Tales of a Section 14 Nothing

Dear Tom (The Sequel): Advice for the Father-to-Be

2005-10-08T16:10:00.000-04:00

Hello again, Cruisey. Long time, no chat. First off, I want to congratulate you on Katie’s pregnancy. After all, nothing warms my heart more than the breeding of two excessively attractive people. It just occurred to me that, as a father-to-be, you may be in need of some sagely advice from your furry blue pal, Super Grover. And let me tell you, I would be honored to be your wing muppet!

I’m going to cut right to the chase. I read somewhere that, in addition to your not believing in the use of painkillers for expectant mothers, you are demanding that your beloved take a vow of silence while she is giving birth. It seems you believe that your newborn will be scarred for life, if it hears the screams and cries typically associated with childbirth.

Perhaps it would comfort you to know that, according to psychological studies, most children do not retain any memories of life before the age of three. Then again, since you don’t believe in psychology, maybe this fact doesn’t comfort you at all. Thus, we will move our focus away from the newborn tot and onto the expectant mother . . .

Cruisey, have you ever given birth to a child? I know most men haven’t. But when it comes to you scientologists, one can never be too sure. Assuming you haven’t had this experience, I want you to try a little experiment for me. Here’s what I want you to do:

1) Touch your forefinger to your thumb, as if to form the universal sign for “OK.”
2) Go outside and borrow a young child. (As you are a celebrity, parents should have no trouble lending you one. Look at Michael Jackson . . .)
3) Now, try to squeeze the child’s head through the circular space between your forefinger and thumb.
4) Congratulations, you have just assimilated childbirth!

As you can see, natural childbirth is no walk in the park, which is why many women scream while doing it. But Cruisey, that is not necessarily a bad thing. You, of all people, should know the cathartic effects of a scream. Remember the good time you and Cuba Gooding Jr. had screaming together over the phone in Jerry Maguire? (“SHOW ME THE MONEY!”) How about the relief you felt when Jack Nicholson finally let loose his devastating secret in A Few Good Men? (“YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!”) Don’t you think it would be equally nice if young Katie felt free to yell out, “HELP, I HAVE AN EIGHT-POUND SCIENTOLOGIST’S HEAD BETWEEN MY LEGS! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT,” while eagerly awaiting the birth of your child?

If I were you Cruisey, I would let Katie scream at her gynecologist as loud and as long as she wants while giving birth. Because, if you don’t, a few months down the road, when the new mommy is suffering from postpartum depression, and you won’t let her take anything for it, those screams are going to be directed at YOU . . .

The “Good” Drunk

2005-10-01T18:04:00.000-04:00

“I’m just not a good drunk,” an old friend of mine lamented after a disastrous evening of bar hopping. That matter-of-fact statement has been uttered many times by people, myself included, who would classify themselves as social drinkers. In fact, our ability to admit the aforementioned truism is likely what keeps us functioning social drinkers from becoming non-functioning alcoholics. This begs the question: What constitutes a good drunk?

The truth is that few social drinkers could clearly articulate an answer to this question. However, most of them could describe to you, with great specificity, what a good drunk is not. “Sometime after my fourth cranberry and Absolut, I started crying hysterically,” my friend explained. “I don’t even remember about what! Then I ran home and proceeded to puke up my sushi dinner. It was so pathetic!” Most of us would probably agree that the kind of drunk that causes one to cry and puke up California rolls is not a good drunk. In fact, it would probably not be a stretch to classify that behavior as bad drunk.

And while my friend’s drunken experience is not particularly unique, it is far from being the only manifestation of bad drunk. Rather, bad drunk depends largely on the drinker. Having had one too many drinks, drinker A becomes slobbering and incomprehensible, drinker B picks fights with anyone who looks at him funny, and drinker C turns sullen and anti-social. What all these folks have in common, however, is their as-yet-unfulfilled search for good drunk: the exact number of drinks that will make drinker A bubbly and entertaining, drinker B bold and quick-witted, and drinker C mysterious and sexy.

So how many drinks makes one “good drunk” and why is that number so hard for drinkers to obtain? One theory is that the problem is purely mathematical. Most drinkers mistakenly believe that their good drunk lies in a certain whole number of drinks when, in actuality, the number is fractional. Thus, obtaining good drunk would require the drinker to stop when their X-numbered alcoholic beverage glass is half-empty (or half-full depending on where you fall on the optimist/pessimist scale). Unfortunately, as a college student, and even as a law student, leaving an unfinished glass has always been easier said than done.

Take me, for instance. Like most students, I am blessed with the dual distinction of being both poor and cheap. Thus, when I shell out $7 ($8, if you count the tip) for a Malibu and Diet Coke, you can be sure that I will not only sip it down until my straw makes that slurping sound, I will also suck the ice cubes to drain them of liquor. When one is living on a student’s income, there is no room for wastefulness, especially not when it comes to booze . . .

Unfortunately, my inability to leave the glass half full has heretofore prevented me from ever finding out what it means to be good drunk, if such a thing even exists. Perhaps, in a few years, when my salary is more substantial, I will be able to afford to leave my Malibu and Diet Coke unfinished. Then again, experimenting with all of those fractional drinks would probably take a lot of time, time that I will cease to have once I am no longer a student. Thus, my social drinking compatriots and I eventually decide that finding “good drunk” is just not worth the trouble . . .

It seems ironic that what will ultimately keep us social boozers from developing serious drinking problems is not an unflinching dedication to controlling our alcohol intakes, but inherent laziness.

Flirting over dinner rolls

2005-09-24T12:21:00.000-04:00

There is a salad bar across the street from my apartment complex. One of the best parts about this particular salad bar is its excellent selection of dinner rolls. Of course, like any dinner roll basket, there are always one or two rubbery rolls in the bunch. Thus, selecting the best roll can be a tricky business . . .

Late yesterday evening, after most of the dinner crowd had dispersed, I stopped off at the salad bar and quickly engaged in the roll selection process. Dinner tongs in hand, I began to sift through the rolls, delicately lifting a couple choice ones out of the basket to perform a quality inspection. Seconds into the search, a hand reached over me and snatched two rolls from the basket. “Sorry,” said a raspy male voice from behind me, as his hand brushed against mine.

Startled, I turned around to find myself face to face with a cute guy, about my age, grinning sheepishly while clutching the two stolen rolls in his hand. “No need to be sorry,” I said demurely, “You are obviously a decisive guy. I like that.”

Cute Guy looked at me blankly for a second before remarking, “Decisive, huh? Now that’s a good vocabulary word.” Slightly confused and embarrassed by Cute Guy’s response, I snatched up the multigrain roll I had been inspecting and retreated to the cash register.

Back when I was an undergrad, I always hated the people who rubbed their intelligence in your face by peppering their conversation with unnecessarily large words, when small ones would just as easily suffice. Now, less than three years out of college, I was being accused of doing the same thing. Has the English language eroded so much that “decisive” has become a “big word?” Isn’t “decisive” just the adjective form of “decide?” From the look on Cute Guy’s face, you would have thought I had begun verbally sparring with him in Latin.

Geez! I have been in law school so long I can’t even flirt without sounding elitist!

Down the Hatch . . . Went my “Lost” Expectations

2005-09-22T19:21:00.000-04:00

After an entire season of endless waiting and innumerable conjectures, last night, ABC finally revealed what lies “down the hatch” on its hit television series Lost. What was the answer to the question that has been plaguing viewers for an entire summer? A fairly buff Aussie with bugged out eyes, a corny taste in music, and, of course, a gun. The entire premier episode played like one of those warped nightmares. You know, the ones after which you wake up, vowing never to drink tequila again, before reaching for the nearest trash receptacle to toss your cookies into. Not unlike those hazy tequila-drinking nights, I rolled off my couch an hour later, unsatisfied.

In all fairness to my good friends at ABC, I don’t think there is very much they could have put into the hatch that would have satisfied me, at least not after their advertising department spent an entire summer hyping up the series and this mysterious plot device. Having watched the show, I couldn’t help but be reminded of another media project that generated lots of pre-premier buzz with disappointingly little payoff. In 1999, no movie was talked about more than Eyes Wide Shut. After all, it was the last film Stanley Kubrick created before he died! And if that wasn’t enough, the film featured none other than two of Hollywood’s top A-list stars. For months, movie producers, film pundits, and journalists endlessly hyped up the movie’s mysterious plot, which had been kept under wraps since the film’s creation. As far as Hollywood was concerned, Eyes Wide Shut promised to be daring, shocking, and unlike anything film lovers had ever encountered before.

I saw Eyes Wide Shut and remember very little about it, except that it involved some sort of conspiracy surrounding the sex lives of exceedingly rich New Yorkers. I do, however, remember the last scene. How did it end? Well, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman walk into a toy store. When their eyes meet, Kidman says to Cruise, “Let’s $%#@!” Then, the screen fades to black and the audience stumbles to their cars, extremely ticked off. As Hollywood promised, Eyes Wide Shut shocked me. I was shocked that I had just spent 10 bucks (back then, it was more like 9) to watch a then-married couple proposition one another for sex in a toy store. The last scene of the movie might as well have featured Stanley Kubrick in heaven, proudly displaying his middle finger to the audience. (Come to think of it, that would have been a really good ending.)

Its not that Eyes Wide Shut was a bad movie (although it was pretty awful) or that Lost’s first episode was not extremely innovative. If anyone is to blame for an audience’s defeated expectations of these shows, it’s their promoters. Nothing can live up to the summer of prodding, conjecturing and teasing Lost received prior to its second season premier. Surely, I understand the need to promote programming and attract viewers. After all, the media is nothing if not a vehicle for networks to sell advertising, win awards, charge an arm and a leg for the DVD box set, and ultimately get a good deal on syndication rights. However, there comes a point where the networks go so far in promoting their works that they ultimately frustrate these objectives.

You know what I would have put down the hatch? I would have crammed that hole with every advertiser who promoted and teased the premier episode of Lost’s second season. Then, I would lock it up, never to be opened again . . .

The Evils of Evian

2005-09-20T16:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I happened upon an article posted on CNN.com that linked bottled water to increased incidences of tooth decay. “Huh?” I thought to myself. Doesn't water provide us with health benefits including hydration, weight loss, and clear skin? Haven’t we been told to drink eight glasses of the stuff a day? Now medical health professionals are telling me I can’t drink water! Is nothing sacred in this world? Confused and slightly distressed, I read on . . .

Apparently, it is not the consumption of water itself, but rather that of bottled water that has dentists in a tizzy. Lately, Americans have been steering clear of the tap, opting instead to shell out $1.95 for water dressed in expensive clothing. The price differential is largely attributed to the latter being advertised as “tasting fresh” and coming from “fresh mountain springs,” as opposed to “the same place your toilet water comes from.” However, according to dentists, during its purification process, bottled water loses much of the fluoride naturally available in straight-from-the sink tap water. Without fluoride, our teeth are more vulnerable to tooth decay. Thus, dentists blame bottled water for Americans’ increased susceptibility to dental maladies like cavities and gingivitis.

I should probably start by saying that I don’t drink bottled water. Honestly, I just don’t see the point of shelling out two bucks a pop for something that tastes like . . . well . . . water. Nevertheless, upon reading this article, I felt compelled to stick up for the folks that bring us “the beautiful people’s water.” My personal feelings about the aforementioned industry aside, I think bottled water is getting an unnecessarily bad rap here.

I mentioned earlier that I don’t drink bottled water. Now, before you toast me as a bastion for all that is fluoride, I feel compelled to tell you that I generally don’t drink tap water either. Rather, my daily hydration comes from artificially sweetened beverages, like Diet Cherry Coke, Diet Peach Snapple, and, let’s not forget, Starbucks Coffee bloated with Sweet and Low. Assuming none of these beverages contain fluoride, I am probably just as at risk for massive tooth decay as my Evian-drinking pals. If you ask me, the tooth decay culprit that should be villified for our teeth troubles is not bottled water, but our nation’s unpurified drinking supply.

As you might have noticed from my profile, I am currently a D.C. resident. Anyone who has lived in D.C. long enough knows that our reservoir system is far from top-notch. Every month my mail box is flooded with official government notices regarding the District’s persistent, yet unsuccessful, attempts to rid my tap water of lead and other harmful toxins. Having watched the news, I know that D.C. is not alone regarding this problem. Take Louisiana for example. After Hurricane Katrina, residents were informed that the water running through their state’s reservoirs was not even safe to touch. I would venture to guess that Louisiana’s water supply will continue to be plagued with problems long after its residents have returned home.

So when faced with the decision of tooth decay and having my future children suffer birth defects and possible retardation because I forgot to clean out my Brita, I would happily choose the former. Thus, my tap remains nothing more than the instrument with which I rinse my dishes. When I am thirsty, I reach for a lead-free bottle of Snapple and would probably reach for an Evian, if I was a healthier, more sensible person, who had some extra cash to spare . . .

As far as the “tooth decay crisis” is concerned, I think there are more reasonable solutions than cracking down on bottled water. Perhaps, Congress could enact legislation requiring that all beverages be fortified with a certain amount of fluoride. Look what vitamin fortification did for the milk industry! Surely it could work for beverages and soft drinks. Otherwise, I foresee an upper class uprising. If medical health professionals can so easily strip the rich of their God-given right to consume over-priced water, what next? Botox, implants, collagen injections? Oh the humanity!

There is Nothing Sexy About Lean Cuisine . . .

2005-09-16T15:56:00.000-04:00

I’m sure you’ve seen the commercial. You know, the one where four young professional females agonize over the unhealthy, unglamorous items they gorged on the night before and must reluctantly call dinner. “I won my own personal pie eating contest,” one woman quips.

Not to be topped, the woman’s competitive friend responds with her own tale of gluttony, “I stood in front of the fridge and scooped out an entire jar of peanut butter . . . with my fingers!”

“Oh yeah,” the third woman challenges, “I ate an entire bucket of fried chicken!”

The fourth woman looks at the others haughtily and pauses a moment before gushing, “I had a juicy Salisbury steak topped with Portobello mushrooms and zesty roasted potatoes.” Upon noticing that her friends look like they are going to beat the #$*% out of her, the fourth explains quickly, “It was a meal from Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine.” Placated by the fact that at least their friend does not cook, the three gluttonous women put their carving knives back into their Prada bags. Crisis averted.

* * * *
As someone who has lived on Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine since she was old enough to say the word calories, I have a serious problem with this commercial. No matter which Lean Cuisine I consumed, when someone asks me what I had for dinner, I always give them the same answer. And no, it is not a tantalizingly specific description of every succulent bite of my Chicken Marsala or whatever fancy name the folks at Stouffer’s felt like slapping on the box of my particular plastic container. Rather, I respond in two words “TV dinner.” Why? Because every TV dinner eating experience is exactly the same!

