...yet another excuse to get drunk and stumble around town.
Sunday was the annual Superbowl Pub Crawl in Ventura. My day began with a 9:15 am phone call from a club member asking where I was with the beer for the start. Of course, the "run" was to begin at 10:00 and I was still home in bed. Silly me.
Upon arrival I was greeting with demands for better beer (people expect a lot for $5 these days...) and then kudos for bringing Jello shots in the colors of the teams competing that day. Is there really any other way to kick off a Sunday morning than chasing a tequila with lime Jello shot with a Miller Lite? There is something about Jello, cheap booze and whipped cream that makes everything all right. After the cooler was emptied by the participants we headed off on the pub crawl. I was staying sober as I was driving the beer and bag wagon so I followed along on foot for a few miles then turned back to go pick up the truck and meet the frightening crew en route for round two of the Jello shots. Five or six bars later, the group arrived (barely) at a sports bar just in time for kick off.
I have never actually watched the Superbowl and let me just say I was more confused than anything. First off, when you are in a sports bar for the game, you can expect not to hear anything. So when I saw Michael Douglas on screen I wasn't sure we were on the right station. I still don't know what his role was in the game. Then there were Bill Clinton and George the Elder. What the heck were they doing there? I couldn't hear a thing until the bartender screamed for silence so we could hear the national anthem. I felt very American as I sat at the bar drinking my imported beer surrounded by drunks with a lottery game on the screen next to the one playing the anthem while displaying a flag billowing in the wind. Rarely have I felt so patriotic.
I missed the kick off because someone was painting my fingernails green to show support for the Eagles. The game itself was lame. Men in tights and knee highs running a few feet then hitting eachother. Oh, and the dances in the end zone were priceless. Don't these men know how stupid they look? Because I couldn't stomach watching the game I took to watching the spectators. Highlight of my experience included dispatching a search party to locate one inebriated club member only to find him walking out of the women's restroom. When we pointed out that he had been in the women's restroom he merely commented, "No wonder is was so clean and quiet in there."
Another highlight was watching three club members vie for the affections of a cross dresser. Three of us sober folks watched as the three men made advances toward the 6'4", wearing-a-choker-to-hide-the-adam's-apple, large handed vixen. Of course, we encouraged their antics so we could watch things unfold. At one point we caught a new guy, J, propped up against a pinball machine by the she-man. Later, he was seen in the parking lot with her, er, him, er, whatever. I just wonder how he's feeling this morning...
After the game we parted company. I was starving and stopped at my favorite pizza place for a slice. They were so slow they had no slices so I had to get a whole pie. While waiting I chatted up the two boys that work there. They were upset at having to stay until close and bored out of their minds. After checking their ID's, I took them out to the truck and gave them some of the leftover beer from the days' events. You'd have thought I was Santa Claus, well maybe not if you were their employer. Then you'd have thought I was an evil cheap-beer-donating employee ruiner. Either way, it was fun and they were grateful.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Boom Boom Sanders
Oklahoma legislators are trying to reinstate one of the state's favorite spectator sports - cockfighting - by mandating the use of tiny boxing gloves and safety vests on the chickens.
Not only do I find this hilarious, but possibly fortuitous for me seeing as how I am both the former fried chicken spokesperson of southern China and a scrawny wanna-be amateur boxer. I need to update my resume and get in on this $100-million industry.
Not only do I find this hilarious, but possibly fortuitous for me seeing as how I am both the former fried chicken spokesperson of southern China and a scrawny wanna-be amateur boxer. I need to update my resume and get in on this $100-million industry.
Courtship & Amphetamines
I usually listen to NPR or Howard Stern during my morning commute. What that says about me, I am not sure, but it keeps me amusing and informed.
This morning, our local NPR affiliate, KCRW was in the throes of its winter fundraising drive. I already pledged and am, quite frankly, sick of having my free programming interrupted every 30 seconds with another great offer if you pledge in the next 30 minutes. This morning's big draw? Nine gift certificates to the 99 cent store...Glad I got the 10 CD pack.
Whenever I am dissatisfied with NPR's offering during the commute I switch to Howard Stern, where I either tune in just in time for a 30 minute commercial break or am lucky and catch the shock jock doing a bit in between commercial breaks. Today I caught him between breaks but he was doing a bit where a desparately single Jewish girl was earning $1,000 and the right not to be called annoying by Howard by allowing a turgid man to fart on her face 500 times in 10 minutes. As stimulating as this may seem to some of you, I opted to tune outat number 24.
