancholy, and sometimes I need out. It's as simple as that. Granted, mixing Vienna and BoA in the same playlist doesn't quite work, so what I play depends on what mood I'm in and what I'm doing. Same as everything else.

And she's quadrilingual. That's awesome. I can only speak one language, myself.

Foul Spirits

Okay, now that I've had a chance to vent my wounded pride, I suppose I should admit that I don't necessarily come across as a very nice guy. I'm bitter, melancholy, I hold grudges, and am prone to voicing florid but empty threats about my taste for retributive cruelty. I don't pretend not to be driven by fits of negative energy, but even if negative energy is all you have, you can still put it to constructive ends. It's worth a try, anyway.

Verdict: Guilty by Association

“Hey, have you heard this one? Why did the research scientists replace their lab rats with lawyers? Because…”

*cutoff*: “Because scientists get less attached to lawyers, because lawyers breed faster and move slower, and because there are some things that rats just won’t do.”

It’s pretty much a given that if you go through law school, you’ll probably end up hearing almost every lawyer joke ever penned. That’s quite a few, and they’re overwhelmingly unflattering. Heck, I get a bit of a kick out of it myself, since I can always shrug, smile, and say, “oh, but I’ve been a software engineer, too.” I’m not just like every lawyer you ever had occasion or misfortune to meet.”

I took the Bar Exam at the end of this past July (more on that perhaps, sometime in the future), and results aren’t going to come out until November. I’m not a licensed attorney yet. The J.D. makes me a lawyer, albeit one pending authorization to practice in California (so will everyone please stop asking for free legal advice until I can legally dispense such a thing, and meanwhile properly incur all the attendant potential for liability? =) ) But important details like being properly licensed aside, the knowledge that I’m going to start practicing (hopefully) soon seems, in the eyes of some, to make me suddenly and instantly, personally responsible for all the ills and inequities of the system.

Got screwed by the law? Got swindled by a lawyer? Went through a separation? A bad inheritance dispute? Heard about something outrageous in the news? Wanna complain about eminent domain? Go yell at M. Mellow! He’s one of them, ergo, it’s all his fault. (This is often followed by an immediate request for free legal advice.)

Well, I’m exaggerating. It’s not that bad, oh no. The more polite friends bring up specific issues they’ve heard of just to ask me my opinion – just to see whether I’m going to justify the result with some convoluted strain of chicanery, or decry the outcome as one of those charmingly American miscarriages of justice, or wave my hands helplessly in befuddlement while mumbling, “uh… I don’t know.” These often lead to great conversations; in recent memory, talking to Enji about eminent domain, and to Lil’Terry about downloading music.

Lots of other discussions, however, aren’t just talking about issues. Everyone seems worried about my soul. “But you’re going to be one of the good guy lawyers, right?” “So, are you ready to make a lot of money off loopholes in securities law?” “Beware the Dark Side! Deceit, greed, guile – the ways of the Sith these are.” “Let me guess – you’re going into corporate tax shelters. That’s where all the real money is, right?” Y’know, sometimes that bugs. I mean, really. When I stop to take measure of the various impulses, memories, and old wounds that grasp the rigging and spin the helm, charting the course of my life, I can’t help but be a little offended by the imputations. I shouldn’t take it too personally – and I had better get used to it! Let’s face it, we Americans have a love-hate, love-to-hate, hate-love-hate-just-a-little-bit-more relationship with our lawyers. I’m sure my friends are probably just saying it as a half-joking, half-pointed reminder that “we love you the way you are. Please don’t become corrupt.”

Oh, believe me, I don’t consider myself to be immune to corruption. The impulse to do well for yourself, to get ahead in the game, to take the short cut, or even to fight fire with fire, all of these are powerful human motivators. Have I felt them? Sure I have. Everyone has. Good principles and wholesome ethics are very perishable qualities. You always have to watch yourself. Periodic introspective checkups are a must. Does your soul have a clean bill of health? I don’t know, when was the last time you paid a visit to Dr. Conscience? One of the great ironies of virtue is that some degree of humility is one of the foremost, most simple cornerstones of a good heart. I could be wrong, but I think that the moment when you believe your own goodness to be unimpeachable is the moment at which you are most in danger of becoming a hypocrite.