In a more realistic commercial, the Lean Cuisine-loving woman probably would have given the following description of her mealtime experience. “I came home too tired to move, but hungry as a horse. I opened the freezer and stared at the stack of boxes for a few minutes before selecting the one that looked the least freezer burned. I opened the box and gingerly removed the chunks of ice from the plastic dish before ripping the cellophane off it with my teeth. The directions tell you to cut a narrow slit in the package but I never bother with that #$@%. Then I proceeded to stare at my microwave, waiting for four minutes to pass so that the darn thing would go off. I got bored after about two minutes, took the box out early, and proceeded to eat the luke warm, dry leathery meat, while still standing in front of my microwave. I threw the box in the trash and opened the fridge again. I was still hungry . . .”

For all the women out there whose dinner preparation last night consisted of scooping peanut butter out of a jar with your fingers, you can rest assured. There is nothing sexy about Lean Cuisine!

What does your computer wallpaper say about you?

2005-09-15T17:17:00.000-04:00

As I sat in class today, feigning interest in the copyrightable nature of belt buckles, I was actually involved in a significantly more important task: that of selecting new wallpaper for my laptop. Scoff if you must. But in a world where people spend more time staring at their computer screens than at one another, choosing an image to display on our monitors is one of the few opportunities for self expression we have left!

I must confess that my current wallpaper, which features Snoopy hard at work on his typewriter, has frequented my laptop screen for about a year now. I know its time for a change; but there’s a part of me that just can’t let that loveable beagle go. After all, there is something about this colorful cartoon by Charles Shultz that says “This is Super Grover 81’s computer,” in a way that other cartoons don’t. I know, because I have looked at them . . . ALL OF THEM!

Thus, it was with great trepidation that I cast my fishing rod beyond the realm of cartoons in search of an alternative method of computer screen expression. During today’s fascinating belt buckle lecture, I looked to my classmates’ computer screens for inspiration. Here is a summary of some of the different types of wallpaper I encountered, and what I felt they expressed about their owners:

(1) The boilerplate company wallpaper: In their plot to take over the world, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and the folks at Dell have created unbelievably dull default wallpaper to go along with their computers. These forgettable wallpapers are usually monochromatic and blank, save the name of the company that created them. People who neglect to replace these dull advertisements with their own form of expression hope that their lack of choice makes the following statement, “I am way too busy to concern myself with such mundane things as the selection of computer wallpaper.” To these Scrooges of the wallpaper world, I only have two words to say, “Bah humbug!”

(2) The photo of self with significant other wallpaper: Only slightly more creative than the folks who neglect to change their wallpaper at all, these folks will merely select a flattering photo of themselves with their arm around their current love interest, blow it up to some ridiculously large size, and call it art. Those who do this are making the following statement, “I have a significant other and you don’t so (insert sound of one blowing a raspberry).” Even those of you with significant others have to admit that this form of expression is annoying on some level. Slightly less annoying are those who choose to cover their monitor with pictures of their kids or pets. "Why less annoying," you ask? Kids and pets are cute. Unnaturally posed couples making googly eyes at one another for the camera? Not so much . . .

(3) The photo of scantily clad porn star wallpaper: Ewww! Save the Playboy pinup for your bathroom reading, pervert!

(4) The photo of the hot movie star wallpaper: A slight variation on the above choice. Like “scantily clad porn star wallpaper” owner, this person is perhaps overly idealistic about the level of attractiveness his or her future sex partner will possess. However, “hot movie star wallpaper” owner is significantly less likely to be featured on the local Sex Offender Registry.

(5) The picturesque nature scene wallpaper: The owners of these types of wallpaper would like us to think that they are artistic and creative, having selected such eye-catching adornments for their monitors. However, because most of us realize that these scenes, like the “boilerplate company wallpaper,” come with the computer, we are not quite as impressed as they would like us to be. When asked about their selection, folks who select “tropical island” or the “under the sea” wallpaper will tell you that they chose these laconic landscapes to provide themselves a momentary escape from their humdrum office surroundings. I had a tropical island wallpaper on my laptop once. Every time I looked at it, it just made me feel bitter . . . very bitter.

So, having explored my other options, it looks like Snoopy and his typewriter are going to remain fixtures on my laptop monitor after all . . . that is, at least until I have a kid or pet.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease . . .

2005-09-13T17:43:00.000-04:00

Today I learned that sometimes it literally pays to be a persistent pain in the ass. It all started two Saturday’s ago when I went down to the basement of my apartment complex to do some laundry. In my complex, residents pay for laundry using a laundry card system. A card owner will simply go to a service machine, slip some cash into its money-hungry mouth, and watch as the value of the cash inserted magically appears on the card. The card owner will then insert the card into an available washing machine or dryer and PRESTO, laundry can be done!

This past Saturday morning, I approached the service machine with a freshly minted twenty dollar bill, expecting to engage in the aforementioned process. Unfortunately, when I inserted the money into the machine, it got stuck! Not only did my laundry card not reflect the $20 addition, the machine would not return my money! I tried in vain to remove the money from the machine, but to no avail. It seemed that I was fated to be short $20. Or was I?

In the past, I have always been one of those people who quietly endured the minor indignities of life. I remained silent at restaurants when food was delivered to me cold, overcooked, or with strange creamy sauce glopped on top. I did so fearing that if I spoke out, the chef would spit on my food, if I was lucky, or do something worse to it, if I wasn’t. I endured when individuals cut in front of me in line at the checkout counter or took hostage the elliptical I signed up for at the gym, not wanting to make enemies out of strangers. However, I was truly peeved by my unplanned $20 donation to the laundry gods and, this time, was determined to do something about it.

That afternoon, I called the number on the back of my laundry card and left a message explaining my dire situation. I also sent an e-mail to the company, including my name and address so that my $20 could be promptly returned. A week went by and I had received no response. By the following Saturday, it was time to do laundry once more. I went back to the same machine, expecting it to be rendered inoperable with my $20 still stuck inside of it. To my horror, the $20 had been removed and its savior did not have the decency to inform me of its rescue! Disturbed by the thought of some sleazy repairman using my $20 to buy porn, I wrote another e-mail to the laundry company, casually noting that if I did not receive a prompt response I would have no choice but to contact the Better Business Bureau.

Just when I was beginning to question whether I had overreacted, I received a call from the laundry company. The attendant informed me that $20 would be arriving at my apartment shortly.

The moral of this story: It is far better to be a pain in the ass with $20, than a non-pain in the ass without it . . .

The GAP’s Free CD: Generous Gift or Maniacal Marketing Ploy?

2005-09-10T14:05:00.000-04:00

Those of you who consume more reasonable amounts of television than I do may have missed The GAP’s new advertising campaign. Like many of its predecessors, at the focal point of this campaign are musical celebrities clad in GAP attire, as opposed to their usual Rodeo-inspired ensembles. However, unlike other GAP campaigns, this one boasts the receipt of a free CD with any purchase over $60. This "free" gift is promoted as the “My Favorite Songs” CD. Unfortunately, the favorite songs featured on said CD are neither mine nor yours, but rather those of GAP’s musical celebrity endorsers.

I must admit, initially, I was intrigued by this concept. You see, I could use some new jeans. These days two pairs of jeans will set you back $60, if you are lucky. Thus, if I am going to be spending $60 anyway, why not spend it at the GAP and get a new CD, as opposed to spending it elsewhere and not getting one? After all, my music collection could always use an update, free music being not as easy to come by as it used to be. So perhaps I should bite the bullet and “fall into the GAP” right? Not so fast . . .

It just occurred to me that I don’t know what songs are on this CD. I looked at GAP’s website but was given no information in this regard. What if the CD doesn’t contain “My Favorite Songs” at all but instead, “My Most Hated Songs?” Sure Lenny Kravitz is a great guy, but how well do we really know him? Who’s to say that Lenny Kravitz’s list of “favorite songs” doesn’t include The Macarena or Who Let the Dogs Out? If it does, there is a good chance that upon listening to the CD I will become angry at Mr. Kravitz for his poor taste in music as well as his ability to inflate the price of jeans and swindle me out of my hard-earned cash.

Nevertheless, whether they are Macarena lovers or not, perhaps there is something to be said for obtaining the rare opportunity to get an up-close glimpse inside the hearts and minds of the musicians we have grown to love. Music artists always talk about being “inspired” by certain songs. If that’s in fact true, maybe getting a bad CD wouldn’t be such a loss, as long as it is an inspiringly bad CD. Who knows, maybe upon listening to Who Let the Dogs Out this time, instead of wanting to bash a hole in the wall, as I usually do when I hear this song, I will be inspired to pen The Great American Novel, having been spurred on by the knowledge that Lenny Kravitz meditates daily to the song’s ingeniously-placed barks. Then again, there is always the possibility that Lenny Kravitz doesn’t like Who Let the Dogs Out at all but rather was paid to say he liked it by the good folks at GAP and the music company that produced Who Let the Dogs Out. In which case, I would probably be none the wiser . . .

Put off by this conundrum, I did what any cautious consumer would do. I persuaded my mother to purchase some GAP jeans online, generously reminding her to enter the promotion code required for receiving the free CD. If, the next time I visit her, she is doing the Macarena in her hallway, I will know I made the right decision by shopping at The Limited instead.

Good News Couch Potatoes: Prime Time Television Showing Signs of Life

2005-09-08T17:36:00.000-04:00

Tonight, The O.C. returns for its third season premiere at 8pm on Fox, thus marking the end of an abysmal summer hiatus season for all major television networks. I have always questioned the rationale behind networks’ depriving viewers of all passable programming during those hot summer months. Aren’t most of us home more during the summer than we are any other time of the year? For starters, July and August are the months that children are home from school and students are home from college. Additionally, a good portion of the working population takes its vacation then. Those who haven’t are usually playing hooky from work, or cutting out early to head down to the shore for the weekend. Not only does the American public have more time to spend in front of the television over the summer, we spend more money then too. Hint, hint advertisers . . .

In addition to all of these perks, there is much to be gained by the intrepid network that chooses fill its summer lineup with something more entertaining than reruns of Friends and Seinfeld. After all, there is NO COMPETITION! If you want an example, look at the absolutely stupefying success of ABCs Dance with the Stars! Come on broadcasters, do you really think millions of Americans would sit down every week to watch Evander Holyfield and that guy from The New Kids on the Block do the tango if they had some other choice? If anything, Nielsen ratings show that quality programming succeeds during the summer months. Cable television has already caught on to this idea, as evidenced by the success of HBO’s recently deceased Six Feet Under and Entourage as well as Showtime’s new “high” class dramedy Weeds. . .

But I digress. The important thing is that prime time television will be returning in full force over the next couple of weeks. Here is a list of shows that may be worth your while this season:

The O.C. (premieres tonight @ 8pm on Fox): When we last left our friends in Orange County, Marissa had shot Ryan’s errant brother Trey in an effort to save the former’s life. Now the seemingly star-crossed couple, along with friends Seth and Summer, must deal with the repercussions of her actions. Having gotten off to a slow start last season, The O.C. really picked up momentum during its last few episodes. The new season should definitely be worth watching.

Reunion (premieres tonight on Fox, after The O.C.): Fox has had some difficulty finding an appropriate match for the critically acclaimed O.C. The station’s time traveling drama Tru Calling was short-lived, despite having added 90210’s beloved Jason Priestly to the cast. A similar fate befell the dark drama Point Pleasant. It seems the idea of Satan’s spawn hanging out in the Garden State proved to be surprisingly unappealing to teens and twenty-somethings. Perhaps this new mystery/drama series, which follows a group of friends/ murder suspects from high school graduation to their 20-year reunion during the course of a single season, will be just what Fox needs to fill the void.

Desperate Housewives (premieres Sunday September 25 @ 9pm on ABC): Its funny, its sexy, its risqué and, most importantly, it doesn’t take itself too seriously. Chances are everybody at the office will be buzzing about what happened on Wisteria lane. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

Grey’s Anatomy (premieres Sunday September 25 @ 10pm on ABC): Are you someone who was really involved with the characters on ER, but put off by their elitist spewing of medical jargon? Did you think Carter would be much cuter if he didn’t always have his hand stuck two inches deep into someone’s large intestine? If so, Greys Anatomy is your show. This drama follows a group of medical interns as they try to balance a social life with a demanding career at a prestigious hospital. Like ER, Greys also deals with current medical issues, but does it from a more philosophical and accessible viewpoint, with minimal gore.

The West Wing (premieres Sunday September 25 @ 8pm on NBC): For those of you who think Martin Sheen would make a better President than George W. Bush, The West Wing has always presented a welcome haven for Democrats everywhere. This show has truly been groundbreaking in its intellectual discussion of current political issues from a decidedly “blue” White House. However, with a new presidential election in TV Land’s midst, Republicans can have their voice heard as well. This season, Alan Alda stars as Arnold Vinick a formidable (perhaps even likeable?) Republican candidate set to oppose President Bartlet’s choice successor Matt Santos, played by Jimmy Smits. This may be West Wing’s final season. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Martha Stewart’s The Apprentice (premieres Wednesday, September 21 @8pm on NBC): This year, Martha Stewart will have to come up with her own cheesy catch-phrase equivalent of “Your Fired.” If you ask me, this reality show formula, chronicling obnoxious type-A personalities as they compete for short-lived fame, a few bucks, and a future on the motivational speaker circuit, has outlived its welcome. However, Martha Stewart’s comeback from the “big house” is sure to be major fodder for water cooler discussions and may be worth a peak for that reason alone.

Happy couch sitting!

Charitable Giving

2005-09-07T15:16:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, a good friend of mine found a not-so-subtle way of informing me that she did not like the way I dressed. We were driving to the mall and she asked me if I would not mind stopping at the local Goodwill on the way. As it turned out, she had a trunk full of clothes she wanted to donate. My friend is an extremely giving person. After assenting to the detour, I confided in my friend that I had been considering donating some clothes to Goodwill for some time now but was having difficulty parting with outfits that, although old, were still, by my standards, in perfectly good condition. At which point, my friend proceeded to describe with remarkable specificity at least sixteen items in my closet that she felt I should allow to “see other people,” including the outfit I happened to have on at that particular moment.

Slightly taken aback by the ease with which my friend had successfully “KO’ed” three-quarters of my wardrobe, I responded with a bit of good-ole sarcasm. “I’m glad you feel that way,” I said crisply, “because I was thinking of shaving all of my hair off and donating that to charity as well.”

My friend remained silent for a few moments. Then, just when I was starting to wonder whether I had been too harsh, she looked me straight in the eye and said, without a hint of irony, “Now that you mention it, your hair could use a wake up call as well.”

* * * * *

Don’t get me wrong here. I am all for honesty, especially among good friends. However, the next time I entertain ideas about charitable giving, I think I am going to keep those thoughts to myself!