I switched to my third alternate, the local country station, KHAY. They too were in the midst of mindless babble but something caught my ear...Speed dating in Ventura County tonight at the local brewery. I had heard this was coming to town and considered signing up but never followed through. And now that I know the location of the event, I figure I can just show up and watch the carnage.
So I called a couple of friends and we are meeting at the brewery this evening to watch the speed dating in progress and then snatch any eligible singles. The whole concept of speed dating intrigues me, just not enough to spend $35 to gamble on it. Besides, given the number of dated I've been on in this county in the past 6 1/2 years, it's likely I would be matched up with someone already adjudicated to be unsuitable for me. Anyhow, that experience should provide some new fodder for the blog by tomorrow...
This morning, our local NPR affiliate, KCRW was in the throes of its winter fundraising drive. I already pledged and am, quite frankly, sick of having my free programming interrupted every 30 seconds with another great offer if you pledge in the next 30 minutes. This morning's big draw? Nine gift certificates to the 99 cent store...Glad I got the 10 CD pack.
Whenever I am dissatisfied with NPR's offering during the commute I switch to Howard Stern, where I either tune in just in time for a 30 minute commercial break or am lucky and catch the shock jock doing a bit in between commercial breaks. Today I caught him between breaks but he was doing a bit where a desparately single Jewish girl was earning $1,000 and the right not to be called annoying by Howard by allowing a turgid man to fart on her face 500 times in 10 minutes. As stimulating as this may seem to some of you, I opted to tune outat number 24.
I switched to my third alternate, the local country station, KHAY. They too were in the midst of mindless babble but something caught my ear...Speed dating in Ventura County tonight at the local brewery. I had heard this was coming to town and considered signing up but never followed through. And now that I know the location of the event, I figure I can just show up and watch the carnage.
So I called a couple of friends and we are meeting at the brewery this evening to watch the speed dating in progress and then snatch any eligible singles. The whole concept of speed dating intrigues me, just not enough to spend $35 to gamble on it. Besides, given the number of dated I've been on in this county in the past 6 1/2 years, it's likely I would be matched up with someone already adjudicated to be unsuitable for me. Anyhow, that experience should provide some new fodder for the blog by tomorrow...
Monday, January 31, 2005
Rules of the Road
Ever since the big storm a few weeks ago there has only been one way in and out of the valley I live in. Normally, there are 3 1/2 routes. I usually take the 1/2 route, which is a back road now blocked by a mudslide and downed power lines. The one road that is open is only two lanes and has regulated speeds through the construction areas so it's at a long commute with lots of time spent just plain stopped.
In the mornings, I take as many back roads as possible to join the procession. By the time I meet the bottleneck there are only about four miles to go until I hit the four-lane open road. Of course, at 7:30 a.m., my average speed for the four miles is about 7 mph, give or take a cut-off or two. Like everyone else in the valley, I can live with it and have adjusted accordingly.
What really gets me is the drive home. For the past few weeks I have been loitering in town - at friends' houses, or shopping, or going to the movies - anything to avoid the two hour, 25 mile, drive home. While I appreciate all the hospitality of my friends, sometimes a gal just wants to get home after work and put her feet up on her own coffee table. So a couple of days last week when I chose to brave the traffic in order to get home in time for Jeopardy I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to cut the usual commute in half by merely following the rules of the road.
It's nine miles from the main highway, 101, to my house. The road into the valley, Highway 33, is four lanes of actual highway for five miles, then reduces down to two lanes for the next four miles. Right where it turns into two lanes is where a lot of the flood damage occurred. That is where the construction zones are and where people begin to drive like idiots. What is it about slowed traffic and road signs that causes people to lose all driving skills? I have seen more accidents in that strip in the past three weeks than I have in the six years I've lived there. It amazes me that people can get into accidents while traveling 4 mph.
Anyhow, up to that point, for about five miles, you have four lanes - two each direction. When I first decided to try to go home at 5:00 last week I headed up the highway. About two miles up I ran into a string of cars basically parked in the left lane, politely waiting their collective turns to enter the bottleneck. These people were chatting on cell phones, singing along to music and sitting fairly patiently. They had accepted their plight. I, on the other hand, had run out of peak minutes for the months and just wanted to get home.