But that said, can it be that the people I know have so little faith in my own desire to do good? So little faith in my own understanding that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions and that I should neither become blind to the possibility that I may take the wrong road, or that a profession that occasionally requires me to advocate a position I don’t personally like may poison my spirit with the blight of insincerity?

In my junior and senior years as an undergrad I worked as a T.A. for the intro CS course at Berkeley. For the year before that I graded homework. This while dealing with a double major, merciless sleep deprivation, and an emotionally hostile wushu environment. Even in a martial arts club full of social rejects, I was an outcast. Social life? What social life? Even as early as the second week of my freshman year, I was forever branded as the weird and creepy one. I was shunned, people called me all kinds of names behind my back – I’ll admit, these were the unsurprising, perhaps even deserved consequences of my own social awkwardness at the time. But if you’d never had a rep like that, let me tell you – it’s a pretty damned hard one to shake. People take pills to deal with that kind of pain. Why did I take a job as a T.A.? Because I wanted spending money? Because I like the power trip of assigning grades to people just one year younger than me? Because I wanted to pad my resume? No, No, and Just a Little Bit.

The money wasn’t great. The undergrad T.A.’s got half-pay and no benefits. The power trip? No. And even if I was, let me suggest that for a lot of people the novelty wears off in about two weeks, after you’ve graded your 200^th problem set at 4 in the morning immediately after you’ve spent three consecutive all-nighters on your Operating Systems lab project. I did it because T.A.’s make a real difference, especially in as crowded and overstuffed an environment as Cal Berkeley. In my freshman year – particularly for Economics, CS, and Physics – I learned that having a good TA makes all the difference. The T.A. is your lifeline. Lots of people don’t go to section – but the ones who do learn that the T.A.’s are the ones who show you how to do the homework, what analogies work best to digest the concepts, what material’s going to be on the test. I had good grades at Berkeley, and that’s actually quite hard to manage. No, in fact I had excellent grades, and I had my T.A.’s to thank for it. A tradition like this needs new runners to carry the torch; however mighty a tradition may seem for the weight and grandeur of its history, it is always in danger of dying unless a soul in the present is willing to bear the mantle. I could never have managed what I did, with so little sleep and joy on hand, if not for Zabel, Lybecker, Simic, Elby, and others like them. I did my best to emulate their very best qualities when I went to work. I was still the shy kid, the skinny little guy with dark circles under his eyes and a debilitating insecurity complex. But, damnit, if I was going to do more harm than good, or even begin to repay the good academic karma I’d received, I was going to have to get over some of my own problems. And it would have to start with learning how to talk to people again.

I held review sessions at midterms and finals, without pay. Believe it or not, it was not officially one of my responsibilities. I put together handouts, held extra office hours, while short on time for my own work and utterly without compensation. I brought pizza for hungry students, I prepared materials the night before my own midterms… I really did care about my students. It was important to me that they have every chance to do well, and their well-being was important enough for me to take risks and make personal sacrifices. I had no time, no life, no girlfriend, no love, no happiness, no sleep, little to look forward to, and not enough food. But I think I had somewhere around two hundred students over the course of those two years; if I was making things better for that many people… well, let’s just say that I was able to do a lot more for them with that time than I could have done for myself.