Picture Day: Life’s Other Unavoiable Consequence

2005-09-06T15:33:00.000-04:00

Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes.” I can think of one more thing to add to that list of certainty . . . Picture Day. Anyone who has endured our country’s compulsory education laws has had to sit for at least one class picture. In fact, most of us had to suffer through one per year (more than one, if, like me you had the misfortune of being involved in multiple extracurricular activities). Interestingly enough, it seems that no matter where you attend school, school picture taking processes are basically the same.

Some time within the first few months of school, a letter is sent home to students’ parents reminding them that Picture Day is upon them. Following receipt of this letter, parents and students across the country undergo the American ritual I like to call “bickering over clothes.” Often parents (typically mothers) will advocate the donning of formal attire for their children: clean crisp button down shirts, blouses, the obligatory “school dress code” length skirt. However, no matter what the parent selects, one thing is certain . . . the student will not like it. Thus, what the student ultimately wears on that fateful day will be largely the result of a battle of wills, guilt trips, door slammings, and silent treatments. Ultimately, this struggle for clothing control will not make any difference. After all, whatever the student ends up wearing on picture day, he or she will most certainly look back on said picture five to ten years from now and exclaim out loud, “What the hell was I thinking?”

On Picture Day, most students are brought to the school gymnasium where they are each given a cheap black comb and asked to wait while other classes have their picture taken. During this waiting period, students will often do the following: fuss with their hair and clothing, loosen ties, untuck shirts, all of which ultimately has the effect of making them look much worse than they did when they boarded the school bus that morning. Once all of the students are sufficiently “mussed up,” they must be lined up for the inevitable group shot. For purposes of child visibility, most schools line up students in height order. This process allows the “alpha children,” blessed with tall genes and early growth spurts, to stand with an aura of superiority in the back row, peering mercilessly over their vertically challenged beta classmates, who are left to sit Indian-style on a sneaker-scuffed floor, and thus forced to endure the rest of the day with dust covered trousers and skirts.

Once the students have been lined up in their Darwinian order, an overly jolly photographer will appear in front of the group and begin the arduous task of attempting to make them smile in unison. The jolly photographer begins this task with gusto, employing a lot of cheesy jokes, odd noises and extravagant hand gestures. When this approach is of no avail, he will begin to yell at the students, disappointed in their lack of appreciation of the “art that is class photography.” Ultimately, this too will dissipate when the photographer realizes that not even Ansel Adams himself could salvage this picture. When this happens, he will usually mutter under his breath something to the effect of “1, 2, 3 . . .” (which, in the midst of all this chaos, of course, nobody hears) and snap the necessary shots, wondering if this was all that would come of his $80,000 Art degree from NYU and thinking he probably should have taken the job at the DMV instead.

What results from this experience is a photograph of students in various degrees of disarray. Many students are not even facing the camera. Those that are usually have their eyes closed or open so wide they look like frightened owls. The smiles on these students’ faces range from the nonexistent, to the uncomfortable smirk, to the outlandish “My what big teeth you have Grandma!” grin that only a mother could love. Upon receipt of these photographs, parents will usually sigh, remark as to why the student’s hair was parted differently from when they left the house that morning, and tack the photo on the refrigerator with the rest of them, secretly hoping that (1) next year’s will come out better and (2) the wallet-sized versions are not too horrific to send to grandma and grandpa.

Students disappointed with their class pictures can rest easy knowing that these types of pictures usually cease to exist in high school, when classes simply become too large to fit in one lens. However, just when students think they are through with class pictures for good, they are faced with something truly horrible . . . THE YEARBOOK PICTURE! After all, class pictures usually get tossed in the trash after a year or so. Yearbook pictures are yours for life . . . destined to be viewed for years to come by you and everyone else who graduated within four years of you . . .

Death and taxes are starting to look really attractive right about now, aren’t they?

Dear Tom

2005-06-05T22:47:00.000-04:00

Dear Tom (Cruise),

Hey buddy, I am not going to beat around the bush. People are talking, doubting, even criticizing. Just the other day, a friend of mine said to me, “I understand Nicole Kidman. She’s so graceful. Penelope Cruz? Exotic. But Joey Potter from Dawson’s Creek? Heck, I’m just a few trips to the gym away from competing with that!”

But, you have heard all of this before. Surely, you don’t need me to tell you. Contrary to what you think, I am not writing this letter to belittle your choice. It’s just that Cruisey, (Do you mind if I call you Cruisey?), I just want to make sure you are aware of your options . . .

I read somewhere that Katie Holmes was not your first choice for a twenty-something love interest. In fact, my sources tell me she was fifth, trailing behind none other than Kate Bosworth, Jessica Alba, Mischa Barton (Is she legal yet Cruisey?), and the disappearing body of Lindsay Lohan. Now, while I am sure you are perfectly happy with number five, I think it would be worth your while to consider number 575, a virtually unknown law student who shares her penname with a blue furry puppet who dons a red cape.

You see, Katie Holmes and I, we are not all that different. After all, she is twenty something and I am twenty something. She starred in the critically acclaimed teen drama Dawson’s Creek. I watched the critically acclaimed teen drama Dawson’s Creek. When Katie was a little girl, she talked about marrying Tom Cruise one day. When I was a little girl, I was going to name my stuffed teddy bear “Tom Cruise” before I opted for the more traditional name of “Fluffy.” Do you see where I am going with this Cruisey?

Of course, our relationship may hit some bumps in the road, seeing as you believe psychology to be the devil’s handiwork and I minored in said handiwork in college. But I am sure we could work that out later. As you have been so chatty with the media lately, I would venture to guess you have no qualms about my college major, broadcast journalism. Furthermore, since there are many unscrupulous types trying to capitalize on your valuable name, my having a legal background couldn’t hurt. Heck, I am even willing to hang out with you in that scientology church?/temple?/ cult village?/ or whatever. That L. Ron Hubbard guy always seemed really cool in those commercials they used to play on late night TV.

Additionally Cruisey, I have other talents. For example, I have a penchant for memorizing the lines to my favorite movies. I am sure your Hollywood friends and family members would be highly entertained when we reenacted that famous scene from A Few Good Men (You can’t handle the truth!) Or, perhaps a scene from Rain Man would be more to your liking (K-Mart sucks. Six minutes to Wapner.) If properly coaxed, I’d even be willing to do that dance you did in Risky Business. I’d have to wear more than my underwear though. Unfortunately, I don’t have your abs.

But hey, no pressure. I just want to let you know I’m out there. So, if, for any reason, the whole “Katie thing” goes kaput, skip down a few pages to number 575. My secretary will be waiting for your call. ;)

[Note: This letter is all in good fun. I am not really a stalker . . . I just play one on my blog.]

Kinky, our green friend is . . .

2005-05-24T10:17:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I caught the much anticipated Star Wars Episode III in theaters. Mind you, I am not all that familiar with the series, having only previously seen Episodes 2 and 4. Therefore, while I enjoyed the "timeless space saga" for its unique storyline and well- choreographed fight scenes, for the most part, I failed to see what all of the great fuss was about.

Despite my lukewarm review of said flick, there was one thing about the Star Wars hexilogy that made me go all tingly inside. Nope, it wasn't Harrison Ford's debonair Hans Solo. Nor was it the brooding Hayden Christiansen as antihero Anakin Skywalker. Actually, ladies and gentlemen, my heart belongs to a wise green man named Yoda.

There is something about Yoda that makes my eyes go a flutter. Maybe its his unique skin coloring or his wonderful way with words. Perhaps its his revealing robe or his short stature. Whatever it is, whenever Yoda appears on screen (even if its just in a Diet Pepsi commercial) my heart skips a beat. That being said, I found the quizlet below to be endlessly amusing and slightly erotic ;)

The Amazing Yoda Sex Line Generator

True Birth Month: AKA Why Mom should have pushed me back in and waited a few weeks . . .

2005-05-24T01:42:00.000-04:00

A fabulous way to learn about yourself and waste time. For more innovative time wasters, see the "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" post below . . .

Your True Birth Month Is November

Patient
Secretive
Romantic
Inquisitive
Trustworthy
Determined
Hardworking
High-spirited
High abilities
Unpredictable
Never give up
Sharp thinking
Thinks forward
Always thinking
Motivates oneself
Loves to be alone
Has a lot of ideas
Difficult to fathom
Extraordinary ideas
Unique and brilliant
Brave and generous
Well-built and tough
Careful and cautious
Dynamic in personality
Deep love and emotions
Uncertain in relationships
Honest and keeps secrets
Can become good doctors
Less talkative but amiable
Stubborn and hard-hearted
Fine and strong clairvoyance
Not able to control emotions
Does not appreciates praises
Thinks differently from others
If there is a will, there is a way
Hardly become angry unless provoked
Knows how to get secrets out of others

What's" Your True Birth Month?

Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon- THE WEBSITE!

2005-05-24T00:28:00.000-04:00

Driving home from Ocean City, Maryland, my friend and I got involved in a rather intense game of "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon." For those unfamiliar with this game, it involves one player offering up the name of an actor or actress. The other player must then connect that actor or actress to Kevin Bacon in as few steps as possible. Here is an example:

Topher Grace was in Traffic (2000) with Benjamin (I) Bratt Benjamin (I) Bratt was in The Woodsman (2004) with Kevin Bacon

Having always considered myself to be somewhat of a movie buff, I was slightly disturbed by how badly I sucked at this game. Because, at the time, my arsenal of remembered Kevin Bacon movies was limited to about six (where's the IMDB when you need it?) it often took me as many as five degrees to connect the proffered actor/ actress to Mr. Footloose himself. It was embarrassing!

To make sure such a fate never befalls my readers, I have attached to this blog a link to a website that will (1) connect any actor to Kevin Bacon in as few degrees as possible and (2) will do the same for any two actors/ actresses you desire to connect. You can find that link here.

Does the existence of this website dilute some of the fun of playing the Kevin Bacon game on your own? Well . . . a little. However, the website offers its own challenges. The site seems to have a penchant for connecting everyone to Kevin Bacon in two degrees or under. I challenge you to stump the site. Try to come up with an actor that takes more than two degrees. The more obscure, the better . . .

Who says law students are incapable of wasting time? ;)

Hobo For A Day

2005-05-21T21:49:00.000-04:00

My childhood home is currently on the market. For me, this means enduring the annoyance of having strangers enter and leave my bedroom on a daily basis. Said strangers will systematically open all of my drawers, including the ones where I keep my undies, so they can determine whether their own undies could feasibly be stored here. To be honest, the whole process kind of creeps me out . . .

When one’s house is for sale, she is often exiled from it. This allows strangers to fondle her underwear in peace without having to worry about her catching them in the act and kicking them in the unmentionables for doing so. This past Sunday, our realtor was showing the house from 12-5pm. Attempting to make the best of a five-hour exile, I planned a full day for myself. That day just happened to end with a hearty gym workout.

At about 6pm, I returned to my childhood home. At the time, I was decked out in my most hideous gym sweats and extremely eager to take a shower. However, upon trying to open the door to my house, I learned that it was locked. The realtor had locked me out of my OWN house!

I called my mother who, at the time, was away on business. She informed me that none of our neighbors had keys to our house. (Apparently, we only provide spare keys to strangers and sadistic realtors). Therefore, I was going to have to wait for Sadistic Realtor to return and release me from exile. Sadistic Realtor lived about 30 minutes away.

Pretty sure I was not going anywhere for a while, I took off my smelly gym sneakers, slid into the back seat of my car, and made myself at home. “Hey, maybe this is a blessing in disguise,” I thought to myself. After all, a significant number of famous folks have gained inspiration from living in their cars. Jack Kerouac spent some time living in his car. Singer/songwriter Jewel wrote poetry while living in her car. Heck, even that girl from The Starlet, was a car-liver inner. “Maybe living in a car is what I need to help me realize my true potential as a sitcom writer!”

I had just started mapping out my new transient existence, when Sadistic Realtor arrived. I must have done a really good job making myself look at home in the backseat of a car, because she didn’t want to let me into my house. “You’re not Mama Super Grover,” she said accusingly, “How do I know you live here?”

What I wanted to say: “Hey lady, if I wanted to break into a car and fake my way into a home, don’t you think I would hit up the BMW across the street; the one parked in front of the big mansion with the Olympic-sized pool in the backyard? Do you honestly think I would have opted for the beat up Oldsmobile parked in front of the 30-year old Colonial; where the only thing in the back yard is an old swing set my folks haven’t had the heart to take down, despite the fact that their only child is now in law school?"

What I actually said: "I’m Baby Super Grover. I have ID in the glove compartment, if you want me to prove it. Please, let me into my house. I really have to pee!"

Eventually, Sadistic Realtor relented and ended my exile. However, my dreams of hobo-induced brilliance have not yet been extinguished. After relieving my bladder, I returned to the back seat of my car. Please wake me when I’m famous . . .

Foot In Mouth . . . Again.

2005-05-16T17:23:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was at my local convenient store getting coffee when I ran into a neighbor of mine who I had not seen in a while. As we waited in line to pay the cashier, Neighbor Man and I got into one of those awkward, wish-I-could-hide-behind-the-donuts conversations that occur when you unexpectedly encounter someone to whom you have nothing worthwhile to say. “So what have you been up to?” I ask him, looking over his shoulder and wondering why it takes cashiers so long to ring up coffee and newspapers. He then informs me that he is contemplating a career change. His new desired profession? Funeral directing.

I stare at him blankly for a few moments before managing to utter my “brilliant” response: “Oh, I hear that’s a great career now!”

* * *
What?!!! Did I just tell this guy that funeral directing was a great career NOW? Sure, that type of response works when someone is thinking of becoming a real estate agent, a chiropractor, or even (wink, wink) a lawyer, but a FUNERAL DIRECTOR? I mean if any profession has maintained a stable market over the years, it’s the management of dead people. After all, the real estate market has its peaks and valleys, but dead people kind of have a way of sticking around. (No pun intended.) What a stupid thing for me to say to this guy about his new career! Unless, of course, you have heard of some impending reprise of the black plague. In which case, I guess my remarks could have been justified. Then again, if the black plague is coming back, maybe I should keep Neighbor Man’s phone number handy . . .

In my defense, thinking back on this particular foot-in-mouth moment, there were other statements at the tip of my tongue that never made it to Neighbor Man’s ears. Here are some of those:

1) Cool! I always loved that show Six Feet Under. All of its characters seemed so well adjusted under the circumstances . . .
2) Isn’t that what Dan Akroyd’s character did for a living in the My Girl movies?
3) I bet your parents are dying to get you out of the house!

Come to think of it, my response to Neighbor Man’s career change may have been comparatively intelligent . . .

Its 10pm. Do you know where your Super Grover is?