The right lane was wide open and I sat in the left lane for a moment contemplating taking the right lane, wondering why no one else was taking it. I weighed whether it was polite, or proper to take it. I felt a twang of guilt about the other folks waiting so patiently. Then, I took it. I drove in the right lane all the way up to where the lanes merge, obeying all the traffic rules, and then merged in. I was in disbelief that those people would just sit three miles back, stacked up for hours, when there was a completely legal lane to take. Where a moment before I had felt I might be doing something bad by taking the open lane, I soon realized the people waiting were not following the rules of the road and my guilt turned to contempt that those folks opted to sit in line for miles when there was a perfectly legal option available.
For the past few nights I have been doing the same thing. I have noted the same people sitting in their SUVs and sedans in the left lane each day as I whiz past. Perhaps they enjoy the time alone, it's an excuse to sit an think, or listen to music, or chat with an old friend. It may afford them exactly what they need in their busy lives - a little time in first gear. Each day I wonder if they will ever catch on and get home sooner, or if I am the one who hasn't caught on by rushing past.
In the mornings, I take as many back roads as possible to join the procession. By the time I meet the bottleneck there are only about four miles to go until I hit the four-lane open road. Of course, at 7:30 a.m., my average speed for the four miles is about 7 mph, give or take a cut-off or two. Like everyone else in the valley, I can live with it and have adjusted accordingly.
What really gets me is the drive home. For the past few weeks I have been loitering in town - at friends' houses, or shopping, or going to the movies - anything to avoid the two hour, 25 mile, drive home. While I appreciate all the hospitality of my friends, sometimes a gal just wants to get home after work and put her feet up on her own coffee table. So a couple of days last week when I chose to brave the traffic in order to get home in time for Jeopardy I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to cut the usual commute in half by merely following the rules of the road.
It's nine miles from the main highway, 101, to my house. The road into the valley, Highway 33, is four lanes of actual highway for five miles, then reduces down to two lanes for the next four miles. Right where it turns into two lanes is where a lot of the flood damage occurred. That is where the construction zones are and where people begin to drive like idiots. What is it about slowed traffic and road signs that causes people to lose all driving skills? I have seen more accidents in that strip in the past three weeks than I have in the six years I've lived there. It amazes me that people can get into accidents while traveling 4 mph.
Anyhow, up to that point, for about five miles, you have four lanes - two each direction. When I first decided to try to go home at 5:00 last week I headed up the highway. About two miles up I ran into a string of cars basically parked in the left lane, politely waiting their collective turns to enter the bottleneck. These people were chatting on cell phones, singing along to music and sitting fairly patiently. They had accepted their plight. I, on the other hand, had run out of peak minutes for the months and just wanted to get home.
The right lane was wide open and I sat in the left lane for a moment contemplating taking the right lane, wondering why no one else was taking it. I weighed whether it was polite, or proper to take it. I felt a twang of guilt about the other folks waiting so patiently. Then, I took it. I drove in the right lane all the way up to where the lanes merge, obeying all the traffic rules, and then merged in. I was in disbelief that those people would just sit three miles back, stacked up for hours, when there was a completely legal lane to take. Where a moment before I had felt I might be doing something bad by taking the open lane, I soon realized the people waiting were not following the rules of the road and my guilt turned to contempt that those folks opted to sit in line for miles when there was a perfectly legal option available.
For the past few nights I have been doing the same thing. I have noted the same people sitting in their SUVs and sedans in the left lane each day as I whiz past. Perhaps they enjoy the time alone, it's an excuse to sit an think, or listen to music, or chat with an old friend. It may afford them exactly what they need in their busy lives - a little time in first gear. Each day I wonder if they will ever catch on and get home sooner, or if I am the one who hasn't caught on by rushing past.
Friday, January 07, 2005
The Cartel
I spent yesterday cooped up in a conference room in LA with six other lawyers, a witness and a court reporter.
Yep, it was a deposition. The witness was favorable to our side so it wasn't so bad in that respect. What was bad was that it was, as are many things lawyers do, a complete waste of time and money.
The case is basically about a rich guy who is having a big, custom house built. The original contractor sucked. A couple of the original subcontractors sucked. The owner of the house is a billionaire who likes things done his way. Problem is, the contractors put the foundation in the wrong place on the property and messed up a bunch of retaining walls and stuff. Oh, and they crashed a truck that caused a diesel spill that contaminated some old oak trees that later died and the city required replacement of. Owner fired the contractors and was willing to let it all slide, until everyone started suing him. So he sued back. Those events, plus a few more, led to my having to sit for seven hours and listen to six grey-haired lawyers grill a witness who couldn't remember a darn thing because it all happened years ago.