And then there was wushu. We founded Stanford Wushu in 1998 while I was in grad school. I say “we” because it was a true collaborative effort. SugoiProf, KneeMatt, ChampLowkey, and our instructors who drove in from the city all deserve equal credit. Like the rest of them, I did what needed to be done to get the club running, to ferret out space for our workouts, and other assorted administrivia. If I had any uniquely personal contribution to that club, it was the personal attention. I learned everyone’s names, I put together social events, attended to injuries, and made sure no one felt neglected. I packed food and supplies for tournaments, coached first-time competitors, and let everyone know that we were a team and that every member mattered. There was no elite, no hierarchy beyond that basic requirement of instructor and student. I had a lot of responsibilities but no extra privileges. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be; it’s not about me, it’s about everyone else. If people were getting along just fine, I let them be. If someone didn’t want to get involved in the social aspects of the club, I didn’t push it on them. But I wanted to make sure that nobody felt excluded. It was an open door; everyone was welcome. Because that’s what was missing from my introduction to wushu. I stayed with the art because I loved it, even as I was treated like a pariah by most, and for no good reason. It seems to me that one of the reasons why wushu is still so small in the U.S. is because of all of the bad blood and the infighting. It doesn’t help when the people who were supposed to be your teammates think up cruel ways to exclude you and let you know, sight unseen, invectives uttered and hate unspoken, that you are unwanted. How is a sport supposed to gain new members if the people closest to you, the ones who are supposed to have your six, only hesitate in driving a shiv deep into your back because they’re busy trying to pick out the most rusted, envenomed, wickedly serrated one with which to do it? It was needlessly painful, wantonly cruel, and I would not stand for it to taint a new and hopeful endeavor. Perhaps it was ambitious, even stained with hubris, to believe that I could just put my foot down and declare, "It ends with me." But I tried anyway.

Our club grew more quickly than we had dared to dream. We had 30 long-staying members in our very first quarter. That’s a roster bigger than any other collegiate wushu club of its kind. This was as close to being happy as I’d ever really been, but when I got ready to go to law school, it was time to say goodbye. A generation in a collegiate club lasts 3 years at most. If the club retained some part of the spirit I’d tried to impart to it, either by its innate nature or by my own intentions, that would be good enough. I’m not sure I can really take credit; the club seemed to attract a lot of good people on its own merits. There are still a few people there who remember me, but what really matters, in the end, is if the place is still like that, years from now, when the changing of the guard is fully complete and no memory of me remains.

If I did these things to balm my own wounds, then I suppose that makes me selfish. But nobody goes to that kind of trouble without some kind of reason. Mostly I did these things because there have been things in my life that have hurt me enough that I doubt I can ever really forget them or quite live them down. Those events and experiences give me anxiety dreams and nightmares. They haunt me in the background of my psyche, manifesting as a shroud of insecurity and cynicism that renders me guarded and reserved when meeting new people, and I will probably be like that for the rest of my life. Although I know that there are plenty of people who have been through experiences far more horrible than mine, trials and agony that make my worries and cares risibly pathetic by comparison, this has all been bad enough for me to hope that the people I care for won’t have to be made to feel so small, so ugly, so untalented, or so unwanted.

Well, aside from being short, I know I’m not ugly, untalented, or unwanted. Life has turned around remarkably well on a lot of those fronts, and I can’t help but bemusedly wonder why I met so many horrible excuses for human beings in my younger years, as opposed to the loving company I have now. It at least makes being single somewhat easier to deal with. And with the friends I’ve made and the time I’ve spent at this second time around at Berkeley, I have some sense that the important things haven’t changed. I still do what I do, for all the same reasons.

I’m not perfect. I suppose I still have enough arrogance in me to feel irritated when other people take it upon themselves to remind me to be one of the “good guys,” when thoughts of right and wrong are actually never far from my mind. And that’s not an easy question to answer when you try to think about the wildly multidimensional nature of so many of the issues and problems that rear their heads when you are led to consider economics, ethics, law, and politics all at the same time. It’s not about “shades of grey.” It’s not about moral relativism, or reckless subjectivity either. It’s about a complex world where doing right means doing right while having a care about the wrong you might be doing along another ideological or ethical axis. It’s about not having tunnel vision. It’s about being aware enough to avoid oversimplifying a problem, or allowing simplicity or approachability to make you favor a convenient resolution where it actually causes more harm than good. It’s about knowing that the road to Hell is indeed paved with good intentions, and that while it’s bad enough to walk down that road, it’s even worse to lead those who trust you down your own personal pathway to ruin. It’s about turning around to look at everyone behind you when you come to that fork in the road, to remind yourself that when you do wrong, you may do it a hundredfold if you are not careful.

I haven’t ever forgotten about trying to be one of the “good guys.” I know the day may come where I need to be reminded of it. Perhaps perilously soon. But have a little faith, everyone. I haven’t forgotten yet.