2005-05-14T21:56:00.000-04:00

There was a memorable episode of The Cosby Show in which little Rudy Huxtable propositioned her parents for an extension on her bedtime. According to Rudy, all of her friends and siblings could stay up later than she could, and, in short, "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" Claire Huxtable was dismayed by this request. After all, she believed that young girls could only perform at their best after a good night’s sleep. Nevertheless, as a practicing attorney and true believer in familial democracy, she promised Rudy to discuss the issue were her husband Cliff.

To Rudy's surprise, Cliff and Claire relented, announcing that effective immediately they would revoke Rudy’s bedtime. Too young and naive to see that she was the victim of an evil experiment in reverse psychology, Rudy rejoiced at having won over her parents so easily. She quickly removed herself to the kitchen to collect the gobs and gobs of junk food she would imbibe during the countless late hours she planned spend in front of the television.

For the first few days, Rudy thoroughly enjoyed her newfound freedom. Her ability to watch horror movies and late night talk shows, while her friends were tucked safely in their beds, made Rudy the envy of all her classmates. However, after less than a week of all-nighters, a lack of sleep and too many midnight snacks began to take their toll on poor Rudy. She became listless and irritable. By the end of the first week, Rudy was begging her parents to reinstate her original bedtime. The moral of the episode of course, was to listen to adults. When it comes to life choices, they ALWAYS know better. Or do they?

Like Rudy, during my final days of law school this year, I longed for the freedom and lack of structure that the semester’s end would bring. With nearly a month to kill before I start my summer associate position, I eagerly embarked upon my journey toward laziness. Thus, during this past week, I have filled my time doing the following: dancing around the house in my underwear, sleeping until 11 o’clock am, reading really bad fan fiction online, watching infomercials at 4am, and eating pretzels for breakfast/ granola bars for dinner (Please don’t tell my mom about that last one!) In short, I have been living the life young Macauley Culkin led in Home Alone, at least before those pesky crooks provided him with a much needed “to do” list . . .

Now, supposedly, as an adult, I should know better. I should be able to set some guidelines for myself and live a “well-balanced” life. And yet, like little Rudy, I am currently begging for an intervention. As much as I complained about law school life, I see now that I am in desperate need of a structured existence. Where are Cliff and Claire when you need them?

The Music Snob

2005-05-04T20:03:00.000-04:00

I decided to take a jaunt into Georgetown today to update my music collection. I headed into FYE, where I was greeted by a seemingly cheerful guy, who looked to be in his mid to late twenties. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked me. “Ummm . . . no . . . just browsing,” I muttered nervously, quickly scampering out of his eyesight.

Truthfully, I was looking for something in particular, The One Tree Hill Soundtrack. I just could not bring myself to ask Mr. Music for it. Mr. Music, the guy who, while I was hiding in the “Showtunes and Sountracks” section, was having an in-depth conversation with another customer concerning this “great piece” about Bach on PBS last night. Mr. Music, I assumed, was a Music Snob. When I reached the checkout counter, soundtrack in hand, Mr. Music examined my purchase. My face reddened as I awaited his evaluation.

Just as I expected, Mr. Music rolled his eyes and dropped my soundtrack in the bag like it was a dead fish. When I gave him my credit card, he scanned my signature on the back for two whole minutes before asking me if I had ID. Now, in my experience, they only ask you for ID when you HAVEN’T signed the back of the card. I guess it must be store policy that anyone who purchases a One Tree Hill soundtrack must be 15-years old and joyriding with her mom’s stolen credit card. I suddenly remembered why I stopped buying CDs. . . .

Music Snobs are tricky creatures. They can be any age and often look just like you and me. Their music tastes can range anywhere from Classical (Bach) to Classic Rock (Jimi Hendrix) to Downright Obscure (The Horny Weasels?). However, there is one trait that unites them all. Music Snobs share the belief that their music is the be all and end all of rhythmic sound and your music is, well, TOTAL CRAP!

I can’t tell you how many times I have been introduced to a Music Snob by matchmaking friends of mine. They always assure me, “You’ll really like him! I promise!” So we meet. He seems nice enough, polite, OK to look at. Everything is going well. Then he drops the bombshell. “So, what type of music do you like?” he asks pseudo-casually. Ladies and gentlemen, this question is the reason I am still single! (Actually, there are lots of reasons why I am still single, but that’s a whole other blog entry. . .)

While there is no right way to answer this question, there are at least three wrong ways:
1) You can tell him what type of music you really like. This will immediately end any chance of the two of you ever having a relationship. But, at least its quick and painless. You may even get home in time to watch your prime time TV shows.

2) Another alternative is to give the stock, “I like a little bit of everything” answer. On the surface, this seems like a good idea. However, a true Music Snob will never let you get off that easy. He will endlessly harangue for examples until you fess up to a band you actually enjoy. The relationship usually ends there. However, this time, you have spent an hour being brow beaten by Music Snob and all of your TV shows have ended. You are then forced to go home and watch reruns of Elimidate on the WB . . .

3) A third alternative is to find out what type of music he likes and say that you like it too. This is actually the worst way to handle Music Snob. If he doesn’t believe you, he will quiz you about all the minute details of said music until you crack under the pressure, like a POW after ten days of Japanese water torture. A few hours of this, and you will admit to listening to Paris Hilton, William Hung, anything, just to shut him up. (Coincidentally, I have never met a “William Hung Music Snob”).

If Music Snob does believe you, however, you will have to listen to him drone on about his music for the rest of the night. (“Isn’t that acoustic riff in track five simply orgasmic? Did you know he actually wrote that song WHILE having sex with a woman?”) Ten minutes of this and you will wish you were enduring Japanese water torture, or, better yet, having your bones pulled apart by two horses running in opposite directions.

What is the moral of this story? Beware of the Music Snob! He is impossible to please and, ultimately, uber boring to date. But try listening to the One Tree Hill Soundtrack. It’s better than you think! :)

Paris Hilton's "Screwed": What else is new?

2005-05-03T01:23:00.000-04:00

Now that my finals are over, I have more time to devote to pointless web searches. Actually, I have been engaging in pointless web searches throughout the finals period. The only difference is, now, I can admit to doing so freely, without feeling guilty. Thus, when I heard that Paris Hilton put out a new single, conveniently titled "Screwed," my curiosity (and need of a good laugh) simply got the best of me. Below are some of the lyrics to this "intellectually stimulating" song. My thoughts about said lyrics can be found in italics. However, I have tried to keep my comments to a minimum so you could enjoy the "beauty" of her words. They speak for themselves ;):

Just push her aside
She's not your type
So cliché when a boy falls under the spell (So cliché when a songstress drafts a line like this)
Of a woman from hell (I think she's talking about Nicole Ritchie here. Ooh! Catfight! grrr . . )
It's hard to take cause
Tonight, tonight, you could have found out I might
Have been the girl of your dreams
Baby, you might have seen what it means just to really be free

(Free? Paris is selling her self short. I’d sell her for at least 99 cents. You could get French fries at Wendy’s for that price.)

Since I'm already screwed (and screwed, and screwed, and screwed . . .)
Here's a message to you
My heart's wide open
I'm just not getting through to the lover in you
Yet I'm still hoping
That tonight, tonight, you're gonna turn down the lights
And give me a little more room just to prove it to you
What do I gotta do? ("Gotta do?" Is she writing a song or auditioning for a role on the Sopranos?)

Tell me that you do
Tell me that you do
Tell me that you wanna take my number (He’s already got you in bed with the lights off. Why would he actually want to talk to you?)
There will come a day
An easy day in May or a storm in mid December

(OK, I get that “May” rhymes with “day,” but "December"? Does she think that “number” rhymes with "December"? “Remember” rhymes with “December.” As in, “I learned the sounds that vowels make once, but now I can’t 'remember' . . . ” )

When you need someone just to have a little fun
I could be the perfect girl for you
When you need someone just to have a little fun (Just like mom always said, "Boys won't buy the Paris, when they can get the sex for free." Well, at least Paris is honest. Desperate and slutty. But honest.)
I could be the perfect girl for you to love (And who wouldn't love a multi-million dollar heiress?)
*********************
Oh, yeah. This one is a definite Grammy contender. But Paris, just so you know, "Grammy" doesn't rhyme with "December" either . . .

2005-04-30T02:06:00.000-04:00

The Doozers

Doing the Doozer . . .

2005-04-29T22:29:00.000-04:00

When I was six years old, my favorite TV program was Fraggle Rock. This Jim Henson series featured quirky little creatures called "Fraggles" who lived in caves, ate radishes, and generally partied all the time. Once a week, I would plop down on my parents' bed and watch with interest as Mokey, Gobo, Wembly, Boober, and Red outsmarted the much larger but significantly less intelligent Gorgs . . .

While each Fraggle had its own unique charm, I was always quite partial to the Doozers. Doozers were the small, mint-colored, hard-hat wearing dudes who built the Lego-like structures that adorned the caves of Fraggle Rock. The Doozers were a humble bunch, content in their namelessness. They enjoyed the daily grind, while the Fraggles basked in the glory of superstardom. And, even though the Fraggles ate those Lego-like structures each day (they were made of radish dust), the Doozers never so much as uttered a complaint. They simply accepted their loss and kept on building. In short, the Doozers were a communist dictator's dream. . .

During their three-year sentence at law school, law students are expected to maintain a Doozer-like presence. Each day, they pore into their case books, pretending not to notice when their non-legally inclined friends go out partying on Friday nights and get paid during the week. Each year, just as the Fraggles eat the Doozer's work product, law schools take the students' money for tuition. And yet, law students continue to work, and work, and work . . .

Unfortunately, I have yet to develop a Doozer mentality. I find it hard to learn just for learnings sake. I can't help but peak around the bend and count down the days until the ultimate "payoff" (pun definitely intended). For all intents and purposes, I am a Fraggle in a Doozer's body. I am Cotterpin Doozer, the one that would rather play with the Fraggles than build Lego-homes. Sure, Cotterpin was a little on the lazy side. But hey, she was the only Doozer that actually had a name!

Yet, I aspire to be more like the other Doozers. After all, my exams will be graded on a curve. And my Doozer-like classmates are definitely studying now, while I type this blog entry! :)

You look as good as I feel . . .

2005-04-26T16:03:00.000-04:00

I'll be blunt. During finals period, most law students, myself included, are not looking their hottest. There are any number of potential reasons for this. Maybe your a little bit sleep deprived. Maybe, with a week off from classes, you've gotten somewhat skimpy on the personal hygiene. Perhaps you haven't had a hair cut or color since Winter Break and your roots are starting to show. Or, maybe you haven't had a chance to do laundry in a few weeks and are stuck wearing that old pair of jeans with the dime-sized hole in the crotch . . .

Whatever your reasons are, its OK. Wait, let me qualify that statement. It is OK . . . if you are a guy. After all, "lookin yucky" during finals period is a badge of honor for most male law students. Here's an example: Spend some time around the library and you will notice that your formerly baby-faced classmates have sprouted a little scruff. These guys will fuss with their peach fuzz endlessly, hoping, just hoping, that you will mention their recent hair growth to them. This is because your mentioning it will give them the opportunity to say, "Oh yeah man, this finals stuff is intense. I have been studying SO HARD that I just haven't had a minute to shave." That's cute and admirable Scruff Man. Except, I don't believe you. Surely, if you have time to eat, check your e-mail, go to the bathroom etc., you have time to hold a razor to your face.

You know, I wouldn't mind so much. After all, a little scruff can be kind of sexy. Its just that there is such a double standard about how male and female law students are expected to look during finals. My female companions can probably attest to this. Ladies, have you gotten one of these lately?- "Wow, you look . . . tired." Or, my personal favorite, "You look as good as I feel!" All of these words are code for the same thing-- "Honey, you look like crap!"

What is the purpose of these statements anyway? I mean, is the fact that I look as lousy as so- and-so law student feels supposed to comfort me? Should I be honored that they have expressed sympathy for my cause? How should I respond to these people? Should I tell them that they actually look WORSE than I feel? Of course not! That would be outwardly mean and, here at law school, our nastiness is restricted to the implicit kind.

You know what? I am done with double standards. Next year, during finals time, I am growing a BEARD!

I thought for sure I'd be Susan

2005-04-23T08:53:00.000-04:00

Congratulations! You are Gabrielle Solis, the
ex-model with everything she's every wanted a
rich husband, a big house and John, the
17-year-old gardener.

Which Desperate Housewife are you?

What type of candy are you?

2005-04-23T08:39:00.000-04:00

discover what candy you are @ quiz me

Please forgive me for the lack of original blog content today. Finals have temporarily sapped all of my creative energy! :( But hey, who doesn't like to take cheesy quizzes online? I can't think of a better way to waste time, get computerized compliments for free, and make feeble attempts at self-discovery!

On jury consulting and making fun of Cher . . .

2005-04-20T12:23:00.000-04:00

This past summer, like many "rising 1Ls," I interned for a District Court judge. One of the perks of a judicial internship is being able to observe actual trials. I particularly remember the day I witnessed my first voir dire. Before we entered the courtroom, the judicial clerk handed each intern a score card. He instructed us to guess which jury members would be stricken from serving, which side would strike them, and why. After the process was completed, the clerk "scored" our predictions. As it turned out, I won! The clerk slapped me on the back and said, "You would make a good jury consultant!"

Always on the lookout for possible avenues of escape in case the whole "law" thing doesn't turn out, I took the liberty of researching (more accurately, Googling) this particular profession. The first website I checked out seemed pretty legit. It described jury consulting as more social science than legal guessing game. In fact, of all of the jury consultants in this particular firm, only one actually had a J.D. Most, however, had advanced degrees of some sort. The consulting job involved a number of research techniques including the use of surveys, statistics, post-trial interviews, and mock trial analyses. "So far, so good," I thought to myself. I decided to continue my search . . .

The next website I clicked on featured an interview with jury consultant Howard Varinsky. For those unfamiliar, he's the guy who helped pick the jury that convicted Martha Stewart. When asked what his "secret weapon" of jury consulting was, Mr. Varinsky said that he simply asked potential jurors who their favorite person was.

"During the Stewart trial," Varinsky elaborated, "we had people who said Cher. We had people who said Martin Luther King, Hillary Clinton, and Ronald Reagan." So what does a "Cher" answer say about potential jurors? According to Varinsky, "It means [they] are not that bright."

Now, presumably, this guy is doing something right. After all, he likely made millions off the Martha Stewart trial. However, a number of things bothered me about his statement. First, Varinsky is clearly behind the times, if he thinks Cher is the modern day celebrity icon. Madonna, maybe, J Lo, perhaps, but CHER? Is there anyone out there in 2005 who would really say CHER is the person they most admire? I mean, maybe I am wrong, but the Cher E True Hollywood Story hasn't been on TV for a couple of years now.