As I sat there I played a round of last-man-on-earth. You know the game, where the fate of humankind depends on you and one of the men (or women) procreating because the world has just been obliterated by something. You have to choose among the group before you. I often play this game in my head when I am bored. And you would think that with six male lawyers to choose from it would be easy. Not true, my friend. These guys were insurance and big firm, high hourly lawyers - the worst of the lot. Minimum age was 50, each in an ugly polyester suit, chips the size of pallets on their respective shoulders, and complete disdain for the little blond defending the rich guy from across the table. Needless to say, I weighed the options and decided humankind was due for extinction.
Still bored, and now depressed at the fate of humanity should the world end in the next few hours and only this conference room in a building in LA be spared, I proceeded to calculate the total cost of the day to all parties involved. Given that some of the attorneys are insurance attorneys and others private, I calculated the average hourly rate of $200 per hour. Times seven lawyers. Times seven hours. Plus the cost for the court reporter all day ($1500). Plus travel time for everyone involved (1 hour each). With these conservative numbers the tally was at least $12,700. One of the claims was less than that!
During the afternoon break one of the lawyers, for the low value claimant, no less, came to me with his feathers all ruffled and proclaimed that my client was a multi-millionaire and should just pay these guys to end it all right now. I responded that one of the great things about having lots of money is that you can have lots of principles and stick by them. The lawyer didn't like my response. After that, all afternoon, everytime he looked at me I just smirked. It was really pissing him off. When he was done questioning the witness and another lawyer started asking the questions, that lawyer tried to have a staredown with me. I won and then he just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Dumbass. He's a fifty-something man in a polyester suit spending tens of thousands of his clients' money fighting over a few thousand dollars that he didn't earn.
This entire day reminded me that I wasn't a member of a profession, a cartel. I admit, I stole that term from Volokh. You should read his post on the Lawyer Cartel for another dose of disillusionment with lawyers.
Yep, it was a deposition. The witness was favorable to our side so it wasn't so bad in that respect. What was bad was that it was, as are many things lawyers do, a complete waste of time and money.
The case is basically about a rich guy who is having a big, custom house built. The original contractor sucked. A couple of the original subcontractors sucked. The owner of the house is a billionaire who likes things done his way. Problem is, the contractors put the foundation in the wrong place on the property and messed up a bunch of retaining walls and stuff. Oh, and they crashed a truck that caused a diesel spill that contaminated some old oak trees that later died and the city required replacement of. Owner fired the contractors and was willing to let it all slide, until everyone started suing him. So he sued back. Those events, plus a few more, led to my having to sit for seven hours and listen to six grey-haired lawyers grill a witness who couldn't remember a darn thing because it all happened years ago.
As I sat there I played a round of last-man-on-earth. You know the game, where the fate of humankind depends on you and one of the men (or women) procreating because the world has just been obliterated by something. You have to choose among the group before you. I often play this game in my head when I am bored. And you would think that with six male lawyers to choose from it would be easy. Not true, my friend. These guys were insurance and big firm, high hourly lawyers - the worst of the lot. Minimum age was 50, each in an ugly polyester suit, chips the size of pallets on their respective shoulders, and complete disdain for the little blond defending the rich guy from across the table. Needless to say, I weighed the options and decided humankind was due for extinction.
Still bored, and now depressed at the fate of humanity should the world end in the next few hours and only this conference room in a building in LA be spared, I proceeded to calculate the total cost of the day to all parties involved. Given that some of the attorneys are insurance attorneys and others private, I calculated the average hourly rate of $200 per hour. Times seven lawyers. Times seven hours. Plus the cost for the court reporter all day ($1500). Plus travel time for everyone involved (1 hour each). With these conservative numbers the tally was at least $12,700. One of the claims was less than that!
During the afternoon break one of the lawyers, for the low value claimant, no less, came to me with his feathers all ruffled and proclaimed that my client was a multi-millionaire and should just pay these guys to end it all right now. I responded that one of the great things about having lots of money is that you can have lots of principles and stick by them. The lawyer didn't like my response. After that, all afternoon, everytime he looked at me I just smirked. It was really pissing him off. When he was done questioning the witness and another lawyer started asking the questions, that lawyer tried to have a staredown with me. I won and then he just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Dumbass. He's a fifty-something man in a polyester suit spending tens of thousands of his clients' money fighting over a few thousand dollars that he didn't earn.
This entire day reminded me that I wasn't a member of a profession, a cartel. I admit, I stole that term from Volokh. You should read his post on the Lawyer Cartel for another dose of disillusionment with lawyers.
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