Second, I'm not sure I buy the notion that one's intelligence could be determined merely by her preference for pop culture icons over political icons. (Admittedly, if it could, I would have to accept my own stupidity and I am not ready to do that just yet :)). However, lets, for arguments sake, say it could. Why require the voir dire process at all? A jury selection could simply proceed as follows:

Defense Counsel: Gee golly, the facts are really against me on this one. But, its a medical malpractice case. Perhaps, if I stuff the panel with some really dumb jurors, I might have a chance . . .

Plaintiff's counsel: I hear ya! My opening statement is so boring I will probably put the entire jury box to sleep within five minutes. You know what? I should put some law students on the panel. They will pretend to understand the medical jargon I use so that they can look intelligent to the other jurors. Then, at deliberation, the other jurors will agree with whatever the law students say, just to shut them up.

Defense Counsel: OK, Jurors, raise your hand if you like Britney Spears? ( 6 hands go up) I get those six . . .

Plaintiff's counsel: Anyone a Scalia fan? (6 different hands) Those are mine . .

On second thought, maybe jury consulting is not the right job for me. Judgmental jury consultants like Mr. Varinsky remind me too much of the nasty girls I went to high school with (all of whom, ironically, really liked Britney Spears). What is my advice to Mr. Varinsky? Stop describing your work as "separating the Cher lovers from the Hillary Clinton lovers," and start hyping up your advanced degrees ASAP. Otherwise, some intrepid Britney Spears fans might just swoop in and steal your cushy job . . .

Potty Stall Graffiti Artists: A Personality Study

2005-04-18T16:42:00.000-04:00

For me, finals period means spending an inordinate amount of time in libraries, which, by extension, means hanging out in study carrels and public restrooms. Thus, when I get bored of slogging through my Corporations book and opining the difference between LLPs and LLCs, my attention turns to the graffiti scrawls left by bored peers who came before me. Below is a short list of the various scrawlers who have made their marks on the study carrels and potties of my not-so-distant past. Next to each scrawler classification, I have provided a brief description of their work and my analysis of it:

1) The Religious Scrawler: This benevolent creature often leaves markings of a somewhat holy nature. She is known for scrawling such phrases as "God is watching" or "Jesus loves you," on every bathroom stall she frequents. Another common mark of the Religious Scrawler is the biblical passage quote.

Now, call me sacriligious, but I'm a little uncomfortable with the idea of being scrutinized by a higher power while I sit/ squat over a dingy throne. Arguably, there are some individual privacy rights that even The Man Upstairs would be better off obeying. Furthermore, to my knowledge, bathrooms are only referred to as temples in conjunction with the phrase "praying to the porcelain god." Gross implications of that phrase aside, last I checked, idolatry violates one of the Ten Commandments. So, even if I was doing the aforementioned praying, I would prefer that His Holiness politely avert his eyes . . .

All kidding aside, I respect the well-meaning nature of the Religious Scrawler. If she wants to save me, I'm OK with that. Just let me wash my hands first . . .

2) The Love Bug Scrawler: This optimistic creature is known for joining her initials and those of her current beau with a heart, usually in pink or purple ink. The Love Bug Scrawler is easy to spot because similar markings can be found on her notebooks and everything else she owns. Love Bug Scrawler is nothing if not a romantic. She likely cried with joy during that Wonder Years episode where Kevin and Winnie etched their initials in an old oak tree to cement their relationship. (Of course, that tree was ultimately chopped down when the woods in which it rested were replaced by a parking lot. But I digress . . . ) The Love Bug is surely convinced that her new boyfriend is "the one" and wants to make certain EVERYONE knows about it.

And yet, I can't for the life of me understand why Love Bug Scrawler feels the need to bring her drawings into my bathroom stall. Doesn't she realize that its probably a harbringer of a bad relationship when THIS is the first record of its existence? Like the unfortunate soul who tattoos her boyfriend's name to her unmentionables, only to find out he is diddling the aerobics instructor, the Love Bug Scrawler is doomed to a life of regret.

3) The Pseudo-Famous Scrawler- This "modest" graffiti artist lives under the delusion that she will be famous one day. The Pseudo-Famous Scrawler's marks always say things like "Super Grover was here: 2005." She is certain that the desk where she studied will one day be sold on E-bay for millions of dollars; the bathroom where she rested her bum will eventually become a national museum. Unfortunately, bathroom stall graffiti is usually the extent of the Pseudo-Famous Scrawler's talent. And, until that becomes an artform, she should probably hold off selling NBC the rights to her life story . . .

4)The Entertainment Solicitation Scrawler- Like the Pseudo-Famous Scrawler, this enterprising individual has dreams of making lots of money. She uses the bathroom stall as a business card. The Entertainment Solicitation Scrawler is known for innovative phrases such as "For a good time, call 555-SLUT." As a modern business woman, she knows that when overhead costs are high, it is best to advertise cheap. And yet, I would venture to guess the success of this tactic is limited for one reason: Those who have big bucks tend to avoid public restrooms.

And finally . . .
5) The Self-Righteous Scrawler- This creature is the most offensive of them all. She is known for crossing out marks left by other scrawlers and replacing them with phrases like. "Stop defacing public property!" Her designs on saving the world are about as well-intentioned and effective as would be a "Just Say No To Drugs" commercial starring a strung out teen actor with a heroine needle in his arm . . .

Note: To those scrawlers who have been offended by this piece, I offer you the sincerest of apologies. Without your diverse artwork, I would likely be forced to study without distraction for long uninterrupted periods of time. And, what fun is that? :)

Mr. Miyagi: Steroids Pusher?

2005-04-17T12:47:00.000-04:00

Remember when sports stars were super heroes-- when Michael Jordan could fly and Nadia Comaneci was "The Perfect Ten?" How about when track star Michael Johnson ran faster than a speeding bullet wearing gold-plated sneakers-- or when that seemingly unstoppable steel-armed duo, Mark Mcquire and Sammy Sosa, battled it out for the homerun record? Oops! Bad example . . . .

Its hard to pinpoint the exact moment when we lost our innocence: when athletes ceased to exist in our minds as super men and became just men. After all, its not as if the term "scandal" is particularly new to American Sports. There was, to name a few, the Chicago White Sox debacle in 1919, a figure-skating fiasco involving Olympic villanness Tonya Harding, and, of course, a man named OJ. Thus, scandal and sports have not exactly been strangers over the years.

So, what's changed, you ask? In a word: society. In the past, sports scandals consistently rocked the nation. The public was truly aghast each time it learned the fallible nature of one of its star athletes. Consequently, when Congress subpoenaed some of America's most well-respected baseball heroes about possible steroid use, what was most shocking was not the charges themselves, but the public's reaction to them. Instead of gawking in sheer wonderment, most of us merely smiled smugly at one another. We shrugged our shoulders, as if we had expected this all along. Its kind of sad, actually . . .

Fortunately, our innocent belief in the purity and goodness of athleticism is not forever lost. In fact, a glimpse of that naivete' can be found in the "80s" section of your movie archive. At about 3am last night, I was lucky enough to catch the tail end of The Karate Kid on HBO. I turned it on just as Ralph Macchio's character, Daniel LaRusso, was pitted to fight in the semi-final round of the Karate Championships.

His opponent was a student of John Kleese AKA "The Big Bad Guy." (In case, you were uncertain as to who the bad guys were in this movie, Kleese's students called themselves "Cobras," and wore black, while young grasshopper, Daniel-san, wore white. How's that for beating one over the head to make a point?) Anyway, Kleese tells his student to "take down" Daniel so that his star student can win the Championship by default and, thus, retain his title. The student complies and fights dirty. One of his moves sends our hero Daniel crashing to the floor, writhing in pain. His ankle is twisted seemingly beyond repair.

Daniel is then carted off to a back room. There, laying immobile on a cot, he has a deep and emotional conversation with his sensei, the old and wise Mr. Miyagi. Sensing Daniel's strong desire to win the competition and prove himself to his peers, Mr. Miyagi says to Daniel, "Close eyes!" He then places both hands on Daniel's ankle and the screen fades to black. Moments later, just before the Big Bad Cobra student is declared winner of the Championship, Daniel emerges from the room, his ankle suddenly "as good as new." He ultimately goes on to win the championship and get the girl (who just happened to be played by a very young Elizabeth Shue). Everybody's happy! Cue inspirational music, roll credits, THE END! Now I must ask you, what did Mr. Miyagi do to Daniel's leg in that secret room?

If I asked that same question back in 1984, when the movie first came out, I would probably get an answer like this, "Mr. Miyagi was a very spiritual man. He was able to use his Zen-like magical powers to cure Daniel-san and spur him on to victory." The more skeptical 80s viewers might respond, "There is no such thing as magic. Daniel was benefiting from some sort of placebo effect. He believed Mr. Miyagi healed his leg and, thus, felt no pain."

What would viewers today think happened to Daniel-san in that back room? What did I think when I watched the scene at 3am last night? I'll give you a hint. It begins with an "s" and rhymes with "meroids." Talk about lost innocence!

But then again, maybe that's just me. Maybe I am cynical. Perhaps I should do some Zen breathing exercises to purge my soul of such impure thoughts. Wax on . . . wax off . . . wax on . . . wax off . . . wax on . . .

Thank Goodness For Bear-Shaped Bath Soaps!

2005-04-15T10:40:00.000-04:00

When I was a little girl, my mother was a major proponent of decorative soaps. Our bathrooms were always filled with them. Every soap dish was adorned with colorful soap- shaped fresh fruits, flowers, sea stars, and shells galore! As a child, these little plastic-wrapped soaps seemed like the perfect play toys. However, whenever I asked my mother if I could put them in my book bag for show-and-tell or take them to my friend's house, I always received the SAME response. "No, honey. Those are just for show."

Occasionally, when I was feeling particularly brave, I would attempt to kidnap these alluring soaps and take them into the bath with me. After all, it was a big tub! And my Rubber Duckie surely could use a few playmates! On those days, a robe-wearing, bare-footed Super Grover would sneak into the bathroom, glance around the room to see if anyone was coming, and surreptitiously swipe a few choice-bath soaps. Quickly stuffing these soaps into my deep robe pockets, I would head toward the sanctuary of my bathtub.

I almost made it! Every time, I would be one foot in that bathtub, about to take off my robe, when greed and vanity would set in. You know that part in action movies where the bad guy is seconds away from defeating the hero? In that scene, Bad Guy usually has a gun pointed squarely at Hero's head. His finger is poised on the trigger, waiting to strike. And he looks so determined that you know he couldn't possibly miss, if he just pulled that trigger.

Then, something happens. That poor schlub Bad Guy, gets vainglorious and starts to monologue. He's so proud of his devious plan that he can't bear to think of Hero dying without knowing of Bad Guy's true intelligence. So Bad Guy starts babbling on until inevitably, he gets shot by Hero's sidekick, or pushed out a window to his death, or carted off by the cops. I could never help feeling just a little bit sorry for Bad Guy when this happened. After all, he was such a hard worker. For Hero, everything always came too easy, I think.

Just as Bad Guy could not pull the trigger without monologuing, I could not enter the bathtub without gleefully shoving my hands in my pockets, pulling out the soaps, and examining them in wide-eyed splendor. The expression on my face during that time was probably similar to that of Schmeigel, whenever he looked at that cheap Cracker Jack box ring everyone made such a fuss about in Lord of the Rings. As a matter of fact, if I knew what the term, "My Precious" meant at that tender age of five, I likely would have uttered that exact phrase.

Then, all of the sudden, I would feel a faint tap on my back. Quickly, I would whirl around to find my mother, hands placed deftly on her hips, head shaking vigorously back and forth. Once again, I had been caught "soapy handed." Rubber Duckie would spend bath time alone once more . . .

I thought about that this morning, when I entered the shower and realized that I had run out of body wash. Not willing to throw back on my dirty clothes and schlep to CVS, I had to think of some readily available alternative. After a few minutes of pondering, my eyes fell upon my own collection of decorative soaps. Staring at me eagerly from my bathroom counter, were five soapy bears. Three were blue and two were white. Once again, I was faced with the dilemma that had so often plagued my kindergarten years.

Even though my mother now lives four hours away, I could not help but feel her eyes upon me as I snatched that third blue bear (he was a fifth wheel, anyway) and tucked it securely in the pocket of my robe. This time, however, no one was there to catch me. Showering with Mr. Blue Bear Soap was pleasant if not slightly anti-climactic. And, while I feel just as clean today as I do any other morning, there is still a feeling of guilt that I just cannot shake. It eats into my subconscious everytime I peek into my shower to find, Mr. Blue Bear Soap. His face, blurred with suds, is no longer recognizable. His body is now paler than those of his former companions. :(.

I am definitely buying more body wash today . . .

MPREs and Purity Tests: The Good, The Bad, and The Pukey

2005-04-12T14:50:00.000-04:00

Its official. The fine folks down at the Bar Examiner's Office have determined that I am ethical enough to practice law anywhere in the United States. (Notice: I did not say smart enough. I just said ethical enough.) Yep, MPRE scores for the March 2005 exam were delivered to test takers today via e-mail. For those of you unfamiliar with the alphabet soup that is legal exams, MPRE stands for Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam. Most states require prospective lawyers to obtain above a particular score on the exam in order to practice there.

To be honest, I was getting a little anxious about receiving my scores. After all, I had not heard from my friends at the Bar Examiner's Office for nearly 5 weeks. Its multiple choice! On a scantron! You run it through a grading machine and YOU SEND IT BACK. This isn't a complex process here. Especially when you figure that the MPREs younger siblings, the LSAT and the SAT, provide test takers with the option of receiving their scores a mere 10 days after taking the exams . . .

As I am slightly paranoid, I quickly became convinced that the Bar Examiners were purposefully holding my score hostage for one of two reasons: (1) I had scored so low as to be classified as "evil." Thus, bar examiners were consulting with religious figures about a possible exorcism. (2) I had answered my questions in such a unique fashion as to lead the CIA to determine that I had the perfect temperment to be a contract killer for the Government. (Hey! Don't laugh. It happens.) Today, however, I learned that the delay was nothing more than sheer bureaucratic red tape. I am ethical. Boring but ethical . . .

Speaking of tests that attempt to define you by your ability to fill in bubbles, I have always been a big fan of personality tests. You know, the ones where you answer a series of random questions about yourself and are told what type of dog you were in a past life (I was a Collie by the way. :)) I don't take a whole lot of stock in these quizzes, mind you. They are just pretty darn fun. On the "ethics and morals" front, one particularly amusing personality test is "The Purity Quiz." You've probably come across this one at one time or another . . .

The quiz usually begins innocently enough with questions like "Have you ever kissed a member of the opposite sex?" Then, gradually, the quiz makers up the ante. Questions range from the riskee' ("Have you ever participated in an orgy?"), to the disturbing ("Have you ever engaged in sexual acts with your pet?"), to the highly specific ("Have you ever made a sex videotape with Paris Hilton?"). When all is said and done, each test taker is provided with a score that is meant to embody her percentage of purity.

What's interesting about this quiz is that lower scores tend to generate more bragging rights than higher ones. For example, a friend of mine scored a 54% on the quiz. Judging by her score, the quiz makers assessed her personality in the following way: "The Party Girl- You are the one everybody seeks out when they want to have a good time."What a nice thing to say about my friend! I could not wait to see what they said about me. After all, I was 84% pure and that's WAY better than 54% right? WRONG! What was my moniker, you ask? "The Potty Girl- You are the one who holds back Party Girl's hair when she has gone a bit overboard with partying." Those quiz makers had no idea how right they really were . . .

So, like fortune cookies and horoscopes, sometimes personality tests and MPREs accurately capture some facet of a person's being. And yet, many times, they don't. Some day, scientists will be able to determine every facet of our lives from our DNA. Until then, we are stuck with standardized tests, purity quizzes, and fortune cookies. So, my advice is, just take these analyzes for what they are worth, and try not to put too much stock in them. After all, the MPRE may have determined that "Potty Girl" is "ethical," but after a hard-drinking Saturday night, Party Girl could have told you that . . .

"Miss Michigan has a saggy butt" and other enlightening thoughts . . .

2005-04-11T23:26:00.000-04:00

The Miss USA Pageant was on television at the gym tonight. I mention "the gym" not to let you know that I work out (although it never hurts to throw that in ;)), but, rather, to explain my viewing the program in the first place. After all, it is highly unlikely I would be watching said pageant had I not been a captive elliptical-using audience. Not that I am adamantly opposed to beauty pagents, per se. I am not. Its just that I find them to be unbelievably boring. To me, beauty pageants are the Poor Man's (Poor Girl's?) Oscars-- same glitz, glam, and expensive gowns, only with less star quality, and less talent.

Anyway, the three girls next to me on the elliptical were extremely engaged in the pageant, well . . . in its contestants, actually. "Ewww! That one is too skinny; She's nasty!" one said. Later, another one proclaimed, "Look at the rack on Miss Georgia!" The third was more interested in Miss Texas, "Wow, she has a J-Lo butt!" Then, the first girl, who had been perturbed by Miss Montana's lean physique, was appeased by Miss North Carolina, "I wish I had a body like that," she said. It was as if the Construction Workers Convention had been transplanted from downtown D.C. and plopped down on ellipticals numbered four through six.

Of course, when it comes to pageants, gender roles are almost never reversed. If there happened to be a Mr. USA Pageant, I highly doubt it would appeal to the male demographic. Truth be told, I simply cannot imagine a heterosexual male announcing to his buddy, "Mr. New Jersey has a mushy tushy!"

Televised pageants are unique in that they are programs featuring scantily clad women, which are primarily geared toward other women. To the extent that men do watch pageants, most of them probably do so behind closed bedroom doors and are unlikely to invite their friends to partake in the enjoyment. Like chick flicks, beauty pageants are female fare. Yet, this particular female fare offers an element of guilty pleasure. What other show would allow heterosexual females to bond over derogatory analyses of "girly parts," like teenage boys huddled over an issue of Dad's Playboy?

I read somewhere that, "although women rarely admit it, they dress fashionably, not to look good for men, but, rather, to look good for other women." Question: If women never admit to doing this, where did the article's author get this information? Last I checked, The Gallup Poll was not in the business of reading minds. Dubious studies aside, however, I think there is some truth to this generalization. Pageant fandom is evidence of this phenomenon.

I would probably qualify the above statement and say that women dress a particular way for themselves. Clothing is a form of self-expression. Flattering clothing enhance one's self-esteem. However, I also think that women dress flatteringly to DEFEND themselves against other women. While its definitely nice to get a compliment from a girlfriend on a new pair of jeans, that positive feeling is way overshadowed by the overall cruddiness a woman feels when she is "looked up and down" or scoffed at by another woman. Don't get me wrong, guys can be critical and hurtful too. Yet, there is something particularly painful about having your body criticized by a member of your own sex . . .

Unfortunately, I cannot tell you who won this year's Miss USA Pageant. Somewhere in between Miss Hawaii's dramatic monologue and Miss Mississippi's rhythmic gymnastics, my attention wandered to the next television over, which was airing West Wing reruns. To be honest, I happen to find the Josh Lyman character incredibly compelling and oddly cute. And, while I doubt he would look quite as good as Miss Connecticut in a barely-there floral bikini, the character definitely has some inspired ideas about world peace! :)

Just another lazy Sunday . . .

2005-04-10T12:59:00.000-04:00

When I was in college, Sundays were the bane of my existence. Because Saturday nights were the pinnacle of college partying, Sunday mornings always began with a jolt, a crash, and a HANGOVER!!! Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day? You know, the one where Bill Murray is forced to live the same awful day over and over again until he finally manages to get Andie MacDowell to go to bed with him? Well, that's how I felt about college Sundays . . .

The trauma would begin at about 10am. When the harsh sunlight streamed into my room, I was forced to open my bloodshot, mascara-stained eyes and begin the day. . . My first daily assignment was to make awkward conversation with whatever strange dude my roommate took home with her the night before. It would usually go something like this:
Him: Hey you . . .
Me: Hey . . .
Him: ummm . . . We weren't too loud last night were we?
Me: I've heard worse.
Him: Cool . . .

Due to Strange Dude's presence in my bedroom, my morning shower would have to be postponed. Thus, it was time to hit the laundry room. The place was always packed with hungover college students. Plus, it always smelled of unbrushed teeth and beer-stained clothes. Every week I would stumble into this room praying that I wouldn't bump into anyone with whom I exchanged embarassingly drunken words the night before. Sometimes my prayers were answered . . . usually not. . .

After finishing my laundry, I would hit the library to complete all of the work I had neglected to do throughout my weekend. During this time, my Monday 8am Abnormal Psychology class loomed haughtily over me, like Sigmund Freud at a meeting of the "Oedipus fan club." After the library, a guilty Super Grover would head off to the gym in an attempt to work off the excesses and debaucheries of the night before. It never worked. Sunday nights were just plain depressing, particularly in between seasons of Sex in the City and The Sopranos. On those nights, my roommates and I would sit in our dark apartment, forced to watch Seinfeld reruns and bad episodes of Trading Spaces until bedtime . . .

Yet, some time during this whole law school experience, a strange thing happened. . . I started to LIKE Sundays. As a matter of fact, I can't remember the last time I woke up on Sunday morning with a hangover. In addition to not being hungover on Sundays, I am no longer forced to make awkward conversations with strange dudes in my apartment. . . I LIVE ALONE! Now, I get to enjoy awkward conversations with myself instead. Furthermore, because I no longer have any classes on Friday, I do my laundry THEN, while everybody else is working. ;) Fighting for a dryer is now a thing of the past!

As law students are forced to do work Monday through Saturday, my Sundays are fairly stress free. Now, my lazy tendencies can run amok! I can wear my Sesame Street PJs all day without guilt or embarrassment! And, while I still hit the gym on Sundays to work off my excesses, its no longer cheap beer I'm worried about, its over-indulgence on Tootsie Pops! :) Sunday TV has much improved since my college days as well. With Desperate Housewives, Boston Legal, and now Greys Anatomy to enjoy, I am proud to say that I haven't watched a single Seinfeld rerun in over a year! :)

Some of you college students reading this might find my ramblings to be quite sad. "Our lives are more exciting," you say. I absolutely agree. In terms of unadulterated fun, college student life beats law student life hands down. But for one day a week, Joe College Guy, my life is better than yours. So let me have my moment . . . :).

Tighty whiteys and other classic movie moments . . .

2005-04-08T10:27:00.000-04:00

So what if I was only two years old when the movie Risky Business first came out? I still know a classic coming-of-age film when I see one! In fact, I would venture to guess that even my two-year-old self would appreciate a baby-faced tighty whiteys wearing Tom Cruise shaking his bum to "Old Time Rock and Roll" . . . albeit for different reasons than I do today ;).

Last night's episode of The O.C. featured a homage to this 1983 classic. Unfortunately, the send-up showed neither Benjamin McKenzie nor Adam Brody in tighty whiteys (these are clearly boxers wearing men). However, the episode did include the classic faberge' egg scene, which, if you saw Risky Business, you probably remember. Its the one where the delicate and expensive egg is hurled through the sky, like a football, and Tom Cruise (well, in this case Adam Brody) frantically dashes after it in pursuit, catching it just seconds before it crashes to the floor. I love that scene! But not as much as the tighty whitey one, of course ;).

The episode got me thinking about classic movie scenes. Movies, like life times, are filled with all of these different moments. Many of them are forgotten immediately. Others, however, are indelibly etched onto our subconscious. These moments make us who we are. With life times, the moments that become most memorable really depend on the person living them. This makes sense, as we are all really different people.

Yet, somehow, with movies, the classic moments are shared by all. I wonder what makes a movie moment classic? And do writers/ directors know which scenes will be universally remembered when they create them?

Below, I've listed (in no particular order) some classic movie moments I remember. For your reading pleasure, I tried to balance my "guy movie" memories with my "chick flick" memories. Feel free to add more if you've got them. Also, you are more than welcome to criticize me if you read this list and think, "What is she smoking? I don't remember any of these scenes!"

1) The "lift" scene from Dirty Dancing- "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."
2) The shattering coffee cup in Usual Suspects- "And then POOF . . . he's gone."
3) Tom Hanks playing "chopsticks" with his feet on the life-sized piano in FAO Schwartz during the movie Big.
4) The scene from Reservoir Dogs where Mr. White, Pink, Brown, Blonde, and Blue walk in slow motion.
5) Drew Barrymore crying on the phone with her killer, while the Jiffy Pop explodes in Scream (Can you still buy oven-prepared Jiffy Pop like that?)
6) The scene from Mrs. Doubtfire where Robin William's fake boobs light on fire.
7) The one from Grease where Danny Zucko dons a letterman's jacket, Sandy gets all slutty, and the audience is SUPPOSED to be happy about this.
8) John Cusack holding up the boom box in Say Anything, as it blasts Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes.
9) Macauley Culkin using after shave for the first time during Home Alone.
10) And, of course, Jack Nicholson's undoing in A Few Good Men- "You can't handle the truth!" (Come on! I am a law student. You didn't think I would make an entire film list without including this one, did you?)

That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed reminiscing through my classic movie moments ALMOST as much as I enjoyed trying to come up with them! ;)

Oh, Canada! Why?

2005-04-06T12:35:00.000-04:00

Oh, Canada, you have provided me with so many things over the years. If it weren't for you, I could never have enjoyed, Niagra Falls, the music of Alanis Morisette, Pacey from Dawson's Creek, the Degrassi television series, or catchy phrases like "oot and aboot". In the past, you were always there for me. When I was 18, you allowed me to get into bars and to gamble without a fake ID, even though my OWN country denied me the luxury. Perhaps, most importantly, you welcomed me across your borders with nothing more than a copy of my birth certificate and a dream! But, I must say Canada, our relationship has come to a crossroads . . .

This morning, I heard from a reliable radio source (as you were too proud to tell me yourself) that, as of 2008, you will not let me step onto your soil unless I drag my butt down to Kinkos and get a passport! I know this should not bug me, but it does. Its as if your boyfriend of five years all of the sudden turned around and asked you to get a blood test. You'd respect his decision. Of course, you would agree to do so. And yet, you couldn't help but be slightly offended. Do you really think that I, who has been so faithful and loyal to you, am a security risk, Canada?

You know, normally, I would not even complain about this whole passport thing. Its just that lately, Canada, I have been getting this feeling that you have been trying to kick me to the curb. I mean, its not as if you ever OVERTLY said to me, "Super Grover, its time we see other countries." And yet, you have shown me in many ways that you no longer care for me. :(

It all started when I turned 21, and no longer needed to sneak across your borders to enjoy a Long Island Iced Tea. Suddenly, you cancelled Dawson's Creek, virtually ending Joshua Jackson's career. Last I heard, he was playing the head werewolf in the movie Cursed! You know I don't watch horror movies, Canada! Then Alanis stopped making new music. Degrassi began airing less frequently on NOG'N and "oot and aboot" became passe'. Are you just tired of me? Or is there someone else? I see the way you look at Greenland! I bet IT still gets Dawson's Creek in syndication! I bet everybody THERE still says "oot and aboot!"

You know what Canada? Its fine. Require my passport. Forsake me for Greenland. I don't care! Mexico, would be MORE than happy to take your place! And it has better beaches . . .;)

Freebie Jeebies

2005-04-04T13:27:00.000-04:00

freebie jeebies: noun- Disorder characterized by an initial obsession with, and subsequent apathy toward, free stuff. (Used in a sentence: During her second year in law school, Super Grover developed a severe case of freebie jeebies . . . and an impressive pen collection!)

This past weekend, I attended a conference for summer associates/ future lawyers. It was nothing special. If you have been to one such conference, you have been to them all. In fact, the only thing that truly differentiates one conference from another is the "coolness factor" of the free stuff they give you for attending. For example, my attendance at this particular conference was awarded with two freebies: (1) a pen (Not so cool.) (2) a miniature-Magic 8 ball (Perhaps, the coolest freebie I have received thus far . . . especially since my full-size Magic 8 ball has broken and now answers every question I ask it with "better not tell you now," causing me to have massive anxiety attacks about dying in my sleep or being eaten by a pack of hungry rats while walking down K street . . .).

When I first arrived at law school, I was amazed by all of the free stuff I received. It seemed as though every day, I would come home with a new mug, notepad, or bottle opener. Every event I attended offered the promise of free food and a chance to win a Sony iPod (which I am convinced is secretly awarded to the Sony CEO's son each time it is offered, as I do not know a SINGLE PERSON who has actually won an iPod.) The summer before my second year of law school brought the Fall Interview Program and, with it, a whole new opportunity to receive free stuff! There, countless firms competed for the chance to ply law students with goods. Pens, pads, mints, and promotional CDs were in abundance-- all conspicuously labeled with a throng of last names meant to signify a particular firm. Ironically, firms that would never-in-a-million years consider hiring me seemed OK with my sporting their name on a key chain . . .

Deep down, I knew I was being used. I knew that whenever I showed off my free stuff, I became a walking advertisement for every Rich Lawyer, Richer Lawyer, and Rich Lawyer's Mistress, LLP in the DC Metropolitan area. But I didn't care. The truth was, I was a law student, I was poor and, dammit, I was tired of buying my own pens!!!

Yet, somewhere along the line, free stuff lost its appeal to me. I stopped stealing extra packages of mints from the "Please take one" box at conferences. I ceased attending functions just because I heard they were having Sony iPod giveaways. I even lent my Lexis Nexis highlighter to the guy who sits next to me in Trademark Law, despite the fact that he never returns anything he borrows. To make matters worse, I had become a "freebie snob." Take my behavior at this weekend's conference for example. There, the sponsors offered attendees a respectable lunch of deli sandwiches and chips. Yet, instead of simply enjoying the food, I found myself thinking, "What, no cheese platter?" Mind you, I don't even LIKE cheese . . .

Thus, the constant giving of freebies creates a vicious cycle of need. After all, the more disenchanted people become with freebies, the harder freebies givers have to work to impress them. That is why Oscars gift bags are so ridiculously extravagant. I can just imagine Nicole Kidman coming home from her big night, reaching into her goody bag and thinking, "Ugh, not another diamond monogrammed tiara from Tiffany's! Maybe I will give this one to the maid . . ."

This pattern of behavior must be stopped for the good of freebie kind! Therefore, if I was creating Oscars gift bags, I would certainly not give out Tiffany's tiaras. Celebrities simply don't appreciate them. Now, miniature-Magic 8 balls . . . that's a gift everybody can use! :)

America's Newest Dieting Icon: Cookie Monster?

2005-04-02T15:16:00.000-05:00

I was reading Thursday's edition of USA Today, when I came across a small, easily overlooked, article about Cookie Monster. As my blog name just happens to be Super Grover, I felt it was my duty to read what journalists had to say about the SECOND most popular blue-furred Sesame Street resident :). It seems that, in response to a recent increase in childhood obesity, Sesame Street writers decided that Mr. Monster's cookie-munching ways were a bad influence on the show's youthful demographic. Cookie's friends Oscar, Big Bird and the Snuffalupagus were promptly called. An intervention was in order . . .

After using a variety of different techniques, including psychotherapy, hypnosis, and even a Cookie Patch, the writers have successfully transformed Cookie Monster. Sesame Street's former sugar junkie now proudly proclaims that cookies are only a "sometimes" food. Additionally, other healthy foods like "carrots" and "corn" should also be incorporated into one's daily diet. When I informed my mother about Cookie Monster's "new message," she thought it was a great idea. "Sesame Street provides many children with the first and only form of education they will receive prior to entering school," she said, "If children learn about good eating habits from Sesame Street, they can incorporate those habits into their daily lives at a young age." Although, I agree fundamentally with my mother's argument, I am still slightly skeptical of the benefits that brainwashing Cookie Monster will have on our nation's youth.

Primarily, I wonder why we, as a nation, need to put the onus of our body image insecurities on our children's television icons. After all, Cookie Monster is not a child. He is, by definition, a "monster." Like many mammals, monsters presumably have different dietary needs than human beings. Some mammals are herbivores, others are carnivores. I don't see why one could not be a cookie-vore. Granted, Cookie Monster never had the best eating habits. I imagine, for example, that Cookie's dates did not appreciate his rather crude habit of allowing massive amounts of crumbs to projectile from his mouth during a large meal. However, it certainly never occurred to me that he had "a problem."

Sure, Cookie has always been a little "soft" around the belly area, but that never made children love him any less. Now Sesame Street writers want to put him on a DIET? What's next? A beak job for Big Bird? Botox for Oscar the Grouch? Viagra for Burt and Ernie? Is the message that cookies are only a "sometimes" food important enough to irrecognizably alter one of the most loveable children's television characters of all time? I mean, without his love for cookies, who is Cookie Monster anyway? Will they have to change his name? If so, I am willing to bet that "Carrot Monster" will not be as popular among the preschool demographic.

Don't get me wrong, I care about the health of our nation's children as much as the next girl. Furthermore, I believe that Sesame Street is a great place to pass along the message of healthy eating. I just think the show's writers are going about it the wrong way. After all, who would be a better advocate for proper diet and exercise than Super Grover! Have you looked at him lately? That furry guy has abs that would make Brad Pitt jealous . . . ;)

I like to watch . . .

2005-03-31T23:39:00.000-05:00

The title for this blog comes from a dirty movie about sexual voyeurism that one of my guy friends gave my roommate as a gag gift in college. "I Like to Watch" was your stereotypical 70s porn flick-- complete with mullet-headed men with handlebar mustaches, poofy-headed women wearing neon headbands, and "bowm chica bowm bowm" music erupting from your VCR each time a sexual act was about to begin. In short, the movie was not so much erotic as it was disturbingly comical . . .

You are probably thinking to yourself, "Is she actually going to write an entire blog on 70s porn?" The answer, is, unfortunately, no. (Not that I would not want to do so. I simply have not watched enough porn to be an expert on the topic.) I am, however, going to write a blog about voyeurism in general. Today, we live in an increasingly voyeuristic society. For example, those of you who read my blog presumably do so to get a peak into the random and bizarre thoughts that enter my head on a daily basis. We watch E! true Hollywood stories to get a peak into the lives of celebrities. Secretly, we hope that their lives are more screwed up than ours. And then there is reality TV . . .

When reality TV first entered the airwaves, the basic premise was as follows: put ordinary people in extraordinary situations and see what happens. Shows like the Real World (7 strangers picked to live in a house . . .), American Idol (12 strangers picked to sing in front of a grumpy Brit . . .), and Survivor (20 strangers picked to starve on a deserted island . . . ) follow this premise. However, lately, even our reality TV has become more blatantly voyeuristic. This is because the latest gaggle of reality TV shows don't even bother with the "extraordinary situation" portion of the premise. Thus, we are left with just the "ordinary people" part.

Take MTVs hit show the Osbornes for starters. Now, granted, bat-eating, booze-guzzling Ozzy Osborne is by no means "ordinary." However, you could never tell that from watching the show. In fact, most episodes revolve around the most banal aspects of this aging rocker's life. Proposed episode titles for these shows sound more like Dr. Seuss books than prime time fare: "Ozzy eats breakfast", "Ozzy watches TV", "Ozzy has trouble sleeping," "Ozzy's dog has diarrhea on the carpet." Similarly, the premise for MTVs hit show the Newlyweds could basically be summed up in two sentences: 1) Jessica Simpson is busy 2)Nick Lachey is not. Now, don't get me wrong. Nick Lachey is very sexy. But since when did watching him burp for five minutes become riveting television? Don't even get me started on the "Ashlee Simpson show ". . .

In the past, people used to use television to escape from themselves. Now, people watch TV to watch other people watching TV. The television industry must be thrilled. Forget witty plotlines, forget pushing the envelope. In order to capture Nielsen ratings today, all you need is a camcorder and some catchy background music ("bowm chica bowm bowm" anyone?). Perhaps, this phenomenon is little more than a backlash against the perfection of media past. Maybe audiences are tired of watching the trials and tribulations of beautiful people; people whose houses are always clean; people who never sweat, and, never go to the bathroom. Maybe audiences would rather watch people like them. People who pick their wedgies when they think nobody is looking. People who drink milk straight out of the carton, even when the "Best if used by" date has passed. . .

It kind of makes you wonder about sexual voyeurs. Do they really "like to watch" strangers fornicate for the vicarious thrill of sexual activity? Or do they merely hope to get a glimpse of someone who looks worse than they do naked?

Happy Half Birthday to Me!

2005-03-29T16:39:00.000-05:00

I will begin by admitting that today is not really my half birthday. Rather, my actual half birthday is not until April 13th (hint, hint, wink, wink, send money :)). However, I have been thinking about half birthdays a lot today. So much so that I wrote a notation in my calendar this morning that said "Write in blog about half birthdays on your half birthday." But then I thought, "Life is short . . . why wait?" So here I am . . .

Half birthdays, for whatever reason, have always lacked some of the notoriety and good will of their annual counterparts. Half-birthday celebraters rarely throw parties, buy ice cream cakes, or give out goody bags to their friends, with Reeses Pieces and Tootsie Pops inside. Furthermore, I have yet to find a Ziggy card bearing the words "You're 8 and 1/2! That's more than halfway toward a learner's permit!"

Despite all this, when we were kids, half birthdays were special in their own way. Being one half a year older carried with it some prestige. Obtaining "halfy" status was somewhat of a badge of honor to hold over your sans-half friends. Ex. "I'm 6 and 1/2 and you are only 6! I get to go down the slide first. So there!" (Unfortunately, as a kid with a particularly late birthday, I rarely got to go down the slide first.) Don't even get me started on the 6 and 3/4s kids . . .

Then, all of the sudden, half birthdays disappeared. No one talked about them anymore. In essence, they became the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny of birthdays. To me, this is really counter-intuitive. Sure it displays a slight lack of maturity to call onesself 23 and 1/2. But, really, who cares? Why must we only limit ourselves to being recognized and celebrated one day a year? For those of you out there who are struggling students like me, think about what an extra birthday celebration could do for your ever dwindling bank account. Hallmark, Blue Mountain, if you are reading this, take advantage, you have a potential cash cow on our hands here!

Thus, I propose we fight to bring back the half birthday. Fellow bloggers, I urge you to learn the half-birthdays of your friends and family members. Then, celebrate the hell out of them! Additionally, I promise anyone who reveals the date of his or her half-birthday that I will make a huge stink over you on that day. (Note: I rarely remember people's actual birthdays. However, I am willing to make a concerted effort here, for the good of half-birthdaykind. . . )

Young or old, it doesn't matter. After all, this is not really about age. Its about self-aggrandizement. And what warm-blooded American doesn't love that?

Gym Etiquette: Confessions of a Treadmill Hoglet

2005-03-28T20:06:00.000-05:00

Fellow bloggers, I must confess to being a naughty and selfish gym user. My transgression began at about 10pm in my apartment complex gym. When you enter that facility, there is a sign posted on the door that says: "Do not exceed 20 minutes on one machine, if someone else is waiting." Unfortunately, the gym currently has only one working treadmill.

When I first arrived, the place was empty. Thus, I greatfully hopped onto the treadmill and began to jog. Usually, I hate jogging. However, for some reason, I was in the zone last night. (I think it had something to do with Patrick Dempsey, who smiled sweetly at me from the television above my head.) Just as I reached my 18th minute, an intruder entered the premises. At first, he casually strolled around the perimeter of the gym, PRETENDING to lift weights. However, I soon began to wonder whether this sneaky man had designs on my treadmill (and perhaps my Patrick Dempsey as well).

He said nothing to me but continued to leer and lurk around the gym, soon disposing of all pretensions of lifting weights. Here is where I go wrong. At this point, my running time surpassed the 20 minute mark. Therefore, according to the rules, I technically should have relinguished the machine to the leerer. However, ladies and gentleman of the jury, might I remind you that I was having a good run and, more importantly, PATRICK DEMPSEY WAS SMILING AT ME! I told myself that if he was still around at the 30 minute mark, I would offer to give up the machine. However, the leerer lost patience with me and left the gym as my running time reached 25 minutes. . .

My momentary lapse over to the athletic darkside got me thinking about gym etiquette. Namely, within the gym-going culture, there are a series of tacit rules that are to be obeyed by everyone. While no one is explicitly punished for disobeying these rules, malfeasants are shunned by the gym community i.e. talked about behind their backs. Below are some of the cardinal rules . . .

1) Wipe off the machine like you mean it . . . even if you dont:
Most public gyms proudly display in their arsenal of "gym stuff," an unlabeled bottle of sticky substance. This inexplicable goo is supposed to clean the sweat and germs off athletic equipment upon application. However, the germ-killing effects of this substance are dubious. To make matters worse, after the sticky solve is sprayed on the machine, the handlebars are just as ooey gooey as if the prior user had never bothered to wipe the darn thing down in the first place.

That being said, the polite gym goer should wipe down the machine anyway. Doing so sends a message the subsequent user. It says: "Fellow gym goer, I care about you enough to remove my sweat from your machine. Cherish the stickiness that remains from the cleaning solution, as it is a sign of my concern for you."

2) Personal space is a good thing: Most of us who attend public gyms, do so with the understanding that we will be spending time in tight quarters with other sweaty gym goers. After all, the voyeuristic aspect of watching others work is part of the gym's charm. However, there is always that one time in the gym's operating hours, usually either early in the morning or late at night, when it clears out. During that blissful time, a person can get on elliptical number 10 next to a line of empty machines . . .

If you happen to go to the gym during this time, and see someone on machine number 10 . . . here's a hint: machine number 9 is probably not the best bet for you. Chances are, there is a reason that person chose to work out at this unpopular time. That reason is probably not a competitive desire to battle your sweaty butt for oxygen.

3) Don't hover! - This kind of relates to the whole notion of personal space. If you are waiting to use a machine, maintain a safe and happy distance. After all, it is hard enough to push one's body to the limits, without someone's head placed indiscretely up your bum. Doing so, may lengthen your weight time. However, it will ultimately prevent any retaliatory hovering by the person you are replacing on the machine.

4) Trainers and gym attendants- MYOB!
[Unlike the other rules, this etiquette hint is not often followed. Rather, I am including it here as more of a gym wish list. ]

Gym attendants: If we wanted someone to interrupt our workouts to tell us to remove our sweat jackets from the floor and tie them around our waists, we would have invited our mothers to the gym with us. (Mom, this does not apply to you. I know you leave your sweat jacket on the floor when you work out, just like me :).) Trainers: If we wanted personal criticism of our bodies and routines, we would have become contestants on American Idol. At least Simon Cowell has a cool accent . . .

I will never forget the first time I went to a public gym and decided to try out one of the leg press machines. While I was lifting, a trainer came up to me and said, "Perhaps, if you did not use so much weight on the leg press, your thighs would not look so bulky and masculine." I would assume this woman hoped that her honesty would ingratiate herself in my mind enough to cause me to shell out $500/ month for training sessions . . . It did not! After this encounter, two things happened: 1) I drastically reduced the weight on my leg press 2) Everytime I saw this woman in the gym thereafter, I hid behind a punching bag . . .

In conclusion, I guess we all have a bit to learn about gym etiquette. Thus, to my gym leerer from last night, if you are out there . . . please forgive me for being such a rude treadmill hoglet!

Top Three TV Crushes

2005-03-27T23:29:00.000-05:00

3. Chad Michael Murray- Because One Tree Hill has to come back on the air sometime . . .

2. Benjamin McKenzie (The O.C.)- He has that bad boy thing going for him. Plus, even though he plays a high schooler, he is actually a tad older than I am! :)

1. Patrick Dempsey- Because he looked smokin' in his dew rag today on Grey's Anatomy! Also, because I appreciate the fact that a former pseudo-brat packer (See ex. Can't Buy Me Love) can still get work in a society so often forgetful of its former teen idols.

Using documentaries as an excuse to do cool stuff . . .

2005-03-27T19:45:00.000-05:00

I just finished watching Super Size Me. For those unfamiliar, Super Size Me is the critically acclaimed documentary about an Average Joe who eats nothing but McDonalds for a full month and suffers extreme health consequences as a result. The documentary was extremely well-produced, providing a "mouthful" of pertinent information about how Americans torture their bodies through fast food. Additionally, the film also included some surprising cameos, including GW Law's own Professor Banzhaf and Subway's super-annoying icon "Jared." My fellow dieters, let me tell you that nothing kills your appetite more than watching extreme close-ups of Morgan Spurlock chowing down on Big Macs all day and then posing for the camera in a Speedo patterned after the American flag. . .

That being said, the whole program got me thinking about documentaries, not just as a way to inform the public about critical information, but also as an excuse to do some pretty cool things. After all, it is not as though Mr. Spurlock disliked the taste of McDonalds food. In fact, I would venture to guess that before his liver turned to fat, he rather enjoyed his daily dose of Happy Meal.

This gave me a really cool documentary idea. My documentary would be entitled "The Happy Pill." In it, I would discuss the extent to which Americans have become increasingly dependent on mood stabilizers to get them through the day. Not only would this documentary inform Americans about the benefits and potential risks of such reliance, it would also allow me to take some really exciting legal drugs. If a psychiatrist would prescribe them to me, I could take Zoloft, Ritalin, Wellbutrin, Prozac and the like. I think it would be fun! :) If it worked for the little unhappy egg in the Paxil and Zoloft commercials, it would definitely work for me!

Now, I certainly do not mean to denigrate the need many Americans have for these pills. As a matter of fact, I would venture to guess that they save thousands of lives, and improve millions. However, I don't think that many would disagree that they are slightly over prescribed. Of course, one cannot really know the effects of happy pills until she has tried them. Surely, if Morgan can eat Big Macs everyday and Jared can glom down Subway sandwiches, I can take designer meds. Couldn't I?

Of course, I currently do not have the funds, filmmaking experience, equipment, or in-depth medical insurance coverage I would need to undertake such an enterprise. Therefore, I am just putting the idea out there. If anyone does have any of the aforementioned things at their disposal he or she should let me know. I could potentially make you a lot of money. All I ask for in return is that you give me a small film credit on your documentary. If not, perhaps you could just slip me a free Wellbutrin or two? :)

Google Gripe: Why I have been unjustly denied my 15 minutes of cyber fame

2005-03-26T14:19:00.000-05:00

I believe it was Andy Warhol who once said that everybody is entitled to 15 minutes of fame. What I am quite certain of, however, was that Warhol, who died in 1968, never "googled" himself . . . or anyone else for that matter. For those of you who were confused by my prior statement, or found it to be a clever euphemism for . . . well you know ;), googling one's self has become quite the American pasttime in the past few years. The practice has sparked so much interest and conversation, in fact, that it was featured prominently on a Sex in the City episode. (Carrie Bradshaw was known to google new beaus before a first date.)

"Googling" is the practice of typing your name, or the name of someone you know, into the Google search engine. Doing so will usually direct you to a series of websites featuring the name you requested. In addition to googling my love interests like Miss Bradshaw, I have often found googling to be a rather effective way to keep up with your past friends and enemies without having to go through the trouble of actually talking to them. Additionally, being an adept googler helps you to thrive in social conversations with others. Here is an example:

Me: So, did you hear Jane's little sister is pregnant?
My Buddy: No, oh my god! She's only 15 years old! Is she going to keep the baby?
Me: Yep.
My Buddy: You always hated Jane in high school. When did you talk to her?
Me: I didn't. But her sister is currently registered at Toys R' US and Baby Gap . . .

(Note: I do not know anyone named Jane. Jane, if you are reading this and you actually do have a teenage sister. Please do not sue me. I still have a lot of law school loans . . .)

Thus, Google potentially presents all of us with the opportunity to expand our fifteen minutes of fame indefinitely. Merely by having our names printed on a website, us NOTHINGS could potentially be catapulted into cyber history. So, what's my problem? Well, fellow bloggers, in addition to being a NOTHING, I also have the misfortune of having a moderately famous name. Of course, I do not have an insanely famous name like, say Britney Spears. However, my "name sharer" is published in enough websites that the first 9 Google pages discuss HER enterprises, while my last place finish in a 5K race that I ran my sophomore year in college is relegated to page 10, where, I remind you, no one is even looking!

Even if I were less of a NOTHING, heck even if I won first place in that race, it would not matter. My "name sharer" simply is, and will always be, more googly famous. While I have no trouble looking up former classmates with names like "Meryl" or "Taryn," none of these people have any clue what the heck I am doing with my life or if I even still exist. Might I remind you that I did not choose this fate. Nor did I expect my parents to have the foresight to conduct a thorough Google search prior to selecting my name. (In 1981, my parents' computer knowledge was limited to games like Pong and Atari.) However, I do believe I have a legally cognizable claim against my name sharer and am entitled to some form of compensation.

Perhaps, some day in the future, people will be able to sue "name sharers" for monopolizing the Google world. Until then, I must remain relegated to page 10 of the Google search engine . . . at least until I get married. Of course, judging by my obvious neuroses, that is not happening anytime soon!

In God We Trust- A West Wing episode review

2005-03-24T15:05:00.001-05:00

After last week's lackluster rendezvous with Fidel Castro, the West Wing made an impressive comeback last night. "In God We Trust" was truly one of this season's best episodes. Kudos to the writers for recapturing the heart and sole of the West Wing! This episode's vibrant and witty dialogue truly harkened back to what viewers loved so much about the series' first and second seasons.

In this episode, we learn that Reverend Don Butler has conceded the Republican presidential nomination to Senator Arnold Vinick, played superbly by Alan Alda. Perhaps, the biggest surprise of this episode was the writers' bold decision to focus on Republican politics. Lets face it, we have not seen this many Republicans on one episode since Speaker of the House Walken (played by John Goodman) temporarily took over the White House during the Zoey Bartlet kidnapping fiasco. [Which reminds me, wasn't Walken still running for the Republican ticket as of last week? What happened to him?]

The second biggest surprise of the show was that the Republican focus neither detracted from the characters' themselves nor the episode's likeability. A show often criticized for its uniformly "leftist" views, the West Wing has generally been known to portray Republicans in an unflattering light . . . . unless, of course, they end up working for the White House (i.e. Ainsley Hayes). Much of the Republican likeability factor here can be attributed to Alda himself. To get an idea of Alda's remarkable range, compare the dignified but warm Senator Vinick with the Aviator's sniveling sneering Senator Brewster, for whose portrayal Alda received an Oscar nomination.

As a moderate Republican, (Vinick is openly pro-choice) the Senator represents a distinctive political view to that typically espoused on the West Wing, yet still remains palatable to the series' largely liberal fanbase. As the episode progressed, Vinick became an increasingly genuine and likeable guy. As a matter of fact, if presented with the choice of Vice President Bob Russell and Senator Vinick in a real-life presidential election, I might even be convinced to vote Republican!

The highlight of the episode came in its last ten minutes, beginning with a heartfelt "dish" session between President Bartlet and Senator Vinick. The interplay between these two characters was fascinating. It is not everyday that you get to witness a Roman Catholic Democrat and an Agnostic Republican discussing the implications of the King James Bible over giant tubs of cookies and cream! Sheen and Alda both handled the scene with understated panash. Despite their decidely disparate views, the respect and understanding the two characters gained for one another during the course of their conversation was instantly evident from the actors' facial expressions and body language.

Vinick's remarks to reporters at the episode's conclusion, regarding the separation of church and state, were classic West Wing. In fact, they reminded me very much of the speech President Bartlet made to the group of religious zealots who were pitted against members of his senior staff in the series' pilot. I cannot wait to see how this election plays out. After all, both Santos and Vinick are intriging and increasingly well-developed characters. Arguably, both men, while very different from President Bartlet, are each presidential in their own right.

Only two episodes remain in this season of The West Wing. Yet, there are so many questions still left unanswered! Will the widely divided Democractic party ever be able to come to together behind one nominee? Will Senator Vinick be able to gain party support from the conservative right, despite his open lack of religiousity and pro-choice beliefs? Tune in next week to find out . . .

Terri Schiavo: Person, Not Political Podium

2005-03-21T12:29:00.000-05:00

In 1999, my father suffered a massive heart attack in his home. While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, my mother provided CPR, cracking two of my father’s ribs in the process. Thanks to her extraordinary efforts, my father was revived in the ambulance. Unfortunately, however, he had been deprived of oxygen for twenty minutes, resulting in irreversible and severe brain damage.

Although doctors had initially informed us that my father would be effectively brain dead as a result of this trauma, my family never lost hope that he would one day return to his former self. Thus, we took every possible opportunity to maintain his life. For two years, my father endured tracheotomies, complex surgeries, and feeding tubes. We even went as far as to convert our family room into a miniature ICU so that he could recover in the comfort of his own home.

While my father’s heart did improve, his brain capacity fared less well. Every day, my mother and I talked to my father, hoping that something would spark his huge heart and brilliant intellect. One day . . . it did. I was sitting in the room with my father, staring intently at him, when his eyes filled with tears. In a rare moment of lucidity, he said to me. “I am not your daddy. This is not him.” At that moment, I realized that as much as my father appreciated the exceptional efforts our family had taken to keep him alive, he was frustrated with his situation. My father, always an extremely strong vibrant person, did not want his family to remember him in this way. . .

Having been through this experience, I understand Terri Schiavo’s parents' emotional struggle. I understand the way in which their hopes are tied to each of their daughter’s breaths, how they are comforted by her every reflex. However, I also sympathize with Terri’s husband and his desire to attend to her wishes and preserve her memory. That being said, I was deeply saddened to hear that Congress and President Bush felt the need to intervene on this very personal family experience.

As a law student, I understand the dangerous implications this decision will have on the ability of our government to keep separate its executive and judicial branches. Similarly, I see the effect that this new law may have on the “right to die” cases like Glucksberg and Cruzan, as well as on Roe v. Wade and the manner in which a human life is defined. More directly, as a human being, I can see the devastating emotional impact this decision will ultimately have on the Schiavo family.

While I do not know Terri Schiavo personally, I know that, above all, she is a person, not a podium on which Congress can air its political views and vendettas against the judicial system.

Bracketology, monkeys, and March Madness

2005-03-20T16:57:00.000-05:00

During my junior year in college, my basketball-loving roommate coerced me into shelling out five bucks to enter into an NCAA tournament challenge. Thus, like millions of others before me, I sat at my desk with pencil in hand prepared to embark on that oh-so-unique journey that is bracket completion. Unlike those millions of others, however, I did so without strategy, forethought, or even a genuine understanding of the game. Nevertheless, I submitted my bracket to our competition's chairperson via e-mail. The whole process took about five minutes. It simply involved me using my Nostradamus-like powers of perception and picking teams to advance whose names appealed to me more.

My roommate, who had spent two or three days pondering over her bracket picks, chided me for my capricious selection process. "You didn't pick a single top-seeded team! They can't all be Cindy's you know!" To which I responded, "Whose Cindy?" My roommate was so shocked and disgusted by my ignorance she abruptly left the room. . . .

The rest of my bracketing experience didn't fare much better . . . The first night of March Madness, I learned, much to my chagrin, that NONE of the teams I had selected for the Final Four had made it past the first round. Night after night, the majority of my favored teams (I had managed to be surprisingly adept at predicting the upsets, however) were eliminated from the tournament.

Thus, I was truly surprised when, at the tournament's conclusion, the student whose bracket competition I had entered approached me in the dining commons with a 5 dollar bill. It turned out that, like many bracketeers, this guy had opted to put a booby prize into the tournament. Namely, the person with the lowest tournament score gets their money returned to them . . . mostly out of pity. Meanwhile, my roommate, who ended the tournament in fourth place, was left 5 dollars in the red.

This year, I surprised myself by logging onto ESPN.com and reading up on this whole "bracketology" thing that everybody seems to be so hyped up about. (I figured if nothing else, the limited knowledge I would gain by doing so would help me score points with sports-loving men.) I read about all of the various strategies people employ in choosing the teams to fill their brackets and particularly the art of selecting the "Cindy." As sports fans probably already know "Cindy" stands for Cinderella. The term represents a lower-seeded team that defeats its significantly higher ranked counterpart and advances to the next round, destroying any hopes of victory for the bracketeer who opted for the favorite.

I even decided to join the ESPN tourney challenge myself (this time, for free. I may be a sports novice, but I am no dummy). However, unlike my brief foray into sportsfandom in college, this time I was a bit more strategic in filling out my bracket. Mainly, I selected most of the higher seeded candidates and copied the pundits' selections in terms of my choices for the Final Four and, of course, the Cindys. Today, in the Men's Tourney Challenge, I am happy to report that I have scored in the 64th percentile and am ranked about 100,500 out of the 2.5 million who have entered, thus becoming somewhat of a Cindy myself :). However, I must note with sadness, that my selections are still not as accurate as those of the famed monkey who made substantial profit by throwing darts at the stock market papers. Furthermore, I am slightly disappointed that I no longer have a shot at winning any sort of booby prize . . .

Yet this whole bracketology experience has started me wondering . . . when it comes to March Madness, isn't it easier to predict the loser than the winner? Unbeknownst to me at the time, in my college bracket, I had employed a surefire losers' strategy. After all, the higher seeded team USUALLY wins. That's why they call the reverse an UPSET. Thus, in picking the lower-seeded team, I was practically ensuring myself the title of lousiest bracketeer.

Its kind of analogous to the game of Hearts. For those who haven't been introduced to the game in either its original format or its Internet counterpart, the idea of Hearts is to earn the lowest number of points by putting out lower valued cards than your opponents. The person who puts out the highest valued card in each round of play must take all of his opponents cards. However, a crafty card player can "shoot the moon" and get all of the cards, thus earning no points for himself and forcing his teammates each to take a 13 point hit.

Similarly, wouldn't it be possible to "shoot the moon" in March Madness, by picking all of the lower seeded teams? After all, when everyone else is trying to win, doesn't that make losing all the more simple and predictable? While I understand, that getting your money back in these tournaments is supposed to be an embarrassing situation that others would rather avoid, at least the loser gets SOMETHING. The schlubs who rank second-to-last all the way up to second place each get NOTHING for their troubles.

Therefore, I have decided that I, non-sports fan Super Grover, will start my own March Madness bracket next year. Unlike the existing brackets it will be less of a game of pure luck and chance and more a game of strategy. In my bracket challenge, not only will the winner receive a portion of the proceeds but so will the loser. He or she will get back a substantial portion of the winnings and not just a booby prize. Thus, bracket selection will entail more than merely trying to figure out which basketball team will win. It will require a statistical analysis of how many of your fellow bracketeers are more willing to "shoot the moon" and lose than risk coming in second and receiving nothing for their efforts.

I know sports fans may chastize me for endorsing the notion that anybody would enter a tourney challenge for something other than a love of the game. However, to this criticism, I respond: How much did that monkey really care about that stock market as it stood poised at the dart board?

Welcome to Our Blog!

2005-02-20T21:24:00.000-05:00

This is how law students spend their time when they are sitting in the library on Saturday nights with nothing better to do. If you are a bored law student who likes to waste time, waste time with us!